and stepped through them.
10
T om Lord drove away from Joyce Lakewood’s cottage with that rare good feeling a man has when he has been persuaded to do exactly what he wanted. Sobering up the last couple days, getting off the booze entirely, he had decided to get away from Big Sands for a while. Not far away, not splendidly away, but just away. There was nothing to hold him here now—although, of course, he must come back. He could not picture himself as living permanently in another place. But for the time being, he needed a change. And it was the one need, among his many, which he was able to satisfy.
He had been about to tell Joyce of his decision, to suggest that she might like to accompany him, when she herself had begun to hint at just such an excursion. And Lord, knowing her nature, had immediately put on a long face and demurred.
“But you should get away, Tom! It would be good for you.”
“Maybe. Hard to say. Be a lot of trouble for you, though.”
“No, it wouldn’t, honey! Honestly! I’d love to do it.”
“Well, that’s different,” Lord drawled. “You want to do it, why, I will. Just for you, baby.”
Joyce kissed him delightedly. He did lov—like her a lot, didn’t he? More than anyone else?
“Hell, don’t it look like it?” Lord said. “Catch me pulling up stakes on a minute’s notice for any other gal.”
He left her glowing with happiness, babbling with a thousand plans for their trip. He was to hurry right back, now. Just as soon as he could pack a bag. And she’d be ready when he got back.
Lord promised, feeling pretty good himself, only faintly disturbed by the fact that having seemingly won her way in this matter, she was hopeful of a still greater victory. Because she obviously was hopeful. She was keeping it corked up, trying not to show it, but he could see it just the same. Which meant that she was building herself up for a hell of a letdown. But that was her fault, not his.
He wasn’t marrying her. He wasn’t marrying anyone, and he particularly wasn’t marrying her.
A man—a Lord, anyway—couldn’t. He couldn’t go through life wondering how many of the guys he passed had laid his wife. He didn’t hold her past against her; everyone had a reason for being what he was, and she doubtless had hers. But he couldn’t live with that past. She shouldn’t expect him to become a partner in it.
The Lord residence was in the old-family section of Big Sands, a single long row of houses overlooking the town from a gentle slope. The newest of the twenty-odd homes there was more than sixty years old, and most had been built in the Civil War era or earlier, yet all were of such reserved architecture—the commodious, clean-lined American Plains school—and all had been so well-constructed with no sparing of time and expense that none seemed dated, none was even incipiently run-down or wearing out.
The Lord home, one of three houses in its block, occupied a corner, with grounds stretching some seventy-five yards along the street. Despite the perpetual scarcity of water the lawn was always green, when the seasons permitted; the shrubs and trees were always nourished and flourishing. Imbedded in the roadside hitching block and affixed to the front door of the house were bronze plates with the identical legend:
Thomas DeMontez Lord, M.D.
Physician and Surgeon
Lord’s great-grandfather had put the plates in place. His son and his grandson, both bearing the name, both following the same profession, had left them there. And the last of his line, ex-Deputy Sheriff Thomas DeMontez Lord, had never thought of removing them. They belonged there. They were not his to remove.
With the coming of the boom, the plates brought an occasional intruder, newcomers looking for a doctor and encouraged to walk in by the hospitably unlocked front door. But Lord regarded this as rather amusing, and no real bother at all. And he saw no reason to change his ways or break with tradition because
10
T om Lord drove away from Joyce Lakewood’s cottage with that rare good feeling a man has when he has been persuaded to do exactly what he wanted. Sobering up the last couple days, getting off the booze entirely, he had decided to get away from Big Sands for a while. Not far away, not splendidly away, but just away. There was nothing to hold him here now—although, of course, he must come back. He could not picture himself as living permanently in another place. But for the time being, he needed a change. And it was the one need, among his many, which he was able to satisfy.
He had been about to tell Joyce of his decision, to suggest that she might like to accompany him, when she herself had begun to hint at just such an excursion. And Lord, knowing her nature, had immediately put on a long face and demurred.
“But you should get away, Tom! It would be good for you.”
“Maybe. Hard to say. Be a lot of trouble for you, though.”
“No, it wouldn’t, honey! Honestly! I’d love to do it.”
“Well, that’s different,” Lord drawled. “You want to do it, why, I will. Just for you, baby.”
Joyce kissed him delightedly. He did lov—like her a lot, didn’t he? More than anyone else?
“Hell, don’t it look like it?” Lord said. “Catch me pulling up stakes on a minute’s notice for any other gal.”
He left her glowing with happiness, babbling with a thousand plans for their trip. He was to hurry right back, now. Just as soon as he could pack a bag. And she’d be ready when he got back.
Lord promised, feeling pretty good himself, only faintly disturbed by the fact that having seemingly won her way in this matter, she was hopeful of a still greater victory. Because she obviously was hopeful. She was keeping it corked up, trying not to show it, but he could see it just the same. Which meant that she was building herself up for a hell of a letdown. But that was her fault, not his.
He wasn’t marrying her. He wasn’t marrying anyone, and he particularly wasn’t marrying her.
A man—a Lord, anyway—couldn’t. He couldn’t go through life wondering how many of the guys he passed had laid his wife. He didn’t hold her past against her; everyone had a reason for being what he was, and she doubtless had hers. But he couldn’t live with that past. She shouldn’t expect him to become a partner in it.
The Lord residence was in the old-family section of Big Sands, a single long row of houses overlooking the town from a gentle slope. The newest of the twenty-odd homes there was more than sixty years old, and most had been built in the Civil War era or earlier, yet all were of such reserved architecture—the commodious, clean-lined American Plains school—and all had been so well-constructed with no sparing of time and expense that none seemed dated, none was even incipiently run-down or wearing out.
The Lord home, one of three houses in its block, occupied a corner, with grounds stretching some seventy-five yards along the street. Despite the perpetual scarcity of water the lawn was always green, when the seasons permitted; the shrubs and trees were always nourished and flourishing. Imbedded in the roadside hitching block and affixed to the front door of the house were bronze plates with the identical legend:
Thomas DeMontez Lord, M.D.
Physician and Surgeon
Lord’s great-grandfather had put the plates in place. His son and his grandson, both bearing the name, both following the same profession, had left them there. And the last of his line, ex-Deputy Sheriff Thomas DeMontez Lord, had never thought of removing them. They belonged there. They were not his to remove.
With the coming of the boom, the plates brought an occasional intruder, newcomers looking for a doctor and encouraged to walk in by the hospitably unlocked front door. But Lord regarded this as rather amusing, and no real bother at all. And he saw no reason to change his ways or break with tradition because
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