by Peggy Gaddis
Well, came the dawn, to coin a phrase, and we all took off for town, almost as relieved to get away as Mrs. P. was to see us leave. Phil and Sally drove off together, poisonously polite to each other, and we made bets between ourselves that before they got back to town they’d be man and missus. But it seems we were wrong! They reached Marthasville, still unwed — and an hour ago, my lamb, came the electrifying news that Our Sal has eloped — but not with Phil! Remember old Jerome Anderson, the tight-fisted banker who is said to have a mortgage on nine-tenths of the real estate in a radius of fifty miles? Well, that’s the unlucky man! poor devil! Anyway, Phil is still free and unattached! And let me be the first to tell you the news. Come on, pal, get home fast and take up your option!
Geraldine sat for a long, long time, staring with wide eyes at the letter. Phil was not married to Sally, after all! Phil was still free. Maybe even — Phil might still care for her! It was a thought, it was a warm and lovely thought that brought the color to her cheeks and a new light to her eyes.
• • •
The days passed somehow. She spent long hours in the saddle, riding the mountain trails, usually with a party, sometimes only with one of the dude wrangler guides — she had learned to call them that, and not cowboys — occasionally over familiar trails alone; at night she read, or sat around the camp fire listening to the pseudo-Gene Autry singing pseudo-cowboy ballads, in which the guests would join lustily on the chorus. And each night before she went to bed, she checked off another day on her calendar.
Until a morning came when six weeks had been checked off. This was the morning she was to appear at the courthouse and ask for her freedom. She had finished her packing last night. The trim beige suit, with brown hat and gloves and alligator slippers was waiting; she dressed with hands that shook a little, and when she went into the dining room, the other guests greeted her with cheerful applause, reading the message conveyed by her traveling clothes.
One of the dude wranglers drove her in to her attorney’s office, where the attorney and his secretary were waiting. The whole thing went through with a speed that dazed her; she came down the steps in the bright sunshine, a little later, saying bewilderedly, “Is that really all there is to it?”
The lawyer smiled formally, his mind already occupied with the next case on his calendar.
“That’s all, Mrs. Parker,” he assured her, shaking hands with her. “Practically painless, wasn’t it?”
“Quite,” said Geraldine and managed a smile for him.
He and his secretary went back towards the office, where already other matters were claiming his attention. A middle-aged woman, passing, eyed Geraldine with envy and said pleasantly, “The Truckee is just down this way, my dear. Be sure you throw your ring as far as you can.”
“Oh, but I’m not going to,” Geraldine protested.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” said the woman and went her way.
She walked a few steps, before she jerked to a halt as a car slid to the curb and a voice that would be remembered as long as she lived, called her name.
She stood rooted to the spot, staring with incredulous eyes at the man who came swiftly towards her, his car illegally double-parked, his hat in his hand, his eyes shining with delight.
“Phil!” she felt as though she shouted it, but in reality it was only a small, shaken whisper that barely reached his ears. “Phil — Oh, how did you happen to come now?”
“I have a calendar,” he told her simply. “I’ve checked the days off. I left Marthasville in my car two weeks ago; I’ve dawdled along the way — picked out some marvelous spots for a honeymoon, and I’ve got a month’s leave of absence from the mills. I … didn’t have the courage at first to ask your address.”
Her hands, small and cold and shaking, were in his now, and she sensed the tremor that sped over him as he held her so.
“My darling,” he said at last, his voice very low, shaken.
And all she could say was “Phil — oh, Phil!”
But it seemed quite enough, as he turned and helped her into the car and slid behind the wheel.
“Where to?” he asked, smiling a little, his eyes adoring her.
“Anywhere — so long as it’s together,” she told him radiantly.
This edition published by
Crimson Romance
an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.
10151 Carver Road, Suite 200
Blue Ash, Ohio 45242
www.crimsonromance.com
Copyright © 1968 by Peggy Gaddis
ISBN 10: 1-4405-7412-X
ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-7412-2
eISBN 10: 1-4405-7411-1
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-7411-5
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
Cover art © istock.com/Julzee71
The Girl Next Door
Peggy Gaddis
Avon, Massachusetts
“No night so dark but brings the constant sun
With love and power untold … ”
Contents
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Copyright
Chapter One
Betsy Drummond sat in the darkest corner of the old carriage house. Outside, a spring morning spread a mantle of beauty over the countryside. Meadows were green and soft with new grass; along the river, yellow-green willows bent over their graceful reflections.
And yet — in the old carriage house, Betsy Drummond shrank back, a black bandage over her eyes.
“This is what it’s like to be blind,” she told herself. “This is what Pete knows. Never to see again! Oh, Pete, darling, I can’t stand it! Not for you, Pete.”
Peter had loved beauty; he had loved to walk through the woods and fields in the spring. He had seen beauty even in bare fields, and had pointed out to Betsy the myriad color tones of the newly turned earth. And now — Peter was blind, hopelessly blind!
