“I thought you wanted me to kiss you,” he said. “Don’t mix your signals on me next time.”
He got out of the car and walked around to open her door. “Come on. Let’s eat.”
Vergie went with him meekly to the entrance. The interior of the log cabin was arranged and decorated in a delightfully rustic fashion. The floor and walls were of untrimmed logs. Hand-hewn rafters were above. Tables and benches had been fashioned from gnarled roots. The very lamps on the tables were cunningly devised from cocoanut husks, with electric wiring concealed to give a magical effect of amber light springing from no human agency.
Bill selected a table along the wall, and Vergie sat down.
Bill looked at her, and was chagrined by the stricken look on her face.
“Let’s eat, drink and be merry,” he said. “We’ve got off on the wrong foot somehow. But I’ve a feeling that it’ll all come out in the wash. Let’s eat first, and then try to find out exactly why we grate upon each other.”
“Let’s,” Vergie said. She bit her lip as she stared at the menu.
“Let me order,” he suggested. “I’ve eaten here several times, and I know what they do best.”
Vergie agreed. She knew that Bill ordered an elaborate dinner, and she knew that many strange dishes were set before her. Sea foods in various guises, and tropical fruits and vegetables with an exotic savor.
She knew that she ate heartily enough, and smiled at Bill’s persistent pleasantries. Bill ordered a bottle of white wine, and she dutifully drank a glass of that.
She remembered no more than this about the dinner. An untiring, dreadful dialogue was going on within her mind all the time they sat across from each other at the table. Questions to which there were no answers. Answers to un-asked questions.
The vague look of disquiet in her eyes bothered Bill. He tried to pay it no heed. After dinner, he thought, would be time enough to try to reach an understanding.
After dinner! After dinner!
The words were poised before Vergie’s eyes as Bill paid the check. Then she got up and took his arm as they went out into the night. Bill stowed her carefully in the car, got in, and drove away … backward, along the road they had lately come.
Vergie stole side glances at him as he drove. He seemed grimly intent upon the task. Panic crept into her soul and spread to her consciousness.
“Where are we going?”
“To my house,” Bill said.
“Oh!”
They had turned out San Marco Avenue. The red automobile slid along the highway for a little time.
Then there was a sound as of a shot behind them. The car swung to the edge of the pavement. Bill cursed savagely and righted it. He pulled it to a full stop on the side of the road, and got out to appraise the damage.
“A blowout,” he said in disgust.
Vergie leaned out of the car.
“Is it anything bad?” she asked. She had only a faint notion of what a blowout was.
“Bad enough,” Bill grunted. “One tire and tube gone the rocky road to hell. I’ve got a spare, but I hate to get dirty changing it. There’s a filling station about a block away. Suppose you stay here while I walk down and get a man to come back and do the dirty work?”
“All right.” Vergie sat in the car while Bill strode away. It seemed to her that lucid thought processes were totally beyond her power.
She must wait. That was all. Simply wait.
She was waiting when Bill came with a repairman.
“Do you want to get out and stroll around a bit while he changes it?” Bill asked. “There’s a park down here a block or so, I think. Isn’t there?” he addressed the man who was adjusting his jack.
“Yeh.” The man spat and jerked his thumb to the right. “Fountain of Youth Park’s right down thataway two blocks.”
They came to the park after a little time. The moon was high overhead, and it was very quiet here. Very serene and very beautiful. Venerable oaks and magnolia trees lent an air of dignity to the riotous beauty of the shrubbery and vines.
Bill coughed uneasily as they turned into the park. “This is supposed to be the place where some Spaniard landed on his search for the fountain of youth,” he said uncertainly. “I’ve forgotten the old geezer’s name.”
“Don Juan Ponce de Leon,” Vergie murmured. “Historians agree he landed here in 1513. Here or very near this spot.” She touched Bill’s arm. “Can’t you just see it? A galleon riding at anchor there. The trackless jungle here. The brave adventures coming ashore to continue their ceaseless search, and discovering a spring here. There was a spring, I think,” she added doubtfully.
