Cat in the Dark by Shirley Rousseau Murphy Read Free Book Online

her in the direction of art school, to develop the talent her mother thought was her strongest. Her mother would not consider that her skills at repair work and at organizing the work of others had any value. Sipping her wine, Charlie thought about her mother with regret and disappointment. Her mother had died a year before she finished art school.
    Beyond The Bakery veranda, the breaking waves were tipped with phosphorescence, and above them the night sky flowed like surging water, its light seeming also to ebb and change. She’d been so physically tired from the day’s work that the Chablis had given her a nice buzz, and the conversations around her were subdued, a relaxed ambience of soft voices against the hushing surf. When her Newburg arrived she’d made herself eat slowly, not wolf the good dish but savor each bite—had to remind herself this wasn’t noon on the job, eating a sandwich with the work crew and with Mavity and Pearl Ann and Clyde, all of them starved. Had to remind herself this was not supper with Clyde. Eating with Clyde was much like eating with the carpenters; she was inclined to follow his lead, devour her meal as if it would remain on the table only briefly and must be consumed before it got away.
    But Clyde was good company. And he was honest, quick to see the truth of a situation. If he was lacking in some social graces, who cared? There was nothing put-on or fake about him.
    That first morning, when they went up to look at the five-apartment building after he signed the escrow papers, he’d been so excited. Leading her in through the weedy patio and through those moldering rooms, he’d been deep in the grip of euphoria, imagining what theplace would look like when they’d refurbished it—imagining he could do most of the work himself, just a little help from her. Just a little paint, Charlie. A bit of patching. They’d agreed to exchange labor. She’d help with the house, presenting him with bills that he’d honor by working on her declining Chevy van.
    Of course there was more needed than patching, but the five apartments had nice large rooms and high ceilings, and Clyde had envisioned the final result just as clearly as he saw the possibilities in restoring an old, vintage car.
    The difference was, he knew what it took to restore a car. Beneath his skilled hands the Mercedeses and BMWs and Bentleys of Molena Point purred and gleamed, as cared for as fine jewelry. But Clyde was no carpenter. To Clyde Damen, carpentry was a foreign language.
    In order to pay cash for the building, he had sold his five beautifully restored antique cars, including the classic red Packard touring car that he so loved. The sales nearly broke his heart, he had done every speck of work on those cars himself in his spare time. But he was too tight to pay interest on a mortgage, and she didn’t blame him.
    As the dining terrace began to empty, she had dawdled over her dinner enjoying her own company, quietly watching the surf’s endless rolling, feeling its power—spawned by the interplay of wind, the moon’s pull, and the centrifugal whirling of the earth. The sea’s unending motion seemed to repeat the eternal power of the universe—its vast and unceasing life.
    She relished her idle thoughts, her idle moments, the little pauses in which to let her mind roam.
    After the Newburg she had treated herself to a flan and coffee, and it was past midnight when she paid herbill, left the veranda, and headed home through the softly lighted village. The streets were nearly empty. She imagined the tourists all tucked up in their motel rooms, with maybe a fire burning on the hearth, perhaps wrapped in their warm robes nursing a nightcap of brandy.
    Walking home, she had paused to look in the window of a sporting goods shop at a beautiful leather coat that she would never buy; she’d rather have a new cement mixer. It was then, turning away, that her glance was