by now.”
“Yes. He has a cousin, Melissa, who’s really a character. I like her. His grandmother was rather sweet to me. For the rest”—Foxy paused and wrinkled her nose—“there’s been everything from casual friendliness to rank disapproval.” Pam could all but hear the shrug in her voice. “I’m looking at this first round of social obligations and introductions as kind of a pledge week. After it’s done, I’ll know them, and they’ll know me, and that will be that.” She grinned. “I hope.”
“Lance’s mother is a . . . formidable lady,” Pam commented.
“Yes,” Foxy agreed, surprised. “How did you know?”
“My mother and she are slightly acquainted,” she answered. Foxy was reminded that Pam had been born and bred in the world she had found herself thrust into by marriage. “I met her myself once when I was covering a story on art patrons.” Pam recalled her impression of an elegant, aristocratic woman with cool eyes and beautiful skin. She remembered no warmth at all. “Just keep your feet planted, Foxy. It’ll all settle in a few months.”
Toying with the brass model of a Formula One that served as a paperweight, Foxy sighed. “I’m trying, Pam, but I do wish Lance and I could just lock the doors for a while. Our honeymoon was interrupted before it had really begun. I’m selfish enough to want a week or two alone with him while I’m getting used to being a wife.”
“That sounds more reasonable than selfish,” Pam corrected. “Maybe you’ll be able to get away once he’s finished designing this new car for Kirk. From what I gather, it’s a bit complicated because of some new safety features Lance is working on.”
“What car?” Foxy demanded softly as she felt her blood turn cold.
“The new Formula One Lance is designing for Kirk. Hasn’t he told you about it?”
“No, no he hasn’t.” Foxy’s voice was normal but her eyes were dull and lifeless as she stared down at the polished surface of Lance’s desk. “I suppose it’s for next season.”
“That’s why they’re pushing to move it along,” Pam agreed. “It’s practically all Kirk can talk about. He’s hoping to fly into Boston as soon as he’s out of here so that he can be in on it before it’s a finished project. The doctors seem to feel his avid interest in the car is a good motivation for getting him back on his feet quickly.” Pam rambled on while Foxy stared without seeing anything. “There’s no doubt he’s cooperating so well with his therapist because he wants to walk out of here by the first of the year.”
“If he’s not on his feet,” Foxy put in slowly, “they can lift him out of his wheelchair and strap him into the cockpit.” Though it cost her some effort, she managed to keep her voice carefully level. “I’m sure Lance would have no objections.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if Kirk tried to arrange it.” Pam made a sound that was half laugh, half sigh. “Ah, well. What I would like, if you can do it, are some shots of the new car. Seeing as you have an in with the head man, you should be able to get close enough to take a shot or two. I’d especially like a few at the test track when it’s progressed that far.”
Foxy shut her eyes on the headache that was beginning to throb. “I’ll do what I can.” Will I never get away from it? she wondered and squeezed her eyes tighter. Never? “I have to get back to work, Pam. Give Kirk my love, will you? And take care of yourself.”
“Be happy, Foxy, and give our best to Lance.”
“Yes, I will. Bye.” With studied care, Foxy replaced the phone on its cradle. The cold shield over her skin remained, stretching out to extend to her brain. There was a void where her emotions might have been. Anger hovered on the edge of her consciousness, but failed to penetrate. Kirk’s accident replayed in her head, not with the smooth motion of a movie, but with the quick, staccato succession of a slide show. Each frame was distinct and horrible.
There were countless grids in her memory, countless wrecks. They came back to her in a montage of cars and drivers and pit crews all jumbled together in a throbbing mass of speed. She sat, swamped by the largeness of Lance’s chair, and remembered all of ten years as the light shifted with evening. Outside, the temperature began to drop with the sun. When the door to the study opened, Foxy turned her eyes to it with little interest.
“Here you are.” Lance strolled into the room, leaving the door open behind him. “Why are you sitting in the dark, Fox? Don’t you get enough of that in your fortress in the basement?” Moving to her, he cupped her chin in his hand and kissed her. The gesture was casual and somehow possessive. When he received no response, he narrowed his eyes and studied her face. “What is it?”
Foxy looked up at him, but her eyes were shadowed in the dimming light. “I just talked to Pam.”
