As an instant guess, Alex suspected the photos were a souvenir from Heyward's much vaunted trip to the Bahamas with Big George Quartermain. Alex counted twelve prints as he spread them out on a coffee table while Margot and Mrs. Callaghan watched. He caught a glimpse of Dora Callaghan's face.
Her cheeks were red; she was blushing. Blushing? He'd thought no one did that any more. His inclination, as he studied the photos, was to laugh.
Everyone in them looked there was no other word for it ridiculous. Roscoe, in one shot, was staring fascinated at the naked women; in another he was being kissed by one of them while his fingers touched her breasts.
Harold Austin exhibited a flabby body, drooping penis, and foolish smile.
Another man, with his behind to the camera, faced the women. As to the women well, Alex thought, some people might consider them attractive. For himself, he would take Margot, with her clothes on, any day. He didn't laugh, though out of deference to Dora Callaghan who had drained her martini and was standing up. "Mr. Vandervoort, I'd better go."
"You were right to bring these things to me," he told her. "I appreciate it, and I'll take care of them personally." "I'll see you out," Margot said. She retrieved Mrs. Callaghan's coat and went with her to the elevator. Alex was by a window, looking out at the city's lights, when Margot returned.
"A nice woman," she pronounced. "And loyal."
"Yes," he said, and thought: Whatever changes were made tomorrow and in ensuing days, he would see that Mrs. Callaghan was treated considerately.
There would be other people to think of, too. Alex would immediately promote Tom Straughan to Alex's own previous post as an executive vice-president. Orville Young could fill Heyward's shoes well. Edwina D'Orsey must move up to senior vice-president in charge of the trust department; it was a post Alex had had in mind for Edwina for some time, and soon he expected her to move higher still.
Meanwhile she must be named, at once, a member of the board. He realized suddenly: he was taking for granted that he himself would accept the bank presidency.
Well, Margot had just told him that. Obviously she was right. He turned away from the window and the outside darkness. Margot was standing at the coffee table, looking down at the photographs. Suddenly she giggled, and then he did what he had wanted to, and laughed with her.
"Oh, God!" Margot said. "Funny-sad!" When their laughter ended he bent down, collected the prints and returned them to their envelope. He was tempted to throw the package on the fire, but knew he mustn't. It would be destruction of evidence which might be needed. But he would do his best, he decided, to keep the photos from other eyes for Roscoe's sake.
"Funny-sad," Margot repeated. "Isn't it all?" "Yes," he agreed, and in that moment knew he needed her, and always would. He took her hands, remembering what they had been speaking of before Mrs. Callaghan came.
"Never mind any gulfs between us," Alex urged. "We have a lot of bridges, too. You and I are good for each other. Let's live together permanently, Bracken, starting now."
She objected, "It probably won't works or last. The odds are against us." "Then we'll try to prove them wrong." "Of course, there is one thing in our favor." Margot's eyes sparkled mischievously. "Most couples who pledge 'to love and to cherish, till death us do part,' wind up in divorce courts within a year. Maybe if we start out not believing or expecting much, we'll do better than the rest." As he took her in his arms, he told her, "Sometimes bankers and lawyers talk too much."