Classic Love: 7 Vintage Romances (106 page)

“Tomorrow being tour day,” he had announced at dinner, “I’ll be home at two in the afternoon. Just close the door to your room, Margo. It won’t be shown, so don’t worry about straightening it up.”

She turned, trying to sleep. Tomorrow was a tour day, and in spite of what John had said, she would leave her room in apple-pie order, so he could show it if he cared to.

So better get some sleep.

She was overtired, though, it had been a long day. The Fair, the fresh air and activity, the slight strain of entertaining the Ladies Aid women (too much a reminder of her aunt), the vivid recollection of Ben Blough raising his arm and then lowering it …

“That did it …”

And the telephone outside.

At any minute it might shrill out, and she would jerk in the bed, stiffen.

The hell with all that
, she decided, and got up to take a sleeping capsule. She went out to the balcony, smoked the whole of a cigarette, ground it out in one of the iron urns, and went back to bed.

It won’t work
, she told herself,
this time it won’t work.
But even as she was thus informing herself, it worked. The moonlight bathed her still body, one arm thrown over the edge of the bed, and the rustling in the trees fell on deaf ears.

The bus arrived at a quarter after two. “You want to put in a word or two?” John asked Margo, but she quickly declined. “You know the tour, you can’t have forgotten it,” he said, but she told him she would only be self conscious and spoil the whole thing.

“Well, then, some other tour day,” he said, and they went outside to welcome the waiting guests, about thirty of them.
It gives one pause
, she thought, and there was a quiet pride in her, that the history of this house was part of her own. John, in navy suit with cornflower-blue shirt and gold cufflinks, was very much the
grand seigneur,
and looking very handsome. The younger girls in the group exchanged glances which could only mean,
Isn’t he groovy?

His voice, dark and deep and well-modulated, carried well, so that even those in the back were able to hear, and Margo was reminded of such day tours in foreign cities.
“Everyone can hear, I hope? This is the Piazza Navona, one of the most beautiful squares in R-r-r-ome …”

“And now you see, ladies and gentlemens, zee Tour Eiffel, erected for zee Paris Exposition of
1889,
voila …”

She stifled a smile and followed. John said, “In this room is the tester bed where John Quincy Adams slept. Note the Deerfield blinds at the windows. In 1794 the chimneys were rebuilt, the new roof raised on the house in 1799.”

He pointed out highboys — ”from the Phillips house in Boston” — the vertical sheathing and fine paneling in the lower hall, the lustre ware and Lowestoft in the dining room.

“These pewter plates on the mantel,” he said, “have long histories. The one on the right was brought to Salem, Massachusetts, from England, with the advance guard of the Phillips family in 1630. The other two were imported by Nathaniel Brand about 1750.”

He led them out to the back veranda. “This was called the stoop. Just where Nathaniel Brand got the idea for this typical southern adjunct to a plantation house is a conundrum, for it is known that he never spent any time south of the Mason-Dixon line.”

“He must have known Southern people,” a tourist suggested.

“He must and did,” John said, smiling. “It’s, of course, the only explanation.”

The tour took an hour and a half. When they had all gone off in the chartered bus, John asked Margo if he had performed creditably. She said yes, more than that, and congratulated him. “After all, I’ve heard it just about forever,” he reminded her, and went back to his office. She stayed there, remembering what she had just heard and whom she had first heard it from, her Aunt Victoria. Sighing, she lit a cigarette on the back veranda and looked out over the green meadow past the gardens and dreamed.

Pompey came out and asked her what she wanted to drink. Iced coffee, Gatorade, maybe something stronger?

“Nothing now,” she said, thanking him, and alone again, looked across the meadow and the gardens and the tall trees, to the spire of the little church in Plunkett, a hand-span away at the other side of Justice Creek. It was very peaceful and very quiet, and after a while she fell asleep.

• • •

She must have slept the afternoon away, because when she woke the sun was lower in the sky and, although the day was still brilliant, there was a faint violet tint to it, and she looked at her watch.

It was just after five.

Then she heard the voices.

