“You mean if he were sick?”
“Physically sick?”
“Yes.”
“I hardly think so. He looks the picture of health. Always.”
“A possible explanation of her withdrawing from society in recent months is that she knows he is very sick.”
“I suppose so. Is he?”
“How would I know?”
“Of course. You could speculate endlessly. Maybe she loves him and hates his risking his life in those airplanes all the time. His flying must be a worry to her.”
“Amelia, do you think the Stanwyks love each other?”
“I always think so unless I know differently. Why shouldn’t they?”
“Well, she seems to be half-married to her father, the wonderfully attractive Jack Collins. It looks to me as if Jack Collins picked Alan Stanwyk to be his daughter’s husband. Alan Stanwyk married Collins Aviation instead of a girl named Joan Collins.”
Amelia’s eyes were the sort one told the truth to; simultaneously they appeared concerned and skeptical.
“Fletch, let me tell you something remarkable. In fact, the most remarkable thing I know. Are you ready for it?”
“All ears.”
“I’ve been a society writer and professional busybody almost all my adult years, and the most remarkable thing I have learned is that people love each other when they have the least reason to, and when you least expect them to. Love-matches, marriages made in heaven, work no better than marriages made in board rooms. Obviously, the Stanwyks’ marriage was made by Alan Stanwyk and Jack Collins. Joan just sort of got dragged along. Yet it is entirely possible that she is very much in love with Alan Stanwyk. Do you believe that?”
“If you say so.”
“I’m not saying it’s true, Fletch. I’m just saying it’s possible. Joan and Alan might be terrifically in love with each other.”
“Could Alan have a mistress?”
“Of course.”
“Would John Collins understand?”
“Of course. I expect neither one of them feels confined to the marital bed. Not in this day and age.”
“And you say John Collins would understand.”
“Darling: the things I could tell you about John Collins. He didn’t spend all his time in that garage twisting propellers.”
“Sometimes men feel differently where their daughters are concerned. I had a father-in-law once.”
“He wasn’t Jack Collins.”
“One more question, Amelia: why didn’t Stanwyk’s parents come for Alan’s wedding?”
“My gracious, darling, you young folks do do your research, don’t you? I have no idea. I suppose they felt they would have gotten eaten alive.”
“Eaten alive?”
“Socially, darling. I suppose they’re nobodies from Middle America and would have felt dreadfully out of place.”
“Do people still feel that way?”
“Older people do, darling. You’ll see.”
“I wouldn’t miss the wedding of my only child.”
“Perhaps our young protagonist, Alan Stanwyk, kept them away for fear they would embarrass him. Maybe their grammar ain’t no good. I don’t have answers, Fletcher, to all of your questions. I remember at the wedding, whenever it was, six or seven years ago, there was a vague interest in meeting the Stanwyks, but it was explained, if you can call it an explanation, that the Stanwyks couldn’t make it. End of vague interest. Maybe they had dentists’ appointments that day.”
“Amelia, you’re a peach. Thank you very much.”
“I do have a bone to pick with you, young Fletcher, despite my otherwise unrestrained approval of you.”
“Oh oh.”
“Has to do with that piece you wrote a couple of months ago, a little ditty called something fresh and original like ‘Society is Dead.’ ”
“I’m not any more responsible for headlines than you are, Amelia.”
“You are partly responsible, however, for the unadulterated rubbish that dribbles down from your by-line.”
“Yes. Partly.”
“That piece was rubbish, Fletcher.”
“Oh?”
“Society, as you see, is not dead. There is plenty of it about. Just because you found a few grandnieces and nephews of prominent people hanging about the street corners sniffing pot, or whatever you do with it, saying too loudly and too frequently that they don’t care anymore proves nothing. You haven’t been reading me.”
“Amelia, I’ve read every word of yours.”
“Society changes, Fletcher, but not much. It does not die. It moves. It oozes. It changes its shape, its structure, its leaders and its entertainments. There is always a Society. As long as the instinct for power beats in the breasts of men and women, there will be a restricted clawing called Society.”