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Authors: Helen MacInnes
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off at once to New York.
* * *
The news about Rest and be Thankful spread very quickly in New York too, even if there were plenty of worrying headlines to read in the newspapers. It only took one morning for all last winter’s visitors to Maggie’s Saloon to get on to the ’phone to each other, as soon as Prender Atherton Jones had called them and read the telegram he had received from Rest and be Thankful, Wyoming.
“Can you imagine?”
“So very rugged, my dear.”
“Sounds fun. Do you know, I’ve never seen the West. Did they say how many bedrooms?”
“Are they setting up a printing-press too, along with free beer and pretzels?”
“They are crazy.”
“I’m almost an unknown author. Do you think I’d qualify?”
“She must be weighted down with money. Did you say old man Peel was a millionaire? And she never told us.”
“Do they need any lecturers?”
* * *
Some might laugh, some might sneer, but the idea caught many people’s fancy—especially those who hadn’t yet arranged how to spend the summer. Even Dewey Schmetterling, who had been unable to resist coining “Maggie’s Saloon,” felt the urge to re-establish friendly relations with Margaret Peel. After a minor triumph in securing her full address from Prender he telegraphed his congratulations, beginning, “Oh, Pioneers!” He would have been furious if he had known Sarah Bly was, even at that moment, arriving in town. A luncheon at the Ritz or, as a last resort, a dinner at Twenty-one would have ensured an invitation to spend a week or two on the ranch. He would have mentioned casually that he was about to leave to visit friends on the West Coast (what an amazing coincidence!); and Sarah would have smiled with pleasure and said, “Well, do come and see us on your way.” Sarah and Maggie were good-hearted girls, if a trifle odd. Take this Rest and be Thankful. Probably bought the place to have that address on their note-paper, with Telephone Sweetwater Seven Seven on the side. Maggie would be quaint even if it killed her. He had to see her in cowboy clothes... Maggie Oakley... That would be a gem for his collection.
But Prender Atherton Jones hadn’t been too explicit about the telegram. He was planning to give Sarah dinner at Twenty-one himself.
So Sarah’s arrival in New York went unannounced, and she could spend an explanatory morning with Mr. Quick, their lawyer; and another equally wearing morning with Mr. Jobson, their pet banker; and an afternoon with her hairdresser; and in between she scored items off long lists in bookshops, music-shops, garden-shops, and gadget-shops. Thanks to Prender Atherton Jones’s discretion, there were no friendly interruptions.
Her days were complicated enough, anyway, by the quick succession of telegrams from Wyoming.
“Get blue jeans bleached and pre-shrunk as advertised New Yorker. Plenty of shirts laundry difficult. No satin definitely no satin.”
“Medicines we know and trust. Don’t forget poison-ivy rattlesnakes flies moths calamine lotion sunshade flannel nightgowns hot-water bottles.”
“Boots half-size larger and start breaking them in. Socks too.”
The last telegram did full justice to Margaret’s ten-line editorialising: “Skiing underwear.” This put Sarah in a better humour, even while shopping in New York’s most blistering mood, when the sight of wool was enough to cause a third-degree burn. Some Telemark undervests and Schneider crouch panties, please. Her private joke was abandoned, however, before the eighth store had lifted its eyebrows at such an unseasonable request, but managed to retrieve some wool objects for her from its bargain basement. They looked tent-like, but they would shrink: you could depend on wool. She scored off the last memorandum on her crumpled shopping-lists, and prayed that she would be safely in the ’plane for Wyoming before the next telegram arrived.
* * *
On the last evening Sarah was to have dinner with Prender Atherton
* * *
The news about Rest and be Thankful spread very quickly in New York too, even if there were plenty of worrying headlines to read in the newspapers. It only took one morning for all last winter’s visitors to Maggie’s Saloon to get on to the ’phone to each other, as soon as Prender Atherton Jones had called them and read the telegram he had received from Rest and be Thankful, Wyoming.
“Can you imagine?”
“So very rugged, my dear.”
“Sounds fun. Do you know, I’ve never seen the West. Did they say how many bedrooms?”
“Are they setting up a printing-press too, along with free beer and pretzels?”
“They are crazy.”
“I’m almost an unknown author. Do you think I’d qualify?”
“She must be weighted down with money. Did you say old man Peel was a millionaire? And she never told us.”
“Do they need any lecturers?”
* * *
Some might laugh, some might sneer, but the idea caught many people’s fancy—especially those who hadn’t yet arranged how to spend the summer. Even Dewey Schmetterling, who had been unable to resist coining “Maggie’s Saloon,” felt the urge to re-establish friendly relations with Margaret Peel. After a minor triumph in securing her full address from Prender he telegraphed his congratulations, beginning, “Oh, Pioneers!” He would have been furious if he had known Sarah Bly was, even at that moment, arriving in town. A luncheon at the Ritz or, as a last resort, a dinner at Twenty-one would have ensured an invitation to spend a week or two on the ranch. He would have mentioned casually that he was about to leave to visit friends on the West Coast (what an amazing coincidence!); and Sarah would have smiled with pleasure and said, “Well, do come and see us on your way.” Sarah and Maggie were good-hearted girls, if a trifle odd. Take this Rest and be Thankful. Probably bought the place to have that address on their note-paper, with Telephone Sweetwater Seven Seven on the side. Maggie would be quaint even if it killed her. He had to see her in cowboy clothes... Maggie Oakley... That would be a gem for his collection.
But Prender Atherton Jones hadn’t been too explicit about the telegram. He was planning to give Sarah dinner at Twenty-one himself.
So Sarah’s arrival in New York went unannounced, and she could spend an explanatory morning with Mr. Quick, their lawyer; and another equally wearing morning with Mr. Jobson, their pet banker; and an afternoon with her hairdresser; and in between she scored items off long lists in bookshops, music-shops, garden-shops, and gadget-shops. Thanks to Prender Atherton Jones’s discretion, there were no friendly interruptions.
Her days were complicated enough, anyway, by the quick succession of telegrams from Wyoming.
“Get blue jeans bleached and pre-shrunk as advertised New Yorker. Plenty of shirts laundry difficult. No satin definitely no satin.”
“Medicines we know and trust. Don’t forget poison-ivy rattlesnakes flies moths calamine lotion sunshade flannel nightgowns hot-water bottles.”
“Boots half-size larger and start breaking them in. Socks too.”
The last telegram did full justice to Margaret’s ten-line editorialising: “Skiing underwear.” This put Sarah in a better humour, even while shopping in New York’s most blistering mood, when the sight of wool was enough to cause a third-degree burn. Some Telemark undervests and Schneider crouch panties, please. Her private joke was abandoned, however, before the eighth store had lifted its eyebrows at such an unseasonable request, but managed to retrieve some wool objects for her from its bargain basement. They looked tent-like, but they would shrink: you could depend on wool. She scored off the last memorandum on her crumpled shopping-lists, and prayed that she would be safely in the ’plane for Wyoming before the next telegram arrived.
* * *
On the last evening Sarah was to have dinner with Prender Atherton
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