Escape the Night (3 page)

The station was almost dark. The lounge car was at the end of the train; Oliver put her bags down and, as he did so, a station wagon lurched out of the gloom, its lights off, and stopped. A man’s voice called from it. “Sissy. Is that you?”

Oliver, behind her, said relievedly: “It’s Dr. Seabrooke come to meet you. Good night, Miss Sissy,” and got back on the train again.

So Amanda hadn’t sent Jem. Serena took a gulp of the warm, mist-laden air and went to meet the tall man in the light topcoat who swung open the door of the station wagon so a light revealed him and its interior. He got out, coming to meet her with his hands outstretched. “Sissy,” he said, and took her hand in his own fine nervous clasp.

“Dave. How are you?” She put her face up to be kissed, but he didn’t observe the gesture and probably wouldn’t have kissed her anyway, she thought briefly and amusedly, remembering Dave’s disinterest in women. He put her bags in the back seat; she crawled in front, chattering excitedly and childishly all at once, telling of her trip, of seeing San Francisco again, of the delight of being back at home. Dave was one of the crowd who had grown up together; had shared dentists and dancing school and dates; had gone away to school and made trips home for vacations; had matured, gone into business or professions, married (although Dave had not) mainly among each other. Their parents, and in some cases their grandparents had been intimates as they were intimates; there’d been feuds and there’d been long-standing and loyal friendships but, friends or enemies, they were intimates, sharing each other’s lives as their grandparents had shared each other’s fortunes during those halcyon, fabulous days of California’s delirious bloom and development. Serena felt now really at home, and it unloosed her tongue.

“It’s grand to have you back,” Dave said absently, leaning over the wheel to peer into the scarcely perceptible area of light ahead of the car. “Now, if I can just find my way through the dark. We’re dimmed out, you know, all along the coast. It’s hellish hard to see.”

The car was dark now, but she could see dimly his sharp-featured, pleasant profile, the thin lock of black hair that always hung down over his forehead, and the fine-drawn, tired look around his mouth and deep-set spectacled eyes; Dave Seabrooke always worked too hard, as if time drove him. He was a doctor by profession, but so far as she knew he had never practiced, for he was of a research bent and spent most of his time in the laboratory he’d made of his small garage. She said: “How goes it, Dave?”

He paused to negotiate a curve which was barely perceptible in the gloom ahead. When the stars were out they alone brightened the night, they seemed so near and clear; but it was cloudy that night with no stars and the trees on either side of the road further shadowed it. Then Dave turned another curve and they were in a village, sparsely lighted; he drove carefully, leaning forward. “Everything is fine,” he replied then. “I’ve been working, of course. Whoa, there …” Two young sailors, gobs, loomed out of the night into the small glow of the headlights, skipped nimbly out of the way of the car as Dave put on the brake and disappeared again; she could hear their laugh from the misty depths of the night beyond.

“Don’t run over the navy,” she said lightly.

“No, I won’t. Where’s the turn? Oh, here we are. Well, how are you, Sissy? How’s the job?”

The job seemed three million miles away instead of three thousand. “All right,” she said. “Dave, Amanda’s having a party, she says, at the Lodge.”

“Yes. We’re to stop there. She sent me for you. I had more gasoline than anybody else.”

“Who’s to be there? Leda, I suppose, and Johnny. She must have got back from New York several days ago. Alice Lanier and Bill—oh, no, he’s gone to the Army. Or so Oliver told me. He told me Sutton was trying to get in the service, too. And that you were going.”

“Yes.” Dave laughed shortly. “It’s all settled. That’s why Amanda’s giving the party. It’s a farewell party to me. Confound it! The gate should be here somewhere. If I’ve missed it—oh, no, here it is.”

They stopped at one of the three Lodge gates; a white arm, ghostly in the dimout, stretched across the road ahead and forbade their entrance. It was one of the customs of Pebble Beach; there were only three entrances and at each one a gateman, who checked cars in and out. A man advanced from the gloom, held a flashlight briefly upon Dave’s face, and said: “Evening, Dr. Seabrooke. Nice night. Go ahead, sir.”

The arm moved slowly upward; so slowly it was like a warning, reluctant to retreat until its message had been understood. Dave let in the clutch and all at once they were driving along the winding, forest- and ravine-lined road Serena loved. And another mile and another mile, and then perhaps Jem.

