Authors: Howard Fast
"It's always been the best."
"All right, best of the best."
"Hawaii?"
"O.K. I called Matt Brady at Wilmington Shipping. He runs two cargo ships to Honolulu, big ones, sixteen thousand tons each. They take two passengers, just two, cabin twelve by sixteen, double bed, meals with the captain and ship's officers. Chinese cook who, according to Matt, has no equal. The
Angeles
sails from Wilmington on the-twenty-sixth of September."
"Oh, Danny, Danny, is it true?"
"I booked the passage and sent him my check, so it has to be pretty damn true. Then I got on the horn to Hawaii and called Chris Noel—you remember the Noel brothers? We built the hotel with them, and then we lost it when everything crumbled in twenty-nine. Hell, they had no alternative. What do you suppose was the first thing he asked me?"
"Oh, Danny, I don't know."
"Was I bringing that beautiful Chinese gal with me? I told him we're married ten years now. Nothing else to it, but we got to stay with them at that huge plantation house of theirs they call a bungalow. I wasn't calling for that. Hell, we can afford a hotel."
^Danny, we'll stay with them. That wonderful place!"
'No way out of it. I said I was calling to see whether he still owned that lovely yawl of his and could we charter it for a few weeks? Charter it, hell! he said. It was ours, o there it is. I know you're miserable, but could you see your way to enduring your misery until September?"
"I'll try." She came around the table and hugged him. "I'll try, Danny. I sure will try."
In the four years since he had become president of the Seldon Bank and chairman of its board of directors, taking over from Alvin Sommers in 1937, Martin Clancy had restored his office to the dignity it had once—and properly, he felt—contained. Paint remover had disposed of the ivory paint, revealing the walnut panels that Jean had found so depressing. Her Aubusson rug had quietly made its way to an auction gallery, to be replaced by a somber and gloomy carpet, and her chintz-covered overstuifed pieces were replaced by brown leather and dark mahogany. Jean had removed her bright Impressionist paintings, which had belonged to her, and now only the portrait of the first Seldon hung on the wall behind Martin Clancy's desk.
Clancy, past seventy now, was sitting behind the desk— and figuratively behind the bank that he had guarded so zealously all of his adult life—when Tom, a week back from his honeymoon, entered the office. Clancy had been expecting him, and he also had a very good idea of Tom's purpose there. Clancy was a vigorous man, in good health, a teetotaler and nonsmoker, and he greeted Tom with enthusiasm, congratulating him on his marriage, his sunburn, and his uniform. "Old Tom would have been a happy man to see his grandson in that uniform, oh, yes, indeed. Well, Tom, I can guess what brings you here. With your shares and with what John Whittier has bought from your sister you're at the helm. A fine man, John. You couldn't associate with a better one. Of course," he added, "not literally. But the stockholders own the plant, don't they?"
"I'm afraid they do," Tom agreed.
"Will you sit down? There's a good deal to discuss—if, of course, you're interested."
"Oh, I am interested. But not today, Martin. Today I just stopped by for a few words. I'm calling a meeting of the board. I want you to step down. I intend to assume the presidency and the chairmanship."
The words came out with the assurance and crackle of a whiplash. Clancy had expected, from all he had heard, a self-assured young man; he had also expected Tom to suggest a place for himself on the board of directors; but this kind of immediate demand and arrogance shook him, and it was a long moment before he was able to speak. "Well, Thomas," he said finally, "I can comprehend the legality of your position, and with the voting power of John Whittier's stock, which I presume you have—"
"I have, yes."
"—you have every right. Certainly. But my word, Thomas, you're in uniform, a most honorable uniform, and with the country teetering on the edge of war, surely you realize the responsibility that such a position would entail, the demands on your time—"
"Martin, don't let the uniform trouble you. My assignment is San Francisco, the Embarcadero, and if war comes, few things will outrank the Port of San Francisco in importance. So we can dispense with your patriotic confusion."
Clancy fell silent. He stared at his desk, then sighed, looked up at Tom, and said, "Yes, Thomas, it is your responsibility. I can see that. At least I'll be at your elbow to help you over the rough spots."
