Page 16 of Fortune's Hand


  “And how is Julie? I still feel as though I know her, although I probably haven’t seen her more than six times through all these years.”

  “Oh, do I talk about her that much?”

  “Not really. It’s not so much what you say that explains her to me, but the way your face is; yours and Robb’s are illumined when you speak of her.”

  “I suppose the—the difference—has most to do with the way we see her. And yet—well, she is such a sensitive, plucky child, such a joy. It can’t be easy for her in our house, and yet she thrives. Perhaps you would like to visit us sometime? Some Sunday, to spend a family Sunday with us? This one coming, perhaps?” she asked as they separated.

  “That sounds very nice. Thank you, I will.”

  “I’ll check with Robb and let you know first. I’m never sure what he’s doing until he gets home at night and tells me.”

  “Of course I’ve no objection,” Robb said. “He’s a very decent person, Phil Lawson, and interesting company, too, I imagine.”

  “Philip. He likes to be called Philip. Penn calls him that.”

  “Okay. But we can’t make it this Sunday. Eddy’s got somebody he wants us to meet. It’s a luncheon, at a country club.”

  “That doesn’t sound like Eddy. Unless he’s recently gotten a serious relationship and wants to introduce her.”

  Robb laughed. “No, not Eddy. Nothing like that. It’s his boss, Devlin. Dick Devlin, the powerhouse. He wants me to meet him.”

  “Can’t you get out of it? From Eddy’s description of the man, he doesn’t sound all that interesting. I’d much rather have Philip here.”

  “No, really, it’s for my benefit. A good connection. By the way, Eddy says it’s fancy. You should dress accordingly.”

  Ellen was amused. “Meaning what? Any suggestions?”

  “Good Lord, how do I know? Whatever women wear at fancy luncheons.”

  “I haven’t been at a luncheon, fancy or unfancy, for the last umpteen years.”

  “Well, wear anything. You’ll be the most beautiful woman there no matter what you wear.”

  She wore, on Sunday, brown linen, very plain, pinning to it her grandmother’s gold-and-emerald brooch, which was definitely not plain. Not willing to depend upon Eddy’s judgment, she was having it both ways.

  “Your grandmother must have known there’d be a green-eyed girl in the family someday,” Robb said. “Come look at yourself.”

  Together, they stood in front of the pier glass. She studied the picture they made. She was still young, and had scarcely changed. Her ebony hair, which curved into large, plump waves, was longer now than it had been years before when Robb had likened her curly head to the picture of a Greek athlete in one of his textbooks. It had never been frizzy; her mother had been so worried that it would be! Her face was too long, and her chin, she believed, was too sharp seen in profile, but the total effect was rather nice nevertheless. Anyway, Robb thought so.

  As for him, she was seeing now in the clear moonlight a man whose “country boy” quality had vanished without a trace. This new man was a concentration of energy, a runner on the starting line. She saw it in his eyes and his stance; she could almost hear it in his voice.

  “Maybe I’m looking too far ahead, but I’ll tell you what I’m after. I want to get a part of Devlin’s business thrown our way. Only a part would be a bonanza for the firm, and for me. I’d be a rainmaker.”

  “ ‘Rainmaker’! ‘Bonanza’!” she mocked affectionately.

  “Don’t laugh. I’m laying a foundation for us.”

  “Darling, I never laugh at you. I’m just remembering the boy I married, and I’m feeling tender.”

  “Let’s go. It’s not far. We’ll be home early and have a long night to make the most of. I’ve been so darn busy that—”

  Their nights had been short all week, and as a matter of fact, for several weeks before that. They had been too short for what Robb meant: leisurely, loving hours together in their big, old bed.

  “Tonight,” she said. “I want to.”

  The road was a winding tunnel between dark walls of expensive shrubbery. Then suddenly it veered upon a broad spread of lawn with old specimen trees, and in mid-distance, an imposing brick house with two lower wings on either side of a fine entrance and a porte cochere.

  “Here we are. Glen Eyre Club. It used to be the Armstrong mansion. He was the governor forty-five years ago before he went to the Senate. Half the politicians in the state belong to the club now.”