Suppose he wasn’t at all as she remembered him. Suppose she’d built a childish ideal and then cemented it with adult perception. Suppose Jem Daly as he existed in her mind didn’t actually exist at all in the flesh.

She wished she’d had a chance to change clothes, to put on something more glamorous than a tweed suit. She wished she’d looked prettier than she’d looked in the piece of a face she’d seen in the small mirror of her compact. She wished her heart would get down out of her throat and she’d be more sensible about the whole thing. After all, Jem was only a man and—and they’d reached the last curve before the Lodge; they were turning; there was the Lodge, its entrance cautiously lighted; there was the graveled parking space and the row of shrubbery and cottages at the right. Dave turned in and parked.

She wanted suddenly to escape, to put off her meeting with Jem, to have a little more time, and she couldn’t do anything about it, for Dave was out of the station wagon and opening the door for her. In a small moment of panic she hoped Jem wouldn’t be at the party. And the door to the Lodge was flung open by a smiling boy in uniform, whose face she remembered, and then they were entering the warm and friendly lobby, with its gray woods and crimson carpet.

“They’re in the bar, Miss Sissy. I told Mrs. Condit the car had arrived. She’ll be here …”

Amanda came in sight, tall and lovely, in a red, long, dinner gown, a cigarette in one hand. “Sissy!” she cried. “Sissy, my darling!”

Serena hadn’t known how glad she was going to be to see Amanda. She felt a sudden surge of tenderness toward the beautiful woman coming to meet her and hugged her hard as Amanda put out her own arms.

“Darling!” said Amanda again. “This is too marvelous. You’re just in time; come along to the bar; everybody’s there. Dave, you were sweet to bring her. Come along, both of you. How are you, Sissy?”

There were confused impressions; the familiar face of the clerk behind the desk, smiling and saying, “How do you do, Miss March?” He’d been at the Del Monte Hotel, hadn’t he? Dave disappeared and came back without his topcoat; Amanda was taller than Serena remembered her and her figure fuller; her black hair was worn looser, too; she wore heavy earrings which looked exotic somehow and pearls at her long, white throat, and a beautiful wide bracelet of diamonds and emeralds which shone and glittered on her white wrist. Her perfume was in a cloud around them all. They were suddenly at the door of the small, red and white bar with its comfortable, red leather chairs, its low oak tables. The Monkeyshine Room, it was called; Serena remembered it and the face of the bartender, Rudy. And then she was wafted into the middle of the group lounging and drinking and talking around one of the tables.

Leda, in a short black dress, blonde curls shining, kissed her. Her shallow light eyes were bright and knowing and, Serena thought swiftly, tried to exchange a look of mutual understanding with Serena. It was a look Serena refused to acknowledge or return. She turned instead to Johnny Blagden, Leda’s husband—jovial, round-faced, a little balder, smiling. He kissed her and patted her shoulder heartily. Alice Lanier, red-headed and very slim and elegant in gray, kissed her. Sutton Condit was at the bar and hurried toward them and embraced and kissed her, too; her brother-in-law hadn’t changed at all—he was thinnish, blond, with a small mustache, pale-blue eyes, no eyebrows, and a pleasant, slightly deprecating smile. There was time for only the briefest, confused impression of each. Sutton was putting her in a chair; Johnny Blagden was ordering a drink for her; Leda was sitting down again, directly opposite her, eyes steadily upon Serena’s, so fixed in their regard that all at once Serena remembered Leda’s saying as they parted a week ago in New York, “Don’t tell Amanda I asked you to come.”

Well, of course she wouldn’t.

Everybody was talking; she was replying; yes she’d had a marvelous trip; yes, it was wonderful to be at home; no, she wasn’t at all tired; yes, she’d really had a job and was going back to it once her vacation was over. Amanda was sitting on the arm of her chair, one arm around its back and the other hand loosely flung—and gracefully—upon Amanda’s knee, which was smoothly outlined under the deep, carnation-red silk of her gown. The wide bracelet on it was magnificent. So barbaric in its richness that at first Serena thought, involuntarily, that the stones must be paste; yet, knowing Amanda, and seeing the stones so close, she believed that they were real. The thought crossed her mind swiftly and without taking any real hold upon her.

For just then another man came into the bar, hesitated a moment and then came quickly toward them. It was Jem Daly.

He was exactly as she remembered him.

A
ND HE REMEMBERED HER.

