Trophy for Eagles by Boyne Walter J

Author:Boyne, Walter J. [Boyne, Walter J.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781890988340
Google: iHVXumXnpE4C
Amazon: B002M3T6T4
Publisher: IPS Books
Published: 2009-08-18T00:00:00+00:00

Sayville, Long Island/April 21, 1933

The sudden arrival of spring threw color everywhere like rice at a wedding, plucking blossoms from the sleeping branches and splashing reds and yellows in every patch of sunlight. Innocent flowering shrubs burst forth, unaware they were sacrificial victims to the frost that was sure to follow. It was wonderful to be alone—Charlotte was at the plant, Bruno off on another of his tours of Germany and France—and Patty sat on the chaise placed near the open French doors so she could drink in the broad, sweeping grounds. For a moment Patty indulged herself in a flight of sympathy for the new blooms, whose happiness was certain to be nipped off as early as her own had been.

She poured another cup of coffee with a shrug, saying aloud, "That's nonsense, straight out of an Ouida novel." Sipping, she admitted again that the sadness of Stephan's death, tragic and unnecessary as it had been, was accompanied by some measure of relief. He had become increasingly possessive, and his implacable preoccupation with siring a son—he refused to consider the possibility of a daughter as adamantly as he refused to acknowledge that he might be the one who was sterile—had made him terribly defensive. Their last two years together had been miserable. There was no other word for them.

Yet she missed the early days, when they were content with themselves, and he was not yet distressed by a lack of children. Their rollicking good times, wonderfully romantic and sexual, were more than most people ever had in a lifetime. Stephan had been marvelous to travel with, adaptable to the ordinary discomforts of foreign lands, amiable with the natives. He had taken her on an eight-week aerial tour of French colonial Africa in their own Caudron cabin plane. It was an unforgettable time, hazarding the parched deserts watching the rich herds of game, enjoying the simple amiability of the natives that Stephan said concealed a valiant warrior discipline, savoring the rough camp fare, impossibly delicious. Then, always, there was the uninhibited loving under the canvas.

But it was over. Charlotte had been astute, giving her correct care—comfort when it was wanted, solitude when it was needed—but even she was beginning to suggest that it was time to get busy. Bruno, direct as always, had told her one afternoon to "stop drooping around and go to work."

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