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

but she smiled, even at him, she made no grimaces over the punch which he knew she loathed, and she did not insult anybody, as far as Vic knew. It set off some disjointed speculations in Vic's mind. She wasn't behaving herself to offset a bad public opinion of him now, because there wasn't any need of it. Was she simply tired of pretending to be sullen, worn out from emanating hatred? Hatred was a tiring emotion, but Melinda had nothing else to do with herself. Was she possibly pleased because he was rather a guest of honor at the Petersons' party? But she had never been pleased by anything like that before. Vic even wondered if she were in a conspiracy with Havermal to get him off guard and then spring some evidence that they hadn't yet told him about. But no, he had an overwhelming conviction that Havermal had shot his last bolt in Little Wesley and missed. There was nothing gloating about Melinda these days. She was just a bit sweeter, softer. Thinking back, Vic could recall even a few smiles from her at home. And she hadn't been to see Don Wilson for a week, Vic thought.

       "How's Don Wilson?" Vic asked after they came home from the Petersons' party. "You haven't mentioned him lately"

       "Did I ever mention him?" Melinda asked, but her voice was not belligerent.

       "No. I guess you didn't," Vic said. "Well, how is he? Business all right?"

       "Oh, he's stewing over something," Melinda said in a curiously preoccupied tone that made Vic look at her. She was looking at him from the living room sofa where she had sat down to remove her shoes. She was smiling a little. And she wasn't at all drunk. "Why'd you ask?"

       "Because I hadn't heard anything from him lately."

       "I guess you heard enough at one point. Havermal told me he told you what he'd said."

       "That wasn't the first time. I didn't mind."

       "Well—he didn't get anywhere, did he?"

       Vic looked at her, bewildered, though he kept his calm, pleasant expression like a mask. "He certainly didn't. Didn't you want him to get somewhere?"

       "I suppose I wanted to know the truth." She lighted a cigarette with her familiar arrogance, flinging the match at the fire. place and falling far short. "Don seemed to have some good theories. I guess they were just theories." She looked at him with a trace of self-consciousness, as if she didn't expect him to believe she meant it.

       He didn't believe she meant it. She was playing some kind of game. Slowly he filled his pipe, letting several moments pass during which she might have gone on. He was not going to go on, but neither was he going to walk out to his room immediately, which was what he wanted to do.

       "Well, you certainly were a hit tonight," she said finally.

       "David against the Goliaths. And little David won. Didn't I?" he asked with his ambiguous smile that he knew was still ambiguous to Melinda.

       She was staring at him and visibly pondering her next move. It was a physical one. She slapped her hands together, got up, and said, "What do you say we have an honest drink after all that pink lemonade? God, was it awful!" She started for the kitchen.

       "Not for me, Melinda. It's a little late."

       "Two o'clock? What's come over you?"

       "Sleepiness," he said, smiling as he walked toward her. He kissed her cheek. She might have been a statue, but her immobility was probably more surprise than indifference, he thought. "G'night, honey. I suppose Trixie's spending all day tomorrow at the Petersons', isn't she?" Trixie had gone to the Petersons' with Vic and Melinda, and around ten o'clock she had gone up to Janey's bedroom to sleep.

       "I suppose."

       "Well, good night." As he went out of the door into the garage, she was still standing there as if undecided whether to fix herself a drink alone or not.

       The next surprise Vic got came from Horace, who told him that Melinda had been over to see Mary and had "broken down" and said she was sorry for ever having said anything against Vic, that she regretted having shown herself such a fool and such a disloyal wife, and she wondered if she could ever live it down.

       "She said 'a fool in so many ways,' " Horace amended, trying to remember it all verbatim for Vic. "Mary even called me up at the lab to tell me about it."

       "Really" Vic said, for the second time. "I've noticed a change in her lately, but I never thought she'd come out with a repentance—and to Mary."

       "Well—" Horace seemed ashamed of his jubilant reaction. "Mary said she couldn't have been nicer yesterday. I tried to call you last night to see if we could get together, but you were out."

       "Melinda and I took Trixie to a movie she wanted to see," Vic replied.

       Horace smiled as if he were pleased to hear that he and Melinda had gone to a movie together.

       "I suppose things are looking up. You know, in just about two days, Horace, I'm going to have copies of the Ryder book and I'd like you to see it. You remember I told you I was using real feathers and leaves and insects to print from."

       "Of course, I remember! I thought I'd buy a copy to give to Mary as a Christmas present, if it was ready in time."

       "Oh, it'll be ready. I'll give you a copy for her. Apart from the feathers, the poems are pretty good, too."

       "I'll buy it. How's the Greenspur Press ever going to take in a nickel giving everything away?"

       "As you like, Horace."

       "Well, Vic—"

       They were standing on the corner of Main and Trumbull Streets, where they had run into each other. It was seven, dusk had come, and there was a chill mountain