Chapter 21 Click
Click
Denise was outside, avoiding people in general and her grandparents in particular.
It was bad enough that she’d have to drive to New York with them in the morning, then stay overnight in their apartment before
boarding the Queen Mary. She saw no point in letting them parade her around as the supposed “guest of honor” at a party with a guest list primarily
composed of people she barely knew.
Still, this party had some upsides, beginning with the gifts.
Nearly all those strangers had brought cards filled with cash. Denise didn’t know what it added up to, but it was certainly
enough to keep her in books for a good while. And her mother’s friends had thrown in to get her that pen set. She had plenty
of pens already, but getting one from Margaret and the Bettys felt like an affirmation, a vote of confidence that she really
would become a writer. However, surprisingly, the best gift of all had come from her grandparents—an Olympus PEN-F camera and case
plus two dozen rolls of film.
The camera had no end of features. Though she planned to read the manual and learn how to use them during her voyage, she couldn’t resist trying it out right away.
She’d spent the last hour slinking around the party, making herself as unobtrusive as possible in order to get candid shots of the guests.
Since Denise was already skilled at making herself invisible, this wasn’t too difficult.
Standing half-hidden behind the corner of the tent where lunch would be served, she’d already snapped shots of all the Bettys—Mrs.
Buschetti eating a stuffed mushroom, pretty Mrs. Cobb wearing a hideous orchid corsage, and Mrs. Ryan staring at her husband
with an expression Denise couldn’t quite decipher.
She went into the house after that, hung around the fringes of the bar, and took pictures of people swilling too many cocktails,
including her grandmother. Leaving the flash off, Denise had clicked a button on the camera just as Patricia—glassy-eyed and
with an empty martini glass in hand—was sliding two cocktail onions off a toothpick with bared teeth. Denise couldn’t wait
to get that one developed. A picture like that might come in handy someday. She smiled to herself. This wasn’t turning out
to be such a bad day after all.
And it had been nice having all her siblings together under one roof for the weekend. Howard Jr.—Howie—was doing a summer
semester at military school but had gotten a three-day leave to come to the party.
Mom had squealed with joy when Howie came through the door. She had hugged him tight for at least a minute before releasing
him and rubbing the stubble of his crew cut, saying he was too skinny.
They’d gone on a trail ride in Rock Creek Park the next day, Bitsy having arranged everything. Then they ordered pizzas—Howie
ate one all by himself—and had a picnic in their pajamas, the five of them sitting on Charlotte’s bed and playing Stratego,
just like a normal happy family. Charlotte was happiest of all, relaxed and laughing, sipping a Coke instead of a cocktail.
Had life at home always been like that, Denise might have thought twice about England.
Of course, when Howard Sr. showed up, the atmosphere chilled considerably.
Howie was in the attic above the garage right now, smoking pot and avoiding him.
Denise understood, but she hoped he’d come down long enough so they could say goodbye.
Strange to think she’d miss him—they’d always butted heads as kids—but she knew she would.
And she would really miss Andrew and Laura.
They’d probably miss her too, but right now they were just excited about spending the rest of the summer swimming, boating,
doing archery, and having fireside sing-alongs at a lakeside camp in Connecticut. It was their third year of going to camp,
so Denise wasn’t worried about them getting homesick.
Having them away from home would be much harder on her mother.
Had Mrs. Ryan not promised to keep an eye on her mother, Denise probably would have turned down the Oxford admission. Mrs.
Ryan was such a kind woman, steady and intelligent. And Denise knew she cared about her mother; all the Bettys did. And all
of them would watch out for her. Even so, this would be a hard adjustment, a lonely season.
Denise made a decision. Instead of spending her graduation cash on books, she would use it to telephone her mother once a
month. No, once a week. Phoning internationally was terribly expensive, but they’d keep it short. They’d had their moments, and Denise knew they
always would. They were just too different and, in some ways, too alike. Still, Denise knew her mother would be happy to hear
her voice.
And then another, far more surprising thought came to her . . . She would be happy to hear her mother’s voice too. She was
going to miss her mother.
Denise pressed her hand against her mouth. In a week she would disembark at Cherbourg to spend a few weeks touring the Continent
before settling into her Oxford rooms before the term began. An entire ocean would separate her from her mother. Such a long
way. But . . . she could take a piece of her mother with her, couldn’t she? A photograph?
Yes! She would take her mother’s picture, frame it, and leave it near her bedside.
Denise searched the crowd for that familiar redhead, listened for that smoky laugh. Failing to find her, Denise took a quick
loop through the house, pretending she didn’t hear her grandfather saying there was someone he wanted her to meet. She slipped
out the back door, twisting sideways to avoid a collision with a waiter, and padded across the grass to the far corner of
the house. Perhaps Charlotte had snuck out too, escaped the crush to smoke a cigarette in peace and quiet.
The side yard was concealed by fencing. Charlotte had ignored Concordia’s rules and installed the landscaping she’d wanted—a
row of large and lush camellia bushes. If a person was trying to hide out, this would be the spot—the only place in the yard
that offered privacy and a certain, albeit imperfect, amount of camouflage.
Approaching the hedge, Denise spotted a figure in the bushes. But it was another woman, not her mother.
And she wasn’t alone.
Denise stopped short, took two slow steps to the right and the leafy cover of the camellias, doing what she did so naturally
and so well, becoming invisible, observing keenly.
The woman had her head tilted back and her eyes closed. Howard’s face was lowered into her décolletage, his features impossible
to see. He raised her skirt to her waist, stroked her thighs, coaxed them apart, slipped his hand into the cleft.
Howard lifted his head. Denise lifted her camera. The woman moaned.
Click.