Dark Garden Part 2

Mason stepped with her. "I board a horse here," she said in a transparent bid to steer their conversation to neutral ground. "Want to see her?"

"Christ, what's wrong with you?" Vienna exploded. "Why would I want to see your horse? We're not friends. Have you forgotten who I am?"

For a long while Mason stared at her, then she said in a near whisper, "As if I could."

She took a step closer, her expression faraway. To Vienna's shock she extended a hand to touch her hair. Her fingers brushed Vienna's cheek. She immediately looked embarra.s.sed as though realizing she'd done something strange. But instead of withdrawing she stood exactly where she was. Her chest rose and fell sharply and she made an odd, strangled sound as if she'd just forced back some words. Something cleared the dreaminess from her eyes, and she stared at Vienna with an intensity that made her pulse accelerate.

She knew she should back away but her legs refused to move. They felt warm and weak like the rest of her. Blood rushed in her ears, driven by an erratic furry of heartbeats. Mason's breath fanned her top lip. Her face was so close, Vienna could see the true color of her eyes. They weren't completely black, but obsidian etched with traces of midnight blue. Vienna thought about the irises coming into bloom outside her bedroom window at Penwraithe. Her mother had planted a new hybrid the previous year. The name jumped into her head: h.e.l.lo Darkness.

Unnerved, she stammered, "What do you want?"

Mason smiled and touched a fingertip to Vienna's trembling bottom lip. "What I can't have."

Vienna willed herself to look away but instead she fell into the velvet promise of Mason's eyes. Something in Mason's face made her shiver, and she felt herself sway fractionally, drawn toward the sheltering strength she remembered from long ago, the day Mason stole her from the wedding festivities. She started to shake as Mason's fingers slid past her nape and into her hair. She tried to make herself move but her common sense was no match for the powerful thrall that enveloped her. Something was happening that had never happened. A bubble of enchantment imprisoned her. Everyday life seemed remote.

When Mason's lips finally touched hers, neither of them moved. Her mouth was warm and dry. Later, Vienna convinced herself that the daring act of kissing a girl explained her inertia. It was obvious that Mason had experimented before. She placed one hand firmly in the small of Vienna's back. The other cupped her cheek. And she kissed her like she knew exactly how. Worse, still, Vienna kissed her right back, and what she lacked in experience, she made up for in determination, rushing toward each new sensation when she should have fed.

The warm, slippery glide of Mason's tongue thrilled her. So did the sudden crush of her body as she closed the final inches between them. Her warmth, her strength, the urgency of their embrace addled Vienna's thinking. She couldn't resist. She didn't even try. She was aware of a sense of belonging, the crazy idea that every step she'd taken in her short life had led her here, to a moment destined by forces beyond her control.

She wasn't sure how long that fateful kiss lasted before she heard a shaky groan and realized she was touching Mason's breast. Breathing hard, she stumbled back. Her face was scorching hot. She felt disoriented, as though she'd been blindfolded and set down in a street she didn't recognize. Nothing was the same anymore.

A breeze stirred the branches of the gaunt birch trees beyond them. They were not yet in leaf, but budding with promise. Above them, sunlight filtered through thin mackerel clouds. Spring storms were expected. At this rate, she would be the last one back to the minivans. Coach would be mad at her.

"I have to go," she croaked out.

"No." Mason's hand closed around her wrist. "Please. Talk to me."

"I can't." With a sharp tug, Vienna tried to free herself but Mason lifted the imprisoned hand and planted a kiss on the inside wrist.

"Come with me," she insisted, like the words were dragged from her. "Come back to Laudes Absalom. No one's there. We can have the place to ourselves."

"What are you talking about?" Vienna stammered.

"Don't you see?" Mason's low voice was stretched thin. "We can change things. It's up to us. I've known it all along."

"Don't." Vienna shook her head adamantly, trying to clear the fog that had clouded her judgment. "Don't say another word."

"You feel it, too," Mason insisted. "I can tell."

Vienna could hear a steady chatter echoing in the recesses of her mind. Her parents. Her grandmother, warning her to pull herself together and remember who she was. "You're crazy," she said. "My parents told me everyone in your family has a mental problem but I didn't believe it till now."

"A mental problem?" Mason flung Vienna's hand aside like it was infected with plague.

"Have you told your family that you're a lesbo?" Vienna demanded.

Mason gave her a quizzical look. "Have you told yours?"

"Of course not," Vienna replied scathingly. "Since I'm not one."

"Oh, really? Let's see about that."

Mason grabbed her shoulders and jerked her forward so hard Vienna tripped off balance. Before she could steady herself, Mason's mouth was on hers, silencing her protests. She tried to free her arms, but Mason held them pinned to her sides with the power of someone who spent half her life controlling horses and the other half wielding a lacrosse stick.

"Don't," Vienna gasped, averting her head to end the kiss. "I hate you."

"You hate that you like me," Mason said in her ear. "You hate that you like kissing me. You hate that you want more."

"I do not." Vienna cursed her small build as she struggled to free herself. She hadn't had the growth spurt that changed girls her age into young women. Mason was at least five inches taller. "If you don't let go of me right now, I'm going to report this."

