The Man Who Loved His Wife (12 page)

“But if he should!”

“He wouldn't. He's too fond of himself.”

This offended Elaine. Accustomed to protecting her husband, she kept up the habit when he was not present and in need of protection. “You don't know him at all. What you see today isn't the real Fletcher. Believe me. He's terribly sick, he's in misery. He doesn't like living, he's stopped caring about anything.” She was shaken by her own vehemence, appalled at having shown passions that a decent soul would hide under layers of composure. The confession had not relieved her. And Don continued his arguments, offering reassurance like flowers in a sickroom.

They heard wheels on the driveway. “He's back,” and Elaine was off to welcome her husband.

It was not Fletcher's silvercloud Lincoln but a white truck as antiseptic and glittering as an ambulance. A lanky Negro boy opened the back and brought out a bundle of clothes. “Top Drawer Cleaners, how you today, miss?” Like all other delivery men, he stopped for a chat with a friendly customer.

When the boy had gone, Don carried the bundle of clothes into Fletcher's room. Elaine opened the closet door. “Wait, let me make room.” She cleared a space upon the pole and stood with her back to the door while Don brushed past. He kissed
her. It was swift and shocking. Between them like a shield he held the bundle, plastic covers rustling delicately over Fletcher's suits.

“You're so damned lovely.”

She tried to edge away. Don pressed her against the door. They did not hear the car stop nor the closing of doors. Cindy's voice came to them from the corridor. Elaine moved off like a jet. The bundle of clothes slid to the floor.

Fletcher came in.

“We're putting away your things from the cleaner's.”

“Elaine was showing me where to hang them.”

It would have been wiser not to offer excuses. Had there been anything between them, they would not have chosen Fletcher's bedroom nor been caught with a bundle of suits in plastic bags. “Your cashmere jacket,” she said, “came back at last. I hope they got the oil stain out.” As far as Don was concerned she had no cause for guilt, but the general burden was so heavy that the interrupted kiss, which she had tried to repel, added to the weight on her conscience.

Fletcher seemed to have noticed nothing unusual in their behavior. He helped pick up the fallen clothes. Later he invited them to the movies, then took them to a nightclub. Don had a way with headwaiters so that he managed, without reservations at the most popular place in town, to have Fletcher Strode treated as a frequent and desirable patron.

It turned out to be Don's lucky night. Had he gone to the men's room three minutes earlier or later, he would not have bumped into that important executive who, weeks before, had kept him waiting an hour for a five-minute interview, had promised another appointment and had never been heard from again. “Don't I know you?” Mr. Heatherington had asked. With exceptional tact Don had reminded him of the circumstances. Jocund and flushed, Heathington had offered profuse apology while Don had shown understanding of a position so demanding that a man could not remember his promises.

Mr. Heatherington invited Don to drink with him at the bar.
“To talk business, boy,” he said with a nod toward the table where Mrs. Heatherington was entertaining cousins from the Middle West.

It certainly did not hurt Don Hustings to be seen in public with an executive arm around his shoulders. “What have you been doing with yourself lately?” the tycoon asked.

“I've decided to stay out here. Just bought a house.”

“Fine, boy. Great. Where is it?”

“At the shore. In that new development below Newport Beach.”

Mr. Heatherington approved. The area, he said, was bound to boom. And what was the young man doing with himself, business-wise? Don answered that he had been up to his ears in work. “Looking after my father-in-law's affairs. Fletcher Strode, you know, the man who promoted that Ark-well-BDU merger in New York. And Zeno, Incorporated, he put that on the map, too.” Heatherington was impressed. There had been more revelations about Fletcher Strode's business and regretful mention of his illness and retirement. “But Dad's anxious to become active again. If he could find the right thing, of course.” There was, Don hinted, far more than capital to be invested—although that was considerable, too—since it was vital that Fletcher Strode's business genius be utilized. Heatherington, drinking with zest, had encouraged Don to go on, and Don had implied, without making too much of it, that he acted as the voice of his afflicted father-in-law. Heatherington let drop word of a proposition that might catch Fletcher Strode's fancy. He would have liked to meet Don's father-in-law, but Don explained that a hasty, unprepared meeting would be the worst way of approaching the supersensitive man. “It might be more practical to give me the details first. How soon can we meet and talk it over, sir?”

“Free for lunch tomorrow?” asked Heatherington and signaled the bartender for another round of doubles.

“I'll make it my business.”

Heatherington felt obliged to return to his wife's relations. Don went back to the table in high spirits. They were all in a good mood, the two girls reflecting Fletcher's pleasure. As a big
spender he had always enjoyed privilege and in this nightclub he felt himself a man of importance again. In a place where loud music made conversation impossible, it was not necessary to talk. Don ordered food and drinks for the party, and although he hovered a bit too eagerly, Fletcher was pleased with the obeisance. Mr. Strode was functioning again, making decisions, exerting power over people who depended upon his favors. And his son-in-law was truly his mouthpiece.

6

“WE'RE GOING TO GET THAT MONEY FROM YOUR father,” Don told Cindy the next morning. He had to shout because the radio was on at full volume.

“How do you know?” Awakened by progressive jazz, Cindy was sullen. “He said he'd think it over, he didn't promise definitely.”

“I feel it in my bones.” Don was at that exalted peak of optimism touched by people who believe in omens. “Elaine's on our side. Did you notice the way she danced with him last night? That means influence. What do you think I should wear, a suit or slacks and jacket?” For the moment his mood was shadowed by the necessity of decision. In New York he would instinctively have chosen the right outfit for a conference with a man of Heatherington's status. Out here in California there was a deplorable negligence in dress. Businessmen in downtown Los Angeles dressed conservatively, but Heatherington Industries was in one of those new broiling San Fernando Valley communities where people considered good tailoring Eastern and snobbish.

