“She won’t tell him until just before the ceremony,” Matt said.
“He’ll never go through with it.”
“Susan believes he will.”
“You know, Matt,” she said, “I can — somehow feel the effect he has on her. He’s completely unprincipled. He has the fascination that high places or snakes or great speed in a car has.”
Her voice sounded so weary that he was filled with sudden sympathy. He put his arm around her, and kissed her gently on the lips. It was meant to be a kiss which would express his sympathy. But it turned into something else entirely.
When at last they parted, her eyes were wide and shining and his breathing was shallow.
“Where — did that come from?” she asked.
“A special import from China. Always take advantage of a troubled woman.”
“Fool!” she said softly. “Let’s go tell Evan what’s happened.”
Evan stood on the sidewalk, and watched Pat’s car drive away, Pat at the wheel and Matthew Otis beside her. Even after the twin red taillights went around the corner and the sound of the motor faded he stood there, his fists so tight his knuckles hurt.
At last he shook himself like a shaggy animal aroused from sleep and trudged up the stairs to his room. He clicked on the lights and sat down on the edge of the studio couch that served him as a bed.
He looked around the room as though seeing it for the first time. A drafting table, a couple of framed diplomas, a row of texts and reference books. The wallpaper had a design of faded roses.
He ran his fingers along the stubble on his jaw. His mouth ached from smiling.
Oh, it was a gay and happy smile. All evening. See, folks? I’m your friend. I’m Evan Cleveland, the patient beast. I didn’t want to come back here to Cranesbay. I came here because she is here. I went to work in the plant because I would see her more often. I watched her with quiet adoration. As time goes by, as she is twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five — I am glad. She will be mine. I wait in fatuous complacency for her one day to recognize my great love.
Evan Cleveland, the great lover.
She is cool and calm and slim and lovely — and I thought that I was the only one who could see the fire burning brightly under that placid surface. Susan burns brightly on the surface.
And then tonight the two of them come to me and she has at last awakened. I can barely hear what they are telling me! Something about Susan and a sale of Susan’s stock. She is vivid and lovely. And then I see the way she looks at Matthew Otis. It is hard to realize that I hate Matthew Otis. But he has stolen her from me. He doesn’t know it and neither does she.
He stood up, walked to the closet and took the bottle from the top shelf. As he walked woodenly back to the couch he tore the paper wrapping from the metal top. He sat down, tilted the bottle and swallowed. The liquor burned his stomach. He tilted the bottle again. When he set it clumsily on the floor it was half full.
He put his elbows on his knees, his square hands hanging limply from his wrists. After a bit he began to rock from side to side, making a low, moaning sound.
He fell heavily to the floor. He tried to get up, then cradled his head in his arms and wept. After a long time he fell asleep...
The cockpit of the little plane was finished in blue leather. Susan sat beside Roy Bedford, the palms of her hands cold and sweaty. Roy took the small mike from the clip and talked to the tower as he circled the small field.
The lights along the runway clicked on. The little plane settled down at last, the tires making one furtive squeal as they touched the concrete.
“Four hours,” Roy said. “Not bad.”
He taxied over to the hangars. She stood off to one side, her suitcase by her feet, as he talked with a man who had appeared out of the darkness. Within minutes a car appeared. Roy climbed in beside her, groped for her hand and held it tightly as the car hurried off into the night...
The beach house had been built so that at high tide the waves crashed against the rocks ten feet below the sill of the twelve-foot pane of flawless glass that faced the sea.
During early evening the waves had grown bigger. At midnight, the big swells punched the rocks with solid force, sending spray up to run down the huge window. With an impulse that she but vaguely understood, Rose Carney had put on a white strapless evening gown. Her bare white shoulders were perfect.
The Capehart thundered the bass in the Debussy La Mer. She had it turned too high. Tall candles shone with motionless flames. The wine was the deep color of blood.
A song of the sea. A minor chant to sadness and to the sea.
She thought of Rosie Carney of nine years back. Rosie Carney in love with Roy Bedford. Rosie Carney who had seen the strength of his incredible will, who had sensed his enormous drive. Rosie Carney who had loved him.
But this was Rose Carney. A slim woman who drank wine by candlelight while the sea touched the rocks below her window.
He had taken everything she had from the beginning. Her individuality.
My soul, she thought, if there is such a thing. He has made me over in the image of what he has wanted. A modern-day courtesan. A woman to say the right things, do the right things, cater to the right tastes.
Somewhere along the line she had lost the essence of Rose Carney. She had become a creation of Roy Bedford. Music and words by Roy Bedford. Gowns by Bedford. Sets by Bedford. Produced by Roy Bedford, from a script by Roy Bedford, from a play by Roy Bedford, from a cheap novel by a garage mechanic named Bedford.
Aloud she said, “What will become of me?”
She knew that he had enjoyed coming to her, telling her that it was all over. She had met him at the door, had lifted her lips to be kissed.
“Not this time, Rose,” he had said, grinning at her.
She had frowned. “What do you mean, Roy?”
“Baby, you’re talking to a man about to be married. About time, don’t you think?”
For one incredible moment of joy she had thought he meant her, then had seen the look in his eyes.
“A nice young article, Rosie. Cheeks like apples and smells like a load of hay. Miss Susan Furnivall will be married tonight to Mr. Roy Bedford, and you are not cordially invited to attend the ceremony.”
“But us, Roy!”
“No problem, Rosie. You must have a nice little nest egg saved. You’re good-looking and you’ve learned a lot. Tomorrow when I get back, I’ll put this place up for sale. By then you can be at the hotel. As soon as I get a buyer, I’ll give you cash in the amount of the sale. Then you can go anywhere you please, just so long as it isn’t Cranesbay.”
It was as though she were dreaming the words. It didn’t seem possible he could be saying them. She had always thought that one day he would marry her.
“You can’t do this to me!” she had screamed. “I won’t go!”
Still smiling, he had slapped her across the mouth. She had staggered back against the wall.
“Pretty please, Rosie? Pretty please?”
When he had stepped toward her again, she had cowered back and said, “I’ll go away, Roy.”
Her answer had been the door slamming behind him, the high whine of the motor and skid of gravel as he turned out of the drive.
She lifted the glass to her puffed lips and drank deeply of the tart red wine. Holding her arms out, she turned slowly in ritual dance to the tempo of the music and the sound of the sea.
She laughed. She laughed until there was salt on her lips mingling with the taste of the wine.
Long after Matthew had left Patience Furnivall, he walked down past the hotel to the docks. Clouds hurried across the slim face of the new moon. The wind was rising and he could taste the sea on his lips. He stood with his hands shoved deep in his topcoat pockets, his head tilted, listening — to voices of long ago.