“Here, I’ve got a present for you,” Avis said. She fished into her pocket and came out with a small package. “You can open it in the carriage.”
When they were outside and had stored the purchases that Avis had made, Peter settled back, with Avis sitting very close to him. He could smell the perfume she had on, a pleasing fragrance that was always with her. As she leaned against him, he was distracted but continued to open the package. When the paper fell away, he exclaimed, “Why, it’s one of those watches you wear on your arm!”
“Yes. See how handy it is? Let me put it on,” Avis offered, smiling at him. She fastened the watch by the leather strap and said, “Isn’t that nice?”
Peter Winslow stared at the watch, then twisted his shoulders uncomfortably. “You know, there’s an idea going around that no true man would wear one of these.”
“Why, there’s nothing to that! Soon they’ll be the in thing for all men. Why, the pocket watch will be in museums in another year.”
Peter laughed and reached over and pulled her toward him. She came eagerly, put her arms around his neck, and drew him closer and kissed him. Peter Winslow knew that he really had nothing in common with Avis Warwick. She was a woman completely immersed in the world’s values, longing for what the day could offer, never thinking of the future. She craved the things that satisfied the flesh and gave no thought, apparently, to the spirit. Still, as she came back to him and kissed him again, all this was swept away, and he forgot their many differences.
The race was exciting and Jolie Devorak cheered herself hoarse as Peter drove the Jolie Blonde to victory. Despite the cold weather, an extremely large crowd had gathered in Newark to watch the field of seventeen of the fastest cars in the country duel it out. Peter had driven a smart race, letting some of the drivers batter each other in the sharp curves, and then in the last three laps he had come from behind to win.
Jolie rushed forward to join those who gathered around as Peter and Easy climbed out, but she stopped abruptly. Avis Warwick was suddenly there smiling up at Peter as the photographers snapped photos from every angle.
As Peter answered the questions of a reporter from the New York Times, Jolie could not help but remember how she had been the one beside Peter before Avis Warwick had come into their lives. Now she could not force herself to go forward. She stood back and watched as Peter and Avis departed arm in arm. She was startled when Easy suddenly said, “Why didn’t you come over and get in the picture, Jolie?”
Turning to the undersized mechanic, Jolie stared at him and the bitterness she felt somehow spilled over. “It looked like Peter was pretty busy!”
Instantly Easy’s eyes came to meet those of Jolie. He had become very sensitive to this young woman and understood immediately the emotion that was racing through her.
“Well, I guess it’s pretty flattering to a feller having a rich woman make over him like that. Most would lose their heads, I reckon.”
“I suppose so.” Jolie turned to go away, but Easy fell into step beside her. He said casually, “I knew we was gonna win that race because I dreamed of white clouds last night.”
“White clouds? What does that have to do with the race?”
“Why, everybody knows if you dream of white clouds it’s a good sign. It’s just like when you dream of a funeral. A weddin’ is gonna follow.”
“What if you dream about a wedding?”
Easy shrugged his wiry shoulders eloquently. “Well, that ain’t so good, Jolie. Every time you dream about a weddin’, there’s death a-comin’ somewhere down the road.”
“I think that’s a bunch of foolishness! Dreams don’t have anything to do with what happens to us.”
“You ought not to talk like that, Jolie,” Easy protested. “Why, back once when I was fifteen years old, I dreamed about a black dog three nights runnin’. And it wasn’t but six months after that when the cholera epidemic came and just about wiped out the whole town.”
Jolie had long since given up on trying to change Easy’s strange views. He was tremendously superstitious and spent a great deal of time collecting remedies that he was convinced could fight off disease or cure those already in progress. Now she could not help but smile and say, “Did you get those warts off your hand?”
“No, but that was because I didn’t start soon enough.” Easy looked down at the back of his left hand and shook his head dolefully. “But I’ve got a sure-fire cure now that I’m gonna try.” Without waiting, he launched into it eagerly. “Never known this one to fail, Jolie. What you do is take a grain of corn, cut the heart out, and cut the wart until it bleeds. Then you take a drop of the blood and put it in the corn, where the heart was taken out, then you throw the grain to a chicken.”
