Sincerely, Willis Wayde (69 page)

“Yes, it used to be quite a place,” Steve said.

“Yes,” Willis said, “you always have a soft spot in your heart for the place where you got your first chance. Let's see, when did I see you last, Steve?”

“About ten years ago,” Steve said. “You were up for a directors' meeting or something. We just met for a minute.”

“That's right,” Willis said. “I was staying at the Harcourt place. It's a beautiful old home, isn't it?”

“It still is,” Steve said. “It's quite a place.”

“Is Bill living there now?” Willis asked.

“No,” Steve answered. “Bess has it now, since Mrs. Harcourt died. She stays there every summer, and Ed comes down for week ends.”

“Well, well,” Willis said. “How's Bess?”

“She's fine as far as I know,” Steve said.

“Willis,” Sylvia said, “aren't you going to ask Steve to sit down?”

“Of course,” Willis said. “I've been so interested I forgot completely.
Garçon
!”

“Darling,” Sylvia said, “not in French.”

Willis laughed again.

“Sylvia's sensitive about my French,” he said. “She spent a year in Paris.”

“Did she?” Steve asked. “With a French family?”

“Yes,” Sylvia said, “on the rue de l'Université.”

“That's the way to develop an accent, isn't it?” Steve said.

“It certainly is,” Willis said. “But let's not get off the beam, Steve. What are you doing with yourself?”

“Why, nothing much,” Steve said, “since my father died.”

“Oh,” Willis said, “I'm sorry. I always admired Mr. Decker.”

“That's right,” Steve said. “Well, he left quite a lot more money than I ever guessed he would. That's why I'm not doing much.”

“Well, well,” Willis said, “good for Mr. Decker.”

“And then I got married,” Steve said, “and May had a little something. I never was much good at working anyway.”

“May?” Sylvia said. “Is she your wife?”

A waiter had brought a chair, and when Steve saw it he realized that he could not stay.

“Oh yes,” he said, “I guess I've been married so long that I take it for granted that everyone knows May.”

“That's right,” Willis said. “I remember now. Bess mentioned that you were married, or maybe it was Bill. Let's see—May. I don't seem to remember anyone in town named May.”

“She isn't a native,” Steve said. “She's a Brookline girl.”

“Well,” Willis said, “time marches on, doesn't it?”

“I wish you two would sit down,” Sylvia said.

“Well, thanks just as much,” Steve said, “but I can't stop, really. I just came over to say hello. You see, May's waiting.”

“Do you mean she's here?” Sylvia said. “Why didn't you say so?”

“I was just about to suggest,” Steve answered, and he felt himself squirming inwardly, “that you come over and join us. We've just come from the races and I came out ten thousand francs ahead, and we're having a little champagne.”

“Well, well,” Willis said, “that sounds like a real party. I wish we had time but I'm afraid …” He looked at Sylvia. “Sweetness, aren't we having dinner with friends somewhere near Neuilly?”

He did not pronounce the name correctly.

“Neuilly,” Sylvia said. “But that isn't until nine, dear. We'd love to, Steve. I think it would be awfully nice.”

“It's always great to see someone from home,” Willis said. “Yes, this is a swell idea of yours, Steve. I'll call our waiter.”

“I'll speak to him,” Sylvia said.

“All right, sweetness,” Willis said. “Sylvia means my French isn't what it ought to be, and she's right, although I'm sentimental about Paris. At the risk of being—bromidical—Paris is a magnificent city, isn't it?”

“It certainly is,” Steve said.

“It keeps reminding you of the past, doesn't it?” Willis said. “Although there are some pretty bright industrialists around here—in a foreign way, I mean.”

They continued talking while Sylvia conversed with the waiter.

“It's always been a dream of Sylvia's and mine,” Willis said, “to take time off, and to absorb some Old World atmosphere. That's why we're here in Paris—just puttering around and recharging our batteries.”

“Willis,” Sylvia said, “will you give the waiter six hundred francs?”

