Bright Young Things

  This sounded like a good adventure to Cordelia, but she couldn‧t be certain if Charlie thought so, too, because he turned his face away from her and changed the subject.

  “What I‧m about to show you?” he said. “You can‧t tell anybody about it.”

  “One thing to know about me, Charlie Grey: I can keep a secret.”

  His eyes went to her, and he put on a half smile. “I‧ll bet you can,” he replied, and he placed his hand against a red book and pushed.

  There was a groaning mechanical noise, and then with a whoosh the wall began to rotate in a slow circle. Cordelia‧s mouth opened in surprise as the wall of books disappeared and another tableau came into view. With a click the movement ceased, and the shelves had become a bar of polished wood, with a semicircle mirror behind a collection of bottles holding seemingly every kind of spirit, and a large case stocked with glasses of various shapes.

  “Very impressive! But I thought you were going to get me out of here?”

  A little light caught in one of Charlie‧s eyes, but they were otherwise dark and inscrutable as he watched her. “You really can keep a secret? Only Dad‧s inner circle knows about this. He‧d go crazy on me if he knew I was showing it …”

  “I already told you I could!” she exclaimed.

  “Right. Well, truth is, this is really just a false front for a kind of passageway.”

  Taking a breath, Cordelia assessed her brother. “A passageway to where?”

  His eyes glinted again, and he reached behind the bottles on the bar to press another button. The contraption groaned, but this time the bar rotated only halfway, so that a space was left open between the real wall and the false one. Cordelia stepped forward and saw a stairwell leading down into the darkness.

  “Follow me,” he urged her. They walked down a curving flight of stairs dimly illuminated by the natural light coming through the slits in the ceiling. The air was cool in the darkness, especially as they traveled farther down under the ground. By the time they reached the bottom, it was almost completely black. Charlie searched for something, and in a moment he had found a switch, and the light of a single dangling bulb made their surroundings visible.

  They were standing on a dirt floor in a cavernous space, just beside a door secured with a great padlock, and beyond that a passageway branched right and left. The space underneath Dogwood was nothing much to look at, but Cordelia felt that vague excitement that comes from being someplace so secret.

  “That‧s the storeroom.” Charlie waved his hand toward the padlocked door. “There are others, of course, but that‧s the one on the property.”

  “Where do those lead?” Cordelia pointed down the two passageways.

  “One goes to the garage, so that deliveries can be brought in underground. Doesn‧t happen very often—like I said, only a few of Dad‧s men know about this place, and we want to keep it that way. The other goes to the bay.”

  “To the bay?” The smell of earth surrounded her, and she folded her arms around her torso and shivered. “What for?”

  “Oh, lots of reasons. In case the roads are blocked or being watched, and we need to get the goods in or out another way … Sometimes Dad says the feds are watching or waiting around the bend, and he doesn‧t want them to know he‧s leaving … or if there‧s a raid someday, this‧ll be the escape route, I guess.”

  “Where does it end?” Cordelia asked, taking a step in the direction of the bay passageway.

  “Little rundown pier by a fisherman‧s shack—it‧s a good half mile of tunnel to get there.”

  For a moment, Cordelia thought she caught a faint whiff of sea air, and her pulse quickened with the idea of escape.

  “You ready?” Charlie said, a touch of urgency heightening his voice.

  Their eyes met, both sets glinting with mischief, and then they struck out, walking in easy silence. For the first time, Cordelia began to feel what it was to have a sibling—even if he was a half sibling—and having been placed in Charlie‧s charge began to seem a little less of a nuisance. If he was an irritation, then he was the kind of irritation one is comforted by and rather likes having around.

  “How do you know the fisherman won‧t tell?” she asked as the darkened tunnel came to an end at a flight of old wooden stairs that led to a trapdoor.

  “Old man Ostrander? He‧d never—Dad did him a big favor once. He‧s more loyal to the Greys than he is to his own people. Plus, he drinks for free, and that‧s the most important thing to him.”

  He pushed open the heavy door and they came out on a rundown pier. Blinking in the bright light and breathing in the salty bay air, they couldn‧t help but shoot each other conspiratorial grins. The day was gorgeous, and they paused for a moment to share in the exhilaration of finally being free.

