The Amethyst Spectacles, page 4
All the same, in spite of my rationalizing, when he squeezed my arm now, and told Patrick his yellow-eyed gal was lovelier than ever, I felt that deep tingling resentment. It’s because you don’t like being touched by all and sundry, I reminded myself. It’s a matter of taste. It’s nothing.
Edwina, her mother, Bee Chandler, her sister Karen, Scott Davies, and Hugh Kennicott sat around the huge hooded fireplace at one end of the great room. Here was dark Spanish-style oak in the massive furniture and the wood paneling and beams, and garnet red in the deep-piled carpet, the draperies, and the seats and backs of sofas and chairs.
Edwina wore a garnet-red dinner dress which showed off her full bosom and tiny waist. Her big black eyes went limpid as she rose to welcome us, and she smiled her sweet drowsy smile. She laid her lips lightly on my cheek. She offered Patrick one of her plump satiny white hands as if she expected it to be kissed. It is one of God’s greatest gifts to a woman, I thought, to let her have a white skin and straight shining black hair and a face and head shaped so the hair looks wonderful parted in the middle and worn in a bun on her neck. But her musky perfume was her own choosing, and I didn’t like it. I wondered what Pancho would make of a lurker dabbed with Edwina’s perfume. Society certainly does make things tough for a dog.
Mrs. Chandler, not Karen, was using the amethyst spectacles.
Bee held them before her eyes to look at us as we entered with Maurice, and she laid them down on the coffee table near the sofa where she was sitting. She took them with her to the dining room. Later I couldn’t remember having seen them after that.
Bee Chandler wore with complete indifference and much style an anything-but-new violet-blue dinner dress. It matched her fine eyes, which those specs had been designed to show off. You saw Edwina’s beauty in a flash. You’d be jealous to deny it. But Bee’s face haunted you, and Karen’s would too, when it was older and more interesting, because you kept looking again to discover the secret of its charm. It was a triangular face, deeply tanned, with flat hollow cheeks, and a wide lively red mouth. Like Karen’s, Bee’s black hair curled naturally and she wore it in a feathercut. Karen was a size larger than Bee. She was more impulsive and more talkative. Bee had some white in her hair, and she smoked a lot and with a special elegance and Karen didn’t smoke at all, but the resemblance was always remarkable. It is trite to say they looked like sisters, but they did.
There was trouble in the atmosphere and I sensed it the minute we were settled in the circle by the fireplace. The reason was soon obvious. Or was it? Could such a superficial annoyance be enough? I mean, could the fact that Karen and Hugh weren’t dressed up be enough to explain Maurice’s waspishness? Scott Davies had come in his dinner jacket, which was going rather rusty, but Karen wore a rose-pink sweater and a gray tweed suit, and Hugh Kennicott’s tall handsome figure was dressed in a dark-green flannel shirt, gabardine cheyenne pants and cowboy boots.
As Maurice fetched from a sidetable the silver tray of cocktails he said, breezily, but with acid, “I’ve just been telling these kids not to come here again dressed as if they expected to feed in a hamburger joint.”
Hugh Kennicott’s dark eyes glinted. “I apologize, Maurice,” he said, in that deep-toned, slow voice. “Again!”
Maurice was handing the cocktails. He did not answer Hugh, or look at him.
“Shades of Emily Post!” Karen snapped at Maurice. “What were we to do? We couldn’t get away from Santa Fe in time to go home and change. You would have hated us more, Maurice, if we had been late.”
“You know my rules, darling,” Maurice said, airily. He handed her a cocktail.
Taking it, Karen looked as if she might throw it back in his face.
“Well, don’t be such a shirt! This is the Wild West, Maurice,” she said.
“This house isn’t,” Maurice said, and though he spoke it gaily, there was anger here, something smoldering underneath, which must be more serious, even to Maurice Ames, than two kids turning up in daytime clothes.
