“Well, mountains are more than scenic, they’re necessary. At least to some folks. Royal and I get a little anxious on the flatlands, seems we’re used to seeing a mountain in the distance anywhere we look, right Royal?” Gray asked with such false joviality he winced, and wished he could halt the carriage and walk off and leave himself there mouthing facetious nothings.
Royal’s answer sounded much the same as Peggy’s last one, if a little deeper in tone.
Another awkward silence fell. It was a sparkling autumn day with the scent of pine growing stronger with the rising temperature of the afternoon. The surrey drove down a long, twisting road, the aspens at the side of it were wearing yellow fringes, and the sky was so blue it hurt; in the distance the only sounds were those of birds and the low murmur of water in hidden brooks, and the reason he could hear every drop of water that raced over the stones in them. Gray realized, was because no one in the surrey seemed to be breathing, much less talking. It was more than awkward because it was becoming foolish. Gray thought of a dozen things to say, but when he looked over to Hannah to say them, all he saw was a parasol atop a pretty dress, and when he looked forward, all that greeted his eyes were Royal’s stiff neck and the back of Peggy’s parasol.
To hell with the lot of them. Gray thought, and sat back, giving up, disliking all his companions, a thing he found much easier to do when he couldn’t see Hannah. He remained still, although he was complaining loudly enough inwardly about women of the theater who thought themselves better than the men who were their livelihood. Women who presented faces to the world that were far superior to anything that went on behind them, and whose dark mystery always faded in sunlight—before he’d a grim thought for their victims: men who were hopeless daydreamers, constantly fooled by them in the night and so always doomed to disillusion in the clear morning light.
They rode on in silence. Hannah glanced at Gray, raising her frilly parasol so she could pretend it was the dazzle of the sun behind his bright head she was protecting her eyes from, and not his glowing eyes. In doing so she suddenly discovered that if she gazed right at the edge of a frill at the bottom of the opened shade, she could see his face and yet not those eyes. She knew she was only safe as an ostrich with her head in the sand, but at least she felt more comfortable avoiding his direct gaze. There were, after all, some actors who couldn’t focus on their audience, but were fine so long as they kept their eyes on the middle distance and pretended there was no single one out there to judge them.
Freed from self-consciousness, she found herself free to be annoyed. She was angry with Peggy for sitting like a stone, annoyed with Peggy’s taciturn “gentleman” who might be a rancher but had less conversation than a milk cow, and positively furious with Gray for a number of reasons that made no more sense than his silence did. After discovering her mistake, she’d found herself thrilled to be with him, and then saddened anew at the futility of it. She felt sure that vivacious chattering would lead him on to imagine things she’d no way or intention of pursuing. But he might at least try to pursue, she decided, irrationally angry at his solving her problem so neatly. There was no reason for him to sit and wait for her to entertain him, as though she were being paid to do so, simply because she came from an acting troupe. But the silence was unendurable. Hang the lot of them, she decided. I’m not going to sit like a stuffed goose until it’s time to go back.
She spoke suddenly.
“How nice that you like your mountains so much,” she said sweetly. “So wild, so rugged, so fitting…now I think of it, there’s something about mountains that defies civilization, isn’t there? Why, just think! There’s not a great city in the world that’s built on a mountain. Seems that we “flatlanders’ have the edge, culturally,” she said, wondering if they’d the wit to know whether to be flattered or insulted, and not caring which they decided on.
“Rome,” Gray said immediately. ‘Seven hills of’—you know. And Pompeii. And San Francisco. And all the Mayan capitals in Peru, for a start.”
“The Mayans are extinct,” she said quickly, hoping he’d forget about the other cities she’d forgotten.
“So they are,” he answered, remembering what had happened to Pompeii an instant too late, and hoping she would, too.
“I’m not very good at geography,” she admitted, before he could think of more.
She saw his lips turn up, and spun the parasol so she’d not be tempted to look into his eyes.
“Neither am I,” Gray said, “but I’ve been lucky enough to visit some places that I’d have forgotten if I’d only seen them on a map—Oh, no,” he said, forestalling her. “No, I won’t talk about them. There’s nothing more boring than a man who goes on about his travels, is there? Because no matter how interesting they are, sooner or later he’ll be talking about something historic, and he’ll say, ‘and from there I went to luncheon and had a most remarkable stew…or was it Venice where I had that? Had a great many peppers in it, I recall, and bits of onions…or was that Rome? No, Rome was the noodle dish. At any rate…no! It was a ragout I had there, now I remember’!”
She laughed. And he grinned at her laughter.
“Or the lady who remembers a world capital by the shawl she bought there,” she offered, as he countered, “And the gent who’s so interested in the life story of his guide he doesn’t remember a thing about the Colosseum.”
They began talking about foolish things people said about places they’d been. He’d made the grand tour, but she’d seen every American city in the East that had a good size theater. He’d been to college and spoke French fairly well, but she’d teethed on Shakespeare and Molière, and knew how to mimic any known accent of mankind. They’d a great many interest in common, and both loved to talk. But they laughed more than they talked, and that was considerable. They only stopped when they realized they were the only ones talking. But that was a long time later, when Royal finally stopped the surrey.
“Seems like a good place to stop,” he said. When they heard his voice, they realized it was the first one they’d heard but each other’s since they’d set out.
It was a good place to stop, at least, Hannah couldn’t imagine a better. They were high on a mountain, but there was a natural slope leading to level ground where they hitched the horses, so they didn’t feel like mountain goats when they stepped on the grass when they left the surrey. They were beside a grove of towering aspen whose leaves shivered in the slightest breeze, and so sliced andscattered the light beneath them into dancing, sparkling bits. A walk to the edge of the grass showed a vista of frowning mountains above and gentle valleys below. They were not up high enough to panic, or low enough to keep constantly looking up; It was a perfect place for a picnic. But no one was thinking about picnicking.
“Seemed like a good place to stop,” Royal said uncertainly as he looked at Gray where they stood near the surrey, apart from the women.
“Or start,” Gray said in a harsh whisper. “I don’t expect you to do a song and dance, but where’s your tongue? You didn’t say be damned to that girl. Made me do all the yapping. I felt like Scheherazade back there.”
“Miz Roberts didn’t mind,” Royal said.
“Damned if I know if she did,” Gray said impatiently. “She’s got the manners of a debutante and the manner of an actress, so how should I know? But why didn’t you open your mouth?”
“I didn’t know what to say,” Royal said abruptly, turning his back on his friend and reaching into the boot of the surrey to take out a basket. Then he turned and met Gray’s steady gaze, and his lashes concealed his own hazel eyes as he said, with as much confusion as despair, “Damn, I didn’t know it would be this hard, neither.”
“What’s so hard?” Gray asked, genuinely puzzled.
“Talking to her,” Royal whispered.
“Why? She’s pretty and young and appears to be scared half out of her wits by you. She seems like a nice girl. Just talk to her.”
“Don’t know how,” Royal said, rationing his words as he became more upset. “Well, damn it Gray,” he said in a burst of loquaciousness. “That’s just it. She’s a good girl.”
Gray frowned in incomprehension. Royal sighed and then beckoned Gray over to the side of the surrey where he pretended to be searching for something so the women wouldn’t hear them, and said in a hoarse, pained whisper, “I never talked to a good girl more than ‘how do’ and ‘nice afternoon, ain’t it?’ Well, where’d I find one? Sure, I’ve had lots of women, but they was just whores, and all they said was how much and ‘honey you was real fine.’ She’s a good girl.”
“Didn’t you have a sister?” Gray asked, astonished, because for all the years he’d known Royal, they’d never discussed this aspect of women.
