Evergreen Falls

  He steadied her, brought her inside through the door marked PRIVATE, and set her on a wing-backed chair. “Sit,” he said, striding to a drinks tray on the mantelpiece. “You aren’t falling apart, but you’re hysterical. Here.” He returned with a glass of whiskey, which she duly gulped.

  “Now. What happened?”

  She handed him the whiskey glass and told him, finally expressed aloud the cruel corner into which she was painted. Sam was an addict; she had to help him to keep their father’s favor but couldn’t help him without exposing him to the law, or to disavowal by his family, or to some other horror that she hadn’t yet managed to imagine. Either way, no matter what she did it could not be the right thing. As she spoke she wept openly, as though she had lost her propriety on Malley’s front steps and would never get it back. But it felt so good to have said it all, and to have cried so openly.

  All the while he sat in front of her on an embroidered ottoman, the lamplight flaring in his Harold Lloyds. When she had finished, the mortification crept in.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, “I really shouldn’t have—”

  “My mother drank,” he said quickly. “To excess. When I came home from school every day, I didn’t know if she would be sober and guilty, or drunk and angry. I tried everything I could to fix her. I tried to be good. I did well at school. I wrote her stories. I begged her to stop. I thought if I could just figure out the one thing that would bring her to her senses, I could help her. In the end, of course, there was nothing I could do. My father packed my sister and me up when I was fourteen and he left her. She tried to contact me a few times, but then I heard nothing until news of her death reached me, just last Christmas.”

  Flora looked at him, blinking hard. He had delivered the whole story in a voice holding firm against a surging tide of emotion.

  He drew breath, and his voice returned to normal. “So you see, Flora, I know how you feel. You need never be sorry for it.”

  She nodded, afraid to speak lest she cry again.

  “Another whiskey?”

  “No, I’d . . . I should return to the hotel. Nobody knows where I am.”

  “Let me drive you. You oughtn’t be out after dark alone.”

  “No, no. It isn’t far.”

  “I insist. Please, Flora, let me help you.”

  She placed her fingers on her forehead, unable to think straight. “All right, then. All right.”

  Only ten minutes later she was back at the entrance to the hotel, watching as Will’s car pulled away up the hill. He had driven her in warm, sweet silence, despite the cold, oily smell of the car. Something had shifted inside her, and it was with a surprising sense of regret that she watched the last flash of his Nash sedan’s headlamps turn the corner and disappear out of sight. What a different life she could have had. Simpler. Better. But Tony was back tomorrow or the next day, and they had to choose a wedding date.

  Then, the rest of her life would come rushing towards her, stealing her feet from under her, like a current too strong to fight.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Tony returned on a Saturday afternoon. He seemed perfectly fine and happy through dinner, and kissed Flora warmly on the cheek before he went to bed that night, telling her he loved her. She counted the days and was certain Father’s letter would have arrived already if it was going to, so she allowed herself a sigh of thanks. Father must have somehow retrieved it from the mail, to save her embarrassment.

  On Sunday, Karl invited them all for a trout-fishing expedition in the cold streams and water holes ten miles north of Evergreen Falls. Because the challenge of organizing enough space in cars and sulkies for all of them became too confusing, they decided it would be a lark to catch the train with all their fishing rods, buckets, and bags. Sam refused to come, of course, leaving Flora in the company of Tony, Sweetie, Harry, Vincent, and Vincent’s girlfriend, Eliza, who had come up from Sydney for the weekend. Eliza and Flora sat together on the long train seat, ladylike in their knee-length box-pleated skirts, with picnic baskets on their laps. The boys in their straw boaters mucked about, putting their heads and arms out windows, bragging about the size and number of fish they would catch. Vincent occasionally sent a friendly wink over to Eliza, but Tony seemed to have forgotten Flora was there. It was no matter; she liked to see him happy.