Bill grinned down at her. “I think there was,” he said, “and unless I’m mistaken they’ve got it fixed up now into a fountain so you can get a drink if you want to.”
“Doesn’t it thrill you?” Vergie asked him. “Doesn’t it give you a feeling of partaking in a sort of climax to a glorious adventure? These paths we’re treading … they may have trod!”
Bill looked at her with amusement. “You eat up that sort of stuff, don’t you? I can’t imagine you as a romanticist.”
They were moving slowly side by side. Vergie glanced up and the moonlight was full upon her face. All Bill saw was the reflection of the moonlight upon her glasses.
“Why don’t you take those things off? he asked. “God knows you don’t need to keep up your disguise out here in the park alone with me at night. I don’t believe there’s another soul within blocks of here. Jerk the cheaters, and give me a break.”
Vergie took off her glasses without a word. But she kept her head lowered. They were traversing a very narrow path. It wandered about and seemed to lead nowhere.
Something joined their souls in harmony as they walked together.
Bill felt a fleeting sense of utter contentment. The moment was fraught with mysterious power which clutched at them and whispered into their ears with stilled tones.
Vergie felt that she treaded a ray of golden light. She was led blindly onward, to what end she did not know.
Bill groped for her hand in the semi-darkness, and she gave it to him trustfully.
Thus they came, together, to the fountain of Immortal Youth.
Neithe spoke lest the witchery of the moment be shattered.
Words! Of what use were words? A closer communion than speech could bring hung between them as a tenuous thread.
Vergie drank from the fountain while Bill stood erect and gazed at her.
Then he drank. Vergie had turned away from him when he looked at her again. Her head was uplifted and she gazed out to sea. It seemed to Bill that she listened for a voice which did not come. The impression was so strong that he listened too.
Then he shook himself free from the spell and stepped close behind her. She strained back against him while an eternity sped by. Then another second.
Matters adjusted themselves. Neither was conscious of exercising volition to the slightest degree.
Her body turned somehow and their lips met. Her back was bent like a bow as maidenly reserve fled before the lifting of the barrier.
Bill was conscious of nothing save the sweetness of her offered lips, and the glory of the moonlight upon her eyes.
A hoarse call came to them from out of the night.
Bill released her gently.
“The tire’s fixed,” he said. “Let’s go to my shack.”
His arm was about her waist, and Vergie leaned her weight upon it trustfully as they went back to the car.
Perhaps … at Bill’s shack … he would know how to recapture the delectable rapture she had glimpsed.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
WINE OF DESIRE
“This,” Bill said as he opened the front door for her, “is Journey’s End.”
Vergie entered the dark room cautiously. Bill followed her and groped for a lamp cord.
“There aren’t any switches,” he explained as light glowed from beneath the shade. “I just finished the wir
ing myself,” he went on with pardonable pride. “All the wires are running around in the open, and you may get electrocuted. Otherwise I call it a pretty swell job.”
Vergie stood in the center of the room and gazed about at the same objects that had witnessed the strip poker game two nights previously. Dark shadows along the walls, and an exquisite sense of close intimacy.
Bill smiled as he moved the floor lamp so it cast its light upon one end of the old couch.
“Looks rather dismal, doesn’t it? Hardly a penthouse. Heat in a hovel, rather than passion in a penthouse. And there’s a good title for you,” he went on laughingly. “Who knows? Maybe you can glorify my dump in your next book. Heat In A Hovel,” he repeated slowly. “Not half bad for a title.”
Bill sat down on the lounge and patted the cushion by his side. “It doesn’t cost any more to sit down,” he suggested.
Vergie had turned and was gazing at a decrepit bookcase which sat along the wall behind the lamp.
Bill laughed as he followed her gaze. “You’re like all the rest of them,” he gibed. “A regular postman’s holiday. I’ve never seen a writer enter a room without searching about for a bookcase the first thing. That’s my own private collection of favorites. You’ll find Elixir Of Sin there if you’re interested.”
