BELVA PLAIN

TREASURES

In her compelling new novel, Treasures.  Belva Plain takes us once
again into the intimate lives of an unforgettable family and into the
very heart of the conflicts that beset our troubled times.

Where did it all go wrong?  The Osbornes began at the bottom and
achieved stellar heights.  They were determined to make their mark,
their mother might have kept the family going on simple spit and
spirit, but Connie and Eddy - bright, ambitious, eager-couldn't wait to
shed their shabby beginnings and seize everything life could offer.

Connie - a vibrant, innocent beauty - set out for Texas in the booming
70s.  Her marriage to the scion of a comfortable Houston family seemed
a triumph, but it ended in shattering disillusion.  The wealth and
power of her second husband swept her into the most dazzling circles of
New York society.

On Wall Street, Edd's uncanny knack for clever, lucrative deals sent
his personal stock soaring.  His boyish good looks and
enthusiasm won entry and acceptance everywhere.  He would become a
connoisseur and impassioned collector of all things elegant and
expensive.  And when he finally decided to marry a beautiful blue
blood, his lack of social credentials would be no obstacle.

Only Lara, who had helped raise them, remained in the little Ohio town
where they'd all been born.  Married to her high-school sweetheart, a
gifted inventor, her longing for children went unfulfilled until the
adoption of six-year-old Sue was followed by the birth of little Peggy,
and it seemed that she, too, had achieved her dream.

Where had it all gone wrong?  Suddenly everything Connie possessed
stood between her and the deep, passionate love she craved.  Fate and
her deep commitment to family had contrived to put everything Lara
cherished at peril.  Addicted to risk at the highest level, Eddy had
committed reckless acts with chilling consequences that now threatened
to destroy them all.  They had gone from exuberant innocence to the
brink of despair in a decade driven by the forces of unbridled
ambition.  Now, as they approach the '90s, they must choose to stand
alone and watch their dreams die or work together to salvage what they
alone can treasure.

Belva Plain is the critically acclaimed author of the best-selling
novels Evergreen, Random Winds, Eden Burning, Crescent City, The Golden
Cup, Tapestry, Blessings, and Harvest

Cover Design O Designed To Print, NYC

Illustration © |erry Podwil Author's Photo © Deborah Feingold

Printed in U.S.A. Books by Belva PLAIN

TREASURES

HARVEST

BLESSINGS

TAPESTRY

THE GOLDEN CUP

CRESCENT CITY

EDEN BURNING

RANDOM WINDS

EVERGREEN

BELVA PLAIN

TREASURES

Published by

Delacorte Press

Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group, Inc.

666 Fifth Avenue New York, New York 10103

Copyright © 1992 by Bar-Nan Creations, Inc.

All rights reserved.  No part of this book may be reproduced or
transmitted in

any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including
photocopying,

recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without
the

written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.

The trademark Delacorte Press® is registered in the U.S. Patent and
Trademark Office.

Manufactured in the United States of America

The two United States marshals, who had come to make an arrest, parked
their inconspicuous black car, got out, and looked up at the ornamental
neomodern roof of the sixty-five-storied tower.  Somber rain clouds
drooped over the city, releasing their first drops just as the pair in
their plain dark suits reached the bronze doors that fronted the
avenue.  The younger man, who seemed almost imperceptibly to hesitate,
followed the other across the marble floor to the long rank of
elevators.  This was no ordinary assignment today, nor was this a part
of New York into which he usually was sent, and he was feeling a
certain tension.  It bothered him that he did.  It was unprofessional.
"It seems funny in a way to handcuff the guy," he said.  "Guy'll be
wearing a Brooks Brothers suit probably.  You know what I mean?  He's
not an armed thug." "But you can't ever tell what a person will do.  He
could go off his nut and start punching.  Or he could even head for the
window.  Press the forty-first floor, will you?" The elevator slid
upward silently as if on silken cords, while a red light efficiently
marked each number as it passed. "Smells of money, doesn't it, Jim?" 
remarked the younger. "Sure does.  And lots of it." "Wonder what the
guy really did.  Really, I mean." "God knows.  You've got to be a
high-priced lawyer to figure it out.  I wouldn't bother to try." "Seems
kind of sad, doesn't it?  Being hauled off from a place like this."
"It's always sad no matter where it is.  You never feel good about it,"
Jim said seriously.  "But it's a job, Harry.  You get used to it." The
door opened and they stepped out in front of a long glass wall with
many glass doors. "Which way, Jim?  Which is his?"

VI



"He owns the whole floor.  Two floors, actually.  I'll get you there,
don't worry."  Jim grinned.

Receptionists are always pretty, reflected Harry, allowing his senior
to do the talking to her while he himself examined the surroundings. 
He didn't know anything about rich living, he knew he didn't, and yet,
when the brief opening and shutting of a door gave him a view of quiet
gray carpeting and a corridor lined with paintings, he knew that he was
seeing the real thing.  Gold was gaudy and quietness was expensive. 
Maybe he had read that somewhere.

He thought: In one of these rooms, perhaps a room at the end of that
very corridor, a man is going to have a terrible shock.  In another
minute or two.  A terrible shock.

The receptionist must have telephoned because now a woman came rushing
in.  A fussy-looking matron with fuzzy gray hair, she was terrified.

"What?  What?  United States marshals?"  she cried, confronting Jim.

He showed his badge, and Harry did the same.

The woman's eyes, enlarged by her glasses, sprang tears.

"It's got to be a mistake!  I can't let you see him before he talks to
a lawyer.  This isn't right!  No, you're not going in."

"Ma'am," said Jim, "here's the warrant.  Read it.  We can force our way
in.  You don't want us to do that, do you?"

They were moving through the door toward the gray carpet, following the
frantic woman.  They entered a room, spacious, with many windows, more
paintings, and a great desk at which a man was seated.  Upon seeing
them, he stood.

The woman was almost babbling.  "I couldn't stop them.  I don't know
what all this is, I-"

The man was young.  He's about my age, thought Harry, and all this
place is his.  And somehow the pity he had been feeling for this
stranger now turned to anger.  To be my age and own all this!  I hope
he gets what's coming to him, whatever he did.

The man was standing on dignity, but he was scared to death, his face
had gone blue-white.  He stammered.

"There's a mistake here.  A terrible mistake.  My lawyer's working on
the matter right now."

"That's all right," Jim said.  "You'll be able to call your lawyer. 
But you'll have to come along."  He took out the cuffs.  "I'm sorry,
but you'll need to wear these."

"You don't understand," the man said.  "I'm not the sort of person-"

"Please.  Make it easy for yourself," Jim told him patiently.

The woman was openly weeping.  "He's a good man.  Be gentle with
him."





And Harry's pity flowed back.  "Don't worry," he heard himself say. In
less than five minutes they were out of the building with their
prisoner, whose handcuffs were hidden by the raincoat that the woman
had dropped over them.  Silently, stunned and proud, the prisoner
climbed into the car and was driven away through the dreary rain. On
the forty-first floor in the room from which he had been taken, there
had been a fire under a carved mantel, and a spray of yellow flowers on
the desk. The event made the front pages of all the papers as well as
the television news.  Telephones rang in the offices of the city's
prestigious corporations. "Have you heard how it happened?  Well, I
heard-" At dinner parties all up and down Fifth Avenue, Park Avenue,
out to the North Shore, and in Connecticut, it was the topic of the
moment. "Everybody loved him," people said, commiserating and
astonished.  "So bright, so charming, so kind.  And no one in the world
was ever more generous, we all know that.  I can't believe it!  What
can have happened?  How can you explain it?"



PART ONE

1973-1981

CHAPTER ONE

The downstairs neighbors had provided hot soup, cold meats, salad, and
a home-baked pie, food enough for a dozen hungry eaters, Eddy Osborne
remarked to himself.  But there were only his sisters Connie and Lara
and Lara's husband, Davey, at the kitchen table, none of them able to
swallow more than a few mouthfuls of the good things.  If anyone had
told me I'd swallow even that much on the day of my mother's funeral I
wouldn't have believed it, he thought.

He stood up, poured a cup of coffee from the pot on the stove, and went
to stare out of the rain-beaded window at the bleak March afternoon.  A
shudder chilled his shoulders.  Here was the ultimate desolation, the
gray gloom and the grief.

Poor Peg, poor Mom!  Sometimes the wig had tilted to the side, mocking
her gaunt face with a rakish, jaunty look; she had been so vain, too,
about the thick, tawny hair that all three of her children had
inherited.  . . . And Eddy's heart broke.  Making a little sound like a
sob, he covered it with a cough and turned his face.

Lara said softly, "One thing, anyway, should be a comfort.  She was
never alone.  One of us was always with her.  And she did appreciate
that private room, Eddy.  Remember how she kept asking whether you
really could afford it?"

"She'd have had that if it had taken my last penny or if I'd had to
steal, so help me!"

"Oh," Lara cried, "she must have known there was no hope for her, yet
she never said a word.  How brave she was!"

"No," Connie said.  "The real reason is that she was afraid to admit
how lousy life can be."

The grim, harsh comment shocked.  But there was no sense in challenging
it.  Connie would defend herself by saying that she was merely looking
truth in the face.  She had few illusions, young Connie.  The elder
sister felt that was a pity, but answered only, "Let's go inside.  No,
leave the dishes,

4

Connie.  I'll clear them later.  I'll be needing something to do
tonight after you go home."

The living room had once been an upstairs sitting room when the house
had been built for a banker's family a century ago, before everybody
who could afford to move had left town for the new wooded suburbs in
the hills.  The small space was dominated by the television, whose
great blank eye was staring as they all sat down.  It would have been
unseemly to activate it on this night, and no one did.

Connie pulled down the shades, complaining, "Damn rotten weather!"  as
if, on this day at least, the rain need not have been so furious or the
wind so wild in the trees.

"Your mother would say," Davey responded in his mild way, "that rain
like this nourishes the earth."

No one answered.  Yes, Eddy knew, that would be typical of her.  When,
in high school, he had broken his arm she had told him to be thankful
he hadn't broken it before the soccer season.  But I'm not like her, he
thought, nor is Connie.

Too restless to be still, he went back to a window again and raised the
shade that Connie had lowered.  The houses across the street were
mirror images of this one where Lara lived, a tall, shingled Victorian
with a second door cut into its front to accommodate an upstairs flat. 
Before each house lay a narrow, woebegone yard bordered with neglected,
weedy shrubs and dotted with piles of soiled, melting snow.  Above the
rooftops, in a brown sky, thin clouds raced toward evening.

"God, what a miserable way to live," he thought.  "So many years gone
by already in this confining town!"

He turned around into the room.  Davey was reading the newspapers.  The
two women had laid their heads back and closed their eyes.  The silence
ticked in Eddy's head.

Then the street door slammed, vibrating through the walls.  In the flat
below, where five children were crammed, a fight exploded.  Somebody
was trying to start a balky engine in the driveway next door; it
wheezed, it whirred, it coughed.

An impetuous fury rose in Eddy.  No rest, no privacy, no beauty, no
money!

His sisters had not moved.  They were exhausted.  And he felt
compassion for them, for their tenderness in a tough, hard world.  He
believed that he understood them; he knew how desperately Lara longed
for a child and would probably never have one; he knew how Connie, like
himself, longed for betterment, for color, for life, he knew that her
feet, like his, wanted to run.  . . .

Now as they rested, unaware of his scrutiny, he observed his sisters.

5 Connie had a nineteen-twenties look, one which was becoming
fashionable again; her lips were a bold cupid's bow, her nose short and
straight, her eyebrows two narrow, graceful curves above alert gray
eyes.  She was unusually vivacious and knew how to make the best of
herself.  People looked at her.  Yet it was always said that Lara was
the beauty, having what were called "good bones"; her face was a pure
oval, and she had contemplative sea-blue eyes, the same color as Eddy's
own. His, however, were not contemplative, any more than Connie's were.
Their eyes were quick; everything about us two, for better or for
worse, is quick, he thought suddenly.  And thinking so, it seemed to
him that now was as good a time as any to say what had to be said, not
that any time was really a good one for the dropping of a bombshell. He
said evenly, "I've something to tell you.  I hope you won't be shocked
too much, but I'm going to be leaving you.  Leaving town.  I'm moving
to New York." "You're what?"  cried Connie, sitting up straight.
"There's a guy I've known since college.  He's an accountant like me,
only the difference is that he happens to have an uncle who's lent him
enough to get started in brokerage.  He wants a partner.  He wants me,
and he's willing to stake me, to take me in with him." A gleam of
interest shot through Connie's eyes.  "Wall Street?"  she asked. "Yes,
ma'am, you bet.  Wall Street." "Leaving us!"  Lara cried.  "Oh, Eddy!"
"Minutes away by plane, honey.  I'm not leaving you.  Not ever."  And
he repeated, "A matter of minutes.  All right, a couple of hours.  Not
Afghanistan or the end of the world."  His smile coaxed. Lara was
dismayed.  "But you've been building up so nicely!  I can't understand
why you'd want to leave it all behind like that." "Building?  Yes.  But
it's too gradual, too slow, compared with this opportunity.  It's small
potatoes." She thought, We're splitting apart already.  Peg's six hours
in her grave.  Then it's true what they say: When the mother dies, the
family breaks up.  Couldn't he think of that, Eddy, Peg's golden boy
with the bright hair, the sea-blue eyes, and the nonchalant stance? 
She felt suddenly hopeless. Davey asked quietly, "How long have you
known this?" "About three months.  I probably should have told you
sooner, but I thought, well, we were all going through enough without
having any more on our minds, so I waited."  Eddy reached into his
pocket.  "Look.  I had cards printed." " 'Vernon Edward Osborne, Jr.,'
" Lara read, and in a voice that rang with sad reproach observed,
"You've always hated the name Vernon." 6

"I know.  But just for the card, it's distinguished.  A little
different."

Davey had another question.  "Don't you have to put up any money at
all, Eddy?"

"Sure, but not much.  I've saved twelve thousand dollars out of my
earnings, and I was incredibly lucky at cards one night a while back. 
Made another fifteen, believe it or not.  So I've got enough to put
down for my share of the partnership, and I'll pay off the balance out
of what I make in the market."

Davey said slowly, "If you make it in the market, you mean."

"I'll make it.  I have a feel for the market.  I've kept a phantom
investment account in my head.  If I'd had the money to do it, actually
I'd have made a killing."  When Davey made no comment, Eddy said, "The
market's on the rise, a long rise.  Anybody can see that.  Besides, you
don't get anyplace in life without taking a few chances.  You have to
be willing to risk.  That's what this country was built on.  All the
great inventors, all the industrialists, took risks."

Davey glanced at Lara, and she saw that he was reading her mind,
feeling her sadness, as he always could and did.

Then he said quietly, "To each his own.  I guess New York will agree
with you, Eddy.  It's no place for us.  Lara and I have our places
here.  The shop's doing a whole lot better than it did when my dad had
it, and I've got some inventions, some ideas I'm working on—" He
stopped, took Lara's hand, and pressed it.

She could read her brother's mind.  How good is "a lot better"?  Eddy
must be thinking as he glanced around the room.  It was a pretty room,
furnished with secondhand pieces that she had slip-covered herself in a
scheme of pink, red, and cream, copied out of a glossy magazine.  But
the carpet, which had come with the flat, was threadbare.  . . .

Eddy used to come home starry-eyed over some house he had seen or some
car he had ridden in.  Like Pop before him he aspired; like Pop, too,
he'd been quick to imitate the ways of the upper class, its dress, its
speech, everything about it.  But unlike Pop he was smart.  He might do
very well.  Yes, it was possible.  Oh, this was a blow all the same! 
To lose Eddy, for no matter what reason!  To lose his native, almost
invaluable good humor, the very sparkle that he brought into the room
when he walked in!  All this family, this family that was far too small
in the first place, would miss him so.  The empty space that he would
leave would gape at them.

Now Connie, in her practical way, asked how soon he planned to go.

"I thought in about two weeks.  First I want to help you get out of
that apartment, find something nicer for you.  In the first place it's
too large for you alone, without Mom, and too glum besides.  Do you
feel up to going out with me tomorrow to look?"

7 "Well," she answered.  "Well."  Her eyes moved about the room, as if
searching, then to Davey and Lara, and finally, looking down at the
tear in the carpet, she said, "It looks as if we've both picked the
same time to surprise each other.  But maybe it's better to get it over
with all at once." Alarmed again, Lara cried, "What are you talking
about?" "Well, you see—you see—oh, you know, Lara, how I've been
wanting to just—just go somewhere!  I've never really been anywhere."
"Will you get to the point, Connie, please?" Now Davey took over.  "You
don't need to apologize, Connie.  Just tell us what's on your mind."
"Texas.  I've been hearing so much about it.  It's booming.  You can
always get a job."  Emboldened, she continued, "There's something
exciting just in the sound of it.  Texas.  Houston.  I want to see it."
Lara's mouth went dry, and the palms of her hands were wet.  "You don't
know a soul there, Connie.  To go alone, leaving the only family you've
got —it doesn't make any sense.  None at all." "But I think it does. 
And that's what matters, isn't it?" "You're only twenty, Connie!" "Yes.
Twenty.  Not sixteen, not twelve, or eight." Lara tried another tack. 
"What kind of a job do you think you'll get without a single contact? 
How will you even know where to begin to find a place to live?"
"Darling, don't be a mother hen.  I'll buy a newspaper and read the
ads, what do you think?" Lara's thoughts were sad and bitter.  Yes, I
was a mother hen.  I had to be, hadn't I?  All the years while Mom was
too sick from chemotherapy to take real charge of things, and I with a
teenage sister eight years younger than I and a lively brother five
years younger than I. "It's not so easy to find a job, Connie.  You
have no training.  At least you do have a job here that you can depend
on." "What, selling slacks and skirts in a tenth-rate department store,
when there's so much in the world to do and see?" "You might take some
courses and learn to do something better." "I haven't the will just
now, or the patience."  Connie stood up and laid her hand on Lara's
shoulder.  "Don't look so hurt," she said.  "I'm not staying away
forever.  Can't you make believe we're very rich, and I'm taking a year
off to travel around the world?" "She's right," Eddy said.  "A young
woman wants a change, a touch of adventure in her life.  It's natural. 
Okay, you didn't want it, Lara.  But if you hadn't fallen in love with
Davey, probably you would have felt the same way." 8

BELVA PLA1M

Lara, knowing she was expected to smile, did so, faintly.  "We'll talk
some more," she replied.

Davey agreed.  "Good idea.  Today was a hard one, but tomorrow's
another day, so let's try to lighten up a little.  As Eddy says,
nobody's going to the ends of the world."

Lara got the message.  "Stay here for the night, Connie.  It's no good
going back alone to the apartment."  It was a bleak place at best,
sunless all day and noisy half the night because of the bar and grill
beneath it.  Now Mom's clothes were still hanging in the closet.  "I'll
go get some blankets from the spare room."

The spare room, she thought as she straightened the bed, was meant to
be the nursery.  It was to have had lemon-yellow walls, a frieze of
Mother Goose figures, or maybe Winnie-the-Pooh, going all around.  The
furniture would be white, and for a girl the crib would have a canopy
of dotted Swiss, or perhaps organdy.  . . .

She hated the room.  She kept the door closed, dusted it every week or
two, then shut the door again.  Seven years married, and nothing. 
Doctors, thermometers, hormones, sperm analyses, watching for the
fertile period in the month—and nothing.

"Why don't you fix this room?  You could have a nice little den,"
Connie remarked as she came in.

Connie doesn't know how that hurts, Lara thought, not answering.

On the dresser stood the room's sole ornament, a photograph of their
parents, taken on their wedding day.  The two sisters stood looking at
it now.  Their parents had been handsome people, Vernon dark with a
sporty boutonniere and flashing teeth, Peg's sweet face tiny in its
frame of lavish hair.

Connie sighed.  "How happy they were that day!  And how it all turned
out!  A good thing Mom couldn't have seen ahead."

"She loved Pop no matter what.  Remember how he used to call her Teg o'
My Heart'?"

"I don't see how she could have kept on loving him.  I guess it was
noble of her, but I'm not made that way.  Life's too short."

"He was a good man except for the booze, and that wasn't his fault.  It
ran in his family.  Thank God none of us has inherited it."

Pop had been a salesman, traveling back and forth through the Midwest,
selling—depending upon the company for which he happened to be working
at the time—anything from shoes to toaster ovens to used tires.  As
often as he lost his jobs, so often did the family move from one flat
to another, always in the oldest part of a town, above a hardware
store, or a Laundromat, and under a crumbling pediment bearing some
inscription like FERRY BUILDING, 1894, or BUMSTEAD BUILDING, 1911.  The
longest period

9 that they had ever stayed in one place was when his liver and then
his heart had finally failed; then Peg had opened her little beauty
parlor and eked out a living for her children. And yet .  . . "He was a
good man," she repeated. Connie's look was a mingling of pity and
disbelief.  "I guess you've forgotten the nights when he came
staggering home." "No, but I remember the nights when he read poetry
aloud to us." Then Peg, who knew nothing about books, had nevertheless
smiled in pleasure because her children were being taught to love them.
Lara sighed.  The ache lay heavy within her.  Through all this
dreadful day the memories had been aching.  . . . Once, before Lara was
born, so Peg had told them, she had glanced at one of Pop's library
books and seen the name Lara.  "It was a Russian story he was reading,
Doctor Zhivago, I think he said.  Anyway, the name looked pretty, and
so when you came along, I gave it to you." And Connie?  Well, Connie
was Consuelo after the Vanderbilt heiress who married the Duke of
Marlborough. "She was forced to marry him.  Isn't that awful?"  Peg had
been horrified.  "I read it in a magazine.  Went to her wedding with
eyes red from crying.  Isn't that awful?" Those, then, were the
parents, Vernon and Peg, a pair of tangled lives, knotted and twisted
like a length of twine rolled carelessly. Connie had begun to strip off
her clothes.  In bra and panty hose she stood before the mirror and
stretched. "I'm so tired, I hardly have enough strength to take a
shower." "Wait till the morning, then.  You're clean enough and you
need your rest." Connie smiled.  "You always used to say that.  Oh,
Lara darling, don't look so miserable!  Don't worry about me.  I'll do
fine, I promise." "I can't help worrying, can I?  Besides, I'll miss
you.  I've never been without you." "Don't you think I'll miss you
too?" "Are you really sure you're doing the right thing?  It seems so
drastic, so unnecessary." "Lara, I need a chance to meet people." 
Connie spoke with unusual gravity.  "In this town—you know what's here,
Lara.  I don't want a life like—" Like mine, Lara said to herself.  I
know that.  Walking home beneath the trees on a summer night, Davey
asked me, "Are you willing to share almost nothing with me?  I'll do my
best for you, Lara.  Only, my best isn't all that good."  Was I
willing?  To go to the ends of the earth with you, Davey, to live in a
tent or under the open sky.  It was true then, and it is true still.
10

"You have such a lovely expression right now," Connie said.  "What are
you thinking?"

Lara shook her head.  "I don't know.  Just—everything."

"I love you, Lara."

"Of course you do.  We all love each other.  Go to sleep, dear.  I'll
go out and say good-night to Eddy."

He was already in his overcoat.  "I waited to see whether you were
feeling any better.  Davey's gone down to his workbench."

"I feel all right.  I guess I have to.  But why, tell me why you had to
encourage her?"

"She has a right to live her own life, Lara.  Besides, she'll do what
she wants with or without encouragement."

"She's rebellious.  Yes, she's strong and clever, but she thinks she
can make anything turn out exactly as she wants it to.  She hasn't yet
learned that that's not possible."

"Lara, you're a rock.  Do you think we—Connie and I both—don't remember
how you watched over us?  I can still see you walking Connie to school
and calling for her, I remember how you used to drive me to the
barbershop and the dentist's.  But, honey, a time comes when one can't
cling to the rock anymore, and Connie's time has come."

"Whom have we got?"  Lara blurted.  "Two second cousins too old and
poor even to make the trip for the funeral, and that's all.  We have no
roots and I'm trying to establish some, that's all."

"Money will help," Eddy said darkly.  "And I'm trying to make some."

"We're not speaking the same language tonight, Eddy."

"Maybe not.  We're both too tired to think."  He kissed her.  "I'll be
going.  Get some rest."

Through the window that overlooked the yard, she saw a light burning in
Davey's shed behind the garage.  The rain had slackened to a drizzle,
and throwing an old coat over her shoulders, she ran out back.

Davey's workroom was a cramped jumble of shelves before which stood a
battered table covered with a variety of implements, both delicate and
solid, that had no meaning at all for Lara: tubes, filaments, calipers,
chisels, fuses, and rolled copper wire, along with notebooks, pencil
stubs, and oil-stained rags.  Bent over all these now was Davey's dark,
round head; he was apparently intent on writing in a notebook.  At some
time or other, when his current idea clarified itself, he would tell
her what it was.

She was so proud of him!  Even if nothing were ever to come of any of
his inventions, she would always be proud of him.  He was the first
friend she had made on her first day in a strange high school in a new
town.  Walking home after school, she had been followed by a group of
frightening toughs, but when Davey had appeared and walked next to her,
they had dispersed.

11

Later she found out why.  The tall boy with the odd name, Davey Davis—
Davey was his mother's maiden name—just happened to be the basketball
star of the school. She went inside and put her arms around him.  He
stroked her hair. "I know.  It's been a cruel day.  Cruel months," he
murmured. "I've been thinking over and over how true it is that as soon
as the mother's gone, the family scatters." "No, no.  We're too close
for that.  Anyway, plans change all the time.  Nothing's written in
stone." "They'll never come back again." "Lara!  This doesn't sound
like you.  You're always the family optimist." "I know.  But sometimes
I get to thinking that one can be a fool of an optimist too."  She
sighed.  "You know what I mean, Davey.  You know." "The baby," he said
gently. "The baby we wait for every month and who never comes."  Her
voice broke.  "And never will." "Never is a long time, darling."
"Words, Davey.  Just words." He put his cheek on hers, holding her
close.  After a moment he said, "We could adopt." "So you've stopped
hoping too?" "I didn't mean— Oh, Lara, it's so hard to know what to say
to you.  How to cope with these monthly disappointments, the doctors,
the tests?  I just don't know anymore.  But we could adopt," he
repeated. "That's not easy either.  One doesn't just walk in and select
a baby.  One waits for years, and even then—" "Perhaps not a baby, but
an older child who needs a home?  Sad to say, there are plenty of
those." "I want a baby I I want to be the mother from the very start."
"Darling," Davey said, holding her tighter.  "Then we should wait a
little more.  Won't you try some of your optimism again?" She felt that
she was weighing him down with her obsession while he was striving to
lift her up.  It wasn't fair of her. "Okay, okay, no more.  Let's go
upstairs," she said. In the familiar bed, under the quilts, they lay
warmly and quietly. "You're still the most beautiful woman I've ever
seen," Davey murmured.  "In a gingham apron or, better, in nothing at
all." And so, after a little time desire moved them.  It fled across
Lara's mind as they turned into each other's arms that this was the
deepest joy and comfort of all, this total, trustful merging.  This was
the reality of life.  All else faded away. In the aftermath Davey fell
immediately into sweet sleep.  But for a long 12

while she could only drowse, to dream and to be startled awake.  In the
confusion of one dream she had been sitting at the table that she
always liked to picture in her head.  It was a lavish table set with
flowers, candles, and pink linen.  Peg was well, with all her lovely
hair.  Pop in his best mood was reading aloud; she herself was a child,
the privileged eldest, with the little brother and the baby sister next
to her.  But at the same time she was a young mother in a long rose
skirt, sitting there with Davey and their children between them.  "We
couldn't have any, so we adopted them," Davey was explaining, when she
opened her eyes.

But Davey hadn't stirred.  She curved herself now into his back,
feeling unity, feeling the safety of his presence in the silent room. 
A piece of sky, visible over the bulk of his shoulder, covered half the
window.  It seemed to be in motion, racing like the ocean she had never
seen, a dark green ocean shot through with gleams of light.

CHAPTER Two

Houston was hot.  Like a metal dome the bronze sky burned above the
city.  Dusty leaves hung through the long afternoon.  Coming into the
hotel from the street was like walking into a freezer room; the
sweating body received a shuddering shock. Connie's hotel was a huge
commercial establishment in the downtown business district, neither
expensive nor cheap, but suited to the funds that Eddy had advanced,
adequate for a month or considerably longer if she were careful. She
had moved a chair over to the window.  The outlook here, some fifty
feet to a bank of similar windows on the opposite side of the meager
courtyard, was depressing, but even such dim daylight was less
depressing than was the sullen yellow lamplight next to the dingy brown
bed.  On the floor at her feet a pile of newspapers lay open at the
want-ad section. Column after column of Help Wanted confirmed her
judgment: Texas was truly booming.  With a feeling of challenge and
elation she ran her eyes to the top of a page and down, when suddenly
they paused, and she read, Young vendeuse for exclusive shop,
experienced European fashions for demanding clientele, well spoken,
attractive appearance.  Salary and commissions. Vendeuse.  From her
slight experience with high-school French, Connie summoned up a verb:
vendre, to sell.  So what this verbiage boiled down to was being a
saleswoman in a fancy dress shop.  Experienced.  Three years' worth,
although not doing exactly what they were looking for.  Young.  Well
spoken.  Attractive.  She stood up and went to the full-length mirror
on the bathroom door. The mirror showed her nothing that was not
entirely familiar.  Nevertheless, the sight was reassuring.  Her heavy
hair hung at a becoming length almost to her shoulders.  The beige
linen suit with coral shirt, Lara's going- 14

BELVA PLAID

away gift, was smartly slender; the gold earrings, Eddy's extravagant
birthday present, were eighteen carat; her long, slender feet were shod
in Italian shoes, which were her own extravagance, for she was vain
about her feet and her long, slender hands.  One by one, for perhaps
the thousandth time since she had reached adulthood, Connie examined
each feature of her face: lips just a trifle too thin, nose a trifle
too short, cheekbones a trifle too wide; the whole no match for Lara's
classic near-perfection.  She knew that well and was not at all
bothered by it, for she had the greater power to attract, and knew that
well too.

The important thing was to know how to use this power to a practical
end.  So, before going to be interviewed, Miss Osborne, go buy a stack
of magazines and make yourself familiar with European fashion.  Then do
your hair tomorrow morning, hail an air-conditioned taxi, and arrive
coolly-unruffled and speak up.  There can't be much difference between
selling polyester pantsuits and Chanel, can there?  Selling is selling,
and people are people, after all.

The shop, situated in a grand mall, was spacious and serene, carpeted
in silver-gray and ornamented with sprays of gladioli.  Here and there
a circular rack held a dozen garments on display, but obviously, most
of the stock was out of sight behind a mirrored wall.

Slowly and keenly, for half an hour, Connie was examined.

"You say you've had experience with merchandise like this?"

"Yes.  In Cleveland."

"Have you a recommendation from them?"

"Unfortunately, no.  The owner died of a heart attack, and everything
fell apart the next day.  As you can imagine," Connie added with a
small sigh.  She touched a lavender suit that hung where she was
standing.  "What they've been doing with Chanel is delightful, isn't
it?  Adding new touches without changing the traditional charm one
bit."

"Ah, yes.  Yes, of course.  . . ."  And finally, "Well, I suppose
you're available to start soon?"

"That would be wonderful."

"Then we can go over the formalities in the office.  Social Security
and the rest."

So it was settled, an auspicious start on the third day in this vast,
energetic city.  It would be pleasant to work surrounded by beautiful,
rich things.  Granted, it would be still more pleasant to have the
beautiful, rich things for oneself, Connie reflected, to own these
silks and velvets before the wrinkles appeared on one's neck and the
flab on one's upper arms.  But one day at a time.

Next she must find a place to live.

15

Studio apartment, walking distance downtown.

Downtown meant very likely a dreary view like the one in this hotel,
and streets abandoned after five o'clock. Two young women will share
apartment with third, share all expenses. That meant, most probably, a
sofa bed in the front hall and a parade of arriving or departing
boyfriends all through the night. Retired business couple have large
room with kitchen privileges in suburban condominium for respectable
single woman.  Garden view. That, now, sounded more like it, especially
the "garden view."  To live in the suburbs, however, she would need a
car.  But then, she would need one no matter where she lived in Houston
unless she were to camp out in the mall.  You have to spend money to
make money, Eddy said.  And Connie's mind began rapidly to click like
an efficient small machine: Take some of Eddy's money for a down
payment on a used car; then put aside a fixed sum out of her weekly
salary to pay off the balance.  Like Lara, but unlike Eddy, Connie
feared debt.  So, back to the newspaper for the used-car advertisements
and then to see the room with the garden view. Late in the afternoon
she stopped her little red car in front of a neat brick building shaded
by five oaks that had three stories height against the building's two. 
For a moment before climbing the steps to the front door, she looked
back at the car.  It had been a good buy, only two years old.  Davey
had once said, she remembered, that he always tried to get a
demonstration car, and so she had shopped about and found one.  This
further success now gave her confidence. A heavy woman with short,
blue-gray curls answered her ring. "Mrs.  Raymond?"  asked Connie.
"Yes.  Are you the person who telephoned this morning?" "Yes.  Consuelo
Osborne.  I'd like to see the room." "You sounded older on the
telephone." "Did I?"  She needn't be so independent, Connie was
thinking as she smiled, because I might not even like the room. "Is
that your car?"  Mrs.  Raymond inquired. And Connie replied, still
smiling, "All mine." "Well, come in.  I'll show you the room." At the
rear of the house, which gave it a feeling of privacy, was an ample
bedroom furnished with a Grand Rapids bed and dresser, a comfortable
16

chair, and ugly maroon cretonne curtains.  It was unmistakably clean. 
Connie's fastidious nose detected the very freshness of the air.

"It's lovely," she said.                                               
                        •,

"You're not a Texan."

"I'm from Ohio."

"What made you leave?"

"I can't stand the cold winters."

"Not sick, are you?"

"No, no," Connie corrected herself.  You had to think fast in this
world, or you'd be tripped up.  "I'm perfectly healthy."

"Because I wouldn't want the responsibility of somebody getting sick in
the house."

"Of course not.  I understand."

"Because I would feel the responsibility, you know.  We're churchgoing
people."

"Oh, yes."  An answer was expected.  "I am too," Connie said piously. 
This was not exactly true, not exactly untrue either.

"To tell you the truth, we were looking for a more settled woman,
someone older.  But I can see you're a lady, and we do have to give
youth a chance, don't we?"

Connie smiled.

"Osborne?  English stock."

Connie nodded.  "With a touch of Dutch on my mother's side."

Mrs.  Raymond seemed satisfied.  "Would you like a cold drink?  I keep
iced tea ready all the time in this weather."

The two sat down at the table in the immaculate kitchen.  And Connie
saw that the woman, now that her suspicions had been dispelled, was
lonesome.  It was sad to be fat, aging, and lonesome.

"So you said there was Dutch on your mother's side?"

"Yes, Mom always said we were cousins"—Connie laughed—"very distant
cousins, of the Vanderbilts.  That's how I got the name Consuelo."  The
story unfolded, rolling easily from her lips.  Who knew, there might
even be something to it.  "I suppose if we had lived in New York, there
would have been some contact, but Ohio's not next door.  Dad was in the
furniture business.  He died just when I was about to leave for the
University of Michigan, so I couldn't leave my mother alone.  Not that
there wasn't plenty of money, it was a question of caring for her."

"Poor dear, losing your mother so young."  Mrs.  Raymond was
fascinated.

The afternoon wore on.  At the end of it Consuelo got up, drove back to
the hotel for her luggage, and by nightfall was comfortably established
in the room with the garden view.

17

Houston was rich.  In spite of all she had ever read, Connie had not
been able to imagine how so much money could be so lavishly, so
gorgeously, spent.  Women bought without even asking the price: ski
clothes for Vail or Gstaad, beach garb for the Caribbean or Hawaii,
suede coats, cashmeres, British tweeds, Italian suits, French silks and
ballgowns.  The very feel of the fabrics, their softness, fluffy or
crisp under the hand, was a pleasure to Connie and was communicated to
her customers, bringing more sales and more commissions. The owner was
delighted with her.  "You deserve a little something for your good
work," she said one day.  "Look in the back and pick out a couple of
dresses for yourself.  I'll let you have them at cost.  We don't sell
that many size fours, anyway," she added, "so I can spare them. 
Besides, you're good publicity.  Just be sure to mention us when you're
out on the town." Connie, however, wasn't going out on the town at all.
After four months in the city she still knew almost no one.  To begin
with, her working hours were long, leaving little time for anything but
work.  The other saleswomen were either middle aged or married or both.
And the two who were neither had taken a dislike to the newcomer whose
sales were bigger than their own. How did you get to know people? 
Especially, how could you get to know the kind of people who came into
the shop and talked about the Hermitage in Leningrad and hearing
Placido Domingo at the Metropolitan in New York?  Those were the people
she wanted to know.  The truth was, Connie was feeling more deprived
here in Houston than she had felt back home. Pride wouldn't let her
admit it, however.  Whenever she called Eddy, reversing the charges at
his insistence, he was so full of his own enthusiasm that she was
almost forced to respond in kind.  When she talked to Lara, which she
often did, especially on Sunday's creeping afternoons, she dared not
even hint at anything less than perfect satisfaction, for Lara would
only urge her, and ultimately even nag her, to come home. One Sunday
she got into the car and drove, idling along with no purpose except to
pass the time.  In the Memorial section the big, substantial houses
spread their wings under the shade.  On quiet streets nursemaids pushed
perambulators while little boys and girls on their tricycles peddled
alongside.  Blue pools glistened, and people sat together under gay
umbrellas. In River Oaks the houses were even larger and farther apart,
Jaguars and Mercedes stood before impressive entrances, and unmarred
lawns were green as a billiard table.  A group of young people—about
Connie's own age —wearing tennis whites crossed the road and ran behind
a house.  One of the girls had a black ponytail tied with a red ribbon.
 It bobbed as she ran. 18

There was something happy in the way it bobbed.  And a feeling of
desolation came over Connie; it felt as if, while she was standing in a
crowd, everyone had suddenly turned his back to ostracize her.

She drove around the block, sped through the bleak downtown, and
emerged upon a wide avenue on which stood great hotels among brilliant
flowers, blazing in the sunlight.  People, always people, in groups and
pairs, were going in and coming out.

Back in her own room she could either read or turn on the television. 
Or else she could sit in the yard with the Raymonds and the family from
the upstairs condo, two tired parents and two quarrelsome children. 
Or, she could stop off somewhere for a hamburger and a shake.  . . .
Instead, she swung the car into a hotel driveway and got out.

In spite of all the people who came and went, the lofty lobby was
un-crowded.  And she recognized a touch of amusement at herself for
acting as if she had walked into a palace.  It was only a hotel, and
she was a hick, a rube, a bumpkin, staring at the chandeliers, the silk
tapestries, the leather luggage on the carts, the diamond-studded
watches in the jeweler's display window—staring at everything.

Presently, she went farther in, sat down, ordered tea, and watched the
parade.  She had been sitting long enough to have a second cup when a
young woman on the banquette beside her spoke up.

"I hope you won't think me awfully rude, but I've been admiring your
dress.  I always love black and white, and I've been looking all over
without finding a thing."

Obviously, she was hoping that Connie would say where she had bought
the dress, and so, mindful of her employer's injunction, Connie did
so.

"I might have guessed.  Well, that place is far too rich for my
blood."

The honest admission brought forth an honest response.  "For mine too. 
I only work there, and sometimes they let me get something at cost."

"Lucky you!  I've just given notice on my job.  I'm getting married and
moving to Dallas."

"And lucky you!  Getting married, I mean."

"I know.  He's wonderful.  By the way, my name's Margaret Ames."

"Connie Osborne."

A dialogue was now begun.  Connie was starved for talk and the other,
being euphoric, was also eager for it.  By the end of half an hour
intimate opinions, about clothes and hair and life in general, were
being exchanged.

"I hope I can find a job in Dallas as good as the one I've had," said
Margaret Ames.

"Oh?  What do you do?"

"I'm at a country club, in charge of parties, lunches, weddings,
dinners, stuff like that.  I go over menus with people.  I do it all. 
It's really great."

19

"Well, my job's pretty good, but I wouldn't call it great."  And Connie
confided, "The problem is, I don't meet anybody.  It's hard, being in a
strange city." "I know.  It's tough." Both women sighed, Connie more
deeply, and the other in sympathy. "If I could make a change I wouldn't
mind," Connie said tentatively, thinking, A job like hers at a club,
perhaps?  And she struck out boldly.  "I suppose your work must be very
complicated.  Don't you have to know a lot about food and serving and—"
"Not really.  I didn't know a thing when I started.  You pick it up
from the help, the cooks and the waitresses, as you go along. 
Actually, all you need is to be friendly, have a good memory, and be
good looking." Connie felt the stirring of serious interest. "And you
do meet a top class of people.  The best.  As a matter of fact, I met
my fiance there—well, not exactly, it was sort of roundabout, when his
company sent him to do an estimate for a new roof." "It sounds
wonderful." "Hey!  Would you be interested?  Because if you would, I'd
be glad to recommend you to take my place." "Really?  You're an angel!"
"Good heavens, it's no trouble at all.  And, you know, I have a feeling
you'd just fit." "I can't thank you enough!" "Glad to do it.  You know,
you'd find it a whole lot easier than trying clothes on a bunch of
finicky women all day.  And the pay is close to double, I'll bet."
"Really?  You're an angel," repeated Connie. Every day, in the
beginning, was magical.  True, she was still on her feet as she had
been in her only two previous jobs, and the hours were even longer. 
But to Connie the atmosphere of this place was compensation enough for
tiredness.  To look out every morning on acres and acres of green, over
the golf course and the low hills beyond, then down where the pool and
the tennis courts lay in a grove of cool trees!  All was peace and
ease; everything was beautiful.  The gardens were brilliant.  The airy
rooms were shaded restfully against the glare of the afternoons.  At
dinnertime the blue-and-white dining room sparkled.  At night on the
terrace, candles flickered in hurricane globes and lanterns hung among
the trees.  One could imagine that nothing ugly or drab or worrisome
had ever touched the lives of the people who played and danced here; it
was as if they were all floating through their days and nights in a
perpetual celebration. Her heart expanded.  Her normally high spirits
soared higher.  People 20

liked her.  She had a dependable memory for names and faces, which was
exactly what the job required.  The guests were pleased when she
remembered where they liked to be seated and what they liked to drink. 
The staff, many of them older women who had been there for years, were
almost motherly, surprising her by their total absence of resentment
that someone so much younger than they had been placed over them. 
Apparently, to them, this was simply the natural order of things.

"Don't put the Darnley table near to the Exeters.  Mrs.  Exeter was
Darn-ley's first wife, and the two women hate each other."

"If Mr.  Tory says seven-thirty, he means seven twenty-eight.  That
man's so prompt, he'll be early to his own funeral.  And you'd better
have everything ready, too, because he's a crank."

Celia Mapes, who was handy with such advice, was kindly but could be
meddlesome too.

"I've got a daughter about your age overseas with the army in Germany. 
Living with some guy she says she'll probably marry.  I suppose you
are, too, aren't you?"

"Living with some guy?  No, I live by myself."

"What happened?  Did you break up?"

"I've never had anybody to break up with."

"Never had a real boyfriend?  Don't tell me.  A girl like you."

"It's true, though."

"I don't believe it.  You mean you've never—you're a virgin?"

"Well, believe it or not, I am."

"There's nothing wrong with you, is there?"

"Not that I know of."  Connie laughed.  "Maybe I'm funny, but I've just
never really wanted anybody that way.  Never met anybody.  There was an
awfully nice guy once, but he had acne, and it turned me off."

And there had been others, like the floor manager in the store back
home.  That one had been good to look at.  But he was flat, without
ambition.  And all he could talk about was sports.

The older woman warned, with a shake of her head, "Well, my dear, it's
no good being so fussy, or you'll find yourself left behind one of
these days.  Now, I've got a nephew I could introduce you to.  Big guy,
like a football player, and a real gentleman.  He drives for an oil
company.  For real good pay too."

The offer was touching, and Connie felt mean to refuse it.  I'm not a
snob, she thought.  It's not that.  I'm not stupid enough for that. 
It's just that I'm not going to waste myself.  So she lied.

"Thanks.  Maybe some other time, but not now.  My landlady's fixing me
up with someone this weekend."

Celia Mapes looked at Connie with quizzical eyes as though she had

21

recognized the lie.  "You're pretty as a picture," she said bluntly,
"but if you're thinking of teaming up with any of the members here,
forget it. Money sticks to money, you know."  There were a good many
young couples among the club's membership. She wondered how people so
young could afford to live as lavishly as this. Had they all inherited
their wealth?  Her eyes and ears were curious and alert now as she
passed among them, observing and catching phrases.  "There's really no
difference between a Bentley and a Rolls."  "Oh, Charlie got these in
Athens on my birthday.  I adore Greek gold."  Connie's glance went to
the brilliant, heavy necklace and the bracelets. Their owner's flat
chest and protruding shoulder blades did nothing, either for them or
for her glorious white dress.  And the woman's voice, nasal and
raucous, made you shudder. Connie's glance flicked over a suntanned
comely face and briefly met frank male compliment in a pair of dark,
mischievous eyes.  But she had long ago become accustomed to such
fleeting admiration.  Nothing ever came of it. As the months passed,
the job's first glamor inevitably began to dwindle. And she seemed to
be looking down a long, long road with a dead end. At the same time in
New York, Eddy had been climbing with no shortness of breath, a long,
easy hill.  He and his partner, Pete Brock, bolstered by Pete's uncle,
had been advancing steadily, amassing both brokerage accounts and
social contacts. "It's a case," Pete said as the two young men sat in
their office late one Friday afternoon, "of which comes first, the
chicken or the egg.  The guy you meet on the tennis court becomes your
customer, and your satisfied customer invites you to play at his club. 
Not bad for a pair of immigrants from Ohio, is it?" "Not bad at all,"
Eddy replied. But not remarkably good either.  Leaning back in the
swivel chair, he surveyed the office, which consisted of four decently
furnished rooms in a mediocre 1920s building, on a dingy street halfway
between the garment district and the theater district.  Pete's uncle
owned the building, and so the rent was cheap.  There was nothing wrong
at all with the setup if one was content with security and a modest
living.  Obviously, Pete Brock was. "I have to tell you something,"
Eddy said.  "It's something I've been waiting to say and putting off
because I feel a certain guilt about it." "Why?  What have you done? 
Been sleeping with my secretary?" "I'm not kidding, Pete.  The fact is,
I want to leave, I want to leave you.  I want to strike out on my own."
The other sat up straight.  "Hey!  I thought we were going along like a
22

23

I

house afire!  What is it?  Anything you don't like about me?  Give me
the truth, Eddy.  On the level."

"On the level.  You're my friend, Pete, and I don't want you to think
for one split second that I don't appreciate a thousand times over,
that I'm not completely grateful, that I don't know how lucky I am that
you and your uncle—what a fine, generous man!—chose me for your
partner.  Gosh, after all our college years, you've got to believe me,
and—"

Pete waved his hand.  "All right, all right, I believe you, but get to
the point.  What's the complaint?"

"It's not a complaint.  It's that you and I go at different speeds,
and—"

Again Pete interrupted.  "Oh, because I don't want to take money out of
the firm and invest, because I don't want a fancier office, because I'm
satisfied with—"

"You're satisfied with less than I want out of life.  That's about the
size of it, Pete."

"More out of life!  You've got a regular income, an apartment, friends,
this whole fantastic city to play in.  What's the more that you want
out of life?"

The more.  It was almost impossible to explain.  It would sound absurd
to say that this fantastic city had overwhelmed him with desire.  What
good was it to walk on Fifth Avenue or Madison or Fifty-seventh Street,
gazing at the shops and the galleries filled with paintings of such
beauty that you could hardly tear yourself away; what good to look at
the airlines' posters of Paris, Hawaii, and Morocco, to stare at
splendid women as they stared into the windows of splendid jewelers'
shops, when every one of these was beyond one's reach?  What Pete
called an "apartment" was a remodeled flat on the top floor of a
walk-up.  A real "apartment" was on the Upper East Side on a wide
avenue, Fifth or Park, or on a quiet side street with a doorman
standing under a green awning.  There was no use in trying to
explain.

So he simplified his thoughts.  "I'd like to expand, that's all.  You
remember how I talked to you about tax shelters?  You said no. 
Positively no."

"And I still do.  We're stockbrokers, Eddy."

"We're not limited to that, though.  That's the way I see it.  And you
don't.  But that's okay.  Friends don't always have to see things the
same way."

"Eddy, you're a gambler at heart."  The tone was mildly reproachful. 
"You've got a gambling streak, and it's dangerous."

"Who, me?  A gambler?  You're all wrong, Pete.  I've saved all my
earnings.  Built a nice fat nest egg.  That's why I'm in a position to
go out on my own.  After I repay your uncle's loan and my half of the
office expenses, I'll still be solid."

"Taking in a partner?" "No, no.  I'm setting up by myself.  Osborne and
Company.  I'm the 'Company.' Brokerage and tax shelters.  There's a
tremendous call for them.  Perfectly legal.  But you have to know just
how to structure them for big write-offs.  Customers will come flocking
if you can." Pete shook his head.  "Big.  It looks like big trouble to
me." Eddy laughed.  "No, no, no.  But you know what's wonderful?  That
we can part with no hard feelings.  Not on my part, at least." Pete
stood up and put out his hand.  "Nor on mine.  I wish you all the luck
in the world, Eddy." You had to spend money to make money.  That was
axiomatic.  The decoration of the new office in a well-kept building on
Madison Avenue had cost somewhat more than he had intended, but the
result, as the decorating firm had promised, was totally pleasing.
"It's foolish to skimp on the quality of carpeting," the man had told
Eddy.  "You can actually feel the richness of good carpet underfoot. 
It conveys an unmistakable impression." And it was true, he thought as
he glanced about the new domain, from the dark green carpet to the
elegantly framed etchings of classical Rome.  What a relief after that
dump of Pete's! It was also true that a man's suit conveyed an
unmistakable impression.  One of the older men whom he had met at
Pete's uncle's tennis club had recommended a tailor.  What a difference
a custom-made suit could make!  And he stroked his arm, now encased in
the best British worsted.  What a difference! At three he had an
appointment with a builder.  And hastening up Madison Avenue—someday
he, too, would like a really distinguished office farther up the
Avenue—he reflected upon the nice way things could mesh.  This builder,
the same man who had recommended the tailor, was planning a shopping
center on Long Island and needed investors.  At the same time some of
the brokerage accounts who had left Pete to follow Eddy were looking
for investments, shelters by which to cut their income taxes.  It was
encouraging to note how many customers had chosen him over Pete.  And
he hadn't by even the slightest hint lured any one of them away; he
would never have done that.  No, they had followed him of their own
volition, proving that a good part of the business had come through him
and not through Pete in the first place.  But Pete had never been
especially sociable.  You had to be upbeat, you had to smile, if you
wanted to attract people. He was smiling when he entered Mr.  Hartman's
mahogany office. "I want to thank you for recommending your tailor, Mr.
 Hartman.  How do you like the suit?" 24

"You look like a million dollars, Eddy.  If I had a son, I'd want him
to look like you.  So, let's get down to business.  I'm swamped today,
so let's waste no time.  I hope you haven't come empty handed."

"No, sir, I definitely have not.  I've got five names, and I'll have
two more by Wednesday sure."

The two men sat down with papers spread out between them.

"These are all responsible people, Mr.  Hartman, as you can see.  I'm
about through checking their references, and they're all top drawer."

"I see they are.  Always stick with the top drawer, young man."  The
older man placed Eddy's papers in a tidy pile.  "And speaking of that,
how would you like me to put you up for membership in my tennis club on
the Island?"

"That sounds great, Mr.  Hartman!"

"They've got nice accommodations.  You can spend the weekend there next
summer whenever you want.  Get out of the city, play tennis, have a
swim.  It's all there.  The fee's pretty steep, but it'll be worth it
to you."

"I know it will, Mr.  Hartman.  I'm honored that you'll endorse me."

"No problem, Eddy.  My pleasure."

They shook hands, and Eddy went down onto the street.  It was all he
could do not to whistle.  This was the way you got ahead, step by step.
An entree like this one at the club would mean the opening of more new
doors.  He saw a long vista, a bright corridor lined with opening
doors.

In such a mood, walking uptown for no reason other than that he felt
like doing it, he stopped before the window of an art gallery.  There,
all by itself, hung a small watercolor of a pond, with catkins along
the shore.  Neo-Impressionist, he decided as he regarded it, set
probably in New England.  He had been buying art books, teaching
himself against the day when he would be a buyer of art.  And he went
inside to inquire of a rather distinguished gentleman the price of the
painting.

"Twelve thousand dollars.  The artist has been doing very well.  His
prices are rising."

The distinguished gentleman spoke defensively, as if, Eddy realized at
once, he had mistaken Eddy's expression for disapproval.  Actually,
Eddy's attention had been suddenly attracted by another watercolor on
the wall.

"This one's better," Eddy said.

He moved closer to it.  Here, too, was water, a cove or inlet where
sailboats were at anchor in the evening; so deft, so real, was it that
one could almost hear the soft lapping of the water and feel the cool
air.  Yet for all its realness it was no picture postcard; there was
something—something else that the artist had put there.  He couldn't
have defined what the something was, he only knew that it was there,
and it was art.  A marvelous, unfamiliar excitement rose in him.

25

"Yes," he said.  "Much the better of the two." "You're right, of
course.  Quite right.  He's a finer artist than the other." "Naturally,
it must be more expensive?" "Actually, it's two thousand less.  The
man's just coming up, you see.  The other has a bigger name.  That's
why his work's in the window." "Ah, I see."  He knew that he had spent
an awful lot on the office, and he was due to move out of the walk-up
flat next month, and would need to furnish the new place, but he wanted
this picture. "I'm going to buy it," he said.  Then, bluntly, although
it was no one's business, he added, "The price is a bit high for me at
present, but this will be the first picture I'll have bought, and I
really want it." "I congratulate you on your taste.  You have a fine
eye.  And you will not be sorry.  In a few years' time I predict you'll
get twice the price back should you ever decide to sell it." After
identifying himself Eddy wrote a check and carried his happy purchase
home, where he hung it on the wall opposite his bed.  It was a good
investment, the man had said, so it was nice to know he might someday
sell it and get something more valuable in its place.  So much the
better.  That was not why he had bought it, though, and he did not
believe he would ever want to sell it. At night his room, because of
the streetlamps, was only gray-dark.  He lay for a while with open
eyes, gazing at his purchase and smiling to himself.  The artist had
made magic in his ordinary little room; the purest starlight streamed
from the picture on the wall and quivered, touching the very air with
silver. And this beautiful thing was his.  I'm really moving up, he
thought, before he fell asleep.  I'm moving up. In the service wing of
the building Connie had a little office, not much larger than a cubby,
with a desk and two wooden chairs.  One morning a young man knocked at
the open door and introduced himself.  "I'm Richard Tory, and I
understand you're the person to see about a surprise luncheon for my
mother.  You are Miss Osborne, aren't you?" "I am, but I'm always
called 'Connie' here." "I didn't know.  I hardly ever come to the club,
although my family's been here since before I was born." His was,
indeed, an unfamiliar face.  If she had seen him before, she would have
remembered him, for he had a distinctive crown of light, very curly
hair, fair skin, and aquiline features that one would more readily
expect to find on a dark Roman aristocrat.  Nor would she have expected
him to be the son of a "crank." 26

BELVA PLAIM

27

He gave her a smile that was almost shy.  "I've never done anything
like this before.  I hope you'll help me."

"No problem at all.  You want to give a luncheon."

"Yes.  It's my mother's fiftieth birthday, and I thought of assembling
her best friends, about fifty in all.  I'd love to have it at home,
only then it wouldn't be a surprise.  You'll be sure not to give it
away?"

"No, no, don't worry."

"I suppose you know my folks?"

"Yes, they've been here quite often."

"My mother likes things simple.  What I mean is, no favors or balloons,
nothing like that.  It wouldn't be her style."

"I shouldn't think so."  The words had come out unbidden, with a ring
that gave Connie a shock, for he might well have heard a sardonic tone
that she had not intended.

But his eyes held humor.  "Well, then, I'll leave it to you.  Plenty of
flowers on the tables—she loves flowers.  In wicker baskets, do you
think?"

"That's always pretty.  Any special color?"

He considered.  "She likes blue.  Cornflowers, maybe?  Cornflowers and
white daisies?"

"You have good taste.  I can get blue-and-white checked tablecloths, a
country-garden-party effect.  How does that sound?"

"Good, good!  And you'll know what ladies like to eat at these
lunches?"

"Oh, most of them are dieting.  Why don't you let me talk to the chef
and make up a menu?  Then I can phone you for your approval, and we can
go over more details."

"Of course.  Be sure not to call me at home, though.  I live with my
parents.  Here's my office number.  And thanks a lot."

What a nice person, Connie thought when he left.  Nice.  She looked at
his business card.  McQueen-Bartlett Advertising.  The telephone
directory listed it at a prestigious address downtown.  Then, turning
pages to the residential listings, she found Roger Tory at a River Oaks
address and Richard Tory with a separate number at the same address.

River Oaks.  The grand stone houses under the grand old trees. 
Sighing, she put the directory back on the shelf.

The party went well.  Fifty middle-aged ladies in silks and linens came
bearing gifts, drank champagne, sang "Happy Birthday," and went home
satisfied.  At the end Mrs.  Tory summoned Connie to compliment her
cordially on the arrangements.

"Your son had as much to do with it as I did," Connie told her, which
of course was not true.  Yet something compelled her to bring his name
into the conversation.

L

"Really?  Well, Richard has always had an instinct for doing things
right," his mother replied as she departed. It had occurred to Connie
that he might perhaps drop in at the party to see how things were
going.  But since he had not done so, it was hardly likely that she
would be seeing him again—although it was absurd to think it would make
any difference in her life even if she were to.  So it was with some
surprise that she looked up from her desk one morning in the following
week to find him at the door.  He was wearing tennis whites and
carrying a racket. "I hear the party was a great success, so I thought
I'd come by to thank you." "It was a pleasure to do it," she replied.
He stood in the doorway as if uncertain whether to say more, to come
farther or to retreat. "I haven't played tennis here in a couple of
years," he said then.  "It's handier to play at home.  But I thought
I'd give this a try for a change to see whether I could beat the pro."
"And did you?" "No, but I gave him a run for his money." "You must be
pretty good." "Well, I'm not bad." His face was open, with a wide
forehead and a friendly mouth.  He had a vital look.  Wholesome, she
thought. "I'm not bad either," she said immodestly.  "My brother taught
me, and he's marvelous." "Then would you like to have a game sometime?"
"I'd love to, but don't forget I'm a working girl." "And I'm a working
man.  This is my three-week vacation.  Otherwise, I'd be in the office
at ten-thirty in the morning.  Ten-thirty at night, too, often enough."
How could this be happening?  It seemed as if she was delicately
balancing, teetering on a narrow plank, placing one foot softly ahead
of the other with arms out, fearful of a fall.  The wrong word, either
too eager or too indifferent, could bring about the fall. She said
carefully, "I have Sundays and usually Mondays, unless there's a
wedding or something, and—well, it's flexible time, depending on the
schedule.  They're very considerate of me here." "They should be.  So,
when are you free?  Anytime this week?" "It happens that I've got this
afternoon off.  But you won't want any more tennis today, will you?"
"No, it's gotten beastly hot.  I will want lunch, though, won't you?"
"Oh, I never miss lunch.  Sorry to say, I've got a healthy appetite."
28

29

He smiled.  "So have I. There's a great place down the road.  I'll go
change, and then how about meeting in the parking lot at half past
twelve?"

I can't believe this, Connie kept thinking.  He's so easy to talk to. 
He reminds me of Davey.  Lara would like him.  He's not at all what I'd
expect from anyone who lives in River Oaks.  But what do I know about
anyone who lives there?  I do know he doesn't seem like the men I've
been watching at this club with their skeptical, suave faces.  The
restaurant was emptying out, and they were still settled in a booth
with a second order of iced coffee before them.

"I usually like to travel someplace for my vacation," Richard was
saying, "even if it's only up to New York.  The company has me spending
so much time there that I've got myself a small apartment near the U.N.
building.  My parents like to fly up for theater weekends, so they can
use it too.  Do you like New York?"

"I've never been there.  I've never been anywhere, actually."  Then,
because that sounded pathetic, Connie fell back upon the explanation
she had devised and now knew by heart.  "First my father always said he
couldn't leave his business.  A large furniture business.  He was a
real workaholic—you know the type.  Then when he got sick, naturally . 
. ."  she made a pretty gesture with her hands.  "After that Mom got
sick, too, and we couldn't leave her, wouldn't leave her."  She did not
finish.

"It must have been awful for you," he said kindly.  "Well, I'm sure
you'll get to see the world.  If you want to, you will, you know."

"I'd especially love to see England.  My family was always so aware of
roots, and they were all in England except for a bit of Dutch way back.
Distant relatives of the Vanderbilts—or maybe not so distant.  And
then there's a Catholic branch," she added, suddenly remembering a fact
from American history class.  "Some ancestor came to Maryland with Lord
Baltimore."

"Gosh, I'm a plebeian compared with you.  Most of my folks were Irish
who came over during the potato famine.  And I've got a Polish great
grandfather who worked in the coal mines."

Connie spoke lightly.  "What difference does it all make?  People are
people."

"Right you are.  When shall I see you again?  Saturday?  Sunday?"

"Sunday would be lovely."

"Okay.  Write down your address, and I'll pick you up.  And bring your
swimsuit.  We'll want a swim before lunch."

She had to tell Celia Mapes.  "Can you believe it?  Richard Tory's
asked me out.  And to his house, no less."

Celia looked doubtful.  "I believe it if you say so." "Well, it's true.
He's really sweet.  The only thing is, I hate the idea of being there
with the family.  They look like people who won't be too thrilled about
having me either." "You can bet they won't be, honey.  I've known them
for twenty years, and I can tell you they don't improve with age." "Oh,
Lord, I'm scared to death already." "You'll do all right, I'm thinking.
You must have given that fellow some come-on." "I swear I did nothing
of the sort.  I didn't do a thing." There was a new respect, almost
comical, in Celia's head-to-foot examination of Connie.  "You'll do all
right," she repeated then, with a wise nod. In back of a long white
brick house with symmetrical wings and a classical facade lay the
perfect lawn, the tennis court, and the pool that one would expect to
find there. "We have the place to ourselves today," Richard said.  "My
parents won't be back till tonight." It seemed quite clear what these
words meant.  And something occurred in Connie's head, a self-analysis
swift as a computer printout: My heart's excited.  My first time, and
it's past time.  I'm twenty years old.  But should .  . . ?  Does he
expect it .  . . ?  The day would unfold and end then, either in a bed
upstairs or in the poolhouse. At the moment, he was leading her to the
tennis court.  She had bought something new, a short Wimbledon skirt;
it looked traditional, as shorts did not, and instinct had told her
that a conservative effect would be a good thing to have today.  Now
that the parents were not here, she was sorry she hadn't bought the
shorts.  However, this tiny flounce was becoming, too, as it whipped
above long, tanned legs.  She played well, feeling grateful to Eddy for
all those mornings when he had made her rise early to get to the town
courts before they were taken. "Hey, you're a great player.  You didn't
tell me how good you were," Richard called over the net. He won the
set, although not easily.  But even if she had been able to beat him,
she would not have done so.  Never mind women's liberation; certainly
she was in full accord with it, yet there were basic truths that common
sense wouldn't let one deny, and one of them was that men didn't like
to be beaten. Next in the pool, where she dove and raced with ease, she
was thankful again for Eddy's tough, insistent training. "The more
skills you have, the farther they'll take you."  That had been 30

his constant admonition, and she saw now that it had been worth
heeding, for Richard was a graceful athlete and he was plainly admiring
her skills.

"You're terrific," he kept saying.  "Terrific!"

He had an enthusiastic way of speaking, with superlatives and
exclamations, so that she had to wonder how old he might be; his manner
seemed extraordinarily young.

So she asked him, and he told her.  "Twenty-four.  Why?"

"No reason, really."

"Were you wondering why I'm still living here at home?"

He was more keen than she'd thought!  And before she could reply, he
said, "Actually, I'm planning to leave.  I've applied for transfer to
the New York office.  I have to break the news gradually.  It'll be a
real disruption in my parents' lives because I'm the only child they
have, and naturally, they hate to let go."  He added, smiling, "Not
that it's been any real hardship for me to live here."

"I wouldn't think so," Connie said, looking around the terrace with its
white wrought-iron furniture, its cobalt-blue awnings, and its petunias
trailing out of stone urns.  One would want to think it over more than
once before departing from such a pleasure island, such a comfortable
world as this.

"Come on, I'll show you the house," Richard offered.  "Women always
like to see houses, don't they?"

"This one certainly does."

One large cool room, dimmed by drawn blinds against the noon heat,
opened onto another.  They had walked into the eighteenth century.  She
might have foreseen that Mrs.  Tory would belong here.  She could have
predicted that chairs would be Sheraton, sofas Chippendale, and that
the dining room would be papered with Chinese peonies.

At the center of the table stood a crystal swan.  And Connie smiled to
herself, pleased to have recognized it as Lalique.

"It's lovely," she said now.  "A lovely house."

In the hall Richard paused, and the thought raced through her mind: Now
he will suggest going upstairs.

Instead, he said, "The cook's left lunch for us in the refrigerator.  I
thought we might take it outside."

Not sure whether or not to be relieved, she helped him carry the lunch:
a seafood salad, strawberry tarts, and a bottle of white wine, properly
chilled.

The umbrella and the surrounding shrubbery gave shade.  If a pair of
mourning doves had not been cooing at the feeder, the garden would have
been completely still, and Connie sighed with pleasure.

"I think I know what you're feeling," Richard said, remarking on the
sigh.  "Sometimes I think I'm crazy to give this up for a couple of
rooms

31 thirty-three floors above the New York sidewalks.  And yet I want
to."  He mused.  "New York's the origin, the fount, of good things. 
Not that we haven't got plenty of them here, too, music, art— But then
I guess you've found them for yourself." "I'm ashamed to say I
haven't." "Really?  Well, then, we'll have to do something about it,
won't we?" So today was to be only a beginning!  Connie's heart
acknowledged this with a small, eager leap.  But her reply was calm.
"I'd like that very much." "There's an exhibit of Western art on right
now.  I went last week, but I wouldn't mind going again.  Southwestern
things are especially good.  Red rocks and canyons and Indian
faces—some people find them trite by now, but I never do." "Do you
collect art?" He shook his head.  "I'm not a collector of anything
except books.  I feel that great art belongs in museums where thousands
of people can see it.  Besides, I couldn't afford great art even if I
wanted to." "I agree with you—about art belonging in museums, I mean."
Richard responded quickly, "Do you?  I'm glad.  Most people around here
use paintings for status.  The higher the price you paid, the higher
your status.  And some of the stuff they buy is nothing but fad stuff. 
Why, I was at a house last week when the funniest thing—oh, I shouldn't
bore you." "Please.  I want to hear it." "But you don't know the people
I'm talking about.  You don't know the way they think, and if you
don't, my story loses its point." "No names, but just tell me.  Do they
belong to the club?" "Yes.  Most of the people I know belong to it."
"Then I have a pretty good idea how they think." She met his glance,
and in the same instant they both laughed.  Oh, I like him, I like him,
she thought.  He's smart and funny, and honest, and I like him. The
afternoon went fast.  "I've had a great day," he said when they arrived
at her door.  "I hope you did too." "It was wonderful," she answered. 
His good-bye kiss was gentle, a chaste kiss. They saw each other every
day that remained in his vacation.  When she had to go to work early,
he called for her and returned to bring her home.  On late nights he
waited for her.  It was remarkable how easily one could fall into
dependence on such attentions, could assume that the face with the good
smile would be there on the other side of the door. He took her to the
exhibit of Western art, to some concerts, and a ballet.  All of these
were enchantments for Connie.  Certainly she had known they 32

existed, and yet she was astonished when they materialized before her
eyes and ears, as if they were a kind of lovely magic.

She thought about Richard almost all the time, while she was working or
falling asleep or after restless sleep, waking too early in the
morning.  Who could tell whether anything more was to follow these few
bright days?  Nothing was sure, she told herself, with the remembrance
of her mother's misguided optimism to warn her.

He hadn't taken her to bed.  He hadn't brought her to his house since
that first day, which meant quite obviously that his parents had
already disapproved, or that he knew they would disapprove if they were
told.  Subtleties, things spoken and unspoken, were making clear to her
acute mind that Richard feared their disapproval.

This insight by no means lessened her respect for him.  Was she falling
in love with him?  There flashed before her a picture of Lara at her
wedding, of her face turned toward Davey, of the trust, the adoration,
and the joy in that face.  And Davey had had nothing to give Lara
except himself.

However, I am not like Lara ... for a moment she felt guilty.  Suppose
that Richard worked in a gas station and lived in a two-room flat,
would he be just as desirable?  No, of course he wouldn't.  Yet that
wasn't a fair supposition either.  One might just as easily ask
whether, if she herself had bad skin and were fifty pounds overweight,
Richard would want her!  Of course he wouldn't, even though she'd be
the same person inside.  The facts were simple: You can't separate a
person from externals.  They're all part of the person.

Days passed.  They went on picnics.  They spent a day in San Antonio. 
They danced at country barbecues and dined at sumptuous French
restaurants in town.  By the third week they were still what they had
been in the first week, a congenial couple having a wonderful time, who
ended their pleasant hours with a rather tender kiss.  When, sometimes,
Richard stroked her breasts, Connie felt intense excitement and
anticipation, but he never sought more.

On this night, however, there came a difference.  Suddenly over the
coquilles Saint-Jacques and the wine, he fell into silence.  Over the
candle tips and the bavaroise au chocolat, his eyes, empty of their
customary humor, fixed themselves on Connie with an almost stricken
gaze.  Then she, too, not knowing what to say, fell silent.

"You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen," he said.

She responded lightly, "Beauty is in the eyes of the beholder."

"Ah, don't be flippant, Connie.  Let's get out of here.  Can't talk in
this place."

When they were in the car, he commanded, "Now listen to me."  He

33

grasped her two hands.  "Listen.  They're finally transferring me to
the New York office, and I can leave next week.  But I don't want—I
can't go without you, Connie.  I'm in love with you.  I never thought—I
mean, you read about these things, but they never made sense, at least
to me, they didn't.  That a person could feel the way I do now, and be
so sure of wanting to spend the rest of his life with someone!  And yet
I'm more sure about this than I've ever been about anything.  What
about you, Connie?  Can you love me?  Can you marry me?" How could she
not love a man who looked at her, who touched her, as if she were the
most precious object ever made?  The moment was brilliant, exquisite,
and filled with a kind of awe.  Her heartbeat thundered in her ears.
"Oh, yes," she said.  "Oh, yes." After a few minutes he released her
and turned on the motor.  "I want to get you home because I'm going to
pick you up early tomorrow morning.  You've got to meet my parents."
"Have you said anything to them?" "No.  There wasn't anything to say
without knowing your answer." She felt a small chill of dismay.  "What
if," she asked, speaking carefully, "they don't like me?" "Oh, they
will.  When they see you—" "Maybe I'm not what they expected for you."
"But you are.  Connie darling, you're a beautiful lady.  So fine—it
shows in everything you do." "But if they still shouldn't want me?"
"Then no matter.  I want you." In front of Connie's house they kissed
again.  The night was calm and bright.  When, still held against his
warm chest and shoulder, she opened her eyes, she saw that the sky was
filled with stars.  It seemed as if she had never seen so many before. 
Surely they were a good omen. "I hate to leave you like this," Richard
whispered.  "I wish I could walk in that door with you right now and
stay." She giggled.  "The Raymonds would probably drop dead of shock if
they found you in my room in the morning." "That's not the only reason.
We could have had my house all to ourselves and done anything.  But
somehow I couldn't ask you, and I wouldn't ask you now.  I guess I knew
from the start that you weren't going to be any one-night stand or
anything temporary.  I guess I'm just old-fashioned, Connie." She
giggled again.  "You're from another century, darling." "As long as you
approve of me." "I approve of you." 34

"Then I'll be here early.  Nine-thirty?  That'll give me time to tell
my folks first."

She was too overwhelmed to sleep.  Consuelo Tory, she thought.  She sat
down on the bench before the dressing table and stared into the mirror.
Astonished eyes stared back at her.  Why me?  they asked.  How can it
be possible to get what one wants so easily, so soon?  People always
tell me life isn't like that.

On the back of the envelope that lay there she wrote, Consuelo Osborne
Tory, reflecting on the elegance of that name engraved in navy-blue
script on a pale-blue paper.  Then, after tearing the paper into pieces
too small for Mrs.  Raymond to decipher, she threw them into the
wastebasket and prepared for bed.

Disconnected shreds and fragments floated through her head.  Tomorrow's
dress: a white silk shirt and pleated skirt with black-and-white shoes
and a flat black taffeta bow at the nape of her neck would be right,
refined and demure.  The wedding ring: Dare she ask for a diamond band?
No, ask for nothing; just be delighted with anything you get.  That
day at his house the dessert plates were lovely, a single dark blue
flower on a pale yellow ground.  Lovely.  I wish I knew where to get
them.  Eddy will be amazed when he hears.  We'll be seeing each other
in New York.  . . . Eddy will be pleased with Richard .  . . happy for
me.

The air conditioner's sleep-inducing hum took hold.  Still, in her
dreams, the shreds and fragments floated, in dreams such as children
have through the long impatient night before Christmas.

By eight o'clock she had already been on the telephone -with Lara for
half an hour.

"But you can't do this," Lara kept crying.  "You hardly know him."

"Peg knew Pop six weeks before she married him, and they'd still be
together if they'd lived.  You know that."  When no reply was made,
Connie persisted, "I can tell what you're thinking.  But Richard is not
an alcoholic any more than Davey is."

After a moment Lara asked what he did for a living.

"He's in the advertising business, and we're moving to New York." 
Hastily she added, "But he's not at all what you think of when you hear
'Madison Avenue,' sharp and competitive—you know?  Richard's got a kind
of innocence, almost, that's very appealing.  And he must have a lot of
talent, or they wouldn't be promoting him.  Lara, he's wonderful, he's
everything you'd want for me, and I love him."

"Well, if you're sure .  . ."

"Darling, I'm sure.  Aren't you sure about Davey?"

"When shall I meet him?"

"He wants to be married next week.  Can you get down here?"

3' "Honey, I can't possibly do it on such short notice.  Davey's havin;
trouble with his father, another stroke and—can't you wait a little?"
"Richard doesn't want to.  But it's okay.  Obviously, we're not having
a bi; wedding.  So we'll come visit you afterward instead." And
suddenly a picture printed itself in Connie's head: the peeling pain on
the two-family house, the scruffy weeds in the yard, Richard climbin;
the stairs .  . . Not that he would ever care; he was too decent, too
intelH gent, for such snobbery; wouldn't he care, though, that she had
lied t> him? There was time enough, however, to think about that later.
"So will you tell Eddy?  I tried to get him on the phone just now, but
there was no answer." "He's probably at his club for the weekend.  Our
Eddy seems to ha\c made contact in high places." Not as high as mine,
I'll bet, Connie thought, but did not say. Later, in the car, Richard
said, "I've told them, and they're expectin; you." "And?" "Well, they
were surprised, of course.  It is a little sudden, after all." "Just
surprised?  No objections?" "They're only worried about whether I was
sure, and I told them I was, and that you were too.  So," he said, "you
haven't the slightest reason for being nervous.  Just be yourself." The
Torys were standing at the front door when Richard stopped the ca.  In
the second before recognition and greetings Connie had an illusion (f
Grant Wood's "American Gothic," the farm couple in overalls and
house-dress, standing stone faced and rigid together.  The illusion
dissolved inh brass-buttoned blazer and printed silk as they all shook
hands. "I'm sorry, you'll have to get back into the car," Mr.  Tory
said, "am drive your mother to your Aunt May's.  She's sick again. 
Miss Osborne cai stay here with me." "But that'll take all morning,"
Richard said. "I know, but it can't be helped.  I'd go myself, except
for an importart call that I'm expecting." "I'm really sorry," Mrs. 
Tory explained.  "Miss Osborne, make yourself i home.  You'll have
lunch with my husband and Richard will be back by tw> o'clock, I'm
sure." Connie looked sympathetic.  "I do hope your aunt—" "My sister."
"Your sister will be all right.  And do please call me Connie." Richard
seemed flustered.  "I don't know whether I told you, her re;l name is
Consuelo." 36

"Consuelo?  As in Vanderbilt?"

Connie smiled.  Her closed-lip smile, she knew, was charmingly modest. 
"As a matter of fact, there is a relationship.  Cousins, way, way
back."

"Really?  How interesting."

"You'd best be going," Mr.  Tory said.

"I'm awfully sorry, Connie," Richard apologized.

She put up her hand.  "Please!  If your aunt's ill, family comes first.
 Always.  I'll be fine.  I'll have a quiet time reading."

The library to which Mr.  Tory conducted her and where he left her was
a handsome, rather masculine room furnished with leather chairs and
dark red walls.  She had expected to find that the books on the shelves
were uniform, expensive sets of the classics, put there by a decorator,
not to be read but to harmonize with the furnishings.  On the contrary
the books were a collection to delight a browser.  And then she
remembered that Richard had said books were the only things he
collected.  Finding a copy of the Pickwick Papers, she sat down to pass
the time.

She hadn't been fooled by this ruse.  Richard had been whipped away so
that his father could talk to her alone.  After a decent interval Mr. 
Tory would come in, probably to fetch her to lunch, and the
interrogation, no doubt a diplomatic one, would begin.

And that was exactly what happened, so that by half past twelve Connie
found herself in the dining room sitting across from Richard's father
with the Lalique swan between them.

"You're very well thought of at the club," he began.  "You're much more
efficient than anyone that we've had there for quite a while.  I
thought you might like to know."

"I'm very glad," she answered simply.  "Thank you for telling me."

"Have you had jobs like this before?"

"No, never.  I'm quite inexperienced, I'm afraid."

"Indeed!  Richard says you're a newcomer to Texas."

"Yes, I'd always wanted to see it.  Such an exciting place, especially
for someone who grew up in a small town."

Tory's hooded eyes were keen and all Connie could see were ugly
gleaming slits.

"Didn't your family object to your going so far all alone?"

You're polite enough in your searching, Connie thought, but you're
surely getting right to the point, aren't you?

Softly, she replied, "My parents are dead.  And I'm sure they wouldn't
have let me.  I was very strictly brought up.  My father's parents were
British, and he had their ways."  She sighed.  The sigh and the words
came easily now.  "But they'd both been sick so long.  I just had to
get away from all the sadness."

