Chapter 4

Adam had finished breakfast and was rinsing off the dishes when he heard a car stop out front. He went to the door and opened it. It was Betty and her father. At sight of him, Betty began running eagerly up the walk. Gray-haired, stocky, and dignified, Mr. Walker trailed along behind.

Betty flung herself into his arms. He held her close, kissing her with as much enthusiasm as he could, muster. Over her shoulder, Adam saw Mr. Walker waiting patiently, a half smile on his lips. He put Betty aside, and thrust out his hand. "How are you, sir? It's good to see you again."

The two men shook hands. "Hello, son. By the way, I watched last Saturday's game on television. Your boys did all right."

"We got the breaks," Adam said modestly. "Say, why don't you two come in for a minute? I'll put a pot of coffee on."

Walker glanced at his watch and shook his head. " 'Fraid not. I'm due in Sanbornville before noon, and I can just about make it." He gave Adam a look. "And I imagine you're due at the field about now."

"As a matter-of-fact, I am." Adam grinned, relieved because the elder Walker had given him the excuse he needed to get away from Betty. Adam and Betty walked her father back to the car and Adam retrieved Betty's overnight case from the rear seat. They waved Walker on his way, then, arm in arm, they returned to the cottage.

Once inside, Betty looked around and exclaimed in delight. "It's lovely, darling! So cozy and friendly." She went running from room to room. Adam, trailing along behind, heard her added exclamations. He met her as she returned from his bedroom.

"Everything's perfect except the bedroom," she said. "The bed looks as though you'd been having some horrible nightmares. I'll straighten it up for you."

"No!" Adam cried sharply.

Betty turned back, frowning slightly. "But, darling, the sheets are soiled and need changing, and one of the blankets is on the floor. I'll only be a minute."

"No," Adam repeated. "There's a housekeeper who comes in twice a week to straighten things up. Today's her day. She won't like it if I permit someone else to do her job for her."

Betty smiled and asked mischievously. "Is she young and pretty?"

"No. She's old and ugly."

They returned to the living room. Betty curled up on the sofa. "We've so much to talk about, darling. I hardly know where to begin."

Adam offered an apologetic look. "Betty, please try and understand. I was due at the field a half hour ago. Could we postpone our talk until after the game? I've made reservations for dinner at a nice little club called The Terrace. We'll both be relaxed then and can talk our heads off."

Betty smiled, got to her feet, came to him and kissed him. "Of course I understand, darling. It was thoughtless of me not to realize that this is the most important day of the week for you. Just drive me to wherever I'm to stay, and we'll meet after the game."

Adam looked at her tenderly. "I wish I could find something wrong with you. You're too perfect for a numbskull like me."

"I hope you'll always think of me as being perfect. It won't be hard to live up to with a husband I'll never consider to be a numbskull."

Fearful that Anne might be wandering around the campus, Adam took a roundabout route to the inn. The inn was a low, rambling building, vine-covered and with a wide porch. Betty's eyes shone. "Oh, Adam, it's lovely. Lovely and quaint and comfortable-looking. I'm going to enjoy staying here."

"I knew you'd like it."

Adam stayed with her while she registered, then carried her overnight case up to her room. They paused in the doorway before saying good-bye. Adam looked at her for a moment, and knew once more a sharp pain of guilt and shame. She was such a lovely person, pretty, wholesome-looking and-yes, she was extremely well built. He was a fool, a plain damn fool. He kissed her briefly, told her that he was looking forward to seeing her after the game and stalked away.

The first half of the game was a fiasco. Sydney scored two touchdowns in the first quarter and kicked a pair of field goals in the second. During the half, Adam faced his team in the locker room. He was livid. "What in hell is the matter with you guys? Didn't any of the things I taught you guys sink home?" .

A voice asked, "What were those things, coach?"

Adam whirled around. "Who said that?" No one answered. They looked at him steadily, innocently.

