He turned back to Dora’s meaningless chatter. He nursed his drink. His lips felt slightly numb, and he knew he had drunk more than he’d intended. Dinner would take care of that. And he did not want to spend the dinner hour with Dora chattering at him, and wondered how he could detach himself.
A waiter came up to him and said, “Mr. Shell?”
“Yes?”
“A note for you, sir. It is from the lady at the table near the second door to the dining room. The lady in white, with the dark hair, sir.”
The waiter hesitated for that careful fractional part of a second that resulted in Jay’s tip, and then walked quickly away. Jay unfolded the note and realized, with sharp annoyance, that Dora Northard was reading over his shoulder.
“If it would not be inconvenient, Mr. Shell, I wonder if you could join me for a few moments.” It was signed “Ellen Christianson.”
Dora gasped sharply and said, “For heaven’s sake, she’s not only human, she’s shameless. You don’t know her from anywhere, do you?”
“I was asking about her because I thought she looked familiar,” he lied.
Dora gave a pout of disappointment. “Oh, well then. Hurry back.”
He walked between the tables, ducking his head away from the edged fronds of the stubby palms. She was watching him approach. He felt an odd, schoolboy shyness.
He went up to the table. She was smiling politely. “Mrs. Christianson?”
“Please sit down for a moment, Mr. Shell.”
“Thank you.”
“Would you like to order a drink?”
“Not right now, thank you.”
She hesitated, and he saw she was quite nervous about having asked him over. That put him at ease. She looked down and turned her empty glass, the stem between thumb and finger.
“Mr. Shell, I am going to feel like all kinds of a fool if I’m wrong.”
“Then I hope you aren’t.”
She raised her eyes to his, slowly. “I pointed you out and asked the waiter to find out your name. I told him you looked familiar. He brought me your name. John Shell. So I wrote the note. If your name is John Shell, this is going to be awkward. Because I think your name is Jay Shelby.”
He thought quickly of the small amount of publicity he received. A few photographs in the backs of magazines, on the contributors’ pages. Or perhaps at one of those parties in New York.
“What makes you think so?”
She smiled quickly, a bit triumphantly. “Then you are, of course, because that’s an abnormal reaction. You would have asked me who in the world Jay Shelby is. But I’D tell you. Your wife was very clever, Mr. Shelby. She could imitate you to perfection. When I heard you speak, I was more positive. I watched you over there, lighting a cigarette. And then, of course, there's the best reason. I was half looking for you.”
“Why?”
She frowned. “Because if the same thing had happened to me, I think I would have had to come out here... just to know.”
“You think we react in the same way, Mrs. Christianson?”
“Joan and I used to ride every morning. Ride and talk. I think I know you quite well. Don’t flush, Mr. Shelby. I liked what I learned. So I was looking. Then that business with the cigarette, the careful inspection of the tip, the solemn inspection of the lighter flame. She had it down perfectly. John Shell. J. S. I decided to send the note when I realized your luggage must be initialed.”
“It is,” he said.
“And... you had to come here, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“And thought people would talk more freely to John Shell than Jay Shelby.”
“Right again, Mrs. Christianson.”
“Maybe picking another name was smarter than you knew. I think that if you’d registered under your own name, they’d have discovered there was no room available. They’re so dreadfully afraid of disturbances. The place isn’t well enough established as yet. Artist visits scene of estranged wife’s death. They wouldn’t like anything like that in the papers.”
“I guess I sensed that.”
“Well, I certainly won’t tell anyone. You’d better keep on being John Shell. You look uncomfortable. I do have you at a disadvantage, I guess. I know so much about you and you know nothing at all about me.”
He half smiled at her as he studied her face. From what Dora had said he would have expected a brittleness, a defensiveness, the withdrawal of the introvert using a cool manner to mask inward fears. But this was a good and warm face of a whole woman, with a level eye, composure in the mouth, a look of even, good humor and something that was almost boldness.
“Nothing about you? Let me see. These women bore you. And you feel as if you have a lot of thinking to do. This is a crucial period in your life. The other women seem scared and lonely. You’re lonely, too, but not scared, because this was a decision that was a long time in the making. You are making plans about what you will do when you leave here. You are pretty self-sufficient. And you didn’t call me over here just to prove you’d made a good guess. You called me over here to tell me something — if I turned out to be the right guy.”
Her answering smile was completely gone. “That’s almost too good. I haven’t much advantage left. Do you want the rest of it? So we can start exactly even?”
“Only if it will do you some good to tell me.”
“I guess it will, because I want to tell you. He’s a nice guy. He’s sweet and helpless and hopeless. I’ve got too much strength. Women want to mother him. I did, for too many years. Standing between him and the cruel, cruel world that never took time out to understand him. I had to keep flattering his little-boy pride. But there’s more to life — there has to be — than the sort of affection you have for a weak, sweet child who confesses his sins charmingly and wants to be held tightly and forgiven so he can start all over again. So I ended it. And for a long time I kidded myself, Jay. I told myself I was doing it for his sake, so he could stand alone and learn to be a man. But I know, in my heart, he’ll never be. I know he’ll find some other fool to hold him close and tell him he’s sweet. I know I’m doing it for myself, and I know I was a failure in my marriage, and that’s what I’m trying to get accustomed to... a rather low opinion of myself. So, you see, if he had come out here to get the divorce, and if what happened to Joan had happened to Roger, I would have had to come out here just to find out if there was any way in which I could blame myself for his death.” Her voice had become tense, almost fierce. She lowered her head, then said in a softer tone, “Now I would guess we are even.”
“Can I order a drink for you, Ellen?”
“Please.”
He signaled the waiter, ordered drinks for both of them. She looked across at him and smiled uncertainly. “That was supposed to be a dispassionate account. It started out that way. But it got emotional, didn’t it?”
“Nobody reacts to this sort of thing like a bookkeeping machine, Ellen.”
“I’m just as mixed up as all the rest of them.”
“Not quite.”
“Feeling mixed up has made me quite ritualistic. A set hour for meals. A certain number of hours on a horse, in the pool, a time for sleep. But we want to talk about Joan, not me.”
The drinks came. He said, “Let’s make a bargain. I want to talk to you. But let’s save it. After dinner, we’ll sit out somewhere, or walk, or ride in the car and talk. I want to know about Joan. But we’ve moved too fast so far. You’ve gotten yourself upset. So we’ll make like we’re having a quiet date. Will you be my guest at dinner, Ellen?”