It was obvious that Cheryl wanted to become a friend, not just a casual acquaintance. Her confession that Mark had tried to talk her out of visiting the shop removed one of Karen's reservations; she was damned if she wanted Mark to think she was running after him, trying to pick up their former relationship, but she was also damned if she was going to let him decide with whom she could associate. After the rudeness of her old classmates, and Julie's barbed malice, Cheryl's candor and lack of false pride was very refreshing.
If she had not already been predisposed to like Cheryl, the latter's breathless interest in her new project would have won her over. Karen had not intended to talk about it, but the subject inevitably arose during the tour of Ruth's house that Cheryl requested. "I'm trying to get Mark's place fixed up for him; most of the furniture is rented and it looks tacky, but I don't know what's right."
When they went upstairs Karen apologized for the state of the bedrooms. "This isn't the ambiance you want for Mark, believe me. It looks like a junk shop. But you see, I'm in the process of opening a vintage clothing store-"
"Vintage? I thought that was wine."
Karen explained. She would have left it at that, but Cheryl peppered her with questions and her answers took on the length and the style of brief lectures. When at last they went to the kitchen for the coffee Karen had offered, Cheryl carried a lacy garment with her, and she was still asking questions.
"What did you say this is?"
"A combing jacket. That's what the lady wore when she sat at her dressing table while the maid arranged her hair."
"It looks like a fancy blouse." Cheryl stroked the filmy ruffles admiringly. "Can you imagine wearing a thing like this just to get your hair combed? You couldn't throw it in the washer and the dryer, it would have to be washed by hand, and starched, and ironed, and all that."
"You
didn't do any of those things if you were the mistress of the house," Karen said. "The maid did the dirty work. Or the laundry maid; some big establishments had one girl who did nothing else."
"That would have been me," Cheryl said with a grin. "I sure wouldn't have been the lady of the house. I wouldn't mind that kind of work, though, it's a pleasure handling something as pretty as this."
The comment prompted another lecture, on cleaning methods, to which Cheryl listened with openmouthed interest. "You are just fantastic, Karen. I can't tell you how much I admire you. It takes a lot of gumption to start your own business."
"Gumption or stupidity. Sometimes I think I've bitten off more than I can chew."
"Oh, no, if anybody can do it, you can. This is all new to me, and you seem to know everything about it."
"A few weeks ago I didn't know vintage chic from a hole in the ground," Karen admitted. "I still have a lot to learn."
"I guess there is a lot to it. Have you found a place yet?"
Though Cheryl had been in Washington less than a year, she had a number of sensible suggestions about good locations-so sensible, in fact, that Karen wondered whether she had considered opening a business of her own. When she asked, Cheryl admitted she had thought of it.
"It was just wishful thinking, though. I don't have the experience or the qualifications yet. Joe's insurance is stashed away, and if I'm lucky I won't have to use it for an emergency; so some day… But I'll never be able to get into anything as glamorous and exciting as what you're doing. You're so lucky."
"Lucky," Karen repeated thoughtfully. "Yes, I am."
"Oh, I didn't mean it was just luck. Without brains and hard work-"
"You were right the first time," Karen said, smiling. "It was luck-and a lot of help from my friends-that got me started. The brains are questionable, and the hardest work is yet to come, but I'm going to give it my best shot."
Cheryl was clearly reluctant to leave. "I can't miss class, though, not if I want that A. Thanks for letting me bug you, Karen. I haven't had so much fun since I came to Washington."
Karen stood at the door watching as Cheryl trotted through the long shadows of early evening toward Wisconsin and a taxi. Cheryl certainly was easy to please. A woman who found a few hours of idle talk more entertaining than embassy dinners and cocktail parties would be thought hopelessly stupid by most observers.
I had a good time too, Karen thought-and then, with a self-conscious smile-probably because I monopolized the conversation.
She had been a little lonely, though not for former friends. The faculty wives with whom she had associated were almost all older than she, with interests and careers of their own. Jack didn't approve of her getting too friendly with academic inferiors. She knew what Jack would say about Cheryl. Not our kind. Her grammar, her manners, her lack of education…
What a snob Jack is, Karen thought casually. She went back inside and closed the door, never realizing that a landmark had been reached, a bridge had been crossed. She was thinking how quiet the house was, and how she really ought to get back to work on her records and lists.