37

"Are you an only child?" "No, I have a married sister at home.  Her
husband's in business there.  And I have a brother on Wall Street." "I
see.  Then what would you call this?  Rather a lark, what you're
doing?" Connie gave a small laugh.  "You could call it that.  Rather a
lark." "Richard told us this morning that he wants to marry you.  We
told him it seemed rather hasty." The maid came and Tory stopped
talking.  During the brief, uncomfortable silence Connie's mind divided
itself between tension over Mr.  Tory's possible questions and
observation of her surroundings.  The spoons and forks had been laid
facedown on the table, probably because the chased and monogrammed
backs were meant to be seen.  The girl's spring-green uniform matched
the background of the wallpaper.  She knows something is afoot, Connie
thought.  Back in the kitchen she'll be reporting to the cook. "Times
have changed.  I can still remember," Mr.  Tory resumed, "at least here
in our group, people usually married within the group, people they
knew, or certainly that the families knew for a long time.  Now it
seems that total strangers get together after a few meetings." Connie
tried a coy comment.  "Like Romeo and Juliet." Tory said dryly, "They
came to a rather unfortunate end, if you remember."  When she made no
answer, he continued, "Like them, too, you're both rather young."
"Richard is twenty-four." "Richard is twenty-four going on eighteen. 
Oh, he's well educated, he's traveled, he's talented—all that's
obvious, but we who know him best know that he's also ignorant of life.
He's totally inexperienced." She understood what the man was thinking.
This girl's looking for money, and Richard doesn't see it. Now she had
to wonder and weigh how best to win the man over.  To adopt a virtuous,
almost a humble posture, or to show strength by standing up to him?  If
she made the wrong move, he could ruin everything, regardless of what
Richard said.  She might ruin it all, anyway.  . . . When she'd come so
far ... Well, she wasn't going to let him. "Richard is an idealist,"
his father said, sounding the admirable noun as if it were "embezzler."
Not having made up her mind yet as to which manner to adopt, the shy or
the independent, Connie spoke a noncommittal truth.  "Richard is one of
the kindest people I've ever known, honest and trusting." "Oh, yes,
trusting.  And that ties right into his lack of experience." Tory met
Connie's eyes with some severity, but she did not flinch. 38

"Now, I have the impression that you, on the other hand, are rather
more experienced."

The implication was abruptly clear.  She followed Tory's thought:
They've been sleeping together, the girl's going to get herself
pregnant, and Richard will naturally take on his responsibility.

And now she was ready for Tory.  "You're implying, I think, that I'm
experienced with men, Mr.  Tory.  That I pull tricks.  No double
meaning intended."  Her little laugh was bitter, and Tory flushed. 
"You might like to know that, believe it or not, at not quite
twenty-one, I'm still a virgin."  She was working herself into such
righteous indignation that tears began to blur her eyes.  "I come of a
very fine family—"

Tory was disconcerted.  "Oh, I have nothing against you personally. 
It's plain that you're a fine young lady, and—"

"I understand that you're looking out for your son's best interest, and
you should.  If my father were living, he would be looking out for
mine.  He always did, he protected us against the world, he died too
young—" By now her tears were overflowing her eyelids.

Tory stood up and laid a hand on her shoulder.  And she saw that, stone
face or no, he was sentimental.  He thought her tears were for her dead
father.  Was it the tears or the indignation that had won for her?  No
matter; the tide of battle had definitely turned in her favor.

"Come, come, don't cry.  Let's talk things over sensibly.  No need to
cry."

She took the handkerchief that he offered and stood up.  "I'll be a
good wife to Richard, Mr.  Tory.  You don't have to worry about that. 
I know the value of a dollar.  I get along with people, and I'll be a
help to him.  And I love him with all my heart."

There came the sound of tires crunching gravel.

"Richard's back," said his father.  "Come, now.  He mustn't see you
crying."

The Torys' minister performed the marriage at their house with Mr.  and
Mrs.  Tory as the witnesses.  Richard had asked Connie to invite
someone on her side, but she had declined.  The only people whom she
knew well enough here to care about were Celia Mapes, the head
waitress, and Mrs.  Raymond, the landlady, who in many little ways had
shown a fondness for her tenant.  These two simple women were utterly
bewildered by Connie's Prince Charming story, and truly glad for her as
well.  So she would have liked to invite them, but at the same time she
knew that would only be rubbing salt into the Torys' open wound.  Quite
obviously, they wanted this wedding to attract as little attention as
possible.

The five participants stood before a small table within the semicircle
of the bow window.  Connie was thinking: This is the high peak of my
life,

39

and it will be over in ten minutes.  I have to remember everything. 
The sonorous words coming out of the mouth above the clean-shaven chin,
which is above the reversed collar.  Richard's parents.  They're
probably not such awful people, since Richard loves them.  The light is
streaming through the curtains, turning his face pink.  Now he's
smiling at me.  I don't know him at all, and it scares me.  Yes, of
course I know him.  He's everything that's good.  And here's the ring,
a diamond band after all.  Is this happening to me?  To me?  I love
him.  I'm not scared at all.  I love him.  . . . "Richard, I love you,"
she said the moment it was over. Thirty-three floors beneath the
windows of the New York apartment, lights moved along the East River
Drive.  All around in every direction the lights of the great city
glimmered and gleamed, dazzling in Connie's astounded eyes.  Tomorrow
Richard was going to start her education in the city's ways and byways:
the museums, Broadway, Lincoln Center, Fifth Avenue ... No end!  My
God, no words, no pictures, had ever begun to realize the marvel of it
all!  For long minutes she stood and gazed. It was still some time
before midnight, and Richard had gone to sleep, but she, wakeful, sat
down at the dinette table and drank a cup of hot milk.  Her mind spun
back over the hours since yesterday, living and reliving this beginning
of her new life. It had seemed fitting, like closing a circle, to spend
their first night at the Houston hotel where she had learned of the
position at the country club.  Events had made an orderly pattern: the
farewell to the parents who seemed to be so numbed by events that one
had to feel compassion for them; then the entrance into the hotel
wearing the unmistakable bride's going-away suit.  The new luggage. 
The deluxe suite with the champagne in the bucket and the roses on the
table.  The light dimmed down to the faintest glow from the lamp in the
corner.  The white lace nightgown.  The groom's removal of the
nightgown.  The bodies intertwined on the wide, soft bed. She had
thought—had not all the books, magazines, and movies taught her?—that
the night would be long and slow, a dream of repeated delight.  It had
been neither long nor slow.  To be sure, Richard had been eager enough,
but it had all been over in no more minutes than the marriage ceremony
had needed, after which he had immediately fallen asleep.  And she had
been left alone and wide awake. She had grown up knowing about every
possible variation in the sex act.  One had only to pick up a magazine
at the dentist's office or at the hairdresser's to read about male
impotence, nonorgasmic women, lesbian women, marital
incompatibility—everything you wanted to know about sex.  On
television, in the movies, and in most current fiction, sex was the
40

II

central theme.  So it seemed, excited as she was by long anticipation
and stifled desire, that she knew precisely what to expect.  What she
expected and had been led to expect by all the above was some version
of Hemingway's moving earth.  It hadn't happened.

Still, that was the first night, she told herself.  As she had also
read, sex is not always an automatic triumph.  It often requires long
adjustment.  And Richard was really a darling.  They had had breakfast
in their room before taking the plane to New York, and there, in a tiny
box between the folds of her napkin, she had found diamond studs for
her ears.

"I saw you once admiring them on someone," he had told her.

On the plane her conscience did a queer thing: It rose up and hit her. 
There were things she had to say to this good man, and she had fumbled
for a way to begin.

"Richard, I don't think your parents believed me about my job being a
lark, and—"

There again had come that twinkle of humor in his eyes.  "They probably
didn't."

"What makes you say that?"

"Because I didn't either."

She had felt humiliated and ridiculous.  But having begun, she would
finish.

"Richard, I lied.  I lied to you."

"I know that."

"Then why—why weren't you disgusted?"

"I was only sorry that you felt it necessary."

She felt oddly unclean.  "Let me tell you the truth," she had said. 
"My father was an alcoholic.  We grew up dirt poor and miserable all
the time."

"I don't need to hear that," Richard had interrupted gently.  "You are
you, and I don't care about another soul."

"Not your parents?  Will you tell them?"

"No.  Better not to.  They're good people, Connie, but they have their
ways."

So that had ended the subject, and she had felt a certain relief.  Now
she could take him to visit Lara without further explanation.  There
was, after all, nothing to be ashamed of.

She stretched out her hand now to observe the sparkle on her finger. 
Then she got up and went into the living room, which, furnished in
modern chrome, steel, and glass, had a sparkle of its own.  In the
mirror over the console table she regarded herself in her pink
baby-doll robe with the diamonds in her ears, and was satisfied with
what she saw.  She was young and loved.  The future had arrived, and it
was good.

CHAPTER THREE

The round little table in the dining ell had been pushed toward the
window so that Davey and Lara might have a view of Manhattan at night. 
Connie, who had found to her surprise that she liked to cook, had made
a fine, festive dinner, crown roast of lamb, vegetables cut like
flowers, and dessert out of Julia Child's book of French cooking.
Richard raised his wineglass and touched the others' glasses each in
turn. "To celebrate our first dinner all together," he said.  And, with
a bright glance about him, added then, "To celebrate life." All five of
the faces became serious, and Connie's red mouth trembled.  It was such
a beautiful moment!  These dear people gathered here in this gleaming
apartment where everything was in its place and belonged to her! A few
new touches had modified its ultramodern chill.  In Third Avenue
antique shops they had bought a scarlet lacquer screen to conceal the
tiny kitchen.  The smoky Venetian mirror that hung between the opposite
windows now reflected the screen and the group at the table. "Such a
pretty table," observed Lara.  "You're going to be a good housewife,"
she said almost tenderly. "She is already," Richard said, "Connie's a
perfectionist." "She always was.  She was the neatest little girl in
school.  I had to redo her hair ribbons every day at lunchtime."
Richard was amused.  "Hair ribbons?  Tell me everything about her."
"Oh, yes, Connie had braids until she reached fourth grade and became
sophisticated." "And now you're a shining bride," said Eddy. 
"Positively shining." "Am I?  Well, I'm happy.  And who wouldn't be in
this wonderful, brand-new city?" "With your wonderful, brand-new
husband," Lara said. Richard laughed.  "I get a kick out of her
enthusiasm.  She's walked my feet off every weekend, and by herself
she's gone everywhere from the Bronx Zoo to the Botanical Gardens to
the Statue of Liberty." 42

"And I took the tourist trip on the boat around Manhattan Island,"
Connie reminded him.

"I've been here over a year now," Eddy said, "and I haven't seen any of
those except the statue."

"But you've been working," Connie said.

Eddy's sigh was satisfied.  "Damn hard.  It's been well worth it,
though."

Davey was interested.  "Tell us."

"Okay.  Well, as you know, I've been on my own for a while now and
loving it.  I've got more business than I can handle by myself.  I've
hired a bright young MBA, and I'm thinking of taking on a second.  When
I double the business—no, when I redouble it, which should take another
couple of years—I'll have to move again to a real spread, done right,
my final move."

Richard was leaning with an elbow on the table and a look of genuine
interest on his face, prepared to hear more.

It pleased Connie that he liked her brother.  Probably, she thought,
recalling the strict faces and the noiseless house in River Oaks, he's
glad to be part of a new, active family of young people.

Eddy was giving an exuberant description of Wall Street.  He raised his
hand, revealing fine gold cuff links.

"It's like rockets to Mars.  A guy like Kramden of Kramden Jessup is
worth three hundred million, can you imagine!  That's not to say what
the firm is worth.  A couple of billion, for sure.  Returns on
leveraged buyouts can go as high as fifty percent—you know, it's
fantastic.  They're not for me, though.  Not yet.  Maybe I'll work up
to them someday, but right now I'm doing what I want."

"Another language for me," Richard said.  "My work is words and
pictures.  Persuasion.  That's what advertising is."

"Well, I have to use a little persuasion too.  Only, I use numbers
instead of words."  And Eddy gave his familiar grin.  "Connie can tell
you, I've always loved numbers.  I can feel them in my fingers.  I can
feel the market.  I dream about it."  He paused a moment and resumed,
"Oh, hell, we're family, so I can tell you.  I'm worth almost nine
hundred thousand dollars."  He turned to Davey and the two sisters. 
"You all know what I started with when I left home too.  And I
guarantee that I'll have doubled that within six months."

Richard was impressed.  "You're way out of my league, Eddy.  Oh, I get
a good salary, but I'm conservative.  I put everything into treasuries
and tax exempts and watch it slowly grow."

"That's fine enough if you feel comfortable that way."

"Right now I do.  I'm still paying off the mortgage on this co-op."

"You've made a good investment.  This is a great location down here
near the U.N. I'm thinking of a co-op myself.  I'm tired of paying
rent.  And I'd

43

like a view, something near the East River or, better yet of course,
Fifth Avenue so I can see the Park."  : "That'd cost you a fortune,"
Richard said.  ;• ."I know.  Well, I can wait." "The way you're going,
you won't have to wait long."  Richard stood up.  "Will you excuse me? 
I'm watching out for Texas time.  I have to make a call to a Houston
client." "Very, very likable," Eddy said when Richard had closed the
bedroom door.  "He's very modest, isn't he?" "Richard's a gentleman,"
Connie said. "He must make a fortune, even at his age." "I guess so. 
We don't talk about money." "McQueen is an international firm, you
know."  ,, "I didn't.  I never thought about it." "A love match, then! 
Just like Lara and Davey here.  But it's nice to have a 'few luxuries
thrown in, too, like that watch you're wearing." "You see everything,
Eddy."  -    "Eddy always did," said Lara. "We were passing Bulgari's
on Fifth Avenue last Saturday, and Richard saw this in the window.  He
said I needed a decent watch." Eddy laughed.  "Decent?  I'd say so. 
Hold out your arm." Connie pulled her sleeve back to reveal a wide
glitter of gold and diamonds on her wrist. "Beautiful," Eddy said. 
"You know what?  I think you're going to lead a charmed life from now
on." For an instant Connie felt discomfiture.  It was as if Eddy was
showing off on her behalf in front of Davey and Lara, boasting as a
child might: See?  See this?  Perhaps she should not have worn the
watch.  Yet one couldn't hide facts, could one?  But it was terribly
common to call attention to possessions.  Just having them was enough.
"Speaking of love matches," Lara asked now, "what about girls, Eddy? 
Anything serious?" Eddy laughed.  "Don't rush me.  It's too soon for a
love match." "It's never too soon when it's real," Lara said. Eddy
shrugged.  "Time will tell.  Meanwhile, I've no problem meeting girls,
especially at that fancy club on Long Island—uh, in the country— that I
joined." Curious, Connie asked how that had come about.  Eddy
explained.  "One of my clients got me in.  I guess it took some doing
on his part, because it's not easy to get into these clubs.  But then,
I've gotten over a million dollars' worth of investors in his real
estate for him, so I guess he wanted to do me a favor—or keep the money
coming in, either one." 44

And again Connie felt a twinge of embarrassment, especially before
Richard, who had come back into the room.  She would have liked to
advise Eddy very gently, without humiliating him, that he should not
crow quite so triumphantly over his successes.  But seeing the sheer
happiness in those sea-blue eyes, she could not bring herself to do it,
however gently.

Presently, though, Eddy himself seemed to become aware that he had been
attracting too much attention, for he turned to Davey and Lara asking,
"So, what have you two been doing since I saw you?"

"Just more of the same," Davey replied quietly.

Lara corrected him.  "Not so.  Davey's working on something new that
looks very important.  Not that I know anything about machinery, but he
showed it to a doctor in town who thought it was—"

"No, no," Davey interrupted.  "Don't make a big deal out of it."

"You never talk about yourself," his wife countered.  "Dr.  Lewis was
impressed.  You know he was.  If you don't tell them, I will."

Davey gave in.  "Oh, all right.  It's a funny thing how ideas come. 
I'd been working half a year on something entirely different, something
to do with credit cards, and wasn't getting anywhere.  Then one day at
a gas station I saw a kid pumping up his bike tires, and for no reason
at all this thing popped into my head."

"The moment he explained it, I had a feeling—I know it sounds
ridiculous to talk about feelings when I don't even understand
facts—but I knew, I just knew, that Davey had something important." 
Lara's face was vivid with excitement.

"My wife," Davey said, looking not unpleased, "always thinks I'm a
genius.  All it is is a kind of improvement, a little gimmick for a
heart pump.  The balloons that push blood through the arteries, you
know?  Here, I'll show you."

The five heads leaning across the table almost touched each other as
Davey drew a rough sketch on the back of a scrap of paper.

"What I've done is figure out a timing device.  It's like a computer
really, you set it and"—he crumpled the paper—"I can't make it clear
this way, but it's really a fairly simple concept."

"For people who know about machinery or computers, maybe it is,"
Richard said, "but not for people like me."

"So you showed it to a doctor and he thinks it makes sense?"  Eddy
asked, rather sharply.

"Yes, but he's not a heart specialist.  I've been thinking I ought to
take my model—I've built a complete working model—to one of the big
university research centers and let them see what they can do with
it."

"Now, wait a minute!  Hold it," Eddy cried.  "You don't mean you'd just
hand it over and let somebody else get all the benefit?"

45

"Benefit?"  Davey's tone was puzzled.  "If the idea's really any good,
heart patients will be the ones to get the benefit, I hope." "Of
course," Eddy agreed impatiently.  "My question was whether you intend
to give the idea away and let other people take the credit for it."
"Oh, I'd like to have my name attached to it, of course I would." "And
money?  Don't you understand those people would take your idea and make
a fortune out of it?  Money.  Everything comes down to money.  At your
age you should know that." "That doesn't sound like you, Eddy," Lara
said.  "You've always been a giver." "Yes, when I've had something to
give.  First you have to have.  Then, give to your heart's content." 
Eddy paused a moment, frowning.  "Take care of yourself first.  Why,
you shouldn't even have let that doctor look at your model for five
seconds.  You have no patent.  Hell, I can't make head or tail out of
that sketch, but if there's the least chance of its being worth
something, you have to protect yourself, Davey." "I'm not thinking of
it that way."  Davey's voice, always low, was even lower than usual as
he made his point.  "I'm not looking to make money.  I only want to do
something worthwhile, if I can." At that, with an expression of mock
despair, Eddy rolled his eyes.  "Davey, Davey.  Don't you think that a
person who does something worthwhile should be rewarded?  Did Thomas
Edison take a vow of poverty?" "He's right," Richard said gently.  "I
can admire your ideals, but Eddy's right.  You can do something good
for the world and for yourself too." Babes in the woods, Connie was
thinking.  Lara is Peg's daughter.  And Davey is Lara's opposite
number.  You could leave your life's savings on the table, and they
wouldn't touch a cent of it if they were starving. "Listen to me.  I'm
taking charge of this," Eddy said.  "You keep this idea under your hat,
hear me?  No talking about it to anyone, you understand?  I'm going to
find the best patent lawyer in Ohio." Connie had to smile.  Here was
the familiar brother again, taking control as he had used to do when
Pop had drunk too much or when Peg was sick, breezing into the house,
absorbing the situation in a second and immediately organizing
everybody. "After you get the patent," Eddy went on, "you'll need
financing to set up a small plant and start producing.  There are a lot
of defunct buildings in town, I remember, but you'll need plenty of
cash to modernize.  You'll need bank credit.  You'll need collateral." 
He began to pace up and down the room.  "I can take care of that.  I
can lend you whatever you need.  A pure loan, mind you.  I don't want
to muscle in on your business, Davey.  I only want to see you two get
ahead, that's all."  He stopped in front of Lara.  "And if this thing
is really good, I'm thinking you ought to quit teaching 46

and help Davey.  He's the dreamer who dreams things up, and you've got
the head for figures.  You're every bit as good as I am.  Now's your
chance to help Davey's brainchild get born."  Next Eddy turned to
Richard.  "And you're in one of the world's biggest ad agencies.  We'll
need you, too, when the time comes."

"I feel sort of numb," Davey said, "as if I'd been gone over with a
steamroller.  I don't know why I don't just say no to the whole
business."

"Because this steamroller is painless," Connie replied.  "Go sit down,"
she commanded Lara, who had begun to clear the table.  "You're
company."

"No, I haven't had a chance to be alone with you."

There was barely room for two in the kitchen.  Lara perched on a stool
while Connie stacked the dishwasher.  It crossed Connie's mind that
most of their conversations since they had grown up had been held in
kitchens after an evening meal.

"Oh, I do like Richard," Lara exclaimed now.  "I know what you meant. 
He's delightful.  And what's more important, you feel that he's good. 
A true good person."

"You see?  You didn't trust me, did you?"

Lara laughed.  "Oh, you're as smart as they come, Connie, but even
smart people can make horrendous mistakes."

"Well, Richard's no mistake, as you see.  Everyone likes him wherever
we

go;"

"Tell me what you do all day," Lara said, glancing around the
kitchen.

"I know what you're thinking, that there isn't enough to do in this
little place and that I ought to go to work.  Well, I will, but right
now I'm feeling my way and enjoying it.  Richard has married friends,
and I've been going around with some of the wives to the art galleries
and places, and oh, frankly, spending money for the first time in my
life.  Not on junk either; I've bought clothes and loads of
books—remember how Pop used to buy books even though he couldn't afford
them?  Well, now I can afford them, and it's a good feeling, let me
tell you."

"Guess it must be."

"Lara, I hope you'll keep after Davey and make him listen to Eddy.  If
Davey's really onto something, this may be your chance to get up in the
world."

"We're all right.  We have enough.  But for Davey's sake I hope
something does come of his idea.  He's worked so hard on so many things
that came to nothing, and I don't want him to get discouraged."

"You're an angel, Lara."

"Of course I'm not.  People aren't meant to be angels."

"Well, whatever you are, you're not like me."

47

Connie was feeling a subtle alteration in the bond between herself and
her sister.  Here now in this home of her own, a prosperous home with
her young, achieving husband—unlike Lara's husband—it seemed almost as
if there had been a reversal of roles, as if she, who had always been
the recipient of advice and counsel, were now the one to be giving
them.  But Lara's manner was unchanged. "I'm so glad you have someone
to love you," she said with her tender look.  "Nothing else really
matters very much in the end." "I suppose not," Connie replied.  Lara's
cliche was irritating.  At the same time it troubled her that a
harmless cliche could annoy her that much. An odd silence came
momentarily between the sisters, so that Connie was relieved when the
men appeared to remind them that it was time to go home. "Next time at
our house," Davey said.  "And make it soon.  You should show Richard
where your roots are, Connie." "Not for a couple of months," replied
Richard.  "Connie and I are going to Europe for six weeks." "We are?" 
cried Connie.  "We are?" "Yes, I was going to keep the surprise a
little longer, but it just won't keep.  We haven't had a honeymoon, and
this will be it.  Besides, I'm turning twenty-five."  And at the
corners of Richard's smiling eyes, fine crinkles rayed. Connie's
astonishment, Richard's satisfaction, and the others' generous pleasure
on their behalf warmed the little space in which they stood together. 
And this warmth seemed to linger in the rooms even after all questions
had been asked and answered and the guests had gone home. "But can you
afford to take six weeks off?"  asked Connie while they were
undressing. "I've got some time owed to me, and besides, one's entitled
to a honeymoon." "I meant the cost.  It'll be frightfully expensive,
won't it?" "I get the money from my grandmother's trust next month, and
I'm going to use a small slice for this trip." "Is that what you meant
when you said you were turning twenty-five?" "I did.  And I meant that
we're going to do this in grand style too.  Fly over, see a bit of
Italy and France, maybe Belgium, finish in England, and come back on
the Queen Elizabeth.  How does that sound?" "Like heaven," she said
dreamily. Of course, she had hoped for such good things somewhere in a
future, vague but not too far off.  That they should be coming so soon
was a marvel.  "A small slice of the trust," he'd said.  So then, the
trust must be a very large one. 48

Richard was stretched out on the bed while she still had to remove
makeup and brush her hair.  This routine had already formed itself: He
watched her prepare for bed while they talked over the day.  There was
already something very comfortable about the custom, as though they had
been following it for years.

"Nice people tonight," he said.  "I like your family."

"I'm glad."

It was good to have some cause for pride before him, and she had been
very proud of her family on this evening.  Eddy's bravado was a little
overdone, to be sure, but after all, nobody was perfect, and one could
only have respect for Davey's and Lara's quiet dignity.

She thought aloud, "Lara's a sweet, simple soul."

"Not that simple.  She's smart and strong.  It's only her manner that
fools you."

"Do you think so?  Yes, I guess you're right."

And Connie became aware of how perceptive Richard was; it was only his
own manner that fooled you.  People were made in layers, she reflected,
and as you peeled them away one by one, you could be astonished by what
you found each time.  She wondered whether he could be peeling her
away, layer by layer.  It might be that he would learn more about her
than she knew, or would ever know, about herself.  The thought was
forbidding.  She began vigorously to brush her hair.

"Something crossed your mind just now," Richard observed.

"What makes you say that?"

"A shadow crossed your face."

"Really?  I was only thinking how beautiful Lara is."

"You're more so."

"No, no.  Look again at the bone structure.  Hers is flawless."

"I've looked.  Bones or no, you're the one with the energy and the
life.  Stand up and let me look at you.  Take off your robe."

Pink silk slithered to the floor, leaving her naked before him. 
Turning her head toward the mirror on the open closet door, she could
see herself, very white and very curved, with narrow sloping shoulders
like the women in Godey's Ladies Book, with high, small breasts like
the ones on ancient statues and with round hips like those on Renoir's
rosy nudes.

"No one would ever guess what's underneath your clothes," Richard
said.

"As long as you like it."

The sight of her own body, combined with the sight of his languorous
sprawl on the bed, aroused excitement and a little shiver of
anticipation.

"Beautiful," he murmured, his eyes shining.  "Beautiful."

In the lamplight his skin was dark gold against his white silk
pajamas.

49

And through a moment that seemed very long, she waited for him to take
off the pajamas, or at least to make a move.  When he did move, it was
to stretch his arms above his head, sigh, and yawn, showing his perfect
teeth. "It's been a long day, darling, and I'll be leaving early in the
morning.  I expect to be up to my ears in work for the next few weeks. 
It's always like that before you go on vacation." The message was
clear.  She put on a nightgown and got into the bed, where Richard had
fallen almost instantly asleep. Her restless mind roamed back over the
evening, to Eddy, who was fitting out a place for himself in this
bewildering city as if he had been born to it ... to Lara and Davey,
who had their own very different place .  . . And she wondered about
them.  They never changed.  She thought of gestures she had seen in
passing, their standing embraces in the kitchen, Davey's kisses on the
back of Lara's neck when she sat reading.  What pleasures must they not
have in their bed?  But of course one could never even hint about such
things to Lara, no matter how tactfully, how delicately; to Lara "such
things" would be sacrosanct. In the quiet, so high above the ground
that the only sound was the soft rustle of the sheets whenever Richard
turned, Connie lay thinking.  How ironic it was that when she finally
desired a man, he seemed not to desire her.  It was too confusing. Then
she began to argue with herself.  Use your head, Connie.  It's obvious
that he adores you.  He'll do anything for you.  You've been married
just two months.  These things take time, everybody says they do.  And
who knows, anyway, how often other people make love or how?  What do
you really know about Lara and Davey?  Richard adores you.  Remember
that. And we're going to Europe.

CHAPTER FOUR

51

They stayed on the forward deck all afternoon as the Queen slid from
The Solent into the Channel and out to sea.  Richard had gotten a deck
chair, a blanket against the raw wind, and a book, but Connie stood at
the railing until the coast receded into a line of gray clouds.

Behind her lay all the quaint and ancient places, the castles, lakes,
and gardens, the cobblestoned alleys and the marbled palace-hotels of
Europe, all of them as far removed from the thirty-third-floor
apartment in Manhattan as was that apartment from Peg's flat in the
Perry Building.  No, farther, farther.  Willingly she would turn the
ship around and go back.  She was already feeling the ache of
nostalgia, an urgent restlessness; it was the same feeling that had
swept over her when, in Houston, she had seen her first ballet and felt
the world so filled with wonders.  A sense of haste now overwhelmed
her.                                                              ,

Travel with Richard was certainly rewarding, but also frustrating;
knowledge emphasized her ignorance.  After a morning at the Jeu de
Paume and the Rodin Museum, she was envious.  I must learn about art,
she told herself, and I know almost nothing of European history.  I
know almost nothing at all.

They did very little shopping, their time being too precious, Richard
declared, to waste it in stores.  He did, however, buy a suit and two
dresses for Connie, since, he said earnestly, no woman should come home
from Paris without something Parisian to wear.  Always competent about
such things, he assured her that the dark red velvet and the emerald
satin would be right for dinner on the ship.

In England Connie fell in love with country antiques and old
landscapes.  After seeing flowery Cotswold inns and burnished London
shops, she began to envision old mahogany and old paintings, a library
with leather chairs and animal portraits.  She had a new awareness that
the rooms overlooking the East River were not so grand after all, that,
as a matter of fact, they were ordinary.

So, again, on the homeward voyage that compelling sense of haste came
sweeping back. Richard had wanted to ask for a table for two in the
dining salon.  "You won't like it if you're put with the wrong people,"
he warned.  "I've had that experience on ships." But Connie wanted to
take the risk, and so it was that they found themselves at a large
table seated next to Mrs.  Dennison Maxwell.  A gaunt lady well into
her sixties, she gave a prim appearance that made her blunt speech all
the more surprising.  By the final night she was on intimate terms with
the young Torys. "It's a pleasure to see a pretty young woman with a
good-looking young man for a change.  In New York these days the
prettiest young women all seem to be married to dreadful old men.  You
haven't said, but this is your honeymoon, isn't it?"  And when informed
that it was, she continued, "I had mine on the Queen Mary.  There's no
comparison.  Of course, this ship has all the comforts.  But it's so
dreadfully vulgar.  All this chrome and glitter.  Of course, I suppose
you're both too young to remember the old Queens, but your parents must
have told you about them, I'm sure.  Now, they had elegance." Connie,
remembering something she had once read, answered quickly, "Oh, yes,
the life-sized portraits of Queen Mary and Queen Elizabeth— King
George's wife, I mean.  Oh, yes, it must have been wonderful.  So Old
World." "I do love your Texas accent," Mrs.  Maxwell told her. "Oh, do
you?  I thought I'd lost it." "But Connie doesn't—" began Richard, and
stopped when her foot brushed his. "You must meet my
granddaughter-in-law.  She's practically a bride like you, only married
last year.  You'd like each other.  I have a sixth sense about people,
and I'm sure you would." "That's so kind of you, Mrs.  Maxwell." "She's
terribly busy, Bitsy is.  She raises more money for her charities than
any three women.  I don't know where she gets the energy.  Or the time
to keep herself so well put together.  She never looks frazzled.  Twice
a year she flies to Paris, buys everything for the season, and then
forgets about herself."  Mrs.  Maxwell took a small pad and small
silver pen from her bag.  "Do write your name and phone number here,
dear.  I'll tell Bitsy to be sure to call and introduce you around
town.  But you'll have no trouble making friends.  People always adore
Texans." "Why on earth did you want her to think you came from Texas?" 
asked Richard when they were alone. 52

BELVA PLAIM

53

II

"Because.  You heard what she said.  People adore Texans."

He laughed.  "Maxwell.  I wonder whether that can be Maxwell Knox
International.  We do their advertising.  She might be.  That emerald
has to be five carats.  And anyway, without the emerald, she has that
air.  Couldn't you smell it?"

"I smelled the very good perfume.  That's all."

"Not the disgusting smell of snobbery?"

"Not at all.  She was interesting."  An exaggerated version of his own
mother, Connie thought, and wondered whether that could possibly be
what he was thinking.

"You don't really want to meet the granddaughter, do you?"

"Why not?  It might be a look into another world.  What's there to
lose?"

It was indeed another world, as Connie had supposed that it might be. 
And, to her surprise, it accepted her at once.  But then, people had
always taken a liking to Connie.  She was bright and quick, friendly
and obliging.  Her zest for all the things that were new to her
refreshed young women to whom everything was old and too familiar.

Sondra Maxwell, called Bitsy, was known for her independence.  She wore
a mink coat over a woolen skirt and sweater, sneakers, and on her wrist
a gold bracelet whose value Connie, having seen enough by now to know,
estimated at ten thousand dollars.  Her hair, which was marvelous but
no more so than Connie's own, hung long enough to be tossed as she
walked.  She owned a small poodle of a rare red color and persuaded
Connie to buy its sister, named Delphine.  The two young women with the
two small dogs soon made a striking pair as they moved along the
opulent streets of the Upper East Side.  And Connie was no longer a
stranger in the city.

Now, with Bitsy's group, she went to exercise classes, played tennis,
went shopping, took art appreciation classes, had lunch at Le Cirque,
and eventually even came to see her picture in a popular magazine.  At
Bitsy's birthday luncheon at the Pierre the group was photographed for
the society page; at the bottom of a long list of names came Connie's,
and at the rear of the group, barely visible behind a shoulder,
appeared her face.  She bought half a dozen copies and sent one to"
Lara.

Toward the end of the winter the Torys were invited to the Maxwell
house.  They lived in five spacious rooms in a solid old building on
Park Avenue.

"Don't blame me for the furnishings," said Bitsy.  "They're all my
grandmother's, foisted on us by the family when she died.  But we won't
have to put up with them much longer.  We've outgrown this place, and
as soon as we move, we'll refurnish."

This apology astonished Connie, who had been about to remark, and now
did not, how handsome the apartment was. The evening ended early, for
all the young men had to get up early to appear in court, at the bank,
the investment office, or wherever else it was that they had to appear
within the immense stone forest of Manhattan. Connie and Richard were
reading in bed when presently she laid down her book. "Imagine saying
they've outgrown that place.  Can you imagine it, Richard?" "I could if
I had the Maxwell money.  The company's stock is still held in the
family." "It's hard to believe how quickly everything's happened," she
murmured. "What's happened?" "Their taking us up as friends, especially
me, when I think of where I came from." Now Richard put his book down. 
"I'm amazed at you.  You feeling inferior?  With your brains and your
personality?  And besides, you were the prettiest woman there tonight."
"Was I really?" He laid his hand over hers.  "Yes, really.  Oh, your
friend Bitsy—ridiculous name—is good looking, but that's all she is. 
They were pleasant people tonight, very affable, but don't let yourself
be too impressed by them, Connie." For a moment she was silent,
reflecting on the evening.  "I've been thinking," she said then, "that
we really need to do some serious entertaining.  It's part of getting
ahead, as you just saw tonight." "Those people didn't need to get ahead
by entertaining.  They were born ahead." "I know, but I was thinking. 
. . . We really should be able to have a dinner party, or at the very
least, give a big brunch, and we can't do it here.  Don't you think we
need a larger apartment, Richard?  One farther uptown?" "Hey, I'm not
the president of McQueen, you know." "Of course I know.  I don't mean
anything outrageous."  And very carefully, very delicately, she
proceeded.  "This place doesn't look like you, anyway.  It doesn't do
justice to your taste." "Well, it isn't my taste.  You know I bought it
furnished." "It's served its purpose very nicely, I realize."  She
sighed.  It was so difficult, so unpleasant, having to press for
something.  "It's just that it's complicated, having always to say no
to friends and make excuses.  For instance, Bitsy's asked me to be on
the committee for the hospital ball.  It's 54

really a prestigious thing, but the problem is one has to make a
sizable donation, or better still, take a whole table.  And I really
don't know how to keep on refusing all the time.  It's almost insulting
to her when we've become such good friends."

Richard was silent.

"I'm really very fond of Bitsy.  She's been so nice to me."

"Those people go to three or four affairs like that every month during
the season, Connie.  I told you, we don't belong with them.  It makes
no sense for us to try keeping up."

There was a long pause during which Richard appeared to be waiting for
some acknowledgment, while she was inwardly coming to terms with her
expanding knowledge of the world.  The Torys were not rich, not really.
They were what sociologists call the "upper middle class," very
comfortable, very prosperous, but not rich.  The house in River Oaks,
she saw now, had had good furniture, but no rare antiques; the
paintings had not been of museum quality; there had been no collections
of anything, just enough silver and some fine china for use.  Only what
was needed for use, and no more.

Taking her hand again, Richard said softly, "You're very disappointed,
aren't you?"

"A little."

"What's the least you'd need to give?"

"Well, fifteen hundred would do.  I think maybe it would."

"Okay.  I'll write a check in the morning.  I'll stretch my year's
budget for charity for your sake."

"Oh, you're sweet!  Thanks so much.  You're so sweet."

He reached across to turn off the lamp, and then reaching back, put his
arm around her.  His lips brushed her neck.

"Feel happier now, do you?"

"Oh, yes, oh, yes."

For the present she was satisfied.  But what of the next time?  It
would have been easier, in a way, if these people hadn't taken her to
themselves.  But they had done so, and because of them, she could feel
for the first time in her life that life was fun.

Richard was tightening his hold.  He wanted sex.  She wanted to go to
sleep.  And it crossed her mind that her original desire for him, which
had been so disappointed so often and had slowly been cooling toward
indifference, might possibly be turning into active rejection.  His
three minutes, or maybe it was a minute and a half, of pleasure, were
worse than nothing for her, far worse.  . . .

We have to have a new apartment, she was thinking while he lay upon

55

her.  This place is impossible.  Richard gave a final shudder, sighed,
brushed her ear with his lips, and rolled over to sleep. Silver bowls,
jugs, candlesticks, and platters gleamed on the shelves behind the
counter. "So you were just as pleased with the teapot after you got it
home?"  the proprietor inquired pleasantly. "Oh, yes.  I've got the
collecting bug, and that's why I'm back," Eddy replied.  And added with
confidence, "I've decided to buy nothing more recent than 1900." "Well,
that's not a bad decision."  The man hefted a bowl.  "They didn't used
to stint on weight, that's for sure." "I like the little repousse dish.
I think I'll make that my purchase of the day." "A precious old piece.
You won't be sorry about it, either, Mr.  Osborne." Outdoors again in
the bright afternoon with the package tucked under his arm, Eddy
strolled along, feeling the marvelous sense of well-being that so often
accompanied him these days.  He was flying in blue skies, sailing over
blue seas. Little more than a year ago he had predicted how long it
would take him to double his income.  He had expected it to take a few
years, but it had already happened.  He positively astonished himself! 
Business was big now, really, really big; it swelled like a balloon. 
One client, more than satisfied, recommended another.  From real estate
czars came theater people, a big-time boxer, a rock-and-roll singer,
rich Park Avenue widows—anybody and everybody.  He kept their money
growing and his own with it. Heading into the spring sunshine and
filled with such thoughts, he almost bumped into Connie on
Fifty-seventh Street. "Whatever are you doing here in the middle of the
afternoon?"  she demanded.  "And with that twinkle on your face?  You
look like the cat who swallowed a canary." "Shopping.  You don't think
women are the only ones who can take an hour off to go shopping, do
you?" "What are you buying?" "Silver.  I'm collecting." "For
investment, I take it." "Well, it is an investment, but I'm doing it
for pleasure too.  I'm also collecting ivory carvings." "And where do
you plan to put all this stuff?" "Come on with me and I'll tell you. 
I'll take you to tea at the Plaza.  I worked right through lunch, and
I'm starved." Having settled himself into the restful shelter of the
Palm Court, from 56

which the hectic streets seemed to be miles removed, he explained, "I'm
still waiting for the right co-op to come along, but in the meantime my
new place isn't all bad."

"I should think not."  Connie sounded almost indignant, he thought.

"But I'll need more money than I want to spend now if I want the
perfect place on Fifth with a view of Central Park."

"Very wise of you, as always."

Eddy squeezed lemon into his cup, raised it, and studied his sister
over the rim.  Then, aware that, for some inexplicable reason, she was
angry, he gave her his most appealing smile and set the cup down.

"There's something wrong with you.  You're either mad, or sad, or
both."

"Nothing's wrong."

"I'm inclined to say sad."

"No, I said."

"Yes.  I've sensed something different these last few weeks.  You've
lost your glow.  I'm used to seeing you glow."

"Glow!"  she mocked.

"Maybe," he said gently, "you need a job.  You're too smart to be doing
nothing."

"Shall I go back to selling dresses?  No thanks!  I want to qualify for
something in the art world, a gallery or auction room.  That's why I'm
taking art courses.  But that'll take time, a lot of time, and even
then I'll need to be lucky."

She fell into silence, a silence all the more glum because of the
surrounding low-voiced chatter, the pleasant animation, of the teatime
gathering.  He could not know that she was regretting the caustic tone
she had taken and was ashamed to be envious of her beloved brother.  He
had succeeded at everything he had ever tried.  If there were pleasures
to be had anywhere, Eddy would have them.  If there were things to be
known, he would know them.  Yet nothing could have induced her to
reveal herself to him, and this was the first time in her life that she
had been unable to ask Eddy about anything at all.  But he could not
know that.

Still very gently, he ventured a tentative question.  "Is there
anything wrong between Richard and you?"

"No, no, what makes you think that?"

"I only asked.  I like Richard.  He's bright and interesting and
certainly seems to be kind."

"He is kind."  And then she blurted her complaint.  "It's so expensive
living here!  I didn't expect it to be like this."

"It surely is.  But it also depends on the way you want to live.  Who
your friends are has a lot to do with what you expect."

"Well, I want a decent apartment, that's all.  I hate being cooped up
in

57

that cramped little box.  You should understand.  You got something
better for yourself, didn't you?" "Don't forget I'm making money, not
living on a fixed salary.  Even a good one like Richard's doesn't go
far after taxes.  The thing is, you have to know how to manage your
money and make it grow." "And just how am I to do anything about that?"
she asked impatiently. "You know," he said, "I've been doing great
things for strangers.  Tax shelters, arbitrage, futures, whatever.  So
why shouldn't I be doing something for Richard too?  I've suggested it,
but he's not interested, which doesn't make any sense." "He's keeping
his grandmother's trust with the same bank that the family's been with
for three generations, that's why.  You'd think they were married to
the bank." "One can be too conservative, letting the money lie there
doing next to nothing.  I never can get over how you have to prod
people to do things for their own good.  Take Davey.  Now, thanks to
me, he's got his patent approved, and I've made him a loan so he can
establish credit for a mortgage.  He tells me he's found a neat little
building in good condition and he's begun to hire help to get started. 
They should be in production by fall.  If I hadn't pushed, he'd be just
where he's always been, doing absolutely nothing with his great idea. 
And Lara would be wasting a very good business head, which I've always
told her to use.  But I had to push, literally push.  The two of them
always think they have enough.  And somehow, they do!  You know," he
mused, "when I think back to the way we lived at home, the way Peg
managed, I don't understand how she did it.  It's funny how fast you
get used to having more and then how the more never seems to be enough
either.  Almost, but not quite, enough.  Funny." "Yes," Connie said
soberly.  "Funny."  And she looked down at the skirt of her violet wool
suit and at the spring-green silk cuffs of her blouse. Eddy followed
her glance.  "That's a good-looking outfit." "Thank you.  Richard saw
it in a window and brought it home." "He has good taste.  Listen.  I'm
going to call him.  There's no sense in his creeping along when it's
possible to fly." "You're a good soul, Eddy.  With all your faults
you're a good soul." Connie patted his hand, and he knew that her anger
had vented itself. "Well, I try.  I'll have my little talk with Richard
next week." "This is a nice office you've got here," Richard said. 
"But it's getting way too small.  Look out there."  Eddy indicated the
rooms beyond his private office.  "We're falling all over each other." 
"Out there" was a vista of four rooms packed with desks edge to edge
58

and piled with a jumble of telephones and computer terminals, all under
the care of various young men and women in a harried hurry.

"Not that I'm complaining, by any means," Eddy assured Richard.  "We'll
just have to move.  But between ourselves, I sometimes marvel at the
growth.  Where does it all come from?"

"You're a likable person, Eddy.  You're open and frank.  People have
confidence in you."

"Thank you, brother-in-law."

"You and Connie—you're the same.  Full of energy.  Full of life."

"Well, life's exciting, isn't it?  I never think I'll live long enough
to see everything I want to see or do everything I want to do,
especially in this business.  Sometimes I think I actually feel the
adrenaline pouring."  Eddy riffled through the documents that lay
before him.  "Let's see, have you signed all these?  Yes, you have. 
I'm glad you've finally cut your ties to that stuffy bank.  Steady
growth, my foot!  Eight percent, and what's left after taxes?  Wait
till you see your tax bill at this year's end!  You won't recognize
yourself, Richard."

"I was wondering whether you might do something like this for some
cousins of mine.  There's one in particular in Florida.  He's got five
children, and it's a struggle.  I don't believe he's ever invested in a
limited partnership.  It might be just what he needs."

"By all means.  Call him up.  Want to use the phone now?  I'll leave
the room."

"No, no, Eddy.  I'll do it at home tonight.  Come to think of it, I
could get up a whole list of people, friends in Texas and people in my
office too.  You'd be helping them, and I guess they'd be helping you. 
That's the way it works, isn't it?"

"The way it works."  Eddy was pleased.  "And I'll appreciate the new
business very much.  It's awfully generous of you to go to so much
trouble."

"What trouble?  Anyway, people in families are supposed to do for each
other, aren't they?  At least in Texas they are."

"In Ohio too," Eddy said cheerfully.

Richard stood up.  "Well, it's been a good day.  I feel I've made a
good start.  Now I'm off for home."

"And I'm off to the country.  Spending the week at the club.  I give
myself a week's vacation twice a year.  I need it."

"Great.  Have fun.  You deserve it."  The men shook hands, and Richard
left.

"What a decent guy," Eddy thought.  "There's something innocent about
him.  You wouldn't think he came from Houston.  You'd think he came
from a two-horse town like mine."

59

The club had quickly assumed the feel of home.  When a young man, a not
bad-looking young man, has a sense of humor, plays excellent tennis, is
a good dancer, is friendly, and has some money, he can be at home
anywhere, Eddy reflected as he lay alongside the pool.

On his left the golf course, a glaze of summer green, undulated toward
some distant bushy hills.  On his right below the terrace stood the
line of umbrella tables, brightly orange.  A lively chatter surrounded
him.

"Gosh, it's beautiful!"  he exclaimed.

His friend and favorite tennis partner answered with a deprecation.

"You think this place is?  I can show you a club that makes this look
like a dump."

"Not possible!"

"Oh, yes, it is.  This place is vulgar, if you want to know.  Nouveau
riche, and it shows."

Eddy set his cold beer aside and came to attention.  "If it's that bad,
how come you're a member?"

"Frankly, because they wouldn't take me into Buttonwood.  I'm nouveau
riche."  Terry laughed.  "And not all that 'riche' either."

Now Eddy wanted to know more.  "What are the differences between the
two?  Give me an example."

"Oh, I don't know.  It's the people, I guess, the way they look, who
they

are.

"How do you know all this?" "My sister married a member of Buttonwood."
Terry laughed again.  "She married up.  I'll tell you what, I'll ask
her to get two girls for us and invite us to their Saturday dinner
dance.  It'll be a change, it'll be fun, and you'll see for yourself
what I mean.  All right with you?" "It's fine with me," said Eddy.
Buttonwood really was different.  Age and elegance, a slightly sober
elegance, registered their immediate impression upon Eddy's sharp eyes.
The house had very likely been the summer mansion of some railroad,
oil, or banking tycoon back in the 1890s.  No contemporary decorator
had had anything to do with this dark, carved paneling or these gently
faded English chintzes. Apparently, no contemporary fashion dictator
had had contact with the women either.  They looked, he thought at once
as he followed Terry through the crowd on the porch, they looked—well,
underdressed, might one say?  At his club on Saturday night the women
glittered in jewels and dresses fit for an opera ball, jewels and
dresses such as one saw in the Sunday papers' society photographs.
Terry, having found their party, was making introductions. 60

"And this is my good friend, Eddy Osborne."

The sister was a cordial older feminine copy of Terry.  Her husband,
whose name Eddy had not quite caught—it sounded like "Truscott"—was
thin and bald; he had a lordly manner and cold eyes.  He dislikes me,
Eddy thought at once.  To hell with him.

The two young ladies, Marjorie Somebody and Pamela Somebody, were both
tall; they had attractive faces and straight hair fastened with
barrettes.  Preppie types; one saw their photographs shining in the
newspapers and glossy magazines, taken at garden weddings, dog shows,
and gymkhanas.  One wore white linen, and the other yellow.

Since Terry, who was after all entitled to first choice, had
immediately opened conversation with the yellow one, Eddy was left with
the white one.

"I'm Pamela," she said, giving him a quick smile, "in case you've
gotten the names mixed, for which I wouldn't blame you."

That was nice of her.  He had indeed thought that the other one was
Pamela.

"You have no drink," she said.

Truscott—or was Truscott the last name?—overheard.  "There's not much
time for drinks.  You're late as usual, Terry."

"I know.  I'm sorry, but I come here so seldom that I forget the
way."

Touche!  There's no love lost between those two, Eddy thought. 
Unexpectedly, he met Pam's eyes.  They were laughing.  Old prude. 
Icicle.  Her lips formed the words silently.  He winked, she winked
back, and he went in to dinner feeling rather happy.

An older couple, almost certainly the Truscotts' original guests before
Terry had invited himself, was at the table.  This other gentleman,
whose name mumbled by Truscott sounded like "Ripley" or "Brearley," was
apparently a stockbroker, because Truscott and he launched at once into
an informed discussion of the market.  Eddy was torn between the
attractions of Pamela and the attractions of that discussion.  "Federal
Reserve," "gross national product," and "earnings ratio" kept crossing
the table to meet his ears.

Finally, he had to express an opinion.  There had been a moment's pause
between the two men, and he took advantage of it.

"I couldn't help but hear," he said.  "You're right, there's no doubt
about hotel stocks or limited partnerships in hotels.  This is the new
age of travel."

Truscott's cold eyes stared at Eddy's striped tie.  "It's good to know
you agree with us," he said.

"Are you in the market these days?"  asked Ripley, or Brearley.  His
tone

61

was kindly, as if, Eddy sensed, he wanted to atone for the other man's
sarcasm. Terry gave a boom of a laugh.  "Oh, slightly, just slightly!" 
Shaking with his delight, he turned to his brother-in-law.  "Osborne
and Company?  You've never heard of Osborne and Company?" "Certainly I
have," Truscott answered stiffly.  "Is—" "He is.  Vernon Edward Osborne
himself." Truscott flushed.  "You didn't say—" "I know.  I introduced
him as Eddy, which is what he's called." "Well, I'm certainly happy to
know you," said Truscott, recovering.  "I had no idea—" No, Eddy said
to himself.  If you hadn't assumed I was just one of Terry's
insignificant friends, you son of a bitch, you'd have looked at me very
differently.  But aloud, in his most gracious manner, he replied that
he was happy to be here this evening and to meet Terry's family and
friends. Money, money, he thought as he turned back to Pamela.  Eddy
Osborne without it is nothing.  But I knew that, didn't I?  And that's
why I left Ohio. "What's Osborne and Company?  Is it stupid of me not
to know?"  asked Pamela. "Finance.  Investments.  And it's not stupid
of you.  Why should you know?  You probably know a hundred things that
that old fossil doesn't know." "Well .  . . horses, dogs, animals, the
environment.  All that stuff.  That's what I'm involved with.  But he
hurt you, didn't he?  You shouldn't let people like him hurt you."
"Thanks.  I won't."  He looked into the clear gaze of long,
almond-shaped gray eyes under a rosy-tanned low forehead.  "Dogs and
horses, you said?  Tell me about them." "Well, I love horses.  I teach
at a riding school—" "How old are you?  Where do you live?  Do you mind
my questions?" "I'm twenty-two, and I live with my mother not far from
here, and no, I don't mind your questions." "I'm twenty-seven, and I
live and work in New York.  I live alone.  I'd like to get the hell out
of here so we can talk, Pamela.  That is, if you'd like to," he added
quickly. "I would, but obviously we can't.  And I'm called Pam."  "How
about tomorrow?  May I take you to dinner?"  When she nodded, he gave
her a pen and a scrap of paper.  "Write down your phone number and some
directions to your house.  Six-thirty all right?" "Fine.  And now we'd
better join the general conversation," she said very properly.  "We're
being rude." He understood the propriety.  She had breeding and
manners.  The Eastern 62

Establishment, that was the expression.  She had that air.  And heart
too.  The way she'd seen through the old snob.

She's something new, he thought when he left her that night.

The back road was not far from the Sound.  He had driven through here
before and knew his way.  The houses were far apart, most of them the
bulky, brown-shingled summer "cottages," secluded at the end of a lane
and built by New York families in the early years of the century. 
Turning into such a lane, he passed through a tunnel of overgrown, dark
shrubbery and stopped in front of a wraparound porch from which the
paint was peeling.  The place had seen better days.

Pam, with a shining smile, came down the steps.  Looking at her, he
felt curiously lighthearted.

"I hope you're hungry," he said, "because I've made a reservation at
what I'm told is the best French restaurant within fifty miles."

"I'm always hungry."

"It certainly doesn't show," he answered with another quick appraisal
of her body, which was lean, well curved, and taut.

"Exercise.  I'm a sports freak, but mostly, as I told you, I ride.  Do
you?"

"Ride?"  Eddy, having never been on a horse, hesitated.  "I haven't
ridden in years, but I've been thinking that I'd like to start doing it
again."

"Oh, do!  It's marvelous.  There's nothing like getting up early, while
the world's still asleep, except for yourself, the horse, and the
birds.  What I like best is riding along the beach."

She had a pleasing, animated way of speaking, so he encouraged her with
his comments and questions.  He had insisted upon having a very private
table at a corner window overlooking the twilight garden, and there
they sat undisturbed until long after black darkness fell.  By that
time he had learned many things, among them that she had been a
debutante, that her father had died, and that her mother had given up
their New York apartment to economize.

"Mother gave a dance for me at the Pierre.  She really couldn't afford
it, and I wouldn't have cared if I hadn't had it, but tradition means a
lot to her.  Our family has lots of traditions.  It used to have money,
too, a couple of generations ago, but somehow the money just ebbed
away, got less and less.  I never understand how that can happen."

"Oh, it happens very easily," Eddy said.  "Takes no effort at all."

They both laughed.  "I really don't mind," Pam said.  "I like my life
here.  The riding lessons pay well enough, and what can be better than
getting paid for doing what you love to do?"

"What about the winters out here?"

"We have indoor rings when we can't go out on the trails."

63

"And what do you do when—" He broke off.  "Please excuse me.  I
suddenly realize I've been asking too many questions.  It's a failing
of mine.  When I meet a person I like, I always want to know everything
about him right away.  I'm sorry." "No, please!  You were asking me
what I do when .  . . ?" "When you're not busy around horses." "Oh, I'm
a volunteer.  My mother calls me a professional volunteer.  I work at
the animal shelter, and I'm on a committee to save the wetlands, and
the Sierra Club, and stuff like that.  I get really enraged when I see
developers tearing into this earth.  They'll rip it apart until
there'll be nothing green left.  We people who live here all year round
love this place.  It's not just a vacation spot to us." In his daily
travels between the office tower and the apartment tower, Eddy had to
confess that he had been giving very little thought of late to whether
the earth was green or not.  He tried to think of another woman or man
he had ever met who was worried about wetlands or stray animals, and
could not.  These must be chiefly the concerns of people who have owned
land in the same place for years and cherished it, he thought. 
Interesting.  Another world, not like any world he had ever known.  And
he wondered what she might be thinking about him.  . . . Driving back
to his club, he reviewed the evening.  Should he try to see her again? 
It was a long way out there from his club, and he certainly had no
dearth of women who were more conveniently situated.  She wasn't a
tremendous beauty.  As to the possibilities of sex, in spite of the
fact that she obviously had a splendid body, he had a feeling that she
would be rather cool in that respect.  And yet there was something
about her.  . . . He was still in this state of mild concern when he
walked into the club.  There in the lobby someone hailed him.
"Osborne?"  An elderly man, one of Mr.  Hartman's friends, went up to
Eddy.  "I'm Julian Jasper.  You've met me at the Hartmans', in case you
don't remember me." Eddy held out his hand.  "Of course I remember you,
Mr.  Jasper." Anyone would, anyone who was at all in the know.  Having
made his fortune years ago in Bolivian tin, Jasper, now retired, had
become one of the city's prominent philanthropists, with a seat on the
boards of a dozen charities. "I've been wanting to talk to you.  Can we
sit down for a minute?" A request for a donation was sure to follow,
but that was all right.  There was enough coming in, and it was only
right that some of it should go out.  So Eddy waited. "You may have
heard that I'm to be the new chairman of Mount Mercy's board." 64

"Yes, I read about it in the Times, Mr.  Jasper."

"Well, I have a big job ahead, Osborne.  It's an old hospital, its
needs are tremendous, and I need help to meet them."

"I understand."  Twenty-five thousand?  Eddy was thinking.  Fifty?

"The board is too old.  What I mean is, most of us have been on it for
years, we've gotten no new blood for ten years at least, and I intend
to bring some in.  New blood and young blood with fresh ideas.  Would
you be interested?"

Eddy was unsure that he had heard correctly.  "I'm afraid I don't quite
understand," he said.

"I'm offering you a place on Mount Mercy's board."

He was flabbergasted.  Membership in this most distinguished body, he
who had come as a nobody to this city?  Naturally, a very large
donation would be expected; a hundred thousand, he quickly guessed; but
it would be worth it ten times over in honor and prestige.

"I'm overwhelmed, Mr.  Jasper.  Of course I accept.  Who wouldn't? 
Yes, I'm overwhelmed.  There's no other word for it."

The other was pleased.  "You'll be a great asset to us, Osborne. 
Hartman's said fine things about you, and of course, I've heard your
name mentioned most favorably on Wall Street.  Yes, yes, young blood. 
I'd like to introduce you to the other members someday soon.  Lunch at
the Harvard Club, perhaps?"

"Wonderful.  Any day.  I'm delighted, Mr.  Jasper.  Delighted."

As always, he had to keep himself from whistling all the way up to his
room.  Well, well, Vernon Edward Osborne, you're moving ahead.

Then, all of a sudden, his thoughts went back to Pam Granger, and he
made a connection.  He could almost hear the connection click in his
head.  The real reason for his hesitation about calling her again was a
very simple one: He had been afraid of rejection.  He had been afraid
that she was, after all, too different, too far out of his reach.  A
strange insecurity for Eddy Osborne, who would have said that
insecurity was one feeling from which he rarely suffered!  But this
brief encounter downstairs just now had lofted his place in the world
to a new height.  And he reached for the telephone.

"Pam?  I hope I didn't wake you."

"No, I'm reading in bed."

In bed.  Long hair loose on the pillow.  White nightgown sheer enough
to see through to the rosy flesh.

"I don't know about you, Pam, but I had a great time tonight.  Would
you care to repeat it?"

"Why, I'd love to, Eddy."

"Tomorrow?"

65

"Wonderful." "Fine.  Shall I pick you up at six?" "I have a thought,"
she said.  "It's going to be another beautiful day, so how would you
like to meet me at the stables and go riding?  I'm free all afternoon."
Whatever had he told her?  He seemed to remember having given the
impression that he knew all about horsemanship but had simply been away
from it for a time.  What a fix!  He had a vague recollection of having
read that one mounted on the animal's left and rose and sank in the
saddle as the creature moved.  That was called "posting."  And that was
all he knew. "Eddy?  Are you there?" "Yes.  Oh, yes.  Pam, I was only
thinking, my riding clothes are at home." "Oh, dear!" He thought
quickly: Buy an outfit the first thing in the morning, then wing it. 
You've always been athletic, and it can't be that hard. "I'll buy some
stuff in the morning.  My old stuff's probably moth-eaten, anyway.  I
haven't had it on in so long.  And be prepared.  I'll be stiff as a
board, I'm sure." "Don't worry, it'll all come back to you.  Besides,
don't forget, I'm an instructor." He felt so eager, so excited, that he
sang in the shower that night.  A man didn't often have two triumphs in
one day. So began a memorable week.  Because he had assured himself
that his first attempt to ride a horse would be successful, so it was. 
At least, it was no failure.  Smart in the new habit and armed
beforehand with an hour's worth of study from a paperback book of
instructions, Eddy managed to give a fair performance. "Am I too
awful?"  he asked Pam as, carefully, they walked their horses past
low-hanging branches. "For somebody who hasn't ridden in years, you're
doing well," she assured him.  "All you need is practice." Actually, he
was enjoying himself.  Tomorrow he would certainly have a sore rear,
but that was unimportant.  One could get hooked on this sport, he felt.
It was a whole lot better than golf, which had always seemed too slow
for him. The city, in the days that followed, might as well have been
on another planet for all the differences between its noisy, melting
streets and the bliss of fresh winds and airy lawns.  Pam and Eddy went
exploring.  They sailed, swam, sat on a dock eating lobster sandwiches,
played tennis, and laughed a good deal.  To Pam's surprise Eddy wanted
to take a tour of historic houses; she was even more surprised at how
much he knew about furniture periods and architectural styles. 66

"I like to have beautiful things around me," he said simply, "so I need
to learn about them."

She took him then to an antique shop, where they both browsed and he
bought a pair of Staffordshire figures, authentic and charming, but
modestly priced.  In the same shop he saw a pair of Dresden figurines,
which were naturally expensive; those he would have liked to buy, but
did not do so for fear of seeming ostentatious before Pam, whom after
all he scarcely knew.  One evening they went to an Italian movie, on
another to an outdoor concert, and on one had a backyard supper at
Pam's house, then sat on the porch with her mother, who went upstairs
after a proper interval.

On the sixth night, under a bright moon, they came back to the porch. 
The house was already dark, and there was no sound as they came up the
steps but for the thumping of the old dog's tail.

"I haven't seen him before," said Eddy.  "Where are the poodles?"

"They sleep in my mother's room.  This is Buster.  He's mine.  I
rescued him from the pound.  His owners left him there after twelve
years.  Can you believe it?  It could have broken your heart to see the
look in his eyes.  He couldn't understand why they were walking away
without him.  So I took him, and I think he's getting over his loss. 
Poor guy."

I really like her.  I really do, he said to himself.  And curiously, he
asked, "Tell me.  Do you ever look far ahead?  Plan what you want to do
with your life, I mean?"

"Oh, I'd like to live pretty much as I'm living now.  And someday have
a husband and children, but not for a long time."

That seemed strange, since she wasn't one of the competitive career
women who filled the banks and the law offices these days.  Most other
women had "marriage" written on their faces after the first half-dozen
meetings.

He pressed her.  "You don't feel that you're missing anything?"

"No.  I like being independent.  What should I miss?"

He hesitated and then took a chance.  "Well, sex, for instance."

She laughed.  "I don't deprive myself.  Not when I meet the right
person."

He pressed again.  "How do you recognize when you've met him?"

And she, laughing again, replied, "Now, you know better than to ask a
silly question like that!"

Their chairs were so close that their knees almost touched.  The
sweetest, most alluring fragrance lay on the air: her perfume or that
flowering vine that climbed the railing?  He stood up and took both her
hands.  Her body, yielding easily, rose up to meet his.

"Where shall we go?"  he whispered.

"Here, in the swing.  Don't worry, it doesn't creak."

67

His head swam with an explosion of fire that came from the very depth
of him, from the racing of his blood.  Clothes dropped in an instant to
the floor; an instant later he lay with her in the swing.  He had heard
about sex on a water bed, about its soft, erotic sway; he had heard,
too, about sex outdoors on a summer night, and had never tried either
until now.  Those were his quick thoughts, and then there was no
thought, only that fire exploding, and afterward, the sweetness.  The
sweetness. "And I thought—I thought you would be cool," he said. "Cold?
Frigid?" "No, not that.  Far from that.  But—it's hard to explain.  I
just didn't think you would be like this." She had been lying with her
head on his shoulder and now sat up. "Like what?  What am I like?" He
sat up, too, shaking himself.  Never, never had he had such sex.  "You
won't believe me.  You'll think it's just a line that a man hands out. 
But the truth is that I've never felt anything quite like this.  I
don't know what you did, but—" "And if I tell you that I don't make a
habit of sex with a practical stranger, will you believe me?  You're
probably thinking, Oh, they all say that, and you're right, I suppose,
but in this case it happens to be the truth.  I need to have real
feeling, real and quick and deep.  And that happens very, very rarely."
Pam took his hand.  "So.  Do you believe me or not?" He looked into
her eyes, which shone now in a sudden shaft of light from the sky. "I
do believe you," he answered. After that he knew he could not forget
her.  All the way back to New York when the vacation week was over, he
thought about her.  He would have liked to give her a present, not
flowers, chocolates, or books, but something beautiful, like a pendant
or a bracelet.  Just as a remembrance of seven wonderful days.  But he
remembered that she had once spoken with scorn of some girls who
accepted expensive presents from men.  She had standards, Pam had. 
Having learned that much about her, he decided on flowers, the most
lavish roses that could be ordered. One other thing he knew about her:
She was not a fortune hunter, like so many of the women to whom he had
been introduced of late.  He had learned to recognize and to expect
their lingering, hungry look whenever they passed a jewelry store.
Still another thing: She had said quite plainly that she was not ready
for marriage, which was perfect because he was not either.  Not yet.
But when I am ready, he thought, it will be Pam, or if she won't have
me, which is possible, then somebody just like her. 68

About six months later Richard Tory was able to say, "He's a financial
whiz, your brother is.  Do you know, with those futures he bought, I
added ten percent to my capital?  It's incredible.  I think," he
proposed cautiously, "I think we're in a position now to look for that
apartment you've been wanting."

Warmth like a glow from liquor surged through Connie's chest, and she
took a last look at the common little box, adorned with cheap chrome
and steel, the little box that had once been a delight.

"How large can we go?"

"Well, four rooms, perhaps?"

She thought of Bitsy's ten new rooms.  "How about five, so we can
spread out some?  You said you wanted to bring all your books from
Houston."

"Well, all right.  It'll come high, especially where Eddy's looking,
and I guess that's where you want to be too.  Not that we can plan
anything on his scale."  Richard got out a pad and pencil, and she
waited, looking over his shoulder, with an anxious tilt to her head. 
"Let's see.  I can go as high with my salary as five or six hundred.  I
can handle the mortgage.  And I'll pay it off as fast as Eddy can make
my money grow.  After all, property's always the best investment.  You
can't lose on a New York co-op."

"What about furniture?  The only things we own are the screen and the

mrror.

"We'll shop carefully on Third Avenue where we found those.  We'll go
gradually, step by step, take our time."

Not too much time, Connie thought.  Richard was so slow, deliberate and
slow.  Not like Eddy, who went right after what he wanted and got
things done.

CHAPTER FIVE

Eddy and Connie had flown out to see Davey's brand-new plant.  It was a
day for celebration.  "Before we go see the plant," Lara said, "we'll
have a big lunch— I've got a turkey in the oven.  Then we can go
later." "But not too late.  Eddy and I are taking a six o'clock plane
home." "I thought you were staying over Sunday," Lara said, sounding
plaintive.  "Such a flying visit—" "I know.  But Eddy changed his mind.
You know he's a workaholic, and as for me, I do have a husband.  By
the way, Richard said to tell you he's terribly sorry he couldn't make
it.  He's bogged down with evening meetings, but we will definitely
both come during Christmas.  A promise." Connie looks extraordinarily
pretty today, Lara thought.  Her hair was lighter, almost ash-blond,
and she was wearing a mink jacket.  One didn't have to be experienced
in the wearing of mink to know that this was no ordinary
department-store bargain, nor were the claret-colored shoes and the
matching woolen dress. "You look lovely," she said.  "And happy too."
"Do I?"  Connie replied lightly.  "It's probably the new apartment."
"Is that all?" "All?  That's plenty." "Tell me about it." "Well, it's
between Madison and Park.  You wouldn't know where that is, but it's a
prime neighborhood.  The whole thing isn't exactly what I wanted,
because two of the rooms at the rear are rather dark.  Still, it's a
dream compared with the old dump.  All we have to do now is furnish
it."  Connie sighed.  "We've got the bedroom finished and a lot of
other stuff on order.  English country things, mostly, mahogany and
oak, lots of chintz and linen.  I sort of fell in love with all that
when we were in England." There was a casual air of authority in her
tone, a subtle change of which she was probably not even aware, from
the last time Lara had seen her in 70

the place she now described as a dump.  It had always seemed strange to
Lara that money changed people so abruptly.  Although, she reflected,
if Davey's new enterprise works out, it won't make any change in him. 
That she knew.  And yet she felt no disapproval of Connie, but only a
vague doubt.

Then she said shyly, "I'm rather happy today.  Happy and hopeful.  I
missed this month.  I might be pregnant, I think."

Connie got up and hugged her.  "Oh, darling, I hope so!  A person
really ought to get something she wants so much!"

"And you?  Or shouldn't I ask?"

"All in good time.  I'm in no rush."

"It looks as if Eddy's in no rush either.  I wish he'd get married, at
least."

"Why?  He couldn't be happier than he is now, although I do think he
has a girl he sees a lot."

"Really?  Who is she?"

"All I know is that her name is Pam.  She likes horses."  Connie
laughed.  "So he's taken up riding in a big way.  I think she's in the
Social Register or something."

"Well, Eddy always had big ideas."  Lara was amused.

When the men came in they all had lunch, and right afterward got into
Davey's new Jeep to drive to the far side of town where the plant was
situated.  It was a neat, low building that had been a small warehouse,
behind a wire fence.  The spacious parking lot was empty.

"Room for five hundred cars, I'd estimate," said Eddy, "wouldn't you
say so, Davey?"

Davey grinned.  "More than I'll ever need, that's for sure."

Eddy corrected him.  "More than you'll need for a while, you mean."

Above the white-painted entrance was a dignified sign, saying only THE
DAVIS COMPANY.  The open warehouse space had been divided into various
work areas, where sundry pieces of machinery, some still disconnected
and others still uncrated, had been placed.

Lara made a proud comment.  "A little different from the workbench in
the shed out back."

Offices had been partitioned off at the far end of the building.  Davey
pointed them out.

"This one's mine, and that's Lara's.  She takes a load of paperwork off
my shoulders, let me tell you."

"You've got a first-class accountant, I hope," Eddy continued.  "You've
got to watch those taxes, watch those dollars."

Davey nodded.  Lara, standing between them, could not help but feel,
regardless of her own independent strength and confidence, a certain
sense

71

of being protected by the two men.  I suppose that's from generations
of brainwashing, she told herself with some amusement. "I watch them,"
Davey said. "You've got to make them grow faster and bigger." "What do
you mean?" "Listen to me, Davey.  You can't afford to lag behind. 
You've got a good thing here, a growing child, and it needs to be fed. 
You've got to nourish its growth." "What do you mean?"  Davey repeated.
"What I mean is, it's time to go public, to issue stock.  You need
capital so you can expand.  Listen to me, Davey.  I know what I'm
talking about." "I'm comfortable with the size we are.  Lara and
I—well, she really manages the office, the wages, and the orders, while
I get my hands black in the machine shop.  And three salesman are out
traveling.  I have been thinking of adding salesmen, it's true, but—"
"If you were to get as few as twelve stockholders, each with fifty
thousand dollars, for example, you'd have over half a million for
improvements." "I don't want to get involved with strangers and give
them a vote in the running of my affairs.  I'm a small-town guy, Eddy,
I admit it." "Listen to me.  You wouldn't have to sell stock to
strangers.  There must be a dozen well-heeled people in this town,
maybe even friends of yours, who would jump at a chance to invest in a
growing company."  Eddy looked around and up at the ceiling.  "This
place is nice, yes, but it can use a lot of fixing up.  And you'd have
cash to buy machinery.  I'm sure you'll be needing some." "Well, yes,"
Davey acknowledged.  "I was hoping to get a loan for it." "Then you'd
be saddled with interest payments.  Will you please do it my way,
Davey?  I can set up the whole thing for you.  Finance is my business,
isn't it, for God's sake?  All you need is to keep on with what you're
doing and leave the rest to me.  Have I ever steered you wrong?" "No. 
No, you haven't." "All right, then.  Go home and start thinking about
whom you can approach to buy shares." Davey and Lara looked hesitantly
at one another.  After a moment Lara spoke. "Dr.  Donnelly?  He's been
Davey's family doctor since Davey was a baby," she explained to Eddy. 
"And Tony?  What do you think, Davey?  His aunt Alma left him a pile of
money."  Again she explained, "He's been Davey's best friend from
kindergarten through college." "That's great!  Those are the kinds of
contacts you need." 72

Davey spoke.  "I could ask Ben at Levy's Dry Goods.  He'd probably be
interested."

Eddy's enthusiasm mounted.  "There.  You see?  That's three already, so
keep it up."  He glanced at the clock.  "I'm in a rush.  Got to get
back.  Listen.  I'll get working on this, talk to my lawyers, and get
back to you by the end of the week.  I see a big future here, Davey. 
Bigger than you probably realize.  But you've got to put it on the
road, and not in a horse and buggy either.  You understand?"

"I guess I do," Davey said.  "You are convincing, I must say."

"Okay!  We'll be talking."

They took a roundabout route to the airport.  Connie said she felt as
though she had been away forever and if there was time she would like a
tour of the old places.  Davey told her that there was nothing really
new in town except a strip mall and a housing development on the south
end that they could pass.

When they came to it, a scattering of unoriginal, yet pleasing,
shingled colonials on a huge, sloping field that had been denuded of
trees, Eddy insisted on seeing the model house.  So they all trooped
through empty rooms that had the fresh smell of new wood, through
picture-book bathrooms and a magnificent kitchen with a barbecue and a
view of the autumn sky at the top of the slope.

"This," Eddy declared, "is what you two should buy."

"This isn't the time," Davey said.  "We need to put money back into the
business."

"This is exactly the time, Davey.  I always tell you people should
enjoy life as they go along.  Today won't come again.  It's now that
you're young."  Eddy pointed toward the window.  "Look at the space out
there.  Fence it in, make a hedge of evergreens.  You'd have room for a
garden, maybe even a pool eventually.  What have you got now?  A dingy
yard and a shabby screened-in porch."

"He's right," asserted Connie.  "After all, he's not talking about a
mansion, just a pretty simple house."

Lara considered the lemon-yellow appliances, the European cabinets, the
butcher-block island, and the brass chandelier.  In her estimation
these were hardly simple, and she said so.

With slight impatience in her voice Connie rebuked her.  "You never
want anything!"

Just so had Connie used to speak, with that frown, when she was in
grade school.  And Lara, countering that impatience with the patience
she had used back then, replied, "It's no use wanting what you can't
afford."

Eddy clapped Davey on the back.  "Go for it!  You can afford it.  I'll
be your mortgagor.  I'm flooded with cash right now."

73

"Thanks, Eddy, but the answer is no.  I owe you enough already," Davey
said. "Okay, brother-in-law.  You're a stubborn customer and always
were.  But I don't have to tell you that I never give up either."  He
looked at his watch.  "We don't have a lot of time.  Let's go, folks."
At the local airport the Davises watched Eddy and Connie climb the
steps to board the plane.  At the top of the steps they both turned and
waved, Connie's newly bright hair streaming out in the wind.  And Lara,
along with a sense of loss at this departure, had a curious sense of
relaxation.  They were both so—so energetic.  The two of them were
alike, people in a hurry, bright and lovable and quick to fill every
hour, with no rest.  It made you tired just to think of living like
that. "It was a nice visit," Davey said.  "I'm surely fond of them
both, but I'm glad—" "Glad of what, dear?" "Well, glad you're
different." "It was a nice visit," Eddy said as the taxi turned into
Connie's street.  "They both looked well and happy.  It goes to show
you what happens to people when things start looking up for them."
"They always did look well, Eddy.  But that flat—it's even dingier than
I remembered." "Oh, it's not that bad.  She keeps it clean as a
whistle." "Yes, and if you don't think it's hard work to keep that
place clean!  Especially if she has a baby.  She told me this morning
that she thinks she's pregnant.  They really ought to buy that house."
"They will.  But Davey's so damn slow to make a decision!  I have to
prod him, push him, and pull at him before he'll finally come around. 
Gosh, I hope she really is pregnant!  It'll be fun to see her with a
kid at last." Fun for her, not for me, Connie said to herself.  All the
work and the tugging at you, literally, for fourteen hours a day. It
felt good to be home even after that short time.  Tomorrow there was
the art class at the museum, and after that an appointment with the rug
people about the dining room.  Richard wanted to make do with
carpeting, but Bitsy Maxwell had just bought an Oriental, and there was
no possible comparison between the two effects.  Her Oriental had the
muted shimmer of stained glass.  Richard would just have to be
convinced. The taxi stopped at the door and went on with Eddy.  The old
doorman saluted her.  His posture, still erect as a soldier's in the
pseudomilitary uniform, was pathetic.  Imagine a lifetime spent in
opening doors and greeting people as if you really cared whether they
came or went.  And then 74

to travel home late, maybe for an hour on the subway, to some dreary
dwelling on a dreary street.  Sad.

"Good evening, Higgins.  Mr.  Tory home?"

"Yes, ma'am.  He came in a couple of hours ago."

It was only ten-thirty.  The big meeting must have broken up very
early, then.  There was no light in the foyer when she opened the door
of the apartment, and no light anywhere else.  He must be already
asleep.  He was a great sleeper.  She sighed and suddenly became aware
that this sigh of hers, resigned and exasperated, was becoming a habit
that must be broken.

The poodle whimpered in its basket.  She turned on a lamp, picked up
the dog, kissed it, and urged it to be quiet.  Then, removing her shoes
so as not to disturb Richard, she crossed the bare floor to the
bedroom.  The door was open.  A weak shaft of light from the lamp fell
directly on the bed, where Richard lay naked and facedown.

She felt a shock, as though her hand had touched a spark.  The thought
sparked: He's dead, and her hand went to her heart.

She must have made a sound.  Afterward, in her countless
recapitulations of the scene, she remembered only that she turned on
the switch at the door, illuminating the room with rosy lamplight, that
he started up, that she saw his horrified face, all eyes, and that
there were not one, but two men on the bed.

During the fraction of time when she stood there absorbing the total
truth of what was before her, she was to remember what is said about
drowning people, how in seconds a whole life flashes; that might well
be true, although to her, it was not a whole life, but rather sporadic
incidents out of that life, her mother's face, dead in the satin
coffin-bed, and Richard in tennis whites on that first morning, and
Lara talking about having a baby .  . .

Richard was cowering behind the blanket, absurd as a prudish old woman
covering her nakedness.  The other man slid beneath the far side of the
blanket, absurd as an ostrich hiding its head.  And Connie's laugh was
a shrill falsetto shriek that ended in a gasp.  Still Richard had not
spoken.

Then she fled.  She sat down at the kitchen table, the kitchen being
the only other room that was complete, and put her head down on it.

"Oh, my God," she wailed.  "Oh, my God!"

After a long while she sat up and rocked her body back and forth, bent
over, with her hands on her elbows, rubbing and rubbing her arms.  Her
head was empty, numb.

