Carla (4 page)

She estimated his age at anywhere between 35 and 45. His blond crew-cut made him look young, as did the sparkle that was always present in his eyes and the half-smile that formed frequently upon his lips. He was tall and slender, moving gracefully and easily. She watched him constantly while they had drinks in the living-room and continued watching him over the dinner table. She had never met anyone quite like him in her entire life.

“I guess you could call me an overgrown playboy,” he explained at one point. “My grandfather made a fortune, my dad made a good try at losing the whole bundle, and I'm content to merely amuse myself with what money is left.”

“But what do you do?” she asked, fascinated.

“Travel, read, whatever I want. There are always things for a man to do and new places to see.” Then he changed the subject quickly, seemingly unwilling to talk about himself.

In spite of this, she managed to discover quite a bit about Charles Butler during the remainder of the evening, and everything she learned served to stimulate her interest in him. He was decidedly attractive—not in the brutish way of the gas station attendant, but with a polish and suavity which appealed to her strongly.

She learned that he lived alone, in a bachelor's apartment at the Tiffany, one of Buffalo's most luxurious residential hotels. He had the touch of the connoisseur about him, a deep interest and appreciation for quality and taste in everything from food and wine to clothing and home furnishings. Carla guessed immediately that the same appreciation for quality carried over into his love life. It was easy to see that he was a man of extensive experience. Although he never gave her the frank and hungry stare she had come to expect from men, she knew that he found her desirable. Several times at the dinner table his glance found hers and held it for a split-second, and once or twice she noticed his eyes surveying her figure casually.

She wondered what it would be like, being possessed and loved by such a poised and smooth person as Charles Butler. The thought bothered her, but she couldn't force it from her mind.

It was late in the evening before he took his leave. He took her hand in the doorway and held it just a little bit longer than necessary. The subtle but insistent pressure of his fingertips upon the palm of her hand set her trembling against her will. She was actually afraid of him, afraid of a man who could excite her so easily.

What was the matter with her? Perhaps it was true, as her mother had said years ago: she must be a tramp, an insatiable slut who never got enough in the way of loving. Here she was, married to a wealthy and loving husband, coming fresh from the embraces of a rough boor and ready for a fresh go with a friend of Ronald.

What was the matter with her?

No, she decided firmly, she couldn't let Charles make love to her. With a man like the gas-station attendant she was safe: he didn't know who she was and she would never see him again, at least not for a good long while. But Ronald and Charles were friends, and if anything started in those quarters it would be bad for her.

Usually when she made a decision her mind was able to relax. Now, however, things didn't seem to work that way. Although she told herself repeatedly that she wouldn't have an affair with Charles, there was a nagging doubt in the back of her mind as she recalled the look in his eyes and the touch of his hand on hers.

For the second night it a row, it was a long time before she drifted off to sleep.

In a far less imposing room on the other side of town, Danny Rand had his own troubles sleeping. He tossed feverishly on his creaking army cot, trying to concentrate on the problem at hand.

The problem was money.

While he made a good salary running the gas station, Danny knew there was no future working for somebody else, especially in his business. If he could only save up some dough he could buy the station on time from his company, and then the money would start to come in. He lived frugally enough, paying six bucks a week for the hole-in-the-wall of a room he had and taking his lunches with him. But whenever he got a little pile together, something always came up and he blew the dough on some damn thing he hardly wanted in the first place.

It was time for him to settle down and save his money. Christ, in another year he would be thirty, and what did he have to show for it? No money, no home, no wife and no kids. A fat string of zeroes.

The problem was money, and he had to find a way to keep from spending what he managed to save. But he couldn't manage to concentrate on his problem. His mind kept returning to the woman he had met that afternoon, the woman who liked her loving on a grease-room floor. At first, smarting from the way she had left him and patronizingly advised him to keep the change, he had dismissed her as a rich little bitch hunting for kicks.

