“Hello,” he said. “How about helping me wrassle with this luggage, fellers? And let’s see if we can find Mommy and Louise.”
The whole house never had looked better. Dogwood and paper-white narcissus decorated the hall. The really beautiful claw-and-ball-foot table he had bought to stand under the Chippendale mirror was freshly waxed, and the tall clock at the end of the hall, which he had bought at the Parke-Bernet Gallery after very brisk bidding, gave balance to everything around it. After all, acquiring good pieces of antique furniture really was the same as putting money in the bank, provided you could keep the children from doing damage. Right at that moment Paul was leaning on the arm of the end chair that flanked the claw-and-ball-foot table.
“Remember what I said, son,” Willis told him. “You mustn’t do that with good furniture. You’ve got to learn to respect good furniture.”
“Okay,” Paul said. “Sorry.” There was no doubt they were both fine boys with very good manners.
“Besides, boys,” Willis said, “you’ve always got the rumpus room downstairs.”
Then Sylvia came out of the dining room and kissed him, and Carl, the colored houseman, came to get his bags, and Louise and Miss Farquahr appeared on the stair landing.
“Daddy,” Louise called, “Daddy!” She had dark hair like her mother, and her eyes were shining. It was ridiculous, of course, to say that Louise was like a little princess, but still that was how she looked.
The whole scene in the hallway added up to something that was greater than any good news, because without a happy home, everything else was pretty hollow.
“Hello,” he called to Louise, “my darling little pussykins.” Then he added in a very cordial way, “And it’s nice to see you, Miss Farquahr.”
“Did you have a good time at Pinehurst, dear?” Sylvia asked him.
Somehow wives always thought that conventions were only intended to supply a good time.
“There was a fine crowd, honey, and fine papers and discussions,” Willis said, “but frankly I’m a little tired, and now if you’ll all forgive me I think I’ll go up and shower and get into a pair of slacks.”
“The boys want to show you their garden,” Sylvia said, “and Louise has a garden too, with radishes.”
“Well, well,” Willis said, “yum, yum, radishes.”
“Maybe you’d like to have Carl bring us cocktails on the terrace, dear,” Sylvia said. “It’s such a nice warm day.”
Willis was aware of a slight headache, although nothing that a cold shower would not cure.
“Let’s make it a little tonic water, dear,” he said. “I’m pretty well cocktailed out for the moment.”
He laughed and kissed Sylvia again and started up the stairs. It was amusing to remember that Sylvia had once been appalled by the size of the house, while now she was finding it difficult to discover a suitable place to hang the Winslow Homer he had given her for her birthday. The clothes closet in his dressing room was too small, and the two guest rooms might easily have been more gracious. He was thinking of a house made to his own order and of the fun he and Sylvia might have poring over the blueprints. It was a daydream, perhaps, but if they moved out to Chicago, as they undoubtedly would if he accepted P. L. Nagel’s offer, that daydream became a real possibility.
Dinner was wonderful—green-turtle soup and guinea hen—and Sylvia had brought up a bottle of Veuve Cliquot from the cellar, to celebrate, she said, his safe return. If you had lived in a place long enough, there could not help but be memories, and memories crowded around Willis in the dining room. The chairs, the pedestal table, and the sideboard all brought memories of how he and Sylvia had searched for these objects. After all, good silver and furniture were money in the bank.
“I suppose I should have asked you,” Sylvia said, “whether you wanted a rough-and-tumble family supper, but I guessed you’d rather have the children with Miss Farquahr in the nursery. I thought you might be tired after—what was the name of the convention that you went to, dear?”
“The Production Liners, sweetness,” Willis said, and he smiled at her through the candlelight.
“Darling,” she said, “I have a confession to make—a reluctant sort of confession.”
“A confession, honey?” Willis asked, and he was aware of a slight discomfort, because you could never tell about confessions.