“Is it Kirk?” The quick concern in his voice melted the shield that covered her. Under it was the boiling fury of betrayal. She struggled to remain objective until she understood. “Are you concerned about his health?” she asked, but drops of anger burned through the words.
Frowning at the tone, Lance traced her jaw with his finger and felt the tension. “Of course I am. Has there been a complication?”
“Complication,” she repeated tonelessly as her nails bit into her palms. “That depends on your viewpoint, I suppose. Pam told me about the car.”
“What car?”
The blatant curiosity and puzzlement in his voice snapped her control. Knocking his hand from her face, Foxy rose, putting the chair and her temper between them. “How could you begin designs on a car while he’s still in the hospital? Couldn’t you even wait until he can walk again?”
Understanding replaced the puzzlement on Lance’s face. He made no attempt to close the distance between them, but when he spoke, his voice was patient. “Fox, it takes time to design and build a car. Work was begun on this months ago.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” She tossed the words at him, more annoyed than soothed by the patience in his tone. “Why were you keeping it from me?”
“In the first place,” he began, frowning as he watched her, “designing cars is my business, and you’re aware of it. I’ve designed cars for Kirk before, you’re aware of that, too. Why is this different?”
“He was nearly killed less than a month ago.” Foxy gripped the supple leather of Lance’s chair.
“He crashed,” Lance said calmly. “He’s crashed before. You and I both know that there’s always the chance he’ll crash again. It’s a professional risk.”
“A professional risk,” she repeated while fresh fury grew in her eyes. “Oh, how like you! That makes it all neat and tidy. How marvelous it must be to be so impersonally logical.”
“Be careful, Foxy,” Lance said evenly.
“Why are you encouraging him to go back to it?” she demanded, ignoring his warning. “He might have had enough this time. He has Pam now, he might . . . ”
“Wait a minute.” Though shadows washed the room, Foxy had no need to see his face clearly to recognize his anger. “Kirk doesn’t need any encouraging. Accident or no accident, he’ll be back on the grid next season. It’s no use trying to delude yourself, Foxy. Neither a wreck nor a woman is going to keep Kirk out of a cockpit for long.”
“We’ll never be sure of that now, will we?” she countered furiously. “You’ll have one all ready for him. Custom fit. How can he resist?”
“If I didn’t, someone else would.” Lance’s hands slipped into his pockets as his voice became dangerously quiet. “I thought you understood him . . . and me.”
“All I understand is that you’re planning to put him into another car, and he’s not even able to stand up yet.” Her voice became desperate and she dragged an impatient hand through her hair. “I understand that you might have used your influence to persuade him to retire, and instead—”
“No.” Lance interrupted her flatly. “I won’t be held responsible for what your brother chooses to do with his life.”
Foxy swallowed hard, struggling not to cry. “No, you don’t want the responsibility, I
can understand that, too.” Bitterness spilled over and colored her words. In the dimming light, her eyes glittered both with anger and despair. “All you have to do is draw some lines on paper, balance some equations, order some parts. You don’t have to risk your life, just your money. You’ve plenty of that to spare.” Her mind began to spin with a cascade of thoughts and accusations. “On a different level, it’s a bit like the casino in Monte Carlo.” Foxy raked her hands through her hair again, then gripped them together, furious that they were trembling. “You could just sit back and watch the action, like some . . . some overlord. Money doesn’t mean very much to someone who’s always had it. Is that how you get your satisfaction?” she demanded, too incensed to realize that his very silence was ominous. “By paying someone to take the risks while you sit back in safety and watch?”
“That’s enough!” He moved like lightning, giving her no chance to evade him. In an instant, he had pulled her from behind the chair until he towered over her. “I don’t have to take that from you. I did my time on the grid and quit because it was what I wanted to do.” Temper was sharp in his voice, hard in the fingers that gripped her arms. “I retired because I chose to retire. I’ll race again if I choose to race again. I don’t justify my life to anyone. I pay no one to take risks for me.”
Fear over the thought of Lance taking the wheel again coated her anger. Her voice trembled as she fought to suppress even the possibility from her brain. “But you’re not going to race again. You’re not—”
“Don’t tell me what I’m going to do.” The words were clipped and final.
