The portion of northern Michigan which encloses Higgins Lake is described by the local Chamber of Commerce as 'Playtime Country.'
Adam Trenton, Brett DeLosanto, and others attending Hank Kreisel's cottage weekend in late May, found the description apt.
The Kreisel 'cottage' - in fact, a spacious, luxuriously appointed, multibedroomed lodge was on the west shoreline of Higgins Lake's upper section. The entire lake forms a shape resembling a peanut or a fetus, the choice of description depending, perhaps, on the kind of stay a visitor happens to be having.
Adam located the lake and cottage without difficulty after driving alone on Saturday morning by way of Pontiac, Saginaw, Bay City, Midland, and Harrison - most of the two-hundred-mile journey on Interstate 75. Beyond the cities he found the Michigan countryside lushly green, aspen beginning to shimmer and the shad-blow in full bloom. The air was sweetly fresh.
Sunshine beamed from a near-cloudless sky. Adam had been depressed on leaving home but felt his spirits rise as his wheels devoured the journey northward.
The depression stemmed from an argument with Erica.
Several weeks ago, when he informed her of the invitation to a stag weekend party, which Brett DeLosanto had conveyed, she merely remarked,
"Well, if they don't want wives, I'll have to find something to do myself, won't I?" At the time, her reasonableness gave Adam second thoughts about going at all; he hadn't been keen to begin with, but yielded to Brett's insistence about wanting Adam to meet Brett's supplier friend, Hank Kreisel. Finally, Adam decided to leave things the way they were.
But Erica had obviously not made plans of her own, and this morning when he got up and began packing a few things, she asked, "Do you really have to go?" When he assured her at this stage he did because he had promised, she inquired pointedly, "Does 'stag' mean no women or merely no wives?"
"No women," he answered, not knowing if it were true or not, though suspecting not, because he had attended suppliers' weekend parties before.
"I'll bet!" They were in the kitchen by then, Erica brewing coffee and managing to bang the pot about. "And I suppose there'll be nothing stronger to drink than milk or lemonade."
He snapped back, "Whether there is or isn't, it'll be a damn sight more congenial than around here."
"And who makes it uncongenial?"
Adam had lost his temper then. "I'll be goddamned if I know. But if it's me, I don't seem to have that effect on others apart from you."
"Then go to your blasted others!" At that, Erica had thrown a coffee cup at him - fortunately empty - and, also fortunately, he caught it neatly and set it down unbroken. Or perhaps it wasn't fortunate because he had started to laugh, which made Erica madder than ever, and she stormed out, slamming the kitchen door behind her. Thoroughly angry himself by this time, Adam had flung his few things in the car and driven away.
Twenty miles up the road the whole thing seemed ludicrous, as married squabbles so often are in retrospect, and Adam knew if he had stayed home the whole thing would have blown over by midmorning. Later, near Saginaw, and feeling cheerful because of the kind of day it was, he tried to telephone home, but there was no answer. Erica had obviously gone out.
He decided he would call again later.
Hank Kreisel greeted Adam on arrival at the Higgins Lake cottage, Kreisel managing to look simultaneously trim and casual in immaculately pressed Bermuda shorts and an Hawaiian shirt, his lean, lanky figure as militarily erect as always. When they had introduced themselves, Adam parked his car among seven or eight others - all late models in the luxury ranges.
Kreisel nodded toward the cars. "Few people came last night. Some still sleeping. More arriving later." He took Adam's overnight bag, then escorted him onto a timbered, covered walkway which extended around the cottage from the roadway side. The cottage itself was solidly built, with exterior walls of log siding and a central gable, supported by massive hand-hewn beams. Down at lake level was a floating dock at which several boats were moored.
Adam said, "I like your place, Hank."
"Thanks. Not bad, I guess. Didn't build it, though. Bought it from the guy who did. He poured in too much dough, then needed cash." Kreisel gave a twisted grin. "Don't we all?"
They stopped at a door, one of several opening onto the walkway. The parts manufacturer strode in, preceding Adam. Directly inside was a bedroom in which polished woodwork gleamed. In a fireplace, facing a double bed, a log fire was laid.
"Be glad of that. Can get cold at night," Kreisel said. He crossed to a window. "Gave you a room with a view."
