shook her head. “No. I think Francine meant what she said. Chantry and his work are all she cares about. And I feel small about doing what I just did. We hurt her and made her angry.”
“Are you afraid of her?”
“No, but I thought we were friends.” She added as we drove away from the house, “Maybe I am a little afraid of her. But also I’m sorry that we hurt her.”
“She was hurt long ago.”
“Yes. I know what you mean.”
I meant Rico.
I returned to my motel. Betty Jo came in with me to compare notes. We compared not only notes.
The night was sweet and short. Dawn slipped in like something cool and young and almost forgotten.
chapter 15
When I woke up in the morning, she was gone. A pang that resembled hunger went through me a little higher than my stomach. The phone beside the bed rang.
“This is Betty Jo.”
“You sound very cheerful,” I said. “Painfully cheerful.”
“You had that effect on me. Also my editor wants me to do a feature on the Chantry case. He says he’ll give me all the time I need. The only drawback is that they may not print it.”
“Why not?”
“Mrs. Chantry talked to Mr. Brailsford first thing this morning. He owns the paper. So they’re going to have an editorial conference in Mr. Brailsford’s office. In the meantime, I’m supposed to go on digging. Do you have any suggestions?”
“You might try the art museum. Take along your photograph of the painting. There may be somebody in the museum who can identify the model who sat for it. And if we’re very lucky the model may be able to tell us who painted it.”
“That’s exactly what I was planning to do.”
“Good for you.”
She lowered her voice. “Lew?”
“What do you want?”
“Nothing. I mean, do you mind about my thinking of it first? I mean, you’re older than I am, and maybe not quite so liberated.”
I said, “Cheer up. I’ll probably see you at the art museum. You’ll find me among the old masters.”
“I did hurt your feelings, didn’t I?”
“On the contrary. I never felt better. I’m going to hang up now before you hurt my feelings.”
She laughed and hung up on me. I shaved and had a shower and went out for breakfast. An early wind was blowing on the water. A few small craft were out in it. But most of the boats in the harbor danced in place at their moorings, naked-masted.
I found a clean-looking restaurant and took a seat by the front window so that I could watch the boats. They gave me the empathetic feeling that I was in motion, too, scudding along under complex pressures and even more complex controls toward the open sea.
I had ham and eggs with potatoes and toast and coffee. Then I drove uptown and parked in the lot behind the art museum.
Betty Jo met me at the front entrance.
I said, “We seem to be synchronized, Betty Jo.”
“Yes.” But she didn’t sound too happy about it.
“What’s the matter?”
“You just said it. My name. I hate my name.”
“Why?”
“It’s a silly name. A double name always sounds like a child’s name. It’s immature. I don’t like either of my names separately, either. Betty is such a plain name, and Jo sounds like a boy. But I suppose I have to settle for one of them. Unless you can suggest something better.”
“How about Lew?”
She didn’t smile. “You’re making fun of me. This is serious.”
She was a serious girl, and more delicate in her feelings than I’d imagined. It didn’t make me sorry that I had slept with her, but it lent a certain weight to the event. I hoped she wasn’t getting ready to fall in love, especially not with me. But I kissed her, lightly, philanthropically.
A young man had appeared at the entrance to the classical sculpture exhibit. He had a wavy blond head and a tapered torso. He was carrying the colored photograph of the memory painting.
“Betty Jo?”
“I’ve changed my name to Betty,” she said. “Please just call me Betty.”
“Okay, Betty.” The young man’s
“Are you afraid of her?”
“No, but I thought we were friends.” She added as we drove away from the house, “Maybe I am a little afraid of her. But also I’m sorry that we hurt her.”
“She was hurt long ago.”
“Yes. I know what you mean.”
I meant Rico.
I returned to my motel. Betty Jo came in with me to compare notes. We compared not only notes.
The night was sweet and short. Dawn slipped in like something cool and young and almost forgotten.
chapter 15
When I woke up in the morning, she was gone. A pang that resembled hunger went through me a little higher than my stomach. The phone beside the bed rang.
“This is Betty Jo.”
“You sound very cheerful,” I said. “Painfully cheerful.”
“You had that effect on me. Also my editor wants me to do a feature on the Chantry case. He says he’ll give me all the time I need. The only drawback is that they may not print it.”
“Why not?”
“Mrs. Chantry talked to Mr. Brailsford first thing this morning. He owns the paper. So they’re going to have an editorial conference in Mr. Brailsford’s office. In the meantime, I’m supposed to go on digging. Do you have any suggestions?”
“You might try the art museum. Take along your photograph of the painting. There may be somebody in the museum who can identify the model who sat for it. And if we’re very lucky the model may be able to tell us who painted it.”
“That’s exactly what I was planning to do.”
“Good for you.”
She lowered her voice. “Lew?”
“What do you want?”
“Nothing. I mean, do you mind about my thinking of it first? I mean, you’re older than I am, and maybe not quite so liberated.”
I said, “Cheer up. I’ll probably see you at the art museum. You’ll find me among the old masters.”
“I did hurt your feelings, didn’t I?”
“On the contrary. I never felt better. I’m going to hang up now before you hurt my feelings.”
She laughed and hung up on me. I shaved and had a shower and went out for breakfast. An early wind was blowing on the water. A few small craft were out in it. But most of the boats in the harbor danced in place at their moorings, naked-masted.
I found a clean-looking restaurant and took a seat by the front window so that I could watch the boats. They gave me the empathetic feeling that I was in motion, too, scudding along under complex pressures and even more complex controls toward the open sea.
I had ham and eggs with potatoes and toast and coffee. Then I drove uptown and parked in the lot behind the art museum.
Betty Jo met me at the front entrance.
I said, “We seem to be synchronized, Betty Jo.”
“Yes.” But she didn’t sound too happy about it.
“What’s the matter?”
“You just said it. My name. I hate my name.”
“Why?”
“It’s a silly name. A double name always sounds like a child’s name. It’s immature. I don’t like either of my names separately, either. Betty is such a plain name, and Jo sounds like a boy. But I suppose I have to settle for one of them. Unless you can suggest something better.”
“How about Lew?”
She didn’t smile. “You’re making fun of me. This is serious.”
She was a serious girl, and more delicate in her feelings than I’d imagined. It didn’t make me sorry that I had slept with her, but it lent a certain weight to the event. I hoped she wasn’t getting ready to fall in love, especially not with me. But I kissed her, lightly, philanthropically.
A young man had appeared at the entrance to the classical sculpture exhibit. He had a wavy blond head and a tapered torso. He was carrying the colored photograph of the memory painting.
“Betty Jo?”
“I’ve changed my name to Betty,” she said. “Please just call me Betty.”
“Okay, Betty.” The young man’s
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