Valley of the Dolls (31 page)

“I’m glad for her,” he said. “But doesn’t that leave you in a bit of a fix? No roommate.”

“I have money, Lyon. Mother left me quite a bit.”

“Don’t tell anyone. Some fortune hunter will grab you off.”

“Lyon, why can’t we get married? I have enough for us to live on for. . . well, for a long time.”

“And you’d get up every morning and go to work—”

“Only to keep out of your hair. It’d be too cramped here with both of us hanging about, but once you made it . . . then I’d work for you. I’d type your manuscripts, handle your fan mail. . .”

“It doesn’t work that way, Anne. You know what Bess Wilson said. Even if it’s a good book, it might do nothing more than earn me a slight reputation. Then I’d have another year’s work, with no money coming in. And don’t think I wouldn’t like to write full time. These past few evenings have proved something to me—you get a certain rhythm when you keep at a thing hours on end.”

“Then I’m right.” She sat up.

“And wrong. I have some money, Anne. But by the time I was into my next book it would run out. I’d be coming to you for cigarette money. I’d be too humiliated to write. No, darling, it wouldn’t work.”

“But what am I supposed to do? Sit around and wait until you win the Pulitzer Prize?”

“No. Just wait and see how this book is received. If it’s received at all. I have no real assurance I’ll even get published.”

“You will. I know you will. And I’ll wait.” She looked thoughtful. “How long does it take to get a book published, I wonder?”

He laughed and took her in his arms.

Anne paced up and down the wooden planks of the Lawrenceville station. As usual, the local train was late. Poor Lyon. The five-hour train ride to Boston was deadly enough, but to sit on the unheated local for an hour with all those stops . . .

The last three days had certainly been deadly for her. She had even been grateful for Willie Henderson, who had driven her everywhere in his new Chevvie. There was such red tape connected with every detail, and sometimes it seemed that nothing had been accomplished. She would have to remain through part of next week so that the dealer from Boston could come to discuss the furnishings. Everything had to be discussed—every move she made was stymied by slow legal procedure. She was trapped in Lawrenceville.

But Lyon was coming up for the weekend. They’d have two wonderful days together, and for those two days even Lawrenceville would be palatable. For the first time her mother’s huge four-poster would hold two people who enjoyed their union. As she tidied it she wondered how many frustrating nights her father had known—how many rejections he had received from her emotionally virginal mother. “Well, tonight you’re in for some surprises,” she told the bed as she gave the comforter a final pat. It responded with a creak, as though in shocked protest.

But now, as she paced the station nervously, she wondered if this had been wise. Everyone in Lawrenceville would know Lyon was here, staying at her house. So what! Once she sold the house she’d never return. Damn the town! Who cared what they thought!

She heard the wheeze of the local as it rumbled down the tracks. She saw him first. A light snow was drifting down, and it settled on his black hair as he walked down the platform. She felt that strange tightening in her chest; she always felt it every time she saw Lyon. Would there ever be a time she would take him for granted and relax in the comfort that he belonged to her? Now, as she saw his quick smile of greeting, she felt the same surge of amazement that this magnificent man
did
belong to her. He had come all the way to Lawrenceville just to be with her!

“I didn’t believe I’d ever get here,” he said, hugging her lightly. “The towns we passed. Good God, I’ll bet no one knows there’s a Rome in Massachusetts.”

“Or a Lawrenceville,” she said.

“Everyone knows about Lawrenceville—you’ve made it famous. How do we get to the ancestral mansion, by sleigh?”

She led him to a cab. She snuggled against him as he stared out at the countryside.

“Shouldn’t we tell him where to go?” he whispered.

“Mr. Hill knows where everyone in town lives. If you had arrived alone, he would automatically have taken you to the Inn.”

He smiled. “I like that. A bit different from New York cabbies. Say, this is beautiful country.”

“The snow helps,” she said without enthusiasm.

“When did it start? It was clear in New York.”

She shrugged. “Probably in August. It snows here all the time.”

He put his arm around her. “Won’t give in, will you? Once you hate something, you’re relentless.”

“I gave Lawrenceville twenty years. That’s long enough for any small town.”

Lyon leaned forward. “Do you like Lawrenceville, Mr. Hill?”