"You sure did." Standing beside his host Adam could see the bright clear waters of the lake, superbly blue, shading to green near the sandy shoreline. The Higgins Lake location was in rolling hills - the last few miles of journey had been a steady climb - and around cottage and lake were magnificent stands of jack pines, spruce, balsam, tamarack, yellow pine, and birch. Judging by the panoramic view, Adam guessed he was being given the best bedroom. He wondered why. He was also curious about the other guests.
"When you're ready," Hank Kreisel announced, "bar's open. So's the kitchen. Don't have meals here. Just drinks and food twenty-four hours.
Anything else can be arranged." He gave the twisted grin once more as he opened a door on the opposite side of the room from where they had entered. "There's two doors in 'n out - this and the other. Both lock. Makes for private coming and going."
"Thanks. If I need to, I'll remember."
When the other had gone, Adam unpacked the few things he had brought and, soon after, followed his host through the second door. It opened, he discovered, onto a narrow gallery above a central living area designed and furnished in hunting lodge style. The gallery extended around the living room and connected with a series of stone slab steps which, in turn, formed part of an immense rock fireplace. Adam descended the steps. The living area was unoccupied and he headed for a buzz of voices outside.
He emerged onto a spacious sun deck high above the lake. People, in a group, had been talking; now, one voice raised above others argued heatedly, "So help me, you people in this industry are acting more and more like nervous Nellies. You've gotten too damn sensitive to criticism and too defensive. You're encouraging the exhibitionists, making like they're big time sages instead of publicity hounds who want their names in papers and on television. Look at your annual meetings! Nowadays they're circuses. Some nut buys one share of company stock, then tells off the chairman of the board who stands there and takes it. It's like letting a single voter, any voter, go to Washington and sound off on the Senate floor."
"No, it isn't," Adam said. Without raising his voice he let it penetrate the conversation. "A voter doesn't have any right on the Senate floor, but a shareholder has rights at an annual meeting, even with one share.
That's what our system's all about. And the critics aren't all cranks.
If we start thinking so, and stop listening, we'll be back where we were five years ago."
"Hey!" Brett DeLosanto shouted. "Listen to those entrance lines, and look who got here!" Brett was wearing an exotic outfit in magenta and yellow, clearly self-designed, and resembling a Roman toga. Curiously, it managed to be dashing and practical. Adam, in slacks and turtleneck, felt conservative by contrast.
Several others who knew Adam greeted him, including Pete O'Hagan, the man who had been speaking when he came in. O'Hagan represented one of the major national magazines in Detroit, his job to court auto industry brass socially - a subtle but effective way of soliciting advertising.
Most big magazines had similar representation, their people sometimes becoming cronies of company presidents or others at high level. Such friendships became known to advertising agencies who rarely challenged them; thus, when advertising had to be cut, the publications with top bracket influence were last to be hurt. Typically, despite Adam's blunt contradiction of what had been said, O'Hagan showed no resentment, only smiles.
"Come, meet everybody," Hank Kreisel said. He steered Adam around the group. Among the guests were a congressman, a judge, a network TV personality, two other parts manufacturers and several senior people from Adam's own company, including a trio of purchasing agents. There was also a young man who offered his hand and smiled engagingly as Adam approached. "Smokey told me about you, sir. I'm Pierre Flodenhale."
"Of course." Adam remembered the youthful race driver whom he had seen, doubling as a car salesman, at Smokey Stephensen's dealership. "How are your sales?"
"When there's time to work at it, pretty good, sir."
Adam told him, "Cut the 'sir' stuff. Only first names here. You had bad luck in the Daytona 500."
"Sure did." Pierre Flodenhale pushed back his shock of blond hair and grimaced. Two months earlier he had completed a hundred and eighty grueling laps at Daytona, was leading with only twenty laps to go, when a blown engine head put him out of the race. "Felt like stomping on that old car after," he confided.
"If it had been me, I'd have pushed it off a cliff ."
"Guess maybe I'll do better soon." The race driver gave a boyish smile; he had the same pleasant manner as when Adam had observed him previously. "Got a feeling this year I might pull off the Talladega 500."
"I'll be at Talladega," Adam said. "We're exhibiting a concept Orion there. So I'll cheer for you."
