Читать книгу The Impetuous Mistress - George Harmon Coxe - Страница 5

THE HEAT WAVE which came unfailingly to blanket the eastern shore at least once each summer descended with the advent of August and was still going strong five days later. Those who could get out of the cities did so. Those who could not leave, complained, tempers became frayed, the near-by beaches and the roads feeding them were jammed over the week end, and cold drinks were consumed in record quantities.

Rick Sheridan was one of the lucky ones who had been able to escape on the first day, which was a Thursday. He had driven out to this small house he had recently finished across the Connecticut line with two roughs for what would one day be page advertisements for True-Fruit, a soft drink that had hopes of emulating Pepsi-Cola in popularity, promising his agent that he would deliver the finished art on Tuesday morning.

Because he had insisted on using plenty of insulation, the house stayed comfortable until midafternoon and he had worked steadily on Friday and Saturday. Sunday he had loafed, spending much of his time at the beach, and by Monday noon his two illustrations were ready and he was in excellent spirits, not only because he felt his work was good but because he had telephoned Nancy Heath in New York and she had agreed to take the train to Westport, have dinner with him, and drive back to the city that evening.

There was no hint of the trouble that was to come until the telephone began to ring that afternoon. The first call came from his agent at a quarter of four, just as he was about to stop work on the portrait of Elinor Farrell, who sat near the big studio window.

“Hey, Rembrandt,” Ted Banks said. “Tomorrow’s Tuesday.”

“Yeah,” said Rick. “August sixth.”

“How’re you and True-Fruit doing?”

“We’re done. Finished this noon.”

“Ahh. You’re my boy. What do you think?”

“I think it’s pretty good.”

“It better be because I’ve been making a big pitch. The client likes your stuff and if they go for these two we get thirteen-fifty for the next job.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too. Just be here by ten in the morning.”

Rick turned away, pleased with the good news and grinning absently until his glance touched the portrait. He surveyed it critically as he cleaned a brush.

“That’s about it, Elinor,” he said.

“You mean it’s finished?”

“No, I mean for today.”

“Oh, dear.” Elinor Farrell sighed. “I was hoping—but you’ll surely have it Friday. It has to be framed, too . . . Could I see it now, please?”

Rick smiled at her as he carefully reversed the canvas on the easel and carried it over to one wall. “I’d rather you didn’t,” he said. “It’s always better to see a picture for the first time in a frame, even if it isn’t the perfect frame. And you’ll have it Friday. But I’d like to think about it another day or so. Maybe it’s all right now but if you could come Wednesday, just in case I want to touch it up here and there.”

He knew she was giving the portrait to her husband as a present. He did not know what the occasion was but the private unveiling was to be on Friday and he was satisfied now that the job could be done on time.

“You’ll probably have some fault to find anyway,” he said. “Austin, too. People usually do, especially the immediate family.”

“Well, we won’t have to worry about that,” Elinor said. “And if it is anywhere near as good as the one you did of Greta Lane two years ago I know I’ll be delighted.”

Rick remembered the other portrait because he had not done one since. For although he had the facility of catching a likeness, he did not like the work because there were usually so many changes to be made that he felt the result was a patchwork that took much too long to complete. In this case he needed the fifteen hundred Elinor would pay. He had spent too much on the house, and too much of his own time helping the workman, and the fee would go a long way toward taking care of the first year at Exeter for his son, Ricky, now at camp in the Adirondacks.

This portrait was a sitting pose and he had an interesting subject. For at forty-two Elinor Farrell was a handsome, intelligent woman who might have been beautiful had it not been for the pain and suffering which had become ingrained in her face and had been put there by an accident that nearly cost her life.

The collision between the convertible and the tractor truck had broken three of Austin Farrell’s ribs and a leg. His wife, with hardly a scratch on her, had suffered a serious brain injury. An emergency operation by a neurosurgeon had saved her, but there remained a partial paralysis of one leg, a paralysis that was to become gradually worse, and with no hope of eventual recovery.

These things showed in her face, but there was a serenity, too, and no sign of self-pity in her smile or in her words. The well-spaced brown eyes reflected dignity and courage, and the once brown hair, now nearly gray, was softly waved and worn low at the sides to hide the ugly scar above one ear where the blood-clot had been removed.