"Oh, so that's it. A wise-ass, eh? Well, let me tell you young punks something. Tomorrow night and every night next week, I want all of you guys out on the practice field. We'll see if we can knock some of the cockiness out of you. By next Saturday, if you live and I can make arrangements with some grammar school team, perhaps you'll be able to play football."

Adam turned and strolled to the door. With one hand on the knob he stopped. Inwardly he was hating himself, cursing himself for his unjustified outburst. His jaw tightened. With a great effort he swallowed his pride. Abruptly he swung around and strode back into the room. "Boys!"

They looked up at him, their expressions sullen, scornful.

Adam swallowed hard. "Boys, I want to apologize for that outburst. It was uncalled for. You're a good bunch of kids, and you're doing your best. If you aren't making points, it's my fault." He paused brushing his hand across his eyes. "I haven't been well ... damn headaches. Once more, I'm sorry. Forget everything I said, if you can. Now get out there and play football." f

He turned and stumbled away, but not before he saw that the boys were exchanging glances, smiling at each other. Had he won their respect back, or did they just think of him as a weakling? During the two weeks of pre-season practice, they had learned to like him, to respect him. He wished fervently that he could recapture that feeling of rapport.

Standing on the fifty-yard line, his arms folded, staring out at the field that was already swarming with players and officials, Adam remarked, "They're a good bunch of kids, young, impressionistic, looking to me for leadership, wanting my approval for anything they do, ready to take my advice and orders without question."

Momentarily, a lump rose in Adam's throat. He swallowed and looked up at the stands. Betty was somewhere in that sea of faces. She was sitting, he knew, on the forty-yard line in the third row, and he knew also that she would have been rooting louder than anyone for the Mekins players during that disastrous first half.

He wished he could pick her out of the crowd, but the distance was too great. Still, when a girl rose, looked toward the bench and waved wildly, Adam waved in reply. Then he thought to himself, "How ridiculous! Betty would be sitting on the Mekins side of the field, not the visitors." He was about to turn and look behind him when he felt someone at his elbow. He swiveled his head around. It was Doug Gaskins, grinning broadly.

The quarterback said, "Thanks, coach."

A warmth of feeling ran through Adam. Could he have recaptured Doug's respect because of that one brief speech of apology. Again the lump rose in Adam's throat. He nodded and squeezed Doug's arm without speaking.

A moment later the opening whistle sounded and Sydney kicked off. Eleven players in red jerseys came charging down the field with all the confidence of a team that knew they had the game on ice.

But the confidence was short-lived. Colin Johnson, the Mekins fullback, caught the ball on the twenty-yard line, tucked it under his left arm, ducked his head and, following four determined blockers, went plunging down the field. Three Sydney tacklers got their hands on him, but he shook them off, hurtled a fourth red jersey and went plunging straight for the Sydney goal line. There was only one man in his path, the Sydney kicker. But the kicker wasn't used to such a responsibility, nor was he very fast on his feet. He'd done his job by getting off a beautiful punt. Still, he did his level best. He threw himself at the charging white shirt, missed him entirely. Johnson went over the Sydney goal line standing up.

Mekins converted and the score stood at 20 to 7 in Sydney's favor. The Mekins' stands went wild. Adam, who had leaped to his feet, let the tension go out of him. He unclenched his fists, and swore softly. "We're going to win!" he thought. "We can't help but win-with that show of spirit."

Two plays after Mekins' kickoff, Sydney fumbled the ball. A Mekins' player scooped it up and fought his way. to the ten-yard line. On the very first play, Doug Gaskins. backed up for a pass, waited for Ivan Forbes, one of his tight ends to get into position behind the Sydney goal line, then casually threaded the needle for a completed pass and a second touchdown. After the conversion, the score stood at 20 to 14.

