Sincerely, Willis Wayde (38 page)

The sun was setting and the red glow from the sky was reflected in the still waters of the lake. There was a suspicion of autumn chill that was only enough to make one glad that a day's motoring had ended at just the proper moment. The Manor was really larger than Willis had believed was possible, considering how far they were from anywhere.

“Oh, Willis,” he heard Sylvia say, “is this it?”

“Yes, honey,” he told her. “It's quite a layout, isn't it?”

“This isn't a hotel,” she said, “it's a fantasy.”

“A what?” he asked her.

“Oh, never mind, dear,” she said. “Isn't it going to be terribly expensive?”

It was strange how apt Sylvia was to miss the point of certain things. For instance she never could understand when it was worthwhile to spend money. Of course the main purpose of Chieftain Manor—or The Old Chief, as Willis came to call it affectionately—was to be expensive. It was a symbolic prize for industry and endeavor, a happy resting place only for those who had made good. Somehow Sylvia never seemed to see that if you worked hard for what you got, it was a pleasure to show that you had money. It never hurt you at all, for example, to be able to say that you enjoyed April at Hot Springs or that you had found that the service at The Breakers at Palm Beach had improved from what you had known of it last. Of course everyone had his own intimate attitude toward money, and he always realized that Sylvia's was different from his, but he did wish she could understand that he had earned his right to be at The Old Chief.

“What's the matter, honey?” he asked her.

“Oh, Willis,” she said. “It's just so—Oh, never mind. I only mean that it isn't very cozy.”

“But it isn't meant to be,” he said. “People who come here don't want anything cozy.” And then he could not help but laugh. “I'll make you love it, honey,” he said. “We'll do something new every minute we're here. This is going to be a real honeymoon right from now on in.”

There was no time to say anything more because a bell-boy in a horizon-blue monkey jacket and white trousers was already beside the car.

“Hello, son,” Willis said. “Take out everything, will you? And put the car in the garage.”

It was new to him, but then Willis had traveled enough at Beakney-Graham to know his way around hotels. Thus The Old Chief only awed Willis when he and Sylvia first crossed the lobby, with its artistically grouped clusters of chairs occupied by the guests in from golf or riding who were whiling away an aimless hour before it should be time to dress for dinner. By the time he was facing the room clerk he was completely sure of himself.

“Mr. and Mrs. Willis Wayde,” he said, “Rahway, New Jersey. Here's a confirmation of my reservation.”

The only wrong thing that he had done, of course, was to tell the clerk that he had a confirmation for his reservation, since this indicated an insecurity that he always avoided afterwards. Actually this made very little difference, because, as Willis found out later, the whole staff had been given careful lectures by Mr. Murcheson, the manager, on the arts of hospitality. A guest, as Mr. Murcheson said—and he always made it a point to contact all guests personally—was a member of The Old Chief Club once he had signed the register.

Upon leaving the desk Willis was already able to glance in a calm and friendly way about the lobby. The cashmere sweaters of the younger women reminded him that given the proper things Sylvia could look as well as any of them, and Sylvia was beginning to wear clothes beautifully, as well or better even than Bess Harcourt.

They had the elevator all to themselves, with the two boys and the baggage.

“You have suite C-16, sir,” the head boy said.

Willis saw Sylvia glance at him with alarm, and he smiled at her proudly.

“That's right, son,” he said, and it was right. The beautifully carpeted hall was almost perfect and so were the sitting room and bedroom, tastefully furnished with chintz and antique maple reproductions.

“Thank you, boys,” Willis said, and he handed each of them a dollar, and smiled again at Sylvia.

“Look,” he said to her. “Flowers for you with a card from the manager. Well, how do you like it, Mrs. Wayde?”

If he had meant the suite to be a surprise, it had been, but Sylvia's uneasy manner told him that her mind was again on money.

“Willis,” she said, “we don't need a sitting room, do we? Really, you're spending money like a drunken sailor.”

Somehow the phrase seemed inappropriate and he resented being put in this category.

“Listen, honey,” he said. “Let's just sit down and get this straight,” and he put his arm around her.

