Free Second Chances by Alice Adams Page B

she want a child? But then instantly she dismisses this half-formed thought. She does not even want children; at twenty-five she is already much too old, she thinks. (Although on that day much of her mind could be a sixteen-year-old’s.)
    She asks Celeste, “There’s no chance of their getting married?” as she wonders: Do I want to marry Sam Venable? And what a crazy speculation that is! To be thinking of children, marriage, after one single night in bed with a handsome, drunk man.
    “His wife has some sort of stranglehold on him, I gather,” Celeste explains, of Emma, her California friend. “You know, generally they do. Especially when the husbands involved are prone to affairs with young women. But I must say, I do feel very aunt-like toward this baby Sara.”
    “Oh, that’s so nice!”
    “Well, it’s surely easier than being a mother.”
    They smile at each other.
    One of Dudley’s several strict rules of life is that engagements of any sort whatsoever once made are never to be broken. In her view this is both moral and pragmatic; it saves on indecision. However, today, as she talks in a pleasant, if slightly keyed-up way while she serves their lunch, she is also thinking that it is very important that she see Sam tonight—she
must
. It is not simply that she wants to see him—oh, violently! There is also an emblematic significance: to see him the night after their meeting is crucial.
    And so, both because she already likes Celeste very much, and also because she senses Celeste as a person of authority, in all ways a definite person (Dudley’s sense of herself is often somewhat amorphous), she asks her, “This is probably a silly question, but tell me, do you ever break dates? I mean, if something you’d much rather do comes up?”
    Celeste laughs. “Well, almost never.” She then adds, “You were supposed to see someone tonight, and now—”
    “Exactly. I was supposed to have dinner with an oldest friend—not even a beau, I mean. In fact, I think he’s, uh, queer.”
    “I always seem to like those men too,” Celeste comments. “And they
love
me. But they make me feel good. They’re fun, most of them.”
    “Actually Edward’s the only one I know, but I’ve known him so long. And he’s so sensitive. Oh dear.”
    One of the pleasantest features of Dudley’s apartment is its outlook onto trees, the oaks and maples of Isham Park, just now all feathered out in soft pale green. Which is where Celeste’s gaze is directed as Dudley observes her profile.
    It is very severe, that profile. Celeste’s nose determines her whole expression, and it is such a strong, high-boned, authoritative nose. Dudley considers that nose, and hopes it does not mean that Celeste is going to scold her.
    “Such a divine view” is what Celeste first says, turning back to Dudley. “Such lovely trees.” And then in a very serious way she asks, “Suppose you simply told your friend what happened? Just said that you’d met someone you think you really care a lot about.” She smiles. “I have a sort of motto. Well, actually a lot of them. But this one goes: When in doubt, tell the truth.”
    “Well, that’s right,” agrees Dudley. “In a way I do that too, and it works.” But even as she is saying this she is thinking, But no, it would never do with Edward. For one thing we never discuss our love affairs with each other, we don’t even mention the fact that we have them. I suppose because Edward can’t, or he feels that he can’t. And maybe he really doesn’t. Oh dear, poor Edward.
    At that instant, though, from down the hall the phone again rings, and Dudley goes to answer.
    And it is Edward, sounding terrible. “Sweetie, I am so sorry to do this to you, but I woke up with the most frightful cold, which I simply could not bring myself to inflict on you. I feel dreadful.”
    Having reassured Edward, as she walks back to Celeste in the living room Dudley is aware of a strange elation, a sense that she has