Read Online Highsmith, Patricia by The Price of Salt - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: The Price of Salt
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and kill them both, that their bodies might be dragged out together. She felt Carol glancing at her from time to time.
“Have you had breakfast?”
“No, I haven’t,” Therese answered. She supposed she was pale. She had started to have breakfast, but she had dropped the milk bottle in the sink, and then given it all up.
“Better have some coffee. It’s there in the thermos.”
They were out of the tunnel. Carol stopped by the side of the road.
“There,” Carol said, nodding at the thermos between them on the seat.
Then Carol took the thermos herself and poured some into the cup, steaming and light brown.
Therese looked at the coffee gratefully. “Where’d it come from?”
Carol smiled. “Do you always want to know where things come from?”
The coffee was very strong and a little sweet. It sent strength through her. When the cup was half empty, Carol started the car. Therese was silent. What was there to talk about? The gold four-leaf clover with Carol’s name and address on it that dangled from key chain on the dashboard? The stand of Christmas trees they passed on the road? The bird that flew by itself across a swampy looking field? No. Only the things she had written to Carol in the unmailed letter were to be talked about, and that was impossible.
“Do you like the country?” Carol asked as they turned into a smaller road.
They had just driven into a little town and out of it. Now on the driveway that made a great semicircular curve, they approached a white two-story house that had projecting side wings like the paws of a resting lion.
There was a metal door mat, a big shining brass mailbox, a dog barking hollowly from around the side of the house, where a white garage showed beyond some trees. The house smelled of some spice, Therese thought, mingled with a separate sweetness that was not Carol’s perfume either.
Behind her, the door closed with a light, firm double report. Therese turned and found Carol looking at her puzzledly, her lips parted a little as if in surprise, and Therese felt that in the next second Carol would ask, “What are you doing here?” as if she had forgotten, or had not meant to bring her here at all.
“There’s no one here but the maid. And she’s far away,” Carol said, as if in reply to some question of Therese’s.
“It’s a lovely house,” Therese said, and saw Carol’s little smile that was tinged with impatience.
“Take off your coat.” Carol took the scarf from around her head and ran her fingers through her hair. “Wouldn’t you like a little breakfast? It’s almost noon.”
“No, thanks.”
Carol looked around the living room, and the same puzzled dissatisfaction came back to her face. “Let’s go upstairs. It’s more comfortable.”
Therese followed Carol up the white wooden staircase, past an oil painting of a small girl with yellow hair and a square chin like Carol’s, past a window where a garden with an S-shaped path, a fountain with a blue-green statue appeared for an instant and vanished. Upstairs, there was a short hall with four or five rooms around it. Carol went into a room with green carpet and walls, and took a cigarette from a box on a table. She glanced at Therese as she lighted it. Therese didn’t know what to do or say, and she felt Carol expected her to do or say something, anything. Therese studied the simple room with its dark-green carpet and the long green pillowed bench along one wall. There was a plain table of pale wood in the center. A game room, Therese thought, though it looked more like a study with its books and music albums and its lack of pictures.
“My favorite room,” Carol said, walking out of it. “But that’s my room over there.”
Therese looked into the room opposite. It had flowered cotton upholstery and plain blond woodwork like the table in the other room. There was a long plain mirror over the dressing table, and throughout a look of sunlight, though no sunlight was in the room. The bed
“Have you had breakfast?”
“No, I haven’t,” Therese answered. She supposed she was pale. She had started to have breakfast, but she had dropped the milk bottle in the sink, and then given it all up.
“Better have some coffee. It’s there in the thermos.”
They were out of the tunnel. Carol stopped by the side of the road.
“There,” Carol said, nodding at the thermos between them on the seat.
Then Carol took the thermos herself and poured some into the cup, steaming and light brown.
Therese looked at the coffee gratefully. “Where’d it come from?”
Carol smiled. “Do you always want to know where things come from?”
The coffee was very strong and a little sweet. It sent strength through her. When the cup was half empty, Carol started the car. Therese was silent. What was there to talk about? The gold four-leaf clover with Carol’s name and address on it that dangled from key chain on the dashboard? The stand of Christmas trees they passed on the road? The bird that flew by itself across a swampy looking field? No. Only the things she had written to Carol in the unmailed letter were to be talked about, and that was impossible.
“Do you like the country?” Carol asked as they turned into a smaller road.
They had just driven into a little town and out of it. Now on the driveway that made a great semicircular curve, they approached a white two-story house that had projecting side wings like the paws of a resting lion.
There was a metal door mat, a big shining brass mailbox, a dog barking hollowly from around the side of the house, where a white garage showed beyond some trees. The house smelled of some spice, Therese thought, mingled with a separate sweetness that was not Carol’s perfume either.
Behind her, the door closed with a light, firm double report. Therese turned and found Carol looking at her puzzledly, her lips parted a little as if in surprise, and Therese felt that in the next second Carol would ask, “What are you doing here?” as if she had forgotten, or had not meant to bring her here at all.
“There’s no one here but the maid. And she’s far away,” Carol said, as if in reply to some question of Therese’s.
“It’s a lovely house,” Therese said, and saw Carol’s little smile that was tinged with impatience.
“Take off your coat.” Carol took the scarf from around her head and ran her fingers through her hair. “Wouldn’t you like a little breakfast? It’s almost noon.”
“No, thanks.”
Carol looked around the living room, and the same puzzled dissatisfaction came back to her face. “Let’s go upstairs. It’s more comfortable.”
Therese followed Carol up the white wooden staircase, past an oil painting of a small girl with yellow hair and a square chin like Carol’s, past a window where a garden with an S-shaped path, a fountain with a blue-green statue appeared for an instant and vanished. Upstairs, there was a short hall with four or five rooms around it. Carol went into a room with green carpet and walls, and took a cigarette from a box on a table. She glanced at Therese as she lighted it. Therese didn’t know what to do or say, and she felt Carol expected her to do or say something, anything. Therese studied the simple room with its dark-green carpet and the long green pillowed bench along one wall. There was a plain table of pale wood in the center. A game room, Therese thought, though it looked more like a study with its books and music albums and its lack of pictures.
“My favorite room,” Carol said, walking out of it. “But that’s my room over there.”
Therese looked into the room opposite. It had flowered cotton upholstery and plain blond woodwork like the table in the other room. There was a long plain mirror over the dressing table, and throughout a look of sunlight, though no sunlight was in the room. The bed
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