When the deep, shaking sobs subsided, she swung around in the chair and
looked out of the window across the courtyard at a checkerboard of
lighted windows and then into the opposite kitchen, where a maid was

75

putting dishes away.  The people must have had a party for someone to
be still cleaning up this late. And behind all those windows, all those
trivial, ordinary, daily routines, extraordinary things were happening,
or could be happening.  Anniversaries and terminal sickness, feuds,
crimes, reunions, deaths, bankruptcies, and weddings.  Who among the
tenants who nodded greeting in the elevator to young Mr.  and Mrs. 
Tory could imagine what had occurred in their bedroom just now?
Presently, she heard whispers at the outer door and the soft thud of
its closing.  Without turning she knew when Richard came to the kitchen
door.  He would be wondering, in his desperation, what to say to her. 
Although, after her first shock, she was beginning to feel the rise of
fury— she, desirable and young, to be so cheated, so tricked—she could
not help but feel pity for him, too, in his utter humiliation. As he
approached, she had to look at him.  He had put on pajamas and a
bathrobe, but they were loosely fastened, and his bare flesh was
repugnant to her.  His voice was barely audible. "I guess I don't know
how to start, what to say." "I don't know what to say either."  And
again her tears welled.  "What is there to say?  A thousand things or
maybe nothing at all." "Listen.  Please listen to me.  This was my
first time, I swear it.  And I can't explain it, except that we had a
business meeting, then it was a nice night so we walked uptown
together, and I asked him in for a drink.  A perfectly natural thing to
do." She could not answer.  This is unreal, she was thinking.  This
isn't happening to me.  To me, Connie Osborne.  Osborne.  That's my
name. "The thing is, I guess—I knew we had too much to drink.  On an
empty stomach," he finished lamely, standing before her still with that
imploring look upon his face. "Who is he?"  she murmured.  "Anyone I
might know?" "He works in the office." She said bitterly, "How nice for
you.  How convenient." "Connie, I told you I don't make a practice of
this.  I'm sorry.  I'll spend the rest of my life being sorry." "Your
being sorry doesn't help very much.  Oh!"  she cried.  "I should have
had some inkling, I should have been smarter!"  And she bent over again
in pain, rubbing her arms. He asked softly, "Why should you have? 
There was no reason." That was true.  What possible reason could there
have been to suspect this blooming young man, this vivacious,
enthusiastic athlete?  That he was too shy, too cowed by his parents,
perhaps?  Not necessarily.  That he had waited until marriage before
taking her to bed?  Not necessarily.  That he 76

had been lacking in desire after marriage?  And desperately,
soundlessly, she asked herself: What do I know?  He's my first.  I can
only guess.  . . .

Richard had, perhaps unconsciously, clasped his hands before him.  The
gesture was so pathetic that she had to close her eyes.

"We've been so happy together," she heard him say.  "Traveling,
listening to music, making a home.  We've been so happy together."

Yes, she thought, in all those ways we were.  He's shown me so much and
taught me so much.  And given me so much besides.  Oh, it's rotten! 
Everything's rotten!

He moved closer, looming tall above where she still huddled, so close
that she smelled the fresh scent of his cologne.

"Connie .  . . you're not going to leave me, are you?"

She looked up then, straight into his eyes, which were pleading and
pained as those of a dog that had been harshly treated.

"Is it true, will you swear that you never did this before?"

"Connie, I swear it.  And I never will again.  Never."

She sighed.  It was as if her heart were crying, heavy with its
confusion of anger, shame, and pity for him.  Poor man.  Poor, foolish
young man.

"You're shivering."  He fetched a shawl from the closet.  "I don't know
how the wind manages to seep into these buildings."

"I don't want it," she said, shaking it off when he tried to place it
around her shoulders.

His gesture was a plea; she understood that; yet, imagining where an
hour ago those hands and that body had been, she could not bear to feel
him close to her.  Not yet.

Possibly he understood, because he let the shawl drop and went back to
the chair.  For a long time they sat, not speaking.  An hour passed,
and the silence, like a heavy sea, swelled over them both.  Once
Richard opened his mouth, made a slight sound, and closed it again.  On
the second attempt Connie questioned him.

"Is there something else you want to tell me?"

He looked past her, out toward the nighttime sky stained rusty pink by
the city's million lights.  Sweat dampened his forehead, and tears
stood in his eyes.

"I wanted to ask—I mean, I hope you won't tell anyone about tonight."

"Of course not, Richard."

"Not even Lara and Eddy?"

"No one, Richard."

"Because I don't want to lose their regard."

"I know."

"And you will give me another chance?  Will you?  Will you?"

"Yes, I will."  How could she not?  How could she just throw him
away?

77

"Oh, bless you, Connie.  Bless us both."  He got up then, saying
gently, "You're worn out.  Go on in to bed.  I'll sleep on the folding
cot out here." "No, I'll take the cot." Did he really think she could
lie down in that bed after what she had just seen there?  For a man who
was so sensitive, so perceptive, this was incredible.  He must,
however, have realized immediately how obtuse he had been, because he
gave no argument, but pulled out the cot instead and set it up for her.
When she lay down on it, she could see, high at the top of the window,
an oblong of sky.  Pink, obscuring what should have been deep, soothing
black, looked dirty now, like a silky blot on the enormous world and on
her own small life. In the morning things look different.  Troubles are
smaller, Peg used to say.  Well, perhaps not all that different, but
possibly a little smaller, she thought, more manageable.  She had slept
so heavily, in such deep exhaustion, that she had not even heard
Richard leave the house.  Meticulous as always, he had rinsed his
coffee cup and juice glass and left them in the dish drainer.  Now
Connie sat musing over her own coffee. Something in her deepest heart,
her clearest mind, wanted to make sense of things.  This was, after
all, his first time.  He had sworn so, and he was truthful.  He had
been drinking, he wasn't much of a drinker, and whiskey had probably
turned his head inside out.  Quite probably, too, he hadn't even known
what was happening.  The other man had instigated the business, while
Richard, in a fog, had been led along.  As she sat there puzzling,
reconstructing the event, she became more and more certain that this
was the only reasonable explanation. Yes, of course it was.  Poor
Richard, she thought again.  He must be cringing inside.  He must be
longing for a hole to hide in.  She imagined him now downtown, trying
to concentrate on his work, holding to his dignity while the ugly
memory of last night filled his head. Later that afternoon an impulse
struck her.  "I'll phone him," she said aloud to herself.  "It may
encourage him, may help him through the day.  It'll help me too.  It's
the only right thing to do, isn't it?  Maybe I'll suggest a weekend
away at some peaceful New England inn.  We'll take a few books, go on
country walks, and have dinner by an open fire.  A quiet time like that
is cleansing and strengthening.  What happened is rotten, but you have
to excise rot wherever you find it.  Cut it out like an abscess.  Yes,
I'll phone him and then make reservations.  I should be able to get
something within the next few weeks.  We'll start fresh." 78

The little old white inn on a dirt road just beyond the little old
white village was framed with autumn reds and yellows.  In a mild, warm
wind leaves sank slowly onto the still-green grass.  In the orchards
yellow jackets swarmed over rotting fallen apples, whose sweet, fruity
fragrance tinged the air.  There were tennis courts at the inn, there
were canoes, and there was a section of the Appalachian Trail to hike
on.

The two had tacitly agreed to put the sorry episode away forever, so
nothing was said to impede a return to normal living.  On the third
night Connie was even able to shut out that appalling scene in their
beautiful bed at home, and to respond to Richard's wish for sex.  In
the morning at breakfast he reached suddenly across the table and
clasped her hand; she was sure she read gratitude in the clasp and the
smile.

An elderly couple at the next table, catching the gesture, gave one
another an endearing look of recognition that said plainly, We were
young, too, honeymooners, so in love, and wasn't it wonderful?

And Connie, responding inside her head, said, Well, it isn't quite like
that over here, you know, but it's been good in many ways and worth
preserving.

They drove back to the city feeling both reconciled and refreshed. 
Their pleasant routines were waiting for them: Richard's at the office
and Connie's, for the next few months at any rate, at the shops
acquiring possessions for the new apartment.

They had begun afresh.

And then, on a fair Saturday afternoon in the following month, on her
way home Connie entered Central Park near the Mall to enjoy the short
remaining walk away from the traffic on the streets.  The day was
closing, perambulators, bicycles, and dog-walkers were all heading for
home, but here and there in sheltered spots a few people still sat on
benches in the warm sun.  Connie was smiling; she felt the smile on her
cheeks.  What a wonderful city in all its variety!  How wonderful to be
young here, to have some money in one's pocket, and to be able to buy
such heavenly Chinese blue lamps as she had just found today!

This was the moment at which time was arrested, so that ever afterward
she would associate those lamps with what she saw sometime between
three-thirty and four o'clock.  What she saw were two men on a bench,
only partly hidden in a cluster of long-needled pines, two men in an
embrace, arms encircling and lips joined.  . . . How disgusting, here
without caring who saw, or perhaps so engrossed as to be unaware that
people were able to see.  . . . One of the men was Richard.

She froze.  Her heart made such a frantic leap that for an instant she
thought it would stop.  But her legs kept moving.  It was as if her
legs knew enough to carry her away from there as fast as they could go.
 It was as if

79

they understood that she must get home to shelter and safety.  Get
home.  Get home. Shut the door and sit down, still with coat on, sit
gasping, numb.  You tried, you did what you should.  How could he have
lied to you?  Rotten.  Rotten. After a while she got up and made a cup
of coffee.  She was drinking it, warming her cold, shaking hands around
the cup, when the key turned in the lock and Richard came in, looking
as cheerful as always. "How was your day?  I had more to do at my desk
than I'd thought, or I'd have been home by noon." "At your desk?"  she
said.  "Try Central Park." He stared.  "What do you mean?" "Richard, I
saw you, so don't try to lie your way out.  You've lied enough
already." He looked away from her.  A flush like a sore disease swept
over his forehead and down to his collar. "It wasn't your first time,
that night."  She waited and, as anger mounted, cried out fiercely,
"Answer me!  It wasn't, was it?" "Well, not quite.  But truly, truly,
there haven't been a lot of times.  I mean—" He floundered.  The
strength drained from him.  It was visible in the sag of his shoulders
and the helpless droop of his hands.  And within Connie's chest hung
the heavy weight of disillusionment. Her voice was thick in her throat.
"I believed you.  How could you have done this to me?  To a person who
trusted you?" His reply was so low, so strained, that she barely heard
it.  "I guess—I guess I couldn't help it.  It just happens sometimes."
"That's all the explanation you can give me?" He sighed and dropped
down onto the other chair, facing her across the table. She thought,
what a waste!  But he couldn't help it, so it wasn't his fault.  Except
for the outrage of the lies, from the very beginning. "You should never
have married me.  Can you tell me why you did?" "I wanted to love a
woman," he answered simply. "It was an experiment, then?  Some sort of
therapy?" "No.  I can—I can do both." "You prefer that way, though." "I
don't know.  But I loved you, Connie.  I still do." "I can't imagine
why." "Your beauty, your intelligence and curiosity, your drive that I
don't have.  My spirit loves you, and my body does too."  At her
scornful stare he insisted, "Yes, it does." 80

Connie shook her head.  Tears stung, but she did not want to let them
fall.  In crises one must keep one's control.  And this was crisis. 
This was the end of the road that had begun that morning when he had
walked in, sun-bronzed and tall in his tennis whites.  Then a tear
fell.

And Richard cried out, "Oh, my God, I'm so sorry, Connie!  What can I
do?  Can I ask you again to give me another chance?"

She wiped the tear with the back of her hand.  "It wouldn't do any
good.  It wouldn't work, and you know that well."

"What then?  Divorce?"

"I have no choice, the way things are."

Divorce?  And then?  This misery would be over.  But the friendly,
everyday routines of life with him would be over too.  Until that
instant, in this tense and hopeless silence, she had not realized just
how friendly, in spite of its disappointments, that life had been, with
his comical anecdotes at supper, or their evening walks to window-shop
or to see a foreign movie or to go dancing or just to sit reading
together.

Presently Richard, clearing his throat, began with difficulty to
speak.

"Whatever you do, whatever, just please ... If there were some way my
father could be kept from knowing your reason.  I don't think I could
face that."

"Do you mean that in this day and age he wouldn't accept what you
are?"

"Not everybody's out of the closet, Connie."

"And your mother?"

"If they had always known, maybe they'd be used to it by now.  I don't
know."  He gave a weak, apologetic laugh.  "But this would be quite a
surprise, to say the least."

The Grant Wood couple in front of their imposing house, faces without
smiles, cold courtesy.

"Yes," she said, "I can see.  They'd take it out on you.  They
would."

"I don't know about 'taking it out.' Their silence can be rather
awesome too."

"Have you ever thought maybe that's got something to do with the way
you are?"

He became suddenly, ruefully defensive.  "I'm happy.  And I would have
continued to be happy if you hadn't seen me today.  I've accepted the
way I am, and I won't fight it anymore."

"You would have gone on doing this to me?"

"I said I was sorry, Connie."

"All right, I won't say anything to your parents, or to anyone except
my brother.  You can depend on my word."

"I know I can."

81

"Blame the divorce on me.  They never liked me anyway, so they'll no
doubt be pleased." He did not deny it, but said only, "You can keep
this apartment.  It's paid for, free and clear.  It cleaned out almost
all my cash.  What's left is invested with Eddy." This unexpected offer
made Connie feel cheap, and guilty, too, as if he had read her mind and
seen there how painful it could be to give up this home. "I don't want
blood money," she said stiffly. "You won't have to fight me for
anything." "I don't want to fight you at all, Richard.  I just want to
talk to Eddy.  He'll know what to do.  Now I can't talk anymore.  I'm
exhausted.  Wrung out." "I'm in no mood for explanations or for
commiserations from friends like Bitsy Maxwell," Connie said.  "They'll
all just have to wait.  I'll tell Lara myself, so don't you tell her,
Eddy.  She'll be heartbroken for me, but other people will ask only out
of curiosity, you know that." They were in Eddy's office, waiting for
Richard to arrive.  Laid in readiness on the otherwise immaculate desk
was a tidy stack of papers like a white island on a mahogany sea; this
was Richard's portfolio of securities. Now Richard entered.  He had
been sleeping for the last week at a hotel, or very likely had been
lying awake there; gray pouches made semicircles beneath his eyes. Eddy
rose, offered his hand, and smiled.  "Come in, Richard.  I'm glad to
see you, but awfully sorry about the reason." Connie twirled a ring
around her little finger and did not look up.  Richard, stifling a
quiver in his throat, rushed to begin. "I suppose Connie's told you
everything.  I don't know how you will regard me now, Eddy.  This is
hardly what you expected for your sister.  I feel—" "She's told me.  As
to how I regard you—well, I'm not here to judge anything or anybody. 
All I can say is, people make mistakes.  What can you do?  You're both
decent and honorable, so there's no reason why this business shouldn't
be agreeably settled.  Those are my sentiments." He was in a hurry to
finish this business as fast as possible.  It was certainly not that he
was wanting in sympathy; it was precisely because he had so much of it
that he shrank from contact with sadness; he must strike at the cause
of sadness and eradicate it, accept the fact as accomplished and get
down to practicalities. "I never meant to cheat Connie.  I realize now
that I should have told her.  It wasn't honest." 82

"Well, that's water over the dam.  The thing is now to look ahead. 
I've already put Connie in touch with a lawyer.  I assume you have one
too?"

"I don't need one.  I've told Connie I've no plan to fight her.  She
can have the apartment.  She can have everything."

It was painful to hear Richard sound so beaten.  And Eddy saw by his
sister's woebegone expression that she was feeling the same pain.  Then
she spoke.

"I told you, Richard, that I don't want to rob you.  I don't want to
hurt you."

"But you'll take the apartment," Eddy said quickly.

"What will I do with a lot of big, empty rooms?"  Connie's voice was
bleak.

"They won't be empty," Richard said.  "I'll pay for everything we
ordered."

Eddy had a strange impulse.  He wanted to cry out to Richard: Why are
you so damned good?  The world is contemptuous of such goodness!  It's
weak, this goodness of yours.  It would be easier for us if you'd put
up a little fight for yourself.  He looked at the man sitting
uncomfortably and looking small—however could Richard manage to look
small?—in the ox-blood leather wing chair.  Richard looked back with a
faint, tentative smile, to which Eddy responded with compassion, until
abruptly there flashed into his mind a picture of two men in a bed, and
he felt anger.  He'd had no right to marry her, no right!

That this marrying business can end in such a mess was appalling. 
Connie, poor girl, had been in such a rush to get married too.  Pam,
now, was just the opposite, he reflected thankfully.  A modern woman,
she was happy enough to be on her own, earning her own few dollars,
taking each day as she found it without anxiety.  She was a perfect
complement to himself— and not just sexually—because that was exactly
his own style of living.  He saw hardly any other women but her; rarely
he found himself roped into a "date" by some business connection whom
he did not want to offend by refusal, and he never liked the "dates"
because, as he always put it, they usually had "marriage" beaming from
their eyes.

Freedom.  Freedom was the ticket, and no binding ties, only loose ones
that can be dropped when the time for dropping comes.  One had only to
look at this poor pair of mismatched—

"As to alimony," Richard was saying, addressing Eddy now, "well, you
know what I own.  I'll make no trouble over any amount you think is
justified.  Just give me the figures.  And remember, Connie's got
expensive tastes."

"You make me feel disgusting when you talk like that!"  Connie
gasped.

83

"We have no children and I don't need alimony.  Just make some sort of
fair settlement." Eddy put up a hand before Richard could answer. 
"Enough.  Enough.  Let me settle this by saying there's plenty for you
both.  Richard, your shelters got you a four-to-one write-off this
year, remember?  And they'll do the same next year.  Connie, why don't
you read a magazine in the waiting room while we run over some figures?
It won't take all that long." Unable to concentrate on a page, Connie
laid the magazine aside and allowed her mind to wander about among
disconnected places and faces.  The conclusion of the wandering was
that you can depend on nothing.  Why should Peg, still in her forties,
have died of cancer?  Why should Richard have turned out like this? 
The only thing you can depend on is money.  That's tangible.  It
doesn't die young or disillusion you.  Take care of it and it lasts. 
It's there to keep you warm and safe and give you honor, besides.  That
girl at the reception desk thinks I don't know that she's looking me
over, envying my mink and my alligator shoes.  I used to do that, too,
when I worked at Richard's club; I used to see the rings on their hands
when I gave out the menus.  I know.  ... So I'm to have the apartment
completed, warm and safe in spite of it all.  Well, it could be worse,
a lot worse.  And it won't ruin Richard. The receptionist was speaking
to her.  "Mr.  Osborne just buzzed.  You can go back in." As she opened
the door to the private office, Eddy's cheerful voice rang out, too
loud. "I give her two years at the outside before she'll be married
again.  And thank goodness you have no kids." Some six weeks later
Connie stood on the sidewalk in the cold, white winter sunshine with a
slip of paper in her hand.  It's not possible, she thought.  Given the
way I lived with Richard and careful as I always was, especially after
that awful night, how can this be?  Yet there was no denying the fact. 
It must have been that weekend in the country.  . . . "You're not happy
about it," the doctor had said, observing Connie's face. "My marriage
just broke up.  This is absurd.  I can't have a baby." The doctor, a
quiet elderly woman, kept a neutral manner, saying calmly, "You mean
you don't want to." Although her mind was quite made up, Connie's heart
had begun to flutter in a small panic of its own. "It's nothing to look
forward to, is it?"  she said.  "An abortion, I mean " 84

"True enough," the other woman said.  "That's why I told you to go home
and think it over for a couple of days.  No longer than that,
though."

"I don't have to think it over.  I'm not in a position to have a child.
I don't want it!"  she cried, twisting her damp hands in the strap of
her pocketbook.  "I particularly don't want this child.  I wouldn't
welcome it, and would that be fair to it?  Would it?  I don't even know
where my own life is going, let alone somebody else's life.  No, no, I
can't."

The doctor stood up.  "Well, then, you can make your appointment at the
desk.  They'll give you your instructions."

So Connie folded the instruction sheet and started home.  It was
midaf-temoon, darkening, and children were being brought back from the
park.  Three baby carriages passed on her block alone.  A few months
from now she could be pushing one too.  It was unthinkable.

Her heart was still fluttering when she opened her apartment door.  For
a minute or two she stood still in the foyer and just looked around as
if to orient herself.  Then, still wearing her coat, she picked up the
patient little dog and walked around the rooms.

It was almost impossible to believe that a life was growing in her
body.  Surely birth was as common as death, and yet was death not
incomprehensible too?  She did not feel any different, but the life was
there, a minute heart already throbbing.  And she was about to let them
rip it out!  A violent shaking overcame her.  And as she clasped
Delphine, she felt the little dog's heart beating, beating.  . . .

What to do?  What to do?  No, I can't.  I'm not ready for a child, I
didn't want one before I knew about Richard, at least not yet, I
didn't, and I certainly don't want one now.  I wouldn't welcome his
child.  I would have to pretend I did, and the child would feel it.  We
would both be so wounded and unhappy.  . . . She sat down and cried. 
The dog in her lap looked up at her face and licked her hand.

Presently, cried out, she got up and looked around.  Much progress had
been made during these last few weeks.  The living room was almost
complete, an English oak stretcher table stood in the dining room and
the cabinets that were to have held Richard's books in the den were
finished.  She would simply have to fill them one by one with books of
her own.  A new bed stood in the bedroom now, which was a pity because
the original bed had been a handsome piece.  But she could never have
slept in it, and this one, covered in yellow quilted chintz, was pretty
enough.  The sight of these accumulating possessions began to soothe
her.  They were curiously comforting, enfolding her and reassuring her
that she was, after all, safe.

There was no reason for any panic.  If you just kept your head, you
could get through almost anything.  By tomorrow at this time the simple
operation would be over.  And after that go forward, she told
herself.

85

Thus Connie passed the evening, slept through the night, and in the
morning, was calm. On that same afternoon Lara, too, had been seeing a
doctor.  She said wanly, "I felt so sure this time.  I can't explain,
but I was so sure when I missed that this was it." Through the window
behind the doctor's head she could see the parking lot, in which a
young woman, carrying a baby and holding with the other hand a little
boy in a yellow slicker, was hurrying through the rain. "I don't know,"
she said again.  "I just don't know." "And I—I don't know anything much
either.  Only that we've tried everything possible, Mrs.  Davis."  The
man had a kindly manner, he was genuinely sorry for her, but that did
not help.  And he said so.  "Sometimes we doctors run up against
problems that won't let themselves be solved.  That doesn't help you,
does it?" Lara shook her head and wiped her eyes. "Adoption?"  queried
the doctor.  "It can work out beautifully, you know." "It takes years
to get a baby, Doctor.  There aren't nearly enough for all the people
who want them." "That's true of infants.  But if you would take an
older child who needs parents, and there are many such, shunted from
one foster home to another, and it tears your heart to think about
them—you might be very happy, I think.  You and your husband would make
wonderful parents." I wanted Davey's baby, our baby, she was saying to
herself.  Not a child who remembers her own mother.  But she said
nothing, except that Davey had said the same thing himself. "Well,
think about it," the doctor said.  "Go home and talk it over." So all
that evening they talked it over, sitting together on the sofa.  Davey
had his arm around Lara when finally he said, "There comes a time, no
matter what the problem, when one has to face the hard truth.  And I
think we've come to it.  As a matter of fact, at the last stockholders'
meeting, Don Schultz happened to mention that a cousin of his adopted a
boy from a home somewhere in Minnesota, I think it was.  It's a
church-run place, and they give you the child's history and the
background and everything.  I really believe we should try it, Lara. 
It's time we stopped fooling around and made a decision." Of course, he
was right.  She knew that.  And she said, "I'm ready.  Yes, I'm ready. 
Will you get the name of the place tomorrow?" "I will.  And Lara
darling, listen to me.  Things aren't all bad.  We'll find a child in
need of love, and we have a lot of love to give, you and I. Think of
86

poor Connie, married three years and finished.  That's a trouble we
don't have."

"I know.  She's pretty shaken by it too."

"Why don't you go to her?  You haven't seen her since it happened, so
why not get on a plane tomorrow and surprise her?  Stay for a couple of
days and cheer her up.  See a few shows, go to a French restaurant,
have fun together.  Meanwhile, I'll talk to the people in Minnesota or
wherever it is, and we'll drive out there first thing for our baby—our
child."

Well, I'm hardly alone, Connie thought, as she waited her turn, and
passed the time in speculation about the others in the room.  There
were a dozen women and almost as many men.  Two very young girls,
unmistakably sisters, held hands; it was impossible to guess who of the
two was to have the abortion, for they were both frightened and
suppressing tears.  A tired woman, nearing fifty, wore a wedding band
and a shabby coat.  One had the impression that she had already reared
a houseful of children.  A tough young woman wearing false eyelashes,
false nails like bloody pins, and pants that revealed every smallest
line of her body tried to encourage the sisters.

"Nothing to it, girls.  Honest.  This is my fourth go-around."

In the white room with its rows of flashing instruments, the doctor and
nurse in white and its cold, white light, Connie remembered that:
nothing to it.  Lie back.  Be confident.  Remember the infected and
impacted wisdom tooth?  It was just like this, the whiteness, the
bareness, and the low commanding voices; the stab of pain, the quick
stab; clench your fists and hold on.  The room whirled.  You're not
here.  You're far away on a beach, under a tree.  You're sweating under
your arms, but you haven't made a sound.  Brace your feet.  Almost
finished, someone says.  Now vast relief.  . . . It's over.

They led her to a cot and told her to rest.  They gave her a long, cool
drink, and she fell asleep.  When she awoke, the short winter day was
ending, and they came to tell her she might go home.

So there really was nothing to it.

The first person she saw in the lobby at home was Lara, sitting on a
bench near the elevator.

"Oh," Lara said, rushing to Connie, "I've been here for hours!  They
wouldn't let me into your apartment."

"Why didn't you say you were coming?  Is anything wrong?"

"No, not with us.  But you—oh, Connie, I just couldn't stay away.  I've
been thinking and thinking about you and Richard."  Lara's voice rose,
plaintive and troubled, so that a couple emerging from the elevator
turned to stare.

87

Lara was like that sometimes, naive and artless.  Of all times for her
to come here!  Connie said to herself.  Any other day I would have been
overjoyed to see her.  Now there'll be a long talk going on half the
night, I suppose, with explanations and regrets. "Come up," she said,
almost peremptorily. She switched on the lights, bringing to life the
living room and the den beyond, all thickly carpeted, the furniture
waxed and gleaming, and the air scented with potpourri. "Oh, how
beautiful!"  Lara cried, clasping her hands like a child beholding a
Christmas tree. The gesture irritated Connie, whose legs were suddenly
going weak.  There had perhaps been something to "it" after all,
because she wanted only to lie down again.  But then Lara put her arms
around her. "Darling, I would have come to you if I had known you and
Richard were having problems.  I might even have helped straighten
things out between you.  Who knows?" Connie gave a brittle laugh.  "You
don't know what you're talking about.  It was not preventable.  I never
told you the whole story.  I planned to do it soon, but I just haven't
felt like talking.  Eddy is the only one who knows.  Not another soul."
That was true.  She had not even told Bitsy yet, although she spoke to
her almost every day. Lara looked stricken.  "I'm so very sorry.  I
can't tell you how sorry.  We were shocked, Davey and I. We liked
Richard.  We really liked him so much." "He's likable."  Connie spoke
dryly, without energy. Lara gave her a quick look.  "You don't look
well, darling.  Are you terribly unhappy?" "As a matter of fact, no. 
Not terribly, that is."  Her legs were shaking now.  "Why are we
standing here?  Sit down.  I'm awfully tired." She remembered then that
Lara would want dinner.  There were vegetables and chops in the
refrigerator, but the thought of getting up to prepare them daunted
her. "Actually, I'm not feeling well.  Maybe I'm coming down with
something." "No," Lara said decisively.  "It's your nerves, and no
wonder.  You're going through a crisis.  Shall I make you some tea?"
"It's dinnertime.  You must be starved.  Wait a few minutes, and I'll
go get it ready." "You'll do nothing of the sort.  Stay right there.  I
can find my way around your kitchen." Like Peg, Connie thought. "What a
sumptuous kitchen!"  Lara called. 88

She heard the slam of the refrigerator door and the clink of a pot,
cheerful, domestic sounds, reminding her again of Peg.  And she was
ashamed of having been so unwelcoming to Lara.  I really am wrung out,
she thought again, and closed her eyes.

When she opened them, Lara was standing in front of her holding a tray
with a lamb chop, a salad, and a cup of tea.

"You look too weary to sit at the table, so I've brought the tray.  But
maybe you should have it in bed."

"No, I'm fine here.  It's lovely.  You're too nice to me," Connie said.
 The kindness made her eyes tear.  "You always were."

"Come on, come on.  Now, I'll sit here with you, and if you feel like
talking, do.  And if you don't, don't."

"You made the salad dressing, didn't you?  It's good.  I don't bother
with meals much anymore."

Lara reproached her gently.  "You should.  You mustn't neglect
yourself."

And seating herself with a tray on her lap, Lara began to eat, while at
the same time, with anxious concern, observing Connie.  "Do you want me
to talk, Connie?  I don't mean about your troubles either.  If you want
quiet, just say so."

"Talk, of course.  And as to my divorce, I'll tell you tomorrow.  It's
a long story."

"All right, then, I'll tell you something about myself.  First, we've
decided to buy that house.  Eddy convinced us that we can afford it."

"Really?  Oh, I'm glad!  It's a lovely house."

"Wait.  There's bigger news.  I almost don't want to talk about it
until it comes true.  And you're the only one I'm telling.  But we
think — we expect to have a child."

"You are pregnant, then!  Oh, my God, how wonderful!  You've wanted it
so.  But you don't look it, you don't show.  When will it be?"

Lara shook her head.  "No, darling.  I'm not pregnant, and I never will
be.  We've finally made up our minds to adopt, that's all."

"Oh.  Well.  That's wonderful, too, isn't it?  Tell me about it.  I've
heard one has to be on a waiting list for years, though.  Is that
true?"

"Well, I hope not.  It's much easier if one agrees to take an older
child.  So it won't be a baby.  But we don't mind."

"Oh."  The brief vision of Lara holding an infant, a miniature edition
of herself, had vanished.  "Boy or girl?"  Connie inquired brightly.

"Whichever we find first.  In the meantime we're getting the spare
bedroom ready until we can move."

Connie had a swift double vision: the sterile glare of that room this
morning when something had been taken away, and the bright clutter of
another room which Lara would be filling now with toys and noise and
—

89

"I hope it won't take too long to leave that dreadful flat behind," she
said. Lara said, smiling, "I've never found it so dreadful," and Connie
smiled back.  "You wouldn't.  You never complain." It was pleasant to
be there in the quiet with her sister, and she was glad, after all,
that Lara had come.  The food and the hot tea began to revive her. 
Then she remembered that she had eaten nothing since that morning and
said so. "Whatever made you go all day without eating?" An odd thought,
possibly induced by Lara's concerned expression, that tenderness of
eyes and voice, crossed Connie's mind: I have always been cared for. 
First, there was my mother—father, too, in his way, but mostly Peg—then
Lara and then Richard.  From this thought came a sudden desire to tell
everything to Lara now.  And starting at the end of her tale she said,
"The reason I'm weak is that I've just come back from having an
abortion." Lara's fork clattered onto the plate.  "You what?" "I had an
abortion." "I can't believe what I'm hearing!" Lara's body seemed to go
limp.  Her lips parted, and her head bent forward.  She had been
instantly, totally stunned.  And Connie's heart began that panicked
fluttering again. "I didn't know I was pregnant when I left him, not
that it would have made any difference," she explained.  "You don't
know about Richard.  He wasn't a bad person, he was very good, but I
couldn't stay because he was—" Lara flung up her hand.  "What does
Richard matter?  I don't care what he was or what he did, but you—you
killed your baby!" Of course.  This was how Lara would see it!  And
Connie reproached herself: I should have kept my mouth shut.  Her eyes
are absolutely fierce. "I didn't exactly love doing it," she said as
quietly as she was able.  "But it was necessary, Lara.  I had to.  ...
And anyway, it wasn't even a baby yet.  It was the size of my little
finger."  In the face of those eyes, gone dark with horror, she
stammered, "Or something like that." "You're lying to yourself.  The
size!  The size!  It was alive, breathing and growing, and you murdered
it.  I—damn you, Connie!  I'd have given years of my life to have a
child of my own, and I still would give them.  Is it fair?  God, is it
fair?" Lara jumped up, knocking over her tray; blue Wedgwood broke, and
meat gravy splashed brown on Connie's new beige carpet. "The carpet!" 
gasped Connie.  "It's ruined!  Ruined!  And it was just laid last
week." She rushed to the kitchen for club soda and rags.  Lara picked
up the 90

broken dishes.  For a few minutes nothing was said while the two women,
on their knees, worked to repair the damage.

"It's almost out," Lara said at last, as she rose to her feet.

Connie, burning, assessed the destruction.  " 'Almost.' That's a big
help!  A light brown stain instead of a dark one."  And it seemed to
her that this accident, minor and trivial as it might be, was just the
last straw on her pile of woe.

"I'll buy you another carpet," Lara said.

Connie, sure she had heard scorn in Lara's voice, flashed back, "You? 
You can't afford what this cost."

"Well, I'm sorry.  People have accidents.  I guess it's not my day."

"It certainly isn't mine.  I should be having a quiet evening, pulling
myself together, instead of this."

"It should take some pulling together after what you did today."

Through bitter tears Connie cried, "I'm not psychologically prepared to
have a child right now!  Can't you understand that?  I'm in the middle
of a divorce.  What kind of a home could I offer it?"

"I would have given it a home.  That baby—that baby was a part of Peg,
a part of her that would have gone on, and you destroyed it.  God knows
whether Eddy will ever have children.  / certainly won't.  I'll never
get over this.  Never."

"That's your problem!  I'm going to make myself get over it.  / have no
choice."

Lara's flushed face was mottled.  Her nose dripped while she fumbled
for a handkerchief.  She seemed to have crumbled into complete
disarray, like a heartsick, tired old woman.

And Connie pleaded, "Why are we quarreling over this, Lara?  If you
think I was wrong, well, it's your privilege to think so.  Let's
understand each other.  But I can't undo what's done, can I?  And
anyway," she finished gently enough, "it really was my business, my
decision, my sorrow."

Lara shook her head.  "I can't help thinking over and over, What would
Peg say?  Can you believe she would ever have done it?"

This new reference to their mother stung.  It was too painful, it was
irrelevant and did not belong here in this room on this night.  So
Connie's answer was sharper than she had perhaps intended.

"Peg was never in my circumstances.  Furthermore, Peg did things I
wouldn't do, like staying on with a lovable drunkard, for instance."

"Oh, my God, how can you say such a thing about her?"  Lara wailed.

"Because it's true.  It hurts me to say it, but you know very well she
never wanted to face facts.  Don't you be like that too.  Please,
Lara."

"I faced them well enough all those years when I brought you up.  And
I'm the one who did bring you up, remember?"

91

t.

"Oh, I remember."  Lara's kind hands doing her hair.  Lara's kind face
in the schoolyard at three o'clock .  . . "But I'm not the little
sister now, taking advice at your knee.  Sometimes I wish I were.  Life
was easier then." "Advice like this you never got at my knee.  If I
thought you had I would never forgive myself." "Lara, let's stop this
before it goes too far.  You mustn't try to run my life anymore." "I
never tried to run your life, Connie." "You're trying now." "That's
what you think of me?  Well, I've heard everything."  Lara sobbed.  "I
came here to help you, came out of love, and this is what I get for it.
This." Suddenly Connie felt hot.  She could feel the heat rising from
the very central pit of her body.  And terror rose with it.  Emotion
and conflict could be the cause, but infection also could be the cause.
And the sight of Lara's futile tears infuriated her.  She lashed out.
"If there's anything I despise to see, it's people feeling sorry for
themselves." "I'm not sorry for myself.  I'm sorry for you, Connie."
"Well, don't be!  I'll get along all right.  In fact, I'll get along
just fine," she said, not meaning it. "This is what you call 'just
fine'?  You're a terrible disappointment, Connie.  Terrible.  I can
only hope that somehow you'll straighten out your life.  I can only
hope." "Sanctimonious.  Holy .  . ."  Connie muttered under her breath.
"I heard you.  I heard you!" "So you heard me!  Will you just please
let me alone?  I can't stand any more preaching or moaning.  Just let
me alone!" "Oh, I'll let you alone.  Indeed I will.  I'll bother you no
more."  Lara ran to the closet.  "Where's my coat?  I'm leaving,
Connie.  You just go ahead and run your life your own way.  And good
luck to you." This violence, this rupture, was too ugly to bear.  Again
Connie's legs went weak.  She had to sit down. "Wait, Lara.  What are
you doing?" "Taking the first plane home," said Lara, fastening her
coat. "You won't get one at this hour.  Wait." "Then I'll sleep at the
airport." The door clicked shut. For a while Connie sat staring at the
door's blank face.  Presently she got up, walked past the pathetic
stain that would exist as a reminder of this day as long as the carpet
lasted, and lay down on the sofa in the den.  Never, never had such
stormy anger come between her sister and herself, or for 92

that matter, among any of the family!  Anger simply wasn't their way. 
This sense of outrage must have come up from deep within Lara, from a
deeper place than she herself knew existed, perhaps so deep that she
would be lost to Connie forever.  And the pain within Connie was now
palpable, a knot, a clenched fist in her chest.

The room was absolutely still, the charming room that she had planned,
with the English-country-home effect that she had desired.  The
curtains were drawn for the night, shutting out the world, accentuating
the stillness.  She sprang up and pulled them open onto the city, onto
the street below where life moved.

Life.  Only this morning, a few hours ago, she had been accompanied by
another life, now gone.  A strange thought came fleeting: We would have
loved one another.  I would have loved you, even though I didn't want
you.  A strange, lonely thought.

Tomorrow she would tell Eddy what had happened.  Or maybe she wouldn't,
just yet.  He had his own affairs, he was a busy man, and he had
already done so much for her.  Maybe, though, she might just ask him
for some advice.  It would be long before the art courses could
materialize into a really important job.  So in the meantime, should
she think of going back to work in a boutique?  There had to be
something to fill the days.  She needed advice.

The little dog crept around her feet, and she bent to stroke it.  Its
love was pure and simple.  It, unlike the human animal, neither judged
nor disappointed.

"Without you, Delphine," she whispered aloud, "I don't know how I'd get
through this night."

CHAPTER Six

Lara looked across the small parlor to where Davey was sitting, as if
to find affirmation.  This was the final moment, the climax, the
arrival after some months' journey through time and some miles' journey
through a fading autumn countryside to this plain clapboard house in a
plain clapboard town.  Now here they were.  And she was suddenly
conscious of her thundering heart. Mrs.  Elmer was an unpretentious
gray-haired woman of the type often described as "motherly."  And for
the last half hour she had been relating a sad, simple story. "Susanna
is a very intelligent little girl, but she's lived through what I call
a war.  Her father died in a factory accident while her mother was
pregnant.  The mother, an immigrant from eastern Europe without family,
was so devastated that, although she did take good care of the child,
she was not able to provide the happiest environment.  Then, when she
herself fell ill with leukemia—well, you can imagine." Lara's eyes
never left Mrs.  Elmer's face.  "Who took care of Susanna then?"  she
asked. "Neighbors.  First one family and then another.  When, after the
mother died, they weren't prepared to keep her, the state took charge
and she went to a foster home." "A good home?"  asked Lara. Mrs.  Elmer
shrugged.  "Let's say, not a bad one.  Now I've had her here for the
last two weeks, after your telephone call prepared the path for a
possible adoption.  I'm sort of a way station.  They come and they go."
Davey spoke.  "Is she a very, very frightened child, would you say?"
"Actually, I think she's been remarkably brave in the circumstances. 
Nothing's ever lasted for her.  Nothing.  She's in first grade, and has
already changed schools three times.  What she needs is permanence and
a lot of patient love." When Davey asked, "Are there no relatives on
the father's side either?" 94

Lara knew he was concerned lest some stranger arrive in years to come
to claim her.

Mrs.  Elmer understood immediately.  "No, not a soul.  If you adopt Sue
—she likes to be called that—she'll be your child without question. 
Now, would you like to see her?"

Davey smiled.  "I think we're ready, Mrs.  Elmer," he said.

"I'll go get her.  They're all playing in the yard."

He came over and laid his hand on Lara's shoulder.  Feeling the tremble
of the hand, she thought, This is how he would be if I were giving
birth, only it would last longer and he would be walking the length of
the corridor getting in people's way, lighting and relighting his pipe
with these trembling hands—

At that moment the door opened, and the woman returned, urging a small
girl ahead of her, a thin child with extraordinary blue-black eyes in a
narrow, delicate face, and a long brown ponytail.  And Lara's immediate
reaction was a kind of shock: She doesn't look at all like either of
us.  I'll never have the quiet joy of seeing Davey or part of myself in
her.  Then, swiftly, she admonished herself: There is no perfect joy,
Lara.

"Sue," said Mrs.  Elmer, "these are Mr.  and Mrs.  Davis.  Will you
shake hands with them?"

Fearfully, the child raised her gaze from her own scuffed shoes and
looked down at Lara's shoes.  A small, cold hand was held out, and an
almost indistinguishable word was murmured.

I mustn't cry, Lara told herself.  And softly she said, "Sue .  . .
We've heard so much about you, about what a lovely girl you are.  So we
wanted to bring a present for you, a surprise.  It's in this box.  Do
you want to open it, or shall I?"

As if unsure what answer would be the right one, Sue waited, and Lara
said quickly, "Here, we'll do it together.  You hold one end of the
bow, and I'll pull it open."

Under layers of tissue paper lay the most extravagant, the most
beautiful doll that could ever be imagined, a perfect little girl with
real blond hair, an expressive face, and a party dress of white lace
and pink ribbons.

The child stared, not touching it.

"Take it, pick her up," urged Lara.

Still the child just stared.

Mrs.  Elmer spoke almost pridefully, "You see how well behaved Sue
is."

Lara and Davey glanced at one another with a common thought between
them: She's well behaved because she's terrified.  And lifting the doll
out of the box, Lara placed it in Sue's arms.

"She's yours, dear.  She wants you to love her.  What would you like to
name her?"

95

This time a reply came promptly and clearly.  "Lily." "Oh, I like that
name," Lara said, while above Sue's head Mrs.  Elmer's lips moved
silently to say, "That was her mother's name." I can't bear this, Lara
said to herself. Suddenly, passionately, Sue clutched the doll to her
chest and ran with it to the armchair at the other end of the room.
Davey's raised eyebrows, furrowing his forehead, asked a question of
his wife, a question similar to her own: Should we?  Will this child's
problems be more than we want to undertake? And yet, what child brought
to live among strangers, wrested from whatever home it once knew, did
not carry problems in its baggage?  Some baggage was heavier than other
kinds, that was all.  Only an infant could come without memories. Mrs. 
Elmer drew her chair close to Davey's and Lara's, out of Sue's hearing.
"Well, what do you think?"  she asked.  "Do you think you want her? 
She's really a sweet child." The question was an eager endorsement, too
much like salesmanship.  As if they were buying a new car: Do you want
it?  It's really a good buy. "She has good manners for a six year old,
hasn't she?  She's really been no bother.  I've seen children who
haven't gone through as much as she has, who cry and have tantrums,
which is surely understandable, heaven knows, but it's hard to deal
with." Davey was paying no attention to Mrs.  Elmer.  And Lara,
following his look, saw that Sue was rocking the doll in her arms and
smiling.  The smile, most feminine and most endearing, would, Lara saw,
go straight to Davey's heart, obliterating there any last regret he
might have over not getting a boy. That smile, unselfconscious, as if
Sue were alone in the room, went straight to Lara's heart too.  She had
a sudden revelation: I can make happiness bloom again in this child. 
The result will be worth the effort.  Almost gaily, she thought—silly,
frivolous, happy vision—oh, I will braid her hair when it grows longer,
I'll make one thick braid with a ribbon bow at the tip, I will— "Of
course," Mrs.  Elmer was saying very low, "your taking her depends on
whether she wants to go.  I will not send an unwilling child away from
here.  You wouldn't want it either."  She raised her voice.  "Sue, will
you come over here?  We want to ask you something.  Would you like to
go home with Mr.  and Mrs.  Davis?" Lara made a correction.  "Aunt Lara
and Uncle Davey.  That's what we'd be if you would come to live with
us."  And yet she felt a pang of regret that she would very likely
never be called "Mother." 96

But those eyes, so black and lustrous!  The piteous plea as they were
raised to Lara, studying Lara's face.  Were they saying, Take me!  Take
me!  Or were they saying, I don't want you.  Let me alone.

"We've been wanting a little girl like you," Lara said, trying not to
coax too blatantly, wanting just to seem friendly.  "We have no
children in our house.  You'd have your own room.  It's painted yellow
and white, and the shelves have wonderful toys, a carriage for Lily, a
little kitchen—"

And still, wasn't this talk merely bribery?  On the other hand, why
not?  What other way to lure a six year old?

"And if you'd like to have a puppy—" Davey began.

"A real live puppy?"

"A real one."

Solemn again, the child said, "I'd like that."

"You'll go to school," said Lara, "and have lots of friends.  I know
some nice girls for you to play with."

"What are their names?"

"Well, there's Betty and Jennifer and Lisa.  Oh, lots more."

Careful now to do nothing abrupt or alarming, Lara put her arm very
loosely around Sue's waist.

"We shall love you very much," she said.

There was no answer.  Yet, what answer might she have expected?

"Will you come with us, Sue?  It will be a nice long ride home.  I
think we'll stop for ice cream cones on the way."  More bribery.  "So
will you come?"

Sue paused.  The pause seemed very, very long.  Oh, I want this child! 
Lara cried to herself.  There's something about her.  ... I want this
child.

"Will you?"  she asked once more.

"All right," said Sue.

And Davey, almost tearful himself, spoke with a catch in his throat. 
"How fast can we get the basic legal preliminaries over with so we can
get back to Ohio?"

"It won't take long," said Mrs.  Elmer.

And so it was that Susanna Davis went to her new home.

All was not to go easily, nor had the Davises expected it to.  True,
the first hours went well enough.  The drive home was enlivened by many
stops for food, a sailboat ride on Lake Michigan, and shopping in
Chicago, which was most necessary, since Sue's entire shabby wardrobe
fitted into one suitcase.

Trying on a winter jacket, she pranced in front of the mirror.  A
wholesome, greedy pleasure in the total new experience of receiving
things lessened her shyness so that at one point, behaving like any
normally secure

9/ young girl, Sue actually rejected one of Lara's suggestions.  This
touch of spirit encouraged Lara. "But I like the red one.  I want the
red one." "The red one it shall be then, Miss Sue." Then, saying so, an
echo sounded in Lara's head, an echo of her own voice years before
saying something like that to another little girl writ always had such
decided ideas about her wants. "Whatever you say, Miss Consuelo." It
was a year since that tragic night in New York.  After it weeks hac
passed during which the hurt and smart of Connie's words had increased
"Ruining my life"—how cruel and untrue!  And as to what Connie hac done
... To take a life that could have grown to stand in front of ; mirror
like this skinny little thing here preening herself in the rec jacket .
. . If Connie could be standing here now, with us—Lara thought.  She
should have called me.  All these months .  . . She should have.  And
know Eddy told her we were going to fetch this child.  At least she
could have called to wish us luck.  For an instant Lara's throat was
choked; then the lump receded, leaving an ache of grieving resignation.
And she turnec back to the moment, to her new little girl. Arriving
home, they found Eddy in a rented car parked at the driveway "For
Pete's sake," cried Davey, "look who's here!" "I figured you'd be
arriving about now, so I grabbed a plane, rented a car, and here I am. 
I didn't want to miss the homecoming." There he was, the old familiar
Eddy, breezing in as always with his glad enthusiasm, filling the air
with welcome and rejoicing. "Look at this pretty kid!  So you're
Susanna!  I'm your Uncle Eddy, so do I get a kiss?" Lara looked
dubious.  She wanted to caution him: Not so fast.  Don': frighten her. 
But Eddy had already lifted the little girl up above his head and now,
hugging her to his chest, was kissing her cheeks.  And Sue wa; actually
laughing. Eddy had magic in his very fingertips.  Was there ever a
human being who could resist him? "I stopped in town," he said, setting
Sue down, "and bought a little something for Sue." The little something
was a small two-wheeler, bright blue with a bell and a basket. "I'll
bet you haven't learned to ride one of these, so we're going to show
you how this minute." "Wait, wait!"  protested Davey.  "We just got
here, and we haven't even opened the front door yet." 98

"Okay, okay, I just want to make sure this fits her."  And lifting her
onto the seat, Eddy directed her.  "Listen to Uncle Eddy.  Put your
feet there.  No, keep them there.  Fine.  Now I'll push you.  I won't
let you fall.  Fine.  That's the idea.  It won't take you long to
learn."

So the first few hours passed.  Sue was shown to her room; the new
clothes were put away, and Lily went to sit on the doll's chair by the
bed.  Lara made a quick dinner.  Eddy, invited to spend the night,
declined.

"No, I took a room near the airport so I can leave first thing in the
morning.  Anyway, this first night is for you three to spend
together."

"Eddy, you're a prince," Davey said.

Eddy laughed.  "Call me Wales.  Hey, the next time I come, you'll be in
the new house!"

"Thanks again to the prince," Davey said.

Eddy jingled the car keys.  "Well, I have to be going.  Be happy, all
of you."  He kissed them and, leaving, was heard trotting swiftly down
the outer stairs.

"I never realized he was so wonderful with children," remarked Lara. 
"He should be married."

"He still has a steady, hasn't he?  That girl on Long Island?  The one
with the horses?"

"I think so.  But he may have ten steadies for all I know.  He keeps
his private life to himself."

After dinner, which Sue ate hungrily, Lara gave her a bath, observing
that she was none too clean and that her ribs stuck out.  She had had
minimal care, poor little girl.  When Lara had washed, dried, and
powdered her, brushed her hair and teeth, and put on a new white
nightgown, she put her into the bed and drew up the pink comforter.

"Would you like me to read a story, Sue?  This is a lovely book. 
Winnie-the-Pooh, it's called.  Let's begin," said Lara confidently.

"I don't want a story, Mrs.—I forgot your name."

"Mrs.  Davis.  But to you, I'm Aunt.  Aunt Lara.  Don't you
remember?"

And again the thought, the hope, crossed Lara's mind that someday,
perhaps, she would be called "Mother."  Perhaps, too, that would never
happen.

"Will you say 'Aunt Lara'?"

"Aunt Lara."  The girl yawned.

"You're sleepy."  The delicate face was so white, so wan, in the beam
of the nighrlight.  "It's been a long day," Lara said softly, "and
we've lots to do tomorrow.  We have to get you registered at school,
ride the new bike if you want to—oh, lots of things.  Let me hug you
good-night."

"How is she doing?"  Davey asked.

"Very well, I think.  So far, so good."

99

But deep in the middle of the night loud crying awakened Davey and Lara
in their room across the hall.  Lara ran.  Sitting up in the little
yellow bed, Susanna was shaking with deep sobs.  Lara took her into her
arms. "There, there," was all she could say.  The banal words, without
meaning in themselves, yet had the utmost meaning when warm arms and a
warm voice went with them. Anxious, Davey asked from the doorway, "Does
anything hurt her, do you think?" "Everything does," Lara answered, and
comprehending, he nodded. For long minutes she sat with the child's
tears wetting her shoulders, her own tears brimming.  No questions were
asked, no answers given.  There was no need.  The child cried because
the world was fearsome; she wanted her lost mother; the place was
strange; the night was dark.  The woman wept because this was not the
baby she wanted; she was sick with pity; yet she knew she was going to
love this child and longed for the child to return that love. So they
stayed together holding each other until the sobbing ceased and Sue was
laid back under the quilt to fall asleep.  But Lara, not leaving her,
sat dozing, crumpled and cold, in the rocking chair until the morning.
Patience, patience was all.  It hurt when Sue, defying a command, cried
out, "You're not my mother!" Very quietly, Lara answered, "I know that.
But since your mother's gone, I'm the one who will take care of you as
mothers do." It hurt when Sue cried at night and clung, hurt to imagine
the nightmare that had awakened her.  So patience, patience was all.
Still, little by little, day after day, small changes, almost
imperceptible, began to occur. Lara's friends brought their children to
play.  At first when Sue was invited back, she refused to go.  She's
afraid that I'll leave her there, and she'll be given away again, Lara
knew.  It's not that she loves us, of course not.  It's only that she's
afraid of another change.  And something told her that it would be a
good thing to speak openly about that fear and about everything, school
and all the foster homes and the dead mother too. "Tell me, Sue, is
that why you won't go to Jennifer's house?  That you're afraid you'll
be kept there?" Sue's silence was the answer. "Will you go if I stay
there with you?" A nod of the head was the answer. After half a dozen
trials of this sort one day Lara left her to go down to her office,
which, Davey and she had agreed, must be turned over temporarily to
someone else while Sue got adjusted and while they made the 100

move into the new home.  When she returned to the friend's house, Sue
was playing in the yard.  She hadn't missed Lara at all.

"Now," Lara said, hugging her tightly, "now you see that I always come
back to you.  Uncle Davey and I will never let you go.  Why, even if
you wanted to leave us, we wouldn't let you.  We'd find you no matter
where you went—even to the moon!  And do you know why?  Because you
belong to us, and we belong to you, forever and ever.  That's why."

Fortunately, the first-grade teacher was especially understanding.  "In
the beginning, Mrs.  Davis, I did see tears starting, but always held
back, hidden from the other children.  She's a proud little girl. 
But—let's see, it's six months since she came—the improvement in
attitude is really wonderful."

"She's very bright," Lara said.  "When my husband and I talk at dinner,
we notice that Sue pays close attention.  When we use a new word, she
wants to know what it means."

"And she's pretty.  That means acceptance.  You'd be surprised at the
way young children gravitate toward good looks."

"Thank goodness for Sue's good looks, anyway."

"She's going to be fine, Mrs.  Davis.  She's still unsure of herself
socially, she has a way to go yet, but I'm not worried about her.  You
people are obviously doing something right."

Then Lara felt a flood of beaming warmth from head to foot.  At least
once every day as the months passed and Sue grew closer, she had been
feeling that warmth, so that she had to remind herself sometimes to
hide it, not to sing out for fear of boring people with the repetition
of her hope and joy.

Bozo Clark, the rock star, wore jeans and ten thousand dollars' worth
of gold chains.  He regarded Eddy solemnly from the other side of
Eddy's desk.

"You're a winner, Osborne.  This is the first year I paid no income
tax, not one cent.  God damn, I can't get over it!  Can't really
understand it.  I know you explained about deducting losses on the
partnerships and—"

Smiling, Eddy interrupted.  "You don't have to understand, Bozo.  Just
keep making records, and I'll preserve your millions for you."

"Good enough.  I'll be in touch.  And one thing," Clark said on the way
out, "that offer stands.  As many tickets as you want for any concert,
anytime."

The last thing Eddy wanted was to be squeezed into a crowd of crazed
teenagers while Bozo swiveled his hips and yawped.  Bozo would be
amazed to know that he preferred the Metropolitan Opera and the
Philharmonic.  But his reply was enthusiastic.

101

"I'll get a couple of friends together and one of these days soon, I'll
take you up on it.  Thanks, Bozo." As soon as the door had closed on
Bozo Clark, Mrs.  Evans appeared with a silver tray upon which stood a
plate of thin-sliced whole wheat sandwiches and a little pot of coffee,
also silver. "Do you realize, Mr.  Osborne, that you had no lunch and
it's after four o'clock?" Eddy, smiling, was aware that the smile was
sheepish, as if he were a boy being reprimanded by a loving mother.  He
enjoyed this little byplay, enjoyed having a dignified, gray-haired
widow with an upper-class British accent in his service.  Most men
looked for a secretary who was curved in the right places, who knew how
to display the curves, and was on the right side of thirty.  But Eddy
had a different sense of the suitable. "You take too good care of me,
Mrs.  Evans." "Well, if I didn't keep after you the little bit that I
do, you'd work yourself to death.  Now, I'll put this down on the
coffee table and you can relax in the wing chair.  Relax and unwind."
"I'm starting to do it right now.  As soon as I eat, I'm heading out to
the country.  It's worth the Friday traffic to have two grand summer
days when you get there.  And you go home, too, Mrs.  Evans.  You could
do with some unwinding yourself." "Thank you, Mr.  Osborne.  I believe
I will.  And I'm leaving orders that you're not to be disturbed." Eddy
stretched, uncramping the legs that had been tucked under the desk
since morning.  It had been a wearying day, and yet as always, he was
exhilarated by this very weariness.  If that was a contradiction, an
oxymoron, let it be; it was the truth.  No doubt a mountain climber
grasping his pitons at ten thousand feet knew exhaustion, but he
pressed on to eleven thousand feet nevertheless, and felt joy when he
reached it. "I'm climbing my mountain," he said aloud into the quiet
room. Or he might even say that he had already climbed it to the peak. 
For here he was, established at last in this, his third and final
office, the perfect place he had dreamed about.  It filled a floor and
a half of the building.  He had an able staff of forty, not counting
secretaries.  The business hummed like a dynamo, making money.  Every
minute, every second, counted, making money.  Phones rang, the ticker
rolled.  Computers wrote, while the bright young men and women
conferred at their desks.  Oh, these were the exciting eighties, and
Eddy Osborne was at the very center of the excitement! When he looked
out the window, westward to the Trump Tower, southward to Rockefeller
Center and the Empire State, eastward to Sutton Place, northward to the
Park and the Museum, it resembled a diorama; the 102

gray-white towers were neat miniatures, so that leaving this private
oasis :o plunge down in the elevator, and emerge onto the pavement into
enormity and a cacophony of horns and fire sirens, was total shock. 
Yet he loved that shock.

This room is marvelous, he thought.  Even the Royal Worcester sandwich
plate caught the right note.  The decorator was a genius; he had read
Eddy's mind.  At the demolition of a nineteenth-century hotel downtown,
he had salvaged the mahogany paneling that now burnished these walls. 
It had the warmth of age, with a few dents to validate it, such as one
would find in a London club.  In such a club, too, the enormous
Oriental rug would be richly dark, faded in areas where daylight had
touched it for half a century or more.  From a corner a tall clock
would strike the hours with a rattle and chime; Eddy's tall clock,
bought last year at auction, was an authentic piece out of the
seventeen hundreds, and it had cost him almost two hundred thousand
dollars.  There were, of course, even better specimens to be had; very
likely he would get rid of this one sometime and replace it with a
better.

His affairs were going well enough, he reflected, to warrant his buying
almost anything he might want.  Anything at all.  Often when he woke up
in the middle of the night, or when suddenly passing a mirror or a
plate glass window while hurrying along the street, he felt himself
startled by a brief, flashing sense of unreality.  Then, feeling the
air on his face above the blanket or, as the case might be, feeling the
ground firm beneath his shoes, or recognizing his own young face, newly
shaved and nicely tanned under his healthy thatch of hair, he admitted
the astonishing reality.

He was worth, he calculated, not quite nineteen million dollars, and
this after just seven years.  His income had reached eleven million a
year.  The firm's securities portfolio now topped six billion.  And he
mused over the old cliche: Nothing succeeds like success.  How true it
was!  His feel for the market had not failed him yet.  Even in a rising
market there were plenty of investors who, snaillike, got almost
nowhere; even in such a market you had to know when and where to move. 
But the firm's chief business was still tax shelters, in real estate,
oil, cattle, anything to produce losses that would reduce one's taxable
income.  That was where the real money lay, in the ability to keep hold
of what one had.  And that was why people were flocking to Osborne and
Company.

He had clone quite right, he thought now, to go it alone.  Who needed
partners with their inevitable disagreements, repetitious
consultations, and compromises to slow the action, and drag at you,
when you were so able to soar by yourself?  What he did need and what
he now possessed were quick brains to feed him the information he
required, to comprehend his instructions, and to carry them out.  He
paid high salaries to attract the brightest

103

MBAs out of Harvard or Wharton.  When they did well, he gave a huge
bonus, and when they did poorly, they were dismissed.  He was
demanding, but he was respected for being so. It still surprised him to
be so easily accepted everywhere.  To be sure, there were in the world
of finance plenty of successful young newcomers with whom the social
establishment was ever willing to do business if need be.  But it was
definitely not willing to accept them in its homes and clubs, while
Eddy was invited everywhere. As if to bear witness to his thought the
phone rang. "Eddy, are you in town tonight?  A couple of the fellows
are getting together for dinner and backgammon at the Yale Club.  Want
to join us?" "Sorry, Doug, I'd like to, but I'm going out to the
country.  Thanks for thinking of me, though." "Then how about Tuesday?"
"Tuesday's great.  I'll see you around six.  Okay?" Once or twice a
week he met with a group at the Yale Club.  Swinging into Vanderbilt
Avenue, he'd look back at the view up Park; sometimes he'd stand on the
corner for a minute, just gazing, feeling the thrill before going on to
the game. Being adept at games, he often came away with a few thousand
dollars in winnings, but he was wise enough not to win too often.  It
was better to be known as a man who lost casually and gave easily.  By
now he was on the boards of half a dozen philanthropies, all important,
all entailing lavish donations, but Eddy, far from begrudging these,
actually welcomed making grand gestures.  Even making loans to friends,
which he frequently did, made him content with himself.  It made him
feel in charge. The tall clock chimed.  Calculating swiftly, he
allotted his time: an hour to go home, shower, and throw some clothes
into a bag, then two hours, if he was lucky, out to Pam's place.  But
first came the Friday call to Lara that he never missed.  And he
reached for the telephone. When Sue's treble voice answered, he played
the expected game with her. "Hi.  This is Uncle Eddy.  Is this you,
Davey?  No, let me guess.  You're the boy next door." There came a
giggle and a protest.  "Uncle Eddy!  You know who it is!" "Oh, of
course.  You're Sue.  I should have recognized you by your pink shirt,
anyway." "Not today!  I'm wearing my Snoopy shirt.  Can't you see?" "I
can't see so well.  I left my glasses somewhere." Lara's voice cut in. 
"My turn, Susie.  Uncle Eddy's probably in a hurry.  Hang up, dear."
104

"I can't get over the way that child can kid me right back.  Shes got
real wit."

"I know it.  And she's such a joy!  To think that in the beginning we
were worried that she'd never be happy again!"

"Where are you this minute?"

"Where am I?  What do you mean?"

"What room are you in?"

"In the kitchen, getting dinner.  Why?"

"Because.  I just like to imagine you in the house, cooking up ; storm
in that picture-book kitchen or having a crowd in the den on Saturdiy
night."

He had an instant picture of her standing at the island where tie
copper pots hung; the last time he had been there, she had a row of
African violets up on the windowsill.

"I'm using the barbecue right now.  It's marvelous."

"Aren't you glad I made you buy that house?"  he demanded.  "Don't you
love it?"

"Of course I do.  Who wouldn't?"

And again he felt that glow of pure pleasure, a physical glow that
spread, tingling as it rose up into his throat, to end with a chuckle
of laughter.  Here again he had been "in charge"; because of him Lara
and her little family were in the home they deserved, modest as it was.
It was mt that he had paid for the house; he had not; he had only lent
Davey enoujh for the down payment, a sum that Davey, in the healthy
growth of his lew prosperity, had already repaid.  But the impetus had
come from, and the seed had been sown by, Eddy Osborne.

"Is Davey home yet?"  he asked now.

"He just came in.  He's upstairs getting the grease from his hinds."

"A new invention in the offing?"

"An instrument for bone surgery.  He just came back from ;eeing an
orthopedic man in Cleveland.  Here he is.  Davey, it's Eddy."

"Hi."

"Hi, Davey!  Lara says there's a new gadget in the works."

"Well, I hope so.  It looks promising, but I can't tell yet."  That was
Davey, prudent and cautious.

"I looked over that copy of your accountant's report yesterdiy, and it
looks mighty good."

"Yes, things are going well.  The orders keep coming in, and I trok in
five new men just last week.  Even at that we can barely keep up with
he work."

"Do you still not want to talk about investments with me?  I :an make
you rich, Davey, if you let me."

"Eddy, again I tell you, we're not interested in what you all 'being
rich.' "

105

"Okay, okay.  Some other time.  I'm in the usual rush.  Kiss Lara and
the kid for me.  How's the kid doing?" "We've got ups and downs, but
mostly ups, happy ups.  We're all pretty well used to each other by
now." "That's great!  Give Sue an extra hug from Uncle Eddy." When he
hung up, he felt good.  He always felt good after his call to Ohio,
anyway, knowing that Lara was solidly placed for the first time in her
life.  She would always be secure, with a tidy interest in a steady,
flourishing business.  Davey could be a typical nineteenth-century
small-town manufacturer, he reflected, and thought again: If he would
only let me invest for him, I could make him rich.  He's the finest guy
in the world, but he's got a stubborn, puritanical streak, and Lara's
the same.  Not to want, actually not to want to have money, real money,
with all the liberty and power and delight it gave!  And Eddy shrugged,
smiling to himself at the thought. A short time later he was in his
car, heading toward the Queens Mid-town Tunnel.  Halfway there, he
changed his mind abruptly and turned up Madison Avenue instead.  He
hadn't seen Connie in at least two weeks.  It wasn't five o'clock yet,
so he would probably just catch her before closing time. The little
shop took up a narrow slice of space between a large corner store and
an art gallery.  Its single window contained a mannequin wearing a
smart black-and-white knitted suit and a red hat.  A life-sized stuffed
Dalmatian pulled on a red leash.  r:    "Very clever," Eddy said as he
entered. Connie was alone in the shop.  "What is?" "The window.  Did
you design it yourself?" "Of course not.  One hires a window designer."
"I didn't know.  What does he charge?  An arm and a leg, I suppose."
"Just about.  Between the rent here, which will undoubtedly be raised
next time around, and the wages for the two salesgirls, I just about
break even.  You need to sell a lot of handknits to make the expenses. 
It's a worry."  Connie sighed. "Fortunately, you don't depend on this
for a living.  And you look wonderful, so the work must agree with
you." Connie shrugged.  He didn't like to see her like this,
disgruntled and abrupt.  Besides, since he himself was in a cheerful
mood, he wanted her to match him. "I guess I didn't tell you that I
flew out to Lara's over the Fourth.  She's got a really nice little
kid.  Really nice.  Or did I tell you?" "No, you didn't, Eddy," she
answered, a trifle sharply, he thought. And he said, "Well, if I
didn't, it was because I didn't know whether you wanted to hear."
106

"Why shouldn't I want to hear about a child?  What can I have agaist a
child?"

"What can you have against Lara for so long?"  he countered.

"It seems to me that it's the other way around."

"I'm stumped by each of you!  She thinks you should have called hr to
congratulate them on getting Sue.  You think—"

"I think that after she accused me of murder and stormed out o my
house, the burden is on her.  That's what I think."

"Oh, I give up," Eddy said.  "It's beyond me."

Connie's expression softened.  "Dear Eddy!  You do mean well.  Ya
always want to straighten things out, don't you?  But some things just
won't be straightened.  You don't think I'm happy about Lara and
myself, do you?  My only sister ... Do you?"

At the break in her voice and the sight of springing tears, he shoo his
head.

"I shouldn't have mentioned it again.  God knows I never mean to pset
you.  Lara breaks up, too, whenever I say anything to her, so I've
stoped.  I'm sorry, Connie."

She kissed his cheek.  "It's okay, Eddy.  I'm closing up.  Want to have
some dinner with me?"

"Thanks, I'm on my way to the country.  But I'll see you on Mondy, if
you're free."

"I'm free.  Have a good time, dear."

It was a fair, cool evening, and the air rushed softly through the ipen
windows of the new gray Mercedes two-seater; he had considered buyng a
red car, but then had decided that a bright red toy was inconsistentMth
dignity.  Anyway, the car was superb.  It responded like a living
thing, kc a fine horse.  As he drove, maneuvering fleetly through the
traffic, his n'nd kept clicking; his mental processes were as finely
tuned as was the pice of machinery beneath him.

If only those two would get together again!  It wasn't in his natue to
comprehend how pain could be nurtured for so long.  They were with
anguished, he knew, anguished and angry.  The words they had spokn to
each other had apparently cut as harshly as knives.  It was a pity, a
sadsad, pity.

At least, though, he had seen Connie out of a profound slump.  At :ast,
now with that sorry divorce out of the way—poor Richard!—she ha> the
boutique to keep her busy.  It puzzled him that she wasn't married yet
She was the marrying kind if any woman ever was.  He seemed to remenber
betting Richard that she would be married within two years at least,
lit it was already two years, with no one in sight.  Connie was
critical, of curse, and having been burned once, would be more so than
ever.  Moreove she

107

had a right to be highly selective; she was a stunning young woman, and
she had a brain, a pair of qualities that didn't always, or even
frequently, go together. Now further thought slid naturally to Eddy's
own most private affair, the Pamela affair.  For the last few weeks he
had sensed a growing impatience within himself, a feeling that things
had been drifting for too loig.  What the reason was, or whose fault it
might be, if fault there was, was difficult to know, probably because
both of them, Pam and he alike, were responsible.  Neither had been in
a hurry to marry. Undoubtedly, there was substance in what she always
said, that she wanted some years of independence before making a
commitment.  Good enough.  But there were too many attractive men
hanging around her.  . . . He both knew it and didn't want to know it.
He had very quick perceptions.  Too often he saw men's glares at her
quickly turned away when Eddy intercepted them.  And then there were
all those casual invitations, like the one last Sunday when they were
coming from the movies. "Hi, Pam!  Can you make a fourth at tennis
tomorrow?"  The man had had a supercilious look on his dark, vivid
face.  He'd had a swagger, and his arrogant eyes would appeal to women.
Mean men attracted some women, absurd as it seemed.  Eddy recognized
the type.  He probably crawled out of one soft bed into another, a
different one every night.  A man like him wouldn't stop at tennis.  .
. . To think that on first meeting her he had thought she was "coal"I
Under the correct, the "preppie," exterior, she smoldered.  How Pam
loved sex!  Sex, the imponderable and unexplainable.  Who could say
what she might do or might not do during the long week while he was
working in the city?  Suddenly, he was furious. The sight of a police
car pulling a motorist over to the side of the road sobered him, and he
slowed down.  Ah, but I am probably making a mountain out of a
molehill, he began to assure himself.  I'm imagining.  I'm
exaggerating.  Pam cares about me.  There can't be any mistake about
that, about the way we are together, and not only in bed.  . . . As he
turned into the long gravel drive, past shaggy bushes that brushed his
fenders, he thought with a secret smile how Pam's mother was dying for
him to marry Pam.  Oh, in the beginning it had been different!  He
wasn't in the Social Register; he might well have been just another
Wall Street fly-by-night, spending everything he made and as likely as
not to ose his job with the toss of a coin.  By now, she knew
otherwise. He parked the car and got out, reaching for a magazine on
the seat.  It was a popular business weekly.  This issue, which had
come out only yesterday, contained the long-anticipated article about
himself, the "Young 108

Prince of Wall Street."  A few years ago he would have bounded into
this house waving it in his hand, but now he thought carefully before
acting.  Yes, he decided, there would be far greater impact if people
were to discover the article for themselves, as they were sure to do. 
He walked up the porch steps without it and knocked on the screen
door.

When Mrs.  Granger's cool voice called, "Come in," he followed it to
the dining room, where he found her on a step-stool changing bulbs in
the chandelier.

"Oh, Eddy!  It's good to see you, Pam's upstairs showering, and I'm
struggling here.  If only I were three inches taller, it wouldn't be so
impossible—"

"Here, let me."  He took off his jacket, revealing smartly striped
braces and a shirt pocket with a small, tasteful monogram.

"What three extra inches can do!"  he said gaily as Mrs.  Granger
handed up the bulbs.

"A good deal more than three.  Oh, I don't care what women's lib people
say, a woman needs to have a man around.  A husband."  The tone was
wistful.

Deciding to keep the talk light, he answered with a laugh, "What for? 
To change light bulbs?"

She was shrewd.  At once her retort became equally light.  "Oh, to mix
drinks and cope with the plumber.  All that sort of thing."

They were onto each other.  Yet he liked the woman.  Her prattle, while
it was so obvious, was both amusing and interesting to him.

"It must seem foolish to you that two women live alone surrounded by so
much empty space.  But my great-grandfather built this house, and the
best parts of my life were lived here.  The house was always filled
with cousins and guests; we used every inch of it.  It would crush me
to walk away from it.  Besides, Pam loves it as much as I do.  She's
got her horses just down the road and, well, you know."

He knew.  He could imagine the house in its heyday.  The wicker chairs
on the porch would have been newly cushioned and the greenhouse, now
fallen into neglect, would have provided flowers enough to fill every
nook and bay window.  Even now the place had its charm and dignity.

He looked over to the sideboard—original Sheraton, he was pretty sure. 
On it stood a George II tea service.  Old silver acquired a special
soft gleam, and it felt like silk in the hands.  These pieces must have
been in the family for five generations.  It would feel nice to be part
of such a family, he was thinking while he screwed in the last of the
bulbs.  It would make you feel solid, rooted, as if you really belonged
somewhere.

"Hey!"  Pam came clattering down the stairs and into the dining room,

109

waving a magazine.  "You there with your secrets!  Mom, look what
they've written about Eddy!" The two women leaned over the magazine,
reading the double-page spread.  Evening light sifted through the
screen and passed through Pam's pink silk housecoat, outlining her long
legs to the hips, and giving rise in Eddy to certain very warm
anticipations and recollections.  He stood waiting modestly until they
had finished reading and then modestly listened to their astonished
praise. "Eddy!"  Pam cried.  "I never dreamed what really big things
you were doing.  You never talk about yourself." "Because Eddy is a
gentleman," said her mother. "All these articles exaggerate," he said. 
"Writers have to make them startling, sensational.  It's their
livelihood, after all, so I suppose one can't fault them.  Anyway,
everybody has a talent for something and should try to live up to it. 
And that's all I do, for whatever it's worth, and it's the whole
story," he concluded with an easy smile. Mrs.  Granger complained, "If
I'd only known, I'd have had a celebration for you.  Now we're just
having hamburgers and salad." "Sounds great enough to me, Mrs. 
Granger." "I think you two had better eat without me.  I'm invited to
my cousin Mona's, and I'm not dressed yet.  I'm running late."  At the
foot of the stairs she turned around.  "As a matter of fact, I'm going
to spend the night there.  It's too far to be driving home by myself. 
Just don't forget to turn on the burglar alarm, Pam." "I'll be staying
at the club," Eddy said, "but I'll make sure to see that she does
before I leave her." So, he had just been handed a nice little present,
a welcome comfort for the night instead of the porch swing or the
blankets in the rear of Pam's station wagon, which were their only
choices in between her infrequent stays in the city. Pam's eyes beamed
straight toward his.  "Let's eat and then go change.  Have you brought
your riding stuff?  On second thought, you won't need it.  We'll ride
Western, in jeans." "How come?" "Somebody's boarding a pair of pintos,
and I thought it would be fun to ride along the beach tonight.  They
need exercising, anyway.  Are you game?" "Sure am." "There's a moon,
and it'll be gorgeous." Night riding was one of the exhilarating
pleasures she had taught him.  The beach was usually deserted, and the
quiet, except for the sound ol 110

waves and horses' hooves slapping the hard sand or splashing in the
shallows, was an amazement to a New Yorker's ears.

"Okay, I'm for it," he said.

This time, however, they were not to have the night all to themselves. 
In the paddock were two young men getting ready to mount.

"Hi, Pam, what's up?"  one called.

"We're going to take the pintos out.  These are my friends, Alex and
Marty.  They're horse crazy like me.  This is Eddy, Eddy Osborne."

"Know how to put on a Western saddle?"  inquired the man called Alex.

"I think I do," Pam said.

"I think you don't.  Come on, I'll show you."

Don't do us any favors.  Eddy felt another twinge of anger.  He
despised the man's very walk, the nonchalant sway of his shoulders.

The stable was fragrant with hay and the natural smell of clean,
well-tended animals.  In two stalls, facing each other, stood a pair of
identical brown-and-white mares.  Pam stroked their long cheeks.

"Aren't they lovely?  The owner's starting a Western ranch upstate."

"Take this one," Alex advised.  "She's a might narrower in the seat."

Standing behind Pam, he had laid a familiar hand on her shoulder, while
Eddy watched.  He watched while the other man adjusted the Western
saddle on Pam's animal and then copied him.  They led the mares outside
and mounted.

"There's something funny about this stirrup.  It doesn't feel right,"
Pam said.

Eddy moved to dismount and help her, but Marty, still on the ground,
got there first.  And again, Eddy watched a man's familiar touch, this
time on Pam's leg.

Who the hell did they think they were?  Damn their hands, damn both of
them!  But Eddy knew he had to smother his anger.  The night was too
wonderful, the opportunity too splendid, to ruin it.  Later, later he
would solve this, find out once and for all whether—

They rode.  A wind came up, blowing the sounds of speech away off over
the water, and they rode without talking.  They rode in single file
with Pam at the head.  When she put the mare into a gallop, her hair
flew out behind her.  The total effect of girl and animal, both of them
so lean and agile, was as graceful as any spectacular ballet at Lincoln
Center.  Pam's strength and beauty fired Eddy.  Then he tried
self-analysis.  He knew he was the most competitive of men; he knew he
was affected by the rivalry, real or fancied, of every other male.  But
he had never before been so bothered, so possessed.

He said nothing until they were back home and having coffee in the
kitchen.  There, more abruptly than he had planned, his words came
out.

111

"Have you ever slept—seriously and steadily, I mean—with anybody but
me?" What he wanted to ask and could not bring himself to ask was: Do
you ever sleep with anybody now when I'm not here? "What makes you ask
such a question?" He hesitated.  "Don't take this the wrong way, but
sometimes I get the feeling that men are too intimate with you.  Like
tonight, for instance.  The way those guys had their hands on you."
"Oh, Eddy, that's ridiculous." "No it isn't.  You're a very, very sexy
lady." "Putting a hand on a woman doesn't mean anything." "That depends
on how it's done.  It often means that the man wants a lot more from
the woman." "Well, if I'm as sexy as you say I am, it's not strange
that men would jwant to.  For goodness' sake, Eddy, are you going to be
jealous?"  • !    "I don't like to see men so intimate with you.  Is
that jealousy?  I don't /'know.  I've never been jealous before.  But I
sense something when men are ; around you, that's all.  Frankly, I
sense that you enjoy it." "I'll be frank too.  It's fun to be admired,
Eddy, especially when a whole week goes by sometimes without my seeing
you." There was a pause before he brought forth another bold question. 
"How many men have you had besides me?  If you don't want to tell me,
I'll understand that I don't matter to you, and that will be that." Pam
stood up and laid her face against his.  "You matter very much to me,
and I'll tell you whatever you want to know.  I've had two men, only a
few times each, and they were before I met you.  Of course, I was
afraid of pregnancy and disease.  But even if there were no such thing,
I'd never be promiscuous.  Why bring all this up now, Eddy?" He felt
that she was being truthful and, moved, reached up and took her hand.
"We've never talked seriously about things, have we?  I just felt that
the time had come for us to do so." She smiled.  "I'll talk about
anything you want." He smiled back.  "Later.  I'd rather go upstairs. 
Shall we?" "Just let me get ready.  I'll call you." He had never seen
her room or even been upstairs in the house.  When he heard her call to
him, he entered a blue-and-white bedchamber, all summer sky and silk
clouds.  On a little couch at the foot of the canopy bed, Pam sat naked
among white lace pillows.  Her expression as she looked up at him was
absolutely serious in a way that was different from anything he had
ever seen upon her face before.  Startling impressions and sensations
raced across his mind in seconds.  Even this room of hers was something
he 112

would not have imagined, it was so soft and womanly; it might well be
the place where Lara slept with Davey.  It was matrimonial.  Our
bedroom is the most important room in the house, Lara said when they
moved into the new home.  And a queer yearning ran now through Eddy's
veins and through his very bones at the recollection.  He had never
felt such a yearning.  To come home every night to a lovely woman, to
share this bed with her, to belong to each other in a total trust!

