by Fern Shepard
"But, Andy—"
"I know, I know. You were an adopted child, and so you had a deep sense of obligation. But is there any law that says an adopted girl has no right to a life of her own? Is there any law which says she must go staggering through life, trying to carry the emotional problems, the financial problems, the worries and frustrations of half a dozen other people on her two slender shoulders?"
"But that is what you have tried to do. Now you are worrying yourself sick about Ethel's jealousy problem. You are chewing nails because a certain girl is complicating things for Jerry for some secret motive of her own. You can't change any of it, my dear. You cannot change people or straighten out their lives. You cannot bring order out of the chaos others create for themselves. But you can spoil your own life trying to."
"I'm not like that, Andy." However, her voice lacked conviction.
"Because you make so much unhappiness for yourself, I am sorry for you, Nora. Also—and this may surprise you—I am sorry for the wrong you are doing this family of yours."
She stared at him, amazed.
"Now that's a peculiar thing to say. After all I've done, sacrificed—"
"Exactly. You put that very well. Why have you drained your own life dry to do so much? According to the psychiatrists, every person has some deep-seated frustration or neurosis which drives him beyond his own understanding. I think you are no exception. I have studied you closely all these weeks I have lived in your home. I think you want to prove that you are indispensable."
"No!"
"Yes. No doubt it goes back to the fact that you were an adopted child. Jerry and Carol were born into the family; therefore they belonged. You were the outsider who had to earn the right to belong. Are you going to spend the rest of your life earning that right?"
She shook her head slowly.
"You make me feel so ashamed, Andy, as if in trying to help all of them, I've simply been trying to show my own importance."
His arm tightened around her. "Nora, why don't you make up your mind to marry me?"
"This is hardly the time to bring up that subject."
"Any time is the time to talk about something I want so much." He leaned toward her and kissed her cheek.
Involuntarily, Nora shrank away from him. Andy was an extremely attractive man—at a distance. But at the slightest show of physical demonstrativeness, she was annoyed. Was it because she was still in love with Paul? Was it because, at any little gesture of affection from Andy, her unruly mind started to race back to those precious, memorable evenings when she had sat close in Paul's arms, while they gazed dreamily at a blazing pine log and talked of the life they would share?
I don't want to be in love with Paul any more, she thought angrily. So why couldn't she stop being in love with him? Hadn't she any control whatever over her own silly emotions?
No. Apparently she had not.
Andy was talking, all about another wonderful idea that had come to him. They would get married. Then they would go East, he would buy a larger boat—one with a cabin and living accommodations—and they would go on a do-it-yourself cruise through the Caribbean islands. This kind of trip had become very popular. Already he had collected a number of travel folders telling all about the ports they would see, the right places to eat and so on. "We'll take the family along," he said, and Nora started to laugh.
"This is supposed to be a honeymoon?"
Well, he said reasonably, they could take a second honeymoon later. He had been giving the matter a lot of thought. A trip such as he suggested might kill quite a few birds with one stone. It would give Jerry and Ethel a chance to reach a better understanding. Little Bobby would have the adventure of his life. If Carol wanted to come along, it might well be a lifesaver for her, too. After a relaxing, interesting trip, the chances were she'd be a better wife to Howie. Carol, in Andy's opinion, was suffering from I-want-to-get-away-from-it-all-itis.
Nora moved restlessly. The man had certainly thought of everything. He certainly made it all sound very tempting. To be perfectly honest, the prospect of a honeymoon with a crowd along held a singular appeal.
"And then—" he was smiling tenderly at her—"when we get all your problem children relaxed, refreshed, well fed, sun-tanned, and back on an even keel, we'll send them home to go it on their own. And you and I will start around the world—alone together at last."
"On the same cabin cruiser?"
He laughed. "Hardly. No, we'll take one of the deluxe ships from New York, or a plane, if you prefer. How does all this sound?"
