The Man Who Loved His Wife by Vera Caspary Page A

Fletcher Strode’s daughter need not feel inferior. She had large blue eyes very much like his own, and her mother’s pale skin, now prettily tanned. A good-looking girl deserves good clothes. He had not been generous to her lately, nor fair in judging her charms.
    She imitated Elaine in suggesting his lunch menu, selectingthings he liked, protecting him from the waiter. All through lunch she chattered so that people, observing them, probably thought the middle-aged man extremely patient with the prattle of his young companion. When they were drinking coffee she slid her hand across the table, rested it upon his and asked gently if he would like to help her and her husband. “We do so want a home of our own.”
    There were a number of questions in his mind but he did not care to expose his infirmity in the restaurant. He signaled the waiter, and Cindy, tactful today, announced that Mr. Strode would like the check. It was not until they were in the car that Fletcher spoke. Would she like a new dress for that party? Anything she chose at the shop. The price did not matter. Fletcher Strode’s daughter could dress as well as that big-bosomed friend of hers. Ordinarily Cindy would have been ecstatic, not only having bought an expensive dress but wangled a wrap and a pair of slippers to go with the outfit.
    â€œThank you very much, Daddy. You’re so wonderful but”—she slid toward him and rested her hand upon his knee—“my beige organza is just perfect for Monday night, and no one out here’s seen it yet. There’s something else,” she paused for a deep breath, “money, Daddy. But only as a loan. Don will pay it back. He’s practically been promised that Carter job, you know.”
    â€œHow much?”
    â€œWe’re not asking you to give it to us. Really. We’ve decided to live very economically so we can pay you back soon.”
    Fletcher barked out the question again.
    Cindy hesitated. She was afraid he would remind her that the income from her trust fund was a lot of money for a young girl, that she did not appreciate the sacrifice it had cost to make this liberal settlement on his daughter. He had to ask once more before she tightened her hand on his thigh and asked tremulously, “Could you afford to lend us five thousand dollars, Daddy? One thousand Monday and the rest—”
    A roar interrupted. That was a damn fool question, an insult, a slur on his name. Could he afford five thousand dollars? Didshe think her father a pauper? Whenever he was angry and spoke too fast, neglecting the control of abdominal muscles and the rhythm of breath, he sounded like a defective machine. Cindy could not half understand, but experience had taught her that his rage would be increased if she reminded him of the horror.
    He knew. A few blocks before they reached the house he parked the car, turned off the motor, and asked in painfully controlled syllables how much the house would cost and how Don expected to finance it. She told him all that Don had explained. Fletcher did not approve.
    He kept her waiting. The suspense was unbearable. She was tempted to jump out of the car and run away from the sound of his breathing. She found a handkerchief in her bag, wiped her eyes, turned away and blew her nose. Fletcher pretended not to notice but was fully aware of her agitation. His blood ran faster, his pulse raced, the glow of power sent up his blood pressure. Fletcher Strode had become a man again. Others waited and feared his decisions.
    His daughter eyed him timidly.
    â€œLet me think about it.” He had the voice of authority.
    â€œYou will, Daddy!” The girl was ecstatic at not having been rejected.
    He switched on the motor, thrust his foot hard upon the gas pedal. The car raced up the hill like a creature freed from bondage, moving with swift and certain power.
    â€œDON’T MOVE. STAY just as you are. I want to enjoy this pretty picture,”