Classic Love: 7 Vintage Romances

by Dorothy Fletcher

  “A relative,” he said reluctantly. “Let it go at that.”

  “Constant. Richard’s uncle.”

  “Let it lay, Kelly.”

  “Was it Constant?”

  Even if he had wanted to answer, it was too late. Richard trotted back to his chair again. Could he have another coke, please? Kelly caught Steve’s eye and he grinned companionably … but secretively. Why, he must be a private eye! A man who led a dangerous life.

  But it didn’t change things. Whatever he was, whoever he was, she was in love with him. So much for upbringing. For the first time in her life she was a captive. The lessons she had learned at Mother’s knee wouldn’t help her now. The cigarette Steve lit for her wavered between trembling fingers, and she might be making the biggest mistake of her life, but she was very much in love with that man. Everything else … career, aspirations, the dream of a quiet, dignified life drew a big, fat blank.

  He saw it in her eyes; she knew that. And saw his gratification. Resented it, but could do nothing about it. A furtive life … that was what he led, and she had guessed it almost from the beginning. A man who spied on people, who looked into peepholes.

  “Could I please have another coke?” Richard asked.

  CHAPTER 10

  Echoes. Resounding echoes. Red stripes on a vaulted ceiling. Ahead stretched infinity, in its awfulness, its finality. Why am I alone? Kelly thought, turning to look for Steve, holding out a hand, absently, for Richard.

  But they weren’t there.

  Not Steve, not Richard.

  Then, she told herself reasonably, they were just beyond the next arch. She had been so busy looking at the brilliant tiles on the walls that she hadn’t noticed. They had just gone on ahead, that was all.

  Confidently, she walked quickly ahead, was in another corridor. Another corridor just like the last one. They were all the same. They were repetitions. Ad infinitum. Forever!

  Because there was no end, of course.

  No beginning?

  No.

  And no end.

  I hate this place, she thought. I don’t want to be here.

  “Where are you?” she asked her friends.

  She walked ahead, gaining the corridor beyond. They must be here, of course.

  No, they were not. They were not! There was no one there, not the sound of a voice, not the ghost of a whisper. Her footfalls echoed on the marble tile of the floor, rang out loudly.

  She was alone. They had left her. She was alone.

  And exactly where? Because where was the end and where the beginning of this maze? Where had it started? To where did it lead?

  This is horrible, she thought, in the terrible grip of claustrophobia. I can’t possibly stand this.

  She put out her arms, as if to push away the walls, as if, like Sampson, she could bring the pillars crashing down, see the hideous tomb of Abd el Rahman break into ruins, show the bright blue of the sky outdoors.

  A bird flew by. She ducked, filled with horror. A bird? And yet she loved them, loved all wild creatures. The bird rushed past her, its wings almost tangling in her hair. The rushing sound of its flight filled her ears, deafening, and she caught sight of the eyes, cruel and intent. The eyes looked at her, calculating and savage, and then the bird soared up again, brushing against the vaulting of the ceiling, poised for further devastations.

  She knew its plan. To destroy her. Yes, it was clear what the creature had in its mind. And then, with a caw of anger, it beat its wings and dive-bombed.

  She screamed.

  “No … no …”

  But the bird, in its swift, terrifying descent, plummeted down. She wound her hands round her head but, with a deafening rush of powerful wings, the eagle crashed down on her.

  There was the slash of its talons. The blood poured down her forehead. The claws were intent on her eyes, tearing, tearing.

  Her eyes!

  The scream forced its way past her tight throat.

  • • •

  Steve woke up with a start.

  What the hell was that? he thought.

  Someone had screamed bloody murder.

  He slid out of bed.

  The scream died away.

  At the interconnecting door he paused.

  Had he been dreaming?

  Everything was quiet now.

  And then, suddenly, there was the repressed sound of sobbing, as if a child was on the other side of that door. A little girl …

  Hell, that was Kelly.

  He stood a minute, and then turned the doorknob.