“Darling,” Sylvia said, “I don't mean I'm trying to quarrel. I know this is lovely and I love you for thinking of it, but then there's all the money we have to spend for the house and everything in New Jersey.”

“Sylvia,” he said, “do you remember that green dress?”

It was lovely to see the color rise in her cheeks.

“Of course I do,” she answered, “but now we're so much more responsible.”

“That's right, honey,” Willis said, “but I still feel just the same way I did about that dress. I guess I always will.”

“You're awfully sweet, darling,” she said.

She said it as though she had made a new discovery, and the warmth of her voice made him happy.

“It is what makes the game worthwhile, honey,” he said. “I mean giving you things, having a home.” All at once he began to laugh, because finally he had the whole idea straight. “Maybe people like me are like sailors, and do you know why drunken sailors spend their money?”

“No,” she answered, “unless because they're drunk.”

“No, honey,” he said, “they do it because they know that money's meant to spend when they get ashore.”

“And you mean you're ashore now?” she asked.

“That's right,” he said, “but there's more to it than that. This place means more to me than it does to you, because I've been at sea.”

Then her arms were around his neck and her head was on his shoulder.

“I'm awfully glad you told me, dear,” she said. “I won't worry any more. We'll have a lovely time.”

Sylvia always was a grand girl, once you made her understand, and of course they had a wonderful time. Sylvia's evening dress was not bad-looking at all, and he was wearing his new tuxedo. It was pleasant to see people glancing at them as they walked across the lobby, with looks more wistful than envious; and Willis could understand their attitudes better now that he was old enough himself to look at a nice young couple and remember when he and Sylvia were like that—in love and with years ahead of them. Sylvia was dark and tall and there was character in her face and intelligence that meant a lot more than insipid beauty. Then he was not so bad-looking himself either in those days, as he knew from old photographs.

“Shall we have a cocktail before dinner?” he asked.

“Yes, of course,” Sylvia said. “Darling, I keep forgetting how handsome you look, and then I start wondering how I ever found you.”

A waiter pulled back a chair for her at a table in the bar, and the happy released chatter of drinkers around them splashed over them like a wave on a coral beach.

“Will you have a dry Martini, dear?” he asked. “Make it two dry Martinis, son, and ask the barman just to squeeze a lemon peel over the surface, not drop it in.”

It occurred to Willis after he made the speech that the waiter was somewhat older than he and that it had been inappropriate to call him son, and he made a mental note to use the word less frequently.

“I don't care what it costs now. This is fun,” Sylvia said.

“And when we finish these drinks it will be more fun,” Willis told her. “Honey, I want to tell you something.”

“What?” she asked.

“You said an awfully sweet thing about me as we came in here.” He had to raise his voice to make her hear him across the table. “I mean about your forgetting how I look and then remembering. Let's keep on forgetting. Let's never get used to each other.”

“Anyway, let's not get
too
used to each other,” Sylvia said.

“All right,” he said, “and, honey, you're more than wonderful, you're more than beautiful.”

“We ought to stay here permanently,” Sylvia said, “if you keep on saying things like that.”

Sometimes he echoed that wish in his memory, that they could have stayed on in that bar forever with no more than two Martinis apiece.

“You see,” he said, and he wished he did not have to speak so loudly, “you're more than beautiful because you have—you have—I wish I could say it in French.”

“Don't,” Sylvia told him. “You'll spoil it if you do.”

“I know, honey,” he told her, “and some day you're going to take me to Paris and teach me how to speak it right. You're more than beautiful. You're distinguée.”

“Why, Willis,” she said, “you pronounced that rather nicely.”

“Excuse my French,” Willis said, and he laughed. “I won't say it again, honey, but I will say you're more distinguished than any other girl in this hotel. Waiter, two more of the same, please.”

“Do you think we ought to have two?” Sylvia asked.

Willis laughed again. “A bird can't fly on one wing,” he said.

They looked at each other and then Sylvia smiled.

“Darling,” she said, “do you think I'm as distinguée as Bess Harcourt?”

