Willie heard George’s key in the lock and the front door open and close again. She wanted to run out into the hall and fling herself into his arms. Instead she waited, motionless, in the darkened living room, wondering whether the time would ever come when she would be able to act the way she felt in George’s presence. Lately he seemed to discourage her enthusiasm as if he had too many serious problems on his mind to endure any extra demands on him.
“I’m in here, George.” The empty room amplified her voice like an echo chamber. It sounded too hearty. She must remember to speak low.
George came in from the hall. He had taken off his hat and was holding it across his chest as if he were hearing the strains of “The Star-Spangled Banner.” She felt a giggle tickling her throat and swallowed hard to suppress it.
“You were followed,” he said.
“No. I swear I didn’t see—”
“Quinn’s car is parked across the street.”
She raised a corner of one of the shades and looked out.
“I don’t see any car.”
“It was there. I told you to be careful.”
“I tried.” The giggle in her throat had been replaced by a lump she couldn’t do anything about except pretend it wasn’t there. “Are you feeling better today, George?”
He shook his head impatiently as if there was no time to be bothered by such trivialities. “Quinn’s on to something. He called the office and then the house. Mother brushed him off as I asked her to.”
At the mere mention of Mrs. Haywood, Willie’s body began to stiffen. “I could have done the same thing.”
“I’m afraid you’ve lost his confidence.”
“I don’t think so. He asked me for a date tonight.”
“Did you accept?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I... didn’t think you’d want me to.”
“You might have gotten some useful information.”
She stared at the old brick fireplace. She thought of all the fires that had been built there and left to die and she wondered if there’d ever be another one.
“If I’ve hurt your feelings,” he said in a gentler voice, “I’m sorry, Willie.”
“Don’t be. Obviously you have more important matters on your mind than my feelings.”
“I’m glad you see that.”
“Oh, I do. You’ve made it quite clear.”
He put his hands on her shoulders. “Willie, don’t. Please. Be patient with me.”
“If you’d only tell me what all this is about—”
“I can’t. It’s a serious business, though. A lot of people are involved, good people.”
“Does it matter what kind of people they are? And how do you tell the difference between good people and bad people? Do you ask your mother?”
“Leave her out of it, please. She hasn’t the faintest idea what’s going on.”
“I’ll leave her out if she’ll leave me out.” She turned to face him, ready for a fight. But he looked too tired and pale to endure a fight. “Forget it, George. Let’s go out and come in again, shall we?”
“All right.”
“Hello, George.”
He smiled. “Hello, Willie.”
“How are you?”
“Fine. And you?”
“I’m fine, too.” But she turned her face away from his kiss. “This isn’t much better than the first time, is it? You’re not really thinking of me, you’re thinking of Quinn. Aren’t you?”
“I’m forced to.”
“Not for long.”
“What do you mean, not for long?”
“He’s leaving town.”
George’s hands dropped to his sides as if she’d slapped them down. “When?”
“This afternoon, I guess. Maybe right this minute.”
“Why? Why is he leaving?”
“He said he had no reason to stay since I wouldn’t go out with him tonight. Naturally he was joking.”
She waited, hoping George would deny it: Of course Quinn wasn’t joking, my dear. You’re a very attractive woman. He’s probably leaving town to avoid a broken heart.
“He was joking,” she repeated.
But George didn’t even hear her this time. He was crossing the room, putting on his hat as he moved.
“George?”
“I’ll call you in the morning.”
“Where are you going? We haven’t even talked yet, George.”
“I haven’t time right now. I’m showing a client the Wilson house out in Greenacres.”
She knew the Wilson property was being handled by Earl Perkins and that George wouldn’t interfere, but she didn’t argue.
At the archway that led into the hall he turned and looked back at her. “Do me a favor, will you, Willie?”
“Certainly. You’re the boss.”
“Tell my mother I won’t be home for dinner and not to wait up for me.”
“All right.”
It was a big favor and they both knew it.
Willie stood, listening to the front door open and close, then the sound of the station wagon motor and the squeaking of tires as the car made too quick a start. Head bowed, she walked over to the old fireplace. The inside was charred by the heat of a thousand fires. She stretched her hands out in front of her as if one of the fires might have left a little warmth for her.
After a time she went outside, locking the house behind her, and drove to the post office. Here, from a pay phone, she called George’s house.
“Mrs. Haywood?”
“Yes.”
“This is Willie King.”
“Mrs. King, yes, of course. My son is not at home.”
Willie clenched her jaws. In all their conversations Mrs. Haywood never referred to George as anything but my son, with a distinct emphasis on the my. “Yes, I know that, Mrs. Haywood. He asked me to tell you he’ll be away for the evening.”
“Away where?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then he won’t be with you?”
“No.”
“He’s been away a great many evenings lately, and days, too.”
“He has a business to run,” Willie said.
“And of course you’re a big help to him?”
“I try to be.”
“Oh, but you are. He tells me you’re a most aggressive salesman—or is it saleswoman? One thing baffles me about my son’s business. I find it quite extraordinary the number of real estate deals that are consummated at night—the word is consummated, isn’t it?”
“The word is whatever you want to make it, Mrs. Haywood.”
There was a brief silence during which Willie put her hand over the receiver so that Mrs. Haywood wouldn’t hear her angry breathing.
“Mrs. King, you and I are both fond of George, aren’t we?”
I am, Willie thought. You’re not fond of anything. But she said, “Yes.”
“Has it occurred to you to wonder, perhaps, exactly where he’s going tonight?”
“That’s his business.”
“And not yours?”
“No.” Not yet, she added silently.
“Dear me, I think it should be your business if you’re as interested in my son as you appear to be. He is, of course, a man of fine character, but he’s human and there are temptresses around.”
“Are you urging me to spy on him, Mrs. Haywood?”
“Using one’s eyes and ears is not spying, surely.” There was another silence, as if Mrs. Haywood was taking time out to plan a more devastating attack. But when she spoke again her voice sounded curiously broken. “I have this feeling, this very terrible feeling, that George is in trouble. . . Oh, you and I have never been friendly, Mrs. King, but I haven’t considered you a real threat to George’s welfare.”