The Three Sirens by Irving Wallace Page B

write, conventions to attend, relatives to entertain, sicknesses to recover from, and suddenly, it was last week. A fight. She was making a fool of him, he said. If she didn’t love him, why didn’t she say so? But she did love him, she said, she loved him very much. Then why was she evading him, tricking him, really refusing to marry him? It would work out, she said, it would work out soon. And then he said and she said, and he said the last words, which were that he would not press her any more, but his desire was the same and his offer stood, and when she was ready she must come to him and tell him.
    All that ruinous haggling was last week.
    Last night, she had read in a Hollywood column that Joseph Morgen had been seen dining in Perino’s with an Italian film starlet.
    She had not slept three hours in the night.
    She became time-conscious. She noted the clock on her desk, and shifted in her chair. “Well, Miss Mitchell, I’m afraid our time is up,” Rachel announced. “This has been a most useful meeting. While you may not feel it, you are making progress.”
    Miss Mitchell had sat up, smoothing her coiffure, and at last she stood, her face more relaxed than previously.
    Rachel rose. “Have a pleasant weekend, and I hope to see you Monday, same time.”
    “Yes,” said Miss Mitchell. She went to the door, Rachel behind her, and then she hesitated, and turned her head. “I—I wish I could be like you, Dr. DeJong. Will I ever?”
    “No, nor would you want to be. One day, soon, you will be yourself, a self you will value highly, and that will be sufficient.
    “I’ll take your word for it. Good-by.”
    After the patient had left, Rachel DeJong leaned against the doorway arch, feeling oddly disoriented. It was with effort that she realized the hour was noon, and that she would have no other patient until four. Why was that? Suddenly, it came to her. She was to participate in a panel discussion, with Dr. Samuelson and Dr. Lynd, on the stage of Beverly Hills High School. There would be a discussion on adolescents and early marriage, and afterward, the meeting would be thrown open to the parents and teachers in attendance for questions from the floor. This had all been arranged several months ago, and it was to occupy her from one to three this afternoon. When it had come up, she had accepted the invitation readily. She had always enjoyed the give and take, the mental challenge and stimulation, of such events. Now she felt weak and weary, unhappy about Joe, disgusted with herself, and soggy with low self-esteem. She was not in the mood for flourishes and wit and psychiatric wisdom. She wanted to be alone to recuperate, to think, to solve herself. Yet, she knew that she could not default on the panel. She had never done so, and she could not do so now. It was too late for a substitute. She would have to go through with it, as best she could.
    After coming out of the washroom, she made up her face, tugged on her coat, and left her office. Passing through the reception room, she saw her morning’s mail on the lamp table. There were half a dozen letters. She stuffed them into her pocket, locked the office door, and took the elevator down to the lobby of the building.
    Outside, the air was chilly and the day as somber and weighted as her heart. She had intended to get her convertible, drive into Beverly Hills, have a drink and a quiet meal at one of the better restaurants, and hurry to catch the panel by one o’clock. Now she was too preoccupied for either a drink or a real lunch, and so she turned up Wilshire Boulevard and made her way, by foot, to the snack shop on the corner.
    The counter was almost filled, but there were still two booths empty. She took her place in the nearer, for she wanted privacy. After ordering a bowl of bean soup, a cheeseburger medium well, and coffee, she sat, hands folded on the table, trying to construct something out of the wreckage of recent months.
    She could not blame Joe for the date