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Rita smiled her mirthless smile. “I felt rotten that time. I cried for almost the whole six weeks I had to stay in Nevada, but my agent, Charlie Bloom, told me what the score was. Charlie said that I could either have a diamond necklace around my neck or a husband. Naturally, I chose the diamonds. Do you know Charlie?”

“No,” said Allison.

“He's the biggest agent in Hollywood,” said Rita. “Charlie has all the big names in his stable now, but when he started out with me he was nobody. Just a smart, sharp little guy who knew all the answers and had more nerve than a brass monkey. Charlie dressed me in a tight sweater and an even tighter skirt and he taught me how to walk with a sexy jounce and how to pinch my nipples so that they'd show under the sweater. He changed my name, too. From Alice Johnson to Rita Moore. And there was a time when a man could get fired at Century if he slipped and called me Alice. Alice Johnson was a name without class. It took Hollywood ten years to find out that I could do more than stick my chest out and wiggle my backside. That's when I became An Actress. Anyway, three years ago I married John Gresham. John was a real smoothie. He played the piano and told me I had eyes that he could drown in and that my body was like a flame. So what the hell. I married him.”

“Just because he was a good talker?” asked Allison.

Rita shrugged. “No. He pressured me into it.”

“Oh, come now,” Allison objected. “Women don't allow themselves to be pressured into a marriage they don't want.”

“What the hell do you know about it?” demanded Rita. “John was an artist, let me tell you. He knew what he was doing. The son-of-abitch used to make love to me for hours before we were married. He'd stroke and kiss and handle me until I thought I'd go out of my mind, but he never finished anything. He'd tell me he wanted to wait until after we were married because I was so pure and he didn't want to dishonor me by taking me without a ceremony. So I married him.”

She stopped to light a cigarette. Allison could not take her eyes from her. “He was good in bed, I'll say that for him. And for a while it was great. We'd spend all day in bed. John was an expert. He knew every trick in the book and when I thought I couldn't do anything else, he'd come up with something new. But there came a day when I had to go back to work and that left John without a job. Still, he was nice to come home to. I'd walk in the door and he'd undress me and make me a drink and play with me while I drank it, and it was fun. I guess he got bored after a while, though, because last year he stopped playing with me and began to play with my money. He got away with over fifty thousand before I put a stop to it. As usual, I put the stop to it all by going to Nevada.”

She turned her green eyes, searching and sad, to Allison. “So now you can go back to New York and tell your friend Paul what success is really like. You go along for years kidding yourself that if you're successful you can have everything you want, but all the time you know that the only way you can make it is alone.”

Rita fixed herself another drink, and when she had done so she held the glass up to the light and squinted through the dark fluid.

“Alone,” she said. “I guess that's the saddest word in the world. You stay at a hotel and order your own coffee in the morning and you hire a masseuse to rub your back and at night your bed is as big as Texas and as cold as Alaska. But you're successful.” She swallowed her drink and looked at Allison. “Don't forget that, Allison. You're a success! You're a goddamned big success! And just see what it'll get you. Just you bloody well see!”

When Allison entered her hotel room, much later that night, its expensive splendor suddenly seemed tasteless and repellent. She threw her purse across the room. It struck the wall above her dressing table and fell with a crash among the bottles of perfume and jars of cream. Allison wanted to break every window and rip to shreds the royal purple curtains. She wanted to do something so wild and destructive that it would shake her back into sanity, into a realization of her true self which she now felt was lost.

She had success, more than she had ever dreamed of. But never in her life had she been so fearful of the future, so frightened of the present, as she was now.

She sank down into a chair and cried bitterly. What is to become of me? she asked herself. Will I, ten years from now, be another Rita Moore, working on my fourth divorce or my fifth husband? Oh, Lewis, Lewis, take care of me. Never let me go.