ON
Friday Karen went with Mrs. MacDougal to the airport. She did not offer to drive; this was to be the penultimate, perhaps the last, voyage of the 1938 Rolls Silver Cloud that was as much a Washington landmark as its owner. Karen half expected a motorcycle escort.
They had said good-by to Joseph and the other servants, who were about to leave on well-deserved vacations. A security agency would watch over the house. But Mrs. MacDougal was not setting off for Borneo alone. "I may be old, but I'm not senile," she said tartly, when Karen expressed her concern. "I'm taking Frank."
As if Frank were a suitcase. He was, in fact, the grandson of a friend of Mrs. MacDougal's, a graduate history student who had jumped at the chance of earning a substantial salary for gallivanting around the Eastern Hemisphere all summer. Karen made a point of meeting him and decided he had the necessary qualifications: intelligence enough to deal with schedules and officials, strength enough to pick Mrs. Mac up bodily if she fell down. He treated the old lady with a burlesqued gallantry that did not attempt to conceal his genuine affection.
All the same, Karen felt a mournful foreboding as she watched her friend walk toward the terminal on Frank's arm. Mrs. MacDougal did not look back. She had refused to let Karen come to the gate with her. At the last moment she had thrust a small shabby box into Karen's hand and said brusquely, "A little something to remember me by. No, don't start crying, dammit. I hate long, mushy good-bys." And she glanced at the elaborate leather carrying case in which Alexander reposed.
She certainly had not received any mushy farewells from the dog. Alexander knew something was going on and he thoroughly disapproved of it. All that could be seen of him was his hairless rump, for he had turned his back on the proceedings.
The big glass doors of the terminal building glided smoothly aside; the comically ill-matched pair, tall young man and withered old woman, passed through. The tears Karen had been forbidden to shed blurred her vision, but she saw Mrs. Mac stop to greet a man who was offering her something… flowers? Yes, long-stemmed red roses.
An upstart Volvo, impatiently awaiting its turn to unload passengers, had the effrontery to sound its horn, and the chauffeur put the Rolls in motion. Karen turned and craned her neck for a last look, without success; people and cars obscured her view. She could have sworn the man with the flowers was Mark.
It was possible. Mark had met Mrs. Mac while he and Karen were dating. Mrs. Mac had taken a fancy to him because he would argue with her about everything from politics to religion, giving back as good as he got without making polite concessions to her age and dignity.
Pat had liked him for the same reason. The degree of Pat's approval could be measured by the loudness of his voice and the number of times he banged on the table during a heated debate.
Pat had never argued with Jack. The antipathy was mutual; after the first few visits Jack always found an excuse for not accepting Ruth's invitations. He had tried to keep Karen from going, but that was the one issue on which she stood up to him. Even after they moved to Iowa she managed to get to Washington every year or two- when Jack was also out of town, so her absence wouldn't inconvenience him--
With an effort she forced her mind away from thoughts of Jack, and from the inevitable corollary the memory had induced-"How could I have been such a wimp?"-and leaned back, enjoying the luxurious ride. It was unlikely that she would ever occupy such an elegant vehicle again. The Rolls was on its way to storage, and a long list of potential buyers was anxiously awaiting Mrs. Mac's final decision.
Gliding in air-conditioned, velvet-cushioned comfort through the summer countryside, Karen began to feel more cheerful. The feeling that she would never see Mrs. Mac again wasn't a premonition of approaching disaster, only a normal reaction to seeing an elderly friend off on a long trip. Whatever happened, she could rejoice in the knowledge that Mrs. Mac was doing precisely what she wanted to do, and would certainly have a wonderful time doing it.
To be sure, the ominously silent presence of Alexander was not calculated to lift her spirits. She avoided looking at the carrier; in any case, Alexander's rump was not a pretty sight.
