Читать книгу Аэропорт / Аirport - Артур Хейли - Страница 3

Mel entered his own interior office. The only reason he had stayed through most of these three-day storm was to be available for emergencies. Otherwise, he mused, as he put on a heavy topcoat and fur-lined boots, by now he would have been home with Cindy and the children.

Or would he?

No matter how objective you tried to be, it was hard to be sure of your own real motives. Not going home seemed lately to have become the pattern of his life. His job was a cause, of course. But—if he was honest with himself—the airport also offered an escape from the quarrels between himself and Cindy which seemed to occur nowadays whenever they spent time together.

“Oh, hell!”

A glance at a typed reminder from his secretary confirmed what he had just recalled. Tonight there was another of his wife’s tedious charity affairs. A week ago, reluctantly, Mel had promised to attend.

Fortunately, the starting time was late—almost two hours from now. So he could still make it, even after inspecting the airfield. Mel would be downtown only a little late. He had better warn Cindy, though. Mel dialed his home number. Roberta, his elder daughter, answered.

“Hi,” Mel said. “This is your old man.”

Roberta’s voice came coolly. “I know.”

“How was school today?”

“Could you be specific, Father? There were several classes.”

Mel sighed. Did all fathers, he wondered, abruptly lose communication with their daughters at age thirteen? Less than a year ago, the two of them had seemed as close as father and daughter could be. Mel loved both his daughters deeply—Roberta, and her younger sister, Libby. There were times when he realized they were the only reasons his marriage had survived.

“Never mind,” Mel said. “Is your mother home?”

“She went out. She said, if you phoned, to tell you, you have to be downtown to meet her, and for once try not to be late.”

Roberta was undoubtedly repeating Cindy’s words exactly.

“If your mother calls, tell her I might have to be a little late, and that I can’t help it.”

“Libby wants to talk to you.”

“In a minute. I was just going to tell you—because of the storm I may not be home tonight. There’s a lot happening at the airport.”

“Will you speak to Libby now?”

“Yes, I will. Goodnight, Robbie.”

“Goodnight.”

The telephone changed hands.

“Daddy, Daddy! Guess what!” Libby was always breathless as if, to a seven-year-old, life were excitingly on the run and she must forever keep pace. “Well, at school, Miss Curzon said for homework we have to write down all the good things we think will happen next month.”

He could understand Libby’s enthusiasm. To her, almost everything was exciting and good, and the few things which were not were brushed aside and speedily forgotten.

“That’s nice,” Mel said.

“Daddy! Will you help me? I want a map of February.”

Mel smiled. Libby had a verbal shorthand of her own which sometimes seemed more expressive than conventional words.

“There’s a calendar in my desk.” Mel told her where to find it and heard her small feet running from the room, the telephone forgotten.