more, he resembled photographs of their father in the old days, when Dr. Harley Winter had been quite the gay young blade on the University of Chicago campus. Or so they had been told. It didn't seem possible, but their own mother—dead for seven years now—had said it often, so it must've been true.
"So you'd rather grow up to look like your big brother than your big sister." Sydney pouted. "I'm hurt."
Sam giggled and let her ruffle his hair again. He had changed, too, while she'd been gone. He'd gotten even skinnier, and she could swear he'd grown two inches. He was seven now, and hair-ruffling was something he tolerated only because she'd been away so long and he'd missed her. "Are you eating enough?" she fretted, squeezing the bony knee under his knickers.
"I eat all the time, I eat like a horse. Aunt Estelle says I eat like a swarm of locos." He scrambled to his feet. "I eat like a pack of jackals!" He trotted away, attracted to some nasty-looking thing Hector had just pulled out of the surf. Sydney hoped it was dead; changed her mind and hoped it was alive; changed her mind again.
Philip, before her very eyes, began to roll a cigarette. She made obligatory disapproving sounds, but she was spellbound. Spencer hadn't smoked. Except on trains and from a ladylike distance, she had never seen anyone make a cigarette before. She glanced back at Sam, but he and the dog were safely absorbed in their unsavory find thirty yards away. "Do you smoke all the time?"
"Sure. Passes the time." He stuck the cigarette in the side of his mouth, lit a match, and touched it to the end, somehow sucking in smoke and blowing it out through his nostrils at the same time.
She shook her head and tsked, imitating Aunt Estelle, but she was impressed. "How much did you win last night in your poker game?"
"Enough."
"Enough so you won't miss your allowance."
He just winked at her.
"You know you can always come to me if you're ever really strapped, don't you?" She still lived in her father's house, but her inheritance from Spencer's estate had left her financially independent. Rich, actually.
Philip's handsome face lost its look of sophisticated indifference; he flashed a quick grin. "You're a peach, Syd. What would I do without you?"
She watched the breeze flutter the fringe on her parasol. "Philip . . . It's not worth it, you know."
"What's not worth it?"
"Defying them."
He started to roll down the cuffs of his trousers, not looking at her. "I don't give a damn about them."
Such a guileless lie. He cared as much as she did. She longed to help him make his father's inattention and indifference not matter so much. But Philip was too much like her: exactly the same things hurt him. He was a man, though, and so the things he did to counter the hurt could have more disastrous consequences than the things a woman could do.
"It doesn't make any sense to throw away your education," she counseled softly. "You'll hurt yourself, not them."
He huffed out a laugh, as if he didn't know what she was talking about. "How do you like West living right here in the house?" he asked abruptly—changing the subject.
"I don't mind. Anyway, he's so busy, I hardly ever see him." She hesitated, then said, "He's asked me to marry him."
"What?" He stubbed his cigarette out in the sand and stared at her.
"Is it such a surprise? He's been courting me for months."
"I know, but he's—" He stopped, and she could see it dawning on him that some adult tact might be called for here.
"Why do you dislike Charles?" she challenged.
"I don't dislike him. Really. I like him—if you like him."
"Well, I do like him."
He was silent for a second, then squinted up at her. "I still don't like him."
They burst out laughing. She reveled in it, the closeness, the gaiety, the lovely frankness between them just for this moment. Compared to this, Charles West faded into insignificance.
She was so used to the sound of Hector's deep-throated baying when he played with Sam on
"So you'd rather grow up to look like your big brother than your big sister." Sydney pouted. "I'm hurt."
Sam giggled and let her ruffle his hair again. He had changed, too, while she'd been gone. He'd gotten even skinnier, and she could swear he'd grown two inches. He was seven now, and hair-ruffling was something he tolerated only because she'd been away so long and he'd missed her. "Are you eating enough?" she fretted, squeezing the bony knee under his knickers.
"I eat all the time, I eat like a horse. Aunt Estelle says I eat like a swarm of locos." He scrambled to his feet. "I eat like a pack of jackals!" He trotted away, attracted to some nasty-looking thing Hector had just pulled out of the surf. Sydney hoped it was dead; changed her mind and hoped it was alive; changed her mind again.
Philip, before her very eyes, began to roll a cigarette. She made obligatory disapproving sounds, but she was spellbound. Spencer hadn't smoked. Except on trains and from a ladylike distance, she had never seen anyone make a cigarette before. She glanced back at Sam, but he and the dog were safely absorbed in their unsavory find thirty yards away. "Do you smoke all the time?"
"Sure. Passes the time." He stuck the cigarette in the side of his mouth, lit a match, and touched it to the end, somehow sucking in smoke and blowing it out through his nostrils at the same time.
She shook her head and tsked, imitating Aunt Estelle, but she was impressed. "How much did you win last night in your poker game?"
"Enough."
"Enough so you won't miss your allowance."
He just winked at her.
"You know you can always come to me if you're ever really strapped, don't you?" She still lived in her father's house, but her inheritance from Spencer's estate had left her financially independent. Rich, actually.
Philip's handsome face lost its look of sophisticated indifference; he flashed a quick grin. "You're a peach, Syd. What would I do without you?"
She watched the breeze flutter the fringe on her parasol. "Philip . . . It's not worth it, you know."
"What's not worth it?"
"Defying them."
He started to roll down the cuffs of his trousers, not looking at her. "I don't give a damn about them."
Such a guileless lie. He cared as much as she did. She longed to help him make his father's inattention and indifference not matter so much. But Philip was too much like her: exactly the same things hurt him. He was a man, though, and so the things he did to counter the hurt could have more disastrous consequences than the things a woman could do.
"It doesn't make any sense to throw away your education," she counseled softly. "You'll hurt yourself, not them."
He huffed out a laugh, as if he didn't know what she was talking about. "How do you like West living right here in the house?" he asked abruptly—changing the subject.
"I don't mind. Anyway, he's so busy, I hardly ever see him." She hesitated, then said, "He's asked me to marry him."
"What?" He stubbed his cigarette out in the sand and stared at her.
"Is it such a surprise? He's been courting me for months."
"I know, but he's—" He stopped, and she could see it dawning on him that some adult tact might be called for here.
"Why do you dislike Charles?" she challenged.
"I don't dislike him. Really. I like him—if you like him."
"Well, I do like him."
He was silent for a second, then squinted up at her. "I still don't like him."
They burst out laughing. She reveled in it, the closeness, the gaiety, the lovely frankness between them just for this moment. Compared to this, Charles West faded into insignificance.
She was so used to the sound of Hector's deep-throated baying when he played with Sam on
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