The Impetuous Mistress. George Harmon Coxe
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hand in a formal handshake which was a customary part of each arrival and departure. He stepped back then, aware that she did not want to be helped, and walked with her across the living room to the front door.
A heavy hardtop, shiny, new-looking, and dark-hued, stood in the drive, and when Austin Farrell saw them he stepped down, a tall and handsome figure clad in lightweight doeskin trousers and a dark-blue polo shirt with his initials on the pocket. Two or three years younger than his wife and a confirmed bachelor until their marriage some years earlier, he was a literary agent who worked when he felt like it and practiced his business not for profits—his wife was a wealthy woman who indulged him generously—but for the prestige he felt such labors gave him. As an agent he had a certain standing with the sort of people he felt were important; he had entree to the proper clubs and restaurants where his entertaining was done. For himself he needed only to earn spending money since all other things were signed for to be taken care of by his wife’s business manager. Now he smiled to show his perfect teeth, and his voice was low and resonant as he spoke.
“How did it go today, darling?”
“Rick says it’s about finished,” she said, handing him her crutch as he helped her onto the front seat, “but he’d like another look Wednesday.”
“Fine. That’s great. I can’t wait to see it.”
“No literary work today, Austin?” Rick said.
“In this heat?” Farrell laughed. “Try and find an editor in town. I’m going in tomorrow though, just in case. What about you?”
“I’m driving in later this evening. Some stuff to deliver in the morning. . . . I’ll phone you Wednesday morning, Elinor, and we can fix a time. It shouldn’t take long.”
He watched the big car pull away and then went back to the studio to clean up his things, glancing again with satisfaction at the two illustrations he created for True-Fruit out of paint, illustration board, and a penciled rough an art director had furnished him.
He recalled the raise Ted Banks had mentioned and allowed himself to speculate with some pleasure on the future. The hope that had come to him with his wife’s call was still with him, but it was a hope tempered with vague misgivings when he remembered the explosive scenes that had erupted between them in times past. What, he wondered, did Frieda mean by certain stipulations?
The thought still lay dormant in the back of his mind when he saw Nancy Heath step down from the 6:48. In that moment before she saw him he watched her move with grace along the station platform, some odd chemical suddenly working on him to set up the pleasurable and exciting currents that always vibrated inside him when he was with her.
She saw him then and waved, her step quickening, a tallish girl in an off-white, tropical-weight suit that still looked fresh after the train ride. Slenderly made but not thin, she had shapely legs and a small neat waist and hair that was medium blond. Her smile came quickly, and when she stopped and he took her hands, he wanted very much to kiss her right then and there. The wide green eyes beneath the dark lashes had soft, humorous lights in them as they held his briefly, telling him that she wanted to be kissed. Then the moment passed and they were walking to his car and he was saying:
“How did it go today?”
“Hectic as usual. If it hadn’t been for the air conditioning the whole office would have perished. Did you finish the True-Fruit pages?”
“Yep. Had a session with Elinor Farrell this afternoon and I think I’ve about done it.” He opened the car door and moved round to the other side. “It should be a bit cooler by the water. What about some cold lobster?”
“Oh, perfect,” she said delightedly. “With mayonnaise and potato chips and a salad and maybe iced tea.”
The place Rick took her to did not have much style but the porch where one dined in the summer jutted out over the water and the lobsters were superb. Because they were reasonably early Rick managed a table by the railing and not until their drinks had been served did he mention his wife.
“She phoned about four,” he said. “She wants to see me tonight.”
“Ohh—” Nancy’s mouth was round with the word and her lips stayed parted until she had digested the news. “But you could have called me, darling,” she said. “I didn’t have to come out for dinner. I mean, seeing her is so much more important—”
“I’m not meeting her until nine.”
“Well—you can put me on the train first.”
“No. I’ve got to drive in anyway.” He reached out to cover her hand with his. “Relax,” he said. “Just drop me at the house at five of nine, cruise around for three quarters of an hour or so, and then pick me up.”
She finished her drink as the waiter put the split lobster before her. She said: “Um,” and attacked it with gusto. She muttered small delighted sounds as she ate, smiling at him from time to time as she noted his progress. Not until she had finished did her face sober.
“Do you think she’ll give it to you?”
“She called me up,” Rick said.
“Last week she said no.”
“Maybe she changed her mind.”
“Maybe.” She sighed as she used the finger bowl. “But I can’t see Frieda giving you anything unless it was to her advantage. What exactly did she say?”
“She asked me if I still wanted a divorce, and I said yes, and she said maybe it could be arranged. There might be a couple of stipulations but nothing—to use her word—insurmountable.”
“There would be stipulations.”
“So what? She probably wants to have an agreement about Ricky.”
“I don’t know why she should. She’s never paid any attention to him.”
“She has her rights, too. Her father would like nothing better than to have Ricky with him, and when Frieda has custody she can do as she likes about that. . . . Look,” he said with affectionate bluntness. “We want to get married and have a family of our own and live together the next eighty or ninety years, don’t we?”
“Well, fifty anyway,” she said and giggled.
“And unless I get the divorce it doesn’t happen. Who cares what she wants?”
“But you can’t give her a mortgage on the rest of your life.”
“How do you know she wants a mortgage? I don’t intend to give her anything that should be yours.”
“I didn’t mean that—”
“And anyway, she’s got money. I have to scratch all year to make as much as she gets from her mother’s estate. I expect to educate Ricky. If she’ll settle for a divorce she can have what she wants.”
“Within reason.”
“Okay, baby. Within reason.”
“All right, darling. I’m sorry to be so female about it.” She put aside her napkin and her eyes were softly mischievous. “Isn’t it nearly time to go? I want to be kissed.”
She waited until they were in the car and then, as his arm moved round her, she came close and clung to him while their lips met. When she released herself she straightened and sighed happily.
“Umm,” she said. “I feel better already.”
It was dark by the time they approached the house. Diagonally across from it was a small lane that was usually occupied during the summer by one car or another and for a purpose which to Rick seemed obvious. Lover’s Lane was what he called it privately and though he was vaguely aware that it was presently in use he was more intent on his own driveway and now he noted with relief that there was no sign of Frieda’s car. As he stepped out and Nancy moved behind the wheel he said:
“You