Free The Virtuous Woman by Gilbert Morris Page B

the passengers had already eaten. Only an older couple down the way and a young woman with a baby occupied the car. “What about these Winslows?” she asked again.
    “All I know is that Phil Winslow is a professional painter—an artist. He grew up on a ranch out west, left and went to Europe to study, then came back and had a hard time making a living in New York. But now he’s famous. You can see his pictures in museums.”
    “How much do painters make?”
    Key grinned. “More than I do. Some of them don’t make anything. Others, like Mr. Winslow, get hundreds or more for every picture.”
    Ruby thought about this for a while. “You say he’s got three kids?”
    “Yes—they’re grown now. All in their early twenties. One of them is married and has three children.”
    “Won’t they be happy to see little Grace,” she said sarcastically.
    Key lifted his eyes. “What do you mean by that?”
    “I mean, I’m one of the family now. When Popsy kicks the bucket, I’ll get a fourth of all of it.”
    Key shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t know what to say to that.”
    “They won’t be happy to find out they have another sibling.I can guarantee you that.” Ruby puffed on her cigarette. “You know anything about my brothers and sisters?”
    “Only that there are two brothers and one sister.”
    “So what are you going to do?” she said. “Just deliver me like a sack of groceries?”
    He grinned. “Just about. That’s all I’m hired to do.”
    Ruby studied him. She had been curious about Francis from the moment she had first seen him, and now their time together on the trip had heightened her curiosity. At first he had been so helpless from his injuries that she had felt the faint stirring of a maternal instinct. But now that he was feeling better, she kept expecting him to attempt some intimacy. Each night she stepped outside the compartment while he got undressed and into bed, and when she came in, he rolled over and faced the wall while she changed into her nightgown. His good manners had become a challenge to her, for she had never known a man who did not eventually try to take advantage of her. Now she considered the pale face of Francis Key and could not fathom him.
    “You’re not a detective anymore? Is that right?”
    “Just when I have to be.”
    “What does that mean?”
    “That means I want to be a writer. It takes all of my energy. I write until I’m broke, and then I go back to work to make some money so I can write again.”
    “What kind of books do you want to write?”
    “I’ve been working on a novel for some time now.”
    “What kind of novel—a love story?”
    “Most novels are love stories, but there’s more to my story than that.”
    “Tell me about it.”
    “I can’t do that,” he said quickly. When he saw her resentment, he added, “I’ve got a theory that you shouldn’t tell people what you’re writing. If you tell it, you wear it out and then it can’t come out when you’re trying to get it on paper. I’ll talk about anything else, though.”
    “Do you expect to be rich someday?”
    “I doubt it. Most writers aren’t.”
    “Why are you doing it, then?” A puzzling expression crossed his face as he seemed to struggle with the answer. This surprised her, for he was usually an easy man to read.
    “I guess it’s just something I think I should do.”
    Her eyes narrowed. “You’re not tellin’ me the truth.”
    Key smiled. “That’s right. I’m not.”
    “Why would you lie about a thing like a book?”
    “It sounds silly when I say it. Or it would to you, I think.”
    “Try me,” Ruby said, puffing on her cigarette and leaning back.
    “Well, I hate to sound like a preacher, and I’m not. But God’s been good to me and I’d like to write a novel to show how God works great things in people’s lives.”
    Ruby shook her head in disbelief. “I don’t believe in any of that religion stuff.”
    “I didn’t think you did, but you asked me.”
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