Setting up unmarried housekeeping together might seem dangerous in and of itself, but Ness was in so tight with the newspaper boys that the Ness/MacMillan cohabitation was unlikely to go reported. Even Jack Raper, who took catty swipes at Ness in his column from time to time, would look the other way on this one.
His first marriage, to the woman who had been his secretary back in his Chicago 'untouchable' days, had not been an unhappy one, exactly; he still thought of his ex-wife with affection, and they kept in touch, though there had been no children. It had been the pressure of his profession-the long hours, the danger, and (Ness now realized) his reticence to speak about that-that had finally made their marriage come irreparably apart.
Usually, when he made this drive it was after dark; in the overcast winter late afternoon, the sky looked faded, like it was wearing out. The castle-like boathouse itself and the skeletal trees nearby were stark against the sky. Small but massive, the turreted structure rose two stories with a smaller, third tower-like story crouching on top; the lights were on in the tower, meaning Ev was at work. A half-story stone wall created a modest courtyard. The barrenness of this study in gray tones-gray sky, dark gray lacework of bare tree branches against that faded sky, darker gray stones of the castle itself-was made picturesque by the several inches of white on the ground. Only the cement ribbon of the road, yet another gray tone, broke the spell of the snow.
The breeze had some bite but he didn't mind, as he stepped out of the EN-1 Ford sedan, which he'd parked behind Ev's dark-blue Bugatti right in front. He paused to look at the frozen lagoon, white and gray and gray-blue stretching to the horizon. No yachts this time of year. The weather gave no special dispensation to the wealthy.
He hung his topcoat in the closet, and slipped out of his suitcoat, which he folded neatly over a chair near the stairs. The brown leather shoulder holster that he always wore was, as usual, empty; he didn't like to carry a gun, but when a gun was needed, he liked to be ready. But it looked a little silly, he knew, and he crawled out of the leather harness before climbing two flights of stairs to the tower.
The top floor was a single medium-sized room that had been turned into Ev's studio. It was well-organized, but gave the impression of untidiness because various reference photos and fashion-section clippings and preliminary drawings were taped here and there to the cream, plaster walls. The studio was filled with the expensive matching oak pieces Ev's parents had had delivered from Chicago: a pair of file cabinets, one for business papers, another (shorter, wider) for storing artwork; a bookcase stuffed with reference volumes; and a large drafting table, at which Ev sat in an office-style swivel chair, working on a large black-and-white illustration of a woman wearing a mannish pinstriped suit. She was applying watered-down india ink as a wash, making the suit gray.
She didn't notice him, at first, so lost in her work was she. Her light brunette hair was pinned up, but half- heartedly; her handsome features bore no make-up and horn-rimmed glasses hid her almond-shaped eyes. Wearing a shapeless blue smock, she was hunched over the drawing board, squinting, her right hand moving with swift, sure strokes, laying in the gray tones with a fine brush. She was sitting near the heat; his fat gray cat, Big Al, was curled up there.
'Hi, doll,' he said.
She smiled immediately, but didn't take her eyes off her drawing. 'What are you doing home, you big lug?'
'I told you I'd come home and spend some time before the council meeting.'
'I know you did,' she said, eyes still on the drawing, the smile tickling her lips. 'I just didn't believe you.'
'Hey, I'm an honest public servant. Everybody knows that.' He looked over her shoulder. 'The women are going to dress like men this year, huh?'
'Just the top layer,' she said. 'Still lacy underneath.'
'That's a relief. Want me to go down and make us some drinks?'
'I'll go down with you,' she said, and laid down a final stroke of gray. She cleaned the brush in a small glass of water on the work table next to her and grinned at him, showing perfect tiny white teeth. 'There. That ought to please Mr. Bradley.'
Bradley was the big boss at Higbee's department store and Ev had nothing to do with him, really; but she was always saying that.
She tossed the horn-rims on the work table, rose, stretched, showing off her nice, slender figure, pulling off the blue smock to reveal a simple white blouse and navy slacks. She was damn near as tall as he was. When she was through stretching, she slipped her arms around him and gave him a hug and then a slow, sloppy kiss.
'Don't go to that damn council meeting,' she said, and pouted.
It made him laugh; she was the kind of strong woman who only pouted for effect, and when she did, it was ridiculous.
'We'll see.'
'I've got a roast in the oven.'
'You did believe me, when I said I'd come home.'
'Hope springs eternal. Skip the council meeting.'
'Why, is that what you want for your birthday?'
She grinned; she showed an expanse of pink gum when she did that-not very glamorous, he supposed, but appealing as hell.
'You remembered,' she said.
He hadn't mentioned, this morning, that her birthday was why he planned to come home before the meeting.
'Let's go down downstairs, doll-you fix us some drinks. I'll start a fire.'
'You already have, big boy.'
He had called her 'doll' almost from the beginning, which she found 'corny,' though she responded to it in kind.
They moved down the narrow stairway together, bumping shoulders and hips, and she went to the liquor cart and made Scotch on the rocks for him and a small pitcher of martinis for herself, while he got the fire going. He took off his tie and pitched it into the darkness; she unpinned her hair, let it tumble to her shoulders. They sat and drank and watched the glow of the fire and felt the glow of the fire and said very little, kissing frequently.
'Shouldn't we have supper?' she asked, glancing toward the kitchen.
'Dessert first,' he said, nuzzling her neck.
They had dessert on the couch and after they'd got dressed again, he helped her in the kitchen. She had a mussed look that made him want dessert again, but he set the table for supper, anyway.
They ate in the kitchen. Nothing fancy. His tastes in food were simple-strictly meat and potatoes-and she catered to it. But they often ate in restaurants, particularly if she was working in the studio at Higbee's as opposed to at home. After the meal, she served him apple pie a la mode.
'Two desserts,' he said, savoring a bite. 'I'll get fat.'
'If you want a third dessert, we can go back in front of the fireplace.'
' You might get fat.'
She smiled warmly. 'I might like that.'
He touched her hand. 'I'd love it. I want children with you.'
She gave him an arch look. 'Are you proposing?'
They'd never really talked about it, directly.
He shrugged, smiled enigmatically, and finished his pie. Then he rose, walked to the closet by the front door and got the small package out of his topcoat pocket.
She was still finishing her slice of pie. She looked up at him, as she licked an ice-cream mustache away, and her eyes got wide as she saw the small pink-wrapped, silver-ribboned package and knew at once what it was.
She opened the little package greedily and looked at the less-than-breathtaking diamond ring as if it were more than breathtaking. She slipped the ring on and held her hand out and looked at it.
'Eliot-it's lovely! Lovely. How could you afford…?'
'It's not exactly the Hope diamond, doll.'
In truth, the manager of a jewelry store he'd helped out last year in the labor extortion inquiry had given him a hell of a price break.
She stood and hugged him and kissed him, a cold ice-cream kiss, but ice-cream sweet, too. He slipped his arm around her and they walked back into the living room and sat on the couch before the smoldering fire, feet up
