wants you in most of the pictures since you will soon be my wife.”
Damn! Reeves was instigating a farcical situation. He must adore Neil Simon plays. She and Helmut were now the unwilling players in such a comedy. “Helmut, please. I—”
“Is there something wrong, Jordan?” Helmut’s cheerful voice changed to one of concern. “You sound distressed this morning. Aren’t you well? Perhaps I should come over and—”
“No!” she said sharply. The last thing she wanted was for Reeves to know that he had upset her. And she didn’t want Helmut to see the violet shadows under her eyes that testified to a sleepless night. He might jump to all the wrong conclusions. He would demand an explanation for her obvious depression. He would never understand that she only wished to be left alone. But he
would
understand a simpering female, which she knew he thought her to be.
“No, nothing’s really wrong,” she said, softening her voice to a childish whimper. “It’s just that I was deliberating on what to wear tonight. I’ve never had my picture taken by a photographer with a reputation as renowned as Mr. Grant’s.” She virtually choked on the ridiculous words, but Helmut laughed into the phone.
“She’s worried over what to wear,” she heard him say to Reeves. Her slender fingers around the old-fashioned telephone tightened in agitation. “Darling, you’ll look beautiful in anything, but keep it casual tonight. We’ll be by to pick you up around eight. Things won’t really be jumping at Stadkeller until then. Good-bye for now.” He hung up before she could reply. As was Helmut’s habit, when he finished speaking he considered the conversation to be concluded.
She replaced the telephone under the counter and tallied up the purchases of the middle-aged couple from Sioux Falls, South Dakota. The lady was buying two Agatha Christie mysteries and a copy of
The Sensuous Woman
. He had a James Bond book, a
Mad
magazine, and yesterday’s
Chicago Tribune
. Would wonders never cease?
Desultorily, Jordan went through the day. Business was steady if not heavy. This was the end of September and the summer tourist season was waning. It wouldn’t pick up again until those who came for winter sports passed through Lucerne. She sold newspapers, maps, paperbacks, magazines, and journals. She listened to tales of woe about the shortage of ice in virtually all of Europe, the taste and gastric dangers of the drinking water, the narrow roads (where were the interstate highways?), and the crazy way these “foreigners” drove an automobile. Sometimes Jordan hated to acknowledge her fellow countrymen. Too often they were brash, rude, critical, and ignorant to the point of hilarity.
At six o’clock she locked the door, put her CLOSED sign in the window, and pulled down the shade on the glass door. Wearily she trudged upstairs. She had two hours to prepare herself for the ordeal of the evening ahead but wasn’t sure she would ever be ready for it.
She soaked in the deep, narrow tub. Unconsciously, she wondered how Reeves managed to fit his broad shoulders in most of the bath tubs in Europe and then decided that he probably took showers.
Impatiently she jerked her mind away from him and ticked off her wardrobe in her mind. What should she wear? She finally decided on a soft teal wool skirt and sweater. The skirt was full and fashionably hemmed and went well with her black suede boots. The outfit would be nothing spectacular without the triangular plaid woolen shawl that went with it. Six-inch fringe hung luxuriantly around the bottom. She put it over one shoulder and belted it at her waist with a wide gold belt. The corners of it almost reached the edge of her skirt. The prim “shopkeeper,” as Reeves had called her, looked more like a high-fashion model. Indeed, she had bought the Laurent copy last year in a Paris boutique.
She shook her hair free of its confining bun and fluffed it around her face, letting it settle
Damn! Reeves was instigating a farcical situation. He must adore Neil Simon plays. She and Helmut were now the unwilling players in such a comedy. “Helmut, please. I—”
“Is there something wrong, Jordan?” Helmut’s cheerful voice changed to one of concern. “You sound distressed this morning. Aren’t you well? Perhaps I should come over and—”
“No!” she said sharply. The last thing she wanted was for Reeves to know that he had upset her. And she didn’t want Helmut to see the violet shadows under her eyes that testified to a sleepless night. He might jump to all the wrong conclusions. He would demand an explanation for her obvious depression. He would never understand that she only wished to be left alone. But he
would
understand a simpering female, which she knew he thought her to be.
“No, nothing’s really wrong,” she said, softening her voice to a childish whimper. “It’s just that I was deliberating on what to wear tonight. I’ve never had my picture taken by a photographer with a reputation as renowned as Mr. Grant’s.” She virtually choked on the ridiculous words, but Helmut laughed into the phone.
“She’s worried over what to wear,” she heard him say to Reeves. Her slender fingers around the old-fashioned telephone tightened in agitation. “Darling, you’ll look beautiful in anything, but keep it casual tonight. We’ll be by to pick you up around eight. Things won’t really be jumping at Stadkeller until then. Good-bye for now.” He hung up before she could reply. As was Helmut’s habit, when he finished speaking he considered the conversation to be concluded.
She replaced the telephone under the counter and tallied up the purchases of the middle-aged couple from Sioux Falls, South Dakota. The lady was buying two Agatha Christie mysteries and a copy of
The Sensuous Woman
. He had a James Bond book, a
Mad
magazine, and yesterday’s
Chicago Tribune
. Would wonders never cease?
Desultorily, Jordan went through the day. Business was steady if not heavy. This was the end of September and the summer tourist season was waning. It wouldn’t pick up again until those who came for winter sports passed through Lucerne. She sold newspapers, maps, paperbacks, magazines, and journals. She listened to tales of woe about the shortage of ice in virtually all of Europe, the taste and gastric dangers of the drinking water, the narrow roads (where were the interstate highways?), and the crazy way these “foreigners” drove an automobile. Sometimes Jordan hated to acknowledge her fellow countrymen. Too often they were brash, rude, critical, and ignorant to the point of hilarity.
At six o’clock she locked the door, put her CLOSED sign in the window, and pulled down the shade on the glass door. Wearily she trudged upstairs. She had two hours to prepare herself for the ordeal of the evening ahead but wasn’t sure she would ever be ready for it.
She soaked in the deep, narrow tub. Unconsciously, she wondered how Reeves managed to fit his broad shoulders in most of the bath tubs in Europe and then decided that he probably took showers.
Impatiently she jerked her mind away from him and ticked off her wardrobe in her mind. What should she wear? She finally decided on a soft teal wool skirt and sweater. The skirt was full and fashionably hemmed and went well with her black suede boots. The outfit would be nothing spectacular without the triangular plaid woolen shawl that went with it. Six-inch fringe hung luxuriantly around the bottom. She put it over one shoulder and belted it at her waist with a wide gold belt. The corners of it almost reached the edge of her skirt. The prim “shopkeeper,” as Reeves had called her, looked more like a high-fashion model. Indeed, she had bought the Laurent copy last year in a Paris boutique.
She shook her hair free of its confining bun and fluffed it around her face, letting it settle
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