“I’ve read somewhere that the surest and quickest way to understand a man is to find out what books he reads,” Vergie murmured.
She moved to, stand in front of the bookcase and scanned the volumes while Bill leaned back and lit a cigarette.
“I agree with whoever said that,” Bill told her seriously. “Go to it. I’m not ashamed of what you’ll find out about me by checking over my literary tastes.”
“I see a lot of Conrad,” she said. “And a number of names I don’t know. Hunecker, Huysmans, Machen … I see you like Swinnerton and Galsworthy. And Willa Cather. Your tastes are certainly varied. And poetry! Volumes of it.”
“Here,” Bill protested. “Don’t get any false ideas about my leanings toward poetry.” He reached over and stretched out a long arm to pluck a slim volume from the case. It was battered and well-worn.
“I do like poetry,” he confessed. “When it says something. Nothing pale and anaemic though. Sit yourself down, and I’ll read you my idea of poetry.”
Vergie sat down on the edge of the lounge while Bill thumbed through the book.
“I don’t suppose you ever heard of this bird,” he grunted. “J. U. Nicolson. He calls this book ‘King of the Black Isles.’ Here, here’s a swell line:
Oh, bitter, brief, bright ecstasies that tire
Or ever their words are said between love’s breath!
What do you think of that?”
There was a little silence. Vergie shivered. Bill relit his cold cigarette thoughtfully.
“‘Bitter, brief, bright ecstasies that tire …’” he repeated. “Has it ever been said more perfectly?”
“And is that … love?” Vergie’s breast was heaving passionately. She took off her glasses irresolutely. Bill saw that her hand was trembling.
“Who knows?” Bill asked. “The best part of love, perhaps. Perhaps all of love. Certainly it is all we can be sure of.”
“Who can say about love?” Bill said slowly. “God knows, I can’t. Thirty-two years have taught me I know nothing about it. Passion, desire? Surely. Are they all of love … or only part of it?”
Bill laid the book aside thoughtfully and lit another cigarette.
“Only of things past can wise men say,” he quoted. “That’s all the answer there is. No one knows until he tries it. I don’t know. Judging from my past, I’d say love is simply a myth. A hoax. A will-o’-the-wisp that leads men on to passion and finally to despair. A means of justification for actions we normally consider unconventional and wrong.”
“Is that all there is?” Vergie’s voice was troubled.
“Need there be more?” Bill turned to her. Her head lay back against the lounge, and her breasts rose and fell in time with her quick breathing.
Bill kissed her firmly on the mouth.
“You are lovely,” he said. “And altogether desirable.”
Bill stopped kissing her and drew back in bewilderment. Her apathetic acceptance baffled him.
“Let’s get things straight,” he said. “Do you, or don’t you want me to make love to you?”
“Does what I want … matter?” She looked at him.
“It certainly does.” Bill got up and strode across the room. He turned about to stare at her from a safe distance.
“You’re the damnedest enigma I ever met,” he said. “Don’t think I’m going to try and rape you … nor yet seduce you.”
There was a demijohn of Bacardi on the table. He uncorked it and drank from it. Then he held it out toward her.
“Have a drink?”
“No.” She grimaced.
“You don’t need to make a face about it,” Bill growled. “It’s damned good Bacardi. Direct from Cuba. Sixteen fifty per jug.” He set the jug with its wicker covering back on the table and moved to stand before her.
“Look at me,” he commanded.
Vergie raised troubled eyes to him.
“What the devil is it all about? I warned you this morning that I’m not a satyr, nor am I a mincing fop. Is it a new sensation to meet a man who doesn’t get down on his knees and beg for something you want to give him? Or don’t you want to go to bed with me? And if you don’t, why the devil did you kiss me as you did in the park?”
“I … I don’t know,” Vergie faltered.
“Don’t know what?” Bill demanded. “Don’t know whether you want to go to bed with me? Or don’t know why you kissed me as you did?”
