Magnolia by Diana Palmer Page B

fastidious to a fault about his personal appearance. His hair was always clean and combed, his fingernailsimmaculate and trimmed. His shoes were so polished that they reflected. The crease in his trousers was perfect. He never looked disheveled or rumpled—all due, she guessed, to that military background that he wouldn’t talk about.
    There was so much that she didn’t know about him. She wondered if there had been women besides Diane in his past, and reasoned that there probably had. He looked at her with a sort of sensual wisdom from time to time that made her knees go weak. He hadn’t learned that in banking. And he was careful to open doors for her, help her into carriages, walk to the street side of her on the infrequent occasions when they strolled together on nice fall days. His family must have taught him exquisite manners. He also had a strong sense of right and wrong, and he was honest to a fault.
    But he kept his distance. There were no more passionate kisses or even familiar touches. They were as apart as if they’d never married. He’d withdrawn from her at a time when they were just beginning to grow closer.
    Part of her understood his attitude. He loved Diane. Perhaps in some queer way it made him feel that he had been unfaithful to Diane when he had kissed Claire, even though Claire was his wife. It was so sad that he’d married her in the first place, feeling so deeply and strongly about someone else.
    The real tragedy was the way Claire felt about him. She loved him with all her heart. There had never been any other man in her thoughts, in her life. He knew that. It probably flattered him. But on the other hand, it musthave been unpleasant, as well, to have the responsibility for someone’s happiness, when it was a woman he didn’t, couldn’t, love.
    And despite his courtesy, the everyday things that any cherished woman would expect from her husband weren’t forthcoming. He never brought her flowers or little, inexpensive presents. He never sought her out, just to talk. He never took her to the opera or the theater or even out for a meal unless it was connected somehow with the bank’s business. He never commented on her clothing or paid her compliments.
    Only once did she get a glimpse of the real man that John was under the intangible mask he wore, and that was when a tall, lean, very dark-haired man in a military dress uniform came by the apartment house and asked for him.
    Claire stared at the man as if he weren’t quite real. “Well, my husband is at work. At—at the Peachtree City Bank,” she said falteringly.
    The man, very formal, with his cap tucked under his arm, smiled at her faintly; his green eyes glittered with amusement. “You are his wife? I must say, it delights me that you aren’t fair and petite, madam. The last time I saw John, he was mourning his ex-fiancée and threatening to shoot her husband.”
    That was news, and not welcome news. Claire’s face fell.
    â€œForgive me,” he said quickly. “Permit me to introduce myself. I am Lt. Col. Chayce Marshal, United States Army.” He presented her with his card and made her a formal bow.“I have been serving in the Philippines. I was wounded and only have recently recovered enough to go back to duty and assume my next post, but I wanted to call on John before I left the city. I have very little time.”
    â€œMay I offer you tea or coffee?” she asked more wistfully than she knew. It was a very lonely life that she led outside the small circle of women with whom she worked on charitable events.
    He smiled. “It would be a pleasure. I don’t suppose that you could send word to John?”
    â€œWhy, yes, I could,” she said. “Mrs. Dobbs has a telephone. I’ll ask her to contact the bank and tell him that you’re here.”
    He grinned widely. “That would be wonderful.”
    She went to find Mrs. Dobbs, to