silence.
Sarah moved away from the hearth. “Let’s change this subject,” she said, “or else we’ll lie awake all night worrying. What’s done can’t be undone.” She began to cream her skin in front of the mirror. She took more trouble with it tonight than usual. “How old do you think Jim Brent is?” she asked, keeping her voice casual. She studied her face in the glass. No wrinkles yet, she thought thankfully.
“About forty, I suppose. I like his eyes. A nice warm grey. But sad and thoughtful. Of course, he has his worries. Doesn’t he ever laugh, though? And how thin all those men are! And tanned, except for the white brows... those hats, of course.” Her voice grew more cheerful as she talked, if only to please Sarah. And somehow, thinking of the house and the ranch and people like Jim Brent, she became more cheerful.
“I’m going to visit a hairdresser in New York,” Sarah announced suddenly. “You won’t recognise me when I return here!”
Mrs. Peel stared at her friend. “You’ll be too busy in New York explaining to the lawyers that we haven’t lost our minds. Mr. Quick would really like me to die and leave all my money intact to cat and dog homes. Much pleasure that would give me under six feet of earth! I’ll telegraph Prender Atherton Jones tomorrow and get him to send you a list of his stranded writers. Do you think he will be annoyed with us for not consulting him first? He does like to manage things.”
“My dear, why do you think he wrote you about his tumbling-down house? He wanted your help. And he has got it.”
“Oh, no!” Mrs. Peel said, in disappointment. Really, Prender could be quite feline at times.
“I’ll get a ’plane from the airport at Sweetwater,” Sarah was saying, as she climbed into bed. “I’ll be back here in five days with everything organised. Margaret, do you think you can manage things here? There is so much to be planned. We have only six weeks until August.”
“Get to sleep!” Mrs. Peel said, much in the same voice as she had said, “I’ll take it.” She had no doubts at all about the future. It must be this air, she thought, as she obeyed her own command.
6
...AND REACTIONS
In a place where newspapers arrived late and radio reception was temperamental the news about Rest and be Thankful spread as fast as a forest fire. The town of Sweetwater (population 853, except on Saturdays, when it reached 1200 or more) felt itself to be implicated in the change. There the reaction was swift and varied.
“Better lay in a big stock of fancy shirts,” Mrs. Dan Givings warned her husband, who owned the Western General Emporium. “And some beaded moccasins and Navaho rugs and silk rodeo ties and postcards and frontier pants.” Dan thought they’d better wait a bit: women always seized on any excuse to spend money. “That’s just it,” his wife said. “They’ll be women among these visitors. And if we don’t sell the stuff this year we can sell it next year. These dudes never know what they want to buy unless they see it. Give ’em plenty to see.” So the Western General increased its stock, and Mrs. Givings changed the windows from Christmas Gifts to something real fancy.
The B Q Bar put up a new neon sign, added three new slot machines with the jackpot tantalisingly full of silver, and ordered an extra shipment of Sheridan Export beer. The Teton Bar, not to be outshone, put up two neon signs. It also added six slot machines to supplement its crap table and black jack. The Foot Rail and the Purple Rim, having their own steady Saturday trade, contented themselves with repainting their names.
Reverend Teesdale, of the Methodist United, suggested a Welcome-to-Sweetwater Social. Reverend Buell, of the Evangelical Lutheran, wondered if he should call, as Father O’Healey, over at Three Springs, certainly would.
Bill’s Drug Store rewrote its menus, and ordered films, Kleenex, and sun-tan lotion. Upstairs its Zenith Beauty Shop put up new
Sarah moved away from the hearth. “Let’s change this subject,” she said, “or else we’ll lie awake all night worrying. What’s done can’t be undone.” She began to cream her skin in front of the mirror. She took more trouble with it tonight than usual. “How old do you think Jim Brent is?” she asked, keeping her voice casual. She studied her face in the glass. No wrinkles yet, she thought thankfully.
“About forty, I suppose. I like his eyes. A nice warm grey. But sad and thoughtful. Of course, he has his worries. Doesn’t he ever laugh, though? And how thin all those men are! And tanned, except for the white brows... those hats, of course.” Her voice grew more cheerful as she talked, if only to please Sarah. And somehow, thinking of the house and the ranch and people like Jim Brent, she became more cheerful.
“I’m going to visit a hairdresser in New York,” Sarah announced suddenly. “You won’t recognise me when I return here!”
Mrs. Peel stared at her friend. “You’ll be too busy in New York explaining to the lawyers that we haven’t lost our minds. Mr. Quick would really like me to die and leave all my money intact to cat and dog homes. Much pleasure that would give me under six feet of earth! I’ll telegraph Prender Atherton Jones tomorrow and get him to send you a list of his stranded writers. Do you think he will be annoyed with us for not consulting him first? He does like to manage things.”
“My dear, why do you think he wrote you about his tumbling-down house? He wanted your help. And he has got it.”
“Oh, no!” Mrs. Peel said, in disappointment. Really, Prender could be quite feline at times.
“I’ll get a ’plane from the airport at Sweetwater,” Sarah was saying, as she climbed into bed. “I’ll be back here in five days with everything organised. Margaret, do you think you can manage things here? There is so much to be planned. We have only six weeks until August.”
“Get to sleep!” Mrs. Peel said, much in the same voice as she had said, “I’ll take it.” She had no doubts at all about the future. It must be this air, she thought, as she obeyed her own command.
6
...AND REACTIONS
In a place where newspapers arrived late and radio reception was temperamental the news about Rest and be Thankful spread as fast as a forest fire. The town of Sweetwater (population 853, except on Saturdays, when it reached 1200 or more) felt itself to be implicated in the change. There the reaction was swift and varied.
“Better lay in a big stock of fancy shirts,” Mrs. Dan Givings warned her husband, who owned the Western General Emporium. “And some beaded moccasins and Navaho rugs and silk rodeo ties and postcards and frontier pants.” Dan thought they’d better wait a bit: women always seized on any excuse to spend money. “That’s just it,” his wife said. “They’ll be women among these visitors. And if we don’t sell the stuff this year we can sell it next year. These dudes never know what they want to buy unless they see it. Give ’em plenty to see.” So the Western General increased its stock, and Mrs. Givings changed the windows from Christmas Gifts to something real fancy.
The B Q Bar put up a new neon sign, added three new slot machines with the jackpot tantalisingly full of silver, and ordered an extra shipment of Sheridan Export beer. The Teton Bar, not to be outshone, put up two neon signs. It also added six slot machines to supplement its crap table and black jack. The Foot Rail and the Purple Rim, having their own steady Saturday trade, contented themselves with repainting their names.
Reverend Teesdale, of the Methodist United, suggested a Welcome-to-Sweetwater Social. Reverend Buell, of the Evangelical Lutheran, wondered if he should call, as Father O’Healey, over at Three Springs, certainly would.
Bill’s Drug Store rewrote its menus, and ordered films, Kleenex, and sun-tan lotion. Upstairs its Zenith Beauty Shop put up new
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