The opportunity came on Friday, August twenty-third, the night the silence shattered.
He had gone to bed at about twelve o’clock, leaving Eve in the living room watching television. When she came into the bedroom at one, he was still not asleep. She turned on the small lamp, went to the bed, and sat on the edge of it.
“Can we discuss this sensibly now?” she asked,
“Well, well, it speaks,” Larry said lightly.
“If you want to continue this, that’s up to you,” Eve said coolly. “I don’t want another argument.”
“Neither do I.”
“Then let’s not be flippant, either of us.”
“I’m sorry.”
“All right.”
There was a long silence.
Eve sucked in a deep breath. “I don’t want to discuss why you kept this thing a secret,” she said in what sounded like the beginning of a rehearsed speech. “I’m sure you have your own reasons, and apparently your reasons are privately and exclusively your own.”
“I thought we weren’t going to be flippant.”
“I’m sorry,” Eve said instantly. “I’d like you to tell me about the offer now. I’d like you to tell me as if it were just presented to you yesterday and not in February. I’d like you to tell me all of it, and then I’d like to make a decision. I’d like us to make a decision.”
“I don’t know if a decision is possible right now.”
“Tell me anyway.”
He told her of the proposal. He left nothing out. She sat silently on the edge of the bed, listening. There was no emotion on her face, and he realized, while he was talking, that he had robbed her of what could have been a truly joyous experience by not telling her of the offer when it was first made. It was too late now. The thing had somehow become a cold business proposition about which a high-level decision had to be made. Like the President of the Board, Eve sat listening intelligently, but there was no spark of emotion in her eyes or on her face. If she felt anything, she did not reveal it. If she felt anything, it was contained within her rigid body, bottled there secretly.
When he’d finished, she said only, “It sounds good.”
“Yes.”
They were silent for a long time.
Then she said, “I think we should take it. I think we should get out of Pinecrest Manor.”
“I don’t know,” Larry said cautiously. “It’s a big move.”
“Or do you have personal reasons for not wanting to leave the States?”
“Eve...”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. This is too important. I feel we should take it. I think this is the biggest thing that’s ever happened to you. I can’t understand your hesitation.”
“Well, I’ve always liked to work on my own. You know that.”
“This would be almost the same thing.”
“I suppose so. It needs thought.”
“It was my understanding you’d been thinking about it since February.”
“Yes.”
“But you haven’t reached a conclusion?”
“No. It’s not an easy decision to make.”
“It seems very simple to me. Baxter’s right. A hundred architects would cut off their arms for this job.”
“Well, it’s not that simple.”
“Apparently not.” Eve rose and went to the dresser for her nightgown. She came back to the bed and said, “I think we should take it, Larry.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“When will you know? If we’re going to Puerto Rico for five years, there’s a lot of planning to be done.”
“That’s true.”
“Well, when will you know?”
“Baxter’s not leaving until September sometime.”
“Will you know by then?”
“I thought...”
“Yes?”
“I thought I might go away by myself for a few days. To... to really think it over.”
“Will that help?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“When?”
“The end of next week, I thought. I thought I’d leave on Thursday night. The twenty-ninth. For the weekend.”
“And on this weekend... will you make up your mind?”
“Yes.”
“Fully?”
“Yes.”
“I hope you make the right decision,” she said, and he had the feeling she was not talking about anything as simple as Baxter’s offer.
The telephone rang.
It shrilled into the silence of the sleeping house, and they both turned to look at it in surprise. The clock read 1:30 A.M. The phone kept ringing.
For a moment it seemed to Larry an evil instrument of torture. He made no move to answer it. Despair had come over Eve’s face. She put her gown down on the edge of the bed and then walked to the telephone. She lifted the receiver.
“Hello?”
“Eve?” The voice was cracklingly brisk.
“Yes?”
“This is Mama. Can you and Larry get over here first thing in the morning?”
“What’s wrong?” Eve asked quickly.
“Your darling sister has eloped, that’s all,” Mrs. Harder said.
32
The meeting on that Saturday morning, August twenty-fourth, was a grim and purposeful one. It would have seemed frivolous to have held it at the Easthampton cottage. Sensing this with the instinct of a natural actress, Mrs. Harder gathered the clan in the New York apartment.
When Larry and Eve arrived with the children, the Harders had already finished breakfast and were sitting in the living room overlooking Fifth Avenue and the park. The drapes were drawn back, and the hot, flat glare of the sun filled the room. Lois sat demurely on the piano bench. She was wearing a black sweater which somehow seemed to match the solemnity of the occasion and which, for a welcome change, was neither form-fitting nor too snug. The piano, together with the other furniture in the room, was covered for the summer. The Harders had not expected to be in the city again until after Labor Day and would not have been in the apartment had something dire not drawn them there.
One look at Mrs. Harder’s face would have informed the most casual observer that something dire indeed had happened. Her face and her body had been browned by the Easthampton sun. Her arms where the short-sleeved cotton dress ended were muscularly lithe from ocean swimming. She looked oddly out of place in the living room where the furniture was covered, ghostly white against her tan. Her face, though, in contrast to her holiday coloration, was grim and set unyielding.
The first thing she said to Eve was “You didn’t have to bring the children.”
“There was no place to leave them, Mama,” Eve said, and then instantly asked, “Is Linda all right?”
“How do I know?” Mrs. Harder said. “I don’t even know where she is. A telegram! A girl gets married, and she sends her mother a telegram!”
“I’m sure she’s all right,” Mr. Harder said. “Hank is an intelligent, capable boy.”
Sitting on the window seat overlooking the park, Mr. Harder did not seem terribly disturbed. He seemed concerned, but not disturbed.
“That’s just my point!” Mrs. Harder said, whirling on her husband. “He’s a boy, just a boy.”
“We were all boys once,” Mr. Harder said.
“Alex, you were twenty-three years old when we got married, and I do not consider that a boy. But Hank MacLean happens to be twenty-one, and that is a boy. A boy!” she repeated in emphasis.
“I don’t see what difference two years makes,” Mr. Harder said.
“There’s a lot of difference!” Mrs. Harder snapped.
“Chris, don’t go near the windows!” Eve shouted. Mrs. Harder turned sharply. Apologetically, Eve said, “I’m always scared to death they’ll fall out.”