Whipped: An Arthur Beauchamp Novel(108)
Again, he motioned for quiet, then said, “But first, allow me to announce a small gesture of thanks for your kindness and your patience and your forebearing.” He pulled some papers from his pocket and held them in the air. “This is a deed of land. It will transfer free title to Starkers Cove to the Garibaldi Land Conservancy. Starkers Cove Park. It will be yours to enjoy for all time to come.”
Arthur found himself finally joining in, as everyone stood and applauded the man he’d loathed, Silver Tongue! He felt silly, but . . . what the hell. Even the curmudgeon Reverend Al was on his feet. A brilliant sales job. No one in this room would decline to be memorialized on film.
Watching Silverson work the crowd, touching hands, hugging, signing autographs, Arthur recalled their encounter almost exactly one year ago, at the spring flower show. He’d been seducing them all with his charisma, his flashy smile. “Quite the politician,” Arthur had cynically mused.
Euphoric over the fame they were soon to enjoy, locals were crowded about a table stacked with Morgan Bromley’s releases, eagerly scribbling signatures as Bromley charmed them with cool Hollywood panache — a thousand-dollar honorarium was an added enticement.
Herman Schloss had recruited volunteers from the hall committee to stack chairs, sweep up the debris of paper and popcorn. Mookie was outside in the Schlosses’ hybrid SUV, waiting to drive the counterfeit guru to the ferry.
Silverson finally made it to the open door, but he made a quick detour when he spotted Margaret and Arthur. “Ms. Blake, I can’t tell you how much I admire your commitment to the future of our imperilled planet.” He kissed both her cheeks, took her hands in his, and expressed his delight in her election win, her even more smashing victory against that “reptilian reactionary your husband took to the cleaners.”
And with that, he pulled Arthur into an embrace. “You sly son of a bitch, you saw through us right from the start. But you didn’t blow our cover. That was incredibly gallant of you. The Trials of Arthur Beauchamp — that should be my next documentary.”
And he was out the door. But Arthur thought he could still hear his voice. “Live in the moment not in the mind.” A memory? A voice from the forest? Why was he laughing?
THE AFTER-PARTY
Moonlight glistened on the Salish Sea, and soft jazz poured from speakers positioned on the wide, rolling waterfront lawn. Tables were loaded with smoked oysters and olives and hazelnuts and ham slices and liver sausage and crudités and dips of various hues. There was a tub full of ice and bottles of beer and wine, and hard stuff for those inclined. The night air was filled with the babble of many voices, uncontained laughter, as most of the unwitting stars of The Awakening were now in states varying from tiddly to plastered. The air was thick with the pungent essence of cannabis — Stoney had broken out a packet of his powerful homegrown Garibaldi Gold.
These fumes seemed to drift about the encampment like lowlying mist, and Arthur found himself feeling hazy, more than a little high. It was midnight, time to leave, but he was reluctant to coax Margaret away — she was enjoying herself, and she’d earned the gift of a night free of care.
She was chumming it up over there with Taba, no doubt sharing a ribald jest or two, and causing Arthur to feel another bout of anxiety and guilt. Made somehow worse because Margaret had so jauntily laughed off Arthur’s filmed encounter with Taba outside the Brig.
Arthur was not used to being stoned, even from second-hand smoke, and strolled off to a distant bench by a gurgling brook still high from the winter rains. He lit his pipe, hoping that somehow nicotine would keep him alert, counteract the effects of the pot.
Morgan Bromley must have seen him wander off, for he soon joined him on the bench with his glass of wine and a clipboard.
“Entrancing spot you’ve found, Arthur. ‘In groves we live, and lie on mossy beds, by crystal streams that murmur through the meads.’”
Virgil again, and again Arthur was startled by this fellow’s mastery of the ancient poet. “Excuse my astonishment, but how did you attain your grounding in the classics?”
“I studied ancient history before turning to acting, and fell in love with Latin literature.”
Arthur, who regarded himself as an acute judge of character, had been wholly taken in by the role Bromley so expertly played — he turned out to be an urbane man who had written his master’s thesis on the glory years of Latin poetry.
They exchanged a few verses, Ovid, Horace, the Odyssey, with Arthur feeling more comfortable, puffing away, still quite high but less troubled by it.
“Arthur, I do hope you don’t feel bad about the ruse behind the making of The Awakening. Prominently featuring you in it was intended as a compliment.”
“No problem.” Arthur said heartily enough. He had well recovered from his pique — there was no point fighting it. What comes comes. And what was coming was a release form that Bromley detached from his clipboard.
“I can’t say I wasn’t a little embarrassed,” Arthur said. “However ruefully, I admit to having enjoyed your production.” He glanced over the consent. Standard stuff. He signed. “Good luck. God bless.”
§
When Arthur and Margaret arrived home, he was still feeling stoned, having wandered back to the party, breathing in more of the strong cloud of marijuana. He had felt a little merry earlier, though it was nothing compared to a gupa high. But now came one of his mood swings — a welling of remorse. He watched his life companion contentedly stroll about, humming to herself, checking the thermostat, turning off lights, preparing the house for the night.