Escape the Night (5 page)

Certainly not.

She swung around—moving very quietly—slid her toes into the slippers in the darkness, fumbled for the silk folds of her dressing gown and got quickly into it. She’d look out on the veranda; she’d see if anybody really was there. It was probably only Amanda.

She crossed the room and opened the door quickly because she was still so unnerved (absurdly, she reminded herself) that if she stopped to think, she knew she would crawl back in bed again and lie awake the rest of the night obsessed with completely fantastic notions. Be sensible, she told herself and swung the door open.

It moved quietly; the night air was cool upon her face. The veranda was roofed so a deep black shadow lay in a band immediately outside the door, but there was a faintly lighter strip below the roof. Nobody seemed to be there, however, and she heard nothing at all. She started to call, softly. “Amanda” was on the tip of her tongue. Before she could say it she got another extraordinary notion and that was that there were people whispering in the patio.

This, she said to herself, is going too far; people whispering in the patio, indeed! Go back to bed, Serena; you’re being very silly. Go back to bed. Instead, she left the bedroom door and crossed the veranda to the railing. If it had been light she could have seen the patio from there; as it was the patio was only a deep black well below her.

But there
was
somebody down there whispering.

She touched the railing and put her hand upon it.

It wasn’t the rustle of shrubbery; anyway, there was no wind. It wasn’t anything in the world but whispers coming out of that black well and they were strangely vehement whispers. Jerky. Quick. A rush of words, apparently, and then a silence and then another rush of words. Like a conversation, except she could not distinguish any words and if it was a conversation it was an extraordinarily angry one. A violent conversation.

So angry, and so violent, that if she’d tried to call Amanda’s name then, she couldn’t have spoken.

Yet it could only be Amanda, or Sutton; possibly both; aroused for some reason and talking in whispers because they didn’t want to wake her. Yes, it must be that. Only they—or whoever it was down there—sounded so angry, so violent, so threatening. There was another rush of words.

Probably she would have stirred herself to speak but the whispers came then to an abrupt end; the nucleus of it, somewhere down there in the patio, seemed to break up suddenly and separate with sounds of motion which were at first diffuse and seemed all over the patio, and then all at once dwindled to one sound which was perfectly clear and definable as footsteps again, going lightly up some steps.

Not the steps near her; the noises came from across the patio and were growing fainter. Was there also a flight of stairs going up to the west wing of the house? She couldn’t remember. She listened and thought she heard a door closing somewhere and then she heard, literally, nothing but the silly pounding of her own heart.

Obviously it was Amanda or Sutton; their rooms must be in that wing of the house; hadn’t Amanda said so? She’d said Serena would be alone in the guest wing; that was it.

She stood there, caught by a kind of suspense and perplexity, although there was no reason to think that the rather unnerving little episode was not concluded. And certainly there was always a perfectly clear and sensible reason for everything. Always, that is, unless you were over-tired, absurdly nervous and taut, ready to imagine bogies in the night. Better stay there for a moment and—what? Smoke a cigarette? Or get a good, breath of night air? Or …

Footsteps again! Light footsteps below. A pause, a longish pause, so it seemed to her that whoever was walking along the flags so lightly below her must have looked up and seen her. Yet no one could; she’d noticed herself, entering the patio, how deep a shadow lay within it and all around the dark house.

So there had been two people down there. But naturally there were two; that whispered conversation was a conversation; a dialogue from the sound of it. Who then? There was another sound of a footstep and then directly below her the light, small sputter of a match, and a man’s face as he held a cigarette near it, and it was Jem.

Relief flooded her in a wave. She leaned forward: “Jem!”

Her voice was low but clear and it surprised the man below. She saw the jerk of the match as he put it out and felt that his face had jerked upward toward her. There was an instant’s pause. Then his voice came upward. “Who’s that? Amanda?”

“No, Jem, it’s me. Sissy. What on earth are you doing down there? You frightened me!”

“Sissy! You ought to be asleep long ago.”

“I’m not. I couldn’t.”

He laughed a little, softly. “Good. I’m wakeful, too.”

“I thought I heard something and I came out. Jem, were you here all the time?”

