Married People: A Collection of Short Stories by Rinehart Mary Roberts

Author:Rinehart, Mary Roberts [Rinehart, Mary Roberts]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781480409392
Publisher: MysteriousPress.com/Open Road
Published: 2013-08-13T04:00:00+00:00

SIX

THE BARSTOWS

The Second Marriage

IN SPITE OF LILIAN Barstow’s fears the wedding journey had gone very well. The fact that it was a cruise had helped, for each of them had had a stateroom and a bath. And Warren, for all his laughter and dominant masculinity, had shown a nice delicacy in such matters; would tap lightly on the connecting door between their staterooms in the morning before, in dressing gown and slippers and newly shaved, he came in to give her a morning kiss and share her breakfast tray. In the evening, too, he showed considerable tact. He would come down from the deck, hot from tennis or shuffleboard, give her a quick embrace and then retire to his own stateroom to dress.

And always, when he reappeared again magnificent in black and white, she was conscious of a thrill of pride. He was big and handsome, and—after a long hesitation on her part—he was hers.

“Ready to go to dinner, darling?”

“All ready.”

As a usual thing she was not only ready. She was more than ready. There were times on that honeymoon journey when she seemed to have sat waiting for him for incalculable hours. For she had soon discovered that he had no real sense of time. Cheerfully and amiably he would appear, fastidiously dressed and unhurried, when she had reached the point of hysteria. Nor did he understand the one or two occasions when she was unable to relax quickly enough and to resume what to herself she called her honeymoon smile.

“But what is the hurry, dearest? We are not going anywhere.”

“I’ve been ready for forty minutes.”

“Then don’t start so soon!” he would say, and put his arm around her. “Time is for slaves, my love. Is that another dress I haven’t seen? You are beautiful in it, you know.”

She would forget her annoyance then. She was still enjoying this second trousseau of hers; the extravagant lace and chiffon undergarments, the frocks, the hats. For all the years of her widowhood she had bought clothes as she needed them, often with a sense of guilt. Now the mere opening of her new trunks, the rows of gay and joyous frocks, the drawers filled with sheer silk hose, made her feel young again. Pretty clothes, from the skin out—they did something to her. She was, Warren said, even lovelier than ever. And she was very much in love with. Warren Barstow, much more than she had realized. Sometimes she felt rather absurd about it, a woman in her late thirties flushing like a girl at his compliments.

“I love your hair, my darling. It is such little-girl hair.”

After that she would brush it until it gleamed, put combs in it after he was safely asleep, take even greater care to be young and lovely for him. It tired her sometimes, this never being able to relax, but it was worth it.

Nevertheless, perfect lover that he was, sometimes she wondered what would happen when the journey was over. It had seemed so simple to him.

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