Hemlock Bay
Page 108
“It’s a new millennium, Olaf, and you’re a very old man. Even if you died within the week, I would refuse to remain here.”
He banged his fist on the wheelchair hard, making it lurch. “Dammit, you will do what you’re told. Do you need to see your lover’s body before you will let go of him? Before you accept that he really is dead?”
“He’s not my lover. He just wants to be my consultant.”
“Not your lover? I don’t believe you. You spoke of him as if he were some sort of hero, able to overcome any obstacle. That is nonsense.”
“Not in Simon’s case.” She wished that she really did believe him capable of just about anything, even if it was nonsense. But she was hoping frantically that Simon wasn’t dead. He’d promised her, and he wouldn’t break his word. When they’d taken him but two hours before, he’d lightly cupped her face in his hands and whispered, “I will be all right. Count on it, Lily.”
And she’d licked her dry lips, felt fear for him moving deep and hard inside her, and whispered back, “I’ve been thinking about those new criteria, Simon. I admit I sure do need help when it comes to men.”
He patted her cheek. “You got it.”
She’d watched the three men take him out of that beautiful grand mansion, watched the door close behind them, heard the smooth wheels of Olaf Jorgenson’s chair across the huge chessboard foyer.
Olaf brought her back, saying, “You will forget him. I will see to it.”
She glanced at the two bodyguards, standing utterly silent. They’d both come with them from the dining room.
“Do you know I have an incredible brother? His name is Dillon Savich. He doesn’t paint like our grandmother; he whittles. He creates beautiful pieces.”
“A boy’s hobby, not worth much of anything to anyone with sophistication and discrimination. And you spend your time drawing cartoons. What is the name? Remus?”
“Yes, I draw political cartoons. His name is No Wrinkles Remus. He’s utterly immoral, like you, but I’ve never yet seen him want to murder someone.” She paused for a moment, smiled at the motionless manservant. “I’m really quite good at cartooning. Isn’t it interesting the way Grandmother’s talent found new ways to come out in us, her grandchildren?”
“Sarah Elliott was unique. There will never be another like her.”
“I agree. There will never be another cartoonist like me either. I’m unique, too. And what are you, Olaf? Other than an obsessed old man who has had too much money and power for far too long? Tell me, have you ever done anything worthwhile in your blighted life?”
His face turned red; his breathing became labored. The manservant looked frightened. The two bodyguards stood straighter and tensed, their eyes darting from Lily to their boss.
She just couldn’t stop herself. Rage and impotence roiled inside her, and she hated this wretched monster. Yes, let him burst a vessel with his rage; let him stroke out. It was payback for all that he’d done to her, to Simon. “I know what you are—you’re one of those artists manqué, one of those pathetically sad people who were just never good enough, who could only be hangers-on, always on the outside looking in. You weren’t even good enough to be a pale imitation, were you? I’ll bet my grandmother thought you were pitiful, yes, pathetic. I’ll bet she told you what she thought of you, didn’t she?”
“Shut up!” He began cursing her, but it was in Swedish and she couldn’t understand. The bodyguards were even more on edge now, surprised at what the old man, their boss, was yelling, the spittle spewing out of his mouth.
Lily didn’t shut up. She just talked over him, yelled louder than he was yelling, “What did she say to you that last day when she left with my grandfather? Because you went to her, didn’t you? Begged her to marry you instead of Emerson, but she refused, didn’t she? Did she laugh at you? Did she tell you that she would even take that woman-hating Picasso before you? That you had the talent of a slug and you disgusted her, all your pretenses, your affectations? What did she say to you, Olaf?”
“Damn you, she said I was a spoiled little boy who had too much money and would always be a shallow, selfish man!” He was wheezing, nearly incoherent, flinging himself from side to side.
Lily stared at him. “You even remember the exact words my grandmother said to you? That was more than sixty-five years ago! My God, you were pathetic then, and you’re beyond that now. You’re frightening.”
“Shut up!” Olaf seemed feverish now, his frail, veined hands clutching the arms of the wheelchair, his bent and twisted fingers showing white from the strain.
