She had a sure, unhurried way of moving. She managed to be in the right place every time. He saw that her tennis had been worked on. She had a lot of power. She had Bobby’s tongue hanging out. She was a tallish, ginger-headed girl, angular but well-built, and she wore yellow shorts with big, black buttons down the side and a white halter. She kept driving Bob back with a big forehand, then cross-courting him for point after point.
“Who’s the new beast?” Brock asked Clyde, keeping his voice low.
“She’s staying with her mother at one of the cottages. Betty Yost. Pretty hot. She took me six-four, six-one. They’re guests of the Trynors’. California beast.”
“I thought it looked like that brand of ball. Anybody play me?”
They said they were too pooped at the moment.
Bobby pushed one too weak and too high and the ginger-head moved in like a big cat for an overhand kill so hard that the rebound took the ball over the backstop.
“Game and set,” Bob Rawls said. He trudged around and got the ball and tossed it toward the net and then came slowly off the court with the Yost girl. Bob was a tall, thin, wiry boy, sandy-blond, with colorless brows and eyelashes, and at this point he looked sulky. He said hi to Brock, then introduced Betty Yost. Betty sat down and Brock sat down again beside her. Bobby had collapsed beside Norma.
“Who in the world do you usually play with?” Brock asked the new girl. “Billie Jean?”
“She’s way out of my class. I have been on a court with her twice. It’s humiliating. I’m not even good enough to give her a warm-up game.”
Brock noticed that her breathing had quieted quickly. She looked neither warm nor ruffled. When she smiled, she squinted her eyes and wrinkled her nose. The nose was short, and her eyes were big and a funny shade of lavender-blue. He liked the color of them. She had freckles to go with the ginger, blond-red hair, but not a redhead’s complexion. The freckles were darker spots against a smooth, even tan. Her long legs were very, very special, he decided.
“Six-two, six-love,” Bobby said disgustedly.
“Gosh,” Betty Yost said, “I ought to play pretty good tennis. I’ve played all year round since I was about five years old. And it’s a big thing in Southern California. I can swim and play tennis and that’s all. Take Ellen here. She can do both of those and play golf and bowl and ski and ice skate and play basketball and softball.”
“But I don’t do anything really well,” Ellen said.
“Why should you, unless you want to make a living out of it?” Betty asked.
“You could make a living out of tennis,” Clyde said.
“Oh, no! I didn’t work at it hard enough. And I can’t cover enough court. And I guess … I don’t care enough about winning. You have to have a certain psychology about it. It has to be your life.”
Brock sensed that they liked her, accepted her. And that was a bit unusual. The group was usually cold to newcomers. Betty seemed to have an air of maturity that the others didn’t have. He wondered how old she was.
“Want to give me a lesson too?” Brock asked.
She looked at him. “Well, one set.”
They went out and volleyed for a time. She put a surprising amount of weight on the ball. It came over as heavy as a baseball, and his return had a tendency to hang and float when her drives resisted the overspin he tried to put on them. She asked him if he was ready. They volleyed for serve and he won on a fluke that crawled along the tape and dropped in.
He went doggedly after everything. Time after time the game settled into long booming volleys, base-line stuff that was hypnotic. They each held their serve until it was six all, and then she broke through his service and took her own to win the set eight-six. Brock was glad she had consented to only one set. He had played hard. His knees trembled and he had a heel blister and he was soaked with perspiration. It shocked him that he was so out of condition. He tried to control his panting as they came off the court.
“That was fun,” she said. “Let’s play again. Not today though. Six sets is all I can handle.”
“One set is all I can handle, I guess.”
They stretched out on the grass. The other four went out for their usual clown set of mixed doubles.
“I like your sister, Brock,” Betty Yost said.
“She’s a good kid.”
Betty sat up. “I don’t want to sit here all sticky. How about a swim?”
He called out to Bob Rawls. “How’s chances of borrowing swim trunks, Bobby?”
“Number twenty-one. It’s unlocked. Take the red pair, hey?”
“Thanks.” He turned to Betty, standing beside him, tall enough so that the crown of the ginger head was just a shade above the level of his eyes. “See you at the pool, then.”
She headed off toward the cottages on the other side of the club. He watched her go. Slim, straight-backed girl, with a sort of pert, jaunty look about the trim little backside of hers under the yellow denim of her tennis shorts. He saw how it might make a lot of sense. She was fun. No involvement. A lot of exercise. A few laughs. He liked her voice. A nice fuzzy edge to it. He could get in shape, get a tan, have somebody to be with when he was asked to go out with the others. He wondered how long she was staying.
He found the locker and the red trunks. He left his sweaty clothes on a bench, took a fresh towel from the rack outside the shower room and went on out to the pool, highly conscious of his winter whiteness. Small children splashed and bickered at the shallow end of the pool. Some young wives he knew by sight though not by name played bridge at a metal table under a striped umbrella. “Rudy! Stop splashing Marie. You hear me? Joey, you let Sonny have the ball if he wants it. You’ve had it a long time. Rudy, if you don’t behave, you’re going to have to come out of there this minute. Do you hear me? Joey!”
