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

earlier, you know, around six ... No, nothing, I didn't do a damned thing all day—except wait ... Yes," with a sigh.

       Vic could imagine the conversation. Don had probably asked Melinda and Cameron for cocktails, a celebratory cocktail hour after they had started the divorce papers. The last "Yes" would be in answer to the question whether Vic was here. Vic had heard the same "Yes" many times before.

       "I'm sorry, Don ... Give Ralph my regards ..."

       There would be a little cloud over the enemy camp tonight. When Melinda came in, Vic broke his resolution, and asked, "Did Cameron run out?"

       "He probably had to work late somewhere."

       "He's probably run out," Vic said.

       "On 'what'?"

       "On you."

       "My eye, he has."

       "It's a great strain on a man. You don't seem to realize it. I don't think Cameron can take it."

       "What's a strain?"

       "What Cameron was trying to do. He's probably used one of those tickets to Mexico City," Vic said, and saw Melinda stop her pacing and look at him, and he could read in her face as easily as if it were printed there that she was thinking it remotely possible that he had done that. Then she said:

       "Since you seem to be interested, he left his car in Wesley unlocked with the window open and papers and stuff on the seat. So I doubt if he's gone to Mexico."

       "Oh. Well, I'm not very interested. I just think he's run out and I doubt very much if you'll hear from him again."

       Roger came and sat down at Vic's feet, smiling up at him as they had a very funny private joke. Vic reached down and scratched his head.

       "Roger been fed?" he asked.

       "I don't happen to know."

       "You been fed, Roger?" he asked, then got up and went down the hall and knocked on Trixie's door.

       "Come in?"

       Trixie was propped up comfortable against her pillows, reading a book.

       "Did you feed Roger?"

       "Uh-huh. At five o'clock."

       "Uh-huh. Thank you. You didn't give him too much again, did you?"

       "He wasn't sick," Trixie said coolly, arching her eyebrows. "Well, that's fine. And how about you? Aren't you getting hungry?"

       "I want to eat with you and Mommie!" she said, beginning to frown, already protesting the possibility that she might have to eat earlier and alone.

       "Well, I'm not sure Mommie's going to eat here. She might be having dinner with Tony somewhere."

       "Good. Then we'll eat together."

       Vic smiled. "All right. Do you want to come in and help me fix dinner?"

       He and Trixie fixed dinner for three, and set the table for three, though Melinda refused to sit down with them. Melinda had not done any marketing, so Vic had opened one of the cans of whole chicken that had been sitting on the shelf for a forgotten length of time. He had also opened a bottle of Niersteiner Domthal from the back of the liquor closet and poured some for Trixie and himself into stemmed glasses over a couple of ice cubes. He had made mashed sweet potatoes topped with toasted marshmallows, because Trixie loved them. Vic and Trixie had a long discussion about wines, how they were made and why they were different colors, and Trixie got tipsy enough to insist on classifying root beer as a wine, really her favorite, she said, so Vic let her call it a wine without correcting her.

       "What're you doing, getting the child drunk?" Melinda asked, passing by them with her fourth or fifth drink.

       "Oh, a glass and a half," Vic said. "She'll sleep better. You should consider it a blessing."

       Melinda disappeared into the living room, but Vic could feel her frustration building up in the atmosphere of the house. He would not have been surprised to hear the crash of a hurled lamp, or the splashing sound of a magazine flung against the wall, or sin ply the sound of the front door being wrenched open, followed by the cool draft that would sweep through the house when she left the door open to stroll out on the lawn, or perhaps to get into her car to go God knew where. Then Trixie got the giggles and nearly choked trying to tell him about a boy in school who could carry his books in the seat of his pants.

       Vic heard Melinda making a telephone call, and at that particular moment Vic wanted a cigarette, so he went into the living room to get it, and heard enough of what Melinda was saying to know that she was calling Cameron's hotel in Wesley to ask if they had received any message from him. They hadn't. Vic went back to serve Trixie her favorite dessert—plain sugared whipped cream, which Vic had whipped with his own hands, spiraled into a little bowl and crowned with a maraschino cherry.

       He had some more wine with his cigarette and went on chat ting amiably with Trixie, though she was nearly falling asleep in her chair.

       "What're you two celebrating?" Melinda asked, leaning in the doorway between the living room and the dining alcove. "Life," Vic said. "Wine." He lifted the glass.

       Melinda straightened up slowly. She had bitten her lipstick and she had that vagueness of outline that was not so much that her makeup was slipping as that her mind was becoming fuddled. Vic stared at her, wondering if the fuzziness emanated from her eyes, which were always the first indication to him of how much she had drunk. But her eyes stared directly at him now. "What did you say to Tony?" she asked.

       "I didn't see Tony today," Vic said.

       "No?"

       "No."

       "'Tony pony!'" Trixie yelled, giggling.

       Melinda lifted her glass and took a big swallow, making a face afterward. "What did you tell him?" she demanded.

       "Nothing, Melinda."

       "Didn't you see him in Wesley?"

       Vic wondered if Don had happened to see them. "No," he