now and done with; and there were other related matters which had to be resolved. Yet fifteen years of marriage were not to be shrugged off lightly like a disposable plastic raincoat. No matter how many deficiencies and disagreements there were---and Cindy could think of plenty---when two people lived together that long, there were connecting strands between them which it would be painful to sever.
Even now, Cindy believed, their marriage could be salvaged if both of them tried hard enough. The point was: Did they want to? Cindy was convinced she did---if Mel would meet some of her conditions, though in the past he had refused to, and she doubted very much if he would ever change as much as she would like. Yet without some changes, continuing to live together as they were would be intolerable. Lately there had not even been the consolation of sex which once upon a time made up for other inadequacies. Something had gone wrong there too, though Cindy was not sure what. Mel still excited her sexually; even now, just thinking about him in that way was enough to arouse her, and at this moment she was conscious of her body stirring. But somehow, when the opportunity was there, their mental separation inhibited them both. The result---at least in Cindy---was frustration, anger, and later a sexual appetite so strong that she had to have a man. Any man.
She was still standing alone, in the plush La Salle Salon of the Lake Michigan Inn, where tonight's reception for the press was being held. The buzz of conversation around her was mostly about the storm and the difficulty everyone had had in getting here; but at least---unlike Mel, Cindy thought---they had made it. Occasionally there was a mention of Archidona, reminding Cindy that she still hadn't found out which Archidona---Ecuador or Spain... damn you, Mel Bakersfeld! Okay, so I'm not as smart as you are---her charity was directed at.
An arm brushed against hers and a voice said amiably, "No drink, Mrs. Bakersfeld? Can I get you one?"
Cindy turred. The questioner was a newspaperman named Derek Eden, whom she knew slightly. His by-line appeared in theSun-Times frequently. Like many of his kind, he had an easy, confident manner and air of mild dissipation. She was aware that each of them had taken note of the other on previous occasions.
"All right," Cindy said. "A Bourbon and water, go lightly on the water. And please use my first name; I think you know it."
"Sure thing, Cindy." The newspaperman's eyes were admiring and frankly appraising. Well, Cindy thought, why not? She knew she looked good tonight; she had dressed well and made up carefully.
"I'll be back," Derek Eden assured her, "so don't go away now I've found you." He headed purposefully for the bar.
Waiting, surveying the crowded La Salle Salon, Cindy caught the glance of an older woman in a flowered hat. At once Cindy smiled warmly and the woman nodded, but her eyes moved on. She was a society page columnist. A photographer was beside her and together they were planning pictures for what would probably be a full-page layout in tomorrow's paper. The woman in the flowered hat motioned several of the charity workers and their guests together, and they crowded in, smiling obligingly, trying to look casual, but pleased that they had been selected. Cindy knew why she had been passed over; alone she was not important enough, though she would have been if Mel were there. In the city's life, Mel rated. The galling thing was---socially, Mel didn't care.
Across the room the photographer's light gun flashed; the woman in the hat was writing names. Cindy could have cried. Foralmost every charity... she volunteered, worked hard, served on the meanest committees, did menial chores which more socially prominent women rejected; then to be left out like this...
Damn you again, Mel Bakersfeld! Damn the bitching snow! And screw that demanding, stinking marriage-wrecking airport!
The newspaperman, Derek Eden, was coming back with Cindy's drink and one of his own. Threading his way across the room, he saw her watching him and smiled. He looked sure of himself. If Cindy knew men, he was probably calculating what his chances were of laying her tonight. Reporters, she supposed, knew all about neglected, lonely wives.
Cindy did some calculating of her own concerning Derek Eden. Early thirties, she thought; old enough to be experienced, young enough to be taught a thing or two and to get excited, which was what Cindy liked. A