The Man Who Loved His Wife. Vera Caspary

he looked backward to a past seen as a flashing parade of challenges and victories. Setbacks and losses were forgotten, for in the end he had put across big deals, recouped losses, kept ardent faith in himself. Fletcher Strode! Better off dead than enduring this life of petty defeats; showing the spleen of a spoiled child, throwing food at his wife, sulking because she had talked to another man.

      Elaine had never given him any real cause, his reasonable mind argued, to suspect disloyalty. On another level he ached to punish the faithless creature, to keep her forever from the pleasures of love. The diary was brought out of its hiding place, touched reverently like a secret scripture or a secret weapon.

      Her doctor paid another call on a healthy girl. Is the redhead in league with her? Perhaps Dr. Julian is only her sucker being used to provide her with some pill or poison that will do the job on me. Maybe a pain-killer because she is soft and would not want to see me suffer. I do not think she would dare tell him about her diabolical plan. Maybe she consults him about the psychological condition of her poor husband. It would be clever if she told him she worries about me wanting to commit suicide. How little they know about me. As if Fletcher Strode would take the coward’s way out . . .

      He stopped to read what he had written, proud and somewhat astonished by his use of words. Elaine came into the room so silently that Fletcher saw her as a vision transformed to reality; not the jealous vision of a woman writhing in lewd love, but the specter of a living angel. She wore a long hostess gown of some filmy material that swayed as she moved so that soft womanly curves and youthful suppleness were happily revealed. To shield himself from the thrust of pleasure aroused by her presence, he growled without the slightest effort to overcome disability, “What’s taken you so long?” and at the same time locked his diary away in the desk drawer.

      “Sorry, dear, I dawdled. I’ll have supper in half an hour.” Moist eyes and a nasal huskiness gave her away. She had been crying. This was not like Elaine. She had cried prettily at their wedding, had given in to small, sporadic cloudbursts when she had sought the comfort of his arms the day her mother died, had once at the hospital, just after his operation, turned away with clenched fists and muffled sniffles of fury against her weakness.

      Fletcher tried to find a comfortable way of saying he regretted his stupid gesture with the pudding.

      “I have something to confess,” she said slowly.

      He was shaken by a sudden chill.

      “I broke the lunch dishes, all we used today, the Haviland. I”—she raised her head and offered the sight of her moist and swollen eyes as a sacrifice of pride—“I did it on purpose. In a hideous tantrum.”

      In relief he offered broken laughter. She floated toward him, touched her gentle palm to his cheek. Caught by her fragrance, he could not control the impulse to pull her hand over his mouth and kiss it tenderly.

4

      THE NEXT NIGHT, AFTER HE HAD FINISHED HIS HOSPITAL rounds, Ralph stopped to pick up his hat. This was the excuse he gave the Strodes. The reason was quite different. Those few minutes of unleashed love had not eased the pressure of his desire for Elaine. For eight endless weeks, knowing her situation and her husband’s temper, he had kept away. When he had stopped by on Thursday afternoon he had not consciously intended to start an affair. Both he and she had been swept off their feet. At the end Elaine had said, “We must never see each other again. Never.” Ralph had neither promised nor protested. But a man is justified in reclaiming property left behind. His pale, freckled skin was sensitive to sunlight, the hat his newest.

      The night was clear and unbearably hot. No fog rolled in from the ocean, no breeze blew. Sullen air lay heavy upon the earth and after dark, the heat rose and smothered the hills. The sultry air suggested rain, hopelessly, for it would be many weeks before a storm blew in. From hundreds, perhaps thousands, of barbecues drifted the smell of burning fat and from all the swimming pools the shrieks and splashes of night bathers.

      There was a smoky smell in the Strode yard, too, and dark silhouettes against the blue brightness of the lighted swimming pool. Instead of ringing the doorbell Ralph walked through the garden. “Good evening.”

      They saw the visitor with amazement. His footsteps had not been heard. Fletcher grunted a greeting. Cindy looked up with bright interest. Don wrung water out of his trunks.

      “I hope I’m not disturbing you. I left my hat here yesterday.”

      “You must be Dr. Julian. I brought your hat to your office this afternoon. Your nurse was just closing the office.”