From somewhere behind, Hank Kreisel's voice cut in. "Adam, this is Stella. She'll do anything for you."
"Like getting a drink," a girl's pleasing voice said. Adam found a pretty, petite redhead beside him. She was wearing the scantiest of bikinis. "Hullo, Mr. Trenton."
"Hullo." Adam saw two other girls nearby and remembered Erica's question: Does "stag" mean no women or merely no wives?
"I'm glad you like my swimsuit," Stella told Pierre, whose eyes had been exploring.
The race driver said, "Hadn't noticed you were wearing one."
The girl returned to Adam. "About that drink."
He ordered a Bloody Mary. "Don't go 'way," she told him. "Be back soon."
Pierre asked, "What's a 'concept' Orion, Adam?"
"It's a special kind of car made up for showing in advance of the real thing. In the trade we call it a 'one off.'"
"But the one at Talladega - it won't be a genuine Orion?"
"No," Adam said. "The real Orion isn't due until a month later. The
'concept' will resemble the Orion though we're not saying how closely.
We'll show it around a lot. The idea is to get people talking, speculating on how will the final Orion look?" He added, "You could say it's a sort of teaser."
"I can play that," Stella said. She had returned with Adam's drink and one for Pierre.
The congressman moved over to join them. He had flowing white hair, a genial manner and a strong, though pontifical voice. "I was interested in what you said about your industry listening, Mr. Trenton. I trust some of the listening is to what legislators are saying."
Adam hesitated. His inclination was to answer bluntly, as usual, but this was a party; he was a guest. He caught the eye of Hank Kreisel who seemed to have a knack of being everywhere and overhearing anything that mattered. "Feel free," Kreisel said. "A few fights won't hurt. We got a doctor coming."
Adam told the congressman, "What's coming out of legislatures right now is mostly foolishness from people who want their names in the news and know that blasting the auto industry, whether it makes sense or not, will do the trick."
The congressman rushed as Adam persisted, "A U.S. senator wants to ban automobiles in five years' time if they have internal combustion engines, though he hasn't any notion what will replace them. Well, if it happened, the only good thing is, he couldn't get around to make silly speeches. Some states have brought lawsuits in efforts to make us recall all cars built since 1953 and rebuild them to emission standards that didn't exist until 1966 in California, 1968 elsewhere."
"Those are extremes," the congressman protested. His speech slurred slightly, and the drink in his hand was clearly not his first of the day.
"I agree they're extremes. But they're representative of what we're hearing from legislators, and that - if I remember - was your question."
Hank Kreisel, reappearing, said cheerfully, "Was the question, all right." He slapped the congressman across the shoulders. "Watch out, Woody! These young fellas in Detroit got sharp minds. Brighter'n you're used to in Washington."
"You'd never think," the congressman informed the group, "that when this character Kreisel and I were Marines together, he used to salute me"
"If that's what you're missing, General"
Hank Kreisel, still in his smart Bermuda shorts, snapped to rigid attention and executed a parade ground-style salute. Afterward he commanded, "Stella, get the senator another drink."
"I wasn't a general," the congressman complained. "I was a chicken colonel, and I'm not a senator."
"You were never a chicken, Woody," Kreisel assured him. "And you'll make it to senator. Probably over this industry's corpse."
"Judging by you, and this place, it's a damn healthy corpse." The congressman returned his gaze to Adam. "Want to beat any more bell out of politicians?"
"Maybe a little." Adam smiled. "Some of us think it's time our lawmakers did a few positive things instead of just parroting the critics."
"Positive like what?"
"Like enacting some public enforcement laws. Take one example: air pollution. Okay, antipollution standards for new-built cars are here.
Most of us in the industry agree they're good, are necessary, and were overdue." Adam was aware of the size of the group around them increasing, other conversations breaking off. He went on, "But what people like you ask of people like us is to produce an anti-pollutant device which won't go wrong, or need checking or adjustment, for the entire life of every car. Well, it can't be done. It's no more logical to expect it than to ask any piece of machinery to work perfectly forever. So what's needed? A law with teeth, a law requiring regular inspection of car pollutant devices, then repair or replacement when necessary. But it would be an unpopular law because the public doesn't really give two hoots about pollution and only cares about convenience.
That's why politicians are afraid of it."
