When Emmalynn Remembers

by Jennifer Wilde

  George Reed’s father had been arrested for a heinous crime, and the son believed him innocent. Ever since the murder he had been protesting his father’s innocence, loudly and belligerently, and if he had a chip on his shoulder it was perfectly understandable. I found myself justifying his animosity. Still, at this moment he was a threatening figure standing there with the scowl on his face. He looked dangerous, capable of murder himself, and I stepped back a little, remembering what Boyd Devlon had said.

  “Your amnesia must be very convenient,” George Reed said harshly.

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “There are certain things it would be convenient not to remember. You may be able to fool some of them, but you can’t fool me so easily. You may be very clever, Miss Rogers, but—”

  At that moment Boyd Devlon drove the car around the side of the house and parked it in front. He opened the door and got out slowly, staring at George Reed with an expression almost as menacing as the one Reed himself wore. The two men glared at each other. I could feel the enemity in the air. It was like a strong electrical current charging between the two of them. Boyd stood by the car, his back rigid, his jaw thrust out, and Reed leaned forward a little, tense, ready to hurl himself at his enemy and pummel him with those tight fists. There was another rumble of thunder, nearer this time, and the sky was dark gray. It seemed to stain the earth and rob it of all color.

  The dog leaped down the steps and pranced around its master. It seemed to sense the tension, stopping, growing rigid, whining loudly. I watched the two men in the vague gray light, both so still, both so tense, and it was like a curious black and white photograph of two combatants. A strong wind blew over the water, ruffling their hair.

  “Get out of here, Reed,” Boyd said slowly. His voice was flat.

  “You think you can make me?” Reed retorted. Once again I was reminded of a sullen little boy.

  “I think so,” Boyd said. He moved away from the car, taking a few steps toward Reed. He stopped, took a deep breath and heaved his shoulders. Reed didn’t move but I could see him tighten up, ready to spring. I gave a gasp.

  All that fury was about to explode. Both men were ready to punish and pound. I could almost hear a fuse hissing, burning closer and closer to the stick of dynamite. I was terrified.

  I moved quickly down the steps. I stood between the two men. Both of them ignored me. I was caught in the crosscurrent of animosity. I could feel it radiating from each of them.

  “No, Boyd,” I said.

  “Get out of the way, Emmalynn,” he said gruffly.

  I flushed. I turned to face George Reed.

  “Please,” I said quietly.

  George Reed stared at me for a long second, his dark brown eyes filled with conflicting emotions.

  “Please,” I repeated. He sighed and relaxed, and he shook his head as though to clear it of the rage that had possessed him so thoroughly. He snapped his fingers at the dog and then turned around and walked down the lawn towards the beach, his head held high, his back proud. I knew it had been hard for him to give in like that, particularly to a woman. He walked along the beach, the dog prancing behind him, and soon he was out of sight.

  Boyd was still angry, his handsome face hard. He was wearing his uniform, slender beige pants and a beige jacket that fit tightly about chest and shoulders, brass buttons down the front. He looked like the door man at some chic restaurant. I found the uniform slightly ludicrous under the present circumstances. It would suit Henrietta’s fancy to have him dress like that, turning a proud man into a glamorous toy. I wondered how a man with his obvious assets could submit to what was really a subtle kind of mockery. The Rolls Royce gleamed behind him, gorgeous now with its polish and style.

  “You should have let him handle him,” he said.

  “And what would you have done?”

  “I’d have beaten him to a pulp.”

  “Really? And that would have solved something? You men are always so ready to fight. It must be something in your nature—a craving for violence. I just don’t understand.”

  He didn’t say anything. His face was sullen now, as though he had been cheated out of some anticipated pleasure. I smiled wryly, shaking my head I told him I had to go inside for my purse and would join him in a few minutes. He rubbed his jaw, his eyes lowered. Billie and I went back into the house.

  “I thought they were going to kill each other,” Billie whispered as we walked down the hall.

