Patrice had appeared in his office at the Bulletin the next morning, blue eyes like ice, jaw set, hair a bright flow of autumn barley. She had leaned both fists on his desk, breasts lifting with the deep breathing of her controlled anger.
“You, my friend, are out of your depth this time,” she said.
“And you, lady, are an anachronism. You are a female pirate. You are a con artist.”
“You cost me more money yesterday than you’ll make in your whole life.”
“Then the least I can do is buy your lunch.”
They glared at each other, grinned suddenly, laughed aloud and went out together. It had been at first a good friendship, even though their personal philosophies were poles apart. For two basically aloof people, it had been a warmth of friendship that had quite astonished them. They found they laughed more often when they were together. One night, in front of the November fireplace in her small home, he had kissed her, expecting it to be casual, finding it to be shockingly hungry.
They were friends, and they became lovers without losing all of friendship. She was almost six feet tall, yet built in perfect feminine scale. They laughed about being in a world too small for them. They did not use the word “love” or the word “marriage.” They were faithful to each other without perceptible effort. They were discreet in an age that jeered at discretion. For a time their physical preoccupation with each other became obsessive, but when they recognized the danger of that, recognized the weakness of it, they fought free of it into a relationship which was rather like that of two semi-alcoholics who would excuse themselves for an infrequent three-day bender.
Together they acquired a sixth sense about what subjects to avoid. They knew that they were two proud, strong, dominant people, who happened to believe in different things. There was too much artillery they could bring to bear on each other. It was enough for him to see the morning sun in the warmth of her hair, hear fond laughter in her throat, hold her through her quickened times of completion.
The inevitable blowup came when he told her why he was taking a “leave of absence.” It had been an unpleasant scene. Even as they fought, neither of them retreating a step, he guessed that she too was aware of the loneliness to come, the empty aching nights.
The taxi driver examined the tip, grunting something that could have been thanks, and clattered off. Dake went up the walk, knowing that no fortress was ever as well protected as this house, this small tidy house, knowing that by breaking the infra-red beams he had become target. He stood on the porch, waiting. The door was suddenly opened by the pretty Japanese maid, who gave him a gold-toothed smile and said, as though he had visited there yesterday, “Good evening, Mr. Lorin.”
“Evening. Does...”
“She knows you are here, sir. She will be right down. A brandy, sir? I’ll bring it to you in the study.”
He was amused. The study was for business transactions. The lounge-living room was for friends. He wondered if Patrice were prescient. Simpler than that, perhaps. She knew him well. She knew his inflexibility. And so she would know that this was not a personal call. He sat in one of the deep leather chairs. The maid brought the brandy, an ancient bottle, and two bell glasses on a black tray. She put them on the small table beside his chair, and left without a sound.
When he heard Patrice’s distinctive step he stood up quickly and smiled at her as she came into the study. Her smile was warmer than he expected. As always, she had that remembered look of being larger than life size, more vital. She wore dark red tailored slacks, a matching halter.
“Quite a tan, Patrice,” he said.
“I got back from Acapulco yesterday.”
“Pleasure trip?” he asked wryly, her hands warm and firm in his.
She made a face. “A good buy. Hotel property.”
“With your Indian pals?”
“Uh uh. Some Brazilian pals this time.”
“Both ends against the middle, Patrice?”
“Of course. How else does a girl get along?” She inspected him, her head tilted to one side. “You look gaunter, darling. Hollow-eyed. I bet your ribs show.”
“The strain of being a do-gooder.”
“Aren’t we being just a little bit too nasty nice to each other?” She held her hand up, thumb and forefinger an inch apart. “Just that much brandy, please. Would I look too severe if I sat at the desk?”
“Not if it’s where your checkbook is.”
She bit her lip. “This could be interesting, couldn’t it?” She seated herself behind the desk. He took her the brandy, went back to the deep chair.
She sipped, watching him over the rim. She set the glass down and said, “I have a feeling we’re going to spar, and it might be nasty, and before we spoil each other’s dispositions, I want to say something. I’ve had a year to plan just exactly how I should say it. Just this, Dake. I’ve missed you. Quite horribly. I wanted, and tried, to buy you and put you in stock. It didn’t work. I’ve been going around rationalizing it, telling myself that if you could be purchased, I wouldn’t want you. But I’m not that way. I wish you could be. I wish you had sense enough to be. Life has plenty of meaning without you. It had more when you were around. I miss that increment. I’m a selfish, hard-fisted, dominating woman, and if there’s any way I can acquire you permanently, I’m going to do it.”
“Okay, Patrice. Equal candor. I’ve missed you. I’ve wished that either you or I could bend a little without breaking. But I know that’s like wishing for the moon. We were fine until we got into a scrap about pretty basic things. Things like selfishness, like human dignity.”
“My world, Dake, is a pig pen. The smartest greediest pig gets the most corn.”
“My world is a place where there’s hope.”
“But we both seem to be living in my world, don’t we? Now tell me why you look haunted, and miserable, and... sick at heart, Dake.”
He told her. She had the knack of listening with an absolute stillness, of applying her intense awareness to the problem at hand. He told her all of it, up to and including Kelly.
“And so you came to me.”
“Asking for sixty thousand dollars. Maybe you can write it off as a charity.”
“I don’t believe in what you’re trying to do.”
“I don’t expect you to. I’m begging.”
“For old time’s sake. Isn’t that the tritest phrase in the world?” She opened a drawer, selected a checkbook, scrawled a check, tore it out. She sat, her chin balanced on her fist, waving the check slowly back and forth.
“I don’t make gifts, Dake. I make deals.”
“I had a hunch it wasn’t going to be that simple.”
“You can have this check. Once that stuff hits the streets, you’re going to think a building fell on you. It is going to cost me half as much again to argue the Board into letting you run around loose. Then I’ll give you thirty days’ wait for the impact of what you write. If nothing happens, and I am certain nothing will, you will be the one to bend a little. You will try to accept the world on its own terms. And accept me along with it, Dake.”
“Then it is a purchase, after all?”
“How much pride do you leave a lady?”
“How much pride do you leave me?” he asked harshly. “Okay. Accept the fact that I’m a monomaniac. If what I want to do fails, I’ll try something else.”