Deep Water by Patricia Highsmith (romance novel chinese novels .txt) 📗

       Melinda, sulking on the sofa, gave him no backing up, however, and Vic knew that dinner was out.

       "I think we should be going home," June said. "I'm getting a little high." She laughed, managed quite a happy laugh. "Melinda told me you made this table, Vic. I think it's 'lovely."

       "Thank you," Vic said, smiling.

       "Sit down, Don," Melinda said, patting the sofa behind her. "Have another drink."

       But Don did not sit down. He did not even reply.

       "Say, where's Trixie?" Vic asked. "Didn't you say she went to a five o'clock movie, honey?"

       Melinda sat up, a startled expression coming through the sullenness. "Oh, my 'God', I was supposed to pick her up in Wesley!" she said with unmaternal annoyance. "What the hell time is it?"

       June Wilson tittered. "These modern mothers!" she said, putting her curly head back. She was nursing her last half inch of drink, and looked as if she would have been glad to stay there sipping and chatting all evening.

       "It's eight-twenty-five," Vic said. "What time were you supposed to pick her up?"

       "Seven-thirty," Melinda groaned, still not getting up from the sofa.

       Vic noticed that Wilson was looking at her with gloomy surprise and disapproval. "Who's she with? Janey?" Vic asked.

       "No-o. The Carter kids from Wesley. She's probably with them. She's probably all right or they'd have called us." Melinda ran her fingers through her hair and reached for her drink.

       "I'll give them a ring in a couple of minutes," Vic said calmly, though his concern made quite a contrast to Melinda's indifference, and he could see that the Wilsons had taken notice of it.

       The Wilsons were looking at each other. There was a silence of a whole minute or so. Then June stood up and said:

       "We really must go. I can see you people have things to do. Thanks for the lovely drinks. I hope you'll come to our house next time."

       "Thanks, Melinda," Don Wilson 'said, bending over the sofa. He and Melinda shook hands, and Melinda used his hand to pull herself up from the sofa.

       "Thanks for coming," Melinda said. "I hope next time you come the house won't be in such an upset."

       "Why, I didn't notice any upset," June said, smiling.

       "Oh, it's one damned thing after another," Melinda said.

       The Wilsons trickled out of the door, with backward glances from June and promises to telephone very soon. Vic was glad that June considered the cocktail visit a success, but she wouldn't, of course, after her husband had told her their conversation. Probably Don wouldn't tell her that conversation. He'd just tell her that he thought Vic Van Allen was cracked, judging from the snails in the garage and from his insane enthusiasm for glaciers.

       "Doesn't he ever talk?" Vic asked.

       "Who?" Melinda had got herself another drink, straight on the rocks.

       "Don Wilson. I couldn't get a word out of him."

       "No?"

       "No. Shouldn't I call up the Carters? What's his first name?" "I don't know. They live in Marlboro Heights."

       Vic made the call. Trixie was fine and wanted to spend the night. Vic talked to her and made her promise to go to bed by nine o'clock, though he didn't think she would stick to it.

       "She's fine," Vic said to Melinda."Mrs. Carter said they'd drive her over sometime tomorrow morning."

       "What're you so merry about?" Melinda asked.

       "Why shouldn't I be? Wasn't it a pleasant evening?"

       June Wilson bores me stiff."

       "Don bores me. We should've switched around. Say, it isn't very late. Why don't we drive over to Wesley and have dinner at the Golden Pheasant? Wouldn't you like that?" He knew she would, and knew she would hate admitting that she would, hate going with him instead of with some imaginary man, whom she was probably even then imagining.

       "I'd rather stay home," Melinda said.

       "No, you wouldn't," Vic said kindly. "Go and put on your blouse with the gold thread. I think the skirt is fine."

       She was wearing a green velvet skirt, but as if to show her insolence toward him or perhaps June Wilson, she had topped the skirt with her old brown sweater, sleeves pushed up, and nothing around her neck. Comparable to Don's old trousers, Vic thought. He sighed, waiting for her inevitable turning away to go to her room, to put on the new blouse with the gold thread, just as he had suggested. Melinda swayed a little, her greenish eyes staring at him, and then she turned away, pulling her sweater over her head before she was even out of the room.

       Why did he really do it, Vic asked himself, when he would have preferred staying home with a book? Or working on Trixie's bookcase? Patiently, with unflagging good humor, he tried to draw her out at the restaurant, tried to get a smile from her by describing twelve methods of summoning a waiter. Melinda only stared off into space—though she was staring around at other people, Vic knew. Melinda derived a great deal of pleasure from watching other people. Or was she looking to see if her detective was here? Not very likely, since he had proposed the Golden Pheasant and he didn't think the detective, if any, would trouble to follow their car at night. A detective would be hired to worm what he could out of their friends, he supposed. So far, no stranger had turned up in their set. Vic thought the Mellers or the Cowans would have mentioned a curious stranger if they had been questioned by one. No, Melinda was only staring at other people. She had a faculty which he really admired of being able to dream, to live vicariously for a while, in other people. He might have said something about this to her, but he was afraid that tonight she would take it as an insult. Or she would say, "What else