"The public does care," the congressman said heatedly. "I've mail to prove it."
"Some individuals care. The public doesn't. For more than two years," Adam insisted, "we've had pollution control kits available for older cars. The kits cost twenty dollars installed, and we know they work.
They reduce pollution and make air purer - anywhere. The kits have been promoted, advertised on TV, radio, billboards, but almost nobody buys them. Extras on cars - even old cars - like whitewall tires or stereo tape decks are selling fine. But nobody wants antipollution kits; they're the least selling item we ever made. And the legislators you asked me about, who lecture us about clean air at the drop of a vote, haven't shown the slightest interest either."
Stella's voice and several others chorused, "Spare ribs! Spare ribs!"
The group around Adam and the congressman thinned. "About time," somebody said. "We haven't eaten for an hour."
The sight of piled food, now on a buffet at the rear of the sun deck presided over by a whitecapped chef, reminded Adam that he had not had breakfast, due to his fight with Erica, and was hungry. He also remembered he must call home soon.
One of the purchasing agent guests, holding a plate heaped high with food, called out, "Great eating, Hank!"
"Glad you like it," his host acknowledged. "And with you guys here it's all deductible."
Adam smiled with the others, knowing that what Kreisel had said was true - that the purchasing agents' presence made this a business occasion, to be deducted eventually on Hank Kreisel's income tax return.
The reasoning: auto company purchasing agents, who allocated millions of dollars' worth of orders annually, held a life or death authority over parts manufacturers like Kreisel. In older days, because of this, purchasing agents were accustomed to receive munificent gifts even a lake cruiser or a houseful of furniture from suppliers whom they favored. Now, auto companies forbade that kind of graft and an offender, if caught, was fired summarily. Just the same, perks for purchasing agents still existed, and being entertained socially, on occasions like this or privately, was one. Another was having personal hotel bills picked up by suppliers or their salesmen; this was considered safe since neither goods nor money changed hands directly, and later, if necessary, a purchasing agent could deny knowledge, saying he had expected the hotel to bill him. And gifts at Christmas time remained one more.
The Christmas handouts were forbidden annually by auto company managements in memos circulated during November and December. But just as inevitably, purchasing department secretaries prepared lists of purchasing staff home addresses which were handed out to suppliers' salesmen on request, a request considered as routine as saying, "Merry Christmas!" The secretaries' home addresses were always on the lists and, though purchasing agents allegedly knew nothing of what was going on, somehow their addresses got there, too. The gifts which resulted - none delivered to the office - were not as lavish as in older days, but few suppliers risked failing to bestow them.
Adam was still watching the purchasing agent with the piled plate when a soft, feminine voice murmured, "Adam Trenton, do you always say just what you're thinking?"
He turned. In front of him, regarding him amusedly, was a girl of twenty-eight or thirty, Adam guessed. Her high-cheekboned face was up-tilted, her moist full lips lightly parted in a smile. Intelligent bright eyes met his own directly. He sensed a musky perfume, was aware of a lithe, slender figure with small, firm breasts beneath a tailored powder-blue linen dress. She was, Adam thought, one of the most breathtakingly beautiful women he had ever seen. And she was black. Not brown, but black; a deep, rich black, her smooth unblemished skin like silken ebony. He curbed an impulse to reach out, touching her.
"My name is Rowena," the girl said. "I was told yours. And I've been asked to see that you get something to eat."
"Rowena what?"
He sensed her hesitate. "Does it matter?" She smiled, so that he was aware of the full redness and moisture of her lips again.
"Besides," Rowena said, "I asked you a question first. You haven't answered it."
Adam remembered she had asked something about - did he always say what he was thinking?
"Not always. I don't believe any of us do really." He thought: am sure as hell not doing it now, then added aloud, "When I do say anything, though, I try to make it honest and what I mean."
"I know. I was listening to you talking. Not enough of us do that."
The girl's eyes met his own and held them steadily. He wondered if she sensed her impact on him, and suspected that she did.
The chef at the buffet, with Rowena's aid, filled two plates which they carried to one of the sun deck tables nearby. Already seated were the judge - a youngish Negro who was on the federal bench in Michigan - and another guest from Adam's company, a middle-aged development engineer named Frazon. Moments later they were joined by Brett DeLosanto, accompanied by an attractive, quiet brunette whom he introduced as Elsie.