  18

  THE SOUND OF PEBBLES AGAINST GLASS AWAKENED Astrid from an anxious slumber. At first she hoped whoever it was would just go away, but when the barrage of pebbles continued, she cracked an eye and saw that she had fallen asleep on a daybed on the far side of her bedroom and that she was still wearing her pale peach silk evening frock from the night before. It was sleeveless, in a boyish cut, with a scalloped pattern of beads on the gauzy overdress, and when she‧d put it on last night, she‧d thought how much Charlie would have admired her in it. One high-heeled shoe was half on her right foot, and the other lay across the room, near the undisturbed coverlet she ordinarily slept under. She pushed herself up enough to shove open the leaded windowpane.

  “What?” she called irritably.

  “Astrid, it‧s me!”

  At the sound of Cordelia‧s voice, she scrambled to her feet and popped her head out the window. The air outside was unbearably fresh. “Oh, thank God! I‧ve missed you,” she caroled. Down below, on the drive, stood her new best friend in a blindingly white dress. Astrid pushed her piles of blond hair out of her face and beamed.

  Cordelia waved and smiled and stepped out of the shadow of an oak tree. “I‧ve missed you, too!”

  “How did you ever escape Dogwood?” As soon as she said it, her happiness flagged. There was no way Cordelia had escaped alone. Plus, the place where she was standing was too far for a girl‧s arm—Charlie was with her, hiding behind the tree trunk, probably. Cordelia cleared her throat and stepped forward, but before she could answer, Astrid pulled back and slammed the window shut. She threw herself down on the daybed, put a silky pillow over her face, and told herself to go back to sleep as quickly as possible. But her heart kept ticking, almost audibly, and pretty soon she realized that she wasn‧t going to have any peace. For a whole day she had been very good and not returned any of Charlie‧s calls and not even thought about him any more than was necessary. She still hated him for what he might have done—for all the ugly jealousy he‧d made her feel—and yet she knew she wouldn‧t be able to stand it if he left before she caught at least a glimpse of him.

  With as much cool hauteur as she could manage, she removed the pillow from her face, retrieved her wayward shoe, and made her way down to the main foyer. By the time she cracked the heavy front door, Charlie was visible. He wore a white T-shirt tucked in to brown trousers and carried a paper sack in one arm. His hair had less grease in it than usual and so appeared fairer and thicker; it was parted down the middle and rose up in two hills on either side. Astrid crossed her arms over her chest and leaned against the door frame until they noticed her. For a moment, it seemed as though Charlie was going to rush at Astrid, but his sister put a hand up to his chest to stop him. Then Cordelia approached the house alone.

  “I‧m glad to see you—but what is he doing here?” Astrid demanded.

  Cordelia smiled apologetically. “I know that earring looks bad—but if you could only see how he misses you. All morning he begged me to see if I couldn‧t get you to take his call. He said he doesn‧t know what he‧s done to deserve your anger—”

  “And you believe him?”

  Cordelia turned and glanced over her shoulder. Charlie was w
atching, hands stuffed in pockets, his big frame inclined toward the girls as though it was all he could do to keep himself put. “I don‧t know. What I do know is, it‧s a beautiful day, and we‧re finally free, and it won‧t be any fun without you, and we have three egg sandwiches, and only two of us to eat them.”

  Astrid knew the thing to do was to put her nose in the air and say she‧d love to if her afternoon weren‧t so packed. But seeing Charlie walk away now would be agony, and before she could stop herself, she‧d stepped forward onto the drive. Her heart was still tight as a fist—but at least now he would get to see her in the peach dress.

  “All right, Charlie Grey!” she called defiantly. “You can have me for the afternoon if you dare.”

  Though the day was utterly cloudless, Astrid‧s face was occasionally made cold by the currents created by various flying contraptions zooming up and landing on Everly Field, in Queens. She reclined like a princess on the checkered picnic cloth, with her head rested against Charlie‧s hip. A few feet away Cordelia sat with her long legs folded under, her hair tied back in a loose bun, watching the pilots pop the balloons that occasionally rose from the crowd and high into the vast blue arc above the enormous green field. The whole day had such charm, Astrid thought; she was happy to be here, watching the crowds at the airfield, instead of lonely at home and wondering what her boyfriend was doing without her.

