He leaned an elbow on the mantel, staring down into the fire. Of course, it would be like him not to think of that; to get no inkling of what the populace of a small community would say. The neighbors—naturally! A handsome young woman and an unattached man! The thing was inevitable. He had not realized the injustice to Gladys. His selfish blindness placed her in a position that had the ugly odor of scandal. As long as she decently could, she had stood it without a word. And now she said she must go…
His eyes were on her again. Hungrily. Was the fear that gripped him fear only of another vista of aloneness? Or was a chemical change taking place after all these years of monastic living? The woman before him, tempting him, was this the answer? Or did he actually need her in every way? Without his knowledge had she become necessary to him? Had she quietly entered his life and taken possession? He was not a man of quick decision, so he could find none of the answers. She was going tomorrow. Tomorrow!
“Why didn’t you tell me long ago,” he demanded, unable to account for the flare of anger, “instead of breaking it to me suddenly like this? You might at least have given me a chance to handle the situation.”
“There’s no way—except the way I’ve worked out.” She paused at the window, her back turned. “Don’t think it’s easy.” In the silence Dean heard a low sob, instantly smothered.
“I’m sorry Gladys, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. But you hurl this thing at me——” He stopped short, his throat closing. “Think it over, won’t you?”
“It’s best to leave quickly.” She still stood with her back to him. “Please believe—this is worse for me than for you. Much worse. And forgive me, won’t you?”
Abruptly he asked, “Where will you go?”
“Home.”
“Home?” he repeated. “You know that place isn’t home. You know how miserable you were.”
“I can’t afford to choose.”
“But you can’t go back to helping your mother run a boardinghouse,” he protested.
He thought of her as he had first seen her five years ago on the lawn of her widowed mother’s house, her pallor emphasized by a black dress, looking older than she did tonight. He had taken Pauline for a motor trip through the Adirondacks. They had inquired in a village where to get a good lunch and Mrs. Mayden’s was recommended. Gladys was cutting June roses for the table when they arrived. He remembered distinctly how she came forward to greet them; how she selected a table with a view of the garden.
He remembered how afterward on the porch Pauline sank back, sighing. “I like it. I like that girl. Can’t we stay awhile?” When they were leaving a week later Pauline had wished hopefully, “If only I could take Gladys. If you’d let Gladys live with us, Dean. Her mother makes her a slave and she isn’t happy. She told me.” He remembered the slender black figure on the lawn as they drove away; the strange pleading look in her gray eyes that Pauline couldn’t forget. All—all of it, he recalled vividly. “Let her live with us, Dean.” And so he had gone back the following winter and asked Gladys to come to them.
“I won’t let you go!” he said suddenly, hearing himself say it, wondering…He went over and put his hands on her shoulders and swung her around. “I can’t. Do you hear, Gladys? I can’t let you go.” Her lips were unsteady. He bent down and his closed over them…
Dean held the telephone waiting for Wynn’s, “Swell, Dad.” It was the boy’s usual way of greeting good news. The clear ringing voice had answered his call to Dartmouth with, “ ’Lo, Dad. What’s up?”
But when Dean announced that he and Gladys were going to be married, no answer came. He thought the connection must have been cut. “Wynn, are you there? Do you hear me?”
“I heard you.”
“Well, is that all you have to say?” Of course it must be the shock. After all, he couldn’t quite realize the thing himself, so why shouldn’t the boy——?
“Okay, Dad.”
“Wynn, aren’t you glad? I’ve been pretty lonely, you know.”
“Sure, I know. I hope you and Gladys’ll be happy.”
“Can you come down next week end?”
“Can’t make the grade. I’m in a jam—exams soon, and I——”
Dean said, without attempting to hide his disappointment, “Make it whenever you can, son. Sorry you can’t come soon.”
“Me too. S’long, Dad. Good luck.”
That “S’long”—was it imagination that gave it a note of finality? Gladys had come in while he was at the telephone, and now she said, “Wynn isn’t pleased.” It was not a question. She must have gathered the truth from his end of the conversation.
“Unpreparedness, rather,” Dean tried to put it lightly.
