As Long as I Live

Emilie Loring

Description

Joan Crofton had come to Boston to take a job at a prominent advertising agency. She loved her job -- it was stimulating and exciting -- but from the moment she had met Craig Lamont, the owner of the agency, her acquaintance with him had been marred by misunderstandings. To begin with, Craig had accused her of stealing her own drawings! Then, just as Joan begins to acknowledge her growing feelings for Craig, she finds out that he is in love with someone else. Perhaps moving from New York to Boston was just one big mistake.

Sujets

• Romance historique
• 20th Century
• Historical
• Romance
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Rare Treasure Editions
• Date de parution: 12 mai 2022
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781773238500
• Langue: English

Extrait

As Long as I Live
by Emilie Loring

Firstpublished in 1937
Thisedition published by Rare Treasures
Victoria,BC Canada with branch offices in the Czech Republic and Germany
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All rightsreserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted inany form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, includingphotocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrievalsystem, except in the case of excerpts by a reviewer, who may quotebrief passages in a review.

To
ROBERT MELVILLE LORING
The names of all characters in this novel are fictitious. If the name of any living person has been used it is coincidence
AS LONG AS I LIVE
by Emilie Loring
I
T he elevator shot to the fourteenth floor.
“Far’s we go,” announced the grim-faced operator.The crow’s feet deepened at the corners of hisfretful eyes as he glowered at the girl who was theonly other occupant of the car.
“Down,” she answered.
She colored as he looked at her curiously. Doubtlessand with reason, he thought her a little mad. She hadentered the car on the ground floor and custom warrantedthe expectation that she would leave it at onefloor or another, but on the way up her courage hadoozed through her fingertips.
“Quitter!” she berated herself as she was droppedearthward with breath-snatching speed. “One wouldthink this was the first time you had approached anadvertising agency, Joan Crofton. Your work was acceptedby several firms in New York. Will you letBoston frighten you?”
She strengthened her morale by repeating to herselfa bit from a Thomas Burke novel she had memorizedto use as a prod on just such an occasion as the present.
“Life is a one-way road and once you’ve got on aparticular road the law says, keep straight on. Andyou’ve got to, whether you want to go that way or not.”
The present was undoubtedly one of those one-waythoroughfares. She must keep straight on if she intendedto reach her goal of financial independence.Did she intend to? She did. She loved her work, it wasstimulating, exciting, besides, the income from thetrust fund her father had inherited should be usedto keep up a dignified, and beautiful home, with a bitof travel on the side for her parents. It was up to theirdaughters to provide the luxuries and smart clothingwhich they loved, for themselves.
She tightened her grip on the portfolio under her arm.The feel of it stiffened her determination and incidentallyher spinal cord. Hadn’t every proof betweenthose black covers been accepted, published and paidfor?
The operator clanged open the elevator door.
“Street.”
“Out eight!” Joan said.
She regarded the man coolly as he stared at her.
“Ridin’ for yer health?” he inquired caustically.He winked at the starter in his gold-braided uniformand tapped his forehead.
“Round and round,” he muttered before he clangedshut the door.
The car shot up and stopped with a tooth-looseningjerk.
“Eight,” the man growled.
“Thanks, thanks very much. It’s almost like havinga private car, isn’t it? Don’t you ever have passengers?With your sunny nature I would think they’d flockhere.”
“That’s a come-back for intimating that my braingoes round and round,” Joan told herself as she steppedto the corridor. She heard the operator mutter as thecar ascended.
Before her courage had a chance to ooze she turnedthe knob on a door marked Craig Lamont, Inc. It wasthe firm on the list of Boston advertising agencies givenher in New York which Mrs. Shaw, her next door neighbor—ifone could call a six acre estate next door—hadadvised her to try first.
She entered an unpartitioned space. There were adozen desks at which sat men and girls. On her leftwere three doors which doubtless opened into privateoffices. The room was spacious, airy, flooded with light,a-click with typewriters, a-stir with salesmen going outwith brief cases, giving place to others who sat down toconfer with men at desks. The activity stimulated her,filled her with a tingling zest to make good.
In her immediate vicinity a girl presided at aswitchboard. Joan had time only to think that she wasthe plainest person she ever had seen, to appreciate thesmartness of her hair-cut and ensemble before theoperator inquired crisply;
“Appointment?”
“No. I would like to see the art director. May I?”Joan inquired with the smile her father had told hermade him want to pull down the moon and hand it toher.
“Okay, I’ll try for the A. D.”
“The A. D.?”
“Art director, Tony Crane. Lucky it’s him insteadof the boss, in case you care. Say, did Mr. Lamont comein with a grouch after lunch? I’m telling you. Musthave lost an account.” She plugged in a switch. “Longdistance calling, Mr. Parks.”
