Perfect Freedom (77 page)

He entered a limbo period, waiting for the show to close, waiting for the summer theater job to begin, waiting to find out one way or the other if he should include his family in his plans, and, above all, saving money. He was amazed how much he could save, once the cook and the maid were gone. He saw no reason to pay Nanny's wages or Pam's expenses so long as his mother was running the show. Money in the bank—his very own. He loved it.

He slowly dropped out of the city's party life and made contact again with friends from the early days, among them Phil Boetz. Phil approved of the way Lance was handling current developments.

“Stick to it,” he said, sucking on his pipe. “Hollywood you don't need. You married Pam under false pretenses. She thought she was getting a Vanderholden, poor girl. Maybe you'll find you don't even need the theater.”

“I'd quit it in a minute if I could think of something else.”

“Coal mining, spot welding, repairing telephones, to name a few of the more glamorous possibilities. I'll bet they
do
sound glamorous to you. Nobody but you would think of quitting after the success you've had. Most people would want to hang on to it for dear life. What can fame and fortune mean to a Vanderholden? You think it would be exciting to disappear into the downtrodden masses. There's a girl I want you to meet. You're getting so close to being a human being that a lot of people probably can't tell the difference.”

Phil introduced him to Scot. From then on, being with Scot was what life was all about.

He told his building's agent that he was leaving. Legal steps could be taken to seize the contents of the apartment for nonpayment of rent or, perhaps more reasonably, his wife could be contacted in care of his mother. He felt sure that the balance of the rent would be paid and the place emptied in the normal way. The agent clearly wanted no trouble with the Vanderholdens although he reminded Lance of what the papers would make of the story if he were forced to carry out a legal eviction.

Lance packed his opulent wardrobe and moved out. He had notified the summer theater that he was turning down their offer. He didn't know what he was going to do. He knew only that he had to be with Scot and Scot didn't take actors seriously.

The uneventful peace of Puerto Veragua didn't drive away the nightmares about Scot. He would wake up in a panic, his heart pounding, stomach leaden but protesting. He was never going to see Scot again. He whimpered, half-asleep, shifting his limbs about to ease the weight of dread in them. He knew that the sleeping girl beside him was Luisa. He knew where he was. His half-waking thoughts scattered and his heart steadied. Only half-formed words remained, and the guilt for being who and what he was, guilt for not being what Scot needed, guilt for the moments of contentment, the glimpses of accomplishment he was beginning to experience in Puerto Veragua without her.

As Luisa and the sun and sea and his odd jobs all conspired to give him a sense of a new life beginning, he resisted the message of hope that stirred in him. It was all too easy, too exotic, too escapist. The days passed under the burning vault of the sky; at night, the little house on the hill was cut adrift from the world, lapped by the infinite silver sea. He was simply there, every day marking a postponement of his departure. He told himself that he was waiting to hear from Andy. Andy had expected his work in the capital to take about a month. He might turn up any minute if he found some free time over a weekend. If anybody could, Andy might help him see some sense in what he was doing, give him a feeling of life continuing rather than being cruelly cut in two. At least Luisa was saving him from the madness of loneliness he had brought with him.

Unknown to him, she was acquiring a sense of the future. She found herself wondering, to her own surprise, if there was anything more she could do to keep him with her. She had never thought in this way, as if she could exercise some control over life. She reminded herself that he was a rich foreigner, she was his servant. Yet he made her feel somehow that there was more to it than that.

As she watched his activities around the place, she was almost convinced that this was sign enough that he was staying. Nobody planted vegetables without intending to eat them and it took time for vegetables to grow. She wondered if committing the sin she was so eager to commit would help to keep him or if, as many older women had warned her, a man lost interest in a girl after he had put his prong inside her. She didn't think he was that kind of man. If he were, he would have done it when he was lying so beautifully naked beside her, whether or not she wished it, and gone out to look for a new girl. He was waiting for a sign, just as she was. Perhaps they would recognize it together when it came.