  They alighted two stops up the line and began the long walk down to the stream. The day was cool and clear, and the sun shone a little warm light from far away. A kookaburra called in the distance, and the boys all attempted impersonations of it, making themselves laugh until they were doubled over. At length, the group came to a large watering hole. The boys kicked off their shoes and rolled up their trousers to wade in, while Flora and Eliza scouted for an appropriate place to set up the picnic, settling on a large flat rock to lay the tablecloth and spread out the cutlery and plates. The food stayed wrapped for the time being.

  “It will be too cold for them to stand in the water for long,” Eliza observed.

  “I don’t know if the goal is actually to catch fish,” Flora answered. “I think the fun might have already been had.”

  “They are certainly in high spirits.”

  Flora turned to gaze at Tony, who had his back to her. The sun caught highlights in his dark hair. His broad back was flexed and his hips square, as he cast his line into the cold water. His back. When she was married, she could touch his back. Not just through his shirt, as she had once or twice boldly while he kissed her. It gave her an odd, awkward thrill.

  “When are you two getting married?” Eliza said, sitting on the edge of the rock and crossing her ankles.

  “I’m supposed to make a date as soon as possible,” Flora replied, turning back to the picnic. “I have to talk to Tony about it. He’s been away on business in Sydney.”

  Eliza nodded, seemed as though she wanted to say something but didn’t. Instead, she smiled. “You love him?”

  “I do. How about you and Vincent?”

  “I keep hoping he’ll ask me to marry him, but he doesn’t. It’s been ages. Six months. It doesn’t help that he’s been up here for so long.”

  “That might be my fault. Or perhaps my brother’s fault. Sam won’t leave, so I can’t leave, so Tony stays on, so they all do. But don’t worry, we’re all coming back down after Christmas in June. Just two more weeks. Perhaps then Vincent will do the right thing.”

  Eliza shrugged. “I don’t know. Do men really even know ‘the right thing’ to do?”

  “I hope so.”

  She dropped her voice. “Flora, if you knew that Vincent was . . . doing the wrong thing . . . would you tell me?”

  Flora was taken aback by the question. “Vincent is the kindest man, Eliza. You have nothing to worry about.”

  “But would you?”

  “Would you want me to?”

  Eliza nodded emphatically. “I would want to know if he did something he oughtn’t.”

  “Then, yes, I would.”

  Eliza’s gaze went over Flora’s shoulder, and she turned to see Tony emerging from the water.

  Flora beamed at him. “Giving up already?”

  “Had a few nibbles.” He nodded at Eliza. “Mind if I steal your companion a few minutes? I need to talk to her.”

  Eliza said, “Of course,” but Flora had the distinct feeling some animosity passed between them.

  Tony took her by the arm, and they headed into the woods. As soon as they were out of earshot, Flora asked, “Don’t you and Eliza get on?”

  “Eliza? She’s a silly thing. Vincent can do better. I don’t like it when she gossips and whispers like that.”

  “You heard her?”

  “She has a shrill voice that carries. I heard her whisper, though I didn’t hear what she had to say. I don’t care to know, Flora. Just be wary of her.” He stopped, turned her to face him. “But I didn’t bring you here to talk about Eliza.”

  A cool edge touched his voice, and Flora’s stomach flipped over. “No?” A breeze pi
cked up and fretted in the branches above them. A deep smell of eucalyptus and dank soil reached her nose.

  “I received a letter from your father when I arrived back yesterday.”

  The letter. The cursed letter. Flora squirmed. “Why didn’t you mention it yesterday?”

  “I thought I might see if you mentioned it first.”

  Flora shook her head. “Don’t be cross. I know I’ve been silly.”

  “I want to get this straight. You told your father that I wanted to delay the wedding?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you told me that he wanted to delay the wedding?”

  “Again, yes.”

  “But all along, the only person who wanted to put the wedding off was you?”

  This time she simply nodded, cheeks heating with shame despite the chill air.

  Tony turned half away from her, his lips set in a hard line, shaking his head with anger.

  “I’m sorry, Tony,” she said, reaching for his shoulder.

  He flicked her off. “Can you tell me why?”