"We figured this is where the action is," Brett said. "Don't disappoint us."
Rowena asked, "What kind do you have in mind?"
"You know us auto people. We've only two interests - business and sex."
The judge smiled. "It's early. Perhaps we should take business first." He addressed Adam. "A while ago you were talking about company annual meetings. I liked what you said - that people, even with a single share, should be listened to."
Frazon, the engineer, as if rising to a bait, put down his knife and fork. "Well, I didn't. I don't agree with Adam, and there are plenty more who feel the way I do."
"I know," the judge said. "I saw you react. Won't you tell us why?"
Frazon considered, frowning. "All right. What the loudmouth one-share people want, including consumer groups and the so-called corporate responsibility committee, is to create disruption, and they do it by distortion, lies, and insult. Remember the General Motors annual meeting, when the Nader gang called everybody in the industry 'corporate criminals,' then talked about our 'disregard for law and justice,' and said we were part of 'a corporate crime wave dwarfing street crime by comparison'? How are we supposed to feel when we hear that? Grateful?
How are we supposed to take clowns who mouth that kind of claptrap?
Seriously?"
"Say!" Brett DeLosanto interjected. "You engineering guys were listening. We thought the only thing you ever heard was motor noises."
"They heard, all right," Adam said. "We all heard - those in General Motors, the other companies too. But what a lot of industry people missed was that the very words just quoted" - he motioned toward Frazon - "were intended to anger and inflame and prevent a reasonable response. The protesting crowd didn't want the auto industry to be reasonable; if it had, we'd have cut the ground from under them. And what they planned, worked. Our people fell for it."
The judge prompted, "Then you see invective as a tactic."
"Of course. It's the language of our times, and the kids who use it - bright young lawyers mostly - know exactly what it does to old men in board rooms. It curls their hair, raises their blood pressure, makes them rigid and unyielding. The chairmen and directors in our industry were reared on politeness; in their heyday, even when you knifed a competitor, you said 'excuse me.' But not any more. Now the dialogue is harsh and snarly, and points are scored by overstatement, so if you're listening - and smart - you underreact and keep cool. Most of our top people haven't learned that yet."
"I haven't learned it, and don't intend to," Frazon said. "I'll stick with decent manners."
Brett quipped, "There speaks an engineer, the ultimate conservative!"
"Adam's an engineer," Frazon pointed out. "Trouble is, he's spent too much time around designers."
The group at the table laughed.
Looking at Adam, Frazon said, "Surely you're not suggesting we should go along with what the militants at annual meetings want - consumer reps on boards of directors, all the rest?"
Adam answered quietly, "Why not? It could show we're willing to be flexible, and might be worth a try. Put somebody on a board - or on a jury - they're apt to take it seriously, not be just a maverick. We might even end up learning something. Besides, it will happen eventually and we'd be better off if we made it happen now instead of being forced into it later."
Brett asked, "Judge, what's your verdict now you've heard both sides?"
"Excuse me." The judge put a hand to his mouth, stiffing a yawn. "For a moment I thought I was in court." He shook his head in mock solemnity. "Sorry. I never hand down opinions on weekends."
"Nor should anyone," Rowena declared. She touched Adam's hand, letting her fingers travel lightly over his. When he turned toward her, she said softly, "Will you take me swimming?"
The two of them took a boat from the floating dock - one of Hank Kreisel's with an outboard which Adam used to propel them, unhurriedly, four miles or so toward the lake's eastern shore. Then, within sight of a beach with towering leafy trees behind, he cut the motor and they drifted on the blue translucent water. A few other boats, not many, came into sight and went away. It was midafternoon. The sun was high, the air drowsy.
Before they left, Rowena had changed into a swimsuit; it was leopard patterned and what it revealed of her figure, as well as the soft, silken blackness of her skin, more than fulfilled the promise of the linen dress she had had on earlier. Adam was in trunks. When they stopped, he lighted cigarettes for them both. They sat beside each other on the cushions of the boat.
"Um," Rowena said. "This is nice." Her head was back, eyes closed against the brightness of the sun and lake. Her lips were parted.
He blew a smoke ring lazily. "It's called getting away from it all." His voice, for some reason, was unsteady.
