Sincerely, Willis Wayde (39 page)

“Well, she looks very common,” Sylvia said.

It was hard to see how Sylvia had reached that conclusion. It seemed to Willis that Mrs. Nagel looked very well, considering—handsome, blond, in a fine evening dress, with some excellent pieces of jewelry.

“I don't suppose he remembers me at all,” Willis said, “but I was right there when he offered to buy the Harcourt Mill. He offered five million dollars.”

This sum made no impression on Sylvia.

“I don't see why it is,” she said, “that people like that always seem to be the only ones who ever offer to buy something for five million dollars.”

Willis only half heard her because the sight of the Nagels had absorbed all of his attention. It was simply one of those times when he could not think of two things at once.

“Nice-looking people,” Sylvia said, “never seem to want to buy things for five million dollars.”

Willis felt a slight spasm of annoyance.

“Now, honey,” he said, “in business it doesn't matter how anybody looks, if he has the money to put on the table.”

“But, Willis,” Sylvia said, “you're always careful about how you're going to look.”

Willis laughed.

“Honey,” he said, “maybe I won't care so much if I ever make a million. I think I ought to speak to Mr. Nagel. Don't you think so?”

“Why?” Sylvia asked.

“It would be a wasted opportunity if I didn't, dear,” Willis said. It was strange how often he had to spell out things for Sylvia in those days.

He pushed back his chair tentatively, and just then Sylvia spoke with a startling sort of urgency.

“Oh, Willis,” she said, “please don't.”

He could still remember that Sylvia's voice had sounded half frightened.

“Don't what, honey?” he asked.

“Don't contact him, or whatever you call it,” Sylvia said. “We're having such a good time by ourselves.” Her words moved more rapidly, more eagerly. “Willis, he'll spoil everything.”

Willis patted her hand, gently, reassuringly.

“Don't worry, honey,” he said, and suddenly he felt curious. “What is it that upsets you so about my just speaking to him?”

“Oh, I don't know,” Sylvia said. “I just don't feel he's good for you.”

“Who?” Willis said. “Old P. L. Nagel not good for me?”

“Darling”—there was a sudden catch in her voice—“I don't want you to get to be like him. That's all I mean.”

“Who?” Willis said. “Me? Like P. L. Nagel?”

There really had been a moment when he hesitated, since after all it was their honeymoon. There was even a moment when he knew what she meant about getting to be like P. L. Nagel, and then he stood up.

“I wouldn't do this, honey,” he said, “if it wasn't important in a business way. I'll be back in just a minute, honey.”

As he walked carefully around the tables toward Mr. P. L. Nagel, he had some vague idea of what Sylvia meant. For a second Willis seemed to be leaving something that he and Sylvia were building together which had all sorts of half-realized possibilities. It was, of course, ridiculous. In the end it was more of a twinge of conscience than an idea. At any rate the whole thing was over in an instant. Willis squared his shoulders slightly. He was near the table now. Mr. Nagel was staring at an empty old-fashioned cocktail glass, but he looked up quickly as one does, finally, when someone silently tries to attract one's attention.

“Good evening, Mr. Nagel,” Willis said. “I don't imagine you remember me but I couldn't resist the impulse.”

Mr. Nagel's timing was slower than it had been years ago. Willis could see him bringing his mind and eyes into focus and for a moment Willis was afraid that Mr. Nagel resented the intrusion. Willis had not learned then that everybody, no matter what superficial annoyance they might show, liked to be recognized and noticed.

“Now just a minute, son,” Mr. Nagel said. “Don't tell me who you are. I want to guess. I never forget a name and a face, do I, Myrtle?” He looked archly at Mrs. Nagel.

“It depends on how many old-fashioneds you've had, P.L.,” Mrs. Nagel said.

Mr. Nagel shrugged his shoulders.

“Now, Myrt,” he said, “I bet you two hundred dollars I guess him.”

“How many guesses?” Mrs. Nagel asked.

“Just two,” Mr. Nagel said, and sat up straight. “All right. First question. Were you ever in the belting business, son?”

“Yes, sir,” Willis said. “I was and in fact …”

“Just answer,” Mrs. Nagel said. “Don't tell him any more.”

