Джон Макдональд - More Good Old Stuff

At that moment a small woman stepped to the doorway. Jay Kelso gave her a quick appraisal. Not too bad for a biddy in her middle thirties. Nicely stacked. Wearing a dress that spells dough. No gray in the brown hair. Funny color of blue for eyes. Not bad at all, at all.

She smiled at Kelso, turned to Lawton and said, in a voice of throaty silver, “You are the man that works here, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Mrs. Oliver.”

“I just moved into Cabin 11 an hour ago, and I can’t seem to get any hot water. I wonder if you’d—”

“Right away, Mrs. Oliver.”

Jay Kelso noted the “Mrs.” But there had been more than casual politeness in those odd blue eyes. Maybe a chance to chisel a little money. Badger game in reverse. A “loan,” please. You can lend it to me, or I can ask Mr. Oliver for it.

With his best smile, he stepped forward, extending his hand, and said, “As long as we’re almost neighbors, Mrs. Oliver, we might as well know each other. I’m Jay Kelso.”

“How do you do, Jay Kelso,” she said, dimpling. “I’m Betty Oliver.”

Her hand was very soft in his, and lay passive, warm, giving him an oddly protective feeling. Also, it was nice that she was short. He liked short women. Even with the trick shoes, he was only about a half inch taller than Serena.

Lawton carried out the trash and went up toward Cabin 11.

Jay Kelso sauntered out, said to Mrs. Oliver, “How do you and your husband like it here?”

“Oh, there’s just me, Mr. Kelso. George died over a year ago.” She laughed softly. “I guess I’m just a footloose, lonesome woman.”

He beamed at her. “Footloose, yes. Lonesome, never.”

“And I thought courtliness was dead!” She laughed. “We must get better acquainted.”

“We certainly shall,” he said warmly.

“Is your wife with you, Mr. Kelso?” she asked.

“I’m the footloose, lonesome type too,” he said, “Yes, I’m on a little vacation all by myself. I’m in the — real estate business in Camden, New Jersey. I got pretty tensed up over a few fair deals I pulled lately and decided I needed a rest.”

He laughed. “I told my employees when I left that they’d better make all decisions themselves because they wouldn’t be in touch with me at all. At first I thought I’d go to my usual hotel at Miami Beach, but then I realized that I’d run into friends and there’d be parties and all that sort of thing. So you might say I’m hiding here.”

He strolled casually over to the canary convertible, leaned on the door.

“Is this your car?” Mrs. Betty Oliver asked. “It’s pretty.”

Jay coughed. “This is the one I brought along.”

“I’ve never learned to drive,” she said wistfully. “I’m really a helpless woman.”

“If you’re staying long enough, I could teach you.”

She looked up into his face, swayed so that for a moment she brushed against him. “Oh, would you?”

Jay Kelso was suddenly faintly dizzy and very exultant. This was pie in the sky. This was coin in the pocket. It wouldn’t be too tough to fix it with Serena. Milk this doll for a few hundred or a few thousand, and then grab Serena and kite off to a license bureau. From there he and Serena could hit the tracks. By the time they came back the Oliver woman would be gone. Perfect!

When the last sobs were finished, Serena waited, the damp pillow against her face. It was dark outside. On the highway an occasional car roared by at high speed. The headlights made patterns that flashed across the ceiling of her darkened room.

After a time she stood up, padded into the bathroom, stepped into the shower stall. The chill water felt fresh and good. She made up carefully to conceal the signs of tears, put on a cool white dress, walked out into the warm night. The sound of laughter from some of the cabins accentuated her loneliness.

In Cabin 2 four old people were engaged in their nightly bridge game. A radio was playing a sweet, sad tune from a distant cabin. Far off, near the marshes, the frogs croaked dolorously.

The cool breeze stirred her pale hair. She tried not to look up the slope toward Cabin 11. Of course, that woman, that Oliver woman, wasn’t there. No, she was out with Jay. Out with Serena’s Jay. Probably at their spot — at the Palm Club.

She wondered bitterly if Jay would park with her, would try to kiss her. How could he? Why, that Oliver woman was old, old, old. A hag. A simpering, silly hag with a lot of money.

She wondered how many hours Jay had spent with the Oliver woman since she had arrived four days before.

Jay had acted so funny. He had taken her out for the last time the same evening that Betty Oliver had arrived. He had been quiet at the Palm Club. Later on, in the parked car, he had made no attempt to kiss her — had merely said, “Serena, honey, there are a lot of things about this world that you don’t understand.”

“What do you mean?”

“Look, baby. I love you. That’s the first time I’ve said those words since I was fourteen.”

“Oh, Jay.”

“Now don’t go soft on me. Understand? Love means trust. Look, baby. Look into my eyes. I trust you. See? Now, the sixty-four-buck question is, does Serena trust Jay?”

“You know I do.”

“Now, here’s the kicker. I got my own angles, see? I can’t talk about them. And I don’t want you to talk to anybody about what is going to happen.”

“But what is going to happen, Jay?”

“You and I are having a fight. We don’t talk anymore. We don’t go out anymore for maybe a long time. You are going to see me running around with that Mrs. Oliver that checked in today. But you don’t ask any questions. You trust me. Remember?”

“But, Jay, I — why do you—”

He had touched one finger to her lips. “No questions, baby. Then after maybe a week, maybe two, maybe longer, we move fast. I ask you the ring question and you say yes and off we go. Right?”

“But I—”

She had seen the gleam of his teeth as he smiled in the darkness. “Look, baby, it’s a wonderful night. Come here.”

Yes, it had been easy right then not to ask questions. But the next day it wasn’t so easy. Not when she had seen the yellow car head out with Betty Oliver’s brown head next to Jay’s shining dark one. It hadn’t been easy to see Betty wriggling kittenishly, smiling up into Jay’s shining smug face. Nor had it been easy to hear their merged laughter, their warm friendliness.

And on the third day she had walked by the two of them, had heard Betty Oliver giggle and whisper to Jay. Jay had laughed also. Serena Bright knew that they had talked about her.

She strolled aimlessly down the narrow street between the cabins, avoided the glare of the floodlights that lit the front of the main building. She circled the left wing of the building, saw the pale gleam of Ben Lawton’s white shirt in the darkness. He was sitting on the concrete step at his doorway.

“Hi, lady,” he said softly. “Sit down and smoke up one of my hard-earned cigarettes.”

“Thanks, Ben,” she said gratefully. He moved over to make room. She glanced at his face as he held the match to her cigarette, and she detected no expression that she could identify.

“Nice night,” he said.

“I guess so.”

“Little bit blue, gal?” he asked.

It was too much. She buried her head in his shoulder. “Oh, Ben!” Then great, hoarse sobs shook her.

But they didn’t last long. Finally she moved back to her side of the step, dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. She laughed thinly. “Sorry to use you for a crying towel, Benjamin.”

“The guy isn’t worth it, you know. Not by half,” he said flatly.

In cold rage she stood up. “I’ll be the judge of that,” she snapped.