Free Home is the Sailor by Day Keene Page A

was for her to go to pieces and some bighearted cop to stop and ask what was the matter.
    “All right. I’ll think of something,” I said. “We’ll still get married today.”
    Corliss looked at me suspiciously. “Where?”
    I told her the truth. “I don’t know.”
    I walked her out of the building and into the first bar we came to and ordered a double rum for both of us while I considered the situation.
    Women.
    It seemed inconceivable, but after what had happened on the cliff, our getting married meant more to Corliss than the fact that we might be tagged for killing Jerry Wolkowysk. Now she had given herself to me, she wanted to make it legal. Or maybe she was thinking of Wolkowysk. Maybe she wanted me as tightly bound to her as I wanted her tied to me.
    I asked, “Why are you in such a hurry to get married, baby?”
    Corliss sipped her rum. Her brown eyes were thoughtful now. “For one thing, I may be pregnant.”
    “Three days won’t make much difference.”
    “It will to me,” she said. She bit at her lower lip. “It could make all the difference in the world.”
    “You mean that?”
    “I do.”
    It could be so. Some women are that way. I had been told. Corliss wasn’t just another tramp. This time it was for keeps. For both of us. And she had wanted it to be beautiful.
    I moved over onto the same side of the booth with her. “All right. Let’s do this proper. Will you marry me, Corliss?”
    She said, “Stop kidding and think.”
    I said, “I’m not kidding. Will you marry me?”
    “When?”
    “Today.”
    “Yes.”
    I took one of the ring boxes from my pocket and slipped the solitaire on the proper finger. In the light from the lamp in the booth it looked like a two-carat tear, if a tear could catch on fire.
    I kissed her finger. Gently. Smiling. With love. “O.K. That’s the first step. Now finish your drink and let’s go.”
    Corliss looked from the diamond at me. “Go where?”
    I told her. “Tijuana.”

Chapter Ten
    The traffic on the road was even thicker than it had been. To make time, I cut back through Norfolk and Seal Beach on Alternate 101. After Newport we had clear sailing.
    The ocean was a sheet of purple glass without a flaw or ripple in it. Out on the horizon a toy freighter sailed hull down for the Orient. Now and then a hardy bather splintered the edge of the glass nearest the highway, and swam effortlessly away from shore.
    Corliss rode with her left hand on my thigh, sitting sideways. Her skirt crawled up over her knees. I could see her tanned thighs over her stockings. I tried not to think of her that way. There was more to marriage than sex. There was love, and trust, and respect. Corliss wanted it to be beautiful. Suddenly, so did I. Love was a will-o’-the-wisp, St. Elmo’s fire. A dream I’d stood watch with many times on oceans all over the world. And now it had happened to me.
    “I love you, baby,” I told her.
    Corliss’ fingers caressed my cheek. “I love you, Swede.” I slowed for the lights in Corona Del Mar. “You’ll be good to me?” Corliss asked.
    “As good as I know how,” I promised. “But let’s get one thing straight. I’m not going to live on the money the Purple Parrot brings in. Maybe I won’t buy a farm. Maybe I won’t have enough left. If not, I’ll get a job shoreside until I do. What I’m getting at is, I support the family.”
    Her hand dropped back to my thigh again. “You are sweet, Swede.”
    I wished she’d stop squeezing my thigh. At least until I could do something about it. As we neared Laguna Beach I asked her if she was hungry.
    “Not very,” Corliss said. “Let’s wait until we get to San Diego to eat.”
    It was dark now. I was driving with the brights on. As we rounded a bend in the road the headlights picked up the Beachcomber Bar.
    It was a big, unpainted barn plastered with soft-drink signs. Behind it the ocean was in motion again, rolling, surging, flecked with white caps. I thought of the rocks at the