Now my last book had been bought for serialization in a national fiction magazine and the hard-cover edition was destined for the best-seller list. Our home was paid for (Anne insisted on that first), we had money in the bank, she had quit her job as one of Pan American’s most decorative hostesses, and we were arguing over what to name our first child. I still felt giddy when I thought about it.
I came back from the mailbox with two envelopes, saying, “One’s for you.”
Mine was from my agent and I held it to the light. No check. I looked at the letter for Anne. “It’s from Leila Morgan. Postmarked New York — I thought they were in France.”
“So did I.” Anne reached for the envelope. “I hope she’s not sick again.”
My letter began: “Dear John: With arrival of the next Lurline you’ll have a legitimate excuse to stop work and dispense some Hawaiian hospitality.” I made an annoyed sound and Anne looked up. “More revisions?”
“No. Visitors.” I read again.
“Troy Purcell, no less than the famous Troy, is being shipped to Honolulu. He’s going to illustrate your story and you know what that means circulation-wise. The lowdown is that the publisher wants him to sign a contract. Troy has accepted this assignment but won’t commit himself further, says he’s tired. This in spite of the highest price ever offered an illustrator and the fact that a view of the East River, framed to Mavis Purcell’s taste, costs plenty. Anne will remember their place — we went to a party there when she was with that Pan American publicity tour last fall. Remind her of the bird cage in the bathroom.”
“Hey,” I said. “You didn’t tell me you’d met Troy Purcell.”
She looked up, frowning slightly. “Troy Purcell — oh, the artist. He’s a nice guy.”
I went on reading. “Seriously, John, I don’t think the Purcells’ visit should be much of a headache for you. Although they’re booked for a month at the Royal Hawaiian, Troy has vetoed all publicity. Recently he’s become difficult; goes on a terrific binge before he starts a job. He never fails to deliver, but this pre-partum suspense has not endeared him to editors. The alcoholic problem won’t be yours. All you’re expected to do is steer him to backgrounds and Polynesian models. The rest you can leave to Mavis — she always handles him beautifully.”
I tossed the letter to Anne. “Bet I can describe that bathroom. Black and scarlet, and a gold bird cage.”
“The bath is gray,” Anne said, “and the bird cage is silver.” She added in a remembering voice, “Beige carpeting laid wall to wall. Sheer glass curtains under ashes-of-roses damask. Fruitwood chairs with petit point—”
“— and Haviland china—”
“Limoges. The bed was upholstered in eggshell satin and the spread was quilted blue velvet.” She looked at me with a small grin. “And our bedspread is only monkscloth. Thank heaven you’re not a monk—”
I started to make a suitable answer.
“Stay where you are,” she said. “It’s too hot.”
I picked up my manuscript, decided it was lousy, and laid it aside while my thoughts reverted to the artist. “It’s hard to imagine,” I said.
“Imagine what?”
“A guy like Purcell, working in such pastel perfection.”
“I saw his studio,” Anne told me. “It’s enormous, and practically stark. That’s where the man really lives.”
“Was the party given there?”
“Oh, no. That room is kapu. Definitely not the background for the sort of shindig his wife throws. It was perfect, the ultra-chic Manhattan cocktail party, for ultra-chic people. You know the kind.”
I had been to a few before I left New York. People invited because they were amusing or clever or had made some kind of success. Insincerely cordial greetings, facile chitchat barbed with gossip, trills of artificial laughter, acquaintances who made bright conversation at you while their eyes searched the room to be sure there wasn’t somebody more important they should talk to. When the babel reached a certain sustained pitch, the hostess knew her party was a success.
“What’s Mavis Purcell like?” I asked.
“Small. Blonde. Porcelain and rose-leaf coloring. Honey-colored satin by Valentina. Doesn’t go to beauty salons — they send operators to her.”
“Auwe!” I said. “Those Troy Girls had better be good.”
“What’s so remarkable about the Troy Girls?”
“Full-page color, in the big-circulation magazines.” I shuffled through a pile on the table. “Don’t you ever read these?”
“Only the recipes,” Anne admitted. “They’re wonderful.” Then she sat up straight and studied what I had handed her. “Hey, Johnny. This is almost good! I’ll bet he started out to be a fine artist.”
“Fine art,” I reminded her, “sometimes buys a view of the East River — for your grandchildren. Anyhow, most people prefer this.”
It was the usual haunting Troy picture, lacking the details of most magazine illustrations: a girl at a railroad station on a foggy night, watching a train depart.
“His women always have that look,” I said. “It has made them pin-ups all over the globe. Without sweaters, too. It’s something in the way their lips curve, the way their eyes look at you with a kind of yearning.”
“Perhaps,” Anne suggested, “the yearning is in him.”
“No doubt,” I said. “And we know now what it is. Thirst.”
“It won’t hurt us to make them happy for a month, since he’s being sent here especially to do your story.” Anne began to chant: “—And so, as the pride of the Matson fleet glides into the blue waters of Honolulu harbor—”
“— we see our hero and heroine, brightly smiling, bearing leis and aloha—”
“— boarding the tug which will take them out to meet their new friends, the famous artist and his charming wife—”
We began to laugh.
The first impression I had of Troy Purcell was that here was a man worn to exhaustion. He wore a knife-creased light palm beach suit (new, I decided) as if it chafed every inch of his big frame. His tie had already slipped sideways, his collar was damp. He looked in his early forties, his thinning brown hair was rumpled, and his deep-circled eyes held perplexity, as if the inner man also had never found proper garments.
Mavis appeared years younger; perhaps it was his awkwardness which made her seem so fragile. When we entered their cabin she was folding yellow chiffon into a meticulously packed dressing case. After we introduced ourselves, the first thing Mavis mentioned was her relief at being able to sub-let their apartment to our friends.
“I won’t worry the least bit now,” she said, “knowing we have responsible people there. Last year when we came back from Europe the place had been broken into.”
“Was very much stolen?” I asked.
“Silver, a crystal clock — things like that. Fortunately we were insured. But some of the pieces can’t be replaced.”
“This bag ready?” her husband asked, and started to pick it up.
“Lock it first, dear.”
She handed him some keys. While he bent over the bag I saw that he had a tic. A muscle in his check twitched occasionally.
“I’ll take those,” Mavis said, and she zipped the keys back into her purse. “Is your husband as absent-minded as mine? Troy can’t remember for two minutes where he’s put things.”