He dropped the towel, padded out on the low board, took two long steps, bounded high, hit the water a bit too flatly. The water made his broken blister sting. He swam two lazy lengths of the pool, avoiding the little kids. He hoisted himself up onto the apron and saw Betty Yost coming. She wore a strapless one-piece suit, a tight, tubular affair in pale blue that looked as if it were made of velvet. She moved just a bit awkwardly as he waved at her and watched her approach. She spread out a big yellow towel, put sunglasses, sun lotion, cigarettes, lighter and magazine beside it, then took a quick run and slanted off the side of the pool. She bobbed up in front of him, hair darkened and pasted to her head, making her look boyish.
“I needed that,” she said.
“Best grade of water, girl.”
“Race?”
“One beating is enough for one day, Betty.”
“Coward!”
“Okay, then. Four lengths?”
She climbed out lithely. “Done.” They started at the deep end, gripping the edge with their toes. She counted. She was in the water with a flat racing dive while he was still in midair. He gained on her all the way down the pool, but her turn was much better, and he was back where he started. He gained on the way back and made a slightly better kick turn. He got to the third turn a few feet ahead of her, but she more than made it up on her return. On the last length, at midpool, she was a shade ahead of him. He used everything he had left, which was not very much, and sensed when he passed her. He hit the end and grasped the edge of the trough, wheezing and gasping.
She was beside him, laughing. “The winnah! Now we try the high hurdles.”
“High hurdles. I can’t even climb out of the pool.”
She eeled her way out and bent over and offered her hand. He took her hand, braced himself, and flipped her over his head into the pool behind him. He scrambled out quickly as she came up, sputtering. He took his towel over and stretched it out beside hers and lay down. She made a face at him and swam by herself for a time, varying her stroke with each length of the pool. He lay with his cheek on the towel, watching her, enjoying the way she looked, the slim, tanned arms reaching up out of the dancing, green water, flashing droplets
in the sun. The sun was drying him, hot on his shoulders.
At last she climbed out of the pool and came over and sat on one of the shabby rubberized pads and dried her hair vigorously with her big, yellow towel. She offered him one of her cigarettes and he took it, leaning forward for the light.
“You’re pretty white, Brock. This sun will cook you.”
“I tan easy.”
“Do you work inside or something?”
“I’m not working. I’m loafing. I … got out of school a while back.”
“You graduated? You don’t look old enough to—–”
“Sophomore year. Where are you in school?”
“Southern Cal. I was in my freshman year. But I dropped out in February.”
“Going to go back?”
She seemed uneasy. “Nothing’s very definite right now, Brock.”
“I think I’ll try a different school in the fall. What have you been doing since February?”
“Traveling, mostly. Daddy died four years ago. We were in Mexico for a while.” Her uneasiness was quite pronounced. She was pouring lotion into the palm of her right hand, unselfconsciously greasing her long legs.
“Hope you’ll be around awhile.”
“I hope so too. Mother gets restless. Here, you better use some of this goo.”
He took the bottle. “Thanks.” The sun had warmed the bottle. The lotion had a sleek texture. He greased his arms and legs and chest and shoulders and began trying to spread it on his back.
She held her hand out for the bottle. “Roll over. Let me.”
He lay on his stomach, cheek on his forearm. She poured lotion on his back, spread it, and rubbed it in vigorously. Her hand felt capable and good. It made him sleepy. He heard the small sound as she recapped the bottle. He sighed. He felt as if he were drifting. There was sun glare off the pool water, bright against his closed eyelids. He moved his hand so that it shaded his eyes.
When Betty Yost awakened him, he didn’t know where he was for a few moments and then realized that he was peering stupidly at her, dazed by sun and sleep.
“That,” she said firmly, “is quite enough sun for you for one day, Brock. A quick swim and then you go get dressed.”
“I must have been exciting company. Why didn’t you roll me into the pool?”
“A kind heart. The others wanted to. Clyde especially. I wouldn’t let him.”
“You’re not sore at me?”
“Why should I be? I guess it was … sort of restful.”
He still felt sheepish. After they took a quick swim and climbed out of the pool, he said, “Have you got a date or anything tonight?”
She looked at him speculatively. “Mother may have something planned. I don’t know. What sort of thing did you want to do?”
“I don’t know. Outdoor movie. Ride around. Eat something at a drive-in. I’m not too money-heavy.” She had kept her hair out of the water on this last swim. He liked the reddish glint of it in the sun.
“Could we make it Dutch?”
“We don’t have to do that. I asked you.”
“I’d rather. Come over to the cottage after you change and I’ll ask Mother. We’re in the second one.”
“I was going to go home like this. The clothes I wore are all damp, and I haven’t fixed up a locker yet this year.”
“Okay, why don’t you walk on over with me right now.”
They walked to the cottage. There was a deck chair in the late afternoon sun. Mrs. Yost took off her sunglasses and smiled in a formal way. She was a long, thin, brown woman with a simian face and black hair cut unbecomingly short. There was only a vague resemblance between mother and daughter.
