He gave a whoop of laughter. “No! Have they had any luck?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Mary Ethel, who saw nothing funny about Estrella’s fitful dabblings in the deeper mysteries. This time especially it was no laughing matter, as Byron would find out when — if — he talked to his mother. The whirring inside her grew and grew.
“What a pity for me to turn up now and spoil the fun!” The laughter faded from his eyes. “Brings us right back to what I was saying. I couldn’t help wondering whether you wouldn’t rather be my widow than my wife.”
“That’s a terrible thing to say!” Not so terrible, though, as the thing vibrating inside her. Her eyes darted away from his.
“Oh, I don’t know. I wasn’t too sold on Byron Hawley myself. What had he ever done except inherit his father’s business and get married and learn how to fly his own plane? The business ran itself. Probably still does, with Tenny in charge. The marriage was damn near on the rocks. Even the plane was smashed up... I kept thinking what a good chance it was to get rid of Byron Hawley, just shuck him off and start from scratch.”
She laughed scornfully. “What would you have used for money? Or didn’t you worry about that?”
“Not very much. I’m a good mechanic, an expert bartender, an inspired dishwasher. Besides, I had a sizable chunk of cash with me — still have most of it. No, what worried me was whether or not Byron Hawley was worth resurrecting.”
“And you decided he was.”
“Not exactly,” he said. “I decided I had to come back and find out for sure. Mary Ethel, look at me. Please—”
She struck out, in a panic, at his hand. But there was no escape from his unwavering gaze; slowly and relentlessly it forced her head up until he was looking into her eyes, until he was seeing what must be blazing in them. “Somebody else. Is that it? Some other guy?”
She began to laugh, in gusts like sobs. “No,” she gasped, “here, let me show you.” She crossed to the desk and came back with the advance copy of her book. How To Be a Widow. A Testament of Love and Courage.
Tick-tick-tick went the sleet against the window while he read the blurb. Which she knew by heart: the inspiring, true story of a young woman’s battle against sorrow and her victory over despair... The photograph of Mary Ethel on the dust jacket was artfully misty, a face seen through a blur of tears, shadowed with tragedy, lit with hard-won tranquility.
Byron’s own face remained blank as he studied it. He flicked through the pages, pausing here and there. Which part might he be reading now? The description of their idyllic life together? The heartbreaking memories that attacked without warning? (They had moved her editor to tears; he had said so, only today at lunch. Thick-skinned cynic that he was, he had said.)
Tick-tick, till at last he closed the book.
“Is it a best-seller?” he asked.
“It isn’t out yet officially. They’ve been giving it a big play—”
Her voice threatened to break. To have so much within her grasp — the recognition, the fame, rightfully hers, but denied her until now; and then to have it snatched away. Byron’s return will transform her and her book into a household joke. Even if the publishers withdrew it — and could they, with the release date only a week away? — word would get around. There would be snickering little innuendoes in the columns that were plugging it even now; all the publicity, so flattering, so thrilling, would boomerang into derision.
“Do I congratulate you?” said Byron. “Or do I apologize? Yes, I guess so. Excuse me for living.” He picked up his trench coat. “I didn’t realize you had such a nice career going as a professional widow.”
She faced him unabashed, too absorbed in hating him to mind the sneer in his voice. All right. A career. Why not? He himself admitted he had considered not coming back, had wondered if she might not rather be his widow than his wife. Well, now he knew.
Ah, but so did she. You’re the only one who knows I’m back. And there was no need for anyone else ever to know — if she were quick enough, bold enough, strong enough, clever enough, lucky enough. So many ifs. And so little time. Because it had to be now; she must act first and plan later. She must dare to take the chance while it was still hers.
“You’re leaving?” she asked in a voice muffled, in her own ears, by the thick beating of her heart, and as he started across the room she followed. The poker, she thought as she passed the fireplace, but already it was too late — he was glancing back.
Something in the hall, then. The bronze nymph on the table. Her hand closed over its smooth weight convulsively. One blow, struck from behind while he was opening the door. It might be enough — just the one blow. But it did not have to be. She foresaw that her arm, once released, would go on pounding like an automatic hammer; at this moment it was tensing with the force of those potential blows.
She had fallen a little too far behind. Now she must hurry so as to be close enough when he reached the door, just before he turned. Two more steps, and then, and then—
And then — too soon, before she was ready — he turned, so nimbly in spite of his limp, and his hand shot out and closed on her wrist. There was a flash of pain in her arm, a thump as the bronze nymph fell to the carpeted floor.
“Better luck next time,” he said.
He was smiling, but not in the doggedly hopeful way she remembered. Now his eyes were stony. Now he knew her.
Just before he slid through the door he added, “So long, Mary Ethel. See you at Mother’s reunion.”
“Not a manifestation?” Estrella repeated wistfully. “But we were so hoping for one. It would have meant so much to Dr. Mehallah—”
“Sorry to disappoint you.” Sorry, indeed! Byron was grinning all over his face. Now he planted a noisy, juicy smack in the slope of her neck. “There. Does that feel like a manifestation?”
She had to admit that it did not. And while spirits were sometimes prankish, she had never heard of one who smelled of brandy or left wet footprints on the rug. Byron in the flesh, no doubt about it, and of course she was overjoyed. Her son, her favorite son — which probably wasn’t fair; Tennyson was so much more agreeable, so restful, and she never had any trouble getting her own way with Tenny. Whereas Byron could be difficult.
“Sit down, dear.” She sat down herself, with the rattling, clashing sound effects that accompanied all her movements. The long strands of beads and multiplicity of bracelets were as much a part of her as her dimples or the fluttery voice and big blue eyes that gave her such a guileless look.
She wiped away her tears and fluffed her hair. “I’ll be all right in a minute. I just can’t quite — Indians, you said? You must tell me again — I want to hear the whole story. My poor boy! I suppose you’ve seen Mary Ethel?”
He did not answer at once, and when he did it was ambiguously. “That can wait.” Then he launched into the whole story she had asked for.
But as he talked, her mind kept straying to Dr. Mehallah. Would it be better to plunge in and get it over with — the element of surprise might work wonders — or to coast into it gradually? Byron would notice though; he wasn’t like Tenny. Either way, her Inner Voice informed her, he was going to be difficult. And then Mary Ethel. Did he mean seeing her could wait? Or — How To Be a Widow! ha! — did he mean talking about her could wait?
“So here I am,” he was finishing, “just in time for your birthday party. The bad penny that always turns up.”