Chapter 3
THERE was a difference between being miserable and feeling like death warmed over. Beth stretched out on the white, tufted living room divan and, unable to concentrate on either a book or a magazine, stared into space. Her existence was a living death, she told herself, and she would welcome the real thing. Dinner had been a ghastly failure, thanks to Charlie's vicious temper, and she had contributed nothing to marital bliss by flaring up at him, too.
But who could blame her? Not only had he refused, flatly and unequivocally, to advance her the money she needed to protect her investment, but he had actually forbidden her to mention the subject again. And, to compound her sense of frustration and indignation, there was the sight of Charlie sound asleep now in his overstuffed chair, at peace with himself and the world. It would be easy, she thought, to pick up the heavy poker from the side of the fireplace and bring it down on his bald head.
Perhaps, Beth told herself, she shouldn't have married a man old enough to be her father. Yet she knew, in all fairness, that the difference in their ages was irrelevant to their problem. Other girls had found happiness in marriages to older men, and it was Charlie's personality rather than his age that had become so much of an irritant. She supposed he was a fair enough lover. Certainly he was as virile as he had ever been, and it was neither his fault nor hers that they didn't really make beautiful music together. In fact, Charlie wanted sex far more often than she did, so it was her inabihty to respond to him that caused the trouble.
But no, that wasn't quite true, either, she reflected. His attitude on money alone was poisoning their relationship. He was a penny-pinching miser who would rather see her lose her inheritance than help her and, as she looked at his round face, soft now in repose, she hated him. The next time he started to make love to her, she would make it clear that she wanted nothing more to do with him. There would a storm that would make tonight's unpleasantness seem as calm as a ladies' aid picnic, but she didn't care. No marriage could succeed unless both partners gave everything in their power, all of the time.
The telephone rang, and Beth deliberately sauntered out to the kitchen, prolonging the ringing in the petty hope that Charlie would be jarred out of his sleep. He did not even stir.
"Busy?" Sandra asked.
"Listen carefully," Beth replied, "and the next sound you hear will be the resonant snores of my lord and master."
"You're lucky, sweetie. The baboon who hangs his hat in this house just slammed out of here after ripping me to shreds."
"Bob didn't hit you, Sandra?" Beth was horrified.
"I was speaking figuratively. If he ever actually slugged me, I'd walk out. As it is, that's precisely what he's done. For the five thousandth, two hundred and sixteenth time. To get stoned somewhere with the boys." Sandra paused, sighed and then brightened. "But I haven't called you to exchange tales of woe. What's on your docket for tomorrow?"
"Ha! There isn't even anything on the schedule for tonight. I'm thinking of tucking myself into beddie-bye with a cozy sleeping pill or two."
"Do that. Then you'll be chipper as-whatever it is that's chipper-tomorrow. And we'll take ourselves to the Stamen for lunch."
"Oh, no!" Beth's reaction was as emphatic as it was quick.
"Why on earth not?" Sandra sounded lazily amused.
"I-I don't know, exactly." That was a he, Beth reflected. She might meet Bruce Gibson again, and the very idea terrified her.
"You seemed to like it today."
"I guess it was okay." Beth hoped she sounded indifferent but knew it was the prospect of seeing Bruce that caused her heart to pound and the blood to sing in her ears.
"Name a place in the area that has better food," Sandra challenged.
"I can't." Beth's instinct told her that Bruce represented potential complications in her life that she was unwilling to face.
"Or booze."
"My mind is a blank." On the other hand, Beth told herself, she wanted very much to meet Bruce again.
"Could it be the people who hang out there?" Sandra said.
Beth was silent.
Sandra laughed. "Scared of Bruce Gibson, maybe?"
"No comment." Beth tried to respond lightly but heard the tremor in her own voice.
"If a man that yummy looked at me the way he did at you," Sandra declared, "I'd hire me some bloodhounds and track him down."
Beth glanced in the direction of the living room and took the precaution of lowering her voice so that Charlie, if he awakened, would not hear her. "You forget," she said primly, "that I'm a married woman."
"Hash that out with Bruce, sweetie, not with me."
"By now he doesn't remember my name or anything about me. Why, I'll never see him again."
"Want to bet?" Sandra demanded.
"Yes," Beth said angrily, falling into the trap.
"That's a deal. The loser buys the first round of those enormous Stamen drinks."
Beth did not know whether to protest that she wanted to go anywhere but the Stamen or to give in gracefully. The attractiveness of the possibility of seeing Bruce was stronger than her fear of meeting him, so Beth accepted, hung up and returned to the living room.
Charlie was still sleeping, his mouth slightly open, his head sagging.
Beth stared at him in disgust. That, she reflected, is my husband. The thought crossed her mind that she would prefer a life with someone like Bruce, but she checked herself, shook her head and tried to regain her perspective.
The fact that I'm annoyed at Charlie, and with excellent reason, does not mean that I'm prepared to divorce him for a handsome stranger with whom I've exchanged a few impersonal words, she told herself sternly. So, once and for all, stop behaving like a moonstruck schoolgirl!
