Free Rest and Be Thankful by Helen MacInnes Page A

aside.
    “If you aren’t having lecturers”—he looked at her unbelievingly—“what are you providing for my writers?”
    “Wyoming,” Sarah said. She was angry now.
    He noticed the expression on her face. He counter-attacked. “You know, Sarah,” he said, with a smile, “it isn’t exactly fair to ask writers to be your guests so that you can have intelligent companions to brighten your evenings. Is it?”
    She was silenced. He made it sound so painfully true. He had certainly succeeded in killing her enthusiasm. She wished she had never heard of those writers, never seen Wyoming. She wondered suddenly how someone like Jim Brent would handle this situation. And surprisingly she regained her courage.
    She said quietly but decidedly, “We aren’t trying to take away your writers, Prender. If you feel we are, then let’s call the whole thing off.”
    He hadn’t quite expected that. He passed his hand over his hair once more, straightened his dark blue tie, and took a sip of his Californian Chablis. He had never seen Sarah in such a difficult mood. She was usually very amenable. It had been a grave mistake to cancel the table at Twenty-one. “Now, Sarah,” he said, even managing a smile, “that would be very disappointing for the writers, wouldn’t it?”
    And after that he set out to charm. Dinner ended on a friendly note with a dissection of their acquaintances in New York, Paris, and London. Everyone knew Prender, if they were celebrated enough; and he knew them—if they were especially celebrated—by their pet names. Twiddles, Dickie, Booboo, and Bibi came slipping into the conversation as easily as allusions to Tom Wolfe, Lorenzo, Gertrude, and Alice. Sarah’s alarm subsided. She even began to feel a little ashamed of herself for her suspicions.
    But when they parted, “I’ll write and let you know when to expect me,” he said. “I’ll draw up a programme for you. I know Merrick Maclehose would lecture without a fee if I asked him. He’s due for a Pulitzer Prize any year now. And Aubrey Brimstone—he’s starting a new magazine, didn’t you know?— he would be another good man to have. We ought to have a publisher, and perhaps a literary agent, to visit us too. Good for morale. Of course, we need only have them for a few days.”
    * * *
    But Prender Atherton Jones would stay all of August and more, Sarah Bly thought dejectedly, as she walked back to her hotel. And he would plan everything, unless she saw that he didn’t. And that would be unpleasant too.
    She looked at the rows of lighted windows, shining high above her in the warm dark sky. The tall narrow silhouettes of the mid-town skyscrapers were outlined clearly by the glow from the bright canyons at their feet. But even the view of New York by night couldn’t comfort her. By next winter Rest and be Thankful would be another of Prender’s discoveries. Next summer it would even be his Literary Festival. Forever and ever.
    “We’ll see about that,” she told herself grimly, by the time she reached her room. Then her words startled her. Few rebelled against Prender, and they were cast into the wilderness of the unmentioned. She could hear Prender pronounce her own obituary: “Poor Sarah, of course, always did have reactionary tendencies.” Reactionary, the damning word. The word that implied that new ideas must always be better than old, that progressive thinking—good in itself—couldn’t have bad results. How easily we can be blackmailed by a word, she thought.
    She undressed quickly, had her fourth shower, climbed into bed, drew a sheet over her, threw it off again, and settled patiently to endure a sleepless night. She began to compose a letter to Prender which would make everything quite definite. No fees. No lecturers. No guests except the writers. And Prender? She could hardly refuse him, after all.
    She stared up at the shadowed ceiling, circled by dim bands of light as the procession of taxis and cars came from the