Chapter 10

The little bar was deserted when Leona and Alan Hunt went in. "What is this place, anyway?" Leona asked. "I've never been here before."

"That's why we came," Alan told her. "You must have passed it in the spring when it was an ice-cream stand. Now it's had a second blooming, liquor license and all. Did you ever see so much knotty-pine paneling, or so many knots?"

"Never. Between them and the checked curtains, I have spots before my eyes." She smiled, slipping into a corner booth. "It's terribly empty," she said, looking around. "Almost sinister."

"The Windover Tavern is much more sinister, especially after the movies. We'd meet the school janitor, and Pete Romano, and all the local characters."

Leona said, "You could have had a drink at my house."

"With your husband out "of town?" Alan smiled again. He wasn't handsome, but there was something remarkably attractive about his narrow brown face with the dark, quick eyes, the half-sweet, half-mocking smile. He was so expressive, so completely the opposite of Dan ... he was going on: "After all, my child, Dan must be rather tired of me in the role of the man who came to cocktails. Other people are, too-I'm beginning to hear rumors." Leona frowned. "What kind of rumors?"

"Oh, Millie Pearson dropped a hint the other day." Mrs. Pearson was the wife of the school's headmaster. "I don't remember her exact words, but the general idea was that she'd be better pleased, and so would her husband, if the faculty bachelors stayed on the reservation, especially during the so-called social season."

"She's jealous," Leona said lightly. "The faculty bachelors must be quite a temptation to a woman who's at the dangerous age."

"Do you know how old Millie is?" Leona shook her head. "About ten years older than you-thirty-three, or so. Of course she's gray, but it's rather becoming, don't you think-prematurely white hair and a young face?"

"She looks like an Afghan hound," Leona said. "If you like them, I'm sure she's frightfully attractive."

Alan laughed. "Who did you say was jealous, darling?" She bit her lip as he went on smoothly, "What will you have to drink? Apparently this is self-service. No, sit still and I'll get it. Beer? That's safe, but fattening."

She told him, rather sharply, that she didn't need to worry about her figure-yet-and he went off. She lit a cigarette and leaned back against the wooden bench. Dan had gone to Boston that morning for the second time in two weeks, something about the building whose construction he was overseeing. He had explained it to her, but she had hardly listened. It was better, she thought, not to know too much about your husband's business, and Dan's brand of engineering struck her as peculiarly dull. If he were building a bridge in the Andes, she might get excited, but an electrical plant in New England bored her to death.

"Why don't you come with me?" he had suggested last night. "There's nothing much for you to do here in this vile weather."

Leona shivered. "Think how much viler it will be in Boston, with the east wind. Besides, I promised to do something about the flower show for your friend Mrs. Harwood." She hadn't committed herself about that yet, but she knew the prospect would please Dan. "And anyway," she added, "you won't be away more than a day or two."

"Two days and a night, if I can see the people I want. But I don't like your staying here alone. Can you get Rosa to sleep in the house?"

"Of course. I'll ask her."

But she hadn't asked Rosa, which was just as well, she reflected now. There was no need for the whole town to know that she was out with Alan Hunt, even though the movies in Deanebury were innocent enough and so was a nightcap in a place like this.

He was coming back with their drinks. "The whiskey here is probably poisonous, but I thought I'd try it." He did, and raised his eyebrows. "Not bad at all. Well, this is cozy, isn't it? I wish we'd left that movie sooner-it was pretty awful." Leona nodded, and he said, "You're very silent tonight. Did I upset you, quoting Millie Pearson? Don't mind her-when she came here, she probably had ideas about holding a salon that would be the intellectual and social center of Windover. Though how she dreamed she could, with a stupid athlete like Sam-"

"Is that the way to talk about the man who gave you your job?"

"Millie thinks she did. But don't worry-I'm diplomatically polite, and that's all. Speaking of women who are at the dangerous age," Alan went on cheerfully, "what about the perfect Nordic type who's so devoted to your husband?"

Leona shot him a glance. "I don't know who you mean. Mrs. Barr?"

Alan burst out laughing. "Those two sentences are something of a non sequitur, especially with your expression. Yes, of course-the tall, blonde Mrs. Barr. I'd hardly call her beautiful, though, unless one likes the type, and, apparently, Dan does."

"Oh." Leona drank some beer and managed to speak casually. "He's known her for ages."

"Of course. And her husband is an invalid. A perfect arrangement."

Her flare of anger was at Dan, but she turned it on Alan. "Don't be hateful. You know all about Christina. You've met her at our house. I don't know why you're suddenly trying to create a situation."

"Relax," he said. "It's all created. At least," he added, his dark eyes fixed on her mockingly, "it seemed to be, this morning."