But she was more than that. The bit in the greaseroom was no act; he ran his finger across his throat and could still feel the tooth-marks where she bit him in a moment of heightened passion. Closing his eyes, he could recall perfectly the shape of her perfect breasts and the slope of her thighs. He remembered the way her skin was all satiny beneath him. She was a beautiful and passionate woman, and although he was no raw schoolboy when it came to dames, this one had him knocked for a loop. He had to admit it—he was pretty hung up on her.

But what kind of a chance did he have? Those clothes cost plenty of money, and the MG wasn't a toy. She was used to luxury and he sure as hell couldn't give her that. He was just a game for her, someone to satisfy her when she needed loving. She didn't care any more about him than about a meal she had already eaten and digested.

Forget her, he advised himself. Keep on working and save your money and marry one of your own kind, a gal who doesn't expect a mansion and servants.

But he couldn't put her out of his mind. Christ, he didn't even know her name! He had to find out who she was, had to get some idea of the kind of person he had enjoyed himself with so completely.

He had to see her again.

He sat up suddenly and turned on the overhead light, blinking at the sudden brightness. He found what he was looking for in the pocket of his slacks—a tiny scrap of paper with a hasty scrawl on it. For a moment he hesitated, uncertain. Then, resolutely, he put on his bathrobe and stalked into the hallway to the pay phone. He dropped a dime into the slot and began to dial a number.

Chapter Four

HER SHOWER THE
next morning left Carla refreshed and awake, but she found herself unable to rinse the events of the previous day from her mind. Perhaps it was no more than her imagination, but her hand still seemed to tingle where Charles' fingers had held it so firmly. He was a new type of man, a man infinitely more sophisticated than any of the boys she had grown up with, yet far more romantic and intense than any of Ronald's other friends.

Her vow of last night didn't seem to help matters. Although she knew how fatal it would be to have an affair with Charles, she felt weak and powerless inside. If only there was someone for her to talk things over with! She couldn't figure everything out by herself, not when so many things were happening so quickly.

She dressed and polished off her breakfast in short order. Thoughtfully, she smoked a cigarette and took a long look out the breakfast-room window. The yard next door was a blaze of color, with roses climbing the sides of the garage and other flowers competing with them for her attention. It was funny, she thought. The people on Nottingham were lucky enough to have gardens and the time to work in them, and they sacrificed that pleasure by hiring a gardener to take care of all the work. It didn't make much sense.

She wondered vaguely who the neighbors might be. Ronald had told her once but the name didn't stick in her mind. That was the big trouble. She didn't really know anyone, not even the people next door.

The cigarette burned down and she ground it out in the red beanbag ashtray. “Lizzie!” she called.

Lizzie hurried into the breakfast-room, looking stunning in her white uniform. Her eyes were very bright, and they held a perpetual expression of wisdom. Perhaps, Carla thought, the girl might be able to give her some help.

“Sit down for a minute, Lizzie.”

Lizzie hesitated for a minute, then took a seat across the table from Carla. “Is anything the matter?” she asked. “Was your breakfast all right, Mrs. Macon?”

“Everything's fine. I just wanted to talk with you for a minute or two.”

The girl relaxed visibly and smiled.

“Lizzie, I—Do you go out much with boys?”

“Sometimes.”

“Well, do you ever—I mean—”

Lizzie smiled. “Mrs. Macon, are you trying to ask me if I ever sleep with a man?”

“Why, I—”

“That's all right; I don't mind talking, Mrs. Macon. I'm not a virgin, if that's what you mean.”

Carla pulled another cigarette from the pack and lighted it, embarrassed and mildly envious of the ease with which the girl spoke. She tried to put herself in Lizzie's position, realizing as she did so that she could never talk so freely to an employer.

“That's not exactly what I meant,” she said, blowing out a cloud of smoke. “I just wondered how you felt about things between a man and woman.”

“About sex?”

“That's what I mean.”

