Wicked Forest by V. C. Andrews
"We'll see," I said I was still under the illusion of being able to change things dramatically myself.
"Let's not think about any of that tonight," he urged. "We've got some catching up to do. right? Right?"
"Right," I forced myself to say. "Until then." he said, and hung up.
I found my mother on the loggia, sitting in her chair and staring at the sea. I sat beside her, both of us quiet.
You and Thatcher," she began after another long moment of silence. "will see each other?"
"Sort of." I said. She turned, confused. "Inconspicuously, for a while. There are some new complications. His parents, of course. He wants us to be low-key for a while. Secret rendezvous, that sort of thing."
"Oh?"
It might just be nothing," I said, already regretting saving as much as I had. Putting any more weight on her shoulders now would be disastrous. I thought, "I'll give it a little time and see."
"I hope it does work out for you, Willow. I hope your coming here wasn't a monumental mistake in your life, that my bad luck, my dark destiny doesn't infect you like some flu or bad disease."
"Oh, Mother. no. Don't talk that way."
"My mother. Grandmother Jackie Lee Houston, used to tell me everything is part of some grand plan, everything is meant to be, and in the end we can do little to change it. I guess it was her way of accepting some of the harder and sadder events in her life, and I guess she anticipated I would experience similar things and need the same philosophy to get through. But why. I wonder from time to time, do we bother to get through? Through to where. to what?"
"To something better," I declared,
"Yes. To something better. A sailor's dream," she said, looking out at the horizon. "He would have come one day, you know. He would have come to fetch me and take me away from all this, your father.'
"Yes. I believe it. too. Mother." She smiled. "At least, in his way he did come. He sent you.-
"Exactly," I said, grateful for a little light in her eyes, a little warmth in her smile.
For some of us, it's almost sinful to hope,- she said. I took her hand quickly.
"Then let's go to hell together. Mother," I countered. Her smile widened into a thin laugh.
"Come on," I said, tuning on her to rise. "Let's look at some magazines and think about a new hairstyle for you. We'll make appointments
tomorrow."
"That soon?"
"Why wait any longer to start again?" I asked. "Hesitation just makes it all seem so serious."
"It is serious. For me," she whispered.
As if she were made of air, she rose at the end of my hand and let me lead her along like a balloon on a string, just as light, but just as fragile and just as vulnerable to a strong, stormy wind.
3
New Beginnings
.
Thatcher couldn't have chosen a mare
inconspicuous restaurant. I passed it twice, turned around, and practically crawled along the highway until I spotted it. The neon sign he'd described was so small, you really had to start down the driveway of the restaurant before fully seeing it, and the restaurant itself looked like someone's home, with a short walkway and steps leading to a small entry porch. The wooden cladding, stained by years of sea air, was a marine gray, reminiscent of a ship's hull. I recognized Thatcher's Rolls-Royce parked off to the right, sufficiently in the dark to go unnoticed by
disinterested eyes.
I parked in a lot that contained a half dozen other vehicles and walked to the entrance. There was a short foyer with a dark oak desk on my right. The lighting was subdued, only a small lamp on the desk and a dull fixture above dripping just enough pale yellow glow to reveal a coat rack and a poster-sized map of Italy. I could hear some chatter coming from the room off to my left, but before I took another step, a short gray-haired lady in a black dress with a cameo on her bodice stepped in from the room on the right and went around the desk. She had a round face with Santa Claus-red cheeks and eyes the color of black pearls.
"Buono sera," she said. "and welcome to Diana's. Did you have a reservation?"
"I'm meeting someone who might have made a
reservation," I said. "Mr. Eaton?"
"Oh, yes, of course. He's already here. Please,"
she said, indicating I should follow her.
We went to the right, but I glanced into the
room on my left and saw a half dozen tables, all
occupied. The recognizable voices of the famous three
tenors-- Carreras, Domingo. and Pavarotti-- came
over the sound system, but the volume was kept just
low enough to serve as background and not
overpower the conversations.
The room to the right was smaller, with only
three tables. The one at which Thatcher waited was
off to the left in the corner, screened by privacy walls
on both open sides. He stood up quickly. A bottle of
chilled champagne was beside the table and a bottle of
red wine at the center, next to a basket of small rolls. "Thank you. Mamma Diana," Thatcher said,
and extended his hand to me. "Willow," he mouthed,
kissed me quickly, and pulled out my chair. "Bon appetito," Mamma Diana wished us. "Grazie, ma con il sou cibo, non c'e problema
con l'appetito,"
Thatcher said, and she laughed as she moved
away.
"What did you say?"
