Classic Love: 7 Vintage Romances (103 page)

“He’s good with growing things,” she said, and Ben bowed low. “Thanks a million,” he murmured.

“Well, I must get these done,” Norma said hastily, scooping up an armload of flowers. “I’m on my lunch hour.”

“But what about your
lunch?
”

“Don’t worry about that; I’ll order a sandwich from the drugstore later. Get back to work, Ben.”

He said, “See you again, Margo.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Don’t mind him,” Norma said, as they gained the house. “Some people never change, never better themselves.”

“What does he do besides some gardening here?”

“Odd jobs. Never went beyond the eight grade. All brawn and no brain. Now I must rush.”

Margo followed as Norma made centerpieces and charming little set pieces for end tables. “I should do the upstairs, but I haven’t the time,” Norma said. “I’ll tend to it this evening.”

“You love this house, don’t you?”

“Oh yes. It’s a big part of me.”

“We all love it,” Margo said. “It doesn’t belong to me, it belongs to all of us.”

“Silly girl, it belongs to you. Forgive me, I must run along.”

“You’ll come to dinner tonight?”

“If you like.”

“I want you to.”

“Then I’ll come.” She dropped a quick kiss on Margo’s cheek and rushed out, dashing off in her car, raising pebbles. Later, Margo went out to the back of the house and looked out again. Ben was still there, busily attacking his job, sweating profusely. He was using a spade, digging into the ground, his powerful biceps quivering with his exertions. “How often does he come here?” she asked Pompey.

“Him? Oh, about twice a week, maybe three times a week. A good worker, that Ben. Soon I call him inside, give him a cold beer.”

“What do you think of him?”

He looked up, astonished. “Think of Ben?”

“Yes.”

“Fine boy. Not much gray matter, but he gets along. Couldn’t hold an office job, but that’s nothing against him, neither could I.”

Well, after all, live and let live
, she thought, collecting her cameras again. Ben looked up when she came out. She nodded and smiled, and went about her business. He went about his, too. Yet as she positioned herself for the best shots, she felt his eyes boring into her back, felt that he was watching her. Half an hour later Pompey came outside. “Ben, how about some cold beer?”

“Great,” Ben said. “Be right there.”

“Miss Margo, the sun’s beating down on your head. Don’t get no sun-stroke. Iced tea, maybe?”

“No, I don’t want anything, Pompey.”

Ben, as he started toward the house, went a little out of his way to pass her. She was steadying a tripod. Startled, she felt his warm breath on her neck, turned abruptly.

“Don’t get a sun-stroke,” he said.

“I’ll manage,” she said, evenly.

“Sure you don’t need any help, Miss Margo?”

He put a hand on her arm. It flamed through her. She drew back, shaking herself free. “No help needed,” she said coolly, and he flashed a brilliant smile, white teeth gleaming in his darkly-tanned face, and then he went over the velvety grassland into the house.

Her arm still burned from his touch. Talk about animal magnetism … she remembered Norma standing there, looking down at him, rapt and tense …

She felt it. Norma felt it too.

She didn’t wait for Ben to finish his beer. She gathered up her gear and took it inside and up to her room.
That’s enough for today
, she thought, but it was only because of Ben Blough. There was something eerie about him, something unpleasant.
This man is dangerous …

Was that
Julius Caesar? she asked herself, going up the stairs.
Or Hamlet?

Anyway, Shakespeare.

She was downstairs, waiting, lonely for them all. John came first, clothes sticking to his skin. “What a rotten day, the heat and all that,” he said, and ran upstairs for his shower.

Then Norma arrived, sniffing. “What’s that I smell that makes my mouth water?”

“Doug sent over a feast from his farm; wait and see.”

“He did?”

“It was nice of him, wasn’t it?”

“Men are nice for a reason. Do we have a budding romance in our midst?”

“He’s too concerned with his livestock. Now don’t be silly, Norma.”

“Oh, I see. I grant you he’s good to look at.”

“Possibly.”

John came down, dressed in spanking white linen pants and a navy blazer with gold nautical buttons. “What’s the occasion?” Norma demanded.

“What do you mean?”

“All dolled up like that.”

His smile was forced.

“Or are we expecting Princess Grace?”