A
LLISON RETURNED TO
P
EYTON
P
LACE
in late October, having spent a week in New York with Lewis. She had had to tell Constance that the stopover in New York was necessary for business reasons. As the train pulled into Peyton Place, she thought, Lewis has become a guilty secret. She did not want to have secrets from her mother, but she knew that Constance would be worried and terribly upset to learn that she was involved with a married man. She wanted desperately to be able to sit down with Constance and discuss it with her, but she knew that for Constance's sake she could not.

Peyton Place lay sheltered under the dome of October's bright blue sky. The tattered brown leaves that hung on the bare branches of trees were winter's flags, Allison thought, the sign of his coming. The air was not cold, but there was a wintry feel to it. On Armistice Day the first snow would fall, and by Thanksgiving the town would be in winter's grip.

She was hardly off the train before Mike and Constance threw their arms around her, welcoming her home. Tears sprang to her eyes; she felt guilty, felt she had betrayed them by staying with Lewis for a week. Constance carried her off to the waiting car while Mike followed, carrying her suitcases.

Constance and Allison sat in the back seat, and Constance held her hand and looked into her face as if to see if those weeks in Hollywood had changed or altered her in some way. Mike took a look at them in the rear-view mirror and laughed.

“Be careful, Allison,” he said, “any minute now she's going to whip out a microscope and put you under it.”

“You go to hell, Mike,” said Constance, and smiled at him in the mirror.

Mike went on. “She was certain you had ‘gone Hollywood' and that you'd come back with platinum-blond hair and at least three Mexican divorces.”

Allison turned to Constance. “I was working too hard to become tainted,” Allison said.

“Tell me all about Rita Moore,” Mike demanded.

“That's all
he's
interested in,” Constance said. “That old man of mine has hot pants for Rita Moore. Every time I open the bedroom door I expect to find that he's got pin-ups of her over our bed.”

“I may be old but I'm not a fool,” Mike said. “I know what side my bread is buttered on.”

“Mike!” Allison said. “Honestly, I never heard people talk like you two, not even in Hollywood.”

Mike and Constance roared with laughter. Constance squeezed Allison's hand. “I'm so glad to have you home, baby,” she said.

The car drew up to the house. Allison looked at it with loving eyes. If only Lewis could see it, she thought, if only he were here with me now.

They went into the kitchen. It was, Allison thought, the warmest, kindest room she had ever seen anywhere.

“I'll unpack later,” she said. “Right now I want a cup of Mother's coffee.”

Mike said, “I'll carry your luggage upstairs, and then I've got to drive downtown and pick up some things for your mother.” He bent down and kissed the top of her head. “Welcome home, Allison,” he said.

Why is it always such a relief to me when I come back? wondered Allison. Peyton Place is small-town America at its worst. Narrow, provincial, gossipy. Yet, I never feel really safe anywhere else, nor contented. And why is it that I love the winter best? Is it because I can stay safe and warm in my mother's house while the storm rages outside?

Allison yawned and stretched and turned away from the bleak, wintry view outside the kitchen window.

“Tired, darling?” asked Constance, setting down a coffeepot and two cups on the table.

“No,” said Allison. “Just lazy. I was wondering why I always feel better when I'm in Peyton Place than when I'm anywhere else.” She shrugged. “I guess it must be immaturity. But I love to snuggle down into the cocoon of this house while life raises hell outside my protective shell. How's that? Deep and psychological, huh?”

Connie laughed. “I don't know much about psychology. I only know that I'm happy when you are, and wretched when you're not. Maybe I have an apron string complex or something.”

Allison squeezed her mother's shoulder and picked up a coffee cup.

Constance said, “I didn't think you'd want to see anybody today, so I invited Selena and Joey and Peter Drake for dinner tomorrow night.”

“Oh? I didn't know that Peter was still on the scene.”

“Very much so,” said Connie. “Selena never told me what happened between her and Tim Randlett, but when it was over, there was Peter, ready and willing to pick up the pieces.”