  “It was all very stupid,” I replied.

  We went into the parlor, where I had left my purse.

  “He’s fantastic,” Billie said. “George Reed, I mean. He’d as soon knock you down as look at you. I’ve never seen anyone so belligerent. I kept asking myself if he was for real. He seemed so larger than life, like he was really shy and sensitive and just pretending to be so rugged.”

  “I got the same impression,” I said.

  “I felt sorry for him, I don’t know why exactly. It must be horrible to know everyone thinks your father did something so hideous and to believe him innocent. I can understand why he’s so fierce, but still—there was something about him—”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know if I can explain it. I was sympathetic, despite his arrogance and animosity, but I got the impression that, well, that he would be quite capable of murder himself.”

  “Did you?”

  “I was actually frightened before Boyd came. I thought Reed was going to come up the steps and tear you limb from limb. Em, what on earth did he mean about your amnesia being ‘convenient’? It was almost as though he suspected you of killing her.”

  “I suppose everyone’s a suspect to him,” I replied casually, picking up my purse and checking to see that everything was inside.

  “You remembered the dog’s name,” she said. “I wonder how you knew it in the first place? The dog came right to you, as though you were an old friend. Reed seemed to know you pretty well, too.”

  “Perhaps he did,” I said vaguely.

  “O, Em, it must be hell not to know. But you remembered—the veil lifting. You’ll start remembering more and more.”

  “That’s what frightens me,” I said.

  We walked down the hall towards the front door. The light outside was getting darker and darker, the sky a drab gray now, black clouds forming. We stepped out on the veranda. Boyd was sitting in the front seat of the Rolls, his arm curled around the steering wheel.

  “It’s gorgeous,” Billie said, indicating the Rolls. “So is Boyd, in that uniform. Why on earth is he wearing it now? It’s just a little out of place, don’t you think?”

  “He seems to think it will help me remember. He always wore the uniform when he drove me on shopping expeditions, he said. Is there anything you want from the store?”

  Billie shook her head. Boyd insisted that I get in the back seat of the car. I felt slightly ill at ease as we drove away. The motor purred with a pleasant hum, and the car smelled of wax and polish. He had cleaned the interior, too, and the red leather was soft and pliant. I stared at the back of his head, unable to think of anything to say. The hair curled about his thick neck in small wisps. The heavy beige cloth of his jacket stretched tightly across his shoulders. We rode in silence, Boyd the proper, subservient chauffeur. It was a role completely out of character with the man as I believed him to be.

  We passed through the wooded area that surrounded the house then drove onto the main road that climbed up from the beach and paralleled it, going beside steep gray cliffs that dropped down to the water’s edge. I watched the white-capped waves crashing against great gray jagged rocks that stood like grotesque bathers in the edge of the water. Plumes of foam spewed up, lashing at the rocks. The scene had a certain barbaric grandeur, but it was somehow depressing. We drove for perhaps two miles then took a side road that wound back down towards the ocean, passing great clumps of dark green shrubbery that seemed to grow out of the face of the rocks that rose up on either si
de of the road.

  “How far is Brighton?” I asked.

  “The city’s about five miles on down the road.”

  “Where are we going now?”

  “It’s a resort area, a little community spread out over the beach for people who can’t afford the more splendid accommodations of the city. Widow Murphy has her store there. It’s about a mile from the house, though we’ve driven twice that far to get there by road.”

  “That’s what Betty told me.”

  “Betty?”

  “The widow’s little girl. I met her this morning.”

  “Did you?” His voice was cool and casual.

  “You know her?” I asked.

  “Is she the kid who’s always snooping around?”

  “Probably. She was in the boathouse this morning. Spying, she said.”

  “What else did she say?”

  “Several things—very interesting. Most of them lies, probably.”

