“She’s incredible,” he said, his eyes still full on his daughter.
“She’s you,” Jennifer said.
“Yes, she’s all me and she’s beautiful, brilliant, she’s married exactly the type of man I would have chosen for her, and now her life will be perfect, just as I planned.”
“How complacent you sound. Would be that life worked out that way. But it never does. I, of all people, know that. You will be around to see all the mistakes, all the pain, all the blunders. I promise you that, Royce.”
“You speak like a bitter old woman. Nothing bad will come to Sydney. You’re quite wrong. Just look at her. Nothing bad will ever happen to her. Her body, of course, like mine, is also perfect.”
Jennifer stiffened at the blatant contempt in his voice, but said nothing.
Royce was smiling again. Bishop Claudio Barzini, specially imported for the wedding from Chicago, a longtime friend of Gates Foxe, was speaking now, a radiantly deep voice that reverberated full and rich in the cathedral, bringing gooseflesh to even the most cynical. Royce hadn’t objected when the prince had naturally assumed he and Sydney would be married in a Catholic ceremony. Royce decided, looking with complaisance at Sydney, that the pomp, the superb costuming, the elegance of the priest and his minions, were the perfect setting for his gem of a daughter. Much better than a simple Presbyterian ceremony or a Catholic one at the violently modern new Saint Mary’s Cathedral on Gough.
Jennifer stared at her stepdaughter, listened to her clear lovely voice saying her vows to the prince. So sure of herself she was, so arrogant and confident. She always had been, even when her new mother, Jennifer, had come into the Foxe mansion when Sydney had been only six years old. She’d looked up at Jennifer and smiled and said so quietly that only Jennifer could hear her, “You won’t replace my mother. You won’t replace anyone. I’ll see to it.”
Jennifer smiled now as she watched the prince slide the di Contini family wedding band on her finger. And she thought: At last you will be far away from me, you damned destructive bitch.
Lindsay Foxe could feel her body growing, particularly her legs. They ached and cramped and pulled and hummed with growth. The unfamiliar panty hose just made it worse, as did the low-heeled pumps that hurt her toes. She squirmed on the hard wooden bench, trying to get comfortable. Her mother gave her one of her looks and she tried to hold still. How tall would she get, anyway? She tried to focus on the wedding, but all her attention was really on the prince.
“Alessandro, do you take this woman, Sydney Trellison Foxe, to be your wedded wife?”
Lindsay looked at her mother’s profile and saw a pleased smile on her mouth. She wondered what she was thinking. She looked toward the prince again as he repeated his vows. She didn’t really want to, but she couldn’t help herself. She was sick in love with him, and had been since the first time she’d seen the photograph of him aboard his yacht, the Bella Contini, off Corsica, sent by Sydney some eight months ago. He’d been dressed all in white, and his black hair, dark eyes, and swarthy skin made him look like a devil masquerading as an angel. In bed at night she fantasized that he kidnapped her and took her on his yacht and sailed with her far away. He sang to her, told her how much he loved her, and fed her grapes and cantaloupe. When he and Sydney had finally arrived last week, Lindsay saw that he was more beautiful than his photo. She hadn’t giggled like her girlfriends, or swooned when she’d seen him and rolled her eyes. No, she’d been struck dumb, and had backed away whenever he’d come near her. Seeing him in person, she simply couldn’t imagine him loving her, singing to her ever, or feeding her anything. He was a god, far beyond her reach.
It was odd, though, but he never gave her that indulgent amused look he gave to her girlfriends. No, he would just nod to her, his look grave, his beautiful mouth unsmiling. He was normally quiet around her. Lindsay recognized he was handsome, a true prince fit for a princess, but it wasn’t entirely his superb good looks that made her numb and sweaty and tongue-tied. When he did speak to her, he was unfailingly kind, his voice pitched low and soothing, as if what she was and who she was mattered to him, as if he didn’t notice that she was a gawky teenage girl who was nearly as tall as he was. He didn’t appear to notice her stupid behavior, and most probably he didn’t. She wasn’t important enough to notice. After all, she was a kid, clumsy and stupid, ugly as sin with her frizzy hair, and he was marrying beautiful Sydney, who didn’t have a bumbling bone in her perfect body. Ah, but lately it seemed that Sydney had garnered a lot of mean bones; Lindsay would have wagered that the prince had never seen a single one of them.
The prince was speaking in his firm deep voice, swearing fidelity and his love to Sydney forever. His voice was as beautiful as the bishop’s. Why should he care if Lindsay had decided she would willingly give her life for him? He had Sydney; he had the world.
Lindsay looked away from him, swallowing tears. It hurt too much. Her knees creaked and ached and she shifted her legs. At sixteen she had come to the conclusion that life was made up of very few happy bits and big-doses-of-misery bits. She thought about her dreams of the prince. Silly and absurd. They were pathetic.
“. . . forsaking all others until death do us part.”
The sun was brilliant overhead outside the church. It was just one o’clock in the afternoon. Paula Kettering shook her head at the accomplishment of her own private prediction. A lovely wedding, perfectly planned, perfectly executed. She drove her BMW to the Foxe mansion on the corner of Pacific and Bayberry for what would undoubtedly be the most elegant, the most sumptuous reception of the entire year.
Princess Sydney, as her friends were already calling her, was upstairs in the Foxe mansion in her bedroom, studying her reflection in the mirror.
She was flushed with pleasure, her cheeks a glowing pink. Everything had gone off perfectly. Of course, she never left anything to chance, it wasn’t in her nature. She was thorough. That was one reason why she was an excellent attorney, that and the fact that she was so beautiful, the opposing attorneys many times forgot why they were there, they were so intent on staring at her. They lost big, usually. As for the female attorneys who opposed, she usually managed to intimidate the hell out of them, poor homely bitches.
She turned from the mirror after applying another coat of lip gloss to see Lindsay coming awkwardly into the room. She frowned.
“For God’s sake, pull your shoulders back. You look like a hunchback. At least you don’t have a teenage complexion. That would put the topping on the cake, wouldn’t it?”
Lindsay’s hand went to her face; then she dropped her too-long arms back to her sides. Her hands felt big and useless, and the knuckles ached. “Yes, it would. You look beautiful, Sydney. The prince asked me to see if you were ready to come down. Mother wants the cake cut now.”
“Lady Jennifer can wait until I’m ready. It’ll do her good. Besides, she’s fat. That wedding cake is the last thing her waistline needs.”
Lindsay just wished Sydney would hold her tongue. But she couldn’t let it pass, and said, “Mother’s not very happy, you know that.”
Sydney shrugged and gently eased a flap of lace over her wrist. “If she didn’t let herself go, then Father wouldn’t be screwing around. He told me that making love to a cow wasn’t his idea of a good time.”
Lindsay turned quickly. “I’ll tell them you’ll be down soon.”
“Yes, you do that. Oh, yes, one thing, Lindsay. Your puppy infatuation for the prince is amusing, at least I thought it was at first. He told me it was getting embarrassing. Father asked me to speak to you. He says it’s pathetic. Try to keep your little-girl sighs to yourself, all right, dear?”