“I could force myself to dally with one of those steaks if it were sufficiently rare,” he said. “What a smart girl you were.”
“Not always.”
“Meaning what?”
“We’ll take that up later. Is it warm enough to eat in the patio?”
“It’ll be perfect — I’ll set up a card table. But first, I’ll manufacture a Martini or two — I think we’re entitled to it.”
“Yes,” she said slowly. “I guess you are.”
Chapter ten
The dinner was an unqualified success. They ate by candlelight in the little patio, screened from the wind and the prying eyes of any neighbors. Betty was gay and talkative, and because she kept the conversation away from the murder, or any mention of Helen, Conway was able to let down his guard and enjoy himself. It was, he realized, the first human companionship he had taken pleasure from in many months. She had read almost everything he had written, and she discussed the stories with relish and intelligence. Only once did they skirt dangerous ground, when she ventured the opinion that his more recent stories had lacked the vigor and brightness of his earlier work. She sensed his tightening, and quickly turned the conversation into other channels.
“I’m going to clear the table, stack the dishes, and do them in the morning,” she said when they finished. “You can help clear, if you like. Then we can sit down and have coffee.”
She poured the coffee and he held a match for her cigarette and looked at the lovely oval of her face in the amber glow. He was at peace now, with her, and, more important, with himself; he felt a sense of well-being, of content, as heady as a tropical night. He wished, suddenly and wholeheartedly, that she had not found the apartment, and that she might remain here. And he wanted to make amends for his churlishness since her arrival.