"I thanked her and told her that with her food,
there is no problem with appetite."
"I didn't know you could speak fluent Italian." "Cosi, cosi, abbastanza d'arrangiarmi. So-so,
enough to get by." he replied, and sat.
"You can get by quite a bit with that," I
quipped, and he laughed.
Then he reached across the table to hold my
hand.
"I missed you so much. Willow. Those days we
had, the picnic on the boat, those nights, were so
special, the memory of them was enough to sustain
me until you returned. I thought we'd have a
champagne toast to celebrate your coming back, back
to me."
I tilted my head.
"Maybe you really are Kirby Scott's son.
Thatcher,"
His smile wilted.
"I mean what I say. Willow. Kirby Scott came
here and used words like a magician uses the turns of
his hand to distract and confuse and betray," he said
sternly. "That's not my intent or purpose."
He looked indignant, hurt, and insulted, Maybe
I was being too harsh, I thought.
"In a strangely ironic twist of fate, if what you
have been told is true, you and Linden could very well
share a similar anger at the world and fate," I
suggested,
He considered the idea for a moment and
calmed,
"Yes, perhaps so. I never think of things from
his point of view exactly. I guess I should.'
I quickly told him about my conversation with
Leo Ross and his references to Kirby Scott, especially
his belief that Kirby had introduced Thatcher's parents
to the idea of renting my mother's property. "I don't know. I can't recall any mention of him
in that regard, but it might be true. I'll have to ask my
father and mother. However. I think I would agree
with you that if it is true, he had other than altruistic
motives. What a piece of work he was."
"You realize that from what you've been told, you might be talking about the man who is your
father. Thatcher.'
He smirked and shook his head.
"If my legal experiences have taught me
anything these last few years. Willow, it's that it takes
more th
fathers against sons, sons against fathers, brothers and
sisters against each other. everything. I hate to think I
might share anything with such a person, even a
single corpuscle...
"What are you going to do? How are you going
to get to the truth. Thatcher? You can't live in limbo
with this, and we can't let it hover over our heads like
ominous storm clouds forever."
"I know. I know." he said. squeezing his
forehead with his thumb and forefinger as though it all
gave him a constant headache. I did feel sorry for him. Are you going to have a blood test or
something like that?" I asked.
"I'd have to tell my father everything. How can
I do that?" he practically cried. "How can I be the one
to tell him that my mother was once unfaithful? Even
if it was only once." he muttered as far under his
breath as he could, realizing that the couple at the
nearest table had turned our way.
He looked desperate, distraught. defeated. "I feel like I'm boxed in, and that is not
something I have experienced much in my life." "I'm sure you'll find a way to make sense out of
it all. Thatcher," I assured him, and put my hand out
to touch his.
Here I was again, finding myself in the role of
cheerleader, with all my heavy baggage to carry.
Daddy once told me it was sometimes a blessing to
have other people's problems on your mind-- it kept
you from fretting too much about your own. Solving
someone else's difficulties often brings more pleasure
than solving your own. Still. I felt a little bit like the
patient telling the doctor he would be fine. Thatcher
was the man of action here, the person with all the
resources at his beck and call. Who was I to advise
him or predict anything?
He leaned toward me to whisper. "I'm tracking
him down." he revealed. "You are?"
"Yes. The day of reckoning will come soon." he
promised. his eyes sharp with fury.
"How can you ever be sure that such a man will
utter a single syllable of truth when you confront
him?"
"I've had some pretty tough witnesses to crossexamine in court. Willow. I'll get the truth," he
bragged.
I stared at him, admiring his self-confidence. A
successful person had to have a little more confidence
than other people. a little more ego, too. perhaps.
When would I have it? Would I ever?
"But let's drop all this. I should have insisted
we pretend we've just met or something, or we check
our troubles at the door the way cowboys had to check
their guns. This is a special night, a reunion, a renewal
and new beginning for us. Willow," he said, reaching
for my hand again. Then he poured us both a glass of
champagne. "Let's start with the toast. To us." he said.
"To our health and success and love. Let them rise
above everything and everyone."
We tapped our glasses and sipped, fixing our
eyes on each other over the tops of the glasses. "These garlic rolls are homemade." he said,
offering me one. "Wait until you taste the food here.
It's like being in someone's home and not a
restaurant."
"That's what it looks like from the highway. It's
certainly a good hideaway. Why do I have the
suspicion you've used it before?" I teased.
"I will bring you to special places only. and after you and I are there together. they will become off-limits to me unless you are with me. I couldn't imagine ever having a business meeting here again."
he said.
"I wasn't speaking of those."