"Dreamy," said Nora. The trouble was, it would be absolutely dreamy—if Paul were the man taking her on this romantic island hopping. She couldn't help thinking about a moon-drenched island in the West Indies, where Paul and she would hold hands while they walked along under coconut palms. Or would there be coconut palms? She knew so little about far-away places, what they were like, what grew where and when. She had been too busy doing and learning things close to home, such as what to do for a child possibly dying with meningitis, or what to say to a little boy whose infected hand might have to be amputated, or how to forget how tired her feet were.
That reminded her of what, right at that minute, was the most important thing in life to her. "This is all terribly interesting, Andy, and you're a darling to suggest it. But I've been working since eight this morning—no, yesterday morning—and I need sleep."
Chapter 16
She slept deeply until nine o'clock, then awakened reluctantly. It was a relief to remember that this was her day off, but her mind was crowded with questions to be answered, problems to be wrestled with.
Wondering about Ethel, Nora sat up and reached for the phone just as Caroline came in with hot coffee and the cheering news that Ethel was doing nicely this morning.
Caroline had on her hat and gloves, two items without which she believed no lady should appear on the street. Mr. Fine, she said, was driving her to the hospital. Mrs. Evans, across the street, would look after Bobby until Jerry came.
Jerry had phoned, Caroline went on, as Nora sipped her coffee. As usual, Ethel had made seven or eight mountains out of a molehill. He had driven down to Little Rock on some errand, something to do with a possible job. He had missed the late bus back, was on his way home now.
Suddenly Caroline leaned down to give Nora one of her occasional impulsive kisses. "Try to get a good rest today, Nora. You do too much for all of us." The older woman's mouth worked, and there were quick tears in her eyes. "I wish you'd think of yourself more, honey. You've lost weight, and I don't like those circles under your eyes."
"I'm all right, Mother; just a little tired."
"Well, you don't look all right." Caroline straightened before she said in an angry little voice: "We're just a bunch of stinkers who dump all our troubles in your lap." A remark which provided Nora's first laugh of the day and, as things turned out, her last.
"Stinkers! Such language, Mother, from a well-bred Southern lady."
"I find some teen-aged words very expressive," said Caroline, and started out of the room, then came back to say there had been a phone call from Margaret Thorpe, who was still in bed with bronchitis. "I've fixed a little tray for Mr. Fine to take over to her after he leaves me at the hospital: some chicken jelly, rolls and Spanish cream. Do you think she'll enjoy that?"
Who wouldn't? Nora added with a grin: "But I'm not sure she'll enjoy having Andy see her looking like death warmed over."
Feeling that it was the duty of a true friend to give Maggie a little warning, she got on the phone as soon as she heard Andy's car drive away. "Get the curlers out of your hair," Nora advised. "And don't get caught without lipstick."
"I'd rather starve to death," it was a whispered wail, "than have that attractive man see me the way I look."
"Think about Camille, Maggie."
"What's Camille got to do with it?"
"She did very well as a femme fatale, even when she was dying."
"You happen to be And
y's femme fatale," Maggie croaked sadly. "So why should I worry?"
"Don't forget the lipstick," Nora said firmly, and wondered, as she hung up, why Andy Fine couldn't see that Maggie would be absolutely perfect for him. She was a handsome, charming, intelligent, lonely woman who thought he was wonderful; just the right age, too.
Do I want him to turn to her? Nora thought about that as she showered, dressed and went to the kitchen to fix some breakfast. She was not sure. Which may only mean, she decided, that I'm a sneaky dog in the manger.
However that might be, she would have to make up her mind about Andy, one way or the other. She couldn't put off making the decision forever. So what was she waiting for?
Waiting for something to happen to make up her mind for her? Was she subconsciously holding fast to the hope that some miracle would bring Paul back to her?
In her room, she went through the motions of straightening things, which led to a decision to tidy up the drawers of her dressing table. The bottom one, where she kept her very best undies which she rarely wore, called for some special attention.
