Chapter 1
Dinner at the Whittens' had consisted, this spring evening, of an exotically labeled casserole affair, in which quick-freezing had faithfully preserved the original flavor and texture of boiled newspapers.
It wasn't that Nadine Whitten couldn't cook. When the mood fell over her, or when there was company to impress, she became a stream-lined, female Escoffier. She could, in fact, say with studied modesty (and unquestioned accuracy) that there were no requirements for a suburban wife at which she did not excel. She had designed and decorated the seven-year-old fieldstone and glass contemporary house on Crescent Street herself, and while there were more lavish homes in Riverdale, it was unanimously conceded by the residents of that Western suburban community (an area not as fashionable as Chicago's North Shore but sufficiently moneyed to be impressive) that the Paul Whitten place epitomized good taste.
At thirty-six, she had, with minimum effort, managed to preserve the illusion of willowy youth. She delighted in references to her hair; "the color of pale sherry." More than that, her eyes had been called a "disconcerting grey-green." Nadine had forgotten the source of that compliment, remembering only vaguely that it had been expressed in a bedroom, the decor of which had been an effective backdrop for her coloring.
Nadine was both a producer and an actress, having no reality of her own, but thriving on the impressions she created. That all women should simultaneously envy and admire her, that all men should love her; these were her secretly avowed purposes for living. No one could love her enough; this, since the insatiable hunger and starvation of her childhood and adolescence, was a fact Nadine accepted as naturally as the physical assets and abilities that helped her to fulfill the undeniable need.
No one would understand, Nadine often thought. The affair with Roy Stroud, the clandestine nights with Vince Allegretti. Or, currently, the stolen afternoons with Warren Ryner. Who would understand? Anyone knowing that Warren (whose wife not only admired but stood in awe of Nadine) had left his brewery office early today, and had spent an hour with Nadine in the Whitten's guest room bed ... anyone knowing this, would have called Nadine amoral, she suspected. Or deduced, stupidly, that Paul Whitten was so engrossed in his advertising agency that he neglected his wife, leaving Nadine no recourse but to fall into the open arms of his best friend and most important client. Or, less charitably, that she was an oversexed bitch.
None of these conjectures could be farther from the truth, Nadine assured herself. She loved Paul, loved their only child, loved her home. And since all the requirements of these three were bountifully met, why should she selfishly deny herself (and others!) the plentiful residue of her charms? Most men need to be rescued from their duller wives ... if only for a little while. And though she would have preferred a wider, less dangerous hunting ground than the confining boundaries of Riverdale, she settled for what was available. Who would understand that, she wondered? Or fathom why, when the initial thrill of conquest was over, why she held on to loves she did not truly want, except that any love was important, and once acquired it seemed wasteful to relinquish it.
This afternoon, for instance, Warren Ryner had gone through those necessary lovemaking motions with a palsied, guilt-ridden anxiety, mumbling afterward that Mabel didn't deserve to be cheated on, and his two kids didn't, and God knew Paul Whitten was his best friend and Paul didn't deserve this ... Warren had been impossibly dreary, stooping to revolting cliches, like, "This isn't right, Nadine, but I can't help myself." One expected those huge, teddy-bearish, fullback-type men to be calm and easygoing, but Warren was beginning to act like a fundamentalist in a whorehouse. Yet he was sweet and flattering and it would be senseless, Nadine thought, to let him go. Warren Ryner had such a burning need for her. And the times when he compared Nadine with his wife were an especial joy. Nadine did everything well, he would insist. Everything.
But always, Nadine admitted to herself, always only one project at a time. While it absorbed her mind, the rest of the world might as well have deserted its axis and floated off into uncharted space. And tonight the showmanship was concentrated in dressing for the Ryners' party; one of Mabel Ryner's command clambakes.
She enjoyed being with Paul. Not a predatory excitement, but a languid, slow-warming pleasure. She could relax with Paul, unconcerned about how she looked, what she did, what she said. In his presence there were times when she could be herself, whatever that might mean. Yes, she could almost ... almost identify herself as a person, rather than a composite of other people's impressions.
And Nadine could look at him with the same pride in her impeccable taste that ran through her when she walked through this magazine-illustration house. At forty-one, he was still firm and lean-muscled, his brown hair thick and barely silvered with distinguished grey at the temples. She liked the way he towered over her own substantial height, the unostentatious, yet self-assured way he did everything ... from snapping a cigarette lighter to talking with a client on the phone. Even the usually ungainly motions of dressing found an easy masculine grace in Paul. People liked him. She delighted in being seen with and identified with him.
All of which proved her point ... that she was not a sex-motivated bitch, because no man could overtake Paul's advantage in bed. He was meticulously attuned to her every whim, capable of anticipating her every desire, familiar with the precise timing and action which guaranteed her pleasure in his body. Ironically, she had on one or two occasions found herself wishing the others would do things Paul's way.
Paul's only liability was being Paul. Not someone-new, someone uncertain, someone on whom she could exercise the force of herself as an irresistible personality.