“He’s not coming down?”
“No.” Dean swung around. “Don’t let it worry you, dear. He’ll get used to the idea.”
“Cara is happy about us, isn’t she?”
Yes, Cara was happy. The night before she had whirled into Dean’s arms. “Oh, Daddy, it’s so right. Gladys is such a darling!” Then her gentian-blue eyes brimmed over. “And you’ve been so terribly alone, I’d almost made up my mind never to marry. You need a woman to adore and spoil you.”
“Cara has no reservations,” Dean smiled. “But then she’s a congenital romantic. She’s never had inhibitions. Wynn is inarticulate—like me, I dare say. Wynn doesn’t find readjustment easy. Neither do I.” He smiled again. “That’s by way of warning.”
Gladys bent over his shoulder, her arm slipping about his neck. “Will you feel unhappy about Wynn’s not being here? Shall we wait—would you rather have it that way?”
“We settled on next Saturday, and that’s the way it is.” He drew her down to him and whispered, “That’s the way I want it.”
After a moment she said softly, “We don’t want any fuss. Cara will be here. There’s no need for anybody else.”
“Yes, Max Conrick. He’s my lawyer and best friend—I’d like to have him. And you’ll want your mother.”
Gladys drew away, her gray eyes clouding. “I’m afraid Mother couldn’t stand the trip. She isn’t well, you know.”
“Your cousin, then. He takes the place of a brother. You ought to have someone.”
“Barclay doesn’t mean anything to me.” The pale olive of her skin flushed. “Actually, I don’t like him. I never did. You must have noticed. Mother depends on him, that’s all.”
Now that she spoke of it, Dean had noticed her lack of interest in this second or third cousin—whichever it was—Barclay Haggart, a blond young man with features sculptured somewhat like hers. He had lived with the Maydens, looking after their finances, ever since Mr. Mayden’s death when the widow had been forced to turn the homestead into a boardinghouse. On Haggart’s brief business trips to New York, he always took Gladys to the theater or concerts. Yet she never welcomed his visits.
“I don’t want anybody. Just to be married quietly and go away with you,” she said presently. “To be in your arms—that’s all I want. I don’t need anybody. Except you, Dean.”
They were married the following Saturday. The soft lap of waves against the rocks was like an organ accompaniment. The stream of sunlight through the oblong window made a pool around the small bridal party: Cara with hair and eyes shining; Max Conrick with his gentle expression of understanding.
This was what Pauline would have wanted; Dean felt sure of it. If she could have chosen for him, it would be this girl. Only Wynn was missing, and that still hurt. Until the last minute he had hoped the boy would change his mind and come.
No one spoke of Wynn’s absence that day. Earlier, Cara had seen through his alibi of impending exams. “He’s a crab,” she pronounced. “He’s jealous and doesn’t know it. I’m going to call him.”
“No, dear,” Dean said, “don’t, please. I know you and Wynn understand each other. But don’t
interfere. If he doesn’t want to be with us, you mustn’t try to force him.”
There came no word. Not even a telegram. Nothing…
Before they went away that night Dean stood with Gladys at the window in the study. Moonlight silvered her, the satin-smooth olive skin, beige crepe dress, the long spray of orchids trailing along the low neckline, the turban twisted around her hair, hiding it—all merged mystically until she seemed part of the shimmering waters, as if she had risen from them.
“We can see the horizon tonight. That silver line,” he said, “there’s a new world on the other side.” She went into his arms, and he murmured, “You’re beautiful, my darling. I never dreamed how beautiful…”
Following their return from the honeymoon, Dean went up to Dartmouth to see Wynn. Whatever the boy had on his mind must be met and overcome. In this long lanky son of his were glimpses of himself at the same age. It was not so much marked physical resemblance as Wynn’s laconic manner of expression, his easy embarrassment, the sensitivity he refused to admit. The bond between these two was close.
“I thought you’d come back with me. Just the week end,” Dean suggested.
“Can’t yet.”
“You’re coming for Christmas, of course.”