“I wish Selena would get married,” remarked Allison. “Either that or leave town. She's in a dreadful rut here. What is there in Peyton Place for a girl with her looks and intelligence? Nothing.”

Connie smiled. “Maybe she feels the same way about Peyton Place as you do,” she said. “Perhaps there is a degree of security here for her that she's afraid would be missing everywhere else.”

“What security?” asked Allison. “She not only has to look after herself, but Joey, too. And all she has to depend on is her job at the store.”

“And Peter Drake,” Connie added.

“Perhaps it's just as well that it ended with Tim the way it did. I guess Mike was right about him all along.”

Connie shrugged. “I don't know. I always liked Tim well enough. At any rate, he was Selena's last chance to get out of her rut. I don't imagine that she'll be too eager to fall in love with another stranger.” Connie paused and looked searchingly at Allison. “And, speaking of love,” she said at last, “what about David Noyes?”

Allison looked down into her empty coffee cup. “I don't know,” she said.

She longed to tell Constance it was not David she cared about but Lewis Jackman. David, however, provided a perfect smoke screen, so she went on discussing him with Constance.

“He's in love with you, you know.”

“It's not David that I don't know about,” said Allison. “I'm not sure of myself.”

Connie sighed. “I guess every mother wants to see her daughter safely and happily married,” she said. “And I'm no different.”

“David has been everywhere and has done just about everything,” said Allison. “He's been on a safari in Africa and skiing in Switzerland and he's even had himself put in prison so that he could write a book about it. I've never been anywhere or done anything. David would be perfectly willing to get married, buy a house right here in Peyton Place and settle down to writing his books.”

“But you've just been telling me that you're never happier than when you're right here,” objected Connie.

“I am,” agreed Allison. “But it's a selfish sort of thing. I want to be able to come home anytime I want to. But I want to be able to leave, too. At any time for any place. I wouldn't be able to do that if I were married to David. He has this thing where he always wants to shield me from everything.”

“What's wrong with that?” asked Connie. “You'd be much worse off if you got stuck with a man who didn't give a damn what happened to you.”

Allison sighed. “I know it,” she said. “But I can't live through David's experience, either.” She stopped and grinned at her mother. “You know what's the matter with me?” she asked. “I want everything. Every experience, every sight and smell and taste and feeling. But I don't want anything to hurt me.” She stood up and went to the window. “So you see how impossible it is,” she said. “Nobody can have both, can they?”

Connie refilled the cups. She thought, Allison has grown a lot in the past year, but in many ways she's still a romantic little girl. “I can see why you want to wait,” she said. “But I do wish that David were coming for the holiday.”

“He's working on a book,” said Allison. “And when David is working, all the furies of hell couldn't tear him away from his typewriter. Perhaps he'll be up for Christmas. Stevie is coming for Thanksgiving, though. And if it's all right with you, Mother, I'd like to ask my publisher to come too,” she added hurriedly.

Constance turned and looked at Allison. “You mean Lewis Jackman?”

“Yes,” said Allison. “I'd like him to see Peyton Place.”

“Well, of course, dear. You know you can invite anyone you like.”

Constance paused to light a cigarette and glanced at Allison over the wavering flame of the match. “He's married, isn't he?”

“Lewis Jackman? Yes, he is. And he's in his forties, too.”

“Well,” Constance said, “that doesn't matter. Some men are younger at that age than others are when they're twenty.”

Allison laughed. “Where did you learn all that, Mother?”

Constance said, “Darling, there are some things you learn just by living and keeping your eyes open. You don't have to personally experience all sorts of men to know that there are some who are born old and there are others who are still young when they're sixty.”

“Well,” Allison said, “all this has got nothing to do with Lewis Jackman. He's just my publisher and a very charming man. It doesn't matter to me whether he's eighty, married, or unmarried.”

Constance said, “What about his wife? Will she be coming, too?”

“I don't think so,” Allison said, looking down into her cup. “From what I hear, she's quite sick. She doesn't see anyone but her psychiatrist.”

