"I have a car. It's my uncle's, actually; he made me get a D.C. license so I could keep the car in running order while he's gone. I've only driven it once since he left, so I guess I ought to take it out again."
"That's good, because then we can stay as long as we want. I know how to get there. I made Mark take me once, but he hates auctions."
"I'll pick you up," Karen said slowly. She had just realized what she had gotten herself into by admitting she had a car.
"You don't have to do that." Cheryl's exuberant grin faded. "I'm being pushy again," she muttered. "I should have waited for you to call me, I'm always the one who… But I thought maybe you didn't like… I don't know what happened with you and Mark, he never said, honest he didn't, but I wondered… So that's why I keep inviting you all the time."
It may have sounded like a non sequitur, but Karen had no difficulty in following Cheryl's train of thought.
She laughed lightly. "I don't know why you should think I want to avoid Mark. We were… we were good friends once, but that was a long time ago. My feelings toward him are… are perfectly amiable. Casual, but-er-amiable."
"Really?"
"Really. What time tomorrow?"
"We ought to leave early so we can be there when it starts. But you don't have to come get me, it will save time if I take a cab here, then we can get right onto the parkway. Suppose I come at eight. Is that too early?"
"No, that's fine."
"There's Mark. I'd better run. I hope they have some old clothes! But even if they don't, it will be good practice for you, bidding and all that. You have to be very sly and tricky."
Karen laughed. Cheryl being tricky was a sight she wanted to see.
She stood watching as Cheryl got into the waiting car. Mark didn't get out, or wave. I got more attention from Horton, Karen thought wryly. But of course Mark's windows were closed because of the air-conditioning. The night air was hazy with mist and close as a steam bath.
He did sound the horn, though, as he drove off- a familiar syncopated signal that sent a stab of memory along Karen's nerves.
A lurid pinkish glow lit the sky. Faintly to her ears came the sounds of revelry by night-isolated shrieks of laughter, the beat of music, the throb of automobile engines. As usual, every legal parking space along the street was filled. People were more cautious about parking illegally these days; the District police didn't fool around, they booted or towed violators instead of issuing meaningless tickets. Shadows passed along the sidewalk; people hurrying to and from the night spots on Wisconsin, residents walking dogs or taking a late-night stroll. Lots of people around. Nothing to be nervous about.
She went back in and followed Alexander through his nightly routine-the final trip to the comfort station in the back yard, and the reward for good behavior, a gourmet dog biscuit. He didn't linger over his outdoor activities, and Karen was glad to close the door against the shrouded night. There were lights outside the back door, but they did not extend far into the darkness.
She handed over the biscuit and then dropped her hand onto the dog's head in a brief caress. "No squirrels out there tonight, Alexander? Let's hit the sack, okay?"
Chapter Five
KAREN cut her jogging short next morning, but Cheryl was early and she was still rummaging through her clothes trying to decide what to wear when the doorbell rang. She had no idea what constituted proper attire for a country auction; presumably pearls and mink were not appropriate, which was just as well, because she possessed neither. Except, of course, for the tiny pearls in Dolley's necklace and the mink trim on the Schiaparelli gown.
She ran downstairs to admit Cheryl and apologize for being late. When she explained her dilemma about what to wear, Cheryl looked surprised.
"The coolest thing you've got. It's already pushing eighty degrees. And comfortable shoes."
She was wearing sneakers almost as battered as Karen's, and her legs were bare. A sleeveless white blouse and a dirndl skirt almost old enough to qualify as vintage completed her costume, and as Karen dashed back upstairs to finish dressing she thought how relaxing it was to be with someone who dressed for comfort instead of style- and who wouldn't make malicious remarks about how other people looked.
When she came back down, Cheryl was sitting on the stairs talking to Alexander, who sat with his fuzzy head tilted to one side as if listening.
"I'm sorry, I didn't even offer you a cup of coffee," Karen said.
"No time; we'd better get going if we want to be there before the auction starts. Do you have a couple of lightweight stools or lawn chairs? This place doesn't have seating, and it could be a long day."
Carrying the chairs, they walked to the garage where Pat kept his car, several blocks from the house.
"Wow," Cheryl said admiringly. "What a car! It's a Porsche, isn't it?"
"Yes. The MacDougals have a weakness for fancy automobiles. Frankly, I hate sports cars, I always feel as if I'm sitting right smack on the pavement, and trucks look like cliffs. Can you squeeze in, or shall I back out?"
"No problem. There's not much trunk space, is there? I hope we don't fall in love with anything bigger than a breadbox today. I suppose you'll be getting a station wagon, or a van?"
"Oh, Lord, that's another problem I hadn't considered." Karen eased the car carefully out of the garage. "I don't know what made me think I could go into business for myself, I'm so damned disorganized…"
"Nobody who was disorganized could do those things you did for your husband-taking notes and reading all those books."
"I didn't do anything a halfway competent secretary couldn't do. And according to Jack, I didn't do it very well. Do I turn right or left at M Street?"
Cheryl gave her a peculiar look but said only, "Right. Then straight on."
Traffic patterns had changed in the past ten years and Karen was a little nervous about Pat's valuable car. Not until she had left the Washington Beltway and was heading north on 270 did she really relax.
"The worst is over," Cheryl said encouragingly. "You're a good driver."
"That kid in the pickup didn't think so. What was it he said?"
"Don't ask. He was drunk anyhow."
"This car is Pat's baby," Karen explained. "He'd kill me if anything happened to it. And I haven't done much city driving lately. Jack always…"
She fell silent; she had determined she wasn't going to say anything that could be interpreted as a complaint or a demand for sympathy. After a moment Cheryl said, "I had the same problem."
"You did?"
"Sure. The trouble with being married is that you let the other guy do so many things. You share. Then, when you're alone… I suppose it's just as hard for men. They feel as helpless about cooking and cleaning as we do when we have to fix a leaky faucet or put oil in the car."
"Help," Karen said. "Don't remind me of all the things I can't do! I don't think I've ever put oil in the car."
"I'll show you, it's easy. The only thing to remember," Cheryl said solemnly, "is that the oil doesn't go in the same little hole the dipstick is in."
"Dipstick?"
"I'll show you that too." Cheryl grinned, then sobered again. "There were times when I thought it wouldn't be the big tragedy that defeated me, but the constant little aggravations, day after day. At least you can learn to handle the little things. You can't fix a broken heart or a broken spirit so easy… The next exit is ours."
Though they were in good time, with a quarter of an hour to go before the auction was to begin, there were already cars parked on both sides of the narrow road leading to a graveled lot next to a low, sprawling building. A man directed them into a field, and Karen guided the car over bumps and humps to the end of a row of other vehicles. She gritted her teeth and prayed for Pat's muffler; the field had been roughly mowed, but not leveled.