  She was curled up in the fetal position. In the dim light from outdoors he could see her shoulders shaking. She heard him come in, and gasped.

  “Who’s there?”

  Her hands came away from her head.

  “It’s only me. I heard you.”

  “Oh. It’s all right. It was only a dream.”

  “All right. Talk about it.”

  He sat down on the edge of the bed.

  “No no, it’s too stupid.”

  “Don’t be a joker. What was this dream?”

  She gave a shaky laugh. “Something about a big bird. It’s insane. I love birds.”

  “What did the bird do?”

  “It tried to …” She shuddered. “Yipes, I’m sorry,” she said. “But it was rather disgusting.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I just wonder why we have such garbage in our minds,” she said. “It was such an obscene dream. The bird was going for my eyes.”

  She laughed again, trembling in his arms.

  “Imagine? My eyes, you understand.”

  “It was only a dream.”

  “Yeah, but why?”

  “Atavism,” he said. “We’re what thousands of centuries have made us. We still have the primordial fears.”

  “I suppose.”

  He cradled her, and she was passive, quiescent. “It was that Mosque,” she said finally. “That weird, bizarre place. That’s something that gets to you.”

  “Yes, it was unpleasant, rather.”

  “Of course that was the reason for my rotten dream.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “I don’t even like Spain much. It’s another kind of civilization. It’s alien to me, really.”

  “Sure. I understand.”

  He let her talk.

  And at last she subsided.

  “I’m all right now,” she said. “You were very good to come to me.”

  “It wasn’t altruism,” he said. “If you haven’t guessed by now, you’re not as bright as I think you are.”

  She stiffened in his arms.

  Finally she said, as if it were painful, “I like hearing that. But just the same. You understand …”

  “Understand what?”

  “I don’t … I mean I can’t … really, Steve, can’t …”

  She swallowed. “I mean, follow it up.”

  “Did you think I wanted to get into bed with you?” he asked.

  “Oh, I just mean …”

  “I do want to get into bed with you. But not like this. Kelly, for God’s sake. I’m a man, I can always get girls … women …”

  He put her away from him.

  “What I’m trying to say is, I’m not out for an easy thing. They come a dime a dozen. I just want to tell you that hearing you cry out, knowing you had a need for someone and that I was there to supply that need. Why, that’s the most beautiful thing I can think of. That I could come to you, hold you and comfort you. For now, that’s the best, that’s what I want, what I prize. I won’t even kiss you. Give me your little hand, let me hold it to my heart. That’s the sweet girl. You are a sweet girl, Kell. Nothing hard or brittle about you.”

  He put her hand to his chest.

  “Christ, look what I found,” he said huskily. “Look what I found right out of the blue.”

  Then he got up.

  “I’m right next door,” he reminded her. “So if there’s anything else — we could, of cou
rse, play double solitaire if you can’t sleep.”

  And then she was able to laugh. “I’ll sleep,” she said.

  “Sure?”

  “Yes. And thank you, Steve.”

  He went out and she heard him moving in the next room. It was so reassuring. I never felt alone before, she thought, drifting off. But of course she had been alone. She’d had fun, but —

  Look what I found, Steve had said, and she said the same words to herself.

  Look what she found.

  CHAPTER 11

  Lisa Comstock, at the Hassler Hotel in Rome, placed a call to New York City. She was in bed and propped up on fat pillows. Everything she had on her body was hand-made … the nightgown and the bedjacket. Real silk, and the trim Brussels lace. There had never been a time when she had known anything else. She had been reared in luxury, first in a Palazzo in Florence and then, when she was a very small child, in Manhattan, on Park Avenue.

  She had been eighteen when she married an extremely wealthy, older man, and she was the mother of a child whose inheritance was enormous. Richard’s money was tied up in a trust fund, but it also provided handsomely for his mother until he reached the age of twenty-one.

