Cate Campbell Read Online Free Page B

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    Blake took off his driving cap as he opened the front door, revealing hair curled close to his scalp like gray wool. He left Frank standing in the hall, and disappeared.
    Frank unbuttoned his greatcoat and slipped out of it, careful to tuck the empty sleeve of his jacket securely into his pocket. When Blake returned with an attractive woman of middle age, Frank had already hung the coat on a mahogany coatrack and scuffled the dirt off his shoes onto the coir mat inside the door.
    “Mrs. Edith,” Blake said. He held his cap in his hands, and nodded toward Frank. “This is Mr. Preston’s guest for the evening. Major Frank Parrish. Major, Mrs. Benedict. Mr. Preston’s mother.”
    The woman came forward, holding out a very slim, very white hand. Frank took it. He felt as if he was expected to bow over it, but he couldn’t imagine such an action. He shook it gingerly.
    Edith Benedict put her other hand over his and squeezed. “Major Parrish! We are so glad Preston happened to run into you. We’re simply delighted to have you, someone who knew Preston over there, who fought by his side. . . .” Her voice faltered as she caught sight of Frank’s sleeve, flattened into his jacket pocket.
    He said hastily, “Thank you, Mrs. Benedict. Kind of you to—”
    Her pale cheeks turned rosy. She released his hand, then passed her own over her eyes as if to erase what she had just seen. “It’s just lovely to have one of Preston’s friends here,” she said in a breathy tone. “Just—just so lovely. Come and meet my husband, won’t you?”
    Blake walked back out the front door, closing it behind him. Mrs. Benedict led Frank into a room to the left of the hall. “The small parlor,” she said.
    Frank supposed there must be a big parlor, or this room could never be called small. There was a fireplace with a fire crackling in it, and an abundance of dark wooden furniture and upholstered chairs arranged on a plush carpet woven in deep colors. He shook the thick-fingered hand of Mr. Dickson Benedict, and the even bigger one of his son, Mr. Dick Benedict. Another Mrs. Benedict, young and very pretty, with painted eyebrows and short hair waved in rows like a washboard, rose from a chair beside a cabinet radio, and came forward to be introduced. Soon they were all seated around a little cocktail table, and the elder Mr. Benedict was offering a bottle of what looked like real, pre-Prohibition whisky. As he poured two fingers into a tumbler and handed it across, saliva flooded Frank’s mouth.
    He waited until everyone was settled before he lifted the glass to his lips and tasted it.
    He had been right. It was the real thing. His eyelids dropped at the pleasure of its smooth fire caressing his tongue, slipping easily down his throat.
    Dickson Benedict, a ruddy, thickset man, smiled across the table. “I see you appreciate good liquor, Major,” he said. “It’s still legal in our own homes, of course. I saw the way the wind was blowing five years ago, and I laid in a supply.”
    “Sir,” Frank said, lifting his glass to his host.
    Mr. Benedict lifted his glass in return, and took a generous sip. Dick Benedict leaned forward as if to say something, but at that moment Preston burst into the room.
    It was the only word Frank could have used to describe his entrance. All conversation halted, and every face turned as he flung himself through the door and strode across the carpet, an energetic figure with shining blond hair, bright blue eyes, and a loud voice. “Parrish!” he exclaimed. “Glad you could make it!” His arrival seemed to diminish every other person in the room. Certainly Frank felt diminished by it, overshadowed and dull, even as he stood to shake his hand.
    “Did you meet everyone?” Preston poured himself a drink, then dropped into the chair closest to his mother’s. “Mater, you’re a regular cover girl tonight!” he said. “And Ramona—been to the hairdresser’s? You look like a picture. Dick,