“All right, Myrtle,” Mr. Nagel said. “I don't need any more questions. This is Jim Budd who used to be in the Chicago office. I remember you perfectly now, Jim. Sit down and have a quick one with us, and bring your best girl over.”

“Oh, P.L.,” Mrs. Nagel said, and she gave a loud whinnying laugh that made people turn around and look at her. “Two hundred dollars. Look at him. He isn't Jim Budd.”

“Now, wait a minute,” Mr. Nagel said. “Of course he's Jim Budd,” but then Willis's own expression must have told him he was wrong. It was hard to keep from laughing. Mr. Nagel took out his handkerchief and mopped his forehead.

“I'm afraid you've got me wrong, sir,” Willis said. “I used to be with the Harcourts—not that there is any reason why you should remember. You had other things to think about at the time.”

Mr. Nagel always was very quick on the uptake.

“That's it,” he said. “You were the kid who sat with me in that den. Myrtle, sweetie, this is the son of my very close personal friend Alf Wayde. His first name is Harris.”

“The name is Willis, sir,” Willis said.

Mrs. Nagel gave another laugh. “That's another one on you,” she said. “Right on the button, Pops.”

Mr. Nagel shook his finger at her.

“Harris is pretty close,” he said, “but I admit the drinks are on me, sweetie. Who's the girl you're with, Willis? She's a snappy little babe, if I may say so.”

“She's my wife,” Willis said. “We happen to be here on our honeymoon.”

Mrs. Nagel gave another of her laughs.

“There you go again, Pops,” she said. “I told you they were married.”

Mr. Nagel raised his eyebrows and cleared his throat.

“You see,” he said, “when Mrs. Nagel and I come to a place like this we always have a little game, guessing who's married and who isn't. Mrs. Nagel's usually right. In fact, personally, she thought we were married a whole year before we were.”

When P. L. Nagel laughed you could not help but laugh with him. Mrs. Nagel gave her husband a cold glance and straightened her gold-mesh bag on the table.

“I am sure Mr. Wayde doesn't understand what you're talking about, P.L.,” she said.

“Now, sweetie,” P.L. answered. “It's just a private joke of Mrs. Nagel's and mine. You understand that, don't you, Harris?”

“Oh, naturally, Mr. Nagel,” Willis said. “I just came over to say hello. It's been a pleasure meeting you again, and Mrs. Nagel too, and now if you'll pardon me, I must rejoin Mrs. Wayde.”

Mr. Nagel shook his finger at Mrs. Nagel.

“Now you see you've embarrassed him, don't you, Myrtle?” he said. “We're not going to pardon you, Harris, until you bring Mrs. Wayde over here and make this whole thing legitimate.”

“Stop calling him Harris,” Mrs. Nagel said. “It would be lovely if you joined us for a cocktail, Mr. Wayde.”

“Say, Myrt,” Mr. Nagel said, “let's get off this formal basis. We're all first names here.”

Willis could not help but feel a pleasant glow and a warm spot in his heart that was almost like loyalty.

“I know Sylvia would love to meet you, P.L.,” he said. One always had to be careful in the early handling of a first name, but on this occasion he could see that it was exactly what P.L. wanted. “I'll bring Sylvia right over.”

“Oh, Willis,” Sylvia said, “do we really have to go over there and sit with them?”

It was not fair of Sylvia, because even if it was their honeymoon the Nagels were a very important contact.

“Now, honey,” he said firmly but very cheerfully, “it won't hurt. It will be over in a minute.”

He could see that there had never been an opportunity for Sylvia in her whole life to meet people like the Nagels, but after all it did not hurt her a bit. In fact after a few minutes he was really proud of Sylvia, and what was more she seemed to know instinctively how to handle types like old P.L. When Mr. Nagel kept holding her hand long after it was necessary, it was a little difficult to know what to do, but Sylvia handled it all herself.

“I'd like it back when you're through with it, Mr. Nagel,” Sylvia said. “I need it so I can have a cocktail.”

It was pretty good for Sylvia and it started everything on exactly the right note. Mr. Nagel said it was a very funny line and Mrs. Nagel asked right away if Sylvia and Willis would not join them at dinner—that is if they didn't mind sitting awhile with some stuffy old people.

“Don't forget, Myrt,” Mr. Nagel said, “it's their honeymoon. But you do have to eat sometime, don't you, kids?”

