Calico Palace (74 page)

Norman led her into the empty parlor, where they could talk freely. Standing at the bar, he took a notebook and pencil out of his pocket and prepared to use the bar as a desk.

He told Hortensia about the leniency of the California courts toward women who wanted divorces. He told her about his visit to Mr. Stone. Now what, he asked, was the name of this fellow she had married?

Hortensia’s mouth was set in the same stubborn line it had shown when she came to Kendra’s room, but Norman did not notice this. Tersely she answered, “Rupert Williams.”

“And your name? I mean before you were married.”

Hortensia’s expression did not change. In the same voice she replied, “Elsie Glutch. On the stage I was Laura Lester.”

Norman asked several more questions, and wrote down Hortensia’s replies. “All right,” he said at length, closing the notebook. “We’ll go to see that man Stone this afternoon. Never mind the piano. We’ll give Stone all this information and he’ll get your divorce. Then you and I can get married.”

Hortensia said steadily, “I don’t want to get married.”

“What!” cried Norman. Now he was back where he had been before he learned about Hortensia’s husband. The image in the mirror was crumpling again. “What’s wrong, Hortensia?” he demanded. “You—you’re not in love with somebody else, are you? Like that moony-eyed sea captain who’s been hanging around you?”

“Certainly not,” said Hortensia.

“Then what’s wrong with me?” Norman pled in dismay. “I gave that lawyer a retainer in
coins.
Gold coins! And now you don’t want the divorce!”

“Oh yes, I want the divorce,” Hortensia said quickly. For the first time today she was speaking with spirit. “I didn’t know,” she went on, “how much easier it was to get divorced in California than in New York. But since it is, I want to be rid of that polecat for good. I’ll pay the lawyer as fast as I can earn the money. I don’t want you to pay him because—” she repeated with emphasis “—because I don’t want to get married.”

Norman caught his breath “What have I done?” he begged. “Tell me why you don’t like me!”

“You haven’t done anything,” she answered. Her voice had a quaver he had never heard there before. “I do like you.” Hortensia pressed her wrist against her mouth, struggling for self-command. When she could speak she burst out, “Don’t you understand, Norman? I don’t want ever again to get into anything I can’t get out of!”

A smile broke over Norman’s frightened face. “But that’s what I’ve been telling you, Hortensia! In California you
can
get out of it. You can get out of it any time you want to.”

Hortensia gave a little gasp. Standing with an elbow on the bar, she stared at him. Norman hurried on.

“Hortensia, I swear to God I’ll treat you right. But if I didn’t do what you wanted, in California a judge would cut the marriage right in two and you could walk out. Not only walk out, you could take a poke of your husband’s money with you.”

Hortensia’s eyes were wide with wonder. “Is that in the lawbooks?”

“I don’t think they wrote it down exactly that way. But that’s the way it’s done in San Francisco.”

“You mean really, Norman?” she asked with awe. “If I was married to you and didn’t like it—no terrible reason but just didn’t like it—I wouldn’t have to put up with you?”

“If you didn’t like me,” Norman replied solemnly, “you wouldn’t have to put up with me.”

Norman had never been so humble in his life. Hortensia had won a victory and she had won it without even trying. If Marny had been there, Marny could have told her how great a victory it was.

H
ORTENSIA WANTED TO MAKE
up her own mind in her own way. She did not consult Mr. Stone nor did she ask advice of Pocket. She went to Hiram’s bank, but she did not consult Hiram because he was Pocket’s close friend and would be likely to favor the same lawyer. Instead, she went to the desk of the quiet little Mr. Eustis. She asked Mr. Eustis for the name of a lawyer who would give her counsel about a divorce.

Mr. Eustis did not approve of divorce. But neither did he approve of many other things that brought patrons to his bank. Two of his major depositors were Norman and Blossom, and he took care of their money while strictly objecting to the way they earned it. So though he opposed divorce, when Hortensia made her request Mr. Eustis considered it earnestly. He suggested a lawyer named Mr. Lang.

Hortensia made several visits to Mr. Lang. After each visit she came back to her piano, giving no reports. To Norman’s eager queries she replied, “Don’t hurry me up. I’ll let you know.”

Kendra was sympathetic. But Marny preferred the ways of Geraldine.

“When Geraldine is in love,” said Marny, “she does as she pleases and asks advice of nobody. It’s much simpler.”