  “Everything seemed to be going too fast.”

  “Do you not want to marry me?”

  “Of course I want to marry you. I love you.”

  “Then I simply don’t understand.”

  She took a deep breath. Maybe Tony would understand if she told him. They were to be married, after all. Partners for life, confidants. “Do you ever feel that your life isn’t your own? That you are floating along helplessly on a course already set out for you?”

  “Must you go on with such nonsense, Florrie?” Tony said, moving from anger to exasperation. “All these starry-eyed notions—they’re the reason your brother is such a mess. I expect you to be more practical. It’s what I love about you.”

  “You’ve never felt it? You’ve never felt that you’re unfairly compelled to work in your family business rather than pursue some greater passion? That you’ve been forced to marry me rather than meet the girl of your dreams?”

  “I don’t believe in girls in dreams. They only come when I’m sleeping,” he said hotly. “Is that what this is about? Are you holding out for a dream man?”

  “No, that’s not at all what I meant.”

  “Flora, our fathers are great friends, that’s true. They introduced us because we suited each other, not because this is a nineteenth-century novel and we have to marry against our will. We get along, don’t we? We like each other’s company?”

  Slowly, it dawned on Flora that Tony was hurt by her doubts.

  “Don’t you see?” he continued. “Other troubles go away when we marry—mine and yours. With me as your husband, your father can cut you out of his will later on and it doesn’t matter. We’ll still be fine. He’s promised to buy us a house, for heaven’s sake. With you as my wife, I get invited into society more readily. I’m not ‘new money’ anymore; I’m an honorary Honeychurch-Black. Flora,” he continued, touching her shoulder, letting his hand wander lightly to her breast, “there are other things that I really don’t want to wait for anymore.” Then he lifted his hand away, ever the gentleman.

  Blood thudded in her head.

  “What would you do, Flora?” Tony pressed. “If you didn’t marry me, if you didn’t live the life your family dreamed for you, what would you do? You’d be a fish out of water.”

  “I’d be a doctor,” she blurted.

  Now he laughed. “You? A doctor?”

  Her face stung with indignation. “I’m very clever and I like helping people.”

  He shook his head, laughter dying on his lips. “Flora, I do love you. But you are being ridiculous.”

  A loud cheer in the distance alerted them to the fact that somebody had caught a fish.

  “I’m not being ridiculous,” she said softly, but he didn’t seem to hear.

  “Let’s get back,” he said. “I forgive you for bending the truth. Put it out of your mind.”

  “September,” she said, with sudden, decisive courage. “We’ll get married in the spring.”

  “Perfect. Choose a Saturday near the middle and let your father know.” He put his arm around her and led her back out of the woods. “Aren’t you glad we had this little chat?”

  She nodded mutely. She couldn’t find fault with any of his arguments, so she didn’t entertain that little shred of protest inside her that said, But what about my dreams? Tony was right. Dreams came only when sleeping. Tony had woken her up, and it was time to get on with life.

  * * *

  Flora called in at Sam’s room that afternoon to tell him about the wedding date.

  “I’d say I’m happy for you, Sissy,” he said, “but I’m too miserable at the idea that Tony DeLizio will be my brother-in-law until the day I die.”

  “Don’t be like that, Sam,” Flora said, sitting on the bed next to him. She noticed a book on the bedside table, folded open. She was pleased that he’d been reading, and that she could not detect any smell of opium smoke in the room. “I have to grow up sometime.”

  “So, a spring bride, eh?” He snapped his fingers. “You should get married up here! This place is easily big enough and posh enough for a society wedding.”

  Flora frowned. “We’ll be gone long before September,” she said. “We’re leaving straight after Christmas in June.”

  “Are we?”

  “You promised me. Also, the hotel is closing down.”

  He spread his hands eagerly. “It’s not. Not entirely. I was talking to Lord and Lady Powell this morning. They’re staying on—Lady Powell is trying to finish her book. And of course, she’s terribly good friends with Mrs. Wright, the opera singer, who has said she’s staying, too. And Miss Sydney has adopted Mrs. Wright as a mother figure, so she and her odious fiancé will dig in as well. Miss Zander told them she’s retaining a skeleton staff. Imagine? A handful of us rattling about with the hotel all to ourselves.”