Betsy had fought against that knowledge since the morning, such a short while ago, that Peter’s mother had stood before her, gray-faced and white-lipped, and told her the truth.
“We’ve got to help him, Betsy,” Mrs. Marshall had said. “He doesn’t want us to come to the hospital. He wants to come home alone. All we can do is wait till he’s ready to come back to us.”
Betsy shivered. She couldn’t tell Mrs. Marshall that Peter would not be coming home to her — Betsy. Peter wasn’t in love with her, never had been. They’d been pals, and had wrangled amicably. Betsy had tagged his footsteps until sometimes he had chased her home, as he would an annoying puppy.
Ever since she could remember, Betsy had loved Peter Marshall. But he had just grinned at her, called her “Carrot-top,” pulled her pigtails, and teased her. Six years makes a terrific difference in ages when you’re growing up. But Peter was twenty-four now, and Betsy was almost nineteen.
She had written to him faithfully through the long three years he’d been in Vietnam. She had written him daily, but she only mailed one letter a week. The others were put away in a small locked jewel box in the bottom of her bureau, where no one would ever see them. In these letters, she had poured out her young heart, revealing all its small inner secrets. In the letter she had let herself mail each week, she had been the happy-go-lucky youngste
r he remembered. From the brief, scrawled answers he had sent her, she knew he still thought of her as the leggy, carrot-topped youngster she’d been when he went away.
Peter would never see her now, as she had grown up. Her hair was a rich mahogany-red, the coltish young figure had filled out; the golden-brown eyes were steady and honest, and the small line of freckles that marched across her impertinent little nose were almost hidden by the warm sun-tan that gave her such a healthy, wholesome look.
And soon now he was coming home — blind! She bowed her bandaged head on her knees and wept… .
She was so absorbed in her misery that she did not hear the protesting squeak with which the doors of the carriage house swung open. The warm flood of April sunlight could not penetrate the thick bandage over her eyes. It was not until a voice spoke that she started up so swiftly that her head struck a low beam. Her hands shook as she tore off the bandage.
A woman stood in the doorway, outlined by the sunlight. For a moment, Betsy’s eyes were so blinded that she saw the figure only as a blur.
“Oh — hello,” said the woman, obviously startled. “Did I frighten you? I’m sorry. I had no idea anyone was here. The place looks as if nobody has been here in a hundred years or so.”
“I — that is — it’s the old Cunningham place,” Betsy stammered. “It’s been closed for years. I live next door.”
Now that her eyes were focused against sunlight, she could see that the woman was attractive. Thick, shining dark hair was tucked into a roll that framed her face. She had large brown eyes, a warm-lipped mouth, and a straight, beautiful nose that made Betsy all the more conscious of the impertinent tilt of her own.
The woman, who was bareheaded, was wearing a smart suit of summer tweed, its jacket flung across her shoulders. The bright yellow sweater, which she wore in lieu of a blouse, seemed to accentuate her dark beauty.
“I’m Marcia Eldon,” she said, and there was still a look of curiosity in her eyes as she took in the small, dejected figure in crumpled blue flannel shorts and white shirt. “I’ve rented the place for a year. I’m going to live here — that is, I suppose it will really be existing, not living.” Her lips curled in a grimace of distaste.
Betsy’s eyes widened. “You’re going to live here — in Centerville?” She repeated.
Marcia Eldon nodded; then her eyes swept the carriage house disparagingly. “I admit I haven’t the faintest idea what you are doing here,” she said, “but please feel free to use the place. I’m sure there’s plenty of room for my car — and you, as well.” She waited for Betsy to explain.
Betsy hesitated, and her face flushed. “Oh,” she muttered unhappily, “I just came in here to — to think something out.”
Marcia laughed and looked about the place, which was thick with dust, hung with cobwebs, and unmistakably a happy-hunting-ground for rats.
“It must have been something that required a lot of concentration,” she drawled. “Or aren’t you afraid of spiders and mice?”
“Of course not.” Betsy turned toward the loose plank at the back, through which she always slipped. “I’ll be seeing you around, I suppose,” she said hurriedly, and pushed back the plank.
“You ridiculous child! Why not go out through the door?” exclaimed Marcia, annoyed.
But Betsy had already slipped through the opening, and was flying across what had once been a vegetable garden, toward the tall hedge.
In her room, Betsy got out of the dusty shorts and the shirt, and her scuffed saddle shoes. She took a shower and dressed in a crisp cotton frock, tied her curls back with a ribbon, and ran down the front steps and out into the street. She was thankful to have escaped her mother, because she felt that she couldn’t bear to talk to her. Mother was so gentle and understanding, but — to Betsy — even the kindest word was like a finger pressing upon an unbearable painful spot.
She chose back lanes and side streets as she hurried across town. Presently she came to a quiet little street that ended on a bluff above the river. Here a small, sturdy cottage sat in a thick grove of pines. Behind it were neat chicken runs, a few fruit trees and a small vegetable garden.
