"May I help you?"
"You're Ellen Feller, right?"
"That's correct. "
He put out his hand. "I'm Jake Dillon."
"And how may I help you, Major Dillon?"
"Well, we're going to be staying here for a while," he said. "I hope that won't be too much of an inconvenience."
"Staying here?" she parroted. "I don't think so. These are my quarters." There was somebody else in the car, getting out of it with difficulty. It was another Marine officer, this one a second lieutenant. The driver had to pull him to his feet.
Banning is obviously behind this. I'll be damned if I will permit that man to turn My quarters into a transient BOQ for every Marine officer who passes through town.
"That's not the way I heard it," Jake Dillon said. There was neither sympathy nor kindness in his voice. He was tired from a practically nonstop flight halfway around the world, and his considerable experience with the opposite sex had permitted him to make an instant assessment of Mrs. Ellen Feller: She was a bitch.
"Oh? And how did you hear it?"
My God, that's Johnny Moore! What is he doing back here?
"Flem Pickering told me he's renting this place," Dillon said. "More to the point, he told me to use it while we're here."
She looked at him and flashed him a bitchy smile. "There must be some misunderstanding," she said. Then she walked to meet John Marston Moore. Moore was rounding the front of the staff car, supporting himself on a cane.
He smiled when he saw her. It was almost a smile of anticipation.
The last time she'd seen him was the day he'd gone off to Guadalcanal. She'd given him a farewell present in Water Lily Cottage that was as good for her as it had been for him.
She watched him closely, wondering if he blamed his going to Guadalcanal on her.
That expression on his face is not sarcastic, or angry. He remembers what we did here together. But my God, he looks awful! And he's even having trouble walking.
"You all right, Moore?" Jake asked. "Need some help?"
"I'm fine, Sir," he said. "Hello, Ellen."
"John, I'm so glad to see you!" She wrapped her arms around him and gave him a hug. "What are you doing here?"
"Is Major Banning around, Mrs. Feller?" Jake asked, shutting off any answer Moore might have made.
"I don't know," Ellen said. "I just came home. I don't think so. I don't see the car."
"I guess there's a phone in there?" Dillon asked.
"Yes, of course," Ellen said, smiling at him. "Come in and I'll show you."
"Can you handle the stairs, kid?" Dillon asked.
"I'm fine, Sir."
In a pig's ass you are. You look like hell
"Is there any booze in the house?" Dillon asked. "You want a drink, Moore?"
"I wouldn't mind a little nip."
"I just happened to buy some brandy," Ellen said. "I like to have it around the house."
They watched as Moore somewhat awkwardly negotiated the steps. And then they followed him into the house.
"Be it ever so plush," Moore said, settling himself on the couch and gesturing around at the luxurious furnishings, "there's no place like home." Ellen laughed dutifully.
"How many of you will there be, Major... Dillon, you said?"
"Two more."
"Things will be a little crowded, then," Ellen said. "But I'm sure we Can manage." Ellen went into the kitchen and put her packages on the sink. She was taking a glass from the cupboard when she heard the telephone being dialed.
"Admiral Soames-Haley, please," she heard Dillon say.
"My name is Dillon. I'm a major in The U.S. Marine Corps."
Rear Admiral Keith Soames-Haley, RAN, Ellen knew, had been a shipping-business friend of Fleming Pickering's before the war. Now he was high up in the hierarchy of the Australian Navy. So Dillon's words to the Admiral did not bother her initially:
"Admiral, my name is Jake Dillon. I'm just in from the States. I have a letter for you from our mutual friend, Flem Pickering.
"Yes, that's right, Sir. It's General Pickering now. He's pretty much recovered. But knowing what he's like, they're reluctant to let him out of the hospital until he is absolutely fit.
"No, Sir. If you don't mind, General Pickering asked me to deliver the letter personally, Sir, and he hoped that you could give me thirty minutes of your time.
"I understand, Sir. Tomorrow morning would be fine. I'll be at your office at half past eight. Thank you, Admiral. Goodbye, Sir."
But then Ellen had questions: Why does Fleming Pickering need to use this man Dillon to send a letter to Admiral Soames-Haley? If he wanted to send Soames-Haley a letter, he could have just mailed it. Or sent it via officer courier. And why did Dillon want half an hour of Soames-Haley's time? Not to discuss Pickering's physical condition. What in the world is going on here?
She put three glasses and one of the brandy bottles onto a tray and carried it into the living room. The brandy was from Argentina, of all places, but surprisingly good.
She heard a door close, and then the unmistakable sound of Jake Dillon voiding his bladder. She put the tray on the table in front of the couch and sat down beside John Marston Moore.
"I'm so glad to see you," she said in almost a whisper.
"What's going on?"
He shrugged.
She leaned toward him and kissed him, first on the cheek and then on the mouth. When she did that, she gave him just a little touch of her tongue. But when he tried to pull her closer, she pulled away, gestured toward the sound of the voiding water, and whispered, "Not now. Behave."