“I’m too early?” He looked at his watch in alarm. It was just one minute after six o’clock. He backed down a step.
“No.” She was laughing now, holding the door open. “I needed someone to help with the ice. Come in, Paul. Welcome!”
“Sorry, Rona. Give me a few days to break army habits.” He entered the small hall, cursing himself. He had forgotten that six o’clock for cocktails in New York meant six-thirty with luck. He looked round, searching for some place to lay his cap. He put it on the little telephone table, but it looked too conspicuous, too possessive lying there. He picked it up again, and stood holding it, feeling still more uncomfortable.
Rona took it and dropped it on a chair inside the bedroom. “The cloakroom for tonight,” she explained. “Now, here’s where I’m having a slight battle with the shrimps. I’m beginning to wish I hadn’t thought they were a better idea than smoked salmon.” She led him into the kitchenette. She tied an apron—a white organdie thing with roses and frills—around the waist of her elegant black suit. Paul looked at her, then at the neat white miniature kitchen, then at the platter of food which she was arranging with some care.
“They’re being obstinate, today,” she went on. She concentrated on removing the few remaining shrimps from their hard transparent cases. “Coy, that’s what they are. And yet if you hurry them, you mash them into pieces.”
He kept looking around him as she talked. She was more embarrassed than he had been by his promptness, but she was doing her best to tell him to stop feeling worried. “This where you keep the ice?” he asked, his voice aS casual as hers. He didn’t tell her that, flushed with all the rush and excited by her party, she was the prettiest girl he had seen since he had said goodbye to her.
“Yes. Careful of that refrigerator door, Paul. It swings back on you.” She looked up from her work to catch him smiling at her. She raised an eyebrow.
“Your apron,” he explained. “Is that what the well-dressed housewife is now wearing?”
She smiled and handed him a bowl for the ice. “The tray is set up in the living-room,” she said. “Straight through, you can’t miss it.”
When he came back to the little kitchen, she was studying the coral-tinted shrimps massed round a bowl of sauce. “Would you try it, Paul? It’s supposed to be mustard sauce. All right? I’ve been tasting so many things that I’ve lost my judgment.”
She watched him anxiously. It was very good, he reassured her. “Now, the lemon peel,” she said, remembering the Martinis.
“Anything else I can do?”
“Did the drink tray seem all right?”
“Yes. Everything seems pretty much all right.”
“Then why don’t you pour yourself a drink and tell me what you’ve been doing?”
“Oh, I’ve just been walking around, getting acclimated.” He smiled. “I forgot about traffic lights, and I still jump when the elevated roars out of nowhere.”
“I mean what have you been doing since—since you left London?”
“Just one job after another,” he said lightly.
“Well, where did you collect all that?” She pointed to his ribbons.
“You get one with every fiftieth can of Spam.”
She laughed. “You’re just the same as Scott,” she said. “He won’t talk about the war, either. He was in Italy, you know.”
“There are pleasanter things to talk about. By the way, Rona, how is our Trend nowadays, apart from the interior decoration side?”
“Strictly Virginian this month. March was pure Texan. And it’s going to be very Boston and Harvard in May.” She admired the thin translucent strips of lemon peel which curled delicately from her careful knife. “You’d almost think I liked dry Martinis,” she observed.
“Still taste like medicine to you?”
“Still the little country girl at heart,” she admitted. “But why were you so serious when you asked about Trend? Is it true that you are coming back? Oh, yes, the rumours are flying around.” She was suddenly equally serious, almost worried.
“You don’t like the idea?” His voice was hard.
“Not that, Paul,” she said quickly, looking at him. “We mustn’t think back to the old days. You got your freedom again, and that was what you really wanted. I picked up my life. And now I’m terribly happy. So all’s well. Isn’t it?”
“Yes,” he said. “All’s well.” He turned to look out of the window. He studied the view. Roofs, chimney pots, water towers. And down below, little squares of persevering grass and determined trees, boxed into miniature gardens by brick walls. “Why did you look so worried, there?” he asked suddenly.
“I was thinking of Blackworth—the man who got your job when you stayed in the army.”
