"Con," I said a little desperately, "are you really sure you're not just creating a soft job—some kind of pre-feathered nest—for Bill simply so that you can get Rancho del Monte? It would kill Bill if he thought so. Kill me, too. Besides, there are hundreds of ranches you could buy. With your money, you could even—"
"I guess you don't know many Greek businessmen," Connie said. "Pericles wouldn't hire anybody who wasn't good, and if Pericles ever did, then Daddy would fire both him and Pericles. It isn't a charitable institution. But Bill's good and he's smart and he was interested in the business."
"He did say something about the offices being very grand," I admitted.
"Pericles was really impressed with Bill, Barbara. He even called up to say so. He told me Bill had showed him a system that would save thousands of dollars and hours every year and it was so simple that everyone wondered why they hadn't thought of it years ago."
"That's my boy," I said, feeling a little cheered. "But he's always got a lot of ideas. That doesn't necessarily mean that he's going to throw over the ranch and everything else just to—"
"I think he might. Pericles is going to put it up to him as a kind of challenge, and you know how Bill is about challenges."
"Yes, indeedie," I sighed. "I certainly do."
"Well, hold your thumbs," Connie said. "Pericles is going to offer him a lot. More than I ever thought he would. He's anxious to get Bill. Your husband's a bright guy. You know that, Barbara."
"Yes," I said wearily. It suddenly occurred to me that possibly Bill was too bright to have me conspiring behind his back to reroute the whole course of his life.
"Well, I guess we'll know today, won't we?" Connie said brightly. "You do still want to come back here to New York, don't you, Barbara?"
"Yes, I guess I do. If Bill honestly wants to, then I do. But this has to be his decision, with no high pressure from you or me or anybody else."
"Of course, Barbara," Connie said. Then she looked at her watch. "Ooops, it's time, for my cha-cha lesson. Call me back at the apartment if anything big happens."
It was sleeting outside when I left the restaurant. I hailed a cab and was just about to step in when two imperious fur-bearing women brushed in ahead of me and slammed the door in my face. Somewhat stunned, I stepped back and landed squarely on a miniature poodle. "Can't you look where you're going, stupid?" a woman snapped at me. She picked up her poodle and marched indignantly into the restaurant.
Too discouraged to attempt landing another cab, I decided to walk back to our hotel. It was twice as cold and damp and penetrating as it had been before lunch and it seemed as if everybody on Fifth Avenue had got up that morning with a redwood log on his shoulder. They all looked pale, ill, exasperated, and in a dreadful hurry to get to noplace. There was a religious fanatic in front of St. Patrick's Cathedral haranguing anyone who cared to listen. (Nobody did.) At the corner of Fiftieth Street there was a hideous and profane traffic jam involving a crosstown bus, a United Parcel truck hell-bent for Saks, three taxicabs, and a sight-seeing bus. Across the Avenue, one of the Rockefeller Center shops was putting up Christmas decorations, although Thanksgiving was still a good way off. The Yuletide finery did nothing to cheer me. If didn't look Christmassy at all, but commercial and cheap and gaudy and vulgar.
I was jostled good and proper by three hard-bitten old viragoes leaving McCutcheon's and talking at the tops of their lungs about an absent friend named Frieda, who seemed to embody—if their observations were accurate—all the most vicious traits in the world.
When I got back to our hotel I was wet and unhappy and chilled through to the bone. Feeling just as gloomy as possible, I took a hot bath and stretched out for a nap. Sleep seemed out of the question. I was dog tired, but the noises around me were too much. Not having ever tried a siesta in the middle of the day in the middle of Manhattan, I had never fully appreciated Cole Porter's lyric, "in the roaring traffic's boom." But the traffic was there all right, just seven floors beneath me, roaring and booming for all it was worth. Whenever there was a lull in the roaring traffic's boom the couple in the adjoining room gave vent to a series of the most violent differences of opinion.
"I had to be polite to a customer's wife, didn't I?"
"Polite? That's a hot one! You couldn't keep your eyes off her. It was disgusting! That's what it was. I was never so mortified in my life."
