He felt the soft press of her body against him and the answering surge of warmth well up inside him.
She kissed him quickly on the lips, then, as quickly, turned her face away from him almost shyly as she felt his immediate response.
"Suddenly, I'm so excited," she whispered meaningfully, her face half hidden against his shoulder. "Do you think it would be all right if we had another Martini?"
Dandy Jim Callahan stood in the middle of his office, looking at them. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "I don't know," he said slowly. "It's a difficult thing you ask."
"But, surely, Mr. Mayor," Geraldine Marlowe said quickly, "you can do it."
The mayor shook his head. "It's not so easy as you think, my dear lady. You forget the church has something to say about this, too. After all, the mother was Catholic and you just can't take a Catholic child and turn it over to a Protestant family. At least, not in Boston. They'd never stand for it."
Geraldine turned away, the disappointment showing clearly in her face. It was then for the first time that she saw her husband as something other than the nice young Harvard boy she had married.
He stepped forward and there appeared in his voice a quality of strength that she had never heard before. "The church would like it even less if I were to prove that the mother was never a Catholic. They'd look pretty foolish then, wouldn't they?"
The mayor turned to him. "You have such proof?"
"I have," Marlowe said. He took a sheet of paper out of his pocket. "The mother's passport and the child's birth certificate. Both clearly state they were Protestant."
Dandy Jim took the papers from him and studied them. "If you had these, why didn't you stop them?"
"How could I?" Marlowe asked. "I didn't receive them until today. The servants and Father Nolan made all the arrangements last night. Besides, what difference does it make to the poor woman? She's getting a Christian burial."
Dandy Jim nodded and gave the papers back. "This will be very embarrassing to Father Nolan," he said. "A young priest with his first church making a mistake like that. The Bishop won't like it at all."
"The Bishop need never know," Marlowe said.
Dandy Jim stared at him thoughtfully but didn't speak.
Marlowe pressed. "There's an election coming up next year."
Dandy Jim nodded, "There's always an election."
"That's true," Marlowe said. "There will be other elections and campaigns. A candidate needs contributions almost as much as he needs votes."
Dandy Jim smiled. "Did I ever tell you I met your father?"
Marlowe smiled back. "No, you didn't. But my father often mentioned it. He told me many times how he threw you out of his office."
Dandy Jim nodded. "That's true. Your father has a wild temper. One would almost take him for an Irishman. And all I did was ask him for a small campaign contribution. That was about twenty years ago. I was running for City Council then. Do you know what he said to me then?"
Marlowe shook his head.
"He swore that if ever I was so much as elected to the post of dog-catcher, he'd take his family and move out." Dandy Jim was smiling. "He won't like it when he hears you've contributed to my campaign fund."
Marlowe stood his ground. "My father is my father and I respect him very much," he said, "but what I do with my money and my politics is my concern, not his."
"You have other children?" Dandy Jim asked.
"A boy," Geraldine answered quickly. "Laddie is eight."
Dandy Jim smiled. "I don't know," he said. "Someday women will have the vote and if that little girl is brought up on the hill, that's one vote I may never get."
"I promise you this, Mr. Mayor," Geraldine said quickly. "If that day ever comes, the women of my household will always vote for you!"
Dandy Jim's smile grew broader. He made a courtly bow. "It is a weakness of politicians to always be making deals."
The next day, Timothy Kelly, the mayor's secretary, appeared at Marlowe's office in the bank and picked up a check for five hundred dollars. He suggested that Marlowe talk to a certain judge in the municipal court.
It was there the adoption was made. Quickly, quietly and legally. When Marlowe departed the judge's chambers, he left with the judge a birth certificate for one white female child named Katrina Osterlaag.
In his pocket was a birth certificate in the name of his daughter, Rina Marlowe.
4
UNDERNEATH THE OVERSIZED UMBRELLA PLANTED in the sand, Geraldine Marlowe sat in a canvas chair, her parasol at her side. Slowly she moved her fan back and forth.
"I can't remember a summer as hot as this," she said breathlessly. "It must be over ninety here in the shade."
Her husband grunted from the chair next to hers, his head still immersed in the Boston newspaper, which arrived on the Cape one day late.
"What did you say. Harry?"
He folded his paper and looked at his wife. "That Wilson's a damn fool!"
Geraldine was still looking at the ocean. "What makes you say that, dear?"
He tapped the paper vigorously. "That League of Nations thing. Now he says he's going to Europe and see to it that peace is insured."
Geraldine looked at him. "I think that's a wonderful idea," she said mildly. "After all, we were lucky this time. Laddie was too young to go. The next time, it may be different."
He snorted again. "There won't be a next time. Germany is through forever. Besides, what can they do to us? They're on the other side of the ocean. We can just sit back and let them kill each other off if they want to start another war."
Geraldine shrugged her shoulders. "You better move in closer under the umbrella, dear," she said. "You know how red you get in the sun."
Harrison Marlowe got up and moved his chair farther under the umbrella. He settled back in the chair with a sigh and buried himself in the newspaper once more.
Rina appeared suddenly in front of her mother. "It's been an hour since I had lunch, Mother," she said. "Can I go into the water now?"
"May I," Geraldine corrected automatically. She looked at Rina. She had grown up this summer. It was hard to believe she was only thirteen.
She was tall for her age, almost five three, only one inch shorter than Laddie, who was three years older. Her hair was bleached completely white from the sun and her skin was deeply tanned, so dark that her almond-shaped eyes seemed light by comparison. Her legs were long and graceful, her hips just beginning to round a little and her breasts came full and round against her little girl's bathing suit, more like a sixteen-year-old's.
"May I, Mother?" Rina asked.
"You may," Geraldine nodded. "But be careful, dear, don't swim too far out. I don't want you to tire yourself."
But Rina was already gone. Geraldine Marlowe half smiled to herself. Rina was like that; she was like none of the other girls Geraldine knew. Rina didn't play like a girl. She could swim and outrun any of the boys that Laddie played with and they knew it. She didn't pretend to be afraid of the water or hide from the sun. She just didn't care whether her skin was soft and white.
Harrison Marlowe looked up from his paper. "I have to go up to the city tomorrow. We're closing the Standish loan."
"Yes, dear." The faint, shrill voices of the children floated lazily back toward them. "We'll have to do something about Rina," she said thoughtfully.
"Rina?" he questioned. "What about Rina?"
She turned to him. "Haven't you noticed? Our little girl's growing up."
He cleared his throat. "Umm – yes. But she's still a baby."
Geraldine Marlowe smiled. It was true what they said about fathers. They spoke more about their sons but secretly they delighted in their daughters. "She's become a woman in the past year," she said.
His face flushed and he looked down at his paper. In a vague way, he had realized it, but this was the first time they had spoken about it openly. He looked toward the water, trying to find Rina in the screaming, splashing crowd. "Don't you think we ought to call her back? It's dangerous for her to be so far out in the deep water."