"Thank you, Martin, but no. I want you to resign from the board. You're seventy-two years old."
Clancy stared at him, took a deep breath, and said, "Thomas, I have served this bank for half a century, and I have sat on its board for thirty-two years."
"That's a long time. You'll appreciate a rest." And with that, Tom turned on his heel and left. Staring at the door he had closed behind him, Clancy whispered, "You little bastard—John Whittier's running dog. I'll see both of you in hell. If John Whittier thinks he can own this bank and California Shipping as well, he's mistaken. There's still law in this state."
A week later, Martin Clancy had a stroke that left him speechless and paralyzed. Whatever legal steps he might have thought of taking remained locked in his inarticulate , skull.
Driving north from Napa, on Highway 29, Barbara saw the hitchhiker signaling for a lift, and she slowed to a stop. Ordinarily, she would have heeded the injunction against picking up a hitchhiker, but even in the glimpse she had driving past, there was something about the young man that made her step on the brake and roll to a stop. He could have been no more than eighteen or nineteen, wearing jeans and a T-shirt, tall, skinny, a freckled grinning face under a mop of red hair.
"Gee, thanks, miss," he said as he got into the car.
"Where to?"
"About six miles up the road. I'll walk from there. I should have walked from here, but it got too hot. My sister takes books out of the library at Napa and then forgets to bring them back, so my father drove me down today with the books, but then he had things to do, so I told him I'd hitch back. Only nobody trusts anybody anymore. I had just decided to give up and walk when you came by."
"Six miles. Well," Barbara said, "I think I'll get you there. I'm going to a place called Higate, a winery. Do you know where it is?"
"I sure do. I live there." He turned and stared at her. "Hey, I'll bet I know who you are. You're Barbara Lavette. Right?"
"Right."
"What luck! Sure, mom said you'd be driving up today. I'm Adam Levy. Sally told me all about you. She's nuts about you, you know. She thinks you're absolutely the
greatest."
"Well," Barbara said, "we're both lucky, aren't we? I'm very pleased to meet you, Adam. How old are you?"
"Nineteen. I'll be a sophomore at Berkeley when school starts, and now I'm working my way through the winery. I get Saturday off. You've never been to Higate, have you?"
"First time. But I met your mother and father in Paris, when I was living there."
"You bet. You were their interpreter, right? I know your dad. He and my grandfather were partners, and I guess you know all about the crazy sister of mine and your brother Joe."
"Yes, I know."
"Not that I don't like Joe. We're great friends. In fact, first operation I have—I mean, if I ever have to have one —Joe is going to do. We got it all worked out. There's a thing they call spinal anesthesia. You can have an operation and stay awake and not feel a thing, and Joe and I got an agreement, he's going to give me that and I can stay awake, and we'll discuss the whole thing, step by step, and maybe he can rig up a mirror, so I can watch it. What do you think of that?"
"I think you should stay healthy," Barbara said.
"Sure. But just in case. Anyway, I'm glad you decided to come, but you got to know that all wine makers are crazy. It runs in the family. Do you know what I'm majoring in? Viniculture. I don't care. Like they say, I don't have much ambition, and anyway, I sort of like the wine thing. But my brother Josh—he's seventeen—all he can talk about is getting out of here. You know, mom's father was a sea captain. She doesn't talk much about him. He went down in one of your father's ships oli the English coast in the last war. Did you know that?"
Barbara nodded.
"He's Josh's hero, and Josh talks a lot about going off to sea. Mom thinks he'll grow out of it, but I don't know—"
By the time they reached Higate, Barbara had a fairly complete if confused history of the Levy family, and the feeling that the Levy children, if left to their own devices, could talk anyone deaf, dumb, and blind. Withal, Adam was charming, totally outgoing, and without self-consciousness—so much like his sister that Barbara could almost hear Sally in his words. There were moments during the drive when she stopped listening, absorbed by the gentle beauty of the place. She had not been to the Napa Valley since her childhood, and whatever memories she retained of that time only added to the bewitching charm of the place. The rolling, vine-striped hills undulated in the afternoon heat, the hot, midsummer sun beating down either mercilessly or benignly—as one saw it—and then giving way to the cool shade of the great oaks that lined the dirt road to Higate. Barbara understood immediately why the place had such a hold on Joe. The old stone buildings, covered with ivy from ground to roof, stood in happy agreement with the landscape. The vines draped the sloping fields, and on a high pasture, a cluster of cattle stood motionless, as if painted onto the yellow grass background. And everywhere a profusion of flowers, roses and marigolds and zinnias and banks of sweet alyssum.
