“It was a tough confrontation.”
She put her hand to her mouth. “Melissa!”
Shooting up, she ran out of the room.
I went after her, following her slender form down one of the dark spokes, to a rear spiral staircase. Sticking close so as not to get lost in the huge house.
11
The stairway bottomed at a short hallway just outside a pantry as big as my living room. We walked through it and into the kitchen, a banquet-sized galley painted custard-yellow and floored with white hexagonal ceramic tiles. There were two walls of coolers and freezers, oiled butcher-block counters, and lots of copper pots hanging from cast-iron ceiling racks.
No cooking smells. A bowl of fruit sat on one of the counters. The industrial eight-burner stove was bare.
Gina Ramp led me out, past a second, smaller kitchen, a silver room, and a paneled dining hall that could accommodate a convention. Looking from side to side, calling out Melissa’s name.
Getting silence in return.
We backtracked, made a couple of turns, and ended in the room with the painted ceiling beams. Two men in tennis whites came through the French doors, holding rackets and wearing towels around their necks. Both were big and well built.
The younger man was in his twenties, with thick shaggy yellow hair worn past his shoulders. A long thin face was dominated by narrow dark eyes and a cleft chin deep enough to hide a diamond. His tan had taken more than one summer to build.
The second man- in his early fifties, I guessed- was thickset but not flabby, a lifelong athlete who’d stayed in condition. Heavy-jawed and blue-eyed. Executive-cut black hair with gray temples, clipped gray mustache precisely as wide as his mouth. Seamed, ruddy complexion. Marlboro Man goes Country Club.
He cocked an eyebrow and said, “Gina? What’s up?” His voice was mellow and resonant, the kind that seems friendly even if it isn’t.
“Have you seen Melissa, Don?”
“Sure, just a minute ago.” Directing his gaze at me. “Something the mat-?”
“Do you know where she is, Don?”
“She left with Noel-”
“With
“He was doing the cars, she came running out like a bat out of Hades, said something to him, and the two of them drove off. In the Corvette. Something wrong, Geen?”
“Oh, boy.” Gina sagged.
The mustachioed man put his arm around her shoulder. Cast another searching look at me. “What’s going on?”
Gina forced a smile and fluffed her hair. “It’s nothing, Don. Just a- this is Dr. Delaware. The psychologist I told you about. He and I were trying to talk to Melissa about college and she got upset. I’m sure it’ll blow over.”
He held her arm, pursed his lips in a way that made his mustache peak in the middle, and arched his eyebrows again. Strong and silent. Another one to the camera born…
Gina said, “Doctor, this is my husband, Donald Ramp. Don, Dr. Alex Delaware.”
“Pleased to meet you.” Ramp extended a big hard hand and we shook briefly. The younger man had retreated to a corner of the room.
Ramp said, “They can’t have gotten too far, Geen. If you’d like, I can go after them, see if I can haul ’em back.”
Gina said, “No, it’s okay, Don.” She touched his cheek. “The price of living with a teenager, darling. Anyway, I’m sure she’ll be back fairly soon- maybe they just went to get gas.”
The younger man was examining a jade bowl with a fascination too intense to be genuine. Lifting it, putting it down, lifting it again.
Gina turned to him. “How are you today, Todd?”
The bowl descended and stayed put. “Great, Mrs. Ramp. And you?”
“Muddling along, Todd. How did Don do today?”
The blond man gave her a toothpaste-ad smile and said, “He’s got the moves. All he needs is to work.”
Ramp groaned and stretched. “These old bones rebel against work.” Turning to me: “Doctor, this is Todd Nyquist. My trainer, tennis coach, and all-around Grand Inquisitor.”
Nyquist grinned and touched one finger to his temple. “Doctor.”
Ramp said, “Not only do I suffer, I pay for it.”
Obligatory smiles all around.
Ramp looked at his wife. “You sure there’s nothing I can do, honey?”
“No, Don. We’ll just wait. They’re bound to be back soon. Noel’s not finished yet, is he?”
Ramp looked out the doors, toward the cobbled courtyard. “Doesn’t look like it. The Isotta and the Delahaye are both due for a wax and all he’s been doing so far is washing.”
“Okay,” said Gina. “So they probably did go for gas. They’ll be back, and then Dr. Delaware and I will take up where we left off. You go shower off, mister. Don’t worry about a thing.”
Tight voice. All of them tight. Squeezing out chitchat like meat through a grinder.
Tight silence.
I felt as if I’d wandered into the middle of a collaboration between Noel Coward and Edward Albee.
Gina said, “Drink, anyone?”
Ramp touched his midriff. “Not for me. I’m going for that shower. Good to meet you, Doctor. Thanks for everything.”
I said, “No problem,” not sure what he was thanking me for.
He used one end of the towel to wipe his face, winked at no one in particular, and began walking off. Then he stopped, looked over his shoulder at Nyquist. “Hang in, Todd. See you Wednesday. If you promise to spare the thumbscrews.”
“You bet, Mr. R.,” said Nyquist, grinning again. To Gina: “I could handle a Pepsi, Mrs. R. Or anything else you got that’s cold and sweet.”
Ramp continued to look at him, hesitated as if contemplating return, then walked off.
Nyquist flexed his knees, stretched his neck, ran his fingers through his mane, and checked the netting on his racket.
Gina said, “I’ll get Madeleine to fix you something.”
Nyquist said, “Sure bet,” but his grin died.
Leaving him standing there, she escorted me to the front of the house.
We sat in overstuffed chairs in one of the caverns, surrounded by works of genius and fancy. Any space not filled with art was paneled with mirror. All that reflection turned true perspective into a carny joke. Nearly engulfed by cushions, I felt diminished. Gulliver in Brobdingnag.
She shook her head and said, “What a disaster! How could I have handled it better?”
I said, “You did fine. It’s going to take time for her to readjust.”
“She doesn’t
“Like I said, Mrs. Ramp, it may not be realistic to expect her to be ready by some arbitrary deadline.”
She didn’t respond to that.
I said, “Suppose she spends a year here- watching you get better. Getting comfortable with the changes. She can always transfer to Harvard during her sophomore year.”
“I guess,” she said. “But I really want her to go- not for
