"Is he
good
at it? Why, Bill Hooton is one of the slick
est little bookkeepers ever to touch pen to paper," I said
with a shade of bitterness. "And he can
always show a
profit."
"That's just the kind of man Daddy's always looking for," Connie said. "I could call him up at Monte Carlo right now—reverse the charges, of course—and fix it in a minute." She headed purposefully for the telephone.
"Hey, not so fast!" I said.
"Well, I
could,
Barbara. It's about eight o'clock French
time and Daddy's at his best during the cocktail hour."
"So am I," I said, "but this is going to take a bit of doing. I still don't think that Bill would like . . ."
"Well, I suppose I could
write
to Daddy," Connie said.
"What would Bill expect to get? Ten, fifteen thousand?
Something around there?"
My jaw dropped almost to the floor. "Yes," I whispered
weakly, "something around there." I'd have been grateful
for a hundred bucks a week.
"Good, then it's all settled," Connie said. "I'll write a. . . .”
"Costanza," I said helplessly,
"it is not
'all settled.'
You're being kind and generous and fairy-godmotherish
and I love you for it. But this is a long way from 'all settled.' I want to think about it for a long time all by myself. Then I want to take it up with Bill and see how he feels about it. I'll let you know as soon as
I
know. Really I will."
"And you won't sell out to that old Mrs. Chrysler Cadillac Ford, or whatever she calls herself?"
"Connie, I promise you—cross my heart and hope to die—that if you still want the wretched place and if
we decide to go, then we'll fix it up with Bess Hunting
house so that you and only you can take over from us. Now, isn't that fair?"
"Fair's the word. Now let's hunt up Bill and start work
ing on him."
I tell you, there's nothing richer than a rich Greek, and
there's nothing more compelling, either, once started. My
head was spinning with visions of the life of Riley that could soon be the life of Barbara Hooton as well. I had just strength enough to put on the brakes.
"Not so fast!"
I said unwillingly. "Let me handle this
in my own way. If we went bursting in on Bill right now,
when he's in his element with a houseful of guests, and told him what we'd just been discussing, it would break his heart. And if there is one thing I don't want, it's a
husband with a broken heart. When the time is ripe, I'll approach him, and, believe me, you'll be the first to hear.
Now, is that a deal?"
"It's a deal."
Knees shaking and head spinning I made my way un
steadily to the bunkhouse and sank down in the bower of
beetles, scorpions, hornets, lizards, rats, cacti, and con
dors, trying hard not to think about one single one of the
wonderful things Connie had suggested.
I didn't end up with a husband with a broken heart. Not
me.
I
got a husband with a broken arm and I think that's
even
worse.
Bill's big break came at the end of the season when, in a mood of boyish exhilaration, he offered a young guest a ride on the rump of a horse that obviously felt one passenger was more than enough.
"Climb on!" Bill said generously.
The young man got on behind Bill and then the horse
went straight up in the air and came down in a spot about five feet away. Bill and our guest came to rest, too, but
nowhere near the horse. Our guest sprained his wrist and
Bill broke his left arm.
Bill is left-handed.
Just then our cook left us—not out of any fit of pique but simply because it was time to return to her winter job. And also just then, four new guests arrived. We
were full up, and there I was, your genial hostess, with a
crowded house, a wounded mate, and all the chores to take over.
Bill tried to handle the kitchen, with my bumbling help, but such tasks as turning bacon, carving, or flipping flap
jacks caused him agonies of pain—all the more so because he was quite unconscious of having his left arm in
a cast until he absentmindedly attempted one of his usual
run-of-the-mill culinary tasks and discovered, too late, that it hurt something awful.
We tried bravely at preparing meals all by ourselves, but I'll admit the Pink Garter in Lamy did a land-office
business from the ranch while Bill was incapacitated. Ex
cept for the money that dining out cost, I didn't mind a bit. The Pink Garter was loads of fun—almost as much fun just to see as to eat there. Lamy is a railroad town,
dating from who knows when, about eighteen miles from
Santa Fe. If you want to take the train to Santa Fe,
Lamy is where you get off and pray that you can make
connections into town. Across the street from the station
stood the Pink Garter—false front, swinging doors, and all.
