Читать книгу The Impetuous Mistress - George Harmon Coxe - Страница 6

WHEN Rick Sheridan had turned on some lights in the living room he saw that the clock on the mantel said it was five minutes of nine, and suddenly he was no longer so sure of himself. A new nervousness was working on him, and when he realized he was pacing back and forth he went to the kitchen and brought back the brandy bottle and two miniature snifter glasses.

He poured a tot and swallowed it slowly and by then he could face the fact that during the past several years Frieda had become rather difficult for anyone to handle. She was no longer the girl he had married but, viewed honestly, he was not the same man either. Fourteen years was a long time. He was twenty then, finishing his junior year at college and the war was yet to be won. Frieda was six months older and eager for the elopement that would take her away from the dominating ways of a father who had wanted a son and insisted on treating her like one. What he had to face now as he heard the car stop outside was a self-centered and officious business woman with a calculating mind and a conscience she could turn on and off whenever she found it troublesome.

“Hello,” she said as he opened the door for her. “I didn’t see your car.”

“Nancy has it.”

There was no reply to this as she stopped just beyond the entrance to examine the room she had never seen before. “You’re quite cozy here. Do you still play?” She indicated the battered upright in one corner and Rick said: “Yes,” because he knew what she meant.

In college he had belonged to a small, informal singing group that had no connection with the glee club. Its primary aim, aside from close harmony, was social, and they sang mostly for those whose wealth and position made it possible to put them up for the night or the week end. There were always girls and always there was a time when the piano became the center of attraction. Rick was no musician but he had a nice way with a piano. His left hand was better than most, he had a good memory for melody once exposed to it, and he could fake a fair accompaniment. Frieda liked to sing. . . .

He closed his mind to such thoughts and watched her move round the perimeter of the room, examining this and that and stopping for a moment or two before the framed samples of his work on the walls.

He waited, inspecting the simple white dress and the scarf which had contained her blond hair and now hung knotted about her neck. On the tall side, she no longer had the softly curving figure he once knew so well. Instead she had acquired the planes and angles that characterized the sleek and curveless bodies of the high-fashion models currently in vogue. Her facial make-up was perfection itself, her tan was smooth and even, her manner superior even in repose. This, Rick knew, was a woman who knew what she wanted, and for a long time now it had not been him. He saw she was again looking at the piano and now she said:

“Same two keys?”

“C and G?” He grinned then, surprised that she should remember. “Just the same. More clinkers now though because I don’t practice much. . . . Would you like a drink?”

She looked at him then, her blue eyes steady. She shook her head. “Not now, thanks.” She sat down on the edge of the divan and crossed brown legs. She put her expensive-looking straw bag on one knee and propped her elbow on the bag.

“About this divorce business,” she said, all business now. “I’ve been thinking. Until now the separation agreement we have has done well enough. You want to marry the Heath girl. I haven’t any immediate plans but I might have some day so maybe it’s not such a bad idea. Just what do you propose?”

Such phrasing disconcerted Rick because he had not been prepared for it. He sat down opposite her, a frown puckering his brows and his brown eyes uncertain.

“What do you mean, propose?”

“Well, there has to be some agreement, doesn’t there? Some meeting of the minds?”

“I thought—” Rick hesitated, recalling the one page separation agreement they had signed more than two years earlier. “Unless you’re talking about alimony—”

“I shan’t need alimony.”

“Then what’s wrong with the agreement we have? I’ll educate Ricky and pay whatever you think I should for his support.”

“That’s all well and good but the custody terms will have to be revised.”

“Oh?” Rick remembered her reference to stipulations and now he felt a mounting uneasiness that was akin to fear. “Why?”

She shrugged one shoulder and her brow arched. “Because I don’t think it’s equitable. My time for having Ricky is when he’s in school. You have him for vacations.”

“He was always in school of one sort or another even when we lived together.”

“That’s beside the point I want the vacation time.”

“You or your father?”

“Don’t quibble, Rick.”

Rick sat down opposite her, his throat dry and an unwonted anger beginning to stir inside him.

“All right, Frieda. What exactly do you want?”

“I want Ricky. I want custody. So he can be with me—or Father, if you insist—when I want him.”

He stared at her an incredulous moment, hearing the cool concise phrasing and understanding every syllable. Yet even then he could not accept the statement. She had not moved, and her small face was smooth and unlined. Except for the fact that she was not dressed for the city she might have been sitting in her office discussing a book contract with a writer, as befitted her position as a partner in the book publishing firm of Brainard & Eastman—Brainard being her maiden name.

“Oh, no, Frieda,” he said.

“Naturally you’ll have reasonable visitation rights.”

“When it’s convenient for you.”

