Answered Prayers

When the sandwiches arrived, Aces pushed his aside in favor of a cigarette. I ate half of mine and fed the rest to Mutt.

"And sure enough, four years later, Harry McCloud married this extraordinary girl, scarcely sixteen. I went to the wedding—it was at the Episcopal church in Middleburg-and the first time I saw the bride was when she came down the aisle on the arm of her little bog-rat dad. The truth is she was some kind of freak. The grace, the bearing, the authority: whatever her age, she was simply a superb actress. Are you a Raymond Chandler fan, Jones? Oh, good. Good. I think he's a great artist. The point is, Kate Mooney reminded me of one of those mysterious enigmatic rich-girl Raymond Chandler heroines. Oh, but with a lot more class. Anyway, Chandler wrote about one of his heroines: 'There are blondes, and then there are blondes.' So true; but it's even truer about redheads. There is always something wrong with redheads. The hair is kinky, or it's the wrong color, too dark and tough, or too pale and sickly. And the skin-it rejects the elements: wind, sun, everything discolors it. A really beautiful redhead is rarer than a flawless forty-carat pigeon-blood ruby—or a flawed one, for that matter. But none of this was true of Kate. Her hair was like a winter sunset, lighted with the last of the pale afterglow. And the only redhead I've ever seen with a complexion to compare with hers was Pamela Churchill's. But then, Pam is English, she grew up saturated with dewy English mists, something every dermatologist ought to bottle. And Harry McCloud was quite right about her eyes. Mostly it's a myth. Usually they are grey, grey-blue with green i

"She was perfect. Harry worshiped her; so did his parents. But they had overlooked one small factor-she was shrewd, she could outthink any of them, and she was pla

Aces fished in his jacket pocket for a kitchen match; snapping it against his thumbnail, he ignited another cigarette.

"No," Aces said, responding to an unasked question. "They never had any children. Years passed, and I had cards from them every Christmas, usually a picture of Kate smartly saddled for some hunt-Harry holding the reins, bugle in hand. Bubber Hayden, a guy we'd known at Choate, turned up at one of those chatty little Joe Alsop Georgetown di

"I must have had that conversation in early August. I called Harry's mother-she was at the yearling sales in Saratoga-and I asked about Harry; I said I wanted to visit him, and she said no, that wasn't possible, and she began to cry and said she was sorry and hung up.

"Now, it happens that I was going to St. Moritz for Christmas; on the way I stopped off in Paris and called up Tutti Rouxjean, who had worked for years as vendeuse for Balenciaga. I invited her to lunch, and she said yes, but we would have to go to Maxim's. I said couldn't we meet at some quiet bistro, and she said no, we had to go to Maxim's. 'It's important. You'll see why.'

"Tutti had reserved a table in the front room, and after we'd had a glass of white wine she indicated a nearby unoccupied table rather ostentatiously set for one. 'Wait,' said Tutti. 'In a moment the most beautiful young woman will be sitting at that table, quite alone. Cristobal has been dressing her for the last six months. He thinks there has never been anything like her since Gloria Rubio.' (Note: Mme. Rubio, a supremely elegant Mexican who has been known in various stages of her marital assignments as the wife of the German Count von Fürstenberg, the Egyptian Prince Fakri, and the English millionaire Loel Gui

"Unlike any other woman in the room, she wore a hat. It was a glamorous soft-brimmed black hat, large, shaped like a man's Borsalino. A grey chiffon scarf was loosely knotted at her throat. The hat, the scarf, that was the drama; the rest was the plainest, but best-fitted, of Balenciaga's box-jacketed black bombazine suits.

"Tutti said: 'She's from the South somewhere. Her name is Mrs. McCloud.'

"'Mrs. Harry Clinton McCloud?'

"Tutti said: 'You know her?'

"And I said: 'I ought to. I was an usher at her wedding. Fantastic. Why, my God, she can't be more than twenty-two.'

"I asked a waiter for paper and wrote her a note: 'Dear Kate, I don't know if you remember me, but I was a roommate of Harry's at school and an usher at your wedding. I am in Paris for a few days and would like so much to see you, if you care to. I am at the Hotel Lotti. Aces Nelson.'

"I watched her read the note, glance at me, smile, then write a reply: 'I do remember. If, on your way out, we might talk a minute alone, please have a Cognac with me. Most sincerely, Kate McCloud.'

"Tutti was too fascinated to be offended by her exclusion from the invitation: 'I won't press you now, but promise me, Aces, you'll tell me about her. She's the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. I thought she was at least thirty. Because of her "eye"-the real knowledge, taste. She's just one of those ageless creatures, I suppose.'

"And so, after Tutti had departed, I joined Kate at her solitary table, seated myself beside her on the red banquette, and to my surprise she kissed me on the cheek. I blushed with shock and pleasure, and Kate laughed—oh, what a laugh she has; it always makes me think of a brandy glass shining in the firelight—she laughed and said: 'Why not? It's been a long time since I've kissed a man. Or spoken to anyone who wasn't a waiter or chambermaid or a shopkeeper. I do a great deal of shopping. I've bought enough stuff to furnish Versailles.' I asked how long she had been in Paris and where she was living and what her life was like in general. And she said she was at the Ritz, she'd been in Paris almost a year: 'And as for my day-to-day affairs—I shop, I go for fittings, I go to all the museums and galleries, I ride to the Bois, I read, I sleep a helluva lot, and I have lunch here every day at this same table: not very imaginative of me, but it is a pleasant walk from the hotel, and there are not too many agreeable restaurants where a young woman can lunch alone without seeming somewhat suspicious. Even the owner here, Monsieur Vaudable—I think at first he imagined I must be some kind of courtesan.' And I said: 'But it must be such a lonely life. Don't you want to see people? Do something different?'

"She said: 'Yes. I'd like to have a different kind of liqueur with my coffee. Something I've never heard of. Any suggestions?'

"So I described Verveine; I thought of it because it is the identical green of her eyes. It's made out of a million-odd mountain herbs; I've never found it anywhere outside France and damn few places here. Delicious; but with a kick like bad moonshine. So we had a couple of Verveines, and Kate said: 'Yes, indeed. That certainly is different. And yes, to answer you seriously, I am begi