“Yes,” Sylvia said, “I thought you’d like to know that I’m getting so used to this house that I wouldn’t want to live anywhere else. I’m even getting used to calling it Waydeholm. My spirit must be broken or something, darling.”
Willis raised his champagne glass to her. Her speech upset him but it still called for some sort of gesture.
“Well, well,” he said, “congratulations, sweetness, and how about having coffee in the library after we’ve kissed the kids good night?”
“We can kiss Louise and Paul,” Sylvia said, “but you keep forgetting that Al goes to bed an hour later.”
“Gosh,” Willis said, and he shook his head, “I do have a lot of things to remember, honey.”
“But then I forgot,” Sylvia said. “The Crosby boy asked Al over to his house for the night. I wouldn’t have accepted if I had been sure you were coming back today.”
“Why, that’s all right, honey,” Willis said. “In fact it’s just as well, because I have a real budget of news for you—news that I hope is going to give you the same sort of thrill that it’s giving me.”
The library was a room of which he and Sylvia were justly proud. It was well-proportioned, with a beautiful open fireplace and mantel, and it was furnished with English armchairs still in their original leather. There was a Kermanshah rug for floor covering, one of the most beautiful Willis had ever seen, unobtrusive in design and with soft colors matching the window curtains and the waxed pine paneling. There was also the flat desk of the General Grant period, which had been with them ever since his New York apartment. It served to give the room the informal, unstudied appearance that reminded him of the rooms in the big house on the Harcourt place, and the Persian rug itself was worn, and this too reminded him of the Harcourt rugs. It was what you might call a cultivated, lived-in library.
Usually when they were alone Willis was content with nothing but a small cup of Sanka, but since he had some really important news to impart to Sylvia, he had Carl bring in liqueurs.
“Brandy, sweetness?” he asked Sylvia.
“Oh, I don’t think so, dear,” Sylvia said. “I don’t want anything, really, but if you want me to keep you company I’ll have a little crème de menthe.”
“Well, as I’ve said before, but I’ll repeat, sweetness,” Willis said, “it’s great to get home. I hope everything’s been going all right.”
“Oh yes,” Sylvia said. “I don’t think I told you over the telephone that Al was almost selected as Toby Tyler in the parish-hall play.”
“Well, that’s fine,” Willis said. “It makes me feel good, dear, that the kids are beginning to take their place in the community.”
“I know it, darling,” Sylvia said, “but you don’t have to keep on saying it. We are a real integrated part of the community, but what with Open House Week for the church and everything, do you think I still have to be on the program committee for the League of Women Voters?”
“Well, now, sweetness,” Willis said, “I know these activities, from my personal experience, are time-consuming and often dull, but you know how I feel about everyone in Harcourt Associates pulling his weight in the community boat, but well—” Suddenly he thought of the future, and he had to admit that this changed the present picture. “Well, sweetness, if you’re awfully busy, never mind the League of Women Voters.”
“Why, darling,” Sylvia said, “this doesn’t sound like you at all, but thanks for letting me off,” and she put down her liqueur glass and kissed him.
“Why, sweetness,” Willis said, and he had to laugh, “you sound like a kid excused from school.”
“If you want
to know, I feel like one,” Sylvia said. “Willis, dear, isn’t this a lovely room? I feel at last that it represents us, even your old Five-Foot Shelf of Books. I feel that we’ve finally fitted into it in a sort of permanent way.”
Willis sniffed his brandy conventionally for a moment before he answered.
“It is a lovely room,” he said, “and I congratulate you on the thought and taste you’ve put into it—not that there aren’t some things about the fenestration and the paneling that we could improve if we were building it ourselves.”
“But we didn’t,” Sylvia said, “and we aren’t going to, so let’s enjoy it the way it is.”
Willis nodded gravely.
“Honey,” he said, “just supposing—I’m only thinking out loud—but just supposing we did have a chance to build a home of our own, wouldn’t you sort of enjoy it, honey?”