He felt a little catch in his throat, a little stab near his heart, and
he held out his arms.

"Would you—" he almost stammered.  "Could you make this permanent, do
you think?  What I mean is—marry me?"

"Oh," she said.  "Oh, oh, yes, I could.  Yes, yes, I will.  I want
to."

She was laughing, she was crying.  She was live and perfect.  Almost as
tall as he, she fitted into his arms.  She was right for him.

Laughter, their familiar mood, took over again in the morning.

"Do you suppose you'd better clear out before my mother comes home?" 
asked Pam.

"Lord no, she knew I was going to stay here.  She practically invited
me.  She's probably figuring out the wedding date."

Pam looked out over the lawn where sprinklers were showering drops as
bright as sparks.

"Whenever I thought about it," she said slowly, "and not being in a
hurry, I never thought about it often, but whenever I did, I pictured a
huge reception on that lawn.  A dance floor under a marquee.  The
ceremony at St.  John's of Lattingtown.  A marvelous dress, six
bridesmaids, the works.  You know."

"Fine with me."

"Darling, my mother couldn't possibly afford it."

"I'll pay!  What's the difference?"

"A lot of difference.  She wouldn't hear of it, a matter of pride,
much, much pride, darling."

"I think it's silly, if you want to know."

"Maybe so, but that's the way it is."

"So what shall we do?"

"We could elope."

Disappointed, Eddy replied, "That's not very festive."

"I know.  Well, let me think a little."

"Okay, think.  But I want you to meet me in the city this week. 
Somebody was telling me about a grand apartment for sale, twelve rooms,
prewar with high ceilings, a beauty.  Let's take a look."

113

"I can't believe it!  You talk as if money didn't matter.  Are you
really that rich, Eddy?" He grinned.  "I do all right.  Enough for you
not to worry about money.  Enough for you to have anything you want."
Wonderingly, she said, "I don't want a lot, Eddy.  I never have.  This
seems so strange.  I can't get used to it."  The grin turned into a
laugh.  "You will.  You'll love it too."  Eddy's plans developed as
rapidly as a roll of film unwinds.  The apartment was magnificent, with
paneled walls, marble fireplaces that worked, a far view of the East
River, and a near view of private gardens.  Pam, looking down at this
green enclave, found it hard to understand how anyone could part with a
place like this one.  "Divorced," Eddy told her. She gave a small mock
shudder.  "I don't like the omen."  "Don't be an idiot.  Divorce isn't
contagious.  Besides, I've seen the woman.  She's fat and homely, so no
wonder."  He surveyed the long drawing room. "They want to sell the
furniture, but we surely don't want it.  It's garbage.  Expensive
garbage.  Now, I'd have a cabinet, a pair maybe, on either side of the
fireplace to house my silver.  The collection's grown so that I've even
got boxes under my bed." "That's a handsome piano, though.  I think
it's rosewood."  "Hey, you're right!  You want to buy it?"  "I don't
play." "That doesn't matter.  It looks wonderful where it is.  Enormous
rooms need a piano.  It'll be a showpiece.  Next to you.  You'll be the
real showpiece." Sometime later he said thoughtfully, "You know, maybe
it's not such a bad idea after all for us to get married by ourselves. 
I've been thinking that a big wedding, even a small one, would be a
problem for me too.  I've told you about my sisters' feud, and I don't
know how I could— It would be awkward, painful, to have them together. 
The whole thing hurts my heart, Pam.  And they're both such good
people.  You'll see when you meet them.  I want to fly out to Ohio with
you soon to see Lara.  You'll fall in love with her.  Everybody does."
"Still, she's being awfully stubborn, isn't she?" "Well, they both are.
Neither one wants to give in or take back the rotten things she
apparently said."  Eddy sighed.  "Well, let's get back to you and me. 
I just had a brainstorm.  What about an elopement to Paris?  Your
mother's pride is intact, my family problem is solved, and we have a
great vacation.  What do you say?" "Why, I say yes," Pam answered
promptly.  "Double yes." 114

They were married at the American Church, attended by a young lawyer, a
client of Eddy's who with his wife happened to be in Paris that week. 
Afterward, they had dinner at the Grand Vefour and returned to their
suite at the Hotel Ritz.  In the morning they walked out onto the Place
Vendome and in wonderful, slow leisure, at Van Cleef and Arpels, bought
the diamond ring that, in their general haste, they had not gotten
around to buying at home.

Pam knew Paris rather well, having been there frequently with her
parents during the good times before her father's death, and she led
Eddy easily to all the sights from the Eiffel Tower to the Louvre.  The
fall season had begun, restoring the beautiful city after the summer
lull to a thrilling life of concerts, theater, restaurants, gallery
openings, and discotheques.  Eddy and Pam were out every night at one
or another of these.

Then they began to shop.  She remembered where to look for antiques;
they bought a Louis XVI cabinet, an ormolu clock, and some chairs. 
Eddy knew what he was buying, surprising the antiquarians in the shops
and surprising himself also by the extent of his own knowledge,
acquired in a relatively short few years.  On the lie St.  Louis at a
small art gallery, they bought a Postimpressionist seascape of a beach
at dusk with a group of young women sitting on the sand.  It was Pam's
choice.

"It's nice," Eddy agreed, "but it's the kind of thing you put in a
bedroom or some little sitting room to enjoy in private.  Frankly, in
public rooms like the drawing or dining room, I want important art,
things of museum quality."

In total companionship the two of them rollicked through three splendid
weeks.  They walked, danced, laughed, and thought in identical rhythms.
And he was proud, swelling within, when men turned to glance at the
healthy, tall young woman so unmistakably American, even in her new
French clothes, with her long hair so casually worn, her confident,
long stride, and her white, perfect teeth.

Occasionally, he caught the tail end of a question that trailed across
his mind and as quickly vanished: Is this love, then?  The thing they
tell of?  Till death do us part .  . . I can't live without you.  . . .
Well, yes, he decided, this must be it.  But whatever it is, it's
wonderful.

He was supremely happy.

CHAPTER SEVEN

'am's going to a bridal shower, so I thought I'd spend the evening with
you," said Eddy, and added as he looked around Connie's library, "The
place looks beautiful.  That's a new lamp." "I treated myself.  Can I
fix you a drink?" "A cup of hot coffee.  I fought a real wind walking
over here." His eyes followed his sister across the hall toward the
kitchen.  She wore a dark red velvet housecoat embroidered in gold
thread, along with a pair of magnificent earrings.  Greek, he knew, and
handmade.  There was no mistaking either the design or the dark gleam
of twenty-two-carat gold.  They were most likely another "treat," and
Eddy had to smile.  Connie took good care of herself.  But shouldn't
she, after all?  Thanks to him the settlement that Richard had given to
her was growing ten times over; it was no fortune, but certainly it was
more than enough to maintain a little place like this one in good
style, and to dress Connie in high style. Pam would never think to buy
a housecoat like that.  She was most comfortable in a sweater and
skirt.  Any treasures Pam possessed had been brought home by him, as
almost the entire contents of the new apartment had been.  Pam's two
interests were horses and sex.  Well, that was all right.  He liked
horses well enough, and as for sex, just let her keep on loving it the
way she did, as long as she never used her wiles on anybody else.  But
ever since that conversation in her mother's house, she had given him
not one moment's unquiet.  Some other young wives indulged in mild,
harmless flirting even when their husbands were present, but not Pam. 
All that sort of thing she saved for him.  Eddy's smile, broadening at
certain recollections, turned into a rather joyous grin. "You look like
a Cheshire cat," said Connie, coming back with a tray.  "What are you
smirking at?" "Thinking of my wife.  Being happy.  She leaves me at
loose ends when she goes out." 116

"For one night?  Lucky you!  Loose ends is where I am most nights."

The disconsolate tone fitted ill with Connie's physical brilliance, the
sheen of hair and skin, the scarlet mouth, the scarlet tips of the long
white fingers.  But the fingers were tensely clasped together on her
knee, Eddy saw, and there were two vertical trouble lines between her
eyes.

"Where are all your friends?"  he asked.  "You had so many."

"Bitsy and her crowd?  They'd have lunch with me if I had time, which I
don't because I'm in the shop, but they're all married, and they don't
want an extra woman around at night."

"Not when she looks like you, that's for sure.  You're a menace, you
are."

"Well, thank you.  Oh, I've been going out some, you know that, but
there's really been nobody who amounts to anything.  They all just want
to sleep with you, and what I want, plainly speaking, is to be
married."

"It's too bad—" Eddy began, and stopped before completing a remark that
would be both tactless and pointless.

"Too bad about Richard, you meant to say?  Yes, it was nice living with
him.  We really had everything except a good love life."  And with a
candor she had never shown before, she said, "And if it hadn't been for
the other thing—the men—I guess I could have put up with that too.  The
fact is, I'm not very passionate."

In spite of himself Eddy was embarrassed.  A pity!  He wondered whether
she knew, whether it was even possible for her to know, what she was
missing.

"Yes," she continued, "he was good to me, and I feel sorry for him.  He
still remembers my birthday.  Isn't that sort of sad?  Birthday and
Christmas cards.  Never misses.  And I do the same."

"Well, that's nice.  Civilized.  But there's no reason not to be, is
there?"

It occurred to him as always that it would also be civilized if she and
Lara were to do something about their sorry situation, when Connie
inquired whether he ever saw Richard.

"I handle his investments by telephone.  But I did happen to run into
him on Madison Avenue a week or two ago, and we had a quick lunch
together.  He looked the same as always."

"What did you talk about?"

"He asked about you, and I told him you were doing very well.  That's
all.  Then we got onto money.  I'm getting him eleven percent on his
investments, four to one on his tax shelters, deductions, and taxes
deferred to i infinity.  So naturally, he's happy.  He got a big bonus
this year and handed me the whole thing to take care of."

"It all sounds terribly complicated."

"Not really.  Someday, if you're really interested, I'll explain it to
you."

117

Connie laughed.  "Except for the bottom line you know I'm not really
interested." "I thought not." Her laugh was delightful, and the gesture
that went with it, the uplifted chin, was charming.  Really it was too
bad that such a woman should still be alone.  And suddenly, for no
logical reason, he had an idea. "Pam and I should have a housewarming,"
he said.  "A real party, a real smash.  What do you think?" "That's up
to Pam.  It's a lot of work, and you haven't been there six months. 
Your living room isn't even furnished except for the piano." "All the
more space for dancing.  When it's finished, we won't be able to
dance." Eddy was already planning.  He ought to get up a whole list of
clients and potential clients.  But the main thing was to gather a few
eligibles for Connie.  Off the top of his head he couldn't think of
any, but with a little effort he surely would, and Pam would have some
ideas too.  She liked Connie.  Of course, Pam liked most people.  But
Connie was more than likable, and they got along very well. "Yes," he
said, "we'll have a party.  Will you help Pam with invitations and
stuff?" "Of course I will.  And I'm awfully glad that everything's
going so well for you, Eddy."  Connie laid an affectionate hand on her
brother's knee. It was sleeting outdoors, and the cold was intense, so
that in contrast, the apartment was a southern garden, fragrant and
warm.  Connie arrived early just as preparations for the party were
being completed.  In the foyer, which was as large as her own living
room, the walls were lined with flowering trees in marble tubs.  The
staircase leading to the second floor of the duplex was decked with
smilax, hung in ropes and garlands.  Casual, overflowing bouquets of
roses and freesia stood on tables and mantels in the library and the
dining room, in Pamela's sitting room and Eddy's den.  Back in the
immense drawing room, still unfurnished except for the white silk
curtains on the tall windows, the caterers had arranged their gilt
chairs and tables in a circle, leaving space for those who wanted to
dance. Connie stood contemplating this magnificence.  She felt
awestruck.  That was the only way to describe her feelings.  Richard
had been generous to her, there could be no doubt of that, but you
could fit her apartment five times over into this one and still have
space left.  She walked back into the library.  Its walls of French
boiserie were precious.  The needlepoint rug was handmade.  Above the
fireplace a new painting had been hung: a Sargent?  Connie had taken
her courses at the museum very seriously and knew what she was looking
at.  The pearllike flesh, the dusky velvet, the woman's very 118

pose, were unmistakable.  This was what you could do when you had real
money.  How ever had Eddy managed to achieve it all?  Again, she was
overcome with awe and a profound respect for his intelligence and
energy.

"Admiring the lady?"  Eddy inquired from the doorway.

"Of course.  When did she arrive?"

"Just in time for tonight.  Isn't she a beauty?"

"You don't have an art adviser?  So many people do."

"Why?  What for?"

"Well, to keep his eyes open for prospects all over the world.  You
surely don't have the time or the contacts."

"I read," Eddy said.  "I read everything.  Right now I'm learning about
Orientals.  I never knew there was so much to know about rugs.  Sarouk,
Ispahan—" He threw up his hands.  "My God, the world is full of so many
kinds of art!  Books—I bought a set of Dickens first editions the other
day with illustrations by Phiz.  And how do you like this lamp?"  he
asked, pointing out a bronze flower on a thin bronze stem.  "Art
Nouveau."

"I know.  It's very lovely."

"Cost me almost two hundred thousand," he whispered.  "Don't worry, I
know it's vulgar to talk prices, but I'm only telling you and no one
else.  Now come look at this—" he began when Pam interrupted him.

"Darling, do leave your sister alone.  When Eddy gets enthusiasms, I
don't have to tell you how he throws himself into them with all his
strength.  I'm afraid he'll be worn out before he has these twelve
rooms filled up.  Connie, you look beautiful as always."

Connie's sheer apricot silk dress was a column of Fortuny pleats in the
style of ancient Greece.

"And how smart of you to wear no jewelry except those gorgeous
earrings!"

"Thank you."  I've learned, Connie thought.  The sumptuous diamond
tassels, an extravagance she had not resisted, were made to dazzle by
themselves, without competition.  "You look lovely too.  Like a bride,"
she said, returning the compliment.

Without appearing to do so she studied Pam, who looked aristocratic in
heavy white satin.  You had to be very tall and reared in the right
environment to possess the air that let you dress so plainly, to wear
your hair caught back with a barrette and still have such elegance.

"A bride!  Well, it's white, anyway, the nearest I could get to wedding
regalia.  I suppose I'll always be a trifle sorry that we didn't have a
big wedding."

"I know.  I didn't have one either.  Not that there's any comparison." 
There was not, and the unthinking, somewhat pathetic remark left Connie
feeling foolish and tactless.

119

Then the doorbell rang and Eddy said quickly, "We're having a varied
crowd here tonight, Connie.  There should be some interesting people
for you." It was difficult to tell who was "interesting" and who was
not while one was drifting from group to group and room to room, with
the buzz of chatter in one's ears, a drink in one hand and a canape on
a napkin in the other.  There were the usual elderly married men
wanting to strike up a conversation apart from their wives, whom they
had left on the other side of the room; there were the usual hunters,
some of them very, very attractive, jostling each other for a chance to
take a young woman home and spend the night; there was the usual
interior decorator—Eddy's and Pam's this time—intelligent, refined, and
homosexual; there was a promising young man with whom Connie was having
a promising discussion about the newest Woody Allen movie, when he
revealed that he'd been married three weeks before, and "There she is,
the beautiful redhead in the blue dress." Mostly, she found herself
standing on the fringe of some group that had gathered around her
brother as he passed among his guests.  Eddy was to be marveled at, she
thought, as men, some of them twice his age, showed their regard for
him. "I hear you've brought in six million dollars' worth of pledges
for the cardiac unit at Mount Mercy." "We're having our own open house
at our new place in Nassau, and we expect you to be there, Eddy.  My
wife's going to get in touch with Pam." "My law partner wants to meet
you, Eddy.  I thought maybe we might have lunch next week at the
Travers Guaranty in their private dining room.  His cousin's the
president, you remember." Eddy's blue eyes were sparkling in contrast
to his perpetual tan.  He reveled in every word, and why should he not?
All that he was, secure, admired, and sought after, he had
accomplished by himself.  And Connie's heart swelled with joy for her
brother. She was making conversational remarks to strangers when dinner
was announced.  Finding her place card on one of the overflow tables in
the library, she wondered why she had been seated in such a quiet
backwater.  However, she was not in a mood for dancing, so perhaps it
was just as well.  Except for Connie's, all the other places were
filled, and a quick glance showed that the occupants were chiefly
married couples in early middle age. The unaccompanied man seated next
to her stood up and pulled out her chair.  As always, it took her only
a few seconds to appraise him, to take, as it were, a mental photograph
of his person.  He was not young, nor was he 120

old.  His dark, wavy hair was flecked with gray, he had remarkably fine
brown eyes, watchful eyes, and a strong frame marred by a slight
paunch.

"Martin Berg," he said, introducing himself.

"Connie Osborne.  I'm Eddy's sister."

"Ah!  Somebody said he had a beautiful sister.  I had no idea I'd be
lucky enough to have you as my dinner partner."

The conventional remark was one that might easily be dismissed, either
as meaningless or else as a minor, perfunctory flirtation.  Beyond
that, the man had little to say.  When the first course came, a lobster
bisque, he announced that he was hungry and began to eat.  Connie,
assuming that this meant she would do better to keep silence herself,
did just that.  Again she wondered why she had been seated here.

The others apparently all knew each other.  A voluble conversation
sprang up around the table and across the table, or rather, several
conversations sprang, concurrently and interrupting.

"Oh, were you at their Southampton affair?  I hear they had flowers
flown in from Europe.  . . . Well, you can't get those old roses in
this country.  ... I heard Charlene spends ten thousand a month on
flowers."

". . . speaks French like a native.  They all went to school in
Switzerland."

"The Cote d'Azur is ruined.  When I remember how it used to be ... that
marvelous house in Cap Estel .  . ."

"Of course, it's all the thing to have a mas on some isolate hillside
in Provence.  She had the decorator come down from Paris to do it."

Beneath this trivial, loud prattle about things French came a soft
voice, just above a whisper, at Connie's right.

"You look far away," said Martin Berg.

"Do I?  I didn't mean to."

"I think you're bored.  I think it's your nature to be friendly, to be
lively."

"How can you tell?"

"I saw you before dinner in the other room.  Am I right?"

"Well, I usually do more talking than I've done here, but—"

"But these people are boring as hell, and you wouldn't have had a
chance to break in if you'd wanted to.  So talk to me—if you want to,
that

is.

The mellow bass of the voice was, curiously, both appealing and
demanding.  So she answered readily, "I'd like to.  What shall I talk
about?"

"About yourself.  Are you married?"

"Divorced.  And you?"

"Soon to be.  We've been a long time separated, but there've been
complications.  Two children.  Have you got babies?"

"Fortunately, no."

121

"You notice I said 'babies,' not 'children.' You can't be long out of
school yourself." "Thank you, but I'm not all that young, I'm
twenty-seven." "I'm forty-seven.  My son's in college at the Sorbonne. 
And I have a little girl, a dear little girl whom I miss most
terribly." Such a candid, pained admission from a stranger seemed
unusual.  He was either a timid, lonely soul in need of sympathetic
contact, or else a person so sure of himself that he could afford to
say whatever he pleased, whenever and wherever his mood moved him. 
And, glancing again from his face with its firm, narrow lips to his
fine, tasteful tie, to the equally tasteful gold cuff links and watch,
she concluded that very definitely he was the latter. "Where does your
girl live?"  she asked. "In Paris, with her mother.  Divorce is a
wound, no matter what the circumstances." Connie, nodding, remembered
Richard standing in the kitchen saying over and over, I'm so sorry I've
hurt you, Connie. Berg's manner turned brisk.  "Let's talk about
something cheerful.  About your brother," he said deliberately.  "Of
course, you know they're all calling him the 'young prince.' And he
really is a wonder.  I know it took me years to get even a footing on
Wall Street, and look where he's gotten almost overnight." "Oh, you're
in finance too?" "Yes.  Stocks and bonds."  An odd smile passed across
his face.  Had the question been so amusing?  And for a moment he toyed
with his dessert, a baked Alaska with a mound of meringue and a thick
chocolate sauce.  "I shouldn't eat this stuff, although sweets are my
weakness.  How do you manage to keep so thin?"  he asked, for Connie
had not left a particle on her plate. "Exercise, daily workout." "I
should do it, too, but I hate exercise.  The only kind I like is
dancing.  Would you like to dance now?" They stood up, excused
themselves, and went to the drawing room.  A little alcove in the
semicircle of palms near the piano had been prepared for the musicians;
their pulsing music had brought almost everybody to the dance floor,
whirling and gyrating to the tom-tom rhythm. Berg danced well.  Older
people so often looked absurd when they attempted rock and roll, but he
was adept, and she saw by his smile that he was enjoying himself. 
Then, at somebody's request, the music changed, surprisingly, to
another genre: show tunes from My Fair Lady.  Now Connie had to move
into Berg's arms.  She was almost as tall as he, so that their cheeks
met.  And when she moved her head, their eyes met.  There were 122

minute green flecks in his brown irises.  They were friendly eyes, she
decided, like Richard's except that there was no humor in them, or
shyness, either, nor was there shyness in his firm hold around her
waist.

People were watching them.  A man called pleasantly, "Great
performance, Martin!"  as they swung past.  The admiration was
palpable, pouring like warm water over their perfect steps and over
Connie, who could not help but know that she was the best-looking woman
in the room.

When the music switched back to the tom-tom rhythm, Martin paused. 
"I've had enough of that for tonight, haven't you?  How about going
somewhere else for some real old-fashioned dancing?  To the St.  Regis
Roof, maybe?  A dress like yours should be shown off.  Or would you
rather just go someplace after the party for a quiet drink?"

He was obviously very, very interested.  And with a difference.  What
it was that made his interest different from the usual none-too-subtle
bid for a night in bed she could not have said.  So she told him that a
quiet drink would be very nice.

"I'm glad you chose that, Connie.  I was hoping you would.  Where shall
it be?"

"My place," she told him.

"This is a pleasing room," said Martin, looking around the library.

"No Sargent over the fireplace.  No fireplace, for that matter."

He shrugged.  "What's the difference?  Your brother's a rich man.  He
can afford a Sargent.  And this is very nice.  In good taste."

They were on their second glass of champagne.  She had learned that it
was smart to keep a chilled bottle ready for unexpected occasions like
this one.  But now she was beginning to feel the wine's potency; her
blood ran hot and her words were coming too slowly.  It became
absolutely necessary to keep from falling asleep.

"We could put some music on and roll up the rug in the hall," she
suggested.

"A great idea.  Let's."

Firmly held again, she followed in perfect rhythm.  Coming face to
face, they regarded each other rather solemnly; then he placed a light
kiss on her lips.  His mouth was pleasing with its fragrance of fruity
wine, mingled with a trace of mint.  He kissed her again; her head
spun; they pressed more closely to each other.  Presently, they stopped
dancing and stood still where they were, pressed together from mouth to
knee.  The tape stopped.  And still they stood together in a quiet so
thick and deep that she could hear the throbbing of his heart.  There
was no question about what must follow.

"Connie?  Say where."

In the bedroom they undressed slowly, not taking their eyes away from

123

one another.  At last she stood naked of everything except the long
diamond earrings. "God, you're beautiful!"  he cried. Expertly, he
unscrewed the earrings, laid them on the night table, and drew her down
onto the bed. He knew how to please, how to prolong pleasure.  Indeed,
Connie had never had as much pleasure with anyone before.  It was not
ecstatic—she knew by now that she was one of those for whom it never
would reach the ultimate, just as there are people for whom food is
never a real delight— but it was good enough.  Quickly she grasped the
fact that Berg was passionate and would want a passionate response from
her.  Not getting it, he might probably never come back.  She hoped he
would, for he was unmistakably a man, and she had had her fill of boys.
Things she had read and been told by other women, all sorts of tricks
and variations, now came to mind.  Sex was an art.  Very well then, she
would practice it. "You are," Martin said in the morning, "the best
I've ever known."  His eyes were bright with happiness and admiration. 
"You're marvelous, Connie." It was late on a dark gray Sunday.  But the
kitchen where they were having breakfast was cheerful, and the feeling
was companionable. "So you're from Ohio?" "A small-town girl." "You
surely don't look it.  You look like Fifth Avenue.  Or Paris.  As for
me, I'm from Flatbush.  Originally, that is.  That's Brooklyn, in case
you don't know." "I've heard, but I've never been there." "You haven't
missed anything.  It's pretty awful." "Then shall I say you don't look
it either?" Martin laughed.  "As a matter of fact, I do.  My parents
were Polish immigrants.  My father drove a taxi.  He's dead now.  My
mother too."  He stopped.  "That's enough.  It's of no interest to
you." "Oh, but it is."  And it was, for in a startling instant she
became aware that this man was the first person she had met since
leaving Texas who had made his own way, and that he had come, as she
herself had, from the class that is called "working." "Go on.  What
about the rest of the family?" "I'm the youngest of seven, one of the
only two born here and who speak English without an accent.  The other
one, my brother Ben, teaches economics in a community college.  The
eldest brother was killed in the Korean War, one sister died, two
brothers are in the wholesale millinery busi- 124

BELVA PLAIM

ness in Chicago, and the other sister is married to a doctor in
Houston."  He gave her a modest, rather touching smile and concluded,
"So the taxi driver's children have done pretty well, all
considered."

"You've left yourself out."

"Me?  There's nothing unusual to tell.  I worked hard.  I've been a
waiter, and I've pushed a handcart in the garment district.  But I was
also lucky, I know that.  I got a scholarship to Yale and after that to
the Wharton School."

"That's hardly the result of luck, Martin."

He shrugged.  She saw that the shrug was a characteristic gesture for
him.  And he continued, "Ben is the remarkable one.  You'd expect him
to be a free thinker, he's such a 'liberated' man in other ways,
satisfied to live on next to nothing, so antibourgeoisie and all that
business, and yet he's religious, practically Orthodox.  We're Jews, of
course."

He wasn't concealing his origins; he was, in fact, being prideful about
them, while the memory of hers was so repugnant to her that she must
hide it not only from others but from herself as well.  This became
clear to her for the first time, and she heard herself saying to this
stranger, "I always lie about myself.  I let people think I'm from a
Texas family connected with oil.  If I could tell you what my life was
really like—"

Martin put up his hand to halt her admission.  "You don't need to tell
me anything.  I'm only curious about why you're not lying to me."

"I don't really know."  She played with the bacon and egg on her plate.
Why?  Perhaps because he created confidence, because he was so calm
and composed and confident himself, even in that absurd unisex Turkish
towel bathrobe.

She amended her reply.  "I suppose I feel that you won't care about
backgrounds and families and all that stuff the way other people do. 
And I trust you."

"Don't worry.  I'll never betray your little secret, since it means
that much to you."

"You think it's stupid of me, don't you?"

Again he shrugged.  "Probably.  Anyway, it's not important.  What's
important is that you trust me.  I hope you don't trust everybody as
quickly.  It can be dangerous."

"I know that.  But I'm pretty good at judging people, except," she
added ruefully, "except when I married.  The one time I should have
judged well, I didn't."

"You have plenty of company, if that's any help.  And as you said last
night, you're lucky there are no children."

There was a silence so prolonged that Connie, feeling uneasy, broke it
by

125

suggesting that they move out of the kitchen onto more comfortable
chairs in the library. A small stack of books lay on a table next to a
bowl of early tulips.  Martin examined them. "You're reading history?" 
he asked, with the emphasis of surprise on the word history. 
"Napoleon?  The French Revolution?" "I'm trying, a little at a time. 
Actually, they're Richard's books.  He read everything he could about
France.  He has a remarkable mind, curious about everything, history,
art, music, everything." "It's nice that you're not bitter," Martin
said. "Well, the truth is the truth." He nodded.  "My wife is crazy
about France too.  She's gone off to live permanently in Paris.  In the
winter she takes an apartment in Cannes, though I don't know why.  It
can be damn chilly in the winter, and the beach is awful, anyway."
Connie was curious.  "Does she—did she come from Brooklyn too?" "No,
Doris's people were a couple of steps higher on the ladder.  They lived
on the Upper West Side.  She was a social worker when I met her.  She's
a fine person, very sensible, very serious.  A high-quality woman.  I
still respect her.  So I suppose," he said, "the natural question is
why, then, are we ending with divorce?"  Two dark furrows cut Martin's
forehead, and his eyes looked weary so that, quite suddenly, he
resembled the man he would someday be.  "It's insidious, this process
of growing apart.  Hard to analyze, because there are so many ways you
can blame each other.  But mainly, since I've been living alone—I moved
out of the apartment, although I still own it, and took two rooms in a
hotel, a far more cheerful place—I've come to a conclusion: She was too
serious.  All those deep discussions, those 'political' friends of hers
.  . . There was never anything easy or lighthearted.  I get enough
heavy stuff all day.  I want some fun, just plain fun.  I love to
dance.  She hated to.  Things like that."  He broke off.  "But I miss
my little girl.  Let me show you her picture."  He got up and returned
with his wallet.  "Here she is.  Melissa." A plain child, a homely
child with Martin's dark eyes, looked up at Connie while he waited for
a comment. "She's sweet.  She doesn't look like you, though, does she? 
except for her eyes." "She looks like Doris.  But she's like me.  Her
mind, her ways .  . she's like me.  She was here for Christmas
vacation, and we had a great time.  It broke my heart when I had to
take her to Kennedy and put her on the plane back." Connie felt the
man's pain.  "I'm sorry, Martin," she said gently.  "I wish I could say
something to make you feel better." 126

He caught her hand and held it between both of his.  "You've done other
things to make me feel better, Connie.  I never expected—honestly, I
swear I never expected what happened last night.  But you're a
beautiful, vibrant woman, and a passionate one, so it happened, that's
all."  "I don't make a habit of things like this, I assure you."  "Nor
do I. I was never a man for one-night stands.  I want a relationship, a
feeling for each other, with no holding back.  I lived for too long
with prudishness—it's strange, my telling you so many personal things
about myself!  But I suppose you might as well hear it now, because
we're going to be seeing a whole lot of each other, I think."

When Eddy telephoned that evening, Connie said, "You beat me to it.  I
was just going to call and tell you both what a marvelous party that
was."

"You left early."

"I didn't really want to, but Martin Berg—"

"I saw.  You must have made a hit with him."

"He's very nice.  He reminded me of you, in a way.  Started out poor
like you—"

"Like me?  Don't I wish it."

"What do you mean?  Does he do any better than you do?"

"Can you possibly mean that you don't know who he is?"

"Finance?  Securities—isn't that what he does?"

"Oh, my God.  He's Frazier, DeWitt, Berg!  They've got five thousand
employees and branch offices all over the world.  It's one of the
oldest white-shoe firms on the Street."

"And just what, pray tell, is a 'white-shoe firm'?"

"Old-line aristocrats.  Firms that go back a couple of generations.  In
this case Frazier's dead, but they keep the name.  DeWitt took Berg in
twenty years ago in spite of the Brooklyn background because he had a
lot of business to bring along and because he happens to be damn
brilliant.  They deal in billions.  Hostile takeovers.  Big, big fees,
whichever side of the deal they happen to take.  Where did you two
go?"

"To my house.  We sat and talked awhile, then he went home.  He's nice
to talk to, very modest.  You'd never think he was what you've told
me."

"The man's worth about five hundred million.  And he's given millions
away to charity over the years."

Five hundred million.  It was unreal.  That was why people were
watching them as they danced.  Five hundred million.

"You think you'll see him again?"

"Maybe.  You never can tell about men, 'can you?"

Eddy laughed.  "You'll see him.  You looked gorgeous last night.  Pam
said I should tell you that dress was a dream."

127

"Thank her.  She looked lovely herself." "She always does, my preppie
lady.  You're more to Berg's taste, though." "What does that mean?" "It
means that I have a hunch you'll be seeing a lot of him.  And you know
how good I am at hunches." "Well, I don't know," Connie said
cautiously, "but he's a sweet man.  Really sweet." The months unfolded.
He was an extraordinary man.  He had prodigious energy, at work for
eighteen hours out of the twenty-four.  Every morning at half past six
his chauffeur drove him to a seven o'clock breakfast meeting at his own
office, at some other office, or at a hotel. "Breakfast is the most
convenient time to get people together," he explained.  "Lawyers,
bankers, accountants, and principals." "I don't know where you get your
energy," she would whisper when, still half asleep, she heard him
moving through the room on tiptoe so as not to wake her. "As long as I
have enough left for you," he would answer. He had that too.  She would
have been satisfied had he been much less ardent, but he did not know
that and never would know it, for her purpose was to please.  His
kindness, intelligence, and immaculate appearance made it easy to do
the pleasing. Sometimes, when she had spent the night in his rooms, she
would walk around examining, without prying, the possessions that
always tell so much about their owner: the twenty-five-hundred-dollar
suits and London-made shirts behind the open closet door, the
silver-backed brushes on the chest, the leather-bound books and
photographs of his houses, the Palm Beach house and the house in Vail. 
One time as she picked up a book, a snapshot fell out, and she saw in a
family group the woman who must be his wife, a tall woman wearing a
blouse and skirt; she had a dour face like Melissa's.  Connie wondered
then about the divorce. "It will involve a settlement, a pretty big
one," Martin had told her, "as high as a hundred million, maybe.  Who
knows?  It's vengeance, of course."  And when Connie had gasped at the
sum, he had added, "There have been larger settlements than that.  It's
funny, too, because Doris was never a spender, never wanted much.  We
started out in an apartment on Long Island, next we had a small ranch
house, and it was only at my insistence that we graduated to a
good-sized colonial.  Then when we decided to move to the city because
of my night meetings and late hours, it was I who chose the apartment;
she thought it was too big and too expensive.  The only thing she ever
really loved is the house in Paris; it's small, but it's a gem, and now
it's all hers."  He grunted.  "It's not too far from the Sorbonne,
128

where she takes courses.  She likes to be thought of as an
intellectual.  Never even wanted to wear jewelry.  Middle-class
ostentation, you know."

Joyously, Martin bought and bought for Connie.  "I feel like a hick,"
he complained on the Saturday afternoon when they got the sable coat. 
"It's so many years since I've bought anything like this, that I can't
believe how prices have gone up.  Not that I mind," he said quickly. 
"Far from it."

From Harry Winston on the same day came a Burmese ruby, and from David
Webb, a pair of diamond-studded bracelets.

"We're going to a hospital benefit ball next week," he explained, "and
I want you to wear the coat, the ruby, and the bracelets."

She understood how very much it meant to this man to make an entrance
with a splendidly dressed young woman on his arm.  What she did not
understand were his ultimate intentions; was she to be a cherished
mistress, or finally a wife?

Often all that year, when Martin attended breakfast meetings at the
Regency Hotel, Connie would wait in the marble-and-velvet lobby,
observing the flow of people at the door.  They came, quite naturally,
in every age and size, but out of proportion to their numbers, or so it
seemed to her, were couples consisting of a paunchy, balding man with a
young woman half a head taller than he.  These expensive young women
wore anything from jogging outfits or anoraks with skin-tight black
pants to ankle-length black mink.  Often they had proud, sulky faces. 
Mistresses, they were, or second wives, acquired for their youth. 
Martin and she must look like that.  . . . She didn't want to think
about it.

Then he would appear at the top of the steps, striding briskly and
smiling toward her.  Under her guidance he had lost ten pounds, and
along with them as many years.  He was unmistakably a powerful man and
unmistakably an attractive man.  No, they did not resemble the others. 
. . . And it would hurt to lose him.  ... A little shiver of fear would
run down Connie's back, while the essential question trembled, waiting
to be asked.  But she dared not ask it.

In early spring they went to Vail, traveling on the private jet that
belonged to Martin's firm.  Connie was a warm-weather person, and Vail
was still deep in winter.  But the mountains were magnificent, and so
was the house, with its handmade furniture, bright Indian fabrics, and
photographs of the Old West.  Martin was an expert on skis, while she
had never had a pair on her feet and was wary of trying.

"You're not afraid, are you?"  he asked, and she, remembering that he
had happened once to mention that Doris had refused to learn, assured
him she was not.

129

A private instructor came to teach her, and mastering both her fear and
the cold, she made good progress; mastering, too, the language of the
slopes, she began to talk like an enthusiast around the various
fireplaces where Martin's friends, of whom he had incredibly many,
spent the evenings.  And so she pleased him. The seasons flowed.  In
the summer the city had a different air.  Their favorite restaurants
were relatively uncrowded, there were open air concerts, and delightful
sidewalk cafes.  Sometimes on weekends they met Eddy and Pam in the
country.  But most of the time Connie was busy, having kept her
boutique open.  Because her future was uncertain, it seemed more
prudent to retain it; besides, to be idle all day in expectation of the
night was to be nothing but a courtesan, which was, in spite of being
an old-fashioned word, an apt one. The fall brought parties again,
charity benefits and balls.  Martin bought tickets and took tables for
everything.  Through her experiences with Bitsy Maxwell, Connie was
able to calculate how much money all these cost him.  Generous as were
Martin's gifts, they were commensurate with his wealth; she wondered
whether Eddy gave in the same proportion and rather thought not.  Eddy
liked the personal pleasure that came with actually seeing the person
to whom he gave, and perhaps, she thought, too, of controlling that
person along with the gift. A second Christmas approached.  Martin
announced that his daughter was coming to spend the week with him.  She
loved the ocean and was to fly directly to Florida. "I haven't used the
house in two years.  But I've been letting my friends use it whenever
they want to.  I've invited my brother Ben this time too.  He's had the
flu, and a rest will do him good."  Martin chuckled.  "Ben doesn't
approve of the house there, you know.  Says it's outrageous, and from
his point of view, I guess it is.  He doesn't approve of me either. 
But we get along fine, anyway." These last words held a sting for
Connie.  Although she mentioned Eddy quite freely and happily, she had
never told Martin anything about Lara, except to say that she had a
sister in Ohio, for she could not have mentioned the separation without
tears.  There was too much pain for her to enter into explanations. In
Palm Beach, at the end of the vast lawn stretching up from the ocean,
immured by gates and flourishing shrubbery from public view or
trespass, lay a long pink stuccoed house with a red tile Spanish roof. 
Striped awnings shaded the tall windows.  Hibiscus and oleander blazed
in the sunshine.  Enormous rooms led from one to another and out
through loggias, terraces, and a Mediterranean courtyard where a
fountain splashed.  In an oval conservatory Martin displayed his orchid
collection. 130

"I thought it would be a good hobby," he explained.  "I even bought
books to learn about orchids.  You'd be surprised how much there is to
know about all the varieties.  But I've given it up and let the
gardeners do it.  I never have enough time to fool around with things
like that."

Connie was looking over his shoulder toward the pool and the guest
wing.

"How many rooms are there?"  she inquired.

"Sixty-four.  Not counting the quarters for gardeners and chauffeur,
which are separate."

Ben Berg and Melissa arrived from New York and Paris within an hour of
each other, and shortly afterward were seated at a little table in the
courtyard having dinner.  Three pairs of identical dark, heavy eyes
surrounded Connie.  All three Bergs had the same thick hair; the girl's
was just a tangle of coarse black silk.  The two brothers had the same
alert and vigilant face, but Melissa's expression seemed either worried
or perhaps just absent-minded.  At any rate, she looked like one of
those children who have been born old.  She was badly dressed in sallow
green with a loose wide collar, out of which rose a long neck and a
pointed chin.  Her mother ought to know better or to care more, Connie
thought pityingly.

The fountain trickled.  Whenever the voices ceased, this music alone
filled the night.  No air stirred a leaf.  The candle flames were
steady.

"A perfect night," Martin murmured.  He reached across the table for
his daughter's hand and held it while she held her fork in the other
hand.

Connie smiled.  "How can you eat like that?"  she asked.

"I'm left handed," replied Melissa, not letting go.

They loved each other, Connie saw.  The girl, suffering, was the
ultimate victim of the crumbling marriage.  As always.  And again, she
was moved to pity.

Long after the dessert was cleared away, the men were still talking to
each other.  Inattentively, Connie heard that they were having a mild
argument, Ben, faintly sardonic, saying something about industry: It
should be making jobs and products, not paying off debt.  And Martin
emphatically responding.  Melissa did not speak, but Connie felt her
furtive glances.  She was wondering, probably, what Connie's position
here might be, and could not know that Connie was wondering the same
about herself.

The melancholy began to weigh too heavily, and Connie stood abruptly,
saying, "We're forgetting about jet lag.  For Melissa it's already past
midnight."

"Of course," Martin said at once.  "Go to bed.  You, too, Connie. 
Maybe you ladies might want to do some shopping tomorrow.  I think
Melissa needs some summer clothes."

So he had noticed the awful dress.  Naturally.  He noticed
everything.

131

With Melissa in the house Martin would of course stay in his own bed. 
So Connie lay awake in a room that was too large for one person to
occupy alone.  Her memory spun. "How are things between Martin and
you?"  Eddy had recently inquired, meaning, You're starting the second
year.  When is he going to marry you??  To which she had answered only,
Things are fine, and left him uninformed. The divorce proceedings were
taking their time, it was true.  Still, there was no guarantee that
Martin had anything else in mind but to continue as they were, even
after the divorce should become final.  There were no guarantees of
anything in this world, and nothing lasted forever.  She ought to have
learned that by now.  She should not be taking for granted this
protected life, this voluptuous nest, this gold-lined cocoon.  Indeed,
she should not have let herself grow fond of the man.  And as she lay
looking up at the dim ceiling, a tightness came to her throat, as
though she were about to cry. The day's purchases were spread on
Melissa's bed, were hung in the closet and laid over chairs.  There
were swimsuits and sundresses, clothes for every possible occasion in
the life of an eleven-year-old girl.  Regarding herself in the mirror,
Melissa allowed a timid smile to spread from her lips and brighten her
sober eyes.  Peach-colored linen brought becoming color to her pale
cheeks.  Her thick hair had been smoothed back with a bandeau above her
forehead. Connie, from her seat on the chaise longue, observing the
change, remarked, "You like yourself.  That's good." "I've never had
things like this before.  My mother .  . ."  And Melissa stopped.
"Well.  Now you know you must always wear lively colors, pretty colors,
don't you?" "I'm going to wear this tonight.  Daddy will like it." "I'm
sure he will." Melissa is my heart, Martin had said. The girl sat down
on the edge of the bed and began to fold sweaters.  Connie looked at
her, round shouldered and ungainly still, in spite of the improvements.
It was absurd that this child should be able to make her feel awkward.
Never before, no matter where she had gone with Martin, no matter whom
she had met, had she felt the slightest uncertainty or discomfiture. 
Yet here in this house, in the presence of his child and his earnest,
ironic brother, who would surely be as disapproving of Connie as he was
of the house itself, she was displaced.  She was the outsider. She was
thinking of a way to make a smooth exit when Melissa spoke. "Are you a
special friend of Daddy's?" 132

"I'm a friend.  I don't know what you mean by 'special.' "

"Oh, special.  A lady who lives here."

Connie flushed; she had a sense that some unwelcome information might
be forthcoming.  Nevertheless, she pursued the subject.

"Why, do special friends usually live here?"

"Not always.  But Daisy did.  She was very pretty.  But you're even
prettier, I think."

The remark, and the girl's frank look, were absolutely ingenuous.  She
was too timid, too unworldly, to be malicious, so this then must be the
truth.

"So Daisy was a special friend, was she?"

"Oh, yes.  When we left Daddy and went to live in Paris, I guess Daddy
was lonesome, so Daisy moved in.  But then I think he stopped liking
her after a while."

"What makes you think that?"  asked Connie, keeping her voice careless,
although her heart began to race.

"She didn't want to go away, but Daddy told her to.  I was here and I
heard them."

"I see.  He told her to."

"Yes.  I think I'll take this dress off and go swimming.  Want to
come?"

"Not just now.  Maybe later I will."

For long minutes Connie stood in the bathroom staring at herself in the
mirror.  The flush had receded, leaving her face pale and shocked.  He
told her to go.  And holding her hand to her cheek, she contemplated
the delicate fingers spread like a fan, the well-kept nails, and the
darkly glowing ruby.  Had that other woman, called Daisy, also worn a
Harry Winston jewel?  And had she stood here before the mirror, too,
contemplating herself and her future?  Had she, too, been "fond" of
Martin Berg before she was cast out?

Outside a wind had risen, rattling the royal palms that stood about the
lawn.  She went to the window to watch them lash and struggle against
the coming rain.  For a long time she stood, absorbed half by the
approaching storm and half by the storm of her own deliberations.

Finally, she fetched her cosmetic carrying case from the closet in the
bedroom, took out the birth control pills, and poured them down the
toilet.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Midway through the spring the doctor confirmed Connie's guess.  "You'll
have a December baby," he said.  Having heard tales of women who, after
an abortion, had never again conceived, she was reassured.  She thought
how ironic it was that, pregnant for the second time in uncertain
circumstances, she should now find herself in the opposite position. 
But it still remained for her to inform Martin, who might very well not
be pleased at having fatherhood thrust publicly upon him by his
unmarried lover.  On the other hand, might not a man nearing fifty be
delighted with such a reenactment and confirmation of his youth? As it
turned out, he was neither displeased nor delighted, but rather more
astonished than anything else. "But you were using the pill!"  he
exclaimed. "I'm afraid it's not infallible." A disturbing possibility
came to her, that he might suggest an abortion.  He looked thoughtful,
while she endured an ominous silence and studied his face. He asked
then, "When will it be?" "December." Martin nodded.  "At least the
timing is convenient." "The timing?" "My divorce will be final in
thirty days.  I found out this morning.  That's why I picked this place
for dinner.  To celebrate." They were at La Grenouille, one of their
favorite choices for dining out.  She looked past his shoulders at a
mass of yellow hyacinths, and beyond them to a family of voluble
teenagers with their youthful, handsome parents.  A solid family.  A
young family. "We can be married over the Memorial Day weekend.  We'll
have a seventh- or eighth-month baby." She understood.  He had his
dignified position to maintain.  Modern 134

times or no, the world of finance was not the world of the theater or
the arts.  And she had to ask herself now what he would have said or
done if the divorce had not yet come to a final solution, or what would
be happening if his desire for her had already waned, as apparently his
desire for another— or others—had done.

But those were useless speculations.  Those dangers were past.

"You look troubled," he said.

"I guess I'm still in shock."

"Well, so was I a moment ago."  He smiled.  "But now that I've absorbed
the shock, it's really rather nice, you know.  Let's order
champagne."

They toasted each other.  Martin became talkative; once he had accepted
a reality, he always began to organize projects around it, jumping from
one thought to the next.

"We'll have to move into my apartment.  Wait till you see it.  It's
spectacular, a whole floor overlooking Fifth Avenue.  Of course, it
needs to be completely done over.  I never liked the way it was done in
the first place.  Doris wanted her own way, but she knew nothing.  And
Melissa needs a proper room, no matter how seldom she uses it.  Bear in
mind a room for my son.  Make it suitable for a young man.  He may
never sleep in it.  He's his mother's boy, and he probably hates me. 
But do it, anyway.  And guest rooms.  I suppose now your sister will
want to bring her family sometimes."

"Perhaps not.  She's a country girl.  And they're so busy building up
the business, anyway."

Pictures flashed as a camera clicks through one view after another:
Lara as she must look standing in the doorway of the new white house,
standing with Davey in front of the proud facade of the Davis Company,
Lara bringing her supper tray on the last night, Lara .  . . The
trouble was that the longer one waited to make a healing move, to write
a letter or to pick up the telephone, the more difficult it became to
do, until finally it became impossible, and one buried the grief at the
bottom of one's mind.

"Well, I'll be having people fly in now and then.  It's nice, when a
man comes in from Australia, not to have to put him up at a hotel."

Still Connie's thoughts went wandering.  She was acutely conscious of
the life that she was nurturing within her.  It seemed of a sudden so
remarkable that such a thing could be happening to her, so remarkable
that she ought to stand up and announce it.  And she thought again of
what Lara would say if she knew.  She thought of Peg.  And, strangely,
she thought of Richard.  For a few fleeting moments a dark melancholy
passed through her.

"We'll have the wedding, a garden wedding at the place in Westchester. 
It will need a little freshening up, that's all.  Otherwise, it's in
good shape."

"I wondered why you've never shown it to me, or the apartment
either."

135

"Because I didn't remember much joy in either one of those places.  But
now you'll bring joy.  And beauty.  And life." There were twenty-seven
rooms in the apartment.  Past piles of furniture draped in sheets
Connie followed Martin into a gymnasium, a poolroom, a music room, a
restaurant-sized kitchen, and more.  The dining-room floor was marble,
but the Victorian chairs were ugly, as was a dark, gigantic painting of
men and horses whirling in battle among half-naked women pinned to the
ground and ready to be raped.  Connie wrinkled her nose in distaste.
Martin laughed.  "Yes, it's awful.  Get rid of it.  I want you to hire
the best decorator in town and give him carte blanche.  It'll take a
few million to do this up right, but it's our home.  His home."  He
poked her gently in the stomach. "Or hers." "The corner bedroom will be
fine for it.  The sun's there for hours." "All right.  It." And Connie
felt again the excitement and acute awareness of the growing life.  She
looked about at the grand rooms.  The new life, as yet unknowing, would
enter the world in possession of all this, the safety and the grandeur.
The top decorator was an elegant young man with a faintly disdainful
manner who moved rapidly through the apartment, approving and
discarding, most often the latter.  At Connie's house, to her surprise,
the only item that he found worth keeping was the old mirror that
Richard had bought on Third Avenue. "Whoever bought that knew what he
was doing," the man remarked. Nor was he impressed by the words carte
blanche.  Carte blanche apparently was, in these lofty neighborhoods,
merely to be expected. "I shall of course be bidding for you myself at
the important auctions," he informed Connie, "but I'll also keep my
eyes open for things you can bid on.  You'll find that auctions are
entertaining even when you don't buy."  And then he cautioned, "Keep to
the French.  Important houses don't furnish English."  So vanished
Connie's English country look, of which she had been so proud. Now
began a friendly rivalry between Connie and Eddy, who had long since
discovered the lure of the galleries, "Although," Martin grumbled
good-naturedly, "I don't understand how your brother finds time for
such stuff."  And then he added, "I hope he's on firm ground, Connie. 
He's soared like a Roman candle." "Don't worry about Eddy.  He's always
known exactly what he's doing and where he's going." 136

Often the brother and sister went together, seeking treasures.  Connie
bought a pair of Tang horses, eighth century.  Eddy bought a Tiffany
desk.  She bought a Chinese vase for twelve thousand dollars.  He
bought a pair of Empire bibliotheque cabinets at forty thousand dollars
each.  She bought two jewel-studded Faberge eggs, and he bought a
Berthe Morisot painting of children in a garden.  She also bought
portraits, to be represented as ancestral, and, shamefaced, laughed a
little at the intended deception.

"You have to help me with art, Eddy.  I have to admit that unless
something has a name that everybody recognizes or it's frightfully
expensive, I'm not sure whether it's great art or not."

"Great isn't always what you need," Eddy said gently.  "I've learned
that.  Loving is the thing.  Last week I bought for a few dollars a
watercolor from a student in the Village.  Maybe he'll be great someday
and maybe he won't.  But I don't necessarily care.  I can always buy
'great' things, and I do.  This was a fine little piece, a cat drinking
out of a puddle in the rain.  You can tell it has just stopped raining,
and it's hot because there's a mist rising from the pavement.  The
feeling is extraordinary."

Eddy had always had a sense of Tightness.  When he sent flowers, he
specified what he wanted.  Once, long ago, she had watched him buying
flowers for their mother's birthday, scarlet peonies with purple iris;
the florist had said they didn't go together, but Eddy had insisted,
and they did go together, very beautifully too.

"You're spending a fortune," he said.  "Berg doesn't mind?"

"He told me to."

The brother and sister stared at each other.  "Can you believe what
we're doing?  That it's really us?"

"And that you're going to be Mrs.  Martin Berg?"  cried Eddy.

Things changed.  From having lived, albeit luxuriously, in the
background of Martin's life as an almost anonymous feminine companion,
now Connie was made visible.

Early one morning she accompanied him to his office.

"Wall Street," Martin said.  "Do you know how it got its name?  Because
it ran inside the wall that the first Dutch settlers built around the
city.  Hard to imagine that now, isn't it?"

They entered a long, wide hall leading to a private elevator.  At
intervals on the walls hung portraits of solemn gentlemen, smooth
shaven or bearded, but all white collared, with some wing collared in
the fashion of the nineties.  The eighteen nineties.  And now the
nineteen nineties were approaching.

"The founding fathers.  Look pompous, don't they?"  Martin remarked

137

with some amusement.  "But they were smart old birds.  That one's
Fra-zier."

"Where's DeWitt?"

"You'll meet him.  He's alive and well upstairs.  We don't put pictures
up until people die.  Come, I'll show you the 'bullpen.' That's the
trading floor."

Row upon row of desks faced a large electronic board across which
numbers flickered in a continuous march.  More lights blinked from
telephones on the desks, at each of which sat a man with piles of
papers in front of him.

"Block trading."  Martin spoke just above a whisper.  "Huge blocks for
institutions and pension funds.  They can move millions of dollars in a
couple of minutes.  Fascinating, don't you think so?"

He had a way of making a statement and then asking one to agree with
it; she had to tell herself that, really, she had caught on to his ways
remarkably fast.  She also knew that he expected her to agree that
block trading was fascinating, and so, although she thought it more
static than fascinating to watch a man sit like a zombie with a
telephone stuck in his ear, she agreed.

"When all is said and done, Connie, this is the core of the business. 
Trading, I mean.  Mergers and acquisitions are the big thing these
days, of course, and I'm in the midst of them, from Zurich to Tokyo,
but I never forget that right here is where I began.  Okay, let's go on
to mergers and acquisitions.

"Behind every one of these doors," Martin continued as they walked
through the floor above, "sits some bright young MBA working on a deal
that can either earn millions for the firm or go bust.  If too many of
his deals go bust, he goes too.  He's got to produce, to earn his six
hundred thousand a year, let me tell you.  These fellows work, and I
mean work.  Twenty-four hours at a stretch sometimes when they're near
to a closing.  Kids," he said almost affectionately, "and think how
they've changed the country's face!  Think of the ripple effect of
their prosperity!  Houses and condos, theater tickets, antiques and
boats, restaurants, travel—it's amazing.  Well, here's my lair."

The room was modern, neat, and spare.  It was utilitarian, with its own
electric quote-board at one end.  The only decoration was a ficus tree.
This was strictly a workroom.  It bore no resemblance to Eddy's plush
London club.

She walked to the bank of windows and looked out.  She saw the narrow
stretch of Manhattan from river to river, saw the harbor, the twin
towers of the World Trade Center, and, small in contrast, the Statue of
Liberty.  Turning from these, her eyes fell upon the moving numbers on
the screen;

138

they seemed to be pulsing with a meticulous beat, like a heartbeat, as
though they were in command of this body, this city with all its
towers, and all its life.  And she said so.

Martin smiled.  "You speak more truly than you know.  Well.  Come meet
my partner.  He's across the hall."

Preston DeWitt stood up at his desk when they came in.  He was very
tall and thin; his well-shaven narrow cheeks were pink, and his lavish
white hair sprang crisply on either side of the parting.

Martin, having made the introduction, announced, "I'm playing hookey
this noon, Preston.  Taking Connie to lunch at Twenty-One in honor of
our engagement."

"Splendid."  The accent was crisp, too, verging on the British, or more
accurately, Connie thought, on the speech of Franklin Roosevelt that
one heard in documentaries.  "And when's the wedding?"

"Memorial Day weekend in the country," Martin said.

"You can bet I'll be there, and so will Caroline if she's up to it. 
It's all just splendid."

In these few moments Connie and Preston had appraised each other.  Of
his impression she could know only what she saw in his clever, keen
black eyes, so odd in contrast to the fair skin; the eyes were
calculating.  Most probably he liked what he was seeing, since there
was no reason not to like a young blond woman wearing a quiet, elegant
beige broadcloth suit.  Connie's own impression was positive: He's
handsome, he's really startling.  His suit looked absolutely starched,
as if he never sat down.  Martin, on the other hand, was wrinkled an
hour after putting on fresh clothes.  The two men were the same age,
although one would never guess it.  Preston seemed fifteen years
younger.

"He looks young," she remarked when they were in the elevator.

"He takes care of himself.  Riding, tennis, sailing, everything.  He
learned all that when he was a kid, he grew up with it.  In Brooklyn,
where I grew up, I didn't have a sailboat, or a horse either."

"What's the matter with his wife?  Is she sick?"

"Only when it's convenient.  She's never sick when there's a Social
Register function, which our wedding isn't, so we'll see.  Anyway,
she's a pill, and I don't blame him for having a roving eye.  Oh, how
it roves!"

"So you don't see each other socially."

"Rarely.  But don't get me wrong, we like each other.  I have a lot of
respect for Preston.  He works hard, and he doesn't even have to.  He
inherited this firm, but he's also got independent wealth from his
mother's family.  Mines and lumber for at least three generations. 
Maybe he's the fourth, I'm not sure."

"It's remarkable that you fit so well together, being so different."

139

"Hey, I've quadrupled this firm's assets since I came in!  It was
purely and simply a brokerage firm, and I'm the one who's turned it
into a powerful investment bank.  I'm the one, and Preston knows it."
"I'm sure." Once in the car, Martin kept talking.  "That's the stock
exchange over there.  I'll take you to see it one day.  You'll think
it's a madhouse.  Hundreds of traders shrieking and waving their arms,
right up to the three-thirty closing bell.  What an industry!  Little
guys gambling, big guys in risk arbitrage.  Your brother does some of
that, I'm told.  Not me.  I don't like risk." The car rolled along Wall
Street.  On either side were walls of windows and behind all the
windows, Connie now knew, were rows of desks, telephones, and people
talking.  The fantastic wealth that talk produced!  Of course, she
corrected herself immediately, there was more to it than talk.  To
think otherwise was to oversimplify.  It was naive.  And yet, for an
instant, a totally irrelevant picture came to mind, an image of Davey,
bustling in his little factory, making something with his grimy hands.
A cold April rainstorm had arisen, a brief return of winter.  People
were hurrying along the windy streets, crowding the subway entrances,
pushing through the crowds, clutching the collars of their coats and
their shabby parcels.  But inside the car as it rolled uptown to
Twenty-One, it was warm and dry.  There was even a folded lap robe if
you wanted one, dark blue woolen with a monogram.  Connie sighed and
stretched her legs in comfort. "Feeling all right?"  Martin asked, as
always. "Wonderful." To be so safe, and so removed from the poor souls
in the streets and in the subways, was bliss. Forty-three acres
surrounded this residence among the low hills of northern Westchester
County.  From the window where Connie stood, she could see the tennis
courts, the heated pool, the stables, and the riding trail curving
toward the woods.  When the door opened, she turned toward Martin. His
eyes grew wide.  "My God," he said, "my God, but you're perfection
itself!" "I don't look three months pregnant?" "No one could possibly
guess." "I've gained eight pounds.  And all where it shows.  Or it
would if this skirt weren't so full."  She smoothed the diaphanous pink
silk. From behind he put his arm around her waist.  Through the mirror
that faced them, she could see the white carnation in his buttonhole;
she could see his happiness. 140

"Are you sure you feel all right?"  he asked.

"I feel absolutely wonderful."

"The judge is already here, but we've got half an hour yet.  People are
still arriving.  And Eddy just came with a surprise for us.  Shall I
send him up?"

"Do.  I'm getting nervous up here all by myself."

One could hear Eddy's approach even on carpeted stairs and floors.  His
running steps thudded; he rattled keys, cleared his throat, made
noises.  It was as if his vigor, like Martin's, were too much to
contain.  Now he almost leapt into the room, shouting at Connie.

"Were you wondering why you haven't gotten my wedding present yet?"

"What a question!  What am I supposed to answer?"

"Don't answer.  Just go to the window."

Cars were lined up in the big graveled circle and all down the driveway
as far as she could see.

"Where am I supposed to look?"

"Down on your right.  Behind the Rolls where the chauffeur's standing. 
What do you see?"

"A station wagon."

He corrected her.  "A Mercedes station wagon.  Like it?"

"Of course.  It's stunning."

"Well, it's yours.  From Pam and me."

"Eddy!  You're a darling!  I love it.  Love it!"

"Well, it was Pain's idea.  We thought it would be just right for you
and your offspring to go tooling about the countryside in.  There's
room for Delphine and the rest of the dogs in the back too."

"Oh, you're both darlings," Connie repeated.  "Why doesn't Pam come up
so I can thank her?"

"You can thank her later."  Eddy hesitated, grew grave, and exclaimed
softly, "What a pity that you never invited Lara!"

Connie drew a sharp breath.  There was a fluttering in her heart, and
she had to sit down.  "Oh, Eddy!  How can you do this to me today?  I
can't start crying, smudging my eyes now!  I did invite her.  I wrote a
lovely letter last week and sent it with such hope, and such fears, I
can't tell you!  I didn't know how she would take it.  I thought
probably she would be angry that I even asked her.  And you see, I was
right, I haven't heard a word.  Not a word.  I knew she wouldn't
come."

Eddy threw his head back in delighted laughter.  "Oh, but you're wrong!
She's here!  They've even brought Sue, all dressed up like a wedding
cake.  She didn't answer because she wanted to surprise you.  She's
waiting in the hall at the top of the stairs."

"Oh, my God!  Oh, Eddy, where is she?  Bring her in!"

Connie's eyes, brimming with tears all mingled with mascara, stung so

141

sharply that Lara seemed to be wavering in the doorway.  She's grown
older, Connie thought; her waist is thick, she's thirty-five.  And she
held out her arms. Lara cried.  Then, murmuring, "I mustn't crush your
dress," she let go of Connie, saying over and over, "But I am so glad,
so glad." "You didn't answer me, so I thought you weren't coming." "Oh,
I was hoping you would invite us.  Davey said, and Eddy said so many
times, long before this, that I should call you.  And I wanted to, but
I dreaded a rejection."  Lara's eyebrows drew together, giving her a
painful, almost an imploring expression.  In that instant Connie
recognized their mother. "I wish Peg were here," she said. Eddy, who,
like a proud, tender parent, was watching them, said quickly, "If she
were, she'd say, 'Get on with the party.'" He looked at his watch. 
"I'm going to leave you two now, but in twenty minutes I'll be back to
take the bride downstairs and give her away." "When you come back, will
you bring Davey and Sue for just a minute?  I want Connie to see my
Sue." The sisters were left with more than two years' worth of living
to disclose. "Eddy tells me your little girl is darling," Connie began.
"Oh, she is.  I am so grateful for the way she's growing." "And he
tells me that Davey and you have a fabulous business." "Well, he ought
to know.  He's had enough to do with it.  But fabulous is a big word."
"Doesn't Eddy always use big words?  Big, that's Eddy.  But I'm
impressed, anyway.  When I think of that shed in your backyard, when I
think of so many things we lived through together, and of all the
changes now .  . ." "Sometimes it doesn't do to remember too much.  I
wish I could forget, and maybe I will yet, the things I said to you.  I
was too harsh, Connie.  I guess it was just that, after all those years
of wanting a baby, I went crazy because you could have one and didn't
want it." "Don't," Connie said gently, "it's past, it's over.  Don't
spoil this happiness." "You're right."  Lara glanced around the room. 
"This house!  I've never seen anything like it.  Why, you're living
like a princess, Connie." On the floor near the door stood a pile of
brass-bound luggage ready to be taken downstairs.  The matching pieces
were made of maroon leather, the softest, most perishable kind that is
used for expensive handbags. "Such beautiful suitcases," Lara said. "My
birthday present.  Martin selected them." 142

"I hope they don't bang them all up at the airport.  Just flying from
home to New York, they made a dent in my brand-new case.  But Davey
says it can be fixed."

A careful, frugal housekeeper had spoken.  Use it up, make it do, wear
it out.  That was the way Lara had been taught and the way she would
follow.  And Connie could barely imagine Lara's shock if she knew that
Martin had paid twelve thousand dollars for those six pieces.

"You must be going far.  Or is your honeymoon a secret?"

"We're going around the world."  Connie hesitated, trying to decide
whether to minimize the truth or to reveal it all, and decided to
reveal it; they had never hidden things from one another in the past,
and there was no good reason to start now.  "Martin's firm has bought a
new jet.  It's got everything, even a grand piano.  Isn't that
fantastic?  We'll be seeing such fairy-tale places too.  Bora Bora and
Kashmir and Madagascar.  I've been trying desperately to learn
something about them before we get there.  Martin admires me when I
know things.  Did you meet him when you came in?"

"Briefly.  Eddy introduced us."

"Martin's very sweet.  And he's a man, not—" She had been about to say,
"not a Richard," but was stopped by the recall of last week's affecting
note from Richard, wishing her every happiness with Martin, and said
instead, "When you get to know him, you'll see.  You'll really like
him."

"If you love him, of course I will."  The conversation then came to a
stop.  It was as if they had both at the same moment been struck by the
reality of each other's presence.  They were examining each other.  She
is sturdy and comforting, Connie said to herself.  She copes, and will
be the same if she lives to be ninety.

"What are you seeing when you look at me so gravely?"  asked Lara.

Connie shook her head.  "No, no, I was only seeing your dress.  I like
the color, the blue."

"I bought it on the run as soon as I knew we were coming.  Does it make
me look fat?"

"Not really.  But you have put on some weight."

"Fifteen pounds."

"As much as that!  How did you let it happen?"

"I suppose you can't guess."  Lara's eyes were very bright, as if still
tearful, although now she was smiling.  "I'm pregnant."

Could she be?  No, not after all those years.

"Are you shocked?  Yes, it's true.  I'm in my sixth month, so you see,
I'm really not all that fat."

Connie got up and put her arms around Lara.  Moved to the heart, she
could find nothing to say.

143

"Connie, no tears," Lara protested gently.  "Your makeup.  Here, let me
wipe it." "Did Eddy tell you I was pregnant too?" Eddy, appearing just
then at the door, denied that.  "Definitely not.  I considered that
your secret if you wanted to keep it.  Now, take a look at who's here."
"Davey!"  There he stood, almost shyly, with a twinkling smile,
immediately so familiar that she felt with a shock how much she must
have missed him too. "Come in and let me hug you.  You look surprised. 
. . . You heard what I said." "It seems as if an awful lot's happening
at once, that's why." "When is it to be?"  asked Lara. "Not till
December.  Are you shocked?" "Of course not, darling." And Davey added,
"Why should we be?  We're only happy for you." "Yes, both of them
making an uncle out of me," Eddy said.  "Or I should say 'again,'
because I am one already.  Where is she?  Where are you, Sue?" "Here." 
And from behind Davey stepped a dark-haired little girl in a party
dress. "This is Aunt Connie," Lara announced.  "Isn't she pretty in her
bride dress?" Great, solemn eyes stared at Connie.  "She's not as big
as you are, Aunt Lara." "Her baby's not as near to being born as ours
is, that's why."  And as Connie's confusion must have been evident,
Lara explained, "Sue's known for a long time that she's going to have a
sister.  The doctor told us." "So we'd know what color to make the
baby's room," Sue interposed.  "The room's right next to mine.  It's
pink, and I'm giving her a pink cat when she comes.  I bought it with
my allowance." They've worked some sort of miracle here, Connie
thought, recollecting Eddy's first accounts of a frightened, orphaned
waif and Lara's patient struggles.  Bending to kiss this little
chatterer on either cheek, she said, "I think your baby will be the
luckiest baby in the world to have a sister like you." Connie's eyes
met Lara's over Sue's head.  The emotion inside the four walls of the
room was tangible, almost too much to be borne. "This is something like
it, you two together again," said Eddy.  Then he, too, must suddenly
have sensed the need to lighten the moment, for with mock brusqueness
he gave orders: "Go on out, everybody, hurry down.  I'm giving the
bride away, and we're ready to make our grand entrance." 144

Connie floated.  In her long pink dress, the color of evening clouds,
she floated down the spiral stairs into the drawing room and down the
aisle between the guests on their little gilt chairs, to where Martin
stood waiting.

Beside her there hovered a singular creature, her own spirit,
disembodied, cannily observing the event and everyone in it, including
herself.

The judge is wizened; his voice is as dry as his words; there is no
poetry in them as there was that other time in Houston when the
minister began: Dearly beloved, we are gathered here.  Connie likes
poetry in stately ceremony, but it's better this way after all, less
complicated than choosing either minister or rabbi.  As long as they
are safely married and the baby safely growing, nothing else is
important.

In a few minutes the ring is given, and it is all over.  Martin bends
down and kisses Connie; it is a long kiss on the mouth, and she is a
little embarrassed before all these people.  She catches Bitsy's eye. 
Now she is infinitely richer than Bitsy, which is what counts, even
though Bitsy may well sniff at Martin Berg for being nouveau.

They are walking back down the aisle between two rows of smiles. 
Martin's brother Ben thinks Connie is a trophy wife, and perhaps she
is, for she's Martin's prize today, and he treats her like a prize. 
But his Chicago sisters-in-law, elderly and bedecked with jewelry, have
kind, sentimental faces; Oh, Martin, she's beautiful, they whisper as
she passes.  Eddy winks, and Pam blows a kiss.  Pam is a sport.  She
has a good time everywhere.  There's Preston's white patrician head. 
His eyes, with a canny twinkle in them, meet Connie's and linger a
second too long.  His wife looks about old enough to be his mother,
although they met when they were both in college.  Martin's son is
sullen.  He came unwillingly and will fly back to Paris tomorrow. 
There's Melissa in bottle-green with real lace, a beautiful French
dress, but green again.  Her mother must not like her.  Connie will
help her.  Connie will be good to Martin's children, will remember
their favorite foods and do everything right.

Now they stand in the receiving line to be kissed and congratulated. 
Having passed through the line, the guests disperse themselves among
the airy rooms and out into the gardens.  Music strikes up, music for
happiness.

How Connie's mother would have loved all this!  How Connie loves it! 
She is glowing.

Tables were set up under flowered umbrellas on the terraces and lawns. 
Waiters bearing silver trays in their white-gloved hands moved about
among the tables and followed guests along paths between high banks of
laurel, offering a variety of hors d'oeuvres so lavish as to make
superfluous the dinner that was to follow inside the great house.

145

So large and so diverse was the crowd that friends had a hard time
finding each other.  Some husbands and wives had to stand apart with no
one else to talk to, while other people, weary of wandering, glass in
hand, took the first available seat and started some sort of courteous
conversation with total strangers. "Twenty-three years and then a
divorce," remarked Caroline DeWitt.  "The man ought to be ashamed,
that's all I have to say." "This is hardly the place in which to say
it," her husband replied.  "You're talking about my partner." "I'm not
in the habit of embarrassing you, Preston.  I was practically
whispering.  And it is shameful, no matter what you think.  Doris was a
much more suitable wife.  Not that I ever knew her that well, but you
could just look at her and see she was more suitable." "Apparently, he
doesn't think so," Preston answered dryly. "Just look at the dress this
one's wearing.  These people are terribly overdressed.  The whole thing
is overdone.  Ostentatious.  Too much food, too many flowers.  Ah! 
Now, there's a well-dressed young woman.  The tall one in the
black-and-white print over there."  j"She's the bride's sister-in-law. 
Married to the Young Prince."  ii "Not that Osborne they talk about?"
t, "Yes, Osborne.  I've been in this business a long, long time and my
father before me, but I still don't know how he does it." "He knew
enough to marry a lady, anyway.  There's no mistaking quality.  Even to
the way she sits.  You see what I mean?" Pam was saying, "This must be
a wonderful country for horses.  We ought to buy a place like this,
Eddy, don't you think so?  I'm getting tired of Long Island.  It's
gotten too crowded, even in the best parts of it." "Kentucky?  I can't
live there, honey.  It's too far." "I visited my school roommate there
one summer, and I love it, loved all the space."  Pam spoke wistfully.
"All right.  When I retire.  But I'm hardly ready to retire yet! 
Things are going too well for that." Hopefully now, Pam regarded Eddy. 
"It could be an investment.  Horses can make a lot of money for you." 
<i "You'd really like it?" "I'd adore it."  ••, "Then I promise I'll
keep it in mind for the future." And why not?  Make her happy.  That's
what life is all about, what money is for, he thought, feeling again
the nice glow of ample generosity.  And he imagined himself saying
someday, "Our place in Kentucky"; he imagined himself walking—no,
riding—over hundreds of acres, all his own; he imagined, too, the
people who would be their friends and neighbors, the southern 146

gentry.  Pam would fit there to perfection.  He had noticed that
sourpuss wife of DeWitt's admiring her a few minutes ago.  Like seeks
out like, he told himself.  Old wealth, even when, as in Pam's case, it
had been lost, left its aura.

"Your sister's done well for herself," Pam remarked now, "taking a big
step farther up with each marriage."

"Oh, this will be the last, no question about it."

"You think so?"

"Positively," replied Eddy, feeling at the same time a jolt of memory. 
For Richard had come to his office only a month before to make another
large investment.  "Positively," he repeated.

"It's strange how different your two sisters are."

"Why?  They're both pregnant," Eddy joked.

"Well, good for them!"

"Not good for you?  For us?"

"Sometime, of course.  People all do if they can, don't they?  But the
time has to be right."

He agreed.  There was too much going on right now; their days were
filled with work, social contacts that led to more work, genuine
friends, sports, theater, music, and travel; short, quick trips to see
a client somewhere in Europe; longer sojourns to see the horse shows in
Ireland, or to La Scala to hear a fine voice; and surely, always, to
Paris, his first love, where a permanent hotel suite was always
waiting.  As soon as he could manage to fit it into his schedule, New
Zealand and Australia would be next.  In such a life there was indeed
no room for a baby.  Not yet.

Pam mused, repeating herself, "It's remarkable how different they are. 
I don't mean physically, I mean temperamentally.  Lara's so strong,
much more so than Connie."

"I wouldn't say that."

"I would."  She nodded.  "And you'll see sometime that I'm right."

At that moment Lara was not feeling especially strong.  Her feet, in
the new shoes bought for this occasion, had begun to hurt.  And the
baby under her skirt's flounce had been doing some vigorous exercise. 
So Davey and she had scurried for two vacant seats in the shade of the
laurel hedge, while Sue, who had found a boy about her own age, went
wandering off with him.

The other two chairs were filled by two men.  One was soberly middle
aged, while the other, not much older than thirty, was distinguished by
a head of copper-colored hair and a freckled face.  The two, apparently
strangers to each other, were already involved in conversation.

"Things are out of proportion," the older man was saying.  "I read the
other day about some tycoon who owns seven houses.  One was in Mo-

147

rocco, one in the Fiji Islands—the Fiji Islands, by God!  Can you make
any sense of that?"  The man's earnest tone almost verged upon anger.
"If I were a left-winger, I wouldn't.  Of course, the right-winger
would say that if a man earns it, he's entitled to spend it as he
wishes.  But then, I'm not a right-winger either."  And the young man,
as if he wanted to lighten the atmosphere, turned toward Davey. 
"What's your opinion?" Davey, never a voluble speaker, especially on
abstract subjects, hesitated a moment as if embarrassed before
replying, "It's a matter of proportion, isn't it?  I know I'm not
against wealth."  Then he laughed.  "I'm even trying to accumulate a
little of it for myself." The sober one seized on these words.  "Good
enough.  But I wasn't talking about a little of it.  I was talking
about hundreds of millions.  May I ask what you do?" "I own a small
plant.  We manufacture electronic parts for medical uses, arterial
surgery and—" "Well.  Then you're a producer.  You make things that
people need.  You're earning honorable dollars.  What I'm looking at
are manipulations, junk bonds, and takeovers that end in debt."  And
with a dark frown he warned, "That debt will wreck the economy in the
end." "I have to agree with much of what you say," said the redhead,
adding with some reluctance, "Unfortunately for me, I have to." "Why do
you say unfortunately?" "Because I earn my living from takeovers.  I
work for Frazier, DeWitt, Berg." There was a silence until, after a
moment, the first man gave an embarrassed laugh.  "I seem to have put
my foot in it again.  Old as I am, I never seem to learn."  He motioned
toward the animated crowd, the spring-green lawn and the house with its
spreading terraces and yellow awnings.  "This was hardly the place or
the time for my remarks, was it?" "No harm done, I assure you."  The
freckled face and the tone were both amiable.  "By the way, my name's
McClintock, Allen McClintock." "I might as well put both feet in my
mouth while I'm at it.  My name's Berg, I'm Martin's brother." The
three others looked their astonishment.  And Davey, suppressing a
laugh, said quietly, "I'd better round out the story.  We're the
Davises, Davey and Lara.  Lara is Connie's sister."  But when he saw
the two men's dismay, he added quickly, "Don't let it bother you.  It's
not important.  We've forgotten it already, Lara and I." They all stood
up as if to separate, yet waited awkwardly as if not knowing how to do
so.  It was Allen McClintock who broke the pause. "It looks as if they
might be serving dinner, and I'm starved," he said. 148

BELVA PLA1M

So the odd-met group dispersed, joining the movement up the rise toward
the house.

"Interesting and amusing," remarked Davey.

"More uncomfortable than amusing," answered Lara.

By the time they reached the house and had found Pam and Eddy, the
bride and groom were already alone on the dance floor.  Connie's pale
dress floated, and her pale hair tumbled as they whirled.  Frankly
exuberant and frankly triumphant, "I could have danced all night," she
sang into the faces of the smiling crowd.

To Eddy, as he watched, came the recollection of the night when those
two had met at his house, and he had had a premonition of today. 
Charming Connie, Consuelo, he thought, their mother's darling.  Well,
Martin Berg might not be the Duke of Marlborough, but probably
commanded greater wealth than the duke had.  And Eddy's tender heart
swelled with pride.

To Lara there came other memories, first of the small, demanding
sister, then of the young woman leaving home because "there had to be
more to life," and because "I'm not like you, Lara."

She took her husband's hand.  "Isn't she beautiful?  I hope she'll be
happy this time, Davey!"

"Oh, Connie gets what Connie wants.  But happy?  That's something
else," he replied.

