The Bamboo Blonde. Dorothy B. Hughes
Kathie’s voice was relief after Dare’s pseudo-British shrillness. She asked, “Who are they?”
Con said wickedly, “Friends of Griselda’s. The girl’s quite a decorator. For fame, not nickels. She was married to a mint, son of the tobacco Crandall. He was killed in a plane wreck. Before that she was the damn best newspaperwoman ever worked New York.” He added disinterestedly, “The man is Kew Brent, the Washington columnist.”
Travis’s eyes colored in recognition. “I read him,” he said, as if he read nothing else in the paper.
“Too many people do.” Con was enjoying himself. “That’s why he exists. Mrs. Crandall is here to decorate the Swales’s house.”
“Admiral Swales?” Kathie raised her eyes.
“Yeah. The daughter.”
Kathie said, “Oh,” and her head turned slightly to where she could see the other couple, there where the low wall made an angle. She said softly again, “Oh. The Swales are terribly rich.” She was like a naive child. “She’ll make their house beautiful, won’t she? It’s that big white one on Ocean. It has private steps to the beach. I was there once at a tea. I’d like to meet that–Dare.” She sounded wistful.
“Some other time,” Con replied promptly. “Not tonight. I’ve spent the afternoon with her. That’s enough.”
“You don’t like her?”
He laughed and he had the grace not to look at Griselda. “I might like an electric current but I couldn’t stand it crackling in me twenty-four hours a day.”
The small lieutenant emerged from his silence temporarily. “You understand, dear, don’t you?”
“Yes, I understand.” Her expression didn’t change and her voice was gentle, but there was irritation gnatting behind the words. She devoted herself quickly to Con. “You’ve known her long?”
“Yeah. Pretty long.”
Walker Travis spoke up, “Why are you so interested in her, dear?”
Kathie hid the irritation this time. She said, “She sounds wonderful. She’s rich, and she makes money besides, and she has beautiful clothes. She’s really good-looking too, in a queer sort of way. She has everything, hasn’t she?”
Con said, “Uh-huh,” not very interested; and Griselda to herself said, “Everything but Con.” Nor was she going to have him. This time she’d fight Dare, foul or fair, preferably foul. She hated her being in Long Beach.
Con began to entertain. It was deliberate, and if the Travises but knew, it was a rare compliment. Griselda herself hadn’t heard these tales of Ethiopia, of Spain, of France. Whether or not they were true, they were exciting. She scarcely remembered that Kew and Dare were on the roof. And then he eyed the table sprawling with empty dishes. “Let’s go somewhere clean.” He grinned. “Some place where we can have a drink.” He took Kathie’s coat to help her but he didn’t. “Where’ll we go? Any suggestions? I’m afraid if I ask you out to our trailer we’ll have drop-ins. Griselda and I seem to be awfully popular this season.”
Walker Travis spoke as if it were prearranged, “We could go up to our room.” He looked for approval to Kathie but it was not forthcoming.
Again there was no change in the Madonna face, the gentle chime of her voice. But her, “Oh, no,” was definite as concrete, and her deprecating, “Hotel rooms are so dreadful,” sealed her decision.
Con stood up. “I like hotel rooms. I’m never really happy except in a hotel room.”
The fine chiseling of Kathie’s chin wasn’t soft. “They depress me.” She turned her smile on him. “Let’s go some place where it’s fun, Con.”
Dare and Kew were preparing to leave too. It might have been that they’d only come to watch Con’s party. Griselda knew that was absurd, quite naturally they would finish, even as they’d started, at approximately the same time.
Con delayed. “We’ll find something to amuse you. Now if it were New York . . .” He beckoned the waiter.
Kathie moved to the parapet, stood there looking over at the dark tumultuous waters beyond the crowded Pike. Griselda shivered from a safe distance. The girl turned her head. Her eyes were shining as if lighted by the stars. “Look!” she whispered. Her hand pointed, a white tendril over the sea.
Griselda shook her head. She said, “It would make me dizzy to stand there and look over.” Saying something prosaic took away the gulp at the idea.
Kathie’s eyes were wondering. “Really? I love it.” Her voice was shiny too. “It makes me feel as if I have wings.”
Walker sounded anxious, “Come, dear. We’re ready to go.”
Again there was the faintest displeasure under the outline of her face but she obeyed, walking not to her husband but to Con. And the undercurrent had been swept away before he saw her face.
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