“Those are your words, not mine.”

He took a breath and glanced at the brandy bottle. He had to work this out without stripping his emotional gears, and yet he knew he could not match her assurance and present self-control because she was talking contracts and rights and he was talking about a twelve-year-old, tow-headed boy who was never very far from his thoughts, a boy who returned his love and admiration and still thought his father was a real great guy.

He tried again, unaware that his inflection was growing caustic, not knowing that what he considered simply a lack of affection for his wife was in reality a well-developed dislike.

“Since when have you taken all this interest in motherhood?”

For the first time annoyance flickered in her blue eyes.

“What do you mean by that? I am his mother.”

“You bore him, if that’s what you mean. But what about the other things a child needs? He was three months old when I got back from France and even then you had a full-time nurse.”

“Why not? I could afford it then. Does that imply—”

He cut her off because the things in his mind could no longer go unsaid.

“Once he stopped being a baby how many times did you tuck him in bed or listen to his prayers or read to him or tell him stories? It was always me or the nurse, wasn’t it? From the time he could toddle you had him in nursery school. He came home to a nurse. You didn’t have the time; you couldn’t be bothered—”

“Oh, shut up!”

He stood up, avoiding her glance, knowing that her temper, like his, was getting frayed and unpredictable. He stepped to the table and poured some brandy into the glass, swished it absently and gulped it as if it were water.

Still holding the glass he stared out the window into the night, a moderately tall man with a lanky, loose-muscled look and straight dark hair that was sometimes stubborn. His brows were straight and black over the brooding brown eyes and his bony face was tight above the solidly set jaw. In those silent moments there was no outward movement of his body except the uncontrollable tremor in his hands, but he could feel the stiffness in his knees and an internal shakiness that spread out from the pit of his stomach. Finally he put the glass aside and turned back to his wife.

“Why, Frieda?” he asked, trying to keep his voice steady.

“Why what?”

“The sudden possessiveness about Ricky? Because you know a divorce is important to me and you want to be vindictive—though God knows why you should be? Or is this your father’s idea? Does he want to mold the boy the way he tried to mold you?”

She had herself in hand again and her voice was clipped. “Do you think you and Nancy can give him a better home than Dad and I?”

He started to ask her just how often she expected to be at home and then reconsidered because her question had merit Twice Nancy had driven with him to camp to see the boy and they had quickly formed a mutual admiration society. This much he knew, just as he knew that in his daydreams the past few months he had seen Ricky and Nancy in this house together; he had even planned the layout so that an extra room or two could easily be added.

“Perhaps not in material things,” he said. “But one thing we could give him that your father has never been capable of, and that is understanding and affection. . . . No,” he said as he moved away from the table. “No deal. Visitation rights are not enough, Frieda.”

“Very well.” She tucked her bag under her arm and straightened her back. “In that case you and Miss Heath will have to accustom yourselves to the idea of sleeping together without benefit of clergy. Not that you haven’t already tried it.”

He started for her as she finished; then stopped as she jumped to her feet to face him. The words that came to him died in his throat as a cold fury possessed him. In that instant he hated this woman and the cold bright glints in her eyes told him that hate was returned. He made one more effort to preserve his self-control.

“Then let’s fight it out the other way. There’s one ground for divorce in New York State, so let’s see whose skirts are clean.”

“What do you mean?” she demanded, and for that instant her glance wavered. “Are you—”

“I mean I’ve heard things here and there and if this is the way you want it I’ll get some private detective and find out how accurate the rumors are. Let’s see what a judge will say about this custody business once the facts are in.”

“Try it!” she shouted, her voice shrill. “Just you try it.”

“I intend to,” he yelled, and took a breath, standing with his face no more than a foot from hers, seeing the ugly distortion of her features and knowing his own expression must be equally twisted and stiff. “And if your conduct the past couple of years hasn’t been one hundred per cent virginal—which I damned well doubt—”

She hit him then, an open-handed, swinging blow that caught him on the cheekbone, and for the first time in his life he retaliated.

There was no thought process involved. At that moment he was beyond thinking. He felt the sting of the blow and instantly his own hand moved in an instinctive reflex action, as automatic as a skilled boxer counter-punching.

He saw her head rock as his palm caught her cheek, watched her stagger off balance and sit down on the edge of the divan and then skid off to the floor. She landed in a sitting position and there she stayed, more bewildered than hurt, her mouth open and her eyes incredulous.

For a long and silent moment as the shock immobilized them he stared down at her, horrified, the sickness rising in him as he realized what had happened. Then he wheeled and headed for the door as she found her voice.

The screams that followed him were hysterical, the words incoherent. He kept his eyes on the door, not daring to look back. Somehow he knew that if he listened or hesitated or tried to argue again the fury that possessed him might drive him to further violence.

