“Mainly the young girl. She doesn’t work. I think you tried to make her like me but she’s not. I’m not that smart. And she’s too smart to be that naïve.”
Hearing those words from her, he felt a new respect. The one thing he had not surmised was her awareness of her own naïveté.
“But if she doesn’t maneuver the people around her we don’t have the story,” he said.
“Maybe there isn’t any,” she said bluntly. “I don’t see how a man as bright as Jackson could fall in love with a girl less than a third his age. There’s nothing really there to attract him outside of her youth.”
“And you don’t think that’s enough?”
“Not just physical attraction,” she said. “And certainly not cunning. That would repel him. It would have to be something more. Now, if she were a woman, a real woman, I could understand it. But she’s not.”
“What do you think it would take to make her a real woman?” he asked.
She looked at him. “Time. Time and experience. That’s the only way people grow up. And that’s the way I’ll grow up.”
“Do you think he might have fallen in love with what she could be?”
“I hadn’t considered that,” she said. “Let me think about it.” She was silent for a few minutes, then she nodded. “It’s possible. But there would have to be more of a hint of what she could be, something that would let the audience feel there is more to her than they now see.”
“You’ve made your point,” he said. “I’ll take another look at it.”
“I feel silly. I’m like a child trying to teach an adult how to walk.”
“We can learn a great deal from children,” he said. “If we would only listen.”
“You’re not angry at me for what I said?”
“No. I’m grateful. You made me look at something that could very well have made the whole play invalid.”
She smiled, suddenly happy. “I’ve really been of help?”
“Yes,” he said, smiling. “Really.” He reached for his cigarettes. “Tonight’s the cook’s night off. Do you think your parents would object if I took you out to dinner?”
She was suddenly silent, and there was a troubled expression on her face.
“What is it?” he asked.
“I don’t think my parents would object. Dad likes and respect you. But do you think it’s wise?”
“You mean—?”
She nodded. “This is still Port Clare. People will talk.”
He looked at her. “You’re right. I don’t want to cause any more unhappiness for you.”
She met his gaze. “I’m not thinking about myself,” she said quickly. “I’m thinking about you. The way they think, there’s only one reason a man like you would go out with a girl like me.”
He smiled. “That’s very flattering. I didn’t know they thought that way about me.”
“You’re a stranger,” she said. “You’re rich. You’re divorced. You go to Hollywood and Europe and all those wild places. Only heaven knows what goes on there and what you do.”
He laughed. “I only wish they knew how dull it really is. I go there just to work, that’s all.”
“That may be the truth,” she said. “But you’ll never get them to believe it.”
“If you’re up to it,” he said, “I’d like to take that chance.”
She looked at him for a long moment, then she nodded. “Okay,” she said. “Let me check home first.”
They went to dinner at the Port Clare Inn. The next morning, just as JeriLee had predicted, the news was all over town. And for the first time since they were children she and Bernie had a bitter quarrel.
It was Bernie’s night off from work and they had gone to a movie. Afterward they had gotten in his car and driven out to the parking place at the Point.
He switched on the radio and music filled the car. He turned and reached for her.
She drew back, pushing his hands away. “No, Bernie, I’m not in the mood right now.”
He looked at her. She was staring out the window at the sea which shimmered in the moonlight. He reached for a cigarette and lit it. They didn’t speak. Finally, the cigarette finished, he flipped it out of the window and started the engine.
She looked at him in surprise. “Where are we going?”
“I’m taking you home,” he said sullenly.
“Why?”
“You know why.”
“Because I’m not in the mood to neck?”
“Not only that.”
“What else then?”
He glanced at her, his voice filled with resentment. “I was coming home from the club after work last night and I saw you with Mr. Thornton. You were driving.”
She smiled. “Of course. He doesn’t drive.”
“But he had his arm along the seat behind you. You were laughing. You never laugh with me anymore.”
“He was probably saying something funny,” she said.
“It wasn’t only that. I saw the way you were looking at him. Real sexy like.”
“Oh, Bernie.” Suddenly she felt her face flushing. She hoped he would not see it in the dark. It was not until then that she realized how excited she’d been. She knew she had not been able to sleep until she had eased the feeling inside her, but she had not related it to Mr. Thornton.
“Don’t give me that ‘Oh, Bernie’ crap,” he said, annoyed.
“You’re jealous,” she said. “You have no right to be jealous. Mr. Thornton and I are good friends. He’s helping me with my writing.”
“Oh, sure. A man like him’s going to bother with a kid writer.”
“That’s true,” she said heatedly. “He thinks I’m pretty good. And he even talks to me about his work.”
“Does he tell you about all those wild parties in Hollywood?”
“He doesn’t go to any wild parties,” she said. “He just goes there to work.”
“Oh, yeah?”
She didn’t answer.
“I might have figured it,” he said, bitterly. “First you had the hots for the son, now the old man. Maybe he’s the one you wanted all along. I remember that time you met him on the bus. You were wetting your pants even then.”