“And then the wart goes away?”
“That’s right. I just ain’t had no fresh green corn, but now I’ve got it all right.”
By this time the two had gotten beyond the crowd, and Easy could tell that Jolie was still angry. Reaching out, he took her arm and said quietly, “You don’t want to worry about Peter and Avis. She don’t mean nothin’ to him.”
“I don’t care. It’s no business of mine.”
Easy had known for a long time of Jolie’s devotion to Peter Winslow, and now he said gently, “You know, a lot of things can be figured out if a body’s smart enough. Some things you can add up, and some things you can’t.” He dropped his hand and said slowly, “Love don’t always add up, Jolie.”
Startled, Jolie lifted her eyes. She had enormous eyes of a peculiar powder blue hue set in her squarish face, but they generally did not betray her feelings. She had become skilled at hiding what went on inside her, mostly because of her scarred face. Now, however, Easy had caught her off balance, and she stared at him, unable to speak. Finally she shook her head stubbornly and said, “It’s none of my business what he does, Easy.”
Easy watched as Jolie wrenched herself away and stalked off, her head held high and her back stiff. There was a stubborn set to her shoulders, and Easy shook his head, muttering sorrowfully, “I sure do hate to see Jolie actin’ this way.” He had thought many times of Avis Warwick, and now declared, “I wish she’d find someone else to lavish her attention on. Man in love ain’t got no sense whatsoever!”
Clinton Lanier was in the crowd in New Jersey watching the race. He had been sent by his father on an errand, but had made the trip a long one by stopping by the race track. He had not seen Peter or Jolie since his father had forbidden him, but each day he had become more and more bitter about his father’s order to stay away. Now he lost himself in the roar of the machines and felt his heart catch in his throat as Peter barely avoided disaster on a turn. When Peter won, however, Clinton did not go forward to congratulate him; instead he turned to leave without speaking to anyone.
“Hello, Clinton!”
Clinton stopped abruptly, startled at the sound of his name, and when he turned to find Phil Winslow coming toward him, he flushed as if caught in some wicked deed. The first thought that came to him was, What if he tells Father that I’m at the races? Then he realized that Phil Winslow was not likely to be seeing his father at all, and he managed a smile, saying, “Hello, Phil.”
“Great race, wasn’t it?”
“Yes it was. Peter’s a good driver.”
“You taking a holiday from the office?”
“Not exactly.” Clinton struggled for a moment, then shrugged. “I had some business to take care of close by, so I thought I’d come on and take in the race.”
Somehow Phil understood that the young man was embarrassed and quickly decided that it had something to do with being at the race track. His father’s got him afraid of his own shadow, he thought. Aloud he asked, “How’s the family?”
“Very well,” Clinton said briefly. He hesitated, then added, “Cara misses you a great deal, Phil.”
The comment surprised Phil Winslow. “She does? I’m surprised about that.”
“Why should you be surprised? You know she d
oesn’t have any life at all.”
The bitterness in Clinton’s voice startled Phil. He glanced quickly at his friend’s profile and saw that embarrassment and anger were mingled on Clinton’s aristocratic face. “I wish things were different,” Phil said. “I’d like to go see her, but I don’t think I’d be welcome.”
“You probably wouldn’t be, at least by Father, but Cara misses you. None of the rest of us know much about painting, Phil. About all I can say is ‘that’s a nice picture.’ You ought to hear how she talks about you. Her eyes light up and she gets pink in the face.”
“That amazes me. We don’t agree at all on painting styles.”
“Oh, I know that! She told me your idea—to paint things from life.”
“Well, I was afraid I might have insulted her.”
“No. Nothing like that.” Suddenly Clinton was filled with an impulse. “Look here, Phil. It would be good for Cara if you would drop by sometime. I know you think our family’s weak—”
“I don’t think anything like that!” Phil protested. But at the same time he realized that this was exactly what he thought. Still, he could not say that to Clinton. “I just don’t want to intrude where I’m not invited. I admire your sister very much. She’s got more talent than she even realizes.” He saw Clinton’s face glow with the compliment and went on to say, “It’s a shame that she can’t go to Europe. She’d enjoy it.”
