A Kiss Before Loving

by Mack Reynolds

  He gave it up and looked at her. Felicity Patterson, the poor little rich girl. The daughter of the bootlegger who, for all her charm and looks, had no luck with her men. Certainly, she’d never gotten any real love from them.

  Well, she was probably right. This time she was playing it smart. She wasn’t marrying for love, but for security and position — for herself and her child. How had she introduced Mike the other night? As a viscount. Shell supposed that would immediately make her Lady Brett-James when she married the Britisher. He could see her going back to Palm City, or wherever it was she was from, after a year or two. Lady Brett-James. He had no idea what the better element in Palm City might be like, but he had a suspicion that, like many Americans, they were highly impressed by a title.

  And Sissy’s love life? Inwardly, Shell shrugged. He imagined that after a time she’d take a lover. It seemed hardly likely that Mike would perform very well in that department, considering his inclinations. Yes, she’d probably take a lover, and when she tired of him, another, and eventually another. But if real love passed her by, at least she’d have what she’d yearned for all her life. Security and position, and a man who hadn’t married her for the Patterson fortune.

  The fact that he, Shell Halliday, was in love with her was beside the point. If he told her so, tried to convince her that they could make a go of it, what would she think? One more guy on the make. One more man interested in her money, rather than in Sissy Patterson herself.

  The coke came and she sipped at it and made a face.

  Shell had to laugh.

  “Not very strong, is it?” Sissy said, the sides of her mouth drooping.

  Actually, she had been evaluating him, too.

  In the couple of weeks Sissy had known the easygoing Shell Halliday, she’d formed more than a passing affection for him, and it wasn’t only because he was a superior bed companion, one who lived up to her highest demands. There was something in him that offered to the real Sissy more than any man she could remember.

  Possibly, it was because Shell made no bones about his way of life. Her husbands had both been phonies, pretending in the early relationship with her that her money made no difference to them. And then, once married, proving that it made all the difference, that it was the real and only thing that counted.

  She’d never considered a permanent relationship with Shell, not until that night at Maggie’s studio when they’d both been struck by the sudden and powerful awareness of the feeling they had for each other.

  And yet, had that sudden welling up of feeling been genuine? Wasn’t it merely the after effects of an extremely satisfactory sexual experience?

  Did she, or could she, love Shell? Of course. But to what end? Suppose they were married. Immediately, support would fall upon her. They’d live high — on her money. And, finally, what would that lead to? A stepfather Bunny would love and respect? Security and a good home life? No. Never. Eventually, the spontaneity of love, which comes in its first flowering, would fall away and would leave a Shell who knew he was living off a woman, and a Sissy who would know her husband was a parasite.

  There was simply no future for them.

  Shell said, “So you’re going to marry Mike and take off for castles in Scotland and country estates in Ireland.”

  “That’s right.” She grinned suddenly. “Can’t you just see me, driving the dogcart into town? — the tenants and the locals tipping their hats as I pass?”

  Shell twisted his mouth wryly. “I hope it all works out for you, Sissy.”

  “It will,” she said in determination. “I’ll make it work out.” She darted a quick look at her watch and came suddenly to her feet. “I’m going to have to run, Shell. We’re leaving shortly. Good luck to you and … Connie.”

  He didn’t bother to tell her about Connie. He stood, too, and held out his hand for a firm shake. “Look, Sissy, you’re very high in my books. The highest. I — ”

  He came to a halt, unable to continue. Then he said, “I wish there could have been something more.”

  She looked full into his eyes. “I know what you mean. Frankly, I feel the same.” She squeezed his hand. “Good luck, Shell.” She turned quickly and hurried off, the heels of her shoes going flick, flick, flick.

  Shell had no way of knowing that she was crying.

  He sat down again and gestured to Maurice for another drink. There went the girl who, though he’d known her for less than two weeks, had meant more to him than any other he could think of — even Connie. Well, so it went.

  Dave Shepherd frisked into the chair Sissy had just vacated. He touched Shell on the arm with a fluttering hand. “My dear boy, what a lovely party.”

  “Hello, Dave,” Shell said. “Glad you liked it.” He would rather have remained alone in this last hour or so in his old haunts, but there was no way of running Dave off without being openly insulting.

