CHAPTER 8
CLAYTON LE CLAIRE AWOKE LISTENING to the chimes of the grandfather clock strike ten. Must have gone to sleep, he thought. He yawned and stretched his masculine legs far out in front of him. He settled back in the chair, feeling the stiffness in his limbs. I'm tired, he thought and his hand came up slowly, fumbling with his cravat. He drew it off and tossed it on a table. Then he unbuttoned his starched collar, and slumped back in the chair. His face glowed with a healthy color that only the sun and the wind could give, and his dark black hair glistened with oil. A small curl fell carelessly over the broad forehead. He looked more like a spoiled boy than a father of a seventeen-year-old son, but his tightly drawn, wrinkled, trousers plainly showed his manhood. His deep blue eyes, set close together, were shadowed by heavy lashes, full dark eyebrows, and under his Roman nose the thin, pencil-line mustache moved.
I'm tired, he thought again. Too damn tired … wonder if they're coring? Guess I should be there … oh, to hell with the damn well … they know what to do … I'd like to sell out and take a long trip … wonder if Gay would like to see Europe? The rewards of hard work … we all need a trip and I can afford it now … Carol's worked hard too … she's helped me. Damn, she's helped me so many ways … and Gay …
Gay. Even to think the name was like a cry in the brightness of his heart. Gaylord … he was almost grown now … time flew by so swiftly … too swiftly. He looked at a tinted picture in a silver frame on the carved mahogany breakfront, remembering the day it was taken. Let's see, he thought, was Gay only three when that was taken? He recalled his wife had made the white dress … he had fussed when she had put lace around the neck and sleeves; and he remembered who the outstretched hand, holding a rubber ball, was pointing to …