“Europe? That’s about as likely as my going to the moon! Father’s dead set against her going anywhere but her room.”
Phil did not answer, but a bitter reply leaped to his lips. He bit it off with an effort and shrugged, saying, “I had supposed that was the case.”
Suddenly Clinton turned, stopping so abruptly that it caught Phil off guard. “Look here,” he said earnestly, his direct blue eyes catching at Phil. “Why don’t you just drop by sometime? I know it sounds a little bit, well, sneaky, but you could go during the day. Father’s always at the office.”
“Doesn’t sound right to me. I hate to go sneaking around.”
“I know you do, but in a case like this, it would give Cara a great deal of pleasure. She doesn’t get many good things in her life. Cara’s a sweet woman, and she’s had a rough shuffle. I wish you’d do it, Phil.”
“All right, Clinton. I will.” Phil was surprised at his own agreement, but discovered that he was perfectly willing to be a sneak if that is what it took to encourage Cara. He wanted to believe that rules didn’t count where men like Oliver Lanier were concerned, but that was not what he needed to say to Clinton. The two walked on, and before they parted, Phil said, “If your father catches me and turns a shotgun on me, I’ll hold you responsible.”
Somehow Clinton was relieved by Phil Winslow’s attitude. He admired the man tremendously and slapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. I’ll even sneak around to the servants and let it be known that my father doesn’t need to know every visitor that Cara has.”
“You’re pretty sneaky yourself, Clinton,” Phil grinned. “I’ll drop by tomorrow if you’ll put that word out.”
“Miss Cara, you got a caller—a gentleman caller!”
Cara Lanier looked up from her book, startled. She was sitting in a wicker chair bolstered up by enormous crimson pillows, and Charley began barking with excitement as he danced around Ruth, one of the maids.
“A gentleman caller? What are you talking about?”
“It’s that young man, Mr. Winslow. The painter you talked about so much. He’s come to see you.”
Instantly confusion swept across Cara’s face. She had thought a great deal about Phil Winslow but had not dreamed he would come back after all that had happened. She gasped, “I can’t see him! Tell him to go away, Ruth!”
“Oh, Miss Cara, I can’t tell him that!” Ruth did not add that Winslow had flirted with her audaciously, and that Clinton had warned her he might be coming and had slipped her a dollar to be sure she brought him to see Cara—and kept her mouth shut as far as Oliver Lanier was concerned. Now Ruth came over and patted Cara’s shoulder. A young girl of eighteen, she was very fond of Cara. “Please, ma’am. Just let him come up for a while. He’s the nicest young man. Any young woman would be glad to see him!”
For a moment Cara hesitated. Two impulses struggled within her. One was to let Phil come up, for she had missed his company and his conversation, though her feelings had been bruised by his rather harsh comments about her art. Nevertheless, she had a deep admiration for his work, even though she considered some of the subjects he painted rather peculiar. On the other hand, she knew her father would be furious if he found out she had seen Phil. A small streak of rebelliousness suddenly surfaced in Cara. Though it had been hidden there for a long time, she had carefully subdued it. But now she was bored with herself, bored with her work, and she said abruptly, “All right, Ruth, but help me change clothes.”
“Yes, ma’am!”
Ruth helped Cara put on a dark blue day dress with a high collar, long narrow sleeves, and a closely fitted skirt trimmed in black velvet ribbon. Ruth pushed Cara down in a chair and quickly and expertly smoothed her hair and pinned it with an ivory comb, then said, “Now you pretty up your face while I go get Mr. Winslow.”
Cara found her hands were trembling, but she pinched her cheeks and bit at her lips to bring out a little pink. Then rising, she discovered her knees were weak and moved only slowly across the room. She could not understand why her heart was racing, but when the door opened and Phil came in, she put her hand out at once, saying, “Phil, I’m so glad you came.” His hand closed around hers and his smile was genuine. “Won’t you sit down and tell me what you’ve been doing?”