She felt as if someone had struck her. "What about this morning? Dan went to Boston, very early."

"And I went down to the garage very early, to leave my car for the brakes to be taken up. Just as I got there, your husband passed me, apparently headed for the Post Road. Christina was with him."

Leona sat still, a queer coldness gathering in her chest. The other day they had been together at the river, and now this. And in between, Christina's ill-timed call on her, the day they were having drinks in the living room-she and Johnny Parsons, and, of course, Alan. The business about the church fair was an excuse, Leona thought. She was only trying to sound me out, to find how much I knew, or perhaps what I was up to myself. And Dan-the coldness turned into a swelling tide of anger. Dan told me not to overdo certain people, while all the time he....

She didn't finish the thought because she couldn't, not yet. It was bad enough that he had warned her about seeing too much of Alan, blamed her for being indiscreet, while he himself ... her resentment rose higher. Christina probably told him some lurid story about finding the house full of people drinking at three o'clock in the afternoon. Heaven only knows what she told him! And Pete, too-but Pete was nice-easygoing, like most Latins. He was her friend; she trusted him. Christina was different, dangerous. Even Alan, who hardly knew her, had seen that she was devoted to Dan.

Alan was watching her over his empty glass. "You are in a state," he said. "I'm sorry, darling, really. I didn't mean to start anything."

She shrugged. "You didn't. This is an old story-a hangover from a crush Dan had when he was about eighteen. And, speaking of hangovers, do you think it would hurt me to change my mind and have a real drink with you?"

She watched him stroll across to the bar, tall and slim in his flannels and gray tweed jacket. Yes, he was very attractive. I'm glad I went out with Alan tonight, she thought defiantly.

She had a real drink while Alan had two more, and she felt better and better. The tide of anger was still there, but it only lifted her spirits, the way, she thought, a high tide lifts surface waves, tossing them about gaily. She was full of nonsense; she said outrageous things about people that she and Alan knew and they grew hilarious in their corner. As they were laughing together, a party of people came in. Alan gave them a quick look and muttered something under his breath. "What is it?" Leona asked.

"For a minute I thought it was someone from the school. I must be seeing things. Let's have another drink."

"I can't," she said, "and I don't think you ought to, either. It's getting late."

"Just one for the road." When he looked at her that way, he was hard to resist. "Besides, you don't need to get home. Dan's in Boston."

"So he is," she said, as if she had forgotten it, as if the realization didn't make her heart drop sickeningly. "All right, another drink for you, but it's the last. Then we really must go."

She was nervous, and she kept glancing over her shoulder at the people at the big table. Hadn't she seen that blonde, very tanned woman on the golf course? And the gray-haired man looked familiar. Alan drank his drink with irritating slowness. She wished she were at home. And then, as she remembered the empty house, and Dan, she didn't know what she wished. "Come, Alan, do pay the check and let's get along!"

It was raining when they went outside, but not hard enough to dispel the mist that had hung over the countryside all day. She looked at Alan, and said lightly, "I've had only one drink. Will you let me drive?"

"I never let anyone drive my car," he said. "Not even me?"

"Not even you." To emphasize his statement, he leaned over and kissed her. He had kissed her before, but not like this. This was a light kiss, but it was possessive. As if, Leona thought, with a queer little excitement, he were taking more for granted.

Aloud she said, "Then do drive carefully, my dear. It would be horrid to have a smash, tonight of all nights."

Afterward, she wondered if her warning had made him nervous, of if it had simply been coincidence. What happened came suddenly, yet with the horrible inevitability of a nightmare. The queer part of it was that Alan wasn't driving really fast. They were two or three miles from Windover, where the road swung in a long, slow curve downhill to the river. It was very dark; the headlights hardly seemed to penetrate the curtain of rain and fog. Leona sat tensely, her eyes fixed on the half-circle of glass swept clean by the windshield-wiper on her side of the car. Then, out of the darkness came a yellow glow, magnified and diffused by the fog-headlights bearing straight down on them. Alan wrenched the wheel to the right; then, as the other car roared by, he stepped on the brake-too hard, for his big convertible slid sideways in a sickening, front-wheel skid. Leona clenched her hands. The next instant she had pitched forward into solid blackness that exploded into a thousand dazzling flares.

She opened her eyes to a dim world that spun and settled into a steady ache-the pounding in her head. She turned, painfully. Alan was slumped over the wheel, his hands still gripping it. She touched his arm. "Alan."