The driver cocked his head. “Aeah. Why not? Born here. It’s a right nice town. Miss Anne’s just going through some growing pains. She’ll change. Once she’s back long enough she’ll—”

“I told you I was leaving for good, Mr. Hill!”

“I reckon when the time really comes to sell the old house, you’ll change your mind. I remember when your mother was born, right in that same house. I bet your little ones will be born there, too. ’Course, now we got that big new hospital right in Weston, just eight miles down the main highway. Better’n a lot of your New York hospitals, too. Why, Boston had to send for our iron lung during the polio epidemic.”

The cab crunched through the snow in the driveway and stopped before the house. Lyon stepped outside and stared silently.

“This is yours?” He turned to her, his eyes beaming with admiration. “Anne . . . it’s beautiful!”

“Picturesque in the snow,” she said balefully.

He paid Mr. Hill, wished him a Merry Christmas, and followed her inside. Anne was forced to admit the crackling fire made the large living room appear warm and inviting. She gave him a complete tour, and his eyes shone in approval of everything he saw. She knew he was not just being polite. He genuinely liked the house.

They cooked steaks in the large kitchen and ate before the fire in the living room. Lyon insisted on building a fire in the fireplace in the bedroom. She was surprised at his agility with the fire irons. “You forget, I spent most of my life in London where they don’t believe in central heating,” he reminded her.

Then he said, “This is a wonderful house. You’ve been too close to it to appreciate it. It suits you, you know. You look like you belong here.”

“Don’t even say that jokingly,” she threatened. “I don’t regard it as a compliment.”

On Sunday the snow stopped, and they took a long walk. They ran into half the town just leaving church. She waved but did not stop, and she felt a barrage of curious stares as they continued their walk.

When they returned to the house, Lyon worked on the fire and Anne brought him some sherry. “It’s the only thing I could find,” she said apologetically. “Not an ounce of whiskey.”

“You’re a fallen woman,” he said as he sipped his drink. “I saw your neighbors stare. They’ll check at the Inn and find I’m not registered. Looks like I’ll have to marry you quickly. Restore your honor in this town.”

“I don’t care what this town thinks of me.”

He sat down beside her. “Come on, my stubborn little New Englander, give in and admit this is really a marvelous house. What a wonderful room! That portrait over the fireplace—isn’t that a Sargent?”

“I think so. It’s my grandfather. I’m sending it to one of the galleries in New York. They’ve offered a good price.”

“Hold on to it. The price will go up.” He was quiet for a moment. “Anne, seriously . . . sitting here, you’ve never looked so beautiful. This is such a perfect setting for you—and you don’t look the least bit depressed to me. Lawrenceville seems to agree with you.”

“Only because you’re here, Lyon.”

“You mean, home is where the heart is . . .” He held her close and they both looked at the fire. After a while, still staring dreamily at the burning logs, he said, “It just might work at that . . .”

“What might work?”

“Us.”

She snuggled closer. “I always said it would. You might as well stop struggling. It’s inevitable.”

“I have around six thousand dollars. Anne, what are the taxes here each year?”

“Here?”

“Couldn’t be too steep. Remember, I said I couldn’t be married to you and let you support me. But I could accept the hospitality of this fine house. With my six thousand we could manage for a year. And if I get a decent advance on the book, I could start another. Anne—it could work!” He stood up, and rubbing his hands together, looked around the room. “Good Lord, it would really be marvelous. And I could write here.”

“Here?” The word stuck in her throat.

“Anne.” He knelt on the floor. “Nothing has been very proper about our relationship. But here, in this very fine and proper house, I will propose in a most proper fashion—on bended knee. Will you marry me?”

“Of course. But do you mean you want me to keep the house so you could come here and write? I’ll be glad to—but it would take so long to get here each weekend. . . .”

“We’d live here! Anne, it’s your house, but I could pay the taxes on it, buy the food. I’d be supporting you. One day I’ll make enough money to add to it in some way. That’s probably what your father did. Mr. Hill said your mother was born here. We’ll have roots, Anne. And I’ll make it. I’ll be a damn fine writer. You’ll see.”

“Live here?” She looked at him wildly.

“I’ll go back to New York and give Henry notice for both of us. If you like we can get married in New York. Jennifer is there—”

“Everything
is there!”