It was fear that drove him on, the certain knowledge that he must get away before it was too late. He reached the door and stumbled into the night and the screams were muted. He passed the convertible and found the highway and turned left, his mind still tormented and the sickness rising in his throat.

He was vaguely aware that next door Tom Ashley’s house was dark and the garage empty. He was conscious enough of his surroundings to move to the side of the road when he heard an approaching car. He walked fast, driving himself in an effort to steady his nerves and erase the physical shakiness that still gripped him. When, finally, he could begin to think again he began to ask questions, some of them aloud.

Why? What happened that he could do such a thing?

Never before had he ever touched his wife in anger and it had not always been easy. There had been many scenes and arguments in his past, not so violent but equally devastating to his state of mind. Two or three times before she had slapped him when his rebuttals were sound and her exasperation got the best of her. But this—

Was it because in earlier days his self-control was better and pride prevented any retaliation? Or was his forbearance due to the fact that never before had their contentions seemed so important?

Was it the things she had said about Nancy, the inferences made? The thoughts of his son and the deep-seated resentment of this new request for custody?

His steps slowed as reason returned and the shakiness disappeared. There were no conclusive answers to his questions and presently hope came again. What had happened was over. He was ashamed and he would apologize. Frieda might not forget, but the fact that she had come to discuss divorce indicated that she was interested. There could be personal reasons, quite aside from Ricky, where none had existed before. If so, a compromise was possible.

Suppose he agreed to custody during vacations, holding out for one month in the summer. That would be better than nothing. Ricky would be thirteen in another couple of months. In three years he would be sixteen, nearly a man, and by then he would have some choice as to where, and with whom, he spent his vacations. Such thoughts were mildly cheering and he stopped at the side of the road, seeing the string of moving lights in the distance and realizing this must be the parkway.

Then he thought of Nancy and the instructions he had given her.

Wheeling, he started back, legs stretching. He had no idea how long he had been walking, but he had an idea about how far he had come. Hurrying now in the still night air, he could feel the perspiration come and his shirt was damp beneath his belt. Rounding a curve a car coming toward him swung wide and he stepped from the macadam. Another car not far behind gave him more room, and when he glanced over his shoulder after it had passed he thought it looked familiar.

It was moving too fast for him to read the license plate and he had the vague impression that a man was driving. But it was a convertible like his wife’s. The general color scheme was similar, too, and as he plowed ahead, he hoped it was Frieda’s. For there was no telling what she might do when she was angry, and although he had told Nancy not to stop if she saw Frieda’s car, he did not want to encounter his wife again so soon.

He was panting slightly as he made the final turn into the straight stretch that led past his house. Ashley’s place was still dark and a minute later he could tell that the convertible was gone. There was only his small sedan in the driveway as he cut across the lawn to the front door.

As he turned the knob he hesitated, to glance back at his car to make sure Nancy was not in it and then he went inside and through the little entryway. At first glance he thought the room was empty and started to call out; then, his gaze lowered, he saw the crumpled figure on the floor in front of the divan.

The next long seconds had no place in Rick Sheridan’s memory then or later. What he did was automatic and without conscious thought because the conflict in his mind was too great.

In that first instant, as the shock hit him, he froze in his tracks, his body immobile and cold all over. He did not remember that he had left Frieda on the floor screaming at him; all he knew was that his car was outside, that the convertible was gone, that the woman on the floor had a white suit and blond hair.

There was no doubt in his mind. The first impression told him with a horrible certainty that Nancy must have come in while Frieda was still here and that Frieda, already gripped in a fit of fury and frustration, had killed her.

He wanted to cry out and his throat stayed closed. He put out a hand to steady himself. He pushed with that hand, forcing himself to move and, weak-kneed, he kept moving.

“Nancy!” he cried, his voice a ragged whisper. “Nancy.”

Then, somehow, he was on his knees, the wonderment growing in him that the white suit he had seen from the doorway was in reality not a suit but a dress. The hair was blond but not as long as Nancy’s. The face, in profile, was too thin.

Only then did he realize his mistake and know beyond all doubt that this was Frieda, and now, as some odd relief mixed with his horror, he saw the bruise on the throat, the scarf that had been cruelly twisted to leave a thin blue line in the skin.

The eyelids were closed and still. The distorted face had a bluish tinge beneath the tan, and the painted mouth was open. The straw handbag was open beside one outstretched hand, its contents spilled. It was when his glance moved on that the shadow of some movement caught the corner of his eye, and now, swiveling on one knee, he saw Nancy standing in the doorway to the inner hall, her eyes wide, her palms pressed hard against the sides of her taut white face.