Chapter 10
So comfortable and secure had Shelly been over the past few years that she had given little thought that one day she might have to worry about such a lowly thing as employment. The letter from the law firm had a definite sobering effect on her at first then, after due consideration of this predicament, she went into a mild form of shock.
Now in her forties, she realized suddenly how inept she was. She possessed no skills whatsoever. Although she had been somewhat of a leader in civic affairs, these accomplishments were now long in the past. Also, she realized what she had learned along these lines stood her in a very poor economic situation. Employers just did not hire garden club leaders or anything even remotely connected with clubs.
Shelly shuddered at the thought of the type of job she might have to take-clerk behind a laundry counter, clerk in a dime store, housework. She couldn't even qualify as a typist. The future suddenly terrified her. Surely, she thought, a woman of her background would not have to begin at the bottom of the ladder at her age. Unfortunately for her, employers were not impressed with her background, her past position or who she had been once. They viewed her applications with a critical eye, rejecting her at every turn-that is, for the positions she applied for, for she answered only those ads which appealed to her. Consequently, after two months of searching, she was still without employment.
The constant rejections caused her to turn more and more to her bottle for solace.
She was out of sorts this evening, as she had been since awakening from an early afternoon nap. A walk along the street and an inspection of what the day had to offer had been most disappointing. She had seen, in that brief excursion, all that the day had to offer in the way of employment and she freshly resolved that tomorrow would be different. She began to think of the business world as absurd and stupid. Somehow, she was going to change it.
She didn't bother to analyze the impulse that turned her out of her apartment and down the street toward the nearest bar; often she would do that, give way to an impulse without asking herself where it was leading her. Most of the time, she knew, however, that a bar led to the most gratifying of her wants-the company of a man.
As she entered the bar, she couldn't help surveying the interior for likely-looking prospects. She was in the habit of doing this most openly now. Disappointed that there was no one she might become interested in, she took a seat at the bar.
Halfway through her first drink, Shelly became aware that someone-a man-had come in. He had seated himself at the bar and was just raising his drink to his mouth when Shelly happened to notice him. A sudden thrill ran through her. The man was strikingly handsome and dressed so neatly that she knew he must be someone of importance. Probably an executive of some sort, she thought. And now, as her interest came alive, she was wishing she had taken the time to change into something more fashionable than the plain black dress she was wearing.
To increase the thrill raging inside her, she noticed the man was now regarding her with considerable interest through the back bar mirror. But she managed to outwardly ignore him. His bigness and handsomeness had made their impression on her. And now, after making sure he had noticed her, her interest in him gradually forced her to turn and cast a slightly flirtatious look in his direction.
When she had finished her drink and the man still made no move to strike up a conversation, Shelly decided to take matters into her own hands. If nothing else, she reasoned, this man would furnish her with a few drinks, something she now needed more and more because of her dwindling finances. So she walked up to him and smiled.
"Hello," she said shyly. "Please don't think I'm being forward, but aren't you from Wildwood?" She was sure he wasn't.
"No, ma'am, I'm not," he said, smiling.
"Oh, I'm sorry. You look just like someone I used to know."
"Yeah, I know. I've been told that before."
Shelly studied him for some moments. She didn't know if he was sincere or just teasing her. "Well, you do have that sort of face," she said slowly, still feigning some distant recognition.
"It must be a pretty common face," he said, still smiling. "Everybody thinks I'm somebody else."
"I think it's a nice face," she said brazenly. "Well, I've managed to get along with it for some years," he said. "Won't you sit down?" Shelly sat down.
He grinned broadly. Shelly wasn't sure whether it was because of her sudden move or whether it was out of genuine pleasure at having female company. She didn't worry about it. She was seated next to a man-a very handsome man and beginning to feel the warm glow that alcohol gave her.
"My name is Ted Kingswood," he said. He looked at her questioningly.
"Shelly," she said. "The last name is unimportant."
"That depends, if it's your name, that's one thing. If it's also your husband's, well...."
"It belongs to me now. I don't have a husband."
"Nice to know you, Shelly," he smiled.
He looked at her for some time without saying anything. She was looking in the mirror and when his glance turned into a stare and moved over her body, she felt so excited a shiver ran through her, causing her to tremble slightly.
"You come here often?" he asked.
"Not very," she replied. She -eyed him now in a direct way, her thoughts weighing an impulse to reach out and touch him, an urge so overpowering she had to turn away briefly.
"You said you weren't married, didn't you?" he asked.
"That's right. My husband is dead-shot himself," she said abruptly.
Ted frowned. "A man doesn't do a thing like that without good reason."
She shrugged. "Who knows what his reasons were?"