Through the glass partition that separated the front and back seats, she could see the chauffeur's head and his heavy shoulders. She had met him for the first time earlier in the week, when he helped Joseph deliver Mrs. MacDougal's clothing. He was the only one of the servants who had not been with her for many years. He seemed to be good at his job; the huge car slid sinuously through the traffic, with no change in speed and no delays.
Not until then did Karen remember the worn leather case Mrs. MacDougal had given her. It lay on her lap, forgotten in the turmoil of departure. An amused, affectionate smile curved her mouth as she turned it in her hands, seeking the catch that would open it. Heaven only knew what Mrs. Mac would consider an appropriate farewell gift; the box might contain anything, from diamond earrings to a Mickey Mouse watch.
Her fingers found and pressed the catch. The lid fell back. There were earrings, and a matching necklace; but not, thank goodness, of precious stones. The earrings were long dangles, heavy and ornate; the necklace choker length. Sections of black enamel edged in gold scrolls formed a background for flower-shaped insets made up of small pearls and sparkling stones, pale green and colorless. Karen detached one of the earrings from its mount and turned it over. Antique jewelry was one of the subjects she was still learning about, but she knew enough to feel sure the set was not particularly valuable. The gold wash had worn off in places, showing a lighter metal beneath. Ordinarily she would never wear anything so ornate, but the necklace would look nice with some of the Victorian clothes.
When they left the parkway and started up Wisconsin, Karen reached for her purse. She would never have dreamed of offering a tip to Joseph, but this young man was not of the old school. What was his name? That at least she could offer, some acknowledgment of the fact that he was not simply an anonymous machine. Hawkins? Higgins? No-Horton.
There was no parking space open near the house. Horton double-parked and was out of his seat and opening Karen's door before she could move. He lifted Alexander's carrier.
"I can manage it," Karen said.
"There are the other things, miss."
"Oh, yes."
Horton unloaded Alexander's bed, his food and water dishes, and his toys. A three-month supply of Alexander's favorite foods had already been delivered, but it was unthinkable that Alexander should be deprived of his toys for so much as a second.
"Just leave them," Karen said, as the pile increased. "I don't want you to get a ticket-"
Horton's lips parted in a small, amused smile. They were full, fleshy lips, of the sort some women might consider sexy. His other features and his bulky, heavily muscled body also fit the exaggerated macho image made popular by certain film stars. The trim jacket didn't actually strain across his broad chest-no subordinate of Joseph's would ever be seen in public in improperly fitted clothing-but the fabric looked as if it wanted to stretch.
"I have my instructions, miss," the chauffeur said sedately. "Please allow me."
Of course, Karen thought, watching him lift the boxes as effortlessly as if they had been empty. Of course- Mrs. Jackson MacDougal never gets parking tickets.
Horton followed her into the hall. "Where would you like me to put them, miss?"
"Miss" instead of "madam." Was that because Joseph couldn't break his habit of referring to her as "Miss Karen," or were they all obeying instructions from Mrs. Mac, who would be delighted to see her resume her single status? Mrs. Mac had never liked Jack…
Irrelevant and immaterial, Karen thought. Aloud she said, "Anywhere. Here. It doesn't matter."
"The carrier is rather heavy, miss. Perhaps in the kitchen?"
His manner was perfectly respectful, but suddenly Karen realized that she didn't want him to go any farther into the house. His body seemed to fill the entire hallway.
"No," she said. "Just leave everything here."
"Yes, miss." Horton touched his cap and turned to go – Karen thanked him and held out a folded bill.
She was not sure she was doing the right thing, and was prepared for a well-bred rebuff, of the sort Joseph would have given her. Horton's reaction was even more disconcerting. His full lips parted in a broad, uninhibited grin. "Save it, doll. You probably need it worse than I do."
Karen gaped at him as he strutted-there was no other word for it-down the walk, his hands in his pockets, his uniform cap pushed rakishly askew. As the car glided away, he put his arm out the window and gave her an impudent wave.
Karen laughed and waved back, though she knew Joseph would have fainted with horror at the gesture and her response. Horton must have had a hard time conforming to the formal standards the butler insisted upon. This was his last day on the job, his final public appearance; he had nothing to lose by letting go.