His brown, rather taciturn face, exactly as Serena remembered it, except it was thinner, and a little older perhaps, broke into warmth and smiles. “Sissy,” he cried, and reached her and took both her hands. “Sissy, my dear. It’s wonderful to see you.” He drew her to her feet and put his arms around her and kissed her. On the cheek, as a matter of fact, and lightly, but still it was a kiss. She’d forgotten how tall he was; she hadn’t forgotten his voice, but still it seemed like a new voice. She was absurdly confused, but she thought no one noticed it, for again, all at once everyone was talking. She was in a chair and Jem sat on the arm of it, his face warm with pleasure and his eyes smiling down at her with a kind of pride. “You’ve grown up, Sissy,” he said. “You look swell. I’m glad you came home.”

That was all to the good, thought Serena briefly, except there was something too brotherly about it; but naturally he hadn’t remembered her as she’d remembered him. It was nice, however, that he’d remembered her at all. And it was altogether incredible to be there, in the same place with Jem, breathing the same air, their eyes meeting, his brown tweed coat (for none of the men had changed) actually pressing against her, his arm around the back of her chair so by tilting her head back she could have touched it. She did, just to be sure of it and his arm was very solid and warm against the back of her head. She said, “You’re looking pretty nice yourself, Jem. Where have you been all this time?”

His eyes met her own; they were so close that it was a deep and rather curiously unguarded look, but the smile had gone out of his own eyes as if a spark had kindled and then vanished. He didn’t reply at once; she heard someone say, “Isn’t it time to eat?” and someone else said: “Let’s have another round of drinks.”

Then Jem said rather abruptly, “Oh, I’ve been here and there. Nothing very interesting,” and looked away as he leaned forward to set his empty glass on the table. She had another brief but rather disquieting impression, too small and tenuous to bear analysis, that he had leaned forward purposely so as to withdraw his look. Then Amanda, sitting now across the table, put down her glass decisively and got up, her red gown falling into beautiful lines about her.

“We’ll go to the dining room,” she said, and shook back her loose, dark hair.

“But, Amanda, I’ve not finished,” cried Leda.

Sutton began, “Let’s wait a little, Amanda, we’ve not …”

Amanda cut into his words: “You can bring your drinks along. Dinner’s ordered. Come on, Leda. Jem …”

“Of course, Amanda,” said Jem quietly. He got up; Amanda slid her arm through Serena’s; still protesting, Leda and Sutton, Johnny and Alice followed them as they trailed out of the bar and down the hall toward the lovely dining room. Lights glittered in golden, crystal drops like great feathers; there were Tahitian scenes in glowing, rich murals on the walls. Gray chairs, again with red cushions, and the head waiter smiling and leading them to one of the round tables.

Jem sat on one side of Amanda, Johnny on the other. For the first course at least; then Amanda remembered that Dave was the honor guest and made him change seats with Johnny, who protested, saying he was going into the service, too, as soon as they’d take him, and anyway he wanted to sit by Amanda. He was good-natured, blithely gallant, and completely natural. It was all said in raillery. Serena thought that and glanced at Leda who was looking at her knowingly again. And again Serena refused to acknowledge the tacit claim of mutual understanding, and looked quickly away.

By that time, Dave had moved up to the chair beside Amanda and Johnny was sitting next to Serena. “Serena,” he said gallantly, his round red face beaming and his bald head shining, “Amanda has turned me out, but I’m delighted if it gives me a chance to sit by you and hold your hand. May I say that you’ve grown up to be a very pretty woman?”

“Does he hold your hand, Amanda, when he sits next to you?” inquired Alice Lanier, her green eyes glittering, her smile sweet.

Leda’s fingers tightened around the glass she’d brought in with her from the bar. Serena saw that and felt again absurdly uncomfortable; Alice Lanier was not, as she remembered her, either petty or malicious. But then Alice never said much; she was rightly content to look lovely and languid with her red hair in its abundant waves, her shining, light-green eyes, her white skin, and her indolent red mouth. “Where’s Bill?” Serena said suddenly into the little silence, more from curiosity, however, than to divert the conversation to peaceful channels. “I hear he’s gone to war. Do you know where he is, Alice?”

Alice looked at her. The little indolent smile that lay on her lovely red mouth remained there and her eyes widened. “Bill,” she said languidly and sweetly, “I’m afraid I wouldn’t know where he is. Haven’t you heard? Bill and I were divorced a year ago. Didn’t Amanda tell you?”