Wynn frowned. While his lips were silent, his fine dark eyes told too much. They told Dean he was searching for means of evasion. “Can’t tell. Thought I’d spend the holidays in New York with Ned Conrick. He’ll be home on leave. Chances are he’ll be overseas soon after. Might not see him again.”
“Ned is coming to us for Christmas. He and Cara, you know—just a pair of kids, but in these times I haven’t the right to stand in their way.”
“Sure, I know. Ned told me. They ought to be married straight off.”
Dean studied the set face and hard jaw. There was something more to Wynn’s insistence than the haste of wartime romance. Max Conrick’s nephew had grown up with the Steward twins. Entering Harvard at seventeen, he had quit his law studies at twenty, immediately after Pearl Harbor, to enlist in the Air Corps. Ned frankly stated to the world at large that he couldn’t remember when he wasn’t in love with Cara; a pity she knew him too well. Until the Air Corps thing came along she had treated him exactly like Wynn, like a brother. The war certainly held great compensations!
“Plan to be with us, son,” Dean urged. “You can’t stay away from a family party.” And finally breaking through the boy’s stubborn silence: “What makes you dislike Gladys?”
“You like people or you don’t,” came harshly. “You just like them or you can’t.”
“Not you! I never knew you to reach any conclusion without some logical reason.” Then Dean added, to convince himself, “Are you sure it’s not because Gladys has taken your mother’s place?”
A streak of fire shot across Wynn’s eyes; came and went, leaving somber resentment. “Maybe that’s it.”
“No one can take your mother’s place, Wynn. But I’ve been a very lonely man. All the years Pauline was so ill——” He stopped, unable to go on, embarrassed.
Wynn asked suddenly, “You’re satisfied now? You’re happy?”
“Very.” What was the boy driving at? “Come to Rockland with me for the week end. Convince yourself. For my sake—for everybody’s.”
They arrived next day in time for lunch. In the entrance hall, Cara was playing with Red, her sad-eyed spaniel. She plunged over the dog into Wynn’s arms. “You old crab, taking such ages to crawl home!”
Anxiously Dean watched Gladys extend a welcoming hand. “Wynn, this is nice. Thank you for coming.”
Wynn shook hands. Quickly, Dean thought; too quickly.
The meal went along smoothly. They talked about the weather, it looked like snow. Skiing possibly tomorrow. Small talk. With everyone except Cara, forced talk despite attempts at quips and gaiety, and the superficial air of reunion. Every so often Dean caught Wynn’s brooding glance straying toward his stepmother.
Suddenly it hit him with a shock: Can the boy imagine he’s in love with Gladys? Is this pose of dislike camouflage? A youngster might very readily fall for an attractive woman he’s seen day in, day out for years. But no, that was absurd. Wynn would not have been able to hide it. Sometime or other he would have slipped up in word, in look.
“How about skating this afternoon, Wynn?” Gladys asked. “Cara and I tried the lake. It’s perfect.”
“Think I’d rather stay here with Dad. Have to trek back tomorrow. Doesn’t give us much time. But you and Cara go ahead.”
Dean pushed back his chair. “Let’s have coffee in my study.”
The coffee table was placed below the picture window. Dean watched Gladys’s white hands move gracefully among cups and service. Why were her hands always a focal point?
For a while no one spoke. The stillness was restful. It was Cara, feeling none of the strain, Cara whose laughing voice applied the spark to dynamite “Isn’t Gladys a knockout since we acquired her? What do you say, Wynn? Wouldn’t she put Garbo out of business?”
“I’d say she could put any other woman out of business.” There was no enthusiasm in the way he said it. His voice had an edge.
“Praise from Sir Hubert,” Gladys smiled.
“You know we almost didn’t get her,” pursued Cara, her gentian eyes traveling from Gladys to her father. “That sweet old babe-in-the-wood over there didn’t know he was in love until she was all packed to go.”
“What d’you mean—go?” Still that edge to Wynn’s voice.
Hastily, trying to head off an explosion, Dean put in, “That’s all in the past. We’ve got her now.”
“She wouldn’t have gone,” came as if Wynn couldn’t hold it back.