He laughed.
"You make me sound like a Palm Springs
walker. like some international gigolo hovering
around wealthy available women whether it be in
Paris, on the Cote d'Azur, or on Rodeo Drive." You speak French. Italian, Spanish. You know
wines, and you've traveled all over the world. You're
like someone trained to escort sophisticated women.
Thatcher. It would be a waste to have you sitting at
home. I can't imagine you ever becoming a couch
potato."
He laughed.
"Well, from now on. you're the only woman
I've been trained to escort. Willow De Beers." We tapped glasses again and sipped our
champagne. He poured us each some more. Then the
music became a little louder and we ordered our food
and nearly finished the bottle of champagne before
starting on a bottle of wine. Thatcher was right about
it all. The food was delicious. and very soon I felt as if we were in some private place. The rest of the world
drifted away. The music was just for us.
Afterward. he talked me into leaving my car in
the restaurant's parking lot and going with him to his
friend's beach house.
"I don't want you picked up for DUI. I would
have to defend you, and the judge would quickly see I
have a personal interest in my client." he told me. We kissed in his car and held each other closely
before we drove off. I felt like someone being swept
away, but I was allowing it to happen. I was caught in
the wind of our passion. Resistance was futile. I hadn't
realized how much I wanted to surrender to its power.
but I did, I certainly did.
.
The beach house seemed closer than he had
described. I closed my eyes and sat back, and in what
seemed to be only a few minutes, we were turning
down a gravel and dirt road and pulling up to a
beautiful home with a large screened-in pool. The
house itself was only a few hundred yards from the
beach. It was done in a very modem decor and looked
almost brand-new.
"Was it just built?" I asked. and Thatcher
laughed.
"No, but like many of my clients, he has more
money than he can use and would be better off staying
in one of the finer hotels than actually owning a
property he gets to live in only about two or three
weeks a year. Some people collect houses the vay
people used to collect stamps."
"You mean some people you know, not people
I know." I said, and continued my tour of the place.
There was a large living room with a big-screen
television set, and two bedrooms, one with a patio
overlooking the water.
Not too shabby. huh?" Thatcher said, coming
up behind me and kissing the back of my neck. As if his lips were magnets. I felt myself
leaning back into him, holding on to the warmth of his
kiss. He held me at the elbows and for a while we
stayed just like that, planted against each other,
listening to the surf and staring out at the starlight
dancing on the water.
Special moments like this were as rare as
precious jewels, I thought, So much of our lives were
spent on one level, coping, attending to the mundane,
the ordinary details and chores. Days, weeks, even
months could pass before something so wonderful and
true, something so memorable and unique would happen to us. Some
and being loved.
I turned and we kissed.
Passion rose in waves mimicking the sea,
undulating up my legs, climbing with every touch,
with every breath we took. He swept his arm under
me and scooped me up, gently placing me on the bed.
He gazed down at me so intently, my heart began to
pound like a Caribbean steel drum. I reached up for
him and he knelt beside the bed and slowly began to
undress me, first removing my shoes, then unzipping
the back of my dress and peeling it away. He took off
my panty hose, then undid my bra and lowered my
panties. Bare naked and spread before him. I felt my
heart skip beats, my breathing grow so fast and
furious I had to close my eyes to keep the room from
spinning.
I expected him to be beside me in moments,
naked and loving. but when I opened my eyes, he was
still gazing down at me and he was still dressed. "Thatcher," I moaned. "What are you doing?" "I want to capture the vision of you forever and
ever, just like this, delicious, waiting."
"That's unfair," I complained, and he laughed. To continue the exquisite torment, he brought
his lips to mine, but kept his hands away. I could feel
every part of me tingling with anticipation, crying out
for his touch, his lips, but he held back, restrained,
controlled, prolonging the preamble to our
lovemaking, until I could bear it no longer and cried
out with desperation.
He laughed, then brought his lips to my breasts
and followed down my body until he had me
demanding him. He undressed as quickly as he could
and crawled beside me.
"We're safe," I said. "I'm on the pill."
"Oh," he teased. "And how did you know we
would be doing this?"
"I knew. Besides, a girl has to be prepared for a
thunderbolt of love."
"I hope not with just anyone." he said. "You
know not with just anyone. You do, don't you?" I
asked when he didn't respond quickly enough. "Yes," he said, after teasing me again with that
moment of pretended doubt. "I know who you are,
and I love you far that."
This kiss was longer. We kept Our lips pressed
against each other's as he moved to put himself in me. "Scream all you want," he told me when I
muffled a cry of ecstasy. "No one can hear us but the