If Tomorrow Comes - Страница 3

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Charles Stanhope, Sr., was a stern-looking man in his middle sixties. He looked like a successful man; he was the projection of what his son would be like in thirty years. He had brown eyes, like Charles's, a firm chin, a fringe of white hair, and Tracy loved him instantly. He was the perfect grandfather for their child.

Charles's mother was impressive looking. She was rather short and heavy-set, but despite that, there was a regal air about her. She looks solid and dependable, Tracy thought. She'll make a wonderful grandmother.

Mrs. Stanhope held out her hand. “My dear, so good of you to join us. We've asked Charles to give us a few minutes alone with you. You don't mind?”

“Of course she doesn't mind,” Charles's father declared. “Sit down… Tracy, isn't it?”

“Yes, sir.”

The two of them seated themselves on a couch facing her. Why do I feel as though I'm about to undergo an inquisition? Tracy could hear her mother's voice: Baby, God will never throw anything at you that you can't handle. Just take it one step at a time.

Tracy's first step was a weak smile that came out all wrong, because at that instant she could feel the run in her hose slither up to her knee. She tried to conceal it with her hands.

“So!” Mr. Stanhope's voice was hearty. “You and Charles want to get married.”

The word want disturbed Tracy. Surely Charles had told them they were going to be married.

“Yes,” Tracy said.

“You and Charles really haven't known each other long, have you?” Mrs. Stanhope asked.

Tracy fought back her resentment. I was right. It is going to be an inquisition.

“Long enough to know that we love each other, Mrs. Stanhope.”

“Love?” Mr. Stanhope murmured.

Mrs. Stanhope said, “To be quite blunt, Miss Whitney, Charles's news came as something of a shock to his father and me.” She smiled forebearingly. “Of course, Charles has told you about Charlotte?” She saw the expression on Tracy's face. “I see. Well., he and Charlotte grew up together. They were always very close, and — well, frankly, everyone expected them to announce their engagement this year.”

It was not necessary for her to describe Charlotte. Tracy could have drawn a picture of her. Lived next door. Rich, with the same social background as Charles. All the best schools. Loved horses and won cups.

“Tell us about your family,” Mr. Stanhope suggested.

My God, this is a scene from a late-night movie, Tracy thought wildly. I'm the Rita Hayworth character, meeting Cary Grant's parents for the first time. I need a drink. In the old movies the butler always came to the rescue with a tray of drinks.

“Where were you born, my dear?” Mrs. Stanhope asked.

“In Louisiana. My father was a mechanic.” There had been no need to add that, but Tracy was unable to resist. To hell with them. She was proud of her father.

“A mechanic?”

“Yes. He started a small manufacturing plant in New Orleans and built it up into a fairly large company in its field. When father died five years ago, my mother took over the business.”

“What does this — er — company manufacture?”

“Exhaust pipes and other'automotive parts.”

Mr. and Mrs. Stanhope exchanged a look and said in unison, “I see.”

Their tone made Tracy tense up. I wonder how long it's going to take me to love them? she asked herself. She looked into the two unsympathetic faces across from her, and to her horror began babbling inanely. “You'll really like my mother. She's beautiful, and intelligent, and charming. She's from the South. She's very small, of course, about your height, Mrs. Stanhope —” Tracy's words trailed off, weighted down by the oppressive silence. She gave a silly little laugh that died away under Mrs. Stanhope's stare.

It was Mr. Stanhope who said without expression, “Charles informs us you're pregnant.”

Oh, how Tracy wished he had not! Their attitude was so nakedly disapproving. It was as though their son had had nothing to do with what had happened. They made her feel it was a stigma. Now I know what I should have worn, Tracy thought. A scarlet letter.

“I don't understand how in this day and —” Mrs. Stanhope began, but she never finished the sentence, because at that moment Charles came into the room. Tracy had never been so glad to see anyone in her entire life.

“Well,” Charles beamed. “How are you all getting along?”

Tracy rose and hurried into his arms. “Fine, darling.” She held him close to her, thinking, Thank goodness Charles isn't like his parents. He could never be like them. They're narrow-minded and snobbish and cold.

There was a discreet cough behind them, and the butler stood there with a tray of drinks. It's going to be all right, Tracy told herself. This movie's going to have a happy ending.