“Do you like him?”
“Yes. He’s popular. That’s what makes it so awful. You see, it was my fault—I’m sure it was my fault—that he lost the job. Oh, he’s lost it, Paul, even if you don’t come back.”
He was startled. “Your fault...?”
“Paul...” She looked at him uncertainly. “I can’t talk about this to everyone. I’ve told Scott, of course, and Peggy and Jon. You see, Paul, it was like this—oh, it’s so difficult to begin, you’ll think we are all crazy or something, and yet—”
A bell sounded.
“That’s Scott,” Rona said quickly. “He was coming early to look after the drinks,” she explained as she hurriedly gave Paul the dish of lemon peel, and then went to press the button that released the lock of the front door.
“What about this man Blackworth?” he asked.
“I’ll tell you the story once you’ve seen the Boss. But he will explain most of it, I expect.”
“Sounds very hush-hush.”
She looked at him as if she were trying to gauge his thoughts. “It is,” she said. Then she pushed him gently towards the living-room, and she hurried to open the door of the apartment.
* * *
It wasn’t Scott who arrived, then. It was Peggy and Jon, slightly breathless after their climb.
“We came early, because the sitter has to get home by half-past seven,” Peggy was explaining as she came into the living-room. Then she stopped and stared at Paul Haydn. She was slightly taller than Rona, and where Rona’s hair and eyes were very dark, Peggy’s were light in colour. But she had the same straight nose, the same broad brow and rounded chin, the same warm smile. She was smiling now as she came forward, her surprise perfectly controlled, her hands outstretched. She had always liked Paul: it was through Paul that she had met Jon, after all.
“Rona found me wandering on the streets on my first day home, and took pity,” Paul Haydn explained quickly. But there wasn’t much need to explain to either Peggy or Jon. They were never permanently surprised by anything Rona did.
Jon, thinner than ever, his fair hair now losing most of its wave and some of its substance, his attractive angular face twisted into its shy smile, came forward more slowly. Then while Rona approved Peggy’s dress and couldn’t believe it was that old one, vintage 1946, done over, the two men looked at each other carefully as they shook hands. They had been friends at college, friends (when they saw each other, in typical rushed city fashion) in New York; and then, apart from a few early letters, they had lost touch during the war.
“Congratulations,” Paul said, looking towards Peggy. “And I hear you’ve a family, too.”
“Yes,” Jon said. He glanced at Rona. As her only male relative, he felt responsibility for her happiness. He wasn’t going to let anyone come back and disturb it, not even someone whom he had once liked as much as Paul Haydn.
“It’s good to see you all happy,” Paul was saying. “And settled.” He looked directly at Jon, and Jon accepted the frankness of that look. He relaxed. His smile became easier. He began to ask some questions about Germany. He even answered a few about his days in the Pacific (he had been in the navy) and about his present teaching job at Columbia University.
“You are both bein
g too serious for a party,” Peggy reminded them when the doorbell started ringing and Rona hurried away to be the welcoming hostess. “Come and see us, Paul, if you can struggle as far uptown as Riverside and 108th Street. You and Jon can then be as serious as you like, and I’ll join in too if you’ll let me. Friday nights are good—no classes on Saturday morning for Jon, this year. There are always a few students dropping in to see us then—plenty of arguments and beer and sandwiches. But what on earth is keeping Scott so late?” For she was now looking at the doorway, where two men and three women had appeared, but still no Scott.
Jon, at a sign from Rona, began mixing the drinks, Peggy passed the canapés and a bright smile, and Paul began shaking hands. Still more people were arriving. Some he remembered well, others—although they seemed to know him—were more difficult to place. But gradually, as he sorted them out, he began to recall something about them that made identification easier. The women were the hardest to remember, strangely enough, and the younger ones were cultivating the haughty look that the blonde in the Lexington bar had adopted. He found himself caught up in various friendly groups, passed along from one to the other by a greeting or a phrase. “Hello, there!”... “Look who’s here!”... “Well, well, our military expert. Paul, how are you?” And then conversation would begin as if he had only been away a couple of weeks from New York. They were taking his return as normally as they ordered breakfast, but there was a warmth in their voices, a welcome in their handshake that was a tonic. He relaxed, and began to enjoy himself.