“Neither,” Vergie confessed.
“Good God! For an enlightened and emancipated female, you certainly seem to lack the gift of self-analysis.”
“Please! Please don’t.”
“I’m sorry,” Bill said. “I simply thought you’d want to discuss the matter that way. From what l’ve read of your stuff, I thought you’d go straight to a decision without bothering with isms and silly posturings.”
“Please,” Vergie said again. “I’ve never written anything,” she said with determination. “I’m not Valerie Ware. I’ve told you so all the time.”
“I know. And I still don’t understand why you keep up the farce.”
Vergie’s lips began to quiver. Bill stared at her for a moment, then he stepped to the lamp and pulled the cord. The room was plunged into darkness. He sat beside her.
“Okay,” he said, “We’ll let it go at that. Damned if I know what to think now. But what does it matter? If you are Valerie Ware, you’re playing me for a fool. All right. So be it. It won’t be the first time Bill Porter is a candidate for the dunce’s cap. If you’re Vergie Whidby, as you insist, then I’d be a bigger fool if I went on and treated you as though you were the author of Penthouse Passion et al. I’ll choose the first course, and act accordingly.”
Bill slipped his arm about her shoulders, and Vergie stopped trying to think as he gently moved her so her shoulders rested on his lap, her eyes staring up toward him unblinkingly in the darkness.
“This,” Bill said, “is an approved position. At least, it merits my approval.”
There was furious drumming in Vergie’s ears as Bill leaned down to kiss her. Liberated desire pounded through her body for a terrible instant.
Fire racing through her veins and flaming through her flesh. Her arm went about his neck and she kissed him as only a love-starved woman of thirty could kiss.
Bill sensed this as her body began to writhe. He was inexplicably shaken by the sudden understanding. He wanted to cry a halt. To draw away and take stock of emotions. To weigh matters before going any further. But the madness was upon him. The darkness and Vergie’s panting desire.
She moaned as he crushed his lips upon her neck. He heard the whispered words: “I love you. Oh, I love you, love you, love you, love you …”
Something snapped inside of Bill. The whispered words touched a mysterious well-spring of decency within him. He set his teeth together grimly and raised his head. Then he exercised a supreme effort of will, and withdrew his hand from its contact with her. He lifted her shoulders and let her slide to the couch. He arose and turned on the lamp.
His face was hard as he gazed at her. Hard, and white, and strained. The little muscles stood out in his checks, and he was trembling.
Vergie lay upon the lounge with arms outflung. She gazed at him blankly.
“Sorry,” said Bill. “I didn’t know love was going to enter into it.”
Vergie sat up. The lustre had vanished from her eyes, and the color from her cheeks.
“You see how it is?” Bill faltered. “I can’t … can’t let you love me. For I can’t offer you love in return. I don’t know what it is. I’m afraid of it. I’m afraid of your love. I’ve lived too many years to close my eyes to the devastation love invariably brings. You … see?”
“I see,” said Vergie. She arose and smoothed her dress.
“Sorry,” Bill faltered.
“I’m not.” Her smile was luminous. “You’re very nice to … to tell me the truth.”
“Please understand,” Bill pleaded. “You don’t love me, of course. Not now. You might kid yourself into thinking you do. That’d be just as bad. I’m not worth it. There’s something left out of my make-up. I don’t want to be loved. I’m afraid of it. Afraid of the consequences.” He gave a wry smile. “You’re swell to take it like this.”
“Will you take me home?” Vergie asked.
“Of course.” Bill took her arm and they walked to the car.
“I suppose you think I’m pretty much of a fool,” Bill muttered as he drove toward St. Augustine.
Vergie didn’t reply. Bill thought she was angered. She wasn’t. She was discouraged. She had loved Bill for a moment. Now, he simply didn’t matter. Nothing mattered now.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
BEACH PARTY
“Now Dad, what does this mean?” Nip looked very angry as she stormed into his office the next day soon after the first edition of the Daily Argus had appeared on the street.
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