Willis had a momentary worry that Sylvia might not take the remark in the spirit in which it was intended, but he was entirely wrong.

“There's nothing like a honeymoon,” Mrs. Nagel said to Sylvia, “and the first one is always the best one. That's what I always tell P.L., but let's you and I have a little talk and don't mind the men.”

“Well,” P.L. said, “now the girls have got together, how's Harcourt's?”

It was very easy to tell Mr. Nagel the few lines of personal history. Old P.L. knew all about Harcourt's and Beakney-Graham and Rahway Belt, and he was honestly interested.

“Anyway,” P.L. said, “you've got the Planeroid patents.” It was a relief to be talking business again.

“That's right,” Willis said, “but we're doing some more things to the process.”

“Will you boys stop talking business,” Mrs. Nagel said, “and let us please go in to dinner.”

You could say what you wanted about old P.L. but he did have an intellectual enthusiasm when it came to production and merchandising, and they must have both been a little starved for shop talk. Willis could not remember what they had for dinner or much of what Sylvia or Mrs. Nagel had to say but he could recall all the details of his talk with P.L. Willis could never blame himself for being very proud of that evening. While they drank coffee in the large lounge outside the ballroom, Willis in his thoughts could stand away from himself and enjoy that scene, with its background of ballroom music, as an artist might admire a canvas that was turning out better than he had ever hoped. Furthermore the feeling of well-being that suffused him seemed to Willis to have spread to Sylvia and Mrs. Nagel.

Then everyone talked very happily about antique furniture. It seemed that Mr. and Mrs. Nagel had recently built a new home in the Chicago suburb of Lake Forest, designed on Georgian colonial lines. For ordinary parties you could have a steak fry or some catch-as-catch-can thing like that out by the swimming pool, but there were times when you wanted to do it in a small sophisticated way for some banker or some highly educated corporation lawyer. What P.L. really wanted was atmosphere, and that was why they were getting rid of reproductions and buying genuine antiques. They had a patina all their own.

It was pleasant to hear Sylvia agree with Mrs. Nagel. Old furniture did give atmosphere, and she wished that she could afford to buy some, but of course starting out as she and Willis were made this nearly impossible.

“Say,” P. L. Nagel said, “don't let Myrtle give you any fancy ideas now, Sylvia, honey. Speaking of antiques, do you remember old Harcourt's office building? Those were real antiques.”

Willis was glad that the subject had got back to the Harcourt Mill, since he could give a few interesting facts about the commercial value of antiques. Finally Mr. Nagel raised his hand and yawned delicately behind it.

“You know, this pine-scented air seems to hit me over the head,” he said, “and I have got to hit the hay. How about some golf tomorrow, Willis?”

“Gosh, P.L.,” Willis said, “I'm intending to do a little serious work on my golf while I'm here, but I'm afraid I'm not in your league, P.L.”

“Oh, just duffer golf,” Mr. Nagel said. “I'm not what I used to be. I'll call you at eleven, son. Come on, Myrtle. Good night, Sylvia, precious.”

Willis was instantly on his feet, and he stood for a moment gazing after the Nagels before he sat down again beside Sylvia.

“Now, honey,” he said, “do you see what I mean about its paying to stop at some place like Chieftain Manor?”

Instead of answering directly, Sylvia put her hand on his arm.

“Now that they've gone, let's go in and dance,” she said. It was nice to see how quickly Sylvia was getting into the spirit of the place.

It was agreeable to observe that they were one of the few young couples in the ballroom, for most of the other guests, who sat watching the dancers like village elders, were in stages of late middle age. There were not many people in Willis's age group who could afford the time off for play or the tariff of Chieftain Manor. It was sad to think of this, since The Old Chief had so many facilities that youth appreciated more than age, but at the same time it was stimulating to realize that he was able to make the grade while he was still young.

When they finally reached their sitting room, neither of them, unlike P. L. Nagel, felt like sleep.

“I think I'll read for a while,” Sylvia said. “Would you mind getting me
The Oxford Book of Verse
out of my suitcase, dear?”

It was like a preview of an abundance of happy years, to be reading quietly there in The Old Chief with Sylvia. Yet after a space of silence he became aware of a common fallacy in this conventional picture. No husband and wife ever seemed able to sit in the same room and read.