Free Dreams Are Not Enough by Jacqueline Briskin Page A

down the block and was toiling up the humpbacked bridge before he realized that he’d left the hand brake on.
    “Jesus, Alicia, how can I drive with you caterwauling?”
    She wept harder. “… I’ve stolen … your aunt’s swimsuit and shift.”
    She drenched his spare handkerchief and then used the dirty one.
    Barry, by now even more distraught about her hysteria than his uncle’s rage, patted her knee.
    “Stop worrying. As soon as we spot a pay phone, I’ll call the house. Beth’ll bring up your things and take back Aunt Lily’s.”
    Even though he made the promised call to his sister, Alicia wept all the way to Disneyland. As they passed the enormous parking lots her tears finally ceased.
    Wiping her swollen eyes, she stared up at the fake Matterhorn.
    “Barry?” she said.
    “What, honI never saw a hundred-dollar bill before.”
    “Mmm,” replied Barry, who hadn’t either.
    The next morning, Monday, the door chimes sounded before nine. Mrs.
    Young bitterly resented being wakened so early. Alicia, anticipating Beth’s arrival with the clothing swap, reached for the big paper bag containing the swimsuit and shift, both of which she had carefully laundered, darting through the hall before a second repetition of the loudly unmusical sound.
    At the front door stood an elderly black chauffeur.
    “Does Mrs.
    Cordiner live here? ” Politely he removed his peaked cap.
    “Mrs. Barry Cordiner?”
    She nodded. The Rolls-Royce at the curb told her whose chauffeur he was, and therefore she felt no surprise to see Desmond Cordiner emerging from the gleaming limousine. Yet instinctively she took a step backward.
    “We didn’t get a chance to finish our conversation,” Desmond Cordiner said as he gave her short, tight nylon uniform the once-over.
    “That Pucci thing you wore yesterday didn’t do you credit. Your body’s top grade.”
    Did he think to flatter her out of marriage? Or was he making a pass?
    Did men this powerful and rich make passes?
    “Mr. Cordiner,” she said, “I’m not allowed to have company.”
    “Alicia?” Mrs. Young, frowning irritably and tying her chenille bathrobe, came into the hall. Then her eyes bulged at the apparition in a handsome black silk suit that had cost more than the entire contents of Dr. Young’s closet.
    “Mrs. Young,” Alicia said, “this is my husband’s uncle.”
    Desmond Cordiner formed his urbane smile.
    “I hope it wasn’t my man who woke you, Mrs. Young.”
    “No,” she said, glancing out the open door. The elderly chauffeur was rubbing a chamois on the Rolls-Royce’s windshield.
    “No, of course not.
    Alicia, dear, why don’t you take Mr. “— ” Cordiner,” he said with another smile.
    “Desmond Cordiner.”
    Mrs. Young recognized the well-publicized name. She said respectfully, “Alicia dear, take your guest in the living room.”
    Desmond Cordiner made himself comfortable on the plastic-covered couch.
    “My approach yesterday was crass,” he said affably.
     
    ^ “But you’d be surprised at how often the actual sight of green does the trick.”
    “Barry and I want to stay married.”
    “So you made abundantly clear,” he said, pausing.
    “I could have been far, far worse, you know.”
    “Mr. Cordiner, there was no point in your coming here.”
    “How do you know what I have in mind?”
    “To separate me and Barry.”
    “Many, many years ago I learned not to waste energy on losing battles,” he said.
    “I’ve decided you’ll support your husband in a more dignified manner.”
    “He works at the UCLA Student Store, and that should be dignified enough for two.”
    Desmond Cordiner’s manicured hand waved away her protest.
    “I admire loyalty, Alicia, but have you ever considered the marriage from his point of view?”
    “All the time.”
    “Then you must realize that Barry would rather be doing a jail term than living in a maid’s room.”
    “We have our own place out back.”
    He eyed her again.
    “You really are a