A Stone's Throw by James Ziskin (best story books to read .txt) 📗

When he finally returned, he looked all in and suggested it was time to call it a night.

“It’s only eleven thirty,” said Helen. “Since when did you become such a wet blanket? At least leave us Ellie. She’s been entertaining us with stories of debauchery and murder in Hollywood.”

I was feeling fine after the inauspicious start to the evening. Gone were the memory of my difficult interview with Judge Shaw and the unpleasantness of Ned’s joke. Helen and Todd had turned out to be quite nice, and I wished Freddie hadn’t pulled me away so soon. But he was my escort, after all, and I didn’t want to walk back to the Friar Tuck in my evening gown.

“Did you have a nice time?” I asked him as we sped down Route 50, convertible top down. I didn’t care if my hair ended up in knots now.

“Of course,” he said in a most unconvincing fashion.

I didn’t press the issue. I’d enjoyed myself and wasn’t about to beg him to cheer up. In my experience, moody men stayed that way if you indulged them. He drove on in silence for about a mile, and then he asked what Helen had said to me.

“She said you told her all about me. Name, rank, and serial number.”

“Nothing else? Nothing about my mother?”

“No. What would she tell me about your mother?”

He didn’t say a word for the longest time. Something was bothering him.

“What would Helen tell me about your mother?” I asked again.

“It’s . . . I have to work on her, that’s all.”

“Work on her?”

“I want you to come down to Virginia to visit after the meet ends. Maybe in October or November. Thanksgiving would be nice.”

“Sounds serious,” I said. “So why do you need to work on her?”

His jaw flexed. He stared straight down the road.

“Freddie?”

“She told me not to see you again.”

I managed to squeeze a “why” out of my dry throat. Freddie twitched. He tried to put me off and avoid answering my question. When I finally broke him down, I saw his lip curl as he formed his words.

“She said she doesn’t want me marrying a Jew.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Freddie begged me to stay with him at the motel. He promised he could convince his mother to accept me. And if she didn’t, he didn’t care. I told him through my tears that I didn’t want to marry him. I barely knew him. He understood, insisted those were his mother’s words, not his. He held me tight and comforted me, but I couldn’t do it. I bore him no ill will. He was a wonderful young man, one who’d lit a spark in me that I hadn’t felt in a long time. More than that, he’d captured my interest in a way that no man had ever quite done. He was witty and fun, attentive and urbane. And there was something elusive, too, that attracted me to him. I couldn’t explain why I liked him so. But neither could I stay with him that night. I didn’t care about the falsity his mother had shown me, her phony affection and insincere charity toward other races, other than how it pertained to her character. She was a horrid person, I knew now. A hateful wretch. And I had little interest in quoting Shylock to her across the Thanksgiving dinner table. I’d resisted that urge earlier when Ned told his joke. Nor did I want to feel sorry for myself now. Yet I did. And I felt fury. I was angry. I was powerless. God, I wasn’t in love with Frederick Carsten Whitcomb III, but I wanted the option to be.

It was past one when I threw my small bag into the trunk of my car. I hadn’t even bothered to change out of my gown. I only wanted to get home and climb into my own bed with a glass of whiskey. Alone. I allowed myself a couple of tears as I raced along Route 67 toward New Holland. Not tears for Freddie, but for myself. Caused by the awful woman who’d hugged me, called me dear, then told her son I had horns and stripes. And that was the end of it. As I dried my cheeks with the back of my hand, I put to rest all sorrow and self-pity. Georgina Whitcomb—and her bigotry—disappeared into the swirling darkness behind me.

I passed Tempesta Farm and spotted far ahead, atop a hill about a half mile off, six or seven cherry tops spinning. As I came nearer, I slowed to see what was going on and caught sight of Frank Olney’s large profile in the flashing lights. Sheriff Pryor was there as well with a couple of his deputies. I pulled over to the shoulder thirty yards past the county cruisers and made my way back to the scene in my heels and long green gown.

“Is that you, Ellie?” asked Stan Pulaski, who was directing what little traffic there was at one thirty in the morning on a deserted Route 67. “Wow. You look beautiful.”

What a sweetheart Stan was. His eyes glazed over, and, after my disappointing evening, I almost threw my arms around his neck for a tight hug. I resisted the urge.

“What’s going on?” I asked instead.

“Someone reported a car behind the trees down there. And there’s a body inside.”

The news set my heart pounding. “It’s not a young woman, is it?”

Stan nodded.

“Don’t tell me it’s a black Chrysler.”

“It is. How did you know that?”

“I can tell you the license number, too,” I said. My memory was pretty strong when engaged in a search. “B-Y-W-sixty-six.”

Frank Olney made time to speak with me once the ambulance had carted away the body. He was kind enough to refrain from commenting on my attire. Pryor stood at his side, none too pleased to see me there, and without the good manners Frank had shown. He said Halloween wasn’t for another