"Exactly. So I stay here to have my baby."

Thinking it over afterward, and in his loneliness in Barnard's Crossing, he thought about it a good deal, it sometimes seemed to him that she had not been unconcerned and indifferent; that on the contrary, she had been vindictive and had gone out of her way to hurt him. And he was inclined to interpret her attitude as an indication that deep down she still cared for him, that she had perhaps hoped to provoke him into a quarrel that would lead to a reconciliation. The thought was in back of his mind the next time he came to New York and arranged to see her. And it was never totally absent each of the times he saw her over the years.

But there were also times when he brooded over her coldness, her lack of feeling. It was then that he thought she was trying to avenge herself, and that her consenting to see him whenever he came to New York was so she could enjoy the satisfaction of seeing his hurt.

On the other hand, Billy was obviously always pleased to see him. Of course, it might be because he always brought a gift. But he was sure the boy really liked him.

Whenever he tried to involve himself in Billy's development, she brusquely brushed him aside and refused to accept his advice or recognize his concern. And that hurt. She might talk about the boy's progress at school, or problems that had developed, but it was as she might to a casual acquaintance and not as to one who had any involvement in the matter.

It was on Jordon's most recent visit, however, that she seemed inclined to admit him to a share of their son. There had evidently been some crises, and her confidence in her ability to cope had been badly shaken.

"He refuses to go to college," she announced tragically.

"Well, that's not so terrible," he remarked. "What's he want to do instead?"

"Nothing. He has no plans. He's not interested in anything. He doesn't read. He doesn't do anything. He just mopes."

"I expect he's tired, tired of school and study. You've probably been pushing him hard to make good grades so that he can get into a good college, and he's just sick of books. Why not let him take a year off?"

"To do what?" she challenged.

"To work. Let him get a job."

"What can he do? He's not trained for anything."

"Well, it doesn't have to be a big executive type of job. Any job will do where he's kept busy and makes some money."

"And if he works for a couple of weeks and then quits?"

"Then insist that he get another job."

"But I won't be here. My agent has arranged a European tour for me."

"Oh, I see. What you're really interested in is having someone keep an eye on him. Tell you what, let him come and visit with me for a while."

Instantly she was suspicious. "So you can tell him you're his father and try to take him away from me?"

He laughed. "Oh no, I'm not that much of a damn fool as to think I could compete with an Israeli war hero."

"Then why do you want him?"

"Well, because I am his father and I feel some responsibility and it might be kind of nice to have a young person around. I had another heart attack last year. Nothing serious, but it's probably a good idea that I have someone in the house with me in the evening and at night. The housekeeper usually leaves right after she does the dinner dishes."

"You mean you want someone to look after you?"

"Oh no, I don't need any looking after. It's just that it would be nice knowing someone was in the house at night. If anything were to happen, he could call a doctor."

"And what would he do all day long?"

"He'd work, of course. I could get him a job of some kind. I'm pretty well-known in town. He's eighteen? nineteen?"

"Eighteen."

"I've got it," he said triumphantly. "I could get him a job in a bank. Larry Gore would do it for me. He's president of one of the banks in town. He handles all my investments and is a distant relative of mine, the only one I have. But more than that, he'd do it for me if I asked him."

She looked at him uncertainly. "But-I don't know-Billy might not like it, and yet wouldn't say anything. He's sensitive. I'd hate to think that he might be unhappy and yet-"

"Look," he said firmly, "I'd have him write to you regularly. You'd get a letter from him every week. I promise you. If he didn't like it, he wouldn't mind telling you, especially in a letter. And then you'd call or write me and I'd ship him home. I'm going home tomorrow morning. Say the word and I'll start the ball rolling."

They discussed it at length. She was uncertain and raised many objections, which he answered skillfully as the consideration moved from her interests, to Billy's, to his own. "Oh, he won't be any bother to me. Quite the contrary. It will be nice having someone to talk to at the dinner table. And I'll feel better knowing there's someone in the house at night."

When Billy came home, she broached the idea.

"Mr. Jordan has invited you to come and visit with him while I'm abroad."