Sylvia sighed.
“Oh, I don’t know, dear,” she said. “There would be all the details and arguing with an architect, and a new house always looks so new. No, frankly, I’m awfully glad that we don’t have to build a house.”
“But, honey,” Willis said, “wouldn’t you look forward to the adventure in it? The reaching out for something new? What was it Oliver Wendell Holmes said?”
“Please,” Sylvia said, and the line between her eyebrows deepened, “if you mean ‘Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul,’ this one is perfectly good enough, Willis.”
Willis laughed apologetically.
“I suppose the quotation does sound a little shopworn,” he said, “but you can’t deny progress, sweetness. It isn’t wholesome to keep standing still.”
Sylvia looked at him in a way that made him slightly uneasy, and lighted a cigarette. It was not fair, he was thinking, that she should smoke a cigarette and look doubtful just when he was about to tell her one of the most important things that had ever happened to them.
“Willis,” she said, “you aren’t thinking of building a new house or anything like that, are you?”
“Well, only indirectly, dear,” Willis said, “but still that might be part of the fun if everything I’ve been mulling over in the last few days comes true.”
“Oh, Willis,” Sylvia said, “what under the sun are you talking about?” And instead of looking at him with pleased anticipation, she seemed almost apprehensive.
“Sweetness,” he said, “it’s been a real strain on me to have waited so long before telling you what has happened, but I had to wait until we were alone because it’s still very confidential. Frankly, here it is in a nutshell, and I want you to hold tight to your chair, because it’s really ‘sumpin’—as they say. If things work out right, I honestly think we can start relaxing a little and take that trip abroad, honey, and all sorts of things, and build a whole new house, if we want to, and landscape it just the way we want. You’re following me, aren’t you?”
He had asked the question because she still looked apprehensive.
“Yes,” Sylvia said, “I follow you, but I wish you’d tell me what it’s all about, Willis.”
“All right, sweetness,” Willis said. “I think that’s just the fair sort of request that one partner ought to make of another, and we always have been partners, sweetness.”
“Yes, although I seem to be a pretty silent partner right now,” Sylvia said. “For goodness’ sake, go on and tell me. Don’t make me sit here being frightened.”
That last remark really broke the tension, and without intending to, Willis shook with convulsive laughter.
“You know, that’s one of the funniest things you’ve ever said, honey,” he told her. “Frightened? Now hold onto your chair and listen to this. In a nutshell, sweetness, I’ve been offered the first vice presidency of the biggest belting company in existence, the Simcoe Company, with the assurance that I will be president inside of three years. Aside from the salary, there’s a very intelligent common-stock setup going with it.” Willis had to laugh again. “And you were making uncomplimentary noises over the phone when I told you at the Carolina that old P. L. Nagel was in my sitting room. Well, that’s what he was there for—and what do you think of that one, Mrs. Wayde?”
Willis stood up and paced across the Kermanshah rug, smiling at her. Sylvia had put out her cigarette. The whole thing was what the moving-picture people called a “double take.”
“But, Willis,” Sylvia began and then stopped, and she still did not seem to get it.
“Now, honey,” Willis said, “there are no ifs and buts about this. I’m not thinking out loud. This is a firm and clear-cut offer—not that I can blame you for being the least bit incredulous, considering where Simcoe stands tradewise.”
As Willis watched her, Sylvia shifted her position, and her worried look, instead of evaporating into relief, grew more pronounced.
“But, Willis,” she said, “I know your mind is very quick about these things and that mine isn’t, and so I hope you won’t be impatient with me. I don’t see how you can leave Harcourt Associates, especially when so many people depend on you as much as they do. It doesn’t seem to me exactly fair.”
It irritated Willis that Sylvia should think for an instant that he would have done something that was not fair—but then he remembered that he had not yet presented the whole picture.
