“Oh,” he said rather blankly. He scribbled his name on the check, summoned up a teasing smile. “Shall I take you home, Sobersides?”
When she had showered and changed for dinner, Leslie went down to the library where she found her father and stepmother. The latter, busy with some lists she was making, was quiet for once.
Blake put down his evening paper and smiled. “Had a nice day?”
“Very.” Leslie had no intention of telling Agatha about her two proposals. The dimple flashed.
“What’s the joke?” her father asked.
She told him about Oliver Harrison’s trouble with the new car and how Donald Shaw had come to the rescue on a beaten-up old motorcycle.
“He told me he was your new chemist,” she said.
Her father nodded thoughtfully. “He struck me as the right man for the job. Straight as a die, or I’m no judge of men. He doesn’t seem to be up to par physically. He tires very soon. I have the impression that he has gone through a long and serious illness, though he doesn’t want to talk about it. He assured me he was all right. I have a hunch that Harrison is going to give him a rough time. He wasn’t pleased by my choice.”
Agatha looked up from her lists. “Well, I must say, Corliss, he can’t be blamed for wanting to select his own men. And I’m dreadfully sorry about his new car. Dreadfully.”
“I asked Mr. Shaw to come to the buffet supper tomorrow evening, Aunt Agatha.”
“Dear me, I hope he’s presentable.”
“Entirely presentable,” her husband assured her dryly. “In fact, I’d say he is an exceptionally distinguished-looking man.”
“Oh, and I asked Paul Logan, too.”
“But he’s not in the Company, Leslie,” her stepmother protested, “and we have always restricted the Sunday night parties to the personnel.”
“I know, Aunt Agatha. I only thought, if it’s all right with you, I’d ask Doris to pour so I can circulate more among the guests. And with Paul to dance with she won’t feel like the only outsider.”
“If we’re going to let down the bars,” Agatha said in resignation, “you might as well ask Doris, if you want her. But in that case, you’ll have to include her sister, too. It won’t matter too much this time. With all the flu that is going around I’ve had several refusals.”
She added names to her list. “A Miss Felice Allen telephoned this afternoon. She has a syndicated fashion column, covering highlights all over the country.” In spite of herself, Agatha could not conceal her satisfaction. “She asked if she might come tomorrow evening to cover our little party, though I explained that it is quite an informal affair. I simply didn’t know how to refuse. She is staying at the Fox and Rabbit for a few weeks of rest, but you know what these columnists are, always on the lookout for something that’s newsworthy.”
She looked at Leslie, frowning. “I do wish she had given me more warning, though. You should have a new dress as long as Miss Allen is a fashion expert.”
“I’ll wear the green one.”
“But you wore that two weeks ago.”
“She won’t know that,” Leslie said cheerfully, “and I can’t see that it really matters.”
“My dear, even if you don’t care about Miss Allen’s opinion, haven’t you noticed that Oliver Harrison has a real eye for women’s clothes?”
“Then he can look at you in that new black dress,” Leslie said. “That ought to be enough for anyone.”
For a fleeting moment there was the suggestion of a simper on Agatha’s face. “It was extravagant of me, but I always feel that it pays to buy the best clothes. And, after all, I got it with my own money.”
If just one whole day could pass, Leslie thought, later that night, as she sat before her mirror in white crepe pajamas, brushing her short curls, just one single day when Aunt Agatha didn’t refer to “my own money.” Just one.
She put down her brush, pulled a negligee over her shoulders, switched off the lights and went to stand at the window, looking out at the familiar landscape that, bathed in moonlight, became strange, a dream world.
Moonlight had always seemed magical to her, and the moon itself a place of dreams. It was a pity that men were determined to wrest its last secrets from it, to make it as prosaic as Main Street, to invade its stillness with their noise, its unbroken peace with their unrest.
What a curious day it had been! Two men had asked her to marry them. Two good-looking, prosperous men, both of whom seemed to love her, each of whom had promised her “a good life.”