Geraldine, now getting big around the middle, purred and stretched. Geraldine was well content with the state of things.

Marny too was well content. With the Calico Palace flourishing, and herself working hard to keep it so, she had decided she deserved a little more luxury. Next to the bedroom was a smaller room that she had been using as a storeroom for glassware. But now that the stores of San Francisco were stocked as well as those in the East, she could buy anything she wanted at any time and had no need to keep so much on hand. She had cleared out the little storeroom and had engaged a carpenter to cut a door between this and her bedroom, so she would have two rooms for herself instead of one.

“We’ll call it a boudoir,” she said to Kendra. “You can use it too, as a refuge when you get mad. Do you know what the word ‘boudoir’ really means?”

“Of course not,” Kendra answered laughing. “You know I’m not as intellectual as you are. What does it mean?”

“It means a pouting room,” said Marny. “Everybody ought to have one. We all need a place where we can slam the door and shut ourselves up when we feel contrary. That is, a boudoir.”

While Marny planned her boudoir, Norman fumed until Marny said he too needed a pouting room. At last, after leaving him in doubt for two weeks, Hortensia announced her decision.

She came into the kitchen late one afternoon while Hiram was having coffee with Marny and Kendra. With the calm good cheer of a person who has no misgivings, Hortensia told them she was going to marry Norman as soon as she had received her divorce.

They wished her happiness, and went with her into the parlor, to give Norman their congratulations. Norman was beaming, and regretting only that the divorce would take time because they had to wait for those affidavits from New York. He was a happy man, said Norman, but he would have been even happier if he and Hortensia could have been married tomorrow.

Kendra was glad the matter was settled, though she did not believe that even in San Francisco a woman could get a divorce merely by telling the judge she wanted one. When she and Hiram sat again at the kitchen table, she asked him if this was the case.

“Not quite,” Hiram answered with some amusement. “I’m sure Hortensia’s lawyer made that plain to her. But the laws
are
easier here than back East, and the courts are mighty partial toward women. I don’t know a great deal about it, but I’ve no doubt Hortensia knows it all now.”

“I’d like to see Hortensia happy,” said Kendra. “I’m sorry she has to wait for those papers from New York.” Adding, “I think my cookies are done,” Kendra stood up and opened the oven door.

She arranged the cookies on a tray and took them to the parlor. When she came back Hiram spoke to her eagerly.

“I’ve had an idea,” he said. “Maybe Hortensia won’t have to wait for those papers.”

“Why not?”

“I’m no lawyer,” said Hiram, “but I should think one live witness would be worth a dozen affidavits. And maybe she can get a witness right here.”

He explained. There were hundreds of New Yorkers in San Francisco, and more were constantly arriving. Old friends were always meeting each other unexpectedly in the street.

Kendra remembered Ted’s meeting with Gene Spencer, and she was sure Hiram was remembering it too, but neither of them said so. Hiram went on,

“California is full of actors and musicians from New York. Isn’t it possible, even likely, that among them is somebody who knows Hortensia? Who can come with her into court and give direct evidence of how her husband treated her?”

“It’s certainly possible,” Kendra agreed. “But how would you go about finding such a person?”

“Advertise,” Hiram answered promptly. “If Hortensia has friends in California they haven’t known she was here because she’s using a new name. Norman can advertise for somebody who knows her by her real name, or the stage name she used in New York. It’s worth trying.”

“Yes it is,” Kendra said with enthusiasm. “Hiram, it’s so worth trying that I think you ought to tell Norman right now. He can go around to the newspapers tomorrow.”

“Fine, I’ll do that. I’ll tell him to advertise in the Sacramento papers too. They have theaters there.”

He went out, and came back to say he had left word at Marny’s bar that when Mr. Lamont had leisure, Mr. Boyd had something of interest to say to him.

After a while one of the bartenders came to the kitchen with the message that Mr. Lamont was waiting for Mr. Boyd in one of the private rooms. Hiram went out. When he came back he was carrying one of the bar’s biggest glasses, liberally supplied with a drink.

Kendra, who was putting in another pan of cookies, shut the oven door and came to meet him.

“Tell me about it. What did Norman say?”

