Palm for Mrs. Pollifax by Dorothy Gilman

Author:Dorothy Gilman [Gilman, Dorothy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-8041-5178-8
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2014-05-27T16:00:00+00:00

Twelve

The sheik lunched with Ibrahim Sabry in the dining room. Their heads remained close together at the table as they engaged in energetic conversation, frequently with gestures, but all of it too muted for Mrs. Pollifax to overhear. Court arrived a few minutes after Mrs. Pollifax, calling breathlessly across the tables, “I’ve been playing the organ again. Will you be in the garden this afternoon?”

Mrs. Pollifax nodded; she had no intention of being anywhere else. For the genuine convalescent there was the gift of shapeless time: naps, sunbath, small walks, massages, but she could scarcely call herself convalescent and time was working against her.

It was, therefore, in the garden that Court found her after lunch. “I want to talk to you,” she said, striding toward her across the lawn. “I have to talk to you. Do you mind awfully?”

Mrs. Pollifax had been watching Sheik Kashan wheel Sabry into the gazebo; the wheelchair was barely narrow enough to fit through the door so that for a moment the structure shuddered threateningly. It was not the sturdiest of gazebos, anyway, being fashioned entirely of bamboo. Now Sabry was safely within, and the Sheik had seated himself at the round table inside and was pulling papers from an attaché case.

She turned her attention to Court just as the girl slipped into a chair beside her. “I’m available,” she told her, smiling.

Court looked close to tears. “I came back from the village this morning,” she said, her voice trembling, “and I packed my suitcase and then after lunch I went up and unpacked it again.”

“For myself I’m not that fond of packing,” put in Mrs. Pollifax mildly, “but I daresay it’s a form of exercise.”

Court grudgingly laughed. “I’m sounding the idiot, of course.” She pulled a handkerchief from her purse and blew her nose. “I thought perhaps if I talked to you—I simply don’t know what to do, I ought to leave, I know it, but—”

Mrs. Pollifax said gently, “Perhaps if you’d tell me just what seems to be the matter—”

“Oh,” said the girl angrily, “I don’t want to fall in love again, that’s what’s the matter. And of all people with him.”

“Ah,” said Mrs. Pollifax, enlightened at last. “We’re talking about Robin. Are you about to fall in love with Robin?”

“Love,” said the girl scornfully. “And he’s so much like Eric.” She shivered. “I can’t bear that.”

Mrs. Pollifax understood that there was going to be nothing rational about this conversation and adjusted herself to the fact. “Eric,” she said pointedly.

Court’s chin went up. “I could say that Eric abandoned me in every capital in Europe. As a matter of fact I will say it because it’s what he did. I’ve been so careful,” she explained, “I’ve gone to such lengths to avoid entanglements. I’ve dated only simpletons, frauds and ridiculous creatures I couldn’t possibly care about, and then I come here and—” She turned to Mrs. Pollifax angrily. “Last summer there wasn’t anyone here under forty. Not a soul. And this summer—I’m disintegrating,” she wailed.

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