  “Charlie, why haven‧t you ever taken me up in an airplane?” Astrid demanded, turning her remaining half sandwich in her hands, contemplating the best place to bite into the white bread. After an absence of some days, he looked particularly handsome to her, and she was struggling to keep part of her heart angry at him. But being difficult was a talent she‧d mastered at a young age, and she was managing to be difficult with Charlie now, even if he was so broad and strong. “It‧s only five dollars a person, and they take you all around.”

  “No, thank you.”

  Astrid and Cordelia exchanged glances over the odd swiftness of his reply.

  Then Astrid frowned theatrically, which caused Charlie to return to the sweet tone he‧d been trying to win her over with all afternoon. “Maybe a boat ride instead? I could take you out on one of those ferries that tour all the inlets and serve champagne. Wouldn‧t you like that?”

  “Boats bore me,” Astrid replied acidly. “And if I find out you‧ve taken your other girl up in an airplane, that will be the end of us.”

  It was not her first comment of the kind that day, and she could see that this latest really chafed Charlie. “There‧s no other girl, so stop laying into me,” he shot back.

  “I don‧t see any other reason why you wouldn‧t take me up,” Astrid went on airily.

  “Not after you disappeared the other night. If I let you go up in a plane, what‧s to guarantee me you‧ll ever come down?”

  Astrid‧s lips assumed a pout. “Aw, I said I was sorry, didn‧t I?”

  Cordelia, supporting herself on a long, sun-darkened arm and shielding her eyes with the flattened fingers of her other hand, leaned back to look at the show high above them. “I‧ve never been in an airplane,” she said to no one in particular.

  “Take us, Charlie!” Astrid demanded girlishly.

  But all her prodding must have irritated him too much—she was trying to be kittenish now, but it appeared to be too late. “No,” he said and turned away.

  There was something very stern about the vertical slabs of his face, which must have amused Cordelia, because she laughed and asked, “Oh, why not?”

  Charlie cleared his throat, and when he addressed Cordelia, he softened his voice. “I‧m afraid of—I don‧t like heights.”

  “Charlie,” Astrid said, smiling. “You‧ve never told me that!”

  “Yeah, well, now you know.”

  Cordelia changed the subject. “Well, I could go and make sure she behaves,” she offered. “I‧m blood, after all.”

  Charlie, who was resting on a thickly muscled forearm, squinted at his sister, seeming almost to consider her proposal. “Yes, you‧re blood, and I‧m just starting to feel grateful for it, but it‧s still too soon after your little indiscretion for me to let you go off by yourself in a flying contraption.”

  “Oh, Charlie,” Astrid exclaimed flirtatiously, spreading her fingers against his stomach. “Don‧t be mean to dear Cordelia! She didn‧t even know who the Hales were … and who knows, maybe it‧s true love, and they‧ll be like Romeo and Juliet, and bring peace to rival houses.”

  “Juliet dies at the end of the book,” Charlie snapped.

  Perhaps he was just fearful of the idea of going up high, or maybe she had teased and pushed too much, but either way his tone stung. The sound of his voice had ruined her afternoon. “It‧s not a book—it‧s a play, you big fool,” she huffed.

  Cordelia, seeing that she had not been successful in bringing harmony back to Astrid and Charlie, watched a little red-and-black biplane making figure eights high in the air. All across the field, arms reached heavenward, pointing to show young children or old folks what daring feats were possible in the modern world. For a while it had seemed that the novelty of escaping Dogwood, and the company of good friends, would be enough to distract her, but now that Astrid and Charlie had retreated into their lover‧s quarrels, Cordelia‧s thoughts returned to Thom. Soon after that came the longing. She would have taken any tiny scrap of him—a glimpse of his sideways twist of a grin, or the grazing touch of his arm if by lucky chance they passed in a crowd.

  “That‧s Max Darby‧s plane,” Charlie said after the girls were quiet awhile.

  “Max Darby?” Cordelia‧s eyes met her brother‧s. “How strange—I saw him flying my first day in New York.”