“In a pinch,” Rick said, “I can lend you a frame for Friday. I have one that size and you can use it until you find one you think is right.”

The ring of the telephone forestalled any reply, and when he had excused himself and crossed the room the crisp, assertive voice of his wife came to him.

“Rick? Frieda.”

“Yes, Frieda.”

“I’ve been thinking about that matter we discussed last week. Do you still want it?”

“The divorce? Certainly I want it.”

“Well, maybe it can be arranged.”

“I’m glad you changed your mind.”

“There’ll be some stipulations but nothing insurmountable. How about this evening?”

“Fine,” Rick said and then, remembering Nancy Heath: “but I’ve got a dinner date.”

“With the girl friend?”

“Does it matter?”

“I don’t suppose it does, actually. As a matter of fact I’m having dinner with Father and I thought I could drive over afterwards. Say around nine.”

Rick hesitated but not for long. He was not sure what he would do about Nancy but this was too important to miss.

“Nine o’clock? Okay, I’ll be here.”

“Good . . . ’Bye.”

He stood for a few moments after he had replaced the instrument, a new kind of hope rising in him as he realized what a divorce could mean. Then, before he moved away, the telephone jangled for the third time and when he picked it up he heard the voice of Tom Ashley, his next door neighbor.

“How about dinner tonight?”

“I’m sorry, Tom, but Nancy’s coming out.”

“Oh. Well, how about bringing her over later?”

“I can’t do that either,” Rick said and spoke of his wife. “She’s having dinner with her father and then she’s coming over to talk about a divorce.”

“Ahh. Good enough. That’s what you want, isn’t it? You think she’ll go along?”

“That’s what I’m hoping.”

“Okay then. But if you and Nancy want to stop for a quick one before dinner I’ll be here.”

Rick thanked him again and hung up, and now as he turned away he heard the car stop out front. He glanced at Elinor and smiled.

“I guess that’s Austin,” he said, and stepped over to get the crutch that rested in the corner.

She had pulled herself from the chair as he came to her and now she offered her right hand in a formal handshake which was a customary part of each arrival and departure. He stepped back then, aware that she did not want to be helped, and walked with her across the living room to the front door.

A heavy hardtop, shiny, new-looking, and dark-hued, stood in the drive, and when Austin Farrell saw them he stepped down, a tall and handsome figure clad in lightweight doeskin trousers and a dark-blue polo shirt with his initials on the pocket. Two or three years younger than his wife and a confirmed bachelor until their marriage some years earlier, he was a literary agent who worked when he felt like it and practiced his business not for profits—his wife was a wealthy woman who indulged him generously—but for the prestige he felt such labors gave him. As an agent he had a certain standing with the sort of people he felt were important; he had entree to the proper clubs and restaurants where his entertaining was done. For himself he needed only to earn spending money since all other things were signed for to be taken care of by his wife’s business manager. Now he smiled to show his perfect teeth, and his voice was low and resonant as he spoke.

“How did it go today, darling?”

“Rick says it’s about finished,” she said, handing him her crutch as he helped her onto the front seat, “but he’d like another look Wednesday.”

“Fine. That’s great. I can’t wait to see it.”

“No literary work today, Austin?” Rick said.

“In this heat?” Farrell laughed. “Try and find an editor in town. I’m going in tomorrow though, just in case. What about you?”

“I’m driving in later this evening. Some stuff to deliver in the morning. . . . I’ll phone you Wednesday morning, Elinor, and we can fix a time. It shouldn’t take long.”

He watched the big car pull away and then went back to the studio to clean up his things, glancing again with satisfaction at the two illustrations he created for True-Fruit out of paint, illustration board, and a penciled rough an art director had furnished him.

He recalled the raise Ted Banks had mentioned and allowed himself to speculate with some pleasure on the future. The hope that had come to him with his wife’s call was still with him, but it was a hope tempered with vague misgivings when he remembered the explosive scenes that had erupted between them in times past. What, he wondered, did Frieda mean by certain stipulations?

The thought still lay dormant in the back of his mind when he saw Nancy Heath step down from the 6:48. In that moment before she saw him he watched her move with grace along the station platform, some odd chemical suddenly working on him to set up the pleasurable and exciting currents that always vibrated inside him when he was with her.

