I felt both relief and disappointment and was not sure which of them was the stronger. I put on a smile and said, “Hi. I was just wandering around, getting acquainted with the camp, and I heard voices back here and thought I'd come introduce myself. I hope I'm not intruding.”
“No, that's all right,” Bascomb said, but he did not smile.
Mrs. Jerrold got to her feet, slowly, and whether consciously or unconsciously she made it seem like a showcase number. Nothing overt; it was all subtle suggestion. When she moved toward Bascomb-as I moved toward him from a different angle, like a pair of cops converging on a subject-there was no exaggerated hip-sway or breast-bouncing. Her movements were clean and economical; she knew what kind of body she had, and that it was so ripe already, artifice of any sort would only have spoiled its effect.
She had a smile for me, even if Bascomb didn't. She said, “Are you a new guest?”
I said I was, for a few days at least, and we exchanged names and shook hands all around. Bascomb's was hard and firm, Mrs. Jerrold's soft and firm. He was about forty, good-looking in a smooth, ascetic way, with silvering hair combed into a widow's peak and eyes that were gray, steady, unreadable. She was a couple of years on the fair side of thirty, and she wore her hair in long layered waves that made her look a little like Raquel Welch. Her breasts were very large, too, the type that some men found exciting; I thought they were a little too much of a good thing. Her skin was a rich light-brown color, silky in texture, and her mouth was sensual without being pouty. Up close this way she projected an aura of sexuality that was almost hypnotic; in spite of myself, I could feel the palms of my hands turn moist and I found my eyes settling on her twice as often as they did on Bascomb.
She said, “My husband and I are in Six, the next cabin down. He went out hunting, and so I came up here to bother Walt for a while.”
“Hardly a bother,” Bascomb said dryly.
“I've been trying to get him to sketch me ever since we met,” she said to me. “Walt's an artist, you know.”
“So I see.”
She took the sketchpad from him and held it up so that both of us could look at the charcoal drawing on the open page. It was pretty much finished-a very good likeness of her as she had looked sitting in the plot of grass. But in his portrayal he had taken some of the softness out of her, some of the veneer-if that's all it was-of innocence. Her beauty as he had interpreted it was almost that of a predator.
Mrs. Jerrold seemed not to notice this; or if she did, she did not change expression. She asked me, “What do you think?”
“Nice work,” I said.
“Oh yes. Walt, you must let me have it.”
“Won't your husband mind?”
“Why should he?”
“You can answer that better than I can.”
“He won't mind. He appreciates good artwork.”
“I'm sure he does.”
Bascomb said that last a little stiffly, looked at her for a long moment, and then took the sketchpad back. He tore out the drawing, handed it to her, said “Nice meeting you” to me, and went over and sat on the stump again. Dismissed, both of us. I watched Mrs. Jerrold frown slightly, as though with annoyance, and I thought that if they were putting on an act for my benefit, they were good at it. So far I was buying the whole thing.
Her frown smoothed away after six or seven seconds, and she said, “Well, I should be getting back, I guess. Thank you again for sketching me, Walt; it's been fun.”
“Hasn't it,” Bascomb said without inflection. He was sketching again and he did not look up.
She put her smile on for me. “Are you going down by the lake?”
“I'd planned on that, yes.”
“Good. You can walk me to my cabin, if you like.”
“Sure.”
I said something to Bascomb about seeing him later; he did not answer, but when Mrs. Jerrold and I started away, toward the side of the cabin, I sensed him watching us.
We went down through the trees on the narrow path. She walked close to me, and twice her body touched mine-breasts and hips; it may have been accidental, but then again, it may not have been. Eventually she said, “Why are artistic people always so moody?”
“I don't know,” I said.
“I'll bet you're not in the arts.”
“No.”
“You look like a teamster or longshoreman.”
“Do I?”
“Oh, I meant that favorably. I'm not a snob.”
Good for you, I thought. “Actually,” I said, “I've got a mundane white-collar job. What does your husband do, Mrs. Jerrold?”
“Call me Angela, won't you? Well, Ray is in advertising. He owns his own firm, you know; he's devoted his life to building it into what it is today, which is a very successful business, but of course he's not satisfied. He'll do anything to make it even more successful, to bring in more money and bigger clients.”
“He sounds like the American Dream in action.”
That got me a wry look. “If the American Dream is a nervous breakdown or a coronary before the age of fifty, then, yes, I guess he is. He's never learned how to relax; even up here, our one vacation of the year, he spends half of the time in The Pines telephoning Los Angeles on business matters. My God, do you know that the only times we go out at home is when he's wining and dining customers or potential customers?”
She delivered all of this innocuously enough, but if you wanted to do some reading between the lines, you did not have to try very hard to come up with an invitation, real or imagined. And which one was it? I wondered. At fifty, or coming in on fifty, I had a belly from too much beer and too much deli food, and a gray plodding shaggy look. Not much there for someone like Angela Jerrold. Unless she was a nympho, or at least had catholic tastes to go with the old roving eye. The other possibilities were that she was as innocent as she appeared, and frankly personal even with strangers, and too witless or careless to understand what sort of impact she had on men; or that she knew exactly what impact she had on me, and that she was, as Cody had described her earlier, “nothing but a prickteaser.”
Well, the only way I was not going to find out which of these fitted the real Angela Jerrold was by making a pass at her. I might have liked it-a part of my mind had already gone through the kind of fantasy sexual encounter you sometimes have when you meet a woman as sybaritic as this one-but too many things would get in the way. Things like moral attitudes and business ethics and friendship and even the fear of rejection that had lingered on since my youth. Funny how rigidly a man will adhere to the code of conduct that has governed his life, even when that life may soon be ended by something as terrible as lobar carcinoma.
I said, “You must spend a lot of time by yourself.”
“Oh, we have quite a few friends. It could be worse.”
“Sure. Things can always be worse than they are.”
“It's here at the lake that I sometimes get lonely. I mean, with Ray in The Pines so much, or out fishing or hunting with Harry Burroughs, I have to amuse myself. I hate that; I enjoy people.”
“There are the other guests.”
She smiled. “Yes. Thank God for that.”
I would have liked to press it further-she had taken it in each of the three possible directions, and yet in none of them-but before I could say anything else we came out of the trees into the cleared area where Cabin Six was situated. And sitting there on the porch, with his shirt off now and a tumbler of colorless liquid in one hand, was Ray Jerrold.
He did not remain sitting for long. He saw us at about the same time I saw him, and he got up in one quick jerky motion and came down the porch steps as if they were carved out of blocks of ice. That drink he was holding was either gin or vodka, and it was by no means his first. When he reached solid ground he stopped and leaned his left hand back against the porch railing; his face was damp and splotchy, and even from where Mrs. Jerrold and I had come to a standstill thirty feet away I could see the same half-wildness in his eyes that there had been when he braced Cody.