Foxy swallowed her terror and spoke with a desolate calm. Once again, she felt herself being shifted to the backseat. With Kirk, she had accepted the position without thought, but now, waves of anger, frustration, and pain spilled through her. “How foolish of me to have thought my feelings would be important enough to matter to you.” She started to move past him, but he stopped her by placing his hands on her shoulders. The gesture itself was familiar enough to bring an ache to the pit of her stomach.
“Foxy, listen to me.” There were hints of patience in Lance’s voice again, but they were strained. “Kirk is a grown man, he makes his own decisions. Your brother’s profession has nothing to do with you anymore. My profession has nothing to do with us.”
“No.” Calmly she lifted her eyes to meet his. “That’s simply not true, Lance. But regardless of that, Kirk will drive your car next season, and you’ll do precisely what you want to do. There’s nothing I can do to change any of it. There never has been with Kirk, and now my position’s been made clear with you. I’m going upstairs now,” she told him quietly. “I’m tired.”
The room was dark now. For some moments he studied her in complete silence before taking his hands from her shoulders. Without speaking, she took a step back, then moved around him and walked from the room. Her footsteps were soundless as she climbed the stairs.
Chapter 13
Morning came as a surprise to Foxy. She had lain awake for hours, alone and unhappy. Her conversation with Pam played over in her mind, and the argument with Lance came back to haunt her. Now she awoke, unaware of having fallen asleep, and the morning sun was streaming onto the bed. Lance’s side of the bed was empty. Foxy’s hand automatically reached out to touch the sheets where he would have slept. Some warmth still lingered on the spot, but it brought her no comfort. For the first time since their wedding night, they might have slept in separate beds. They had not woken tangled together, to drift into morning as they had drifted into night.
The heaviness that lay on Foxy did not come from sleep but from dejection. Arguing with Lance was certainly not a novel occupation to her, but this time Foxy felt the effects more deeply. Perhaps, she thought as she stared at the ceiling, it’s because now that I have more, I have more to lose. He’s probably still downstairs. I could go down and . . . No. Foxy interrupted her own train of thought with a shake of her head. No, there was too much here to be resolved over morning coffee with Mrs. Trilby hanging over his shoulder. In any case, I could use the day to sort things out.
Mechanically Foxy rose and showered. She took her time dressing, though her choice of cords and a rag sweater were simple. As she dressed, she mentally outlined her schedule. She would work on the racing prints until eleven, then she would walk to the public gardens and continue on her new project. Satisfied with her agenda, she moved downstairs. There was no sign of Lance, and though she told herself it was for the best, she lingered by the hall phone a moment, undecided. No, she told herself firmly. I will not call him. We can’t discuss anything rationally over the telephone. Is there anything to discuss? she wondered and frowned at the phone as if it annoyed her. Lance seemed clear enough on his opinion of our positions last night. I won’t accept it, she told herself staunchly, still staring at the phone. I will not accept it. He can’t go back to racing. She swallowed the iron taste of fear that had risen to her throat. He couldn’t have meant that. Squeezing her eyes tight, Foxy shook her head. Don’t think about it now. Go to work and don’t think about it. She took a deep breath and turned her back on the phone.
After confiscating a cup of coffee from the kitchen, Foxy closeted herself in her darkroom. The prints still hung on the line as she had left them. Without consciously planning to do so, she pulled the print of Kirk’s racer down and studied it. A comet, she thought, remembering. Yes, he is a comet, but doesn’t even a comet have to burn out sometime? There’ll be other pictures of him next year, but someone else will have to take them. Maybe Lance will arrange for that, too. A sharp, frustrated sound escaped her. I can’t think about all of this anymore. She pulled down the dry prints, then began to work on a fresh roll of film. Time passed swiftly and in such absolute silence that she was jolted when a knock sounded on the door. Foxy frowned as she went to answer it. Mrs. Trilby had never ventured into her territory.
“Melissa!” she exclaimed as her frown flew into a smile. “What a nice surprise.”
“It’s not dark,” Melissa said with a small pout as she moved past Foxy and into the room. “Why is it called a darkroom if it isn’t dark? I’m disillusioned.”
