“Oh, well,” said George.
“Straight home, sir?” said Andrew.
“Straight home,” said George Lockwood. “Deegan knows the way from here, doesn’t he?”
“Yes sir. He knows all these roads, better than I do,” said Andrew.
“All right, let’s go,” said George. He got in the Lincoln and sat between Wilma and Geraldine. “I’m sorry about those photographers,” he said.
“They didn’t get much for their trouble, a woman with a veil,” said Wilma. “Do you think they came all the way from New York just for that?”
“I don’t know, but they’d better not try anything at the house. Deegan, the man that’s driving the other car, is a private detective. Actually a watchman, who works for a detective agency. One word to him, and there’ll be some cameras smashed. Maybe even a nose or two.”
“Oh, dear, are we going to have trouble?” said Geraldine. “Let’s not have anything like that.”
“Seems to me you’ve had the least trouble of anybody, this past week,” said George.
“I was thinking as much of Wilma as of us,” said Geraldine.
“Oh, sure,” said George.
“This is really very pretty country,” said Wilma. “I love those great big red barns. They build them right into the side of the hill, don’t they?”
“For a reason,” said George. “For several reasons, as a matter of fact. On the lower level they keep the livestock. The cattle, the horses. On the upper level they store the grain, the hay and straw. The corn cribs of course are separate. But the hay and straw and grain are kept dry, on the upper story of the barns.”
“Not the animals?”
“Oh, they bed them with straw, but the farmers believe that animals are healthier standing on the ground than on wooden planking.”
“George will embark on a lecture at the drop of a hat,” said Geraldine. “I never knew any of this.”
“You never asked the right questions,” said George. “I have resources of information that you haven’t tapped, Geraldine.”
“I’m sure you have,” said Geraldine. “Some of them I’d hesitate to ask about.”
“Then they wouldn’t be considered the right questions, would they? Wilma was only interested in the Pennsylvania Dutch barn, and since I was born and raised here, it’s a subject I know something about.”
“But you tore down one of those barns to build your own house.”
“I had no intention of becoming a farmer. I was building a country place for you and me, dear. Just you and me.”
“Fiddlesticks. You were building a manor house for future generations of Lockwoods,” said Geraldine.
“If I was, I made a big mistake, didn’t I?”
“Speaking of which, I wonder what happened to Bing? He was going to be here today,” said Wilma.
“He could have missed connections in Chicago, or he may have changed his mind without letting you know. Or whose car is that going up our road? If it’s those damned photographers, I’ll have them out of there in a hurry.” He spoke to Andrew through the tube. “Andrew, do you recognize that car, going up our driveway?”
“No sir. It’s a last year’s Cadillac but I don’t recognize it. One of them four-door coops. There’s two of them like it in Gibbsville, but I know both of them.”
“He’s going right in our driveway, too,” said George. “You don’t recognize the car, do you, Wilma?”
“No.”
“Now he’s getting out. He’s alone,” said George. “And do you know who it is? It’s my son!”
“Oh, I’m dying to meet him!” said Geraldine.
“Well, don’t wet your pants. You’re about to meet him,” said George.
“It is he, isn’t it?” said Wilma. “Oh, I’m really glad he got here.”
Bing Lockwood was standing at the front door, waiting to be admitted, when the Lincoln pulled up. He was wearing a blue serge suit, white button-down shirt, and black knit tie. He was deeply tanned, almost of another race among the white faces that now got out of the Lincoln.
“Hello, Father,” he said. “I went to the wrong house.”
“Hello, son. The wrong house? What wrong house?” They shook hands.
“The old house. Home. Hello, Aunt Wilma.” He put his arms around her and kissed her cheek.
“Your stepmother,” said George.
“Hello, stepson,” said Geraldine. “I’m so glad to meet you at last.”
“Of course, you’ve never seen this place,” said George. “Well, shall we wait for the others? Here they are, so let’s get the introductions over with. Mr. and Mrs. Sherwood James, cousins of your Aunt Wilma.”
“We met a long time ago,” said Bing, shaking hands with Dorothy and Sherwood James.
“And Mr. and Mrs. Desmond Farley, also cousins of your Aunt, Wilma’s.”
Bing Lockwood shook hands with the Farleys.
“Geraldine, will you take them in, please. I have to have a word with Deegan. Andrew, will you take my son’s bag? Where did you come from, son?”
“Philadelphia. I got in early this morning and a friend of mine lent me this car, but I got lost on Stenton Avenue, and then when I got here—”
“Stenton Avenue? What were you doing on Stenton Avenue? We haven’t gone that way in years,” said George.
“Well, I won’t go that way again,” said Bing. He put his arm about Wilma’s shoulders, and a shy sadness came into her eyes. George saw it, and at first was shocked by the hypocrisy of it, but she was not being hypocritical, he saw: she was simply being affected by the magnetism of his son, whose sorrow was genuine and infectious.
George spoke to Deegan about the newspaper photographers. “Andrew will see to it that they don’t come through the main gate, but you might keep an eye back gate,” said George.
“They won’t be coming over the wall, that’s sure and certain,” said Deegan.
George did not feel that it was quite necessary for Deegan to remind him of the spikes in the wall, but he made no comment on that. “I’ll rely on you to keep them out,” he said, and returned to the house.
The mourners had dispersed to various lavatories. Luncheon was to be served whenever Geraldine gave the order, a time unfixed because of the unpredictability of the length of the funeral service. For the moment George was alone in his study. The Farleys and Sherwood James were returning to New York on an early afternoon train. Dorothy James and Wilma were staying overnight. Wilma had the inevitable papers to sign, and was seeing Arthur McHenry in the morning. All plans were known to George except his son’s.
Geraldine appeared. “What do you think? Serve cocktails here, or in the front room?” she said.
“Be a little crowded in here,” he said. “Did you find out anything about George’s plans?”
“Yes. He’s going to wait over and take Wilma and Dorothy as far as Philadelphia in his car, tomorrow. Then they’ll go from there by train.”
“He is spending the night, then,” said George.
“Yes, he seemed to take for granted that we expected him to. He’s very attractive. He asked me to call him Bing, by the way. He said nobody in California calls him George.”
“I’m sure they don’t,” said George.
The luncheon proceeded according to the improvised rules of the particular occasion: no mention of the dead, some sketchy local history by George Lockwood, some discussion of the petroleum industry between Desmond Farley and Bing Lockwood, and finally a half-apologetic reminder by the hostess that if the Farleys and Sherwood James had any packing to do, they should allow fifteen or twenty minutes for the ride to the railroad station.
Soon the Farleys and Sherwood James were gone, and Geraldine, Wilma, and Dorothy James retired to Geraldine’s upstairs sitting-room. George Lockwood and his son were alone for the first time in six years.