He banged his fist on the wheelchair hard, making it lurch. “Dammit, you will do what you’re told. Do you need to see your lover’s body before you will let go of him? Before you accept that he really is dead?”
“He’s not my lover. He just wants to be my consultant.”
“Not your lover? I don’t believe you. You spoke of him as if he were some sort of hero, able to overcome any obstacle. That is nonsense.”
“Not in Simon’s case.” She wished that she really did believe him capable of just about anything, even if it was nonsense. But she was hoping frantically that Simon wasn’t dead. He’d promised her, and he wouldn’t break his word. When they’d taken him but two hours before, he’d lightly cupped her face in his hands and whispered, “I will be all right. Count on it, Lily.”
And she’d licked her dry lips, felt fear for him moving deep and hard inside her, and whispered back, “I’ve been thinking about those new criteria, Simon. I admit I sure do need help when it comes to men.”
He patted her cheek. “You got it.”
She’d watched the three men take him out of that beautiful grand mansion, watched the door close behind them, heard the smooth wheels of Olaf Jorgenson’s chair across the huge chessboard foyer.
Olaf brought her back, saying, “You will forget him. I will see to it.”
She glanced at the two bodyguards, standing utterly silent. They’d both come with them from the dining room.
“Do you know I have an incredible brother? His name is Dillon Savich. He doesn’t paint like our grandmother; he whittles. He creates beautiful pieces.”
“A boy’s hobby, not worth much of anything to anyone with sophistication and discrimination. And you spend your time drawing cartoons. What is the name? Remus?”
“Yes, I draw political cartoons. His name is No Wrinkles Remus. He’s utterly immoral, like you, but I’ve never yet seen him want to murder someone.” She paused for a moment, smiled at the motionless manservant. “I’m really quite good at cartooning. Isn’t it interesting the way Grandmother’s talent found new ways to come out in us, her grandchildren?”
“Sarah Elliott was unique. There will never be another like her.”
“I agree. There will never be another cartoonist like me either. I’m unique, too. And what are you, Olaf? Other than an obsessed old man who has had too much money and power for far too long? Tell me, have you ever done anything worthwhile in your blighted life?”
His face turned red; his breathing became labored. The manservant looked frightened. The two bodyguards stood straighter and tensed, their eyes darting from Lily to their boss.
She just couldn’t stop herself. Rage and impotence roiled inside her, and she hated this wretched monster. Yes, let him burst a vessel with his rage; let him stroke out. It was payback for all that he’d done to her, to Simon. “I know what you are—you’re one of those artists manqué, one of those pathetically sad people who were just never good enough, who could only be hangers-on, always on the outside looking in. You weren’t even good enough to be a pale imitation, were you? I’ll bet my grandmother thought you were pitiful, yes, pathetic. I’ll bet she told you what she thought of you, didn’t she?”
“Shut up!” He began cursing her, but it was in Swedish and she couldn’t understand. The bodyguards were even more on edge now, surprised at what the old man, their boss, was yelling, the spittle spewing out of his mouth.
Lily didn’t shut up. She just talked over him, yelled louder than he was yelling, “What did she say to you that last day when she left with my grandfather? Because you went to her, didn’t you? Begged her to marry you instead of Emerson, but she refused, didn’t she? Did she laugh at you? Did she tell you that she would even take that woman-hating Picasso before you? That you had the talent of a slug and you disgusted her, all your pretenses, your affectations? What did she say to you, Olaf?”
“Damn you, she said I was a spoiled little boy who had too much money and would always be a shallow, selfish man!” He was wheezing, nearly incoherent, flinging himself from side to side.
Lily stared at him. “You even remember the exact words my grandmother said to you? That was more than sixty-five years ago! My God, you were pathetic then, and you’re beyond that now. You’re frightening.”
“Shut up!” Olaf seemed feverish now, his frail, veined hands clutching the arms of the wheelchair, his bent and twisted fingers showing white from the strain.
