Carla (17 page)

Everything was wrong, horribly wrong. The thought of giving up Danny forever was almost more than she could bear. She couldn't erase the memory of his tone when he told her never to come back again. Well, she had deserved it. She deserved everything he said to her. She should have told him before instead of waiting so long. Then maybe there would have been a chance; maybe she could have convinced him that marriage was senseless and unnecessary and that their relationship could continue indefinitely.

But now she had lost him. He wouldn't take her now, not after the scene in his room. Not in a million years. She felt that she had lost something very precious, possibly the most precious thing she had ever possessed.

Would it have been worth it to marry him? She told herself
no
automatically, but doubts began to nag and gnaw at her mind. Could love substitute complete for money? Could she get used to living again without a full closet and a maid to clean the house?

Well, there was no sense worrying about that now. Not now, not after tonight. It would be something to think about when there was nothing else to do, but that was the only value the question would ever hold.

The cab sped on into the night. She went over the same questions and supplied the same answers, answers that left her as confused as the questions did. She was so deeply immersed in her questions and answers that the cabby had to tell her twice that she had reached the Tiffany. She got out of the cab and paid him, walking past the same impenetrable doorman and into the hotel.

Moments later she stood outside of Charles Butler's room, hesitating before knocking. Would he be home? More important, would he have a girl with him? Knowing Charles, it was more than possible. He was the complete libertine, but at the same time he was a good and thoughtful man.

But if he had a girl in there, she would be about as welcome as a case of bubonic plague.

She gathered up her courage and knocked softly. A second later the door opened and Charles stood before her. He wore the same dressing-gown she had seen so often in the past, and he was visibly surprised to see her. Then he recovered and led her inside.

When she was seated across from Charles the words wouldn't come. Charles seemed to sense her mood and waited silently for her to speak. Then, when she could talk at last, the words poured from her lips like water through a broken dike. She told him everything from the beginning to the end, told it in a frenzied rush with repetitions and stammering, told every bit of it until the whole bitter thing was said.

Then they were both silent once again.

“How do you feel?” he asked.

“Rotten.”

He nodded. “What are you going to do now?”

“What
can
I do?”

“I don't know.”

“There's nothing to do,” she said dully. “Can't you see that? I've lost him and that's all there is to it. I can't get him back. I'm stuck. I'm up the creek in a lead canoe without a paddle.”

He smiled gently. “Can you swim?”

“No,” she said. “Not even that.”

He put two cigarettes in his mouth, lit them, and passed one to her. She accepted it gratefully and drew smoke into her lungs.

“Look,” he said, “what precisely do you want? That's the first thing you have to decide.”

“I want him.”

“On what terms?”

“On the same terms we had. It was good, Charles. It was wonderful, honestly it was. We were as good as married without any strings and without financial problems. It was the perfect arrangement.”

“Can you get him to return to that sort of arrangement?”

“Never.”

“Can't talk him into it?”

She shook her head. “He's stubborn, Charles. He's strong and stubborn and proud. There's not a chance in the world that he'd take me back the same way.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “Then that's out. What's your second choice?”

“What do you mean?”

“Your second choice,” he repeated. “You can't get him back on those terms, so you have to decide on some other solution.”

“Like what?”

He shrugged. “That's up to you, Carla. You have to figure it out for yourself. Do you want him enough to marry him?”

No,
she started to say, but she stopped before saying it. Instead she said, “I'm not sure.”

“Do you know what it would mean to marry him?”

“It would mean I'd be poor again.”

“It would mean other things, too. It would mean you'd be Carla Rand instead of Carla Macon. It would mean no more life of leisure. It would mean a good many things you wouldn't like at all.”

“I know that,” she said. “Don't you think I've figured it out a few hundred times?”

“I'm sure you have. And do you know what it would mean to lose him?”

“I—”

“It would mean hating yourself, Carla. It would mean wondering what might have been if you
had
married him, and that kind of wondering can go on forever.”

After a moment, she asked, “Then what should I do? I lose either way.”

He smiled sadly. “You have to make a choice, and you're taking a fall either way, as you say. But it's a choice that has to be made. I can't tell you what to do.”

“Which do you think is better for me, Charles?”

“What does that matter?”

“It matters. You know me very well, and you have a pretty deep understanding of people. I think you might be able to straighten me out.”

He shook his head. “Not me, Carla. I don't know just how deep my understanding of people may be, but you seem to give it more credit than I do. I probably appear to be a good deal deeper than I am. However, that's neither here not there. Perhaps some people like to play God; I'm not one of them. You'll have to straighten yourself out.

“Look at the thing this way: whichever course of action I might advise you to take would be the wrong one—simply by virtue of my advising it. The best advice is to take none. Do you see what I mean?”

“Of course. I guess I was looking for an easy way out.”

He smiled again and stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray. He didn't reply, and she was left alone with her own thoughts. Talking had helped, and talking with Charles had been particularly helpful. The few words he said managed to clear up a lot of things. She was still torn by conflicting desires, but now she recognized those desires and saw what two courses lay open to her. The choice was hers and had to be hers, but now she would be able to think clearly enough to make a choice.

“Charles,” she said suddenly, “didn't you tell me how foolish marriage was? Doesn't that show which choice you think I should make?”

“No,” he said, “not at all. I told you what marriage would be for me, not for you. The fact that you've already chosen Danny forever, that you want a permanent alliance in one form or another; tends to negate that way of thinking for you. The choice is completely open for you, Carla.”

They fell silent once again. Yes, she decided, he was right. She was the type of woman to be married, but at the same time she was the type of woman to be supported by a rich man. Those were the two points of conflicts, and anything else would only obscure the real issue.

