Radio and television mirror (July-Dec 1948)

"I GIVE MY TROTH" "Besides," Sylvia chimed in, "we've just got you back all in one piece, haven't we, Mama?" Mrs. Field's normally petulant mouth thinned disapprovingly. She had never forgiven Joan for turning down Phil Stanley, whose own big house stood next door to the Fields', for an upfrom-nothing nobody like Harry Davis. And although in her heart she wanted Joan's happiness as much as her own, she couldn't help feeling that life would be more rewarding if only, just once, her own dire predictions in regard to Harry Davis would come true. "As I see it, Sylvia," she reproved her daughter, "I'd rather not joke about the thing that happened to Joan." "Mrs. Field's very right," said Harry. "It's too close an incident, and too terrifying." "Thank you, Harry," said Joan's mother with dignity. "I'm guilty," Phil pleaded. "I'm afraid I started all this line of talk. But I was carried away — it's something to see the two beautiful and popular Field girls together again." Joan glanced at Harry. He was laughing; he looked happy and at ease — but did this kind of talk still make rr'm feel shut out, a little bit? He hadn't been one of the fortunate lads who had beaued the Field girls about in their fortunate days, who had called to take them dancing at the country club, who'd come to parties at the house. In fact, in those days Harry had been at the house only once — and that was when he'd come to ask her father for a job in his law office, and had blundered into the party celebrating Joan's engagement to Phil. That was the night, too, when she'd known she could never marry Phil, dear as he was to her, could never marry anyone but Harry Davis. "I'm afraid," she said, "that it's Syl who takes the honors for popularity at this point. I'm just a very contented wife with two children, a handsome husband she's very much in love with, and the most beautiful farm in this whole, wide world." Mrs. Field suddenly looked a little deaf. Sylvia laughingly protested: "I'm not anything near the butterfly you insinuate, am I. Phil?" "Well — " said Phil dubiously, and everyone, even Mrs. Field, laughed. "Oh, you meanie," mourned Sylvia. "Haven't I a friend in the world?" Joan laughed. "You most certainly have, darling," she said pointedly. "And no one," said her mother, "knows that better than I with the telephone ringing every minute of the day." Sylvia pouted. "I think you're all terrible to pick on a poor lonely girl when her husband isn't here to defend her. I'll have you know that I, too, am a devoted wife and mother." "We all know it, Sylvia," Phil consoled her. "The trouble is, you don't look it in the least." In all of a lifetime, Joan thought, there were few moments as perfect as this. She was with Harry and her family and her dear friend, Phil; in the calendar of the future there were only two notations, and those happy ones — going home to Sammy and Hope and Lilly, and going to see Irma and Steve. There was at the moment nothing more to wish for, nothing more to be desired. "You know what I'd like," she said dreamily, looking out at the moonlit terrace, "I'd like coffee on the terrace." Sylvia shot a glance at Phil, and clapped her hands delightedly. "It's exactly what we planned, isn't it, Mama?" Mrs. Field nodded, but could not refrain from adding, "Only if Joan is sure she isn't overdoing." "I never felt better in my life," Joan assured her. "Come on, Harry." They strolled out to the terrace. Mrs. Field remained behind to speak to Nettie. Sylvia and Phil paused just inside the dining room door, whispering and laughing under their breath. "Now what are you two up to?" Joan called. "Aren't you going to have your coffee?" "In a minute," Sylvia answered. "We'll be right back." And she disappeared with Phil into another part of the house. "What do you suppose — ?" Harry began. Joan's hand closed upon his, carried it to her cheek for an instant. "I don't know," she said. "At this moment I don't know anything but that I'm sitting right here beside you, that I can reach out and touch you any time I want to, that there won't be any more days of going to Summerville and just seeing you for a few minutes and then having to face the awful emptiness of going home alone. . . . It's awful to be so much in love with your husband." "It would be awful for me if you weren't," he said soberly. "Do you suppose we'll always be this way?" she asked, and he said severely, "You'd better not change, young lady." "It would be nice if I didn't," said Joan. "I mean, Harry, think how ter Irma (Jeanette Dowling). rible it will be when I get old and decrepit and constantly lose my eyeglasses— " "But think what you'll have to put up with in me," he teased. "I'll have gout, which will mean canes and irritability. I'll probably be as bald as a billiard ball — " She reached up and touched his hairline. Her voice was very tender. "Dearest — you'll look very cute with a shiny bald head." "And you," said Harry, keeping his own voice light with difficulty, "will have to take to carrying an out-size powder puff to keep it from shining like that moon up there. We're going to be a beautiful pair of ruins, my dear." "Just," she said with a catch in her breath, "so that we're ruins together, my dear. Oh, my darling — " They heard her mother and Nettie in the background; Harry glanced quickly around before leaning over to kiss her. "I feel wicked, kissing you under the moon," he said. "Like a school boy. One more before your ma gets here — " It began as a light kiss, a romantic kiss, compounded of moonlight and summer and the music from the orchestra at the country club and the honeysuckle at the terrace's edge. Then suddenly Joan was aware that the pounding of her own heart had shut out everything else; she moved her head a fraction of an inch, spoke with her lips almost upon his. "My darling — do you realize how long we've been separated?" "Do I realize! Joan—" "Put the service here, please, Nettie," said Mrs. Field, coming through the double doors. Joan and Harry sat back as if hands had reached out and parted them. Mrs. Field glanced at them, said irritably, "Now where in the world are Sylvia and Phil? Where do you suppose they could have gone?" "They're up to some sort of foolishness, you can bet your boots on that." Joan glanced at Harry, and was seized with an impulse to giggle at the false heartiness in his voice. She herself didn't try to speak, not when her heart was still pounding away out of control. Then she heard smothered laughter from within the house, and Sylvia and Phil joined them, the stamp of conspiracy upon them, trying very hard to appear casual and natural. "Sylvia," her mother complained, "I hope this isn't one of your practical jokes. I'm not in any condition to be frightened or anything like that tonight." "Mama — " Sylvia patted her shoulder— "you've been an angel. You haven't a thing to worry about." But in spite of herself, she giggled. "What are you up to?" asked Joan, and Harry said, sounding suddenly like a lawyer, "You're a little too quiet to suit me, Phil." "I am not," said Phil with dignity. Sylvia giggled again, clapped a hand over her mouth. "Listen!" The music at the club had stopped. Now it started again a little louder so that the strains reached them clearly and true. "For the love of Pete," said Harry softly, and Joan straightened. "Oh, Harry — I Adore You. It's our song, the one you wrote for me." "We got Davie Burt over at the club to play it for you," Sylvia explained in a stage whisper. "Not that he minded. It's a beautiful song." Mrs. Field sighed with relief. "Thank heaven! At least it doesn't scare one out of a year's growth." "How about it. Joan?" said Phil softly. "It's a perfect setting. Moonlight and honeysuckle — " "I can't," said Joan. "I can't sing it now." It was wonder enough that she could speak, so swollen was her heart with a happiness that was almost pain. "I wish you could," said Harry, and she found that she had a voice after all. She lifted her head; the words that were written forever upon her heart poured out on the melody whole and true and haunting. Watching his wife. Harry was con m scious of a constriction in his chest, a sudden, almost fear (Cont'd onpage 70) 63