  “I’ve run her off the place a couple of times,” Boyd said. “Once she was hiding in the garage, and one time I caught her trying to break into the house. She’s a nuisance, has no business hanging around like that. It would be so easy for an accident to happen—”

  We completed our descent and drove along a large paved road that ran along the beach. On one side of the road small houses and cottages rose up in tiers over the sloping hill we had just come down. They were brown and gray and pink, and most of them looked deserted now that it was out of season. On the other side of the road there was a flat, sandy beach and dozens of small shops, many closed, painted yellow and brown and gray. Besides the shops there were wharfs and piers with tied-up boats bobbing in the choppy water. There was a deserted swimming area with a tall yellow platform for the lifeguard and an enormous casino with crumbling pink plaster walls and broken windows. It was all scenic and sad, kind of cut-rate Riviera for bank clerks and factory workers who wanted to spend their short vacations by the sea.

  Widow Murphy’s store was situated on a large wharf built out over the water. There were sea shells and fish nets in the front windows, and behind the store there was a large pen area with railing where one could sit in the sun on pleasant days or fish or watch the boats. Boyd parked the Rolls on the crushed shell parking area beside the store. He opened the door for me, nodding politely, his face expressionless. As I went into the store I could see him lounging against the car, the patient chauffeur waiting on his employer. I was rather irritated by his manner. He seemed to be’ mocking me in a subtle kind of way, wearing his uniform, insisting that I ride in the back seat, treating me with a distant coolness that wasn’t at all what I would have expected after this morning.

  There didn’t seem to be anyone in the store. I took one of the pushcarts and began to fill it with various items, moving down the long rows of food displayed in neat stacks. Besides food there were paperback books, a display of sun tan oil with a huge cardboard cut out of a statuesque blonde with improbable brown skin, sea shells, sun hats, beach balls, everything a summer visitor might wish. I had almost finished my shopping when Widow Murphy came out from a room in back. She was a small, thin woman with faded blonde hair and wrinkles about her worried brown eyes. One could read the history of her life in that face with its tightly stretched skin and sharply defined bones. It was a history of hard work and tragedy. One could see that she seldom smiled, forced by necessity into a hard, taciturn mold, and one knew instinctively that she was both honest and severe.

  She stood behind the counter waiting for me to finish my shopping. She nodded once but gave no other sign of recognition. Her dark brown eyes were filled with suspicion, and I felt strangely uncomfortable as I finished a hurried selection. She checked me out without a word. Young Sean came out from the back of the store to sack the groceries and carry them out to the car. She rang the money up on the cash register and gave me my change. I was curiously moved by this grim woman who wasn’t too many years older than I. I wanted to say something comforting to her, but I didn’t know what to say without sounding patronizing. I stepped outside.

  Boyd was still lounging against the Rolls, his arms folded across his chest, his eyes narrowed, watching Betty Murphy talking with great animation to Gordon Stuart, whose car was parked on the other side of the store. I paused, startled to see Gordon here. I was immediately on the defensive, knowing his presence here was no coincidence. Betty was holding something up in her palm, showing it to him, and he bent down to examine it, a smile on his lips. He looked up and saw me. He patted Betty on the head and came over to where I was standing in front of the door.

  “Hello, Emmalynn,” he said casually. “I stopped by the house to see you, and your attractive friend told me you’d left for the store. I thought I’d try to catch you here.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I just want to talk with you for a few minutes.”

  “I’m in a hurry—”

  “Surely you can spare a few minutes,” he replied in that curious voice that was both coarse and silken smooth.

  “Very well,” I said. I wanted to know what Betty had been saying, and I felt a rather wicked satisfaction in having Boyd see me with another man. Gordon smiled faintly, pleased at this easy victory.