“Nothing we can’t live without.”

“But Lyon, I hate it here! I hate this town—this house . . .”

For the first time he became aware of her panic. “Even with me?” he asked carefully.

She began to pace the room, trying desperately to collect her thoughts. She had to make him understand.

“Lyon . . . you say you could write here. You probably could, perhaps eight hours a day. But what would I do? Join the women’s clubs? Play bingo once a week? Renew my so-called friendships with the dreary girls I grew up with? And they wouldn’t accept you that quickly, Lyon. You’re an outsider. You have to be third-generation Lawrenceville to mean anything in this snobbish town. . . .”

His face relaxed. “So that’s what you’re worried about? I’d be ostracized. Well, don’t worry. I have a tough hide. We’ll go to church, be seen around. After they realize we mean to stay they’ll loosen up.”

“No—
no!
I won’t do it! I won’t live here!”

“Why, Anne?” His voice was very quiet.

“Lyon, don’t you understand? Just as you have certain principles—you couldn’t let me support you in New York—well, I have my blind spots too. Not many—in fact, just one. Lawrenceville! I hate it! I love New York. Before I came to New York I lived here, in this mausoleum. I was nothing. I was dead. When I came to New York it was like a veil lifting. For the first time I felt I was alive, breathing.”

“But now we have each other.” His eyes were direct, questioning.

“But not here,” she said with a moan. “Not here. Can’t you understand? A part of me would die.”

“Then, as I see it, you could only love me in New York. Sort of a package deal.”

“I love
you,
Lyon.” The tears were running down her face now. “I’d love you anywhere. And I’d go anywhere that your work took you. Any place but here . . .”

“And you wouldn’t even be willing to chance it—a year or two . . .”

“Lyon—I’ll sell the house . . . I’ll give you all the money . . . I’ll live in one room with you. But not here!”

He turned and poked at the fire. “I suppose that settles it.” Then he said, “I’d better put another log on the fire before I leave. It’s dying.”

She looked at her watch. “It’s early yet.”

“I’d best take the four o’clock train. Tomorrow’s a rough day, and with Christmas coming up on Wednesday . . .”

“I’ll go with you to the station.” She went to the phone and called Mr. Hill.

The fire was almost out when she returned. Without Lyon the room suddenly looked forbidding and bleak again. Oh, God, did Lyon understand? He had been so quiet on the drive to the station. “I’ll be back on Tuesday,” she had promised. “Nothing will keep me from being with you on Christmas.”

But when he got on the train he hadn’t turned and waved. She felt as if she were going to be sick. Damn Lawrenceville! It was like an octopus, reaching out and trying to drag her down.

Jennifer called the next day. She and Tony were living at the Essex House in a very nice suite. Miriam had taken a room down the hall. And Miriam had acted very nice about the whole thing. They were leaving for the Coast earlier now, January second. When was Anne coming back? They were giving a big Christmas Eve party tomorrow night.

“I’ll be there,” Anne promised. “But it looks as if things will never be settled here. I spoke to Henry a few days ago. He’s been wonderful—says to take as long as I need. But I’m coming in for Christmas. When Lyon calls tonight I’ll tell him about the party. We’ll see you then.”

Lyon didn’t call that night. He was probably sulking. This was their first fight, except for that misunderstanding in Philadelphia. Well, she wouldn’t give in. But she’d phone him at the office tomorrow and tell him she was taking the train at noon.

She put the call through at ten in the morning. Henry wasn’t in the office—neither was Lyon. She spoke to George Bellows.

“I don’t know where Lyon is,” George told her. “No one tells me anything around here. Lyon came in yesterday and took off at noon. Henry left for the Coast on Friday—an emergency with the Jimmy Grant show. Maybe he sent for Lyon. Like I said, no one tells me anything.”

She unpacked her bag. No use going to New York. She felt disappointment mingled with relief. Lyon had probably left for California—that’s why he hadn’t called. At least he wasn’t angry. He’d probably call that night and explain.

She spent Christmas Eve alone. Lyon didn’t call. At three in the morning she tried his apartment. Maybe he hadn’t gone to the Coast. Maybe he
was
sulking. There was no answer.