But he didn't move; the motor had stopped, and there was no sound at all except for the drumming of the rain on the canvas top. Leona looked around. The car seemed to be tipping to the right, but not very sharply; it might be safe to get out. Cautiously she felt for the door handle and stepped into the darkness. It was raining so hard that the beam from the left headlight-the only one still burning-seemed to shine on a stream of tiny bullets. The car, she saw, had swerved to the right, knocked down a state road fence post, snapped the wire cable that formed the top rail, and stopped, its fender and lamp smashed against a telegraph pole. She looked back. The road was dark and apparently empty; the other car must have gone on. She drew a long, quivering breath. At least they hadn't hit anyone. No one was hurt, unless Alan....

She groped her way around to the other side of the car and opened the door, remembering to pull up the emergency brake, for there was a sheer drop on their right. As she put her wet handkerchief to his forehead, Alan stirred, muttered, and sank down again. Panic gripped her. Suppose he was badly hurt-a fractured skull, or a concussion. She must get help somehow. She peered through the rain and saw nothing, not a light or a sign of a house. She thought, I'll have to walk to the village, but I oughtn't to leave Alan.

She didn't know how long she had been standing there, but her flannel topcoat was drenched when she turned, quickly. There had been a sound-a car, overtaking them. Yes, there were lights, coming slowly through the rain. She stepped recklessly into their path, waving her handkerchief. "Stop, please stop!" The lights swung to the far side of her, and for a dreadful moment she thought they were going by. Then the car slowed, a window was lowered, and a man's voice called out, "What's the trouble?"

"We've had an accident."

The door opened and a man got out, followed by a second, shorter man, who came up to her and then stopped abruptly. "Well, for the love of-it's the Collier child! Fancy meeting you here!"

She knew that nasal voice and that small, gnomish figure. It was Philip Malone, the writer, the newcomer to Windover whom Dan hadn't liked. But at least it's someone, she thought, following the men to Alan's car. "And Alan Hunt!" Phil was saying. "What goes on?"

"We turned out for a car and skidded. Alan's knocked out."

"Or passed out," said Malone's friend. "Let's see."

She said nervously, "We ought to get a doctor. It may be dangerous to move him."

But Alan was moving, trying to sit up, muttering, "Leona, what happened? Are you all right?"

"Of course, just a bump. Oh," as he raised his head, and blood ran down his face, "you're hurt."

He tried to grin. "Just another bump. Hello, Malone, where did you drop from?"

After that, things seemed to happen very quickly. Before Leona knew it, Alan was in the back seat of Phil Malone's car and she was in the front between the two men. Phil drove rapidly but skillfully. "We'll have the doctor take a look at you both, and then get you home. I'll call the garage. It's Alan's car, isn't it?"

"Yes. And my house is on the way to Dr. Loring's. I don't need to see him, so if you could drop me first-"

She felt Malone's quick glance. "Afraid young Dan will be worried?"

"Oh, he's away," she said lightly, and instantly regretted having said it. Philip Malone didn't answer, but when they reached her house, he insisted on coming in with her. "Are you sure you'll be all right?" he said. "Your eye'll be black tomorrow."

"That's nothing. I can't thank you enough for rescuing us." She was grateful to him, but she wished he would go; her head ached unbearably; the excitement of the evening and of the accident had worn off, and she felt utterly exhausted.

But Malone lingered, looking down at her quizzically. "Don't worry," he said. "Your secrets are safe with me."

Her cheeks grew hot. "Don't be ridiculous."

He went on, smiling. "It's lucky I came along. It might' so easily have been one of the peasantry, and how they love to talk! Your husband wouldn't like that. I'm afraid he won't, anyway. You'll have to explain your black eye. Tell him I hit you, if you like."

Her flush deepened. "You'd better get Alan to the doctor," she said, "and then to bed."

He nodded, still with that unpleasant little smile. "Bed is a problem, but I think I'll take him out to my house. The headmaster, and his wife, too, will agree with Dan's opinion of this evening's fun. Well, Dan may be lenient. Good night, my child. I hope you won't have too much of a headache, literally and figuratively."

Mechanically, she closed the door after him, locked it, and stood looking around the hall. She pushed her tumbled hair back and winced, touching the lump over her right eye. Phil Malone was right. Dan would be furious. But it was lucky Phil had come along. She thought, He's not small-town-he won't talk. Of course there's his friend, and Dr. Loring, and the garage man who comes for Alan's car. And of course the school....But she couldn't worry about it now; she was too tired. As for Dan, she'd decide what to say to him in the morning.

In spite of a sedative, she slept badly, and woke to realize that she had dreamed of the stone mask that formed the fountain in her mother's garden-a satyr, smiling, or leering, that looked like Phil Malone. She lay remembering the evening before, and fighting down a sense of panic. Nothing was wrong, no matter how it looked. I oughtn't to have let Alan drive, but I couldn't argue with him.