  He wrapped his hand around my elbow and led me to the area behind the store. The hard wooden planks extended far out over the water and we could hear it surging below us. I stood at the railing, the wind whipping my hair about my face. The sky was gray, enormous black clouds along the horizon, and the light was dim, everything tinged with gray. I wondered how long it would be before the storm came and unleashed all this fury. Gordon stood beside me. He wore a pair of narrow brown slacks and sportcoat with a subdued pattern of brown and dull gold checks. His tie was dark gold silk, and he smelled of expensive, leathery male cologne. His short steel gray hair was cut in flat, tight locks over his skull. This affluent gloss contrasted with the lean, hard buccaneer’s face with its sharp lines and heavy arched black brows.

  “I notice you were talking with Betty,” I said.

  “An unusual child. Most unusual. Quite precocious.”

  “You think so?”

  “Definitely. She has very unusual habits. She’s quite a talker, too. She told me about meeting you this morning, and she showed me a wooden dog she claims Burt Reed made for her.”

  “Oh?”

  “An interesting child,” he said. “Starved for affection, of course. She was prowling around the car, peering through the windows, and I smiled at her and started a whole flood of conversation. Your beautiful young man seemed quite interested in what she was saying. Of course she was talking loudly enough for him to hear.”

  “I wouldn’t put too much stock in anything she might have said,” I replied. “She’s very imaginative.”

  “So it would seem.” He paused, his eyes studying my face. “I didn’t come here to discuss children,” he said quietly.

  “What did you come for?”

  “I came to apologize for yesterday. I feel I was rude. I’m afraid I may have left an unpleasant impression.”

  “You certainly did,” I replied stiffly.

  Gordon Stuart shook his head slowly, as though in regret. He looked into my eyes, and his own had a hypnotic effect on me. Many years ago I had been a complete slave to his magnetic charm, and I had been hurt. Now I was still fascinated, as one might be fascinated by a cobra.

  “You look extremely attractive with your flushed cheeks and wind-blown hair,” he said. “It’s a shame this is the twentieth century. Two hundred years ago you would have been a king’s prize possession, glorified in furs and velvet.”

  “And you, no doubt, would have been a pirate,” I replied, playing along with him.

  He nodded, smiling. “I would have kidnapped you and taken you off in my ship. I would have beaten you into subjection, and then I would have given you the world. Today, alas, I must humor you and use gentle persuasion in order to get my way.”

  “Very fanciful ta
lk,” I said crisply. “Six years ago I would have been intrigued.”

  “Six years ago I made a dreadful mistake,” Gordon replied. “I hope there’s some way to remedy it.”

  “There’s no way,” I said.

  “Do you hate me so very much?”

  “I feel nothing—one way or the other.”

  “Ah, but you do—” he said smoothly.

  “You think so?”

  “You don’t know yourself—as I know you.”

  His blue eyes turned smoky, the lids drooping seductively at the corners. “We had some nice times back then. Remember?”

  “I try not to think of them.”

  “You were such an eager pupil, and I was a skilled instructor, showing you how to break out of your shell of timidity, showing you how to feel things. You were so incredibly naive, and I was so patient.”

  “And you got what you wanted—money.”

  “Do you think that’s all I was after?”

  “Perhaps you wanted a—a bonus,” I said icily.

  “Had I wanted it, had I really intended to hurt you—”

  “I find this very tiresome, Gordon.”

  “I’ve never been able to forget you, Emmalynn,” he said. “I won’t pretend there haven’t been other women since, several of them, but I’ve never been able to forget those weeks. I’ve often wished to recapture them.”

  “There is no way to do that, Gordon.”

  “There are ways,” he whispered huskily.

  He slid his arm around my waist and pulled me to him. He wrapped his fingers about my chin and raised my face to his. There was a dark glitter in his eyes as his lips moved over mine. He held me loosely, and his mouth pressed and probed and sought some sign of response. He swung me around in his arms, and his hand moved down to my throat, the thumb gently pressing the pulse. It was a long, expert kiss, strangely passionless, calculated to stir the most primitive emotions. There was a tight smile of triumph on his lips when he released me. The smile died slowly when he saw that I had been entirely unmoved.