Berenice was willowy in a blue slack suit with lemon, quarter-inch lines forming windowpane checks, and the four tightly grouped buttons of the double-breasted jacket were genuine lapis lazuli. The bells of the slacks were fully sixteen inches in diameter, and only the toes of her white wedgies were exposed. There was a silk penny-colored scarf around her neck. She had done her nails in Chen Yu nail varnish, that peculiar decadent shade of red that resembles dried blood (the sexiest shade of red ever made, and so Germanic thirtiesish that Visconti made Ingrid Thulin wear it in The Damned), and she had painted her lips to match. During her six weeks in Palm Beach, Beremce had learned some peculiar things about fashion, but the schoolteacher from Duluth had not disappeared.
She giggled and pointed to the tray on the coffee table. "These are supposed to be Gibsons!"
There were two miniatures of Gilbey's gin and another of Stock dry vermouth (two tenths of gin, an eighth of vermouth), a glass pitcher with chunks, not cubes, of ice, and a tiny glass bowl containing several cocktail onions.
I shrugged. "I don't think they're allowed to serve mixed drinks in this Georgia county, although the waiter would've mixed them for you if you'd tipped him. Actually" -I twisted the metal caps off the two gin miniatures- "it's better this way. Most bartenders overuse vermouth in Gibsons, and I'd rather make my own anyway."
"It just struck me funny, that's all," Berenice said.
While I mixed the Gibsons, I tried to work out a simple plan and a way of presenting it to Berenice to keep her away from my room until we were ready to leave.
"Did you go to a movie this afternoon?"
She shook her head, and sipped her cocktail. "I wouldn't go to a movie alone back home, much less in a strange town. I'm not the scary type, you know that, James, but there are some things a woman shouldn't do alone, and that's one of them."
"At any rate, you got through the day."
"I slept like the dead. How's the article coming?"
"That's what I wanted to talk to you about. I finished it."
"Already?' That's wonderful, James!"
"It's a good rough draft," I admitted, "but it'll need a few things filled in up in New York-"
"Am I in it?' Can I read it?"
"No. It's an article about Debierue and his art, not about you and me. When did you become interested in art criticism?" I grinned.
"When I met Mr. Debierue, that's when." She smiled. "He's the nicest, sweetest old gentleman I ever met."
"I'd rather you'd wait tifi I have the final draft, if you don't mind. I want to get back to New York as soon as possible to finish it. So after dinner, I'll take a short nap until midnight, and then we can check out of here and get rolling. If we trade off on the driving, we can reach the city in about thirty hours."
"You won't get much sleep if we leave at midnight . . ."
"I don't need much, and you've already had enough. You wouldn't be able to sleep much tonight anyway, not after being in the sack all day."
"I'm not arguing, James, I was just worried about you-"
"In that case, let's go downstairs to dinner, so I can come back up and get some sleep before midnight."
During dinner, Berenice asked me if she could see Debierue's picture, but I put her off by telling her it was all wrapped up securely in the trunk of the car, and that it wouldn't be a good idea for anyone to see us looking at a painting in the basement garage. I reminded her conspiratorially that it was a "hot" picture, and we didn't want anyone suspecting us and making inquiries. Because I halfwhispered this explanation, she nodded solemnly and accepted it.
The food was excellent-medium-rare sirloins, corn on the cob, okra and tomatoes, creamed scalloped potatoes, a cucumber and onion salad, with a chocolate pudding dessert topped with real whipped cream, not sprayed from a can-and I ate every bit of it, including four hot biscuits with butter (my two, and Berenice's two). I felt somewhat logy following the heavy meal, but after drinking two cups of black coffee, although I was uncomfortably stuffed, I still wasn't sleepy.
I signed the check and penciled in my room number. "After all that food, I'm sleepy," I said.
Berenice took my arm as we left the dining room to cross the lobby to the elevators. "Wouldn't you like a little nightcap," she squeezed my arm, "to make you sleep better-in my room?"
"No," I replied, "and when I say No to an offer like that you know I'm sleepy enough already."
I took her room key, opened the door, and kissed her good night. "I'll leave a call for eleven thirty, and then I'll knock on your door. Try and get some more sleep."
"If I can," she replied, "and if not, I'll watch television. Let me have another one of those good-night kisses. . ."
