“Sit down again, please. Be sensible. Let’s thresh out this matter of your aversion to Bill Damon and get it behind us. I’d like to be friends. Believe it or not, I’ve seen enough fighting to last the rest of my life.”
After an instant of hesitation she sank to the beach. He dropped down beside her and clasped his brown hands about his knees. Her eyes were on her fingers, through which she sifted sand.
“This is a lot more comfortable,” he approved. “Now that the smoke of battle has cleared, I can see no reason why you and I should be enemies, even if you detest the man whom I am here to represent. I can’t make a move till I know your side of it. First, having decided it was wise to contract the marriage, why dissolve it? You and Ken still hold the property.”
“Apparently Ella Crane omitted the fact that the ardent bridegroom has not been interested to return to this country and take his share of the business load.”
“Maybe he realized that you were under emotional pressure, that as nothing could be done about your freedom till the property was settled, he was giving you a clear uncontested plea of separation. The three years since the signing of the marriage contract were up a week ago, weren’t they? Looks to me as if he has given you a chance to make a watertight case by keeping away.”
“‘Want to know something?’ That’s a quote — I can’t think of him as being so understanding. Mr. Armstrong told me yesterday that Ken Stewart is as eager to have that marriage annulled as I am.”
“Who is Mr. Armstrong?”
“My legal adviser.”
“The proxy?”
“Good heavens, no. There wasn’t a proxy. The deed was done by signed contracts.” Her mouth widened in a smile. “Tom Slade who was in the office of the lawyer who represented Father’s interests is tall, slender, lithe, blond and terribly good-looking. The New York-Maine lawyer is broad and short and ruddy. Understanding, though.”
“How did he know the sentiments of the indifferent husband?”
“They have corresponded. Counselor Armstrong — as he is called here — showed me a letter yesterday in which Kenniston Stewart reiterated his eagerness to dissolve the tie that binds.” She hummed the last words to the tune of the hymn.
“You don’t believe in the inviolability of contracts, do you?”
“It would be rank sentimentality if I believed in the inviolability of this one. I go through a form of marriage to save Father’s business, the son of another man agrees to co-operate to save his, naturally, as he had advanced the capital to make that same business possible. After the contracts are signed, sealed and delivered, Tom Slade slips a ring provided by the distant groom’s father on my finger, orates theatrically, ‘With this ring —’ I stopped his quote right there — and the deed was done.”
“Where is it now?”
“The ring? In the safe in my workroom.”
“Why aren’t you wearing it? You are still Mrs. Stewart.”
“I’ve worn it for three years. I’ll so soon be free, I’ve shed it except for formal occasions. And now for the soap-opera touch. After all the scheming of the two fathers, the messing up of the lives of their children, there is the possibility that the holdings will be sold for a song because of faulty registration of patents and leases, but of course, Ken Stewart has briefed you on that. You’re here as his deputy.”
“Who discovered they are faulty?”
“The parties who wanted to buy.”
“You said that Counselor Armstrong has been corresponding with your husband recently?”
“My husband? Your mistake, there isn’t such a person.”
“This marriage is a joke to you, isn’t it?”
“And why not? A girl and man who never had met make a mariage de convenance. It is no longer a necessity. In fact the groom had intimated he is interested elsewhere.”
“Could it be possible that you are also?”
“Not only possible but probable.”
“You are a hard-boiled female.”
Her brown eyes widened in amazement.
“Why should I pretend affection for a man with whom I put through a business deal because of a passionate desire to ease the mind of my father who, I knew, hadn’t long to live? Not for a minute. I’ll save that for the one I love.”
“Tom Slade or a man named Harding?”
“What do you know about him?”
“I had quite a visit with the talkative Ella.”
“That, mon brave, ends the Information Please quiz. Good-by and I mean good-by.” He caught her hand and held it so that she couldn’t rise.
“Just a minute. You can’t give me the brush-off. I’ve fallen hard for this village. I intend to remain here until I’ve finished my book — and Ken Stewart’s business. I’m here to represent him. I can make the going rough for you. I hold the power of attorney. Better be good. I will phone for an appointment with your lawyer for this afternoon to present my credentials.”
