White Jade. V. J. Banis

a second or two on the ground. It was only October and still early for serious snow.

      “No,” I said thoughtfully. It seemed as if I had lived an entire lifetime since knocking at the door of that house and yet it had been only a matter of minutes, less than half an hour at most.

      “Everything go well?” he asked in a friendly, not-prying way.

      “It was...interesting.”

      “Going to be joining us?” he asked, as if the whole village were only an adjunct to the Linton household, as perhaps it was.

      “I don’t know,” I answered. I turned to look through the rear window of the car. The house was vast and gray, made of weathered stone. Because it stood on a hill, it could be seen even from the town. I had watched it loom closer and closer on my way up. Then, it had seemed picturesque, with its turrets and mullioned windows. Now it looked ominous and foreboding. Through the gently falling snow its outlines were blurred, fading into the grayness of the sky. It might have been a ghost house, a mere illusion, a fragment from some childhood dream.

      But it was real. And Jeff Linton was real. So was his fear. It had been like a living presence between us, that fear, making me agree to help him even against my better judgment, despite my conviction that his statements were ridiculous. People didn’t just run about killing one another because they were a bit possessive.

      But they did, of course. One did not read newspapers and watch television without knowing that people did murder one another, and sometimes for the slimmest of reasons.

      In my purse, the bulk of the glass jar was like a haunting spirit reminding me of Jeff’s anxiety.

      I was afraid.

      CHAPTER THREE

      “Jeff, Jeff,” I thought, “why couldn’t you have stayed in the past?”

      “I love you.”

      I had only to close my eyes, to lean back against the seat of the cab, and I could hear his voice speaking those words....

      “I love you,” he said. “Lord, how I’ve missed you. I couldn’t begin to tell you.”

      “Try.” It seemed to me as if he had been gone months instead of weeks.

      “You haven’t said you love me,” he said with a mock pout. He looked down and saw the jade pendant at my throat. “I’ll bet you haven’t worn that since I left.”

      “Silly, of course I have. I haven’t had it off once. And I do love you. I love you for always and always.”

      We kissed, a long, searching kiss. Jeff, my darling Jeff. I could still scarcely believe we were going to be married, that anyone so handsome and worldly as Jeff could be interested in spending his life with me.

      But he was, and I had the white jade to remind me. Not that I was likely to forget.

      “You didn’t say always,” I teased him.

      “Always is an awfully long time, darling. Can’t we settle for now?”

      “Oh, no, you don’t get off that easily.” I got up from the sofa and went to the battered upright piano, running my fingers over the keys. A melody came to mind and my fingers picked it out instinctively.

      He came to stand behind me, his hands at my waist. “Pretty,” he said.

      “Grieg.” I hit a sour note and stopped. All the girls at school learned to play and my father, thinking that synonymous with talent, had insisted on a piano here, but neither learning to read music nor learning to love it could have made a pianist out of me.

      “I may not have meant the music,” he said.

      I leaned back against him and sighed contentedly.

      “What if it weren’t?” he asked.

      “If what weren’t?”

      “If it weren’t forever?”

      I had a quick moment of panic. Oh, lord, no, don’t let it end. Don’t let me lose him, ever.

      I laughed and rapped another key. “I suppose you’re going to tell me you met some fabulous heiress in Florida and you’ve decided I’m not up to snuff after all—a mere druggist’s daughter.”

      He kissed the back of my neck. I suddenly felt edgy.

      “Well?” I asked after a long silence.

      “Well, what?”

      “Did you meet a lot of wealthy heiresses who turned your head?” I looked over my shoulder at him. I was smiling, but there was something ominous about the mood, the tone of the conversation.

      He said, still smiling, “Only one.” He lit a cigarette and went to sit in Dad’s old chair.

      “Was she awfully pretty?”

      “In her own way.” He gave me the impression he was playing cat and mouse with me, which only upset me the more.

      “What exactly does that mean?”

      “She’s the cold, austere type. Plenty of breeding, lots of money and class and elegance. Quite beautiful, really, but not cute and pert like you.”

      “You know, all my life I’ve thought it would be nice if I were one of the beautiful ones and some of them were cute and pert.”

      He laughed and puffed on his cigarette. “You’ve nothing to be jealous of, little one.”

      “Who was she?”

      “Who? Oh, the heiress. Mary Morgan. New York family, in glass. You’ve probably heard of it—Morgan Glassware.”

      “And I suppose you thought of marrying her for her money,” I said with a giggle.

      “Yes, I did,” and he laughed too.

      * * * *

      It was about a month after that when I learned the truth. Until then, except for that conversation with its worrisome overtones, I had not even a clue that anything was amiss. Jeff had seen a little less of me, it was true, but that had been credited to some new responsibilities at his job.

      It wasn’t an awfully good job, with an advertising firm. He wanted to be an actor, but the parts had been few and far between. We had talked it over and agreed that the advertising firm had possibilities, and if he worked hard there might be some future in it. So I could hardly complain if he devoted a lot of his evenings and even some of his weekends to work.

      My father had never been very good at keeping things from me, so I knew when I came in on that particular evening that something was odd. He was much too solicitous.

      “Snappy out there,” he said, jumping up from his chair to give me a hand with my coat, for which I gave him a curious look. “Better sit down and get warm. Why don’t you let me fix you some tea?”

      “No, don’t fuss, please.” I gave his shoulder an affectionate pat. He had only gotten out of bed a week before, after a particularly bad spell. “I’ll get it myself. You sit and relax, all right?”

      I thought I would wait and see if he brought up whatever it was that he had on his mind. If not, I would broach it for him. It came up sooner than I had expected, however.

      “Where’s the newspaper?” I asked, coming back into the living room a few minutes later with my tea.

      “The paper?” he looked so confused by that question that I knew something was definitely wrong. “It doesn’t seem to be here, does it? Could I have thrown it out with the trash? Let me think....”

      “Dad it’s no use,” I said, smiling. “You may as well come clean and tell me whatever it is you’re trying to hide. You know I’ll get it out of you anyway.”

      He looked sheepish. “Chris,” he said, and then couldn’t bring himself to say whatever it was. He got up and