Settling his big person into a chair, Hiram began to laugh. “Norman says it’s a great idea. Doesn’t know why he didn’t think of it himself. Doesn’t know what’s wrong with those expensive lawyers, taking his money and poor dear Hortensia’s money and not having a simple idea like this. Kendra, he—” Hiram’s laughter began to choke him.

She had sat down across the table from him. “What’s the matter?” she asked in astonishment.

Wiping his eyes on the back of his hand, Hiram managed to say, “Kendra, he—he offered me a tip.”

She laughed too, but she knew Norman better than he did. “Norman never in his life did anything he didn’t expect to be paid for,” she said. “He doesn’t understand that some people will do a favor because they enjoy doing it.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Hiram answered mirthfully. “He was certainly startled when I declined the tip. I told him I’d take a drink of whiskey on the house, but nothing more.” Hiram held up his glass. “And look at the size of the drink he gave me.”

“At least,” said Kendra, “he feels better because he’s given you a little something in payment. And you deserve the drink. You did solve his problem.”

“I hope so.” Hiram twirled the glass between his hands. He looked at it, his face suddenly grave.

“That’s why you’re good as a banker,” Kendra went on. “You’re good at solving problems.”

“Yes,” Hiram returned, without looking up. “Other people’s.” He gazed at the glass. Hiram was thinking, and he was not thinking about Norman.

Kendra waited for him to go on, but he said no more. Moodily, he sipped his drink. With an impulsive movement she went around the table and stood by him. “Hiram,” she said, “if you have a problem of your own—can I help? Would you like to tell me?”

Hiram gave a start. “Tell you?” He pushed back his chair and stood up. “Never mind. Forget it.”

“All right, I’ll forget it,” Kendra said quickly, though she knew she would not. She changed the subject. “Stay and have dinner with us. I’m going to serve ham, and sweet potatoes fried in the ham drippings.”

“No, thanks.” He smiled down at her contritely. “Honestly, Kendra, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to mention a problem. The words sort of came out by themselves. I’m acting like a schoolboy and I’m ashamed of myself. Now I’d better get along.”

He went out, banging the door behind him.

Kendra looked down at the glass on the table, still holding half of Norman’s generous drink. She wondered what was the matter with Hiram these days. Why was it?—she and Hiram had dined together, had gone to plays together, had sat here in the kitchen laughing and chatting, eating cakes and drinking coffee, and he had seemed quite at ease; but as soon as the slightest touch of intimacy slipped into their talk, that curious veil came down between them. Why was this? There was some reason why he hesitated, and drew back, with a shyness he showed nowhere else.

A light began to dawn in her thoughts. Was Hiram falling in love with her?

Maybe he was, and maybe he did not want to. If he did not want to, he had a reason. Else, why should he fear to tell her?

Kendra stood still, looking at the door Hiram had banged behind him.

—If he told me, she asked herself, would I take him?

—Yes, she answered herself, I would.

Her answer was clear. She had liked Hiram ever since the day they had had a moment’s flirtation on the
Cynthia.
She had thought then that the big rusty-bearded sailor would be fun to know. At Shiny Gulch, when she had had romantic thoughts about nobody but Ted, Hiram
had
been fun to know. Later, when she had been forsaken and alone, Hiram had been her friend. Later still, when she had endured her stunning heartbreak after the Christmas fire, Hiram had stood by her with a steadfastness that she would remember as long as she lived.

But never had he spoken a loverlike word. Never had he talked to her in such confidence as Pocket had when he told her about the girl he had loved. Still, she felt closer to Hiram than to Pocket, or to anybody else she knew.

Would she like to go to bed with him?

She certainly would.

Kendra had not felt this way about any man since her heart got rid of Ted. And she had never felt about Ted as she was beginning to feel about Hiram. In those days she had been too young, too—how should she say it to herself?—too unripe. Today she was older, and wiser. She was ready to understand a man far more complex than Ted, ready as she could not have been when they all rode up to Shiny Gulch together.

She thought of Hiram—strong, but with a trembling spot of self-doubt. Whatever it was he feared, she would do all she could to help him conquer it; or if he could not conquer it, to endure it. He would help her in the same way to bear her own shortcomings. Hiram had told her she had strength—guts, he called it. But she knew how often she had yearned to crumple up on a loving shoulder and shake with weakness. He could give her this. And he would. As was true of so many brusque and aggressive men, Hiram’s character had a deep undercurrent of tenderness.