And you didn't want to, she answered herself. After he kissed you, you gave up. You simply let things happen.

Yes, and she had been very foolish, but nothing more. And Dan would understand-he must. Especially, she thought bitterly, when he's probably been foolish himself. Anger made her head ache harder than ever. Dan-Alan-Phil Malone-Millie Pearson-Christina-everyone and everything she thought of made her feel more wretched. There was no comfort anywhere.

Presently, through her trance of misery, she was aware of the sound of a lawn mower. Pete was here, the rain must have stopped. If she talked to him, she might feel more like herself. She got up, did what she could with ice water, makeup, and dark glasses, and went down to the kitchen. She was trying to drink some coffee when the back door opened and Pete's voice said cheerfully, "Hi, Mrs. Collier. Nice day. Say! Who hit you?"

"No one," she said. "I just ran into something."

"In your car?"

She shook her head, silently thanking heaven that they hadn't taken her car. "No. It was a-a sort of accident."

His dark eyes were amused, yet concerned. "What happened to the other fellow?"

She tried to smile back. "He probably looks worse than I do."

"You ought to let Doc Loring take a look at you." He crossed to the sink, ran a glass of water and drank it, watching her reflectively. "Sometimes a bang like that can be pretty bad. You know-concussion. Dan would want you to get it looked after."

"I'll wait until he gets home tonight," she said.

Pete shrugged. "Suit yourself, but you look kinda tough to me."

He started out, and suddenly Leona felt that she couldn't bear to be left alone. She must detain him somehow ... she managed to laugh. "Beefsteak's the thing for a black eye, isn't it? Will you stop at the butcher's when you go home to lunch?"

Pete smiled, but mechanically. He suspects something, she thought. He's disapproving. His manner had changed; he was perfectly respectful and friendly, but there was a difference. She hunted for something to say. "Pete," she said, "can you be confidential? I mean really?"

"You mean keep a secret? Sure. Go ahead."

Encouraged by the warmth in his voice, she said, "What do you think of Christina Barr? I promise it won't go any further, but I have a reason for wanting to know-an important reason. I can't explain, but I wish you'd give me your honest opinion of her."

Pete waited, looking at her thoughtfully. When he spoke there was a trace of his new reserve in his voice. "I'll tell you, Mrs. Collier. I like Christina a lot. Now there are some people in this town-a few of the Italians, and some of the old Yankee families-that don't like the Swedes. I do. I think they're fine people. And there are some Swedes in town who didn't like Christina's pa, Axel Edgren. I did. Maybe," he smiled slightly, "it was because I got to know him back in prohibition days when my old man and I made wine. Anyway, I always had a good time with him. We'd drink it and tell stories and sing, me and my old man and Axel. Christina's different from her pa, but she's a nice girl, friendly and decent, good-looking, too. Anson Barr would never have married her if she hadn't been O.K. People in this town think a lot of Anson, and even the ones who didn't get on with Axel Edgren can't find fault with Christina. She's all right."

"But-" She stopped, biting her lip.

"I will say this," Pete went on. "She's kinda hard to get acquainted with. But when you know her, there's no one nicer. She don't talk too much-she keeps to herself, and that's a rare thing in a woman. Yeah, she's a fine girl." He started for the door.

The finality in his voice and manner angered her. "I don't think she's so fine," she said.

He turned. "Christina didn't give you that black eye, did she?" he asked whimsically. "No, I thought not. Well, Mrs. Collier, you got a right to your own opinion. Never argue with women, is my rule. When Tonia and I got married, I made it, and I've stuck to it, and it works fine. So if you think different from me, go right ahead and think it. Well, I got to get after that grass-it's like hay, with all the rain. See you later."

She sat still, struggling with angry tears. Even Pete, whom she had worked with all summer, whom she had liked, had deserted her. And mingled with her anger was a new and frightening loneliness. Never in all her life had she felt so lost, so miserable. And Dan would be of no help. When she thought of him, she was torn between desire to tell him she had been a fool, to ask him to forgive her, and a wild impulse to rush to the attack, to face him down, and force the truth out of him.

She sat still for a long time. Her tears dried, but her eyes burned. She poured a second cup of tepid, bitter coffee and drank it. Then she put the cup down with a little click, got up, and went into the hall. Her hands were steady, picking up the telephone and dialing a number. But her heart was beating fast as she listened to the buzzing of the bell at the other end of the line. It rang and rang. At last the receiver was lifted and a man's voice, low and toneless, said, "Yes?"

"Is Mrs. Barr there? Oh, Mr. Barr, this is Leona Collier. When do you expect her back? I hate to bother you, but-"