Chapter 9
For the fifth time Larry Stevens tore up a sheet of drawing paper. He tapped nervously with the edge of the T-square and then began scribbling upon a clean sheet.
Itchy and irritable, he could not concentrate on what he was trying to do. Ideas flowed like a mountain stream through his head, but he was unable to channel them. For more than an hour he had drawn lines, curves and dimensions, but nothing came even close to being right. It was as if he had forgotten everything he knew about design. Even looking at old sketches on his pad did not help.
It was ridiculous, he knew, that he should be in this unsettled state. There was no reason he should freeze up. What if his whole future did rest on whether he could come up with a good design for Patrick Doyle? No need to behave as if it didn't happen every day, was there?
Once more he applied himself to the paper in front of him, trying to envision the time when it would be virtually covered with lines and marks denoting the precise shape and size of a structure that would one day be Patrick Doyle's home. He wanted to do an imaginative job that would, if possible, reflect the man's matchless personality. The kind of house that was distinctive and yet not a sore thumb in nature's backyard. And there was a point, of course--he didn't even know the setting for the house. Seashore, mountains, prairie--it could be anywhere. And what of the budget? How much money should it cost?
But these were mere details, he was aware. To anyone else they would be all-important, but Patrick Doyle was the kind of person who would build the house where it would best fit. And pay whatever the bill came to. In any event the significant thing right now was doing it. The plan. The fresh idea.
The sixth time, Larry began to make some sense out of it. The design took shape and he recognized its possibilities. Low but not rambling. It would need order and convenience. Air, light, spaciousness. Places for writing, reading, entertaining, listening to music--every human physical and social function. Because if ever there was a man who was many things, it was Patrick Doyle.
Nearly an hour later, Larry pushed back from the table and regarded his latest effort critically. The thing was good. A long way from perfect, but definitely promising.
But now he was exhausted and the afternoon was waning. Sounds of happy voices came through the porthole and he felt the need for relaxation before tackling the rest of the job. He might find it out there at the swimming pool.
Out at the pool, though, Larry Stevens did not find relaxation. He did find other things, however. Among them, Patrick Doyle and Tricia Goode. Relaxing with either one would have been difficult; in the presence of both it was impossible.
In keeping with station in life, the great man was an impressive figure in impeccably tailored sports clothes. He was seated in a canvas chair, his knife-edged trouser legs crossed. Kneeling next to the chair was the girl.
It took Larry a moment to get used to the sight of Tricia. Her tight-fitting swimsuit showed exactly what her body was like, and it was all there--and stacked. The small, youthful breasts riding high and pointed. The flat stomach and narrow waist. The smooth projections of hipbones that held the garment taut. The slim thighs and calves and shapely bare feet.
Doyle raised his hand. "Ah, there you are, my boy. Do come over and join us." His manicured fingers indicated an empty chair. "Right here, Larry, sit down right here. It so happens that we were just talking about you."
Larry felt suddenly uncomfortable. The idea that anyone should be discussing him was embarrassing enough, but when the anyone might be Tricia Goode it was doubly so. Tricia and Patrick Doyle. A few sunbathers were peering their way with evident curiosity. Doyle and the girl were the principal objects of attention at the pool.
Tricia's face was flecked with silvery water drops. Her nose, Larry noticed, was a bit red from the sun. Standing over her, he couldn't help but see down into the cut of the suit and the twin curves of her damp bosom.
Did she know that her body was thus exposed?
Of course. No woman alive is ever totally unconscious of her body and what parts of it are visible to men. The girl knew. And recognizing that she did gave Larry an insight to her character. It brought her down off the pedestal he had placed her on, down to his own mortal level where--perhaps--he could cope with her in the ways he knew.
It was at that exact moment that Stevens the architect became Stevens the man. No one--not even the great Patrick Doyle--was going to tout him from one girl to another just because of a commission to design a house. He no longer cared one way or the other about sexpot Sabrina Moore.
"I've been thinking about you, too, Mr. Doyle," Larry said crisply as he lowered himself into the chair.
"Naturally. What's the verdict?"
"It depends. How much can you spend on your house?"
"Oh--that. Well, let me see now..."
"A house?" Tricia said. "Oh. Patrick, this is the architect you told me about, hmm?"
"Correct, my dear. And good, I might add."
Tricia turned her eyes on Larry as if seeing him for the first time. "Yes, I think so. He has that look."
Larry shifted in his seat. "You're both talking through your bonnets. Mr. Doyle has never examined any of my work--and you, Miss Goode, couldn't tell an architect from a coal-stoker just by looking at him."
"No?" The girl's smile almost blinded him. "I was merely saying, Mr. Stevens, that you look to me as if anything you tried you would be good at."
Doyle reached down and lifted the girl's slim arm. "The winner of round one," he announced. "Well done, my dear. You have the makings of a true bitch."
"You're sweet, Patrick."
"And now--as we were saying. How much for the house? Good point. I have only a vague idea of where to build it and therefore cannot be accurate. I suppose the best thing to do is to do the plan first and then quibble about the money. If I need extra cash I'll write a book or a song or something." Doyle's tone was not boastful in the slightest.
Larry shrugged. "Even a vague idea would help--about where you want it, I mean."
"Yes, I imagine so. Mountain top overlooking a town. Not a craggy mountain, a wooded one. Pine trees. Green hills."
"Good road?"
"Passable. Why?"
"Trucks will have to transport the materials. If the road has to be improved, it will go into the total cost of the house. A well for water. Electricity. Fireproofing. Stormproofing. All matters to be considered when building outside the convenience of a city. And all adding up tremendously."
