Radio and television mirror (July-Dec 1942)

the Symphony. It'll be weeks, probably months, before Jacpby gets a chance to read my score . . . and then — I've just got to keep on working." All morning he had sat at the piano, his brows close together as though he were fighting for ideas. Then, suddenly, the idea seemed to come. "Linda, listen!" It was a new theme, poignant and moving, as though Steve had caught up a mood of heartbreak and woven it into music. "It's very good, Steve. It's — beautiful." Something in Linda's voice made him swing around and look at her. "I think I've done enough work for a while," he said. JJE WALKED over and lifted her chin in his hand. "You've taken my job over around here, haven't you?" "I don't know what you mean," Linda tried to smile at him. "Sulking," he said. "I thought I was the only one who was allowed to do that." "You're not." "Linda, darling — look at me." "I do that all the time." Linda tried to sound light and gay. "I like to look at you, especially when you're playing the piano." "Yes — but look at me now and tell me what's on your mind." "Nothing, Steve," Linda protested. "But I think I've got to find something to do." "Why?" "Well, you have something to do," Linda tried to make her voice sound calm and reasonable. "You work at your music and — work very hard — and make me very happy — I'm afraid idleness isn't good for me. Don't forget I used to write advertising copy for Dad — I led a fairly active life. And it isn't good for me to be — ddle." She smiled at Steve encouragingly, but he didn't smile back. "And you're bored with just being the wife of Steve Harper," he said. "No, darling. Really, I'm not. I love this apartment — and more and more as we keep getting our own things — that new chair, that lamp. They're so pretty. But there really isn't very much for me to do around here. Maybe some day — some day when there are more than just the two of us, I'll have plenty to do. But right now, I'm going to see if I can find a job — and it won't be sulking." Steve walked over to the window and looked out. "In that case, I'll go look for a job," he said. "I might be able to 38 get one as an arranger — " "You've got your job — a life job — sitting in this room writing beautiful music," Linda cried. Steve just shook his head. "But suppose you do find something to do — and after a while whatever money we've got runs out — you'll be supporting me." "And you won't like that?" Linda asked. Steve turned and glared at her. "What man does?" he asked. "Then you've got a funny idea about our marriage. I don't think of it as you and I — two separate people — worrying about who's supporting who — and who's more important. I think of it as — " Steve strode over to the chair where she was sitting. "You're thinking of Agnes," he said. Linda couldn't meet his eyes. "No, I'm not," she said. Brusquely, Steve took her hands and pulled her close to him. "All right, you're not. But in case you were — I can't imagine anything more foolish. I could feel you thinking as you sat there — but I've told you — I knew Agnes — a long time ago. It has nothing to do with us!" Linda buried her face against his shoulder. "It has something to do with you," she said. "No, it doesn't. It has nothing to do with me." He rapped each word out emphatically. "The past is the past. I know it — Agnes knows it — and you ought to know it." Steve's arms held her close. There was a sudden rush of relief in Linda's heart. To stay this way— always — with Steve. Then she could always believe, could always know. . . . That evening, after dinner, Steve and Linda went for a long walk. The new found peace in Linda's heart seemed to give her a great enjoyment, a greater sense of her love for Steve. Her Steve! Some day he would be great and famous. Some day he would make all her dreams for him come true. Even now, perhaps, Ivan Jacoby was reading the score of Steve's Symphony. But Steve refused to talk about that. It was enough for him that he was walking close to Linda. The city seemed to be singing around them as they made their way slowly toward the East River. And then, almost suddenly, they found themselves standing on a deserted pier. Steve's arm went about Linda's shoulders as they looked out at the dark, swirling river, the tug boats and barges, at the lights of a crossing ferry, and at the large ships that suddenly loomed up out of the darkness and vanished silently. "How lovely," Linda said. "Look, Steve — those bridges — and the lights in the buildings across the river — " "I'm looking at you," he said. "Steve!" Linda raised her face to his. "Cold, darling?" "No. I'm happy. How did we get over here?" "I don't know. We just did," Steve said. "Have you ever been here before?" Linda wanted to know. "Not on this spot. But I've seen this river before, at night." "Look at that boat," Linda said. "There doesn't seem to" be anybody on it. It looks like a ghost ship." "It probably is," Steve said, laughing. "It isn't making a sound. . . . That proves it isn't real." "Would you like to go for a trip on it?" Steve asked. "Not if it isn't real. But some day i we will go on a ship. We'll travel all over the world." "My darling, darling Linda." Steve's lips brushed her hair. We'll always be happy, like this, thought Linda. Even happier. I'll never let myself get sad again. Steve's arms tightened about her as though in answer to her thoughts. . . . TJUT not every moment could be so enchanted. Those were difficult days while they waited for news from Jacoby about the Symphony, and Steve could not hide his restlessness, his moodiness. With her mind, Linda knew the reason for his changed behavior — suspense, and nothing more. But in her heart, involuntarily, she often wondered. Was there something else that clouded his face? — a wish, a memory? She might have forgotten Agnes Corey, even so, if it hadn't been for the telephone. 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