He walked the length of the room, moving with careful eagerness like an animal stalking prey, and planted himself in front of the easel. I was a little embarrassed by his casual hospitality. I’d expected something different: another yelling match, or even a show of violence. I could feel the tension in him, as it was, but he was holding it.
A kind of screaming silence radiated from the place where he stood. He was glaring at the canvas as if he was thinking of destroying it. Stooping quickly, he picked up a traylike palette, squizzled a brush in a tangle of color, and with his shoulder muscles bunched, stabbed at the canvas daintily with the brush.
I went through the swinging doors into the kitchen. The gas stove, the refrigerator, the stainless steel sink were all sparkling clean. I inspected the cupboards, which were well stocked with cans of everything from baked beans to truffles. It looked as though Harriet had been playing house, for keeps.
I crossed to the stairway. The man in front of the easel said: “Augh!” He wasn’t talking to me. He was talking to his canvas. Stepping softly, I went down the stairs. At their foot a narrow door opened onto outside steps which led down to the beach.
There were two bedrooms, a large one in front and a smaller one in the rear, with a bathroom between them. There was nothing in the rear bedroom but a pair of twin beds with bare mattresses and pillows. The bathroom contained a pink washbowl and a pink tub with a shower curtain. A worn leather shaving kit with the initials B. C. stamped on it in gold lay on the back of the washbowl. I unzipped it. The razor was still wet from recent use.
The master bedroom in front, like the room above it, had sliding glass doors which opened onto a balcony. The single king-sized bed was covered with a yellow chenille spread on which women’s clothes had been carefully folded: a plaid skirt, a cashmere sweater, underthings. A snakeskin purse with an ornate gold-filled clasp that looked Mexican lay on top of the chest of drawers. I opened it and found a red leather wallet which held several large and small bills and Harriet Blackwell’s driving license.
I looked behind the louvered doors of the closet. There were no women’s clothes hanging in it, and very few men’s. The single lonesome suit was a grey lightweight worsted number which bore the label of a tailor on Calle Juares in Guadalajara. The slacks and jacket beside it had been bought at a chain department store in Los Angeles, and so had the new black shoes on the rack underneath. In the corner of the closet was a scuffed brown Samsonite suitcase with a Mexicana Airlines tag tied to the handle.
The suitcase was locked. I hefted it. It seemed to have nothing inside.
The door at the foot of the stairs opened behind me. A blonde girl wearing a white bathing suit and dark harlequin glasses came in. She failed to see me till she was in the room with me.
“Who are you?” she said in a startled voice.
I was a little startled myself. She was a lot of girl. Though she was wearing flat beach sandals, her hidden eyes were almost on a level with my own. Smiling into the dark glasses, I gave her my apologies and my story.
“Father’s never rented the beach house before.”
“He seems to have changed his mind.”
“Yes, and I know why.” Her voice was high and small for so large a girl.
“Why?”
“It doesn’t concern you.”
She whipped off her glasses, revealing a black scowl, and something else. I saw why her father couldn’t believe that any man would love her truly or permanently. She looked a little too much like him.
She seemed to know this; perhaps the knowledge never left her thoughts. Her silver-tipped fingers went to her brow and smoothed away the scowl. They couldn’t smooth away the harsh bone that rose in a ridge above her eyes and made her not pretty.
I apologized a second time for invading her privacy, and for the unspoken fact that she was not pretty, and went upstairs. Her fiancé, if that is what he was, was using a palette knife to apply cobalt blue to his canvas. He was sweating and oblivious.
I stood behind him and watched him work on his picture. It was one of those paintings concerning which only the painter could tell when it was finished. I had never seen anything quite like it: a cloudy mass like a dark thought in which some areas of brighter color stood out like hope or fear. It must have been very good or very bad, because it gave me a frisson.
He threw down his knife and stood back jostling me. His gymnasium smell was mixed with the sweeter smell of the oils. He turned with a black intensity in his eyes. It faded as I watched.
“Sorry, I didn’t know you were there. Have you finished looking around?”
“Enough for now.”
“Like the place?”
“Very much. When did you say you were moving?”
“I don’t know. It depends.” A troubled expression had taken the place of the singleness that was his working look. “You don’t want it before August, anyway.”
“I might.”
The girl spoke from the head of the stairs in a carrying voice: “Mr. Damis will be out of here by the end of the week.”
He turned to her with his wry, self-mocking smile. “Is that an order, Missy Colonel?”
“Of course not, darling. I never give orders. But you know what our plans are.”
“I know what they’re supposed to be.”
She came toward him in a flurried rush, her plaid skirt swinging, the way a child moves in on a loved adult. “You can’t mean you’ve changed your mind again?”
He lowered his head, and shook it. The troubled expression had spread from his eyes to his mouth.
“Sorry, kid, I have a hard time making decisions, especially now that I’m working. But nothing’s changed.”
“That’s wonderful. You make me happy.”
“You’re easily made happy.”
“You know I love you.”
She had forgotten me, or didn’t care. She tried to put her arms around him. He pushed her back with the heels of his hands, holding his fingers away from her sweater.
“Don’t touch me, I’m dirty.”
“I like you dirty.”
“Silly kid,” he said without much indulgence.
“I like you, love you, eat-you-up, you dirty.”
She leaned toward him, taller in her heels than he was, and kissed him on the mouth. He stood and absorbed her passion, his hands held away from her body. He was looking past her at me. His eyes were wide open and rather sad.
4
HE SAID WHEN she released him: “Is there anything else, Mr. Archer?”
“No. Thanks. I’ll check back with you later.”
“If you insist.”
Harriet Blackwell gave me a peculiar look. “Your name is Archer?”
I acknowledged that it was. She turned her back on me, in a movement that reminded me of her father, and stood looking out over the grey sea. Like a man stepping under a bell jar which muffled sound and feeling, Damis had already returned to his painting.
I let myself out, wondering if it had been a good idea to put in a personal appearance at the beach house. I found out in a moment that it hadn’t been. Before I reached my car, Harriet came running after me, her heels rat-tat-tatting on the wooden gangway.
“You came here to spy on us, didn’t you?”
She took hold of my arm and shook it. Her snakeskin bag fell to the ground between us. I picked it up and handed it to her as a peace offering. She snatched it out of my hand.
“What are you trying to do to me? What did I ever do to you?”
“Not a thing, Miss Blackwell. And I’m not trying to do anything to you.”
“That’s a lie. Father hired you to break it up between me and Burke. I heard him talk to you yesterday, on the telephone.”