“I don't spend too much time thinking about it, Mrs. Macon.”

Carla paused, searching for the right phrase. “How do you feel about it, though?” she asked. “I mean, do you think it's right sometimes and wrong other times? That sometimes a man and woman have a right to sleep together and other times they shouldn't?” She paused, expectantly.

Lizzie considered the question for a minute, her eyes narrowing in concentration. “I guess I don't think much about right and wrong,” she admitted. “If I go out with a man, I just let things happen.”

“Let them happen? How do you mean?”

“Well, if I go out with a man and I have a good time, I'll go up to his apartment or out parking with him in his car. I let him kiss me, and if I enjoy the way he kisses me I let him go farther. And as long as there's nothing bothersome about it, I just let it go on.”

“Don't you ever feel that it's wrong?”

Lizzie shook her head. “I don't feel that way about it,” she said. “If I have a good time with a man, how should it be wrong? Neither of us is getting hurt or anything like that. We aren't hurting anybody else either. I just don't think anything nice between two people can be wrong, Mrs. Macon.”

“I see. Do you believe in God, Lizzie?”

“Of course, Mrs. Macon.”

“Well, doesn't that change the way you feel?”

“No—why should it? I just think God wants people to be good to each other, and sleeping with a man isn't hurting anybody, is it?”

Carla nodded absently, wondering how to say more without giving herself away. She took another long drag on the cigarette and watched the smoke drift lazily to the ceiling.

“Lizzie,” she said finally, “what if one of the persons is married to somebody else? Would that make a difference?”

“I don't know,” Lizzie said. Slowly a puzzled look came over her face, and Carla thought for a second that the girl had an inkling of the purpose of all the questions. She decided to end the conversation before revealing too much.

“I guess that's all,” Carla said, standing up from the table. “I didn't mean to pry, but I just wanted to chat a little. It's always interesting to find out how different people feel about things,” she added lamely.

The puzzled expression vanished and there was no trace of perception on Lizzie's face as she said, “Certainly, Mrs. Macon. Any time you want to ask me about anything, just go right ahead.”

Back in her bedroom, Carla went over the conversation in her mind. If only she had Lizzie's attitude, things would be so much easier. She could imagine how the girl would handle herself in a situation like this one. First of all, she'd be clever enough to avoid getting so desperate that she would have to root around on a grease-room floor like some kind of animal. She'd do the sensible thing and get herself a lover, a man like Charles but not a person her husband knew. She'd be smart about it, and she'd be able to make Ronald a good wife without torturing herself in the process.

She giggled suddenly, getting a mental picture of Ronald's face if he could know about the affair with the garage mechanic. She tried to guess how he would react to the sight of her writhing on the floor in the man's embrace, her sweat mingling with his and her lips on his throat.

Oh, what was the matter with her? Maybe she had sex on the brain, just as some people had water on the knee. She wasn't sex-starved any more, not after yesterday, but she still couldn't get Charles out of her mind. She imagined being married to Charles instead of to Ronald. Charles was rich too, but he would be able to give her the satisfaction that Ronald couldn't supply. She would still possess the necessary prestige and security without any of the great disadvantages of being the wife of an older man.

Being married to Charles would solve everything.

But she was dreaming. She wasn't making any sense at all, getting off on tangents that had nothing to do with the situation. For all she knew, Charles wasn't even interested in getting her into bed. Maybe she was reading far too much into a glance across the table and the touch of his hand at the door. It might be nothing more than his way of being polite. A man as sophisticated and smooth as Charles could probably order ham-and-eggs in a restaurant and let the waitress think he was propositioning her.

And, she reflected, he would probably be successful with the waitress—when he was just trying to order a plate of ham-and-eggs.

But she couldn't be wrong. She sensed his desire with the intuition she had developed over the years, a sense of intuition which could spot the hunger in a man with no difficulty. She had never been wrong before. Charles must want her.