The Morning After Chapter : 4

But she did not really believe that she would have to. Surely he would remember to believe in her. Surely he would phone.

But the hours went by and he did not call; the days went by and he did not come to see her.

When she opened her Sunday paper, his face smiled out at her, and beside it was the face of his fiancée. The girl was pretty, Claire admitted it, but there was something about the close-set eyes that she did not like. “This happy young couple,” the caption under the picture read, “will have four homes from which to choose. One in New York—”

She turned the page. If she could only shut him out of her life as easily!

Women had never been so hard to please, Claire thought, as she helped prospective brides choose silken underwear and velvet lounging robes. At the end of each day she came home tired, exhausted. Why should she go on? she wondered. Why go on just breathing and sleeping and walking about, when inside her it was all just one dull ache?

Then one evening when she arrived at her apartment he was waiting for her on the sidewalk. He stood there, distinguished in his excellent dinner clothes, slightly mocking. “Take you to dinner?” he asked.

She glanced down at her dress. The hyacinth blue duvetyne fitted her slender body smoothly and showed the rounded fullness of her breasts. Her slender feet were shod in blue shoes. Her hands were soft and white, and finger tips shining.

But the memory of their last meeting flooded over her and she shook her head. “No.”

He took hold of her arm and guided her firmly to his car. Unless she struggled and kicked she could not resist him.

He headed away from town, out into the country where the houses were sparsely placed along the roadside. He did not speak, but drove in swift silence. Claire looked at his profile, clear-cut and strong, and relaxed against the seat. She would not think ahead, she would not remember the past, she would just enjoy sitting by him, riding along in the soft air.

Presently he turned the car back toward town. He put his arm along the back of the seat and let it fall about her shoulders, driving expertly with one hand. She leaned against him, finding the silence sweet.

At last he slowed down in front of an inn on the edge of town. “Let’s have dinner here,” he suggested, and she nodded assent.

Not until she was seated at a small table near the window did Claire remember that this was the Red Cock Inn where Rubye sang. The girl gave them a mocking smile across the room.

She turned back to James and found him amused. “Your friend is trying to guess the answer,” he remarked.

“So am I,” Claire said, smiling also. “I’m still wondering how you came to be in her room.”

He quirked an eyebrow. “A party of us came here just as the place was closing, and she offered to take us to her apartment for a cocktail. Of course I don’t know that the young lady put something in my drink, but I certainly went to sleep and stayed that way until morning.”

Claire turned back toward the room, her heart suddenly light.

“It’s your turn now,” he said. “What about this husband of yours that you—forgot?”

“It’s simple. I was terribly unhappy at home and wanted to come to New York. But I was only sixteen and my mother and stepfather wouldn’t let me unless I married Frank so he could take care of me. He wasn’t so repulsive then, and I married him to get away. But on the train I suddenly saw him as he really is, and when we reached the city I gave him the slip and disappeared.”

“Poor kid,” he murmured.

“I was alone in New York with no friends and almost no money, but I got along. I haven’t seen Frank for two years. He must have seen the pictures of you and me in the paper. He picked a lock and got into the apartment, and tried to make you think you were in a trap.

“I could get an annulment, I’ve never lived with him. But I’ve been so busy, and it didn’t seem to matter until now. That evening when you—took me in your arms, I really did forget about him because—because—”

“Because you love me.” His voice came low and tender.

“Yes,” she said, “you.”

The waiter interrupted them again, and when he went away James began telling her about his plans for a yacht race, about a trip to South America one of his friends had made. He did not go back to the matter of love.

Resentment began to grow in her again. He had led her to admit her love for him, but he had not declared his in return; he had said nothing of marriage.

Marriage! But she had forgotten his fiancée. She seemed to have a way of forgetting such trivial things as fiancées and husbands.

Then they danced, and at the spell of his touch her resentment faded. “This is love,” she thought. “Whatever it brings, this is love.”