Then he found himself in a corner of the room, surrounded by a group of total unknowns. Rona he was partly amused to see—but only partly—had steered two of the prettiest girls in his direction, a blonde and a redhead. Rona, herself, was looking happier now. Had Scott arrived? Paul wondered which man he was...that handsome guy in the brown suit, or that one in the blue suit with a quiet smile and a friendly look? That might be Scott. Rona was laughing up into his face. That could be Scott. Paul studied him. He was a reliable sort of man, a good mouth, a fine pair of eyes. Yes, he’d do all right.
Then a thin anxious woman at Paul’s elbow pulled him back to the group around him. Why, she wanted to know, was he keeping Germany divided? Another woman, younger and prettier but too intense, stared gloomily at his uniform and announced she was a pacifist. Beside her, a heavy round-faced man told Paul with a bright smile that America was in the hands of reactionaries and warmongers, that was the whole trouble. The dazzling blonde, persisting, said he simply must see the Hapsburg Collection at the Metropolitan, it was out of this world. And the quiet redhead (if there could be such a contradiction in terms) asked him if he had yet seen The Cocktail Party? The round-faced man said, with another bright smile, that America had never disarmed, that was the whole trouble. The blonde, edging out the redhead, said he must see the Cloisters, too, the new tapestries were divine and the wild cherry and plum trees would soon be out. Did he remember the view from there, over the garden wall, of the George Washington Bridge spanning the Hudson? The thin, anxious woman began to analyse The Cocktail Party. But someone preferred The Consul. Nonsense, the round-faced man said with a brighter smile, Menotti was politically naïve, didn’t know his brass from his oboe. A youngish man, listening from the background, said, “Absolute rubbish! That’s the new Communist line. Don’t fall for that Murray.” The too-intense girl laughed along with Murray at such naïveté. “Character assassination,” the young man persisted gamely, “but we’re getting wise.” The round-faced man called Murray said, “You’re getting wise? Hysterical, you mean.” And he plunged into an emotional argument.
Paul took a deep breath, and tried to move away.
But the redhead, watching Paul through her long dark eyelashes, wanted to know if he enjoyed skiing? She was temporarily routed by the thin-faced, anxious woman, who began to tell Paul all about the situation in Berlin. The redhead, her chin up, said it had been a miserable winter, no snow on the slopes at all. And Murray, finishing his speech, demanded to know why Paul was sending arms to the French.
Paul, his retreat cut off by both blonde and redhead, listening, watching, didn’t have to talk at all. There’s always a lunatic fringe at every party, he thought, but where on earth did Rona find this little crowd?
Scott Ettley arrived just after the second large group of guests.
“Sorry, darling,” he said, kissing Rona, keeping her in the hall to kiss some more. “That damned office... I never can get away when I want to.” He held her in his arms. “Sounds as if we had a mob in that room. Has Father got here yet?”
“Yes. Peggy’s talking to him, and he seems happy. Don’t worry.”
“He’ll read me a lecture about being late.” Scott spoke in fun, but Rona didn’t feel like enjoying the joke. Why pretend his father behaved in a way he never behaved?
“We’ve got an extra guest, Scott.” We’ve several, actually, but there’s only one I’m beginning to worry about, she thought. She told him quickly about Paul Haydn.
Scott stared at her. “Paul Haydn? Why on earth did you ask him?” He was angry.
“Don’t, darling. It’s all right. You know that.” She kissed him. “Be polite to him. That’s the best way to stop any gossip, isn’t it? After all, he’s going to be around New York now, and we’ll keep meeting him.”
Scott looked relieved. “Was that why you asked him?” It wasn’t a bad idea. Treat Haydn naturally, and anyone inclined to a little malicious speculation would be disappointed. Rona had ended gossip before it could start. He pulled her into his arms again, kissed her violently and quickly. “Glad I’m jealous?” he asked.
“Delighted,” she said. But she was as surprised as he was by his emotion. She caught his hand and coaxed him toward the room. “I need hardly say he’s the one in uniform,” she added in a low voice.