CHAPTER NINE

The week-old baby lay sleeping in a bassinet beside the bed on which
Lara rested.  Afternoon sunlight touched her little round head and
glinted on a soft, red-gold fuzz. Eddy observed, "She's going to have
Peg's hair." Pam asked, "Are you going to call her Peggy, or will you
be formal and stay with Margaret?" Lara laughed.  "Whatever comes
naturally, I guess, though we seem to have begun with Peggy." Martin
Berg had provided his private plane for this visit, and so there had
been plenty of room to carry gifts.  They had come laden.  The
bassinet, a froth of white point d'esprit and pink satin rosettes, was
Pam's choice.  A handsome British perambulator with a dark blue
monogrammed cover came from the Bergs, along with a silver feeding set
and an embroidered lace christening dress and, most thoughtfully,
presents for Sue as well. Eddy focused his Polaroid camera on the baby.
"Connie said to take some pictures.  She was so angry that her doctor
doesn't want her to fly."  He looked at his watch.  "What time is that
stockholders' meeting again?" "Half past three.  Davey's picking Sue up
at school, and then you and he can go on to the plant.  We're all off
our schedules this week on account of Miss Peggy."  And Lara felt a
smiling warmth from head to toe. Pam wanted to know about Sue.  "I
don't know much about child psychology, but I know that a new arrival
can cause a lot of trouble in a family." "Well, we've tried from the
very start to prepare her, and so far, so good.  But of course, one has
to be lucky, I'm aware of that.  Oh, there they are.  I hear the car."
A moment later came a clattering on the stairs.  Sue and another little
girl, followed more quietly by Davey, tore into the bedroom. "Mom! 
Mom!  I've brought my friend to see our baby.  She didn't believe we
have one, so I brought her." 150

151

The two children glanced briefly into the bassinet.

"Can we touch her hand?"  asked Sue.

"If you're very gentle.  Babies are very soft.  You haven't told me
your friend's name, Sue.  Remember what I said about introductions?"

"Oh, yes.  This is Marcy.  And this is my mom.  And my sister's name is
Peggy.  Are there any Popsicles in the freezer?"

"Yes, darling.  Daddy will reach up and get them for you."

When the little group had clattered back downstairs, Lara reached for a
handkerchief and blew her nose.  "Excuse me, I feel a bit teary."

"Why, what's the matter?"  asked Pam.

"You didn't notice, of course.  But this was the first time she called
me Mom."  Lara looked toward the bassinet.  "I'm so happy that I'm in a
daze.  Nothing seems quite real.  How can happiness like this last?"

"Good heavens," said Pam, "I thought you were an optimist like Eddy."

"She is," Eddy said, declaring heartily, "it's real, and it will last. 
There's no reason why it won't."

With that he went downstairs to join Davey.

"So you've got friendly stockholders," Eddy said on the way into town. 
"That's one of the nice things about a small community.  Sometimes I
miss it."

"The hell you do!"  Davey laughed.  "You couldn't wait to get away from
here, you know that.  But it's a matter of temperament.  I happen to be
comfortable with smallness.  Now, take my stockholders.  I've told you,
I've known every one of them practically from the cradle up.  Doc
Donnelly and Henry Baker, he's the superintendent of schools, and he
was a friend of my father's, and my best friend Tony—gosh, he and his
wife rushed over at two in the morning last week when I had to take
Lara to the hospital.  They slept on the sofa, got Sue up and ready for
school, had Sue and me over for dinner—gosh, you don't make friends
like them on every street corner."

He's normally so silent, Eddy thought; today he's positively euphoric. 
And why not, with everything finally coming together for them?

"They have total confidence in me.  They know that I can run this
business.  This stockholders' meeting is just a formality, you might
say.  No one ever questions a thing I do.  It's a good feeling, Eddy. 
Sometimes I think I'm the luckiest man in the world."

"I wonder," Eddy said, an idea having that very minute occurred to him,
"whether after your meeting—incidentally, it's very nice of you to let
me listen in, and I'd just as soon walk around the plant and see all
your great new machines—"

"Whatever you want to do, Eddy.  I only thought you might get a kick
out of hearing the financial report."

"Oh, I certainly would.  What I was thinking was, would you have any
objection to my presenting, after the meeting, a few of my ideas about
personal finances?  Some of your people might be interested.  Of
course, this is totally apart from your company.  It has nothing to do
with you."

"Sure.  Go ahead.  It's fine with me if anybody wants to stay late."

This, Eddy reflected as he watched the proceedings, is unlike any
stockholders' meeting I've ever attended.  It was not a matter of
numbers, but a matter of attitude that made the striking difference. 
Here were no challenges, no arguments, no hostile questions.  This
handful of men, and one decorous middle-aged lady, a prosperous widow,
he guessed, were all friends.  He saw distinctly what Davey had
described.  He recognized the honest, forthright personalities.

To introduce Eddy, Davey in his plain, frank way had made a little
speech.

"This is the man who is really responsible for the birth of the
company.  Without him I wouldn't have gotten started.  He made me put
my ideas to work."

One wouldn't find many men willing to give such abundant credit to
another for their success.  Not in New York, not in my business, Eddy
thought, reminded of the inflated egos that he so often encountered.

"And now Mr.  Vernon Osborne, whom we all call Eddy, would like to say
a few words."

To begin with, naturally, must come thanks and a few enthusiastic
remarks about Davey and the Davis Company.  After that he would come
quickly to the point.

"I can't tell you how happy I was just now to learn of your fine big
dividend.  And I'm sure you were mighty glad to find your money working
so successfully for you.  However"—and here Eddy made a significant
pause —"however, let's just take a second look, a look at your personal
income tax returns.  Oh, my!  Oh, my, how many of those beautiful
dollars will be yours to keep and how many belong to Uncle Sam?  Now I
would like to explain to you a way in which, by buying a limited
partnership, you can keep a larger part of that income, or even keep
the whole of it.  No tax at all!  Oh, yes," Eddy said in response to
some expressions of surprise, "it's legal, it's simply a matter of
investing in limited partnerships.  You are all sophisticated
investors, I'm sure, and so you understand how losses generate tax
deductions.  But possibly you're not familiar with ten-to-one writeoffs
and tax deferrals."

He was about to illustrate further when a hand went up, and the lone
woman had a question.

"I'm Carol Robinson.  I've been a bank vice-president, so I'm
familiar

152

BELVA PLAIM

with limited partnerships.  In fact, I am a limited partner in a garden
apartment development.  But I never heard of ten-to-one.  It's
incredible."

"It's incredible, all right.  But it's done all the time."

"You mean you invest one dollar and deduct ten dollars' worth of
losses?"

Eddy nodded.  "I do mean that.  The write-offs in some investments can
be tremendous, and not just in oil and real estate.  Cattle, movies,
lithographs—"

He was holding their attention.  He was in his usual top form, and it
was easy for him because he knew what he was doing; it was what he did
every day, and he had never had a failure.

His presentation, to which he had mentally allotted less than half an
hour, extended into the second hour.  By the end of it he had convinced
all ten of his listeners, who agreed to invest sums ranging from
fifteen thousand to seventy-five.  Addresses and phone numbers were
exchanged, hands were shaken, and a very satisfactory meeting came to a
close.

"What about you, Davey?"  Eddy asked on the way home.

"I don't think so.  I'd rather pay my taxes and sleep nights."

"Oh, for God's sake, Davey!  Would I steer you wrong?  Again I have to
ask."

"It's not that.  It's just—oh, you know how I am."

Eddy did not answer.  Best to drop the subject instead of using one's
valuable energy trying to move this—this mule.  Sometimes Davey could
be infuriating.

When Pam and Eddy had gone home that night, Davey sat on the edge of
the bed and talked.

"I feel that he's a little sore at me, although he's too nice to show
it, but I wouldn't touch that stuff with a ten-foot pole."  He snorted.
"Marlboro Capital Formation!  Ten-to-one write-offs!  Why, it's not
even moral.  The losses are fabricated, they're artificial, it's just a
gimmick, the whole thing!"

Lara spoke mildly.  "It's apparently a legal gimmick, Davey.  I don't
see why you're so upset."

"I don't care whether it's legal or not.  It's indecent.  I'm going to
advise everybody who was there today not to send his check in, to steer
clear of it."

"You're not!"  Lara, who had been standing beside the bassinet, put her
hands on her hips in defiance.  "You can't be going to tell them you
don't trust Eddy!"

"Of course I wouldn't say that.  I'll say I don't believe in the deal,
and I'm not having any part in it myself.  Cattle, lithographs—good
Lord!"

"I'm astonished, Davey.  How can you do that to Eddy?"

"Because these people are my friends, Lara.  My friends."

15?

"But he's my brother!  How can you go behind his back, how can you? 
Especially after all he's done for us, after all his goodness.  All
right, if you personally don't want to invest, but to tell other people
not to is unconscionable, that's what it is." The argument went on for
a long time that night.  In the end Davey agreed to keep silent. "Maybe
I am making a mountain out of a molehill," he conceded.  "Maybe I am."
Connie, too, had a daughter before the year was out.  She came into the
world with little fuss on a blustering December afternoon shortly after
the stock market's closing bell.  Martin rushed uptown to the hospital,
tore into Connie's room, and tore down the hall to see the baby through
the nursery window. When he returned his eyes were wet.  "Oh," he
cried, "she's lovely!  Little Tessie.  She's beautiful!" Tessie,
thought Connie angrily, oh, no.  But she spoke calmly.  "I know I
promised to name her after your mother, and I will, but Tessie is
really only short for Therese, and I do want her to be called by her
full name.  Also, I want it to be spelled with accents, Therese. 
That's what I really want, Martin." "All right, all right.  Tessie. 
Therese.  What's the difference?" "Therese.  That's the French
pronunciation, and it's much prettier." "You," he teased.  "My fancy
French lady.  And to think that your sister named her child just plain
Peggy."  And he chuckled.  "Therese.  What a wonderful baby!  She looks
a bit like Melissa." Good Lord, I hope not, Connie thought. Martin
leaned over the bed to adjust the embroidered pillow that had been
brought from home, and kissed his wife lightly as though he feared to
hurt her by pressing too hard.  He exulted. "Oh, I've had more joy in
my short time with you than in all the rest of my years put
together!"

PART TWO 1981-1990

CHAPTER

TEH

Golden times these were, not the golden years of age, but of youth
spent in health and comfort.  The sisters, in spite of living so far
apart, were closer than ever.  If Peg could know, Connie thought, she
would be so thankful to see us, and to see another generation growing
up.  Even the two husbands got along well.  Their backgrounds and
experiences were surely different enough, yet because both were busy
men with many interests, they were compatible.  Martin's charities were
on a colossal scale that frequently were front-page news, but Davey,
too, could take pride, and did, in his contributions to the life of his
town: a Little Theater Group, a day-care plan for his workers, a fund
drive to enlarge the town library, and more. Sometimes on a weekend
when Davey was free to get away, Martin would send the company plane to
pick up the Davises and bring them to Westchester for country sports or
to New York for the theater, to which he was always able at the very
last minute to procure the best seats.  He loved putting his ample
houses to use, and they were rarely empty of guests. One fall afternoon
during Thanksgiving vacation, while Davey and Sue were at the Central
Park Zoo, the little girls, now three, were playing in Connie's Fifth
Avenue drawing room while their mothers, along with The-rese's Scottish
nurse, watched over them.  Martin had been right.  Therese was like
Melissa, pale, small sized, and serious.  The child looked up at her
now out of Martin's brown-gold eyes, but unlike his, hers were wistful.
And within Connie two feelings struggled with each other, resentment
and also a fierce, determined love.  She must protect Therese, although
against what, she could not really say, except that she would teach her
how to take care of herself. Lara's child was chuckling over a ball
that kept rolling out of reach.  Two large dimples appeared in her
cheeks; her red-gold hair curved loosely about her charming face.  And
Connie wondered what Lara would be feeling if Therese were hers.  ... A
sudden restlessness came over her.  Lara could sit all afternoon with
the children, but Connie needed to move.

"Do you still feel like going to the galleries with me?"

"I wouldn't mind.  What are you looking for?"

"There are a few things I've had my eye on.  I'd like to see them again
before the bidding tomorrow."

"I can't see where you have room for one more thing in here."

"These are for the country place.  Or maybe for Palm Beach.  We've
gotten rid of a few awful things that Doris put there, and now we need
replacements.  I'll tell you something," Connie said, "half the fun is
in the doing.  I'm really sorry that this apartment's finally
finished."

After four million dollars' worth of improvements it was magnificent. 
And she looked around at the moss-green antique tapestries, the gilded
moldings, and the coral silk that festooned the windows.  There was no
drawing room in the city, none that she had been in, and she had been
in the best, that could surpass it.

"There's a Cezanne that I love," she said.  "But I'm not sure about it.
Of course, it's a fortune, so Martin will have to see it first.  Who
knows?  He just might not like it."  She stood up.  "Shall we go?  Mrs.
 Dodd's going to take these girls for their naps, anyway."

Sculpture on pedestals and paintings on walls filled the long
galleries.  Furniture and bibelots, antique treasures from every
continent, filled lofty rooms.  Lara followed Connie, who was examining
and making notes.

"My decorator told me to look at a table for the Westchester house. 
It's to stand behind the sofa in the yellow sitting room.  Here it is. 
Chippendale.  It should go for about a hundred thousand, he says. 
That's quite a lot, isn't it?"

Lara was silent.

"Of course, it is a marvelous piece.  Look at the pierced fretwork,
Lara.  Well, I'm not going higher than ninety.  These decorators always
exaggerate.  Still, maybe I ought to consider—oh, for goodness' sake,
what are you doing here?"  she cried to Eddy, who had just appeared
around the corner.

"Same thing you're doing here," he replied.  "Looking to buy."

"Buy what?"

"A Corot.  A jewel.  I've been wanting one, and this one is a treasure.
 Want to see it?"

Eddy had become a connoisseur, and not of art only.  He knew about
wines and horses.  He knew where the finest chefs were to be found,
where to get the best pedigreed Shar Pei, and how to choose a diamond. 
Connie was sometimes in awe of his accomplishments.

"Lara," she said, "are you aware that our brother is a Renaissance
man?"

The three went back to where the paintings were ranged.  Two or three

159

separate estates had been assembled for this sale, so that the display
was varied.  When they passed a wall of buttocks, of various other
naked organs, and unattractive bodies of both sexes in bold embrace,
Eddy grimaced. "What they do is their business, and I don't care, but I
sure as hell wouldn't pay to look at them on my walls!" Connie peered
at the name.  "He's one of the rising stars.  You could buy one as an
investment and keep it turned to the wall in your attic until the right
time to sell." "You're laughing, but I'll tell you, I've been reading
Barren's charts of auction prices, and there seems to be no limit, even
for stuff like this.  Maybe especially for stuff like this.  Seriously,
I've been going in for something new—to me, at any rate.  Russian
antiques.  You can mix them with practically anything, and they add
sparkle.  What do you say, Lara?" "I don't know anything much about
art," Lara answered.  "We don't see much where we live, do we?  We were
at the National Gallery last year when we went to Washington for
Davey's birthday.  I think it's so wonderful to have those precious
things in museums where everybody can look at them."  Then she flushed,
as if she had become aware of the unintended rebuke.  And making quick
amends, she said, "Do let's see the Corot.  Where is it?" "I've changed
my mind.  And I don't want to go near it, or I'll weaken again and buy
it." "But if you wanted it so badly, why not get it?"  Connie said.
Eddy's eyes wandered, searching the room.  He looked vague.  "I don't
know.  I'm sort of cutting back a little.  A temporary blip in the cash
flow." Connie was astonished.  "You?  Cutting back?" "Not really.  Just
temporary, I said.  No room for a Corot this particular month, that's
all."  He brightened and flashed a smile, showing his fine teeth. 
"There'll be other things coming along next month."  He looked at his
watch.  "I'll have to be going.  Got an appointment.  But say, why
don't we all get together and make a date for a long weekend in
Bermuda, or anywhere?" "Not a long weekend," Lara told him, "but a
short one sounds possible.  Davey's got to work, you know." "He works
too hard.  He should get away more often before he tires himself out."
"You look tired yourself, Eddy," Lara said. He straightened up.  He
puffed his tie and smiled again.  "Do I?  Well, it's nothing that a
good night's sleep won't fix.  Hey, I'm late.  Be in touch." "He really
doesn't look well," Lara insisted as soon as he was out of hearing.
Connie shrugged.  "I don't know.  The other night Martin thought that
160

he looked harried.  But Martin can't figure him out, anyway.  He likes
Eddy, although he can't understand how he's made money so fast.  Of
course, Martin came up the long road himself."

"I'm worried about Eddy.  The way he acted just now—"

"He's probably been up all night.  They live a kind of crazy life, if
you ask me.  Disco half the night, horseback riding—they've got a thing
about dawn riding on the beach.  Now Pam says he wants to buy a sloop,
wants to get into the Bermuda races.  He thinks Martin should get one
too."  Connie giggled.  "Can you imagine Martin tugging on ropes in a
rough sea?  Goodness knows what Eddy will think up next.  I can't
imagine.  Can you?"

No, Lara could not.  So much of what she saw, in both Connie's and
Eddy's lives, was far outside of her ken.  And it always seemed
excessive, regardless of its propriety.  However, to each his own, and
she would not judge.

"I can't imagine, either, Connie," she said.  "It's all foreign to
me."

Eddy strode rapidly across Madison Avenue to his office.  He had
dawdled too long at the gallery.  Damn, he'd had his heart set on that
Corot!  It was such a beautiful thing.  But he wasn't in the mood. 
Face it, he told himself, you wouldn't have any real joy in it, the way
you feel right now.

Bad luck, that's all it was.  It had always worked before.  Or almost
always.  And it would have to be those folks out in Ohio who got
caught.  You never knew with the IRS.  Dealing with them was like
sticking your hand into a grab bag.  You could come across a
commonsense, reasonable examiner, or, just as easily, some
troublemaking nitpicker.  The law was whatever the person who happened
to be interpreting it said it was.

Well, but Abner Saville would know.  Abner was one of the smartest
accountants in the city.  And Eddy hastened his steps toward his
office, where Abner, in his calm, rational way, would surely quiet his
jangling

nerves.

"You sounded awfully upset when you asked me to come over," Abner began
as soon as he entered the room.  "You worried me."

"Did I?  Well, I guess I was a little upset.  It's not like me, is it? 
But I've had a couple of nasty telephone calls in these last few days,
that's why, and I'm not used to stuff like that."

Abner's black eyebrows rose in mild surprise.  "Nasty?  What about?"

"I sold a bunch of tax shelters a few years back when I was in Ohio. 
My sister's husband has a business with ten or twelve stockholders, all
his friends.  And they all bought limited partnerships from me.  Now it
seems the IRS is going to disallow the deductions."  Eddy sighed.  "God
damn, the deal was beautiful too.  Ten to one."

161

The black eyebrows rose higher into a troubled, puckered forehead.  A
low whistle came from Saville's lips. "Ten to one, Eddy!  What the
devil!  They can't have been real estate partnerships." "No. 
Lithographs." "Oh, for God's sake!  I could have told you that would
never wash." "It has washed." "Yes?  How many times." "Well, once. 
It's been five years, and not a word from the government." "So it
slipped by once.  A fluke.  You should never have inveigled people into
buying such garbage.  I have to tell you so." "Garbage isn't a nice
word, Abner."  Eddy's tone was sorrowful.  "And inveigled isn't
either." "Maybe not, but you're a most persuasive salesman, Eddy.  And
you're also a keen investor.  You should have known that deductions
like those make no financial sense and that the government was bound to
catch up with them." This was not the comfort that he had expected to
receive from Abner. Next Abner said, "I note that you don't personally
invest in such stuff." "No.  I make my profits from the commissions." 
And as Abner offered no comment, he protested, "Nobody's done as much
successful business in shelters as I have, and the whole city knows
it." "I'm afraid the government knows it too." "What do you mean by
that?" "Eddy, the IRS is starting to go after fake losses in a big, big
way.  And you are a most conspicuous purveyor of fake losses." "They're
not 'fake' losses!" "Eddy, you know better.  You've been my client for
a long time, a very important one, and a very good friend besides. 
It's no pleasure for me, I assure you, to disagree with you." "Yes,"
Eddy grumbled, "everything's fine when it's fine.  Then everybody loves
you.  But let something go wrong once, and it's another story." "Tell
me about the phone calls." "Oh, these people are in a frenzy.  One
woman called me a fraud and started to cry, another said his accountant
told him he would never have let him buy in if he had been consulted
and that it was a disgrace, and so on and so on.  A bunch of hysterics.
And as I said, unfortunately, they're all friends of my sister and her
husband.  It's a small-town affair—they know each other inside out,
they know what everybody had for breakfast yesterday." There was a
silence, during which Eddy felt the pounding of his heart; then the
prime question burst. 162

"All I want to know is: Can they sue me for anything?"

Abner grimaced.  "No, it wasn't fraud on your part.  You just gave them
terrible, terrible advice.  But it surely doesn't do much for your
reputation, Eddy, when you go peddling stuff like that."

"Fortunately, they're all far away in Ohio.  No, come, I don't mean
that.  I'm really sorry for them all, sorry it turned out badly."

"It will be bad, all right.  Back taxes, penalties, and interest
besides.  No fun."

"But they can't sue me, you're sure."

"I'm sure."  Abner stood up.  "But before I leave, I'd like to give you
some advice, Eddy."

Momentarily more cheerful, Eddy managed a smile.  "What?  Again?"

"Yes, again.  I'm not happy about your tax deferrals.  Some of your
figures puzzle me.  They're on the edge.  I need to go over your books
very, very carefully during the next few months.  I advise you to stop
playing at brinkmanship, Eddy.  You know what I mean.  A word to the
wise, and all that."

Saville gave with one hand and took away with the other.  It was a vast
relief to know that he wasn't going to be sued.  But the talk of
"brinkmanship" left him with a feeling of insecurity, compounded with a
certain resentment at being challenged.  Arriving in the outer hall at
home, he did not announce himself with his customary signal whistle.

Pam greeted him with a kiss.  "Smell the paella?  That's your dinner. 
Crabs, chicken, ham, fish, and plenty of garlic.  I think we've got
ourselves a marvelous cook at last.  Why, what's the matter?  You look
bushed."

He wished people wouldn't always comment on his appearance, so he
answered merely, "I'm fine, but it was a long day."

A man didn't bring his troubles home with him, especially when there
was nothing a wife could do about them.  It would be like Pop's
thumping heavily up the stairs with yet another burden of bad news. 
Remembering, Eddy shuddered.

They were having their after-dinner coffee when the telephone rang. 
Pam answered.

"It's Davey.  He wants to talk to you."

Eddy stifled a sigh.  "I'll take it in the den.  Please hang up."

Anticipating another long, defensive explanation, he settled into an
armchair and cheerfully covering his dread, began, "Hello, Davey. 
How's everything?"

Davey's answer was glum.  "Bad.  Very bad."

"Bad?  What's happened?"

"Eddy, let's not play games.  You know what's happened."

"About the partnerships, you mean?  The tax examiners?"

163

"Every single person who bought one has been called for an audit.  And
every one has been told by his accountant that he doesn't stand a
chance.  Not a chance." "Wait, hold on!  I think you're jumping at
conclusions.  The principals here in New York, the guys who produce the
lithographs—I know they'll put up a fight, you can bet on that. 
They've got more to lose, after all, and—" "That's bunk, Eddy.  I
myself went up to Cleveland to check with a friend, a fellow I knew at
school, who works for the IRS, and that's bunk." Eddy's first thought
was: He went to Cleveland before he even talked to me; he has no
confidence in me.  His next thought was: What does he want of me now?
The accusing voice grew louder as Davey resumed.  "My friend Tony will
lose the whole inheritance from his aunt and more besides because, to
make things worse, he borrowed from his cousin—hell, the details don't
matter.  But his cousin's not speaking to him, and Tony's not speaking
to me." "That's ridiculous.  Why should he be sore at you?" "I'm the
one who recommended your judgment, remember?" What does he want of me? 
An apology?  Well, all right, he's entitled to one, if that's what he
wants. "Davey, I'm sorry as hell," Eddy said softly.  "God knows my
intentions were of the best.  But that doesn't do anyone much good, I
know.  And still you have to admit that there are risks in any
investment, whether it's a horse, or a house, or—anything."  He
finished stumbling, pushed as he was into an unfamiliar defensiveness
and resenting it. "It seems that this was less an investment than it
was a gamble.  The deal was so badly structured that every man who
looked at it was dumbfounded." "That's a matter of opinion.  I don't
happen to agree.  I've built a reputation in this city doing deals for
hundreds of millions of dollars, deals that your people, I don't care
who they are, never saw and never dreamed of." "I don't think you
should be resentful, Eddy.  If anyone should be, I should.  And I am
resentful.  Every one of my stockholders, my trusting friends, is my
enemy now because of this." "That's ridiculous," Eddy repeated. "You
may think so, but that's how it is.  Lara can't even walk into Levy's
to buy socks for the kids, she's so ashamed to face Ben." Never in all
their years had he known Davey to be so agitated.  Davey, gone over to
the attack!  This thing was escalating.  . . . "I'm sorry.  I've said I
am.  What more do you want me to do?  I don't know what else to do."
164

BELVA PLAin

The reply was cold.  "Don't you?"

"No, I don't."

"I know what I would do if I were in your position."

"Suppose you tell me, then."

"If I had the wealth you are reputed to have, I would make it up to
those people."

Eddy jumped in the chair.  "What?  You can't mean that."

"I mean it.  I most surely do."

"Well, if you do, that's the most goddamned stupid thing I've heard in
a long time.  You expect me to reach into my own pocket?  For God's
sake, Davey!  Look here, they made an investment, it went sour, and
that's too bad.  I have no legal obligation to any of those people, and
if they have any such ideas—"

"I'm talking about a moral obligation.  When a widow puts her trust in
you, and at my recommendation—"

"Don't preach, Davey.  Get real.  I've always admired your principles,
but there comes a point when they become unreal.  Do you think I have
no principles?  It's naive to—"

"So you don't intend to do anything.  Just let them all down.  That's
it, is it?  You led them to the water, and you're going to let them
drown."

Oh, my God, what a day!  That weepy widow, and Abner, and now Davey's
loud complaints ringing in his ears.  Eddy's nerves, those steady,
healthy nerves that so seldom even made their presence known to his
body, were quivering.

"Look, Davey, I don't know what to make of you.  I've never known you
to be so unreasonable.  Frankly, you're driving me to my wits' end over
this sorry business, which I regret, I deeply regret, how many times do
I have to tell you, so will you kindly let me alone, just let me alone
tonight, for God's sake, will you—"

"Oh, I'll let you alone, all right.  You can bet I'll do that.  I'll
let you so alone that you'll forget I exist."

Who of the two first hung up the telephone it was impossible to say. 
For a long minute, needing to collect himself, Eddy sat still.  He was
completely frustrated.  He was angry, he was humiliated, and he was
sad.  How could this have happened to Eddy Osborne, the conciliator,
who avoided argument, above all in his family?

But it had happened, and how it was to be resolved he did not know.

These were dark days in Ohio, miserable days under the wintry sky.  "Is
this to be another wasteful feud like the one between Connie and me?" 
demanded Lara.  "Every time I talk to Pam, it looks more hopeless,

165

and we feel terrible about it.  She can't get anywhere with Eddy, and I
can't get anywhere with you." "I'm tired of talking about it," Davey
answered wearily.  "And I have to think you don't really understand my
position." "Well, I'm not the only one.  Connie says that Martin's
position is: Let the buyer beware." "Oh, beautiful!  I wonder how
Martin would like to come up against the faces that I'll confront at
the next stockholders' meeting.  Standing there at the head of the
table, feeling the outrage directed straight at me!" As soon as the
business of the meeting had been dispensed with, and as the shuffle of
departure began, Davey called for attention.  His heart beat almost
painfully, yet he knew he must speak from that heart if only to relieve
it of its burden. "I want to say something to all of you.  I'll only be
a minute.  I find it hard to breathe these days.  The atmosphere has
been very heavy.  You avoid me.  You, my friends."  For a moment he had
to stop.  "Oh, I know you've been hurt in the pocketbook, some of you
badly hurt.  Joe, I know you bought in to provide for your boy's
education.  Doc Donnelly, I know you were planning to help your
retirement.  Dick, you were my coach in Little League.  . . . Would I
hurt you?"  Here Davey had to stop again.  Then he threw his hands out
toward the whole assemblage in a gesture of appeal.  "Tell me, do you
think I would deliberately hurt you?" A silence that Davey found
extraordinary, even ominous, then followed.  He looked around the
table, but no eyes were raised to his. Then someone spoke.  It was
Henry Baker, the superintendent of schools, a man known for his sharp,
outspoken tongue. "You should have advised us against the investment. 
But he's your brother-in-law, so you didn't.  That sums it up, I
think." "Why should I have, Henry?  I had no reason to think it wasn't
a sound investment." "Not true, Davey.  You had your doubts, and now
you're cornered.  No.  Davey.  You must have suspected something, or
else you would have gone in too.  Mighty strange that you didn't." At
this ten pairs of eyes came to rest on Davey's face. "I'm well aware
that it doesn't sound convincing, yet the truth is simply that I—I
personally don't invest in anything but this company of ours." "You're
right, it doesn't sound convincing," said Henry Baker. "Of what are you
accusing me?  I don't understand.  Did I make a profit out of this
fiasco, for God's sake?" "No, but your brother-in-law did." 166

"So is this going to go on till the end of time?  Am I to be shunned
like a leper because of my wife's brother?"

"You can't expect us all to have the same respect for your judgment
that we once had.  That's putting it plainly.  But you asked for it, so
there it is.  The plain, harsh truth."

Dr.  Donnelly said quietly, "Time.  Time will ease things.  Now I
suggest that we call it a day, shall we?"

I am as bruised, Davey thought driving home, as if I had been beaten. 
"No more respect for my judgment," the man said.  And I saw by their
faces that they all agreed.

The late February evening was still fairly light after supper, when
Peggy, bringing her snowsuit, asked to go outside.  Lara, while
fastening the suit, kept talking furiously over the child's head.

"They have no right to be blaming you, or Eddy either.  They were
willing enough to save tax money.  It looked pretty tempting to them,
didn't it?"

Davey's thoughts were back at the meeting.  "The air congealed.  I
froze in it.  The hostility .  . ."

"You'd think they were all going to jail!  All right, the IRS
disallowed it and they have to pay up.  It's not fun, but it's not the
worst thing in the world either.  Oh," Lara said, "I saw Doc Donnelly's
wife at the hardware store, and she pretended she didn't see me.  It's
disgusting."

He had no more heart for analyzing or explaining; this night was only a
repetition of a dozen other nights.  And yet he had to add something
new.

"If I had invested with them, it would be different.  This way it looks
suspicious, as if I hadn't believed in Eddy.  Or I should have advised
them not to believe in the project.  As I didn't believe in it!  Only,
damn it, you wouldn't let me, Lara, remember?  You said he had done so
much for us and it would be awful to undermine him, and—"

"Well, he had done for us, hadn't he?"

"Anybody in your family you'll defend.  Especially Eddy."

"My memory isn't that short, if yours is.  He's the salt of the earth. 
He's entitled to a mistake."

"Some mistake!"

"I never thought you'd be an ingrate, Davey Davis— Oh, for heaven's
sake, who's at the back door?"

Someone was pounding, rattling the knob.  Lara ran.

"Whatever do you want?"  she began.  And then, at the sight of Sue's
face in the glass top-half of the door, she cried, "What?  What
happened?"

The child was terrified.  "Peggy!  She fell down the Burkes' stairs.  I
don't know—" she began to cry.  "She won't move!  Oh, Mom, she won't
move!"

167

They flew.  In the neighbor's floodlit front yard a little group had
already gathered at the bottom of the long flight of stone steps. 
Behind a barricade of legs and stooped backs a short, limp leg in a
snowsuit was all that was visible; Lara had to thrust through the
barricade before she could see her baby—her baby, whose cap had fallen
off, whose hair lay spread upon the snow, whose eyes were closed.  She
fell on her knees.  No sound came out of her throat. A voice said,
"Don't move her.  You're not supposed to.  I took first aid." Another
voice above Lara's head kept asking, "What happened?  What happened?"
More voices babbled.  "The ambulance will be here in a minute.  . . .
They take so long.  . . . Don't touch her.  . . ." Sue wept on Lara's
shoulder.  "Mom, Mom, I was in Amy's house next door, and Peggy must
have been looking for me at the Burkes', and slipped on the ice—oh,
Mom!" But Lara still said nothing, as she knelt there staring at her
child. Davey put his head against Peggy's chest.  As if one could hear
a heartbeat through that thick cloth!  He looked up at Lara. "She's
fainted.  That's all it is.  She's fainted."  Then, with a queer,
awkward gesture, he put his hands over his face and someone led him
away. People helped Lara climb into the ambulance, where she and Davey
sat beside the stretcher.  Endlessly they rode through the empty
nighttime streets.  The day that had begun with a thaw had turned into
a bitter, angry night.  Lara had never been so cold.  Her teeth
chattered so that she could hear them.  Imploring, she looked up into
the eyes of the young man in the white coat who sat at the head of the
stretcher. "She isn't dead, ma'am," he said, answering the unspoken
question. Lara nodded.  Her thoughts spun, repeating themselves in some
strange, determined ritual: If I keep quiet and calm, if I do
everything they tell me to do, not scream or fuss or lose control, then
I will be rewarded for good behavior and she will be fine again.  Yes,
yes, I must.  I will.  Her hands clasped themselves together on her lap
as if in prayer.  Then Davey put his hand over hers, and they sat,
still without speaking, never taking their eyes away from Peggy, who
had not yet moved. Lights from the emergency wing glared into the
courtyard, giving forth the only warmth and brightness in the freezing
town.  The light looked friendly.  Once they got inside there, it would
somehow be all right.  People there would know at once what to do. Such
a tiny body in her overalls and T-shirt, such a small body next to such
big ones all in white!  Doctors, nurses, interns; who was who?  Lara
did not heed; Davey did the talking off in a corner.  Low, hurried
voices spoke and came back again to look, to touch, and listen. 
Peggy's labored breathing was like a snore—a dreadful sound, but at
least it proved that she was alive.  The man in the ambulance had said
she wasn't dead, hadn't he?  Pay attention to that, Lara!  She isn't
dead.

They were taking her blood pressure.  They were listening to her
heart.

"No blood in the lungs," announced a young man with a stethoscope
around his neck.

But surely that was blood seeping out of her ears?  Still almost
speechless, Lara pointed.

"That's from the skull fracture," the young man said.  "A skull
fracture need not be as dreadful as it sounds."

He meant to be kind.  "Need not be."  What did that mean?  It meant
that it could be.

Now Peggy's little face began to swell.  One could almost see it
happening as the flesh rose, black and blue.  A crust of blood had
hardened on one cheek.  As Lara bent to wipe it away, she was gently
restrained.

"That's nothing, only a skin scrape."

"But will she wake up soon?"  It was her first question, a foolish one,
she knew as she was asking it.

Davey shook his head, warning: Don't distract them.  They know what
they're doing.  And he said aloud, "Darling, it takes time."

"But look," Lara whispered, "look, her lips are moving."

Indeed, the child was shaping her mouth into an unnatural grimace, an
expression that they had never seen before.

"She's unconscious," repeated Davey.

A little more than an hour ago she had been eating banana pudding at
home.

And suddenly the little body stiffened, rose into an arc, straightened,
arched again with head thrown back and legs jerking while her arms
flailed frantically from side to side.

"My God!"  cried Lara, grasping Davey's arm.

They were putting a tongue depressor into Peggy's mouth and holding her
firmly.

"A seizure," a nurse told Lara.  "Look away.  It will be over in a
minute or two."

"But why?  Why?"  Lara wailed.

"Perhaps you had better take Mrs.  Davis out," said the doctor, who now
appeared to be the one in charge.  An older man, he had just arrived,
hurrying as though he had been summoned from a distance.

"No," Lara protested.  "No.  I'll be quiet.  Please.  Please."

When the seizure ended as abruptly as it had begun, the child lay back
inert, and the slow, noisy breathing resumed as before.  Davey was
motioned aside.  Again there was swift talk at the far end of the room,
and again he came back to Lara. "They'll be taking her for X rays of
the chest and skull.  And after that, an electroencephalogram." So she
knew.  She knew enough about brain damage to understand what was
happening.  If she had had any thoughts—and she had had them— about
swift repairs in this emergency room, after which they would take Peggy
home as good as new, she now knew better. Hours in the intensive care
unit were to follow.  Now came the specialists, the otolaryngologists,
the ophthalmologists, and the neurologists to observe, to test, to
prescribe, and mostly, in the end, to counsel patience.  As the hours
went past, they spoke more guardedly and less frequently of hope.  No
nuance of their voices or their glances escaped Lara and Davey. 
Admitting nothing to each other, they did not have to admit anything,
for the fact was plain: The child was still unconscious. Every third
hour the parents were allowed to see her.  And the pathetic silly
sentence kept sounding in Lara's head: She was eating banana pudding,
sitting on the other side of the table next to Sue. They had almost
forgotten Sue.  At home, on the first night of the disaster, each had
asked the other whether he had told Sue to watch Peggy in the yard, and
each had answered, "No.  I thought you had." "So that's why she was at
Amy's that night.  Peggy left the house a bit later, I remember now. 
We were arguing," Lara said, and wept again.  "Arguing, like fools." On
the second day Connie flew in and met Lara in the waiting room outside
the intensive care unit. "Sue phoned me.  Poor child, she could hardly
talk.  Oh, Lara, what can I do for you?"  Connie lowered her voice. 
Two middle-aged women, farm wives perhaps, were staring in frank
curiosity at her sweeping fur coat.  "And Martin says if you need
anything, if you run short, Davey must let him know.  You understand? 
I'm going to stay a few days.  Davey says you haven't rested at all. 
You have to go home and sleep, Lara.  I'll take your turn here
watching." "I can't sleep.  I haven't slept.  Anyway, Davey will be
here." "He needs rest too.  And he has to spend some time at the plant.
It can't be allowed to fall apart, he says.  So I'm staying for a few
days.  Don't argue." "I can't sleep, anyway.  I told you." "You can
try.  If Peggy wakes up, I'll be here.  She knows me, and I'll
telephone you right away and tell her you're coming.  Now go home."
170

On the next day Eddy arrived with Pam.  Pam took Lara into her arms,
but Eddy went first to embrace Davey.

"Davey, Davey, there are no words for this.  I take back every mean
word I said to you that night.  God help us all."

Davey's eyes were wet.  "It's all unimportant, not worth a breath. 
Only our baby matters.  . . . Thank you for being here, Eddy."

From everywhere came an outpouring of concern and help.  Neighbors took
Sue to school, watched the house, and fed the dogs.  The telephone
rang, the mail flowed; there were fifty names on a huge card from
Peggy's nursery school.  Even those who had felt so bitterly
unforgiving toward Davey came through.  Dr.  Donnelly's wife took Sue
to play with her grandchild.  Ben Levy left a roasted turkey at the
kitchen door.  And Henry Baker, meeting Davey at the gas station, came
up and took his hand.

Without animosity Davey could not refrain from asking sadly, "Still
won't trust my judgment, Henry?"

The reply was not unkind, yet it was unmistakably firm.  "That's
entirely separate from your little girl.  The one has nothing to do
with the other.  I pray for the child."

Later that week Lara came home to find a message on the answering
machine.  Sue had not gone to school that morning.

The three adults, Lara, Davey, and Connie, stared at each other.  Is it
possible for another disaster to strike this little family?  Davey
asked himself.

"She had her schoolbag," Lara said, "I remember that distinctly.  I
watched her go down to meet the car pool."

"Who drove today?"

"Lee Connor.  I'll call her."

When she returned to the others, Lara's eyes were terrified.  "Lee says
Sue telephoned her this morning to say she wasn't going to school." 
Lara sank down on the sofa.  "I don't think—I just don't think we can
bear one thing more."  Her voice quavered.

Davey cleared his throat.  "We mustn't panic.  Think clearly.  Don't
get excited.  Think clearly."

He has to play the male role, Connie thought with pity.  He's not
supposed to show that he's shocked to death.  Lara can show it, but he
doesn't dare to.

Aloud she said, "Give me a list of her friends, and I'll make phone
calls.  She's probably gone with one of them to the movies or the
mall."

"Sue wouldn't do that," Lara said faintly.  "She's very responsible,
very obedient."

"Even so.  There's always a first time, and she's getting to the
independent age.  Give me a list, Lara."

171

"There's one on the bulletin board in the kitchen.  I'm class mother."
After eighteen calls Connie, receiving no clue, began to feel weak in
the knees herself.  The world was so full of horrors!  Could the child
possibly have become involved with an older boy and gone to meet him
someplace?  Some pervert, some killer?  One heard of all kinds of
terrible things on the news. When she came back from the kitchen, she
found Davey and Lara still where she had left them, staring into space
as if devoid of energy or the ability to think.  Somebody would have to
think for them. "I have a hunch she might have gone to the movies,"
Connie said, trying to sound positive. Davey frowned.  "What makes you
think that?" "Because I remember once when I was about eleven or twelve
I was so furious at my parents about something, I forget what, I went
off to the movies all alone and sat there sulking through two double
features."  There was no response from anyone.  "Listen," Connie said,
feigning a vigor that she did not have.  "I'm going to ride down to the
theater and take a look, just in case.  I'll want your station wagon. 
Maybe I should try the mall too.  Kids like to hang out in malls.  Are
there any particular places where I should look, Lara?" "The record
shop, I guess," Lara said, still so faintly that Connie almost missed
the words.  "And she likes thick shakes." The matinee was ending when
Connie drew up at the theater.  At once she saw that there were no
children among the scanty crowd of retired oldsters; this was, after
all, a school day.  Next she tried the mall, which, being merely a
small strip, was easily scanned from end to end.  On the way back home
with no success, she had a cold, sick feeling in her stomach.
Determined, nevertheless, to keep up a positive attitude, she walked
briskly into the kitchen.  Lara and Davey were at the kitchen table,
each with a coffee cup in hand.  It was after six o'clock, and no
dinner was in evidence. "What about food?"  she demanded.  "I know you
don't feel hungry, but we have to keep our wits about us, and that's
impossible when the stomach's empty." "I can't swallow," Lara said. 
"But there's plenty in the refrigerator.  Help yourself.  There's a
whole roast that the Burkes sent over." Connie opened the refrigerator.
"I don't see it," she said. "It's right there."  j "It's not."  ),
Lara got up and looked.  "That's strange.  It was there this morning."
"Perhaps it's not so strange.  Look and see whether any other food is
missing." 172

BELVA PLAIM

Bewildered, Lara moved her gaze slowly around the kitchen, and then, as
if in a daze, reported, "I'm sure I left the fruit bowl filled with
apples and pears.  And there was a pie that somebody gave us in the
cake box."

Connie's thoughts took swift shape.  "How has she been acting
lately?"

Lara raised her weary eyes.  "Upset, of course, like the rest of us."

Davey spoke.  "She's been very quiet."  And then he added, "But I guess
I don't really know, Connie.  We haven't been paying much attention to
anything except—"

Connie interrupted.  "I want to see her room."

"Oh!  You're thinking she's run away!  But why should she run away?" 
implored Lara.

Connie was already halfway up the stairs while the others followed her
into Sue's room.  Her immediate impression was of abandonment; it was
as if these inanimate things, the four flowered walls and the bed where
lay no carelessly dumped sweaters, jackets, or schoolbooks, were giving
a message.  Opening the closet door, she saw an even row of pretty
clothes, some of which she recognized because they were her own
gifts.

"Is anything missing?"  she asked Lara.

"The doll.  The one we gave her on the day we met.  It always sits on
the bed," said Lara, choking.

Davey pointed to the piggybank, whose china head had been broken
open.

The pattern of Connie's thought, growing clearer, filled her with an
urgent sense of haste.  And she demanded, "Tell me quickly what clothes
are missing and how much money was in the bank."

"Maybe seventy-five dollars.  Her warm jacket's missing, and her
boots."  Lara opened drawers.  "I think some sweaters are gone.  But I
don't know, I can't tell—" And she collapsed on the edge of the bed
with her face in her hands.

"Darling," Connie said, "I know it's hell, but we've got to face it. 
So far it's plain that Sue's run away.  She hasn't been waylaid and
murdered on her way to school, we know that, and she hasn't been
kidnapped for ransom, thank God.  The job now is just to go after
her."

Davey was pacing back and forth.  At the end of the room, each time he
turned, a loose floorboard made a maddening squeak.  More to himself
than to anyone he groaned, "And how am I to do that?  Go after her? 
Where?  And we have Peggy, neither dead nor alive, and the doctor wants
a consultation in the morning."

The telephone rang.  As if instant hope had been injected into them,
all three ran to where it jangled in the bedroom across the hall. 
Davey picked it up.  In the next instant hope receded.

"It's Martin for you," he said, handing the receiver to Connie.

173

"I suppose," Martin said, "that there's been no change, or you'd have
let me know.  So in that case you'd better come home." "I can't." 
Davey and Lara had politely left her alone, so she spared no words. 
"Martin, there's total disaster here."  And she told him about the
missing child. His low whistle carried into Connie's ear.  "My God! 
What next?  The police have been notified, of course?" "Davey'll do
that now.  But there are thousands of missing children, and I
personally wouldn't leave it to the police.  I believe in some
self-help.  A little private-detective, thinking for oneself." "Meaning
what?" "Meaning that I'm going to stay here for a while and have a try
at it.  These two people are in no condition to handle any more
trouble." "Listen to me," Martin said, "this is ridiculous.  You are
not a private detective.  You're not to go playing games, Connie." She
was offended.  "Games!  As if this weren't deadly serious!" "Yes,
deadly.  A deadly game.  You don't know the whole story.  The child
could have been lured away by God knows whom, and you could end up—
Listen to me, you have a child of your own back home here, and you
can't afford to take chances with your own safety.  I want you to come
home tomorrow, and I'm sending the plane for you." "Martin, I can't."
"You have been there a week, and that's long enough," he shouted. "It
would be," she persisted, "if this hadn't happened today.  It would be
inhuman to leave them now in this situation.  So I'm not leaving.  Not,
Martin." "That's your final word?"  Martin never liked long
conversations. "It is." She had never defied him, had never had any
reason to.  When he slammed the receiver down, she knew he was
frustrated and furious.  But he would have to get over it. Davey had
been using another telephone line downstairs to appeal to the police.
"She hasn't been gone long enough," he reported.  "They can't go
searching for every kid who decides to run off to his grandma's for the
night, they told me." "The difference is," observed Connie, "that she
has no grandma.  And I've called all her friends." "She's taken her
suitcase," Lara said. "She's got money, food, and clothes, so she has a
plan.  The question is, where would she be going?  Whom does she know?"
 Connie reflected. "But why?  Why?"  Lara cried again. 174

175

"We'll find that out when we find her, Lara."

"If we find her!"

Or if, Connie thought, if some monster doesn't find her first.  The
darkness was black beyond the window, black and forbidding.  She mused
aloud.  "The only people she knows outside of us are Pam and Eddy.  So
maybe she went there."

Lara cried out again, "Call Pam!"

"You're not thinking," Connie spoke gently.  "If Sue had already
reached there, they would have telephoned us.  So why worry them?  But
she might be on her way.  I'm going down to the bus station."

Neither Davey nor Lara objecting, she went for her coat and bag.  At
the door she called out, "What color is her jacket?"

"Navy blue with a red-and-white striped collar," Lara called back
helplessly.

At the local bus station Connie gave a description and asked a
question.  Did anyone remember seeing such a child alone boarding a bus
to the connecting major bus routes?  No, no one did.

"She's probably — or she might be — catching a bus to New York."

"Our last bus makes the connection to the terminal.  We leave in an
hour," the man said.

"No, I'll drive."

The old station wagon bucked and rattled over the road.  Damn kid! 
Connie thought in a moment of anger.  As if the family hadn't enough to
cope with right now!  What could have been in her head?  A wonderful
home, plenty of love, she muttered.  But Sue was an earnest child, not
given to caprice.  Some terrible trouble must have compelled her.  She
wasn't old enough to have gotten herself pregnant, was she?

It was after ten when Connie arrived at the bus station.  Light from
the ticket window sent a painful yellow glare into the night.  A few
disconsolate souls with tired faces sat with their bundles and baggage
in the waiting room.

"Bus for New York?"  she inquired.

"Tomorrow morning."

She stood there, then, as disconsolate as anyone in the room.  What to
do?  Then something drove her to ask a question that, considering the
daily traffic in that place, was probably foolish.

"Do you by any chance remember selling a ticket to a little girl about
eleven or twelve years old today, traveling alone?"

"Lady, I'd need a memory like an elephant" was the contemptuous

answer.

"Maybe," Connie persisted, seeing two other people behind the counter,
"one of them remembers.  Please ask, will you?"

"Hey, seen a little girl about eleven traveling alone?" A woman came
forward.  "Come to think of it, I did, and I wondered about it.  She
bought a ticket for Chicago.  Said she wanted to go to Minnesota, and I
told her she'd need to make a connection in Chicago.  Yes, I wondered. 
Lots of kids travel alone, but usually not that far.  I figured she was
going to be met by a relative." "Thank you," Connie said, "thank you
very much." Now to think.  In a place this size there could be a dozen
little girls buying tickets every day.  But not for that distance, the
woman said.  And Minnesota, where Sue had come from.  Was it possible
that she could want to return to another round of dreary foster homes? 
Not likely.  This would most probably end as a wild goose chase.  No,
it wasn't Sue.  And yet it might be. Now it was cold and late, Connie
was starved and tired, Martin was angry, and Therese missed her. Yet,
she got up and bought a ticket to Chicago.  Lara's car was in the
parking lot.  To hell with it.  If someone steals it, I'll buy her
another, she thought as the bus rolled in. The ride was miserable.  On
one side a man snored, while on the other a pathetic, uncomfortable
infant cried.  The bus rolled past bleak, sleeping towns, stopping here
and there to discharge or take on passengers.  One had to wonder what
errands took people jolting across the country through the long, dismal
night instead of lying at home under warm blankets.  She wondered
whether any of these people had ever gone on an errand like hers. It
was raining when they reached Chicago in the early morning.  Famished
by now, grimy and red-eyed because she had not slept, Connie rushed to
inquire about a connection to Minneapolis. This time there was a
pleasant person at the ticket window, pleasant and also surprised.
"Yes, yes!  There was a little girl here.  She wanted to buy a ticket
to Minneapolis, but didn't have enough money, I remember.  She seemed
about to cry, and I didn't know what to do, so I wrote out directions
to the railroad station and told her to find Travelers' Aid there.  I
figured they'd help her.  Afterward I thought I probably should have
called the police," he finished. Of course you should have, Connie
thought with indignation at such well-meaning stupidity.  But she
thanked him and made her own way to consult Travelers' Aid.  There the
woman at the desk had just come on duty and knew nothing about the
previous day's occurrences.  Connie would have to wait until afternoon.
It was a long, long day.  She bought a frankfurter and coffee, her
first 176

food since yesterday's lunch, and sat eating this odd breakfast within
view of the Travelers' Aid desk, then managed a face and hands' wash in
the rest room and rushed back to the desk.  She was so tense, so
charged up, that she was hardly aware now of having gone twenty-four
hours without sleep.

And yet she fell into a doze, sitting straight up on the hard bench,
and was awakened by someone speaking to her.

"You're the person who's looking for a little girl on the way to
Minneapolis?"  a woman asked.

Connie sprang up.  "I'm her aunt.  What can you tell me?"

"I spoke to her yesterday.  She's a runaway, of course."

"Yes, yes.  Where is she?"

"I don't know.  She wouldn't tell me her name, and apparently I asked
too many questions, because she ran from me, and I lost her in the
crowd.  I felt terrible.  Such a well-spoken child, an attractive
little blond—"

Blond?  Not Sue, after all!  Connie released a long, anguished sigh.

"Oh, I'm sorry, it wasn't Sue.  She has dark hair.  Strange, because
things seemed to tie together, Minneapolis and—"

"Actually, it was a town not far from there.  She was going to her
grandmother's, Elmer, the name was, and she'd lost her money."

Elmer.  Connie had a keen memory.  Surely that was the name Lara had
mentioned.

"Yes.  We called information and even checked with the post office in
the town.  The woman has either moved away or else the post office
people said they thought she'd died.  So it was all a puzzle.  And when
I questioned the child, that's when she ran off."

It had to be Sue.  . . .

"You said she was blond."

"I might be wrong about that.  But I'm positively right about the
name."

People hurried by, racing for trains, jostling each other, each intent
on his affairs.  One felt the world's indifference, standing there, not
knowing where to turn.

Then Connie said aloud, "I just don't know what to do."

"You know, I have a hunch that she might come back here.  It's beastly
cold on the streets, she can't just wander aimlessly through the city,
and this is a kind of shelter, in a way."

Connie looked into the vast space, into the crowds.

"Then you think I'd do well to wait a little."

"I do.  If she doesn't return, then I'd say go home and leave it to the
police."

The thought of bringing this defeat back to Lara and Davey kept Connie
going for another hour, and yet another hour or two, until at last,
toward evening, she had to give up.  Years later, she was to tell of
her panic upon

177

finding that in her haste at Lara's house, she had forgotten to check
her wallet, and now found herself in this strange city with no credit
cards and not enough money to fly home.  There she sat, with a Bulgari
watch on her wrist, Martin's eight-carat diamond on her finger, and an
alligator bag that held just about enough cash to pay for the long bus
ride back to Ohio and

no more.

Beaten and exhausted, she made her way to the bus station, where sat
another dejected group with its burdens and baggage, ready for a long
ride through the night.  There was half an hour to wait, so she bought
a paper to fill the time and was too tired to read it.  Half dozing,
she was jarred awake by a little flurry of talk, and opening her eyes,
beheld—a policeman holding Sue by the hand, a bedraggled, dirty-faced,
tearstained Sue. And she would remember Sue's story, told between sobs
on Connie's shoulder while the curious watched and listened. "I thought
they hated me, they never talked to me, it was my fault about Peggy, I
always watched her when we went outside, and if Peggy dies, it'll be
really my fault and I thought maybe Mrs.  Elmer would take me back,
there isn't anybody else.  . . ." "But they love you so much, Sue!  And
it wasn't your fault about Peggy.  They never thought it was.  You had
nothing to do with it.  It was an accident, just an awful accident. 
And if anything bad happens—you know what I'm thinking of—all three of
you will need to be extra good to each other and help each other. 
Don't ever do anything like this again, Sue.  Don't break all our
hearts.  Will you promise?" "I wanted to call home and tell them where
I was, but I was afraid they'd be angry at me.  I knew it was awful,
what I did.  Besides, I had no money for the telephone.  It dropped out
of my pocket someplace.  It must have dropped out when I went to buy a
chocolate bar.  The turkey was all gone, and I was hungry." "Oh, poor
darling!" The policeman said, "We found her sitting on a step down near
the river, and brought her to the station house.  Then we called home,
and her father said we might put her on the bus, and he would meet it."
He put his hand on Sue's shoulder.  "Listen, little girl, I have a
girl just your age, and I know what your father and mother must have
been going through.  I think you've almost given them a heart attack. 
Now, you promise never to do that again, do you?" Sue sniffed and
nodded.  "I slept all night in the waiting room at the station, Aunt
Connie.  It was awful.  Nobody came.  Nobody cared." I can believe it,
Connie thought.  People don't even see the homeless anymore. "How did
you know I was here, Aunt Connie?" 178

"I didn't.  I came here looking for you, but I didn't find you until
now."  "I'm glad you found me."

The bus was just pulling in, and the policeman said, "Well, there'll
surely be a big celebration when you get home."

Connie smiled.  "That's right.  And thank you, officer."

Out of exhaustion, in the night that followed Sue's return, Davey
slept.  But no sleep came to Lara, lying beside him.  Toward dawn she
got up and, with no aim, wandered through the house, not knowing what
to do with herself in that dark, cold hour.  After a while she sat down
on the stairs and began soundlessly to weep, making the age-old human
promise to God: "If Peggy gets well, I promise, I swear, I'll never ask
for anything again.  If we can just be together, the four of us, I'll
never want anything more.  I'll never complain.  Oh, please, please."

At the top of the stairs above her Sue, who must have been awakened by
her steps, quiet as they were, stood mute and scared.  Then,
comprehending and moved by an extraordinarily adult compassion, she
came down to sit beside her mother, and laid her dark head on Lara's
shoulder, still without speaking a word.

At the end of the third week Peggy was moved to the subacute floor. 
The threat of infection was past, the swelling had gone down, and her
face looked normal.  It was the face of a child asleep.

"In a way it's worse," Lara said to Davey.  "When she looked so awful,
we could blame everything on that and could look forward, as if as soon
as she looked like herself, she would also be herself.  And now there's
nothing .  . ."  The words trailed off.

"I know," Davey said.  And then, perhaps by way of giving to his wife
some encouragement that he himself did not feel, he reminded her that
"all the doctors say it will take time, darling.  Patience."

Kindness never ceased.  "It's only because you've always been like that
to everybody else," a neighbor said when Lara remarked with wonder
about all the kindness.  "You and Davey are being paid back, that's
all."

Connie flew in once or twice every week, making, without intending to,
a small stir in the hospital every time.

A nurse said, "Your sister's beautiful," and then almost apologetically
to Lara added, "Well, you do look alike.  Her clothes are what I meant.
 They're so—well, you know, so New York."

And another reported, "My boyfriend drives the taxi from the airport. 
She comes in a private plane, he says.  Is that true?"

Yes, it was true.

"Such a good sister!  So devoted."

179

That was true too. "Martin says you should get another opinion," Connie
reported one day. "We've had a half dozen, and they all say the same
thing.  Wait." "Wait for what?  Is anything happening?" Nothing was
happening.  The weeks went by, the snow melted, spring came with lilac
and forsythia, and still Peggy lay asleep, the sweet head quiet on the
pillow. In the beginning of the third month they were summoned together
to the hospital.  The doctor, obviously troubled at what he had to tell
them, spoke somberly. "We'll have to face it.  There's nothing more we
can do for Peggy here.  I think you should be looking at a chronic care
facility."  He looked away at the wall over their heads.  "That's about
it," he concluded. Davey let that sink in for a second or two.  Then he
whispered, "Chronic?  She could spend the rest of her life there?  Is
that what you mean?" "She could."  The words were barely audible. No
longer did Lara or Davey or both of them together spend the whole day
at the hospital.  The house and the family had to be looked after.  An
anxious little girl still had to be cared for and cooked for.  The
Davis Company had to be looked after, too, if there was to be any food
to cook.  They were both aware of these realities as keenly as of the
dreadful reality that waited on the fourth floor of the hospital.  And
so, like walking ghosts, they did what was necessary, day after day,
and waited, for what they did not know. From her window in the office
wing late one afternoon, Lara looked out onto the parking lot, where a
long bank of junipers hid the hard outline of the steel fences, and
weeping willows that had been little more than sprouts a few years ago
stood like green fountains. Idly, because it was so hard for her
tortured mind to concentrate, she wondered about the young man in the
impeccable suit who had jumped so briskly from his car and gone into
Davey's office.  The door opened, and Davey brought him into the room.
"This is Mr.  Harrison.  He represents the P.T.C. Longwood Company," he
told her.  "And since you're an officer of the Davis Company, I think
you should hear what he has to say." "Happy to meet you," said Mr. 
Harrison. "Mr.  Harrison has brought a proposal.  I've told him I'm not
at all interested, but—" "If you're not," said Lara, "then surely I
won't be either." "It won't take long," the man said.  "I'd just like
you to listen for five minutes, no more." 180

BELVA PLAID

Lara felt a rise of impatience.  "I'm sorry, but we have a very sick
child, my brother's here to see her, and I have to get home."

"Mr.  Davis has told me about your child, and I understand that you're
under pressure, so I'll be quick.  Here it is: My company—I'm sure you
know it's one of the top hundred corporations in the country—is
interested in patents that you hold for several surgical instruments,
cardiac, orthopedic and—you're familiar with them, I'm sure, Mrs. 
Davis?"

"Very familiar.  My husband invented them all."

Harrison smiled.  "Of course.  So that brings us to a question that I
think makes a lot of sense."  Spreading his hands out, he began to
count on his fingers.  "Here are some of our products.  We are a
conglomerate, as you must know.  We make rubber footwear—your children
may wear them, or you yourself may—hospital supplies, a medical book
publishing house, electronic parts, and of course our soft drinks. 
Well, that's enough to give you an idea of our spread.  Our hospital
supply division is connected quite naturally with our electronic parts
division.  And that's where your patents come in.  Not just the
patents, actually, but your whole operation.  I'm talking, of course,
about an amalgamation, a merger.  Two fine firms tying up together."

Davey smiled this time.  "It would hardly be a tying, Mr.  Harrison. 
It would be more like a swallowing.  Ours is a small operation, as you
can see."

"Many smalls make a large, especially when the small one is as fine an
operation as yours is.  We have a niche for you, Mr.  Davis, just the
right niche, and once you are a part of P.T.C. Longwood, you wouldn't
be small anymore, would you?"

Lara did not like this courteous flattery.  Not at all.  Young Mr. 
Harrison, she saw, had an iron fist inside his velvet glove.

"Perhaps we like being small," she told him.

He agreed at once.  "Oh, I can understand that it has its advantages. 
But it has disadvantages for you too.  Bigness can afford to take
risks, the risks that have made this country move ahead."

"I know about risk," Davey said.  "This whole business was a risk.  It
started in my backyard."

"I'm sure it was a struggle too.  And nobody knows more about struggle
than we do.  Our president, Franklin Bennett, started in a backyard
situation himself.  He didn't have a penny when he was a boy.  He
pulled himself up all the way to where he is today.  So we do
understand.  But you wouldn't deny, would you, that if you had had some
financial backing when you started out, you could have gone ahead
faster?  And with fewer headaches, fewer sleepless nights?  Think how
much more you could be doing even now if you had almost unlimited funds
and efficient management behind you."

181

"We're very efficient," Davey said.  "We don't need new management." "I
meant no reflection on you, Mr.  Davis.  Quite the contrary.  You have
a well-run plant and some excellent products.  I wouldn't be here
making this offer if that were not the case, would I?" "True," Davey
acknowledged. Lara thought, I wouldn't let him waste our time.  I
wouldn't be so polite.  But then, that's Davey's way. "Handsome as this
plant is, I'd like you to see our main plant in Michigan, where we
would move you.  You really should fly out and take a look at it for
yourself.  Then you'd know what I'm talking about." Davey said, "Even
if I were interested, which I'm not, Mr.  Harrison, I have an
obligation to my employees and to this community.  They—we— don't want
to move.  We have roots here." "You're saying we can't do business?"
"I'm afraid so."  And Davey made a small move as if to rise from his
chair. Harrison stood up.  "This has been sudden, I realize, but it's
not fair to yourself to dismiss the whole thing without some more
thought.  I'd like very much to go back and tell Mr.  Bennett that
you're going to give it some." "Smooth talker" was Davey's comment when
Harrison had gone. "I didn't know we were so famous, did you?" "I could
do with less fame of that sort," Davey remarked, somewhat darkly. At
home, with Eddy and Pam, that evening, he told of the day's event. "Why
do you dismiss it like that?"  asked Eddy.  "Leveraged buyouts are the
thing now.  You'd come away with a fortune." "I don't want a fortune."
"You didn't want this house, either, and now you love it." "All right,
I was wrong about the house and you were right." "I'm right about this,
too, Davey." Davey grumbled.  "Bankers!  Brokers!  They trade
businesses as if they were baseball cards.  They only understand
numbers, not people.  Not the hopes and the sweat that go into a place
like mine.  Talks of moving to— where was it, Lara?" "Michigan." "Close
this down and walk away from it, just like that!  And who knows, after
they'd bought us, what they'd do?  They call it merging, but what it is
is buying, so what's to say they can't sell you all over again and send
you somewhere else?  Vagabonding all around the country," Davey
finished indignantly. 182

"Vagabonding?  Some vagabond Bennett is!  Have you any idea who he
is?"

"I know, Eddy, I know who he is, and I want no part of him at any
price."

Eddy took a mouthful of food and chewed thoughtfully.  "I want to tell
you something," he said then.  "It's not so easy to get away from these
people once they cast an eye on you.  If they really want you, they'll
get you.  They'll either buy up the stock or reach your stockholders
with such a fantastic offer that they'll vote Bennett in, no matter how
you feel about it."

"I don't think they'd do that, regardless of—past events."

"I wouldn't be too sure.  Thanks to me .  . ."  The words faded
mournfully away, and for a moment nothing was said until Eddy,
recovering, took up the argument again.

"You don't fool with a man like Bennett.  He's got a brain like a steel
trap, and he grabs you in a vise like a trap too.  If I were you, I'd
think this over very carefully before I said no."

To this Davey made no answer.  And Lara knew that he wanted to shut out
the possibility of trouble for the very reason that he was beginning to
be troubled, albeit faintly, as was she.  Almost certainly, they had
not seen the last of Franklin Bennett's persuasive emissary, she told
herself.

Eddy resumed his cautions.  "I still don't think you people understand
who Bennett is.  He's a legend, one of the most powerful corporate
executives in America."  There was awe in his voice.

"I've read enough about him," Lara said.  "As far as I can make out,
he's a heartless, greedy tough guy who doesn't care whom he steps on as
long as he gets his way."

"What do you care if he can improve the quality of your family's life? 
Money's the ticket, and always will be."

"Yes and then again, no," Lara said.  "Mostly no."

"Mostly yes, Lara.  Think about it.  Money won't solve your problem,
but it can ease a hell of a lot if things don't turn out for Peggy."

"Oh, Eddy, please!"  Pam reproached him.

"I know, Pam.  But the truth has to be faced."

From the basement where Sue and her friends were playing came shrill,
rippling laughter, poignant now in the silence.

Eddy was the first to speak.  "I've just mentioned the bad advice I
once gave you.  Now I'd like to remind you that I've also given you
some of the best advice you've ever had.  True?"  he asked, turning to
Davey.

*<T       »

true.

"Well, all I'm saying is, don't write Bennett off.  Think about it very
seriously."

183

L

Then Pam spoke softly.  "Darling, do leave these people alone tonight. 
They know what they want.  And they've got enough to think about, God
knows." One Saturday Martin Berg arrived.  Davey was at work, and Lara
had just lain down for a few minutes on the sofa in the den when the
doorbell rang. "Oh, I've startled you," he said.  "Were you sleeping?"
"No, I was just making a cup of tea."  She lied with the first thought
that came into her head, as if she were ashamed to be caught resting in
the middle of the afternoon. Martin's eyes examined her acutely.  "You
look beat.  And why not?  Go lie down and let me make the tea." She
smiled.  "Heavens, no.  You don't know how." "I grew up dirt poor, you
forget.  I guess I know how to use a stove." There was always something
commanding about Martin Berg; one didn't disagree with him.  So she
returned to the sofa and was still feeling surprised at his coming,
when he returned with two cups of tea.  He got right to the point.
"These doctors, I'm not saying anything against them, they've done
their best, but Connie's told me their verdict, and we just can't
accept it, Lara.  Now, there's a place not far out of New York, a
famous place where they specialize in head injuries.  It's small and
always filled up, unfortunately, but I made some contacts this morning,
and we can get the baby in.  I think we should give it a try, Lara."
She stirred her tea, watching the milk swirl in the cup as her thoughts
swirled in her head.  Without being willing to confess it to anyone,
not even to Davey, not even really to herself, she had little hope. 
Ever since they had spoken of chronic care, she had known this was the
end of the road.  It was as if her child had died.  No, it was worse.
She looked up at Martin.  His eyes were filled with sadness.  And he
had said "we," when, after all, the child was not his. "I suppose there
isn't anything to lose, is there?"  she replied. "Nothing except money.
And as Connie told you, I am ready—" "No, no," she said quickly. 
"Thank you, but we have savings, and we're prepared to use every penny
of them if it will help .  . ."  She could not go on. "It's a very fine
place.  I've only passed it on the road, but it looks beautiful, and of
course its reputation is the best."  He paused, waiting.  "Shall I talk
to Davey?"  he urged then. "You needn't.  If I want to try it, he'll
want it too.  We were both—we couldn't bear the thought of that other
place, the chronic place.  It would be like a—like a warehouse, Davev
said." 184

Berg nodded.  "I'll call him tonight anyway, when I get home.  I won't
bother him at the plant."

"You're going now?"  For Martin had risen.

"Yes.  I'll be flying back.  I guess I could have done this on the
telephone, but I didn't expect it to be so easy, or that you'd accept
so promptly.  I like that, though.  I like quick decisions, quick
action."

"That's evident," she said, and smiled.  "You're a good man, Martin."

A good man, and so competent.  It was a relief, in a way, to let him
take over, to make this decision for them.

"By the way," Martin said as she accompanied him to the door, "have you
done any thinking about that offer of Bennett's?  I know this is a
terrible time to be talking about business, but I just wondered."

"Not really," she replied, and then, curious, asked how he knew about
it.  "Did Eddy tell you?"

He smiled.  "No, not Eddy.  I get around.  I hear things.  And rumors
float fast in my business."

"Then you must have heard that we're not interested.  Not at all."

"Not even enough to think it over?"

"We just dismissed the whole idea."

"But they won't just dismiss it, you may be sure.  As soon as all their
financing is arranged, they'll be back.  I know how these things work. 
And—"

"Martin," she said, interrupting him, "we can't think about anything. 
I can tell you that.  It's all too much to cope with, first our child,
and then this impossible proposition.  Davey's suffered too much
already."

"You might welcome the money," Martin said gently, "especially if—"

So he, too, meant, if Peggy never recovers.

"Well, think it over," Martin advised again as he left.

She had been so sure of Davey's acceptance that his reply that night to
Martin's offer on behalf of Peggy was no surprise.  What did astonish
her was his reaction to Martin's other remarks.

"Lara, I don't care anymore.  If they really want the plant, let them
take it.  Give us some money for it and good-bye to it."

"I can't believe you're saying that!"  she cried.

"Why not?  What does it matter?  If Peggy were well, you can darn well
believe it would be a different story.  But as it is, I don't give a
damn."

But you will, in spite of everything, she thought.  Yes, you will.  Yet
she said no more.  Poor man.  Leave him alone.

And she went outside to sit on a bench in the yard.  It began to rain,
although the evening sun was still shining; great, slow drops fell
glinting and spattered on the stone walk.  They darkened the steps next
door, where the child had fallen; it seemed years since that night.

185

All her senses were tender, as if each had been wounded and could
shrink when touched.  The wet stone smelled sharp and bitter.  A car
went by with a blast of hideous rock music.  In the house Sue and her
best friend Amy were having one of their noisy, though fortunately
infrequent, fights.  Dear Sue.  These had been dreadful months for her
too, with all the gaiety gone from the family. Then, mercifully, the
silence flowed back, and she closed her eyes, feeling the soft rain on
her face, not minding it. Why us?  she thought.  Why me?  And the
answer came, as clear as the sound of the rain or the wind in the
new-leaved trees: Why not you?

CHAPTER ELEVEN

They took Peggy, then, to a new place, a smaller one surrounded by
pleasant, expensive trees; otherwise, nothing was different, for when
at the end of the day they walked away from her, she was still lying in
a bed connected to monitors and tubes.  Lara asked no further
questions, and Davey, too, had gone silent.  It was as if they both had
learned that there were no answers.  Passively, they stood gazing down
at their child while Connie took charge, talking in turn to doctors, to
nurses, and to administrators.

"If only she were to die," Davey murmured once.  And Lara knew that the
words had come unbidden; he was quite probably not even aware that he
had spoken the thought aloud.  She took his hand and kept holding it as
they walked out to Connie's car.

"You'll stay with us here, of course," said Connie, addressing Lara. 
"Davey can fly in weekends.  We'll keep the plane available."

"Oh, but I can't.  There's Sue at home."

"Bring her here," Connie said promptly.

"School isn't out yet.  Besides, we can't disrupt her life any more. 
She's scared, she's been through enough as it is.  I will accept the
offer of the plane rides, though.  It's a godsend, Connie.  Martin and
you are godsends."

So a routine began.  As the plane descended toward the Westchester
Airport, Lara, looking down, would see her sister, a bright red spot or
blue or white, waiting and waving.  Then there would be an embrace, an
anxious question, and an answer.

"I went yesterday.  The same."

The hospital visit would follow, and that, too, would be the same. 
Lunch at Cresthill would be brief so that Lara could fly home early.

One day while at the lunch table, it occurred to her that she had not
seen Therese for weeks, and she asked why.

Connie hesitated.  "I thought—to tell the truth, I thought it might be
too hard for you to see her."

187

Lara's eyes filled.  "Oh!"  she cried.  "Oh, the world mustn't stop
because of Peggy!  Do call her.  I want to see her." When Therese came,
Lara took her on her lap.  The child, wriggling, turned to look up at
her. "Where's Peggy?"  she demanded. "Peggy's sick, darling." "When is
she going to get better?" "We're not sure yet." "Oh.  Can I have that
cake?" Lara had lost her appetite, and most of her dessert was still on
the plate.  "Of course," she said. Connie was feeling a particular
shame.  How often on behalf of her own little girl had she not envied
the beauty of her sister's child!  And here sat her Therese, healthy
and bright, on Lara's lap; what must be Lara's pain as she made the
comparison? They were to drive to the city that day, and Lara was to
fly home from LaGuardia Airport instead of Westchester. "Therese has to
see the pediatrician for her regular checkup, and I ordered some summer
things on Madison Avenue.  Anyway, a little change, a little
window-shopping, will do you good," Connie told Lara. These errands
accomplished, they stopped to give Therese an ice-cream treat and then
walked slowly back up Fifth Avenue, on the Park side in the shade, to
the apartment.  Suddenly, nearing the museum, they stopped short. "The
man on the bench," Connie whispered.  "Oh, my Lord, look, it's
Richard." Her first impulse was to cross the avenue.  It was one thing,
strangely touching really, to receive his birthday and his Christmas
cards, but another thing actually to see the man again.  After her
moment's hesitation it was too late to turn away, for he had recognized
them and stood up. "Well, Connie, this is a surprise." "How are you,
Richard?  You remember Lara, of course?  And you've never met Therese. 
Darling, say hello to Richard.  He's a friend of Mommy's." There! 
Hadn't she managed that smoothly?  But then awkwardness set in.  Since
one couldn't very well just walk away now, something more had to be
said, and Connie said the most obvious thing that rushed into her head.
"Lara's visiting from Ohio." When, murmuring some politeness, he
acknowledged this fact by turning toward Lara, Connie observed him and
was astonished at what she saw.  His shirt, which was open at the neck,
was plainly dirty.  He wore a cotton jacket, but no tie; the jacket,
too, was soiled, and he needed a shave; an 188

unkempt blond growth of hair, about three days' worth, glinted in the
light.

Moved by concern and curiosity, she asked him what he was doing.  Was
he still in advertising?

"I got fed up with that place.  Actually, I'm between jobs.  I'm taking
a vacation."

"Nothing wrong with that," she returned brightly, and was irritated by
her own fatuous answer.  Still, one couldn't, after all, expect to feel
completely at ease in an encounter with one's former husband.  She
smiled; the smile also was too bright.

"But you haven't changed, Connie."

"Not in seven years?"

"Well, you do have this lovely girl.  Therese," he mused.  "You always
did like anything that was French.  And she could be a French child,
with her dark bangs and that dress."

Indeed, the dress had been bought in Paris.  He noticed everything.  He
always had.  But what had happened to him?

Lara, too, was conscious of something very strange.  And turning up her
wrist to show her watch, she reminded Connie of the time.

"Oh, Lara, your plane, of course!  Goodness, we have to rush!  Sorry,
Richard, but—"

He nodded.  "Go ahead, don't be late."  And giving a little wave like a
salute, he sat down again on the bench.

They crossed the avenue.  Connie, looking back, saw that he was still
sitting there, not watching them.  His head was sunk on his chest, and
he was apparently just staring at the ground.

"What can be wrong with him?"  she cried.  "Those terribly sad eyes! 
He looks sick, like a sad, sick beggar."  And Connie shuddered.

"Drinking, do you think?  He looked as if he might be."

"He never drank.  Never.  But I suppose .  . ."  She had no idea what
had happened.

They walked on without speaking anymore.  Lara was pretending not to
have stared quickly at Connie and then looked as quickly away.  She's
wondering, Connie thought, what my feelings are.  Well, what are they? 
Disconnected memories speed through my head: those first vivid days in
Texas and the euphoria; the child I destroyed would certainly be
different from the one whose hand is now so tightly held in mine .  . .
how queerly it all unfolds .  . . poor gentle Richard—what's happened
to him?

The car was already waiting at the curb for Lara.  When the driver
opened the door, Connie laid a hand on Lara's arm, detaining her.

"Lara ... try to take care of yourself.  Did you ever think living
could be so damned hard?"

189

"It's just as well we didn't think."

Connie sighed.  Bad memories .  . . Richard .  . . Peggy on the
hospital bed .  . . the eerie stillness in that room .  . .

She sighed again and kissed her sister, saying only, "Get home safely,"
then stood there watching while the car merged with traffic on Fifth
Avenue.

"If by some miracle Peggy should be well again"—too often Lara had
caught herself saying or thinking the words, and had reprimanded
herself because sensible people didn't count on miracles.  That age was
past. And yet it happened. It was Connie who witnessed it.  One
afternoon in the third week when she was making her regular stop at the
hospital, Connie saw Peggy open her eyes.  As, still in a state of
shock—"I shall be shocked for the rest of my life when I think of
it"—she described the happening, the child's eyes had opened just long
enough for the two pairs of eyes to meet in mutual astonishment.  Then
Peggy's had closed again. "I don't know how I even had enough strength
in my legs to run down the hall.  I think I just screamed at the first
nurse I met.  And the doctors came running, and more nurses.  Can you
imagine what went on?  The excitement?  Then I telephoned you, Lara,
and you know the rest." Within the hour Martin's plane flew to Ohio. 
Davey left the plant where he had been discussing an order from a
southern hospital, Sue left school, and Lara, trembling and laughing,
joined them at the airport. Before they arrived at the hospital in the
early evening, Peggy had awakened for a second time. "Mommy," she had
whispered.  Her frightened gaze had swept the room, and finding the
faces all strange except for Aunt Connie's and Uncle Martin's, not
finding Mommy, she had begun to cry. Connie stroked her hair.  "Mommy's
coming soon.  She's on the way," she whispered over and over. And Mommy
came.  By now they had Peggy propped against pillows, half sitting and
half lying.  Lara came rushing.  She saw no one, spoke to no one; the
little crowd parted to let her through, and she fell on her knees
beside the bed.  Davey, behind her, reached down and curved Peggy's
arms around the mother's neck. Nurses standing in the background cried,
too, and a young male intern on his first week of service had to turn
away. "How do you explain this?"  Martin asked Dr.  Bayer.  "It's
incredible, a miracle." "Well, it's so rare a happening that you might
well call it one," was the response.  "The swellings that come with
head injuries seldom take this 190

long to subside.  This coma has lasted an extraordinarily long time. 
Extraordinary."

"When may we take her home?"  asked Davey.