Nadine turned away from the mirror and proceeded to pull on sheer nylons, stretching her legs, pointing her toes, to approve the effect.
"They're still there," she heard Paul say. "Two of them. It's a set."
"Don't be crude." She came close to accusing him, jokingly, of sounding like Vince Allegretti. Vince had a habit of making broad physical inventories.
Slipping into the starch-rigid white shirt, he stood at her side, working on the buttons. "Maybe I can get you a cheesecake job. You know that Weidberger-girl-of-the-month campaign we've been cooking up? Art department lined up a perfect guy for the job. He does those long-stemmed, disproportionate busty babes you see on calendars. Airbrush technique. Charcoal stockings-mph! You can almost feel the flesh."
Nadine laughed. "How singularly gross."
"Wait'll you see the first one he did. Blown up on a billboard, she'll either sell beer or break up the American family tradition."
"Fine. I was beginning to get tired of those rugged guys ... roasting caribou in the woods and swilling Weidberger out of the can."
"No more. Starting this fall, we replace the great outdoors with sex. This Monty Carrell is a find. My reasoning is ... a man would rather booze it up with a hot pigeon than a dead duck. Emphasize the indoor sport ... broader identification."
"Is he on staff?"
"The illustrator? No, free lance. Expensive, but he'll be worth it."
"Sounds good." She was beginning to feel the glow. The turned-on feeling that a junkie must experience. There was always this exhilaration before going out among people, the sense of preparing in the wings before stepping out on a stage, at which time the inner spark would automatically ignite. It was an almost visible radiation that exuded from her whenever she made an entrance. And the glow came in measured degrees, like the light from one of those three-way bulbs. So much if the group comprised women only, another click and a more dazzling incandescence if the group were to include men.
"Was Warren impressed with him?" Nadine gave studious thought to her perfume collection.
"I guess so. This Monty Carrell's a kind of colorful character. Flashy looks, sophisticated patter. Yes, I guess Warren was impressed. Not that it matters. We'd buy illustrations like this Joe produces from an illiterate hottentot. But I expect ole Warren wanted to please the ex-Miss-Weidberger, too. He invited the fellow to Mabel's party tonight."
Nadine could almost hear the third click. The three-way light bulb turned on high and she reached for a scent reserved for special occasions.
"How old a man is he?"
"Carrell? Oh ... late thirties. Why?"
"I just wondered." The telephone saved her from further explanation.
Vince, probably. High as a rocket and starting out early; he was addicted to telephones when he drank, and there was only one number he remembered at times like these. "Will you get it, honey?" Vince would hang up if he heard Paul's voice. If she answered, it might get awkward.
Paul picked up the bedroom extension. It wasn't Vince. From the terse, questioning tone of Paul's voice, Nadine guessed there was something wrong.
"But what did she do? ... Oh? ... There's no possibility of...? I'm sorry. We'll wait for your letter, then ... yes, we'll check the flight ... yes. I'm sorry, too ... If you're sure you won't reconsider...? All right, Miss Tillotson. Goodbye." Paul replaced the phone in its cradle. "Oh, damn!"
"What is it, Paul? Who's Miss ... what's her name?"
"Tillotson!" Paul exploded. "The dean at Sherry's school. Ye Gods, you aren't that out of touch with what goes on...."
"There's nothing wrong with Sher?"
"Just that she's been expelled from Pine Cove."
"Expelled? What for, for heaven's sake?"
"Oh, the woman mumbled something about Sherry and another girl hopping a freighter and going way to hell outside Richmond or somewhere. She's sending a letter explaining the whole thing."
"A freight train?'
"A freight train." Paul lowered himself to the bed. "Whatever would possess the kid ...?"
"Well, she's always had an imagination, darling. I suppose it was an impulse."
"Impulse? Do you know what could have happened to her? What may have happened?"
Paul's voice shook and Nadine walked over to rest a hand on his shoulder. "Miss Tillotson would have said something if it had. Honey, Sherry's got a streak of adventure in her and it's a terribly straight-laced school. Just because your mother went to Pine Cove...."
"Don't blame my mother. Remember it was Sherry's idea in the first place. Or was it yours?"
Nadine decided to evade the question. "Poor kid. She's probably desolate. Couldn't we phone her?"
"Not much point. I'm picking her up at the airport tomorrow morning. Remind me to call."
"You mean they'd actually throw her out of school ... a few weeks before summer vacation? For having a little fun?"
Paul reached over to take Nadine's hands in his own. "Mum, I'm glad you aren't going to hop down Sherry's neck. Maybe she's miserable. But we've got to get it across to her that you can't go through life following ... impulses. Somewhere along the line you bump your head against a rule and there's bound to be trouble."
"I suppose. But what's done is done. Sherry happens to be the underdog...."
Paul managed a thin smile. "And you're for the bottom guy, right or wrong. Okay, Nadine. I love you for that, too. But let's not give Sherry a pat on the back. What she needs is a swat on the behind."
