Houses of Stone, KATHY [classic literature books TXT] 📗

as a fellow-historian, he started talking and, so far as Karen could tell, didn't stop until they were ready to leave.

His voice boomed a background accompaniment to the genteel conversation of the others. Mrs. Fowler did most of the talking. Bobby arranged his face in a smile and fixed pale-blue, white-lashed eyes on Karen. With his hair standing up in gluey tufts, he reminded her of an albino rabbit. Mr. Blair said very little, but he nodded a lot. He asked Karen one question: "What do you think of the work of Mr. James Fenimore Cooper?" Karen's surprised reply—"I try not to think about it"—upset him to such an extent that he didn't try again. It also wrung an explosive noise from Bill Meyer, which he managed to suppress before it developed into a laugh.

Sandwiches (crustless, paper-thin and spread with various indeterminate substances) had been added to the inevitable macaroons. The Colonel and Bobby ate most of them. Since there was no hope of escape from the Colonel, Peggy was relieving her boredom by making fun of him. "How fascinating," Karen heard her say. "Really? Why, I never knew that. Do tell me more."

Karen tried not to look at her watch. How long, oh Lord, must she endure this agony? Bobby's fixed stare was driving her up the wall. He obviously expected she would be flattered by it. She couldn't pump Mrs. Fowler for information with Bill Meyer sitting there, ears pricked. Damn him, she thought, smiling sweetly at him as he proffered the plate of macaroons; he knows I'm about to explode with frustration and he's loving it.

After an hour and twenty minutes, Peggy jumped to her feet with a girlish giggle, her skirts billowing wildly. "My goodness gracious, just look at the time! I've been enjoying myself so much I couldn't tear myself away. Thank you so much, Mrs. Fowler; it's been a pleasure meeting you gentlemen—and seeing you, Bill dear—"

Bill dear left with them. The other men remained; Karen felt sure they were looking forward to a good gossip about the visitors, with special attention to her tactlessness and improper attire. The Colonel's parting remark was addressed to her. "We're all looking forward to your little talk on Wednesday, young lady."

As soon as they were out of earshot Peggy asked curiously, "What little talk is that?"

"I am addressing the literary society," Karen snapped. "Thanks to Bill here. He set me up."

Meyer caught Peggy's arm as she staggered. The hat fell off; he fielded it with a deft left-handed catch. "I said I was sorry," he said with an unrepentant grin. "You all right, Peggy?"

"It's these damned shoes."

Meyer shook his head sympathetically. "Martyrdom of that magnitude deserves a reward. Can I buy you a drink? Or a thick steak? Or both?"

"Sure," Peggy said, before Karen could reply. "Let me change my shoes first. My sneakers are in my car."

They turned into the driveway, Peggy still holding Meyer's arm. Karen followed, kicking at pebbles to relieve her feelings. Whatever Meyer's motive for inviting them to dinner, it would have been childish to refuse—but that didn't mean she had to like what she was doing.

"Who's that?" Meyer exclaimed, coming to a stop.

"Where?" Thrown off-balance, Peggy clutched at him. He thrust her at Karen and started to run.

Karen managed to stay on her feet and keep Peggy from falling. By that time Meyer was out of sight. Cursing female fashions, specifically footwear, Peggy tottered toward her car. She was changing into her sneakers when Meyer reappeared, pushing through the bushes at the back of the garage. He was disheveled and short of breath when he joined them.

"She got away. Must have parked in the alley; I heard a car start up and take off."

"She," Peggy repeated. "Who?"

Meyer hesitated. He had unbuttoned his coat and vest and loosened his tie. "I should have asked if you were expecting a visitor. She took off in such a hurry—"

"I didn't see anyone," Karen said.

"I only caught a glimpse of her, coming down the stairs. Did you?"

He spoke to Peggy. She shook her head. "I was too busy concentrating on walking. What did she look like?"

Meyer ran his fingers through his hair, dislodging a shower of twigs and leaves. "Almost my height, built like a tank. Sound like anyone we know?"

"Dorothea!" Karen exclaimed. "It can't be."

"I'm afraid it could," Meyer said.

Chapter Nine

"Nothing here but kitchen things," he said, with a little laugh for the insignificance of kitchen things.

Susan Glaspell,

"A Jury of Her Peers," 1918

“The lamplight falling full upon him brought into strong outline a physiognomy more notable for strength than comeliness. Strands of silver glittered in the sable locks which were swept back to bare a brow forbiddingly high and prominent. The jutting nose and thin lips set in a habitual downward curve, the harsh modeling of the bone structure over which the skin stretched tightly: all his features combined recalled to Ismene a desolate landscape shadowed by low-hanging clouds. Yet when he smiled it was as if the same scene were illumined by a flood of sunlight breaking through the clouds; what had been shadowed was now bright and fresh, what had seemed a solitary wilderness was now animated by life.' "

Peggy looked up from the manuscript. "Remind you of anyone you know?" she asked.

"No," Karen said curtly.

"How about this? 'The gentleness of his countenance was the product of expression rather than structure. Those soft blue eyes could harden with anger or flash with noble indignation, and on such occasions the golden locks framing his brow seemed to glitter with a supernal fire.' "

Karen swung around in her chair to look at Peggy, who was curled up on the sofa.

"What are you talking about?" she demanded. "You're supposed to be looking for clues. I'd be the first to admit that Ismene's literary style lags at times, but those descriptions are typical of the genre—the Byronic hero-villain, dark and gloomy, and the fair-haired hero—"

"No doubt. But that's not what I meant."

"I know what you