What different meanings the most familiar words had for different people. Oliver wanted a successful career and prosperity and importance. She looked out on the land beyond the gardens, the land that Oliver intended to buy. To buy and, when her father was dead, combine with the Clayton property. And he had made clear that he had his eye on her father’s job, too. Probably he was counting the years until his retirement or—or—
Standing in the dark, looking out on the milky world, the garden whose flowers were colorless under the moon, the slender girl found herself shaking not with cold but with sudden anger. She was simply a necessary part of a real estate deal. That was one element of his carefully planned career that Oliver Harrison would have to abandon.
She thought of him, raging and helpless, behind the wheels of the motionless car, and giggled.
A good life. Those had been Paul’s words, too. Dear Paul, sweet and gay and easygoing. Paul for whom every day was a holiday. While Oliver had been amused by her rejection of his proposal, supremely confident that he could persuade her in the end, Paul had been genuinely hurt. He really cared about her. But when he thought it over, when he realized that she couldn’t fit into his plans for a good life, he’d find a girl who could. And then he would be happy, happier than he could ever be with her.
Perhaps, she thought, troubled, she shouldn’t have told him about Doris. No, it was the kind of shock treatment that would be bound to arouse his interest in her, make him notice her as a person. He would see for himself, eventually, that Doris was the right kind of girl for him, a girl who could “share all the laughs.” And, because he lacked Oliver Harrison’s inordinate and unscrupulous vanity, nothing in his manner would ever lead Doris to guess that he knew her secret.
Leslie dropped her negligee over a chair, slipped off her satin mules and got into bed. Two hours later she was still staring wide-eyed at the window. Perhaps it was the moonlight that kept her awake. Perhaps.
She saw deep-set gray eyes that had looked on horror, and a mouth that had experienced terrible things. A mouth that could smile unexpectedly, lighting a candle in her heart.
She turned restlessly, pressing her cheek against the smooth cool pillow. It was the moonlight that had made her sleepless. It couldn’t be anything else.
He’s coming here tomorrow evening, she thought. I’ll be seeing him again. She smiled and fell asleep.
5
There were two institutions in Claytonville that were observed as regularly as the stars wheeling through the sky. One was Sunday brunch at the Fox and Rabbit, the other was the Sunday buffet supper given by the head of the Clayton Textile Company for his employees, entertaining them in rotation, about twenty at a time.
At eleven, on the following morning, Leslie sat at a table for four on the enclosed porch of the Fox and Rabbit, a compromise between the restaurant proper and the lawn, as the sky was cloudy and there was a chilly breeze. According to unalterable custom, too, folding tables beside each large table held bulky Sunday newspapers.
Leslie, buttering a popover, nodded and greeted friends at the other tables. Her own was the most silent. Doris was looking at the fashion section of the New York Times while her older sister was engrossed in a special article in the magazine section. Jack was giving all his attention to single-minded absorption in a waffle.
There was a slight stir, a murmur of comment, a whiff of perfume, and the redheaded girl who had arrived the day before followed the headwaiter to a smal
l table against the wall. She walked like a model, erect and graceful, wearing a white linen suit of impeccable cut and a big black cartwheel hat. She frowned in annoyance and spoke sharply to the headwaiter, who indicated with a helpless gesture that all the window tables were occupied.
Doris looked up from the fashion page. “How stunning that black and white combination is with her red hair. She’s really something. Makes me feel like a country mouse. I wonder who she is and what she’s doing here. Not visiting anyone or she wouldn’t be alone.”
As though aware that she was being discussed, the redheaded girl looked across the porch at them. For a moment the long narrow green eyes examined them without blinking, like a cat’s eyes, and then went coolly back to the big menu.
Doris flushed. “She certainly cut me down to size,” she said ruefully. “Serves me right for staring at her.”
“I think,” Leslie told her, “that must be Miss Allen, who has a syndicated fashion column. She’s staying here at the inn. Vacation or something.”
“How on earth did you get the lowdown?” Doris asked.