She hadn't so much as opened that drawer in over a month, had not dared to open it—and for a very good reason. Once she opened it, she would be forced to look at the collection of newspaper clippings which were tucked away under the silken things. And once she looked, she would be sick; sick with rage, with resentment; sick with the kind of hate she did not want to feel toward anyone but could not help feeling toward Rita Lansing.
Sighing miserably, she opened the drawer and took out the clippings. They were fastened together, and the one on the top was headlined:
NURSE ACCUSED OF BRUTALITY BY HEARTBROKEN FATHER WIELDING GUN.
That was the key to all of the Clarion news stories which had followed Ben Sackett's crazed and violent attack on Paul and Nora. Of necessity, Doctor Paul Anderson's name came into the accounts, but no more than was necessary.
Nora was given top billing as the real villainess. Nora was pictured as a nurse with sadistic tendencies who maltreated her helpless "charity patients." Nora was accused of having struck, dropped, and otherwise mistreated the little Sackett boy before he ever went on the operating table. Nora was the one, according to the Clarion, whom Ben Sackett really had it "in for."
Old Ben, also according to the Clarion, was a lovable, heartbroken man who had been too grief-stricken to realize what he was doing. If he had lost his mind, as the sheriff must have believed when he had committed him to a mental institution, it was because he had had too much sorrow and misery for his poor, tortured mind to bear.
So said the Clarion in a series of stories, every one of which bore Rita's lying, spiteful touch. Every single one was a malicious smear story, directed at Nora. And there was not a single thing Nora could do about it.
Ben Sackett was in the insane asylum, so he could not be interviewed. The paper could quote him, misquote him, or attribute to him any motives that Rita, in cahoots with her father, saw fit to dream up. It could protect itself with the usual meaningless phrases: "It is understood on good authority"; and, "according to a reliable source which prefers not to be named"; and, "It has been learned." And so on.
Just glancing over the clippings had the same effect as having so much vitriol injected into her bloodstream. She came alive with sheer rage, just as she had the first time she had read the slanderous lies. She was even pictured as a green-eyed, glamorous blonde!
In view of her brown hair and grey eyes, that was a laugh, but no more of a lie than all the rest. Everyone at the hospital had laughed at the stories. "I'd think you'd get a kick out of it," two or three of the nurses had said. "You've landed on the front page as a glamorous blonde wearing a watch blazing with diamonds. You've got it made."
The doctors, more sober-minded, had agreed that it was an outrage. It was a smear on the hospital itself. There were always people ready to believe that a hospital was crawling with incompetent doctors, with nurses who abused the patients in their charge. But in this case, everyone with any sense understood that it was simply another sensational smear story with no justification. Why pay any attention to it?
Nora heard the downstairs door open. She slipped the clippings back in the drawer and was closing it as Jerry tapped on her door.
"Okay if I come in, kid?"
His usual infectious grin was missing as he sat down on her bed, lit a cigarette with nervous fingers, and asked right away for the lowdown on Ethel.
"Mom wouldn't tell me much over the phone; only that she had to be rushed to the hospital." Then, after Nora had given him the details, Jerry muttered: "Oh, God," dropped his smoke in a tray and covered his face with his hands.
He sat for a moment without saying another word. When he looked up, his face had turned a sick, greenish shade. "Maybe you won't believe this, Nora, but I love my wife. I don't want to hurt her. I'm not a philanderer, and she ought to know it."
"If you'd only get a job," Nora said gently, "settle down and act more like a husband and less like a big kid who wants to play his life away."
Jerry straightened up. "I know. That's what this trip last night was all about." At the lake he become acquainted with a man who was opening some kind of youth center in Florida. He needed a sports director. After watching Jerry handle a boat, watching him teach some of the kids to swim, he had decided to offer Jerry the job.