To find some sense of conflict in the soothing passage of tropical days, Lance chose Flip Rawls as an antagonist. From the day he had moved into the house she had pelted him—it was the word he chose to describe the mild annoyance of her chauffeur's constant appearances—with reminders of her presence as a neighbor.

Invitations, bottles of wine, another sarong, exotic plants were delivered regularly by her emissary. Lance refused the invitations, first because he had no taste for the sort of social life she represented and then because he chose to make it a battle of wills. When simply refusing began to pall, he decided to test to what extent Mrs. Rawls believed in becoming a part of the native life. He wrote a note explaining that he was sorry to have refused her previous invitations but that he had a friend, a local girl, staying with him and didn't feel he could accept for himself alone. He was sure Mrs. Rawls already knew about his living arrangements. He was interested to see how she would sidestep the issue.

When he told Luisa what he'd done, she was terrified. “But you don't expect Señora Rawls to invite me too!” she cried.

“But of course,” he said, smiling down at her as they stood together on the terrace. “We are together. It is natural to invite you.”

“Do the North Americans always invite their friends' servants?” she asked slowly. The words were a shock to him. No matter how slight his emotional commitment to her, he certainly didn't regard her as a servant, and he was shocked that he hadn't made her feel it. He put his hand under her chin and lifted her face and looked into her eyes.

“You are not my servant,” he said gravely. “You are—You are—” What could he say that wasn't too much or too little? He shouldn't have used Luisa to make his point with Flip Rawls. He dropped his hand and turned from Luisa abruptly and stood looking down at the rocky cove, realizing that he had already stayed too long to be able to leave without marking her in some way. He had been thinking only of himself, of finding something good here for himself. Could he stay on without its becoming too important to her and a responsibility for him that he was in no position to undertake?

“You don't understand,” Luisa was explaining steadfastly behind him. “Even if I were your wife, the wife of a great man, I wouldn't go. Here, women don't go out with men. It is not expected.”

“It's no matter,” Lance muttered. “We will not go.”

“Oh, but you must go,” she said, realizing with a thrill of pride that she was speaking to him as an equal. She had dared compare herself to a wife to make her point clear. “Señora Rawls is very important here.” Lance turned back and took her hand and gave it a squeeze without looking at her.

“To me, you are more important than Señora Rawls,” he said before striding off down the terrace toward the vegetable garden. He had to close the incident before his uncertainty with the language led him to say more than he intended.

Luisa stood looking after him even when he was out of sight. As her first alarm at being invited by Señora Rawls passed, she was aware that something had happened between them that required understanding. She had to think of each moment one by one in order to take it in. He hadn't ordered her to go to the party. When he knew that she didn't want to go, he had been willing not to go himself. It was the first time anybody had considered her wishes to this extent and it gave her an odd feeling, almost like being lost and alone and having to choose between two paths, but it made her chest swell with pride, too. Best of all was what he hadn't said. There were so many things he didn't know the words for but she knew from the way he had looked at her, from the way he had spoken, that he was trying to say something that would have pleased her very much. It made her feel that her time might be coming.

Flip Rawls's reply to Lance's note was prompt and unequivocal. The chauffeur returned with it tucked into an enormous cardboard box. Of course he must bring his friend, she wrote. She was dying to meet her. Meanwhile here were some things that might please her. He was pleasantly impressed. The box contained several brilliantly colored robes heavy with gold and silver thread which to Lance looked vaguely Oriental. Luisa stood at his elbow while he shook them out.

“What are they for?” she asked wonderingly.

“For you. To wear, I think. But not for every day.” They laughed together at the thought. She was puzzled by the savagery of their colors and decorations. She would have preferred the much plainer sort of dress the film stars wore. Of course, she knew Señora Rawls hadn't really sent them to her—he must be very important indeed to receive such attentions—but it was an additional source of pride that she should even be mentioned by the great lady.