The doctor shook his head.  "She won't be ready for a long time yet. 
We can't be sure how much of her mental function has been restored, how
much memory or cognition.  We don't even know whether she can walk. 
You'll need to keep her here for extensive therapy."  As the parents'
faces fell, he added kindly, "However, what's very much in her favor is
her age.  So we don't in any way mean to sound discouraging, but only
to counsel patience."

And so the families entered the next phase.

Peggy was to spend, it was estimated, another three to eight weeks in
intensive care; then if all went well, she might be taken home and
brought back every day for rehabilitation therapy, which would take
another two to three months.

"Oh, but we live in Ohio," Lara cried out in dismay.  "How can we—"

Davey began a proposal, "Maybe there's a place—" to which Martin at
once objected.

"Davey, there's nothing like this anywhere near where you live.  You
know that.  She'll stay with us, and Connie will drive her over here
every day for her treatment."

Lara and Davey looked toward each other, she reading his mind: I hate
to take favors.

"I know you think it's too much to accept," she told him in front of
everyone, "but you would do it for them, Davey," and finished mentally,
absurd as it seems to think of Martin Berg's ever needing a favor.

"Of course," Davey said.

"Good," Martin answered promptly.  "And the weekend offer of the plane
still stands."

The routine was established.  It seemed to Lara as if the little person
who was Peggy Davis was being lifted and reinjected with life through
the sheer loving will of the many who were concentrating all their
strength upon her.  Now hope at last came pouring through Lara's very
veins, to surge out in sudden bursts of happy tears or reckless
laughter.  Day by day came small, repeated spurts of growth.  Peggy
began to walk, tottering a little between the nurses' hands, then
taking her first steps unaided down the hall.  Memory came back, as she
began to ask about Sue and her friends in school.  Carefully, she
printed her name on a card to her teacher, who, along with half the
town—or so it seemed—had sent cards to her.  As the days passed, she
demanded attention, and even lost her temper when Connie refused to
give her a candy bar before dinner.

191

Dr.  Bayer, who happened to walk in on the tantrum, was amused and
pleased.  "An excellent sign.  A return to normalcy." He swooped down
on Peggy and lifted her above his head.  "My friend!  Aren't you my
best friend?  Come on, I'll show you something.  You too," he told
Connie.  "There's something you ought to see." In the glass-walled
sunroom at the end of the hall, he pointed outdoors. "Look.  We don't
often get a chance to see this." Blurred by the soft rain, a
magnificent rainbow arched across the sky and disappeared behind a
tree. "Oh, beautiful.  Beautiful," Connie whispered. "The pot of gold
must be right there in back of those trees." "I won't even bother to
look for it.  We've already found its pot of gold."  And Connie stroked
Peggy's arm, which lay on the man's shoulder. "You're right, of
course," he said seriously. Something in his voice, a richness or a
compassion, made her look into his face.  For all these weeks she had
seen him in Peggy's room and had noted only that he was authoritative
in a kindly way and that the child had begun to adore him.  Now
suddenly she saw him as if for the first time: a man about her own age,
with a long, narrow face, long, narrow eyes, and a markedly cleft chin
that softened the angularity of his bones. Spontaneously, she said, "I
hope you know how grateful we all are.  And not only for your skill. 
You are so tender with Peggy!  I should have told you so before this."
"You're very tender with her yourself." "She's my niece, about as close
as my own child.  We're a close family."  I "You're fortunate." "You
have no children?" • "I'm not married.  I have no parents, brothers, or
sisters.  No ties."  He smiled.  "Still, there are always
compensations.  At the drop of a hat I can pick up and go wherever I
want to go in the world." "I hope you aren't planning to leave us
before Peggy's all well again." "No, I've no plans now.  I've been
everywhere from Vietnam to Egypt, studying head wounds and injuries, so
it's time to stay put for a while.  Come, Peggy, we're going back to
your room.  You'll have your dinner, and then you'll have your candy."
Connie, as she followed them, had a fleeting thought: He's someone I'd
like to know.  But their paths, their ways, were far apart, and the
thought vanished. The day came when Peggy was discharged from the
hospital.  A room had been prepared for her at Cresthill, a rosy
shelter filled with welcoming toys that stood, sat, and lay about: a
dollhouse like a Swiss chalet; a stuffed polar bear, a mother Scottie
with puppies in a basket, and a panda taller 192

than Peggy herself; dolls—a bride, a Cinderella, and a Peter Pan; a
real fish-tank with real tropical fish; a shelf filled with games and a
blackboard with colored chalk.  It was a mirror image of Therese's room
across the hall.

Lara gasped.  "What have you done here?  I can't believe it."

"Well, believe it or not, Martin bought them all," Connie said.  "He
goes positively berserk in toy stores."  She opened a closet where hung
a row of childish clothes, ruffled and flowered.  "Peggy's certainly
grown a size since the winter, so I thought there's no sense in your
bringing old things from home."

Lara shook her head fondly.  "I know.  You're the one who goes berserk
over clothes.  Oh, Connie, they're beautiful."

Connie was pleased.  "So you like your goodie packages?"

The "goodies" in their shining white boxes were numerous: a powder-blue
velvet dress and pajamas hand embroidered with balloons and teddy bears
for Peggy, two Norwegian hand-knitted ski sweaters for Sue, a snow-suit
monogrammed in red for Peggy, and a British camel-hair coat fastened
with leather buttons for Sue.

"I had such fun shopping.  You know how I love to shop.  Are the things
really all right?"

"You're a dear, and they're all wonderful," Lara said, wondering where
and when Peggy would get to wear a powder-blue velvet dress back home. 
"But what can I say to all this?"

"Say nothing," Martin answered as he came into the room.  He smiled
with satisfaction.  "She ought to feel at home here for a while, I
think."

"Don't you dare worry a minute about her," Connie said.  "She'll be
just fine.  She's quite used to us already."

From the window they could see the two little girls bobbing on the
seesaw while the nanny carefully watched.

Connie read Lara's mind.  "Nanny's been told to be careful of her, not
to let her get too tired or to fall.  Although really, Lara, that child
has to be made of iron.  She's almost back to herself, from what I can
see.  Well, almost."

And indeed, compared with Therese, Peggy was far the sturdier and the
tougher of the two.  It crossed Lara's mind that if the situation were
reversed, Peggy would not have been as gentle with her cousin as
Therese was with her.  Peggy had Connie's drive and energy and sparkle;
maybe that was why Connie, without realizing it, had become so attached
to the child.  So Lara mused, as she watched them playing on the
stately lawns of Martin Berg's great house.

"I think she'll be spoiled there," she frequently remarked to Davey
whenever they departed for home late on Sunday afternoons.

193

He laughed.  "It won't hurt her.  She'll get back to normal soon enough
when she gets home and has to help clear the table after dinner." On
the Fourth of July the Bergs gave a party, a celebration for Peggy, who
now, except for the slightest hesitancy in her walk, was practically
recovered from the long ordeal.  Eddy and Pam came.  Sue came, at
Connie's suggestion, with a friend.  And Peggy, to everyone's surprise,
wanted Dr.  Bayer to come too. "I want Jonathan to come to my party."
"Jonathan?  You mean Dr.  Bayer." "I call him Jonathan because that's
his name." "She's really in love with him," Lara said.  "What do you
think, Martin?  Would you mind?" "Of course not.  He's a very nice guy,
and we surely owe him a lot." Connie observed, "He probably won't
accept.  He must have six other invitations." But he did come, to
Peggy's great delight, and proved to be a very pleasant guest, enjoying
the children and tennis and a swim in the Olympic-sized pool. At dusk
they all sat down to supper on the terrace.  Candles in five-armed
silver candelabra flickered through the shadows, and two maids served. 
Sue and her friend Amy, who had expected the usual red-white-and-blue
picnic of fried chicken and corn on the cob, were obviously overawed by
this unfamiliar splendor.  They were also not particularly appreciative
of duck d I'orange and Grand Marnier souffle. The fireworks, however,
went well.  As darkness fell, blankets were brought to the crest of the
hill from where, as they sat on the grass, they could see the rockets
from the township's fireworks display go soaring through the sky. When
the last artificial stars had burst and fallen to the ground, the party
broke up.  Therese and Peggy, half asleep, were carried back to the
house. "Beautiful, isn't it?"  remarked Lara as she walked beside Dr. 
Bayer. Connie, within earshot, heard his reply. "It's a palace."  And
then he added, "I'd never want to live like this, though." Surprised,
Lara asked why. "I don't know.  I guess it would just be too much for
me."  He laughed.  "It's academic anyway, a problem I'm not likely to
have." "Nor I," said Lara. There was a pause, and Connie heard the
doctor say, "Your sister's a very kind and generous woman.  I've seen
her with children on the floor in the 194

hospital—in the children's wing, I mean.  You'd never imagine that
she

lived like this, like a princess."

"Oh, Connie's very natural.  She loves all this, but it's never changed
the

way she behaves.  People all like her.  Everyone does."

"Yes, I can see why."  He paused.  "She has great charm."

"We think so.  Well, it's been a lovely day, hasn't it?"

That was typical of Lara, Connie thought, putting a proper end to the

conversation lest it turn too personal.  She would have liked to hear
more.

But that's absurd of me, she scolded, as if I were an adolescent
needing to

be assured that I'm admired.  Absurd.

Upstairs, a short while later in one of Connie's country French guest
rooms, Lara had her own odd thoughts.

Bayer was definitely attracted to Connie.  ... I caught him glancing at
her all through the evening.  They did look well when they stood
together.  . . . How ridiculous I'm being!

Davey, lying beside her, spoke into the darkness, interrupting the
ridiculous thoughts.  "Eddy told me something rather interesting.  He
said he heard somewhere that Martin's firm is involved in financing
P.T.C. Longwood."

This jolted her into attention.  "But that's incredible!"

"Why is it incredible?  I find it perfectly plausible."

"I sort of had the idea that the deal had fallen through.  I know
Martin hasn't said anything in a long time about him, so Bennett
couldn't be wanting it anymore."

"Maybe the reason Martin hasn't said anything is exactly that he is
involved."

"Oh, Davey, think of the complications!  After all Martin's done for
us— what are we to do?"

"Let's not think of it unless we have to.  Eddy's not even sure it's
true.  I shouldn't have mentioned it to you."  He reached for Lara's
hand and squeezed it.  "The main thing, the only thing, is that Peggy
is all right again."

"I know, darling."

Nevertheless, Lara worried silently long after he had fallen asleep.

Summer was fading when they finally brought Peggy home.

Connie was very emotional about the parting.  "We'll miss her so," she
kept saying.  "Therese will be an only child again."

They had all grown very close together through these last hard months,
and the separation hurt.  Loaded down with stuffed animals, dolls, and
parting gifts, the Davises climbed aboard Martin's plane.  Far below,
as they

195

rose into the air, Martin, Connie, and Therese were still visible, tiny
figures still waving as the plane turned westward toward Ohio and home.
"Dear, wonderful people," Lara said. At home, more dear, wonderful
people waited for them.  Neighbors had prepared a feast.  Men from the
plant had brought their marching band to parade around the yard,
tooting and blowing to Peggy's huge delight.  The weekly newspaper was
out with an item on the editorial page about the marvelous recovery of
Peggy Davis. And on this night the Davis parents made real love for the
first time since that terrible hurt so many months before.  The house
was quiet at last as Lara walked softly through the hall, along which
every bedroom was occupied once more by a sleeping child.  In her own
room Davey was already in bed.  A small wind stirred the curtains at
the open windows and put a fresh chill in the air.  She undressed
quickly and sat down on the edge of the bed.  Davey looked up with a
kind of mischievous anticipation. "You know what?  You look young
again," she said.  "Those lines you had around your eyes are all gone."
And she smoothed his cheeks. "There are better places for your hands,
aren't there?" "I know." "Well, come on.  What are you waiting for?"
"Not a thing." "Then turn out the light." He raised the blankets,
making a warm little cave, just tight enough for the two of them. 
Enormous gratitude, incredible joy, enveloped her as she slid into the
cave.

CHAPTER TWELVE

A taxi honked, and the driver swore at Eddy.  The driver was justified,
for he had almost walked into the side of the cab.  And he felt a chill
that had nothing to do with his near accident.  This meeting with Abner
Saville would be one of those interminably uncomfortable ones like the
last few, with reams of paper spread out before his splitting head. 
Besides, it was humiliating to be practically cross-examined by a man
whom he paid to do a service, a man, moreover, with whom he had become
so friendly after all the years of their association.

He felt like going home and telephoning with an excuse that he was
coming down with the flu or something.  Nevertheless, he hastened his
steps toward his office.

"Mr.  Hendricks has been here almost half an hour," Mrs.  Evans told
him somewhat reproachfully.

"Who's Hendricks?  Where's Abner?"

"Mr.  Hendricks is one of Mr.  Saville's partners, Mr.  Osborne."  The
tone was still respectfully reproachful, as if Eddy ought to know who
Hendricks

was.

And Eddy really did know who Hendricks was.  So Abner had sent someone
else in his place.  What could that mean?  Perhaps it was only because
Abner had to be out of town or wasn't feeling well.

He entered his office.  Mr.  Hendricks was already at the conference
table with papers spread out and a full leather briefcase on the floor
beside him.  He stood up and the two men shook hands.

"Sorry I'm late, Hendricks.  The cab got caught in traffic on the way
back from Wall Street.  It would be a great thing if they could pick up
Wall Street and move it uptown.  A lot easier for people like me."

This flat attempt at a friendly relaxed approach brought no response. 
Hendricks sat down again and bent to open his briefcase.

Eddy went to his desk.  Its glossy, broad expanse, its tidy piles of
papers ready for his signature, its diagonal placement that gave him
views on the

197

one hand of Manhattan's towers and on the other of his handsome room,
his control room, the command room of an army or an empire, had the
effect of lightening the gloom that he had brought to this meeting.
"What happened to Abner?"  he inquired pleasantly.  "Not that I mind
seeing you.  I meant, I'm used to Abner.  We've been friends for
years." "I know that.  Abner thought it advisable to get another
opinion.  Sometimes friendship can confuse things." These words,
although delivered without emphasis, almost without inflection, were
ominous.  Hendricks's eyes, enlarged by thick lenses with wide black
rims, made him look like a raccoon.  But a raccoon was a friendly
beast.  Or maybe it wasn't.  Eddy knew he was not thinking straight. 
So he pulled himself up, bracing his spine against the high-backed
chair.  This chair had sometimes felt a little bit like a throne when
he presided over meetings and all the faces were turned up toward him. 
That was another ridiculous thought. "Would you mind coming to the
table," the raccoon inquired, "so we can look over these together?"
Eddy became alert.  "Of course.  No problem." "I have here," Hendricks
began, "our worksheets for the firm and also your personal tax
returns."  The glasses were bent on Eddy.  "I don't like to say it, but
frankly, Mr.  Osborne, some of this material is very distressing."
Distressing!  A two-bit number shuffler.  There's a roomful of men down
the hall sitting at their faxes and computers, and they all work for
me, producing numbers you'll never come within a hair's breadth of—
Eddy raised his chin and met the man's somber gaze.  "Well?  Fire
away." "You know, of course, that we've had a rather suspicious feeling
for the last few months that things are not altogether in balance
here." "Suspicious?  I don't like the word, Mr.  Hendricks.  I don't
like it at all." "I'm sorry.  Perhaps I should have said 'doubtful'
instead." "Okay.  Just get to the point.  Give me the bottom line." 
His head had begun to throb.  Quick darts of pain, needle pricks, ran
down his arm. "The bottom line is this: Osborne and Company is too
highly leveraged.  You haven't got enough cash to tally with your
investments.  In short, your liabilities exceed your assets." "All
right, all right, I know that!"  Eddy exclaimed.  "A couple of big
investors happened to take their money out a short while back, and that
played a little havoc with the cash flow, that's all.  Don't you think
I know, every minute of every day, where I am?  This is a temporary
situation, and nothing to worry about." "I wouldn't say that.  If any
more of your clients decide to pull out, you'll be facing disaster."
"Listen, if every depositor in the country decided to take his money
out 198

of the banks at the same time, the whole system would collapse," Eddy
retorted.

The other persisted.  "This is different.  If these people want their
money, it won't be there.  What then?"

"It'll be there.  You don't know what you're talking about.  But why
should they want their money?  There's no reason in the world why they
should."  And Eddy's mind ran through a list of names, the glittering
names of stage and screen stars, artists and real estate investors; his
mind recounted his whole familiar, so-often-quoted galaxy of stars. 
For a moment these names fortified him.  "No, there's no reason in the
world."

Hendricks sighed.  "I don't like being the bearer of bad news, Mr. 
Os-borne."

"What bad news?"

Hendricks hesitated and sighed again.  "One thing piles up upon
another.  There's been a commingling of funds—"

Eddy's pains grew sharper.  He should have obeyed his instincts,
pretended to be sick, canceled this appointment, and given himself a
few days to straighten things out before seeing this watchdog.

"What are you talking about?"  he cried.

"Your personal checkbook."  Hendricks looked away.  "There are entries
that don't match, or rather they do match up to withdrawal from general
funds.  For example, on June seventeenth—here, if you'll take a
look—"

"I don't need to look.  Just say it."

"Well, you made out a check to the Winterheim Galleries for six hundred
eleven thousand dollars that you didn't have in the account on that
date.  But on the eighteenth you deposited an exact amount to cover the
check and withdrew it from the account of Mr.  Sidney—"

Eddy's heart pounded, and he jumped up.  "All right!  I did a damn fool
thing, I'll admit it.  I got in deeper than I expected to.  I go a
little crazy sometimes, mostly buying art.  But everything I buy,
securities, real estate, whatever, is all prime stuff, investment
quality.  I never fool with junk.  You know that.  That's how I've
achieved what I have.  Look, I know it wasn't right, but I got in a
little over my head, that's all.  It's not the first time this has
happened to the biggest people in the country.  It's just cash flow,
for God's sake!  I need a couple of months to straighten things out,
that's all I need, and I'll take damn good care not to let this sort of
thing happen again."

"It's more than a question of time.  I'm afraid you'd need a good deal
more than a couple of months, anyway."  Hendricks's monotone was
mournful.  You would think he was consoling somebody at a funeral. 
"There are questions that have to be answered.  How to explain, for
instance, why you opened a separate personal account with another
stockbroker,

199

in which you deposit money that you've taken—borrowed—from your own
customers?" The floor seemed to rise and walls seemed to tilt inward. 
Eddy grasped the arms of his chair. "For Christ's sake," he said,
"you're talking like an IRS man or somebody from the SEC." Hendricks
said gently, almost kindly, "But this is the way they will talk when
the time comes, Mr.  Osborne."  He picked up the briefcase and began to
put papers away. "Is that all you have to say?"  asked Eddy.  "What
about doing my income tax?  Isn't that what you came for?" "You see, we
really wanted you to look over these records so you'd understand why we
can't file this return." "Can't file?  Why can't you?  Who's to do it,
then?" "Please.  Please think.  You can't expect us to put our name to
these declarations when they are not true, can you?" And Eddy now
heard, as if he were a witness to his own plight, a frantic cry.  "What
am I supposed to do?" "I think you should get a lawyer.  And a very
good one.  And waste no time about it," Hendricks said.  "I'm truly
sorry, Mr.  Osborne," he added. As Hendricks went to the door, Eddy
called to his back, "Why didn't Abner come and tell me himself?" And
from the doorway the mournful voice replied, "He's been trying to tell
you all along, but you haven't been hearing him." Only once before in
his life had he been so humiliated, when, in the first grade, after
wetting his pants he had been called to the blackboard, and the whole
class had seen the dark stain.  He had never forgotten their laughter,
or the tingle and prickle of shame as it ran up his back, as it lumped
itself in his throat and stung the back of his eyes.  Now, standing at
the window among a forest of stone towers, he felt it all over again.
From behind him came the solicitous voice of Mrs.  Evans.  "Is there
anything special you want me to do, Mr.  Osborne?" "No, nothing.  I
have a few calls to make, and then I'll go home." "You're not feeling
well?" For the first time Eddy resented the woman's manner, which he
had always admired.  It occurred to him that perhaps her solicitude was
not well meant after all, that this was merely prurient curiosity and
that people in the outer offices were already talking. "Just a slight
cold coming on.  I want to nip it in the bud," he replied with a formal
smile. Alone again, he slumped into the wing chair beside the fireplace
and tried to think.  There had to be a solution.  There was a solution
to every- 200

thing, as long as you didn't panic.  That little raccoon might not even
have known what he was talking about.  ... He got up and went to the
telephone on his desk.

"Hey, Abner, what's wrong?  Sending substitutes—are you running out on
me?"

"I wouldn't put it that way," Abner said.

"Well, I would.  That Hendricks—I didn't like him."

"Didn't like him, or didn't like what he told you?"

"Well, what he told me, I guess.  I have a sense that he was
dramatizing, exaggerating the situation.  Granted, I've messed up a
little here and there, but—"

"Eddy, he didn't exaggerate.  I've warned you before about things I
didn't like, but this now is critical.  This is a very dangerous
situation.  Believe me."

"If you're so worried, why didn't you—"

"Why didn't I come myself?  Partly because I thought a stranger might
shock you into seeing reality, and partly because I'm cowardly.  I
didn't have the heart for it."

"Son of a bitch!  After all these years, all the fees you've earned
through me and—and I thought we were friends!  Yes, when the going gets
rough, you find out who your friends are, all right.  You sure as hell
do."

"Eddy, don't be bitter.  I understand that you're worried and
scared."

"Scared?  You still don't know me, do you?  It'll take a lot more than
this to throw a scare into me, Abner.  A lot more."

"Well, good then.  Will you finally, calmly, listen to me, listen to my
advice?  Go home and see what you can liquidate.  You've a fortune in
that apartment.  Then get a top-notch lawyer and work it out with him,
plan for the day when the IRS or the SEC, or both, come knocking."

"Liquidate?  Sell the art?  Everything I've worked for?  You're crazy,
Abner."

"I don't think I am.  Listen, Eddy.  I'm still your friend, I still
like you, you're a smart man, and what's more important you're a
generous one.  But you're a gambler too.  Don't gamble anymore. 
Straighten yourself out.  That's why I'm recommending a lawyer."

"In the meantime, what about my taxes?  That guy Hendricks refused to
do them for me.  Will you come over tomorrow so we can go over them?"

"Eddy, I can't.  I can't risk my name.  Surely you can see that, can't
you?"

Abner's patient voice was infuriating.  And Eddy said stiffly, "So if
that's the case, I'll get another accountant.  It'll be a nuisance, but
not insurmountable."

The voice, still patient, came back.  "You won't find any who'll take
the risk either."

201

"Then to hell with them all.  I'll go to work and prepare my own." 
"You'd be signing a false return," Abner said gravely.  Eddy shouted
into the telephone.  "Don't worry about me, I'll solve this somehow,
damned if I don't." "I hope you can.  I wish you luck, Eddy." They had
a dinner date that night with another couple at a neighborhood bistro. 
The four were intimate friends, accustomed to frank speech. "You look
awfully tired, Eddy," the wife said. "Wrung out," the husband added. 
"You should have told us.  We'd have had it another night." This was
the second time that day that he had been told how tired he looked.  He
must look awful.  And he tried unobtrusively to glimpse himself on the
mirrored wall, but caught only a blur. "You were so silent tonight!" 
Pam exclaimed during their short walk home. "They did enough yapping to
make up for it," he replied.  i    "Why so cross?"  she asked. "I am
not cross, Pam.  Do you hear?  I am not cross!" In their bedroom she
undressed very slowly, taking her good time to walk around in her white
chiffon chemise.  Then she went to a drawer and drew out the black lace
nightgown that, laughing at the very vulgarity of the thing, they had
once bought together in Mexico City; afterward they had gone back to
the hotel room, where Pam had given a belly dance exhibition, and they
had rolled on the bed, laughing some more until they had stopped
laughing. Now she stepped out of the chemise, and gave him a double
view, one through the mirrored door, and the other of her long, white,
tapering back.  Languidly she stretched, raising her arms and lifting
her small, round breasts, then with a pretty gesture shook herself like
some graceful animal, just awakened from a nap.  When she picked up the
slithering black gown and slid it over her head, he now saw nakedness
even more provocatively covered by a thin black veil.  And he
understood that hers was a well-meant effort to cajole him out of his
mood, even more than just a signal of her usual desire.  But sex was
the last thing he wanted this night. He dropped onto the bed and gave a
deep groan.  "I'm awfully tired!" She got in beside him and touched his
arm.  "You're sure you're not sick?" "Tired, I said." "It's so unlike
you.  I thought maybe you'd seen a doctor and found out something
awful." "I'm not sick," he repeated. 202

"The truth, Eddy?"

"The truth.  Now will you let me sleep?"  he asked, not ungently.

But he was sick, truly, with a rising fear that ran like ice water
through his blood and bones.  All during the casual chatter at dinner
he had been reliving the scene in the office.  You withdrew from the
account ofSo-and-So and So-and-So.  . . . Actually, it had been only
juggling, moving dollars that could easily be replaced, when you
considered the firm's assets.  Small potatoes.  Cash flow, that's all
it was.  Sometimes the flow dried up a little, but only temporarily. 
His mind strove, but when you were handling so many accounts,
investments, and clients, it was hard to recall each separate
transaction, each in itself so relatively insignificant when one looked
at the overall picture.  He could recall, to be sure, the day he'd seen
the Maserati in the showroom; he had always really desired a red car
from the time he'd bought his first Mercedes, but all his cars had been
a conservative gray or navy blue.  Then Pam had said that day, "Oh,
let's let our hair down!  The red is gorgeous."  So they'd gone tooling
up to the Vineyard in it and down to Palm Beach, attracting admiration
all the way.  Yes, and he could recall the Fragonard, the excitement of
the frenetic bidding, and then taking it home, the treasure, fine as
any Fragonard in any museum anywhere.  Yes, and Fifth Avenue in
Christmas week when the rubies, glistening like dew on roses, had
beckoned from their black velvet bed in the window.  So the millions
flew, millions upon millions, before you knew it.  Your separate
brokerage account .  . . This is a very dangerous situation, believe
me.  . . . The IRS, the SEC ... A first-rate lawyer .  . .

He could hear his heart pound.  That small, pathetic thudding and the
rustle of the sheets as Pam turned over were the only sounds in the
room.  And he was conscious, as he had never been before, of the
immensity of the world, or rather of his own smallness within its
enormous, threatening expanse.  When you were scared, when you were in
a panic, you were alone.  The world was indifferent at best and hostile
at worst.  The IRS and the SEC would tear him down and pull him apart,
not knowing or caring to know that Eddy Osborne had never meant to hurt
anyone.  He was the kindest man alive.  He was known to be, and he knew
he was.  He wasn't like the rest of the world, or most of it, anyway.

The first thing he would have to do in the morning was to find a new
lawyer.  He couldn't possibly see himself walking into the austere
offices of his regular attorneys; it would be an unbearable humiliation
to let those dignified poker-faces see that Vernon Edward Osborne had
let himself get into a mess.

What he needed now was somebody who could grasp the situation at once,
somebody to quell his fear.  After all, he hadn't stolen anything, had
he?  A competent lawyer would know what to do.  You had only to read
the

203

newspapers to see how skillful guides found paths through the jungle of
the courts.  The question was just where to go. Inquire of Connie's
husband?  Martin Berg was a sophisticated New Yorker and must have all
sorts of connections.  But why let the family know he was in trouble
when it surely would blow over?  Perhaps the best thing, after all,
would be to go ask Abner, since he knew all about it anyway, to make a
recommendation.  Abner was one of the smartest men he had ever known.
This is very, very serious, Abner had said. Somewhere in the apartment
a clock struck.  The place was full of clocks.  Eddy had been
collecting them: old English tall clocks, a rare eighteenth-century
skeleton clock whose marvelous mechanism, functioning still, was
fascinating to observe.  He recognized now the C-sharp note of the
little French gilt-and-marble clock in Pam's dressing room.  Ten
strokes.  Morning was only eight or nine hours away.  If he could only
stay here in this dark room and not have to get up and go out or even
think, but just lie here like this, sheltered and safe!  If he could
only tell Pam!  She was his wife, and she would care about him.  Yet he
didn't want to pour his fears out before her.  A man had pride, after
all.  A man wanted to be a hero in his wife's eyes.  And Pam was so
proud of him. On sudden impulse he reached for her hand, whispering,
"Are you asleep?"  although he knew well that she was not. "Of course
I'm not.  What's the trouble, Eddy?  Won't you tell me?" He sighed. 
"It's the rat race.  I told you, I'm tired of it.  It's been getting to
me." She waited. "I've been thinking."  Thoughts were forming as he
spoke, thoughts that had not been there even minutes before.  "You've
always had that idea of buying a place in Kentucky, and I've always
said, 'someday.' You know, it's come to me that maybe 'someday' should
be now.  I wouldn't mind living there for good, making it our home."
She was astonished.  "Leave everything here?  The office?  The
business?  Just close up and leave?" "Why not?  People do it all the
time." "But whatever put it into your head right now?  I don't
understand." "Oh, I don't know.  I guess I've been keeping it in the
back of my mind for a long while.  And then the other night when those
Kentucky people at our table were talking about that wonderful horse
farm for sale near them, it popped to the front of my mind." "Well, I
can't say I'm not bowled over.  You never said you were tired of the
rat race.  I thought you loved it." "I did love it.  But there's a time
for everything.  Time to begin and time 204

to end.  So how about our going down to look at this place?  If it's as
wonderful as the description, we'll buy it.  Or rather, you will."

Put everything into her name.  All the treasures in this apartment and
the apartment itself.  Sell it to her for a few dollars, five or ten
thousand, make it a bona fide sale.  Just in case ... In case .  . .
It's the smart way.  . . .

There was sudden alarm in Pam's voice.  "But why, Eddy?  This is too
sudden.  Something has to be wrong, and you don't want to frighten me. 
Have you found out you've heart disease or something so you have to
take it easy?  You look so worried."

"You always suspect that when I look a little tired."

"Well, then, if you're not sick, there has to be another reason."

No, he thought again, I will not tell her.  I'm not going to frighten
the life out of her when I'm sure, I have to be sure, that a good
lawyer will iron the whole problem out.  Smart as he is, Abner has
always been unduly cautious, anyway.

Eddy's confidence swung like a pendulum.  It will be all right.  It
will not be all right.  His thoughts dashed here and there.  Who's a
top lawyer?  Marvin and Blake?  The Andrews firm?  Henry Rathbone? 
Abner will probably recommend Rathbone, I think.  . . .

"There has to be another reason," Pam repeated.

"Honey, I'll explain it to you, but I really am too tired now.  And
there's not all that much to explain, anyway, nothing to worry over. 
It'll be a great thing for us.  We can go down and raise horses.  We'll
live longer and be healthier.  It makes a lot of sense.  Believe me."

And with that Pam had to be satisfied.

It took almost no time at all to buy a fine old house, enriched by six
hundred acres of woods and fields, because they fell in love with it on
sight.  It stood at the end of a long drive lined with dogwoods and
redbuds, a perfect picture-book house with columns, a veranda, and a
fanlight over the door.  Eddy's pulses beat; he was captivated.  For
one marvelous minute, as he rested his eyes upon that house, he forgot
why he was here, forgot that this was to be a refuge, a hideout, an
escape.

"Well," he said, "well, what do you think?"

"We almost don't need to see the inside, do we?  I can describe it to
you now, and then we'll see whether I'm right.  Of course, there's a
center hall, there's a dining room on the left because that has to be
the kitchen wing.  Let's see.  ... Six bedrooms, I estimate, and
probably not enough bathrooms."

"Those can be put in," Eddy said quickly.

"And I'll bet there's a fireplace in every room.  Let's go in."

In a happy kind of daze they followed the caretaker through the
rooms,

205

Pam murmuring, "Oh, it's too good to be true!  I'd love to hang your
Rowlandson prints in the little upstairs hall.  This corner bedroom
should be ours; I'd do it in pale blue, very cool, because the sun must
come in most of the day." She's thrilled, he thought.  This is her
rightful setting, far more than the apartment is or the suite in Paris;
she'll have a dozen dogs running all over the place. The caretaker had
some comments for them when they went outside again. "Back there's a
pond, and behind it the woods.  The orchard, the cornfield, and
vegetables are on that side; they've been a bit neglected this last
year, but there's no great harm done.  Some folks might think the
stables are too close to the main house, but," he added regretfully, "I
sure would hate to see them torn down." "Torn down!"  Pam exclaimed. 
"Absolutely never!" Two long, handsome buildings faced each other
across a courtyard.  On one, a clock, and on the other, a gilded
weather vane twinkled in the sunlight. "There's room for thirty
horses," the man said. On Pam's face there was an expression that could
only be described as rapturous. "So you love it, darling?"  Eddy asked.
"Oh!"  she said.  And then anxiety passed across her face.  "But are
you sure it's right, what we're doing?" "It's right," he said
decisively.  "Let's waste no time closing the deal and getting workmen
in here to fix it up." For time was pressing.  Time was "of the
essence," as lawyers say. Lawyers .  . .

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

From a stall in the ladies' room at the Metropolitan Museum, Connie
overheard an indiscreet conversation.  "This is the third—no, the
fourth—second wedding I've been at this year."  The voice was not a
young one, and the tone was indignant.  "First they make their
fortunes, and then they ditch their wives for these trophies.  It's
disgraceful."

"I know," came the response.  "And all those gushing articles about
what wonderful, sensitive, caring—I'm sick of that word caring,
anyway—fathers these fifty-year-olds are to their new babies!  It's
ridiculous."

"Nobody mentions the first family," said the first voice.  "I often
think of Martin Berg's children.  They say the son is alienated, and
the last time I saw the daughter, she looked absolutely forlorn.  A
pathetic waif."

Connie emerged from the stall and stared directly into the flustered
countenance of Mrs.  Preston DeWitt.  Then she turned her back, washed
her hands, and, with a scornful laugh, left the room, banging the door
behind her.

Old fools!  Jealous old fools!  Preston probably stayed with Caroline
only because she was ill and he was decent.  There hadn't been
photographers waiting on the front steps of the museum for her tonight,
as they had been when the Bergs arrived.  There would be no articles
about Caroline DeWitt in the society columns tomorrow, as there would
be about Connie, with full description of her dress and the brand-new
sapphires around her neck.  They were drop-dead sapphires, too,
Martin's most recent gift, presented for no reason other than "I adore
you."

Connie's silver heels clicked over the stone floors through the long,
dim sculpture galleries as she hurried back toward the Temple of
Dendur.  Round tables covered with lace cloths over turquoise
petticoats surrounded the temple, which still, some thousands of years
after its conception on the Nile, held a powerful, dark mystery.  The
shrubbery and the flowers, the gilded candelabra, the poached lobster,
and the Haut Brion, all were mag-

207

nificent, as befitted both the setting and the marriage of one of the
most important financiers in America.  Oh, it was wonderful to be among
grand events at the pinnacle and in the heart of the city!  These were
the people who kept the city moving, and she was part of them.  Often
when she had given her name, Mrs.  Martin Berg, in a shop, she would
hear, as she turned away, the awed whispers among the salesgirls.  And
then, remembering her days in the Houston dress shop, she would
jubilate, as now at this moment. Nevertheless, the word trophy could
still rankle. Bitsy Maxwell was at the Bergs' table.  "I hear," she
said, "that you've just bought a marvelous house in London.  What's the
location?" "Belgravia.  It's one of those early-nineteenth-century
terrace houses and needs a lot of work." "I don't envy you the
responsibility," said Bitsy, who could not afford more than a New York
apartment and a place in Southampton. "Oh, I don't mind it at all.  I
wanted the house for Martin.  He goes back and forth from London so
much that I really thought he should have a place of his own to relax
in.  The Savoy is a perfect hotel, but still a hotel isn't a home, is
it?" Bitsy shrugged.  "I don't object to hotels.  We stay at the
Connaught." "Well, from now on you'll have our place to stay at when
you're in London."  And Connie, looking about with satisfaction, caught
Martin's eye just as he was rising from the table. "I see Simmonds over
there," he whispered.  "He's supposed to get some more publicity on the
neurology wing I'm donating.  Damn, I want it known that I do something
with my money besides making more of it." "Darling, everybody knows
what you do.  Sit down and relax.  You work too hard, anyway." "I have
to if I want to keep up with your expenditures."  Martin smiled.  "But
I don't mind.  Do you know you're the most beautiful woman in this
whole room, including the bride?" She watched him walk away, reach for
a cigar, and then, remembering where he was, put it back in his breast
pocket.  It was a hardship for him to go more than an hour or two
without a cigar.  He really looked well, thanks to her unrelenting
supervision of his exercise and diet.  She had been good for him; his
sisters had even told her so.  Ben, the disapproving brother, they
fortunately saw quite seldom.  As to Martin's children, she was careful
to be as loving to Melissa as to her own Therese, and Martin saw that.
Now and again, she still wondered what it was to be "in love," to feel
the euphoria, the willingness to "die" for another that one read about
and that sometimes, rarely and shyly, Lara talked about.  Not that she
needed to hear tell of it; you simply saw it between Davey and her.  .
. . Well, this was all immaterial, anyway.  She was here tonight in
pride and 208

splendor.  Later, they would go home, and in the carved rococo bed she
would practice on her husband the arts that kept him loving her and
kept him feeling young.

He was standing now in the center of a cluster of men.  Her first
thought was that he looked awfully short, and she must watch the height
of her heels.  The second thought was that something had happened, for
the group around him was enlarging.  Men were putting their napkins
aside and rising to join it.

"What's going on?"  asked Bitsy.

"Oh, the prime rate's gone up or down or something," Connie answered.

Presently, Martin came back toward her and beckoned.  "Come outside to
the hall for a minute."

Surprised, she stood up and followed.  "What is it?  Is something
wrong?"

Martin was glum.  "I'm afraid there is, and I wanted to tell you before
we go back to the table, in case anyone says something.  People are
generally tactful, but there might be somebody there who doesn't know
your name is Osborne.  It's about your brother, you see.  No, no,
nothing's happened to him, for God's sake!  Except that there's a leak
in tomorrow's papers.  He's to be indicted by the United States
attorney.  The news is all over Wall Street.  I would have heard it if
I hadn't been in Boston all day."

A wave of shock swept over her.  "Indicted?  For what?"

"I don't know all the details.  Insider trading, defrauding Internal
Revenue.  I'm not sure."

Eddy!  But he was so clever and so good!  Surely this had to be a
mistake, some sort of unjust accusation.  Oh, poor Eddy!

Then, after the first few seconds, came another fright.  "You're not
involved in anything with him, are you?"

Martin was indignant.  "What a stupid question!  I'm surprised at you. 
Me?  An eighty-five-year-old firm like ours involved with a kid like
him?"

"All right, it was a stupid question.  I'm sorry.  I'm just upset.  I'm
just horrified."

"Honey, don't cry here.  Don't let it show."

She took a long, deep breath.  Then very softly she asked, "Martin, if
it's true, what's going to happen to him?"

"If it's true," Martin said grimly, "he'll go to prison."

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Henry Rathbone was one of the most celebrated lawyers in the city and
one of the most expensive, and he had counseled Eddy to keep calm and
go to work as usual while relying on Henry to negotiate.  Naturally, he
had made no promises, but his general demeanor had suggested a modified
optimism.  And so, keeping that in mind, Eddy dressed himself that
morning to his usual perfection, ate his usual breakfast, and was now
seated at his desk with the usual pile of papers before him.  But his
gaze kept straying, first toward the sullen, dark Hudson on the one
side and then back into the room, where a sullen, steely light slanted
across the Sheraton bow-front chest beside the door. Abruptly, the door
opened, revealing Mrs.  Evans in dismay. "Mr.  Osborne!  There are two
men here.  They say they're United States marshals, they showed me
their badges, and they're coming in, I couldn't stop them, I don't know
what they want—" Eddy stood up.  "Let them in," he said, and along with
immediate awareness that his heart had begun to pound, and that every
pulse in his body was pounding with it, was the consciousness that this
must be the moment when he must bear himself well. Two men entered, men
so ordinary as to be indescribable.  They might have been selling
insurance or vacuum cleaners.  Eddy's thoughts went helter-skelter.
"Mr.  Osborne," one said, "we have a warrant for your arrest." Arrest. 
The helter-skelter thoughts focused: But Rathbone said—These were paper
proceedings, weren't they?  Things settled by words between lawyers,
settled in offices, at desks and on telephones, not physically!  Not
taking your body.  Arrest was seizing.  Seizing your body. He
stammered.  "What for?  I mean—I don't understand.  There's a mistake. 
My lawyer's working on it right now." "You'll be able to call your
lawyer.  But you'll have to come along first."  The man extended a
piece of paper.  "Read the warrant." 210

Eddy took it.  Bold printed lettering and lines of typewritten
sentences blurred toward a signature at the end.  He handed it back
unread.  And a silence thrummed, rang, tingled in his ears.

"You'll have to put these on," the second man said.

Mrs.  Evans was staring at the handcuffs.  Her lips hung open, and her
faded, neatly waved hair was rumpled.

"I'll go with you," Eddy said.  "You don't have to put those on me. 
You don't understand, I'm not the sort of person who'll make trouble. 
You don't understand."

"Make it easy for yourself," the man told him.  "Put out your hands."

Oh, God, Eddy thought, not through the main door!  Not to be marched
past all those desks and all those eyes.

"Can we go out the back door?"  His voice faltered badly; he was
furious at his damned voice.

You must bear yourself well, you're Vernon Edward Osborne, and you'll
straighten out this crazy business.

"There's a private entrance," Mrs.  Evans said, weeping now.  "It's not
the way you came in.  Please," she pleaded, "it's quicker that way,
anyhow."

Eddy's hands just hung at the ends of his too-stiff arms.  There was no
place to put them.  Walking around like that, you looked ridiculous. 
Mrs.  Evans leapt for the Burberry raincoat that was always kept in the
closet and draped it over his awkward hands.  She reached up and kissed
him, her wet nose brushing his jaw.

"God bless you, Mr.  Osborne.  He's a good man," she warned the
intruders.  "Be gentle with him," she said fiercely.

"Don't worry, lady."

So Eddy departed from the offices of Osborne and Company with one man
ahead of him and one behind him.  A plain black sedan was parked below,
and no one in the hurrying crowd on the sidewalk saw the three men get
into the backseat and drive away.

When they had traveled a few blocks, Eddy brought himself to ask where
they were going.

"The United States Courthouse at Foley Square."

It was not a jail, anyway.  Or did they have a jail there?  He knew
nothing of the law.  How should I know?  he asked himself.  I was never
in trouble, I hardly ever got a traffic ticket.  This is rotten. 
Rotten.  A man like me in handcuffs.  Me.

Helpless because of his bound hands, he had to be assisted from the
car.  Mechanically, he moved through the broad halls past many doors;
he had impressions such as one receives when in a moving car, a
speeding blur of people clustered in corridors, waiting for something,
of poor-seeming people, of brisk people with important briefcases, of
body smells, odors of rain-

211

wet woolen, stale cigarette smoke, of washing powder where someone was
mopping the floor, and finally, of police in a room with green-white
lights that glared over scuff marks on the walls and over brown scuffed
furniture. When they removed the handcuffs, he rubbed his wrists, not
to ease pain, for there had been none, but rather to remove the feel of
contact with something filthy.  They held his splayed fingers firmly
onto an inked pad; they stood him with a placard bearing a number on
his chest and took his picture as if he were a rapist or a mugger, as
if he had abused little boys or murdered his wife.  As if he were not
Vernon Edward Osborne.  And through it all he did not speak a word, but
promptly did what he was told to do while his heart's hammering did not
abate, and he thought that perhaps it might stop or rupture something
in his chest, and then all this would be over.  When he had to urinate,
somebody went with him to the men's room.  For a moment in there he was
sure he was going to vomit, but, mercifully, the sensation passed. 
They led him at last to a room where there was a telephone so that he
could call Rathbone.  Rathbone was already on the way.  Somebody asked
him whether he wanted to make any more calls, and with the asking,
which to his inexperience seemed to be an unexpected kindness, he went
all soft, fearful that tears might gather in his eyes.  And he
declined.  Besides, he was not ready yet to talk to Pam; he needed time
to figure out how he was going to say that the thing he had feared,
while denying his fear, had happened. In this room where people were
coming in and out, he could see into more rooms and out into the
bustling halls.  What a place of misery and contention was here!  Why
would anybody ever want to be a judge or a lawyer or to perform any
labor in such a place of misery?  But when Henry Rathbone came in, Eddy
put on the face that the world knew best, and was jocular Eddy Osborne
again, whom nothing fazed. "Well, Henry, here I am.  What happens next,
the guillotine?" "No, no, Eddy.  Don't worry, we'll have you out on
bail in no time.  You'll go home and sleep in your own bed tonight. 
Come with me." "Where to?" "We have to appear before a United States
magistrate.  He sets the bail.  The U.S. prosecutor will be there too."
Rathbone was short, not much higher than Eddy's shoulder, and yet he
felt like a child beside him.  For Rathbone had authority in this
place, and his walk showed it.  That's the way I used to walk through
the bullpen at Osborne and Company, Eddy said to himself, and then
realized that he had already said "used to." The magistrate sat high in
a small courtroom, wearing his black robes.  Even in that dingy,
unimpressive room he looked—well, magisterial.  He was supposed to,
wasn't he?  Perhaps it was the robe that did it.  The United 212

States attorney was a handsome man whose face would have been striking
on a coin.  It was a vote-getting face, perfect on television.  And
Eddy stood waiting and watching while the three men talked.  It had
begun to rain harder; a downpour sluiced long runnels on the dirty
window.  In spite of its fluorescent bulbs the room darkened, and to
Eddy the effect of darkness was ominous.  On the other hand, cheerful
sunlight would have mocked him.

"The charges," said the handsome prosecutor, "warrant high bail, Your
Honor.  This man is charged on five separate counts involving, so far,
more than three hundred million dollars.  So far."

"Your Honor," responded Rathbone, "my client is not a hardened
criminal.  This is a first offense.  If it is an offense at all, which
I certainly do not concede."

"Your Honor," said the prosecutor, "I would like to ask that bail be
set at five million dollars."

The magistrate's eyebrows went up, black eyebrows in a ruddy forehead. 
He looks as if he likes his Scotch, thought Eddy.  On the other hand,
it may just be high blood pressure.  His mind wandered again.  Now the
rain was smearing patterns in the grime, circles and curlicues.

"That is most excessive, Your Honor," Rathbone was arguing.  "Mr. 
Os-borne has a home and a wife.  He has relatives.  His sister is
married to one of the most prominent men in the city.  He has roots. 
He's not going to run away."

"That can't be guaranteed, Your Honor," protested the United States
attorney.

"It can, Your Honor.  I would ask that reasonable bail be set.  One
hundred thousand dollars would be reasonable."

"Your Honor, in the light of the charges, that makes no sense.  It is
out of proportion, entirely out of proportion."

Rathbone persisted.  "He is not going to flee, Your Honor.  Can we not
compromise?"

"Your Honor, we are poles apart."

"Well," said the magistrate, "we can't be here all day over this."

The man looked tired.  Again, Eddy thought, I wouldn't take a job like
this one no matter what it paid, and come to think of it, it doesn't
pay much.  And there was a long silence while the magistrate
pondered.

At last he made his decision.  "Bail will be two million dollars."

"May I consult with my client for a moment?"  asked Rathbone.  They
went to the back of the room.  "Have you got it?  Can you get it?"  he
whispered.

"God no, you know I'm strapped.  All the accounts were in Pam's name." 
Thank God he had been smart enough to do that.

213

"Your relatives?  Berg?  We could try a bail bondsman, but it would
take time.  Red tape and time." Eddy thought.  He hated to ask Martin. 
Forever after he would be miserable in Martin's presence, he would
shrink.  It was a bad thing to be beholden to a relative, even to one
whom he liked well enough. "The money would mean very little to your
brother-in-law." Eddy was silent. "You know it would," Rathbone
repeated softly. Eddy looked off into the thick, smoky air beyond the
window, and then back at Rathbone.  "I dread asking," he said, and
heard, despising it, the tone of appeal in his voice. "I understand. 
Would it be easier if I were to ask instead?" "It would help," Eddy
replied with some relief.  Then a thought struck him.  "What if he
isn't in?" "Don't worry.  I'll track him down.  Berg knows me.  At
least, we've met more than once." "Thank you, Henry.  Thank you very
much."  And then a second thought struck dread, and he had to ask, "Do
you suppose you could try to find my wife too?  She's at her mother's
in the country.  Wait.  Here's the number.  Do you think you could sort
of gently, sort of gradually, break the news to her?  I never told her.
I should have.  She could have prepared herself, the way you prepare
for a death when someone's been sick for a long time.  This is like
someone's dying of a heart attack with no warning.  But I never wanted
her to lose faith in me.  Who knew it would come to this?  Oh, this is
the worst.  It's killing me to think of Pam getting this news."
Rathbone nodded sympathetically.  "I'll take care of it.  And you take
it easy, Eddy." When Rathbone left, Eddy remained where he was, gazing
out of the window at nothing, yet too much aware of the two men in the
front of the room, the magistrate still on the bench, and aware, too,
of another man near the door, some sort of guard, he supposed, to make
sure that Eddy didn't try to escape. It seemed interminable hours, but
actually it was only a little more than twenty minutes before Rathbone
returned and at once addressed the court.  Bail had been arranged and
would be delivered within the hour. Then he walked back to Eddy.  "Berg
couldn't have been more helpful," he reported.  "I only had to ask him
once." "I suppose he was pretty shocked.  Stunned." "I guess so, but he
didn't show it.  He seemed only concerned.  Compassionate.  And I tried
to reach your wife, but she had left.  Her mother said she was going to
make some stops on the way and probably wouldn't be home before
dinnertime.  That'll give you a chance to wash up and rest 214

before she gets there."  Rathbone added kindly, "Take a stiff drink,
sit down, and talk together as calmly as you can and then have a good
dinner."

"Are we going to lick this thing, Henry?"  Eddy asked, very low.  "Tell
me the truth, please.  I can handle it."

"Eddy .  . . We're going to do the very best we can, that's the
answer."

The Filipino couple were in the kitchen.  Ramon, with an apron over his
white coat, was polishing silver, and Maria Luz was stirring something
at the stove.

"How would you two like to take the evening out?"  Eddy proposed,
showing his most cheerful manner.  "Mrs.  Osborne and I have just been
invited somewhere, so you might as well go."

"But the dinner .  . ."  Maria Luz was both doubtful and hopeful.

"Save the dinner for tomorrow."  He gave them a jovial wave as he left
the kitchen.  "Go on.  Enjoy yourselves."

The last thing he could tolerate right now was a ritual dinner, the
elegance of which he ordinarily appreciated.  But tonight there might
be tears and recriminations.  Who knew what tonight would bring?

In the library he sat in a vague sort of daze until he heard them going
out at the back door.  Then, as if obeying some peremptory command, he
sprang up.  In a pantry closet he found some cardboard cartons and
pulled them into the library.  He telephoned to the building
superintendent and asked for more cartons, the largest he had and as
many as he had.

"As many?  We have a couple of dozen, Mr.  Osborne, waiting for the
trash pickup."

"Bring them all," said Eddy.

Back in the cleaning closets he found rolls of tissue paper, of brown
wrapping paper, and balls of heavy twine.  The house was well stocked
with such practical items, for Pam was a good housekeeper, an efficient
keeper of the house, the home that was now being destroyed.  For no
matter what Rathbone said—what had he said?  Something like I'll do my
best?—Eddy felt disaster in his bones.  At the same time he could also
remember moments when, even today, he had been certain that things
would all turn out well in the end.  But now, now at this moment, he
felt only disaster.

When the superintendent had covered half the library's floor with
cartons, Eddy saw the questions on his tongue.  But they remained
unasked; no doubt something in Eddy's face had deterred the man.  As
soon as he was gone, Eddy set to work, taking pictures down from the
walls.  There went the Sargent lady in her velvet dress; Winslow
Homer's palm trees bending in a southern wind; the Pissarro's crowded,
rainy street in Paris.  These were his treasures and he was ripping
them off his walls.  There was

215

even one that had not yet been hung, a nineteenth-century portrait of a
horse that he had ordered from London for Pam. For three hours he
worked, going from room to room.  He was frantic.  Panic rose in him,
and panic was cold; it ran up and down his arms and raised the hair on
the back of his neck.  Lifting, padding, cutting his fingers on twine,
he sweated.  He wrapped small objects, porcelains and ivories, emptying
the twin lacquered cabinets in the drawing room; he began to take down
his first editions, the leather-bound Dickens, the Walt Whitman, the—
"What in heaven's name are you doing?"  Pam screamed.  "Have you gone
crazy?  Crazy?" He pulled himself erect and, ankle deep in paper,
regarded his wife, his cherished wife, in her camel-hair coat and her
alligator boots.  And for the moment he was dumbstruck. Stupidly, he
said, "We're moving to Kentucky, you remember.  So I thought, I had
some time, I came home early.  I thought I'd get a few things ready."
She grabbed his shirtfront.  "Eddy, listen to me.  I've known you were
hiding something but I gave up asking you what.  Do you think I'm an
idiot?  I've been so afraid.  ... Sit down here and tell me what's
wrong.  I want to know.  Now!  Now!" His Adam's apple seemed to swell
until it hurt.  Nevertheless he had to begin.  "I'm in trouble with the
government, Pam.  Some tax trouble.  God, I hoped it would turn out all
right!  I wanted to spare you, but I can't anymore.  I was arrested
this morning." "Arrested?" "Yes.  It was—well, it was quite an
experience."  And he managed a weak, shamefaced smile.  "Fingerprints
and all." "But what have you done?"  she cried. "A few foolish things,
I have to admit.  But nothing criminal.  I haven't hurt anybody.  It's
a tax mess, that's all, too complicated to explain.  I'd need to show
you reams of papers.  My lawyer says we'll work it out." "But if you
were arrested, you must be out on bail." "Yes.  Martin put it up." She
was standing above him.  And he looked up at her calm forehead under
the velvet headband.  Most women, hearing this piece of news, would be
losing control. "Why don't you get angry at me?"  he asked.  "I would
feel better if you did.  I deserve it.  Don't be afraid of losing your
temper.  Yell at me." "What's the point?  What would it accomplish?" 
she responded wearily.  Quality, he thought as always.  Breeding.  It
shows. 216

In the street below, a fire engine passed with a long, terrifying wail,
receded, and left a bleak aftermath of stillness.  Pam was waiting.

"I got in too deep," he said.  "I don't know how it happened.  I
thought I had a magic touch.  I always did have.  I knew my way around
the market."  He put his head in his hands.  "Maybe I lost my touch. 
Things started to drain away.  It was like a hemorrhage."  And he made
a little sound almost like a sob.

She stroked his hair.  "Don't, Eddy.  Aren't you the one who always
says anything can be worked out if you keep your wits about you?"

He raised his head.  "Pam, I think it's possible that I might go to
prison."

"Who's your lawyer?  What does he say?"

"Henry Rathbone.  One of the best in the city.  He says it'll be okay."
 Had he actually said that?  He had only promised to do his best.

"Did he tell you to pack up these things, to move?"

"He doesn't know I'm doing this.  It's my idea to get things out of
here in case anyone wants to come snooping after the paintings and
antiques.  The stuff's all yours, anyway."

"Louis XVI doesn't fit on a horse farm."

"Sell anything you don't want and take the cash.  Oh, I'm glad I was
smart enough to put this apartment in your name too.  It's got to be
worth four or five million by now."

The doorbell rang, making Eddy start.  "Don't open it!"

"It has to be somebody they recognize downstairs, or no one would have
let them come up," said Pam.

He supposed, after the morning's experience, that he would never again
feel secure about who might be on the other side of a door.  And then,
when he heard the voices of Martin and Connie, he had the same feeling
that had overcome him in the presence of Rathbone, that he was a child
waiting to be scolded.

Connie stared about her.  "My God, look at this ruin!  Whatever
possessed you, Eddy?  Whatever?"

Martin waved her to silence.  "How're you doing, Eddy?  It's been a
hell of a day for you."

"I want to thank you, Martin.  If I can thank you, that is.  But how
can I ever for what you did?"

"Just see how you can work your way out of your troubles.  That'll be
thanks enough.  Your sisters are beside themselves with worry.  Lara
phoned just now.  She wanted to take the next flight."

"No, no," Eddy objected.  Lara wouldn't say a word of condemnation, yet
he felt he couldn't face her with this failure, not Lara, who had
encouraged him from his days in junior high school up to now.  "No,
don't let Lara come," he repeated.

217

"We told her not to.  With two children and the office work .  . ." 
Martin shoved aside a pile of tissue paper and sat down on the sofa. 
"I only spoke ten minutes with Rathbone, so tell me, how deep in the
hole are you?" "I don't know exactly.  A lot.  I'd have to figure. 
It's complicated.  I can't do bookkeeping in my head." Martin frowned
slightly.  "But you must have some idea.  Rathbone says one of the
counts against you is that you played the stock market with your
clients' funds.  Haven't you any conception of your personal stock
holdings?" "I don't know.  Maybe thirteen million.  It varies,
fluctuates.  The market's been down the last couple of months.  You
know that." "I know that," Martin said somewhat dryly.  He nodded
toward a Cezanne that was propped against a chair.  "How much did that
cost?" Eddy followed Martin's glance toward the luminous blue-green
Proven-gal hills.  "About six million," he murmured, and wiped his
forehead.  "God Almighty," he blurted then, "I saved fortunes for my
clients all the same!  Everybody rushed to me.  Didn't they love my
four-to-one tax shelters?  And now these same people will remember only
my mistakes and won't give me the time to correct them.  All I need is
some time!  God Almighty, I haven't committed murder, have I?"  he
demanded of the three who faced him. "Well, if you've ruined people,
that's almost the same thing, isn't it?"  Connie said, sounding bitter.
"Some of my good friends that I sent to you too." Again Martin stopped
her.  "There's no point in that sort of talk," he admonished. Pam sat
rigidly, looking toward the window where lights twinkled across the
street.  Holding tears back, she blinked, and Eddy knew that the truth
had finally just reached her. "I don't understand," he said, "what
started this government crackdown in the first place.  What happened
all of a sudden?" "Somebody wrote an anonymous letter," Martin replied.
"It was mailed from Vancouver to the SEC.  Somebody who'd apparently
lost money because of insider trading.  I heard it from a man who has a
brother with the SEC.  Oh, it wasn't about you at all.  But it started
the ball rolling." "Do you think I really have cause to be terribly
worried?"  Eddy asked. Martin stood up.  "I think I'm glad you have a
top-notch attorney.  Meanwhile, watch your health and use your head. 
Head over heart, you know." Eddy nodded ruefully.  "My mother used to
say that, but she never did it." "Well, you do it.  Take a stiff Scotch
and go to sleep."  When Martin gave 218

Eddy his hand, the grip was comforting.  "Call me if you need me.  Come
on, Connie."

When they had left, Pam let a few tears fall, whispering into Eddy's
shoulder, "Life was a ball, wasn't it?  Such fun, being young and
healthy and with no worries, just two hours ago.  And now I feel a
hundred years old."

"Remember what Martin just said, head over heart?"

"I know."  Pam wiped her eyes.  "I will.  I just had to get it out of
my system."

"Of course you do."  And he understood that there must be within her,
even as within himself, a turmoil of struggling contradictions, pity,
fear, and anger.  Of course.

"Life will be a ball again," he said.

"What happens next?  To you, I mean."

"A trial.  In about three months, Rathbone estimates."

"And he really thinks you'll win?"

"Lawyers have to think so, don't they?"

Smile, Peg always told her children.  Smile even when you don't want to
and it'll actually make you feel like smiling.

"Life isn't over," he said again.  "Hey, I'm only thirty-four years
old, and there's a long way to go.  Let's see that photo of the
Kentucky place.  It's there on the desk.  Looks like Gone with the
Wind, doesn't it?  Columns and all.  And that copper beech on the lawn
must be a hundred fifty years old."  He hugged Pam closely.  "Listen. 
I'm going to work out of this.  And if I don't right away, if—if
anything happens, why, you just go down there and live in the sun and
wait till I get there too."

"He swindled people, didn't he?  Tell the truth," Connie said on the
way home.  "I'm furious!  How could he have been so stupid?"

"One word," Martin said.  "Greed.  It came too easily when he started,
and he got too greedy."

"How will it end?"

Martin shrugged.  "I'm not a lawyer, but my guess is that it'll end
badly.  From what I can see, he's committed four or five felonies."

"I'm angry at him, but I'm heartbroken too.  Poor Eddy!  He's got to be
terrified.  And I'm awfully sorry for Pam.  Whatever will she do?"

"He told me once that everything belongs to her.  Six of those
paintings alone will give her at least twenty million.  So I wouldn't
worry."

"All the same, I'm sorry for her.  They'll be ruined socially.  Utterly
ruined."

219

The federal district court was a far more imposing chamber than the one
in which Eddy's first scene had been enacted.  Everything seemed
larger, the ceiling higher, the windows wider, the flag more prominent,
and the bench more elevated.  The judge had the stern expression of the
cancer surgeon who is about to operate.  The jury's twelve chairs
looked solemn in their rows, even when they were vacant.  This was the
place where severe punishments were meted out.  Eddy's facetious remark
about the guillotine did not seem absurd here.  He wondered whether his
heart, which had ceased to hammer—after all, how could it have kept
hammering for the last three months?—and had merely subsided now into
an irregular beat, would ever beat normally again. All the chairs
behind him, in row after row, were filled.  He wondered why, and who
the strangers might be who filled them.  Directly in back of him in the
second row sat his wife and his sisters; Lara, during the whole five
weeks that his trial lasted, kept going back and forth from Ohio,
although, knowing what effort it must take, he wished she wouldn't. 
Connie came in a sable coat, at least fifty thousand dollars' worth of
coat, he knew, and hoped the judge and jury would not think this
expensive lady was his wife.  Pam, most sensibly, had worn her camel
hair coat.  She had remembered, too, that he had once said he felt
uncomfortable when strangers sat directly behind him, where they could
stare at the back of his neck, and so she took care to sit behind him
herself.  Pam was a princess, no doubt of it, in her dignity and
reassuring calm.  Pam was royalty. Sometimes there appeared a few other
familiar faces, friends and clients who had once been friends and were
now enemies.  Once he saw the puzzled, mournful face of Mrs.  Evans,
who probably was not sure now what she should think of the man she had
served and protected from every small annoyance.  In a brief passage of
words during the court's recess, he gathered from her that Osborne and
Company had been taken over by the government's examiners, who occupied
almost every desk.  And he hoped, although he did not say so, that no
one would put his feet on his private desk, which was a treasure
brought from an ancient house in Yorkshire.  At the same time he knew
perfectly well that the thought was foolish. Nevertheless, his mind
wandered foolishly again, veering between the closest, most tense
observance of events and a dreamy escape into the changing sky, that
was sometimes gray with a threat of rain and sometimes a cloudless,
vibrant blue.  In such moments, although he was seated beside Rathbone
and his young associates with their boxes of sober documents on the
table, he was entirely removed from them, not even there in the room at
all.  Then suddenly a word or an altered nuance of voice would jar him
back into the time and place.  He would let his eyes rove across the
jury box, over the twelve who had been in turn challenged, faced
rejection, and 220

finally chosen with so much care.  He wondered what it had been about
each that had caused either Rathbone or the prosecutor to want him.  He
himself couldn't tell much of anything from their faces, although he
tried to imagine what each might be apt to think about him.  There was
a very plain woman who could well be a social worker; there was a
girlish-looking woman in her sixties who was probably rich; there was a
black man in a suit that had come either from Brooks Brothers or J.
Press; there was a seedy man with thin gray hair who reminded Eddy of
his father.  He had a flower in the buttonhole of his cheap suit.  Pop
had liked to wear one, too, goodness only knew why.  Probably he had
wanted to look carefree or jaunty, but he had only looked pathetic
instead.  That man would either understand Eddy or he would despise
him.  And Eddy had to look away.  . . .

The hours dragged and the voices droned.  The judge made a lengthy
explanation to the jury about the securities business, giving them
almost an elementary course in finance.  They will never understand,
Eddy thought.  The only things that will stand out in their collective
memory are the most simple terms: false information, altered dates, tax
evasion.  If you decide that this is true.  If you decide that this is
not true, then you will not find him guilty.  Tax evasion is what would
stick in their minds, the dollars deducted from their little paychecks.
 This would strike home.

The prosecutor struck home in his own way.  "... the life-style, ladies
and gentlemen, made possible by these defalcations is something one
reads about, and, as ordinary working citizens, can only wonder at. 
This man maintains throughout the year, merely for occasional use by
himself or his friends-—palatial suites in the finest hotels to which
he can go at a moment's notice and as the spirit moves him, in Florida,
and in Arizona, in Cannes—that's a beach resort on the French
Riviera—and in Gstaad— that's in Switzerland, a ski resort—and, oh,
yes, I almost forgot, in Morocco too!  Although what one does in
Morocco, I certainly wouldn't know.  Perhaps one goes there just for a
change of atmosphere when one is bored."  There were smiles from the
jury at that.

"This man"—now he points at Eddy so that all twelve faces in the
jury-box turn their blank eyes toward him—"this man owns one of the
finest art collections in this city, possibly in the entire United
States.  Just one of his automobiles, just one, mind you, cost over one
hundred thousand dollars.  You could probably fit all twelve of your
homes and mine, too, into his East Side apartment and have room left
over.  And whose money bought all these marvels?  I'll tell you: Not
his!  No, it was for the most part the money he received from investors
who trusted him, whom he strung along, using fake account statements,
so faked and fraudulent that his own accountants refused to serve him
any longer.  And I'll tell you who else's money."  Here, the long
finger swiveled back toward the jurors themselves.  "Your money!

221

You, the taxpayers of this country, whose taxes are paid out faithfully
every fifteenth day of April.  Oh, we're all too familiar with that
date!  But what did he do on that date?  Well, I'll tell you.  He did
some fancywork, some juggling, deducting phony losses so that it turned
out he didn't owe anything to Uncle Sam at all this year.  It was put
off till next year.  Always next year.  Only, next year never came!  Do
you see?  Year after year, no taxes, or very, very little, a joke when
you consider what his profits were.  Yes, you can well sigh, for you
were cheated.  I was.  We all were." In back of Eddy a chair creaked,
and there was a faint restless movement from his wife or from one of
his sisters.  And wondering what they were really thinking, he knew
that because of their love for him, he would never be told what they
were really thinking. It was then Rathbone's turn.  "I am going to rely
on your common sense," he told the jury respectfully and persuasively. 
"These financial transactions are very complicated, but you are all
intelligent people, and you will not be misled by name calling.  The
practice of deferring taxes is quite legal.  It is standard, normal
practice where losses have been incurred; neither my client nor his
firm are the only ones who do this.  It is by no means an evasion of
taxes."  He directed one of his young men to hold up a large chart,
boldly printed on cardboard.  "Let me show you.  It will be quite
clear.  . . ." But it will not be quite clear, Eddy thought, feeling
his frail hopes ebb.  Or rather, it will be clear in the wrong way. 
Rathbone is fighting a losing battle.  Even if he is right about the
tax shelters, what about all the other counts?  No, it's no use.  The
girlish, sixtyish lady in the jury box was having a struggle to keep
awake.  The black man in the Brooks Brothers suit had a sardonic
expression; he understands all too well, Eddy thought.  Rathbone will
get nowhere with him. And so it went on and on, day after day.  Eddy,
well primed and well rehearsed, went on the stand and was carefully led
by Rathbone.  He performed well.  On cross-examination he kept his calm
demeanor, but he knew that he was floundering, and he was forced to
answer some questions that condemned him. "And did you on this date
remove two hundred and sixty thousand dollars from the account of Mr. 
Marple and place it in your own?"  i!   "Yes, but I replaced it a week
later." "I asked whether you removed it.  Answer yes or no." "Yes." Why
is all this taking so long?  Get it over with!  Eddy thought.  These
interminable hours were a torture, facing those twelve pairs of eyes
and sometimes even meeting a passing glance from the judge, the sphinx
in the black robes.  And every day when it was over came the worst of
all when, as 222

he descended the courthouse steps, the reporters waited, and the
photographers leapt to follow him, prancing like wild children playing
horse, sticking the ugly snouts of their cameras into his face, so that
if he had dared, he would have smashed their cameras and them too.

"Why don't you get an honest job?"  he wanted to shout.  "Vultures! 
Buzzards!  Circling the ground where the animal lies dying.  You can't
wait to tear him apart, can you?"

When the end came in the fifth week, the verdict was guilty.  Eddy,
standing erect, did not look at the foreman who delivered the verdict,
but met instead the bleary, weary eyes of the little man who reminded
him of his father, and was sure he saw pity there; this was a man who
knew what it was to be humbled and humiliated, who knew what it was to
lose.  And he slumped down, shaken, and reached up to grasp Pam's hand
that rested on his shoulder.

Rathbone had approached the bench to speak.  "I would like to ask, Your
Honor, that in sentencing you consider that my client has been an
exemplary citizen.  He is known for his many philanthropies.  If Your
Honor please, I would like to say that it would serve no purpose for
him to be imprisoned.  A substantial amount of time to whatever worthy
cause might best profit by his intelligence and energy, such as a drug
rehabilitation program or service in a city hospital, would be far more
meaningful in every way.  I hope very earnestly that Your Honor will
consider such an alternative."

The austere face revealed nothing.  "I hear you, Mr.  Rathbone.  Bail
will be continued and sentencing will be"—here the pages of a calendar
were turned—"in six weeks.  You will be notified."

The same courtroom, even in the absence of the jury, looked as
formidable as it had six weeks earlier.  Eddy rose when instructed to
and stood with Rathbone beside him to hear the sentence.

The words were meted out with no inflection and no emotion.  "I suppose
he can't let it show, but surely he must feel something," Eddy thought
as the words fell into a thick silence.

"You have been found guilty on eight separate counts of conspiracy to
defraud the Internal Revenue Service .  . . your greed has been
inordinate and without conscience .  . . however, I do take into some
account the number of letters I have received from character witnesses
who testify to your charitable acts .  . . there have been letters from
simple citizens describing your personal generosity."

The janitor, Eddy remembered.  He'd paid his wife's hospital bill.  And
Arthur Pyle.  He'd saved his house from foreclosure.

"   . . I take note of your counsel's request that you be permitted
to

223

render community service in lieu of imprisonment.  But there has to be
some deterrence of crimes like yours, which are occurring far too
frequently in the investment community.  Therefore, I sentence you to
four years' imprisonment on each of the eight charges, the sentences to
run concurrently.  At the expiration of your sentence you will perform
twelve hours of community service every week for one year, terms to be
arranged.  You will then have five years of probation.  Furthermore,
you will pay a fine of one million dollars in addition to back taxes. 
And you are forbidden ever to engage in the securities business as long
as you live.  Have you anything you wish to say, Mr.  Osborne?"
"Nothing, Your Honor."  What was there to say? "Court is dismissed,"
said His Honor. There was a scrape and shuffle of chairs and feet.  Pam
kissed him.  Lara and Connie were stricken, as if they were seeing a
bloody accident on a highway. Rathbone asked softly, "Are you okay?"
Eddy nodded.  "Okay." "We'll appeal, of course." "And if we lose?" "I
don't believe in thinking in those terms, you know that." "But if we
do," persisted Eddy. "You'll be out in two years.  You know, you could
have gotten a lot worse." "You're saying I got off easy?" Rathbone
shrugged. "I didn't say that, Eddy.  I only meant that it could be
worse." The two men, followed by the three women, moved downstairs and
out onto the sidewalk. "If I do get sent up," Eddy questioned in a low
voice, "where will I go?" "Minimum security.  I'll ask for
Allenwood—it's in Pennsylvania—and I'll probably get it.  It's the
least harsh.  Not harsh at all," Rathbone added quickly. "How long
before the appeal will be heard?" "It's hard to say, but maybe a year."
And Eddy blurted, "What the hell will I do with myself for a year, not
knowing what comes next?" Rathbone's reply was rueful.  "There'll be no
lack of activity: the government's suit for back taxes and penalties;
suits by individuals to recover their losses; your own bankruptcy.  The
court will appoint a receiver for your assets, and I've already
promised that you won't remove any of your possessions from the
apartment.  Is that understood?" "Understood." 224

"Good."  Rathbone gave him a slap on the back.  "You'll get through
this thing, Eddy.  You're a good man, and you can't keep a good man
down."

Platitudes, Eddy thought, and thanked him nevertheless.

They rode uptown in Connie's limousine.  Eddy brought up the question
that was in all their minds.

"Where shall we hang our hats for the year?  I'm wondering."

"Kentucky?"  Pam spoke tentatively.  "There's nothing much more to be
done in the house.  It's quite livable."

"No."  Eddy was decisive.  "I don't want to go there, to the community
where we'll be making our home, until all this is behind us.  Maybe
it's foolish of me, but I'd rather not.  I want to start fresh."

"You can always stay with us," Connie said.  "In the city or the
country, or wherever you want."

"Thanks, Connie.  I'd like to visit for short stays, but to be frank,
your house is always full, and I don't particularly care to run into
Wall Street types right now."

"There'll be no parties, no guests at all, whenever you are there," she
assured him.

"My mother's?"  Pam proposed.  "Goodness knows there's enough room for
us in that old barn of a house."

"No.  Your mother's embarrassed by this mess.  She's too much of a lady
to say so, but she is, and I won't do that to her."

"Well, you've always got us in Ohio," said Lara, "if you can stand a
noisy household."

"What I'd really like is to get far away.  I wish we could go to
Europe."

"Why can't you?"  asked Lara.

"I'm out on bail.  I can't leave the country."

"Oh," said Lara, flushing, "I didn't think."

No one spoke for a moment, and then Eddy said quietly, "I guess we'll
just move where the spirit sends us."

Like a fugitive, he thought.  Moving around.

So the months passed.  Eddy and Pam spent a few weeks at the Bergs'
Palm Beach house when no one else was there, and a few weeks out of
season at a half-deserted inn on Nantucket.  They flew back and forth
to Lara's and found themselves most comfortable there in the easy
atmosphere of the cheerful family.  As much as possible they avoided
New York; on its streets, in its theaters and restaurants, they were
sure to meet people whom Eddy did not want to meet.  Whenever, at
Rathbone's summons, they had to be in the city, they stayed at the
Hotel Pierre, for the apartment had been emptied out and its contents
trundled away to Kentucky in two enormous vans.

225

Rathbone telephoned in shock one day.  "Eddy!  What the hell have you
done?  You know you weren't to remove any of your possessions!  The
receivers came in and found everything gone—" "I wasn't supposed to
remove my possessions, and I didn't.  All of the stuff there was Pam's.
It never did belong to me.  I can show you the documents, legal
documents.  Incidentally, she has a buyer for the apartment too."  Eddy
chuckled.  "I'd like to have seen that receiver's face when the super
opened the door, and they walked through twelve empty rooms." This was
the one bright note in a long, dim year. Vernon Edward Osborne, having
lost his case on appeal, was given three days to report to Allenwood
Federal Penitentiary. Rathbone, at the sentence, asked permission to
take his client there himself.  "For," as he had explained to Eddy, who
had protested that he didn't want to be a bother to Rathbone, "the
alternative is to go to the U.S. marshal, be put in handcuffs, and
maybe spend a couple of days first at the Metropolitan Correctional
Center before they take you to Allenwood in chains.  Not a pleasant
prospect."  Eddy closed his eyes as if he were seeing himself in
chains.  "We'll leave at the crack of dawn to get there early.  That
way you'll have a chance at the better jobs and room assignments."
"Jobs?"  Eddy had not thought of jobs. "All kinds.  Kitchen work,
cutting grass, office work, or the library.  Anything and everything."
Eddy turned to Pam.  "I don't want you to come along." "Not me?"  she
cried. "No.  I don't want you to see me in that place." "Families do
visit," Rathbone said gently. "No.  I forbid it, Pam.  I don't want you
to remember me all our lives like that.  I don't want that picture in
your mind.  I'm going to tell my sisters too.  just write to me.  And
Henry says you can phone.  But don't come, any of you." "Eddy, I don't
care what you say, I'm going to visit you." They spent the last night
in a suite at the Hotel Pierre.  Pam ordered flowers as if this were a
bridal night, and a feast of a dinner with champagne in the suite. 
Afterward they sat together in front of the television set, watching a
comedian who wasn't funny.  Eddy lay with his head on her lap while she
stroked his hair. After a while she asked him softly, "Tell me, did you
really do anything so very terrible?" "Hell, no.  ... I mean ... I
suppose .  . . Well, I didn't kill anybody," he said, as he had already
said a few dozen times before. 226

"It's going to be terrible without you."

"The time will pass."  He wanted to comfort her and himself too.  "It
will go by faster than we think, and we'll have the rest of our lives
after that."

"We'll miss this."  She put his hand on her breast.

Her breasts were warm, full, and firm under the lace negligee.  He felt
her body move beneath him, coaxing him to move, too, either to turn
over on the sofa or else to get up and go with her to the bed.  He
wanted what she was waiting for; he always did want it; but the
prospect of the long time, two years at the least—if he was lucky—was
so daunting, unthinkable, and so chilling that he felt incapable of
response.

"We need something to remember," she murmured in his ear.  "Something
to last us."

"Darling, I don't think I—"

"Yes, yes.  You will.  Don't you know I know how?"

So he followed her to the bed, lay down, and waited.

"No hurry.  Just relax.  We have all night."  Her hands, soft and
burning, moved upon him.  "And if you fall asleep, that'll be all right
too."

But he did not fall asleep.  Slowly, slowly .  . . Just let everything
go.  That's it.  All the fantasies.  The seduction, the lure.  Was
there ever a woman like this one?  She was insatiable.  There was no
end.  Her voice.  Her words.  And a tremendous power leapt within him
at last; it surged, was satisfied, and surged again.  He had no idea
how long they were there together.

There was a Latin saying about man's sadness afterward.  Always he had
wondered about that, having never experienced such sadness.  But
tonight was different, he thought, when, after Pam had fallen asleep,
he had gotten up and gone into the other room.  The circumstances were
rather special tonight, after all.

It was not yet midnight, and the city lay sparkling, wide awake below
and beyond the window.  Limousines were moving down Fifth Avenue,
transporting people to late, gala functions.  On Madison they would be
going northward instead, transporting other people uptown to their
silken homes.  Eddy stood there staring at the cars, at the park, and
at planes that crossed the night sky, bringing yet more people to this
fabulous capital of the world.  And he thought about the day when he
had been a newcomer here himself, a nobody with almost nothing in his
pockets.  In the morning he would be leaving it with nothing at all in
his pockets, unless one counted what he had given away to Pam.

Suddenly the city with all its glamor seemed to him like a place he had
never known and would never know again.  He shook himself.  The feeling
was too strange, too eerie, for this night.  "I'm giving myself the
creeps," he said aloud.  And then, "Hey, Eddy Osborne, get hold of
yourself!  You're down, but you're not out yet."