“I was not!”
“You were too,” he insisted. “Too bad I didn’t know then what I know now. Maybe people ain’t so crazy after all. Everybody in town sees the way you go around teasing—not wearing a brassiere and all that. In a way I don’t blame Walt or what he thought.”
Now she was angry. “Is that why you see me?”
“If that’s what you think, I won’t see you.”
“That’s okay with me,” she snapped.
“It’s okay with me too,” he muttered. He stopped the car in front of her house.
She got out without a word and slammed the door. “JeriLee!” he called after her. But she went into the house without looking back.
Her father looked up from the television set as she came in. “Was that Bernie?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He saw the expression on her face. “Is there anything wrong?”
“No. He’s just stupid, that’s all. I’m not going to see him anymore.”
He watched her march up the steps to her room, then turned back to the television set. But his mind wasn’t really on the late show. He had a real problem to solve. The state bank examiners were due any day and something in the maze of accounts there was almost three hundred thousand dollars missing, most of it from Walter Thornton’s account.
Chapter 19
Mr. Carson looked down at the sheet in front of him. “Did you check all the transfer vouchers?”
“Yes, sir,” John said.
“What about bank cable advices?”
“They balance. We have all the receipts posted.”
“I don’t understand it,” the bank president said.
“Neither do I,” John said. “I’ve been worried sick ever since I discovered it.”
“When was tha
t?”
“A few days ago.”
“Why didn’t you come to me right away?”
“I thought I might have made a mistake,” John answered. “So I went through the whole thing over again. But the answer was the same.”
Carson looked up at him. “Don’t say anything about this to anyone. Leave it with me for a few days. I want to think about it.”
“Yes, sir. But if the auditors should come in—”
Carson didn’t give him a chance to finish. “I know, I know,” he said testily. “But I want to check the figures myself before we do anything about it.”
He waited until the door closed behind the cashier before he reached for the telephone and dialed. A guard voice answered. “Hello.”
“Mr. Gennutri please. Carson calling.”
The voice became less cautious. “This is Pete, Mr. Carson. What can we do for you today?”
“I don’t know,” Carson said. “How do we stand?”
“You did good yesterday. That filly paid six ten. You got your marker down to eleven grand.”
“What about the other two?”
“They ran out.” The bookie’s voice was sympathetic. “They shouldn’t have. I was sure you were going to hit me big.”
Carson was silent for a moment. “I’m in trouble, Pete,” he said. “I need money.”
“You’re a good customer, Mr. Carson. I could let you have ten grand.”
“I need more than that,” the banker said. “Big money.”
“How much?”
“About three hundred thousand.”
The bookmaker whistled. “That’s too rich for me. You have to go to the big boys for that.”
“Can you get to them?”
“Maybe.” Caution returned to Gennutri’s voice. “What you got to give them for the money?”
“You mean collateral?”
“Yes. I guess that’s what you bankers would call it.”
“Nothing much that’s liquid. My house. The shares in the bank.”
“The shares in the bank,” Gennutri asked. “What’s that worth?”
“Five, maybe six hundred thousand,” the banker said. “But it’s non-negotiable.”
“You mean you can’t see it?”
“Not without the consent of the bank’s board of trustees.”
“Would you have any trouble getting them do to that?”
“I would have to tell them why,” he said. “And I can’t do that.”
“It won’t be easy then.”
“Would you try them for me? I’d appreciate it.”
“I will, Mr. Carson,” the bookmaker said.
Carson’s eyes fell on the newspaper lying next to the report on his desk. The page was turned to racing charts. “Pete,” he said.
“Yes, Mr. Carson?”
“Put a thousand across the board on Red River in the fifth at Belmont.”
“Gotcha.”
Carson put down the telephone cursing himself. It was stupid, and he knew it. But he couldn’t help himself. The horse had a chance and the odds were long enough to make it a good bet. He stared down at the newspaper, a sinking feeling coming into the pit of his stomach. Somehow no matter how good they looked they never won when you need them. He promised himself that if he straightened out this time he would never allow himself to get into the same trap again.
***
JeriLee came out of the warm pool. Walter put down his newspaper, picked up a large bath towel and draped it around her shoulders.
“Thanks.” She smiled.
He returned her smile. “The October air has a way of getting to you.”
She looked up at him. “In a way I’m sorry that winter is coming. There’ll be nothing for us to do.”
“You can always come over and sit by the fire.”
“That would be nice.” She hesitated. “But you’ll be leaving soon. The play will be going into rehearsal in a few weeks.”
“Yes,” he said. “That is, if we can get it cast.”
“I thought it was all set.”
“It is. Except for the girl.” He looked at her. “Do you know of a seventeen-year-old actress who could play a child as if she were a woman?”
“I never thought about it. I would think there must be several.”
“Not really,” he said. “The director should be here any moment to talk about it. We’re going over some possibilities.”
“I’ll dry and get out of your way then,” she said.
