Hers the Kingdom (76 page)

     "I'm afraid there has been some mix-up," she told him, "Sara left yesterday for what promises to be a long trip—she must have neglected to notify you . . ."

     "I see," he said tersely, "I'm sure she left word with my secretary. I'm just returned from a trip myself and I haven't yet checked with my office. Thank you." He turned to leave.

     "I
am
sorry," Kit said, putting her hand out to him, "I'm Katharine Reade. Sara is my godmother. She left yesterday with my aunt to meet an old friend of theirs in Macao. It happened quite suddenly—they were off as soon as they could book passage."

     "I see," he said again, stiffly in spite of her attempt to be friendly. "In that case . . ." He turned to go, but now Kit's curiosity was whetted.

     "May I tell Sara who called?" she asked.

     For a moment she had the curious sensation that he was not going to answer, that he did not want to tell her his name.

     "McCord," he said, "Connor McCord."

     "Oh my!" Her face changed; a smile of recognition broke through. "Connor McCord, at last. You can't know how long we've wanted to meet you—my brother and I—he's only just left, and he will be disappointed. But you can't go now. Please. You got us out of trouble that day—the Preparedness Parade. Please don't run off."

     "You're getting chilled standing here," he said, smiling slightly.

     She looked down at the dressing gown, pulled it close about her neck, and, to cover her embarrassment, wrinkled her nose and said, "It reeks of oil paints—Sara must work in it. But, please . . . I am so glad finally to meet you. I should like to talk a bit." She grinned at her own awkwardness. "Can't you wait just a minute while I dress? I can be back in no time."

     He hesitated. He was, she could tell, trying to find a polite way to leave. But he did hesitate, and Kit took advantage of it.

     "To be truthful," she told him, "I'm afraid I'm at loose ends today. My aunt and Sara rushed off, Porter is busy, and I have been trying to think what to do. I don't suppose I could invite myself to lunch? I know that's terribly forward, and I'm not Sara, but . . ." She laughed then, so disarmingly that he smiled in return, a boyish smile that made her feel she had said the right thing. Before he could answer she started up the stairway.

     "It won't take me a minute, I promise, to wash my face and throw on some clothes. Promise me you'll wait?"

     Halfway up she turned back so that she could see him. "Promise?" she said.

     And he nodded yes.

     Passing a mirror in the hallway, she was surprised to see the excitement in her eyes. He was, she thought, terribly attractive, this man.

     It was not until they were seated across from each other at a table overlooking the ocean, the surf crashing on the rocks below them, that she could study his face, strong, lined, but still young. He had a thick shock of hair, scattered with gray. He moved as if he were sure of himself. There was, she noted with pleasure, nothing awkward about him, nothing at all.

     They talked easily. He drew her out so that she talked a good deal more than was usual for her, hearing herself say aloud the thoughts that had been going through her mind. He was studying her, she knew that. She was pretty enough, and wealthy enough, to understand something of the effect she had on men.

     She knew he would find her informed as few women her age were. When he remarked on this, she said, "When you meet Porter, you'll understand why. It's not just Porter, of course. You know Sara . . . The people I seem to care about, most of them, are . . ."

     "Fascinating?" he put in for her. "Unorthodox?"

     "At the very least!" she laughed.

     At one point she looked at her hands, which were raised, palms open, as if they were struggling to help her find the precise words that would explain a concept she was trying to grasp. She let her hands fall and looked at him in distress.

     "This is terrible," she said, "I'm babbling away, you must think . . ."

     "No," he said, looking at her through the smoke of his cigar. And then he smiled, and she felt pleased. Enormously pleased.

     She took a breath.

     "Tell me then how you happened to be there that day, why did you rescue us?"

     "Nothing mysterious," he answered so carelessly that she knew he had prepared his reasons. "I happened to be watching the parade at about the same time from the same vantage point. I'd been told that there could be trouble, that wasn't much of a secret. I had my car parked close by, in a place I knew would offer an easy egress . . . I've known Sara for a long time. She has been a good friend . . . a very good friend. I noticed her standing there, it was clear that you and your brother and your aunt were in her party. So when the bomb exploded, it seemed the proper thing to get you out of there."

     She was looking at him steadily. "Coincidence, then?"

     "More or less," he answered.

     "My Aunt Lena says she will be forever in your debt for that day. Did she write you that?"

     "I believe she did," Connor answered, for the first time uncomfortably, "it was a long time ago. I seem to remember a very small girl with great, frightened eyes."

     "I was frightened, terribly so . . . I remember it so clearly. And Porter, well it had the most profound effect on Porter. He still works for the release of the two men—Modney and Billings."

     "Yes," he said, "it's exactly the kind of case that points up the flaws in the judicial system."

     "But letting innocent men stay there—locked up, when their innocence has been proved. It is beyond my ability to understand . . . I don't know what life in San Quentin is like, but from what Porter tells me it is dreadful. . ."

     He shifted uncomfortably in his chair and looked out the window as if searching for something on the horizon. "Did I say something?" she asked, not understanding the sudden silence, the shift in mood.

     "No," he answered, turning back to smile again, "nothing at all."

