There was a morning newscaster in the box where Brad had been. He watched Buddy and Maggie with professional gravity as he read the latest releases.
8
“Will you have some tea now?” Madelaine asked.
Brad looked up from the book he was reading. It was a dull book, he thought, but even the dullness was pleasant, something he badly needed after the stormy session with Cornelia and the trying television session in the morning.
It had been altogether a pleasant afternoon, a welcome change of pace, and he had spent most of it doing exactly what he was now doing, sitting before his living room fireplace, in which there was a small wood fire, reading sporadically the agreeably dull book.
“Is it time?” he said.
“It’s nearly five.”
“Really? It doesn’t seem possible. Saturday afternoons at home always pass so quickly. A characteristic, I suppose, of all good times and things.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“What? Oh, yes. The tea. I believe I’ll have a cocktail instead, if you don’t mind.”
“I suggest that you don’t. We’re going to the picnic party at the Nortons later, you know, and you’ll have something there.”
“That’s true,” he admitted. “I’d forgotten about the party. To tell the truth, I would prefer to go right on forgetting it. Those damn backyard affairs of old Norton’s are terrible bores. Besides, it’s getting too late in the year for outside parties. We’ll all freeze our tails.”
“I hardly think so. The temperature’s mild enough, even in the evening, and there will be a fire. Anyhow, most guests appear to enjoy Dr. Norton’s backyard parties. I rather enjoy them myself.”
“Well, I wouldn’t want to deprive you of your pleasure. We’ll go of course.”
“I should hope so. You can hardly afford to be cavalier with the head of your department,” she reminded him tartly.
“You think not? I doubt that old Norton has much influence left where it counts. No matter, though. I’ll have the tea, as you suggested.”
“If you prefer the cocktail, I’ll mix it. A Martini?”
“No. You’re quite right about it. I’d better have the tea.”
“All right. I’ll have to make it myself. The maid is off this afternoon.”
She turned away from the window against which she had been standing and crossed the room to a door opening into a hall that led back to the kitchen.
Watching her go, Brad gave due credit to her fine figure and the practiced grace of her movements, which had been learned early and never lost. The dress she was wearing was very expensive, he thought, far more expensive than she could have worn if they were living on his salary. But he did not resent this. On the contrary, he fully approved it.
A man of his own appearance and position needed an impressive wife at any cost, and it surely made matters much easier if he didn’t have to pay the cost himself. It was a pity, really, and perhaps not entirely her fault, that she was, like old Norton’s backyard brawls, such a bore. Actually, his feeling for her nowadays was somewhat more positive than mere boredom. It had in it a core of animus that might easily, sufficiently incited, become hatred.
He got up and walked over to the window that Madelaine had left, holding his book folded upon an index finger. Looking across the side yard to the box hedge that separated them from their neighbor, a botanist of considerable repute, he wondered what in the devil he was to do about Cornelia, for it was certain that something had to be done as quickly and quietly as possible.
Well, he wasn’t seriously worried about her, so far as that went. He was positive that she wouldn’t kick up a public fuss and ruin her own career at Peermont, as well as his. But it was possible that she might do something covertly that was calculated to smear him in some way while leaving her untouched. He wondered if she would. Or if she could, if she would. He doubted it. She was, after all, a mature woman, much too sophisticated and intelligent to create a sticky mess over an affair that had been mutually conceived and, until recently, rather pleasantly conducted.
Oh, she would certainly make things difficult when it came to a break. She had already demonstrated that. After a while, however, she would accept it amiably enough, and later on she would probably even convince herself that it was she who had decided to make the break for her own good.
Reassured, aware of a vacancy that Cornelia, in his mind, had already left, he began to think of Maggie. Thinking of her caused his lips to slip into the shape of a slight smile, developing dimples.
She was an odd and intriguing little devil, he thought. She possessed, somehow, a unique quality that made her different from anyone he had ever known before. Puzzling and exciting and somewhat disturbing. What was it?
He stood and tried to think what it was until Madelaine returned, carrying a silver service, and then he turned away, walking back to his chair and pulling it a little forward so that he could reach, sitting, the low table on which the service sat.
“Did you watch the television session this morning?” he inquired.
“No. I have no interest in mathematics. You know that.”
“Of course. I thought you might have watched out of general interest. Merely to see how I did and all.”
“I’m sure you did very well. You always do. The truth is, I slept right through it.”
“It’s an ungodly hour. I wonder sometimes if anyone watches. It will be a relief to be finished with it.”
“As I’ve said before, I’ve had an idea that you rather enjoyed your weekend trips to the city,” she murmured, her eyes oddly intent upon him.
“Not at all. They’re a terrible nuisance. What on earth makes you persist in such an idea?”
“It was just an impression I got. Is your tea strong enough?”
“Just right. Isn’t this a different brand from the one we’ve been using?”
“Yes. Do you like it as well?”
“Better. Much better.”
“I’ll tell Wanda to continue ordering it.”
They finished their tea in silence, she one cup and he two, a pair of distinguished-looking people staring into the small fire and forming together a pretty picture of lush domestic contentment.
When Brad finally replaced his cup on the silver tray, emptied the second time, she took from a deep pocket in her skirt something that appeared to be an envelope, which in fact it was, and tapped it against the knuckles of her left hand, watching him the while with perfect composure.
“I have something here that I think will interest you,” she said.
“What is it? It looks like a letter.”
“That’s what it is. At least it came in this afternoon’s mail.”
“From someone I know?” he asked idly.
“No. Actually, it’s not precisely a letter at all. It’s a report.”
“Report? What kind of report? About what?”
“I think it would be simpler and save time if I were to read it to you. It’s quite short. Do you mind listening?”
“Not in the least. If you’ve been trying to arouse my curiosity, I must say that you’ve succeeded.”
“Very well, then. I’ll just skip a few lines at the beginning and get right to the part I want you to hear.”
She removed a single sheet of paper from the envelope and unfolded it to its full 8½ X 11 size. There was a letterhead at the top that he couldn’t read at a distance, and the typewritten contents indicated a business character rather than a social one.
He was already beginning to feel a little uneasy, and as she began to read crisply and unemotionally for about three minutes that seemed like three hours, he sat fixed in his chair in the beginning of hatred, the incited animus stirring and boiling and welling in his throat to make him sick.