  She could come and go as she pleased; yet she was not a happy woman. She had been the deb of the year when she came out; now, at just past thirty, she saw her beauty dimming. There were small, fine lines at the corners of her eyes and her inky black hair sprouted an occasional gray strand. She spent several minutes every morning with an eyebrow tweezer, yanking them out and feeling the depression washing over her.

  My God, people really did get old!

  Like most young persons she had always thought simplistically; there were the young and there were the old. And now, only quite recently, she had begun to understand that there was no real division. You were young for a while and then you got older.

  It had been an astonishing, shocking, almost obscene recognition. That she was destined to fall, some day, some hideous day, into the other category.

  That one day she would be old.

  To be old …

  The thought kept her awake many nights, and so she had turned to liquor and sex when Lawrence had died. To quiet the tumult in her soul, to anesthetize herself. There were some things a person simply could not bear to dwell on. And so you did whatever was necessary. If it made you feel better it didn’t matter what it was.

  Hundreds of Manhattan men of sterling caliber would have married this widow in a minute for what she had to offer. But she didn’t want to get married again. She wanted to want to, but she was a narcissist. Her only real concern was the care of her body, and the dread of its aging. She was a sick woman, but she didn’t know it. She didn’t know anything about herself.

  The phone rang beside her bed.

  “Your call to New York,” the operator said. “Go ahead, please.”

  She spoke to Martha, the housekeeper. “Yes, I’m all right,” she said. “Oh, I’ve had a cold, but it’s going now. Martha, I’m leaving here and will be home on the ninth. My flight gets in at seven P.M. Have George be there, at the field. And I’d like Richard to be with him.”

  There was no immediate answer, and she frowned impatiently.

  “Martha? Did you hear me?”

  “But Richard is in Spain,” the housekeeper said.

  “What did you say?”

  “He’s in Madrid, with his uncle.”

  “What?” Lisa dragged herself up from the pillows. “You’re not serious! I don’t understand. In Spain?”

  Then she started screeching. “How did … Who managed this? That wretched man … you mean he …”

  She swung her legs out of the bed and reached for a gin bottle on a marble-topped table. Shaking, her fingers unscrewed the cover.

  “Hello,” she said. “Martha?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Comstock.”

  “Hold on. Just a minute.”

  She picked up the glass, but her hand was shaking so badly that it fell to the floor and shattered with a tinkling sound. Damn it, she cried inwardly, and lifted the bottle to her lips.

  Oh, God, how good that felt.

  The liquor, warm and comforting, trickled down. It was so wonderful …

  She took the phone again. “Now tell me,” she said. “Tell me exactly what happened.”

  She listened, grimly, and when she hung up she got the operator again and had a call put through to Madrid.

  “It’s someone calling from Rome,” the little Spanish girl said in a soft, tentative voice. Senor Comstock was reading in the library; he looked up, at first abstractedly, and then jumped up out of his chair.

  “Rome?”

  Aha, he thought. So she had found out. “It’s all right, I’ll get it,” he said, and went over to the desk to pick up the extension.

  “This is Constant Comstock,” he said, his lips curved into a faint smile.

  “This is Lisa. Where’s my son?”

  “Richard?”

  “Where is he? Put him on instantly.”

  “I can’t very well do that, Lisa.”

  Oh, how he was enjoying himself!

  “Why not?” The woman’s voice was harsh, uncontrolled.

  “Because he isn’t here.”

  There was a stunned silence, while he savored her shock and confusion. Then, “Isn’t there? Where is he?”

  “He’s having a glorious holiday in Andalusia. With friends.”

  “Friends? What are you talking about? Are you crazy?”

  “No, not at all. He’s with good friends, very responsible people, and I’m sure he’s having the time of his life.”

  “I don’t believe you. I want to talk to him. Put him on!”

  “I’m sorry, Lisa. You can’t speak to him.” He was regretful. “He’s on the way to Seville. Is there something I can do for you, my dear?”

  “Damn you. Don’t give me that line of … How dare you do a thing like this? Send for him behind my back … how dare you?”

