Romance Classics (131 page)

“I can’t,” she answered reluctantly. “I have to do a show every night. And there are rehearsals some afternoons. Leon is working out some new routines, so people won’t get tired of us.”

George scowled at the mention of Leon’s name, and Peter looked sharply from one to the other and said mildly, “I hear your partner is giving Marisa some dancing lessons. How is she coming along with them, by the way, George?”

“Fine, I suppose,” George answered briefly.

When lunch was over, George stood up, excused himself and walked away.

Peter watched him go and then turned back to Kristen.

“I, too, wish you could come up to the plantation, Miss Dillard,” he told her. “Our plantations are fifteen miles apart, but we manage to see quite a bit of each other, at that.”

“I wish I could, too, but I’m a working girl,” Kristen answered, and gathered up her purse and her hat from the chair on which they lay. “And since I am, I really must be getting back to the hotel. Marisa’s lesson will be over, and Leon might want a rehearsal before tonight’s show. He’s really a perfectionist, and keeping up with him keeps a girl on her toes.”

“I’ll drive you back,” Peter insisted. He guided her to the parking place, where a neat black Renault was waiting, and he tucked her into it with old-fashioned courtesy.

As they came into the drive of the hotel, Leon stood beside Marisa’s car. He straightened as the Renault drew up behind him, and Peter helped Kristen out.

Marisa looked in the direction of Leon’s eyes, got out of her car and came back to them.

“Why, Uncle Peter,” she greeted him warmly. “How nice to see you! And where in the world have you and Kristen been?”

Peter smiled down at Kristen, who was looking straight into Leon’s narrowed eyes.

“Oh, Miss Dillard and I have been to the market and then to lunch,” Peter boasted happily.

“Lunch?” Marisa moaned and placed a hand on her slender waist. “Uncle Peter, I hate you! I’m famished! This slave driver won’t let me eat before a lesson!”

“I know what you mean.” Kristen laughed. “Remember, I rehearsed with him for weeks before the opening, and I know just what a slave driver he is!”

‘Well, you wanted to be a dancer, didn’t you?” asked Leon, quite undisturbed.

“I’m not so sure I do, any longer.” Marisa grimaced.

“Remember, I offered to buy you a lunch after the lesson.”

“Spinach and dry toast and tea without sugar. No, thanks, when I’m hungry I want food; not fodder!” Marisa laughed. “And I’m going home to get it. See you later, folks.”

She drove off, and Peter smiled down at Kristen, ignoring Leon who stood beside them.

“Thank you, my dear, for a most delightful experience,” said Peter.

“Thank you, Mr. Lansing. I loved every minute of it,” Kristen told him quite sincerely.

“And I shall still look forward hopefully to seeing you at the plantation,” Peter insisted.

“I’d love it, but I’m afraid it’s quite impossible,” Kristen
answered with sincere regret, and watched him fold himself back neatly into the interior of the little car and drive away.

“You really do go in for the old boys, don’t you?” Leon’s tone held a bite.

She looked up at him swiftly.

“Why should
you
mind?” she flashed. “You had Marisa.”

“Yes, to be sure, I had Marisa.” His tone was noncommittal. “Where did you pick up Foxy Grandpa, by the way? Or mustn’t I ask?”

“You don’t remember him, of course; you were much too busy with Marisa,” Kristen flashed. “But we met Mr. Lansing at the Newmans’, the night we had dinner there.”

“Did we, now? I don’t seem to recall. But there were so many old codgers and old dames around.”

“And of course you never bother with anybody more than twenty!” she flashed.

“But the older ones appeal to you more, because they are sure to be rich, especially if you meet them at the Newmans’,” he drawled.

“I think you are the most insulting—” She set her teeth hard and turned sharply, hurrying into the hotel.

Sherry was just ready to leave the room when Kristen came in, and Sherry turned and eyed her sharply.

“Hi, you’ve been out in the sun. You’re red as a poppy,” she protested. “Lee will have fits if you got sunburned.”

“I’m not sunburned; I’m mad!” said Kristen, and flung her hat and purse violently on the bed.

Sherry eyed her thoughtfully.

“Been fighting with Lee, of course,” she observed tranquilly. “I knew this politeness between you two was too good to last. What have you done now that’s got him all hot and bothered?”