"Aw, honey—"
"Don't you honey me! And another thing; if I have to be pawed by a dirty old man like Mr. Wentworth in any more New York night clubs, I think they ought to put me on the payroll. He was absolutely—"
"Aw, listen, sweetie—"
Boom, boom! Honk, honk! Crash, crash! Whistle, whistle!
"—and another thing; if you're so high and mighty that you can take customers to the Stork Club and toss around money like a king, I don't know why I can't have a simple thing like a Persian lamb coat when that common Mrs. Wentworth had a—"
"Aw, baby, for the love of . . ."
In spite of everything, I dozed off eventually. But I couldn't have been asleep for an hour when I was awakened by Bill's arrival. His eyes had that sparkling, starry look inevitably brought on by happiness, a new adventure, or liquor—or a combination of all.
"Well, your wish has come true!" Bill said. "We're going to move back to New York and I'm going to be the rich young executive. Stick with me and you'll be wearing let-out sheepskin. Didn't I always say that?"
"What in the world are you talking about, William Hooton?" I asked blankly.
"I've taken a job. I'll be working for Connie's family as a kind of bright young man."
"You're drunk," I said.
"Perhaps. But I'm also employed. Now all we have to do is go back and clear our things out of the ranch. Maybe spend Christmas out there—or here, if you prefer—and starting in on the first of January I'll be . . ."
The telephone rang. It was Connie. "I've already heard," she said. "Pericles telephoned me. I'm just so thrilled I can hardly talk. Imagine! Rancho del Monte is going to be mine!"
Of course we had to celebrate. Cousin Pericles and his beautiful wife threw a party that very night for Bill and to meet all the other executives and their beautiful wives. It was an elegant party but just every once in a while I couldn't help thinking back to the shrew in the hotel room next to ours. There was that feeling of compulsory gaiety and good fellowship that didn't quite ring true and I felt they were being gay and friendly because they were being paid fat annual salaries to be gay and friendly and that this party was just a matter of overtime without extra pay.
The next night Connie gave a party for us, and the night after that we gave a party for her. In fact, I was getting just a wee bit sick of parties when the time came for us to go back to New Mexico, pack up our chattels, and more or less turn things over to Connie. Connie had already shown me what treasures of hers Bill and I were going to fall heir to, along with her apartment, and her generosity was almost embarrassing. Her linen, silver, china, and paintings were scheduled to go out West with her. Everything else was to be given to us. "Because," she said airily, "this stuff would look all wrong out there." She was right about that, but she might have collected a small fortune by selling to an antique dealer.
So we whiled away our final week as amiably as possible and had one last celebration the night before we were to set off. It was just one party too many. Bill awoke with a heavy cold, swollen eyes, and a thundering sinus headache. In the time away from New York I had forgotten how he used to suffer from the damp and the cold. I urged him to stay on in bed for another day, but like a true martyr he wanted to head westward and get things moving. It even crossed my mind that I didn't feel very well in the New York humidity, but we were too busy packing to go into lengthy medical dissertations.
As we were threading our way through New York's incredible traffic, Bill said, "Are you sorry to be leaving New York?"
"No, Bill," I said. "I'm glad." Then I was absolutely stunned by what I had said
.
So was Bill. "What? But I thought you liked New York."
"Oh, I do!" I said in a fluster of embarrassment. "I love it. It's a nice place to live, but I hate to visit there."
"Oh," he said as the station wagon disappeared in the Holland Tunnel. We didn't say anything until the car came out on the other side of the Hudson River.
“Look!” Bill said, pointing to a pale little splotch of anemic sunshine. “The sun!”
“What do you know!” I said. “It’s the first we’ve seen in two whole weeks.”
Then Bill concentrated on the hazardous traffic while I concentrated on taking a little snooze and nothing more was said about New York.