He ignored the taunt with a pleasant smile and went to the liquor cart. “You see, they fall like flies,” Norma said, winking at Margo. “First Douglas, now John.”

“Only a long and valued friendship keeps me from giving you a slap in the face,” John said, bringing over their drinks. “How are they?”

“Perfect,” Norma said, taking a sip. “But then, everything you do, John, is — ”

“Perfect,” he said imperturbably.

They’ve had a fight
, Margo thought. Anyone
can
see that. Why?

“What did you do today, Margo?” John asked.

“Took pictures of the place. When they’ve been developed, I’ll show you the results.”

“How nice,” he said, politely, and the doorbell rang. He looked up, his eyebrows raised. “Who do you suppose?” he asked.

“The Minister,” Norma hazarded. “With a jar of calves’ foot jelly.”

But it was Douglas. His voice was unmistakable. He walked into the Long Room, asking if there was any chance of sponging a meal. “Another
man
,” Norma cried, and sprang to the martini pitcher. Doug sat down, reaching out for the drink that was offered to him.

“Pretty good,” he said. “Who made this, Margo or Norma? Whichever one, I offer my hand in marriage.”

“I made them,” John said.

“Hell, how was I to know that?”

Norma’s laughter pealed out; Pompey heard the jubilation and looked in. “Why, Mr. Doug, you came to eat up your nice little pullets?”

“I came to see beautiful women.”

“You came to the right place.” He went off, chuckling.

“He’s right,” Doug said. “Nevertheless, I remember two skinny, scrawny kids … screeching when you got a splinter in your foot.”

“You and John weren’t exactly young Greek gods either,” Norma retorted. “You both looked like bums and smelled worse, with those stinking, unwashed jeans.”

“Besides, you were patronizing,” Margo pointed out.

“Shall we let them get away with this, John?”

“Not on your life. We’ll send them to bed without supper and a spanking to boot.”

They sat there in the living room, badgering each other as of old, oblivious of the wide arch at the head of the room where generations of Brands had been married, and the camel-backed sofa and the tea-caddy lamps and the porcelains brought from the East on long sea voyages, and the Aubusson carpet mended many, many times, and the Coromandel screen. Aunt Victoria had said:
“You see that chair, Margo? Do you know who sat in that chair?”

“Who?”

“A man named Marie Joseph Paul Ives Roch Gilbert du Motier. He was a French Marquis.”

Aunt Vicky, relenting, seeing the uncomprehending eyes of a child.
“All right, he was called La Fayette. Does that ring a bell?”

La Fayette … La Fayette … A hero to a romantic little girl.

“He was wounded at Brandywine, he had a limp after that. In 1824 he made a triumphal tour of this country, where he was greatly revered, and he sat in this house, in that chair, a guest of the Brand family.”

Doug sat in that chair now. The tapestried covering had been done over who knew how many dozens of times, but it was the same chair the Marquis de La Fayette had sprawled in, his shining boots polished to a turn, his medals and decorations gleaming, one of the heroes of the American Revolution. She pictured Douglas in full army regalia, a glittering saber dangling from his lean hips, and suddenly the face of her childhood friend became the Marquis’ face, with the high-arched nose, the firm, arrogant mouth, and the dark, inky eyes.

And Aunt Vicky saying,
“You must learn, darling,
for
one day all this will be yours.”

She sat up, startled. She heard the words as clearly as if they had been uttered at this moment … clear and firm, and her aunt’s head nodding, encouraging, and then the hand weaving through her hair.

“You have hair like Iseult.”

“Who was she?”

“You don’t know about Iseult and Tristan and King Mark?”

“Not yet.”

“Then let’s sit down, and I’ll read you Robinson Jeffers.”

“Are you there?” Douglas asked, waving a hand in front of her face.

She came to with a start. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I was just remembering.”

His face sobered. “Okay,” he said. “Okay.” And shortly thereafter Pompey barged in and said dinner was ready, come while it was piping hot.

The
Coq au Vin
was succulent and tender, there were whipped potatoes with brown gravy, corn on the cob. “How’s the chow?” Pompey asked.

“Indescribably delicious.”

“Mr. Douglas deserves the thanks for it.”

“Shoot,” he said. “All I did was furnish the raw materials.”