“I think now we go,” he told her. “I ask her invite you. She invites. Rude if you not go. These not your people. Foreign husbands and wives go together. You with me, you do the same as foreigners.”

Her eyes widened as she looked up at him, and the place between her legs seemed to melt. He was telling her that he thought of her as his wife.

“I will go if you wish it. I will go and thank the
señora
for her gift. Must I stay and talk to many people? They do not speak my language. To them I am your servant. It's not suitable.”

He put a hand on her bare breast. Mrs. Rawls's reply eliminated her as an antagonist and brought him a step closer to thinking of Puerto Veragua as a possible solution to the immediate future. His growing affection for Luisa was beginning to provide a sort of center to life and couldn't do either of them any harm so long as they observed her sexual restraints. She was gently submissive but had a mind of her own. It wasn't fair to ask her to go through a whole evening in a situation where she would feel totally lost. “Then it is like that,” he said. “You stay how long you want. Thank you.”

No one had ever thanked her for saying what she thought. Her chest swelled with pride again. A great deal was happening that she would have to think about carefully and try to understand. “What will I wear?” she asked.

He caressed her breasts and made her nipples stand up. “So pretty like this. We get a dress.”

The invitation was for the following evening. They walked into town the next morning and Luisa picked out a frilly little American-style day dress. She looked sadly commonplace when she tried it on but she seemed very pleased with it. She asked timidly if she could have shoes and picked out some cheap-looking pumps.

That evening Luisa was greeted by their hostess as if the party were especially for her. Mrs. Rawls clasped her to her bosom and told her that she was
adorable
, pronouncing it in French. Luisa made a polite little speech in Spanish. Mrs. Rawls turned to Lance, looking bewildered. “She has a rather odd accent. I get all my languages so terribly mixed up. Does she—”

“She can't stay. She wanted to come to thank you for the things you sent and for inviting her.”

“She's delicious. I know her, of course. I know all the natives. They're my children.” She turned to Luisa. “Forgive me for giving you such short notice,” she said in English in a loud firm voice. “Next time, you must stay all evening.”

Lance gave Luisa a rough idea of what had been said, pleased that he could already act as an interpreter. He squeezed her hand and nodded in reply to the question in her eyes about leaving. “Me home not late,” he assured her.

Flip Rawls took his hand in both of hers when she was gone and leaned back, looking up at him with a winsome tilt of her head. “Dear Lance. I feel as if I'd known you for years. I'm going to call you Lance. I'm Flip. How superb you're looking. Your tan is very becoming. The sun is turning your hair quite golden. If you hadn't come, my evening would have been a disaster. My guest of honor couldn't make it. He won't be here for another week or two. I've been saving him as a beautiful surprise for you. Robbie Cosling. Do you know him? The famous painter who calls himself Robi. One of my dearest friends. His father is Lord—Oh, you know the one. The richest man in Canada. He hasn't been a lord very long. When I last saw him he was plain Stuart Cosling, although there was nothing plain about him.”

“I've heard of Barry Cosling. He's Lord Barstlow, isn't he?”

“Was. You've got it exactly. I knew you would. Robbie's grandfather. Now his
father
is Lord Barstlow. Of course, Robbie's a celebrity in his own right.”

“Are you talking about Robi, the painter?” he asked with interest, snatching a nugget from the conversational torrent.

“Yes. Isn't that right? I'm sure it is. He's brilliant. You have so much in common. I don't know which of you is the better-looking. Robbie lived for years with a charming man who was recently killed in a plane crash. Such a waste. You've suffered a great loss too. I can feel it. I feel you have so much to offer each other.”

“You flatter me. As far as I'm concerned, Robi's the best new painter since the war.” Remembering the excitement he had shared with Scot when they had discovered his work at a show a few months ago, his heart contracted and he felt the sting behind his eyes. He blurted out the first thing that came to mind: “I'll be damned. You're really expecting him here?”