20. The eleventh hour
Our second westbound motor trip was unusual only in that it was so strained. While Bill was gay and chatty and kept talking about all of his New York plans—the new suits he was going to order, the athletic club in which he was going to swim every day, the plays we were going to see—I found myself almost unable to join into any of his ebullience. This time, instead of becoming more miserable at every westward inch, I felt happier to be getting back, but even more miserable, since I knew it would only be for a matter of five or six weeks. Then I'd get hold of myself and think, "Barbara, you're going off your rocker. Your one aim ever since you came West was to go back East. Now the mission is accomplished." But I just didn't believe it.
I couldn't quite believe Bill, either. Mother always told me men were fickle, but I was completely at a loss to understand that my particular man could be so fickle as to carry on a love affair with a dude ranch for two years and then suddenly be seduced by a rich desk job back in the city he had always tried to escape.
As we approached the familiar territory around Santa Fe I wanted to reach out and touch everything, it all looked so fresh and clean and beautiful. And when we turned off the state highway and I saw Rancho del Monte sprawled out asleep in the sunlight I was so moved just by the sight of it that I had to fight back the tears.
And I did cry when dirty, shaggy, silly Sandy—grinning just like Michael Wilding—came bounding out to greet us and when The Girls yowled savagely and rubbed themselves against our legs.
The house was spotless, but before I'd done so much as take off my gloves I was busily plumping pillows, moving this chair an inch to the left, and that one an inch to the right.
"Just look at all this mail, would you," Bill said, juggling two drinks and three dozen letters.
"Oh, do let me see!" I said. I sat down, still wearing my coat, and started to read. "Could Rancho del Monte accommodate Mr. and Mrs. So-and-So and two teen-age children for Christmas Week?" one letter began.
"The Such-and-Such Ski Club is interested in rooms for six couples for every snowy week end during January, at rates no higher than twelve dollars per day per person," was the beginning of the second.
"Dear Barbara, Can you and Bill take Harry and Mary Jane and me for a couple of weeks in January? We had such a good time with you last year that little Mary Jane can talk of nothing else. Of course, if you're too full . . ."
"Bill," I said, "just look at all these reservations! Why, it's more business than we could handle at the height of summer."
"Well, happily that's not our problem, Barbara. But it's nice that Connie can start her new life with a bang," Bill said with the most extravagant unconcern.
I was stunned back into reality. Of course Bill was right. This sudden influx of guests would all be staying with Connie and not with us. But somehow I felt hurt and rather envious of Connie.
"Thank God we'll never have to spend another winter here again," Bill said, studying the light through his glass. "Remember how lonely it was last year, with James B. and Lee hitting the bottle every time you turned around?"
"Doesn't look like it's going to be so lonely for Connie this winter," I said, riffling through the stack of reservations. "I'd say she'll have more guests than she can handle."
"That's her lookout, not ours,” Bill said. "Well, I guess I’ll go out and see how the horses are. I want to leave everything in good shape for Connie."
Well, I was just shocked by the change in Bill. Absolutely shaken.
Snow came and the skiing was marvelous—not that you could get me out in the cold on those barrel staves for or money, but those who liked to ski said it was marvelous. Every week end the ranch was rilled with groups of skiers and wonderful, easy people they were.
Bill and I were doing all the work in the house and for the first time in my life cooking and dishwashing and bed-making became a real pleasure, especially for people as jolly and appreciative as the ski groups. And tired as I was, sitting around and talking to them at the fireside every night was a great source of satisfaction. But one Monday, when the last of them drove away, Bill said, "Well, I'm glad they're gone! Now we can spend a few quiet days getting the ranch ready to hand over. Maybe while I'm in town you can start on the inventory."
"Inventory?'
"Why, certainly. We'll have to repay Bess Huntinghouse for anything that we lost or broke after we took over from her. And we don't want to give Connie short shrift after all she's done for us. Remember, she's put us not only on Easy Street but on East Fifty-fifth Street."
"That is true," I said a little wistfully.
Inventory is such an easy-sounding word, but just try to list every sheet, towel, chair, and spoon in a one-room-and-sink apartment and you'll see what I was up against. I decided to tackle the hardest part first—the kitchen. The Girls and Sandy were lying in a large, sunny patch on the floor and Sandy's fluffy tail thumped on the linoleum as I began to tally the glasses.
