Now, finished with her instructions to the worker, and ready to enjoy her own party, Vivian moved to the edge of the pool prepared to dive.
At that moment a shrill scream sounded. It came from somewhere in the distance, down the bluff perhaps, in what sounded like a young girl’s voice. Kids horsing around somewhere, thought Simon absently. He couldn’t take his eyes or his thoughts from Vivian.
As if she too had been momentarily distracted by the sound, Vivian hesitated briefly on the brink of her dive. A faint smile crossed her face, and her eyes looked to one side. Then she plunged in smoothly, swimming straight across to him.
Simon, as if by prearrangement, bent to give her a hand out. There was electricity in the touch of her hand. Pulling her from the water was surprisingly easy, as if she hadn’t gained a pound in fifteen years.
“Thank you,” Vivian said brightly, bounding up lightly to her feet. Her voice was different, more mature. Her fingers retained a grip on Simon’s. “And you’re Simon the Great, of course. Sorry I wasn’t on hand to greet you when you arrived. I’m Vivian Littlewood.” And then, before Simon could find the words he was groping for, she added: “I’ve watched you perform, you know.” There was no faintest hint in Vivian’s eyes or in her voice that she knew who Simon really was, who he had been. No trace of acknowledgment of the fact that a hundred and eighty months ago, or thereabouts, she had once held his straining body clamped between those finely muscled thighs…
“And where was that?” asked Simon, with what he felt was a good imitation of cool detachment. He had wondered how strongly the old magic would work on him again. He needn’t have wondered. It was all he could do to pull his eyes away from the small breasts inside the little strip of yellow fabric. For a moment the dream he had just had, a very strange dream indeed, echoed in his mind.
Vivian named a dinner theater in one of the more fashionable northern suburbs. No reason why she couldn’t have seen him there, he’d worked the place a couple of times. He could remember quite well his last time there, in the preceding fall; it had been something of a disappointment, like most of the rest of his career to date. Every time he seemed to be on his way, some setback came. Now magic was gaining popularity again, and he still couldn’t make a breakthrough. He found himself yearning to tell Vivian his troubles.
But before he could speak again, she said “Excuse me,” and turned and plunged back into the pool. On the far side, Gregory, brown-garbed seneschal, knelt at the edge with a worried expression, waiting. For some reason he had put on a wide-brimmed hat for this brief outdoor appearance. Something Saul had once said about Gregory, years ago, came and went in Simon’s memory before he could quite be sure of what it was. Maybe the man was allergic to the sun, Simon thought vaguely. He’d heard of cases. Though right now there was hardly any sunlight left.
The subject under discussion over there on the other side of the pool must have been serious, for Gregory’s distinguished face was grim, and on hearing the first words of whatever it was Vivian pulled herself rapidly out of the water and skipped straight into the house. Her servant followed with quick strides.
Another couple were coming out through the French doors just as Gregory hurried in. These two were wearing beach clogs on their feet, and expensive T-shirts damp and rumpled over swimsuits. After studying the man for a few moments Simon felt reasonably sure that it was Saul; if so, he now looked older than his sister. The young woman on Saul’s arm was a very pale blond, short and rather stocky, though not fat. She was somewhat given to freckles, and pretty in her own fashion, which was a long way from Vivian’s.
Saul shot a distracted glance after Vivian and Gregory as they hurried into the house, then exchanged a few words with his blond companion. Then the two of them started walking around the pool, obviously coming to mingle with the guests.
“Don’t worry about it now,” Simon heard the fair one reply to Saul. “Whatever it is, Vivian will want to handle it anyway.”
They joined the small group standing at poolside, and introductions went round. Saul’s wife was named Hildy, Simon learned, and they’d only been married a few months. From the way they talked and joked about it, their honeymoon so far had been a complete rat race, marriage and the final victory in the complex legal struggle over the inheritance coming almost simultaneously, followed by taking possession of the castle and getting it refurbished. This weekend was in celebration of it all. Saul showed no more signs of recognizing Simon than Vivian had.
Now, in conversation, it came out that the Wallises were both former members of the artists’ colony that half a century ago had flourished in some cottages nearby on the bluff, and had incidentally provided some of the odd statuary now decorating the grotto.
“I look forward to seeing it,” said Simon, making no particular effort to put conviction into his voice.
“And we were really friends with the old man,” mused Wallis now, looking back in time as he spoke. “Even if we were just kids then, he took an interest. We were what you’d call hippies now, that’s what we were.”
“The old man?” asked Simon, as if he did not know.
Wallis nodded toward Saul. “This fella’s grandfather. That’s his portrait on the wall inside, in the huge room where the fireplace is. Augustus Littlewood. One of the great Chicago tycoons. He built this place. Bought the whole shootin’-match when he was on one of his excursions to France, and had it shipped. Believe it or not. Barges full of stones were coming up the river here, all the way from New Orleans up the Mississippi. It’s nice that the younger generation remembers us now. We were really surprised to be invited.” Wallis sounded as if he were determined to hang onto the pleasure of the invitation, even if he didn’t expect to enjoy the party much.
It was full evening; underwater lights had come on in the pool. Now Emily Wallis put in: “Here come the other people we met earlier.” The dislike in her voice was not well concealed.
Emerging from a door in a side wing of the castle were a grossly fat, swarthy man of early middle age, and a very thin young woman with discolored hair and huge breasts, who wore a European style bikini. The man wore a robe over vast swim trunks, and Simon thought he could see where his neck was bandaged, under a scarf. He moved slowly and tiredly. Engrossed in some private discussion, the pair settled in chairs on the far side of the pool. Saul began awkwardly to urge the people with him into a mass migration, wanting to get everyone introduced.
The fat man was introduced as Pierre Arnaud. His accent might not have been French, but Simon judged that it was not American. There was something familiar about him, as if Simon might have seen his picture somewhere. The post office suggested itself. Arnaud’s thin companion with the silicone implants was introduced only as Sylvia; she looked nervous, and remained almost silent. Simon hadn’t thought that a swimsuit substantially smaller than Vivian’s could be made to stay on without tacks, but here was proof.
No one was much interested in swimming, and conversation soon tended to lag. Simon was not surprised. He could rarely recall seeing at one party a collection of guests as apparently mismatched as these. The Wallises, despite protests of youthful hippiness, looked firmly elder middle class, whereas these others… maybe more guests were scheduled to show up, enough to form two convivial groups. Someone active in the entertainment field. So far Simon had seen no one he thought might qualify.