“She called Aunt Agatha and said she’d like to cover the buffet supper tonight. Oh, and that reminds me—we hope you’ll both come.”
“I thought the buffet suppers were reserved exclusively for the Company.”
“As a rule, yes. But tonight I thought perhaps you’d pour so I could circulate.”
Doris laughed. “I might have known there would be a catch in it. But it would be fun. Of course, I’ll pour.”
“And you, Jane?”
Jane looked up from her paper. In a pale blue dress, her blond hair brushed smoothly back, her blue eyes wide and appealing, she was easily, Leslie thought, the loveliest woman in the room.
“Mother,” Jack said urgently, “how’s about another waffle?”
Jane signaled a waiter and then said vaguely, “Well, I don’t know, Leslie. If that fashion expert is going to be there, it would be hard to compete.” For Jane any other young woman automatically became competition.
“Not for you,” Leslie assured her with so much genuine admiration that Jane smiled. She opened her handbag and fumbled for a mirror. A crumpled envelope fell out and an alert waiter retrieved it.
Jane looked at it, the smile fading. “Oh, dear, I’ve got to write to Mary and I simply don’t know what to say. It’s so terrible.”
“Mary Williams? Your sister-in-law?” Leslie asked.
Jane nodded. “Of course, she’s at least thirty-eight and I suppose she is willing to settle for anything just to get married but—oh, dear!”
“What’s wrong with the man?” Doris asked.
“He’s a war casualty,” Jane explained. “He lost part of one leg, just below the knee. Mary says he has only the slightest limp but, good heavens, just imagine it! Why, they wouldn’t even be able to dance together. And even if it isn’t noticeable to other people, she’d always know that he was not completely right.”
“But suppose she loves him,” Leslie expostulated. “There are so many worse things, things like cruelty and dishonesty, like cheating and exploiting people, like alcoholism and irresponsibility. I can’t see that a small thing like that would matter in the least.”
Jane shivered. “I’d rather never marry. Never. Never.”
There was so much revulsion in her face that Leslie said quickly, “What have you been reading with so much interest?”
It was as easy to divert Jane’s attention as it was a small baby’s.
“My dear, the most extraordinary thing. All about fake heirs and the way some of them deceived people for years and years. One even convinced the mother of the real heir that he was her own son.”
“That doesn’t seem possible.” Doris’s face brightened and Leslie knew, without turning around, what had brought that sunny look to her friend’s face.
“Hi, Paul,” Doris called.
He looked around, smiled, waved his hand, and joined some friends at a distant table.
Doris’s face fell, but Leslie understood how awkward it would be for Paul Logan to find himself at the same table with a girl he loved and another girl who loved him.
“You’ll be seeing him tonight,” she said quickly. “He’s coming to the buffet supper.”
“The trouble with you, Doris,” Jane told her younger sister, “is that you show your hand. Be hard to get. Any woman who plays her cards right can have any man she wants, but she looks like a better bargain to him if she seems to be moving away instead of running after him.”
Doris flushed hotly. For a moment she appeared almost sick with embarrassment.
“Mother,” Jack asked, “can I have another waffle?”
“I suppose so, but I’m sure I don’t know what you do with all that food.”
“He’s got a hollow leg,” Leslie declared. “I’ve noticed it before. It floats when he’s swimming. Helps to hold him up. Very convenient. Everyone should be equipped the same way.”
Jack giggled. He found everything Leslie said riotously funny. “Leslie,” he begged, “c’mon over and swim at our house as soon as we get through here.”
“No swimming for you, young man,” his mother said, “for at least two hours after the meal you’ve been putting away.”
“Soon,” Leslie promised the disappointed small boy. “I’ll come soon. But this afternoon I have to help Aunt Agatha with some arrangements for the party. Anyhow, it’s much too chilly to swim yet. Wait until we’ve had a few hot days to warm up the water.”
“Aw,” Jack began. The waiter removed his plate and set another waffle in front of him. He reached for his butter knife and checked to make sure the syrup pitcher was near at hand.