     He asked questions, she answered with her own questions. They laughed, and the afternoon passed until, when finally she
did look around her, she was amazed to find the restaurant empty.

     "I'm surprised they haven't asked us to leave," she said. As if on signal, the head waiter appeared with a chit which Connor signed.

     "Can we walk for a bit?" she asked. "We've been sitting for such a long time, my legs feel numb."

     She tucked her arm into his as they moved down the steep walkway to the beach below.

     "Do you come here often?" she asked.

     "Every morning, as a matter of fact," he answered, bending to her so the wind wouldn't pull away his words. "I swim every morning at about six. Keeps my legs from getting numb in the afternoon."

     "You swim in the ocean—this ocean?" she said into his ear.

     "You mean this cold ocean . . . not the warm Malibu beach."

     She looked at him, blinking the wind from her eyes.

     "Do you know the Malibu beaches?" she asked, surprised.

     "I was there once, a very long time ago—long before you were born. In my cowboy days, you could say."

     "You mean you worked on our ranch?"

     "That's right," he said, turning her into the wind so that any more talk between them was impossible. Foghorns were wailing. The sound carried over the waters and made her feel as if they were, somehow, isolated on this bleak seashore, and she felt suddenly sad.

     In the car the formality returned to his voice. He said that he had enjoyed meeting her, that having taken lunch with her was an unexpected pleasure, that he would be sure to tell Sara how kind she, Kit, had been to substitute for her.

     Kit cut in. "It
was
a pleasure. Do you suppose we might lunch together again?"

     McCord did not answer for a long moment, but looked out of the window of the car as it circled along the ocean drive. When he spoke, the false formality was gone, and in its place a somber tone. "Katharine," he said, "I mean it when I say that today was a
great pleasure. But my life is complicated, extremely so . . ." He was, she thought, being purposefully vague, he wanted her to think that there was something he could not tell her. "There are other demands . . . business, personal . . . I wish there were more time."

     "I don't understand. Surely we could have lunch?"

     He spoke carefully. "I've never married, you know, but if I had a daughter . . ."

     "Don't do that," Kit snapped. "Please, just don't. I'm not your daughter, and I don't think that's a very good way to dismiss me."

     Connor thrust his hands in his pockets and turned away. When he turned back again he was smiling, a curious smile she could not understand.

     "Perhaps when Sara returns, we can all. . ."

     The car had stopped at an intersection and Kit quickly opened the door and darted out, taking him—and herself—by surprise.

     She walked briskly, the wind blowing the folds of her dress against her body, and stinging her face so that tears filled her eyes. Connor caught up with her and took her arm.

     "You are angry and I'm sorry," he said, an edge of humor in his voice, "I suppose it runs in the family."

     She didn't know what he could mean, but she felt too peculiar and confused to ask. Not knowing what to say, she said nothing.

     "I cannot give you all the reasons I shouldn't see you again," he said, bending down to speak close to her face, "you will have to take my word that they exist. There are too many complications." He was firm, he was not pleading.

     She found her voice. "Do you want to see me again?" she asked breathlessly.

     "Yes," he answered. "Let's go now." He guided her back to the car, and she said nothing, nothing at all. But she felt a remarkable surge of energy, a feeling of triumph.
He wanted to see her.

"I'm terribly sorry," the secretary told her, "Mr. McCord is not available. Yes, he is in the city, but he cannot be disturbed."

     Kit found two other numbers for Connor in Sara's book. She called the first.

     "Yes," he answered, peremptorily.

     "This is Katharine Reade," she said, working to keep her voice even, "will you meet me for lunch?"

     Silence. She waited.

     "I'm sorry," he said, "I can't." He was abrupt, not rude. She thought that perhaps someone was with him.

     "Here then, tomorrow. At Sara's. I'll cook."

     "I'm afraid I can't do that, either."

     "All right," she said, keeping her voice quiet, "but I think it only fair—either you tell me why you can't see me, or you see me. I can't think I'm asking all that much."

     "I . . . Can you . . ." He was stumbling.

     "Tomorrow then," she said, quickly, "at noon, here. Please!"

     She hung up before he could answer, then sat looking at the telephone for a full ten minutes, expecting it to ring. She had never pursued a man before, not like this. She repeated, over and over again, his answer when she had asked if he wanted to see her again.
He did.
She was sure of it. He had been drawn to her. Why was he resisting her? She shook her head and said out loud to herself: "Kit, you're acting like a spoiled child." She paced back and forth, glancing at the telephone, waiting for its ring.

     Finally she decided to get out of the house. She dressed and left for Berkeley, where she spent the day with Porter. After his last class they went to a movie, had dinner, and she caught the ferry back. When she came into the house Mrs. Weatherlee fussed with her for not having called for the car to meet her. Only as an afterthought did the woman say, "Oh, yes, there are flowers for you in the drawing room—and a card."

     She looked at the card for a full minute before, sighing, she opened it, knowing already what it was going to say:
Katharine, I can't. Understand. Connor.

     Sinking into a chair, she said out loud, "No. I will not understand."

     She sat for a long time, still in her coat. She did not turn on the light; she was thinking. When finally she stood, she knew what she was going to do.