Part 9 (1/2)

She sighed again.

”Clint?”

”Yes, honey.”

do you want me?” Her voice was shy, ”Glint.

far off.

I knew why she asked. I knew how careful I had to be.

”Yes, of course. Any man would say yes. You're a special thing, Nancy.”

”I'm not. But I'll... be special for you. When, Clint?

And where?”

”I want you, but I don't think it would be smart. I think you still love the guy. He's hurt you badly. You want rea.s.surance. You want to be wanted. And you want to hurt him back. I'm your friend, Nancy. I don't want to be caught in the middle of that sort of thing. Suppose he sees what a fool he's been, and you get back together. You'd always regret it. You've never done anything like that, have you?”

”No. I... I don't know what I want to do.”

”Think for a week. Then we'll talk again. Okay?”

She lifted her head and looked at me. Her cheeks were wet.

”Well you could anyway kiss me,” she said almost fiercely.

No boats were near and they couldn't see us from the patio of the Raymond camp. I stood up, took her hand, pulled her up and kissed her. It lasted a long time. There was none of the quick flame of Mary. Nancy's lips were soft and warm and very sweet. But there was heat there, a slow burning-enough heat so I wondered how Dodd could be such an utter fool. We stepped apart and smiled at each other.

”I guess you're darn good for me,” she said.

”Like a sort of subst.i.tute conscience. I wish it was you I was in love with. It would be so much easier. And better.”

”You're special, Nancy.”

”Somebody has to think so. I guess we better get back now.”

We climbed the steps. I was certain Mrs. Raymond checked me over quickly for signs of lipstick. Nancy had dabbed it off with a Kleenex. I said goodby as soon as I could and left.

I did not like driving by the entrance to the road where I had left Mary's body. Soon the night would come with small animals rustling through the shrubbery, with dew weighting the white skirt, misting the bare shoulders.

There would be insect song and a riding moon. I wished I could have left her in a warm dry place. It couldn't matter to her, I knew, but it mattered to me. It didn't seem right.

I ate in town and it was dark when I turned into my drive. Mrs. Speers ran a window up and called to me. I braked the car, motor running.

”Has Mary Olan turned up yet, Mr. Sewell?” she asked.

”Not yet, Mrs. Speers.”

”They must be getting very worried by now.”