Virgin's Holiday Page 2

  Maria dropped languorously to the divan, and her eyes offered her body to him. Jim leaned over her, and his breath came faster as his lips sought the luscious warmth of her kiss. Her very soul was offered to him as she closed her eyes. Spasmodic quivers crept over her body as his lips crept downward and he gently drew the silken garment aside.

  She fell back helplessly, her fingers writhing through his hair while his lips continued the delicately exquisite torture. Her body was afire and her soul was awakened by his caresses. Her need was so overwhelming that she drew him to her fiercely, tearing the negligee in her eagerness, as he groped for the lamp cord which plunged the room into darkness … and into a paradise for two!

  Vergie’s finger trembled as she laid the book aside. This had come to Maria. And the first page of the book had explained Maria was thirty!

  A strange fever possessed her as she arose and prepared to dress for dinner. Her flesh tingled, and eyes shone with a new light. Thus, had love come to Maria.

  Her unrest was assuaged. Succeeded by a stern determination. She was faint with longing for the coming of the morrow. She felt that she had emerged from a grim dungeon, and stood in the sunlight for the first time in her life. The morrow was glamorous. It beckoned. It cajoled. It was enticing.

  Life, she told herself, would begin in Savannah.

  CHAPTER TWO

  NEW WOMAN

  The long train carrying Vergie Whidby southward thundered into the Savannah station at three o’clock the following afternoon.

  Nothing had happened on the train. Vergie was clad in her sensible clothes, wearing dark glasses as an added gesture of self-effacement, and accompanied by the two worn travelling bags in which were stowed the meagre wardrobe she possessed.

  Vergie had arisen several hours before daylight to catch the Flyer, and she had not, of course, reserved a berth. No citizen of Random would consider it practical to pay extra for a Pullman merely for the privilege of sleeping a few hours. It was commonly accepted in Random that the chair car was every bit as comfortable as the Pullman.

  Vergie wasn’t at all sure about that. But this was the first time she had ever ridden on a train, and she didn’t know how to go about changing from the chair car to the Pullman after she was aboard the train.

  And she didn’t really mind for this one day. She sat erect in the green plush seat and glowed from an inward warmth throughout the tiresome trip. There were so many things to think about.

  Breakfast in the diner was an adventure, and after breakfast there was her seat by the window from which she gazed upon the unfamiliar landscape rushing by. The exhilarating sensation of swift motion; the sense of being borne upon the wings of adventure to a tryst with the unknown; the consciousness that Vergie, “of the Virginia Whidbys” had been left behind her in Random; all this contributed to produce so delightful a sensation of irrational expectancy that Vergie did not realize she was tired until the porter came in to gather up her bags and carry them to the platform, preparatory to the stop at Savannah.

  Vergie clutched her beaded bag nervously as she followed him to the platform. A jovial fat man joined her from the smoker, glancing past her. A haggard mother with two children toddling after, stood behind her as the train slowed with a screaming and hissing of air brakes.

  A red-cap grabbed her bags, and Vergie eyed him. She was engulfed by a chattering crowd. The porter grinned at her as he waited for her instructions. Then Vergie remembered descriptions of similar scenes in novels.

  “A taxi,” she said to the man.

  She was stowed inside the taxi before she remembered she would have to tell the driver where to go. He was a bleak young man with a cigarette hanging from the left corner of his mouth.

  Vergie leaned forward. “Drive me to the best hotel in town,” she faltered.

  “Oke.” The bleak young man dropped the car into gear and they sped away.

  Vergie sank back against the seat and closed her eyes. A wave of faintness swept over her. She was alone in the city. No one here knew her or cared about her. This man might very easily drive her to some unfrequented byway and rob her. Assault her! No one would care. Her body might not be found for days. No inquiries would be made.

  It was terrible to think of all the things which might happen. He looked like a desperate character.

  The taxi came to a halt, and Vergie opened her eyes. A man in a splendid uniform held the door open for her, and a bellboy had sped from the hotel to take her bags.