  “Wasn’t that Miss Patterson I just saw?” Dave lisped.

  “That’s right. Tells me she’s off to London this afternoon. She and Mike Brett-James are going to be married.”

  “Do tell. Then that announcement she made at the party wasn’t just spoofing? My dear, so many people are going to be utterly flabbergasted.”

  Shell said idly, “Well, Sissy’s been through it before. Is this Mike’s first marriage?”

  “Of course,” Dave simpered, as though vastly amused.

  “It’s not as unbelievable as all that,” Shell insisted. “What with his titles and all, Mike must be considered quite an eligible bachelor. I’m surprised he lasted this long.”

  The little homosexual tittered. “My dear boy, you’re such an innocent. Over here, they’ve learned that a title means very little indeed, by itself. Of course, we Americans are so silly about it. When one of our heiresses decides to marry into Continental aristocracy they make no effort to check behind the façade.”

  Thus far, Shell had been listening without undue concentration. Conversation with Dave Shepherd didn’t call for much in the way of attention — it was strictly froth. But something touched him here.

  Shell scowled. “What’s that got to do with Mike Brett-James? You seemed to suggest that he isn’t exactly the richest man in the world,” Shell primed.

  “Richest! My dear, he hasn’t a shilling to his name.”

  Shell stared at him. “Are you skidding ‘round the bend? His family goes back practically to the cave men. Castles in Scotland, estates in Ireland, all that sort of stuff.”

  “Oh, don’t be ridiculous, dear boy. Do you want a castle in Scotland? What in the world would you do with it? Heavens, I know of three or four you could pick up for paying the back taxes.”

  “But the big estate in Ireland? Big as a cattle ranch.”

  “Why the Brett-James family doesn’t sell that white elephant is a mystery to me.” Dave shrugged in his inimitable feminine way. “Probably because they can’t find anyone silly enough to buy it. Be your age, Shell dear, castles and country estates are a drug on the market in the British Isles these days. Nobody can afford to keep them up.”

  “Hi-i-i.” Shell let air out of his lungs, realization coming to him. “So Mike hasn’t much in the way of money, eh?”

  “Shell, dear, I shouldn’t be talking like this, I really shouldn’t, but, you know, Mike is rather a bitch. Frankly, he’s just as gay as I am, and that’s why the family pays him a small remittance to keep out of England.”

  “Remittance!”

  “And much too small, believe me.” Dave raised his eyebrows and smirked. “Why, Mike is always spending his allowance the first fortnight of the month. Do you know where he’s been staying this past week?”

  Shell shook his head numbly.

  “Well, my dear boy, he’s been living with me.”

  “Holy Smoke,” Shell said.

  Dave said, misinterpreting the other’s attitude, “You don’t believe me, do you? Well, my dear, let me show you some proof. I found this — ” He brought a crumpled letter from an in
ner pocket and handed it to Shell. “ — in my wastebasket, just yesterday. From the earl. You know, Mike’s uncle. A title that goes — ”

  Shell took the letter, turned Dave’s voice off, and read. It was on the brief side, but complete. The stationery was crested and ultra-heavy; there was no doubt about authenticity. Evidently, the Brett-James family were delighted with the fact that Michael had met a generous American heiress. Respectably married, there was no reason in the world why dear Michael couldn’t return to England. Perhaps, with new financial status, it would be possible to open up the family house in Essex, and everyone could move in.

  Shell was on his feet. He hadn’t even bothered to finish the note Mike’s uncle had written. He had enough.

  “See you, Dave,” he clipped. He tossed a bill to the table even as he began swivel-hipping his way through the chairs to the sidewalk. “Pay my check for me, will you?” he called over his shoulder.

  The cab banged up the Avenue de l’Opéra to Casanova and then skidded left and into the Place Vendome and before the Ritz. Shell tossed money into the driver’s lap, muttered for him to donate the change to the Crippled Driver’s Fund and dashed for the door.

  He remembered her room number. How could he forget?

  Shell barged into the room. Mike Brett-James was helping Sissy into her light coat.

  Mike looked up and frowned superciliously. “I say, you have a nerve, coming here after the other evening.”

  Sissy said, puzzled, “Shell! I thought … well, we said our good-byes.”