"She's sixteen, Paul. We're out of the nineteenth century, in case your watch has stopped."
"I just want her to grow up without getting hurt."
"We both do."
"You know what my two girls mean to me."
"Paul, you're getting sticky."
"If that's sticky, I'm a taffy apple. And, honey, this summer ... let her shine a little."
"Let her what?"
"Feel that she's not the gangling ugly duckling...."
"Paul, you know I'm as particular about her clothes as I am about my own. Who dragged her to ballet school and cotillion and fussed about her room? Who tried to...."
"I know, I know. But ... tell me something, hon. Was your mother a fabulous creature? With people around, did she sparkle?"
"You know damned well she didn't."
"Well ... ask yourself what you'd have done for attention if she had."
Nadine reflected for a moment. "I doubt," she said slowly, " ... I doubt that I'd have ridden a boxcar to Richmond." Then, brightening, she kissed Paul's forehead carefully, reached a Kleenex on her dresser and rubbed out the smudge. "We'll work it out, Paul. It's not the end of the world."
"You're a softie," Paul told her. "The greatest."
"And, dear, let's not feel obligated to tell everybody Sherry got the axe. I'll think of some excuse."
It seemed that Paul's expression clouded again, then he suggested that they wait until Sherry and Miss Tillotson's letter gave them the whole story. "We'll try to forget it tonight," he concluded.
"Which reminds me ... we're to toot for Leila. And you'll make a better impression in trousers."
They finished dressing, Nadine coming to the comfortable realization that Sherry's premature homecoming would have an exploitable value. Warren was fine ... he really was, and she understood him and he needed her, but the afternoon visits could become a drag and it would have been painful to ask him not to come. With Sherry home, there'd be no nonsense about it ... no need to hurt Warren's feelings ... make it a telephone thing ... keep in touch....
Paul rounded the semicircular Whitten driveway, backed the Chrysler parallel with the curb on the opposite side of the street and braked it, leaving the motor running.
Getting out of the car, he said, "Picking Leila up and hauling her to parties always bugs me."
"I didn't think you minded," Nadine told him. "I thought you liked her."
"I do. I just wish her old man hadn't flown the coop." Paul started across the lawn toward the neatly landscaped provincial house that had been built for Roy and Leila Stroud six years ago.
"What made you bring that up?"
"What made me ... it's the way I feel! Divorces make me queasy; worse than funerals. I liked the Strouds as a couple. We made a good foursome."
Nadine released her breath. "Oh."
"Well, didn't we?"
"I guess so." Not dishonestly, Nadine muttered, "Sometimes I wish Roy were still here, myself."
Paul walked to the door, emerging seconds afterward with Leila Stroud, Leila looking surprisingly pretty in her petite unspectacular brunette way. She sat in the front seat, with Nadine in the middle, as they drove the short distance to the Ryners', sloughing off Nadine's comment to the effect that this was probably a one-way ride.
"Don't count on it," Leila said wryly. "In fact, I'm keeping my fingers crossed that Mabel hasn't invited another of those Available Bachelors for me. The last one was D.O.A."
"A card," Paul remembered. "He kept dropping ice cubes down the back of your dress."
"Speaking of drunk on arrival," Leila said, "I had coffee with Gwen Allegretti this afternoon. She was home, working on the books, with no foggy notion where Vince was. If he shows up tonight, he'll be in his usual stupor."
Paul shook his head dolefully. "What would make a guy want to drink himself insensible? A nice guy like Vince?"
"Frustrations," Leila said casually. In the dim light from the dashboard, she glanced toward Nadine. "Don't you suppose?"
"I wouldn't know," Nadine told her. Foolish to imagine that there was some hidden implication in Leila's remark. But she switched back to the original subject hurriedly. "You'll have a motley assortment to choose from tonight, Leila."
"Mabel's corny cousins from the brewery, I s'pose. Big thrill."
"Plus the neighborhood crowd."
"Plus an alien from the art world," Paul added. He brought Leila up to date on the new illustrator he'd lined up for the agency.
"Poor Mr. Carrell," Nadine said. "He'll probably feel like a misplaced Venusian."
Leila threw her reply away and it escaped Paul, but the cooing tone disturbed Nadine. "Try to make him feel at home, dear."
No, she was mistaken. Leila was neither snide nor subtle. And she wasn't bitchy. She doesn't know anything about me that I don't want her to know, Nadine decided. Nothing about me, about Vince, Warren ... or her ex-husband. Nothing.
"Warren should have thought of that," Paul was saying. "Unless he actually invited Monty Carrell for your benefit, Leila."
"It just doesn't occur to people that I'm not in season," Leila laughed softly. "I don't mind in the least being the odd female that tags along with the Whittens. And I'll bet your artist friend would have preferred to invite his own date."
"One of his models, maybe." Paul clucked his tongue as he turned into the Ryners' street. "Make the neighborhood boys forget they've got wives."
Leila turned a lukewarm smile toward Nadine. "Some already have," she said dryly.