He laughed again; he was directly below her for his voice was very low, yet near. “I couldn’t sleep; I thought I’d—oh, walk a bit.” The cigarette glowed as he put it to his mouth so she caught a shadowy glimpse of his face. She said, “I wish I had a cigarette.”

“Forward girl. Come down and I’ll give you one.”

Well. Why not? “All right.” She wrapped her dressing gown around her and felt for the steps. He said, through the darkness, “Look out. The stairs are pretty steep. There are railings …”

“I’ve found one.” She clung to it and he came up a few steps. “Are you all right? Here take my hand.”

She felt for it through the gloom; his face came out of it slowly, a pale oval; his hand found hers and was warm and tight. He guided her down another step. “Sit down here. The steps are dry. Now then.” She sat down, folding her long dressing gown around her bare ankles.

“You’re not going to catch cold?” he said, sitting on the step below and reaching for cigarettes. She could see him dimly now and the package of cigarettes he held toward her, and when he struck a match again and cupped his hands around it for her light she leaned forward to take it and glanced quickly into his face, so near her own. And so exactly the face she’d remembered; the curve of his mouth, half smiling, his straight, strong nose; his eyes narrowed, intent upon the match he was holding. “Got it?” he said, gave her a brief but rather searching look, and then blew out the match. “Warm enough?”

“Yes, I’d forgotten how warm it is here this time of the year.”

“Always like this.”

They smoked a moment in silence. She said finally: “Where have you been, Jem, since I saw you last?”

“Oh.” He waited, and then said, “Here and there. In South America for awhile. Back here for a few months. Then away again. I had a civilian job for the army the first year of the war. Building some air bases. Got a touch of malaria; I’m back here for a few weeks. Waiting”—he hesitated and said—“waiting orders, as a matter of fact. I’ve not seen you since—well, it was at Amanda’s wedding, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“I remember. We walked in the garden afterward.”

“Yes.”

Another silence prolonged itself. It was a companionable silence, although it struck Serena that for a girl who’d traveled across a continent to see a man she was turning rather shy and tongue-tied in his presence. Yet the sense of quiet and harmony was pleasant, and the sense of his presence there on the step below.

“I was in Mexico for awhile after that,” he said presently. “I bought a ranch there; made money from it, too. It’s a funny place. Nice though …” He talked for a little about it.

She must talk, too, she thought suddenly; be light and gay and friendly—and attractive. Wasn’t that the idea when you thought perhaps you were in love with a man and had been in love with him for a long time? Definitely, it was. Well, then here was an opportunity. Night and the soft night air and Jem so close to her that his shoulder touched her knee. But it was rather nice, too, just to listen and to be there. Quietly.

He turned abruptly and put out his cigarette and got up.

“I’ll go along. You’d better get your sleep.”

“Oh,” said Serena, unguardedly and in disappointment. And then got quickly to her feet. “Yes, of course! It must be nearly morning!”

“I’m glad I happened to stroll this way. Good night, my dear.”

“Good night, Jem. Again.”

“Again? Oh, you meant at the Lodge tonight. I was thinking about the night Amanda was married. And …” He stopped and pulled her down toward him and into his arms.

He held her lightly and kissed her very lightly, his mouth barely touching her own. And then suddenly, unexpectedly and hard, like a wave breaking wildly into surge and tumult, his arms tightened close around her and his mouth found her own again.

It was a different kiss. Very different, that was really all she knew. His arms and the warmth and strength with which he held her and the pressure of his mouth against her own shut out everything else in the world. There was no sky, no blackness, no house; nothing that mattered anywhere except that moment in time and Jem and herself.

And then abruptly again he released her. He said, but rather shakenly this time, so his voice was different, too, “I—didn’t know I was going to do that. You’ve grown up, Serena. Good night.”

This time he went away quickly. She moved, too, scarcely aware of it; but she was at the veranda railing again when the sound of his footsteps reached the gate, and left the flagged walk for the graveled drive, and then rapidly diminished.

It was curious that she fell immediately into a deep sleep. It was as untroubled a sleep as if every problem that could exist for her, ever, had been solved and even in her sleep a warmth and glow lingered gently and happily, and with the strangest sense of security.

She still had that sense of serene and happy security when she awoke. She remembered why instantly. She was at home, she was in a pleasant, sunlit room in Amanda’s house. She had seen Jem, and everything was going to be all right and she’d been right to come. Suppose she hadn’t come!