The cool gray eyes of the woman at the coffee table were on him, wide and questioning. She asked softly, “Why do you say that, Wynn? I felt I wasn’t needed here any more. I was ready to go.”
“You had no idea of going,” burst from him. “You were set to stay the rest of your life.”
“Wynn, shut up!” Cara tried to head him off.
But now he couldn’t stop. “You put the screws on Dad. Told him you were quitting so he wouldn’t let you quit. I got wise to it last summer. I got the whole blueprint.”
Gladys was on her feet, hand outstretched as Dean sprang up. “Dean, don’t say anything, please. If he believes that, better have him tell you than hide it. I won’t come between you. I won’t hurt you through him.”
“You’re a selfish cruel beast, Wynn.” Cara took hold of his coat lapels, trying to shake him. “Apologize to Gladys. Tell her you were crazy to say such dreadful things.”
But Gladys was on her way to the door, handkerchief to her eyes. Then the door closed and she was gone.
Wynn loosened his sister’s hands from his coat, gripped them tight. “Wish to God I’d cut my tongue out first!” He turned to Dean helplessly, pathetically. “Sorry, sir. Why did you make me come home? I didn’t want to. It’s too late to make up for what I said. But one thing I can do. Quit for good.”
“No, there’s another thing, son. You can come clean and tell me what’s on your mind. I knew something was wrong. From the day I told you Gladys and I were going to be married, I knew. You’ve got to clear this up.”
Wynn’s fists pressed to his forehead. “I can’t. I’ll get out of your way.”
Cara gave a low cry, “Wynn!”
“You don’t mean that,” Dean hastened to say. “Cara is your twin, part of you, just as you’re both part of me. Nothing has ever come between us. Nothing ever will. I understand why you prefer not to stay here,” Dean added. “Suppose you and I go into town for the night.”
He tried to remember what his reaction would have been at seventeen. Shyness, a false armor, determination not to involve others in his emotions.
When they were settled in a hotel suite, he decid
ed to get in touch with Max Conrick. The boy had tremendous admiration for Max. His ambition had always been to study law, to enter the Conrick office like Ned.
It was a stroke of luck to learn from Max that Ned—Lieutenant Edward Conrick, to be exact—had arrived in town that morning on leave possibly to take the place of Christmas.
Dean sent the boys out to dinner, to be followed by a musical comedy and a night club. He wanted to be with Max alone. They dined in the living room of the suite and he poured out the whole story. “You see the impossible situation. He won’t come home again until we can clear up whatever stumbling block is between him and Gladys.”
“It’s a delicate job,” Max observed. Known in court for his quiet manner that covered piercing shrewdness, Max Conrick had a voice that held affection when he chose. “In the three years Gladys took care of Pauline, did Wynn ever quarrel with her?”
“Never to my knowledge.”
Max hesitated, slow color seeping under his sallow skin. “I hate to ask this, old man, but youngsters of that age are up against mental confusion most of the time——”
“I know what you’re going to ask,” Dean broke in. “Did Wynn ever fancy himself in love with her?”
“Exactly that.”
“No. Wynn and I were close companions from the time his mother became ill. I had his complete confidence. He hates Gladys, Max. It’s bound to smash us—smash Wynn and me.”
“Not that bad,” Max assured him. “We’ll get at causes tonight.”
In the end, it was neither of them who made Wynn talk. It was Ned, who had shared Wynn’s triumphs and defeats since they were kids.
“How was the show?” Max inquired when they came in.
“We didn’t go to a show.” Ned shut the door, backed against it. “We walked the streets after dinner. Fun in a dim-out! I led Wynn to a couple of bars, but he couldn’t get plastered. He hasn’t learned how to forget. It’s an art.”
Wynn dropped in a chair, very pale, lighting a cigarette with a shaky hand. “I’m okay.”
“Go on,” Ned directed. “Give your Dad a square deal. Quit the Spartan-boy pose; quit letting this thing tear your guts out. If you don’t tell him what you told me, I will.”
The Big Book of Reel Murders Page 179
