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FOR
George Coxe Frazier
Copyright © 1958 George Harmon Coxe
1
THE HEAT WAVE which came unfailingly to blanket the eastern shore at least once each summer descended with the advent of August and was still going strong five days later. Those who could get out of the cities did so. Those who could not leave, complained, tempers became frayed, the near-by beaches and the roads feeding them were jammed over the week end, and cold drinks were consumed in record quantities.
Rick Sheridan was one of the lucky ones who had been able to escape on the first day, which was a Thursday. He had driven out to this small house he had recently finished across the Connecticut line with two roughs for what would one day be page advertisements for True-Fruit, a soft drink that had hopes of emulating Pepsi-Cola in popularity, promising his agent that he would deliver the finished art on Tuesday morning.
Because he had insisted on using plenty of insulation, the house stayed comfortable until midafternoon and he had worked steadily on Friday and Saturday. Sunday he had loafed, spending much of his time at the beach, and by Monday noon his two illustrations were ready and he was in excellent spirits, not only because he felt his work was good but because he had telephoned Nancy Heath in New York and she had agreed to take the train to Westport, have dinner with him, and drive back to the city that evening.
There was no hint of the trouble that was to come until the telephone began to ring that afternoon. The first call came from his agent at a quarter of four, just as he was about to stop work on the portrait of Elinor Farrell, who sat near the big studio window.
“Hey, Rembrandt,” Ted Banks said. “Tomorrow’s Tuesday.”
“Yeah,” said Rick. “August sixth.”
“How’re you and True-Fruit doing?”
“We’re done. Finished this noon.”
“Ahh. You’re my boy. What do you think?”
“I think it’s pretty good.”
“It better be because I’ve been making a big pitch. The client likes your stuff and if they go for these two we get thirteen-fifty for the next job.”
“I love you.”
“I love you, too. Just be here by ten in the morning.”
Rick turned away, pleased with the good news and grinning absently until his glance touched the portrait. He surveyed it critically as he cleaned a brush.
“That’s about it, Elinor,” he said.
“You mean it’s finished?”
“No, I mean for today.”
“Oh, dear.” Elinor Farrell sighed. “I was hoping—but you’ll surely have it Friday. It has to be framed, too . . . Could I see it now, please?”
Rick smiled at her as he carefully reversed the canvas on the easel and carried it over to one wall. “I’d rather you didn’t,” he said. “It’s always better to see a picture for the first time in a frame, even if it isn’t the perfect frame. And you’ll have it Friday. But I’d like to think about it another day or so. Maybe it’s all right now but if you could come Wednesday, just in case I want to touch it up here and there.”
He knew she was giving the portrait to her husband as a present. He did not know what the occasion was but the private unveiling was to be on Friday and he was satisfied now that the job could be done on time.
“You’ll probably have some fault to find anyway,” he said. “Austin, too. People usually do, especially the immediate family.”
“Well, we won’t have to worry about that,” Elinor said. “And if it is anywhere near as good as the one you did of Greta Lane two years ago I know I’ll be delighted.”
Rick remembered the other portrait because he had not done one since. For although he had the facility of catching a likeness, he did not like the work because there were usually so many changes to be made that he felt the result was a patchwork that took much too long to complete. In this case he needed the fifteen hundred Elinor would pay. He had spent too much on the house, and too much of his own time helping the workman, and the fee would go a long way toward taking care of the first year at Exeter for his son, Ricky, now at camp in the Adirondacks.
This portrait was a sitting pose and he had an interesting subject. For at forty-two Elinor Farrell was a handsome, intelligent woman who might have been beautiful had it not been for the pain and suffering which had become ingrained in her face and had been put there by an accident that nearly cost her life.
The collision between the convertible and the tractor truck had broken three of Austin Farrell’s ribs and a leg. His wife, with hardly a scratch on her, had suffered a serious brain injury. An emergency operation by a neurosurgeon had saved her, but there remained a partial paralysis of one leg, a paralysis that was to become gradually worse, and with no hope of eventual recovery.
These things showed in her face, but there was a serenity, too, and no sign of self-pity in her smile or in her words. The well-spaced brown eyes reflected dignity and courage, and the once brown hair, now nearly gray, was softly waved and worn low at the sides to hide the ugly scar above one ear where the blood-clot had been removed.
“In a pinch,” Rick said, “I can lend you a frame for Friday. I have one that size and you can use it until you find one you think is right.”
The ring of the telephone forestalled any reply, and when he had excused himself and crossed the room the crisp, assertive voice of his wife came to him.
“Rick? Frieda.”
“Yes, Frieda.”
“I’ve been thinking about that matter we discussed last week. Do you still want it?”
“The divorce? Certainly I want it.”
“Well, maybe it can be arranged.”
“I’m glad you changed your mind.”
“There’ll be some stipulations but nothing insurmountable. How about this evening?”
“Fine,” Rick said and then, remembering Nancy Heath: “but I’ve got a dinner date.”
“With the girl friend?”
“Does it matter?”
“I don’t suppose it does, actually. As a matter of fact I’m having dinner with Father and I thought I could drive over afterwards. Say around nine.”
Rick hesitated but not for long. He was not sure what he would do about Nancy but this was too important to miss.
“Nine o’clock? Okay, I’ll be here.”
“Good . . . ’Bye.”
He stood for a few moments after he had replaced the instrument, a new kind of hope rising in him as he realized what a divorce could mean. Then, before he moved