In a tiny town that still looks like a set from a horse opera, the Pink Garter is really a perfect gem. It actually
is a restored saloon and dance hall from the last century
and the restoration has been done cleverly enough to make it authentic and nostalgic, but still not "cute." It boasts its original mahogany bar, a structure so massively elaborate that it reminds one of Hadrian's tomb,
and the nineteenth century forerunner of the present-day
juke box, which seems to run on gasoline, kerosene, steam,
and whim and which also serves up hot peanuts while
playing your grandfather's favorite popular air. There is
delicious food—mostly steaks and chops and that delicacy locally known as the "New York cut." There is dancing to
something a little more contemporaneous than the antique nickelodeon, and, all in all, the Pink Garter gives one the
feeling of being in a very gay but rather wholesome night
club.
Even if he had to have his steaks cut up out in the
kitchen, Bill seemed to be responding to the "meals out"
routine imposed by his broken arm, and I took it as a sign that he might just perhaps be ready for a return trip
to New York. As for me, all I wanted to do was to wait
through the last siege of guests, enjoy the exquisite New
Mexico autumn, and then strike out for New York.
One evening at the Pink Garter, when Bill was feeling
especially mellow on bourbon and beef, I even ventured to
suggest a trip to New York during the November lull.
"Sure," Bill said. "Why not? It sounds like a good idea.
How long had you thought we might stay?"
"A week?" I ventured timidly.
"A
week?
Drive all that distance, stop off to see your
family and then my family, and then only stay a week? It hardly seems worth it."
"Ten days?" I suggested, gathering courage.
"Barbara, that's just ridiculous. If we can't manage to stay for a decent length of time, go to some plays, see
our old friends, I don't think we ought to go at all. It's like
hiking to Tibet for the week end."
"Well, if you think you can tear yourself away from the ranch that long . . ."
"But of course we can," Bill said. "What's to stop us? There won't be any guests during November and it's too
early for skiers. I'd like to go. I kind of miss New York
every now and again."
"You
do?"
I said, awed. Maybe this was going to be
easier than I had thought.
While Bill snored rhapsodically that night, I got out my very best letter paper and sent Connie this brief rocket:
Dearest Con—
Get Wall Street all tidied up and looking its best. Bill and
I will be with you in November. If you can lure him into
one of your father's firms, Rancho del Monte is yours.
Love,
Babs
The minute the letter was sent—airmail, special de
livery—my whole outlook began to change, but in a funny
way. While I dreamed of nothing but being back in
New York and while my head swam with plans for joining the Museum of Modern Art, the Theater Guild, Cin
ema 16, and the Society Library, I also began to look at the things around me with a different eye. While I
was itching to leave the Southwest, I felt a new kind of
tenderness about it.
The guests that autumn were decidedly nonathletic.
We had quite a few older people staying with us to whom
violent sets of tennis, brisk plunges in the pool, and all-
day rides meant little. That suited us just fine since Bill's
arm was still mending, and so we passed lots of lovely
days just driving about the countryside. Young Bill Par
vin, who had been thrown off the horse with my Bill, manned the wheel and I sat rather grandly in the back
seat—"Just like a New York taxicab," I kept telling my
husband—and gaped at the sights of New Mexico. And,
oddly enough, when I felt that I was looking at them for
the last time, they meant a great deal more to me.
Santa Fe claims to be the oldest city in America. And
believe me, it's a claim that simply infuriates St. Augustine, Florida. Personally, I don't care which town even
tually wins this long-running battle, but Santa Fe
is
old.
Santa Fe boasts the oldest church, the oldest house, and
the oldest public buildings, which is the Governor's Pal
ace. Santa Fe isn't quaint—a word I have come to despise—but it
is
different, and for a place of some thirty thou
sand population, it has managed to retain most of its
distinctive antique charm. It has narrow winding streets,
adobe architecture almost exclusively, and you hear
Spanish spoken just as much as English. For all its neon
lights and movie theaters and department stores, Santa
Fe still reminds me of a town in Spain or Italy much more
than it does of an American city.
Since almost nobody was actually
born
in New Mexico,
Santa Fe is filled with people who came from big Ameri
can cities, saw Santa Fe, fell in love with it, and moved in. That gives it a special flavor, too, in that there is a wide assortment of accents, habits, and points of view
so that it isn't hidebound. Lots of artists and writers have settled there and, since World War II, a number of Euro
peans have chosen it as home. "Cosmopolitan but not
metropolitan" was Bill's description of Santa Fe, a pat
little phrase that was immediately snapped up by the Cham
ber of Commerce and the Resort Association as a kind of
motto.