He was startled when Sylvia brought up Bess Harcourt, because it was neither the time nor the place for it, and also her name evoked a picture and a comparison. He could not help but wonder what Bess Harcourt would be like if she were suddenly to enter that spacious barroom. Would she be handsomer than Sylvia?

“Willis,” Sylvia said, “did you hear my question?”

He had forgotten momentarily where he was, and now he was back holding the stem of the glass of his second Martini.

“Oh, yes,” he said, “beg pardon, honey. There isn't any comparison. You're both different in your ways, but then no two people can be identical, can they?”

“You know, I saw her once,” Sylvia said. “I don't believe I ever told you. I may have been shy about it.”

“I don't see that it's anything to be shy about,” Willis said. “Where did you happen to see her?”

“Oh, at a Boston dance,” Sylvia answered. “She was pointed out to me.”

“Well, frankly,” Willis said, and as he was speaking he could imagine Bess Harcourt at that vanished dance, with her tawny hair, greenish-blue eyes, and quick smile, “you've got a better figure than Bess. You're better-looking than Bess. You've got more brains and a better disposition.” And then he laughed. “Of course I may be prejudiced.”

Sylvia laughed too. “Just you keep on being prejudiced,” she said.

The fine thing was that Willis had meant everything he said. He was having a very good time. He pulled out his cigarette case and snapped it open.

“This silver case is going to turn to gold,” he said, “when things get a little better. Have a cigarette, honey?”

“Yes,” she said, “but don't you think we ought to go in to dinner?”

Willis lighted a match for her and he made a note as he did so that he must save some of the Chieftain Manor matches to take back to Rahway.

“Nobody else seems to be in a hurry,” he said. “Let's get up an appetite. Remember, it's all American Plan.”

He looked critically around the barroom. Already he felt like a habitué of Chieftain Manor.

“Wait a minute, honey,” he said, “don't interrupt me. I think there's someone over there I know. Yes, it is. I'm sure of it.”

“Who?” Sylvia asked.

“That's Mr. Percival L. Nagel,” Willis said, “sitting over there with that rather heavy blond lady. Yes, I'm sure it's Mr. Nagel.”

“Who's Mr. Nagel?” Sylvia asked.

“Why, honey,” Willis said—she might know how to speak French but she did not know everything—“P. L. Nagel is the president of the Simcoe Rubber Hose and Belting Company.”

It was always something to remember, the time he saw P. L. Nagel sitting across the room at Chieftain Manor. It all went to show that you never lost money in the end by staying at a fashionable hotel, and it also went to show that it paid to cultivate a knack for names and faces. The only time that Willis had seen P. L. Nagel previously was during an unforgettable episode back in Mr. Harcourt's library, but that had been a long time ago, in terms of both years and personal development.

Mr. Nagel did not look quite so trim or quite so ruddy, but then seven years had passed since Mr. Nagel had called on Mr. Henry Harcourt in June, 1929. The hardness of his face had partially melted into his jowls. In fact he had put on weight all over, although his double-breasted dinner coat concealed a good deal of his portliness. His hair, which had been receding from his florid forehead, had thinned until his shiny scalp showed through what was left of it, and what was left was benignly white. It was undoubtedly P. L. Nagel.

“Well,” Willis heard Sylvia saying, “and suppose he is the president of the Simcoe Rubber Hose and Belting Company?”

Sylvia's voice was a needless interruption.

“They make conveyor belts in the Middle West, honey, together with a long line of industrial rubber products,” Willis told her, and he told her very kindly. “They're the biggest belting company in America, honey. He tried to buy the Harcourt Mill once. That's how I remember him.”

“Is that his wife with him?”

It pained Willis that Sylvia sounded disdainful. Of course the lady with him was Mr. Nagel's wife, because, obviously, she could not possibly have been anything else.

It was not difficult for Willis to see that Mrs. Nagel's blond hair was not entirely natural. In spite of facials and beauty creams, her eyes were old, and so were her hands. She was doing very well, but she was hardly the person that one would invite for a surreptitious week end at Chieftain Manor.