Deep Water by Patricia Highsmith Page A

seemed to be feeling very pleased with himself A pleasant summer job in the delightfully cool Berkshires, a made-to-order mistress whom he didn't have to pay for—on the contrary, she paid for him, bought him liquor and took him food—and didn't have to be responsible for, because she was married. To top it all, the husband didn't mind! Mr. De Lisle's world must have been a very rosy one indeed, Vic thought.
           On Friday of that week Vic ran into Horace Meller in the drugstore and Horace insisted on their having a quick drink together before they went home. Horace wanted to go to the Lord Chesterfield bar. Vic proposed a little beer parlor known as Mac's two blocks away, but Horace remarked that it was two blocks away and they were right across the street from the Chesterfield, so Vic agreed to the Chesterfield, thinking it would look odd if he argued about it.
           Mr. De Lisle was at the piano when they went into the bar, but Vic did not look his way. There were people at four or five tables, but Melinda, Vic had noted with a quick glance as he came in, was not among them. They stood at the bar and ordered Scotch and soda.
           "We missed you at the club last week," Horace said. "Mary and I putted around the first couple of holes all afternoon. We kept thinking you'd turn up."
           "I was reading," Vic said.
           "How's Melinda? I haven't seen her lately either."
           "Oh, she's fine. She's been doing some swimming with Trixie at the club. Just not on Sundays, I suppose." She'd taken Trixie once to the club pool, after a lot of begging on Trixie's part.
           Mr. De Lisle stopped playing, and a few people applauded. Vic was aware of De Lisle standing up, bowing, and stepping off his platform, going through the door into the lobby beyond.
           "I'm glad she's coming around," Horace said. "You know—I hope you'll forgive me for talking to you sometimes in the past—about Melinda, I mean. I never meant to meddle. I hope you know that, Vic."
           "Of course I know, Horace!" Horace had leaned closer to him, and Vic looked into his serious brown eyes, framed by the bushy eyebrows and the little wrinkling pouches below. Horace was around fifty, Vic realized. He should know a lot more than he himself did, at thirty-six. Horace straightened up and Vic could see that he was embarrassed, that it had been a speech Horace had thought he ought to make, and Vic tried to think of the right thing to say now.
           "I just wanted you to know—and Mary feels the same way that we knew things would straighten out and we're awfully glad they have."
           Vic nodded and smiled. "Thank you, Horace." He felt a sudden, frightening depression, as if his soul, somewhere, had slid down a hill into darkness.
           "At least I assume things are straightening out," Horace said.
           "Oh, yes, I think they are."
           "I thought Melinda looked awfully well the night we came over. The night of the club dance, too."
           The night the Mellers had come over had been only two nights after the dance, Vic remembered. There had been an evening since, when the Mellers had invited them to hear some new records Horace had bought, when Melinda had been too tired from an afternoon with Charley De Lisle to go. The Mellers hadn't seen Melinda and Charley together yet. It'd take them only two minutes, if they ever saw them together, to know what was happening. Melinda had been considerably more gracious to people during the time the town had been debating the McRae story. That was all Horace meant by her straightening out.
           "You're very thoughtful tonight," Horace said. "What's the next book going to be?"
           "Oh, a book of poems," Vic said. "By a young man called Brian Ryder. I think I showed you a couple one day in my office."
           "Yes, I remember! A little metaphysical for me, but—" Horace smiled.