Jake and Clair greeted her with affection, begging her to stay with them for at least two or three days. She protested weakly, already under the spell of the place, that she had come only for the day, but agreed to remain at least overnight. Sally embraced her with undiluted excitement. "Oh, how keen, how absolutely keen to have you here with us!" She whispered that they must have a private talk just as soon as Barbara could get away. Joshua, as tall as his older brother, was quiet, reserved. His greeting was shy, diffident, and he stared at Barbara with unconscious and unconcealed admiration. He carried her bag up to her room, stood there staring at her until he remembered himself, and then said to his brother later, "She's just so beautiful."
Clair came up to shoo Sally out of Barbara's room. "Later," she said. "Right now, I wish to talk to Barbara alone." And when Sally had reluctantly departed, Clair said, "I have something for you, and it's none of my business, but it puzzles Jake and me. We're just so curious." She took a letter out of the pocket of her apron. "It came three days ago, and I knew you'd be coming here, so I held it. I guess you were in San Francisco then. It's from Sergeant Bernie Cohen, posted in Egypt six weeks ago, and addressed to you, care of us. The odd thing is that you asked us about a Bernie Cohen who had worked for us—in Paris, remember? Did you meet him?" Barbara was staring at the letter. "Is it the same person?" Clair asked.
"Yes," Barbara whispered. "The same person."
"How on earth do you know him?"
"Can I tell you later?" Barbara asked her. "I'll tell you the whole story. Right now, I think I have to be alone."
"Of course. Of course. Dinner in an hour and a half. But take your time, Barbara. We'll wait for you."
After Clair had closed the door behind her, Barbara sat on the bed, staring at the letter. At last she opened it and began to read:
"My very dear Barbara," it began. "The fact that I have not written until now, two years since I saw you, does not mean that you have ever been out of my thoughts. Let's say that it took most of that time for me to convince myself that there was any point in writing to you. But don't misunderstand that. I simply mean that the odds against my ever seeing you again are so great that for a long time I felt that the best thing I could do was to disappear from your life completely. The few hours I spent with you were the best in my life, and I really don't know of any other way to put it. In any case, the mails are so uncertain, just as life is, that for you to receive this letter will be a minor miracle. That gives me some leeway and I can argue that I am mostly talking to myself. Although, believe me, miracles do happen. My meeting you was in the nature of a miracle. I don't know of any other way to explain it.
"Now let me say immediately that I am O.K., stupidly healthy, and still unwounded. I struck up a friendship with one of the Indian troops here. His name is Rama Kee, and he talks a lot about a thing called karma. He insists that my karma is something that is taking care of me for some purpose, which to me is a lot of nonsense, but since he's five foot three and I'm twelve inches taller, it's the only reasonable explanation for my not being hit.
"I'm wandering too much, and the best thing for me to do is to begin when I walked out of your apartment that morning. I must admit that I took satisfaction in being dead broke. The only thing I could give you was not to take from you, if that makes any sense. Would you believe that I walked all the way to Villeneuve? Not that I couldn't have gotten a lift, but I had a lot to talk over with myself, and the only way I can do that is to walk. Half a dozen times I started to turn back, because I began to see that I had cut out of myself the only damn thing that was any good whatsoever, but the Cohen strength of character carried me on. It was dark when I reached Villeneuve. I guess I had walked about twenty miles, mostly along the river, with a lot of time off when I sat down by the river and brooded and finally convinced myself that what happened between us was a matter of gratitude on your part and by no means any indication of your being able to actually care about a man like me.