“You ought to know yourself,” Cindy muttered sleepily.

He chose dark flannels and a worsted jacket that no one could criticize. “Which tie?” There was no answer. Cindy had gone back to sleep. After a careful search of his ample collection, Don wondered whether a striped guard's tie would make a better impression on Heatherington than a gray Countess Mara with a small blue crest. “Which would you choose?” he asked Elaine who was frying bacon in the kitchen.

“Both are very handsome.”

“You're a big help.”

“The stripes are more dashing.”

“You think that's the right note to strike?”

Elaine answered seriously that the Countess Mara was a bit too subtle for the man she had seen with Don at the bar. As soon as the choice has been made, Don felt better. “Things are going my way, love. Today is definitely a turning point in the life of Donald Morton Hustings.” He caught Elaine between the stove and refrigerator, kissed her lightly.

“Please, Don.”

“It's only a family kiss. I like you better than my other mother-in-law.” He sprang away when they heard Fletcher's step in the hall.

During breakfast Don talked airily of Mr. Heatherington's plans for expansion of his already vast interests, but carefully avoided mentioning the scheme to include Fletcher Strode in the business. The morning passed slowly. Don did not want to arrive too early, but planned to show that promptness was his habit. Exactly one and one-half minutes after the time set for the date, he walked into Mr. Heatherington's anteroom where, after being asked politely if he minded waiting, he spent exactly fifty-four minutes looking unruffled and leafing through
Time
,
Newsweek
, and
U.S. News and World Report
. At last Mr. Heatherington appeared, apologized for the delay, and asked if Don was hungry.

Don had expected to be taken to the best restaurant in the vicinity, if not to some Valley country club. Instead he was given an unforgivable meal at the company cafeteria where his host, to show a democratic spirit, ate among his employees in a cubicle only partially screened from the mob. There were constant interruptions by department managers, secretaries, third-class executives, all with excuses to make themselves important. If Don were Mr. Heatherington's executive assistant, he would make it his business to shield the boss from such intrusions.

“How much does your father-in-law want to invest?”

Don had been thinking in big terms about a deal which would
require many conferences before a figure was mentioned. At today's meeting he had thought they would have a preliminary talk about further negotiations. Mr. Heatherington pressed for precise figures. His judgment no longer diluted by alcohol, he studied Don warily.

Don floundered through, hinted grandly that there would soon be a change in his status and that he would be in complete charge of Fletcher Strode's affairs. To answer specifically about his father-in-law's assets was not at this time appropriate. Heatherington stubbornly refused to understand. The session ended with a cool handshake and Don's promise to give Mr. Heatherington a ring when Mr. Strode's decision was final.

At home he was subjected to another inquisition. How had it gone with Heatherington? “Fine, just fine,” Don said, but without jauntiness.

“Didn't he give you the job?” asked Cindy.

“We're going to have further talks.”

Elaine smiled sympathetically, and Fletcher raised skeptical eyebrows.

“That agent called about the house again,” Cindy said.

Don had phoned the agent to say that the appointment had to be postponed on account of his important conference with J.J. Heatherington. He hoped, he had said, to get away in time to finalize the deal on the house. Cindy reported that the agent had asked her to remind her husband that the banks were open until six o'clock on Fridays, and that he would be free whenever Don could meet him and the owner.

“Call him back and say I've been kept out at the plant with J.J. And say we'll meet him at the bank on Monday morning,” Don instructed. “No, don't say morning. In the morning Carter's man wants to see me.” It all sounded very important and Don cast a speculative glance at Fletcher.

“Which of those big jobs are you going to accept?” grunted the offensive voice.

Don showed proper humility. “Whichever one is definitely offered to me first, sir.”

This was the start of a hellish weekend. Although the banks
were closed until Monday, Cindy was sure that someone with a pocketful of money would buy the house. They waited feverishly for Fletcher to announce his decision. He entertained himself with their impatience. As long as he kept them waiting his power was secure. So much time had passed since people awaited the word of Fletcher Strode that he could not help but relish this small satisfaction.

Sunday was endless. At the breakfast table, beside the pool, over the cocktails Don mixed before lunch, during the meal and afterward, while Cindy, with a rush of domesticity, helped Elaine stack the dishes, and Don read the paper with one eye and watched Fletcher with the other, tension increased. The house reflected their mood: walls echoed whispers, electric appliances clattered expectantly, buttons waited to be pushed, plugs to be inserted, lights to flash. The air was heavy with the metallic odor of an approaching storm. No thunder boomed, no lightning split the sky, no wind brought relief. The sense of storm was there, and the brooding heat tightened every nerve.

It was late afternoon when Don, itching with controlled irritation, said, “I wonder, sir, if you've thought about that matter Cindy mentioned to you the other day.”

Cindy lay sunning beside the pool. Taut fingers clutched the mat. She tried to woo her father with a childish smile.

“What matter?” croaked the voice.

“The house, sir. You told Cindy you'd think about it.”

Fletcher was aware of the wary starts and nervous glances. In his active days he had watched buyers and sellers await his decisions, had kept them waiting until their fears swelled his profits. Such tactics had not seemed cruel to a practical businessman; they had merely proved the victor stronger than the vanquished. Now, with an air of unconcern, he watched a swarm of ants gather about a pool of spilled lemonade.

“Please, Daddy.”

The voice, which seemed not to issue from the man but from a machine hidden in the shrubbery, announced, “I don't approve at all. You can't afford it.”