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The restaurant was large and clean and noisy with skiers. They found a table near a window and Rudolph took off his Air Force jacket while the others stripped themselves of their parkas. Miss Soames was wearing a pale-blue cashmere sweater, delicately shaped over her small, full breasts. Rudolph was wearing a sweater over a wool shirt, and a silk scarf, carefully arranged around his throat. Too fancy, he thought, memories of Teddy Boylan, and took it off, pretending it was warm in the restaurant.
The girls ordered Cokes and Larsen a beer. Rudolph felt he needed something more convincing and ordered an old-fashioned. When the drinks came, Miss Soames raised her glass and made a toast, clinking her glass against Rudolph’s. “To Sunday,” she said, “without which we’d all just die.” She was sitting next to Rudolph on the banquette and he could feel the steady pressure of her knee against his. He pulled his knee away, slowly, so as to make it seem merely a natural movement, but the girl’s eyes, clear and cold blue, were amused and knowing over the rim of her glass as she looked at him.
They all ordered steaks. Miss Soames asked for a dime for the juke box and Larsen was faster out of his pocket than Rudolph. She took the dime from him and climbed over Rudolph to go to the machine, getting leverage by putting her hand on his shoulder, and walking across the room, her tight, lush bottom swinging and graceful, despite the clumsy boots on her feet.
The music blared out and Miss Soames came back to the table, doing little, playful dance steps as she crossed the floor. This time, as she climbed over Rudolph to her place, there was no doubt about what she was doing, and when she sat down, she was closer than before and the pressure of her knee was unmistakable against his. If he tried to move away now, everybody would notice, so he remained as he was.
He wanted wine with his steak, but hesitated to order a bottle because he was afraid the others might think he was showing off or being superior. He looked at the menu. On the back were listed a California red and a California white. “Would anybody like some wine?” he asked, putting the decision elsewhere.
“I would,” Miss Soames said.
“Honey …?” Larsen turned to Miss Packard.
“If everybody else does …” she said, being agreeable.
By the time the meal was over they had drunk three bottles of red wine among them. Larsen had drunk the most, but the others had done their fair share.
“What a story I’ll have to tell the girls tomorrow at the store,” Miss Soames, flushed rosy now, was saying, her knee and thigh rubbing cosily against Rudolph’s. “I have been led astray on a Sunday by the great, unapproachable Mr. Frigidaire himself …”
“Oh, come on now, Betsy,” Larsen said uneasily, glancing at Rudolph to see how he had taken the Mr. Frigidaire. “Watch what you’re saying.”
Miss Soames ignored him, sweeping her blonde hair loosely back from her forehead, with a little, plump, cushiony hand. “With his big-city ways and his dirty California wine, the Crown Prince lured me on to drunke
Rudolph couldn’t help laughing, and the others laughed with him. “Well, you don’t, Miss Soames,” he said. “I’m prepared to swear to that.”
They all laughed again.
“Mr. Jordache, the daredevil motorcycle rider, the Wall of Death, sees all, knows all, feels all,” Miss Soames said. “Oh, Christ, I can’t keep on calling you Mr. Jordache. Can I call you Young Master? Or will you settle for Rudy?”
“Rudy,” he said. If there had been nobody else there, he would have grabbed her, kissed that flushed small tempting face, the glistening, half mocking, half inviting lips.
“Rudy, it is,” she said. “Call him Rudy, Sonia.”
“Hello, Rudy,” Miss Packard said. It didn’t mean anything to her. She didn’t work at the store.
“Be
Larsen looked beseechingly at Rudolph. “She’s loaded,” he began.
“Don’t be silly, Be
“Rudy,” Larsen said reluctantly.
“Rudy, the mystery man,” Miss Soames went on, sipping at her wineglass. “They lock him away at closing time. Nobody sees him except at work, no man, no woman, no child. Especially no woman. There are twenty girls on the ground floor alone who weep into their pillows nightly for him, to say nothing of the ladies in the other departments, and he passes them by with a cold, heartless smile.”
“Where the hell did you learn to talk like that?” Rudolph asked, embarrassed, amused, and, at the same time, flattered.
“She’s bookish,” Miss Packard said. “She reads a book a day.”
Miss Soames ignored her. “He is a mystery wrapped in an enigma, as Mr. Churchill said on another occasion. He has been reported ru
“Betsy,” Larsen said weakly. “Let’s go skiing.”
“Tune in on this same station next Sunday and perhaps all these questions will be answered,” Miss Soames said. “You may now kiss my hand.” She held out her hand, the wrist arched, and Rudolph kissed it, blushing a little.
“I’ve got to get back to town,” he said. The check was on the table and he put down some bills. With tip, it came to fifteen dollars:
When they went outside, a light snow was falling. The mountain was bleak and dangerous looking, its outlines only suggested in the light swirl of snow.
“Thanks for the lunch, Mr. Jordache,” Larsen said. One Rudy a week was enough for him. “It was great.”
“I really enjoyed it, Mr. Jordache,” Miss Packard said, practicing to be Larsen’s wife. “I mean I really did.”
“Come on, Betsy,” Larsen said, “let’s hit the slope, work off some of that wine.”
“I am returning to town with my good and old friend, Rudy, on his death-defying machine,” Miss Soames said. “Aren’t I, Rudy?”
“It’s an awfully cold ride,” Rudolph said. She looked small and crushable in her parka, with her oversized goggles incongruously strapped onto her ski cap. Her head, especially with the goggles, seemed very large, a weighty frame for the small, wicked face.
“I will ski no more today,” Miss Soames said grandly. “I am in the mood for other sports.” She went over to the motorcycle. “Let us mount,” she said.
“You don’t have to take her if you don’t want to,” Larsen said anxiously, responsible.
“Oh, let her come,” Rudolph said. “I’ll go slow and make sure she doesn’t fall off.”
“She’s a fu
“She hasn’t done any harm, Be
“Sure thing, Mr. Jordache,” Larsen said. He and Miss Packard waved as Rudolph gu
The snow wasn’t thick, but it was enough to make him drive carefully. Miss Soames’s arms around him were surprisingly strong for a girl so lightly made, and while she had drunk enough wine to make her tongue loose, it hadn’t affected her balance and she leaned easily with him as they swept around curves in the road. She sang from time to time, the songs that she heard all day in the record department, but with the wind howling past, Rudolph could only hear little snatches, a phrase of melody in a faraway voice. She sounded like a child singing fitfully to herself in a distant room.