  “Why, he’s my nephew,” he said, gently. “I’m fond of that boy. I thought it would be a pleasant holiday for him. Instead of being cooped up in New York with only servants for company. Surely you must agree I did right?”

  “I’ll …” Her voice broke. “You’ll see, I’ll have you locked up. This is — ”

  “This is only a very natural interest an uncle takes in a beloved nephew,” Constant said, and his voice was like steel now. “And by the way, I feel for you, Lisa. That business in Rome must have been so very disturbing …”

  She started to say something, choked, and then slammed down the receiver. Her sobs filled the room. I can’t, she thought, reaching for the gin bottle. I can’t stand my life … how could anyone stand this kind of life?

  • • •

  “Kelly?”

  She was half asleep; she almost dropped the phone.

  “Hum?”

  “Kelly, are you there?”

  “Who’s this?” Her lips felt numb.

  “Steve. Who do you think?”

  “Oh, hello.”

  “Get up.”

  “What?”

  “Honey, it’s wearing on, almost ten. The dining room will close.”

  “Oh that’s all right. I don’t care.”

  “Listen, you get out of that bed,” he said. “I’m telling you.”

  “Doesn’t it mean anything to you that I’m tired?”

  “What about me? I was kept up half the night by a hysterical female.”

  And then she remembered. Her voice softened; she turned over onto her back. “Oh, Steve, I’m sorry.”

  “Forget it. But honey, breakfast in half an hour. All right?”

  “Yes, Steve.”

  “Don’t go back to sleep. You won’t, will you?”

  “No, Steve.”

  “If you’re not down in half an hour I’ll come up and drag you down. Got that?”

  “Yes, Steve.”

  • • •

  Granada wa
s hilly, precipitous, and very picturesque, particularly where it crossed through the Sierra de Agreda. The view when approaching the city was magnificent, with the white and jagged Sierra Nevada standing clear-cut against the horizon.

  They had left Cordoba by the Roman Bridge over the Guadalquivir and passed the Seville Road, continuing through Torres Cabrera and Santa Cruz.

  They came to the Alhambra Palace Hotel at just short of two o’clock in the afternoon. The hotel was really splendid, much larger than the others so far, and their rooms, again adjoining, looked out from terraces that were like cliff-dwelling quarters. There was a breathtaking view of the valley where white-washed houses with red tiled roofs clambered up and down the hills of Granada. Everything was blinding; the sun flashed brilliant and hot.

  They had lunch right away and then started out adventuring. The main thoroughfare was the Calle de los Reyes Catolicos, which ran from East to West and divided the city into two parts. The Gran Via, that Main Street indigenous to all cities in any hemisphere (Gran Via de Colon) extended from North to South starting from the Calle de los Reyes Catolicos and outlined the boundaries from the area of the Moorish town which still remained.

  The first step was the inevitable Cathedral, sixteenth century and rich in reredos and treasure, then the Capilla Real, built in florid Gothic style as the resting place of Ferdinand and Isabella. After that there was the Monastery of La Cartuja, again sixteenth century.

  There was that pleasantly tired feeling that came from physical energy expended when they sat down to dinner, at a little before ten, at the Alcazaba, an elegant restaurant named after Granada’s original citadel. And the knowledge that they would have another full day tomorrow, before going on to Seville, was comforting. It meant once again sleeping later in the morning, and Steve relented to the extent that he agreed they wouldn’t have breakfast until ten or eleven.

  “Who wants to sleep that late?” Richard asked incredulously.

  “I do,” Kelly said. “Oh, do I.”

  There was, unfortunately, a kind of nightclub area at the rear of the hotel, with a dais for the four piece combo and singer, and although they all went to bed at a little after midnight, the music went on until after two in the morning.

  Yet it was soft Spanish music, with a sensual beat, sometimes passionate and earthy, and the singer had an exciting voice. It was not irritating, but rather hypnotic and, just as Kelly thought, how can you sleep with that? she was out of it.