As it turned out, nothing was awkward about the meeting, because May and Sylvia each could show the other that she was at home in Paris.

“I can't tell you what fun it is to see you,” May said to Sylvia. “Steve has told me so much about you.”

“It's so nice to hear a Boston accent again, after the Middle West,” Sylvia answered.

“Well, almost Boston,” May said. “Brookline.”

“It's queer we never met at dances or somewhere,” Sylvia said. “But then I always used to be afraid of Brookline girls. I suppose you must have gone to Miss Winsor's?”

“Yes,” May said. “Winsor's was a sort of conditioned reflex around Brookline.”

It was at least moderately funny, and they all laughed in unison.

“Well, now we're here,” Steve said, “we'd better have some more champagne. Where's the waiter?
Garçon!
”

“Don't, dear,” May said. “I'll order it. You know, Steve is wonderful in many ways but not in French.”

“It's just the same with Willis,” Sylvia said. “Willis just doesn't try.”

“Look, sweetness,” Willis said. “I never had the chance to board with a French family when I was young. Let's not get back to that
rue
. What was it—the rue de l'Université?”

“Don't tell me you're in that alumnae association,” May said. “Don't tell me you stayed at the Bouchers', too.”

“Indeed I did,” Sylvia said. “Weren't they darlings? Especially Papa Boucher.”

“And Grandmère,” May said.

“Oh yes,” Sylvia said. “Dear Grandmère. And Tante Elise.”

It all went to show how small the world was, and the coincidence was assisted by the champagne.

“I can't get Willis to see the Picassos,” Sylvia was saying. “Men never seem to feel at home in Paris.”

As a matter of fact they were all feeling at home, by this time.

“I've got an idea, Steve,” Willis said. “We ought to turn the girls loose together some day and you and I do the town by ourselves. How about it, girls?” But the girls no longer wanted to hear what the men were saying.

“From my observation,” Willis said, “there's always something queer about women when they get to Paris.”

“American husbands don't understand women,” Steve said. “They aren't good lovers. Did you ever hear that one?”

“I certainly have,” Willis said, “but still I like a lot of things about Paris.”

“And I like Paris,” Steve said. “I understand it in my own way. For instance, I was here in the war and May wasn't.”

“Oh,” Willis said, “what were you doing in the war, Steve?”

“Hell, Willis,” Steve said, “I was in the Chemical Warfare Service. Nobody our age can do anything much.”

“Don't say that, boy,” Willis said. “You've always had a lot on the ball.”

It made Steve Decker laugh.

“I guess you're confusing me again with that Mr. Jerrod in Akron,” he said.

Willis shook his head and his expression was almost serious. He looked at Steve Decker steadily for a moment with a bright and slightly glassy alertness. There seemed to be something both watchful and pleading in Willis's look, and Steve had the idea that Willis wanted to be liked.

“I'm not confusing you with anyone,” he said. “Frankly, I always used to envy you, and you're the same old Steve Decker still.”

He made it sound sincere. Willis had learned how to make people listen to everything he said.

“Well,” Steve said, “times have certainly changed since then.”

Willis was silent for a minute, as though he were thinking of changing times, comparing then with now.

“If you mean I'm not what I used to be,” he said, “you're right, but partially everyone stays what he used to be. There were two people I used to envy—you and Bill Harcourt, frankly.”

“Me and Bill?” Steve said. He looked at Willis's right hand, beating on the marble top of the café table, and Steve was sure that Willis's nails were professionally manicured.

“To put it simply,” Willis said, “I envied you two boys because you never had to worry. Me, I always had to.”

“I don't see you have to worry now,” Steve said.

“Not about myself now,” Willis said, “but about a lot of other people. One thing always leads to another.”

For a moment the thread of conversation was broken, but May and Sylvia were still talking.

“Steve wouldn't go to the château country,” May said. “He said if he went he would just sit in the car.”

“There's one thing about Willis,” Sylvia said. “He makes a most fearful effort, but we're not doing much serious sightseeing. He needed to get away from things.”

Willis took a small sip of his champagne.