“Oh, I see,” Constance said. “Too bad.”

Surreptitiously she watched Allison's face. She wondered why talking about Lewis Jackman had made her so nervous, and why Allison did not look at her when she spoke of Jackman's wife. There were a hundred questions Constance wanted to ask her daughter, and it was only with a conscious effort that she kept her mouth shut. You must not pry, she warned herself. When Allison is ready to tell you about this, she will tell you.

Constance was certain something was going on. A young girl's infatuation with an older man, she thought, can sometimes be a very strong thing. She wondered if the fact that Allison had never known her own father might not have something to do with it. Perhaps Lewis Jackman was providing Allison with the father image she had always lacked.

Mike returned. He burst into the kitchen carrying two large bags of groceries. Then he sat down at the table with them, held up the empty cup and said to Constance, “Reward me. I have been a good boy.”

Constance filled his cup. “There,” she said. “Is that reward enough for you?”

“Ask me later,” Mike told her in a stage whisper.

Allison laughed. “Sometimes I feel like you two are my children,” she said.

She asked Mike how he was enjoying his teaching job in White River.

He made a face. “If my wife could support me in the manner to which I've grown accustomed, I'd give up that job with just one minute's notice.”

Connie put her arm around his shoulders. “You should have swallowed your pride and your honor when the school board here told you they were sorry and wanted you back,” she said.

“What's this?” Allison cried.

“It happened just after you left,” Constance explained. “Mike's being fired became such a scandal in educational circles that even Roberta got scared. Also, the new principal turned out to be an absolute dud.”

“They came to me, Roberta and poor old Charlie, with their hats in their hands—and, let me tell you, Roberta looks better with it in her hands than on her head—and offered me my old job,” Mike said.

“Mike told them he wouldn't take the job back until they agreed to a few demands he had to make.”

“It'll do them good to stew in their own juice for a year,” said Mike. “Besides, they'll need that long to make up their minds to give me everything I asked for.”

“Everything like what?” asked Allison.

“Like tenure and a thousand dollar a year raise every year for the next five years.” replied Mike.

“Charlie Partridge is all for it,” said Connie. “But he can't convince Marion. Roberta is on the fence.”

“Well see,” Mike said.

“Yes, but when?” asked Allison.

“In March,” replied Mike. “When the new contracts come out.”

“Thank God it'll be in March,” said Allison. “In April the group from Hollywood will be here, and I don't imagine that they'll do anything to improve our public relations with Peyton Place.”

“They're really coming then?” asked Connie.

“Yes,” replied Allison. “God help us all.”

“I heard that it was quite a session when the advance guard met with the selectmen,” said Mike. “Tishman's representative was a man named Blanding …” Mike went on.

“Conrad Blanding,” said Allison. “He's the director.”

“Well, Blanding told old Tom Perkins that all the studio wanted to do was use the town for a few weeks, and in return they'd leave approximately a hundred thousand dollars of their money behind. But old Tom wasn't impressed.”

“He wouldn't be,” Connie said. “He's New England through and through. What's good enough for his grandfather is good enough for his grandchildren. I wish some of these people would get over the idea that progress is sinful. I'm surprised Tom Perkins hasn't organized hatchet parties to smash up every TV set in Peyton Place.”

“Stop interrupting with your seditious talk,” Mike said. “If you're not careful, I'll have you run out of town on a rail.” He returned to Allison and continued his account.

“Perkins told Blanding that Peyton Place had managed to get along very well without outside money for a good many years and that as far as he was concerned we could all stagger along for another century or two without any help from Hollywood.”

“I warned Arthur Tishman,” said Allison. “But he took one look at photographs of the castle and made up his mind. And when Arthur makes up his mind,
nothing
can shake it.”

“Well, it'll give the town something new to talk about,” Mike said. “Maybe they'll give Marion Partridge a job as an extra—”