Shortly after the beginning of the fourth quarter, Doug Gaskins called for time, and trotted over to the Mekins' bench. "Coach," he said, his expression anxious, "I can set the team up for an easy field goal. Then-"

"No!" Adam interrupted grimly. "Two field goals would only tie the game. Doug, this is one we want to win. Go for the touchdown. Keep the ball on the ground."

Doug's face broke into a grin. "That's what I hoped you'd say. Don't worry, we'll do it."

And they did. Doug went back into the huddle and barked out his signals. Two plays later, employing a double handoff, Doug sent Dana Gleason scampering around left end for Mekin's third touchdown. Adam heaved a great sigh and nodded to Jason Flagg. Jason did most of the kicking for the Mekins' team. He was good, but today he was nervous. He realized that the outcome of the game more than--likely rested on his young shoulders. Trying desperately not to show his feelings, he ran out onto the field and lined himself behind his fellow players. He knew the Sydney players would make a determined attempt to block his kick, which only added to his nervousness. If he missed, the score would be tied, and would probably remain that way until the end of the game.

Jason got himself into position, nodded to Doug Gaskins who would hold the ball for him. He watched Doug's hands open, saw the ball come shooting back. Even before Doug caught it deftly, Jason was on his way. His shoe met the pigskin squarely, and he thought he had it made. But he hadn't. The ball floated and then, as though caught by an invisible force, veered off to the left. The referee gave the no-good signal.

The Mekins' stands groaned and Jason trotted shamefacedly back to the bench. He avoided looking at Adam, but Adam, smiling, walked over to him. "Look, kid, you can't win them all. No one expects you to. The game's not over. We'll take 'em yet."

Jason nodded gratefully, but there were tears in his eyes.

The score was 20 to 20 and, despite Doug's best efforts, the game ended in a tie.

Betty met Adam at the main gate. At sight of him she rushed into his arms and kissed him. "Darling, your boys played wonderfully. I'm proud of you."

He smiled at her ruefully. "As MacArthur said, 'There's no substitute for victory.'"

"And as Grantland Rice said, 'It isn't whether you win or lose, but how you play the game.'"

Which was true, except for one thing: The record books only recorded final scores; they never mentioned how well a team had played.

Adam drove Betty to the inn and left her. "I'll pick you up in about an hour. We'll drive out to The Terrace where we can be alone and talk. I think you'll like the place."

"I'll like any place if I'm with you," Betty told him.

They kissed, and Adam drove back to his cottage, congratulating himself on having aroused no suspicion in Betty whatever. But he dreaded the evening that lay ahead.

The Terrace was a low, rambling building, perched on a cliff overlooking a small body of water named Lake Nipmuc. Adam and Betty sat at a candlelit table, close to an open fireplace in which logs crackled and snapped and sent cheerful flames leaping up the chimney.

Betty looked around, her eyes shining. "I love it, darling. It's divine, romantic. It's the sort of place a girl--likes to be taken by the man she loves."

Adam felt a rush of guilt, but he managed a smile. "I thought you'd like it."

"It was sweet and considerate of you to choose such a lovely setting." She reached across the table, took his hand in hers and squeezed it. "And now we have so much to talk about. I've been so busy thinking about and planning the wedding." She went on, chattering away as only a happy and prospective bride can do. "I've settled on our silver pattern at last. Mother helped me, of course, but then they-Dad and Mother-are giving us a complete service as a wedding present." She gave a little laugh. "I don't dare tell you what it's costing them. Oh, I do hope you'll like the pattern."

"I will," murmured Adam, feeling more and more that he was wallowing in a quagmire from which there was no escape.

"And then there was the matter of linens. Uncle Roger and Aunt Emily insisted on making them their responsibility. Aunt Em only asked about the monograms on the towels." She stopped talking and looked across at Adam, frowning a little. "Adam, I don't believe you've heard a word I've said." She laughed. "I don't suppose I can blame you. Such things don't interest a man, but they're important to a bride."

Adam roused himself. Guiltily, he had been thinking of Anne, at how she intended to arouse him the next time they were in bed together.