"Oh, Sandy," I said, scratching him behind the ears, "whatever can we do with you in New York? You know you'd hate it. You'd be miserable on a leash. But you'll like Connie—I know you will. You can stay here with her and her new husband and soon you'll forget all about Bill and me."
Somehow, I was vain enough to be sure that Sandy wouldn't, especially when he gave me his wide, Prince Charming grin.
Then I turned to The Girls, who were washing themselves with some care in the warm kitchen sunlight. "As for you, you're accustomed to New York apartments. You were born in one. There may not be any lizards to catch, but I'll try to scare up a mouse or two. At least I'm afraid there are mice in all those old New York town houses. You'd like that, wouldn't you?" They ignored me as elaborately as always.
Then I got hold of myself. "Barbara," I said to nobody, "you're getting so sloppy that it's making me sick. Now to the inventory:
Soup plates 36
Bouillon cups 21—oh oh!—
Dinner plates 34
Luncheon plates 32, plus two in the refrigerator, 34 Breakfast plates . . ."
That was how Bill found me when he returned.
All that day, as we traveled at a glacier's pace from room to room cataloguing all our belongings—both owned and rented—I got delicately sentimental over each item. A dusty tin candlestick, a terrible souvenir ashtray, a long-forgotten bedspread. Bill, on the other hand, was maddeningly brisk. "Come along, Barbara, stop mooning. We've still got the outside houses to do when we finish the bedrooms and it's beginning to get dark."
Well, I just didn’t see how any male could be so hardhearted.
That night, as we were finishing up our dinner dishes, the wrangler came in to announce that one of our mares was about to foal and that he might need our help. Other than Ginger's false alarm, I'd never been in on any equine obstetrics.
"You don't have to come out," Bill said to me. "Get some sleep. You look tired."
"But I want to," I said. "After all, I'm a woman, too."
Bundled up against the cold, Bill and I went out to the corral and into the warm box stall which had been reserved for the accouchement. The mother in question was one of our gentlest riding horses, and as I looked into her liquid brown eyes my heart simply melted. I won't try to describe the horse's labor. It was comparatively quick and the foal was dropped just after
midnight. But it was, if anything, a far greater experience for me than for the horse. Once the colt was born and both mother and son had been cared for, there was nothing to keep us in the stable. But I couldn't tear myself away. I stared fascinated at the two horses lying in the warm straw—the exhausted, panting mother and the timorous, leggy, mystified colt Something came over me right then and there—something that didn't have anything to do with horses or colts or motherhood or anything specifically connected with the corral, but a feeling that I had just experienced something I wouldn't trade for every apartment on Fifty-fifth Street from the East River to the Hudson.
"Well, that's that," Bill said. "Come on in, Barbara. You must be tired."
"All right," I said "but I'm not tired. I'm not a bit tired."
We said good night to the wrangler and to the proud mother and son and started back to the ranch house. It had been snowing while we were in the stable and the drifts were deep and white and dry and clean. Powdery little eddies of snow swirled around our legs as we made our way to the house. It was then that I knew what I wanted to do once and for all.
Inside the ranch house, Bill yawned and stretched. "Well, there's a nice little colt for Connie. Kind of a dividend, wouldn't you say?"
"Listen, Bill—” I began.
"Would you like a nightcap before we turn in?"
"No, Bill, but I've decided that—"
"Isn't it odd that everybody wants to make a movie of War and Peace all of a sudden?"
"Terribly, Bill," I said. "But about—"
"It'll probably be a perfect dud. I saw Anna Karenina twice—once with Garbo (at least I think it was Garbo) and once with Vivian Leigh. They were both stinkers."
"Bill, I—"
"When we get to New York, I really must do a lot more reading. I haven't read War and Peace since I was on shipboard going overseas." He was talking a lot, but it was the kind of noisy, irrelevant chatter that Bill can always make up when he doesn't want to say what's on his mind.
Guestward Ho! Page 25
