Return to Peyton Place by Grace Metalious Page A

book is about. It's just about a town and the people in it and what they do and think and feel. Just an ordinary small town in northern New England.”
    â€œLike Peyton Place?” asked Norman.
    â€œIf you want to think of it that way,” said Allison defensively. “But as far as I'm concerned, the town in Samuel's Castle is just like any small town anywhere.”
    â€œHow do you know so much about small towns anywhere?” demanded Norman. “The only one you ever lived in is Peyton Place.”
    â€œDon't be silly, Norman,” said Allison crossly. “Small towns are small towns everywhere.”
    Suddenly, it was as if they were very young again, the way they had been in high school, when they had sat on the banks of the Connecticut River and had argued about books and people and words.
    â€œRemember, Norman?” asked Allison, her voice gentle. “Remember how I took you to my secret place once, up behind Road's End?”
    Norman's voice was low. “Yes,” he said, “I remember.”
    â€œYou kissed me,” said Allison.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œIt seems so long ago.”
    â€œYes.”
    Allison made herself brighten and gave a little laugh. “Well, what are we so down in the mouth about?” she asked. “It was a long time ago.”
    â€œYou wore your hair in a pony tail and the buttercups made little, yellow shadows on your skin,” said Norman, as if she had not spoken.
    â€œI've got to go,” said Allison. “I'm leaving for New York tomorrow, and I've a million things to do.”
    â€œYes,” said Norman. “Of course.” His eyes glistened with unshed tears. “Good luck, Allison. Don't forget to come back to us.”
    Allison leaned across the table and touched the back of his hand.
    â€œI won't forget, Norman,” she said gently. “I'll be back.”
    Walking home from Corey Hyde's diner, she wondered if success had already begun to change her. Road's End, buttercups, the day she kissed Norman—all that seemed so remote now. It was another world; and she was a wholly different person, not young Allison grown up but, simply, Allison. Allison sometimes felt that she had created herself, just as surely as she had created the characters in Samuel's Castle.
    The train lurched and Allison's forehead bumped hard against the windowpane.
    â€œ NEW HAVEN ” called the conductor. “ NEW HAVEN, NEW HAVEN .”
    Oh dear, thought Allison, sitting up and rubbing her forehead. There's still such a long way to go. Does Providence come after New Haven? No, it can't possibly. Damn it, I never can remember.
    She smoothed her skirt and lit a cigarette to try to get the train-sleep taste out of her mouth.
    I hate the snow when it looks stepped on and has black specks all over it, she thought crossly as the train picked up speed. Damn it, my head aches.
    She went to the ladies’ room and swallowed two aspirin and some water, and when she got back to her seat she flipped disinterestedly through the pages of a magazine. There was one of her stories. “Marianne Said Maybe.” Complete with four-color illustration. She read it through, and then flung the magazine down on the seat.
    What inexcusable tripe! she thought viciously. But then her eyes cleared. No more. Not now. Now I'm an author of books. It'll be different now. Now when anyone in Peyton Place wonders what I do for a living and I say that I write, they'll know what I'm talking about.
    The news of the sale of Allison's novel had traveled quickly through Peyton Place, and as she leaned her head against the back of the train seat, she smiled a little and imagined the comments and conversations she had evoked all over town.
    â€œAllison MacKenzie went and wrote a book.”
    â€œSome feller down to New York sold it for her, I heard.”
    â€œWho's he? The New York feller, I mean?”
    â€œDunno. Some feller down there makes his