"You mean the whole time?"

"That's right," said Jordon. "And after, till you get around to go to college, if you like."

"Well, gee, it's a small town where you live, isn't it?"

"It's a small town," Jordon admitted, "but it's a nice town, right on the seashore. There's swimming and sailing. And you're only about half an hour from Boston."

"But what would I do all day long?"

"You'd get a job," said Jordon promptly.

"What kind of a job?" asked the young man cautiously.

"Maybe in a bank."

"Hey, that's kind of cool."

Despite the lateness of the hour, Jordon chose to walk back to his hotel rather than order a cab. He exulted in the thought that his son would be living with him. He was a boy, and he would make a man of him.

He heard the grating of a key in the front door lock. He called out, "Is that you, Billy? Come in, come in, boy, the door's unlocked." He rubbed his hands and smiled as the young man entered. "How'd things go at the bank today? All right? Anything unusual happen?"

"Unusual? No, sir."

"Well, that's the best way, I guess. The regular routine. Oh, case I forget, tomorrow when you go in, would you look up Johnny Cunningham's account and let me know how it stands."

4.

"Oh, Ben, I love it. I simply love it." Mimi Segal whirled around like a ballerina pirouetting, her arms outstretched, her head lifted, her blond hair flowing in the crisp autumn breeze. She squinted against the reflection of the sun on the dancing wavelets. "There's a sign there on the beach that says Private. Does that mean it's a private beach?"

"I should think so," said her husband. "The lot goes down to the beach so the beach must be part of it. Those houses on either side, they each have paths leading to those little landing docks, so I guess these lots include the adjoining part of the beach."

"How did you find it? And how do you know it's for sale?"

He smiled fondly at her. "While you've been going in to Boston shopping, I've been wandering around the area." He was a good bit older than she, fifty to her thirty-eight, so there was a touch of the avuncular in his affection for her. "I saw this place when I walked out to the lighthouse yesterday."

"But how do you know it's for sale?" she persisted.

"Anything is for sale if the price is right." He turned to where the car was parked and called out to the chauffeur. "Hey, you know who owns this land?"

The chauffeur, who had been provided along with the car by the Rohrbough Corporation, shook his head. "I don't know, sir."

"Well, they'll know in town," Segal said to Mimi. "Let's walk along the beach and see what it's like." He put his arm around her waist, and because she was taller than he and was always worried that he might be self-conscious about it, she bent her head to rest on his shoulder. He was of average height, but she was tall for a woman, like a fashion model. It was her second marriage, and she had met him shortly after she had managed to free herself of an alcoholic husband. She had had doubts when he had indicated that he wanted to marry her, mostly because at forty-seven, he was still a bachelor. What was wrong with him? Why hadn't some woman grabbed him up long ago? He was not bad-looking. In fact, she decided she liked his sharp, intense face, with its sensitive mouth and long thin nose. With his shock of iron-gray hair, she thought he was even distinguished-looking. So she had agreed-and had no regrets.

"Are you sure this is what you want, Ben?" she asked anxiously.

"About building a house here?"

"About that, and well, everything, leaving Chicago, giving up finance to go into production-"

He halted in his stride, the better to explain. "You plan and you maneuver and you finally bring it off and make a lot of money. But even more, there's tremendous satisfaction in it. The second time, there's satisfaction, but it's not such a big deal. And then after a while, it becomes just another business. Because, you see, you know how to do it now. It becomes routine. Sure, there's a lot of money to be made, but that's all."

"Most people would say that's enough."

He nodded. "Sure. But if you use it just to make more money, there's no sense to it. I couldn't spend it; I never learned how, not the kind of money I was making. So I used it for leverage to make more deals-"

"But what do other businessmen do?" she asked.

"Some of them make things, or transport them, or distribute them so people have access to them. That seems more worthwhile."

"You do the same thing Bert Richardson does, and you've always admired him tremendously."

