“I wouldn’t worry about little things like that if I were you,” Lucy said. “Actually I’m glad he found out.”
“Glad?” Jeff asked incredulously.
“Yes,” she said. “I’m such a bad liar. It’s too much of a strain for my poor little head.” Then her tone changed suddenly, becoming serious, almost threatening. “I found out it’s not for me. Never again.”
“Lucy,” Jeff said, trying to salvage something from the summer, “if we ever meet again, what’re you going to think of me?”
Lucy turned and regarded him thoughtfully. But when she spoke her tone was more playful than ever. “I’ll think,” she said, “What a touching young man! Isn’t it strange that I once thought, for a little while, that I was rather in love with him?”
They were facing each other—Lucy obdurate, implacably frivolous, Jeff forlorn and boyish, when Oliver, whom they had not heard, came around the corner of the porch. He was dressed for traveling and the long trip had left him wrinkled and weary-looking and he moved slowly, as though his energy were low. He stopped when he saw Lucy and Jeff. “Hello,” he said and they turned and faced him.
“Hello, Oliver,” Lucy said, without warmth. “I didn’t hear the car.”
“I just came to say good-bye,” Jeff said uncomfortably.
Oliver waited. “Yes?”
“I want to say I’m sorry,” Jeff said.
Oliver nodded. “Ummn …” he said vaguely. “Are you?” He moved across the porch, looking down at the ruins of the phonograph. “What happened here?”
“Tony …” Jeff began.
“It met with an accident,” Lucy broke in.
Oliver was not interested. “An accident?” he said incuriously. “Are you finished here, Jeff?”
“Yes, all finished,” said Lucy. “He was just leaving.” She put out her hand to Jeff. “Good-bye,” she said, forcing him to shake her hand. “Walk away with a nice springy step now. Make sure you study hard and get beautiful high marks this year at school.”
Jeff tried to speak but couldn’t. He tore his hand away from her and wheeled and plunged out of sight around the corner of the cottage. Watching him, Lucy felt like weeping. Not because he was going and she would never see him again, or because for a little while he had been dear to her and it was all spoiled now. She felt like weeping because he was so clumsy and she knew how it was hurting him and it was her fault.
14
WHEN JEFF WAS GONE, Oliver turned to Lucy. “Where’s Tony?” he asked.
“He’ll be back in a minute,” said Lucy.
“Oh.” Oliver looked at the row of bags on the porch. “Where are your things?” he asked. “Inside?”
“They’re not packed,” Lucy said.
“I told you in the telegram,” Oliver said, a little of the old domestic irritation at her inefficiency creeping into his voice, “to be ready at three o’clock. I don’t want to drive the whole way in the dark.”
“I can’t go home,” Lucy said. “Didn’t you get my letter?”
“I got it,” said Oliver impatiently. “You said there were a lot of things to be cleared up between us. Well, we can clear them up just as well in our own house as here. I don’t want to stay here any longer than necessary. Go in and pack your things, Lucy.”
“It’s not as easy as that,” Lucy said.
Oliver sighed. “Lucy,” he said, “I’ve thought it all over. And I’ve decided to forget what happened this summer.”
“Oh, you have,” said Lucy, her voice curiously hard.
“I’ll accept your promise that it’ll never happen again,” Oliver said.
“Oh, you will,” said Lucy, the hardness now becoming metallic and toneless. “You’ll believe me if I say that?”
“Yes.”
“Two weeks ago you wouldn’t believe a word I said.”
“Because you were lying,” said Oliver.
“How do you know that I won’t lie again?” Lucy asked.
Oliver sat down, the lines of fatigue bitten into his face, his head nodding over his chest. “Don’t torture me, Lucy,” he said.
“Answer me,” she said harshly. “How do you know I won’t lie to you again?”
“Because I have to believe you,” Oliver said, his voice almost inaudible. “I sat in the house, thinking of what it would be like to try to live the rest of my life without you … and I couldn’t stand it,” he said simply. “I couldn’t do it.”
“Even though I’m a liar and you hate liars,” Lucy said, standing over him. “Even though I disgust you?”
“I’m trying to forget I ever said those things,” Oliver said.
“I can’t forget it,” Lucy said. “You were right. It was disgusting. I disgusted myself.”
Oliver raised his head and looked at her. “But you’ll change now?”
“Change?” said Lucy. “Yes, I will. But perhaps not in the way you think.”
“Lucy,” Oliver asked, and that was the first time he’d ever asked the question, “don’t you love me?”
Lucy stared at him thoughtfully. “Yes,” she said slowly, “yes, I do. I’ve been thinking myself these last ten days, about you. About how much I owe you. How much I need you. How much you’ve done for me. How solid you’ve been. How secure.”
“Lucy,” Oliver said, “it’s so good to hear that.”
“Wait,” said Lucy. “Not so fast. You’ve done something else too, Oliver. You’ve educated me. You’ve converted me.”
“Converted you?” Oliver asked, puzzled. “What do you mean?”
“You always talked so much about your principles,” said Lucy. “About the truth. About seeing things clearly, about not fooling yourself. You even wrote a long letter to Tony about it this summer, when you were worried about his eyes.”
“Yes, I did,” said Oliver. “What about it?”
“I am now your disciple,” said Lucy. “And I’m the worst kind of disciple. Because the first person I’ve used my faith on is you.”
“What are you talking about?” Oliver asked.
“Lies offend you, don’t they, Oliver?” Lucy was speaking calmly, reasonably, as though she were explaining a mathematical equation.
“Yes, they do,” said Oliver, but he sounded wary and defensive.
“Deception of any kind, by anyone,” Lucy went on, in the classroom tone, “is sickening to you, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is,” said Oliver.
“You believe that, don’t you?” Lucy asked.
“Yes.”
“And you’re lying,” said Lucy.
Oliver’s head jerked back angrily. “Don’t say that.”
“You’re lying to me,” said Lucy. “But most of all to yourself.”
“I don’t lie,” Oliver said tightly.
“Should I prove it to you?” Lucy said, still friendly and impersonal. “Should I prove to you that a good part of your life is based on lies?”
“You can’t,” said Oliver. “Because it isn’t true.”
“No? Let’s forget us for the moment,” said Lucy. “Who’s your best friend?”
“What are you driving at?” Oliver asked.
“Sam,” Lucy said. “The good Dr. Patterson. You’ve known him for twenty years. He. and his wife are in and out of our house every week. You play golf with him. You’ve lent him money. You confide in him. I wouldn’t be surprised if you’ve even told him about this … this trouble between you and me.”
“It happens that I did,” Oliver said. “I had to talk to someone. He’s not only my friend. He’s yours, too. He advised me to come back to you.”
Lucy nodded. “My friend,” she said. “And your friend. And what do you know about our friend, Dr. Patterson?”