“Good afternoon, madam.” From nowhere, it seemed to Erica, a man had appeared beside her. He was middle-aged, graying, and had a fixed smile revealing prominent front teeth.
Erica froze. Her heart seemed to stop. So after all …
“Was everything satisfactory, madam?”
Her mouth was dry. “Yes … yes, thank you.”
Deferentially, the man held a door open. “Good day.”
Then, relief flooding through her, she was in the open air. Outside.
Driving away, at first, she had a let-down feeling. Now that she knew how unnecessary all the worrying had been, that there was nothing whatever she need have become concerned about, her fears while in the store seemed foolishly excessive. She still wondered, though: What had made her do it?
Suddenly, her mood became buoyant; she felt better than she had in weeks.
Erica’s buoyancy persisted through the afternoon and carried over while she prepared dinner for Adam and herself. No carelessness in the kitchen tonight!
She had chosen Fondue Bourguignonne as the main course, partly because it was one of Adam’s favorites, but mostly because the idea of them eating together out of the same fondue pot suggested an intimacy which she hoped would continue through the evening. In the dining room, Erica planned her table setting carefully. She chose yellow taper candles in spiral silver holders, the candles flanking an arrangement of chrysanthemums. She had bought the flowers on the way home, and now put those left over in the living room so that Adam would see them when he came in. The house gleamed, as it always did after a day’s sprucing by Mrs. Gooch. About an hour before Adam was due, Erica lit a log fire.
Unfortunately, Adam was late, which was not unusual; what was unusual was his failure to telephone to let Erica know. When 7:30 came and went, then 7:45 and eight o’clock, she became increasingly restless, going frequently to a front window which overlooked the driveway, then rechecking the dining room, after that the kitchen where she opened the refrigerator to satisfy herself that the salad greens, prepared over an hour ago, had retained their crispness. The beef tenderloin for the fondue, which Erica had cut into bite-size pieces earlier, as well as condiments and sauces already in serving dishes were in there too. When Adam did arrive, it would take only minutes to have dinner ready.
She had already replenished the living-room fire a couple of times, so that now the living and dining rooms, which opened into each other, were excessively hot. Erica opened a window, allowing cold air to blow in, which in turn made the fire smoke, so she closed the window, then wondered about the wine—a ’61 Château Latour, one of a few special bottles they had squirreled away—which she had opened at six o’clock, expecting to serve it at half-past seven. Now Erica took the wine back to the kitchen and recorked it.
Returning, with everything completed, she switched on a stereo tape player. A cassette was already inserted; the last bars of a recording finished, another began.
It was Bahama Islands, a song she loved, which her father used to strum on his guitar while Erica sang. But tonight the soft calypso melody made her sad and homesick.
Gentle breezes swirl the shifting strand,
Clear blue waters lap this fragrant land;
Fair Bahamas!
Sweet Bahamas!
Sun and sand.
Arc of islands, set in shining seas,
White sand beaches rim these sun-kissed cays;
Island living,
Island loving,
Sand and trees.
Bright hibiscus line the path to shore,
Coral grottos grace the ocean floor—
Nature’s treasure,
Life’s sweet pleasure,
Evermore.
She snapped the machine off, leaving the song unfinished, and dabbed quickly at sudden tears before they spoiled what little make-up she was wearing.
At five past eight the telephone rang and Erica hurried to it expectantly. It was not Adam, as she hoped, but long distance for “Mr. Trenton,” and during the exchange with the operator, Erica realized that the caller was Adam’s sister, Teresa, in Pasadena, California. When the West Coast operator asked, “Will you speak with anyone else?”, Teresa, who must have been aware that her sister-in-law was on the line, hesitated, then said, “No, I need Mr. Trenton. Please leave a message for him to call.”
Erica was irritated by Teresa’s parsimony in not letting the call go through; tonight she would have welcomed a conversation. Erica was aware that since Teresa became a widow a year ago, with four children to take care of, she needed to watch finances, but certainly not to the point of worrying about the cost of a long-distance phone call.
She made a note for Adam, with the Pasadena operator’s number, so he could return the call later.
Then, at twenty past eight, Adam called on Citizens Band radio from his car to say he was on the Southfield Freeway, en route home. It meant he was fifteen minutes away. By mutual arrangement Erica always had a Citizens receiver in the kitchen switched to standby during early evening, and if Adam called it was usually to include a code phrase “activate olive.” He used it now, which meant he would be ready for a martini as soon as he came in. Relieved, and glad she had not chosen the kind of dinner which the long delay would have spoiled, Erica put two martini glasses into the kitchen freezer and began mixing the drinks.
There was still time to hurry to the bedroom, check her hair, freshen lipstick, and renew her perfume—the perfume. A full-length mirror told her that the Paisley lounging pajamas which she had chosen as carefully as everything else, looked as good as earlier. When she heard Adam’s key in the lock, Erica ran downstairs, irrationally nervous as a young bride.
He came in apologetically. “Sorry about the time.”
As usual, Adam appeared fresh, unrumpled, and clear-eyed, as if ready to begin a day’s work instead of having just completed one. Lately, though, Erica had detected a tension at times beneath the outward view; she wasn’t sure about it now.