  Flora was shaking her head through this entire speech. “No, no, a thousand times no, Sam. The Christmas party is the twenty-fifth of June, and we are leaving on the twenty-sixth.”

  “You can go without me,” he sniffed.

  “I can’t. Father won’t allow me to leave you here and I—”

  “But, Flora,” he interrupted, placing his index finger over her lips. “I’m feeling so much better. I’m smoking less. I’m sure it’s the mountain air.”

  She narrowed her eyes.

  “I know you want me to stop altogether, but that’s so hard. Instead, I’m slowly cutting down the number of pipes I smoke. Look at me now.” He dropped his finger and stood in front of her, and she did have to admit he looked well.

  “Really?”

  “It’s Violet,” he said. “She makes me want to be a good person.”

  “Violet? The waitress?”

  Once again his index finger returned to her lips. “Don’t say a bad word against her. She’s done this to me. She’s done what you never could.”

  How his words hurt her, gouged her deep in the belly. But if it was true that his love for the waitress inspired him to smoke less, then she had to accept it. “Please be careful with her,” she said.

  “I wouldn’t do a thing that wasn’t right and good,” he replied. Then smiled a boyish smile. “Well? Can we stay?”

  “I’m not getting married up here.”

  “We can stay over the winter?”

  Tony wouldn’t like it, but that mattered little. Sam’s health was her first priority. “As long as you continue to cut down.”

  He pressed his hand fervently to his heart. “I give you my word.”

  “Then we’ll stay,” she said, and regretted it immediately.

  * * *

  Dances at the abandoned house had become a regular Saturday-afternoon occurrence, and Violet, owner of the gramophone, was expected to come. She didn’t mind so much: she loved to dance, and spending all week in a black-and-white uniform was terribly dull. It was nice to put on some color and do her hair.

  Today, the room was buzzin
g with excitement about the upcoming Christmas-in-June celebrations. The staff were considering their own celebrations before the winter break, and word had it that Miss Zander had given permission for the staff to mingle with the guests at the afternoon Christmas party. Somebody had brought new records—they’d all tired of Violet’s three—and the music was fast and fun, and Violet hit the dance floor to dance the black bottom, the Saint Louis hop, and the Charleston. Evening was coming. One of the chambermaids had brought along a bag full of cracked glasses from the hotel that were destined to be thrown out, and she went around the room setting them out with candles in them, adding a little flickering light to the interior. A foxtrot came on, and Clive approached her hopefully. She let him take her in his arms, but tried to keep a cool distance between them. It made their steps awkward, but he didn’t seem to notice.

  “I’m not supposed to say anything,” Clive confessed, “but I simply must know if Miss Zander has asked you to stay over winter.”

  Violet glanced around. Nobody was listening. The music and chatter were loud anyway. “Yes, I am. She didn’t want me to tell anyone, though.”

  Clive grinned. “Me, too,” he said. “We’ll both be here.”

  “I’ll be glad to have a friend here,” she replied guardedly, knowing he wanted more. Clive was a good man, a kind man. But now she had known feelings of a different order; Clive would never be enough. “I don’t know if Myrtle is staying. I daren’t ask her.”

  “Where is Myrtle today?”

  “Back at the hotel with a sprained ankle. She slipped in the kitchen this morning. She really is accident prone.”

  “I’ll say she is. Why, just last week she . . . Who’s that?”

  Violet turned, following the direction of his gaze. Her heart grew hot. It was Sam, standing at the entrance to the house, searching the room with his eyes.

  “Isn’t he a hotel guest?” Clive asked.

  Sam found her and strode over. The crowd parted, still dancing but eyeing him curiously. Murmurs passed from lips to ears. Sam extended his hand for Violet, not even looking at Clive. “Will you dance with me?”