Perfect Freedom by Gordon Merrick Read Free Book Online Page A

never been anything he could do that she didn’t want.
    Stuart’s sense of responsibility for the girl survived the night. He was confident that sex had very little to do with it. He had felt a strength of character struggling to emerge in her and his creative urge, which had found earlier expression through the writers he had worked with, was aroused. He wanted to help her find an honorable place in the community. He and Helene had turned the offer of money into a family philanthropy but there was something private and personal (he thought of her hand and laughed to himself) that he might be able to offer her, more important than money. He wished he had an opportunity to talk to her under more favorable circumstances so that he could find out if she thought she could make something of her life or if it would be only meddling to impose his aversion to prostitution on her.
    He ran into her in the street one afternoon only a few days later. He had just had his hair cut and was going back to the inn where Helene and Robbie would be waiting for him after an afternoon on the beach. He got the impression that Odette had tried to slip past him without speaking.
    â€œ Ça, alors. Have you forgotten me?” he demanded.
    â€œOh. Pardon. Bonjour, monsieur . I didn’t see you. How do you do?” She was prim and polite but she suddenly smiled her winning smile and added, “In fact, you look different.”
    â€œI’ve just come from the barber.”
    â€œIt makes you look—I don’t know. Different.” She giggled and became more like the girl he had been flirting with for weeks.
    â€œHow goes it? Still saying no to your girl friend?”
    â€œThanks to you, for a little longer, but perhaps I’m making a mistake. It’s a good opportunity.” It seemed to cost her a slight effort to strike the tough realistic note.
    â€œYou may yet find something else,” Stuart said, aware of the emptiness of the words.
    â€œWhat work is there for a girl? In Paris, perhaps. But here?” She shrugged again and her habitually cheery expression faded. Stuart thought he recognized her little summer dress from the other night. The sleazy material looked as if it would smell cheap and musty but he remembered she smelled of good things, soap on fresh skin and an indefinable odor he associated with the sun. Her broad face was turned up to him, wide mouth, tilted little nose, dark eyes capable of melancholy. His glance wandered down over her generous breasts, her sturdy but well-shaped legs. She looked as if she would be good at the job she was trying to avoid.
    â€œLet’s talk about it. Come have a drink.”
    She hesitated and then looked at him candidly. “You’re sure it’s all right? People know why I’ve come here.”
    â€œThen they must know you haven’t started yet,” he said. They were standing in one of the narrow streets in the interior of the village and there was not a soul in sight. It was intensely hot and the still air smelled of open sewers.
    â€œI was thinking of your wife,” Odette said.
    â€œMy wife liked you. She’ll be interested to hear that we’ve had a talk.” In spite of her forthright manner, the girl was sensitive. He had been aware of it at Boldoni’s. “Let’s go over to the fishermen’s port,” he suggested. She acquiesced and they walked side by side without speaking until they were there. It was much smaller than the principal port—a small jetty covered with a web of drying nets, a small square above it out of which grew an enormous plane tree, a café with a few rickety chairs and tables set out before it.
    They sat and ordered pastis. When they were served, he sipped his in silence, organizing his thoughts. He was feeling her attraction and thinking of Marguerite again. Perhaps wanting to help her was after all only wanting to get her into bed. He preferred to think otherwise.