three days she had avoided being left alone with Jeff and ten times during the three days she almost told him hat he had better leave, but she didn’t do that, either.
Lucy was one of those women who achieve innocence in marriage. As desirable as she was, and she never realized the full power of her beauty or the real effect she had on men, she was so clearly unapproachable that she had rarely been approached.
The only notable exception had been Sam Patterson, one night at a country-club dance, when he had been rather drunk and had found himself alone with her on the terrace and had taken her into his arms, which she had permitted, momentarily mistaking amorousness for friendliness.
“Lucy, dearest,” he had whispered, “there’s something I have to tell you that I …”
She had caught on then, from the tone of his voice, and she knew that whatever he had to tell her it would be better not to hear.
She had twisted away and laughed good-naturedly, and said, “Now, Sam, how many drinks have you had?”
He had stood there, ashamed, defiant, almost tragic. “It’s not the drink,” he said. But then he had turned away and walked swiftly back into the club, and she had thought, It’s only Sam, everybody knows about him, and when she had gone inside she had entertained herself by looking around the room and taking a count of the women that Sam Patterson had had affairs with, and there were three that she was sure of, two that she was almost sure of, and one that she guessed. She had never said anything to Oliver about it, because what was the use, and Oliver would be certain to be harsh about it and stop seeing Patterson, and everybody would lose by the whole thing. Patterson had never mentioned the night on the terrace again and neither had she and it had been long ago, when she and Oliver had only been married for five years, and sometimes now she had the feeling that it had never happened.
Her fidelity was not so much a matter of morality as a mixture of love, gratitude and fear of Oliver. It was her conviction that Oliver had rescued her from an uncertain and tormented youth and the memory of that escape, as she regarded it, made her reject almost automatically whatever fleeting desires she might have felt through the years for other men.
Despite his debonair manner, Jeff was inexperienced enough so that to him most women were equally approachable or unapproachable. And rather surprisingly, considering his good looks, he was completely humble, and had blurted it all out one afternoon, while they were seated on the lawn after lunch. They were alone for an hour because Tony was taking the daily nap which was a fixed part of his regime.
There was a mid-day hush over the lake and the morning’s wind had died down and even the insects seemed to have drowsed off. Lucy, in a flowered cotton dress, was seated leaning against a tree, her legs stretched out in front of her, her ankles crossed, a book, open and face-down, on her lap. Jeff was kneeling on one knee a few feet away from her, like a football-player resting during a time out. He had a piece of grass in his mouth and he kept his eyes down and from time to time plucked a clover stem and examined it and threw it away. It was cool in the shade of the tree and Lucy felt, sitting there, with her skin still remembering the soft touch of lake water from the morning’s swim, that she was at one of those perfect silent moments of her life that she would have wished to prolong unchanged indefinitely.
Jeff was wearing faded blue denim trousers and a white collarless T shirt with short sleeves. In the flickering shadow of the foliage above them, his skin looked mahogany against the white of his shirt. His arms were smooth but muscular, and when he plucked at the grass, Lucy noticed how the tendons moved delicately under the dark skin above his wrists. He was barefooted and his feet were squarish and much lighter in color than the rest of him and somehow they seemed to
Lucy was one of those women who achieve innocence in marriage. As desirable as she was, and she never realized the full power of her beauty or the real effect she had on men, she was so clearly unapproachable that she had rarely been approached.
The only notable exception had been Sam Patterson, one night at a country-club dance, when he had been rather drunk and had found himself alone with her on the terrace and had taken her into his arms, which she had permitted, momentarily mistaking amorousness for friendliness.
“Lucy, dearest,” he had whispered, “there’s something I have to tell you that I …”
She had caught on then, from the tone of his voice, and she knew that whatever he had to tell her it would be better not to hear.
She had twisted away and laughed good-naturedly, and said, “Now, Sam, how many drinks have you had?”
He had stood there, ashamed, defiant, almost tragic. “It’s not the drink,” he said. But then he had turned away and walked swiftly back into the club, and she had thought, It’s only Sam, everybody knows about him, and when she had gone inside she had entertained herself by looking around the room and taking a count of the women that Sam Patterson had had affairs with, and there were three that she was sure of, two that she was almost sure of, and one that she guessed. She had never said anything to Oliver about it, because what was the use, and Oliver would be certain to be harsh about it and stop seeing Patterson, and everybody would lose by the whole thing. Patterson had never mentioned the night on the terrace again and neither had she and it had been long ago, when she and Oliver had only been married for five years, and sometimes now she had the feeling that it had never happened.
Her fidelity was not so much a matter of morality as a mixture of love, gratitude and fear of Oliver. It was her conviction that Oliver had rescued her from an uncertain and tormented youth and the memory of that escape, as she regarded it, made her reject almost automatically whatever fleeting desires she might have felt through the years for other men.
Despite his debonair manner, Jeff was inexperienced enough so that to him most women were equally approachable or unapproachable. And rather surprisingly, considering his good looks, he was completely humble, and had blurted it all out one afternoon, while they were seated on the lawn after lunch. They were alone for an hour because Tony was taking the daily nap which was a fixed part of his regime.
There was a mid-day hush over the lake and the morning’s wind had died down and even the insects seemed to have drowsed off. Lucy, in a flowered cotton dress, was seated leaning against a tree, her legs stretched out in front of her, her ankles crossed, a book, open and face-down, on her lap. Jeff was kneeling on one knee a few feet away from her, like a football-player resting during a time out. He had a piece of grass in his mouth and he kept his eyes down and from time to time plucked a clover stem and examined it and threw it away. It was cool in the shade of the tree and Lucy felt, sitting there, with her skin still remembering the soft touch of lake water from the morning’s swim, that she was at one of those perfect silent moments of her life that she would have wished to prolong unchanged indefinitely.
Jeff was wearing faded blue denim trousers and a white collarless T shirt with short sleeves. In the flickering shadow of the foliage above them, his skin looked mahogany against the white of his shirt. His arms were smooth but muscular, and when he plucked at the grass, Lucy noticed how the tendons moved delicately under the dark skin above his wrists. He was barefooted and his feet were squarish and much lighter in color than the rest of him and somehow they seemed to
Similar Books