“I have to stay here tonight,” she said after a few more minutes.

“Why?”

“I can't go home. Oh, I suppose I could, but I don't want to. Ronald's a good man. You know what he's like. But I just couldn't see him tonight. I don't think I could take it.”

“Would you like to take a hotel room? If you're short I can float you a loan.”

“I have money,” she answered quickly. “But I don't want that if I can help it. I couldn't take being alone tonight, not after all this. Unless you're expecting company or—”

“Nothing like that. I just thought you might prefer privacy.” He stood up. “You know you're always welcome here.”

She stood up too and looked long and hard into his eyes. She realized all at once how strong he was—not strong with the rugged virile strength that Danny possessed, but strong in a different sort of a way entirely. He was a man she could always depend on, a man who would always be there when she needed him. He was a man who had complete possession of himself.

And he was a good man.

“Charles?”

“What is it, dear?”

“I was wondering. Would it bother you if I slept here?”

“Of course not.”

“I mean—Would it make you … nervous?”

His brow furrowed. “How do you mean?”

“Don't you know.”

“Oh,” he said. “I see. No, I'll be all right, Carla.”

She took a step toward him and her breasts were just inches from his chest. “If you want,” she said, “I'll sleep with you. It wouldn't be the first time.”

He sighed and took her in his arms, holding her firmly to him and breathing very slowly. Then, suddenly, he pushed her away.

“Not like this,” he said. “Not when you don't want to, Carla. Perhaps there will be a time for us, a time for the two of us to be together, but now isn't the time.

“I wouldn't want to wake up and hear you whispering another man's name into the pillow.”

“I wouldn't—”

“You might,” he cut in. “It's happened before. But the important thing is that this is not what you want, Carla. Is it?”

“No,” she said softly. “No, I guess it isn't.”

“Definitely not. And I'm not quite rotten enough to make a girl give herself to me in exchange for room and board. You take the bedroom, dear, and I'll make do on the couch.”

“Don't be silly,” she protested. “I can take the couch.”

He chuckled. “You wouldn't say that if you ever slept on the couch. Go on—go to bed.” He gave her a gentle shove toward the bedroom and she went in, closing the door after her.

The bed felt good—soft and warm. She didn't think sleep would be possible for her but found to her surprise that she was almost wholly exhausted. The emotional upheaval followed by the therapeutic conversation with Charles had drawn all the tension out of her and left her as limp as a dishrag. Her head sank into the pillow and her brain whirled around in little circles.

Decisions, decisions, decisions. She couldn't think now, not with the bed so soft and her head so light and fuzzy inside. Tomorrow there would be time, time to spare. Tomorrow there would be time for whatever thinking had to be done.

But the bed was so comfortable, so deliciously comfortable. She had been in this bed before but now it was different. Now all she wanted to do was to go to sleep for a long, long time.

Her eyes closed and stayed shut. Her mind swam.

And she slept.

Chapter Seventeen

WHEN CARLA STOOD AT
the curb in front of the Hotel Tiffany waiting for the doorman to hail her a taxi, the sun was shining down and the air was warm. The weather suited her mood. She felt good and glad to be alive. Her mind was made up, her body rested from a good sound sleep, her skin clean and fresh from the shower.

A taxi pulled up to the curb and Carla slipped a coin into the waiting palm of the doorman. Then she hopped into the cab and gave the driver her address. She rolled down the window and let the wind toss her hair a little. It felt good.

Decisions were a nuisance. She never liked them and supposed she never would. Although she appeared on the outside to be a strong woman, she knew that this was not really the case. A strong woman wouldn't have the problems she had, and if she did she would manage to solve them quickly and expediently.

She took a deep breath of the fresh air and held it in her lungs. Decisions, decisions, decisions. They were so damned hard to make, and she went to sleep the night before with no notion in her head as to what course of action was best for her.

But when she awakened there was no decision to be made. She knew instantly what she would do.

When she told Charles he hadn't said anything. He kept his face impassive and simply showed her to the door. But she sensed that he agreed that her choice was the wise one, the only one that would permit her to be happy.

For a second her mind clouded over with doubt. Was it definitely the proper choice? It had to be, she told herself. It simply had to be.

She leaned back, relaxed and lit a cigarette. By the time the cigarette was a stub to be thrown out the window, the cab had reached its destination. She alighted from it, paid and tipped the driver, and walked slowly to the front door of her home.

Her hand reached instinctively for the doorbell. No, she decided, leaving the bell unrung. No, she didn't need to disturb Lizzie. She fumbled in her purse for her key and fitted it in the lock. The key turned and the door opened and she stepped inside.

It was good to be home. She opened her mouth to call Lizzie but again decided to leave the girl to her work. She hesitated in the vestibule, undecided as to what to do first. There seemed to be a million things to do and she didn't know where to start.

Slowly she walked from the vestibule to the living-room. Her purse hung loosely at her side. She entered the living-room and started across it when her eyes suddenly darted to the large arm-chair.

Danny Rand was seated there, his eyes burning angrily into hers.

Carla opened her mouth but no words came out. She was totally stunned. What was Danny doing here? His presence in itself was alarming, and the look of hate in his eyes was overpowering.

She took an automatic step toward him. Then he stood up and his countenance was so disturbing that she withdrew a step.

“
You bitch!
”

For one hysterical second she was positive that he was going to kill her. “What are you doing here?” she stammered.

“What do you want?”

He only stared at her.

“How did you get in?”

“Through the front door,” he said. “The same way you got in. After you left I remembered that you didn't have a car, so I went downstairs to take you home. By the time I hit the street you were gone.”