“You’re looking well, Cara,” Phil said. He held her hand a moment, squeezed it, and saw the pleasure in her eyes. He knew how lonely she must get, from not only what Clinton had told him, but from his own surmises. Now he moved over and sat down, saying, “That’s a pretty dress. Is it new?”
“Why, not very.” Cara did not add that it was over a year old and that she had never found occasion to wear it. Cara sat down across from Phil and leaned forward. “I’m a little surprised to see you, Phil.”
“Surprised? Why should you be surprised?”
“Well, we came fairly close to a quarrel.”
“You call that a quarrel? Let me tell you, when you get in a quarrel with Phil Winslow, you’ll know it! My quarrels leave dead bodies in the streets!”
“Oh, don’t be foolish!” Cara laughed, but it was like a gust of fresh air had blown open the windows of her stuffy world and filled her room. His face was ruddy with the cold, and he had taken off his outer coat. Beneath the lightweight ivory-colored shirt, she could see the long, lean muscles of his arms and his sturdy neck. Glancing down, she looked at his hands—painter’s hands, but his years in the saddle and with rope had left them lean and muscular and sinewy. “Tell me what you’ve been doing,” she said.
Phil leaned back and began to speak. He was surprised at the healthy flush in Cara’s cheeks, for always before she had been poised but weak. She seemed stronger now, and this pleased him. He began by telling her about the race that Peter had won. Then he launched into a description of Avis Warwick and related how she had suddenly come into Peter’s world and tried to sweep him off his feet.
“She’s a pretty fast one, Cara,” he shrugged. “I don’t know much about her, except she’s got enough money to buy the mint, and she’s after Peter.”
Cara had already heard about Avis’s coquettish behavior, some of it from Clinton. “What would she do with him if she got him? Does she want to marry him?”
“I don’t think she’s the marrying kind. She’s the merry widow, Cara. From what I hear, she’s kind of like a praying mantis.”
“A praying mantis? You mean the insect?”
“Yes. I read a book by a Frenchman called Fabre. Don’t know what I was doing reading a book about bugs. I think it was in a line cabin I stayed in one winter. I guess somebody had left i
t there, though I don’t know what kind of a cowboy would read a book about bugs.” He grinned at the memory and thought of the fearsome blizzard that had nearly buried the cabin and isolated him in a white and silent world. “I read that book ten times. I think I can quote it from memory.”
“What did it say about the praying mantis?”
“Well, the female’s a pretty rough customer. She’s about twice the size, or more, of the male, and she has the unfortunate habit of eating her husband when she has no more use for him.”
“I can’t believe that!”
“Well, it does sound unsociable, doesn’t it? Anyway, I always think of Avis sort of like that—devouring her men friends. At least so I’ve heard.”
“Have you told Peter this?”
“Well, not in so many words. He wouldn’t listen to me anyway. He’s decided to make a fool of himself, and when a man makes that decision, he has to go ahead and learn the hard way.”
“No, that’s not so!” Cara argued. She felt rather strongly about young Peter Winslow, although she had never met him. Now she said, “The Bible says that we are to warn those who are hurting themselves.”
“It also says not to rebuke a heretic lest you become like him.” Phil was interested in Cara’s fascination with Peter and Avis. “It goes on all the time, Cara. That’s the way life is.” He was instantly sorry, for he saw her drop her head at his remark. He hastened to say, “Oh, he’ll be all right! Nothing like a young man getting jilted by a woman to toughen him up!”
Carefully Phil steered the conversation to other things, finally mentioning an article he had read in the paper. “Do you know this fellow, Bradley Martin?”
“I’ve met him. His wife’s very nice.”
“What sort of fellow is he?”
“What do you mean?”
“He must be foolish. The article said he spent three hundred and sixty-nine thousand dollars to give a ball at the Waldorf.”
“I read about that. It does sound extravagant.”
The Shadow Portrait Page 13