Эд Макбейн - Happy New Year, Herbie and other stories

The waiter cleared his throat.

“A dry martini, lemon rind,” Bobby said, looking up, unembarrassed. “Haig and Haig with Seven-Up.”

“Seven-Up, sir?”

“Yes. And hurry, could you? My wife has an appointment.”

A look of pain darted onto her face. The waiter padded away, and Bobby said, “Forgive me. Cover up has become a habit, I guess.”

“Yes.” She could still feel his kiss on her mouth. She fought now to keep her eyes off his face, but she could not wrench them away.

“Are you really in town shopping?”

Her eyes widened. “Of course I am!”

“I thought perhaps...” He shrugged.

“That’s not very flattering, Bobby.”

“Forgive me,” he said, and then, as though the words had been waiting in secret ambush, he quickly asked, “Are you happy, Lois?”

“Yes. Yes, I am,” she said without hesitation. She studied her hands on the table top. Her engagement ring and wedding band caught the blue lights of the ceiling, trapping them.

“Really happy?”

Really happy? she thought. Yes, she supposed she was really happy. She had not been happy for a long time after Bobby had ended it, but after a while she had fallen back into the routine of things. It had been difficult at first, until she began to appreciate the... the peace, she supposed. There was no more plotting to do, no more petty deceits, no more major lies. Her life lacked the old frantic adventure she had known with him, but there was a gentle current of warmth to it, and she was at last grateful for the way things had worked out. Grateful and happy. She had been happy today, shopping for Tom’s sweater. She had been happy walking among the tulips. And now Bobby was back in her life, and she wondered about happiness now, wondered if she were really happy.

To him she said, “Yes, of course. Tom’s business is doing remarkably well, and the children are beginning to grow up and... I’ve been very busy. Meg is getting to be a regular little lady, Bobby. Worried about clothes and... and even about boys. She came home yesterday with a tube of lipstick, and she wanted to know...”

Lois stopped.

He was not listening to her. His eyes were on her, but his ears were deaf to her words. She should have remembered. The life she spoke of was not his own. Her children, her home did not interest him. She felt momentary disappointment, and she wondered abruptly what common ground for conversation they would have now that they were no longer lovers.

“Tom the same?” he asked.

“How do you mean?”

“Solid Tom?”

“He’s good,” she said, coming to his defense, remembering how often she had come to Tom’s defense even when the love she shared with Bobby had been all-consuming. “He loves me.”

“Does the phone still ring?” he asked, dismissing Tom.

“The girls,” she said, smiling, half shrugging.

“Do you miss my calls?”

“No,” she said quickly.

“I miss calling you,” he said.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Don’t,” he told her. “It’s the truth.”

The waiter brought their drinks and then left them. Bobby lifted his glass.

“Here’s to all sorts of,” he said.

“I made that toast on New Year’s Eve,” she said. “I was a little high. I suppose I was thinking of you. I lifted my glass and said, ‘Here’s to all sorts of,’ and Tom said, ‘All sorts of what?’ I didn’t know what to answer because I’d never really asked you just what you meant. So I said, ‘All sorts of happiness.’ Was that all right?”

“That filled the bill very nicely.”

“Thank you,” she said. She raised her glass. “Here’s to all sorts of.”

They drank.

“Strong,” she said.

“You’re getting old. I can remember when you used to put away six of those without batting an eyelid.”

“That was in my green and salad days.”

“Those were good days,” he said.

“Were they? I wonder. It was like being in deep hypnosis. I don’t remember which life was the real life in those days, the one with Tom or the one with you.”

“The one with me,” he said flatly.

“I suppose.”

“Do you really have to catch a train?”

“Yes.”

“What time?”

“Well...”

“I’d like to make love to you,” he said.

“Bobby, don’t...”

“I’d like to very much.”

“Please.”

“Have I insulted you?”

“No.”

“You always seemed insulted by the fact that I desired you. You should have been flattered.”

“I was.”

“I always felt as if I were violating you. I imagine that was part of your appeal.”

“And I always felt like something of a whore and, strange as it may sound, I think that was part of your appeal.” She laughed and sipped at her martini. “I suppose every woman has to feel like a whore at one time or another in her life.” She looked at the open mouth of the glass. “This really is quite strong.”

“You really are quite lovely,” he said seriously.

The conversation stopped. He looked at her, and she returned his solemn gaze. He smiled abruptly.

“So, what else is new?” he asked.

“Oh, you know,” she said, “little things.”

“Like what?”

“We bought a station wagon.”

“Oh. Have you learned to drive?”

“Yes.” She grinned. “It would make things easier now, wouldn’t it? Meeting you, I mean. My knowing how to drive.”

“Immeasurably,” he said, returning her grin. “Have another drink, won’t you?”

“No, no, I really can’t.”

“Are you afraid of me?” He tweaked an imaginary mustache.

“Yes,” she said.

“Really?” He seemed surprised. “What on earth for?”

“You hurt me. I can’t be hurt again. It took me a long time to get over the way you hurt me.”

“I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“I think you did want to. I sat by the phone after you’d hung up, and I tried to keep from crying, but I couldn’t. I—” She shook her head. “What difference does it make?”

“It was better that way,” he said. “If I’d seen you, I’d never have been able to end it.”

“Why did you suddenly feel compelled to end it?” she asked. “I thought we—”

“We were getting too involved. I was beginning to think of you too often.”

“I thought of you every minute, from the first day we met.”

“Well...”

“Every minute,” she repeated. “You were burned into my mind. I went around in a cloud, and the cloud was you, the things you said, the touch of your hands, the way you...” She hesitated. “I... I never stopped thinking of you. I was never alive except when I was with you. One night I... I put a loaf of bread into the garbage pail instead of the breadbox. Isn’t that silly? And he said, ‘ What’s the matter with you?’ And I couldn’t answer him. I wanted to scream, ‘Bobby is the matter with me!’ ” She paused. “And now you tell me you were getting too involved. I was hopelessly involved the moment I laid eyes on you. I never stopped being involved.”

“Women love... differently from men,” he said lamely.

“Do they?” She studied his solemn face. “You killed me when you left, Bobby. I was utterly dead. It took me a long while to become alive again.”

“I was stupid, I suppose. It’s just... if I’d only met you ten years earlier. If—”

“If,” she said.

“I was stupid,” he said again. “I should never have let you get away from me.”

She looked at her watch. “I have a train to catch,” she said.

“Lois!” He caught her hand. She felt the electric warmth of his fingers, and suddenly she was trembling.