Jane had been looking around the porch. “What this village needs is some new blood. Except for that redheaded vixen, there’s not a new face in the place.”
Doris laughed. Her exuberant vitality always amazed Leslie when she contrasted it with Jane’s languor. “Why vixen?”
Jane shrugged. “Any woman who is smart evaluates the competition.”
She sounds like Oliver Harrison, Leslie thought in surprise. Perhaps they would make a good combination. She checked her wayward thoughts with inner amusement. Good heavens, I’m turning into a marriage broker.
“That woman,” Jane went on, “is like a fox. Look at her narrow pointed face and those strange green eyes. If I know anything about my own sex, she is a woman who is all set to pounce.”
She broke off while the waiter refilled their cups with coffee and brought Jack another glass of milk. “By the way, what’s this about a glamorous stranger in town? I was playing bridge with the Kelseys last night and Helen Kelsey said she had met him at the drugstore. Perry Kelsey introduced him. A newcomer at the Company.”
To the people of Claytonville, the Clayton Textile Company was always the Company with a capital C.
“Helen said he was one of the most charming men she had ever met, and much the best-looking.”
Leslie had never sounded so casual, so indifferent. “That must be the new chemist. His name is Donald Shaw. You’ll meet him tonight.”
“Now there’s a new face for you, Jane!” Doris exclaimed.
Jane shook her head. “Not for me,” she said with unaccustomed firmness. “Helen said he went off on an old battered-up motorcycle. And Perry told me he’d admitted that he couldn’t afford to buy a car. Just laughed about it. A man like that probably couldn’t even take a girl out to a decent dinner.”
Doris’s eyes, in spite of Jane’s warning, had continued to travel wistfully to the table where Paul Logan was sitting. Like a needle to the north, Leslie thought. Paul waved his hand and called cheerfully, “Hey, Shaw! Join us, won’t you?”
A tall man answered the wave, nodded, and strolled the length of the porch.
“Why,” Doris exclaimed, “that—”
The man’s casual glance fell on their table. He stopped abruptly, as though shocked. Then, as Leslie smiled a welcome, he came toward them.
Leslie held out her hand. “Good morning, Mr. Shaw. Let me introduce you to my friends, Mrs. Williams, Miss Brooke, and Jack Williams. Mr. Shaw.”
Jane nodded. “How do you do?”
Doris said eagerly, “Why, you’re the man in Grand Central Station!”
He smiled. “I am, indeed. But from now on I’m the man in Claytonville.”
“I’m so glad,” Doris said cordially.
Shaw shook hands gravely with the nine-year-old boy who had stood up when Leslie introduced them.
“Do you really have a motorcycle?” Jack asked.
“I really have.”
“Can I ride on it sometime?”
“Jack!” his mother protested. She turned big blue eyes on the newcomer. “How on earth,” she said plaintively, “do people ever succeed in teaching small boys manners? If you ask me, they’re all just natural savages.”
Jack sat down, his face flushed, and pushed away the rest of his waffle.
“Jane!” Doris said sharply. “Jane, is anything wrong?”
Jane’s face was usually pale, but it was a healthy pallor. Now, however, it was dead white.
“Why should there be?” she asked petulantly.
Donald Shaw gave her a keen look and then leaned forward to hold a glass of water to her lips, steadying it for her. “Drink this.”
She sipped it, set it down. “Silly of me. I’m quite all right now.”
With another long look at her, Shaw bowed and went to join Paul and his friends. It was like Paul, Leslie thought gratefully, to try to make the stranger feel at home. The stranger who had paid no attention to her after he had seen Jane Williams’s fragile loveliness.
“Let’s go,” Jane said, pushing her chair back before the waiter could reach her.
They followed her out to the sleek black Cadillac. Without protest, Jane let Doris take the wheel. Jack scrambled into the front seat beside his aunt and Leslie sat beside Jane in back. Jane slumped, resting her head against the back of the seat.
“Feel better?” Doris called over her shoulder as the car slid away from the curb.
A Candle in Her Heart Page 5