"I insist we have another drink," Sandra said with a laugh. "After all, sweetie, there's no sign of Bruce anywhere."
Beth couldn't resist glancing around the bar of the Stamen where the same chic women and handsomely dressed men were drinking and chatting. "Honestly, Sandra, I don't have that much capacity for liquor. Especially in the daytime."
Ignoring the protests, Sandra signaled to their waiter.
"I mean it. You might not believe this, but I'm not accustomed to so much booze at noon."
"Not even you could be as naive as you sound. And you're right, sweetie. I don't believe you." Sandra smoothed her glossy, black hair. "In fact, I've never seen anyone look more sophisticated."
Under the other girl's scrutiny, Beth flushed. She had dressed with great care for the occasion in her snug-fitting sheath of gold silk and, daringly, was wearing no bra beneath it. She realized that Sandra was looking hard at her breasts, but Beth could not explain, either to Sandra or anyone else, that she had deliberately tried to achieve a stunning effect in the hope of creating an impression on Bruce.
Her disappointment at his failure to appear was stronger than a vague sense of relief, and when the fresh martinis arrived, she took a large, anaesthetizing swallow.
"That," Sandra said approvingly, "is the way to drink."
They chatted for another quarter of an hour, talking about inconsequentials, and Beth began to feel uncomfortably warm. Pushing her old beaver coat farther onto the back of her chair, she stirred restlessly, unaware that the gin was responsible. But, when she tried to light a cigarette and found it difficult to focus on the match, it finally occurred to her that she might be giddy.
"Here, let me do that for you." A silver lighter snapped, and Bruce Gibson materialized at Beth's side.
Her pulse quickened, but her feminine instinct protected her, and her smile of welcome was slightly formal. "Well, hello," she said.
Sandra grinned at Bruce. "You owe me a drink, sweetie."
"This next one," Bruce said, "is on me." Not waiting for an invitation, he drew up a chair and summoned the waiter.
"Excuse me, will you?" Sandra rose swiftly to her feet and drew her mink around her. "I've got to make a phone call." She was gone before either of the others could reply.
"Talk about people in a hurry," Beth said, surprised by Sandra's sudden rudeness, wondering whether her friend's alleged telephone call was nothing more than a flabby excuse to leave Beth alone with a man making no secret of his admiration for her.
"I'm not offended." Bruce grinned broadly, then sobered and spoke solemnly. "You know, I was wondering last night whether I had imagined you. I couldn't believe anyone could be so lovely. But you're real."
Beth felt the color rising in her face and, as Bruce gazed at her, she was sorry she had given in to the impulse that had led her to discard her bra. By flaunting conventions, she had actually been defying Charlie, but Bruce was a real person, too, and she did not want him to think her cheap. She made an attempt to maintain her dignity. "I hope," she said, "that you also remembered I'm married."
"Of course." His offhand tone and expression indicated that, although he realized she had a husband, the fact was of no significance.
A chill moved slowly up Beth's spine, and she warned herself to be careful. But, at the same time, she was fired by a perverse recklessness that confused her.
"I was afraid you might not be here today," Bruce said, "and I didn't know where to get in touch with you." Bruce's knee touched hers beneath the table.
That was simply an opening move, Beth thought-he could have called Sandra to ascertain the information. Beth told herself she should withdraw at once, but she made no move and instead pretended to be unaware of the little intimacy. "I don't give my phone number to men," she said reprovingly.
Bruce refused to accept the rebuke. "Not men. Man. This man."
The waiter arrived with their order, and Beth laughed helplessly as she looked at her brimming glass. "If I drink it," she said, "I guarantee you I'll fall flat on my face."
"You'll do no such thing," Bruce assured her. "It's far too pretty a face, so I'll catch you before you hit the ground." He raised his own glass in a silent toast.
She hesitated, overcome by nameless, shapeless fears. Then, as if in defense, she recalled Charlie's high-handed refusal to discuss the subject of the money she needed so desperately. A surge of resentment welled up inside of her and, before she quite realized what she was doing, she grasped her glass by the stem, lifted it and drank. "Don't forget I warned you," she said and giggled.
Bruce laughed and, in an attempt to help her relax, told her in detail about an evening in Paris when he had consumed far too much wine. The moral of the story, apparently, was that he had suffered no real after-effects the following day.
The pressure of his knee increased as they drank and chatted, and finally Bruce reached out to take Beth's hand. Strangely, she wanted him to hold it, yet she could not lose sight of the fact that they were in a public place. "Do you want everyone in Owendale to start gossiping about me?" she asked.
"Certainly not." He released her immediately. "But you're irresistible."
She could see in his eyes that he meant what he said and was not merely handing her a line. It had been a long time since anyone had paid her court, and the knowledge that a man with Brace's magnetism should like her so much gave her a warm, glowing feeling.
"Why don't we get out of here?" He beckoned the waiter and paid their check. "I have an urge to kiss you, and if we don't leave, I'll disgrace both of us."
Beth panicked and looked around wildly for Sandra but could not find her friend anywhere. Compliments were flattering, but the promise of a kiss, and the hint of more than that, gave Beth cause to take stock of the situation. But the martinis had gone to her head, the room was spinning and she found it impossible to think clearly.