Besides, Maurice had been out here ten years. He ought to have got used to Santa Maria’s unconventionality by this time. People dressed pretty much as they chose. People had turned up at his affairs not formally garbed often enough, and anyhow you didn’t pile extra miles on your tires in wartime just to put on a boiled shirt.
Maurice put the tray where he had got it and, standing in the circle, lifted his glass.
“To the globe-trotting Abbotts!” he said. “And if Jeanie will forgive me, specially to Pat! We don’t have a hero to dinner every day, really.”
He smiled his tight V-shaped smile at me and at Patrick and sipped at the cocktail.
I felt that deep embarrassment Maurice was always stirring up inside me and I stole a look at Patrick, sitting next to Edwina, and seeing him accept the self-conscious ovation without a shadow of irritation I knew it gave him, I envied him.
Maurice dragged up an ottoman and sat at my feet.
“How do you like this drink, darling?” he asked.
I looked at it and tasted it. It looked like an old-fashioned. It tasted of Cuban rum. It was delicious, and I said so. Patrick hated this kind of concoction, but I loved it.
“It’s my own invention,” Maurice said. “I call it the Scorpion.”
“It’s got something in it which makes it a strictly New Mexican drink,” Scott Davies said, and he smiled as he said, “The formula’s a secret.”
“It packs a wicked wallop,” Karen said. “Or should I say sting, Maurice?”
Maurice ignored her. Karen glanced at Bee, who did not look at her. Hugh Kennicott stared glumly at-his glass. He looked about to burst with fury, I thought.
I glanced at Patrick, wondering what he was making behind his diffidence of the touchy undercurrents in this room.
He sat gazing down at Edwina. She was asking a question. She listened to his answer with her sweet sleepy smile.
“The cocktail belongs to the book,” Maurice said.
Bee Chandler said, “Are you really still serious about that cookbook, Maurice?”
“Never more so, Bee-a-treech-ay, darling. Remember that Ray Thayer and I were planning a cookbook, Jeanie?”
I nodded, it being a thing you were never permitted to forget, because Maurice was eternally talking about it, but the truth was it hadn’t come into my mind since I had left Santa Maria. Ray was to write it, I remembered, and Maurice had the recipes and would plan the advertising and selling.
“You always said it would make a mint,” I said.
“But rather,” Maurice said.
“I never could see that,” Scott Davies said. “There’s millions of cookbooks.”
“My dear boy, there’s millions of everything on this earth. You merely make something better, or, to be exact, you make the public think it’s better, and they rush to buy it. The ideas for our book were—are, I should say—entirely original.”
“Naturally, if it’s a man’s cookbook,” I said.
“My sweet!” Maurice cried. “My innocent little angel, there are countless cookbooks by men. All the great creative cooks have been men. This one will merely be the cookbook to out-cookbook all other cookbooks.”
There were smiles and a little laughter, and Scott Davies said, “What a pity Ray couldn’t have done the thing before he died, Maurice. He was so sold on it. He thought it would be fun. He disliked so much of the writing he had to do. He always talked about your confounded book as if it would be a picnic. I must confess, not being a gourmet, or even a fair cook, that I never could understand what you two got so excited about.”
“Because it was a jolly good idea, Scott! Well, cheer up. Writers are a dime a dozen. Another will turn up.”
There was a queer crisp silence. Everybody, I thought, was shocked. Maurice didn’t mean it, I felt, the way it sounded.
Edwina said, in a voice like black velvet, “But of course you must have been so brave, Pat. Don’t pretend you weren’t! We know better.”
“Another writer may turn up,” Scott said gently, “but he won’t be Ray.” It was a reproof.
“Well, he asked for it!” Maurice said. “Whatever made him get hooked up with that little bitch? He ought to have had some consideration for his neighbors, if not for himself.” Maurice bounced up and bustled over to fetch the cocktail shaker, and coming back he said, “I don’t know why I let her put me in such a dither, really. If Karen can stand for her, I daresay I can.”
The red sailed up under Karen’s tan. She said nothing. She shook her head when Maurice offered to refill her glass.