Betsy went up the walk and around the house to where rustic chairs were grouped beneath a giant water oak. Beyond it, a small garden flaunted all the heavily fragrant flowers one could imagine — gardenias, roses, spice-pinks… .
An old man sat in one of the rustic chairs. His white head lifted alertly as Betsy came across the lawn, walking as quietly as she could. Before she reached him, he laughed and said;
“Betsy, my dear, how nice to see you!”
Betsy smiled uncertainly.
“I never get over being surprised that you know who it is, before I so much as open my mouth,” she told him, dropping down in a chair beside him.
The old man’s sightless eyes were turned toward her and his smile was friendly and fond.
“That’s because when one loses the sense of sight, my dear, the other senses are intensified. There are no two people on earth whose footsteps are exactly alike; just as no two voices are identical. You’ve been crying, Betsy,” he added quietly.
There was a hint of reproach in his voice and Betsy’s face crumpled, although she tried hard not to weep.
“I’m sorry, Professor. I — I’ve tried — like the dickens.”
He nodded. “I know you have, my dear. It’s very hard. But when Peter comes, you want to be brave and strong, to help him. If he sees you crying — ”
“I won’t let him see me — ” She broke off and set her teeth tight in her lower lip. It wouldn’t be hard to keep Peter from seeing, she reflected, unhappily. He would never see again!
Professor Hartley said, “Don’t you want to see Tamar’s son? He’s developing beautifully.”
“Oh, yes!” Betsy agreed, and some of her pain and misery vanished.
The old man whistled and two dogs came leaping towards him. One was a full-grown German shepherd; the other, a half-grown pup. The grown dog paused at the professor’s knee and his hand reached out and caressed her. The puppy frolicked a moment, but at a word from the man, he came obediently and the thin old hands fitted a harness to his shoulders.
“Try him out, Betsy,” suggested the professor.
She bound a handkerchief over her eyes, put her hand on the curved wooden harness above the dog’s shoulders and he walked her patiently about the garden, skilfully avoiding trees, bushes, any obstacle in their path. Even when she exerted pressure on the harness, the dog could not be forced to walk into any obstruction.
She whipped off the handkerchief, knelt and put her arms about the young dog, fondling him. There were tears in her eyes and in her voice as she talked to him.
“He’s a darling, Professor,” she said. “You’ve been swell to give him to me and to help me train him for Pete.”
“I can only hope he will give Peter the comfort and companionship his mother has given me. Come here, Betsy.”
She released the dog, took off the harness, and went to sit beside the old man.
“You’re growing up, Betsy,” he said gently. “Sorrow makes one adult far more than years. You’re facing up, and I’m proud of you.”
Betsy set her teeth hard. “I’m not the one that needs to be brave,” she said unsteadily. “It’s Pete — ”
“And don’t you think he will be?”
“Oh — of course.”
“Betsy, you must realize one thing.” The professor’s voice was quiet, but there was a ring of conviction in it “There are compensations, even for blindness. Perhaps you never see beauty again — but you can never forget it. A well-loved face grows more beautiful in your memory; it never grows old. Spring never dies; the flowers never fade; the sky is always blue, and the sun bright gold. The things you have once seen are in your memory for always, and they grow more precious with the years. Even if your eyes no longer see, your heart never forgets.”
He paused for a moment, as if recalling pictures out of the past. Then h
e went on:
“Losing your sight gives you a keener appreciation of the senses left to you. Music seems even more beautiful; voices you’ve loved are clearer; the fragrance of a rose is a keener delight than it ever was when you could both see and smell it. Life, my dear, even without sight, is a glorious adventure. Try always to remember that — won’t you?”
“I’ll try.”
Professor Hartley nodded. “I am deeply grateful that I did not lose my sight until I was well on in years. I have the memory of the things of beauty to store in my mind. Peter has many years of usefulness and happiness ahead.”
“Happiness!” Betsy’s voice scorned the word.
“Yes — happiness,” the old man repeated. “Never forget that, Betsy. It will be hard for Peter, at first; he’s young, unreconciled, bitter. It’s only natural that he should be. He’s going to need cheerful companionship, friendliness — but don’t try to give him more than he is ready to take. Don’t try to make him lean on you. Help him to be self-reliant, to live a normal life.”
“I’ll try,” she repeated.
The old man smiled and patted her hand. “That’s all anybody can do, Betsy,” he told her.
Chapter Two
Centerville was a town of about five thousand; peaceful, pleasant, moving slowly in its placid days and nights. The center of a rich farming country, it boasted a small but prosperous textile mill and a few minor industries.
There was the usual Main Street, with four “business blocks” facing one another across a small green square where the inevitable war memorial stood guard.
George Drummond, Betsy’s father, had inherited his father’s law practice and offices, and the big white house on a pleasant street within walking distance of the business center.
Edith was in her early forties. She was brown-haired, brown-eyed, always neatly and becomingly dressed, and was what the town called admiringly “a good manager.” George was three years older, his hair reddish, his eyes blue and friendly. Both were enormously popular in the little town and always spoken of as representative citizens.