Free Skyscraper by Faith Baldwin

everybody—people who lived on Park and Fifth, people who lived on side streets, back-stage people, cinema people, people who lived in Paris, London, Rome. Policemen knew him by name, gunmen knew him, dowagers knew him; he was the personal, legal representative of motion-picture stars, opera singers, millionaires, inventors, marathon runners, prize fighters, social leaders, murderers, thieves, bishops. His income was enormous and his extravagance a byword. Editorials were written to slay him. He wore an invisible armor. Columnists called him Dave. Judges called him Dave. Taxi men called him Dave. And newsboys.
    Lynn went downstairs and joined Sarah and Dwight, who were waiting. Dwight said, “We’ll go to a place I know.” He laughed. “I lunched with Norton—on this Manning business, Sarah, in one of the private rooms upstairs. Murals and pewter and noiseless waiters and a million-dollar view. And,” he added, “good food. But it all smelled of money. How long have you for lunch? An hour? Make it an hour and a half. I know a place with sand on the floor and white-washed walls, which has stood since the Revolution. It smells of partridges turning on a spit over a charcoal fire. We’ll go there. Or would you rather not?”
    He spoke to Sarah. His eyes were on Lynn. Sarah said, “Anywhere you wish, David.”
    She had always said that; anywhere, anything. Anything you wish, David, all my love, all my youth, all my passion, all myself. Break down the barriers; trample on the inhibitions; anything, David. She had said, in effect, it’s over then; it must be right, because you said it’s over. Anything you wish, David .
    He couldn’t marry her twenty years ago. He was beginning to be known then. She was nobody, a raw Western girl, coming East to make her fortune. He had to marry—well. Marry money. He had done so. Anything you wish, David.
    Love had been over long ago; if it was over for DavidDwight, in eighteen months and had lasted ten years for Sarah, that was another matter. It was over now. Her work satisfied her even as he had not; her blood pulsed cool and even in her veins. She had for him an affection, a loyalty, that could not be conquered by months, years of neglect. Now he came to see her—occasionally. She rested and entertained him. It had been years since he had made any reference to her relations with him twenty years ago. They were friends. She disapproved of him, of his way of living, of his easy separation from his wife, of his utter lack of preoccupation with his children. But she was his friend.
    Tom, frowning, saw them go out. This man Dwight—poseur, lecher, bad actor, spendthrift, publicity-seeker—what was he doing with Lynn and Sarah Dennet?
    He was doing with Sarah that which he had always done. He was having his own way. Anything you want, David . Yet, as she stepped into his car and made room for Lynn and Dwight beside her and the car slid smoothly from the curb, she was not remembering that once she had been this man’s lover. She was not remembering that once she had struggled from madness to sanity, from suicidal desperation to a sort of apathy approximating peace. She was remembering nothing. You do not remember the things that are in your blood. You put no names to them. They are. They exist, part of you. You question them no longer.
    And so Sarah said, that women who had been born proud and not humble, but whom love had once made docile and amazed, “It’s nice of you to take us out, David.” And he answered, “It’s sweet of you both to take pity on me, and come,” and Lynn asked tritely, “Isn’t it the most gorgeous day?” And Dwight knew that it was. He liked falling in love. When he was in love he was young. And when he was young he was unafraid.
    Why was Sarah not warned? Why should she be warned? Having said, for so long, “Anything you wish, David,” she said it now to