She said softly, with sudden seriousness, "I know. It doesn't happen often. And it never lasts."
Adam turned. Instinct told him that if he reached for her she would respond. But for seconds of uncertainty he hesitated.
As if reading his mind, Rowena laughed lightly. She dropped her cigarette into the water. "We came to swim, remember?"
With a swift, single movement she rose and dived over the side. He had an impression of her lithe dark body, straight-limbed and like an arrow. Then, with a whipcrack sound and splash, she was out of sight. The boat rocked gently.
Adam hesitated again, then dived in too. After the sun's heat, the fresh lake water struck icily cold. He came up with a gasp, shivering, and looked around.
"Hey! Over here!" Rowena was still laughing. She bobbed under the surf ace, then re-emerged, water streaming down her face and hair. "Isn't it wonderful?"
"When I get my circulation back, I'll tell you."
"Your blood needs heating, Adam. I'm going ashore. Coming?"
"I guess so. But we can't leave Hank's boat to drift."
"Then bring it." Already swimming strongly toward the beach, Rowena called back, "That's if you're afraid of being marooned with me."
More slowly, towing the boat, Adam followed. Ashore, and welcoming the sun's warmth again, he beached the boat, then joined Rowena who was lying on the sand, her hands behind her head. Beyond the beach, sheltered in trees, was a cottage, but shuttered and deserted.
"Since you brought it up," Adam said, "at this moment I can't think of anyone I'd sooner be marooned with." He, too, stretched out on the sand, aware of being more relaxed than he had felt in months.
"You don't know me."
"You've aroused certain instincts." He propped himself on an elbow, confirming that the girl beside him was as breathtakingly lovely as she had seemed when he met her several hours ago, then added, "One of them is curiosity."
"I'm just someone you met at a party; one of Hank Kreisel's weekend parties where he employs hostesses. And in case you're wondering, that's all he employs us for."
"Were you wondering?"
"Yes."
She gave the soft laugh he had grown used to. "I knew you were. The difference between you and most men is that the others would have lied and said 'no.'"
"And the rest of the week, when there aren't parties?"
"I'm a high school teacher." Rowena stopped. "Damn! I didn't mean to tell you that."
"Then we'll even the score," Adam said. "There was something I didn't intend to tell you."
"Which is?"
He assured her softly, "For the first time in my life I know, really know, what it means when they say 'Black is Beautiful.'"
In the silence which followed, he wondered if he had offended her. He could hear the lapping of the lake, a hum of insects, an outboard motor in the distance. Rowena said nothing. Then, without warning, she leaned over and kissed him fully on the lips.
Before he could respond she sprang up, and ran down the beach toward the lake. From the water's edge she called back, "Hank said you had the reputation of being a sweet man when he told me to take special care of you. Now let's go back."
In the boat, heading for the west shore, he asked, "What else did Hank say?"
Rowena considered. "Well, he told me you'd be the most important person here, and that one day you'll be right at the top of your company."
This time, Adam laughed.
He was still curious, though, about Kreisel and his motives.
Sunset came, the party at the cottage continuing - and livening - as the hours passed. Before the sun disappeared, at last, behind a squad of white birches like silhoutted sentinels, the lake was alive with color. A breeze stirred its surface, bearing fresh, pine-scented air. Dusk eased in, then darkness.
As stars came out, the night air cooled and the party drifted from the sun deck to indoors where, in the great rock fireplace, heaped brush and logs were blazing.
Hank Kreisel, an affable, attentive host, seemed everywhere, as he had throughout the day. Two bars and the kitchen were staffed and bustling; what Kreisel had said earlier about drinks and food available twenty-four hours each day seemed true. In the spacious, hunting lodge-style living room the party split into groups, some overlapping.
A cluster around Pierre Flodenhale fired auto racing questions.
". . . say a race is won or lost in the pits. Is that your experience?" . . .
"Yes, but a driver's planning does it too. Before the race you plan how you'll run it, lap by lap. In the race you plan the next lap, changing the first plan . . ." The network TV personality, who had been diffident earlier, had blossomed and was doing a skillful imitation of the U.S. President, supposedly on television with a car maker and an environ-mentalist, trying to appease both. "Pollution, with all its faults, is part of our great American knowhow . . . My scientiftc advisers assure me cars are polluting less than they used - at least, they would if there weren't more cars." (Cough, cough, cough!) . . . "I pledge we'll have clean air again in this country. Administration policy is to pipe it to every home . . ." Among those listening, one or two looked sour, but most laughed.