There was an abrupt wariness in him that would have taken a sharper eye than Shelly's to detect. His face set itself seriously to mask his true thoughts. "That's one of the tough ones to figure," he said. "We never get a victim's firsthand account of whether it was right or wrong. As for me, I'm not that curious that I want to find out-not that way."
Shelly tossed her head impatiently. "Who's ever to know? We who are left behind can only guess at what the true reason was." She gave him an appealing look.
He sat there eyeing her gravely a long moment and, in the end, lifted his shoulders and said, "That's something for which I have no answers."
She nodded mutely and turned away. Then she turned back to him, smiled slightly, and asked, "Why are we talking about such a morbid subject, anyway? I'm sure your wife would make a more interesting subject."
He tilted his head in a slow nod without saying anything for a considerable interval. Then, abruptly, he said, "This means a lot to you, doesn't it?"
"What do you mean?"
"Sitting here, talking to someone."
Puzzled, she replied, "I-I suppose you're right, but I didn't think it showed."
"It shows," he said simply.
Gladness touched her features now, and all at once she reached out and laid a hand on his arm. "I'm glad you're willing to listen to me."
"It's not what I had in mind for this evening, but as long as you're happy, I guess that's what counts."
A faint alarm touched her glance, then faded. "I didn't mean to be a bore," she said.
"You're not a bore. If I didn't think you wanted to talk about it, I would have changed the subject."
"You think I want to talk about something like that?"
"You must. You brought it up," he told her.
She caught her breath and one hand drifted to her throat as she swallowed hard. She hadn't realized it until he had told her that she had on numerous occasions brought up Tom's death and the manner in which he had died.
"Sometimes they say people talk about unpleasant things because of a guilt feeling," he went on. "It could be that you feel responsible for your husband's suicide." He didn't move and now she felt the weight of his steady glance, and a tide of color rushed to her cheeks.
"Wh-why, that's preposterous!" she exclaimed. "Tom and I were very devoted." The lie made her blush even more.
His brows lifted in a polite query. "Really?" There was an accusing implication to his oneword question.
"Of course!" she shot. "You're making it sound as though I were to blame for his ... his suicide. Why ... why I wasn't home enough to even bother him! What he did was his business!" Too late, she realized what she had said and immediately worried about the effect it would have on Ted Kingswood.
The barest trace of a smile crossed his lips. "Oh?"
His manner had now become thoroughly irritating to Shelly and she tried desperately to control herself. This man-this dreadfully handsome, irritating man-was not at all what she had expected. She stole a quick glance at him. "Doesn't matter," she said lamely. "That's all in the past. I should know better than to even bring it up."
"Do you feel you had a part in killing him?" he asked.
She did not answer immediately. She was trembling and she feared her answer would betray her innermost feelings. "So you believe it, too," she said softly.
"Believe what?"
"That I killed him."
"That's not what I said."
"You didn't have to."
He smiled, shaking his head. "It doesn't matter now, Shelly. It's finished. There's only one thing you can do now."
"Do? What on earth can I do now"!" For an instant she appeared startled. Then her eyes took on a chilled, disdainful look. "Like you said, it's all over-finished. I can't do anything about what's already happened."
"Have you ever thought about telling someone the whole story-the truth about yourself?"
"No, I haven't because there's nothing to tell," she said irritably. Then, staring at him, her eyes afire, she asked, "Say, what are you anyway?
A priest or something?"
"No, I just thought I might be able to help you."
"Well, I don't need any help," she clipped. "I'm perfectly happy the way I am."
"Your discussion with me indicates you aren't," he said calmly. "I think you need to get your troubles out in the open."
"I didn't think I had any troubles until you brought it up. Now it looks like I've got troubles I didn't even know I had. You sound like a psychiatrist."
"I am," he said slowly, a slight grin forming on his lips.
"I might have known," Shelly said with exasperation.
"And I know your other problem, too," Ted said. He seemed to be toying with her now, smug in his manner, not interested in her as a companion for the evening.
"Other problem? What other problem?"
"The reason you're here, in this bar. Why you came over to talk to me."
Her eyes narrowed shrewdly. She wondered if he could really read what she thought she had carefully concealed-her want for a man.
"I don't understand you," was the best she could manage.
"I think you do," he said, his manner still smug. "And I'm not your boy. I don't know if you're a, well...."
"A prostitute?" she cut in. "Why don't you say it?"
"Well, whatever you had in mind, you can count me out. I'm not interested in anybody but my wife. Sure, we can sit here and talk and have a few drinks, but that's all I care about. When I go, I go alone. Clear?"
It was all too clear to Shelly. Now her dejection hit the depths. Not only was she rejected by the business world, but now she had been rejected in the one business she knew so well. The realization crept slowly over her that she was no longer desirable. To Shelly, it was a terrible blow.