“He’s away. He has gone to check on the oil property. He won’t be back for a week.”
“Too bad, it postpones your freedom just so much longer. I’m glad he is looking over the holdings. He will be able to understand my figures. I have been deputed by Stewart to make sure your interests are protected in the sale, if there is one, so there will be no chance of unpleasant repercussions —”
“No chance that I may sue him, you mean.”
“That is unfair. You want the annulment to go through without a flaw, don’t you?”
“Since my talk with Counselor Armstrong yesterday, I want it more than ever.”
“Good. Meantime, can’t we be friends? There will be many matters of business to discuss. I would be mighty uncomfortable to feel that you hated me.”
“I don’t hate you. Work fast to get me free and you’ll be my dreamboat.”
“Thanks for the smile. With the aforementioned incentive your affairs will have my immediate and undivided attention. Ella Crane told me that THE PROXY in capital letters is expected here. Right?”
“Haven’t I made you understand that there wasn’t a proxy? My word, you won’t drag in Tom Slade as my reason for wanting the divorce, will you?”
“Certainly not, it is a clear case of desertion, though I think a situation like yours and Ken’s is called separation. I wish you would stop talking about divorce, you are after an annulment. We’ll take up that after we settle the business. I went over the Clinton-Stewart oil holdings before I came here. No flaw in the leases. The registration of the patents is unimpeachable. I threshed out that matter with the Court. My mind is stuffed with figures and facts.”
“What is he like?”
“Who? The Court?”
“Kenniston Stewart, of course.” She became intent on the flow of sand between her fingers. “Has he — does he — do people know he is married?”
“You switched subjects so fast I lost my bearings. Know? That’s the funniest question I ever heard.” His spontaneous laugh deepened the color in her cheeks. “You don’t think that a marriage by proxy —”
“By written contract.”
“Written contract, could hide its light under a bushel, do you? The families of officers had just begun to come over when the news broke and did the wives eat it up. ‘So romantic,’ they agreed over the teacups.”
“Does he — does he act like a man who is married?”
“Now just what do you mean by that? He wears the ring you sent him on —”
“I never sent him a ring.”
“He thinks you did. I wonder if his father provided a ring for him as he did for you — poor old fella — trying to inject some sentiment into the cut-and-dried arrangement? Next question in your What-is-he-like quiz.”
“You think this situation is a huge joke, don’t you?”
“I do not think it a huge joke. Neither does Ken Stewart. I wish you took it as seriously as he does. Just what more do you want to know about him?”
“Is — is he — wild? That’s a terribly old-
fashioned word, I got it from Dad.”
“If you mean by ‘wild’ does he drink? He doesn’t. He cut out that entirely when he began to fly. Gambling doesn’t interest either of us.”
“Does he — does he take out girls? Does he appear to be terribly in love with someone?”
“Cinderella Clinton — Stewart, he and I have been on the same job for weeks and months and years. There has been no time for either of us to be ‘terribly in love.’ You don’t realize —”
“Hi, Cindy!” She sprang to her feet in response to the voice.
A fair-haired, hatless man in gray flannels followed his hail as fast as he could make it with his feet sinking into the sand at every impetuous step. He caught the girl’s hands eagerly extended.
“You’re terrific in that white swim suit, lovely. The three years are up and here I am.” His jubilant smile changed to a scowl as he became aware of the bronzed man in the plaid beach robe standing beside her. “Who’s your friend?”
Cindy glanced up into the keen eyes intently watching her. Something in them sent the color in a pink tide to her hair, caught at her breath. She put her hand to her throat as if to relieve the tightness.
“He isn’t my friend. He claims he is here as my almost ex-husband Kenniston Stewart’s trusted adviser. He has put on a good act but not quite good enough. I’m wondering. Let’s go, Tom.” She linked her arm in Slade’s and with a flippant nod to the man regarding her with inscrutable eyes took a step forward.
