Page 34 of The Lost Heiress
She could be more than one thing at once too.
Chapter Eleven
July 1982
The night sky had deepened into a blue-black bruise; the ocean, though just a stone’s throw away and hundreds of feet beneath them, was no longer visible, but they could hear the rhythmic assault and retreat of the waves on the shore. Anytime now, and the fireworks would start.
Ransom sat with Florence at one end of the table on the terrace, his chair pointed toward the open sky.
“I was hoping the rift would last longer,” Florence said.
Saoirse and Bass sat at the other end of the table, sipping their champagne, heads together, talking, friends once again. They had made up as quickly and animatedly as they had fallen out. They were exactly alike in that way—they ran hot and cold, loved a heated argument if there was a captive audience, and drew great pleasure from being deeply displeased. All it had taken was Bass telling Saoirse about the party they were to have for her birthday, and all was forgotten and forgiven in the glee with which they took up debating the guest list—whom to invite and whom to snub.
“They’re too similar to quarrel for long,” Ransom said. “And too similarnotto quarrel.”
Florence scoffed.
“You don’t think so?” Ransom asked.
“I wouldn’t insult anyone with a likeness to Bass, even if it were true,” Florence said.
She did not care for William Bass and hadn’t from the day she met him. Florence still recalled, with vivid clarity, their first encounter. She was twelve. It was summertime, and Charles was coming home from his first year at Yale. He was bringing a friend—his roommate, a boy by the name of William Bass. Florence was over the moon to see Charles; the day he was due home, she was one big ball of nervous energy, almost sick to her stomach with excitement. She’d put her swimsuit on and walked down to the outdoor pool with a towel thrown over her shoulder, determined to work out some of her nervous excitement with a swim.
The day was overcast and the water cold, but Florence quickly warmed herself by doing laps—freestyle in one direction, and backstroke in the other. She was so concentrated on her strokes that she lost track of time. As she neared the edge of one side of the pool, on her back in the water, she suddenly noticed there was a man standing over her at the edge of the pool.
“Hello, little fish,” the man said.
Florence stopped. She turned over and held on to the side of the pool with one hand while removing her goggles with the other. She pinched the water out of her nose and looked up at him. He was tall—all bronzed skin and blond hair and blue eyes, like some sort of Greek god.
“Hello,” she said, a little breathless.
He crouched down so he was closer to her eye level. “I was watching you out there,” he said. “You have quite the sophisticated backstroke for someone your age. Do you compete?”
Florence shook her head. “I just do it for fun,” she said.
“For fun,” the man said, as if that were a refreshing novelty he hadn’t heard before. “Well, I’m sure all the other girls your age who do swim competitively are grateful. You’d whip them all. No contest.”
He smiled and winked at her, and Florence beamed. She felt warm, as if she were standing in a swathe of sunlight, even though the day was chilly.
“I’m William Bass,” he said, holding out his hand. “Charles’s roommate. You must be Verity.”
“No, actually,” she said, drawing her hand out of the water to shake his. “I’m Florence.”
“Oh,” he said, and she saw the flicker of interest in his eyes go out, as if someone had flipped a switch. “Right.” He limply shook her hand and grimaced a little at the wetness of it. Florence drew her hand back, embarrassed.
“I’m sorry,” Florence said, because she hated to be the cause of anyone’s discomfort.
William Bass didn’t say anything; he just stood up and turned away from her, and Florence felt the brisk shadow of his indifference. He put his hands in his pockets and glanced back down at her. “Which way to the stables?” he asked. “I’d like to see the horses.”
Florence pointed, and he nodded and took off in the direction she had indicated without so much as a thank-you or a “Nice to meet you” or a goodbye. Florence blinked, a little shocked and rattled by the encounter.
Charles called him by just his last name—Bass—Florence learned, and so everyone else did too. She watched as Bass charmed the family, one by one. He had a unique talent for identifying the one thing that a person cared most about and leaning into it. At family dinners, he led them all in such a devoted and elegant prayer that Scarlet practically swooned in her chair at the head of the table. He complimented Verity on her sense of style and vehemently fanned the flames of Astrid’s vanity. Every Towers at Cliffhaven seemed to be under Bass’s spell—all except for Doris Oppenheimer Towers, who was the only one besides Florence who saw right through him.
“I’ve never met someone who thinks so highly of himself, and I’ve met the pope,” Doris said one afternoon to Florence as they played cardstogether in the living room. “I mean, the boy grew up on a poultry farm in Wisconsin. He’s attending Yale on scholarship. I don’t know what he’s done to warrant his intense sense of superiority.” Doris laid down a card on the table and picked up another. “Charles could do better,” she said.
Florence had to agree—everywhere Bass went, he was too loud and too sure of himself. He made special requests of the chef (half a grapefruit to be served to him after every meal; no pork dishes for dinner). He rang the butler to help him dress for dinner, like some French king at Versailles. The whole summer, Florence couldn’t wait for him to leave, but when he finally did go, Charles did too—back to New Haven for school.
“Mrs. Talbot?”