  The meter charge was thirty-five cents, but Vergie gave the driver half a dollar because she was so thankful he had not taken her out and assaulted her. Then she walked into the hotel, and registered in precise script.

  Her first experience with an elevator lifted her spirits as well as her body, and she followed the boy into her room with heightened spirits. He was young and broad-shouldered, she noted. With a mop of tawny hair, and hazel eyes which sparkled as he moved about, opening windows and setting the fan in motion to air out the room.

  Vergie stood in the center of the floor and removed her dark glasses. The horn rimmed pair, badge of intellectualism, were packed away deep in one of her bags.

  The boy stopped before her. “Say! You look different with the cheaters off.”

  Vergie’s heart gave a little leap. There was distinct admiration in the boy’s clear gaze. Something else which Vergie didn’t quite recognize. An unabashed questioning. It set her pulses fluttering. She didn’t realize it was the attitude of every bellboy toward an unaccompanied girl checking in at a hotel. “You can’t never tell,” is the way the bellboys sum it up.

  Vergie smiled at him and was moved to give him a dollar. It embarrassed her to do so, and she lowered her lashes as she slid the bill into his promptly outstretched hand. The tips of his fingers touched the palm of hers, and she blushed.

  “Thanks,” he said. “You’re ace-high with me. I’m number 22. Be sure and call me if you want anything.” His eyes suggested things when Vergie raised hers.

  “Thank you,” she murmured. “I’ll … call you.”

  The boy hesitated a moment more, then swaggered out the door, closing it after him. Vergie moved over to sit on the bed, and to analyze the sudden thrill she was experiencing. It was working already, she thought in amazement. Number 22! He would come back if she rang for him.

  Then she got up and looked at herself in the mirror. A flushed countenance was reflected in the glass. It faded away as she stared at it. The strands of severely coiled hair dropped away to give place to a softly waved coiffure. Her arms and shoulders were as bare as if a scintillating evening gown draped her lusciously-curved and enticing body.

  She shivered and turned away from the mirror. She knew that she must hurry.

  She was afraid to trust to her knowledge of the elevator system to get her downstairs. Her room was on the third floor, and she found the stairway which led to the lobby. Then out to the sidewalk and up the street with its bustling throngs of gaily dressed people.

  Vergie came to the doors of a large department store in the next block. She entered with a stream of shoppers. There was almost a thousand dollars in the beaded bag to which she clung.

  She wandered about the ground floor for a little time, first becoming entangled with the intricacies of the aisles in the men’s department, then making her bewildered way between shelves of toys and children’s clothing.

  The great hustle and the feeling of loneliness overwhelmed her. No one paid her the slightest heed, and there seemed to be no one unengaged of whom she might ask directions.

  Then she saw the girl at the information desk, and hurried to her.

  “Please. Can you tell me where to find everything?” she asked.

  The pert blonde glanced at her languidly … then with awakened interest. Country girls timidly inquiring their way about the store were a common experience for her. But there was something more about Vergie. A wistful eagerness which was touching. The blonde glanced at Vergie’s left hand. It was a dist
inct shock to discover no cheap diamond on the engagement finger. She could have sworn she had come in to buy her trousseau.

  “What is it you wish?” she asked.

  “Everything,” Vergie repeated. “I wonder if … if you have someone who could go with me to help me select the … ah …, the things of the right sort.… colors and materials …” Her voice trailed off.

  “You mean you want a complete outfit? Accessories and all to match?”

  “Everything,” Vergie repeated the third time. “I’m going on a vacation,” she went on nervously, “and I want the right sort of things to take with me.”

  “I see.” The blonde peered at her. Vergie looked to her like the sort who would expect to buy an outfit for ten dollars. It hardly seemed worth while to call anyone to attend to her.

  “Do you have an account here?” she asked.

  “No,” Vergie said in dismay. “I have the cash with me,” she continued, sensing the girl’s hesitancy. “See?” She opened her bag and displayed the fat roll of bills.