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

On a dark day in Thanksgiving week an early snow lay glistening on the
lawns of Cresthill.  It was Connie who had placed the bronze sculptures
and the eighteenth-century folly at the foot of the parterre.  It was
she who had begun a neighborly tradition of inviting as many as could
come for lunch on the Sunday after the holiday.  There was something
picturesque, she thought, something charming, in the sight of families
arriving with their children, the little girls and the very tiniest
boys wearing lace-collared velvet and looking like a chic advertisement
in Country Life or Vogue.  Last year Therese had worn ruby velvet with
matching shoestring bows in her dark hair. On this particular Sunday
there was another kind of gathering in the house.  Shortly after lunch
the men had started to arrive, and so far Connie had counted fifteen of
them around the conference table in the red leather library. 
Obviously, some tremendous deal must be approaching its climactic hour
to have brought all these bankers, lawyers, accountants, and principals
together.  From past experiences she knew that they might well be here
all day, which would mean dinner, and then possibly late into the
night, too, which would mean pizzas.  These country meetings were
always held at Martin's house, although the DeWitt house was only half
an hour's drive away.  Very likely, Caroline didn't want the cigar
smoke in her house, Connie thought with some amusement. Cigar smoke was
seeping out of the library now, past closed doors and into the
adjoining sitting room where Connie had been asked to man the one
telephone line out of the five in the house that had been left open. 
She had been provided with a short list of acceptable callers and was
to summon Martin only if one of them was on the line.  Yes, this deal
had to be something extraordinary, she reflected, for Martin had been
unusually tense during the last few weeks; his left eyelid had kept
twitching. Restless now, she got up and went to the window.  Far down
the slope a bright orange spot slid across the snow where Nanny was
pulling Therese 228

BELVA PLAID

on her sled.  And Connie had a curious recollection of being pushed
down a little hill in a cardboard carton; it might have been Lara who
had pushed her or, perhaps, her mother.  How Peg would marvel today at
the grandchild to whom all this splendor belonged, these wide, quiet
fields and this great house!  As always, Connie felt a wave of confused
emotions: tenderness and fierce protectiveness, disappointment because
Lara's child was beautiful and Therese was not, shame at having so mean
a thought, and pride because Therese was so advanced for her age and
had such an appealing personality.  She might look like her half
sister, but she would never be woebegone like Melissa.

Fresh snow began to sift through the sky in dry, slow flakes, whitening
the parked cars.  More cars were arriving.  Here came Preston's old
station wagon with a dented fender.  You'd think it would bother him to
ride around in a car like that.  But he himself was immaculate, his
thick hair ruffling in the wind as he strode across the drive, his lean
face reddened by the cold.  He would be perfect in an advertisement for
country tweeds.  Why, Connie thought, do I always imagine how people
would look in photographs?  No matter.  Preston belonged indefinably to
the American aristocracy.  Like Eddy's wife, Pam.  You had to be born
to it.

Poor Eddy, in that awful place.  She had gone once with Lara to see
him, and their presence had upset him terribly; it had crushed his
pride.  But over the telephone he still talked with his old bravado, as
if he really hadn't done anything much, as if everyone were making too
big a fuss about it, anyway.  Two years ago he had been here with them,
happy and boisterous, loaded as usual with gifts.  Just there near the
front door he had parked and called the butler to help him carry
Therese's dollhouse.  Poor Eddy.  And she remembered him presenting her
with the Mercedes on the day of her wedding, bidding for a Matisse at a
spectacular auction, answering respectful questions at a fashionable
dinner party.

What had it all meant in the end?  A strange, sick feeling of loss
swept through her, as if there were no purpose in anything.  And Connie
shook herself as if to rid herself of a dismal foreboding.

Now came a white Rolls-Royce.  When the chauffeur opened the door, she
saw white leather upholstery, at which she frowned.  Flamboyant.  No
taste.  This had to be Franklin Bennett, the famous Franklin Bennett. 
Martin's description fitted the broad, bulky man in the ankle-length
mink coat who emerged from the car.  Dreadful.  And she frowned
again.

The day dragged.  She returned to the sofa and the Sunday newspaper. 
Delphine whimpered, wanting to be on the sofa with Connie, and she
picked her up, thinking again what a picture that would make, the
chintz sofa, the red poodle, and herself in her sea-green knitted suit.
You often saw photos of women with their dogs in their drawing rooms
or libraries.

229

Her mind went suddenly to the day they had bought Delphine.  "Why, I
can almost fit her into my pocket!"  Richard had exclaimed.  She could
hear the exact tones of his voice this very minute, although ten years
had gone by.  And she wondered what might be happening in his life now.
It was strange to think how once his life had been joined to her own. 
The shy young man, holding the tennis racket, said, Are you Miss
Osborne?  And now here she sat in Martin's house with Richard's dog on
her lap. I dozed, she thought, when she was jarred awake.  The low
rumble of male voices that had been barely audible from the other side
of the heavy doors was erupting into angry argument, now plainly heard.
"God damn it!  Are you saying we're crooks?  Is that what you're
saying?"  Unmistakably, that was Martin. The answering voice, a
youthful one, was just as loud, but even and controlled.  "I did not
say that, sir.  I did not." "You used the word fake, and I didn't like
it.  God damn, I didn't like it." "I said, if you remember, that this
money is fake stuff.  These bonds are promises based on other promises
that people may not be able to keep.  So it's not real money.  It's
worth about as much, in my opinion, as Monopoly money." "Oh," said
Martin, icy cold now, "it's Monopoly money that we've been paying you,
is it?" "No, sir, I've been properly paid, and I know that.  All I'm
saying is, a lot of people in this country are going to end up not
being paid at all." Other voices entered into the commotion.  To
Connie's alarmed ears it sounded as if one man, the one with the
youthful voice, was in opposition to all the others.  She had never
imagined that these eminent men would create such a tumult. "This
mountain of debt will someday crush the whole country—" "Shit!  Why
don't you cut out the shit!" "You're still wet behind the ears—" ". . .
millions now, but there'll be a day of reckoning!" ". . . this firm was
founded by my forebears when your grandfather was in his crib."  That
was Preston's voice. ". . . fucking bastards, throwing obstacles in the
way of every fresh idea—" Connie was thinking, "Even when Pop was
drunk, he didn't talk like that." ". . . greed, brutal greed, is all—"
There was a crash, as of a fist hitting a tabletop.  "Why the hell
don't you shut up?" "Calm down, will you?  Go home—" 230

"That's the best idea yet."  This was Martin again, calmer now.  "We're
getting nowhere like this."

And Preston said, "Go home, McClintock.  Think things over, and we'll
talk tomorrow at the office."

Piqued by curiosity, Connie went to the window again, to see a young
man with coppery hair go running down the steps into a car and, with a
crunch and spurt of gravel, speed away.  She had always had excellent
recall of people, and was sure she had seen him before,

Quiet resumed, and after another hour or so the meeting broke up, and
Martin, with Preston, brought the man in the mink coat to Connie. 
Martin made the introductions.

"Pleased to meet you," said Franklin Bennett.  His eyes touched her
from head to foot.  "Well, Berg, you sure know how to pick them. 
Nothing like a young woman to make you feel like a rooster again.  How
old are you, Connie?"

Appalled, she answered, "Thirty-four."

"My wife—my new wife's—younger.  Twenty-seven.  You remind me of her a
little.  Say, Berg, you've got a beautiful spread here.  How many
acres?"

"Forty-three."

"Oh, boy—worth a bundle, this close to New York."

"Well, it's home," Martin said modestly.  "We like it."

"Why the hell wouldn't you?  So, I'll be going."  Bennett turned to
Connie.  "You must have heard that racket.  Young son of a bitch lost
his marbles."

"I regret," Preston said, "that the disturbance came from someone in
our firm."

Martin added, "He's an interesting type, McClintock, and unpredictable,
apparently.  He started out as a poverty worker, then switched
completely and has put some brilliant deals together.  Looked like a
rising star."  Puzzled, he scratched his head.  "I really can't imagine
what happened to him today."

Bennett was magnanimous.  "Well, it's not your fault.  I've had to fire
plenty of rising stars in my time, you can bet.  The main thing is,
we're getting somewhere."  He reached for the door.  "Got to be going. 
Can't keep the young missus waiting too long."

When the door had closed behind Bennett, Preston sighed in disgust. 
"What a horror that man is!"

Martin remarked that his biography would be fascinating, to which
Preston answered that it would be if anyone dared to write the truth.

"He was reared by his grandfather on a Kansas farm after his parents
died," Preston explained to Connie.  "But he had no intention of
staying there.  His first job was at a cereal factory in the shipping
office, but he

231

didn't stay there long either.  It only took him eleven years to become
the company president.  He's climbed, he's clawed, and he's got eyes in
the back of his head.  Incidentally, Martin, I hope you're going to
fire McClintock tomorrow.  That was inexcusable." "I know," Martin
said.  "It'll be a nasty job, all the same."  And he explained to
Connie, "McClintock lost his wife in that bus accident upstate last
summer." "But he's outlived his usefulness," Preston said. "I know,"
Martin said again. "Son of a bitch!"  he exclaimed as soon as Preston
was out of the door. "Who?  Not Preston?" "Yes, yes.  Oh, I don't
really mean it, but damn, he always expects me to do the dirty work. 
I'm the one who had to fire three hundred brokers after Black Monday,
while he acted the gentleman." Fire.  They always knew when Pop had
been fired, by the drag of his steps coming slowly and heavily up the
stairs.  Then he'd stand in the doorway, looking around from one to the
other, and he'd cough before he got the words out.  A shiver of pity
ran through Connie.                                  > "Why do you do
it, then?"  she asked.  "You're as much a partner as he is." "I'll tell
you.  Because I can do it more kindly than he can.  I'll take
McClintock out to lunch and break it nicely to him.  Not that he
deserves kindness, the damn fool.  He could have lost the deal for us
and sent six million in fees down the drain.  You know what, Connie?  A
guy like that reminds me of my brother Ben, only McClintock seems to
have just suddenly gone haywire, while Ben has always had his head in
the clouds."  Martin wiped his forehead.  "I'm worn out.  I need a cup
of coffee." When Connie brought the coffee into the library and set it
on the table, which was still littered with papers, Martin said, "By
the way, I haven't mentioned to you that Bennett wants to include your
brother-in-law's plant in the deal." "What?  Davey's place?  Why ever
would he?" "It seems that they've some patents that fit into Bennett's
medical supply division.  He wants them badly.  He's already sent a man
out to talk to Davey." She thought for a moment and replied, "It's
funny that you've never told me about it before." "Why?  I never bring
business home." "But this concerns Davey and Lara." "All the more
reason for you not to be mixed up in it." "Davey will hate it if anyone
tries to interfere with his plant.  It's like 232

another child to him, you know that."  And she said thoughtfully, "I
wonder why Lara never mentioned it either."

"I guess she thought there was no reason for her to do so because they
had turned Bennett's man down."

"Well, good.  I should think they would.  Bennett is abominable.  I'd
like to see him not get his way for a change."

Martin laughed.  "That's irrelevant.  He intends to make them a
fantastic offer."

"Davey'll turn it down again."

"He'll change his mind when it's properly explained.  Bennett said he
may even fly out there himself to see the plant, and that's a highly
unusual thing for the big boss to be doing."

"He must want it awfully badly, then.  Funny.  A little place like
that."

"Not funny.  It's the way conglomerates are assembled."

Connie shook her head.  "Davey won't do it.  Or Lara either.  My
sister's stubborn."

"It must run in the family."  Martin laughed again.  "I notice you
didn't give up until you got your way and made me buy the London
house."  He bent down and kissed her.  "Darn!  It's only five o'clock. 
If I weren't afraid the baby might come looking for us, I'd take you up
to bed right now."

"We'll go to bed early, darling."  She had to pretend to share his
impatience.  But her mind was still elsewhere.  "What would a deal like
that mean for Davey and Lara?"  she asked.

"A nice, big, tidy piece of change.  That's what it'll mean."

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

In Allenwood, Pennsylvania, the autumn weather had turned suddenly
warm, and families in their sweaters were picnicking on a little
stretch of brown lawn.  Pam had brought a basket with fastidious
appointments and Eddy's choice of food, French cheese, cold chicken,
salad, red wine, and strawberry tarts. Regarding him anxiously, she
asked him whether there was anything special he would like her to send
him. "A couple of books.  The library here isn't the best." A husband
and wife with two small boys were shaking out their blanket and
cleaning up the remains of lunch.  Mother and the children come to
visit Daddy in jail, Eddy thought bitterly.  He could not comprehend
how anyone could let his young children see him like this.  It was bad
enough to have a wife go home with this picture of him in her head.
True, the place was not what he had imagined it would be.  In spite of
Rathbone's description of "minimum security," many things had surprised
him here.  The good food that they were allowed to prepare for
themselves.  The freedom to use the telephone; why, a lot of the men
here were actually carrying on business by telephone.  Working in the
library was pleasant enough, too, as was working in the yard on a
summer day.  He had even learned to cook and clean up the kitchen
afterward.  The thought caused him to smile at this incongruous image
of himself. "What's so funny?"  Pam asked. "I was thinking how
surprised you'd be to see me making dinner and cleaning the pots
afterward." She smiled, too, saying, "You won't have to when you're
home again.  I've found the most marvelous couple, even better than
Maria and Ramon." "All that seems like a century ago." "I know."  She
put her hand on his arm.  "Eddy, this will pass.  You've been so
brave." He looked down at her hand with its short nails, so practical
and yet so 234

pretty, like little pearly shells.  The diamond wedding band that they
had bought in Paris on the Place Vendome another century ago gleamed on
her finger.  It at least was the same, giving some measure of assurance
that she really still belonged to him.  And picking up her hand, he
kissed each finger, one by one.

"You look so beautiful," he said.  "You remembered to wear gray.  I'll
bet you thought I wouldn't notice."

"No, I knew you would."

Gray, a certain silvery gray, had purity.  It was the color of rain,
which he loved; it was crystal; it was the ocean at night; it was in
some lights the color of Pam's eyes.

"It's terrible to be sitting here with you," he said, "and only touch
your fingers."

"I know," she whispered.

"Sometimes at night I go almost crazy.  I wish the work were harder so
I'd be too exhausted to feel anything.  One day I hauled stones in the
garden; I wanted to knock myself out.  That was the only night I didn't
think of you."

"I don't know what to say."

"Is it the same for you too?"

"Eddy .  . . you know me, so you have to know it is."

"I wish all these damn people would evaporate.  I wish there was a hill
or some woods where we could go right this minute."

"Please.  You're tormenting yourself and me.  Let's think of something
else."

"You're right.  I'm sorry.  Then tell me things.  Anything.  Tell me
what you did yesterday."

"Much the same as every day.  The place takes a lot of attention.  The
stables are filling up.  I'm breeding good stock.  Last week I bought a
lovely mare.  The owner's moving to the city and wanted a good home for
her.  She's named Lassie."

"What color?"

"She looks like a caramel with white feet."

"When it's seven o'clock in the morning, I'm going to think: Pam's on
Lassie now, taking the trail past the orchard and into the woods.  Am I
right?"

"Just about seven, unless I oversleep.  I don't always fall asleep till
very late.  The house is so lonely.  It's awfully big to be in by
yourself.  I don't even hear the help moving around, they're so far
away."

No matter what subject they embarked on, it always seemed to lead back
to the fact of their separation.  And Pam, evidently aware of that,
too, swiftly changed the direction of their thoughts again.

235

"People are surprised that I'm doing so well without raising hunters or
racers.  A horse is a companion for riding, I say, not to have its poor
heart worn out at a racetrack.  That's exploitation, that's cruelty. 
And as for hunting some miserable, terrified little fox—well, you know
what I think of that."  Pam's face grew stern. "I love you when you go
off on one of your crusades, although I suppose the hunters and the
racetrack crowd must think you're some kind of nut." "That doesn't
bother me.  Besides, I've got plenty of company to agree with me.  I've
made some nice friends, Eddy.  You'll see." The minutes were ticking
away.  Eddy pulled his sleeve over his wrist-watch so he wouldn't have
to see how late it was growing.  And they sat on, talking volubly,
wasting not even a minute in silence. "The kitchen turned out
perfectly.  And the cabinets in your little office are perfect too. 
The man knows his business.  Lara and Davey brought the girls.  It's
really just a hop over the river for them, about a four-hour drive. 
Peggy's darling, and Sue's amazing.  I think she's going to be a
scholar, she's that smart.  Connie sent an enormous, extravagant silver
epergne for our dining table." "Whatever for?" "House gift, darling. 
And it was really sweet of her.  It must have cost a fortune, but you
know your sister.  She can't resist beautiful things.  Like you with
this picnic basket.  Silver fittings!" "Well, it's come in handy
today," he said. His remark was lame.  Silver fittings for a visit to a
jail! They were the last people on the lawn, so it was almost time for
her to leave, and he rushed to speak. "I haven't asked you the only
question that's at all important.  How are you?  Has all this changed
you in any way, the you that I know?  The truth, Pam." Before replying,
she paused.  And then, slowly and seriously, explained.  "In the
beginning when you came here, reality hit me for the first time.  It
felt like running at full force into a stone wall.  I saw stars.  My
head throbbed with the pain of it.  And then I got angry—you will
understand, Eddy?"  When he nodded, she continued, "I was—well, I had a
feeling of outrage that I'd been cheated.  That it wasn't fair to have
been given such a happy life only to have it snatched back in such a—a
stupid way.  Are you sure you understand, Eddy?" "Yes.  Yes, of course.
It was natural." Pam took both of his hands in hers.  "Look at me. 
Look into my eyes.  You asked me, so I told you.  But I want you to
know that's over.  It only lasted for a couple of days, and I'm back
where I was.  And I love you, Eddy 236

Osborne, and we're going to have a wonderful long life together again
and —and I love you, love you— And now I have to go."

Before they parted, she said, "I'll be back the first of the month."

"It's too much for you, too long a trip."

"Let me be the judge of that.  You can't keep me away."

He stood still looking after her.  He had not said what he really felt!
It's too much for me, seeing you so briefly, and having to let you go
again.  And it's not just myself that I'm thinking about, either, he
thought.  Why should a girl like Pam have to suffer because of my
mistakes, mistakes that I regret, that I apologize for?  I'm glad she's
in Kentucky, at least.  All the fine friends we had .  . . they act as
though we'd caught some foul, contagious disease.  Oh, a few wrote nice
letters to the court, that's true, but still the humiliation is hell. 
And I can't help her.

A couple of men had stayed outside to have a catch after the visitors
left.  He recognized little Bosch, who slept in the next bed.  Bosch
was in for a year and a half.  In charge of office-supply purchases for
the bank where he worked, he had set up a dummy corporation and
pocketed half a million dollars before they caught him.  Outright
thievery, that was.  And you'd never think it to look at him.  He
looked like a schoolteacher.  Eddy supposed it would do him good to
join them for some exercise.  His flesh was willing to go, but his
spirit was not.

He was in prison.  All the guards might be dressed in navy jackets and
gray flannel trousers, but they were guards all the same, regardless of
their agreeable disguise.  And they hated you, too, hated you because
someday you were going to get out and return, very likely, to a
comfortable life, while they would stay here.  When they insulted you
with their sarcasms, you had to take it and like it because if you
answered back, they would put it on your record and that would affect
your parole.

Yes, minimum security or not, this was a prison, and he was immured. 
There were just so many steps permitted to the boundary.  Beyond, just
a little way, lay the Susquehanna River; it flowed all the way to
Chesapeake Bay, where one of Eddy's clients had a fine colonial estate
and used to invite him in duck-hunting season.  Northwest a little way,
near Bald Eagle Mountain, was Williamsport, where, flying to meet
another client, he had been fogged in one afternoon and had to circle
for an hour.  He remembered being scared and vowing never to fly in a
two-seater again.  Well, "never" was a long time; he'd be glad enough
to do it now.  Two-seater or hot air balloon, anything to get out of
here.

Immured.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

ow, who can that be?"  Lara wondered, looking up from her desk, at
which she was going over the Davis Company's monthly bank statement. 
It was not often that a stretch limousine drew up to the factory
door—only when some important customer drove in from the airport. A
bulky man wearing, of all things, a long mink coat, got out and came
picking his way up the walk through puddled, melted snow.  A minute or
two later she was summoned to Davey's office across the hall. "Franklin
Bennett," said the newcomer, "but call me Frank.  I'm informal."  He
sat down, stretching his legs.  "I never thought I'd find myself in the
wilds of Ohio.  I haven't been in a small burg like this since I grew
up in one.  The weather's nice today at least." Neither Davey nor Lara
had any comments to make to that. Bennett lit a cigar and offered one
to Davey. "Thanks.  I don't smoke." "I don't usually visit every small
operation," Bennett began, leaning back so far that the chair creaked. 
"But I hear you gave my man a hard time." "I wouldn't say that," said
Davey, very calmly.  "I've never been known to give people a hard
time." "Well, you turned him down flat, didn't you?" "That's my
privilege." "You could have listened to him, couldn't you?" "I heard
all I needed to hear, Mr.  Bennett.  This is our place, and we want to
keep it that way." Now Bennett switched to a smile.  It doesn't look
natural on his face, Lara thought. "Well, I guess I can try to
understand that.  Your brother-in-law Martin," he said, indicating
Lara, "has told me how you people worked to get this operation under
way." Martin!  On the instant Lara's eyes met Davey's.  So Eddy's
gossipy, fool- 238

ish-sounding rumor had been more than a rumor.  After all these many
months, during which Martin had made no mention of anything: Martin,
the benefactor, the rock of strength!  She felt as if she had been
struck in the chest or pierced with something sharp and cold.

"You've done a nice job too.  Very nice.  But you don't want to stop
here, do you?  You want to grow, don't you?"

"Not particularly," Davey said.  "We fit the town, we're part of it,
the right size for it.  We've got a nursery school on the grounds for
the employees' kids, there's the Davis Ballpark—"

Bennett was impatient.  "I know all that.  Martin gave me the picture. 
But if you're so social minded, you ought to be thinking of all the
good you could do by expanding."

It was Davey's turn to interrupt.  "It wouldn't be expanding.  It would
be breaking up, and I don't want to do that, Mr.  Bennett."

"Martin told me you were stubborn."

"Did he?"

"Oh, don't get me wrong!  He didn't mean anything by it.  He thinks the
world of you both.  He also thinks you'd be fools to turn down what
we're offering."

Davey shrugged.  "Then we'll be fools."

"You could find yourself worth millions in a couple of years."

"Mr.  Bennett, you probably won't understand this, and it seems that my
brother-in-law doesn't, either, but neither my wife nor I have the
least desire to be worth millions."

"My God!"  Bennett said.  He leaned forward so that cigar smoke rose
into Lara's face.  "You may not care about money, but your stockholders
will care, and you can bet on that.  All I need is to present my offer
at a stockholders' meeting, and they'll vote to sell out."

"I guarantee that they won't.  I know them, and you don't."

"I know human nature," Bennett replied.

Davey was silent.  And Bennett resumed, "But I'll wait awhile.  I'm not
usually a patient man, though.  I didn't get where I am by being
patient."

"I can see that," Davey said.

Again his eyes met Lara's, speaking to her.  Don't be afraid, they
said, I've met bullies before.

"I'll give you a reasonable time to think it over, Davis.  I'd like to
avoid a fight on account of Berg.  He's financed some sweet deals for
me, and I appreciate that.  And you'll find I know how to express my
appreciation when people cooperate."  Again a smile flashed across the
florid face.  "Well, I've got my plane waiting.  Be seeing you," he
said as he rose to go.

"Not if I can help it," Davey declared as the door closed.  He stood
still a moment as if to collect himself.  "It's a raid, that's what it
is, Lara."

239

"And Martin's part of it!  I'm numb.  Can you believe this?  It's like
suddenly finding out that your own father was a Russian spy.  Oh, I
don't know what I'm saying," she cried tearfully. "Calm down.  We have
to think now.  We have to take our time and think." "But I'm just
awfully, awfully scared.  That man Bennett—he's brutal, Davey." It was
as if some wild, threatening vagabond had appeared at the front door of
one's house and then, departing quietly enough, had left behind him the
assurance that he would be back.  After that, one would live with the
doors locked and the shades down. "What are we going to do?"  she
asked. "Right now?  Go home and eat." Dropping the subject, she made
the dinner hour as normal as ever.  At the table Sue, now in eighth
grade, posed a problem in math over which Davey and she had ten
minutes' worth of discussion.  Sue was at the head of her class and
knew already that she wanted to be a scientist.  Lara watched her with
her eyes screwed up and her tongue in her cheek, drawing a diagram on a
paper napkin.  Such a serious girl she was, her childhood already
almost left behind.  And yet she had a delightful giggle too. We've
been so lucky with her, Lara thought.  It's true, I have to admit, that
we've put a whole lot of loving effort into her, but still the good
material had to be there in the first place. Sue was cutting Peggy's
chicken.  The care she took of Peggy was beautiful to see.  Peggy was a
toy for her, a pretty, movable toy.  Sue sometimes has more patience
with her temper tantrums than I have, reflected Lara. After dinner Sue
and Peggy went next door to the Burkes' and the parents took their
coffee to the den.  Lara looked around the comfortable room.  Home. 
The curtains, warm, rose-flowered linen, were drawn against the
evening; the sleeping sheepdog yelped once in his dreams; the
children's photographs were ranked on the bookshelves.  Home.  They'd
planned it so well, making it so snug and orderly a place.  And now
total strangers had come, daring to invade, to disturb, this chosen
life.  Total strangers!  The outrage!  Could such things be allowed?
The telephone rang and Davey picked it up. "Hello, Martin.  Yes, he was
here this afternoon.  What?"  He nodded to Lara.  "Take the phone in
the kitchen.  Martin wants you to listen." Martin's voice, with its
strong New York accent, had a powerful ring.  "So, what happened?  What
did you think?" "The first thought that came to me, Martin, was
amazement that you're a part of this.  You never told us." 240

Davey's voice trembled, but so faintly that only Lara would be aware of
it.  Only she could know the sense of outrage that he was
suppressing.

"It's a very recent involvement, that's why.  We weren't in it at the
start.  Bennett switched from some other people and then came to us to
do a leveraged buyout."

"Well, either way," Davey said, still quietly, "it's come as a great
shock to us."

"I'm sorry to hear that.  It's a coincidence, that's all.  And yet, not
such a strange one.  We are, after all, well-known investment bankers,
and P.T.C. Longwood is naturally looking for the best help it can get."
 Martin spoke lightly, easily.

If only, Lara was thinking, we could speak our minds.  But there are
all the ties, the ramifications, the favors we accepted.  And Connie. 
How to endure another breach with Connie?

"So tell me, what did you think?"

"I thought he was an awful man."

Martin laughed.  "I can't disagree with that.  But if you had to love
everyone you met in the business world, you'd do mighty little
business."

"True.  Only, I don't want to do business of this kind with anyone."

"If you don't like the deal, I can get him to sweeten it, you know
that.  Leave it to me.  What part of it didn't you like?"

"We didn't get to any of the parts.  I didn't want to hear them.  I'm
not interested."

There was a pause until Martin said, sounding incredulous, "That's
impossible."

"It's true, Martin."

"Listen, Davey.  I realize that he must have turned you off.  Nobody
likes the man, but everyone admits he's a phenomenon.  In the entire
corporate world there's nobody who can even come close to what
Bennett's accomplished so fast."

"I believe you, but we want to keep what we have, just the way it
is."

There was another long pause, and then Martin said, "Listen, I'm going
to fly out on Saturday and see you at your house.  We're family, and we
don't talk formally in offices.  Can you pick me up at the airport? 
I'll phone you when I get in."

"Martin, we—" began Davey, but Martin had already hung up.

Lara came in from the kitchen.  "He's so determined!  I don't want him
here on Saturday."

"I wish he weren't your sister's husband.  I wish he hadn't been so
good to us.  Then I could tell him to go to hell."

241

The car had scarcely stopped in the driveway before Lara was at the
front door, watching the two men come up the walk and scanning Davey's
face, for a hint of his mood.  But on both faces there were only smiles
of greeting, especially as Peggy appeared beside her at the door,
shrieking.

"Uncle Martin!  What have you got for me?"

For Martin had two white glossy boxes in either hand.  During her stay
with the Bergs, Peggy had quickly learned the ways of their household. 
She knew that whenever Martin came into a room where the children were,
it was with some sort of gift, if only a few pieces of chocolate.

"Peggy!"  Lara gave the obligatory reproof.  "That's not nice!"

Martin laughed, stooped down, and kissed the child.  "For you, for all
of you.  I brought a box of candy, not to be opened until after lunch. 
And these," he said to Lara as he put the boxes down on the floor, "are
some things Connie bought in Paris for you, Peggy, and Sue.  She flew
over to the openings with Bitsy Maxwell for a couple of days last
week."

Lara said the expected "Oh, she shouldn't have!"

Bless Connie as always!  The sumptuous clothes would be nothing that
anybody would wear in an average American town, but the thought and the
love were there.

Lunch was a cooperative effort.  Sue had set the table very nicely with
the best new china and helped Lara with the salad and the lemon
custard.  After a week of heavy rain the sun had come out.  And from
the dining room's bow window one saw a spread of bright grass.  The
mild light dappled the pretty table.

"Well, this is nice," Martin said when they sat down.

It is nice, Lara thought, and a pity in such a setting to be as
frustrated and resentful as she was.

"I can read," Peggy announced, apropos of nothing at all.  "Uncle
Martin, did you know I can read?"

"No," said Martin in great surprise.  "Well, that's wonderful."

"I'll show you," Peggy said, starting to climb down from the chair.

"No, no," Lara ordered.  "After lunch you may show how you can read,
but don't bother people now."

The child, surprised at the unusual reprimand, sat down.  Martin
promised to hear Peggy read later, and then, diplomat that he was,
asked Sue how she liked school.

"It's pretty good.  I like science and math the best."

"Sue keeps her grades up," Davey said.  "We never have to remind her to
do her homework."

Martin nodded sensible approval.  "It's great that girls are going in
for the sciences.  There never was any reason why they shouldn't."

L

242

And so the conversation went, a civilized, amiable family conversation,
while all three adults pretended that there was no tension among
them.

When lunch was finished, the three went to the living room.  Lara set a
coffee service on the table before the sofa, and Martin settled back
with a cigar.

"Yes, yes, you've got a nice place," he repeated.  "Homelike.  A lot
more so than an apartment on Fifth Avenue."

Lara was inwardly amused.  As if Martin would trade the Fifth Avenue
apartment for this!

"We like it," Davy said.  "But then, we've always lived here."

"It's a good place to bring up kids," Martin observed.  "And you've got
a beautiful family, with Peggy back to normal, thank God.  Sue's an
especially appealing girl too."

"Yes, we've been lucky," Davey acknowledged.

There was a pause.  Now that these amenities were accomplished, Lara
was just wondering how long it would take to get to the point of the
visit, when the point was abruptly reached.

"Well, let's begin.  You know why I'm here," Martin said.

The two looked up from their coffee cups without responding.  Martin
cleared his throat, blew his nose, and replaced his handkerchief.  It
occurred to Lara that she had never before seen the man ill at ease
about anything.  Then to her surprise he addressed her individually.

"I've never said this to you, Lara.  I know Davey has a clear picture
of the Longwood proposal in his mind.  We had a good talk in the car. 
But I wondered whether you really have one.  And since I know he won't
do anything without your approval, I've concluded that maybe you're the
reason he can't quite make up his mind.  And that's why I'm here, to go
over the whole thing in detail and specifically with you."

"But we have both made up our minds," Lara said.  "I thought you knew
that."

Martin turned to Davey, who still said nothing, but stirred his coffee
and looked thoughtful.  What was the matter with him?  Why did he not
speak up?

Martin began again.  "Davey, I understand very well how you built this
business and what it must mean to you—"

Now Davey interrupted.  "The idea for the business was actually Lara's.
I'm just an inventor.  And then it was Eddy who developed it, who
showed us how to run it."

"Oh, Eddy," Martin said with a slight shrug.

The shrug, however unintentioned, irked Lara, bringing her at once to
the defensive.  "Yes, Eddy.  He never had anything but giving in his
heart."

243

Martin nodded.  "True.  But then came greed, and it ruined him.  Very
sad."

"That's why we mustn't let greed ruin us," Lara said gently enough.

"We are digressing."  Martin laid the cigar in an ashtray and shoved
the coffee cup aside.  "Let us get back to my subject.  I have to tell
you, I won't be able to stave this matter off.  Franklin Bennett is not
the easiest man in the world to deal with.  Nor are all the bankers, or
the lawyers.  A project like this involves more people than you perhaps
imagine."

Lara, trying to meet Davey's eyes, had no success.  He was deliberately
avoiding her.  It was infuriating to see him so impassive, offering no
responses, no opinions; quiet man that he was, man of a few words, he
could nevertheless express himself very firmly indeed, whenever he
wanted to.

Martin was waiting for someone to answer him.  So she said, "Martin, I
hate being negative.  After all you've done for us!  You must think I'm
ungrateful, as if I'm not even decent enough to give thought to what
you've proposed.  But I have thought.  We both have.  Believe me when I
say we've thought very, very deeply."

"You made a clear statement a moment ago, about not letting greed ruin
you.  You can't have given the proposition much thought, Lara, if you
can say a thing like that."

Still quietly, Lara persisted.  "But greed is what I see in these
takeovers.  Wouldn't it be greedy to sell out, to close down a plant
that has brought so many jobs to this town and done so much for the
town, greedy to sell out, to grab our money and run?  What about
Bennett himself or the money shufflers on Wall Street?  Not greedy?"

At that Davey spoke anxiously.  "Lara, not everyone is—you don't mean
—she doesn't mean," he said to Martin, as if, Lara thought, he were
apologizing for me, as if I were not responsible for my own words.

She was not to be hushed.  "I was not being personal, Martin.  I was
only telling you what I see is happening in this country.  We don't
want to be part of it.  That's all I meant."

Martin flushed, and she realized that he had indeed considered himself
insulted.  Nevertheless, she continued.

"Maybe you don't understand a town like this one.  People here resent
it when they read about others taking golden parachutes and then
abandoning everything.  People giving themselves millions while their
companies are drained away."

"Envy," said Martin.  "Envy pure and simple.  It's exaggerated and
ridiculous."

Lara shook her head.  "No, Martin, not envy.  Oh, maybe some of it is,
I suppose.  But I'm talking about a friend from my school days whose
husband works at our plant.  If we close up and he loses this job,
they'll lose

iL 244

their house.  That's what's happened to her sister's family in New
Jersey, and she's terrified.  If our plant closes, we'll mangle this
town, Martin.  We're the largest factory in it.  So many people have
come to depend on it."

"They can be relocated," Martin argued.  "P.T.C. Longwood has plants in
Michigan and Tennessee—"

"But they don't want to be relocated."  She could hear the pleading in
her voice.  "And you know they wouldn't relocate all of them, anyhow. 
You know that, and I know it.  I've read enough about it."

Martin sighed and appealed to Davey.  "What's the sense of going down
fighting?  You can't win, Davey.  Take my word for it.  You'll be best
off if you accept the buyout.  Take the money, and a damn big hunk it
is.  Think with your wallet.  Your wallet is your friend in need, and
never forget it."

"We're joint owners," Davey said, indicating Lara.  "We'd have to agree
on anything we do."

"Well, you'd better come to a quick agreement.  That's all I can say." 
Martin looked at his watch and stood up.  "I've got to fly back. 
DeWitt, my partner, lost his wife, and the funeral's tomorrow."  They
went to the door.  "If you're the one who's holding this up, Lara,
you're making a big mistake.  Go along with Bennett, and Davey can have
a big job with the company.  Make an enemy of him, and you'll regret
it.  Because I warn you, although I've told you before, when this offer
is formally tended to the stockholders, they are going to vote against
you."  He made a thumbs-down gesture.  "I've got to hurry.  Will you
take me back to the airport, Davey?"

And Martin left, left in cold anger, Lara knew, scarcely shaking her
hand.

Within her also, while she waited for Davey's return, anger mounted. 
By the time he came home, it was ready to erupt.

"What do you mean," she demanded as he came into the kitchen where she
was furiously polishing silver that needed no polishing, "by letting me
take the brunt of all that?  You hardly opened your mouth.  You acted
as if you agreed with him, for God's sake!"

"Maybe I felt discouraged, Lara.  Maybe it's occurred to me that it's
smart to know when you're beaten."

She stared at him.  "I don't believe you!  Beaten!"

"You know the prayer, 'Lord, give me the courage to accept the things I
cannot change'?"

"I'm not ready to accept this.  We can change it.  We can."

"You heard what Martin said.  You heard what Eddy said when this
business was first proposed.  The stockholders will vote to accept
Bennett's money.  You know the shares can triple in value overnight,
don't you?"

"You can win them over if you try!  You've always said they're your
friends."

245

At this Davey held up a weary arm.  "Stop.  They were my friends." For
a moment she was stunned.  "Oh, you're such a defeatist!"  she cried
then.  "Do you actually want to give up?  You sound as if you already
have given up, as if you're just resigned to walking away from the
Davis Company.  Yes, go hand everything over to that creep Bennett. 
I'll tell you something, Davey Davis: If those people win I won't take
a penny of their goddamned money.  I won't." "Maybe it's you who want
to walk away.  Walk away from this house and we'll all go live in a
tent, I suppose." "Of course I don't want to." "Then stop talking like
a child." "It's not talking like a child to say that I won't live here
with a small fortune in my pocket while the people I grew up with have
lost their livelihood through our fault.  I'll fight first." "Oh,
fight!  Big talk!"  Davey glared at her.  "When you've got a few
million dollars so you can outbid Longwood's offer and buy all the
stock yourself, then come to me with your big talk about fighting.  But
since you haven't got the millions, we'll do a hell of a lot better to
let them take the place and get paid so you and your kids won't starve
even if I should die tomorrow." "I'd never starve.  I can work." "Tough
talk, Lara.  I didn't know you could be so tough." She was not quite
sure whether this was sarcasm, but she answered nevertheless, "Well,
now you're finding out." "Yes, and Martin's finding out too." "Don't
think I enjoy being at odds with my sister's husband.  It's pretty
awful." This time the sarcasm was unmistakable.  "Especially since he's
done a few small favors for us." "One thing has nothing to do with the
other." "It has plenty to do with it.  Think about it.  If Peggy were—"
"Now stop right there, and listen to me.  A while ago when we thought
she was doomed, I understand how you could say you didn't care what
happened to the plant.  I didn't agree even then, but I understood. 
Now that she's well, though, you've no excuse for talking like
that—unless somebody's brainwashed you or something.  Yes, Martin's
brainwashed you, I see that." Davey turned on his heel.  "Enough.  I'm
going inside to lie down.  Keep the kids out of the den.  My head's
splitting."  At the door he paused.  "This has got to be decided one
way or the other, Lara." "You're right.  But we're deadlocked.  We're
fifty-fifty.  Deadlocked." "One of us has got to give way." 246

"It won't be me, Davey.  I won't sign anything.  And it's not only
because of my social conscience.  Oh, no!  It's you too—your product,
your brains.  I won't give them up even if you're willing to."

Davey slammed the door.

Lara put the silver away and went outside into the waning afternoon.  A
chipmunk, surprised no doubt by the unexpected warmth when spring was
still far off, emerged from his home in the stone wall; only his
striped head with its bright black eyes was visible.  Unmoving, the
woman and the tiny creature observed each other.  He, she thought, is
probably thinking of going back for more of the birdseed that drops
from the feeder, while I— what am I thinking?  That I could possibly be
wrong and Davey right?

Through a gap in the hedge she could glimpse Peggy and her friend
playing in the friend's yard.  The yellow jacket darted, the treble
voice was lifted now in laughter.  Had it ever seemed, during those
dark months, that she would be running and screaming like this?  Davey
had lost hope, Lara thought.  To tell the truth, I did, too, almost;
and yet there was always something else inside me that said, Wait! 
It's not over till it's over.

A little ruefully, she had to smile.  Maybe I get that from Peg, who
never stopped believing that Pop would learn to stay sober, or even—who
knows —from Pop, who never stopped believing that prosperity was just
around the corner.

Presently she got up and went back indoors.  Davey was still lying on
the sofa, but hearing footsteps in the room, he opened his eyes.

"Angry?"  she asked.

"Oh, I suppose not."  He never could be angry too long.  "Just terribly
worried."

"I know.  I am too.  It seems that the minute you get over one awful
thing, another comes along."  She sat down on the sofa and smoothed his
forehead.  "Don't wrinkle it like that."

"Can't help it.  I'm thinking.  Is it possible that I'm giving in too
easily?"

"Funny, I had just been thinking for a moment that maybe you could be

right."

"Only for a moment?"

"Yes.  And then I thought, No, it's not over till it's over."

They were both silent.  Then Lara asked, "Shall we wait and see?  Do
nothing as long as we can?"

"I'm willing.  To tell you the truth, I don't seem to have enough
energy for much else."

News spread through the town.  Someone from P.T.C. Longwood had planted
an item in the local paper, attracting startled attention.  The item,
during the months that followed, was repeated and expanded.  Davey
was

247

interviewed and coped with the rumors by affirming some, denying
others, and carefully avoiding any definite conclusions.  Stockholders
and employees wrote letters to the editor.  Nine out of ten, indignant,
righteous, reasonable, or pathetic were against any change in the Davis
Company.  An editorial deploring the talk of a leveraged buyout gave
unsavory details about Bennett, Bennett's life-style, his salary, and
the "disgraceful" perquisites that such a man enjoyed at the public's
expense. Rumors were picked up by the statewide press in a series of
articles about the takeover mania.  From these it was deduced that the
Davis Company's plant was to be shut down and five hundred people put
out of work.  The news, spreading over one weekend, resulted in a great
protest rally, led by schoolchildren carrying banners in the high
school stadium, and attracted a crowd as large as the one that had
assembled there for the Thanksgiving Day football game. Lara worried. 
"Three women stopped me on the street this morning.  The latest talk is
that the Japanese are going to buy the place and move it to North
Carolina.  Millie Corning was practically hysterical, telling me how
her sister's husband lost his job through a restructuring deal and then
started to drink and hit the kids and how her sister attempted suicide.
'Why doesn't Davey tell us if something really is going on?' she kept
saying.  It was awful." "Well, what answer did you give her?" "I said
of course you'd tell them if there was anything to tell, but that you
had no intention of selling.  People should know that by now." At an
emotional meeting of his employees and their families, Davey spoke. 
With hands clenched and tears in his voice, he promised to fight
Bennett and whip him.  But driving home together afterward, he said to
Lara, "We can't win.  I've canvassed, and I've had friends canvassing
the 1 stockholders for me.  The stock's already risen on rumors alone. 
So what do you think will happen when the offer's on the table in black
and white?  They'll take the lollipop instead of the good bread, and
I'm certain of it.  The damage has been done; they don't trust me "
"Davey, I don't believe it for one minute.  The business with Eddy is
past and over.  Everybody understands what really happened.  People
don't hold anger forever."  She waited for comment, but since none
came, she asked thoughtfully, "Don't you think it's mighty strange that
we've heard nothing from Martin since he was here?" "Not at all. 
Undoubtedly he expected to hear from us.  Undoubtedly he's angry.  So
they're going full-steam ahead, and he doesn't want to go through any
more emotional useless meetings with us."  Davey put a hand on hers. 
"Everything all right between Connie and you?  You haven't said, and
I've been afraid to ask." 248

"We spoke three times last week, but not about this.  You and I agreed
not to talk about it, didn't we?  But anyway I have the definite
impression that she has no idea what's going on."

"He probably wants it that way.  It's got to be a subject he'd like to
avoid with her.  Anyone would if he could."

"They're going to the London house for a few weeks over Christmas." 
Lara hesitated.  "Do you think we'll know anything by then?"

"I imagine so.  I imagine we'll receive the final offer at the
stockholders' meeting next week."

It will be a strange Christmas at the plant if we lose, Lara was
thinking as they drove into the garage, a red-and-gold bonanza for a
few and a bleak, gray loss for the rest.

The principals sent their representatives to the meeting.  A fleet of
rented cars came from the airport and disgorged a dozen or more
prosperous young men with bulging burnished leather briefcases.  These
were the lawyers, bankers, accountants, and corporate executives of the
upper-middle echelon.  No Bennett, no Berg, or others from the
pinnacles appeared.  These did their work well, however; although their
documents were loaded with statistics and complexities, their oral
presentations were lucid and easy to understand, presenting in essence
one simple fact: Do you want to take your golden dollars now, this
minute, or are you satisfied with modest gains and future hopes?

In vain did Davey, when his turn came, point out that the golden
dollars and the whole edifice of P.T.C. Longwood were founded on a
gigantic pyramid of debt.

"Pull out one stone from the base, and the whole thing will tumble," he
warned.  "One stone after the other will fall, all the way back to the
banks who lent the money for the tenth-rate bonds that are financing
P.T.C. Longwood.  Whereas here"—and he gestured about him to the length
and breadth of the room—"you have four tangible, debt-free walls where
people work and make things that you can see and touch with your hands.
 No concealment here, no flim-flam—"

He was interrupted by a brief titter, suppressed but unmistakably
mocking, nevertheless.  Lara could have strangled them all, the cold,
confident young men from the city, along with the gullible locals who
were listening to them.

"You've been earning good interest on your money.  We're growing,
providing products for which there is real need.  And there are more
plans on the drawing board, you all know that.  Why else do you think
this monstrous megacorporation is so eager to engulf us?"

But the audience, Lara saw, was unmoved, even though Davey was

249

speaking more eloquently than he had ever spoken before.  She was
stricken.  These were the people who had been so eager to buy stock, so
confident of his talent.  Such intelligent people, too, or so one would
think, a banker's widow, a school superintendent, a doctor, an
architect— "Have you lost all confidence in me?"  Davey pleaded.  "It
surely looks that way.  Yet you have no reason to.  We're prospering,
aren't we, under my direction?" And he looked from face to face as if
to ask one of the ten to reply, but the faces were either blank or
turned away.  They were impatient.  The evening was late; they were in
a hurry to vote for their quick money and go home. So, close to
midnight, the vote was called.  They hardly needed to take the trouble
to count it, for the result had been predictable from the moment they
sat down. In the corridor afterward Ben Levy and Doc Donnelly were the
only ones who even looked in Davey's direction. "Davey, I feel your
pain," Ben said.  "I want you to know I'm sorry I had to do what I
did." "It's not that we in any way doubt your honesty," the doctor
explained.  "I know I personally feel some guilt about deserting the
ship, but frankly, the way most of us see it is that if you could be
taken in by that Osborne fellow, why then—it's a question of judgment,
you see.  So we want out, we'll feel safer, and this is a perfect
opportunity." Ben added, "You know we all lost a big bundle on account
of him and this is a chance to recoup in a big, big way.  It's not a
question of blame, Davey, but—" "Osborne left a bad taste in my mouth,"
Dr.  Donnelly said, more sharply.  "In all our mouths." Davey's face,
Lara saw, was stone-white.  And she, too, spoke sharply to the men. 
"Enough's been said, hasn't it?  Good night.  Come into the office,
Davey." Alone there with him, she asked, "What happens now?" "Berg and
his people will meet in New York with Bennett and his people to
finalize it.  It shouldn't take more than a month, if that.  And then
they'll send me a check for our share of the stock.  And then I guess
I'll start hunting for a job somewhere." Yes, she thought bitterly,
it's my family that's done this to him.  He's only sparing my feelings,
because surely he must be having the same thoughts.  Eddy and Martin,
but Eddy first, have brought him down. She could not look at him. 
Later, when they were at home together, she would put her arms around
him, but not here while the enemy was still under this roof in the
process of making its noisy, triumphant departure. 250

"Wait here till they're all gone.  I don't want to look any one of them
in the face," Davey said.

With their coats on they stood behind the office door until the last
chair had scraped back, the last voice sounded, and the thrum of the
last motor died away.

Theirs was the only car in the parking lot when finally they came out. 
The night was very cold, very still, and bright with stars.  Light
shone on the white building, the thriving, wintry trees, and the holly
hedge, now thick with red berries, that Lara herself had planted when
they had bought this derelict old warehouse.

When they reached the outer gate and were passing slowly through it, as
if of one mind they both turned back for a look at the entrance. 
There, above the imposing double doors with their double Christmas
wreaths the light fell clearly upon the carved inscription: THE DAVIS
COMPANY.

"Dead in the water," Davey said, and Lara had such a lump of tears in
her throat that she could not answer.  Anyway, there was nothing to
say.

Then he gunned the engine and turned the car toward home.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Eddy lay on the bed alone in the room, skipping dinner.  He had worked
all afternoon in the kitchen and had no appetite for food; it seemed as
if the smell of Patsy's garlic sauce was still on his clothes.  He had
no taste, either, right now, for the nightly conversation about deals
in the making, opportunities pending, opportunities lost, lawyers and
their fees, pleas and appeals, the whole gamut of life in minimum
security, a gamut that always seemed to end with family tales. Family
was the most miserable subject of all.  It seemed that whenever he
heard from his own people, they had painful things to tell.  It was
like seeing a house on fire across the street while you were tied to a
tree and couldn't even get to a telephone to warn or rescue the
sleeping people inside.  No, that was not fair!  The fact was that
neither Pam nor his sisters ever wanted to talk to him about troubles;
it was he himself who insisted on knowing everything, by telling them
that keeping things secret was a greater torment to him, and forced him
to guess worse things.  So it was that he now could have a graphic
picture in his mind of Davey's worried face bending over columns of
figures and pages of complex legalese, none of which he was able to
understand.  He felt for Davey.  To lose the business that was one's
brainchild!  Even though the circumstances were so entirely different,
the loss of Osborne and Company brought its own anguish; the visual
impression of nail holes where the fine brass nameplates had been
removed from the door was a sharp one, hurting as sharp things hurt
when they pierce the skin. The difference was, though, that he, Eddy
Osborne, had no one to blame but himself for his debacle, whereas Davey
had—face it, Davey had Eddy Osborne to blame. I caused him to be
vulnerable.  With those lousy tax shelters that I made him sponsor, I
lined up a phalanx of enemies for him.  How could they trust him to
head a company after that?  Lara had been so sure it had all been
forgotten.  But Lara doesn't know the world.  I knew they wouldn't
forget. 252

And a brother-in-law in prison makes a bad connection, anyway.  Fair or
not, disgrace rubs off on the rest of the family.

It was Pam alone who had the power during these hard months to cheer
him.  That was as it should be; if a man's wife couldn't sustain him,
who should?  She phoned, she wrote about the house and the horses,
about new friends and the life they would have together.  It was her
letters especially that warmed him; her voice was gone the instant he
left the telephone and walked away, but her letters endured and were
reread uncountable times.  There were more than a hundred of them by
now, and when he read them over, it was almost like being in bed with
her.  He smoothed the pages on which her hands had rested, and held the
paper to his nose as if he could recapture the delicate fragrance of
her body.

The magic wasn't working tonight, though.  He didn't know why, and
perhaps it was absurd, but he'd had, the last few times she'd come to
visit, a queer sense that there was something different about her. 
She'd seemed nervous, he thought.  Or would "preoccupied" be more
descriptive?  And he tried to remember the nuances that had left him
with that restless feeling.  She had been as affectionate as always to
the extent that one could be under the eyes of the damned guards.  She
wasn't ill, she looked the same, but—what?

Oh, probably nothing.  Maybe it was the weather that depressed him.  It
had rained in sheets for the past three days, and he was feeling a
sense of permanent incarceration, as if he were in some gulag and would
be here for the rest of his life.  Nonsense, of course, but
nevertheless, it was the way he felt.

It was so unlike him, so much against his principles to give way like
this!  Abruptly he sat up and reached for the newspaper that lay at the
foot of the bed.

It was all the same stuff; couldn't they ever find anything new to
write about?  Wrangling over the budget; drug wars in Brooklyn; a kid
shot while he was playing in the hallway; more investigations on Wall
Street; the same stuff—but wait!  Wait!  What—

"Man hurls himself from eighteenth floor.  . . . Sometime between
midnight and five o'clock when his body was discovered, Richard Tory
jumped from his apartment onto the empty, silent street.  . . . Police
found a suicide note in the apartment.  . . . Formerly in the
advertising business, he had lately been unemployed.  . . . Neighbors
said he had suffered financial reverses."

Eddy's heart pounded, and he dropped the paper.  Good God!  Was this
his doing, his, Eddy Osborne's?  ". . . had suffered financial
reverses," it said.  Yes, yes Richard had.  He had lost—how many
thousands, hundreds of thousands?  And gotten back what?  Ten cents on
the dollar Perhaps not

253

even that.  It was all a blur in Eddy's red-hot brain.  Then he went
cold, and trembled. It occurred to him that Connie might not know.  It
seemed to him that she ought to be told.  And he went to the telephone.
"I hoped you wouldn't see it in the paper," Connie said. For some
reason this offended him.  "Don't baby me!"  he almost shouted at her. 
"Tell me what you know." "There's nothing—" she began. "The fellow he
lived with, he'd know.  What did it mean that he was unemployed?  It
doesn't make sense.  He had a great job." "Eddy, you're all upset, and
you don't need anything to upset you more.  I hoped you wouldn't see
it," she repeated. Then he repeated, louder this time, "I said, don't
baby me, Connie." He heard her considered pause.  Then she said, "All
right.  I called his friend, and he told me the story.  I don't suppose
you ever knew, because I never said much about Richard's family,
but—well, they didn't know about his being homosexual, and they're the
sort of people—at least his father is —who would be horrified and
unforgiving.  It's a long story.  Anyway, what happened was that
Richard had taken all his big inheritance from his grandmother and
invested it, and—" "Invested it with me." "Well.  Yes."  There was
another pause.  "So when it was—lost—his father found out.  I don't
know how, probably from the bank he had taken it out of.  Yes, that was
it, and he came up to New York in a fury and found that Richard was
living with his friend.  Found out about him, you see.  He thought
Richard had been living with a girl.  But it was really the loss of the
money that was the worst humiliation.  All hell broke loose.  Richard
went into a severe depression.  He felt worthless.  And he quit his
job.  He went to pieces."  Another pause.  "It just shook me.  I
couldn't stop crying.  But that's all I know." "It's enough," Eddy
said. "Eddy?" "Yes?" "It wasn't your fault." "No?" "His father was
brutal." "Yes." "Families are supposed to stand together, to forgive."
"Yes." "I know I shouldn't have told you.  Now I've made you
miserable." "Yes, you should have told me.  I'm all right.  Just—it's
so sad.  So god- 254

damn awfully sad."  For a moment Eddy pulled himself together.  "I'm
all right, Connie.  Really.  It's chow time.  I have to go."

When he replaced the receiver, he went back and lay facedown upon the
bed.

How was it possible to look down from that height and find the courage
to jump?  It made you sick to your stomach even to think of it.  How
many seconds till you struck, and were you terrified, did you scream in
horror, did you want to change your mind at that last instant when it
was too late?  Good God!  Not wanting to live!  Even on his worst day,
standing there in court while the judge castigated him before strangers
and all those hostile reporters, even on the day Rathbone had brought
him to this place and the gates had closed behind him, even then he had
wanted to live.

"I killed him," he said aloud.  "Poor, trusting innocent, I killed
him."

He was still lying there when he heard men coming into the room.

"Hey, Eddy, are you sick?"

"I'm all right," he replied into the pillow.

"The sauce was great.  You want a dish of pasta in here?"

That was Louie, Big Louie, the labor leader, in for extortion.  Funny
how a guy like that liked to mother people.

Now he tried to roll Eddy over, and in trying, caught the tears on
Eddy's cheek.

"Hey!  Something happen?"

"Louie, for God's sake, leave me alone a minute, will you?"

"He's got the chills.  Look at him shake."  That was Bosch's nasal
voice.

"Cover him.  Leave him alone."

Somebody dropped a blanket over Eddy's back.  Then he heard them leave
the room and shut the door.  Tough guys.  Mothers.

They like me, he thought.  People always do—or did.  That's why they
trusted me.  Nice guys like Richard trusted me.  And I killed him.  I
always say, why am I here?  I never raped anybody or broke into a house
or mugged anybody, did I?  But still, I killed Richard as surely as if
I had mugged him on a rainy night outside of his front door.  Richard,
and how many others?  How many?  Well, I guess I know how many funds I
dipped into.  I've had enough time here to tally them up.  I killed
something in every one of them, even if their names didn't get into the
newspapers, even if they're not exactly dead.  Still, something must
have died inside them.  Trust.  Richard gave into my hands everything
he had in the world, almost.  Yes, I would have paid them all back, I
always say that, too, don't I?  I mean every word of it, and I would
have done it, only there wasn't time.  Still, that's like saying, after
you've run somebody over with your car, I really meant to stop.  . .
.

God, if I had it all to do over again!  If I could get out and do
something,

255

not just lie here and think and think and be sorry, while life races on
outside. And he saw Richard Tory plainly as if he had been standing
here in this godforsaken room, saw the golden, athletic look of him,
the dapper clothes, the open, naive, friendly face.  That poor soul,
looking down on the empty street in the middle of the night in the
dark.  Looking down.  Letting go. For a long time Eddy lay there. 
After a while he got up, made himself ready for the night, and then lay
down again, praying now that sleep might come without dreams, to
relieve him, if only until morning, of the pain.

CHAPTER

NINETEEN

:

"Why don't we change the subject?"  Ben suggested.

The two brothers had been having a wild argument all through dinner. 
It had been Martin's idea to invite Ben to the house in Belgravia. 
Connie had objected, certainly not to being in the company of her
brother-in-law, who had just arrived for a semester of study at the
London School of Economics, but to dining here at this house, in this
lofty hall with the stiff new butler in attendance.

"He'll be far more comfortable at a restaurant," she had proposed.

Nevertheless, Ben was here, as earnest as ever, and perhaps a little
ill at ease with the complicated array of silverware in front of him.

"Brokerage fell way off on Wall Street after the crash," Martin said. 
"Investors were scared.  The only business that's really holding up is
the leveraged buyout."

Ben's eyebrows rose.  "A poor excuse, especially from a man who already
has more than enough of the world's goods."

Martin gave a short laugh.  "What's 'enough'?  Does anyone ever have
it, even in academia?"

"Yes," Ben said, repeating then, "Why don't we change the subject?"

Martin never wanted to change a subject once he'd gotten his teeth into
it.  Like a bulldog, he hangs on to the end, to the final word, Connie
thought.  Bored, she took another spoonful of raspberry sorbet, sliding
the satisfying sweetness over her tongue, and concentrated on her
surroundings, which were also satisfying.

The entire house had been restored to its early-nineteenth-century
splendor.  From the Palladian windows to the classical moldings and the
crystal drops that festooned the chandeliers like flounces on a
ballgown, all was perfection.  Beyond the dining-room doors she could
see into the hall, where statues stood in marble niches and the floor
was laid with enormous squares of marble, cream and beige.  Everywhere
in the house there was more marble, which Connie loved, on tabletops,
and on bathroom walls.

257

Between one drawing room and another, interior columns copied the
temples of ancient Greece.  Nowhere but in Britain would one find a
house like this one.  There was surely nothing like it in the States,
she declared silently.  Whenever she was abroad, she liked to refer to
her country as Europeans did: the States. "We get rid of dead wood.  We
tighten production when we buyout," Martin was saying. "That's why
we're doing so well in world markets," Ben countered sarcastically. 
"Why, damn it, our whole manufacturing capacity is oozing away across
the Pacific!"  And making a sweep of his arm in the direction of that
ocean, he upset a water goblet.  His embarrassed gaze fled toward
Connie. "Oh, heck, sorry!  Clumsy.  Sorry." The butler hastened to mop
up with a napkin. "It's nothing.  Don't think about it," Connie said. 
Oddly enough, given their cool nonrelationship to one another, she
pitied the man's embarrassment.  Besides, it was only water, and thank
goodness, not red wine. "Coffee in the little rose room," she directed
then. In the rose room, so named because of the carpet and the
seventeenth-century still life over the mantel, a genial fire snapped
behind the screen, accentuating by its heat and brilliance one's
awareness that outside these walls a dingy, wet fog was creeping,
chilling the streets. Martin shivered and held his hands toward the
flame.  "I wish to hell I didn't have to go flying back home," he
grumbled. "I wish you didn't either.  Why must you?"  asked Connie. 
"Of all times to go flying off, with Melissa coming from Paris to be
with you, and the reception at Lady Bartly's that you know I've been
dying to go to." "I told you, I've got a deal on.  What else?  It's
finally gotten all its pieces together after a year and a half, and the
principals want to close it fast before Christmas.  I'm not taking
chances with any more delays or slipups.  Anyway, I'll be back in a
couple of days." Connie became suddenly alert.  "You're not talking
about that man Bennett's deal, are you?" Martin nodded. "Are Davey and
Lara still one of the pieces?  Are they?" "They are, and struggling to
the very end." "I thought the deal was dead." "What made you think
that?" "You never talked about it." "Do I usually discuss my deals with
you?" "Do you usually make deals that involve my sister?" 258

Martin lit a cigar.  He took a few puffs on it, removed it, examined
the soggy tip, replaced it in his mouth, and talked around it.

"Connie, I kept you out of it on purpose.  I foresaw the possibility of
trouble, although I hoped there wouldn't be any.  The one thing I
wanted to avoid was a family squabble.  That's all we needed on top of
everything else."

"So you thought sneaking was the better way."

"That's a damn nasty word, sneakingl"

"All right.  Disguising, then," she said sharply.

A picture seemed to rise out of the fire and hover there before her
eyes: Bennett in the mink coat; all the clever men in their dark suits
sitting around the table in the Westchester house; superimposed somehow
upon these were Lara and Davey standing over Peggy's bed.

"How can you do this?"  she cried.  "Forcing people .  . . You might as
well hold a gun to their heads."  And she heard Lara's voice pleading,
almost, "Don't let this come between us, Connie."  This, then, was why
Lara hadn't told her anything either.

"Gun, gun, bullshit.  Know what you're talking about before you say
things like that, Connie.  You make a fool of yourself otherwise. 
Davey's stockholders voted in our favor, and that's that.  It's not my
fault if he can't see reason."

"Whether it's reasonable or not isn't the point.  Davey's worked for
years to build that business, and you're taking it away from him."

"Don't be an idiot.  He's been offered more than he could earn if he
worked in that place for the next fifty years."

"He doesn't care, Martin!  Why can't you get that through your head? 
Davey and Lara are different from you and me.  They don't want the
money."

"The more fools they."  Martin turned to his brother, who had withdrawn
into the copy of Country Life that lay on the table next to his chair. 
"This is quite apropos of what we were saying at dinner.  You should
approve of Connie's brother-in-law, Ben.  He's got this dinky little
business that he hates to let go of even though it's to his best
advantage."

Ben laid the magazine down.  "An inventor of surgical instruments?"

"Yes.  How did you know?"

"I met them at your wedding.  We spoke a few words together."

"They're the salt of the earth," Connie cried.  "Both of them."

"Connie," Martin said impatiently, "I never said they weren't."

"Then why don't you leave them alone?"

Sighing, Martin made a gesture of resignation.  "She doesn't understand
business," he told Ben.

"Business or businessmen?"  replied Ben.  "There's a difference."

259

"So?  What are you driving at now?" "I may be a professor of economics,
but I still can't understand why businessmen want to wreck American
business.  To say nothing of the human factor, the cruelty." Connie
broke in.  "Then you're on their side?  Lara's and Davey's?" "I would
have to be," Ben said quietly, "thinking the way I do." No one was
speaking when the butler brought in the coffee service and set the
silver tray between the twin sofas at the fireplace.  An odd melancholy
settled in the room. When the man had left them, Connie answered Ben,
"You're surprised.  You never thought I could be on the same side as
you."  And she saw that he was too startled, perhaps too embarrassed,
to find the quick reply.  "Come," she said, "be honest.  You haven't
liked me much.  I don't mind if you say so." He found words.  "It's
possible that I didn't know you." "I don't say that I'm always on your
side.  Probably I am only because this is very personal.  After all, it
concerns my sister.  And I want to see justice done." "Well, Martin,
what about that?"  asked Ben. "Connie is dramatizing.  We are not in
never-never land.  This is a practical world, and the man's been
outvoted, that's all there is to it." Bitterness was a taste in
Connie's mouth.  "You don't care.  You take away the thing he built,
and you break his heart.  And you don't care." Martin tossed the cigar
into an ashtray.  "If you want to know what I think, I think you're all
crazy.  Making much ado about nothing." Ben got up and stood with hands
in pockets like a child about to recite in class; he had, too, a
child's clear, open gaze, belying the beard and the creased forehead. 
He began to recite. " 'And they shall build houses, and inhabit them;
And they shall plant vineyards, and eat the fruit of them. They shall
not build, and another inhabit; They shall not plant, and another eat.'
"Do you remember, Martin?  Friday nights and Papa reading in the front
room after the Sabbath dinner?" "Please," Martin said wearily. 
"Please.  Spare me." "Isaiah.  He was our father's favorite prophet,
Connie.  Papa must have known the book by heart.  Well, a good half of
it, anyway." "And you must know the other half," Martin said.  "Lord,
how can two brothers be so unlike?" Ben began to walk toward the door. 
Martin grabbed his arm. "Oh, for God's sake, Ben, where are you going? 
Do we have to let this get personal?" 260

"No, no.  I've got early classes tomorrow, that's all.  But this is
between you and Connie, anyway.  Thanks, Connie, for the good dinner. 
Thank you both."

When they had seen Ben to the door, they went upstairs.

"Speaking of 'holier than thou,' " Martin remarked.

"I didn't think he was.  As a matter of fact, I liked him tonight.  I
never thought I would, especially."

"Because he agreed with you.  Why else?"  Irritably, Martin began to
undress, talking as if to himself, pacing from closet to bathroom and
back again.  "I wonder how early the airline offices are open.  And how
the hell am I going to get a seat?  There must be a couple of thousand
students going home for Christmas.  I wish I had our plane here.  Just
my luck the damn thing has to be in for overhauling.  Just when I need
it."

"Where's the company plane?"

"Preston has it in Vail.  He'll be flying back for the closing
tomorrow."

"Don't you think we need a new one for ourselves, Martin?  We have to
get to Mykonos for the Byrds' house party next month and if ours isn't
ready by then, it'll be awkward because I've offered Bitsy Maxwell's
whole group, and the hairdresser, and—"

"All right, all right!  I'll order a plane, for God's sake.  I'll
charter one."  Martin stopped in front of the dressing-table mirror,
before which Connie was sitting removing her makeup.  "Look at me.  I
look like hell."

Two deep lines had carved themselves into his cheeks, lines that she
had really not been aware of until this minute, in the glare of the
makeup light.

"Well, don't I look like hell?"  he demanded.

"You look tired, that's all."

"This business is wearing me down.  I'm getting to be an old man before
my time."

"Well, I always tell you not to work so hard, but you won't listen."

"Get off that subject, will you?  I have to work.  You spend so much
that no matter what I earn, it's never too much.  Huh!  Barely enough,
I should say.  Ten million it cost me to do up the Fifth Avenue
apartment, and now there's this place.  There's never any end to it. 
I've never worked so hard in my life as I do now.  You're the last one
to talk to me about working so hard."

She sprang up from the bench.  Astounded and hurt by what she took to
be an implication, she screamed at him.  For the first time in their
life together, she was really furious.

"Just because your first wife was a dowdy, dreary mess who didn't
spend, a joy killer who doesn't even know how to bring up a
daughter—"

"Leave her out of it!"

"Well, that's what you meant, isn't it?"

261

"Nah, I don't know what I meant.  Yes, I do know.  This whole damned
evening was a bomb.  Ben, with his holy conscience making me feel like
a— like a thief or something.  And you—you fall right in with him.  I
never would have believed it." "I didn't 'fall right in with him.' But
I have a right to agree with anybody I want when I choose.  And he made
a point.  That business about one person planting and another one
eating.  He was right." "Oh, back to Lara and Davey again, of course. 
Lara and Davey, all evening.  Maybe that's the reason I feel so wrung
out." "I doubt it." :    "Well, I don't.  I'm tired of being nagged
about them."  !    "I never nag, and you know it.  I'm too smart to
nag," she said coldly.  1    "Well, good.  I'm glad to hear it.  And
now I'm tired.  I want some sleep." In the morning there would be no
time to talk.  Then he would be gone, and the next day in New York, the
deal would be closed.  In Ohio, Lara would be waiting with Davey for
the telephone to ring with the news.  Probably, they would be waiting
at home in the little den; Peg's photograph was on the table near the
telephone.  There would be snow on the ground outside, and a white
glare coming through the window. "Martin, Martin, listen to me.  I
don't want to fight with you.  But listen.  It's only a piddling little
company.  There's no reason why that man Bennett has to grab it, with
all he's worth." "It's not so piddling.  I've told you ten times that
it fits into the whole combine; he wants it, and I'm not going to upset
a multimillion-dollar deal and look like an ass besides, just because
that stubborn, stupid fool happens to be my brother-in-law." "He is
stubborn, I agree, and so is Lara.  And personally, in their position,
I might go along with the offer and be glad about it.  But that isn't
the point."  She felt herself floundering.  Surely he must understand
what she meant!  And she pleaded.  "You said yourself that Bennett's a
horror.  Preston said so too." "One doesn't have admire everybody with
whom one does business." A sense of futility overcame Connie then, as
Martin, with his back turned, went searching through his tie rack.  And
she cried out, "I'm not going to let you hurt them, Martin!  I'm not! 
How can you be so hard!" He whirled upon her.  "I?  Hard?  You can say
that after all I've done for them, for the child?" "Yes, it was
wonderful, but that has nothing to do with this." "You're right, it
hasn't.  This is a question of money and nothing else." She stared at
him.  This man, who almost never turned down an appeal, and the daily
mail was flooded with them. 262

BELVA PLAIM

"Money," she said.  "I remember what you said about poor Eddy, how
greed undid him.  And now what are you doing?"

"You're comparing me with Eddy?  After he swindled people?  Filed false
returns?  God damn you, Connie, this I never could have expected to
hear!"

"I didn't accuse you of anything like that, did I?  But if you make
people wretched, if you destroy them in their hearts, I don't see that
it matters much whether what you did is legal or not."

Her words had enraged him.  She hadn't meant them to, had meant rather
to touch him, but the effort had misfired and failed.

"You and your hard-luck family!  Your brother and your sister .  . .
nothing but trouble."

"That's not true.  And at least we care about one another.  We talk to
each other, not like you and your brother Ben—"

"Now leave me alone.  I've heard enough," Martin said.  "I need some
rest.  I'm sleeping across the hall."

The door closed sharply behind him.

She wanted, she needed, to fling herself onto the bed and cry out her
frustration.  And for a moment she stood undecided.  But then she would
look frightful in the morning, with her eyelids puffed red above dark
rings.  Frightful.  And she had promised to take Therese to see Santa
Glaus; after that there was a luncheon at the Savoy with some
delightful English ladies whom she had just met.  No, no, Connie. 
Cream your face as you always do.  Drink some hot milk, climb into bed,
and swallow the tears.  Be sensible.

The plane roared up out of Heathrow and climbed northward toward
Scotland and the Atlantic.  Martin had been lucky to get the last seat
in economy class.  The Concorde had been filled, as apparently was
every seat in every class on every westbound plane, and he had spent
hours waiting for this lucky cancellation.

It had been years, he could truly not remember how long it had been,
since he had ridden in tourist class.  He was terribly tired.  He had
scarcely slept all night in that strange bed, he was that upset about
having argued with Connie, and he was tense, too, about the closing. 
Indeed, when it was all over, when the final signatures had been
affixed, there would be triumph and exhilaration, but there was always
so much to be gotten through until that moment, so much wrangling over
last-minute demands and bothersome minutiae, so many withdrawals into
corridors and men's rooms for whispered conferences among lawyers and
accountants, an army of them on either side.  He had been through it
all so often.

He laid his head back, but he was too cramped to fall asleep, and
anyway, his mind was too perturbed.  So he ordered a drink to soothe
himself, but was still miserable.

263

He hadn't said good-bye to Connie that morning.  She had been asleep
when he had gone into their room to get his clothes.  Then he had just
had time before running to the airline office to see Therese; he'd
kissed her on the run and gotten a spot of grape jam on his tie where
she'd grabbed it, wanting him to stay.  He felt bad about having left
them both like that.  And, too, he'd said some nasty things to Connie
last night, to his good-natured, good-hearted Connie.  Well, she had
said some pretty nasty things too.  Still, they hadn't been as nasty as
what he'd said, about her spending so much, for instance.  God, Connie
could spend whatever she wanted as far as he was concerned!  When you
loved a woman, you wanted to give her things, didn't you?  Anyway,
admit it, he liked to spend as much as she liked to.  They were both
caught up in spending.  "Expenses rise to meet income."  He'd always
said that, and it was the truth. As to her family, the fact was that he
admired their warmth; to their credit they stood fast to each other in
a tough, chilly world.  But to hear Connie you'd think he had attacked
them!  It had been queer to see her in agreement with Ben, or Ben in
agreement with her. And it's funny, too, about Ben, he thought.  He can
be so hard sometimes, so sure he's right, and yet he can also be so
soft, quoting Papa, remembering the words exactly.  He can remember a
hundred things that I've forgotten or buried someplace, being too busy
to keep them in my head: what we ate on those Friday nights when Papa
read to us; all those fine singing words, mostly about charity and
loving-kindness.  Well, nobody can possibly say that Martin Berg
doesn't give!  But it's not just the giving, Ben always says, it's the
accumulation, the first taking that enables the giving.  And if the
accumulation is all wrong— Abruptly, Martin became aware that his
nervous fingers were drumming on the armrest.  He removed his hand and
held it on his lap. It's a game with you, Ben says.  It's a war. 
You're tensed up all the time, waiting to go to war. And then something
made Martin remember that fellow McClintock.  Something?  Why, those
had been McClintock's words, almost exactly.  You guys are playing a
game with money, a war game, and most of the money isn't even yours. 
And Martin wondered what had become of the man after they kicked him
out.  Just about a year ago, it was.  This kind of high, wide, and
handsome financing can't hold up, and when the day of reckoning
comes—He had taken a chance with that kind of talk, McClintock had, and
Martin had been as furious as everybody else in the room.  Maybe he'd
been even more furious because common sense told him—and if you read
the signs throughout the country, you had to see—that McClintock was
right.  One knew it, and one didn't want to know it. Maybe that's what
had been bothering him lately, nagging like an ulcer, 264

not so much in the stomach—although here too—as in the head, if that
were possible.  Just one more big deal, real fireworks, and then quit. 
Quit in the fullness of power.  Celebrity status.  I bet half the
people on this plane right now would recognize my name if it were
called out, he thought.

Now, above the general babble and noise, he caught a snatch of
conversation between two grown boys across the aisle.

"My dad hasn't lost his job after all.  So that was great news."

"I'll bet."

"I can't wait to get home."

That last time in Ohio, Davey had been more worried about his men
losing their jobs than about almost anything else.  The original
innocent, that was Davey.  The innocents of the world.  "Nice guys
finish last."  What if that kid's father—and out of the corner of his
left eye Martin could see the kid's nice, eager face and his cheap
imitation leather windbreaker— what if that kid's father had lost his
job?  When you thought about it like that, really looked at a
flesh-and-blood person, not a statistic, it did something to you.

How could he have forgotten?  He, a child of the tenements .  . . How
could he?  Why, it was easy, because he had wanted to, that's all. 
Hadn't things always been like this, as far back as the Roman Empire or
farther?

A vague sadness, an unfamiliar pity, filled Martin's chest.  He could
not even try to analyze it.  Fragments of thought, like dispersing
cloud shreds, floated through his head.  Therese, his little darling. 
And his Melissa, his heart.  The son who hated him because of the
divorce.  Connie, his joyous Connie.  He wished he could turn the plane
around, go back to London, and tell her how much he loved her.

"Even with," he'd say, "even with that troublesome family of yours." 
But he'd laugh when he said it.

He had been so angry at Lara, really disgusted, baffled by her stubborn
resistance.  And yet—he had to admit it—a part of him had been filled
with admiration all the time.  One had to admire the human being who
went down fighting because he believed he was right.

It was funny to think of little Lara Davis, a small-town woman who'd
never gone any farther from home than New York, defying the firm of
Fraser, DeWitt, Berg.  Or, more than that, defying the great Franklin
Bennett and his multibillions.  Amazing, when you considered the
contrasts.

God, what a loathsome thing was Bennett!  He was probably flying back
from Acapulco right now, licking his chops over the deal, while
ordering his cohorts to wait on him.  Cohorts like Martin Berg who'd
gladly wait on him provided that the fee was big enough.  Well, that,
too, had probably been no different back under the Roman Empire.

Wouldn't it be something, though, to turn on him one day and out of a

265

bright, clear sky, tell him to go to hell?  Think of those astonished,
popping eyes, the jowls gone slack in disbelief, the spluttering fat
lips! And think of being able to say to Connie, "You know what?  You're
right.  I'm not going to destroy Davey's work or quench his dreams. 
I'm not.  For what?  For Bennett and his kind?  No, or for Fraser,
DeWitt, Berg either." Now Martin let his imagination go free.  Suppose
he were to walk into that meeting tomorrow and announce that after much
thought, he had concluded that he couldn't approve this buyout?  They
wouldn't believe him!  And he could see them all sitting around the
table with their faces turned to him, staring, thinking that they
couldn't have heard aright, so that he would have to repeat his words. 
Preston would be speechless.  At first they would all think he must be
having some sort of nervous breakdown, and then when they finally
understood that he was perfectly sane, they would be wild with fury. 
There would be a battle such as the venerable firm of Fraser, DeWitt,
Berg had never seen before.  They would search their minds for motives,
they would suspect him of some kind of double-cross.  They would drive
themselves crazy trying to figure him out. It would be a new kind of
battle, one that he might even, in a way, enjoy.  He would be fighting
this time not for profits, but for people.  For Peggy, who had returned
to life.  And in a curious way, for his own Therese; he hoped she would
grow into the kind of person who would understand.  It would not occur
to them that a man could simply and suddenly undergo a sea change. So,
here at last he stood with his decision.  And an inward chuckle began
to bubble to his throat, where a few moments before a lump of sadness
had lain.  He knew exactly what he was going to do the moment he
landed. "I'll phone Connie first," he said to himself.  "Then I'll call
Davey and tell him I'm going to buy his firm out from under the
syndicate and give it to him.  'Pay me back whenever you can.  I don't
care when,' I'll say.  Imagine his face, and Ben's and Connie's when—"
Pan American flight 103 went down over Scotland in clear weather at
three minutes after seven o'clock in the evening. 

267

CHAPTER TWENTY

In those terrible minutes during which one airplane blew apart in the
sky, another one headed toward a smooth landing at the airport outside
Louisville, Kentucky.

Anyone who had not seen Eddy Osborne for the past few years would have
noticed at once as he emerged from this plane that he had altered.  His
features, obviously, could not have changed, and his vivid eyes were as
striking as ever.  His hair, too, was still as thick and fair.  But
there was something remarkably different about his expression, a
reserve, a quietness, that one had never associated with Eddy in the
past.  His posture and his gait were different too; the jaunty step,
the almost rollicking sailor's bounce, was no more.  He walked through
the airport toward the car-rental counter with the deliberate, measured
manner of a thoughtful man.