Some of the girls, including Stella and Elsie, moved from group to group. Rowena stayed close to Adam.
Gradually, as midnight came and went, the numbers thinned. Guests yawned, stretched tiredly, and soon after climbed the stone stairway at the fireplace, some calling down goodnights from the gallery to the holdouts who remained below. One or two exited by the sun deck, presumably reaching their rooms by the alternate route which Hank Kreisel had showed to Adam earlier.
Eventually, Kreisel himself - carrying a sourmash Bourbon - went upstairs.
Soon after, Adam noticed, Elsie disappeared. So did Brett DeLosanto and the redhead, Stella, who had spent the last hour close together.
In the great hearth the fire was burning down to embers. Apart from Adam and Rowena, both on a sofa near the fireplace, only one group remained at the room's opposite end, still drinking, noisy, and obviously with the intention of staying for a long time.
"A nightcap?" Adam asked.
Rowena shook her head. Her last drink - a mild Scotch and water - had lasted her an hour. Through the evening they had talked, mostly about Adam, though not by his choice but because Rowena adroitly parried questions about herself. But he had learned that her teaching specialty was English, which she admitted after laughingly quoting Cervantes: "My memory is so bad, that many times I forget my own name."
Now he stood up. "Let's go outside."
"All right."
As they left, no one in the other group glanced their way.
The moon had risen. The night was cold and clear. Moonbeams shimmered on the surface of the lake. He felt Rowena shiver, and put an arm around her.
"Almost everyone," Adam said, "seems to have gone to bed."
Again Rowena's gentle laugh. I saw you noticing."
He turned her to him, tilted her head, and kissed her. "Let's us."
Their lips met again. He felt her arms around him tighten.
She whispered, "What I said was true. This isn't in the contract."
"I know."
"A girl can make her own arrangements here, but Hank sees to it she doesn't have to." She snuggled closer. "Hank would want you to know that.
He cares what you think about him."
"At this moment," he whispered back, "I'm not thinking of Hank at all."
They entered Adam's bedroom from the outside walkway - the route he had used this morning on arrival. Inside, the room was warm. Someone, thoughtfully, had been in to light the fire; now, tongues of flame cast light and shadows on the ceiling. The coverlet was off the double bed, with sheets turned back.
In front of the fire, Adam and Rowena slipped out of what they were wearing. Soon after, he led her to the bed.
He had expected tenderness. He found, instead, a savagery in Rowena which at first amazed, soon after excited and, before long, inflamed him, too.
Nothing in his experience had prepared him for the wild, tempestuous passion she unleashed. For both of them, it lasted - with gaps which human limits demanded - through the night.
Near dawn she inquired mischievously, do you still think black is beautiful?"
He told her, and meant it, "More than ever."
They had been lying, quietly, side by side. Now Rowena propped herself up and looked at him. She was smiling. "And for a honky, you're not bad."
As he had yesterday afternoon, he lit two cigarettes and gave her one. After a while she said, "I guess black is beautiful, the way they say. But then I guess everything's beautiful if you look at it on the right kina of day."
"Is this that kind of day?"
"You know what I'd say today? Today, I'd say 'ugly is beautiful!"
It was getting light. Adam said, "I want to see you again. How do we manage it?"
For the first time, Rowena's voice was sharp. "We don't, and both of us know it." When he protested, she put a finger across his lips. "We haven't lied to each other. Don't let's begin."
He knew she was right, that what had begun here would end here. Detroit was neither Paris nor London, nor even New York. At heart, Detroit was a small town still, beginning to tolerate more than it used to, but he could not have Detroit and Rowena - on any terms. The thought saddened him. It continued to, through the day, and as he left Higgins Lake for the return journey southward late that afternoon.
When he thanked his host before leaving, Hank Kreisel said, "Haven't talked much, Adam. Wish we'd had more chance. Mind if I call you next week?"
He assured Kreisel that he could.
Rowena, to whom Adam had said goodbye privately, behind two locked doors an hour earlier, was not in sight.