“I went in to town, and visited the market and had lunch with a man we both met at the Newmans’ dinner,” said Kristen. “Is that a crime?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Sherry answered. “It all depends. Oh, by the way, some flowers came for you. I put ’em in the bathtub. I didn’t know whether to throw them out, or to let you have that pleasure. Any guy who sends a gal orchids down here—
well
!”

Kristen stared at her, outraged.

“And what’s wrong with a man sending a girl orchids?” she wanted to know.

Sherry shrugged.

“As much as you’ve been snooping around the town, I’d think you’d know that orchids down here are the same as daisies up home,” she answered mildly. “Among the people I’ve met, it’s almost an insult for a man to send orchids!”

“Well, I don’t care,” snapped Kristen. “They’re lovely, and I’ve never owned an orchid before.”

“Well, you’ve got a bucketful of them now,” Sherry reminded her. “And when you get tired of them, I’m sure one of the bell-hops would be glad to run out and gather you some more. I have to run now. See you all of a sudden.”

Sherry went out, and the door clicked shut.

Kristen went into the bathroom, looked down at the mass of fragile, delicate blossoms, and suddenly she was happy again. She treasured their beauty as she arranged them in the two large bowls a maid provided.

Anger at Leon’s outrageous remarks still seethed within her. She had liked old Mr. Lansing, and she liked George Newman, who was, of course, much younger. And it didn’t make an iota of difference to her whether they had money or not She had never chosen her friends because they were rich or poor, but because she liked them or didn’t like them. And she felt at the moment that she very nearly hated Leon for his outrageous assumption.

It was during their second routine in that night’s show that calamity struck. It happened so swiftly that afterwards, looking back, Kristen could not quite remember just how it had happened.

She and Leon were completing their second number, a fast, intricate dance in which their feet flashed in perfect rhythm and frequent applause broke out spontaneously from the audience during the more involved movements. And then, so suddenly that she was left standing alone for a moment in the spotlight, Leon slipped and fell and made no effort to rise.

For the barest flicker of an instant Kristen stood rigid; and then, with a gay little laugh, pretending it was all part of the act, she whirled and dropped beside him in a froth of turquoise-and-silver tulle skirts and bowed her head, spreading her hands in a gay gesture.

The spotlight switched to the bandstand, and Casey, hiding his concern, sent the band into a gay, lively dance number. Waiters hurried to Leon, got him to his feet and outside into
the corridor. Kristen followed them to Leon’s dressing room. Back in the club room, diners were getting up to dance; apparently no one realized that Leon’s fall had not been merely a part of the act.

In the dressing room, Leon bent, groaning with pain, over his ankle, and the waiters hurried back to their duties, as Mr. Belmont came swiftly into the room.

“What happened, Westerman? Are you badly hurt?” he asked anxiously.

Leon looked up at Kristen’s pale, concerned face, and his eyes were black with anger.

“She tripped me,” he blazed.

Shocked, outraged, Kristen cried, “That’s not true! You slipped!”

“I never slipped on a dance floor in my life,” Leon raged, grimacing with pain as he massaged his ankle.

“Well, you slipped tonight, mister,” snapped Kristen, so angry that she could not reveal her genuine concern for him.

The door opened again, and a short, plump man with a neatly trimmed beard hurried in, his worn black bag identifying him even before Mr. Belmont could say, “Here’s Dr. Edmonds.”

Briskly, competently, Dr. Edmonds began his examination of the injured ankle; and when he had finished, he beamed cheerfully at Leon.

“Not too much damage, my boy,” he said briskly. “A bad sprain which will keep you off your feet for a week or two—”

“A week or two?” raged Leon. “Look, Doctor, I do a show every night in the week—three or four routines nightly.”

Dr. Edmonds was busily taping up the injured ankle.

“I know; I’ve watched you and wondered how you and the young lady kept from breaking your necks,” he said, smiling. “But you’ll be doing no shows for the next week or ten days. You’ll keep off that ankle and not even walk on it for at least that long.”

Mr. Belmont slipped from the room looking harried and anxious, and Kristen was scarcely conscious of his absence, as she watched Leon’s dazed expression.

“But there’ll be a hole in the show,” he protested. “Casey and the boys and Sherry can’t carry the show alone. There’s got to be dancing—it says so in our contract!”