Mason laughed. "Go ahead. Tell them you were kissed by a Dana Hall lesbian. Just wait and see how many friends you have left."

"b.i.t.c.h."

"Actually, the word you're looking for is butch."

"I'm going to tell my father," Vienna said weakly. Every time she moved, her clothing strained over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, making her horribly aware of her tight nipples.

"No, you're not," Mason said with conviction. "You're going to pretend this never happened. You don't have the guts to tell your family that you got your first kiss from a Cavender."

"That wasn't my first kiss," Vienna lied. "I kissed a boy last summer."

"Sure you did," Mason said sarcastically.

Vienna planted a swift kick to Mason's shin, then realized Mason was wearing tall riding boots and probably hadn't felt a thing. The danger of more kisses seemed to have pa.s.sed and they stared at each other for several seconds, both breathing fast. Then, abruptly, Mason let go. Her words were acid on Vienna's nerves.

"Come and see me when you've grown up."

Vienna stumbled back a step. Tears stung and she blinked them away, mortified by the weird hurt she felt, the sense that she had been found wanting and Mason had discarded her like a stupid child. She wanted to say something that would hurt Mason and prove which one of them was tougher, but all she could think about was that deep, astounding kiss. That perfect moment, with her eyes closed and her lips pressed to Mason's. She'd never experienced such bliss, but with it came the dread certainty she'd tried to ignore for the past year or more. Mason had obliterated all doubt and confirmed who she was. A lesbian. And worse, a Blake who had kissed a Cavender.

Appalled, she said, "Just wait. One day I'm going to make you sorry you ever touched me."

Mason regarded her calmly. "The only thing I'm sorry about is that you're a virgin. Otherwise we could have had some real fun."

"That's disgusting."

"Can't handle it?" A muscle moved in Mason's neck. "Go home and play with your dolls."

"Go f.u.c.k yourself."

"No, I think I'll go f.u.c.k a girl who knows how."

Vienna's palm stung almost before she realized how hard she'd slapped Mason's face. She stared at the mark she'd left. Mason licked a fen film of blood from her mouth. She must have bitten her lip.

Shaking, Vienna said, "Don't ever speak to me again."

And six years pa.s.sed before Mason did.

Chapter three.

Vienna stared down at the palm of her hand, almost expecting to see the ghostly imprint of Mason's flesh. She closed her fingers so tightly her knuckles whitened. Sometimes she thought that first kiss had poisoned her like an enchanted apple, casting her into a slumber no one could awaken her from. None of her lovers had been able to break the spell.

Those failed relationships were a disincentive, Vienna reflected, an excuse she used to avoid dating. Maybe if she were more active, she would improve the odds of finding someone who could make her feel...awakened.

"You're not listening," her mother complained. "I can tell. You're miles away."

"No, I'm listening." She didn't have to be psychic to guess what Marjorie had been saying for the past few minutes. "It's just that I've heard it all before."

"And you'll keep hearing it until you do what has to be done."

"It's in hand, Mom."

"How? I was speaking with Wendell and he says you need to act now. There's an insurance policy, and who knows what she could accomplish with the money."

"A million or two isn't going to save her," Vienna said wearily. "Cavender Steel barely exists and the Cavender Corporation still owes the bank twenty million dollars. With her brother gone, those loans will be called in. All she has are some abandoned factories and that car parts business. Most of the profitable subsidiaries have been sold off. There couldn't be a better time for us to close the deal. That's why I made the new bid."

"Will they go for it this time?"

"Absolutely. They have no choice."

"What about the house? I promised your father-"

"I know, and I told you I would take care of it."

Not quite mollified, Marjorie said, "Your grandmother planted that orchard with her own hands. It killed your father that Cavenders were eating those apples."

Vienna knew better than to argue that it was cancer that had killed her father and the land in question had never belonged to the Blakes in the first place. Her grandfather had attempted to incorporate it into their property, erecting a new boundary fence in the wrong place in the hopes that their useless, hard-drinking neighbors wouldn't notice. For twenty years they didn't. But then, Vienna's father had discovered Mason stealing fruit one day. He'd fired a few shots over her head, just to scare her. To his astonishment, she fired back.

He called the police and had her arrested, but since she was only nine years old and had just lost her mother, the deputies let her go with a warning. But they made the mistake of telling the Cavenders to control her better. A week later Mason's father brought in the surveyors and kicked off another legal battle between the families. This time the Blakes lost and had to return the land. The judge had ordered that the fruit trees be left intact. Vienna's grandfather never stopped talking about it. If he could have staggered off his deathbed and picked up an axe, he would have cut those trees down.

Changing the subject, Vienna said, "Are you going to Bonnieux next spring?"

"I don't know. The thought of rattling around in that old villa by myself doesn't appeal."