“I’ll have a drink first,” Scott said, catching sight of the uniform beside Mary Fyne’s red hair. “And I’ll have to say hello to Dad, too.” He looked away from the uniform: that was a hell of a way to come dressed to a party, proud of the ribbons no doubt. “Sorry about having to miss lunch, Rona. Just one of those awful days when your life isn’t your own.” He pushed a soft curl behind her ear and admired the effect.
“Why didn’t you tell me last night?” she asked, half-puzzled.
“I meant to. But I forgot. I always forget the unpleasant things.” He pressed her hand, gave her a smile that made her happy, and then went toward the tray of drinks, saying hello to their friends, making the usual comments. His father, he noted, was over by the window talking earnestly to Peggy Tyson. Scott waved and smiled, and then poured himself a drink. Rona was talking now to a dark-haired man in a blue suit—something in television, he remembered. Another of her “old friends,” but more harmless than Haydn. Rona had been at the impressionable age when she met Haydn; after that, there had been several men hanging around her, but nothing definite, not until Scott had found her. I’ll have a second drink, Scott told himself, before I go and shake Haydn by his hand; or perhaps I’ll be honest and knock his teeth in.
* * *
Over by the window, Peggy Tyson was saying to William Ettley, “I think Paul Haydn needs rescuing. He is getting that slightly glazed look, just like Jon when he is trapped.”
But William Ettley, still watching Scott and Rona talking together at the door, said, “They look so happy together. I can’t make out why she doesn’t fix the date. When Rona invited me to this party. I was hoping they’d choose this day to announce the wedding.”
Peggy’s attention came back to William Ettley, and she looked at his seemingly placid face. His quiet eyes behind their round glasses were worried. He was a man nearly sixty, short, energetic, heavily built, white-faced, white-haired. He was quick to smile, and his voice was deep, decided, pleasant. Most people, meeting him for the first time, were amazed that this mild-mannered man was William Ettley. Not the William Ettley? Not the man who had built up the Clarion to be one of the best-infor
med, most reliable, and completely trustworthy newspapers on the Eastern seaboard? True, the Clarion was a small paper, a country newspaper, but it carried both punch and weight. Ettley was the Republican who voted for Roosevelt when his conscience told him to. Ettley was the man who fought ward politics at home, despised pressure groups, believed in bipartisan policy abroad. You could trust his editorials. However you might disagree at the moment, you’d find yourself amazed some months later by the solid good sense that had kept him from jumping to false conclusions.
Peggy said, “Shall I bring Paul Haydn over here? He’s been doing counter-propaganda in Germany or something like that.”
“I’d like to meet him,” William Ettley said. His eyes watched her face. “Peggy, why isn’t Rona marrying Scott?”
“But she is!” Peggy stared at him in amazement. “She’d marry him tomorrow if only he could manage it.”
“I lunched with Scott last week. I got the impression...” William Ettley didn’t finish his sentence. He looked around the room a little unhappily. Rona was successful, Scott had said gloomily: how could he ask her to give up her career and only offer her the salary he had? “Why don’t they just get married, anyway?” William Ettley asked irritably.
“That’s what I’d like to know,” Peggy said. Then, recalling his affection for Rona, she restrained her own annoyance. “But Rona can’t arrange the date by herself, Mr. Ettley. It’s up to the man to decide that, isn’t it?” And if I didn’t like William Ettley, she thought, I’d tell him that I’m angrier than he is with his precious son.
“Then what’s wrong with Scott? The boy’s in love with her. That I know.” Then he shook his head sadly. “I don’t seem to understand him very well in anything.”
Peggy was silent. What was the good of criticising Scott Ettley even to herself? She would only end by losing Rona if she didn’t fight against this dislike of Scott. She heard herself saying, almost placatingly, “Don’t worry, Mr. Ettley. Scott has his own ideas, you know that. But he and Rona will get married soon. And I shouldn’t be surprised if he changes his mind about joining your paper. I’m sure he will, some day, when he feels he has declared his independence sufficiently.”
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