Squaw Valley. Now, my brother is no saint. He's dated a lot of women and probably had affairs with several, but he's never really been seriously interested in any of them."
"Nancy, please?' Andrea's fingers curled around a comb, the teeth biting into her palm. Thank goodness her back was to the bed and Nancy couldn't see the agony that she couldn't hide.
"Let me finish," Nancy insisted. "I want you to understand why he is the way he is. The morning of the day he came home, Tell called saying he was bringing this girl home for us to meet. He told mother to bring out the champagne so they could toast the girl he was going to marry. But when he came home, he was alone."
"Did…did he tell you about her?" Unwillingly the question was asked. "Did he say what had happened?"
"He didn't say much about her on the phone except that she was the most beautiful woman in the world. He said we'd find out all about her when we met her. Of course—" Nancy breathed in deeply "—he didn't bring her home. Afterward, the only explanation he gave was that he had been lucky enough to discover what a cheap, scheming tramp she was."
Andrea winced, "I see," she murmured.
"He's become embittered and cynical because of her. When he lashes out at you, it's really that other girl that he's remembering," she concluded.
"Thank you, Nancy." Andrea had to speak softly to keep her voice from trembling with pain. "I do understand now."
"I know it isn't an adequate excuse for his behavior, but it is a reason," Nancy added hesitantly.
There was a moment of silence that Andrea was too choked to fill. Tell despised her so much.
"Well," Nancy sighed brightly, "I suppose I should go and shower and change before dinner. I think I have time. What time are mother's friends supposed to arrive?"
"Er—" Andrea breathed in, biting her upper lip as she tried to reply calmly "—around six thirty. John planned to serve cocktails first and eat around seven thirty."
"I can hear it now." Nancy walked toward the door, a smile curving her cupid's bow lips. ""My Nancy, how you've grown! I hardly recognize you.'" With a grimace of resignation at her own mimicry, she opened the door into the hall.
Andrea wished that Nancy had not reminded her of the small dinner party that John was giving for Rosemary Collins. The only thing she wanted at this minute was escape. But escape was impossible. A plea of a headache or illness would perhaps be accepted by John or Nancy, even Rosemary. Tell would guess the truth and all of John's friends would draw their own conclusions.
She raised her eyes. When was all this going to end? Would it ever end?
Clenching her hands into fists, she vowed that she would make it through the evening. Neither Tell's contempt nor the hostility of John's friends would make her collapse. She owed it to John not to make a scene, not to embarrass him in front of others.
Standing beside his wheelchair that evening, a glass of ginger ale concealing the nervous tremors of her hands, Andrea glanced about the room, away from the older couple talking to John and excluding her from their conversation. It was always this way whenever John invited his friends.
Since she had married John, they had never attempted to hide the fact that they thought John had made a fool of himself. In front of him, they treated her with grating politeness; alone, they were more than rude: they cut her out completely.
That was true of all of his friends except two or three who had known Andrea's father and were more sympathetic to the circumstances surrounding their marriage. It made entertaining difficult. Andrea had tried not to let John see how much his friends upset her because she didn't want to deprive him of their company. After all, they were his friends and had been for years.
With a softly murmured excuse to John that she wanted to check on dinner, Andrea slipped into the dining room. She knew that under Mrs. Davison's expert touch there was no need to be concerned about
"Nancy, please?' Andrea's fingers curled around a comb, the teeth biting into her palm. Thank goodness her back was to the bed and Nancy couldn't see the agony that she couldn't hide.
"Let me finish," Nancy insisted. "I want you to understand why he is the way he is. The morning of the day he came home, Tell called saying he was bringing this girl home for us to meet. He told mother to bring out the champagne so they could toast the girl he was going to marry. But when he came home, he was alone."
"Did…did he tell you about her?" Unwillingly the question was asked. "Did he say what had happened?"
"He didn't say much about her on the phone except that she was the most beautiful woman in the world. He said we'd find out all about her when we met her. Of course—" Nancy breathed in deeply "—he didn't bring her home. Afterward, the only explanation he gave was that he had been lucky enough to discover what a cheap, scheming tramp she was."
Andrea winced, "I see," she murmured.
"He's become embittered and cynical because of her. When he lashes out at you, it's really that other girl that he's remembering," she concluded.
"Thank you, Nancy." Andrea had to speak softly to keep her voice from trembling with pain. "I do understand now."
"I know it isn't an adequate excuse for his behavior, but it is a reason," Nancy added hesitantly.
There was a moment of silence that Andrea was too choked to fill. Tell despised her so much.
"Well," Nancy sighed brightly, "I suppose I should go and shower and change before dinner. I think I have time. What time are mother's friends supposed to arrive?"
"Er—" Andrea breathed in, biting her upper lip as she tried to reply calmly "—around six thirty. John planned to serve cocktails first and eat around seven thirty."
"I can hear it now." Nancy walked toward the door, a smile curving her cupid's bow lips. ""My Nancy, how you've grown! I hardly recognize you.'" With a grimace of resignation at her own mimicry, she opened the door into the hall.
Andrea wished that Nancy had not reminded her of the small dinner party that John was giving for Rosemary Collins. The only thing she wanted at this minute was escape. But escape was impossible. A plea of a headache or illness would perhaps be accepted by John or Nancy, even Rosemary. Tell would guess the truth and all of John's friends would draw their own conclusions.
She raised her eyes. When was all this going to end? Would it ever end?
Clenching her hands into fists, she vowed that she would make it through the evening. Neither Tell's contempt nor the hostility of John's friends would make her collapse. She owed it to John not to make a scene, not to embarrass him in front of others.
Standing beside his wheelchair that evening, a glass of ginger ale concealing the nervous tremors of her hands, Andrea glanced about the room, away from the older couple talking to John and excluding her from their conversation. It was always this way whenever John invited his friends.
Since she had married John, they had never attempted to hide the fact that they thought John had made a fool of himself. In front of him, they treated her with grating politeness; alone, they were more than rude: they cut her out completely.
That was true of all of his friends except two or three who had known Andrea's father and were more sympathetic to the circumstances surrounding their marriage. It made entertaining difficult. Andrea had tried not to let John see how much his friends upset her because she didn't want to deprive him of their company. After all, they were his friends and had been for years.
With a softly murmured excuse to John that she wanted to check on dinner, Andrea slipped into the dining room. She knew that under Mrs. Davison's expert touch there was no need to be concerned about
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