Magician's Wife by James M. Cain Read Free Book Online Page A

knows. You give yourself away with every word you utter. When you draw your breath in you tremble. Did you know that?”
    â€œSo, I could be in love with her maybe.”
    â€œThe one who could be is. ”

6
    T HEY TALKED A BIT longer, repeating what had been said, but in a more matter-of-fact way, he helping her regain her aplomb, the crisp elegance she had had when she came, and then he took her down, as he thought, to her car. But on finding that she had come on foot, that she had walked from Rosemary Park, where she lived, he insisted on taking her home. So she hooked a hand on his arm and they strolled through the balmy spring night and, in snatches, talked. It was mostly about flowers, and she stopped occasionally to point out the splashes of color the azaleas made on the lawns or to stare at the leaves overhead, now half open, “so feathery, so delicate, so unreal—so like the Midsummer Night’s Dream overture, those butterflies in the strings.” She went on: “That play is not about summer—it’s about spring, when everything’s moist and fresh instead of all dried up, when the flowers are still singing and the locusts haven’t started. But, of course, Midspring Night’s Dream is not a title—even Shakespeare, no doubt, had to think of that .” He agreed, glad he knew his Mendelssohn, and drew her attention to the splotches of white the dogwood blossoms made, “as though calcimined on.” She said: “Yes, the original Chinese white.” His hand was on hers as they reached her apartment house, another place like his own, if smaller. She stood peering in at the door, then whispered: “It is a beautiful night, and not the end of the story. I won’t have it that way! You’re not through with Sally—we have more talking to do! Would you like to come up for a while?”
    â€œI’d love it.”
    She took him inside the automatic elevator, then brought him into her apartment, excusing herself after turning on the lights. He wandered about, eying the modernist furniture, the oyster-shell rug, the crimson drapes, the French things on the walls, prints, posters, sketches, and paintings. He scanned the signatures closely, but didn’t see one that he knew. She came back with a highball tray, looking slenderer without her hat, gloves, and stole, and younger with her hair fluffed out on her neck. He spoke for Scotch on the rocks, and she filled a glass with ice, then let the whisky cover it. Making a light one for herself, she took a seat on the rectangular sofa, motioned him beside her. They sipped, recalling the dogwood again; then, recalling the overture, he hummed the violin part. She led him back once more to the “proposal” he’d made to Sally, and he told it in more detail, especially her answer to it, with due emphasis on the Wild Man from Borneo and nuttiness. He admitted he had been “rocked,” and solemnly proclaimed how simple it all would have been if “she’d just done nothing at all—stayed there, tucked away with me, and let me handle the rest.”
    â€œIf ‘she’ had?”
    â€œWell, who are we talking about?”
    â€œDo you realize you almost never say her name?”
    â€œO.K., I was hard hit.”
    â€œAnd still are?”
    â€œGrace, I’ve told you I’m through.”
    She thought some moments, then said: “Clay, I’d like to work on you, try to sell you on Sally, that you make another attempt, to get her to do what you want—what we both want. So why don’t I paint your portrait? After all, you are a thing of beauty, and you could come here at night, pose in my atelier, the little sun porch that I have, and while I work I’ll talk. You’ll be my captive audience—and who knows? I might make a sale.”
    â€œYou could—one that you don’t expect.”
    â€œ... What do you mean,