“Mother, this is Brock Delevan and he’s asked me to go out with him.” Brock was astonished. Her words had come out in a confused rush. She acted ill at ease and years younger. All her quiet poise was gone.
“How nice, dear,” Mrs. Yost said. Her voice was practically a baritone. “I’ve met your sister, Brock. Lovely child. It’s so comforting for Betty to meet some nice young people.” There was a subtle accent on the “young.”
“Mother, I just wondered if—–”
“Don’t just stand there dithering, child. Run in the cottage and bring out more chairs.”
“No, thanks, Mrs. Yost. I want to go back to the house and change. Is it okay if I take Betty out?”
“If you don’t, she is certainly going to have a dull evening. I’m going out to a dinner party. Can’t you see she’s happy as a clam that you asked her?”
“Mother, please!”
“Have I said something wrong again, dear? I want you to have a nice date, dear. A nice gay young uncomplicated date with this nice boy.”
Betty was looking down at her toes. “Please,” she said in a barely audible tone. The tension between them was almost frightening. There were undercurrents of things he did not understand. It made him feel awkward.
He used a voice that was too loud and too cheery. “Well, suppose I stop back in about an hour, Betty. Will that be okay?”
“That will be fine,” she said, glancing at him, her eyes suddenly warm and grateful.
“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Yost.”
“Delighted to meet you, young man. More than I can say.”
He left them there. The anticipation of the date with Betty was partly spoiled by the odd scene. He couldn’t understand what had happened. There was something between them that was not right. And it was tied up, somehow, with Betty’s uneasy manner when he had been asking her about school. He wondered if Ellen would know anything about it.
Chapter Seven
It was three o’clock on Thursday afternoon when Benjamin Delevan sent word that he wanted to see Mr. Quinn Delevan in his office immediately. Ben knew once word was sent that he would have to follow through with it. It was something he did not want to do. Yet there was information he would have to have. Important decisions must be made only when all relevant and obtainable information is in hand. An old rule and a good one.
Irritably, impatiently, he got up from his chair and stood at the window, looking down into the yard. He could see an edge of the loading platform where finished bolts were being hand-trucked into a red express-truck trailer. He remembered mechanically that it would be the rush order for Rochester, going out on time.
“You wanted to see me, Ben?” The voice was hesitant.
“Shut the door and sit down, Quinn.” His voice was heavier than he had intended it to be. When he turned around, he saw a look of nervous alarm fade quickly from his half-brother’s face. He wondered what Quinn had been up to, then decided that it was probably just the urgency of the summons.
“What’s on your mind, Ben?”
Ben sat behind the desk. “I want to talk honestly to you, Quinn. Maybe I never have before. Something totally unexpected has come up.”
“Yes?” The voice and question were guarded.
“This is under your hat. Don’t tell anybody. Bess or anybody. I’ll do any telling that has to be done. One of the big firms in the industry wants this mill. A merger arrangement. A stock exchange, share for share.”
Ben saw the flicker of relief and wondered at it. Quinn rubbed his chin, his eyes puzzled. “I realize that you have to think of all the angles of a thing like this, Ben. I mean it might be advantageous or something, but after all, this place has been in the family for three generations, and we are making a profit. I’d say we were prettty healthy right now. What are the details?”
Ben waited a moment. Then he said softly, “I don’t want to hurt your feelings, Quinn. If I do, it isn’t without reason. I see no reason for giving you any details. You wouldn’t understand them. I don’t need any help in coming to a decision. I’ll make the decision myself. I didn’t call you in here for advice.”
“I resent that, Ben! I resent being told that—–”
Ben went on remorselessly. “I’ll give you some more things to resent, Quinn. If you want to resent them. I’ve never talked this w
ay to you before. I should have, I guess. A long time ago. You’ve been in the place for sixteen … nearly seventeen years, now. You still don’t know what the hell it’s all about. There’s no responsible job I can trust you in. Oh, you know all the technical words and you can use them the way a parrot would use them. You have routine duties that should take you not more than an hour a day. You make them last all day. About once a month you come to me with what you call an idea. Most of those ideas of yours give away the fact that you don’t know the first thing about our operations. I don’t know what you would have been suited for. It certainly wasn’t this business. This business seems to bore you. You’re lazy. Family firms always seem to have one or two around like you. You put on the big-executive act. Outside the gates you’re a big wheel. Maybe you even believe it yourself. I doubt that you do, somehow. Yes, we’re making some money. Because I’ve been carrying this place on my back. You are dead weight. If you’d been able to share the load, we might be making more. You are one of the luxuries the firm supports. Your salary comes right off the top of the net. But useless as you are, you are a factor I have to consider because you are my brother. Without me carrying you, what will become of you? That’s what I have to know.”
Ben paused, realizing that tension had made him go too far, had made him state the truth with a finality that was too ruthless. Quinn was one of the weak ones. There were a lot of them. They were like those little men in parades who carry big banners. Until the banner with its brave paint becomes confused with the man himself. And because the banner is top-heavy, it is very easy to knock it out of unsteady hands.
Quinn stood up and wavered and caught his balance. “You can’t … say things like …” His face was moist chalk.
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