Read Return to Peyton Place for Free Online Page B

brain. It must be cobwebs that make me have such impossible ideas the first thing in the morning.”
    She bent to the task. Holding the shovel with its familiar, worn handle in her mittened hands, she hoped that work as mechanical as removing snow would deaden her too active mind, would stop the endless brooding on the novel and its fate. Allison had finally to admit to herself that the novel was more than a book, more than a job of work— her whole life depended on it. She could imagine herself only as the author of Samuel's Castle. If she was not that, she was not anything.
    It was eleven-thirty in the morning when Allison came in from outside. She was stamping snow from her boots when she heard the phone ring, and picked up the extension in the kitchen.
    â€œHello, Allison?” It was Bradley Holmes.
    It can't be. It can't be, Allison said over and over in her head. Wishes don't come true just like this. “Yes, Brad,” she said into the receiver, trying not to reveal her intense excitement.
    â€œSit down, darling,” he said. “I've got wonderful news for you!”
    It can't be. It can't be. Please, God, let it be.
    â€œAllison? Allison, can you hear me?”
    â€œYes, Brad, I can hear you. Don't shout.”
    â€œI've sold your book!” he shouted.
    Constance was making Allison's bed when she heard her daughter shout.
    â€œMother! Come quick!”
    Dear God, thought Constance, and ran for the stairs. She's hurt herself.
    Allison was crying into the telephone. “Yes,” she was sobbing. “I can hear you, Brad. I can hear you.”
    â€œIt can't be,” cried Constance, and grabbed for the phone.
    â€œThis is Constance Rossi,” she said. “What happened?”
    â€œI sold Allison's book to Jackman,” said Brad. “She'll have to come to New York on Monday.”
    â€œJackman,” repeated Constance stupidly. “Monday.”
    â€œTell her to call me and let me know what train or plane she's coming on. I'll meet her. And tell her I'll make reservations for her at the Plaza. Jackman, I think, is going to put everything behind this book. I have the feeling Allison will soon be able to afford the best hotels and she ought to start getting used to them.”
    â€œYes, Mr. Holmes. Good-by, Mr. Holmes,” said Constance.
6
    C HESTNUT S TREET WAS a wide, tree-shaded avenue which ran parallel to Elm Street, one block south of the main thoroughfare. Chestnut Street had always been, and still was, considered to be the “best” street in Peyton Place. Every town has its Chestnut Street. On the hottest summer day, the Chestnut Streets are cooler than all the others. The houses that line these streets always indicate, unmistakably, that they were built at a time when servants were cheap and plentiful, and that the owners could afford them. To the people who live on the other streets, those houses are always mysterious. One thinks of secret rooms and hidden staircases.
    There had never been any danger that anyone undesirable would find his way to Chestnut Street, for each great house was surrounded on all sides by the land of the individual owner. The land was “Old Land,” acres of ground that had belonged to the families who had come to live in the shadow of Samuel Peyton's castle when the castle was new.
    The men who lived on Chestnut Street were the life's blood of Peyton Place. They were the men with money and position and, therefore, the men who were in control.
    â€œTakes more than money to run a town,” said Dr. Matthew Swain to his friend Seth Buswell. “Folks'll take just so much of cottoning down to money and then they say to hell with it.”
    â€œThen the ungrateful bastards unionize,” said Leslie Harrington before Seth could answer. “I can't open.”
    The men of Chestnut Street were gathered at the home of Matthew Swain for one of their Friday night poker games. These games had become legend