Brace held her chair for her as she stood, draped her coat over her shoulders and, taking her firmly by the elbow, guided her out of the bar. She assumed he was taking her to his car, then realized belatedly that he was heading in the direction of the motel's bedrooms. The memory of Carolyn Anderson doing precisely the same thing the day before loomed large in Beth's mind, and she tried to slow her steps.
"Where are we going?" she asked faintly.
"Leave everything to me." Bruce exchanged a few words with a man who appeared to be one of the personnel.
Beth saw money being slipped into the motel man's hand and knew beyond all doubt that Brace was seriously intending to make love to her. Her sense of panic increased, but she lacked the strength to break away, march into the lobby and telephone for a taxi. Never, she told herself fiercely, would she forgive Sandra for leaving her in such an embarrassing position.
They walked down a corridor, and Bruce opened a door.
Beth's fog thickened, and she stepped into the cheerful, impersonally furnished bedroom on legs that felt like rubber. She heard the door being closed and bolted behind her, and then Bruce lifted the weight of her coat from her shoulders. Suddenly, while still standing behind her, he slid his hands under her arms and caught hold of her breasts.
She gasped and told herself that her failure to wear a bra had been the most catastrophic mistake she had ever made.
Brace's caresses were firm and knowing, yet surprisingly gentle, and Beth found herself responding in spite of her urgent desire to flee.
Then he turned her around, his lips sought hers and when he kissed her, she could no longer think of infidelity and her reputation. It no longer mattered that a stranger was making love to her nor that she was cheapening herself. Brace's lips and tongue expressed the intensity of his yearning, and Beth clung to him, her own desire flooding her.
She felt his hand at the nape of her neck, fumbling for her zipper and, the next thing she knew, he had expertly removed her dress. Stifling the instinct to cover her bare breasts, she stood before him proudly, glorying in his admiration. He lifted her off her feet and carried her to the bed, where he deposited her as easily as though she had been a small child. The incongruous thought occurred to her that Charlie probably lacked the physical strength to lift her off her feet, much less carry her anywhere.
Then Beth braced herself for a violent male assault. But Brace surprised her, and when he joined her on the bed his tact and consideration astonished her. His touch was delicate, his embrace light, and after a few moments, she closed her eyes, relaxed and let him do as he pleased.
Bruce proved to be magnificent.
One of the great things about him, she had noticed, was his control, and there was no decrease in it for as long as he was with her. He was fantastic.
And Bruce was able to tease and play endlessly, which only stirred her the more. Beth knew this was the way sex should be. And in her heart she knew this was the way love, too, should be.
They nipped at each other, and they glided, flesh across flesh.
Bruce encircled her, and the honey blonde encircled him in turn.
Her nipples were feverish, and he momentarily cooled them, only to heat them again into throbbing congestion, and Beth realized once more that this was how a whole relationship should be.
Because, as she rocked beneath him, she suddenly and marvelously found herself exploding in sweet release....
Beth had no memory of the next few hours. Dusk was beginning to fall when she awoke, and for an instant she thought she was in her own bed. Then, all at once, the events of the day came back to her, and she sat bolt upright, snapping on the bedside light.
She was alone. The drapes had been drawn and she found herself beneath the covers. Smiling at the thought of the consideration Bruce had shown, she swung her long legs to the floor. His kindness was typical of him and, still joyously relaxed after the first truly satisfactory sexual experience of her life, she stood, yawned and stretched, marveling at the fact that she had no hangover.
Suddenly she caught sight of the electric clock that stood on the table top. It was five o'clock, and Charlie would be home in less than an hour. Snatching her handbag, she hastily repaired her make-up. She dabbed on lipstick and powder, wiped away a few tiny smudges of mascara, and ran a comb through her hair. She dressed with frantic speed, then looked around the room to make certain she had left nothing.
An unopened pack of a brand of cigarettes other than her own was lying on the dresser and, when she picked it up to put into her handbag, she caught sight of something beneath the pack on the hardwood.
Beth could scarcely believe her eyes as she stared at a neatly folded one hundred dollar bill.
For a moment she could not touch it. Then she reached for it and felt as though it seared her fingers.
But there was no time now to linger, to reflect, and she shrugged into her coat, dashed out to the main entrance of the Stamen and hailed a taxicab from the stand nearby. Then she tried to make sense out of the puzzling gift as the taxi took her home.
Why had Bruce left the money for her?
The possibility that he considered her a prostitute chilled and disgusted her, so she put the very idea out of her mind. He had been too gentle and loving, too sincere in his love-making. Perhaps he had intended the gift as a gesture, but it was a strange one.
It was obvious, she told herself, that she knew virtually nothing about Bruce, so it was imperative that she find out more. She did not even know where he lived or worked, how to reach him by telephone or whether she would ever see him again. Certainly Sandra should have some knowledge of the man.
Right now, however, something far more urgent lay ahead. In a few minutes Beth would have to face Charlie, to whom she had been unfaithful.