She thought that swiftly and with the clarity of wakening and then Amanda opened the door and came in. She was dressed to riding breeches and a white shirt and carried a tray. “Darling,” she said, “you did say come in, didn’t you? It’s nearly noon. I’ve brought your breakfast. No need to ask you how you slept.”

Serena sat up and yawned and stuffed pillows sleepily behind her back. “This is luxury,” she said, yawning again.” Oh, Amanda, I’m so glad to be home.”

“Good,” said Amanda. She put the tray across Serena’s knees. “Darling, I hate it, but I’ve got to go out. Can you amuse yourself here? Aunt Luisa’s at home; you won’t be alone.”

“But, of course. What marvelous coffee!”

“Yes, Modeste’s good at coffee making. Thank Heaven, I’ve still got Ramon and Modeste. When the war began, the Japanese and Germans, in fact all enemy aliens were interned right away, of course, and it practically denuded the kitchens all along the coast. But Ramon and Modeste are natives. I’m sorry I have to leave for a few hours but—oh, Sissy dear, you were always such a lamb. Just put this little package somewhere, will you? And keep it for me.”

“Why”—she glanced at the paper-wrapped, lumpish little package in Amanda’s hand—“of course.” She felt gay and petted and secure; nothing could have seemed wrong or out of place that morning. “No questions asked,” she said, smiling up at Amanda.

“No questions asked,” agreed Amanda, but somberly, and both looked toward the door as a short, compact woman of about fifty, in a shabby gray flannel suit, appeared there.

“Good morning,” she said firmly, looking at Serena with pale, observant blue eyes. “I suppose you are Serena March?”

“Of course, Aunt Luisa. I was going to call you. This is my little sister. Serena, this is our aunt, Miss Condit.”

“Luisa de la Vega Condit,” said Miss Condit, coming forward. She eyed Serena, who felt very young and childish, in her thin lacy nightgown, with her dark hair around her shoulders and tied back from her face with a blue ribbon. “How do you do?” said Miss Condit after a scrutiny, and turned instantly to Amanda. “Are you going out?”

“Yes, but Sissy will be here. And I’ve got to run along now.” Amanda glanced rather sharply at Serena. “You do look marvelous, Sissy,” she said abruptly. “I never saw you look so—well, just like that. What’s come over you?”

Oh, dear, thought Serena in amused dismay; flags out, carnivals and dancing in the street! Is it my eyes? She looked at her coffee and said mischievously, “Like what?”

“I don’t exactly know,” said Amanda slowly. “Different. As if”—she hesitated, hunting for words—“as if somebody had given you something.”

Luisa de la Vega Condit gave a short and unexplained laugh. Amanda’s lovely face froze. Serena risked another question. “Aren’t you coming home to lunch? Jem is to be here, isn’t he?”

“Jem?” said Amanda in a faintly surprised tone. “Why, no.”

“But he—I thought you said last night …”

“Oh, Jem phoned. He’s not coming to lunch,” said Amanda rapidly. “Good-bye, darling. I must hurry. Take care of each other,” she added, and ran out of the room and along the veranda.

Aunt Luisa Condit said, shortly and rather disconcertingly, “See you later,” and stumped away, too.

Serena finished her breakfast slowly. She was queerly, sharply disappointed because Jem wasn’t coming. Something of the warmth seemed to go out of the morning as later, after she’d showered and unpacked and dressed, it seemed to go out of the day, for clouds came up from the sea and eventually blanketed the sun with a thick, opaque, fleecy gray.

She began to have an odd feeling of anti-climax. She arranged her clothes, and her gayly bottled-and-boxed cosmetics; wrote a note or two; had lunch with Luisa before the windows in the long living room. Luisa had turned on the radio loudly and listened doggedly while Serena looked at what she could see of the cloud-banked mountains. After lunch Luisa took up her knitting and disappeared. Amanda didn’t return; Sutton didn’t turn up at all, and Jem neither telephoned nor came. There began to be too much time to think; to reflect rather chillingly that, after all, she wasn’t the only girl Jem had kissed and to remember a little too clearly Leda’s words about Jem and Amanda.