handle, although I didn't want her to get into the habit of handling too much of my work. When I got my pipe working I rang for her, said, “I don't want to be disturbed for the balance of the day. Not even a phone call, unless it's urgent.”
“Certainly, Mr. Connor.” She gave me a wise look that annoyed me. “Anything happen... upstairs?”
“No. That is, I don't know—yet.”
Turning to leave, she stopped at the door. “Do you want the new coffee iced or...?”
“Goddamn the coffee! I don't want any!” She jumped and I grinned quickly, added, “Sorry I barked, Miss Park. Last night left my nerves on edge. Thank you, but I really don't want any coffee now. Perhaps later in the afternoon.”
When she shut the door I opened my collar and sprawled in the leather desk chair. My mind was galloping in vast circles. Michele, Bill Long, Michele, the Anthony killing... and then for no reason I thought of Miss Park, the way she had pressed her bosom against the door. “If I want an affair, this is the time,” I told myself. “I'm a grass widower, or whatever the dandy title is. Crazy, all these years and I never called her anything but Miss Park. What's with me; that would be all I'd need, an office affair! But how did Michele cash a check so early in the morning? Or did she have the cash ready? Was the flight prearranged? Had she been wanting to leave me all...? That was impossible, we had it made. But what do I do now? Forget last night.... think of
I was too restless to sit. I began pacing the office and felt ridiculous; the office was far too small for pacing. “I wish Michele were here, I really need her on this Anthony thing. She has such a level head. We could talk out all the angles and... here I am, wishing like a kid! I have to snap out of it, forget my personal problems until I rack up the right move on this or Long will throw me to the stockholders. Being jobless would be a new complication. But how can I forget Michele for a second? And how can I possibly know what the public's reaction will be to an Anthony book? Hell!”
And I was quite aware that I'd never had to make any real decisions before. I had lived a very happy and mild 29 years. Everything had worked for me—until last night.
Last night.
Exactly what had happened last night? I'd been over it a hundred times since, trying to understand what had gone wrong. All I could come up with was: either I was dense or something had been cooking in Michele's head for a long time.
It had been a hot day, so muggy even the air conditioner couldn't do much with it. Perhaps the humidity had made our nerves ragged. But not
Often when I awoke first in the morning and didn't feel like getting up, I would analyze her body. Michele's face could belong to any nationality: it could be Semitic or Latin or North African. Here in New York I'd often been asked if she was Spanish or Italian. But from the neck down her body was strictly ail-American. In fact I once had a slightly drunken argument with Michele about it. She claiming I was being a jingoist. She had the strong clean shoulders of a female athlete (although her only exercise was some mild swimming) and then her body V'd down past small breasts to a narrow waist and neat, solid hips, then the long, almost powerful dancer's legs. It was neither a slim nor a delicate body, but a very healthy one.
Completing the inventory I happily decided Michele had a far better figure than any stage beauty's—but if she only had larger breasts. I grinned as I told myself to stop thinking like an ass. The bra ads were getting to me.
Glancing at me, Michele asked with her warm accent, “Are you amused by this dull nonsense on the TV?”
“What? Honey, I wasn't even watching it.”
“And I only tolerated it for your sake,” she said, crossing the room to switch off the set. She moved with a fast, sultry grace. I thought, Lord, I'm a lucky man. I have a girl out of a European movie living with me.
Pushing a foot stool toward my chair, Michele sat at my feet, like a good Continental wife. She said, “It has been such a sweaty day.”
“New York's claim to summer fame. Perhaps we'll try Jones Beach this weekend.”
“And roast again on the bumper-to-bumper ride back? Norm-man (she always said my full name when she had something important to tell me), one of the teachers at school, Edith—you remember seeing her, the plump one— well, she has recently inherited a small house in Connecticut. A quite wonderful old stone house with enough land. Also but a short ride from the ocean, the Sound.”
“Honey,” I asked, playing with her fingers, “who wants to move in the Westport social swindle? At least, who wants to now? That's big money.”
“This is near Stamford and only a small ride, even by train, from New York City. Edith has no use for the house and will sell it for a modest price, to us. $6000, with $1000 down. Perhaps it will cost another thousand to fix it up, although it is not badly in need of repairs.”
“Look, all these ancient handy man specials are falling apart and need—”
“Not this house. I have seen it.” I opened my eyes wide. “When? You never told me.”
“Edith drove me up there this afternoon. It is a charming place with its own trees and dirt road. Very private. She could get much more from a real estate man, but being a friend, she is glad to let us have it for the... how you say... the assessed value. Norm-man, I seriously think we should buy it. We take $2000 from our bank, and for the rest we will need to pay only $50 a month.”
“Honey, it will cost us a lot more than that. Furniture alone is at least another grand. What would we do with a house?”
“Live there in the summer, maybe all the time if it turns out well. After this year I do not plan to teach summer school. Darling, we would have cool air, our own orchards. We would swim every afternoon when you came home. And even in the mornings, too. We would buy a little boat. I love to fish. If we decide to live up there all year, we