"He drove me down to Little Rock to his hotel to talk it over."
"Is his job for real, Jerry?" Nora asked.
He nodded. "It's a job I'd be crazy about, too. I never could stand desk jobs, being cooped up all day. But this—"
"Then get out to the hospital and tell Ethel about it, fast." She stood up, dismissing him, then called him back to ask the question which refused to stop nagging at her worried mind.
"How much is there to Ethel's story about Rita Lansing? Is it true that she has been giving you and your boat the heavy treatment?"
"Yeah." It was a growl. "I can't get the dame out of my hair. You'd think—well, I was that guy Burton."
"Like that?"
"Just about. And the worst of it is, or—" grinning, he corrected himself—"maybe the best of it is I'm not the guy she's after. Heck, you know how it was when we were kids in school. She was class. And did she let the boys like me know it! She treated us as if we were dirt under her feet. Well, I'm still the same old dirt. Only she happened to figure recently I was dirt she could use to a good purpose. See what I mean?"
"I guess so." That meant that Andy was right. "What you're trying to say, Jerry, is that she's using you to make Paul Anderson jealous."
He nodded. "Sounds crazy, doesn't it? But if you ask me, there's one crazy dame. Don't ask me how her mind works. But the doc is the one she's gunning for."
"Think she's having any luck?"
Lighting another cigarette, Jerry squinted at her from the door. "You still carrying the torch for that guy, kid?"
"I asked you a question, Jerry."
He blew smoke and thought about it. Then: "Okay. The answer is, I'll be darned if I know. At the lake, the doc makes like a guy who would rather ponder the eternal verities than watch a babe in a bikini. But—"
"But?" she prompted as he hesitated.
Jerry blew more smoke. "But I have seen them together in the evening: once or twice at a movie; once in the hotel dining room." He shrugged. "You can take it from there."
Nora didn't want to take it from there. But after a restless hour of wondering and thinking, she decided that she was going to.
After all, there was some unfinished business between her and Paul.
She dressed again, got into her car and headed for the lake.
Chapter 17
In the boathouse, a small, rectangular structure fronting on the lake, Doctor Paul Anderson sat eating a sandwich, sipping a soft drink from the bottle, and pondering the problem which has bothered males from the beginning of time: how to get rid of a girl whom he could never love, could not even like, but who persisted in bein
g in love with him, or imagining that she was.
While he pondered and scowled, Rita Lansing talked and argued, her smiles flashing off and on like neon signs. She was perched on a stool, across a small table from Paul, who also occupied a stool and had only to raise his eyes to get the full impact of her loveliness.
Rita wore white satin swim trunks, and a matching bra. Her body was tanned to a warm, bronze shade so even and beautifully toned that it looked painted on. She glowed with radiant health. She was gorgeous to look at, and she knew it. The trouble was: Paul seemed to avoid looking at her as much as possible.
Another trouble was that he seemed annoyed that she had come in to visit with him during his lunch period. "I wish you'd stay out of here, Rita. Go talk to some of your playmates along the beach, why don't you?" That was what the man had just said.
He was forever saying things like that. She couldn't make him out. It must be that he couldn't get over his silly shyness. The idiot! He should be flattered at the interest she showed in him. Any other man in this town would have been.
Who did Paul Anderson think he was, anyway? Suddenly she decided to give him a piece of her mind.
She hunched over, leaning her elbows on the table. "I'm getting pretty sick of you always telling me to get lost when I want to talk to you, Paul."
"I happen to be on a job, Rita."
"Some job!" she said scornfully. "Lifeguard. Keeping track of kids who think they're ducks; watching to see that little old ladies don't drown themselves in a foot or two of water. Quite a deal for a brilliant young doctor!"
"I'm not especially proud of it." His voice was expressionless as his gaze reached out toward the vast expanse of blue lake bordered on either side by a narrow beach, beyond which stretched evergreen trees, thick, fragrant woods.