Authors: John P. Marquand

Sincerely, Willis Wayde (71 page)

BOOK: Sincerely, Willis Wayde

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“Well, I know what you do deserve, dear,” Sylvia told him. “You deserve another cocktail, and I think maybe I do, too. In fact, when you ordered them I told the waiter to bring two apiece, and here's another now.”

“So that's what you were saying to him?” Willis said. “It's funny, I can read a French newspaper, but I don't seem to understand the speech.”

“Darling,” Sylvia said, and she put her hand on his, “you're awfully sweet. I know better than anyone else how basically sweet you are, and that's one of your favorite words, isn't itâbasically?”

There was no use delaying any longer. He had to take the subject up with Sylvia, and the worst of it was he was not sure his reluctance to do so might not have had something to do with shame.

“Sweetness,” he said, “I'm dreadfully sorry about that scene this afternoon, and particularly that you should have been present.”

She put her hand over his again. He had not realized, until that talk at the Ritz, how dependent he had grown upon Sylvia. After all, perhaps two people always grew together if they had been through enough together, long enough.

“There's nothing to be sorry about,” Sylvia said. “If someone acts in a hysterical and unreasonable manner it isn't your fault, Willis.”

“I know it, sweetness,” Willis said, and he did not look at her when he spoke, but out across the square, “but a thing like that sort of pulls the rug out from under you. I suppose it is irrational for my emotions to be so much involved; yet after what Bess said, I can't help sort of wondering if anything I've done has been worthwhile.”

“Why, darling,” Sylvia said, “you don't have to wonder anything like that, because you've always been wonderful. No one knows better than I do how wonderful you've been.”

Willis cleared his throat. Even though he liked what she said, it was a time to face facts; and perhaps his trouble, now that he thought of it, was that he was sometimes reluctant to face them absolutely squarely.

“That's very sweet of you to say so, honey,” he said, “but occasionally it's seemed to me you've had a few reservations. God knows I've tried to do a lot of things the right way, and God knows I'm not perfect.”

“Why, darling,” Sylvia said, “no one's perfect. It's what I've been telling you, dear. No one knows how wonderful you are as well as I do. I'm an authority.”

Willis heard what she said, but he was so involved in his own thoughts that he did not answer her directly.

“I've tried to be sincere, sweetness,” he saidâ“I really haveâin all my dealings, but sometimes it's a problemâhow to be sincere.”

“I know you've always tried, dear,” Sylvia said. “Let's ring for the waiter and have some supper. We can think this all through tomorrow, Willis.”

But Willis was very sure that the time to think of it was now.

“Of course you were right, sweetness,” he said. “I should have gone to Boston and seen them personally at the time. I would have, of course, if I'd had the remotest idea that Bess would react like this.”

“Of course you would have, dear,” Sylvia said, “but you were awfully busy right then, if you remember.”

Willis sighed and crossed his right knee over his left, and rotated his ankle nervously. He was relieved that it was growing darkerâso dark that Sylvia could not see him clearly. He could still feel her presence, and he was glad that she was right beside him.

“What hurts me especially,” he said, “is that I don't think they've been very loyal to me. They don't seem to look on both sides of the ledger. They forget the years I've worked. They forget, sweetness, that I've worn my fingers to the bone for them. Apparently all they remember is that I closed up that mill.”

“I know,” Sylvia said. “It isn't fair, but then I don't suppose anybody ever looks on both sides of a ledgerâeven you or Iâand they'd always lived with the mill.”

Willis turned his head toward her.

“You don't mean,” he said, “that you're taking their side in this? You can't be Sylvia.”

He knew the minute that he said it that it was a petulant remark, and he was sorry.

“I was just saying, dear,” Sylvia said, “that none of us can see both sides of anything. I'm on your side always, dear, but let's not go on about it now. How would it be if I rang for the waiter? And you have some eggs and some of those
croissants
you love so much, and some chocolate, and then I'm going to give you a Nembutal. You'll see everything much more clearly after a good sleep.”

“I'd like that,” Willis said, “because, frankly, I do feel tired, and I'm sorry to elaborate on this subject, precious. I have a sort of suspicion that the Harcourts have the idea that I had always intended to close the mill. Maybe I'd better tell you something frankly, darling, because you've been very sweet to me, and I would like to be frank. I'm disturbed about this angle, because frankly, sweetness, I don't know whether they are right or not. I honestly can't remember.”

“Why, darling,” Sylvia said, “of course you couldn't tell what you were going to do at a future time, and you've always done everything for the Harcourts, darling. Please don't think about it any more.” And then she kissed him on the top of the head again, just as she had before. “Let's think about what we're going to do tomorrow.”

“That's right,” Willis said. “You're dead right. Let's look forward, sweetness, and not back. You know, come to think of it, that's exactly what I wrote to Bess.”

“Darling,” Sylvia said, “it's all right. It really is all right. Let's not worry about it any more. And when you've had your Nembutal, I'll tell you what we'll do. We'll call up the children's camps and talk to them. It's wonderful that we're both so crazy about the children. Willis, isn't it queer to think it's only early afternoon back there?”

About the Author

John P. Marquand (1893â1960) was a Pulitzer Prize-winning author, proclaimed “the most successful novelist in the United States” by
Life
magazine in 1944. A descendant of governors of the Massachusetts Bay Colony, shipping magnates Daniel Marquand and Samuel Curzon, and famed nineteenth-century writer Margaret Fuller, Marquand always had one foot inside the blue-blooded New England establishment, the focus of his social satire. But he grew up on the outside, sent to live with maiden aunts in Newburyport, Massachusetts, the setting of many of his novels, after his father lost the once-considerable family fortune in the crash of 1907. From this dual perspective, Marquand crafted stories and novels that were applauded for their keen observation of cultural detail and social mores.

By the 1930s, Marquand was a regular contributor to the
Saturday Evening Post
, where he debuted the character of Mr. Moto, a Japanese secret agent.
No Hero
, the first in a series of bestselling spy novels featuring Mr. Moto, was published in 1935. Three years later, Marquand won the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction for
The Late George Apley
, a subtle lampoon of Boston's upper classes. The novels that followed, including
H.M. Pulham, Esquire
(1941),
So Little Time
(1943),
B.F.'s Daughter
(1946),
Point of No Return
(1949),
Melvin Goodwin, USA
(1952),
Sincerely, Willis Wayde
(1955), and
Women and Thomas Harrow
(1959), cemented his reputation as the preeminent chronicler of contemporary New England society and one of America's finest writers.

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover design by Andy Ross

ISBN: 978-1-5040-1576-9

This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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New York, NY 10014

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