"You bet. And do you know what he told me? That he felt the same way. But what keeps him going, he told me, is that he's got three sons, and he hopes maybe they'll be able to make better use of his money than he has. Then I began thinking, there's one thing I could buy with my money. I could buy a new lifestyle. A lot of men have that idea when they get to my age. Doctors want to become businessmen, lawyers want to become college professors, businessmen want to become artists or actors. Not many of them do. Most of them feel they can't afford it, or they're afraid to take the chance. But here I am with plenty of money and sick of just putting deals together. Why shouldn't I try something else? So I started to look around, and when this Rohrbough proposition came up, I thought I'd like to try operating it."

"I'm glad you told me, Ben," she said. "I was afraid you were doing it for me because of what I said once about wanting to live a normal life and be a part of a community."

"Then you don't mind?" he asked.

"Mind? I love it, Ben."

"And you don't miss your friends in Chicago?"

"We have no friends in Chicago, Ben. Just business associates. You can't make friends when you live in a hotel, not even in a big suite in a residential hotel. You're always just a transient. Oh, Ben, I'm so happy. Let's celebrate."

"You're on," he said. "But look, I was planning to drop in at one of the local banks. They do the payroll for Rohrbough, and I wanted to size the place up. I'll have the driver drop me off there, and you'll go on to the hotel. We'll get together around noon."

"How are you going to find out who owns it?"

"No problem there. I'll ask at one of the local realty offices. They'd know. Or I could ask at the bank. Look, baby, I'll pick you up afterward, and we'll drive up the coast and have lunch at some restaurant where they specialize in fish and seafood. I've been hankering for it since we came. How about it, baby?"

"Swell. But the car will be parked at the hotel, so why don't I plan on picking you up?"

"I'll give you a call."

5.

Lawrence Gore, president of the Barnard's Crossing Trust Company, smiled appreciatively as Molly Mandell, his secretary, his executive secretary he would say, entered his office, a sheaf of papers in her hand. She was so brisk and efficient, so interested and willing, so sympathetic and understanding, that it was a pleasure to have her around.

An attractive woman of thirty, she was neat and tidy in her navy blue suit. Her wavy brown hair was cut short and brushed back from her wide forehead. She had large dark eyes that were eager and alive. She had a no-nonsense mouth and a rounded chin which emphasized the oval of her face. And she was small. He liked small women because he himself was so cruelly short. Sitting behind his desk, his body visible only from the waist up, he seemed a large man. The long, narrow head with its thick blond hair and keen blue eyes was supported by a muscular neck rising from wide shoulders. It was something of a surprise when he rose and one saw that he was only a couple of inches more than five feet tall.

His eyes focused on the large plastic button pinned to her blouse. On it, in bold letters, was printed Women's Lib.

"Something new in costume jewelry, Molly?"

A sidelong glance at her bosom. "Oh, the state legislature is debating the Equal Rights amendment. The girls are wearing these to remind them where the votes are." She placed the papers on the desk before him, and then taking the visitor's chair, she watched him read the letters she had composed and typed for his signature.

Teetering gently in his swivel chair, he read each in turn carefully, and then as he reached for his pen, he said, "These are exactly right, Molly. You got just the tone I wanted."

"You mean the ones about the silver? Well, I don't have the same appreciation for Peter Archer silver that you have, of course, but I think the idea of the exhibition at the Boston Art Museum is wonderful, and I think it's doing the bank a lot of good, too."

"Think so? How about the display out front?" he asked. "Are people taking notice?"

"Oh sure. It's been getting a lot of attention." She flipped the pages of her notebook. "A Mr. Dalrymple asked me if you'd be interested in looking at a vinegar cruet he has. He's not a depositor. He just came in because he heard you had some pieces on exhibit in the bank."

"A vinegar cruet, eh? Yeah. We've got about half a dozen so far, but if he has a real good one, I'd like to see it."

"I'll get in touch with him. And Mrs. Gore called. She asked if she could have her check earlier this month. She's going down to Florida to visit her brother. I said it would probably be all right."

He nodded curtly.

"Nancy asked if she could have Friday off. I told her we'd be shorthanded because Pauline wasn't due back until Monday."

"Quite right."

"She was a little put out."

"She'll get over it, I expect."