"I'm sorry, darling. Of course I've been listening. I think that your folks and your uncle and aunt are most generous."

"I'm glad. Now there's the matter of the wedding invitations. Have you made up the list of whom you wanted invited?"

"My mother promised to make up the list."

"Oh, that's wonderful! I'll contact her the minute I get back to Grafton. Now, Adam, this is important. I know that you wanted a simple wedding, but Mother has convinced me that a church wedding with a reception at our home afterward is something that we'll always cherish. Would you mind so much?"

"Not at all. I think a church wedding would be fine."

"Oh, I'm glad." Suddenly Betty was looking at him again, the same little frown furrowing her brow. "Adam, is anything wrong? You haven't acted normal since the moment I arrived."

"I'm sorry." Adam brushed a hand across his eyes. "It's these damned headaches. I can't imagine what brings them on, but lately they've been giving me a lot of trouble."

"Oh, you poor boy. I didn't know. Have you been to a doctor? Is it worry about the team?"

"Partly, I guess. They're not doing as well as I hoped. It's my responsibility. I've been blaming myself."

"There's no need. I thought the team performed beautifully, especially in the last half."

He considered telling her about his little speech in the locker room, but decided against it. It would only conjure up doubts in her mind. She'd ply him with questions until he told her the whole story.

"I'll be all right," he told her confidently. "They pass as quickly as they come. Tomorrow

I'll check with Doc Bryant."

"Promise."

"I promise."

Betty smiled. "I think if we have something to eat, it will do us both some good. Then I want you to go home and get some sleep. We can have breakfast together, can't we? Dad is picking me up about noon."

"Of course." A surge of relief swept through Adam. The headache gag, he decided, was paying off in quarters least expected.

They ordered and ate and drank wine. Then Betty insisted that Adam take her back to the inn and return to his own cottage and go to bed.

Adam made a token resistance. "I'm spoiling your evening. I hadn't planned it to end like this."

"You're not spoiling it. It's been a lovely evening, one that I'll long remember."

"You're sure."

"I'm positive."

"You're very kind and considerate, Betty."

"That's because I love you, darling. It's easy and gratifying to be considerate of the man you love."

Back at the inn, they momentarily clung to each other.

"Tell me you love me, Adam."

"I do love you, Betty. So very much."

"That's all I wanted to hear." She kissed him. "Until tomorrow then."

For a moment he was reluctant to let her go. Then, feeling like the worst sort of hypocrite, he climbed into his car and drove back to his cottage.

It was only eleven o'clock when Adam entered the cottage. He didn't switch on the living room lights, but felt his way toward the kitchen, thinking only of mixing himself a quick drink. He felt for and found the kitchen switch and snapped on the lights. He took one step forward and stopped dead. Anne was seated at the kitchen table. She was wearing only the skimpiest of dresses. Her thighs were revealed almost up to her crotch. Her breasts were barely covered.

Adam's heart began to thump. "Anne!"

"Yeah. Anne." She got up, came and stood directly in front of him. Her eyes were bleak, her lips drawn into a thin straight line.

"Who was she?"

Confused, Adam blubbered. "Who was who."

"That bitch you were mooning over at The Terrace."

"Oh, her."

"Yes, her."

Adam tried to get control of his senses. "She's a girl from my home town. We grew up together. She came down for the game."

Anne's voice was taunting. "Just a girl from your home town. A pal. Tell me, Adam, did you fuck her?"

Adam's insides boiled over. Momentarily, some of his dignity returned. "That's none of your damned business."

"I see." Anne's lips tightened even more. "I see," she said coldly. She turned away. "Good night, Adam."

She had reached the door, had her hand on the knob, when Adam cried, "Anne! Please don't go."

Anne paused with her back still toward him. "Well."

"I didn't."

"Didn't what?"

Adam swallowed. His Adam's apple bobbed. "I didn't fuck her."