“Well, dancing there well may be, my boy—but you
won’t be doing any of it,” said Dr. Edmonds briskly. “Stay off that ankle and let it heal. You’ll have to, whether you want to or not. You can’t even walk on it—and that’s not orders; that’s facts. Try it, if you doubt me.”

Leon stood up, put the injured foot to the ground, and collapsed once more in his chair.

“Maybe I could do a single?” Kristen offered.

Leon glared at her.

“You’ll do nothing of the kind. We don’t have a ‘single’ routine worked up, and I don’t think audiences like the ones here would go for a chorusline ‘shuffle off to Buffalo’,” he sneered.

Kristen set her teeth hard against the furious retort that rose to her tongue.

Mr. Belmont came back.

“I telephoned Mr. Newman,” he announced. “He’s on his way. I’m sure he’ll have some ideas.”

Leon’s dark face darkened still more.

“I’m sure he will,” he said through his teeth.

“The hotel and its success mean a great deal to Mr. Newman and the group of which he is the head, Westerman,” Mr. Belmont reminded him curtly. “And after all, the floor show is a very important part of the effort to get tourists to stop off here, or to spend their vacations here.”

Leon scowled and said nothing.

“And incidentally, Westerman, I’ve found out what caused your fall,” Mr. Belmont went on eagerly.

“She tripped me,” Leon made the outrageous accusation once more, glaring at Kristen.

Before Kristen could manage her anger and answer, Mr. Belmont went on:

“Oh, no, she didn’t, Westerman. One of the waiters serving a ringside table dropped a butter pat. You stepped into the grease spot it made, and it threw you.”

Leon stared at him as though he could scarcely believe such a simple, well-nigh ludicrous explanation for his calamity. After a moment he glanced up at Kristen and said in a voice that was practically a growl, “Sorry, Kristen.”

“Think nothing of it,” Kristen said curtly. “I’ve grown accustomed to you making outrageous accusations against me.”

Sherry had finished her number, and now she came hurrying in to learn what had happened. And her solicitude for
Leon, her comforting words, did a great deal to erase his scowl.

George came in a few minutes later and offered his sympathy, which Leon accepted with a curtness that bordered on insolence. Mr. Belmont said, “Dr. Edmonds says that Westerman won’t be able to dance for at least a week, perhaps longer. That leaves a bad hole in the show. What are we going to do? There isn’t another dance team available.”

George smiled at him and patted his shoulder.

“Take it easy, Belmont, or you’ll blow a fuse,” he counseled. “I’ve already thought of something: the
Groupe Folklorique
.”

Mr. Belmont’s pale eyebrows climbed upward.

“Oh, but, Mr. Newman—” he protested, and Leon’s angry voice crossed his.

“The
what?
” he demanded.

George smiled at him pleasantly. “It’s a group of entertainers who are keeping alive some of the old traditions—folklore in song and dance—” he began.

“Amateurs?” Leon’s tone was sharp.

George eyed him without fondness.

“I’m afraid so, Westerman. But for a temporary engagement here at the hotel, I think some of the guests might find them quite interesting,” he answered.

“Then why didn’t you hire them, instead of sending all the way to New York for us?” demanded Leon.

“Because the board and I agreed that professionals would have more appeal for our visitors than the
Groupe Folklorique
, whom they can see almost any afternoon for free,” George drawled. “I would not for a moment bring them into the floor show if it were not that this is an emergency, as I’m sure you yourself will agree.”

Sherry asked uneasily, “But what about the rest of the show—the boys in the band and me?”

George smiled warmly at her.

“You will ‘carry on’ as usual, of course, and very nicely, I’m sure. You’re all quite popular here, so much so that the board and I agreed this afternoon we couldn’t possibly let you go after just six weeks. We hope you will consent to a new contract and stay all season.”

Sherry gave a little gasp, and Leon looked sharply at George.

“That’s on the level, Newman? We are engaged for the
season, instead of just for six weeks?” he demanded, and Kristen felt sure that his failure to say “Mr. Newman” was deliberate.

George studied him for a moment with veiled hostility.

“If you have no previous commitments that would interfere, of course,” he said politely.

“Well, Casey and the boys haven’t, and neither have I. I just adore the place, and I’ll go tell Casey,” said Sherry eagerly. “Thanks, Mr. Newman. Thanks a whole bundle!”

She rushed out. George smiled at Kristen, then looked back at Leon.