Marjorie sounded cranky. She hadn't taken to widowhood as some women did, shedding grief after a few months and enjoying pursuits disdained by their late husbands. She refused to attend social events unaccompanied and had come to depend on her brother, Wendell Farrington, the supposed bachelor uncle of the family, as an escort. In reality, Wendell lived with his gay partner in an elegant Back Bay condo. A snappy dresser with the requisite Ivy League credentials, he charmed mature women and made Marjorie feel special. She saw him as an authority in all matters and constantly spouted his opinions, especially those about the business. Vienna had been groomed since birth to take over from her father, but what was a lifelong internship and an MBA compared to a p.e.n.i.s? Bupkis, as far as Marjorie was concerned.

She placed her hand over Vienna's. "Wendell thinks we should take a mother-daughter cruise. He says I need cheering up. I have a brochure from Regent with all their destinations. They're going to have Apollo 14 astronauts on board doing talks."

Vienna couldn't think of anything more appalling, except perhaps taking her mother to Cats for the sixth time. "That sounds wonderful. Why don't you and Wendell go?"

"He's terribly busy with his commitments for the opera. Unlike you, he can't just take time off whenever he pleases."

Vienna didn't waste her time pointing out that she was the CEO of a half-billion-dollar company and Wendell was just dabbling in opera fundraising to impress his much younger boyfriend, a B-grade tenor. "Mom, you know I get horribly seasick," she said gently. "What about wintering in Palm Beach? You always tell me how much you miss it."

"I don't think I could bear it," Marjorie said. "Everything's changed. It's virtually mobsters sans frontires now, with all those Russian oligarchs and flashy people with bad manners."

"You don't have to mix with them, Mom."

If Vienna's childhood memories were any indication, Marjorie and her B&T Club friends spent most of their time in each other's homes gossiping. They never rubbed elbows with anyone outside their own rarefied circles. Marjorie and Wendell had jointly inherited the Palm Beach home of their childhood, after Grandmother Farrington had a fatal heart attack during a Dead Sea mineral coc.o.o.n treatment at the Ritz-Carlton Spa. Marjorie hadn't been down there once during the past three years. Vienna was surprised Wendell hadn't sold the place. He didn't share Marjorie's sentimental attachment to the home they'd grown up in.

"Everyone's selling and moving to Jupiter Island," Marjorie said gloomily. "And who can blame them? These days you can't ride a bicycle on Worth Avenue without being crushed by some ex-stripper in a Bentley."

"I'm planning to spend my next vacation in Bonnieux," Vienna said patiently. "I hope you'll consider coming with me."

Marjorie sighed. "I don't know. France is not what it was. The place is overrun with Muslims. Before long, you won't see people walking through the village with baguettes anymore. They'll be out in the middle of the road bowing to Mecca."

Vienna didn't know whether to laugh or groan. "Mom, I think France will be safe for Christians for a few more years."

"You think I'm exaggerating? I'm not a racist, you know. Perhaps we should sell the villa. All that maintenance..."

The waiter arrived to clear their salads. Vienna had forgotten to eat hers. She dragged the conversation back on course. "We're not selling Villa des Rves."

"Wendell offered to take it off our hands. Naturally I said he could have it at a reasonable price. He'd be doing us a favor. It needs modernization."

"No, it doesn't. Dad spent a fortune restoring it." Vienna tried to sound patient, but she was hurt that her mother could even suggest palming the Luberon Valley farmhouse off on Wendell. She and her father had made Villa des Rves their special project, overseeing the restoration during fleeting visits and longer family holidays. She couldn't bear to think about parting with the property.

"We could still take vacations there," her mother said with a sniff of disapproval. "Wendell wouldn't mind."

"It's not happening."

Their entrees arrived and Marjorie inspected her fish as though suspecting the roasted halibut she'd ordered was really horrid bream. Vienna waited for the inevitable complaints, but Marjorie had bigger things on her mind.

"Well, if you're not going to be practical, perhaps we should consider renting it out when we're not using it. Villas in Provence command quite a sum, you know. And then there's the apartment. The taxes are crazy and it's not as if either of us is in New York more than a few weeks every year. Wendell thinks we should let it month to month."

Vienna sliced into her chicken so hard, it went spinning across her plate. "I am not having our homes invaded by strangers. If we needed the income, that would be different. But we don't."

Marjorie was just inches away from a pout, her usual reaction when she didn't get her way. "Wealth is no excuse for extravagance. Blakes don't throw money away on frivolity."

Reading between the lines, Vienna asked, "Do you need an income adjustment, Mom?"

"Income adjustment" was Blake parlance for adding money to the private bank accounts of wives and dependent relatives who'd overspent.

"It's been one of those months," Marjorie confessed. "With the McCain fund-raisers and Wendell's birthday. Then, of course, I had to update my mourning wardrobe for the Cavender boy's funeral." Fretfully, she added, "I can't believe you made me go to that wretched service all alone. Imagine it. Surrounded by Cavenders. Anything could have happened."

"I didn't make you do anything of the kind. You're the one who insisted."

"Someone had to represent the family."

Vienna keyed a cash transfer into her BlackBerry. "Fifty thousand okay?"

Marjorie tapped her beige nails. "Round it up, sweetheart. We're going to New York soon, remember."

"Fifty is pretty round." Vienna felt bad quibbling with her mother over money. Still, if Marjorie saw ft to lecture her for extravagance, two could play at that game.