Cutler 03 - Twilight's Child

occupational hazard. You see, I'm an artist."
    "I understand," I said. I had almost said, "I know," but I didn't, because I didn't want her to know how much spying we had done.
    "Well, Clayton?" she said, turning to him.
    "You take them into the living room, and I'll get Kelly," he instructed.
    "Right this way," Leslie said, indicating the room to the right.
    "Thank you," I said, and jimmy and I walked into their living room.
    The Osbornes' townhouse appeared to be a large two-story building with thick carpets and elegant old furniture immaculately maintained. From what I could see, every room was a showcase filled with expensive and beautiful things. There were paintings everywhere, and because of the signature I spotted on them, I knew most were Leslie's. But here and there were rural scenes painted by other artists. Fern had been brought up in this world, a world of elegance and art, a world filled with rich and good things, I thought. I wondered how it had shaped her.
    "Please have a seat," Leslie said, indicating the chestnut silk sofa. "And quickly tell me something about yourselves before they arrive. Where do you live?" she asked, sitting on the matching settee.
    "We live in Cutler's Cove, Virginia, where I manage my family's resort, the Cutler's Cove Hotel."
    "Oh, I've heard of it," Leslie said. "It must be beautiful there."
    "It is."
    "And how did you two . . ." She gestured.
    "Get together?"
    "Yes," she said, still smiling.
    I looked at Jimmy. We both understood how difficult it would be to tell our story quickly.
    "I guess we always realized we were in love.. After Jimmy joined the army we pledged ourselves to each other," I said, still looking at Jimmy. "When he was discharged we got married. By then I was living in Cutler's Cove."
    "Oh, how nice," she said. Jimmy had yet to say a word to her. She stared at him, but before she could say anything to him or he could say anything to her, Clayton Osborne and Fern appeared in the doorway.
    Despite our promises to pretend to be people we weren't, neither of us could help but fix our gazes intently, almost hungrily on Fern. I saw immediately that she sensed we were looking at her in a way that was much different from how her parents' other friends might look. Her dark eyebrows rose like question marks.
    She was tall for her age and looked more like a girl of twelve or thirteen, which made sense when I recalled how tall Momma Longchamp was. She wore her hair in a pageboy; it was as dark and shiny as black onyx. Momma Longchamp's hair, I thought. She had Jimmy's dark eyes, but hers were smaller.
    Clayton was right to characterize her as advanced for her age. Although she was only ten, she had begun to develop a figure. The outline of her training bra was just visible beneath the light green cotton blouse. She had long arms and slim shoulders, her body trim and sleek like a cat's. In fact, I realized she had cat's eyes—narrow, sharp, searching, probing and poking, driven by a feline curiosity.
    Even so, she was a pretty girl with a smooth, dark complexion. She had Momma's nose and mouth and Daddy's chin and jaw. It wouldn't be hard to see Jimmy beside her and not know they were related, I thought.
    "This is Mr. and Mrs. Longchamp," Clayton said. "Our daughter Kelly."
    "Hello," I said first. For a moment I thought Jimmy wasn't going to say anything.
    "Hi," he finally added.
    She studied us as if trying to decide whether to talk or just glare. Her mouth opened slightly, but she made no sound. She looked from Jimmy to me and then back to Jimmy.
    "It's polite to return a greeting when you get one, Kelly," Clayton chastised.
    "Hello," she said.
    "Sit down, Kelly," Clayton commanded.
    Reluctantly, she sauntered over to the easy chair and plopped into it, keeping her eyes glued to us.
    "Kelly," Clayton snapped, "since when do you treat the furniture like that? And in front of guests?"
    "It's all right, Clayton," Leslie said. "Kelly is just a little bit depressed today," she explained, turning to us. "She's had a bad day at school."
    "It wasn't my fault!"
    "This isn't the time for this discussion," Clayton said, fixing his eyes firmly on Fern. She shot a gaze at us and then looked away. "Mr. and Mrs. Longchamp are old friends who have come a long way and are here for only a few minutes," he continued.
    The way he limited our visit caught Fern's attention, and she turned back to us with renewed interest.
    "How far did you come?" she asked.
    "From Virginia," I said.
    "Did