The Tea Party - A Novel of Horror by Charles L. Grant Page B

similarly left out in the cold.
    Heather rapped a knuckle on the door frame, and stood there, her hands primly at her waist. “Mother, Mr. Davermain is waiting for you downstairs. Shall I tell him you’ll be down in a moment?”
    Liz inhaled loudly.
    “Is that a yes or a no?”
    “Good lord, girl, what have you been watching?” she asked as she pushed past her daughter and hurried into the bedroom. Heather followed, giggling while she told her it was from something she had seen on PBS. Liz turned as she reached for her jewelry box on the dresser. “PBS? You watch PBS behind my back?”
    “It’s very educational, Mother,” the girl said righteously, then giggled and jerked her thumb over her shoulder. “He’s still fat, Mom. You can see his stomach through his shirt.”
    “Heather Egan, aren’t you supposed to be watching your brother?”
    “Not until dark. He’s out on his bike with those stupid Mohawks somewhere. I’m supposed to be at Mary’s.”
    “Child, go away before I sentence you to a dust mop.”
    She was gone with a laugh, and Liz felt a slight burning in her eyes, her love for them both sometimes uncontrollably overwhelming.
    “And he is not fat!” she yelled, looked into the hallway, and realized Heather was gone. Christ, she thought, I hope Clark didn’t hear me.

    Heather was right, she noted with a sinking feeling; Clark’s stomach did poke through his shirt. It must be his suits, artfully tailored to cover the defects and accentuate what he obviously believed were his strong points: the mass of brown hair so carefully brushed back from a widow’s peak to give him a vaguely satanic look, the large brown eyes, the patrician nose, the square-block jaw that seemed always outthrust. He was deeply tanned, and his white shirt and slacks ably and deliberately served to heighten the effect.
    The trouble was, his stomach forced the lower buttons of his shirt to separate, and made visible a swatch of skin that had her wondering how many sunlamps he owned.
    As they turned right into Deerford, he grinned and jerked his head toward Sitter McMahon. “What is he, local color?”
    “He likes the fresh air, I guess,” she said, almost defensively. She would have turned to wave, but she was afraid to move. White inside and out, the Mercedes made her feel as if she were covered with mud, that a single move might splatter the dashboard, or Clark’s shirt.
    “So this is Deerford. I’ve heard of it, you know.”
    “I’m surprised you’ve never been here, living all this time in the county.”
    “No need,” he said. “I’m too busy elsewhere.”
    “Oh.” And when he reached for and found her hand, she tensed and held her breath; then she told herself to relax. He had not given her any indication he was going to pop it; if the night was miserable it was only because she’d done it to herself.
    “Hey, that restaurant, the Pear Tree?”
    “Shade Tree.”
    “Yes, right. Some of the guys have taken their wives there on weekends. Sounds like a nice place.”
    “It is, very.”
    He looked at her, his left hand draped lazily at the wrist over the steering wheel. “Liz, forgive me, but you don’t sound right. Is something wrong?”
    The concern in his voice made her give him her best smile and make some excuse about worrying about the children.
    “Don’t worry, it’s okay. I promise to have you back before you turn into a pumpkin.” He smiled. “And I’m really glad to see you, Liz. It’s been two weeks. I’ve missed you.”
    She didn’t trust herself to speak.
    “You know,” he said admiringly as they reached the first homes and he saw the care with which the buildings were kept, “it sure does look nice.”
    “It’s perfect.”
    “Well, I don’t know about that. A little too isolated for my taste, I think.”
    She would have said something then, but had to direct him into the Depot’s parking lot, to an open place near the front door. He turned off the engine and stretched his