  Astrid, who was glaring off into the distance, stood up suddenly. “I‧d like to be taken home now,” she announced to no one in particular.

  “That boy‧s going to get himself killed.” Charlie shot Cordelia an exasperated expression, ignoring Astrid. “He‧s only eighteen, and he‧s always trying to do some ridiculous stunt just for the attention—he‧s planning to fly to the Florida Keys now, and they say he wants to be the youngest man ever to make a solo transatlantic crossing.”

  “Transatlantic?” Cordelia listened to the word echoing in her thoughts, trying to imagine the vastness it implied. “You mean—”

  “New York to Paris,” Charlie interrupted.

  New York to Paris—Cordelia wasn‧t sure she‧d ever heard such a wondrous phrase. The delight of it faded, however, when she realized that Astrid was stamping her foot, her fists placed angrily at her hips.

  “What?” Charlie shook his head, but did not wait for her to answer before standing. “All right, all right, we‧ll take you home.”

  Then Cordelia rose, too, and the three of them walked into the wind, toward the car they had borrowed from the Marshes’ garage. Astrid charged ahead. As her hips swished, the peach overlay of her evening gown was pulled tight against her skin. Charlie walked along beside her, and Cordelia, who was uninterested in whatever game it was they were now playing, turned and walked backward for several strides, taking in the great expanse of green and brown, the crowds of spectators off to the side, and the big glass-and-metal hangars beyond them.

  Before she could turn again, she heard a collective gasp rise up from the crowd: The black-and-red biplane was heading straight for the ground in a nosedive. Cordelia‧s hand jumped involuntarily to cover her mouth. But just when the plane seemed perilously close to crashing to Earth, the pilot pulled back and his trajectory reversed—for a moment, he seemed to skim the ground, and then he climbed upward in the direction of infinite blue.

  “Hey!” Charlie called. “You coming?”

  Cordelia shivered and turned toward her brother‧s voice. He had reached the car, and Astrid was already situated in the front seat, her eyes gazing directly in front of her. Smiling privately, Cordelia hurried after them. That morning she had felt bound, but she didn‧t feel that way anymore. It was as though she‧d
drawn some inspiration from the aviator‧s fearlessness, the way he charged toward heaven or hell just as he pleased, as though there were no such thing as gravity. She wanted to be fearless, too, and follow the yearning within her heart to see Thom Hale again.

  19

  CORDELIA HAD ONLY THE SOUND OF HER OWN breathing to keep her company as she stepped through the cool darkness. Occasionally she put out a hand to touch the wall, which was lined with unfinished planks, and she quickly learned to do so gingerly for fear of picking up splinters. Taking the secret tunnel that began in Dogwood‧s library was more frightening by herself, but more thrilling, too.

  Still she was relieved to come upon the flight of stairs that ended in a trapdoor. She pushed up through it and found herself, for the second time that day, in the tall reeds of a sandy stretch of land near a pebble beach. The sky was a deep blue by then, and the pier where she and Charlie had hailed a passing fisherman that morning jutted out in front of her, over the smooth, lustrous water. She went to the edge of the dock and stood there in her red dress. She had been specific about the red dress. The air was warm enough that she didn‧t even need to cover her shoulders; all that was required was a few yards of silk, secured with inch-wide straps above a U-shaped neckline, falling loosely away from the skin.

  Then she went through the series of actions, just as she had described them on the telephone. She took a cigarette from the small eel-skin purse she carried and lit a match. The flame flared up, a flash in the warm night air. A few seconds passed, and then she heard the lazy splashing of oars moving through still water. She didn‧t make him out until he was almost at the pier, and by then her face tingled with anticipation.

  Thom was sitting in a rowboat, wearing white slacks and a navy collared shirt with tiny gold stripes under a beige cardigan. His hair was burnished with oil, and his face was lit with a subdued smile that grew when they were close enough to see each other in detail. It was strange to see him now, when she knew what kind of life he came from, for he wasn‧t at all like Charlie—he had none of her brother‧s bluntness, and his features were so much more whittled and fine, and he seemed to take everything in stride instead of going so extravagantly hot and cold.