  These were not the people the Grants knew. Grants would never belong here any more than they would have voted for Armstrong or would vote for his current equivalent. These were a pushy, ostentatious lot. Then she corrected herself: Reverse snobbishness, the patched elbow stuff, the ten-year-old suit, are as bad as ostentation, Ellen. So she put on a cordial smile and walked inside.

  The rooms, as expected, were spacious, with portraits, mirrors, a good deal of comfortable leather furniture and autumn flowers, chrysanthemums and dahlias everywhere. Eddy, the accomplished pilot, steered them onto the terrace where buffet tables had been set up beneath awnings, and stewards in white moved about with trays of drinks. On his search for Dick Devlin, Eddy, with Ellen and Robb behind him, was stopped after every few steps for greetings. The sun flashed over pastel silks and pearls; Eddy had rightly used the word “fancy.” With longing, Ellen looked toward the trees, where it would be comfortable to sit down in the shade.

  They came upon Devlin surrounded by eager faces at the bar, where Eddy, making his way past them all, made the introductions.

  “Well, I finally got him here. My best friend, Robb MacDaniel. We went to law school together, remember? He’s with Fowler, Harte and Fowler.”

  “I don’t forget,” Devlin said.

  “And Mrs. MacDaniel. Ellen.”

  She was measured. Devlin’s shriveled eyes were as hard as black olives, or as the stones within them. They moved down her length and returned to her face. She gave him back in full measure, missing nothing: the cheeks flat and white as a slab of uncooked pork, the big red ham hands, the whole beefy body. Meat.

  “My missus,” he said. “Olivia.”

  She looked down at a very small woman in violent red-and-black checks. Her shoulder-length hair was colored a yellow never seen on any living creature except a canary. Her cheeks were a vivid pink, as in peony, Ellen thought with some amazement.

  She put out her hand. “How do you do?”

  “Pleased to meet you.”

  “What about lunch?” Devlin said. “I’ve got a table where they’ll bring stuff to us. I hate standing in line at a buffet. Reminds me of a soup kitchen. Eddy, I hope you didn’t slip up about that table in the shade. Better check on it.”

  With his followers, he moved toward the shade, confiding as they went that Eddy Morse was “his man,” a great lawyer and a great friend. He welcomed the MacDaniels today because any friend of Eddy’s was a friend of his.

  Although in the usual fashion men and women alternated at the table, it was also usual for conversations to crisscross in the air, men talking to men and women to women. All these people apparently were well acquainted, the men being involved in various businesses and politics, while the women, only secondarily involved with them, had their own interests. Few of them were working women in the usual sense of “earner,” but they seemed to work hard at child-rearing, entertaining, charity fund-raisers, and country club life. And in a subtle way, they all seemed to be deferring to Olivia Devlin.

  Ellen observed them with interest. Olivia was definitely not the one whom anybody would identify as a leader in this group. Every other woman present was much prettier—many were exceedingly pretty and fashionable—than this bizarrely costumed person who was either fairly old but looking younger, or fairly young but looking older. Every other woman was better spoken than she was. And Ellen came to the conclusion: Eddy had not exaggerated. Devlin must indeed be fabulously rich.

  As if to confirm thi
s conclusion, Olivia was speaking with assurance. “Yes, we saw it last month and Dick said I might buy it. They’re holding it for us, but only till the end of the week. I don’t know—of course, it’s a Matisse and the colors are so nice, this one has a lot of pink in it, but our library’s just been done over, and all the old book bindings are so dark, I can’t make up my mind whether—”

  A general discussion of the subject followed. Ellen turned to the chicken salad, made with fresh pineapple and was delicious. She was hungry. The food was well worth the hour’s journey.

  In a moment’s lull, she heard Robb speaking her name. “That’s Ellen there, in brown. She’s a writer, had a very fine book published a while back. She’s an artist, too. She does her own illustrations.”

  Ellen flinched. A while back? Only eight years ago and nothing since! She wished he wouldn’t talk like that.