The Shadow Portrait (35 page)

“Yes you can, even if I have to kidnap you.” He did not mean it seriously, but he saw alarm flicker in Cara’s expression. He smiled and said, “You know I don’t mean that, but I think you love me, and I know I love you. What kind of a life would we have if we didn’t have each other? That’s what love is, Cara. It’s a man and a woman who have found each other, and whereas they were two, they become one. That’s in the Bible, and it’s true. I’ve seen it in my parents. I’ve seen it in a few people, and somehow I know it can be true for us.”

“Phil, I can’t—” Whatever it was that Cara was going to say, she never completed it. The door swung open, and with a slight cry she pulled away. When she turned to face the door she was shocked, almost as if electricity ran through her—for there stood her father, his eyes glowing with anger and his face reddened.

Phil reached out and took Cara’s arm. He said, “I’m sorry I had to come like a thief, but I had to talk to Cara.”

“I told you never to come into my house, Winslow! Now get out!”

“Father, please!” Cara cried. “Don’t be this way!”

“You be still, Cara. You’re not responsible for this. Winslow, I’ve tried to talk to you and that hasn’t worked. We’ll try something else now.”

Oliver Lanier moved quickly for such a large, heavy man. He closed the distance, reached out, and grabbed Phil by the arm with his left hand and yanked him toward the door. He kept his right hand free, for he fully expected Winslow to
strike him. He was sixty-one years old, but there was still a solid strength in his burly body, and he was fully prepared to fight it out with this younger and more agile man.

Phil had one impulse to strike out, but it was only a fleeting one. He knew he could not afford to strike Cara’s father, no matter what happened. He tried to protest, but Lanier’s hand was clamped on his arm like a vise. He felt himself being dragged to the door, and he was aware of Cara, who was weeping. When they were out in the hall, another figure appeared, and Phil heard Oliver say, “Get out of the way, Clinton!”

“Not this time, Father.”

Phil suddenly heard a different strain in Clinton Lanier’s voice. He felt Oliver’s hand leave his arm and turned to see the older man staring with shocked astonishment at his son, who was now standing with both feet firmly planted in front of his father. He was pale, but his eyes were clear and defiant as he said, “I’m ashamed to see you act this way! Why do you have to act as if you own your children?”

The question seemed to ignite a fury in Oliver. He stepped forward and almost without thinking, shoved his son backward. “Get out of the way!” he said hoarsely. “Don’t interfere!”

Clinton was staggered by the blow. He was a smaller man than his father, not over five ten and weighing less than a hundred and seventy-five pounds, whereas his father was massively built. Still, there was no fear in him. He had passed some kind of a crisis, had burned some sort of bridge, and now his voice was quiet but determined as he said, “You want to throw me out, too?”

“If you can’t behave as you should, yes!” Oliver was shocked at Clinton’s rebellion. It was as if an inanimate object had suddenly spoken, and now he stared at this older son of his with a strange expression in his cold blue eyes. “Get out of the way, Clinton,” he said. “I’m throwing this scoundrel out of this house!”

“No you’re not!” Clinton said. “Come along, Phil. I’ll apologize for my father. I’d thought he was at least a gentleman. I see I was gravely mistaken.”

The charge from his son’s lips affected Oliver Lanier more strongly than anyone would have thought. Cara had come to stand to the side, and she saw shock and surprise and then anger all mingled in her father’s contorted face. She wanted to go to him, to beg him to allow Phil to leave without a struggle, but she said nothing.

Oliver now seemed to have forgotten Phil Winslow. Some sort of enormous struggle of wills had suddenly exploded, and he stood facing Clinton, the two men both determined and rigid. Despite their respective ages and apparently disparate personalities, in this moment there was something very similar in their expressions.

“You’re upset, Clinton, but just go to your room. I’ll handle this, and there’ll be no more said between us.”

“Oh, I’m to go to my room! That’s what you said to me when I was six years old. Do you still think I’m six years old, Father? That I can be sent to my room like a child?”

“You’re acting like a child!”

“No, I’m acting like a man, and for the first time, I must admit. Come along, Phil.”

“If you go with him, you’ll be choosing against me,” Oliver said. His lips grew tight, and he said, “If you leave the house with him, you needn’t come back—and you needn’t come to the office either!”

Instantly Clinton Lanier said, “You mean that, Father?”

For one second Oliver hesitated, but he was a proud man and could not back down. “You’ll see if I mean it! Now, go to your room and let me deal with this!”

“Yes, I’m going to my room, and I’m packing a suitcase, and I won’t be at the office tomorrow. Come along, Phil.”

Phil turned to Cara. She was pale and her lips were trembling. “I’m sorry to have brought this into your house, Cara,
but I mean what I said. I love you, and I want to marry you and take you away.”

“Get out of my house!” Oliver shouted. “I won’t listen to this!”

Phil saw that Cara was staring at her father, and he said quietly, “I’m sorry,” then he turned and walked toward the door. He stepped outside and found that his own hands were none too steady. He waited until Clinton came out carrying a single suitcase. “Are you sure you want to do this, Clinton?”

“Yes. I should have done it a long time ago.”

Phil suddenly reached out and put his arm around Clinton’s shoulders. “I know it’s hard to grow up.” He felt a slight tremor in the younger man’s frame, and then said, “I’m proud of you, Clinton. Growing up isn’t always a matter of another birthday.”

The words seemed to encourage Clinton. Indeed, he was frightened, but he knew now that he could never go back to his father, not on the terms he had always been given.