Hugh Kennicott lit a cigarette and turned down another cocktail. Maurice should thank his stars for his gray hairs, I shouldn’t wonder.
“Look at Pat’s ribbons!” Edwina cried, softly. “Look at his stars!”
There was a little rush of craning at the ribbons, and asking questions. The unpleasant moment was past. But there was too much eagerness for the change of subject, and Hugh Kennicott looked angrier than ever. He must have a whale of a temper, I thought. He hates Maurice, anyone can see that, I decided. Maybe there is something in this business with Edwina. Maybe it’s an affair. Edwina had that look of clinging, that ageless quality, which made every man want to to take care of her.
She doesn’t give a hoot about Patrick’s ribbons, I thought, or the war, or anything else save Edwina. She’s one hundred per cent undiluted Eve.
“Drink it down, dearest!” Maurice said to me. For the girl in the gay calico costume had come in to announce dinner.
The dining room was another large room, with pale walls and more of the massive dark oak furniture. There was candlelight. The table was set with snowy linen, and silver and crystal, and cream-colored English china. Other candles in tall candelabra on the sideboard lighted up Michael O’Hara’s portrait of Edwina. In it she wore a white dress and the rubies Maurice had given her when they married. They were larger and more numerous than my emeralds. Everything had its price, I supposed, glancing down the long table across the flat centerpiece of freesias and tiny yellow tulips, and observing with one of my twinges that Patrick was still absorbed in Edwina. They all were. Hugh was watching her now, with a small soft gleam in his dark eyes, and Scott, as always, let his devotion glow all over his blond face.
But Maurice centered his upon the soup.
It was delicious. It had cream in it, and spices, and butter, and chicken and numerous mysterious herbs. The entree was a chicken dish with wild rice and toasted almonds. What dry white wine tantalized its sauce? And why was the parsley-and-butter sauce on the subsequent filet mignon different and better than any other we had ever tasted, and why did a simple avocado served in the bed of crisp cold lettuce taste so wonderfully at Maurice’s table? It would all be told, Maurice always said, in the book.
This was one of his very special New Mexican dinners. The New Mexican recipes were his particular secrets. He had collected them with great patience, and he had perfected some, and some he had even invented.
“My cook’s an Indian,” he always said happily. “You’ll never get my secrets out of Geronima. Indians never tell. You’ll have to wait for the book.”
The dinner was the reason for the party. It lasted long, and afterward there was no time for bridge, even if anyone besides Edwina had wanted it. Hugh Kennicott was the first to go. He said good-bye to Maurice in a brusque way that suggested he never intended to darken his door again. Scott went next. Then Maurice took Patrick for a tour of the house, and almost at once I went upstairs with Bee and Karen, leaving Edwina by the fire.
Lazy sensuous creature, I thought. She hated making any move she needn’t. Of course she would sit by the fire. Why trouble to go upstairs with three women, two of them her own mother and sister? Why bother? What’s the point? Such sweet ideas were tripping through my mind as I climbed the famous staircase with Bee and Karen Chandler. I stopped suddenly, attracted by the blue in one of the tiles above a step just below the landing, i blue as heavenly as that in a Della Robbia plaque, and then behind me I heard a rustle, and my nose picked up Edwina’s perfume. She was coming up after all, I thought. I had been unkind to her, in my mind. I turned back smiling, but only to see her moving swiftly along the lower hall, a rapt expression on her oval face.
Bee and Karen had gone on ahead. I moved a step to the left and leaned over the railing.
Hugh Kennicott came silently Out of a door near the rear of the hall. I knew that door. It opened into a short flight of steps which met the steps from the kitchen on a small landing, from which another flight led up to the cook’s quarters.
Edwina gave Hugh both hands and swayed toward him. He put his arms around her.
I was furious. I ducked back and hurried on upstairs.
“What’s the matter?” Bee Chandler asked, when I entered the guest room where the girl had left our things.
I said, “Matter?”
“You look so white.”
“Oh. Maybe I need some make-up.” I dived at a dressing table.