The dinner was excellent, but Tracy was too nervous to cat. They discussed banking and politics and the distressing state of the world, and it was all very impersonal and polite. No one actually said aloud, “You trapped our son into marriage.” In all fairness, Tracy thought, they have every right to be concerned about the woman their son marries. One day Charles will own the firm, and it's important that he have the right wife. And Tracy promised herself, He will have.

Charles gently took her hand which had been twisting the napkin under the table and smiled and gave a small wink. Tracy's heart soared.

“Tracy and I prefer a small wedding,” Charles said, “and afterward —”

“Nonsense,” Mrs. Stanhope interrupted. “Our family does not have small weddings, Charles. There will be dozens of friends who will want to see you married.” She looked over at Tracy, evaluating her figure. “Perhaps we should see that the wedding invitations are sent out at once.” And as an afterthought, “That is, if that's acceptable to you?”

“Yes. Yes, of course.” There was going to be a wedding. Why did I even doubt it?

Mrs. Stanhope said, “Some of the guests will be coming from abroad. I'll make arrangements for them to stay here at the house.”

Mr. Stanhope asked, “Have you decided where you're going on your honeymoon?”

Charles smiled. “That's privileged information, Father.” He gave Tracy's hand a squeeze.

“How long a honeymoon are you planning?” Mrs. Stanhope inquired.

“About fifty years,” Charles replied. And Tracy adored him for it.

After dinner they moved into the library for brandy, and Tracy looked around at the lovely old oak-paneled room with its shelves of leather-bound volumes, the two Corots, a small Copley, and a Reynolds. It would not have mattered to her if Charles had no money at all, but she admitted to herself that this was going to be a very pleasant way to live.

It was almost midnight when Charles drove her back to her small apartment off Fairmount Park.

“I hope the evening wasn't too difficult for you, Tracy. Mother and Father can be a bit stiff sometimes.”

“Oh, no, they were lovely.” Tracy lied.

She was exhausted from the tension of the evening, but when they reached the door of her apartment, she asked, “Are you going to come in, Charles?” She needed to have him hold her in his arms. She wanted him to say, “I love you, darling. No one in this world will ever keep us apart.”

He said, “Afraid not tonight. I've got a heavy morning.”

Tracy concealed her disappointment. “Of course. I understand, darling.”

“I'll talk to you tomorrow.” He gave her a brief kiss, and she watched him disappear down the hallway.

The apartment was ablaze and the insistent sound of loud fire bells crashed abruptly through the silence. Tracy jerked upright in her bed, groggy with sleep, sniffing for smoke in the darkened room. The ringing continued, and she slowly became aware that it was the telephone. The bedside clock read 2:30 A.M. Her first panicky thought was that something had happened to Charles. She snatched up the phone. “Hello?”

A distant male voice asked, “Tracy Whitney?”

She hesitated. If this was an obscene phone call… “Who is this?”

“This is Lieutenant Miller of the New Orleans Police Department. Is this Tracy Whitney?”

“Yes.” Her heart began to pound.

“I'm afraid I have bad news for you.”

Her hand clenched around the phone.

“It's about your mother.”

“Has — has Mother been in some kind of accident?”

“She's dead, Miss Whitney.”

“No!” It was a scream. This was an obscene phone call. Some crank trying to frighten her. There was nothing wrong with her mother. Her mother was alive. I love you very, very much, Tracy.

“I hate to break it to you this way,” the voice said.

It was real. It was a nightmare, but it was happening. She could not speak. Her mind and her tongue were frozen.

The lieutenant's voice was saying, “Hello…? Miss Whitney? Hello…?”

“I'll be on the first plane.”

She sat in the tiny kitchen of her apartment thinking about her mother. It was impossible that she was dead. She had always been so vibrant, so alive. They had had such a close and loving relationship. From the time Tracy was a small girl, she had been able to go to her mother with her problems, to discuss school and boys and, later, men. When Tracy's father had died, many overtures had been made by people who wanted to buy the business. They had offered Doris Whitney enough money so that she could have lived well for the rest of her life, but she had stubbornly refused to sell. “Your father built up this business. I can't throw away all his hard work.” And she had kept the business flourishing.