Wicked Forest (DeBeers 2)

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Mother had fallen asleep in a chaise on the rear

loggia and looked so at peace, her thoughts and dreams full of contentment. I didn't dare wake her. Linden was somewhere in the house, probably in his studio. I thought. He was one person I didn't want to see me like this. One glance at myself in the hall mirror showed me quickly that anyone could tell I had been devastated by something.

I had no idea how Linden would react to this news. I knew he'd really never liked Thatcher. Keeping the peace between them had always been a juggling act for me, and what kept Linden in check most effectively was my showing him that it would displease me terribly if he didn't continue to get along. This was not the time for me to deal with anyone else's crisis. I had enough of my own.

Anger was still at the forefront of my marching emotions. I went directly to our suite and spread the sheets of information and the photographs in the folder over our bed, laying out the evidence in an orderly and chronological fashion like a homicide detective arranging her presentation for the district attorney. He or she would have no doubt as to whether there was enough to present to a grand jury and get an indictment, I thought. Thatcher, of all people, should appreciate that.

I stood back and contemplated it all for a few moments, revulsion churning my stomach, creating the nausea I had so far escaped during my pregnancy. I needed air, fresh air, and quickly, I thought. This room, full of his things, was closing in on me. I put on a light windbreaker and went out a side entrance so as not to pass Mother and disturb her. I walked down the beach almost to the south end of our property, where I sat with my legs drawn up and stared out at the mesmerizing waves. The sea breeze played with strands of my hair. Terns circled in front of me, studied me, then decided I wasn't all that interesting and flew off. In the distance a single sailboat rode the waves. I could almost see the bloated cheeks of the impish wind blowing and toying with the mast. Of course, that made me think of Thatcher and our many wonderful boat rides, our picnics, and making love out there on the ocean.

Who was this man who had dazzled me with his eyes and smile when I first arrived in Palm Beach, who pursued me with such interest and confessed so much love? Who was this man who had taken me on a roller coaster above and beyond the ordinary world, whose laughter was music and whose kiss was a seal of promise time after time after time? Was it really all smoke and mirrors, elaborate deceptions, lies strung along like fake pearls, so well copied that it would take an expert to deny their value, their truth?

Daddy once wrote an article on what he called "the Don Juan syndrome." I should have taken notes and kept them tied around my neck. I thought, In it, he evaluated a patient of his who, he said, pursued one woman after another, wooing and winning her, not because he was addicted to sex so much as he was searching for a way not to feel unloved and unlovable.

I could understand why Thatcher would have grown up feeling unloved in his home. His parents. especially Bunny, were so self-centered they put his needs and wants well down on the totem pole of importance, below their precious social activities. His sister had grown up in the same household to become a hard, cold person, and like some cancer that spreads into other places, she was turning her children into mirror images of herself.

Thatcher had gone in the opposite direction, collecting small love affairs, conquering innocent women, soaking up their devotion and love, then moving on. I was probably just another exercise for him, just another conquest. He had married me because he thought he should be married. Now, after what I had learned. I truly believed that any other woman who had walked onto the stage of his romances at that moment might have been wooed and won exactly as I had been.

As I sat there thinking. I realized I could analyze him, I could even explain him, perhaps. but I could never forgive him. My heart was like HumptyDumpty. All the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't put it together again.

"Hi," I heard him say, and turned to see him standing there on the beach. I gazed up at him without speaking. He blew some air through his lips, ran his fingers through his hair, looked out at the ocean, and nodded. "I thought I might find you out here."

"I needed fresh air," I said. "The air in our bedroom suite was rank and sour with deceit and decay."

He nodded.

"I tell you what surprised me the most," he said. "That you obviously hired a private detective." "I didn't. Someone else did on my behalf." "Someone else? Who? You don't mean Linden or Grace? Who do you mean?" he questioned, as if I were a witness he had to discredit in a trial. A frightening thought occurred to him. "It wasn't my sister, was it?"

I was silent, letting him turn over the fire of his own torment.

"This has obviously been going on for some time, this spying, Willow."

"That really isn't the point here, is it. Thatcher? How all that came to be on our bed right now is not what matters. What it says, what it reveals, that's what matters."

He looked at me, and then softened his posture.

"You're right," he said.

He paced for a few moments on the sand. I knew him well enough by now to see him gathering his thoughts, organizing his opening remarks to the jury.

"I'm not here to deny it," he said, turning back to me.

"I'm guilty of all of it, but what I want to do if you will listen is offer a defense.

I lowered my eyes and smiled at how well I could anticipate his actions. The man I once had looked up to as nearly perfect, so bright and intelligent, suddenly looked so small and cheap to me. I was immune to all of the techniques, the clever reasoning that made you doubt your own instincts and conclusions. Only he had yet to realize that. He thought he cou

ld just switch gears, ratchet up his communication skills, and turn his big guns on me.

"Go on. Thatcher." I challenged him. "Offer your defense."

"You probably know better than I do that Freud claims there are always four people involved in any love affair," he began.

How clever of him to go right to the subject I loved.

As in his example." he continued, "that would be the first woman I fell in love with, the first man you fell in love with, and us. We see the firsts in us. We can't stop it, help it, prevent it That's the power of the subconscious.

"I never got over Mai, never recuperated from that love affair I told you I had. I even told myself many times that I had. but I found it very difficult to deny whenever I was confronted with it, with her. I thought maybe if I gave in to it. I would overcome it, get over her by seeing her as just another woman. When you are away from someone, you tend to fantasize and idealize her. Confronting your dreams, bringing them into reality can end all that. I think that's happened finally,