The Second Mrs. Astor(19)

They sat on the blankets and dined on Limoges porcelain so translucent Madeleine could see the shadows of her fingers through it. Kitty had given up her play in the surf to collapse between Madeleine and the colonel, half on the sand and half off, panting and eyeing the tartlets with interest.

“Watch out,” advised Jack. He’d shucked off his jacket and now sat with his legs straight out, ankles crossed, leaning back on his hands with his face tipped to the sun. He’d loosened his tie, as well; with his sleeves rolled up and his collar undone, he might have been any country gentleman relaxing beside her, his mouth smiling, the sea light complimenting his tanned face and neck, that tantalizing glimpse of the base of his throat between the open wings of his collar. His hair was mussed from the wind and his driving cap, but she liked that about him right now, that informality that made him more human than myth. It suited him here on this small hidden beach, this fine intimate day.

He might have been any ordinary gentleman regarding her from beneath those gilded lashes, but he wasn’t.

He definitely wasn’t.

Jack tipped his head toward the dog. “Kitty has a sweet tooth, and I regret to say she’s a shameless thief.”

Madeleine moved the tin of tartlets farther from the Airedale. “It seems unfair that we get all the delicious things to eat, while she has none.”

Vincent, who had hardly touched any of the food, gave a derisive grunt, then scowled at Madeleine’s glance.

“It’s only a dog. It can go hungry for a few hours.”

“But why should she?” Madeleine asked. “When we have so much extra?”

He smiled, dismissive. Like his father’s, his shirt was wrinkled, and his hair was unkempt, but unlike Jack, it didn’t suit Vincent. He looked hot and uncomfortable, the pomade he wore giving off a heavy, tarry scent.

“It’s not even your dog,” he said, not looking at her. “I don’t know why you think you should care.”

Jack warned, soft, “Vincent.”

His son stared out at the sea.

Madeleine glanced at Jack, then down at the tin. “I was only thinking—one tartlet. But I don’t want to presume—”

“You’re not,” Jack said, sitting all the way up. “But we can do better for her than that. Cook boiled her some chicken; I forgot about it. It’s at the bottom of the basket. I should have served her first, I suppose.”

“It’s not starving.” Vincent turned back to him suddenly, dark-haired, dark-eyed, ferocious; the waves danced into bright confetti behind him. “You coddle it. You spoil it. It eats all the time.”

“And now,” said the colonel, “she is going to eat chicken.”

Into the silence that followed, Katherine said tranquilly, “I’ve always thought the best way to get the measure of a man is to observe how he treats his animals.”

Jack found the tin, unwrapped the waxed paper, and emptied the diced chicken onto his own plate before setting it down in the sand before the dog. Kitty scrambled to her feet. Beads of water dotted her fur, dribbled down to the ground as her tail went around and around. The chicken vanished in seconds.

Very deliberately, Jack leaned across the blanket to take the lone tartlet—one bite gone—from his son’s plate. Just as deliberately, he presented it to the dog, who stretched out her neck and swallowed it in a gulp.

Vincent stood, his color rising, slapping at his trousers. “The jam was too sour, anyway.” He shoved his hands into his pockets and walked away from them, climbing back up the trail.

They watched him go, all of them, until he disappeared behind the spiky green branches of the pines. A fresh batch of teeny birds scattered skyward as he passed. The rolled glass waves behind them stretched and sighed and retreated.

The colonel studied his lemonade, lifted the tumbler, and gave it a slow swirl in his hand. There was a hardness to his jaw that wasn’t there before, an edge of temper. He raised the tumbler to his lips.

“I believe,” said Katherine, also rising, “that I glimpsed a tidepool over yonder, past that knot of chokecherries. I so enjoy tidepools. Nature, starfish, and all that. Please excuse me.”

“I apologize,” Jack said, as soon as Katherine was out of earshot. He set the tumbler aside but did not look away from it, running a finger along the rim.

Madeleine waved away a hovering fly. “No need to apologize. It’s such a beautiful day, isn’t it? Maybe he didn’t want to have to spend the afternoon being our chaperone. Who could blame him?”

“I’m usually more careful with him. He’s had a difficult time.”

“Has he?” she said, thinking about wealth and privilege and physical beauty, and about how Jack Astor’s son seemed to swim in all those things.

Jack reached for his jacket, shook it out, refolded it carefully before laying it flat against the blanket once more. “He’s so much like his mother. Clever. Impetuous. Quick to temper and slow to forgive.” He drew a long breath, at last meeting her eyes. “The divorce last year was punishing for him. For all of us. Ava was so unhappy, you see, and that just . . . bled through us. All four of us.”

He paused. She nearly murmured something banal and appropriate, I’m sorry, or how awful, but the light was brilliant and the ocean was sparkling and the way he was looking at her, both troubled and distracted at once, lost in those bad days, lost in the immutable fact of divorce, stilled her voice. So instead she leaned toward him, silent, laying her hand atop his. His expression didn’t change, but he turned his palm over to lace his fingers through hers.