Val jumped up. “Pop! You haven’t been trying to make breakfast? Don’t do another thing. I’ll be down in a jiffy.”
Rhys held her at arm’s length. “I’m glad you’re taking it this way, puss.”
“Will you go downstairs?”
“If Pink goes, we’ll have to get a cook.”
“Don’t need one. I can cook like a fiend.”
“You’re not going to be slave to a stove, Val. We’ll be able to afford it.”
Val sniffed. “Yes, until the money’s eaten up. How did you make out with the real estate?”
He shrugged. “I got a fair price for the Santa Monica and Malibu places, but this one represents a considerable loss.”
“Did that movie man take the yacht?”
“Literally — the pirate!”
Val kissed his brown chin. “Please don’t worry, darling; I’ll show you how to economize! Now get out.”
But when she was alone again Val looked a little ill. To give up all these lovely, precious things was like facing the amputation of an arm. Val thought of the auction sale to come, mobs of curious people trampling over everything, handling their most intimate possessions... and stopped thinking.
She burned the toast and charred the bacon and over-fried the eggs and underboiled the coffee, and Rhys gobbled it all and maintained with a plausibility that almost fooled her that he had never eaten such a delicious breakfast in his life. The only thing that really tasted good was the orange juice, and Pink had prepared that before he left. Walter was right — she was useless! And that made her think of Walter, and thinking of Walter made her lips quiver, and after she pushed Rhys out of the departed Mrs. Thomson’s no longer spotless kitchen Val sat down and wept into the dish-washing machine. It was a sort of requiem, for Val was positive it was the last time they would ever be able to afford such a wonderful thing.
It was even worse later.
The auction people turned up and completed the details of the task begun a week before — cataloguing the furniture and art-objects. They ran all over the house like oblivious ants.
The telephones rang incessantly — the purchaser of the yacht with a complaint, a multitude of lawyers with questions about this piece of property and that, insistent reporters; Rhys kept dashing from one telephone to another, almost cheerful, followed everywhere by Pink, who looked like a house-dog which has just been kicked.
Valerie was left to her own devices in the midst of this hurly-burly; she had nothing to do but get out of the way of hurrying strangers. A man practically dumped her on the floor retrieving the antique Cape Cod rocker in which her mother had sung her to sleep; Val felt like giving him the one-two Pink had taught her, but the man was away with his loot before she could get her hands on him.
She drifted about, fingering the things she had grown up with — the heavy old silver, those precious little vessels made of old porcelain backed with pewter which Rhys had picked up on his honeymoon in Shanghai, the laces and velvets and lamps, the lovely old hunting prints. She fingered the books and stared at the pictures and spent a difficult moment before the grand old piano on which she had learned to play — never very well! — Chopin and Beethoven and Bach.
And Walter, darn him, didn’t even call up once!
Val used up two handkerchiefs, artfully, by crying in corners.
But whenever her father bustled into view she said something gay about their new furnished apartment at the La Salle which Walter, who had taken rooms there, had recommended. How thrilling it was going to be living there! Yes, agreed Rhys, and different, too. Yes, said Val — that ducky little five-room place — hotel service — built-in radio — even a really fair print or two on the walls... And all the while little frozen fingers crawled down her back.
She found Pink in the dismantled gymnasium, sweating powerfully over a litter of golf-bags, skis, Indian clubs, and other sporting paraphernalia.
“Oh, Pink,” she wailed, “is the La Salle really so awful?”
“It’s all right,” said Pink. “Anything you want, you ask Mibs.”
“Who’s Mibs?”
“Mibs Austin. Girl-friend of mine.”
“Why, Pincus!”
Pink blushed. “She’s the telephone operator there. She’ll take care of you... Just one of ’em,” he said.
“I’m sure she’s sweet... After all,” said Val absently, “Walter does live there.”
“And me,” said Pink, wrapping a pair of skis. “I sort of rented me a ’phone booth there, too.”
“Pink, you didn’t!”
“I got to live somewhere, don’t I?”
“You darling!”
“Anyway, who’s going to cook? You can’t. And all Rhys can make is Spanish omelet.”
“But, Pink—”
“Besides, he needs his exercises. You can’t give him his rubdown, either.”
“But, Pink,” said Val, troubled, “you know that now — we weren’t figuring on extra expenses—”
“Who said anything about pay?” growled Pink. “Get out of here, squirt, and let me work.”
“But how are you going to — I mean, have you any plans?”
Pink sighed. “Once I was going to start a health farm and make me some real dough out of these smart guys that run to rubber tires around the middle, but now—”
“Oh, Pink, I’m so sorry about your losing all your money!”
“I got my connections, don’t worry. I can always go back to being an expert in the movies — double for some punk with a pretty pan who don’t know how to hold a club but’s supposed to be champ golfer of the world — that kind of hooey.”
“Pink,” said Val, “do you mind if I kiss you?”
Pink said gruffly: “Keep ’em for Little Boy Blue; he has ’em with cream. Val, scram!” But his nutbrown face reddened.
Val smiled a little mistily. “You’re such a fraud, Pincus darling.” And she kissed him without further opposition.
The auctioneer cleared his throat. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, a few announcements before the sale commences. As you know, this is not a forced sale. So the owner, Mr. Rhys Jardin, has exercised his privilege of making last-minute withdrawals. If you will kindly note these changes in your catalogue...”
Val, sitting beside her father in the front row of chairs, felt him tremble; she did not dare look at his face. She tried to preserve an air of “Who cares?”, but she knew the attempt was a miserable failure.
“... the sixty-foot yacht Valerie has been withdrawn from the auction, having been disposed of in a private sale yesterday...”
Walter was here — sitting in the rear, the coward! The least he might have done was say hello — or isn’t it a lovely day for an execution — or something like that. But Walter was acting very strangely. He hadn’t even glanced at her before the people took seats, and he was so pale—
“... your number one-two-six, a collection of four hundred and twenty-two assorted sporting prints. Also your number one-five-two, a collection of small arms. Also your number one-five-three, a collection of medieval arrowheads. Due to the great interest in the sporting-print collection, Mr. Jardin wishes me to announce that it has been donated to the Los Angeles public library association.”
There was a little splatter of applause, which quickly died when some one hissed. Val felt like hiding her head. A man’s voice behind them whispered: “I understand he’s given the arrowheads to the Museum.”
“He must be stony broke,” whispered a female voice.
“Yeah? Maybe.”