  “Good Gawd!” the blonde exclaimed in awe. “I’ll fix you right up,” she said. “Wait just one moment.”

  She turned her back on Vergie to lift the receiver of the house telephone which stood at her elbow. “Ladies wear,” she murmured. “Hello. That you, Belle? Lissen. I got somethin’ you’d better handle personal, Yeah. Country jane with a roll big enough to choke a mule. She wants the works. Awright. You’ll be right down? Bye.”

  She replaced the receiver and turned back to Vergie. “The manager of the ladies wear department will be right down to take care of you,” she assured Vergie.

  “Oh, thank you!” Vergie beamed upon her and awaited the arrival of Belle.

  Belle proved to be an angular woman. With soft brown hair and a large mouth. She smiled as she approached Vergie.

  “Now, tell me exactly what it is you want,” she said.

  She looked like a person whom one could confide in. Besides, Vergie had lost all her natural timidity during the last hour.

  “I want to get everything new … and nice,” she told Belle. “I want to start at the bottom. Shoes and stockings, and underthings. Everything! Don’t you understand?”

  “Of course,” Belle said. She drew her into a little alcove and studied her appraisingly. “You have beautiful hair,” she said. “Naturally curly, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. But I’ve always done it like this.”

  “You should be ashamed,” Belle told her. “You must have it bobbed, and a finger wave, I think. We’ll take care of that in the salon upstairs later. And you have a very nice figure,” she went on. “Of course, that dress you’re wearing hides all your natural beauty. I take it that you want to.… bring out your natural charm?”

  “Oh yes,” Vergie cried. “I’ve been … hiding in a shell for years. Now I … I’m twenty-nine …” Her voice broke.

  “You’ll look nineteen when we finish with you,” Belle told her. “Come on. This is going to be fun. Every girl in a store dreams that some day a customer like you will come along.” She led the way to the elevator and the second floor.

  First there were filmy stockings. A dozen pair. Four shades, for different occasions, Belle explained to her. The shoe department and a bewildering array of pumps, slippers, and sandals.

  The evening slippers in pastel shades fascinated Vergie, but Belle advised her to wait until they selected the evening gown to get a shade to match.

  Vergie followed in a wistful daze through the lingerie section. Filmy step-ins, wispy brassieres, daintily embroidered slips, lacy nightgowns, and seductive negligees. Vergie nodded silently each time Belle made a selection. She did not ask the price of anything.

  Two dashing sport outfits which she tried on, and which transformed her to a roguish lass with dancing eyes. A dark travelling suit, and street dresses. The millinery, Belle decreed, must wait until the visit to the beauty salon.

  Then came the utmost thrill of choosing the evening gown, and costume jewelry to match. Vergie floundered until she chanced upon the gown which she felt had been designed for her. A copy of a Paris importation. A dull turquoise satin with tight bodice and full, trailing skirt. She tried it on doubtfully, for it looked terribly tiny above the waist. And she gasped as she looked at herself in the triple mirrors. There was scarcely anything above the waist. What material there was fitted her to perfection, moulding her firm flesh into pleasing contours which sent shivers of anticipation racing through her.

  Then there was the task of selecting just the right rouge and lipstick. A light mascara for her eyes. Two shades of powder, for day and for evening. A tiny vial of exquisite perfume.

  Belle attended to every detail, continually checking a growing list to be sure nothing was forgotten. The luggage department was Vergie’s inspiration just before the visit to the beauty salon. An overnight bag, a hatbox, and a huge wardrobe trunk, all with her initials inscribed in glistening gold paint while she watched. Belle accompanied her to the beauty salon, and introduced her to a competent operator whom she called Sally.

  “A finger wave,” Belle said. “Don’t you think so?”

  Sally asked her to be seated while she let down her hair. “It’s glorious.” Sally said softly. “I think the new Ingenue Bob. And … yes. A finger wave.”

  “A manicure, of course,” Belle said.

  “Leave it to me,” Sally told her. “You’ll be calling for a pair of rompers when you see yourself after I finish with you,” she told Vergie.

