Night Whispers
Page 32
Concentrating her gaze on the ocean, Sloan ran three miles along the water's edge and then turned back. She kept up the pace until the little flag on her father's putting green was visible; then she slowed to a jog. Palm Beach residents evidently slept later than their Bell Harbor counterparts, she decided, because she'd had the beach almost to herself on the first half of her run, but now there were several other people running along the sand. Runners here were also less friendly, avoiding eye contact instead of greeting each other as they passed with a nod or smile.
Sloan was pondering that when she was distracted by an elderly gardener in a long-sleeved shirt who'd been working in a flower bed near the edge of the lawn. He stood up; then he clutched his left arm and doubled over. Sloan ran toward him, already scanning the grounds for someone to help her if help was needed, but he seemed to be the only one working at that house.
"Take it easy," she said gently. "I'll help you. Lean on me." She wrapped her arm around his waist, wondering if he could make it to the iron bench that encircled the trunk of a nearby tree. "Tell me what's wrong."
"My arm," he gasped, white-faced with pain.
"Are you having any chest pains?"
"No. Had surgery… on my… shoulder."
Enormously relieved that it wasn't a heart attack, Sloan guided him over to the tree and eased him onto the white iron bench. "Take a deep breath and let it out slowly," she coached. "Do you have any medicine to take for the pain?"
He took a deep breath and then another, following her instructions. "I'll be all right… in a minute."
"Take your time. I'm not in any hurry."
After a few more deep breaths, the gardener lifted his head and looked at her, and Sloan noticed his color was already improving. He was a little younger than she'd thought—probably in his late sixties—and he looked thoroughly chagrined. "When I stood up, I forgot and leaned on my left arm," he explained. "I felt like my shoulder was going to tear loose from the rest of me."
"How long ago was your surgery?"
"Last week."
"Last week! Shouldn't you be wearing some sort of brace?"
He nodded. "Yes, but I can't use my arm with that contraption on."
"Surely someone else here could take over your work while your shoulder heals, and you could do their work."
He stared at her as if that had never occurred to him and yet the possibility fascinated him. "What sort of work do you think I could do here?"
"This must be one of the biggest estates in Palm Beach. There must be something to do here that isn't heavy labor. You should talk to whoever owns this place and explain your condition."
"He already knows about my shoulder. He thinks I should stop doing everything until it heals."
"He won't give you another job to do?" Sloan said, angry at the callous indifference of the very rich to the financial plight of the less fortunate.
He patted her hand, touched by her indignation on his behalf. "I'll be fine if you just sit here and talk to me for a while. Conversing with a sweet, pretty little thing like you is better than any painkiller I could take."
"Will you get into trouble by sitting out here with me?"
He smiled, thinking that over. "I can't see how, but it's a delightful prospect to contemplate."
Several things struck Sloan at once: his hand was smooth, his speech was educated, and his attitude was almost flirtatious. Embarrassed, she started to stand up. "You're not the gardener. I made a foolish mistake. I'm sorry."
He tightened his grip on her hand to prevent her from standing, but he let it go when she sat back down. "Don't run off and don't be embarrassed. I was very touched by your concern and glad of your help. Few young people here would have stopped to help an old gardener in pain."
"You aren't an old gardener," Sloan persisted, amused by his audacity.
"I'm a new gardener. I needed a temporary hobby while my shoulder heals. I had the surgery on an old injury that was beginning to ruin my golf game." His voice took on a truly dire note as he confided, "I developed a hook in my drives that I couldn't get rid of, and my short game was atrocious."
"That's… tragic," Sloan sympathized, trying not to laugh.
"Exactly. And this house belongs to my son, who is so heartless that he not only played golf without me yesterday, he also had the insensitivity to shoot a seventy-two!"
"He's a monster!" Sloan teased. "He doesn't deserve to live!"
He chuckled. "I love a woman with a sense of humor, and yours is showing. I'm intrigued. Who are you?"
Sloan's father's house was only a few houses down the beach from this one, and there was every chance the two men were acquainted. She didn't want to reveal that she was Carter Reynolds's daughter, and yet she'd be in plain view of this man when she left here and returned to the house. "My name is Sloan," she evaded.
"Is that your first name?"
"Yes. What's your name?" she added quickly, before he could ask for her last name.
"Douglas, and I haven't seen you around here before."
"I live in Bell Harbor. I'm visiting some people down the beach, but only for a few days."
"Really, what people? I know most of the families along this stretch of the beach."
Sloan was trapped. "Carter Reynolds's family."
"Good heavens! I've known the Reynoldses forever. You must be a friend of Paris's?"
Sloan nodded and looked at her watch. "I really should go"
He looked so crestfallen that she felt guilty. "Couldn't you spare a few more minutes to brighten the day of a lonely old man? The doctor won't let me drive, and my son is either working or out somewhere. I assure you, I'm completely harmless."
Sloan was a sucker for the plight of the elderly, including the wealthy elderly, who she now realized must also suffer from loneliness. "I guess I have a little while before I have to play tennis. What would you like to talk about?"
"Mutual acquaintances?" he suggested at once and with unabashed delight. "We could have a good gossip—tear their reputations to shreds! That's always amusing."
