time to brood over it, but reached across to the glove compartment to tug out a map which he dropped into her lap, stroking her knee with his hand. "Here, see if you can find where we are, and then tell me the exit number. I looked it up this afternoon, but I have forgotten it." His voice was a caress, as his touch had been, and she drew her stole around her, over her knees and thighs, all too aware of the place his hand had touched. Face flaming, she bent over the map, not noticing he had leaned to one side to see her face in the rear view mirror. He smiled, a smile of pleasure, but with something hungry and predatory in it.
She searched the map for some time, calming herself with it. When she could trace their route, she found the exit number for him. "I've only been there once before," she said. "An old friend of my father's invited me to dinner there with his wife and daughter."
"Were they good people? Did you enjoy it?"
"I did. Yes. They had known my parents, and that was nice.
My parents were wonderful people, and I like to remember them..."
"Happily," he suggested. "You like to remember them happily."
"That's it. I usually have to remember them in some context of money or property because of Harvey, you know. And that isn't the same. It's certainly not happy."
"Your affairs were left in his hands, you said."
"I was only a schoolgirl. My mother's estate—rather a big one, from her father—was in papa's hands during his lifetime, but then it came to me. Except Harvey was executor. Oh, there's some man in a bank in Boston, and an attorney I've never seen, but Harvey is really the one who says yes or no. The others simply do what he tells them."
"Ah," said Makr Avehl, in a strange voice. "They simply
... give consent."
"Yes. And whenever Harvey says anything, he always says it is what Papa would have wanted. Which means it is what Harvey wants." She fell silent, flushing. "I feel very disloyal, talking about him this way."
Makr Avehl, thinking of the contents of the box he had taken from her apartment, contented himself with silence. At that moment the hungry, predatory part of him withdrew, and a more thoughtful self examined Marianne's face with a quick, sideways look. "Blood is not always thicker than water, Marianne. Only when the ties of blood are equally strong on both sides is there any true kinship. Kinship can never be a one-way thing."
"That's what Mrs. Winesap says. She says if I don't like him, I simply don't like him, and I shouldn't feel guilty about that."
"I couldn't agree more. Mrs. Winesap is an eminently sensible woman. Also, she has your welfare at heart, and that makes her kin to you in a real way." He swung the car onto the exit ramp, then beneath the highway and onto a shore-bound road between budding trees fretted against the dusk.
Lights faded around them, dwindling from hectic commercial to amber residential, soft among the knotted branches. It was quiet in the car, all traffic left behind them. Reflected in the waters of a little bay was the discreet sign in pink neon, "Willard's." He parked the car and looked quickly at his watch.
"On time. There will be no excuse to have given our table to anyone else."
He took her from the car and into the place by her elbow, gently held. Their table was waiting, and Marianne gained the impression it would have been waiting had they not arrived until midnight. Makr Avehl waved the maitre d' away and seated her himself, his hands lingering on her shoulders as he arranged the stole on the back of her chair. She resolutely focused herself on the reflections in the water, on the candlelit interior, on anything else.
When he had seated himself across from her, he said, "Shall we dispense with the usually obligatory cocktail? Do you know the origin of the word? It dates, I am told, from the early years of the nineteenth century in New Orleans where cognac was mixed with bitters using an old-style egg cup—called a coquetier—to measure the
She searched the map for some time, calming herself with it. When she could trace their route, she found the exit number for him. "I've only been there once before," she said. "An old friend of my father's invited me to dinner there with his wife and daughter."
"Were they good people? Did you enjoy it?"
"I did. Yes. They had known my parents, and that was nice.
My parents were wonderful people, and I like to remember them..."
"Happily," he suggested. "You like to remember them happily."
"That's it. I usually have to remember them in some context of money or property because of Harvey, you know. And that isn't the same. It's certainly not happy."
"Your affairs were left in his hands, you said."
"I was only a schoolgirl. My mother's estate—rather a big one, from her father—was in papa's hands during his lifetime, but then it came to me. Except Harvey was executor. Oh, there's some man in a bank in Boston, and an attorney I've never seen, but Harvey is really the one who says yes or no. The others simply do what he tells them."
"Ah," said Makr Avehl, in a strange voice. "They simply
... give consent."
"Yes. And whenever Harvey says anything, he always says it is what Papa would have wanted. Which means it is what Harvey wants." She fell silent, flushing. "I feel very disloyal, talking about him this way."
Makr Avehl, thinking of the contents of the box he had taken from her apartment, contented himself with silence. At that moment the hungry, predatory part of him withdrew, and a more thoughtful self examined Marianne's face with a quick, sideways look. "Blood is not always thicker than water, Marianne. Only when the ties of blood are equally strong on both sides is there any true kinship. Kinship can never be a one-way thing."
"That's what Mrs. Winesap says. She says if I don't like him, I simply don't like him, and I shouldn't feel guilty about that."
"I couldn't agree more. Mrs. Winesap is an eminently sensible woman. Also, she has your welfare at heart, and that makes her kin to you in a real way." He swung the car onto the exit ramp, then beneath the highway and onto a shore-bound road between budding trees fretted against the dusk.
Lights faded around them, dwindling from hectic commercial to amber residential, soft among the knotted branches. It was quiet in the car, all traffic left behind them. Reflected in the waters of a little bay was the discreet sign in pink neon, "Willard's." He parked the car and looked quickly at his watch.
"On time. There will be no excuse to have given our table to anyone else."
He took her from the car and into the place by her elbow, gently held. Their table was waiting, and Marianne gained the impression it would have been waiting had they not arrived until midnight. Makr Avehl waved the maitre d' away and seated her himself, his hands lingering on her shoulders as he arranged the stole on the back of her chair. She resolutely focused herself on the reflections in the water, on the candlelit interior, on anything else.
When he had seated himself across from her, he said, "Shall we dispense with the usually obligatory cocktail? Do you know the origin of the word? It dates, I am told, from the early years of the nineteenth century in New Orleans where cognac was mixed with bitters using an old-style egg cup—called a coquetier—to measure the
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