“It doesn’t matter.” She dismissed the lateness as she kissed him, knowing that the worst thing she could do was to be Hausfrauish about the delayed dinner. Adam returned the kiss absently, then insisted on explaining what had delayed him while she poured their martinis in the living room.
“Elroy and I were with Hub. Hub was firing broadsides. It wasn’t the best time to break off and phone.”
“Broadsides at you?” Like every other company wife, Erica knew that Hub was Hubbard J. Hewitson, executive vice-president in charge of North American automotive operations, and an industry crown prince with tremendous power. The power included ability to raise up or break any company executive other than the chairman of the board and president, the only two who outranked him. Hub’s exacting standards were well known. He could be, and was, merciless to those who failed them.
“Partly at me,” Adam said. “But mostly Hub was sounding off. He’ll be over it tomorrow.” He told Erica about the Orion add-ons, and the cost, which Adam had known would trigger the blast it had. On returning from the proving ground to staff headquarters, Adam had reported to Elroy Braithwaite. The Product Development vice-president decided they should go to Hub immediately and get the fireworks over with, which was the way it happened.
But however rough Hub Hewitson might be, he was a fair man who had probably accepted by now the inevitability of the extra items and their cost. Adam knew he had made the right decision at the proving ground, though he was still aware of tension within himself, which the martini had eased a little, but not much.
He held out his glass for refilling, then dropped into a chair. “It’s damn hot in here tonight. Why did you light a fire?”
He had seated himself alongside the table which held some of the flowers which Erica had bought this afternoon. Adam pushed the flower vase aside to make a space for his glass.
“I thought a fire might be cheerful.”
He looked at her directly. “Meaning it isn’t usually?”
“I didn??
?t say that.”
“Maybe you should have.” Adam stood up, then moved around the room, touching things in it, familiar things. It was an old habit, something he did when he was restless. Erica wanted to tell him: Try touching me! You’ll get a lot more response!
Instead she said, “Oh, there’s a letter from Kirk. He wrote it to us both. He’s been made features editor of the university paper.”
“Um.” Adam’s grunt was unenthusiastic.
“It’s important to him.” She could not resist adding, “As important as when a promotion happens to you.”
Adam swung around, his back to the fire. He said harshly, “I’ve told you before, I’m used to the idea of Greg being a doctor. In fact, I like it. It’s tough to qualify, and when he does he’ll be contributing—doing something useful. But don’t expect me, now or later, to be pleased about Kirk becoming a newspaperman, or anything that happens to him on the way.”
It was a perennial topic, and now Erica wished she hadn’t raised it because they were off to a bad start. Adam’s boys had had definite ideas about their own careers, long before she came into their lives. Just the same, in discussions afterward Erica had supported their choices, making clear that she was glad they were not following Adam into the auto industry.
Later, she knew she had been unwise. The boys would have gone their own ways in any case, so all she succeeded in doing was to make Adam bitter because his own career, by implication, had been denigrated to his sons.
She said as mildly as she could, “Surely being a newspaper writer is doing something useful.”
He shook his head irritably. The memory of this morning’s press conference, which he liked less and less the more he thought about it, was still with Adam. “If you saw as much of press people as I do, you might not think so. Most of what they do is superficial, out of balance, prejudiced when they claim impartiality, and riddled with inaccuracies. They blame the inaccuracies on an obsession with speed, which is used the way a cripple uses a crutch. It never seems to occur to newspaper managements and writers that being slower, checking facts before they storm into print, might be a better public service. What’s more, they’re critics and self-appointed judges of everybody’s failings except their own.”
“Some of that’s true,” Erica said. “But not of all newspapers or everybody working for them.”
Adam looked ready for an argument which she sensed could turn into a quarrel. Determined to snuff it out, Erica crossed the room and took his arm. She smiled. “Let’s hope Kirk will do better than those others and surprise you.”
The physical contact, of which they had had so little lately, gave her a sense of pleasure which, if she had her way, would be even greater before the evening was over. She insisted, “Leave all that for another time. I have your favorite dinner waiting.”
“Let’s make it as quick as we can,” Adam said. “I’ve some papers I want to go over afterward, and I’d like to get to them.”
Erica let go his arm and went to the kitchen, wondering if he realized how many times he had used almost the same words in identical circumstances until they seemed a litany.
Adam followed her in. “Anything I can do?”
“You can put the dressing on the salad and toss it.”
He did it quickly, competently as always, then saw the note about Teresa’s call from Pasadena. Adam told Erica, “You go ahead and start. I’ll see what Teresa wants.”
Once Adam’s sister was on the phone she seldom talked briefly, long distance or not. “I’ve waited this long,” Erica objected, “I don’t want to have dinner alone now. Can’t you call later? It’s only six o’clock out there.”
“Well, if we’re really ready.”
Erica had rushed. The oil-butter mix, which she had heated in the fondue pot over the kitchen range, was ready. She carried it to the dining room, set the pot on its stand and lit the canned heat beneath. Everything else was on the dining table, which looked elegant.