“Maurice’s dinners are very swell,” Karen said, “but you really ought to bring along your bicarbonate.”
“Maurice enjoys himself so,” Bee said.
“Maurice belongs in the Stone Age,” Karen said.
“Karen, darling, stop it. The way you tease Maurice …”
“I’m not teasing,” Karen said, tilting up her mother’s chin and giving her a little kiss. “It’s okay by me if Maurice and Edwina choose to live back in the Holy Spanish Empire or whatever they called it, but this is the last of these ordeals by food I’m going to endure. It’s—why, it’s awful, in times like these! It’s obscene. Besides—I—well, don’t ask me why, but I can’t come here any more.”
Bee put an arm around her. They stood side by side, Karen two or three inches the taller, but So much alike.
“Have you got the specs?” Bee asked.
Karen felt in her pocket. “I’ve got one pair, darling,” she said.
“When will you come to see us, Jeanie?” Bee asked
“I can’t promise, Bee. Pat shouldn’t go out really.”
“I suppose he’s getting restless?”
“Very.”
“Well, did you have a good time?” I asked Patrick, on the way home.
He was driving. I had my head on his shoulder.
“Very interesting, dear.”
“The dinner was fascinating. Wasn’t it?”
“Very,” Patrick said. I knew he had disliked everything from the Scorpion on until he got the plain strawberries and cream.
So I laughed and said, “You’re lying.”
“I am not. The dinner did fascinate me. I didn’t say I liked it.”
“And Edwina?”
“Very lovely gal.”
“God dammit!” I said. I couldn’t help it. “Those droopy drowsy females ring the bell every time. What’s she up to with Hugh Kennicott, Pat? I saw them meet in the hall. And I don’t see why the hell Maurice Ames puts up with her.”
“Maybe she drinks his Scorpions,” Patrick said.
“Don’t be funny, darling.”
“I didn’t know that I was.”
I said, “It was seeing her meeting Hugh that made me mad. Karen is such a peach.”
Patrick said, “Ten to your five that Karen gets him, Jeanie.”
“You don’t know anything about women, Pat. Karen won’t have him if Edwina’s been first. Did you like the house?”
“It’s a bird,” Patrick said, “Specially the kitchen, only I didn’t get too good a look at the kitchen, because when we got there Ames buzzed around to all the doors and windows to make sure nobody was listening and then he offered me a job. He wants me to shadow his wife.”
“Darling! What kind of detective does he think you are? I hope you socked him one?”
“Why? You aren’t offered such nice work every day, chum.” I allowed it to pass. “I didn’t say yes or no, however, because just then we heard a noise which I thought was on the back stairs. I yanked the door open. Hugh Kennicott was standing on the landing, which is six or seven steps up from the kitchen. I shut the door. Ames couldn’t see into the stairs from where he stood and he assumed that nobody was there. But after that he was worried that somebody might be listening and he asked if he could come and talk it over at our house. Day after tomorrow, he said. Evidently there’s no grand rush.”
“Pat, you’ve got no business …”
“Shush! He has such faith in me. What a memory I’ve got! Look how I spotted the El Greco staircase.”
“Pat, that was awful. I honestly didn’t know you had such a low streak.”
“It comes out, Jeanie.”
I said, “Hugh Kennicott’s got something on his mind.”
“I shouldn’t wonder.”
“He was mad all evening. Look, Edwina’s working on him high, wide and handsome. It’s too bad.”
Patrick said, after a few minutes, “I rather like Ames. He got such a kick from his party.”
“He’s got a superiority complex, Pat.”
“Inferiority,” Patrick said. “I suppose he’d get it as a child. He’s almost what’s called a pituitary dwarf. Something goes wrong with the glands. The glands make up for it sometimes by giving such people supernormal energy. But the inferiority sticks. Other children laugh at such kids and they often turn their extra energy toward making themselves successes in this or that.”
“People still laugh at his looks,” I said, and I felt sorry for him, and ashamed of myself, because I too was critical of Maurice’s appearance.