Very low, indistinct, and to her right, in the gardens. A man’s voice and a woman’s voice.
Oh, it’s late
, she thought.
They’re already home, and I must bathe and change.
She got up, a little stiff, stuck her packet of cigarettes into a pocket, and walked across the stoop to the steps. Someone said, “Now, listen, you just take it easy. You don’t want to — ”

There was a low rumble in answer … John’s voice? And then the woman again, Norma, of course. “I said, stop that, don’t you realize that — ”

For some reason, Margo was wary. She went down the steps that led to the garden path and peered ahead, past the house. There was a quick glimpse of a flowered dress, long and floating dark hair … Norma. And then someone else … someone who stood tall and strong and powerful against the evening sky, his bronzed torso gleaming in the heat of the slanting sun, strong arms reaching out …

That’s not John, Margo thought. That’s Ben.

It was Ben, all right, and his arms, the biceps rippling with power, easy power, pulled Norma against him, forcing her head upwards, a hand thrusting through her hair.

“You’re hurting me,” Norma protested, in a stifled voice.

And Margo stood stock still, clenching her hands.
I
knew it
, she thought.
I
knew it …

His enormous hands, holding up the wriggling toad, blood trickling down his wrists …

The sounds of the struggle were muted, but horrifying. Norma freed a hand and raked it down Ben’s face. “Let me go,” she hissed. “Let me go, you animal …”

Margo ran down the steps. Over Norma’s head her eyes and Ben’s met. Hers were blazing, his blinking with surprise. He released the other girl, who staggered slightly, grabbed at his arm for support. Then she turned. Her face was flaming red, her eyes filmed. For a moment there was absolute silence.

Then Norma’s hand raised and landed on Ben’s face with a stinging slap. “There,” she said, spitting the words. “There! That’s for being a stupid ape. That’s for — ”

The man stood there, looking at Margo, rubbed his cheek, and then drew himself up. He stood outlined against the cobalt sky, his dark head striking … and menacing.

Then he laughed, his eyes insolent. “What’s the harm in a little kiss?” he demanded. “You’re not nuns, are you?”

“Don’t say another word if you know what’s good for you,” Margo cried. “Norma, come into the house.”

She held out a hand and the girl took it. “Did he hurt you?”

“No. Let it go.”

“If he did, he’ll pay dear.”

“But he didn’t. Please. Just forget it.”

They went into the house. “I’ll have him thrown off the place,” Margo said between her teeth.

“No, don’t,
don’t.
It was my fault. I was teasing him, the way he used to tease us. I should have known better. He has a trigger temper. He took the only revenge he knew. So … please, let it go. Just let it go. What am I, a sugar-plum fairy? I’m a grown woman, and I’m not afraid of Ben. Or anyone.”

“I won’t have him here any more.”

“Then who’ll do the gardening? You won’t find anyone. Some kid, after school. They don’t care. I said it was my fault. I did provoke him, I admitted that. I should have known better. Oh, don’t spoil the whole evening, Margo. Come, let’s water the plants upstairs. I haven’t had time to do it for the last few days. They must be dying of thirst. Help me. That’s the good girl.”

They went up the stairs. “I knew he bothered you,” Margo said stubbornly. “The first day I saw you talking to him. You looked disturbed. I won’t have that.”

At the top of the stairs Norma turned to her. There was a hardness in her face. “Listen to me, now,” she said. “You just listen, Margo. I have to live in this town with him. He’s a bit of a problem. But there are other problems, and I have to live with them too. There’s no escape, the way there is in a large city. Here, you coexist. Ben lives here and so do I. So don’t antagonize him. He won’t forget it. You have to control someone like Ben, the way you have to control a computer. It’s my business, not yours. Don’t tell me how to run my life, Margo, I’ve managed so far without any help. I’m sorry you … I’m sorry you saw his pass. But it rolls off me, doesn’t touch me. I have bigger problems than that.”

She put a hand on Margo’s elbow. “I mean it,” she said. “Don’t interfere.”

“Wouldn’t you do the same for me?”

“Not if I knew the circumstances.”

“You mean to say, if someone attacked me the way he — ”

“Don’t try to play God,” Norma said, with steel in her voice, and then, smiling her charming smile, put a hand through Margo’s arm. “We are
not
going to talk about it any more,” she said. “Now let’s give the plants some water. We’ll take turns.”

