“How?”
“I don’t know exactly. I’m afraid I won’t like it, for one thing, and then what do I say?”
“That you like it.”
“Isn’t it better to be honest?”
“No. It’s been my observation that honesty is rarely to be treasured in human relationships. Writers and artists don’t want honesty, anyway. They want praise. There are a few masochists who truly want constructive criticism, whatever that means, but they’re few and far between.”
“Suppose your husband—”
“Paints something dreadful? What do I say to him? Why, I tell him I think it’s very sensitive and forceful and effective, of course. In the first place I don’t trust my own artistic judgment enough to say otherwise, and in the second place dispassionate criticism is supposed to come from dispassionate people. Strangers. The people who love you are supposed to give you support.”
Linda considered this. “I think I’ll probably like the book, anyway, I’ve liked all his earlier work, and he’s too much a professional to like a book as much likes this one and be dead wrong about it.”
“It doesn’t always work that way, but I suspect right in this case. That’s not really what you’re worried about anyway, is it?”
“No, I guess it isn’t. I guess what it comes down to is that I want him to be finished with the book and I don’t want him to be finished with the book.”
“Why?”
“When he finishes it he’s going to ask me to marry him.” She lowered her eyes, not wanting to see Olive’s reaction. “He hasn’t said anything. Not exactly. And I may be capable of misreading things, God knows I’ve been capable of misreading all kinds of things in the past, but I think I’m right this time. There are things he’s said. Feelings I can’t help picking up. I don’t know how much of it is me and how much of it is the right place and the right time. He’s been divorced a long time and he’s ready to get married again. He’ll talk about the loneliness of that big house of his. Nothing concrete, but just a lot of remarks he wouldn’t make to me unless he had marriage in mind. He’s too conscious of the effect of words to say these things otherwise.” She thought for a moment. “I think she’s got a lot to do with it.”
“Anita?”
“Who?”
“His ex-wife.”
“Oh. I don’t think he ever referred to her by name, Anita? No, I was thinking of Karen. His daughter.”
“How does she—”
“I think he’s starting to see himself as a father, as a part of a family. I can’t explain this very well. I’m just barely aware of the pieces, I don’t know how they fit together. Or if they really do.”
“You’ve met her?”
“Several times. And I feel I know her better than I do because he talks about her a great deal. They have this very open relationship. She can stay out all night or bring boys home with her, and everything is open and aboveboard. He takes a great deal of pride in this.”
“You sound unconvinced.”
“Maybe because it’s so impossible to imagine having that kind of relationship with my own parents. Maybe I’m envious, as far as that goes.”
“Do you like her?”
“Surprisingly enough I do.”
“Why is that surprising?”
“You know, I don’t know why I said that. I suppose because it’s traditional for a daughter to resent her father’s female friends. ‘Female friends’ — what a stilted phrase. But it’s natural for there to be resentment. And vice versa. I don’t think she resents me, and I like her well enough. One thing — she makes me feel old. Not because I’m going out with her father. I don’t think that’s what it is. And not because she relates to me like a mother substitute, because she doesn’t. I think it’s just that she’s so much younger. So much less mature.”
“And he wants to marry you.”
“Yes, I’m sure he does. And I’m pretty sure he knows he does.”
“So the question is—”
“Do I want to marry him? Yes, that’s the question. And I’m not sure of the answer. Do I love him? That’s another question and I’m not sure of the answer to that one either. I enjoy being with him. I care about him. I feel... important when I’m with him. And comfortable. I don’t know if that adds up to love. I’m not sure I have the capacity for a more total sort of love. I know I’m sick of floating, of everything being temporary. It would be very secure to marry Hugh.”
“It would certainly be financially secure.”
“Yes, and I’m not sure how important that is.”
“Very important.”
“But also secure in other ways. I love his house. I love the grounds, the woods. The whole way of living. I can see myself being a part of that. Very easily, I can see myself being a part of that.”
“I gather you’re sleeping with him.”
“Not literally. I’ve been to bed with him. I haven’t slept over.”
“Because of the daughter?”
“Oh, no. She knows we go to bed. That’s part of their beautiful open relationship. They don’t have to keep secrets from each other. It works both ways. No, I go home at night so that he can go straight to the typewriter in the morning. To tell you the truth, I think I prefer it that way. The cozy family group around the breakfast table the next day, I don’t know that I’m ready for that togetherness.”
“No, I don’t think I should be, either. Suppose you married him. Would the breakfast table scene bother you then?”
“I don’t think so. I think I could handle them now, as far as that goes, but until he’s done with the book it’s a moot point.”
“So the question is whether or not you want to marry him. Not that you have to have the answer yet, not until you’re asked, but it’s still something you’d want to settle ahead of time in your own mind. As much as you can. Is the bed part good? Because it won’t be a good marriage if it isn’t, and it’s not something that gets better with time. Either it’s there from the beginning or it never comes around.”
“It’s good. He’s very good for me that way. Am I blushing?”
“Not that I can see.”
“I feel as though I am. No, that part is good.” Her mind filled suddenly with an image, a memory, Hugh touching her in a certain way and her own electric response, and now she knew she was blushing. “It’s fine,” she said. “Just fine.”
“Well, what are the other traditional tests? Would you use his toothbrush? That’s supposed to be an acid test, although I can’t see it myself. It strikes me as old-fashioned. Would you want to have his children?”
“If I wanted to have any children, which is something I’m not sure of either way. But if I did, yes, I’d want to have his.”
“Would you want your children to look like him?”
“Oh, definitely. He’s a very handsome, man. I like his looks. I’d certainly rather have my children look like him than like me.”
“Oh, Linda, that’s ridiculous. You’re a very attractive woman.”
“I’m not unattractive, I know that. And I don’t detest my own looks, but I’ve always felt I wouldn’t want to have children who look like me. Make of that what you will, good Dr. McIntyre.”
“Hmmm. Well, I make it that we ought to get the check and take a walk over the bridge, don’t you think? He’s picking you up at nine, and you’ll want time to get ready.”
The sky was starting to darken as they left the restaurant. The air was still warm but the heat of the day had passed and there was a breeze coming off the river. They walked almost to the bridge in silence.
Then Olive said, “Let me tell you a story. I don’t suppose you ever heard mention of Jimmy Doerfer. No reason why you should have. He lived with his mother a few miles the other side of Doylestown. Country people, Bucks residents for generations on both sides. Henrietta Doerfer was widowed when the boy was about six years old. An only child.