Free The Incredible Charlie Carewe by Mary. Astor Page B

unusual. Actually, if comparisons were in order, there was no skill at all, but even this intrigued her. At first she had wondered if he were a virgin, so crude, so sudden and brief were his demands. She was too clever to ask, for many reasons. It might hurt his vanity to learn that he had appeared inept—or if he had had other experience it might have been something cheap, some education garnered in a house of prostitution. It all didn’t seem to matter any more.
    All her energies were spent in contriving to continue their relationship, because she felt she wouldn’t be able to live without him. She carefully learned the patterns of Brian’s activities, without betraying her new interest in them. She had it down to a science, his goings and comings, his schedules, where they were predictable, where they could break down and for what reason; all plotted so that with a minimum of effort on Charles’s part, with a minimum of concern to him, she would find the hours, and occasionally the whole nights, that had become her only reason for existence.
    How had he got such a hold on her? Jane felt ruefully that perhaps at last she had found out what love was. At first it had simply been the familiar chemical attraction. The little ringing of a bell inside her that gave notice that it must be eventually answered. That after a few preliminary, mutually agreed upon, unspoken half yieldings, little flights and pursuits, there would be the frantic surrender, the stifling entanglement, the grasping, driving, urgent need for release—never found, never found. Nothing but exhaustion and ennui.
    It was no different with Charlie. Why, then, did he seem to wipe out all others from her mind? Some taunting, vague quality, which she had sought to analyze, eluded her. He had an unusual amount of just plain male attractiveness, impulsive and demanding, coupled with a little-boy sweetness that made her want to do all sorts of absurd things like feeding him, and covering him up—babying him! But how stupid Brian was, when he said that Charlie had a brain. Perhaps he was a good student—he had a prodigious memory, and learning was to him simply an effortless skill, simply the amassing of more and more information. But it had taken her no time at all to see that he had no development as yet, that once she broke into his thought pattern, listening, drawing him out, he chattered on and on like a monkey. He was gifted with a great imagination, she had found, but also it was a gift that she mustn’t call by that definition—as she had learned almost to her grief.
    She had not been particularly surprised to hear that he had been to Europe. They had been walking by the river one Sunday afternoon. He had a new Cord and had wanted to show it off to her. It had been risky—but Brian was away at a convention, and she had taken the bus into town where he had met her. They had picnicked and napped and made love and his tongue had been loosened by the wine she had brought. They talked of Paris and Florence and he spoke of having skied in Switzerland with a friend of his, Jeff Shelley. A place she had been once or twice a few years before she met Brian. It was up very high in a range of mountains and a field that was too tricky for all but the finest skiers. The inn was small, priding itself on its un-touristy atmosphere—the haven of the experts. Delighted, Jane said, “You must be very good indeed, my darling.” He put an arm around her, saying, “I’ll take you there someday—it’s magnificent, I’ll show it all to you.” Shaking her head, smiling to stop him, she put in, “I’ve been there, darling, I’ve been trying to tell you—don’t you remember the Guntner twins, the guides? I remember you could never tell them apart, and Mama Liesel?” He stopped and added rather airily, “Jane, I hate to remind you, but you are before my time—no, I never knew the twins and Mama Liesel—they’re probably dead and buried.” She said, “But,