Joan drew off her gloves and surreptitiously kickedoff the shiny black rubbers she had bought near themotor mart where she had left her sedan when she hadobserved that the city streets were rivers of slush inspite of the fact that overhead it was a turquoise andgold day. She couldn’t keep her mind on an interviewwhen aware of those glittering pedal extremities. Besidesthe art director might have a galoshes inhibition.Trivial events ofttimes had decided the fate of nations,how much more likely that they would affect the fateof drawings.
With her eyes on the gleaming gilded dome of theState House flanked on one side by the Stars and Stripesand on the other by the fluttering white of the Stateflag against a clear blue sky, she mentally rehearsedher approach to the object of her visit to the accompanimentof the telephone operator’s incessant answer,plug and call.
A woman came out of an office, a woman in smartblack which accentuated the red-gold of her hair. Fromthe threshold she flung back;
“I shall peteetion the Court here and I shall not gifup eef I haf to carry the case to the Supreme Court.”
“American slightly denatured with Spanish,” Joandecided. The throaty voice sent little chills sprintingthrough her veins. The woman’s face was as cold andperfect as that of a marble Venus. A face with cruel,greedy, glittering eyes, green as huge emeralds, andscarlet lips.
“Good-afternoon, Mrs. Lamont,” the girl at theswitchboard murmured as she passed.
The woman looked at her as if she were a revoltingspecimen in a zoo, drew her silver fox skins with theirknot of gardenias about her shoulders and swept by ina wave of perfume. As the outer door closed the operatorwrinkled a disdainful nose in its direction andsnapped;
“That seems to be that, sugar!”
She plugged in a switch. Spoke into the receiver;
“Mr. Janvers is in the A. D.’s office, Mr. Lamont.”
She said to Joan;
“You’ll have to wait a few minutes.”
Joan waited, interested in the stir and activity abouther. An office door banged open. This time it was aman who paused on the threshold to declare angrily;
“I’m through. Because you’ve built up my business,you think you can go ahead without consulting me,think I ain’t got ideas of my own. I’ll show you! I’mgoing to the Bard Agency now. Perhaps there’ll besomeone in that outfit who’ll put over my advertisingas I want it done. Good-bye!” He slammed the door.
“Gosh, this seems to be the Lamont Agency’s Tobascoday,” the switchboard girl snapped.
As the man approached, Joan observed the angryredness of his face, the sheen of his black hair belowthe rakish brim of his soft hat, the fine lines whichradiated from the corners of his protruding glass-marbleeyes as if etched with a sharp point; the red carnationin the lapel of his perfectly cut coat, his spats, thepolish of his shoes which was only a degree less shiningthan his hair. He might be forty. More likely fifty. Hestraightened his tie and threw an oblique glance at her.As the outer door closed behind him, Joan asked in awhisper;
“Was that Mr. Lamont?”
The girl at the switchboard sniffed contempt.
“That eye-roller the boss? Guess again. That wasJanvers of the Straight As A Crow Flies Bus Line. Hecan’t pass anything in skirts without throwing backhis shoulders and straightening his tie. He started asa taxi driver. His business headquarters are in theMiddle West but he spends one month in every three inBoston and we handle all his publicity. He’s alwaysflying off the handle like that. Hope we haven’t lost hisaccount. It’s a big one. I’ll try now for the A. D.”
She plugged in a switch, spoke into the transmitter.A voice rumbled in reply. She answered;
“He is? You will? Okay, I’ll send her in.”
Joan was aware that the girl took in every detail ofher tailored blue suit, the sheer blouse with its crispjabot, her hat, the star sapphire on her third finger,even her blue shoes before she sniffed and approvedbitterly;
“Don’t be jittery. You’ll make the grade. You’ve gotwhat it takes. Art directors like ’em good-looking evenif they can’t draw. Third door on the left.”
“I don’t like to talk about myself, but I can draw,”Joan assured with a smile.
It seemed to her that she traveled miles before sheentered a room the walls of which were hung with originalsketches, some in black and white, more in color.A tall man standing at the window turned.
As his eyes met hers they seemed to lift her heart anddrop it. It was the breath-snatching sensation she hadwhen an elevator shot down suddenly, it was like havingnerves she hadn’t known were there, shocked alive bya surge of excitement. His black hair had one rebelliouskink, two straight lines cut deep between his amazinglybrilliant wide-set hazel eyes, eyes clear, clean, compelling,the line of his finely modeled, sensitive mouthwas tense, his skin was bronzed.
In a mirror behind him she appraised herself as shemight the drawing of a head. Chestnut hair, naturalwave, nice hairline, area from cheekbone to ear commendedby artists, a bit of slant to deep blue eyesalight with warmth and sparkle, lashes long, dark, gold-tipped,plenty of color in cheeks and lips—she wasglad now that she had decided against make-up. On thewhole, clean-cut type. Not too bad if this art director“liked ’em good-looking” and she could draw. Luckythat an inner voice