"I… hadn't thought about it," Patty replied.
"Well, you should," Marcia told her. "I know you don't want to stay with the Jennings any longer, and I certainly don't blame you, but your things are there, after all, and you'll have to move them out. And if you don't bring the car back, Larry's father is liable to have the police looking for it; from what you've told me, he sounds like that sort of bastard."
"I guess I could do that this morning," Patty said reflectively. "He's left for work by now, and there's no one else home; he always takes the Muni bus."
"Good! Tell you what: I'll follow you to the Jennings' and help you load your things into my car. Then we'll bring them back here."
"But I can't stay with you, Marcia," Patty said. "I'd be intruding.
"Nonsense! I'd love to have you, Patty, sincerely I would. I get terribly lonesome for a friend sometimes."
"Well… if you're sure you won't mind…”
"Not at all," Marcia said. "I'll call in to work and tell them I'll be late this morning. Then, after you're dressed, we can be on our way."
"Oh!" Patty said suddenly. "I'll have to call in, too, to tell them I won't…”
"Don't worry, honey. I've already taken care of that for you. I told your boss you'd be taking a couple of days off, that you weren't feeling too well. He said he understood. I really don't think you ought to go back to work right away after an experience like you had with Larry's father."
"You're so good to me, Marcia," Patty said gratefully. "Thank you for all you've done for me." She blushed slightly at the inference of inclusion of last night's lesbian lovemaking.
Marcia seemed not to notice. "What else are friends for?" she asked rhetorically, and moved toward the telephone in the hallway.
Patty was preparing supper, lamb chops and a tossed green salad with roquefort dressing, when Marcia arrived home from work a little past six that night.
Patty had spent the day uneventfully. She had returned Tom Jennings' car, and the house had been deserted, as she had expected it to be. With Marcia's help, they had moved as much of her belongings as Marcia's car would allow and she had left a note for Jennings saying that she had moved out and would pick up the remainder of her things, hers and Larry's at some later date; she hadn't mentioned where she was staying.
When they had returned to Marcia's duplex and the clothing and other items had been moved from the car inside, Marcia had bid Patty good-bye and left for work. Patty had watched some television, trying to relax, and then read an historical novel which she found in the storage closet until the time came to prepare supper.
Marcia, coming into the kitchen now, said, "Patty, you didn't have to bother making dinner."
"But I wanted to," Patty answered. "It gave me something to do."
"You're a dear," Marcia said. She sat down at the table as Patty began to toss the salad in a large wooden bowl. "We've been invited to a party tonight."
"A party?"
"Yes. At the home… in St. Francis Woods, no less… of Richard Renault. You've heard of him, surely."
"No, I don't think so."
"Well, he's one of San Francisco's oldest and richest playboys, the heir to a Peruvian tin mine fortune. You have to be… well, terribly flattered when he invites you to one of his exclusive little parties."
Patty frowned. "How do you know this Mr. Renault?"
"He… ah, is a client of the brokerage firm where I work," Marcia replied easily. "I've been to one other of his parties; they're great fun, Patty."
"But he doesn't even know who I am," Patty countered. "Why would he invite me? Are you sure that he…?"
"I told him all about you, and he insisted that I bring you along tonight."
"Marcia, I really don't think a party…”
"It will do you good to get out and have some fun," Marcia told her. "That's the best way to forget… unpleasant experiences. Now I won't have you sitting around here in a sad and depressed state, so please say you'll come with me tonight."
"Well…" Patty considered the idea for a moment, deciding that Marcia was probably right; there was no purpose to be served in sitting around and dwelling on life's dirty dealings. Why shouldn't she have a little fun, meet some new people? God knew, she'd had enough unhappiness to last her a lifetime. She said at length, "All right, Marcia, I will come tonight. It sounds like it might be enjoyable."
"Oh it will be," Marcia said, smiling, “It will be, honey.”
After supper, and after the dishes had been done, Marcia and Patty dressed for their outing. Patty selected a simply designed party dress, carefully brushed and sprayed her long reddish-gold hair, and applied a touch of perfume and some frosted pink lipstick. Marcia, wearing a clinging red dress of rustling material, nodded her approval when Patty emerged ready to go from the bathroom. "You look lovely, Patty!" she enthused.
"And so do you," Patty returned.
Smiling comradely, they went out to Marcia's car and drove across the city to St. Francis Woods, an extremely fashionable section of San Francisco. Marcia pulled to the curb on Buena Vista Terrace, in front of a white stucco, Spanish architectured home with iron grillwork balconies and a spacious, well-tended green lawn bisected by a red-brick path. The two girls followed the path to a wide set of double doors which formed the entranceway, and Marcia rang the ivory bell inlaid into the stucco; faint, melodious chimes echoed throughout the interior.
Almost immediately, a Chinese houseboy, smiling pleasantly, admitted them into a hallway. “Mister Renault is in the study, ladies,” he said. “This way, please.”
He led them down the high-ceilinged hallway and through a door into a darkly furnished room; the motif was Spanish, with luxuriant tapestries and a brooding mural on one wall. On the right was a set of French doors in an ovaled archway, opening onto a patio grown with oleander bushes and other shadowed plants. A lush garden grew beyond it. Inside the room itself, on a thick muted rug, a series of cushiony pillows of a dark gold color were arranged in a wide circle before a leather couch. The only light came from the moon, shining through the glass doors, and Patty could see four people sitting cross-legged, Indian-fashion, on the pillows, three men and one girl. As they entered, one of the men rose slowly and started across the room toward them; the Chinese houseboy slipped out and closed the door behind him.
"Why is everybody sitting on those cushions?" Patty whispered to Marcia.
"Mr. Renault is kind of an eccentric," Her friend answered. "He's very involved in Meditative Transmigration."
"What's that?"
"A mystical Eastern sect which believes in truth, beauty and the eternity of the human soul."
"That doesn't sound very mystical to me," Patty responded. "It sounds lovely."
"Oh, there's more to it than that," Marcia whispered. “It becomes very complicated if you listen to all the little intricacies which comprise it.”
"Oh, I see," Patty said, not really seeing at all.
The man who had gotten up approached them now, his hand extended in greeting. He was thin, short, and possessed a lined, leathery face that disclosed his age as sixty or thereabouts; he had thick wavy gray hair and a precise dove-gray mustache. He wore a velvet lounging robe, a deep wine color.
"Hello, Marcia, my dear," he said, touching hands. Then he turned to Patty, taking her hand and holding it for a moment. "I'm Richard Renault," he introduced himself to her. “Rick, to my intimates. And you must be Patty Jennings.”
"Yes, she answered, smiling, a little flustered.
"Marcia's told me so much about you."
"I hope it was complimentary."
"Very complimentary indeed," Renault said. "Please come join the Circle. I'll introduce you to my other guests."
They followed him across the study to the cluster of pillows. He said then, "I would like to present two very lovely ladies, Marcia Allen, whom you already know, and Patty Jennings."
Neither of the remaining two men stood, but both smiled up at Patty and Marcia. Renault said, indicating the nearer of the two, a tall, distinguished man with close-cropped blond hair. "This is Val Robbins, a rather successful advertising executive. And the other gentleman "… he swept his hand to the shorter man across from Robbins, who had long, almost shoulder-length hair and very wide, bushy sideburns “is Frank Harrel, a not-quite-so-successful but very talented artist.”