“That's right,” he said. “You've got to get away now and then and recharge your batteries—at least I do. It gets your mind on another tack. How's Bill Harcourt, Steve?”

It occurred to Steve that it was the second time that Willis had asked the question.

“Bill's pretty well,” he said. “He's living in Marion, you know. He likes the sailing and the golf.”

“How's his game?”

“Not much,” Steve told him. “Somewhere in the nineties.”

“That means I could beat him,” Willis said. “I've got to look up old Bill sometime. I've always had a warm spot—that is, a deep affection for Bill.” Steve did not answer, but Willis was going on. “He's the nicest person in the world, with all the right instincts, and generosity and integrity, and a lovely sense of humor, but Bill never had what it takes in a business way.”

“Well, he doesn't have to,” Steve said.

“That's right,” Willis answered. “Other people have done it for him. Why, I'm working for Bill right now.”

“Yes,” Steve said, “and I own a few shares of Simcoe myself.”

“Well, that's fine,” Willis said. “I'm glad you're a member of the Simcoe family. I wish you'd come out sometime and see what we're doing.”

“Why, thanks,” Steve said, “I'd like to sometime.” Willis was looking across the table at Sylvia, but Sylvia paid no attention to his signal.

“I'm always loyal to the Harcourt family,” Willis said. “I guess you know what I owe them. They don't make families like that any more. How does the old house look now?”

“It looks pretty well,” Steve said. “Bess gives a lot of thought to it, keeping up the grounds and everything.”

Willis stared at the traffic moving down the avenue.

“That's fine,” he said. “I'm glad it's all in order. It's sort of a shrine to me in a way, frankly. Sometimes before I go to sleep I can shut my eyes and walk right up the drive.”

The definition was aesthetically disturbing, but the tribute was entirely honest.

“Lovely lawn planting,” Willis said. “Those groups of rhododendrons by the gates. It's time that does it, time. Now at my own home I've tried to get that same effect with rhododendrons. Sylvia and I put in a lot of fifty-year-old specimens. They are lovely but they don't give the same effect. It's time.”

“It isn't such an old house,” Steve said. “It isn't as old as parts of the mill.”

“Maybe,” Willis said. “But in a home obsolescence has a wholly different meaning. You can have sentiment about a home but not about a factory. I wish some people would see that.”

“I suppose you're right,” Steve said.

Willis moved his hand and drummed his fingers on the table.

“I'm deeply sorry about the Harcourt Mill decision,” he said. “It was like cutting off my arm to close that plant.”

Steve Decker did not answer, and Willis looked at him for a moment in a bright impersonal way.

“Naturally there were repercussions,” he said. “There always are, but things like that are happening all the time. There was no future in the plant—only past—not the slightest chance of its getting out of the red.”

“If you live there,” Steve said, “it's harder to take an objective view.”

Willis coughed. “We had a dog a while ago,” he said—“a retriever. He almost brought up the children. Then he got blind and we had to call the vet to put him out of the way. You have to do things like that.”

“Yes,” said Steve, “I suppose so.”

“I'll always have a warm—er—memory in my heart for that old factory,” Willis said. “It's ironical, you might say, that I should have to be the one to take the step, but you have to do things like that.”

“Yes,” Steve said, “it must have been hard for you.”

The trouble was that Steve could always see two sides of a question at the same time. There was no use arguing with someone like Willis Wayde.

“Of course,” Willis said, “I can't blame some people for not sharing my point of view. Well, it's great to have had a glimpse of you, Steve, and I'm glad of the opportunity to have expressed a few of my thoughts on the subject. Sylvia, sweet, I'm afraid we ought to be going now.”

“Oh dear,” Sylvia said. “Must we? I'm so sorry.” She pushed back her chair and looked questioningly at Willis, obviously asking mutely whether he wanted her to do anything about the Deckers.

“I hope we can have a chance to return your kindness,” Willis said. “We really ought to start right in where we left off. Sylvia, sweet, what are we doing tomorrow?”