  Shell closed the door. “Not exactly,” he said to Sissy. He turned to Brett-James. “Let’s see the contents of your wallet, Mike, dear boy.”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  Grinning without humor, Shell stepped quickly forward toward the Englishman, who began to retreat in trepidation.

  Shell’s foot suddenly lashed out and the tip of his shoe connected with Mike’s shinbone. The Englishman howled and stooped to clasp it, hopping on one foot in anguish.

  “Shell!” Sissy snapped angrily. “What …?”

  Mercilessly, Shell made with what amounted to an uppercut. He could feel nose cartilage yield. Mike, his voice keening a womanlike scream, fell back into a sitting position, his hands to his face now.

  Shell had noticed before that the Britisher kept his wallet in his inner coat pocket, rather than on his hip. He stepped forward quickly now, grabbed the other by a lapel, pulled the coat back, and darted a hand in for the pocketbook.

  Sissy was wide-eyed. On the face of it, this was straight robbery. Shell was obviously a candidate for the pressure cooker. She didn’t know whether to scream, or to make a rush for the phone.

  Shell was before her, a wad of money in his hand. “Look, look at this! Recognize it? Francs, pounds, dollars, pesetas. What would this jerk be doing with dollars? How much money did you lose out of your purse, there at the party?”

  Her face had gone blank. She took the money Shell held and stared down at it. “But, Mike,” she said. “You changed your pesetas at the Spanish-French border, at Port Bou. All of them. I kept ten thousand, thinking I’d be going back to Spain. This is exactly ten thousand.”

  Mike began blubbering. His nose was bleeding profusely. “You’ve broken it!” he wailed at Shell.

  “I hope so, this time,” Shell growled. He spun back to Sissy again. “Look at this letter from the jerk’s uncle. Mike’s a remittance man, Sissy. They pay him to stay out of England because he louses up the family reputation. He’s as queer as chicken … I mean as a purple cow.”

  Mike had managed to get to his feet. “Oh, I am not, you cad,” he said, his voice high as he dabbed at his nose.

  Sissy was regarding him in realization. “Good Heavens, he is, isn’t he?” she said. “I wondered why he was so milk-fed in the clinches. I thought maybe he’d warm up after the marriage.” She scanned the letter, scowling now.

  Shell snapped to Mike, “Beat it, Buster. Sissy and I have important things to discuss.”

  Shell took him by the arm and hustled him through the door, closing it behind him.

  Sissy, hands on hips, was glaring at him. “Good Heavens,” she said. “You’re awfully uppity.”

  He approached her, took her two arms in his hands. “Had to be,” he grinned. “The cavalry coming to the rescue, that sort of thing. That guy was just one more customer trying to get next to your money. Now look, I just got a job. A pretty good one, and it’ll be better. I’ll tell you about it later. Meanwhile, you’re going to marry me.”

  “I certainly am not.” Her lip began to tremble. “I … it’s impossible that Mike’s a fake.”

  “No, it isn’t. I’ll prove it to you later. No time now. He’s queer, too, like I said. Even made a pass at me once. But …” He shook her earnestly. “… that’s not important now. What’s important is that I’m in love with you. And you’re a spoiled brat with too much money, and you know what we’re going to do with that fortune you inherited from your old man?”

  At the mention of her money, some of the shine went out of Sissy’s eyes. “No … what?” she said wearily.

  “We’re going to put it in a trust fund for Bunny, for when she’s of age. You and I aren’t going to touch it. We’re going to live on my earnings, which means you’re going to have to learn to cook and such, my fine woman.”

  “Good Heavens … we are?”

  “Yes. And Bunny’s going to be raised like an American kid and she’s going to go to American schools. And if she is ever considered a lady, it’ll be because of her own sweet self and because you and I have raised her to be one. Not because of some phony title handed down from the Dark Ages.”

  “Good Heavens,” Sissy said.

  “Now then,” Shell snapped. “Is this what you want?”

  “Good Heavens, yes.”

  The End

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  Text Copyright © 1961 by Mack Reynolds

  Cover Art, Design, and Layout Copyright © 2013 by F+W Media, Inc.

  All rights reserved.

  Cover image(s) © 123rf.com

  Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN 10: 1-4405-6314-4

  ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-6314-0

  eISBN 10: 1-4405-6313-6

  eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-6313-3