“Just a minute!” She stopped at the sharp command. “A few moments ago you declared I was Bill Damon. Now you intimate I am someone else. Better hop off the fence and decide who I am. It will make a heap of difference in your future. Good morning.”
She watched him as he strode toward the bathhouse before she turned puzzled eyes to Slade.
“Now I am mixed up. Who do you think he is, Tom?”
“How would I know? Never laid eyes on the fella till a minute ago. If you ask me, I’ll bet he’s a guy horning in for a take when the oil property is sold, like one of those five-per-centers being front-paged in Washington. Jupiter, why the heck are we spending a minute on him? Hustle into some clothes and we’ll go somewhere and celebrate.”
Cindy hustled. Inside the bathhouse she frowned at her locker. It was scratched around the keyhole as if a knife had been applied. She unlocked it quickly. The contents had not been disturbed. Who would try to get in? For what? She had a sudden vision of the baleful eyes she had met when she clicked the camera.
The man in the black and white checks. Had he tried to get the film? He wouldn’t be allowed in this locker room. The girl? She had said, “Give me time,” and the man had snapped, “Shut up.” Had he reason for not wanting to be photographed?
“Hi, Cindy? I’m waiting!”
In response to Tom Slade’s call she dressed hurriedly and slipped the cord of the camera over her head.
“Forgotten we’re going places, Cinderella?” he reminded as she appeared in the doorway.
“No, Tom.” She glanced toward the pavilion. The man and the girl in the red swim suit had gone.
CHAPTER SIX
THEY STOPPED at The Castle while she changed to an aqua linen shirtwaist frock and fastened a pink rose at the opening of the Eton collar. Later, seated in Tom Slade’s Town and Country convertible, she had the curious feeling that Time had given the day a shake and her life had fallen into an entirely different pattern as the colored fragments shift in a kaleidoscope.
“Had your hair cut,” Slade observed. “It’s terrific, lovely. Whither? You know the high spots here. We’ll make a day of it. O.K.?”
“Double O.K. Are you staying at the Inn?”
“Uh-huh. Arrived this morning early.”
“Let’s stop there and inquire if a man named Bill Damon, Colonel Bill Damon, is registered. You can tell the clerk you are expecting a friend and are interested to know if he has arrived.”
“Why the fictional approach? Do you still doubt that the guy on the beach is the person he claims to be?”
“I just want to know if he is really Bill Damon, here to represent Kenniston Stewart.”
“You don’t need anyone to represent Kenniston Stewart. I’m here.”
“I know you are here and I’m worried. Something tells me you had better keep out of the limelight. Page Counselor Armstrong for confirmation of that opinion. To return to the man we left behind us. You sold me on the idea that he might be other than he claims when you said: ‘I’ll bet he’s a guy horning in for a take when the oil property is sold, like one of those five-per-centers being front-paged.’” She had a close-up of the man’s steady eyes, his suggestion of invincibility. “He gives me a shivery sense of ruthlessness, but much as I dislike him, I believe he is honest.”
“But, not so sure that you don’t want to check on him, are you? Here we are at the Inn. Snappy outfit with prices in character. I’ve never seen such corking flower borders.”
“We do those things well in the State of Maine.”
He whistled softly.
“And here comes a sliver of pulchritude who fits into the picture,” he declared as a girl in white linen blouse and shorts, tennis racquet under her left arm, ran down the broad steps. Her short hair was definitely red, not auburn. Her eyes were definitely green, not hazel. She stopped beside the convertible with a dramatic start of surprise.
“Cindy Clinton, as I’m alive!” Her eyes lingered for a split second on the man at the wheel before they flashed back to the girl beside him.
“Or is it Cinderella Stewart now? Is this the absent groom returned to claim his bride at long last?”
The mocking voice sent hot color to Cindy's hair. Cat! Pride conquered anger.
“Wrong number, Lyd.” Her voice was miraculously gay considering the tumult within. “May I present Thomas Slade, attorney, from the great open spaces. Tom, Lydia Fane, the runner-up for the State of Maine Tennis Championship last year.”
