Sincerely, Willis Wayde

by John P. Marquand

“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.

  “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 d
on’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.”