“Come along. You can room with me until you find something better. Or I’m sure Peter wouldn’t mind you staying with him until you find something.”

“I’m pretty well broke, Phil, except for what I’ve invested with Peter.”

“Join the club, but God will take care of us.”

The two walked along slowly, and Phil knew what a revolution had just taken place. Whatever Clinton Lanier did, he would never be the same young man that he was. He might go hungry and cold, but he could never go back to being the cowed young man that he had been. He looked at Clinton’s face and saw the similarity to Cara’s, and his heart grew cold. He wondered if Cara could ever do what Clinton did to declare his independence. The hope he had was small, but finally he prayed, “God help her to see that she’s a woman and not a child.”

The two men’s shadows stretched out behind them, then shortened as they passed under a streetlight. Their footsteps
made a slow cadence as they moved down the sidewalk, and overhead the stars burned with indifferent light as the moon reflected the borrowed glory of the sun.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

A Mysterious Mission

Yawning hugely, Peter struggled up from the bed, where for the past couple of hours he had been sleeping soundly on top of the covers. He had come in just before dark after having put in a hard day. He had spent the morning with Avis, which was beginning to be somewhat tedious, and he had been happy to meet with Easy during the afternoon. The two had traveled around the city extensively looking for a car they could afford. Clinton Lanier’s money had been like manna from heaven, and late that afternoon they found exactly what they were looking for.

As Peter arched his back and relaxed his muscles, he thought about the car, which was a specially designed Ford Racer. It had been one of Henry Ford’s earlier experiments, before he had tired of racing and begun his current project—developing the mass production of family cars.

Walking over to the window, Peter looked out, thinking with excitement of how he and Easy could get more speed out of the car by changing the transmission and souping up the engine. The two of them had gone over the vehicle, and not only had it taken all the money Peter had gotten from Clinton, but he had been forced to sign a note for the balance.

“If we don’t win some racin’ money,” Easy had said, “we’ll lose the whole thing.”

Peter was aware of the risk, but he had fallen in love with the car and now could hardly wait to start the modifications.

As he looked out the window, he was startled to see Clinton
Lanier get out of a carriage and then remove two suitcases. “What in the world is Clinton doing? It looks like he’s leaving town.” Peter turned and walked quickly out of the door and down the hall. “Hello, Clinton. Come in.”

Grasping both suitcases, Clinton came through, set them down, and then turned to Peter with a strange look on his face. His eyes had a troubled expression and his voice was not quite steady as he said, “Hello, Peter.”

“What’s wrong? Somebody sick?”

“No. Not really. It’s me.” Clinton attempted to laugh, but it was not a very successful effort. He suddenly blurted out, “I’ve been kicked out of my home, Peter.”

“Kicked out! What are you talking about?” Peter was shocked, and he stood there listening as Clinton related the altercation he had had with his father. When Clinton finished, Peter exclaimed, “Good for you!” He slapped Clinton on the shoulder, and said, “Nobody likes to go against his father, but you did the right thing.”

“I . . . I hope so. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but I can’t help but feel it was right.”

Quickly Peter took in the situation. “Well, I guess you’re looking for a place to stay.”

“Yes, but the trouble is, I’m broke.” An embarrassed look crossed Clinton Lanier’s face. It was the first time in his life this young man had lacked the money to do whatever he needed to do. Now Clinton cleared his throat and said, “I’ll go out and find a job tomorrow, but could you put me up for the night?”

“Why, I’ll do better than that. We’ll get you a room here.”

“I can’t do that. I don’t have—”

“Don’t worry about it. Mrs. Mason is a good landlady. She’ll be glad to wait for the money. Come along.”

Twenty minutes later Clinton was settled in his own room, and Mrs. Mason had warmly assured him that she would be glad to wait until he found work. She had been impressed by Clinton’s gentlemanly bearing, and his expensive clothes gave
her even more assurance. Clinton looked around the room, which was about twelve feet square with one large window. The light blue walls were decorated with a paisley border around the top, and a simple but pretty green-and-blue rug covered most of the floor. A small iron bed, a maple chest of drawers, and a bedside table completed the furnishings. A crocheted doily, a painted globe lamp, and a brass alarm clock on the table provided a homey touch.

“Say, this is fine, Peter!” he exclaimed.

“Let me tell you what Easy and I did today,” Peter said. He saw that Clinton was struggling with his feelings this evening, so he plunged into an excited description of the Ford that he and Easy had bought. Some of his excitement communicated itself to Clinton, and Peter said, “We spent all of your money. And if we don’t win a race, the car may be repossessed.”

“Do you think we have a chance?” Clinton asked eagerly.

“I didn’t buy it to lose,” Peter grinned. “Tomorrow we’ll start making some changes on it, and you can help.” He described some of the alterations that had to be made to the car and by the time he had finished, Clinton had managed to put the terrible scene at home out of his mind. He sat there on the bed for a time, and finally Peter said, “Well, it’s getting late. You get a good night’s sleep. We’ll have a good breakfast in the morning, then you and Easy and I will tear into that car, and we’ll make a winner out of it. Good night, Clinton. I’m glad you came.”

“Thanks, Peter.” Clinton stood up and shook Peter’s hand warmly. “Nice to have a friend.” After Peter left, he stood uncertainly in the center of the room, more alone than he had been in his entire life. Here he was in a rented room with the rent unpaid, with only a few dollars in his pocket, and no prospects. He knew he could get a job in a brokerage firm without any trouble, but as he stood there thinking, he made a sudden resolve. “I’ll have to get a job sooner or later, but for a while at least, I can do what I really want to do!”