There was no one to meet him.  Having been discharged from the prison a
few days earlier than he had expected, he had thought he would surprise
his wife, perhaps ring the bell and have her find him at the door, or
perhaps be sitting there when she came home.

Under a wide, light sky the mild winter day was utterly beautiful.  He
thought as he drove that any day, under any kind of open sky, would be
beautiful from now on if only because he would be free to come and go
in it.  No one could possibly feel the full meaning of those words free
to come and go who had not once been unfree.

Now, that's a cliche sure enough, he reflected, laughing as he did so. 
It had been said a million times before, yet it was nonetheless true
for all that, as every cliche was true.  And filled with thankfulness
he laughed aloud again, clapping himself exuberantly on the knee.

He began to whistle, and stopped.  He switched on the radio and turned
it right off.  It was better to hear the wind rush through the open
windows, for he had quite forgotten the sound it made, almost like
singing, one long, soft note, sustained.  The air was clear and sweet. 
Having passed from the suburbs and into open country, he became
deliciously aware of space, just

space.  The only confining walls were the rail fences that divided the
fields from one another.  Among the fields stood clusters and groves of
trees, and in the sheltering shade of each of these stood a house,
white clapboard or dark red brick, fine houses in a rich countryside. 
His own home was white; he remembered that they had discussed what
color to paint the shutters and wondered now what Pam had finally done
about them.  His heart began to beat faster at the thought of home and
Pam.

By the time he reached the stone pillars and the long graveled drive
that led up to his house, his heart was drumming so that he imagined he
could hear it.  A sudden fear struck him, that he would show tears and
seem foolish.  He parked the car and looked up at brilliant green
shutters.  On the second floor on the far side was the room where he
would sleep tonight.  He blinked and steadied himself.  And another
fear almost overwhelmed him, that perhaps he was dreaming all this,
that he wasn't really here but was still in Allenwood.  Then he counted
the five steps up to the front door.  He walked up and seized the brass
knocker; it was a lion's head, and warm in the sun.

"Oh, my God," said Pam when she opened the door.

He stood for a moment, awkward at the sight of her.  There flashed
before his eyes an impression of long hair lying on her shoulders, of a
white shirt and white riding breeches; these flashed, then his eyes
filled and he took her in his arms.

"Oh, you shocked me," she murmured against his cheek.  "I didn't expect
you until next week.  I've been counting the days."

"Rathbone asked the judge to let me go before Christmas, and since I've
been a good boy," he said, mocking himself, "he let me go."

Kissing, they trembled against each other.  "Oh, Eddy.  I'm glad," she
said.  "I'm glad."

They held each other apart, examining each other.

"You haven't changed," he told her.  "What about me?  Have I?"

"I can't tell yet.  Come, sit down.  Are you hungry?  Thirsty?  Let me
get you something."

"No, I had stuff on the plane."

He leaned back against the pillows in the corner of the sofa.  All of a
sudden there was nothing to say, or rather, there was so much to say,
covering two years of their separated lives, that the task was
daunting.  And he remembered how many hundreds of times he had imagined
his homecoming, bounding into the house, seizing and carrying her off
to bed, there to quench a bursting, unbearable desire.  And now that
the moment had come, he wanted only to sit here and look at her.

"You do look different," she said.  "I didn't notice it so much when
you were—up there."

IL

268

"A lot happens in two years."

She said softly, "I know."

"How different am I, do you think?  I haven't gained or lost any
weight."

She scrutinized him.  "It's something, I can't say exactly what.  But
there's a change.  . . . Tell me, was it awful?  I never wanted to ask
you.  But now that it's over—"

"Not the way they treated me.  You saw.  It was more what goes on
inside one's head that's—that's—"

He stopped, and she, seeing his struggle, said quickly, "It's past. 
Let's not talk about it.  Not ever, unless you want to.  For now it's
best to look forward."

She gave him the encouraging smile that one gives to an invalid or to a
troubled child, and he saw how hard this hour was, not only for
himself, but for her.

"I'm required to do a year of community service, you remember?  So I
thought maybe I might work in a hospital here as an orderly or
something, according to what they need.  I should think that would be
acceptable service.  But I haven't been told yet."

She took his hand and held it between both of hers.

"Whatever you do, darling, whatever, things are going to come right
from now on."

He gave her a smile, a small wan upturning of closed lips.

"You guarantee it?"

"Absolutely!  You and I are going to have fun again.  We are, Eddy! 
Oh, I've been so sorry about it all, so sad for you .  . . but it's
going to be good again.  I know.  I promise."

Her eyes were anxious; she was appealing to him.  And understanding
that, he assumed a brighter air.

"I believe you.  Now tell me things.  Anything.  Tell me about the
horses."

"Oh, we have some beauties in the stalls!  Yesterday we had two foals
born, both treasures.  And I've finally found a perfect man for the
stables after having three absolute disasters in a row, one too lazy to
get up in the morning, one more often drunk than sober .  . ."

He was only half listening.  The exuberance that he had felt while
driving had suddenly flattened, as bubbles flatten when the bottle is
opened.  He tried to analyze his feelings.  Was there a trace of some
vague fear inside him?

Looking around the room, over her head into the wide hall and beyond
it, he saw that the dining room table was set with flowers and
candelabra.  At this distance it was not possible to see how many
places were set, but it was obvious that guests were expected.

Pam, following his glance, explained, "I asked a few people to dinner

269

tonight for a pre-Christmas party, people I've been owing.  I thought
I'd get it over with before you came home.  I didn't think you'd want
to have guests right away." "No, I wouldn't." "So I'll just run to the
phone and cancel.  I'll be right back and when I come, I'll bring a
tray of goodies for you.  Even though you say you're not hungry, I
don't believe it.  You can't have had a decent meal since—" "Since I
went to prison, you mean.  It's all right to say it, Pam." "We are
going to forget it, Eddy Osborne."  She kissed him.  "Now, stay there
and rest.  I won't be long." When she had gone, he closed his eyes
again.  The room was scented with the pine branches, garlanded for
Christmas, that hung from the mantel.  There was, besides, a whiff of
Shalimar on the shoulder of his jacket.  At Christmas he had always put
a bottle of it in the toe of her stocking.  He could see her now, could
see them both, sitting on the floor scattering ribbons and tissue paper
as they opened each other's gifts.  They hadn't had a care.  Would it
really ever be that way again? At that he became angry at himself. 
Life wasn't over, for heaven's sake!  Pam was right in urging him to
look only forward.  He had never in his life been moody, and he wasn't
going to succumb to moods now.  And he forced himself to stand up and
feel energetic, to be glad, glad, as he had been on the drive from the
airport. He began to look around the room again.  It was odd how
changed an object became when it was transplanted.  He had to look
twice to recognize some things.  For that matter, the house itself was
strange to him.  He had been in it so briefly, after all, and then it
had been in disarray with painters and plumbers coming and going.  He
walked out into the hall, which was airy, light, and long enough for a
man to take a good run in.  The staircase curved up to a landing where
stood a tall clock from his collection.  The Waterford chandelier that
had once hung in Pam's sitting room now descended from a thick silk
rope two stories long. Then he crossed into the dining room, where
poinsettias were heaped in Connie's great epergne at the center of the
table.  He counted the place settings.  There were twelve.  He noted
that the Royal Crown Derby service plates, which had always been kept
for special occasions, were laid out, as was the heavyweight vermeil
flatware.  The furniture was eighteenth-century English, and he
wondered what had happened to the marble-topped French pieces they had
used in New York.  If she had sold them, they must have brought over
half a million dollars, he reflected.  But she had not sold his
favorite paintings.  His Berthe Morisot hung over the fireplace, and
the two Mary Cassatts had been placed between the triple windows. As he
went on through the rooms, it pleased him to see how she had 270

kept his favorite possessions and that they were safe here, protected
like children in this solid house.

From the pantry her voice carried as she telephoned her guests.  Surely
it was good, he thought, for her to have had some pleasures while he
was away.  On a table in the library a magazine lay open to a double
page of photographs.  There was the fine, symmetrical facade of this
house, with Pam in riding clothes standing on the front steps.  There
was Pam at the stables under a clock and a gilded weather-vane.  And
Pam again, taking the jumps at a horse show.  Finally, Pam in evening
dress, the Grecian, columnar sort of dress that she always wore,
standing in a group at—Eddy bent to read the caption—"the benefit for
the hospital, the high point of the social season."  He was reading
further when she came in.

"I'm sorry it's taking so long to go through the list, but anyway, the
coffee's on in the meantime—oh, you're looking at that silly article." 
And she said, apologizing, "It must seem to you that all I did was
enjoy myself, while you had nothing."

"There was no reason why you shouldn't enjoy yourself.  You couldn't
have helped me by locking your door and pulling the blinds down."

And yet it came to him suddenly that his entry into this life that she
had established here might not be easy for her.  Nor easy for him
either.

"Why don't you sit down and read the paper while I finish my calls."

"Maybe I will."

However, he was too restless to sit, and laying the paper aside, he
went upstairs to explore.  It pleased him again to see things like his
Rowlandson prints in the hall and his pink jade Chinese horse on Pam's
chest of drawers.  By the braided trim on all the curtains he
recognized the hand of their New York decorator, who had been
persuaded—for a handsome fee, no doubt of that—to come to Kentucky. 
His was, however, the hand of a master, and that pleased Eddy too.

Then something caught his attention, a pipe lying in an ashtray on a
small lamp table in the bedroom at the end of the hall.  It might have
been his eyes that found it first, or it might have been his nose,
scenting the pungent tobacco.  For a moment he stood blankly seeing the
thing, not comprehending it.  Then, despising the immediate, crowding
thought, the unworthy, stupid, cheap suspicion, he turned away.  But it
happened also that the closet door which faced him was ajar, and the
unworthy, cheap suspicion drove him to reach out to the knob.  Then he
withdrew his hand.  Then he seized the knob.

In a tidy row hung a man's riding clothes, half a dozen suits, a
raincoat, an overcoat, tweed jackets, and a silk bathrobe, an entire
wardrobe.  Pajamas hung on a hook.  For some crazy reason, Eddy was
afterward to remember, he did not want, in that first instant, to
believe what he saw.  A cousin,

271

perhaps, some relative who had come to live with her?  But she had no
relatives.  . . . And then he became frantic; he ran to the chest and
opened drawers.  There were underclothes, there were socks, sweaters,
and shirts with London labels.  In the adjoining bathroom there hung a
terry cloth robe.  On a shelf were shaving things, a brush and a comb.
He understood.  For the first time in his life he thought he would go
mad.  He understood, too, that it was in every man at some time or
other, to kill.  These were not stale words; it was perfectly possible
to kill.  If the owner of these pajamas were within reach, he would do
it.  He knew he would.  Afterward he was to consider the fact that it
was the man, and not Pam, whom he would have attacked.  Was it because
he knew her, while the other was an unknown?  A statistic? He ripped
the pajamas off the hook.  They were expensive silk pajamas that very
likely the man had not even worn, for Pam slept naked.  . . . Her
nightgowns were only for show, for five minutes' worth of wearing. 
Eddy's rage shook him.  His hands became so strong that he tore the
trousers from waist to ankle with one stroke.  Then he tore the top,
leaving a heap on the floor in the center of the room.  After that he
sank down on the chair and covered his face with his hands. His
thoughts were fragmented: Connie, coming home and finding Richard.  It
was a queer enough possible parallel to this.  . . . And he remembered
the men at the tennis courts and the riding school, long ago.  Who knew
the truth about them? He was still sitting there when he heard Pam
calling from the downstairs hall. "Where are you?  I've got soup and a
smoked salmon sandwich." Smoked salmon.  A delicacy intended for the
evening's party, which his arrival had spoiled.  No doubt the owner of
the pajamas would have been at the party.  Perhaps the party had even
been planned for him. "Eddy?  Where are you?" He did not answer.  Then
he heard her come up the stairs in search of him.  And still he did not
move.  What would he say to her?  What would she say to him?  Would she
lie?  Of course she would, as anybody would. Her glance from shocked,
wide-open eyes took in the closet, the bureau drawers, and the rags on
the floor.  Then it came to rest on Eddy, who looked back in silence.
So lovely, she was!  So fastidious in white with those long legs and
the long hair and that pure, patrician face.  His patrician lady, now
no longer altogether his.  The diamond wedding band glittered on her
finger; he saw an instant picture of her hand, wearing his ring, doing
intimate unmentionable things upon that other man's body.  And a surge
of nausea made him tremble. 272

"Oh," she said very softly.  "Oh.  But you've misunderstood!  Sometimes
I have a guest who stays overnight, that's all!  He likes to ride on
these trails.  We have some marvelous trails.  I'll show you.  ... He
lives in town, so he leaves his riding clothes here."

"And his suits and his underwear and a stack of shirts?  Enough for a
year's use?"

She said nothing.

"I see that at least you have enough decency to blush."

She began to cry.  "You don't believe me.  I know how this might look
to someone who didn't know me—"

"But that's just it, Pam.  I do know you."

"Whatever can you mean by that?"

Thick, shining tears slid down her cheeks unheeded and fell on her
clothes.

"Ah, Pam, Pam, be truthful with me now!  At least you can do that much
for me."  And he tried to meet her eyes, but she turned away to stare
down at her fingernails.

Presently, in a harsh whisper, she spoke.  "He's nobody.  I mean nobody
to me.  He's nothing.  He was nice to me when I came here, not knowing
a soul.  It was so lonely.  You can't imagine how it was.  It's one
thing for a bright young couple to arrive together in a new place and
start fresh.  But for a woman to come alone without a husband—"

"Or a husband in jail."

She did not answer.

"Tell me, Pam, is he good in bed?  How does he compare with me?"

She had been standing, and now she flung herself on the bed, flung
herself so hard that the bedframe creaked, and then lay there with her
face hidden in the bolster.

He walked to the window.  The grass on this winter afternoon was still
bright, but he was only half seeing it, was only barely conscious of
this pastoral sweetness.  His thoughts were the old ones, old thoughts
of early days, riding on the beach, dancing among Pam's golden, lucky
crowd and going home to make love at dawn.  Highs, tremendous highs . 
. .

Then he whirled around.  "He lived here with you, didn't he?"

"He comes and stays a few days at a time.  He never lived here."

"What's the difference?"

"There was never any commitment.  This is your house.  He always knew
you were coming back."

Numb now, Eddy turned back to stare at the grass, where a flock of
strutting crows searched for seeds.  After a while the bed creaked
again as Pam turned.  Lying on her side with her cheek resting on her
arms, she began to address the wall.

273

"I didn't plan for it.  It just happened.  And not as often as it may
seem either.  I was always sorry every time.  But I told you—I was so
alone.  And he was kind to me." "Yes.  I imagine he would be." "I don't
love him, Eddy.  I never did, not for one minute.  It wasn't love." "If
you did, there would be more of an excuse.  This way it's worse." "Why
worse?  Can't you see that this was only—" He heard himself sneer. 
"Only what?  Fun?" "Well, yes.  You could say that.  Yes, fun.  Sex. 
Eddy .  . . two years are a long time." "I'm rather aware of that."
"Oh, I'm sorry.  Sorry!  It was stupid of me, cruel of me!  Please,
Eddy, I wasn't thinking when I said it.  And I'm so ashamed.  Ashamed
of it all."  Now with piteous eyes she looked fully at him.  "It's so
rotten.  It's unspeakable.  I've been thinking for weeks, for months,
and you must have, too, how the minute you got here, we would just lock
the door and— Now, now it's all spoiled.  Oh, my God, it's all
spoiled!" Our twisted lives.  How is it possible for everything to go
wrong?  he asked himself.  Everything. Pam sat up and held out her arms
to him.  "But I won't let it be spoiled!  I won't let it, Eddy!  Come. 
Come here.  Please.  Will you?  Can you?  Please." He felt himself
flinch.  "I can't," he said very low.  It was an effort to speak; even
his voice was exhausted.  "I'm only thinking that if I hadn't found
this out, you'd have let me live the rest of my life here not knowing
that another man had been with you in this house.  A man whom in my
ignorance I would undoubtedly meet and sit with at somebody's table,
with everybody knowing except me.  That's what you would have done to
me, isn't it?" She flung herself back into the pillows, facedown.  "Why
must you do this, Eddy?  I can't bear it.  I can't.  You hate me!  I
see it in your eyes." He shook his head.  "No.  A minute ago, I did. 
But that's gone."  So quickly had the rage, the outrage, drained away. 
"I'm only so damn sorry for us both, that's all.  Do you remember when
we were in the kitchen at your mother's house and I asked you about
other men and you said—" "You're not really going to rake that up, are
you?" "You said something about how long and lonesome the week was when
I stayed in the city and we didn't see each other.  You missed being
'admired,' I think you said.  You didn't mean admiration, though.  You
meant sex." And now it was Pam in whom rage fired.  She sprang up and
stood before him shaking with it, her fists clenched, her eyes furious.
274

"Who are you to rummage around with your ancient suspicions?  Is your
past so lily-white?  Is it?  There's enough I could say, God knows!"

For a minute or two he stood and looked at her trembling shoulders.  He
could think of no answer.  There was none.  So, carefully, he closed
the door behind him and went downstairs.  He had no idea where he was
going.

A servant was clearing the table in the dining room.  The woman looked
up and he nodded but passed her.  There was no need to get acquainted. 
And he walked on.  The house was very large with many rooms and long
passageways.  Wall after wall displayed his treasured paintings, and
precious sculpture stood in lighted niches.  Beautiful, they were, each
one a marvel; none had lost the power with which it had first moved his
heart.  And yet he wondered however he could have cared that much to
possess them.  He stood there, staring about him, feeling empty.  The
zest of ownership had gone.  It would be enough to see these things in
a museum.

After a while he went out onto the veranda.  The sun had moved far to
the west, leaving a last spot of light and warmth where a group of
chairs stood at the end.  He sat down.  His spirit was numbed and
dulled.  All through this momentous day, he reflected, his moods had
been veering, as if he were on a sailboat tacking in an erratic wind,
answerable only to the wind.  And he sat still, waiting for what, he
did not know.

Presently, after an hour or more had passed, he heard the door open. 
Pam came out and sat down.  Her eyes were swollen and her voice was
thick.

"What now, Eddy?"  she asked quietly.

With equal quietness he answered, "I guess you'll want a divorce."

"Why?  Do you really think that's what I want?"

"I don't know.  I know I can't stay here, so I suppose you will want
one."

"You do hate me, Eddy, don't you?  The truth."

There was such a heaviness in his chest that he could hardly breathe.

"No," he said.  "No.  I don't hate anyone.  I told you."

She was in a rocking chair, and now, perhaps unconsciously, she began
to rock.  Back and forth the chair went, rumbling over the wooden
floor.

"Oh!"  she cried.  "Who could have thought it would end like this?  It
was such fun in the beginning.  Didn't we have a lot of fun
together?"

"Yes.  Yes, we did."

Faster and faster, the rockers went.  Eddy put his hand on the arm of
the chair to stop it.

"You'll rock yourself off the edge of the porch," he said gently.

"What will you do, since you said you can't stay here?"

"I guess I'll go back to Ohio.  There was a fellow in—in that place
whose brother-in-law has a large firm of accountants in Columbus.  They
offered

275

me a job.  I turned it down, but now I'll take it.  I'll take them up
on the offer." "You'd like that?" He shrugged.  "I always loved
numbers.  I've been pretty good at numbers, all considered."  And he
managed a wry smile. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand as a
child might do.  The gesture was curiously touching. "I'd have a steady
salary," he said, thinking aloud.  "I'll get an apartment, have a
budget, and live within the salary.  No worries.  It'll feel good." A
silence, sorrowful and heavy, fell between them.  After a while Pam
broke it softly. "You'll be needing things for the apartment." "Not
many." "There's plenty of stuff here.  The attic's full.  Even though I
sold five million dollars' worth, there's enough left for another big
sale." "Sell it, then.  Get the cash." "I'm hardly in need of cash, am
I?" "Hardly." And now an idea struck Eddy, an illumination, as if a
light that had been flickering uncertainly had flared into a
brilliance.  "I was thinking, with all that money tied up and doing
nothing, if it were sold, then some of the people I took from could be
paid back." "You don't have to do that.  You've been discharged in
bankruptcy.  You're cleared." "I know that, but I don't feel cleared."
"I don't see why not." He saw, but there was no need to tell her what
he saw, or how Richard and some special others haunted him yet.  So he
said simply that he had had much time to think and that it was the
right thing to do. "Perhaps so, for a saint or an angel.  How many
people do you know who'd do it?" "Not many, it's true.  But still, I
thought you might agree.  You were never attached to things as I was."
"That's true, too, but I'm attached enough not to give them away." He
was too tired to argue further.  Anyway, he had no power over her
possessions. "That doesn't apply to you, though.  I want you to look
through everything and take whatever you like, Eddy."  There was a
glisten of tears in her eyes, and he had to look away again. "I can
tell you right now.  I'd like my desk.  The little one that stood in my
den.  And that's all." "All?  That's ridiculous," she said, very
gently. 276

"No, it's all I want," he insisted, thinking.  "I need to be free and
clean.  I need to divest myself of all the reminders."

"What about paintings?  You could take some to sell, and then you sock
away the cash."

"I'll have no use or space for treasures in the kind of little place
I'll have, and I don't want the cash."

"You can find room for some good pictures.  Take them!"  She was almost
pleading.  He understood how sorry she was for him, for everything. 
"They're yours.  You bought them.  Remember?"  And she gave again that
small, sad smile.  "You're the one who earned them."

"Let's say, rather, that I acquired them.  That's more accurate," he
said bitterly, wanting to hurt himself, wanting to reach the last
threshold of pain.

"All the same, I insist.  Select some art.  You loved it so much."

If anyone could know how he had loved it, Pam could.  She knew
everything about him.  . . . And he thought for a moment.  "All right. 
I will take one.  The small Renoir with the woman who looks like my
mother."

Peg, who always saw the bright side.  What would she have to say about
all this?

"I don't understand why you're refusing to take more."

"I don't know that I can explain it, Pam, so you'll have to believe my
word.  Please."

"Isn't there anything I can give you?  Anything at all that I can do?" 
she asked in a rising, wavering little voice.

He thought again, considering the weight of what he was about to
suggest.

"Yes.  Yes, there is something.  I was thinking about Davey and Lara. 
You've kept in touch, so you know as well I do what's going on.  Would
you be willing to lend them enough to buy back all the stock?  Or you
could buy it yourself and then release it to him, so he can beat those
people who want to take him over?  I don't know exactly how much is
needed.  It's a big sum, but not more than you can afford, I'm sure. 
And you know Davey.  He'll pay you back ahead of time.  Do you think
you can do it?"

"I'll think about it.  I've always loved Lara.  You know that."

"It would mean so much.  They've struggled so and gotten so far.  I'd
hate to see them lose out."

"I think Martin Berg's too rotten for words."

"I don't know.  I don't judge anybody anymore."  Eddy could hear the
rueful sound of his own voice.  "I only know how easy it is to get
caught up in the rat race.  'Business is business,' after all."

"Lara held out to the end.  Didn't I always say she's the tough one? 
You wouldn't think it to look at her.  But I told you so long ago."

277

"Davey had to take the pressure from the stockholders, don't forget. 
And then there was all the trouble with Peggy.  Too much pressure."
"Lara had it too.  I wish," Pam said wistfully, "I wish I had her guts.
Just plain guts.  But I don't know.  . . . This trouble of yours was
just too much for me, Eddy.  It's humiliating to have to admit it.  But
maybe I was just meant to be good for you in good times." "Maybe so." 
And he thought, If the truth had to come out, it's better for it to
have come out now instead of when we're sixty. The short afternoon was
coming to a close.  Rusty clouds edged with silver fled toward the
horizon, and a damp wind rose.  Pam stood up. "It's getting cold.  Come
in and get ready for supper." "I'm still not hungry, and I have to see
about getting back." "You have to eat, Eddy." "Okay.  I'll just take a
little walk around first.  It's a long time since I've done much
walking." And he thought, as he started off over the lawn, I suppose
this is what is called a civilized parting.  Well, if it was, he
wondered how anyone ever bore the pains of a savage one.  Then, in a
return of his old practical tendency toward letting reason prevail over
emotion, he reminded himself that Pam, at least, would survive very
well.  She was healthy, young, and rich.  Yes, she would certainly
survive, he thought, half in despair and half in gratitude.  God, all
he had ever wanted was for her to be safe!  As for himself, he would
manage.  Somehow .  . . It felt good to walk, stretching his legs in
long strides, feeling that he could keep on walking, if he chose, to
the end of the earth and meet no barrier, no wall, no locked gate.  No
one was watching him.  His feet crunched on gravel, then trod on grass,
and, following a track, he seemed to recall that it led to a pond.  At
the edge of the pond all was still; even the wind had died there.  Then
something splashed, a frog or a fish, and the stillness surged back. 
He stood there, hearing the stillness. "I loved her so," he said aloud.
And he remembered how it was said that after an amputation, the lost
limb still ached. After a while, as thick dusk fell, he walked back
toward the barns and the house.  A single horse was still out in the
stableyard, drooping its head over the rail fence.  He could barely
discern the gleam of its dark, tranquil eyes.  The horse whinnied
softly, and Eddy went up to lay his hand on the warm head.  On some
impulse, then, he put his own head against the animal's long cheek, and
rested there.  He had a sense of kinship, of perfect trust.  It was as
if the animal could feel the man's trust, for it did not move or pull
away.  The innocence, Eddy thought, the innocence. "What are you doing
here?"  Pam said.  "I thought I heard steps on the gravel." 278

He started.  "Nothing much.  Just talking to the horse."

"His name is Baron.  I'm boarding him temporarily.  He's won three blue
ribbons, and he's worth a fortune."

"I wonder whether he would be happier if he knew."

Pam gave him a queer look.  "I've come to tell you something.  I will
pay.  Not just Davey and Lara, but the people who lost through you. 
Just let me know whom you owe, and I will pay."

He was too astonished to speak.

"But of course it will mean selling this huge place."

"You're really willing to do all that, Pam?"

"Yes, if you're willing to try to forgive what I've done, and begin
again with me.  No, Eddy, hear me out," she said, as he started to
reply.  "I've been thinking about us.  I've been sitting upstairs
thinking, maybe the way you'd think if you'd been in a terrible car
smash-up and by some miracle found yourself still alive.  We were never
very grown up, were we?  Not even grown up enough to start a family, to
be responsible for kids.  At least, I wasn't.  I married you because
you were handsome, and we had great sex.  I never really thought about
you, about what drove you.  If I had, maybe I could have helped you.  I
wouldn't have let you make a mess of things."

He was infinitely moved.  "Don't say that.  I've no one to blame but
myself for what I did."

And I, he thought, I married you because you were beautiful and you had
a family tree that I didn't have and that I envied.  Crazy, wasn't
it?

"I have no one to blame but myself," he repeated.

"We had fun, didn't we?"  Her voice trembled.  "And fun is fine, but
that's about all we did do with our lives."

He could have wept.  Instead he swallowed hard.

"Eddy?  Do you think we can ever be what we were?"

"I don't know.  There's so much I don't know anymore."

"I'm willing to try if you are."

To be what they were?  To go upstairs now and take her in his arms?  A
shudder went through him.  No, not possible.

"If you would just stay here.  Just for a while.  We'll be selling this
place and there'll be the moving, and—"

"You'll need help, I know."

She did not answer.  She's giving up all this because I asked her to,
he was thinking.  And it seemed to him that he owed her something in
return.  Why not stay, then, if that's what she wanted, or needed? 
We're being civilized, aren't we?  I can live amicably in my own room
at the end of the hall; I can get a job here as well as anywhere, and
go away again when she's settled and I'm ready.

"I'll stay awhile," he said.  "Just fix a room for me."

279

"I understand." "And, Pam—no anger.  No recriminations.  I can't speak
for you, but I'm too tired for any more anger.  I don't want to feel
anything.  I don't want to feel." "I understand that too." i    A gust
of wind came suddenly out of the north, shaking the trees, and Eddy
shivered. "As long as I'm to stay, I'll take the hot drink you offered
me before," he said courteously. "Of course," she answered with equal
courtesy.  "We'll go right in." 

281

M

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The first person whom she saw among the little crowd that awaited her
plane's arrival at Kennedy was Preston, whose silver-white head loomed
above all other heads and shoulders.  He stepped back to let Melissa,
who had just flown in from Paris, reach her first.

"Oh, Connie!  Oh, Daddy!"  Melissa said as they embraced.

The girl's homely face was swollen with weeping.  It flashed across
Connie's mind that here was the one person who had really deeply adored
Martin.  And this thought, this genuine pity, added to her own shock
and grief, brought tears to Connie also, so that the photographers,
coming forward at just that moment, were able to catch for tomorrow's
newspapers an appealing picture of the sorrowing young widow holding
the hand of her seven-year-old daughter.

Preston, grasping the other hand, kissed her cheek.  "You must be
exhausted.  I've made special arrangements to get you through customs
first."

"How thoughtful you are.  . . . There's no luggage except our little
carry-ons."

When one had so many houses and did so much traveling between them, it
was only sensible to maintain a complete wardrobe in each.

"I thought you'd like to keep together in one car, so I've got a
stretch limo waiting.  Seats for six."  Preston counted: Connie and the
two girls, Nanny, Connie's secretary, and himself.  "Yes, just right. 
Come.  We'll be out of here in no time."

"So good of you," she murmured, following him.

"We're all just devastated, Connie.  There are no words for it."

In the car on the way from the airport the only desultory conversation
was held by Therese and Nanny.  When Preston, sitting across from
Connie, met her glance, he turned considerately away.  The bleak
December day rolled past: joggers along the waterfront, choppy
olive-green bay-waters, high-rise apartments, rows of uniform houses
with plastic snowmen in their front yards and windblown tinsel
decorations.

"My brother's coming for the memorial service next week, but I wanted
to come now," Melissa said in a near whisper. Connie nodded.  She was
thinking, when someone dies suddenly, people absurdly say, "Why, I was
only talking to him on the phone yesterday," or, "We were supposed to
go to lunch next Tuesday," as if the banality of these connections
could make the sudden death more shocking.  Yet, for the last four or
five days, she had been doing the same thing herself: "I was reading to
Therese at the very instant the plane went hurtling in pieces through
the sky, and I was thinking how many hours it would take before I could
phone him in New York and say how sorry I was that we had fought before
he left." Oh, God!  How sorry!  Gulping, she closed her eyes.  That
awful fight!  And then the horror.  The horror.  No one would ever know
what those people had felt, whether they had lived for minutes as they
fell five miles to earth or they had only one unspeakable instant
before they died, or— "Daddy promised me a boy doll to be brother to my
Annie."  Therese's voice chirped now in the silence.  "He told me.  Did
you know?" "Yes, yes.  We'll talk about that later," Nanny said
quickly.  "Why don't you take a little nap?  Here.  Put your head on my
shoulder." She would have to ask a child psychiatrist what Therese
should be told and how to tell it.  Oh, the horror.  The horror. Such a
good man, a kind man!  No woman could have wanted a more devoted
husband.  The terribly sad thing was that she had not been anything
more than fond of him, had never returned his love, not in her heart,
although, thank goodness, he could have had no way of knowing that.  If
she had loved him fiercely, desperately, with the kind of love one read
about, she would have been wanting now to die.  And she was filled with
guilt because she did not now want to die.  ... If only they had not
parted in anger!  If he hadn't left in such a hurry, she would have
made things up the next morning. But she had tried to be a good wife,
that much at least was undeniable.  Impulsively, she reached forward
for the limp hand that lay on Melissa's lap and squeezed it, vowing, I
will take care of Martin's daughter, for she needs me; that much I can
do for his memory. In the apartment's foyer the servants were lined up,
making a phalanx of black wool, black silk, white aprons, and
respectful mournful faces.  Behind them the rooms all appeared to have
been banked with flowers.  They're like diplomats at a dignitary's
funeral, Connie thought. The butler took a step forward.  "Madam, on
behalf of us all, I want to say that our hearts ache for you.  Mr. 
Berg was—we shall miss him." "Thank you, Marston." "Will you have tea,
Madam?  Is there anything we may do?" 282

283

"Tea please, Marston.  In the red library.  You'll stay awhile,
Preston?"

"Of course.  Unless you want to rest."

"No, no, stay."

Felice, Connie's personal maid, took off the sable coat and Preston
went with Connie into the library.

"I look a wreck," she said, passing the Venetian mirror.

"Nothing could make you look a wreck, my dear."

On a table next to the sofa stood Martin's familiar cigar humidor,
burled walnut with a monogrammed gold plaque on the lid.  Preston
followed her glance.

"You need have no worries about his affairs," he said gently.  "He left
everything in perfect order.  But you must know that."

The humidor had to be taken away.  Perhaps Melissa might want it.  The
thing, the very scent of it, made too many pictures: Martin in the
hospital when Therese was born, Martin in the courtroom when Eddy was
convicted, Martin clasping the new sapphires around her neck, Martin
talking to the doctor when they flew Lara's poor baby east, Martin .  .
. She put her face into her hands.

"Shall I leave you?"  asked Preston after a while.

She raised her head.  "No.  I'm sorry.  Please talk to me."

He seemed to reflect.  Then, "It's curious," he said, "a terrible irony
that he had to die while rushing back to consummate a deal that was to
fizzle anyway."

"What?  The P.T.C. Longwood buyout?"

Preston folded his long hands together over his crossed knees.  "Ah,
yes, and after two years' work.  Naturally, as soon as we heard the
awful news, we arranged to postpone the closing for a week, but then,
two days ago, we learned that your brother-in-law had bought back all
the stock for just a trifle over what we were prepared to pay.  If we
had known, we'd have upped our offer."

"That's incredible," murmured Connie.  "How could he have managed to do
it?"

"I'm sure I don't know, but he did, and Bennett was furious.  He
refused to go ahead without the inclusion of the Davis Company's
patents.  So the whole thing went up in smoke.  And we've lost, I
haven't calculated yet how much in legal and accountants' fees.  Up in
smoke."

Connie restrained a smile.  How on earth could Davey have come through
with all that money?  But she said at once, "Yes.  It must be terribly
disappointing for you."

"To say the least."  Preston sighed.  "Well, you can't win them all, I
guess."  There was a poignant silence.  "One thing, though," he said,
just as

Marston appeared with the tea tray, "I want you to know you're not
alone, Connie.  I'm here to help you in every way I can.  Remember
that." Connie Berg made a stunning widow, slender in black with a
single strand of eleven-millimeter pearls around her throat under the
sweep of her pale hair.  Mourning clothes were old-fashioned, yet for
just that reason they had a kind of elegance reminiscent of Jacqueline
Kennedy's widowhood.  When the weather turned warm in the second half
of the year, she changed to cream color, heavy linen or thin silk. 
People turned to look after her when, on Nanny's day out, she walked on
Fifth Avenue with Therese and the three small poodles. By the beginning
of spring her telephone began to bring discreet invitations for quiet
evenings.  "Just a few friends at dinner, that's all, since you are
still in mourning."  From such quiet evenings came other invitations,
most of which she turned down, from unattached men, some of them too
young, some too old, and some just simply fortune hunters.  Connie knew
about fortune hunters. Anyway, she was not interested.  Still numbed by
the unpredictability of death, by the daily immanence of it, which she
had quite forgotten since the long-ago death of her mother, she was now
feeling a need only for the protective comfort of the familiar.  Lara
and Eddy had of course come at once to New York and thrown their arms
around her.  It was then that she learned how Pam, through Eddy, had
rescued the Davis Company.  Her feelings on learning of it were mingled
of tenderness toward her brother— how changed he was, still steadily
optimistic, but with all the cocksure, boastful swagger gone!—and a
confused sense of shame that it had been Martin who would have driven
Davey to the wall. "What bothers me," said Lara, "is my memory of
Martin's last visit to our house.  It didn't end with the most friendly
feelings, and I'm sorry." There was no way for Connie to answer that,
since her own last memory of Martin was what it was.  And for a while
the three were silent in the red library, where a newly enlarged
portrait of Martin in a baroque silver frame gazed out at them. What a
year it had been for the three, each in his own way!  A year of trials
and tests.  It seemed to Connie now that they were merely pausing,
resting as the world rests when a terrible winter seems to have passed,
but there is still no certainty that another storm might not be on the
way. Drawn by this need for the familiar, she made a few impulsive
trips in Martin's plane to Ohio and Kentucky. Davey's plant was going
full blast, but Lara worried nevertheless. "The debt load is
horrendous, Connie.  To think that Davey had to borrow such a sum to
save his own place!  We're making just about enough 284

to meet the payments he promised Pam.  And after that, we barely
squeeze by.  It doesn't seem to make any sense."

"I can't believe Pam would press him, though.  Not with all she
owns."

Lara shook her head.  "No, no.  But I don't understand it!  Ninety
percent of their splendor's gone.  It's very queer.  Wait till you go
there, and you'll know what I mean.  It's almost as if she'd stripped
herself when she made the loan to us."

"That's too saintly to be real.  Nobody does that.  And surely not for
a brother- or sister-in-law."

"Well, wait till you see," repeated Lara.

What Connie saw that first time was a neat white house of moderate size
with no grand driveway, columns, wings, or terraces, surrounded by ten
level acres of grazing grounds, stables, and riding rings.  By the side
of the country road above the mailbox a sign read: OSBORNE HORSE FARM,
RIDING, BOARDING, SCHOOLING.  Pam, familiar in boots and breeches, came
out and led her around, explaining the new order of things.

"We don't raise racers, only a few horses for show.  Eddy's turned
against racing, and I see his point, because it's just gambling,
really, and cruel to the horses besides.  Riding for its own sake is
the true sport."

Connie, feeling dainty and citified, hurried to keep up with Pam's long
stride.  "How's Eddy getting on in the new job?"  she inquired.

"Very well.  It's only a three-member firm of accountants, no problem
for him."

Pam's tone was flat.  Connie thought she sensed a reluctance to touch
on Eddy's work.  But that was probably understandable.  Osborne and
Company, the computers, the consoles, fax machines, row on row of young
men, avid, nervous, and concentrated, bent above them, these were what
Pam must be remembering.

"Quite a change," she said sympathetically.

"Yes.  Come see the house.  You'll find that quite a change too."

Here indeed was no southern mansion, merely the usual basic rooms,
along with an office decorated by framed photographs of horses.  Connie
recognized most of the furniture, although some pieces were too simple
ever to have been in the New York home; they must have been bought to
replace the gilt and marble.  However, it was all very tasteful, and
Connie was gratified to recognize familiar things, too, some of the
finds that Eddy had discovered at auction, a few pieces of the silver
that he cherished, and some paintings.

"Oh, the Winslow Homer!"  she cried on entering the living room.  "I
always loved that so."

"Yes," Pam said rather shortly.  "Would you like the whole tour? 
Upstairs?"

285

"Of course.  You know how I love to see houses." . On the second floor
a narrow hall ran across the back of the house.  From it there opened a
sunny master room at the end, three more bedrooms, and a small office.
"Eddy's office," Pam said.  "Eddy's bedroom next to it." The women's
eyes met.  Connie turned hers away.  Was there something Pam wanted her
to know?  If so, why not tell her outright? But no more was said.  They
went downstairs, had tea with small talk, and waited for Eddy to come
home to dinner. After dinner, when Pam had to talk to a customer in the
stables, the brother and sister were for a while alone.  And presently,
after many circumlocutions, Connie came to her point. "This
retrenchment—I don't mean that you aren't living very nicely, but the
change is dramatic, isn't it?  What's the reason?  Why?" Eddy's faint,
short-lipped smile was wry.  "Reason?  Have you any idea what it cost
Pam to outbid P.T.C. Longwood for Davey's company?"  Then as Connie's
flush rose to her face, he said quickly, "It's a painful subject, I
know, but you mustn't let it pain.  It's past and done with.  Business
is business.  It always was.  I blame no one, least of all Martin.  Who
would I be to cast the blame, anyway?"  he finished. "But I don't
understand," said Connie in a low, hurt voice, "why she made such a
sacrifice.  It's staggering.  I can perhaps understand why you would,
although even that would be astounding, but why she would hand over
almost everything .  . . Was it simply because you asked her to?"
"Because I asked her to."  Eddy's mouth closed in a hard, stern line.
"Extraordinary."  She looked around the room as if a real explanation
might be hidden somewhere behind the curtains.  "And you are back where
you started.  Living on what you earn from day to day, I mean." "As
most people do.  Although for us it's not quite like that.  We have
Davey's payments.  He began making them from the start, every month."
"It's terribly hard for them, I think." "Pam doesn't press them.  It's
they who insist." "They would, of course." At that moment Pam came
back, and the subject was changed. "You'll stay a few days, I hope,
Connie?"  she asked. "I'd like to, but I have things to do at home.  I
try to spend every minute I can with Therese, so that she won't miss
her father too much.  And then I have to look into colleges for Melissa
because she wants to come back and make her home here with me.  She
says she feels happier here." All the way home Connie was bothered by
what she had seen and heard.  It seemed to her that in some way she had
inherited a responsibility for making good the damage that Martin's
firm had done.  And she said as 286

BELVA PLAin

much the next time she saw Preston, who had taken her to dinner a few
times at the Carlyle Hotel, not far from her apartment.  Carefully and
courteously he listened, as was his way, considering his reply before
he gave it.

"Frankly, I can't see why you or anyone should feel responsible.  Your
brother-in-law chose to take the hard way.  He could have given in and
walked off with a small fortune, plus a salary with P.T.C. Longwood, if
he wanted.  To be rich is no bad thing, and to my mind he was
foolish."

"That's what Martin said."

"And Martin was right.  So now he's struggling."

Connie interrupted.  "I hate to see him struggling."

"What are you thinking?  That you should buy up the loan yourself?"

She regarded Preston's quizzical, amused expression.  There wouldn't be
much one could hide from such a man.  "You're a mind reader, Preston. 
Yes, I have been thinking that.  After all, I'm Lara's sister.  Pam's
only a sister-in-law."

"A remarkable thing for a sister-in-law to have done, especially since
you tell me it meant such a sacrifice."

"Evidently Eddy wanted her to do it."  Yet they're sleeping separately,
she thought.  And the atmosphere in that house had been in some way
formal, in some way not quite right.  . . .

"People don't impoverish themselves, relatively speaking, simply
because a husband or wife asks them to.  Judging by what I've seen of
human nature, there'd have to be a quid pro quo," Preston said.

"Meaning?"

"That she owes him something.  You look puzzled."

"Well, I am.  Anyway, I really want to buy the loan from Pam.  I really
do."

"Go ahead, you can certainly afford to.  Especially if you plan to sell
all that property.  Do you?"

"Yes, what do I want with a huge house in London?  It's just a
responsibility.  And an Arab has offered me an enormous profit."

"Take it.  The real estate market is about to drop, all over the world.
 What about Palm Beach, and the ski house?"

"I'm selling them.  It's so much easier to take a suite in a hotel when
you want to go somewhere.  All I want to keep are the apartment and
Cresthill."

"You've done well for yourself in this world, Connie."

"I guess I have."

"You guess!  You know you have.  But you deserve it.  Beauty deserves
its rewards."

"Thank you."

287

"And you've got a lot more than beauty.  You make people feel happy
when they're with you.  You've got heart." "Heart?  Funny, that's a
thing I really think I haven't got enough of." "What?  Why, Berg was
mad about you.  He talked about you constantly." She thought, you're
missing the point.  For all the man's shrewdness he had failed to see
that she had not loved "Berg." "And look at the good heart you have for
your sister, now." "That's different.  That's a blood tie, like
Therese." "It must have been a touchy business for Martin, having to
deal with his wife's family.  We all appreciated that in the firm."
"I'm sure it was.  ... I was thinking, Preston.  I could take Davey's
repayments, after I've assumed the loan, and put part away for Lara's
children.  It would have to be secret because he and Lara would never
accept it otherwise.  Can that be done?" "Easily.  We'll set up a
trust.  Just tell me when." She smiled at Preston.  "It's good having
you as a friend.  I hate dealing with lawyers.  They always come in
batches of three or four, and they're so pompous, taking ten words to
answer when two would do." She meant what she said.  It had become easy
to talk to Preston.  Even as recently as a few months ago he had still
been the slightly forbidding patrician gentleman, a little too distant,
too chilly, for a woman who was accustomed to the ebullience of Martin.
Something had changed him. "Then let's be friends.  I'd like that very
much, Connie.  I was rather waiting for you to emerge a bit from your
first mourning." They were a distinguished couple.  In restaurant and
theater lobbies, wherever there were mirrors, Connie glimpsed them in
passing, he with the elegant white head and aquiline young face above
her head.  Women stared at him.  Women had never stared at Martin. 
Once when she heard a woman whisper, "Look at that stunning couple, the
woman in white," a shiver of excitement ran down her back.  Power. 
Preston was power, and unlike some who had it, he looked the part. One
evening in late May, when it was still light after dinner, he said
abruptly, "How about driving to my place in the country for a nightcap?
It's only about an hour and a half away." "I'd love it.  I was never
there," she remarked. "Well, you know—how shall I put it?  My wife had
her ways." Preston's Buick sedan was not new.  An old blanket had been
tossed on the backseat.  "For the collie," he explained.  "I took her
to the vet yesterday.  She sheds like the dickens." It was a soft
night.  Preston put on a tape; the music was as soft as the air; 288

the car whirred softly northward.  Neither spoke until they came to a
familiar intersection and went past it, when he said, "The road to your
place."

"I know.  I'll be there for the summer as soon as Therese's school is
out."

"We're only twenty minutes apart."

"That's all?"

Invisible from the road, Stonycroft lay behind a massive border of wild
growth that, to Connie's eyes, appeared unkempt.

"Observe the hedgerow," Preston said.  "It's not like the ones you see
in France or England—they've taken centuries to grow—but I think this
is pretty good for only seventy-five years' growth.  My grandfather
began it."

It seemed odd that such a tight-woven tangle should be preferable to a
landscape architect's pattern of rare shrubbery, but Connie made no
comment.  Nor did she remark upon the sheep who were cropping the grass
right up to the stone balustrade that encircled the house, nor upon the
flagstone entrance hall with its boot racks, dog beds, and foul-weather
gear hung on clothes trees.

In the long drawing room two great Newfoundlands and a shaggy collie
sprang up from the sofas and came forward to greet them.  The chintzes
were faded, and next to a wing chair an Oriental rug showed a large
hole.  Connie, quite taken aback, followed Preston through halls hung
with portraits, past a two-storied library darkly paneled, through a
vast dining room lined with cabinets in which massive silver gleamed,
and finally into an enormous kitchen that had not been altered since
the 1920s.

Preston fixed drinks, carried them back to the main room, and shoved a
dog off a sofa to make room for Connie and himself.  From somewhere
again, music played, very low.

"Cozy, isn't it?"  he inquired.

"Very."  She raised her eyes to a portrait opposite; two women, one
gray haired with a sweet face, the other barely out of her teens, sat
on a rustic garden bench in the shade of a stone house wall.  "That's
very lovely.  Eighteenth century, isn't it?  By anybody I ought to
know?"

"No, some itinerant painter did it in Yorkshire one day just before the
younger woman married and emigrated to America."

"Oh, you actually know the provenance?  How exciting!"

"I ought to.  They're my great-grandmothers, five and six times
removed."

Connie felt a flush of embarrassment.  "And all those others on the
walls?  The man over the fireplace?"

"He's only my grandfather.  Yes, all the others.  The DeWitt side were
Huguenots; we don't have every one of them because some were too poor
to have their portraits done.  I don't like putting up phony
ancestors," Preston added.

289

"Do you mind if I look some more?"  1   "Go ahead." On each painting a
small brass plaque gave names and dates: Amelia Ann Cornwallis, 1767;
James Todd Cornwallis, 1880; Marie Laure DeWitt, 1814.  These were the
real thing, a jumble of the family's generations.  No doubt the
furniture was too.  No decorator would have juxtaposed this Elizabethan
chest with those Victorian Gothic chairs, that was sure.  And yet,
beside the "cozy" feeling that Preston had pointed out, the whole
possessed a certain elegance.  Strange.  And those huge dogs with their
dirty paws on the furniture!  Martin would have had a fit, Connie
thought, and so would she. "It's a lovely house," she told Preston. 
"It looks—well, real.  I can't think of a better word." "It's lived in,
anyway.  And meant to be lived in, not to impress people with." Had
that been, possibly, an oblique rebuke?  She looked up quickly, to find
that there was nothing in his expression that could indicate anything
but an honest statement. "I wonder," he said suddenly, "whether you
will do a favor for me?"  '••    "Why, you know I will.  What is it?"
"A little great-niece of mine is being presented in Charleston at the
St.  Cecilia Ball, and I'd like to send an appropriate gift.  Will you
do the shopping?  I thought perhaps a strand of pearls, suitable for a
girl of eighteen, would be the best unless you have another
suggestion." "Pearls are always good.  And if she should already have
some or should receive some, they can be worn wound together.  You'll
need to tell me how much to spend, though.  Whether you want a diamond
clasp and—" "No, Arabella's too young for diamonds.  Her parents
wouldn't like that.  They're very quiet, conservative people.  My niece
married into one of the oldest South Carolina families." "Oh," said
Connie, who had just bought pearls with a huge diamond clasp for
Melissa's birthday.  "I suppose the St.  Cecilia Ball is a formal
charity affair?" "Formal, and by invitation only.  It's a local
tradition.  One can't buy tickets for it.  It's not a New York charity
bash." Connie was feeling that she had walked into yet another world. 
Worlds beyond worlds, barely and only touching here and there when
necessary, as Martin's had touched Preston's.  She had not even been
aware that there were people who thought a diamond clasp wasn't proper.
Back home that night she kept thinking about those people who could
live secure in their shabby grandeur and drive an old Buick, while
their 290

291

millions piled up in the bank.  "Curiouser and curiouser."  So said
Alice in Therese's favorite story, as she explored the rabbit hole.

One stage followed another.  Full summer came, Connie moved to
Cresthill, Preston stayed full-time at Stonycroft, and the cars
traveled back and forth between the two houses.  Both had pools and
tennis courts.  Both had chairs and tables at which, after strenuous
sport, a hot afternoon could be whiled away in the shade.  They talked.
Connie spoke freely about herself and her background.  It pleased her
that Preston DeWitt would find her so interesting, pleased her to be
turned, in his eyes, into someone charmingly unfamiliar and exotic.  On
her part his casual mention of places to which she could never have
gone with Martin, to which even first-generation corporate executives
like Bitsy Maxwell's family had no access, was tantalizing.  Mount
Desert was where one summered, not Southampton; Hobe Sound was where
one wintered, not Palm Beach.

"Of course," he said, laughing a little at himself, "it all began in
America with the Gilded Age after the Civil War.  The unspeakable
vulgarity of Newport's so-called cottages!  It takes two or three
generations to learn how not to show off."

Damn decorators, Connie was thinking.  Telling me that the best houses
had to be French!  And she wondered what Preston really thought of
Cresthill.

One evening in late July he gave a dinner at Stonycroft.  Having been
at one of his dinners before, she knew this time what to expect: tall
men in perfect dinner jackets and tall women in plain, expensive
dresses three or four years old.  Here were seen no fads like Lacroix's
pouf skirts.  So she dressed accordingly in the kind of white silk that
Pam had always worn, with a pair of barrettes in her hair, and was
rewarded by Preston's praise.

"Very becoming.  Very well chosen.  You've matured, Connie."

She understood that he meant, and was too clever to tell her outright,
that she was learning to look as if she had been born in a house like
his.

After the dinner, when the other guests had gone, he asked her to
remain.

"Sit there a minute.  I'll be right back."

In a curious way, while wondering just what the request portended, she
felt that it portended some sort of important change.  A few minutes
later he returned with a leather box in hand, apologizing for the
delay.

"I had to take down a picture to get at the wall safe.  Anyway, here it
is."

And on the coffee table he displayed a ruby necklace, an elaborate
arabesque of splendid stones set in platinum and diamonds; long pendant
earrings matched.

"Caroline's parure," he explained.  "But it came from my
grandmother."

Nothing in Connie's possession, no matter how costly, could equal this.
These were museum pieces.  Royalty could wear them; royalty had
perhaps done so.  She could only gasp. "I'd like you to have it,
Connie." She looked at him, disbelieving.  "I don't understand.  It
makes no sense." "Yes, it does.  I have no daughters and no
granddaughters.  I don't need money, so I'm not going to sell it.  It
lies in a dark vault.  Why shouldn't such jewels see the light of day? 
Or I should say 'night,' shouldn't I?  But don't wear them in the
country, you do know that, don't you?  They belong in a parterre box at
the opera on opening night." She was bewildered.  "Preston, I can't.  I
shouldn't.  It isn't right." "At least let me see how you look in them.
Try them on." Before the mirror she watched him clasp the necklace,
his handsome face concentrated.  Then she put on the earrings and
turned to him, saying in a kind of self-conscious, awkward tension the
first thing that came into her mind. "This dress is too high necked. 
You can see it's wrong." "Pull it down so the jewels rest on your
skin." When she did so, he smiled.  "That's better.  Actually, do you
know how it should be worn?  Wasn't it under one of the Louis in France
that women exposed their breasts?  I don't remember.  Anyway, that
would be sensational." Connie laughed.  "It's against the law." He
laughed too.  "Not here and now in this room." And saying so, putting
both hands on her shoulders, he stretched the white silk down past her
breasts, exposed the lace brassiere, and unfastened it.  Now at the
cleavage lay the largest of the rubies, blood-red, rose-red, hot and
glittering.  For a moment she stared at it, then slowly turned her eyes
toward Preston, who was examining her with questioning curiosity.  She
had long ago perfected a quiet, steady gaze into which a man might read
whatever degree of meaning he wished. "We'll go upstairs," he said. She
followed.  It was as if she were watching another woman mount the great
curving flight of steps beside him, as if she were clinically analyzing
that woman's emotions, her triumph at having conquered so desirable a
man—and at the same time her total absence of desire.  To tell the
truth, it had been a long evening, and that woman really would have
preferred sleep to what was coming.  But she also knew what was
expected of her and was prepared to perform well. The room into which
he led her contained a high old bed with carved mahogany hung in dark
green damask.  Sir Walter Raleigh might have bedded 292

Queen Elizabeth in it.  Or had he ever slept with Elizabeth?  No, not
Raleigh.  Essex.

From far away then, she seemed to hear Preston's voice ringing with
delight.  "This is the number-one guest room for VIPs."

She heard the slither of silk as the coverlet was removed; from the
open window felt the rush of cool air on her skin as he removed the
rest of her clothes and carried her, naked except for the rubies, onto
the bed.

"On second thought, I seem to remember it was in Napoleon's time that
women bared their breasts," Preston said as they rested together.

"I don't remember."

"Well, no matter.  But if it was Josephine I'm thinking of, I can tell
you Napoleon would never have gotten rid of her if she'd known some of
your tricks."

Twinkling—Preston DeWitt actually twinkling!—he regarded Connie.  A
sudden vision of him in bed with his late wife Caroline, that prune,
brought a tremble of a smile to Connie.

"What are you smiling at?"

"I'm remembering something.  The very first time I met you, before I
married Martin, I thought you were the handsomest man I had ever
seen."

"I remember.  You wore a beige suit, and your eyes sparkled.  I've
wanted to do this for a long time, Connie."

"Why didn't you?"

"Good Lord, I wouldn't poach on my partner's territory!"

Playing the coquette, she said, "I wouldn't have let you."

"Don't you think I know that?  But it's different now, isn't it?"

"Yes.  Different now."

In the morning, for some absurd reason against which, because it seemed
so childish, she fought and lost, she felt a need to speak to Lara.

What she said was, "Lara, don't be shocked, but I do believe Preston
DeWitt will ask me to marry him.  I had to tell you."

There was no answer.

"Lara?  Are you there?"

"I'm here."

"You're shocked.  I know you are."

"I don't know what to say.  It just seems—it's not nearly a year
yet."

"I know.  I didn't say I would actually do it now.  I meant that I see
it coming, that's all I meant."

"That's better."  There was a long pause.  Then Lara said, "I barely
remember him.  Is he white haired and quite tall?"

"Yes.  Distinguished.  And very sweet.  You'll like him, Lara. 
Really."

293

"Never mind me.  It's you who matter.  You can't really be in love
again so soon, can you?" "Well, as you say, it's so soon.  But one can
tell.  . . . You know how it is." "Maybe I don't know." This
conversation had not been entirely satisfactory, Connie thought when
she hung up the telephone.  It was rash to have spoken out now, after
all.  She couldn't be sure of what was in Preston's mind, could she? 
Yet after last night, could she not? And she allowed a little drama to
unroll.  When the year was well past, perhaps next spring, there could
be a very small private ceremony at Cresthill, after which the place
would be sold, for he certainly wouldn't sell Stonycroft with all his
grandfather's trees.  It was actually his great-grandfather who had
bought it.  Thank goodness he was a widower; there'd be no exasperating
divorce to delay things as there had been with Martin.  . . . So Connie
reflected. Her prediction was fulfilled.  About a month after the night
of the rubies, Preston outlined a plan exactly like the one Connie had
imagined. "Of course, we have to wait until next spring," he said,
complaining, "but it's damned hard.  Can't sleep together at my place
except on maids' nights out, and can't ever sleep at yours on account
of the child.  However, it will pass.  Patience, patience.  Damn," he
said again, "I may have to go abroad for a month.  We're expanding our
facility in Tokyo.  In fact, it's not 'may have to,' it's 'must.' Since
we lost Berg, there's been nobody to take his place.  I'd love it if
you'd come along." "I can't leave Therese, Preston.  She's starting
school again at the end of the month, and I need to be here." He
nodded.  "I understand, of course.  But I'll miss you." "I'll miss you
too." Yet, when he vanished through the departure gate at Japan
Airlines, she turned away with no feeling at all, except perhaps the
pleasant anticipation of a quiet evening at home with the telephone
shut off, a long bath, a book, and bed.  For some reason she had been
feeling depressed during the last week or two.  I'm getting tired, she
thought suddenly, of simulating emotion; it takes all one's energy to
be passionate and vivacious when one isn't feeling either way.  For now
that Preston was 'caught,' and was an accomplished fact in her life,
the first miraculous excitement had just seemed to drain away.  Where
could it have gone?  Perhaps she was simply getting older.  . . . Then
she thought: No.  I'm only thirty-five.  This has got to be a delayed
reaction from last December's shock.  That's all it can be. 294

One day Connie happened to drive past the hospital where Peggy had been
cared for.  Quite naturally, then, that whole experience raced like a
motion picture through her memory: the arriving airplane, the
unconscious child on the stretcher, the room on the second floor,
Lara's shrunken face, the day of the miracle when the child's eyes
opened, and in the corridor the nurses' and the doctors' running
steps.

He was a nice man, that Jonathan Bayer.  I remember thinking, she said
to herself, that I'd like to know him.  I can't say why exactly, but he
just seemed interesting.  At our picnic that Fourth of July I had the
feeling that he liked me.

And driving on with the top down and a fresh breeze blowing, she felt a
sudden heat rise to her cheeks.  Absurd, Connie.  Where do you think
you are?  In junior high school?

There was a choice of three routes from Cresthill to the village, the
most circuitous of which was the road that passed the hospital. 
Nevertheless, driving one day with Therese in the car, she took that
route again.

"Look, Mommy.  That's where Peggy was when she was sick."

"Yes, I remember."

"We used to bring toys and cookies."

"You're right, we did."

"We used to bring things for lots of other children, Mommy.  You said
they didn't have enough toys."

"You're right, we did.  Would you like to buy some toys and bring them
there again?"

"Yes, let's."

Whatever the motive, whether the child really had generous feelings or
simply liked the fun of visiting a toy store, the project was a good
one, and ought to be carried out.  Besides .  . .

But how foolish!  He probably wasn't even there anymore.  And if he was
—so what?"

"We'll go tomorrow," Connie said.

They had half a dozen cartons filled with dolls, toy cars, simple
puzzles, and other toys suited to recuperating children, when they
returned the next day.  It took several trips from the parking lot to
carry all of these indoors.  On the last one Connie, dropping a carton,
was rescued as Jonathan Bayer came hurrying through the lot.

"What's going on?  It's not Christmas yet," he said.

Connie explained.  "We have a special feeling for this place, because
of Peggy.  My sister's child, if you remember."

"Remember?  Of course I do!"  He looked surprised.

What a stupid remark!  Naturally he remembered.  And annoyed with
herself for being so awkward, she made amends.

I

295

"When she came, she might as well have been dead, and when she left,
she was whole again.  It was a miracle," "Yes, miracles do happen, but
not often."  They set the bundles down in the front hall and stood
there for a moment.  There was an odd sense of uncertainty about what
to do next. "Shall I have these distributed, or do you want—?"  began
the doctor, when Connie interrupted hastily, "No, no, I don't want to. 
That's too much like Lady Bountiful.  Oh, no." He laughed.  "Good for
you.  I'll see to it, then.  We're always in need of toys, and we
surely thank you.  Especially you, Therese." He went down the hall
fast, almost running, as Connie remembered he had used to do. Outside
on the lawn patients, singly and in groups, with nurses or relatives,
sat in wheelchairs or made arduous efforts to walk.  A little boy about
Therese's age was sitting on the grass with a woman, fumbling over a
puzzle. Therese stopped.  "I have that game," she told him, and
uninvited, sat down beside him.  "I'll show you how to do it." Connie
said quickly, "No, no, don't bother the little boy." The other woman
looked up, smiling.  "She just wants to be friendly.  We don't mind, if
you don't." So the two mothers sat watching while Therese, with
astounding patience, demonstrated to the disabled boy how to tilt the
box so that the little silver ball would run through the maze into the
hole.  And Connie, listening to the other woman's tale of disaster in
an automobile and long, discouraging recuperation, was struck by wave
after wave of gratitude for, and fierce protectiveness of, her own
feisty little girl. Presently, Dr.  Bayer came down the walk and
stopped to watch the children.  When at last the silver ball fell into
the hole, the boy laughed, and Therese clapped and stood up. "Time to
go now," said Connie. Dr.  Bayer, also going in the direction of the
parking lot, remarked as • Therese ran ahead, "You have an unusual
child." "Yes.  She's always been quick and bright." "Like you." "Thank
you.  But she's like her father." "I see the kindness too." "I'm lucky
to have her, I know."  And she added, "We live alone now, the two of
us.  Her father was on Flight 103 that went down over Scotland last
winter." "Oh!"  he cried.  "Your husband—that vital man!" 296

There was such genuine pain in his single "Oh!"  that she turned to
look at him.  What she saw was an expression of extraordinary
gentleness.

They reached Connie's car.  When he had seen them into it, Dr.  Bayer
stood at the window.  She had not yet started the motor.  And again
there was that sense of uncertainty, as if neither quite knew how to
end the brief encounter.

She said, "The things you do here .  . . When I remember my little
niece, I feel so grateful.  I wish I could do something to show it. 
Better than bringing a few toys, I mean."

"You could volunteer," he told her.

"Why?  What could I do?"

"You could do pretty much what Therese did just now.  The nurses don't
have enough time for all that should be done, especially on
weekends."

"Really?  I think I'd like to do that."

"Well, if you're interested, come see me about it.  They've made me
medical director since you were here.  I'm on the ground floor."

"Congratulations!"

"Thank you."

"Let's go, Mommy!"  Therese cried impatiently.

"All right, we're going."

For once, Connie was glad of the child's impatience.

She asked to be with children, so on the following Saturday she was
given a ten-year-old girl in charge who needed someone to walk with her
around the grounds.  This was such simple work that it was hardly work
at all, and yet one knew how valuable it was.  It might, in another
sense, be thought rather odd for Connie to be spending the afternoon
with a strange child while her own child was being cared for by a
nanny.  And she knew, of course, that the only reason she was not at
home with Therese was Jonathan Bayer.

He came upon her just after she had brought her charge back to her
room.

"Where's Miss Therese?"  he asked.

"Oh, playing with friends."

"Well, how do you like this work?"

"It's hardly work, but I do feel I've done something worthwhile."

"You have."  He looked at her quizzically.  "I'm off for the rest of
the day.  Would you like to have a drink with me?"

"That would be nice."

"There's a place down the road.  We can sit out under an umbrella, if
you'd like."

"That would be nice."

297

Where was her vaunted "personality"?  She was as tongue-tied as a girl
on a first date.  They got into his car, drove, and found themselves at
an umbrella table on a gilded September afternoon with nothing but
silence swelling between them to fill the afternoon. "Why do you keep
looking at your feet?"  he asked abruptly. She hadn't been aware of
doing so, but she found an answer.  "I thought I saw a hole in my
stocking." He laughed.  "And if there were?  What then?" "Nothing, I
guess." "The trouble is, we don't know what to say to each other." Her
heart pounded.  "There's nothing wrong with being quiet." "No, you're
right."  And he looked away across the little lawn, bisected by a
gravel path on which a couple of pigeons were foraging for crumbs. Her
mind, as she observed him, spun through time, through all she had known
of life.  He had none of Preston's Roman-coin symmetry, none of
Martin's vigorous enthusiasm, and surely none of Richard's—poor
Richard!  —sunny, boyish charm.  What then?  She could not say, did not
understand, knew only that something powerful had taken hold of her,
that she felt eased while she was drawn to him, and yet that she feared
this thing, so fearfully unfamiliar. "Do you still live in the same
house?"  he asked abruptly. "Yes, in the summer." "It's very beautiful.
Very grand." "Yes." Again the silence fell.  There had been something
in the way he said "grand" that disturbed her.  Suddenly she saw her
palace through his eyes, as his eyes would have seen it.  And it seemed
to her that she knew, without having been told anything about him, how
his eyes would see the world. They finished their drinks and drove back
to where Connie's car was parked at the hospital.  He took her hand on
parting. "This was only our first time," he said.  "We'll do better the
next time." There were three more times, a tea, a lunch, and a dinner. 
And the talk began to flow more easily between them, talk about movies,
politics, about books and places Connie had never seen, such as the
inside of a hospital for Cambodian refugees in Thailand.  She learned
that he had always wanted to be a doctor from the time he'd been nine
years old.  She learned that he had never been married; for some reason
that pleased her.  But then she had to give him in turn the bare facts
of her own life, about her family and her marriages. She said nothing
about Preston DeWitt, who would be home in a week. After the dinner
date, in the dark of the hospital parking lot where she 298

had kept her car, he kissed her.  It was a light brush on the lips, the
obligatory kiss, and that is all it was.  He couldn't know it, but if
he had asked her to, if there had been a private place for them to go,
she would have lain down there on the grass with him, would have cried
out the marvel that it had taken all these years for her to feel,
really to feel, at last.  . . . She scarcely recognized herself.  . . .
And driving home alone through the quiet night, she wept.

Although he was tired after the flight from Tokyo, Preston came
straight from the airport to Connie's apartment.  In the familiar red
library they talked.

"I really missed having Berg along, I'll tell you.  He knew how to get
things done, he was a brain.  Oh, a mite too aggressive for my taste,
to be honest about it, but let me tell you, what he did for our firm
was stupendous.  We're richer by a couple of billion dollars because of
him, and that's not all bad."

"It's not necessarily all good, either, is it?"  When he looked at her
with astonishment, she added, "When you see what's happening to the
country, all the bankruptcies and the unemployment, you have to wonder
about a lot of things."

Preston shrugged.  "Cycles.  Everything goes in cycles.  If you're
smart, you prepare for the downturns.  And we're prepared.  We'll be as
busy as we ever were in the eighties, only we'll be on the other side. 
We'll be deleveraging.  Doing financial rescues.  So I'm not worried,
not a bit."

When I was in India, said Jonathan, I saw such things, such criminal
neglect, that I felt an anger I had never known I was capable of
feeling.

Preston swirled the brandy in the snifter, contemplating the sunny
liquid.  "Yes," he reflected, "the eighties are almost over, but greed
isn't and never will be, so one might as well survive by taking
advantage of it."

"Isn't that rather cynical?"  she asked quietly.

"Not at all.  It's true."

"Not of everyone.  Not of Davey and Lara, for example."

"You still talking about them?  Babes in the wood.  Berg himself said
so."

"Sometimes lately," she said slowly, "I have a feeling that at the very
end, Martin would have taken Davey's side, that he wouldn't have pushed
through with that deal."

"That's ridiculous, Connie."

"Maybe.  But I do have the feeling, given the man Martin was."

Preston shook his head.  "Never.  Not with all that money at stake."

We are miles apart, she thought.  He was turning and turning the
snifter, warming it between his long hands.  How could I ever have
thought otherwise?  It seems so clear now, the crazy extravagance of
the Bitsy Maxwells,

299

and yes—of Martin—and yes, of Eddy—and then the reverse snobbishness of
Preston's friends in their old dresses.  False, all false.  All of it.
What has happened to me? "How are the Davises doing, by the way?"
"They're struggling, paying me back on the first of every month.  But
they're very, very happy." "How can they be so happy, when they're
living with a load of debt on their hands?" "Because they're together. 
Do you understand?  Together in every way?" I never married, said
Jonathan.  I always said I never would until I found the woman I
couldn't live without. "Something has changed you," Preston said. 
"You're dissatisfied." She did not answer. "Tell me." She rose.  "I
have to give you something first." From the wall safe in her dressing
room she removed the box with Preston's rubies and returned.  He was
cold and would not be devastated by her rejection, yet he was a decent
man, and she wanted to be gentle.  She knelt on the ottoman at his
chair. "Please take these back.  You were very generous, but I mustn't
keep them." He raised his eyebrows.  "Why?  Have you found someone
else?" Truthfully, wistfully, she replied, "I think I may have,
although very-likely nothing will come of it." If it meant anything
that Jonathan was her first thought in the morning and the last at
night, if it meant anything that she felt panic at the idea that he
might go away, if it meant anything that she would go with him gladly
to Borneo without a penny, then indeed she had found someone. "Rather a
sudden development, I should say." "Yes.  Sudden." Cold or not, this
man was very proud, and no human being suffers a rejection gladly.  His
lips tightened, while his fingernails made small, clicking sounds as
they tapped the arm of the chair. "I'm truly sorry, Preston.  I respect
you and admire you, but—something happened, that's all.  I can't help
it.  I'm truly sorry." "Is it—may I ask—anyone I know?" "I'm not sure."
Jonathan at one of Preston's dinner parties! "Have you known him
long?" "A couple of years.  That is, I met him," she stumbled.  "But I
don't— didn't know him much until last month." Preston frowned.  "The
whole thing sounds odd, to say the least.  Not,"

BOO

301

he said quickly, "that it's any business of mine, but do you expect to
be married or just—"

"I'd like to get married," she said simply, "but I really don't know
whether I will.  Probably not."

A despondent, anticlimactic silence fell, during which Preston's nails
kept clicking.  After a while he stood up, ready to leave.

"You can understand that I'm fairly disappointed.  I thought we had
firm plans.  But I suppose I must wish you good luck, anyway.  I'm
still fond of you, Connie, and I hope you're not doing anything
foolish."

So that much was over, and not too painfully.  But—oh, Connie,
Con-suelo, she asked herself, Peg's own late-blooming romantic
daughter, are you indeed a fool?

After two weeks there was no word from Jonathan Bayer.  She was sure
she had given him her New York address, and in any case, he could
easily have found it if he had wanted to.

I don't understand it, she thought over and over during the quiet
hours.  She had many quiet hours in the days that followed the parting
from Preston, all desire for activity having left her.  So, walking in
the park with Therese or sitting with a half-read book on her lap, she
pondered.  He had called her "gentle" and "comical" and "kind."  "When
we get to know each other better," he had said.

She felt a cold sense of loss.  The man had reached her as no man ever
had, yet that was not to say that she had reached him in the same way,
was it?

One night, not sleeping well, she got up and walked through the
apartment, turning lights on and off as, on thick, muffling rugs, she
went from room to room.  The place was lonely.  For so many months it
had been deserted, its long rooms filled with plump, padded, and now
vacant chairs.  She heard again the air resounding with imperious
chatter, the boasts of those who had "made it," hoped to make more, and
were there to let the world know how importantly they existed.  The
place was a museum, too, its walls and corners, its cabinets and
niches, crammed with brilliant objects, collected in superfluity that
all might see how well their owner had "made it."

The place was useless.  It was dead.  Like the pyramids, it was dead.

How strange it was that, living here, she had never before felt its
deadness!

"I will telephone him in the morning," she said aloud into the midnight
silence.  "Pride or not, what more have I got to lose?"

If he should agree, they would have dinner together at Cresthill
tomorrow.

\

It was still light enough when Jonathan arrived to see the gold leave5
tremble slowly onto the leaf-speckled grass.  From the window nook in
the library where Connie had arranged that they would dine simply at a
SID*" round table, he gazed out at a vast view of lawns emblazoned with
onia* mental trees, with gazebos, ponds, and statuary.  During the last
few minutes, after an animated start, he had become quiet. She had told
herself that she would be very open; for the first time in her life she
would bring no wiles, no calculations to bear upon a man.  And so she
asked bluntly, "What are you thinking?  What are you seeing 0^ there?"
He turned to her with equal honesty.  "Do you really want to know?
"Yes." "I am thinking that this place reminds me of Versailles." "And
you don't like it." "Versailles was fine for Louis XIV in his time. 
No, I take that back- ^ wasn't fine, even then." "I want to sell it,"
she said abruptly. "I thought you loved it." "I did once."  She
hesitated.  "It was a hinge.  An addiction, like drugs-He listened
while she let her thoughts speak, thoughts that not long ago she would
have said she could never have.  All that money, flowing in and
spilling over ... "In the end," she said softly, "it has no meaning. 
The treasures, the rich prizes, have no meaning." Without answering he
kept his gaze on the window and the scene beyond, where it was rapidly
growing dark.  With every one of her senses s'le was aware of him,
aware of the black, curving eyelashes, of the cleft chin that gave a
sweetness to the powerful face, of the long hand that rested on the
table, the white cuffs, the— He stood up suddenly.  The coffee had
grown cold in the cups.  "May we sit elsewhere?  I need to talk to
you." Fifty people could sit comfortably in the library.  At one end a
fire been lit against the early autumn chill, and there she led him to
sit. "Connie," he began, "I know you wondered why I didn't call you,
knew, we both knew, that something was happening to us." "Then it was
cruel of you," she cried.  "I waited—" "Forgive me," he said, vaguely
pleading, "but I was so afraid." "Afraid of what?" He waved his hand
toward the enormous room.  "Of this.  I don't belong here.  It seemed
incongruous to think of myself with a woman who 0'°.  I knew who Martin
Berg was—a decent man, I'm sure, but worlds apart 'from 302

me, and I thought that a woman who had coveted all this couldn't
possibly be happy with my ways."  He stopped.

Connie's heart was hammering.  "Go on," she said, not taking her eyes
away from him.

"You don't know how I fought with myself.  I remember thinking how warm
you are, with all your vital joy.  And still I asked myself whether I
really knew you."

"And do you think you do now?"

"Much better.  Oh, much better.  What you said just then about the
treasures, 'the rich prizes' I think you said, that seemed to open the
way for me to see you clearly."

She got up and stood before him, trembling.  "What do you see?  Tell me
what you see."

"I see a woman.  A real one.  Oh," he said, "I know I wouldn't have
held out.  I kept thinking, I mustn't lose you.  Then I thought, but
what if we start out together and then I lose you?  How much worse that
would be!"

"You won't lose me, Jonathan."

"Oh," he cried, and rose to meet her.

For minutes then they stood together, clasped while he kissed her eyes,
her cheeks, and her mouth, his hands moving gently on her body, and
neither of them able to stop or to let go.  So this had been here in
the world all the time, and she had never known it!

When at last he loosened his arms, she was thinking, I shall have so
much to make up for, and the thought made her laugh, a little tender
laugh mingled with a few bright tears.

"Shall we?  Shall we now, darling?"  asked Jonathan.

"Yes.  I've left Therese in the city, so there's no one here."  No
wiles, she thought again.  There'd be nothing but bold honesty this
time.  And she said, "You see, I wanted it to turn out like this.  I
wanted it so.  With all my heart."

Thanksgiving, one year later.

With huge pleasure Lara looked down the long table.  At the far end sat
Davey; ranked on either side were Eddy and Pam, Connie and Therese and
Jonathan, then Melissa Berg and her own two children.  In the center
was a splendid mound of chrysanthemums, baby pumpkins, and dried Indian
corn.

"I always wanted a really big tableful, really big," she said, "and
this year I have it."

"Next year, if you invite us," Eddy said, looking significantly at
Pam's visible, enormous pregnancy, "it will be even fuller."

303

"No, you'll come to our house," Pam said.  "We must start a tradition
of taking turns." A sliver of pie remained on the plate in front of
Lara.  "Does anyone want the last piece?"  she asked.  "If not, I guess
we can all get up and stretch." At the living room window Connie stood
looking out at the yard, where the pin oaks' leaves, turned to brown,
would hang on all winter through the snow, to be shed contrariwise only
in the spring.  At the far end of the property stood Davey's new
workroom, much like the shabby original in size and shape, but painted
white with green window boxes that Lara would plant with geraniums
again.  Connie smiled to herself. "He gets his best ideas when he can
work at home in a quiet place," Lara said, coming up beside her.  "The
plant's too busy." Davey overheard.  "Thank God, it's busy.  I hired
ten new men last week.  Have you heard about P.T.C. Longwood, Connie?"
"No, I don't hear about those things anymore." "Well, it was in the
papers.  Bennett's selling to the Japanese." "A few more billions for
his coffers," said Connie, scoffing. "Connie, you've become an
idealist," Lara observed tranquilly. "Well, I have.  It's disgusting
when people are addicted to piling up millions that they can't possibly
use." "It's an easy addiction to get," Eddy said, "and hard to break."
"None of us is exactly impoverished."  That was Davey. "We've finally
sold Cresthill," Connie announced abruptly.  "And the apartment too. 
We're going to close the deal on our new house this week." It pleased
her that they all wanted to know what the new one was like. Jonathan
replied with a smile.  "It's a beautiful colonial near the hospital and
Therese's new school, a little larger than I wanted and a little
smaller than Connie wanted, so we compromised, since each of us paid
for our half of it." "There's just enough room to hold you all,
including Melissa when she's home from college, and then even a nursery
for Pam's baby," Connie assured them.  "Are you positive you haven't
got twins in there, darling?" "I'd be delighted if she had," said Eddy,
taking his wife's hand. "What a wonderful day it's been," sighed Lara,
with that same lovely, tranquil look on her face. "I've been thinking
of Peg," Connie murmured.  "If she knows that we're here together like
this, she's very, very happy." And Eddy added typically, "Yes, we
haven't done too badly.  We've had our ups and our downs, and nobody's
won a Nobel prize, either, but we haven't done too badly." Connie
caught her husband's eye.  So you like us?  went her silent question.
304

Yes.  And you, you I love, came his silent answer.

The moment caught Connie's heart.  She must remember it exactly, its
familiar faces, its well-known voices, and even the way the late sun
fell, to touch with its blessed light these whom she held most dear,
all these, her living treasures.