  Vergie blushed and moved to the chair Sally indicated.

  “I’ll be running along,” Belle told her. “Sally will call me when she’s through here. Then the hats and the slippers will finish everything up.”

  “I’m not going to begin thanking you,” Vergie said.

  “Don’t,” Belle chuckled. “I haven’t enjoyed myself quite so thoroughly for years.”

  An hour later Vergie again tried to thank Belle for her kindness.

  “Never mind that,” Belle said. “I get credit for more than seven hundred dollars worth of sales for this afternoon’s pleasure. You’re the one who deserves the thanks.”

  They stood together at the exit from the store. It was closing time, and the salesgirls were crowding out onto the sidewalk. All of Vergie’s purchases had been sent to the hotel She had changed to one of the newly purchased sports suits after having her hair done, and she wore a little red toque. Her toes felt mischievously errant as they peeped from the interstices of light sandals. She had not changed her under-garments, and felt awkwardly conscious of them.

  But there was only admiration in Belle’s eyes as she studied her. “You’re a knockout in that outfit,” she assured her. “And I’d give plenty to see you with make-up and that evening gown on. I don’t know what the plot is … but I’m betting on you to put it over. If you’re trying to escape from your past, you’ve certainly picked a swell disguise.”

  “I am trying to escape from the past,” Vergie cried. “And the plot is that I want to live. Just to have one taste of life … of freedom.”

  “Meaning men … and love,” Belle analyzed. “Don’t worry about the men. They’ll be flocking about you like bees around a rose bush. But love …? That’s different. I could …” She stopped and held out her hand. “Find it out for yourself. It’s more fun that way.”

  Vergie took her hand. It seemed to her that in the space of a few hours Belle had become the only friend she had ever known.

  She stammered something of that feeling, and Belle patted her hand as she released it.

  “That’s oke,” Belle said. “I know you’re dying to get to your room to try on everything. Take your fun where you find it. Don’t worry. You’ll find plenty. Simply make yourself available. Men, the brutes, can be trusted to do all the rest.”

  She turned and hurried back into the store. Vergie stared after her for a moment. She didn’t quite understand Belle.

  But there were other things to occupy her thoughts now. Innumera
ble exciting packages awaited her at the hotel.

  She stepped forth into the swirling throng, and felt she was one of them. Admiring masculine glances followed her and she forgot to blush.

  She wondered, if the same bellboy would be on duty at the hotel.

  CHAPTER THREE

  DISILLUSIONED

  An hour later Vergie sat nude in the midst of her purchases. Her eyes were sparkling, and a happy little smile remained fixed upon her lips. She had tried everything on. The hote room was a welter of feminine apparel. There was a great pile of cardboard boxes, wrapping paper, and twine in the corner. The new trunk stood open in the center of the room, the hatbox and overnight bag stood against the wall.

  Every available piece of furniture was draped with some article of dress. Everything seemed to fit perfectly, and each piece seemed the acme of perfection to Vergie.

  She sighed happily as she studied the disordered room. She had never known such happiness before. Arising, she started to select the articles she would wear down to dinner.

  The evening gown, of course. There was no one to warn her that she was likely to be the only guest so formally attired in the hotel dining room. She probably would have paid no heed had she been so warned. For a wild spirit of recklessness had swept away all her previous rationale. The night was glamorous with promise.

  The heavy material of the evening gown required no slip beneath. Belle had recommended a pair of scanties and a brassiere as the only necessary undergarments. There were several brassieres, of varying weights and types.

  Vergie selected one known as Youthform. A very narrow band of lace, cunningly cupped to lift the breast upward perkily, the point of the cups left open to allow the points of the breast freedom.

  Vergie tried the brassiere on again before going in to take her bath. She studied her reflection with shameless pleasure as she hooked it and adjusted it. The nipples seemed to be alive, starting forth as though they would leap from the binding.

  Vergie drew in her breath as she let her fingertips glide downward and brush the straining point of passion.