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

       "I'm afraid I didn't, Trixie," Ralph said in a sugary voice. "But I bet I can get you one right here in Little Wesley."

       "You will not," Melinda said. "She wouldn't any more know what to do with a sewing kit than—"

       "Than you would," Vic finished for her.

       "You're being rather rude tonight, Mr. Van Allen," Melinda said icily.

       "Sorry." Vic was being purposely rude tonight in preparation for the story he was going to tell Ralph. He wanted Ralph to think he had reached the end of his tether.

       "Are you staying for breakfast, Ralph?" Trixie asked, swaying from side to side in Vic's arm.

       Ralph forced a guffaw.

       "I hope he is," Vic said. "We don't like our guests to go off on an empty stomach, do we, Trix?"

       "No-o. Ralph's so funny at breakfast."

       "What does he do?" Vic asked.

       "He juggers eggs."

       "Juggles, she means," Ralph explained.

       "I guess I ought to stay up for that," Vic said. "Come on, Trixie, back to bed. It's quiet now, so you'd better seize the moment. You know, 'carpe diem' and 'carpe noctem', too."

       Trixie went with him readily. She loved him to put her to bed, hunt for the kangaroo she slept with and tuck it in with her, then kiss her good night on both cheeks and the nose. Vic knew that he spoiled her but, on the other hand, Trixie got very cold treatment from her mother, and he felt that he should try to compensate. He buried his nose in her small soft neck, then lifted his head, smiling.

       "Can we have the picnic at the quarry, Daddy?"

       "Uh-uh. The quarry's too dangerous."

       "Why?"

       "Suppose there's a strong wind. We'll all get blown right down."

       "I wouldn't mind that!—Is Mommie going on the picnic?" "I don't know," Vic said. "I hope so."

       "Is Ralph going?"

       "I don't think so."

       "Do you like Ralph?"

       By the light of the merry-go-round lamp on her bed table he could see the brown flecks in her green eyes, like her mother's eyes. "Um-hm. Do you?"

       "Mm-m," she said dubiously. "I liked Jo-Jo better."

       It stung him a little that she still remembered Jo-Jo's name. "I know why you liked him. He gave you a lot of Christmas presents. That's no reason to like anybody. Don't I give you a lot of presents, too?"

       "Oh, I like you best, Daddy. Of course I like 'you' best."

       It was too facile, Vic thought. She was getting awfully facile. Vic smiled, thinking how pleased Trixie would be if he told her he had killed Malcolm McRae. Trixie had never liked Mal because he had not liked her and, being a tightwad of the first water, he had never brought her a present of any kind. Trixie would whoop with joy if he told her he had killed Mal. His stock would go up 200 percent. "You'd better go to sleep," Vic said, getting up from the bed. He kissed both cheeks, the tip of her nose, then the top of her head. Trixie's hair was the color of her mother's now, but it would probably get a little darker, like his. It grew straight down from a partless crown and looked the way a six-year-old brat's hair ought to look, Vic thought, though Melinda complained because it was so difficult to curl. "You asleep?" he whispered.

       Trixie's lashes were down on her cheeks. He turned off the light and tiptoed to the door.

       "'No!"Trixie' yelled, giggling.

       "Well, you'd better get to sleep! I mean it now!"

       Silence. The silence gratified him. He went out and closed the door.

       Melinda had turned another lamp out and the living room was much darker. She and Ralph were doing a slow, shuffling dance in the corner of the room. It was nearly four o'clock.

       "Is your drink all right, Ralph?" Vic asked.

       "What? Oh, yes, thanks. I've had about enough."

       It couldn't possibly mean that Mr. Gosden was thinking of leaving, not at four in the morning. Melinda was dancing with her arms around Ralph's neck. Because she thought he had said something horribly rude to Joel Nash she was going to be extremely accommodating to Ralph tonight, Vic supposed. She was going to encourage him to stay and stay, and stay for breakfast, too, no doubt, even if Ralph turned white with fatigue, as he sometimes did. "Stay, darling, please. I'm in the mood to stay up tonight," and he'd stay, of course. They all did. Even the ones who had to go to an office the next day, and Mr. Gosden didn't. And of course the later they stayed the more chance there was that Vic would go to his room and leave them alone. Often Vic had left Melinda and Ralph alone at six in the morning, reasoning that if they had spent all afternoon together, why not let them spend two and a half hours more together until he came in at eight-thirty to get his breakfast? It was another petty thing, perhaps, annoying Melinda's callers by sitting up all night in the living room with them, but somehow he had never been able to be so obliging as to get out of his own house to please them, and besides he always read a couple of books, so his time was not wasted.

       Tonight Vic was aware of a strong, primitive antagonism to Mr. Gosden that he had never felt before. He thought of the bottles and bottles of bourbon that he had provided for Mr. Gosden. He thought of the evenings that Mr. Gosden had ruined for him. Vic stood up, put his book back on the shelf, then went quietly toward the door that opened into the garage. Behind him, Melinda and Ralph were now practically necking. His leaving without saying anything could be explained as '(a)' his not wanting to embarrass them when they were kissing each