As she brought a taper near the candles, Adam asked, “Is it worth lighting them?”
“Yes.” She lit them all.
The candlelight revealed the wine which Erica had brought in again. Adam frowned. “I thought we were keeping that for a special occasion.”
“Special like what?”
He reminded her, “The Hewitsons and Braithwaites are coming next month.”
“Hub Hewitson doesn’t know the difference between a Château Latour and Cold Duck, and couldn’t care. Why can’t we be special, just the two of us?”
Adam speared a piece of beef tenderloin and left it in the fondue pot while he began his salad. At length he said, “Why is it you never lose a chance to take a dig at the people I work with, or the work I do?”
“Do I?”
“You know you do. You have, ever since our marriage.”
“Perhaps it’s because I feel as if I fight for every private moment that we have.”
But she conceded to herself: Sometimes she did throw needless slings and arrows, just as she had a moment ago about Hub Hewitson.
She filled Adam’s wineglass and said gently, “I’m sorry. What I said about Hub was snobbish and unnecessary. If you’d like him to have Château Latour, I’ll go shopping for some more.” The thought occurred to her: Maybe I can get an extra bottle or two the way I got the perfume.
“Forget it,” Adam said. “It doesn’t matter.”
During coffee, he excused himself and went to his upstairs study to telephone Teresa.
“Hi there, bigshot! Where were you? Counting your stock options?” Teresa’s voice came clearly across the two thousand miles between them, the big-sister contralto Adam remembered from their childhood long ago. Teresa had been seven when Adam was born. Yet, for all their gap in ages, they had always been close and, strangely, from the time Adam was in his early teens, Teresa had sought her younger brother’s advice and often heeded it.
“You know how it is, sis. I’m indispensable, which makes it hard to get home. Sometimes I wonder how they ever started this industry without me.”
“We’re all proud of you,” Teresa said. “The kids often talk about Uncle Adam. They say he’ll be company president someday.” Another thing about Teresa was her unconcealed pleasure at her brother’s success. She had always reacted to his progress and promotions that way, with far more enthusiasm—he admitted reluctantly—than Erica had ever shown.
He asked, “How have you been, sis?”
“Lonely.” A pause. “You were expecting some other answer?”
“Not really. I wondered if, by now …”
“Somebody else had shown up?”
“Something Like that.”
“A few have. I’m still not a bad-looking broad for a widow lady.”
“I know that.” It was true. Though she would be fifty in a year or so, Teresa was statuesque, classically beautiful, and sexy.
“The trouble is, when you’ve had a man—a real one—for twenty two years, you start comparing others with him. They don’t come out of it well.”
Teresa’s husband, Clyde, had been an accountant with wide-ranging interests. He had died tragically in an airplane accident a year ago, leaving his widow with four young children, adopted late in their marriage. Since then, Teresa had had to make major adjustments both psychologically and in financial management, the latter an area she had never bothered with before.
Adam asked, “Is the money end all right?”
“I think so. But it’s that I called you about. Sometimes I wish you were closer.”
Though Adam’s late brother-in-law had left adequate provision for his family, his financial affairs had been untidy at the time of his death. As best he could from a distance, Adam had helped Teresa unravel them.
“If you really need me,” Adam said, “I can fly out for a day or two.”
“No. You’re already where I need you—in Detroit. I get concerned about that investment Clyde made in Stephensen Motors. It earns money, but it represents a lo
t of capital—most of what we have—and I keep asking myself: Should I leave it where it is, or sell out and put the money into something safer?”
Adam already knew the background. Teresa’s husband had been an auto-racing buff who haunted tracks in Southern California, so that he came to know many racing drivers well. One had been Smokey Stephensen, a consistent winner over the years who, unusually for his kind, had shrewdly held on to his prize money and eventually quit with most of his winnings intact. Later, using his name and prestige, Smokey Stephensen obtained an auto dealership franchise in Detroit, marketing the products of Adam’s company. Teresa’s husband had gone into silent partnership with the ex-race driver and contributed almost one-half of needed capital. The shares in the business were now owned by Teresa who received them under Clyde’s will.
“Sis, you say you’re getting money from Detroit—from Stephensen?”
“Yes. I haven’t the figures, though I can send them to you, and the accountants who took over Clyde’s office say it’s a fair return. What worries me is all I read about car dealerships being risky investments, and some of them failing. If it happened to Stephensen’s, the kids and I could be in trouble.”
“It can happen,” Adam acknowledged. “But if you’re lucky enough to have shares in a good dealership, you might make a big mistake by pulling out.”
“I realize that. It’s why I need someone to advise me, someone I can trust. Adam, I hate to ask this because I know you’re working hard already. But do you think you could spend some time with Smokey Stephensen, find out what’s going on, form your own opinion about how things look, then tell me what I ought to do? If you remember, we talked about this once before.”
“I remember. And I think I explained then, it could be a problem. Auto companies don’t allow their staff to be involved with auto dealerships. Before I could do anything, it would have to go before the Conflict of Interest Committee.”
“Is that a big thing? Would it embarrass you?”