“You came at the wrong time,” Foxy explained. “I promise it was quite dark in here a couple of hours ago.”
“I suppose I’ll have to take your word for it.” Melissa slowly walked down the line of new prints Foxy had hanging. “My, my, you really are a professional, aren’t you?”
“I like to think so,” Foxy answered wryly.
“All so technical,” Melissa mused as she wandered around the room and scowled at bottles and timers. “I suppose this is what you studied in college.”
“I majored in photography at USC. Not Smith,” she added with a lift of brow. “Not Radcliffe, not Vassar, but at that little-known institution, the state college.”
“Oh, dear.” Melissa bit her lip but a small portion of the smile escaped. “Some of the ladies have been giving you a bad time, I take it.”
“You take it right,” Foxy agreed, then wrinkled her nose. “Well, I suppose I’m just a nine-days wonder. They’ll forget about me soon enough.”
“Such sweet naïveté,” Melissa murmured as she patted Foxy’s cheek. “I’ll let you hold on to that little dream for a while. In any case,” she continued, briskly brushing a speck from her pale blue angora sweater. “There’s a dance at the country club Saturday. You and Lance are coming, aren’t you?”
“Yes.” Foxy didn’t bother to suppress her sigh. “We’ll be there.”
“Buck up, darling. The obligations will taper off in a few months. Lance had never been one to socialize more than is absolutely necessary. And”—she smiled her singularly charming smile—“it’s such a marvelous excuse to go shopping.” Melissa gave the room another sweeping glance. “Are you all done in here?”
“Yes, I’ve just finished.” Foxy glanced at her watch and gave a satisfied nod. “And right on schedule.”
“Well then, let’s go shopping and
buy something fabulous to wear Saturday night.” She linked her arm with Foxy’s and began to lead her from the room.
“Oh no.” She stopped long enough to close the darkroom door behind her. “I went on one of your little shopping safaris last week. You invaded every shop on Newbury Street. I haven’t taken my vitamins today, and anyway, I have a dress for Saturday. I don’t need anything.”
“Good grief, do you have to need it before you buy it?” Melissa turned back from her journey to the stairs and gaped. “You only bought one little blouse when we went shopping before. What do you think Lance has all that lovely money for?”
“For a multitude of things, I’m sure,” Foxy replied gravely. Still, a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “But hardly for me to spend on clothes I have no need for. In any case, I use my own money for personal things.”
Melissa folded her arms and studied Foxy with care. “Why, you’re serious, aren’t you, pet?” She looked puzzled as she lifted her shoulders. “But Lance has simply hordes of money.”
“I know that. I often wish he didn’t.” As she started to climb the stairs to the first floor Melissa took her arm.
“Wait a minute.” Her voice had altered from its brisk good humor. It was quiet now, and serious. “They really are giving you a bad time, aren’t they?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Foxy began, using a shrug to toss off the question.
“Oh, but I think it does.” Melissa’s hand was surprisingly firm on Foxy’s arm. She kept Foxy facing her on the narrow stairway. “Listen to me a minute now. I’m going to be perfectly serious for a change. This business about you marrying Lance for his money is just typical nonsense, Foxy. It doesn’t mean anything. And not everyone is saying it or thinking it. There are some morons who carry on about status and bloodlines, of course, but I never pay much attention to morons.” She smiled when she paused for breath, but her eyes remained grave. “You’ve already won over a great many people, people like Grandmother, who’s no pushover. And you’ve done that by simply being yourself. Surely Lance has told you how many people are pleased with his taste in wives.”
“We don’t discuss it.” Foxy dragged her hand through her hair with a sound of frustration. “That is, to be more exact, I haven’t said anything about his less friendly relations. It hardly seems fair to hound him with complaints.”
“Is it fair for you to stand quiet while a scattered few toss rocks at you?” Melissa countered, lifting a brow uncannily as Lance did. “Martyrdom is depressing, Foxy.”
Foxy grimaced at the title. “I don’t think I care much for that.” Shaking her head, she gave Melissa a rueful smile. “I suppose I’m being too sensitive. There’ve been so many changes all at once, and I’m having a hard time juggling everything.”
Melissa linked her arm with Foxy’s again as they mounted the stairs. “Now, what else is there?”