“The glass slipped out of my hand. I’ll clean it up.”
He started toward the small coat closet off the front entry hall which, because cupboard space in the kitchen was at a premium, served as a broom closet. Helen resumed work on her mouth.
“I’m afraid it’s one of the good glasses,” he said.
“Oh, no!” she wailed, and went into the kitchen, knelt, and examined the pieces. What she hoped to accomplish by this closer inspection, Conway neither knew nor cared; he had gambled that it would be an instinctive reaction, and won. He paused at her handbag for a split second on his way to the closet, replaced the letters in it with the ones he took from his pocket almost without breaking stride, and was on his way back to the kitchen with broom and dustpan as she returned to the hall.
“Ox,” she muttered as she passed him. He almost smiled with satisfaction. It had been so easy, so smooth; maybe it was an omen.
Chapter three
Helen posted the letters at the first mailbox they passed, and when she got back in the car there was a noticeable change in her attitude. She was almost relaxed. Conway wondered if she had been less confident than she had pretended.
“If we’re going to have that truce,” she said, “how about getting some lunch?”
“Okay with me.” He was pleased that she had proposed it: he had wanted to, but feared she might be suspicious of too many overtures.
They had lunch at a drive-in near Beverly Hills with no overt unpleasantness and started toward home.