Slade, who had stepped from the car, gently pressed the hand Miss Fane eagerly extended.
“I can’t see you as a runner-up,” he declared smoothly. “You look like champ material to me — in every way.”
“Tom is staying here at the Inn.” Cindy was giving the girl a chance to think up a reply worthy of the saccharine tribute. “His tennis is something to write home about, too.”
“Really?” The green of Lydia Fane’s eyes deepened. “There are so few men here you'll be mobbed, Mr. —”
“Hasn’t my pal Bill Damon checked in yet?” Tom Slade’s surprised question cut into the prophecy.
“Do you know him? Sure he is here. We are all crazy about him in spite of the fact that so far he doesn’t know we are on earth. Hands off, Mrs. Stewart,” the green eyes flashed to Cindy. “I saw him first. And his car — this is a nice deluxe station-wagon type, isn’t it? — but his is one of those new club coupes, long and dark green and sensational. The garage man told me it has a hundred and five horsepower engine. Mr. Slade, we’ll plan some tennis. I’m late, I’ll be seeing you. By!”
She dashed along the drive and opened the door of a light gray sedan. Tom Slade waited until her car had coasted out of sight before he started his.
“Huh! The fair Lydia certainly punctured my belief that I was buying something snappy when I bought this car,” he griped.
“You did. It’s a beauty and the latest and smartest model I’ve seen this summer. Don’t mind Lyd Fane. She always leaves a thorn pricking in one’s heart.”
“I knew that when she took the first crack at you. What did you think of my cagey inquiry about my pal — what’s his name?”
“Bill Damon. It was a masterpiece of subtlety. Now that I know he is the person he claims to be let’s forget him and get on with our day. In spite of your recognition of her claws, you fell flat on your face for the lovely Lydia, didn’t you?”
“She asked for it. I’ll bet her tennis doesn’t touch yours. Something tells me that life here will have its
points while I wait for you to be free. Relax. I won’t say any more. Just want you to realize why I am here, that no green-eyed Circe can come between us. Where shall we lunch? Remember I am from the interior, and make it lobster. Sea air has made me ravenous. After that we’ll paint the Maine shore red and I mean red.”
After lunch at the Lobster Pound they stopped at the Country Club to watch the tennis. Cindy went into the house to make out a guest card for Tom Slade. When she returned he was surrounded by the female of the species dating him for games.
In a car which was the last word in smartness, performance and speed, they skimmed along black roads bordered in places by thickets of sumac and sassafras; the pale gold and purple of goldenrod and asters; past cultivated fields where sleek, well-fed black and white cows placidly chewed their cuds; by neglected fields coming up in broom sedge grass. From a towering pine the noisy “Caw! Caw!” of a crow convention rent the air. Past rocky shores, echoing with the thunder of white-capped breakers, beyond which stretched an illimitable expanse of sapphire blue and dark green ocean. A briny breeze stirred Cindy's short hair and tugged at Slade’s luridly hand-painted tie.
He talked of his ambition politically, of his hopes and plans for the future, of her part in them. She interrupted:
“Not now, Tom, don’t talk about me now. I asked you not to come here till the annulment of that crazy marriage had been granted. Your presence may start unpleasant conjecture. I don’t want that. If you stay there is to be no mention of love or marriage between us.”
“O.K., that’s so like you. You won’t drink or smoke or play cards for even a penny a corner, but you’re the girl I want. I’ll be cagey and concentrate on the dames at the Inn, only don’t run away with the idea I’ve gone cold on you. Are you afraid that guy Damon — the snappy Lydia nailed his identity for fair, I guess there’s no doubt he is here to represent the absent groom — will report to Stewart if we are seen together a lot and tie up the release?”
“No. Ken Stewart wants his freedom. During the years since the marriage by contract I have given no one a chance to gossip about me — you know I wouldn’t go out with you unless others were in the party.”
To Love and to Honour Page 4