“And the recipe,” Margo reminded him.

It was Douglas who suggested that they have coffee and brandy on the back stoop. “It’s what we used to do years ago,” he said.

“Oh, let’s,” Norma said. “It’s still light enough.”

It was about eight thirty when they settled themselves there, and the sky was streaked with pinks and purples. It was John who dusted off the redwood chairs, Douglas who carried out the tray of coffee and Courvoisier. They got comfortable, John sitting on the wooden steps and Douglas perched on the railing that ran the length of the rustic veranda, his back braced against a supporting pillar and his legs swung up to the neighboring post.

They toasted the house, each other, and drank another one for good luck. They chatted animatedly, four people who had known each other as children, and as adults had come together again. It was lovely, it was heartening, and yet, and yet …

There was a ghost present:
I
feel like an interloper
, Margo thought. Beyond, in the gathering dusk, lay her aunt’s gardens, day lilies and stock, pinks, hydrangeas blue and violet, marigolds the color of the sun, phlox, peonies, glory bushes. Aunt Vicky, outraged. “Japanese beetles! Margo, get the spray …”

And Margo, with her small hands, manipulating the heavy can. “More force, child, we must save the blooms from enemy invaders; it’s a war to the death.”

And this too will pass away
, she thought, watching the others. Everything passed away, everything. “I feel a mosquito,” Norma said. “Let’s go in, I can’t see my hand in front of my face, anyway.”

“And I must get home to my labors,” Doug said. “Four in the morning’s my rising time.”

In the bright light of indoors they blinked at each other. “Come again, Doug,” John said.

“Sure, will do.”

He held Margo’s hand. “You’re getting a tan; you look very pretty.”

“She always was,” Norma said lightly. “In spite of what you said before. I remember how I used to feel. Because Margo was so pink and gold and white.”

“Nonsense, I was a skinny kid and always too tall. I wanted to crawl into a hole.”

“Well, we’re grown up now,” John said. “Sometimes I wish we could go back.”

“I don’t,” Norma said. “I hated my childhood. I’m happy it’s over.” She rattled her car keys. “I must leave. Early to bed, early to rise. Coming, Doug?”

“Yes.” He leaned against the door frame, raising a jaunty hand. “Good drinks, good dinner, good company. And now, with a hey nonny no, so long until the next time.”

The front door closed. “That was nice,” Margo said.

“It was indeed,” he said.

“I missed her here.”

“Yes.”

“I mean — ”

She looked up at him, wanting some response. But there was none. He simply said, “Go on up, Margo. I’ll see to things.”

She said, “All right, John,” and left him walking through the lower rooms, his heavy tread echoing through the silent house. It was very quiet, Pompey long in bed after his day’s work, and no sounds from outside until she went into her room. There, the night insects sang, and leaves shivered in the trees, and the thousands of blooms in Aunt Vicky’s garden waited for the morning sun. She fell asleep dreaming about La Fayette sitting in the tapestried chair, his long, elegant legs encased in spotless boots, his head thrown back and smiling indolently. When he got up to leave he would walk to the door with a slight limp, for he had been wounded at Brandywine.

• • •

The telephone rang.

It’s the telephone
, she thought, and then, in the thick dark, quailed. No. Oh, no. Not again. Not again …

She lay and listened. Very urgent, that. Ring, ring. Ring, ring, ring.
Damn it,
she thought.
Damn it, God damn it.

After a while it stopped.

But by now, of course, she was wide awake.

The room, because of the three-quarter moon, was almost as bright as day.
Now try and sleep
, she thought, her face crumpling. She would never get to sleep again, not this night.
Damn it and God damn it …

The telephone rang again.

No
, she thought.
I
won’t stand for this.

She scrambled out of bed, raced outside to the hall. “Hello,” she cried, speaking into the receiver. “Hello, speak.
Speak.
Damn you,
say
something!”

There was only the quiet breathing.

“Leave me alone,” she cried hysterically. “Stop doing this! Leave me alone!”

There was only the quiet breathing.

She slammed down the receiver, stood there quivering and, reaching out, plucked the receiver off and left it lying on the table.
That’s what I’ll have to do
, she told herself, her thoughts garbled and incoherent.
Just every night leave it off the hook…. Christ, why?