"Hmm. Guess I've been away from architecture too long. Should never forget details like that." Doyle glared as if it were Larry's fault. "But no matter. Money is no object here, Larry, so just do the best you can. Wright wouldn't let such a piddling item as money interfere with good design. Neither would Doyle. And neither should little Larry Stevens."
"Fine with me. I like being in such illustrious company. But seriously, Mr. Doyle, I appreciate what you're doing for me. You don't know how encouraging it is."
Doyle vainly favored him with a stern glance. "I'm not doing anything for you. You're doing it for yourself. Frankly, if I didn't think you had the stuff, I wouldn't give you the time of day."
The girl stood up. "Too much architecture for me. Mind if I excuse myself and make like a swimmer?"
Walking to the edge of the pool, she tugged at her bathing suit where it encircled her upper thighs. Slimly silhouetted against the sky, she seemed exceptionally long-legged. She tossed them a smile and then arched cleanly into the water.
Looking at his companion, Larry thought there was an expression of tenderness on the sharp features. Doyle was staring at the spot where Tricia had vanished. As though the dive into the water reminded him of some particularly memorable occasion.
"Attractive girl," Larry said tentatively.
"Quite. But so is our friend Sabrina Moore. I haven't forgotten about that, you know."
"I have."
"Eh?" Doyle frowned darkly.
"Don't bother about putting in a good word for me. I've changed my mind. And you should have expected it, sir, considering how you feel about integrity. Sabrina Moore means nothing to me."
"I see. And... uh... that young lady?" The man seemed almost flustered as he gestured toward the pool.
"As I said--an attractive girl."
"Quite. Or did I already say that?" Doyle was his poised self once more. "Now--about architecture. Where were we?"
Neither of them had his heart in it, but for the next few minutes they talked about houses. When Tricia climbed out of the pool, dripping wet, her breasts heaving from the exertion, they were discussing the use of new materials in construction.
Tricia approached, wrinkling her nose prettily as she took off her rubber cap and shook her highlighted hair free. "You two sobersides aren't very good for a girl's vanity. At least I thought you'd be talking about the way I look in a swimsuit."
"It's not how you look," Doyle said, "but how others look. And they do--right at you, my dear. The helmsman almost ran us aground when you dove in a while ago."
"That's better," Tricia said with a giggle. "Say, I'm getting thirsty. Is there a water fountain nearby?"
"More than that." Larry smiled an invitation. "How about dropping in at the milk bar and checking the goodies?"
Doyle glowered. "The cocktail lounge is open."
"Ice cream and soda," Tricia said, "or scotch and soda. That's some decision for me to make."
Both men stood up. Doyle took the girl's arm possessively and spoke in an emphatic tone. "Come along, my dear--you can put on a beach-robe and we'll sample the alcohol."
"I'm against it." Larry shook his head. "Booze in the afternoon can be fatal--especially on the high seas. I recommend milkshakes."
"Please, boys." Tricia was obviously enjoying the struggle. "Don't fight over poor little me." In an impishly coy motion she hugged her arms around her breasts.
Doyle seemed vexed. "People are staring."
"Is that a complaint?" she said quietly. "I thought you were annoyed only when they didn't stare."
"Don't behave like a child. Come along."
"Stop acting like a father. Maybe I don't want to."
The bickering went on in low voices. Larry thought it peculiar that two people who had known each other such a short time should be on terms intimate enough to permit the swapping of barbs. Did Doyle know the girl better than he had admitted?
"Let's all go," Tricia said with an air of finality. "We'll make the big diehard decision later."
Doyle uttered a grumbling sound, displeased that she had not jumped through his hoop on command. Tricia held her arms out and they started off, three abreast, Larry on her left and Patrick on the pool side at her right. Unspeaking, they moved along the apron, with Doyle within two feet of the water, stepping over puddles and shrinking to avoid the splash of playful swimmers. They were almost to the deck when it happened.
Larry was never quite sure whether it was intentional or accidental, but he distinctly saw Tricia shift her hips firmly. On the left swing she struck him in mid-thigh. On the right swing she caught Doyle in the same spot. And at the same instant she released her grip on his arm.
Off balance, the best-dressed man on the ship clawed the air for support. His face was a mask of horror. For an endless moment he teetered on the brink of the pool, one beige-clad leg flailing in space wildly.
Then, apparently realizing the hopelessness of his position, he relaxed and an expression of utter resignation came upon his features as he gave up and tumbled.
The splash nearly upset the ship. Larry watched him strike the water and sink like a stone. The colors of his clothing made him look like a gigantic tropical fish. Bubbles danced upward. A stunned silence gripped the spectators.
Tricia's arm held Larry's. "Too bad Mr. Doyle can't come with us. Perhaps we'll have a dry martini with him later on."
The sputtering head of Patrick Doyle popped to the surface. His hands pounded the water. "Help! I can't swim."
Two delighted matrons loosed yells of glee and jumped in, each bent on saving the man of her dreams. Pulling, pushing, arguing, cajoling, they struggled with their victim. Eventually Doyle managed to break loose and in a remarkably short period of time learned enough about swimming to make it to the ladder, where he clung sopping wet and gasping for breath.
"Did anyone ever tell you," Larry said, "that you have the cutest little body on this whole boat?"
Tricia blinked up at him. "You didn't have to say that--even if it is true."
Over their shoulders they saw that Patrick Doyle was trying to murder them with his eyes. Tricia Goode flipped her hips once more and then allowed Larry Stevens to guide her to the milk bar and ply her with ice cream and cookies.