Return to Peyton Place by Grace Metalious Page B

livin’ sellin’ books.”
    â€œWhat's it about?”
    â€œDunno. Calls it Samuel's Castle, so I reckon it's somethin’ to do with the castle up on the hill.”
    â€œIt'd seem that way.”
    â€œDon't see how anybody could set and write a whole book about some nigger marryin’ up with a white girl.”
    â€œDon't seem as though anybody could.”
    â€œWell, Allison MacKenzie was always one for makin’ things up in her head.”
    â€œAyeh. Well, there's some calls it makin’ up and there's others call it lyin’. Take your pick.”
    â€œWhen you put it in a book and get paid for it, it ain't lyin’. It's makin’ up.”
    â€œSame thing, if you ask me.”
    â€œNope, it ain't. Writin’ is one of them what'cha call creative arts.”
    â€œWell, listen to him! Where'd you get fancy words like that?”
    â€œElsie Thornton, the schoolteacher, told ’em to me. Says writin’ is like paintin’ pitchers and all like that.”
    â€œLyin’! Allison MacKenzie was always a little liar.”
    â€œDon't seem to me,” said Clayton Frazier, putting an end to the conversation, “that any of us got any business discussin’ books. Ain't one of us read one in thirty years.”
    â€œWell, I'm sure gonna read Allison's.”
    â€œMe, too.”
    â€œTalk, talk, talk,” said Clayton.
    Allison was smiling to herself and a young man in the seat across the aisle from her leaned forward and smiled back.
    â€œCigarette?” he asked.
    Allison shook herself. “Oh,” she said. “No. No thank you.”
    â€œ GRAND CENTRAL STATION, NEXT ” shouted the conductor. “ GRAND CENTRAL .”
    Allison jumped up and adjusted the jacket of her suit and straightened her hat. When the train came to a halt, she was one of the first ones off and she carried her two bags herself rather than stop one of the hurrying redcaps who passed her as if she were invisible. Her arms were aching as she came into the main lobby of the station, and she stopped still as she saw Bradley Holmes coming toward her.
    I thought I'd forgotten what he looked like, she thought in sudden panic. I hadn't forgotten at all. I have to get away. He mustn't see me.
    She turned, her eyes seeking the stairs that would take her to the street. But she was too late. Brad had seen her.
    â€œMy dear,” he cried, and put his arms around her. “I thought you'd never get here!”
    â€œHello, Brad,” said Allison, and her throat began to ache. “Here I am.”
9
    L EWIS J ACKMAN WAS a tall thin man of forty-five years; he had a cavernous, carved-looking face and smooth, dark hair. His voice was very deep and soft. Allison thought he looked like young Abe Lincoln. There was something dark and brooding, almost melancholic, in his face.
    He looked at her with dark, searching eyes. “You know, Miss MacKenzie, after twenty years of reading manuscripts and meeting authors I have come to be pretty good at guessing what a writer will look like from reading what he's written.” He smiled, but his smile did not relieve the brooding sadness of his eyes. “I must confess that this time I was completely at a loss. I didn't know what to expect. There's youthful energy and curiosity in your novel, but there is also a long lifetime of lived experience. Now that I see you, all I can say is that I'm amazed. And, of course, very proud to be the publisher of your remarkable novel.”
    â€œThank you, Mr. Jackman,” she said.
    â€œI want to go over it with you,” he said, “page by page. I'd like it to be as nearly perfect as we can make it.” He began to turn the pages of the manuscript, those familiar typed pages that she had given her life to. “There are a few changes—minor ones—that I think will help to give the novel greater unity and more impact.”
    â€œChanges?” Allison turned to