Sloan burst out laughing at his tone and his suggestion. "That won't work. The only people I know in Palm Beach are the Reynolds family."
"It wouldn't be much fun to gossip about them," he joked. "They're dreadfully dull and as upright as trees. Let's talk about you instead."
Sloan was pondering that when she was distracted by an elderly gardener in a long-sleeved shirt who'd been working in a flower bed near the edge of the lawn. He stood up; then he clutched his left arm and doubled over. Sloan ran toward him, already scanning the grounds for someone to help her if help was needed, but he seemed to be the only one working at that house.
"Take it easy," she said gently. "I'll help you. Lean on me." She wrapped her arm around his waist, wondering if he could make it to the iron bench that encircled the trunk of a nearby tree. "Tell me what's wrong."
"My arm," he gasped, white-faced with pain.
"Are you having any chest pains?"
"No. Had surgery… on my… shoulder."
Enormously relieved that it wasn't a heart attack, Sloan guided him over to the tree and eased him onto the white iron bench. "Take a deep breath and let it out slowly," she coached. "Do you have any medicine to take for the pain?"
He took a deep breath and then another, following her instructions. "I'll be all right… in a minute."
"Take your time. I'm not in any hurry."
After a few more deep breaths, the gardener lifted his head and looked at her, and Sloan noticed his color was already improving. He was a little younger than she'd thought—probably in his late sixties—and he looked thoroughly chagrined. "When I stood up, I forgot and leaned on my left arm," he explained. "I felt like my shoulder was going to tear loose from the rest of me."
"How long ago was your surgery?"
"Last week."
"Last week! Shouldn't you be wearing some sort of brace?"
He nodded. "Yes, but I can't use my arm with that contraption on."
"Surely someone else here could take over your work while your shoulder heals, and you could do their work."
He stared at her as if that had never occurred to him and yet the possibility fascinated him. "What sort of work do you think I could do here?"
"This must be one of the biggest estates in Palm Beach. There must be something to do here that isn't heavy labor. You should talk to whoever owns this place and explain your condition."
"He already knows about my shoulder. He thinks I should stop doing everything until it heals."
"He won't give you another job to do?" Sloan said, angry at the callous indifference of the very rich to the financial plight of the less fortunate.
He patted her hand, touched by her indignation on his behalf. "I'll be fine if you just sit here and talk to me for a while. Conversing with a sweet, pretty little thing like you is better than any painkiller I could take."
"Will you get into trouble by sitting out here with me?"
He smiled, thinking that over. "I can't see how, but it's a delightful prospect to contemplate."
Several things struck Sloan at once: his hand was smooth, his speech was educated, and his attitude was almost flirtatious. Embarrassed, she started to stand up. "You're not the gardener. I made a foolish mistake. I'm sorry."
He tightened his grip on her hand to prevent her from standing, but he let it go when she sat back down. "Don't run off and don't be embarrassed. I was very touched by your concern and glad of your help. Few young people here would have stopped to help an old gardener in pain."
"You aren't an old gardener," Sloan persisted, amused by his audacity.
"I'm a new gardener. I needed a temporary hobby while my shoulder heals. I had the surgery on an old injury that was beginning to ruin my golf game." His voice took on a truly dire note as he confided, "I developed a hook in my drives that I couldn't get rid of, and my short game was atrocious."
"That's… tragic," Sloan sympathized, trying not to laugh.
"Exactly. And this house belongs to my son, who is so heartless that he not only played golf without me yesterday, he also had the insensitivity to shoot a seventy-two!"
"He's a monster!" Sloan teased. "He doesn't deserve to live!"
He chuckled. "I love a woman with a sense of humor, and yours is showing. I'm intrigued. Who are you?"
Sloan's father's house was only a few houses down the beach from this one, and there was every chance the two men were acquainted. She didn't want to reveal that she was Carter Reynolds's daughter, and yet she'd be in plain view of this man when she left here and returned to the house. "My name is Sloan," she evaded.
"Is that your first name?"
"Yes. What's your name?" she added quickly, before he could ask for her last name.
"Douglas, and I haven't seen you around here before."
"I live in Bell Harbor. I'm visiting some people down the beach, but only for a few days."
"Really, what people? I know most of the families along this stretch of the beach."
Sloan was trapped. "Carter Reynolds's family."
"Good heavens! I've known the Reynoldses forever. You must be a friend of Paris's?"
Sloan nodded and looked at her watch. "I really should go"
He looked so crestfallen that she felt guilty. "Couldn't you spare a few more minutes to brighten the day of a lonely old man? The doctor won't let me drive, and my son is either working or out somewhere. I assure you, I'm completely harmless."
Sloan was a sucker for the plight of the elderly, including the wealthy elderly, who she now realized must also suffer from loneliness. "I guess I have a little while before I have to play tennis. What would you like to talk about?"
"Mutual acquaintances?" he suggested at once and with unabashed delight. "We could have a good gossip—tear their reputations to shreds! That's always amusing."
Sloan burst out laughing at his tone and his suggestion. "That won't work. The only people I know in Palm Beach are the Reynolds family."
"It wouldn't be much fun to gossip about them," he joked. "They're dreadfully dull and as upright as trees. Let's talk about you instead."