She saw him then and waved, her step quickening, a tallish girl in an off-white, tropical-weight suit that still looked fresh after the train ride. Slenderly made but not thin, she had shapely legs and a small neat waist and hair that was medium blond. Her smile came quickly, and when she stopped and he took her hands, he wanted very much to kiss her right then and there. The wide green eyes beneath the dark lashes had soft, humorous lights in them as they held his briefly, telling him that she wanted to be kissed. Then the moment passed and they were walking to his car and he was saying:

“How did it go today?”

“Hectic as usual. If it hadn’t been for the air conditioning the whole office would have perished. Did you finish the True-Fruit pages?”

“Yep. Had a session with Elinor Farrell this afternoon and I think I’ve about done it.” He opened the car door and moved round to the other side. “It should be a bit cooler by the water. What about some cold lobster?”

“Oh, perfect,” she said delightedly. “With mayonnaise and potato chips and a salad and maybe iced tea.”

The place Rick took her to did not have much style but the porch where one dined in the summer jutted out over the water and the lobsters were superb. Because they were reasonably early Rick managed a table by the railing and not until their drinks had been served did he mention his wife.

“She phoned about four,” he said. “She wants to see me tonight.”

“Ohh—” Nancy’s mouth was round with the word and her lips stayed parted until she had digested the news. “But you could have called me, darling,” she said. “I didn’t have to come out for dinner. I mean, seeing her is so much more important—”

“I’m not meeting her until nine.”

“Well—you can put me on the train first.”

“No. I’ve got to drive in anyway.” He reached out to cover her hand with his. “Relax,” he said. “Just drop me at the house at five of nine, cruise around for three quarters of an hour or so, and then pick me up.”

She finished her drink as the waiter put the split lobster before her. She said: “Um,” and attacked it with gusto. She muttered small delighted sounds as she ate, smiling at him from time to time as she noted his progress. Not until she had finished did her face sober.

“Do you think she’ll give it to you?”

“She called me up,” Rick said.

“Last week she said no.”

“Maybe she changed her mind.”

“Maybe.” She sighed as she used the finger bowl. “But I can’t see Frieda giving you anything unless it was to her advantage. What exactly did she say?”

“She asked me if I still wanted a divorce, and I said yes, and she said maybe it could be arranged. There might be a couple of stipulations but nothing—to use her word—insurmountable.”

“There would be stipulations.”

“So what? She probably wants to have an agreement about Ricky.”

“I don’t know why she should. She’s never paid any attention to him.”

“She has her rights, too. Her father would like nothing better than to have Ricky with him, and when Frieda has custody she can do as she likes about that. . . . Look,” he said with affectionate bluntness. “We want to get married and have a family of our own and live together the next eighty or ninety years, don’t we?”

“Well, fifty anyway,” she said and giggled.

“And unless I get the divorce it doesn’t happen. Who cares what she wants?”

“But you can’t give her a mortgage on the rest of your life.”

“How do you know she wants a mortgage? I don’t intend to give her anything that should be yours.”

“I didn’t mean that—”

“And anyway, she’s got money. I have to scratch all year to make as much as she gets from her mother’s estate. I expect to educate Ricky. If she’ll settle for a divorce she can have what she wants.”

“Within reason.”

“Okay, baby. Within reason.”

“All right, darling. I’m sorry to be so female about it.” She put aside her napkin and her eyes were softly mischievous. “Isn’t it nearly time to go? I want to be kissed.”

She waited until they were in the car and then, as his arm moved round her, she came close and clung to him while their lips met. When she released herself she straightened and sighed happily.

“Umm,” she said. “I feel better already.”

It was dark by the time they approached the house. Diagonally across from it was a small lane that was usually occupied during the summer by one car or another and for a purpose which to Rick seemed obvious. Lover’s Lane was what he called it privately and though he was vaguely aware that it was presently in use he was more intent on his own driveway and now he noted with relief that there was no sign of Frieda’s car. As he stepped out and Nancy moved behind the wheel he said:

“You know your way around most of these roads, but don’t get lost.”

She said she would try not to. She said she would be back in forty-five minutes and if Frieda’s car was parked out front she would drive round again.

“Right,” he said. “Just keep your fingers crossed and think positive thoughts. I’ll handle Frieda.”