On the balcony was a huge watering can which, when filled, bowed one down with the weight of it. There were four urns in all, gigantic iron pots filled with flowers of the season, at the moment marigolds and pansies and morning glories. Norma watered the first two and Margo the next, her arms aching with the effort. “That will do it for now,” Norma said. “It’s work, isn’t it?”

“My God, yes.”

“Ready for a stiff drink?”

“I want to wash a bit first.”

“Then see you in short order,” Norma said, putting the watering can back in its niche. “You must tell me about the tour. John said you seemed pleased with his performance.”

“I was.”

For dinner, spareribs and sauerkraut, and the candles flickering, and the breeze whispering through opened windows. Wine, in tall tumblers, and Pompey saying, “Seconds, for whoever wants them, otherwise we’ll have leftovers tomorrow.”

She was in her room at just before ten, and the telephone rang. She went to it warily, but it was only Douglas.

“I’d like your company tomorrow,” he said.

“That sounds nice.”

“Get here at around eleven and we’ll find a nice place. I’m not sure but I think I know where.”

“Yes, all right, fine, Doug.”

“Don’t oversleep.”

“I’ll have Pompey wake me.”

“That’s my girl.”

When she was ready for bed she considered. Should she take the phone off the hook?

Better do, she decided, and removed it.

Then, half an hour later, went out again and put the receiver back on the hook.
Let’s just see
, she thought.

But it didn’t ring.

At first she was tense, waiting. Then dropped off, woke again, listening. And then slept once more.

Nothing woke her. In the morning she thought about it. Last night it hadn’t rung. Why did it ring some nights and other nights didn’t?

If I knew that, I’d know everything
, she told herself, and put the riddle aside. Anyway, you never did know everything, nor would you if you lived to be a hundred. There were always imponderables. Life was like that … a guessing game.

• • •

“How come you up and dressed so early today?” Pompey asked, looking up guiltily. He had been drowsing at the kitchen table.

“I’m going out to the farm again,” she said.

“Again?” he repeated, looking too silly for words, like a fond mother or something.

“Any reason why not?” she asked.

“No reason I can think of,” he said, and winked at her.

“Stop looking so ridiculous, Pomp.”

“That the way I’m looking?”

“Darling, we grew up together.”

He chuckled. “The boy next door.”

“Not even that. In the same house.”

“Brother and sister, like.”

“Um hum.”

He grinned. “You ain’t fooling me.”

“Could I have breakfast, please? That is, if you can stop smirking long enough to do me two eggs and bacon?”

“Ha ha,” he laughed, and when she was ready to go, said earnestly, “joking aside, you’re bound to end up in this neck of the woods, mark my words.”

“Irritating,” she said. “This morning you’re
irritating
,” but she kissed his leathery brown cheek and ran outside. In her car she headed for the north country road that led into the main highway. She passed Adams Crossing and then started to climb. It wasn’t the steepest of ascents, but the townspeople referred to Blount’s Hill as “the mountain.” Not that there wasn’t a lovely view, for there was, a broad outlook over field and valley and the geometric squares of sown land, colored according to their yields, pale mauves and delicious pistachios, and the golden tints of wheat waving in the breeze. For a moment she thought of the quiet acres of France, with their hedgerows and ancient white stone farmhouses and the rustic little churches with the golden crosses gleaming in the sun.

At the crest of the hill she slowed her engine and looked down, sniffing the country-scented air.

If she were in Europe now, there would be summit cafes, where one could look down over the beauty below and drink cold beer or thick coffee. American ways were different, alas and alack … there were no
gemutlich
bierstubes round about, no gossip and talk, only the sound of crows cawing in the winy air of a summer morning.
Well, never mind
, she thought and, taking her foot off the brake, started down the other side of the hill.

It was then that she heard the knock in the engine, puzzling … and new in origin. What was that? A click clack, click clack … and then a kind of dot dot, dash dash … like a Morse code.

What’s wrong with this buggy?
she asked herself, and going down the slope of the hill, gaining momentum, had a funny feeling.