“No hurry,” he said quickly. “You won’t be in the way.”
“Sure?”
“I wouldn’t say so if I weren’t.”
“I’ll get out of the wet bathing suit then,” she said.
He watched her walk into the cabana, then picked up his newspaper again. But he wasn’t reading. He was thinking. The play was one thing. There he was in complete control. The characters did only what he let them. But life was different. Very different.
He heard the cabana door open and looked up. She was wearing faded blue jeans and a bulky knit sweater. She caught his glance and smiled. “Would you like me to get you something to drink?”
“Yes, please,” he said. A tight hard knot suddenly gathered in the pit of his stomach. “Scotch and water.”
“Okay.”
He watched her disappear into the house. The surge of feeling left him almost trembling. It was the first time he realized he had fallen in love with her.
***
“All right, Guy,” he said. “If we don’t find the girl we don’t open in November. We’ll go for next spring.”
“Can’t do it,” the director said. He was a slim lanky man with large horn-rimmed glasses and an air of quiet confidence. “We lose Beau Drake if we wait. He has a film commitment in May. And without him we’d have to begin all over again. We’ll just have to take a chance and go with the girl we think is best.”
Walter shook his head. “The play is chancy enough,” he said. “If the girl lets us down it won’t work.”
“I’ve never steered you wrong, Walter. There are ways to get around her.”
“I’m not rewriting,” Walter said stubbornly. “If I wanted it to be something else I would have written it that way.”
Guy made a gesture of futility. “It’s your baby, Walter.” He glanced through the glass sliding doors at the pool. JeriLee was sitting there reading a newspaper. He turned back to Walter. “Who’s the girl? A friend of Junior’s?”
Walter felt his face flushing. “In a way.”
Guy was sensitive. “That’s a funny answer,” he said, probing. “Sure she’s not a friend of yours?”
“Come on, Guy. She’s just a child.”
“How old is she?” He took a stab. “Seventeen?”
Walter stared at him.
“Can she act?” Guy asked.
“You’re crazy! She’s a high school kid who wants to be a writer.”
“Has she any talent?”
“I think so. There’s something extraordinary about her. If she keeps on the way she’s going she’s going to make it someday.”
“You have doubts?” Guy asked shrewdly.
“There’s only one thing that could stop her.”
“And that is?”
“She’s a girl and there’s something very physical about her. She’s really not aware of it but I have the feeling that a tigress is in there waiting to be unleashed.”
“You’ve just given me a perfect description of our girl,” Guy said. “Now, if she could only act.”
Walter was silent.
“Ask her to come in here.”
As she came through the door, Guy played a hunch. Without waiting for an introduction, he spoke the opening lines of the play. “Your father just called. He wants you to come home right away and said that he doesn’t want me to see you anymore.”
His hunch was right. She had read the play. She answered him the script. “My father is insane. If he can’t have me, he doesn’t want anyone els
e to.”
“Anne! That’s no way to talk about your own father.”
She looked at him with a demurely innocent smile. “Don’t act so shocked, Mr. Jackson. Didn’t you ever have any incestuous thoughts about your own daughter?”
Guy turned to Walter, who had been watching with fascination. “What do you think?”
Walter was looking at JeriLee.
“She is the girl, Walter,” the director said.
JeriLee was bewildered. “What’s he talking about?”
Walter found his voice. “He wants you to play the girl.”
“But I am not an actress.”
Guy smiled at her. “All it takes to be one is to be one.”
“It’s not that easy,” she said. “I’ve never really been on stage before except for a few school productions.”
Guy turned to Walter. “It’s up to you to convince her.”
Walter was silent and there was a strange expression on his face as he looked at her.
Guy walked to the door. “I’m going back to the city. Give me a call when you decide what you’re going to do.”
Walter didn’t answer him.
JeriLee saw Walter staring at her. “Are you angry with me?”
He shook his head.
“Then what is it?”
He found his voice. “Suddenly I find out I’m like the father in my own way. I’m jealous of you.”
***
Carson looked at his watch. It was four o’clock. They should have the results of the fifth race by now. He dialed the bookmaker’s number.
Gennutri answered the telephone with his customarily cautious voice. “Hello.”
“Pete? What happened in the fifth?”
“Tough luck, Mr. Carson. Your horse ran out of the money.”
Carson was silent for a moment. “Did you get in touch with your friends?” he asked.
“I did.” Gennutri’s voice was expressionless. “They’re not interested.”
“But surely they understand. I’m not just the usual horseplayer. I’ll pay them back.”
“Nothing personal in it, Mr. Carson, but that’s what they all say.”
He looked down at the newspaper still on the desk. There was a horse in the eighth race that could help out. “Okay, Pete,” he said. “Give me two thousand across the board on Maneater in the eighth.”
“Can’t do it, Mr. Carson.” Gennutri’s voice was cool. “You’re into me for twelve grand right now and I can’t give you any more markers until that’s cleaned up.”
The Lonely Lady Page 12