While I'd always thought Santa Fe and environs offered the most attractive kind of gaping in the world, it was as
though I'd never really
seen
it before, and I got a kind of
yen to look at it as much as possible before it was too
late, like someone eating the last éclair on the eve of a
stringent diet. I even took to going in every morning just to feel the town while my Bill did the errands and
the heavy shopping and while Bill Parvin steered the station wagon through the tortuous streets and alleys of the
town.
I discovered myself getting all dressed up to make calls
on people we'd known and loved in New Mexico and
finding them quite as surprised as I was that hard-boiled old Barbara Hooton was sitting primly in their Spanish
living rooms making social noises. Although I hadn't con
fided my real New York plans to anyone—least of all to Bill—I felt a little like someone who has been told he has
only a month to live and that he may as well spend it doing exactly what he wishes before The End.
I was getting soft and sappy about people I didn't
even know by name—the checker in the supermarket, the
man who fixed our shoes, the woman in the bookshop,
the gas station attendant. "Well,
good-bye,"
I'd say with
welling eyes, embarrassing them almost as much as I
was embarrassed every time we parted, usually after haggling over prices, unfilled orders, faulty workmanship, or
short measure.
On the ranch I was absolutely impossible. I took to setting the alarm clock a couple of hours early, putting Bill into a perfect fury, just so I could bound up and
look at the sun coming up around five every morning. It was a great sight, almost as thrilling as watching the sun
set, and a sight that only Patrick Dennis, our one guest
who rose habitually at five, ever saw. I took to breathing
about twice as much as ever, just because the air was
so delicious. Bill, however, shamed me out of that by
snapping, "What's the matter with you, Barbara? Asthma?
You sound like an old bulldog!"
The ranch house suddenly meant more to me than ever
before. While it's true that I have always been a fairly
house-proud soul in the matter of polished floors and
slipcovers that fit and colors that blend and flowers—or
at least some old green leaves—in strategic places, I be
gan scrutinizing the rooms and making all kinds of mental
notes. "This chair needs recovering . . . that picture is wrong on that wall . . . we should put a lamp over there . . ." And then, in a fluster of anger and embarrassment, I said aloud, "Why should
I
give a damn? If Bill likes
the idea of being a rich New Yorker instead of a poor New
Mexican, I'll never have to worry about any of this junk
again. It'll be Connie's lookout, and she'll do a better job on it than
I
ever did."
Then it occurred to me that all I'd better be worrying
about was how to cope with Connie's four large rooms of
beautiful European antiques, which would apparently become ours in the bargain, in East Fifty-fifth Street
and giddy things I'd be doing all day while Bill was, out earning a fortune as a big business executive. So I stead
fastly turned my attention to contemplating all the things
which I once would have liked to do in New York but
had never been able to afford. It was a most comforting
daydream.
Eventually Bill's left arm knit and he was engrossed in all sorts of restorative exercises like squeezing a rubber ball and doing runs on the lower octaves of the piano and practicing "a s d f g" and "q w e r t" on the typewriter
keyboard. As our lovely October dwindled away, so did our
lovely guests. At last November arrived and the last
guest departed. We had reached what is known as The
Slump and there was nothing to keep us away from Man
hattan Island.
At last the big day dawned. Bill, who is the soul of ef
ficiency, had gone about the ranch for a week doing all the
final things that needed doing, like ordering feed and pay
ing off the bills and checking on the pumps and fences
and closing the books. He'd got out his New York City clothes, his Chesterfield coat, his dinner clothes, and all
his townish shirts and ties, and he'd done it all with the
most elaborate unconcern, humming an off-key selection
of old show tunes, all the while.
But I, who am ordinary the kind of traveler who has
everything packed in cumulus clouds of tissue paper a
month in advance, showed a remarkable obstinacy about getting started. I'd shake out a couple of suits and dresses
and then it would occur to me that The Girls badly
wanted brushing and pedicures. So I'd stop and take over
that job. I'd start to press a blouse, only to notice that
Sandy was covered with burs. So I'd unplug the iron and
commence the Herculean task of grooming an extra-large collie. At midnight on the eve of our departure,
which Bill had brutally scheduled for six sharp the fol
lowing morning, my suitcase still yawned half empty, while I was plumping pillows on the sofa in the lounge.
"Barbara!"
Bill bellowed, as he gazed horrified into
the maw of my valise, "aren't you even packed?"
"Oh! Oh! Why, practically," I lied.
"Well, what else do you have to do?" he said.
"Oh, nothing, really," I said with a false casualness. "Just rinse out a few things, press some dresses, wash my hair, do my nails, write a couple of—"