Free The Legacy by Howard Fast Page A

didn’t you?” Jean asked, looking at her daughter strangely.
    â€œYes, twice.”
    â€œPoor kid. Poor Barbara. Poor Jean.” She drank, a long gulp that drained half the glass. “You’re still young and beautiful. Would you do it again?”
    â€œI’ve thought of it.”
    â€œOh? Anyone in particular? You’re so closemouthed. You never did tell me about Los Angeles.”
    â€œThere’s not much to tell. Someone once said L.A.’s a great place if you like to eat. Not that the food’s good, but there’s not much else to do.”
    â€œThey also say it’s a great place if you’re an orange. What about the man?”
    â€œHis name’s Carson Devron. Well — Kit Carson Devron.”
    â€œDevron?” Jean looked at her and then looked back into her glass. Then she finished her drink. “Not the Devrons?”
    Barbara nodded.
    â€œNo. Good heavens, no. They’re cowboys. They live on beans and jerky and grow oranges.”
    Barbara leaned over and kissed her. “Mother, you’re wonderful. I adore you.”
    â€œKit Carson Devron,” Jean whispered. “Does he wear a coon-skin cap? I’m a little drunk, darling. Shall I have another?”
    â€œIf you wish.”
    â€œA short one. I’ll get maudlin.”
    â€œYour privilege.” Barbara mixed the drink and handed it to Jean.
    â€œTell me about Kit Carson,” Jean said.
    â€œCall him Carson — only for my sake. You know, they’re quite civilized, mother, and very rich. They own half of downtown Los Angeles —”
    â€œIt has a downtown?”
    â€œâ€”not to mention the Morning World. I’m not impressed by the wealth, which you might suspect. I met him at one of those dreadful Beverly Hills parties, which my producer gave to welcome me into the fold of what they euphemistically call the Industry. He talked me into leaving, and do you know, nobody actually realized that the guest of honor was missing. Well, one thing led to another, and I think he’s very much in love with me.
    â€œAre you in love with him?”
    Barbara shrugged. “It gets less easy. I’m forty-four. He’s thirty-six.”
    â€œWell, I suppose you’ve thought about that?”
    â€œYou can be sure.”
    â€œI remember reading about him,” Jean said. “When they made him publisher of the paper. It’s a rotten paper. The Chronicle’s nothing to write home about, but compared to the Los Angeles Morning World, it’s the New York Times. ”
    â€œAll Los Angeles papers are awful,” Barbara agreed, unruffled. “He’s only just become publisher.”
    â€œThe golden lad, Olympic athlete, Rhodes scholar, very much the young Greek god. For heaven’s sake, Bobby, he’s not even real.”
    â€œHe’s very real. I’ll admit he’s good-looking, but it’s not his fault. I’ll also admit that he’s some sort of throwback, very honorable, which doesn’t hurt, and certainly not the kind of man I’ve ever been interested in.” She was thinking of Marcel Duboise, who died in a hospital in Toulouse after being wounded in the Spanish Civil War, her first love, a tall, skinny, wonderfully ugly man, and she was thinking of Bernie Cohen, whom she had married and who had died fighting in Israel, a great bear of a man, Sam’s father. “No, not the kind of a man I’ve taken to.”
    â€œBut you do take to him?”
    â€œI think I do, mother.”
    â€œAnd the age difference?”
    â€œIt worries me,” Barbara admitted. “I told him it made things impossible.”
    â€œDoes it?”
    â€œI don’t know. I want you to meet him. He wanted to come with me, but I thought he should meet the Lavettes under happier conditions.”
    â€œYou know,” Jean said, “from all I hear, the Devrons are a tight little clan. Primitives.