“I’d rather you’d let me make my point,” he said, “before you jump to conclusions, Sylvia. You haven’t heard the whole of the offer, and the best part is coming, honey.” He laughed lightly, because in a way the situation did have an element of humor, what with Sylvia’s doubts and hesitations. “It just so happens,” he went on, “that Simcoe is offering to merge with Harcourt Associates, and the figure, honey—now hold onto your seat again—is in the neighborhood of twenty-five million dollars. Now how do you like that one, Mrs. Wayde? And before you answer just remember that you and I own severial shares in Harcourt Associates.”
Perhaps it was the sum of money that he mentioned—because large sums of money always startled Sylvia—that seemed to help Sylvia to grasp the general situation. She sat with parted lips, gazing at him.
“I’ve had to hold onto my chair several times before,” she said. “I do wish these things didn’t come so suddenly.”
Sylvia was adopting a proper attitude. She might be a little slow on the uptake but in the final analysis he could always count on Sylvia.
“Frankly I was pretty surprised myself, sweetness,” Willis said, “so I don’t blame you for one moment, honey, if it makes you kind of woozy. If you will just excuse me, honey, I think I’ll take another little tetch of brandy.”
He realized the instant he said it that “tetch,” like “severial,” was P.L.’s word, not his.
“You’re beginning to see, aren’t you,” Willis asked her gently, “why I feel so happy about this whole picture? Not so much for myself as for you and the children, sweetness. It’s mighty hard to accumulate property today with things the way they are taxwise.”
It did seem to him it was about time for Sylvia to share at least a little in his own spirit of euphoria, but then Sylvia was always slow on the uptake.
“But, Willis,” she said, “you can’t sell Harcourt Associates yourself. The Harcourts and other people will have to agree to it, won’t they?”
No wife, no matter how loyal and lovely she might be, ever seemed to be able to grasp the principles of corporation management—but then after all why should she?
“Right, sweetness,” Willis said. “The offer must be accepted by a majority of voting stock, and I think that’s the way it will happen when the offer is presented, because in its essence it’s a very generous offer.”
“I suppose it is,” Sylvia said, and she sighed and the line was deep again between her eyebrows, “but there’s one thing I don’t like about it, Willis, one thing that I think sounds tricky.”
Willis sat down in one of the leather armchairs and held the brandy inhaler between his hands.
“I just don’t get what you mean,” he said,
“by the word ‘tricky.’ I don’t find anything ‘tricky’ in this offer—not a single nigger in the woodpile, honey.”
He realized again that he was using one of P.L.’s phrases, and the thought added to the disturbance that Sylvia’s question had created.
“I know I don’t understand these things,” Sylvia said, “but it does seem to me that what they want most is Harcourt Associates, and that they are offering you a position in their company so that you can help them get what they want. It seems something like a bribe, Willis.”
He wished that Sylvia had not hit upon that final word, because it sounded like an echo of his own conscience, but he knew Sylvia would be right with him as soon as she got the whole picture.
“I’m glad you brought up that point, honey,” he said, “because it was one that disturbed me very deeply first off, and in fact I went right to the mat with P.L. about it. The two offers aren’t tied together in any sort of a package deal, sweetness. P.L. really wants me at Simcoe. He’s reaching retirement age, you know, and he said I was the best man there is for the job. There it is in a nutshell, and I hope it makes you as proud as it makes me, Mrs. Wayde.”
He had told Sylvia everything frankly and sincerely, but the furrow between her eyebrows was still as deep as ever.
“Willis,” Sylvia said, and her lack of enthusiasm made him feel very uneasy, “did you ask Mr. Nagel whether he wants you in his company, if he can’t get Harcourt Associates?”
He must have looked startled because she repeated the question almost sharply.
“Did you ask him that, Willis?”
For a moment it seemed to Willis that he was balancing on the edge of nothing. It was a question that he should have asked and he was trying to cast back into his memory for some explanation of why he had not asked it.
Sincerely, Willis Wayde Page 47