Capriccio by Joan Smith Page B

Lazy holsteins grazing in meadows lent the wholesomely contrived look of calendar art. It wasn’t the right place to worry about kidnapping. It was a place for a picnic or falling in love. Or in Sean’s case, a place to fish.
    “There must be some lively fishing here.”
    “That’s a contradiction in terms. Besides, don’t you need water to fish?” Water was missing from the landscape.
    “Yeah.” A minute later he said, “What’s Victor like?”
    “He’s Italian, with all the stereotypical qualities. Passionate, volatile, fun-loving, artistic, talented. He’s also selfish, egocentric, vain—well, he’s a man after all,” I added blandly. I could feel Sean’s head turn toward me, and I looked out the window, unconcerned.
    “He doesn’t worry much about tomorrow, as long as he’s enjoying himself today,” I continued. “Of course I didn’t know him very well before this summer. He used to visit us about once a year. It was a grand occasion. Mom cooked for two days before he came, and we all talked about it for a week after, then forgot him till the next visit. He used to bring us all presents,” I said, remembering those visits with pleasure.
    “Who’s us all?”
    “Mom and Dad, Ricky and me. Rick’s my brother.”
    “Older or younger?”
    “Younger. He’s seventeen.”
    “That’s what I thought. I had you pegged for an only child, till you mentioned that ‘all’ a couple of times.”
    “I can see you’re dying to explain your brilliance. Okay, what made you think I was an only child?”
    “You’re cocksure, aggressive. Me, I’m the middle kid,” he said, pleading for sympathy from the corner of his eye.
    I gave an ironic laugh.. “And only son. You like to take charge, too.”
    “I thought I was being downright agreeable! Didn’t fool you, huh? Well you’re right about the sisters. I know all about women, except what they do for fourteen hours at a time in the bathroom. Come out looking worse than when they went in. Hair all frizzed, too much makeup, smelling like French— uh—waitresses. I notice you don’t use much makeup.”
    I suppose in Nebraska that might have been called a compliment. “You won’t smell my particular bouquet on many waitresses. It’s real French perfume. Victor gave it to me. An ounce would cost me a week’s salary. Of course he only gave me a tenth of an ounce.
    “You haven’t let me get close enough to smell it,” he ventured. There was a lupine quality in his eyes again.
    “That Old Spice you showered in would cover the smell. Good perfume is subtle.”
    “Yeah,” he grunted. A minute later he grunted again. “Real pretty country. What’s a Yankee like you doing up here?”
    I told him about my studies, and my plan to be a diplomat. It’s a subject on which I easily get carried away. Somehow he arrived at the truth: what I really wanted was a sinecure that allowed me to loll in the lap of luxury, while performing ostensible duties of a highly cerebral but physically undemanding sort.
    “What you want’s a rich husband,” he concluded.
    “Don’t be silly. I could have that, if that’s all I wanted!” I objected, and elevated Ronald to red-hot pursuer. Damned hardware salesman. What did he know about anything? “Ronald Strathroy—he’s the son of Eleanor, the lady that’s always calling,” I said. “I pointed her out last night at the hall.”
    “How come Ronald doesn’t phone himself?”
    “He comes in person,” I retaliated. “He came this morning, just before you called. In fact, it was Ronald who mentioned that Victor was probably at his cottage.”
    “Doesn’t Ronald care for music? How come he didn’t go with you to the concert last night?”
    “He was in Montreal on business. The Strathroys own a brokerage house. They’re taking over a Montreal trust company, but it’s very hush-hush.”
    “I won’t phone that one in to the newspapers either then.” We drove on a while in silence; not a comfortable silence,