DANA PLAYS HOSTESS ON THE PATIO
1925
GRACIELA HAD PREPARED A FEAST.
Thin steaks saturated in her secret pepper marinade, grilled to the palest pink, and served with a corn relish salad and a variety of fresh fruit. There was a ginger-ale punch and rich chocolate cake, too—all laid out with the best china and serving dishes on the back patio table.
Dana had never seen a table set so prettily. Since she’d arrived, they’d taken their meals in the kitchen—she, Celeste, and Graciela—companionably, and often with very simple fare. Roast chicken one evening, diced into a salad and served on a leaf of lettuce for the next day’s lunch. Breakfast often nothing more than a scrambled egg, though often Celeste slept too late and woke too grumpy for anything more than toast and coffee, hold the toast. Dana, on the other hand, sat down for every meal with a hearty appetite and a grateful palate.
“What did they feed you in that place?” Graciela asked the first time Dana sat at the kitchen table.
“Soup, mostly. And bread. Beans and potatoes.”
The first night Graciela made a dish of meat wrapped in round bread called a
tortilla
, served with cheese and sauce. It was rich
and spicy, unlike anything Dana could ever have imagined. She ate two platefuls, long after her shrunken stomach warned her to stop, while Celeste laughed.
“Keep that up, you’re going to be as fat as Mother. Or at least as fat as she was before she got sick.”
“Hush,” Graciela chastised. “Do not speak bad about your mama. She was a—”
It was obvious that she was about to say that Marguerite DuFrane was a good woman, but everybody gathered knew that wasn’t true.
Having grown accustomed to the constant and informal companionship of the two women, such a feast as Graciela had now prepared, with a late lunchtime set for two o’clock, was strange indeed. Stranger still, the number of settings at the table: four.
“Who is going to join us?” Dana asked. As soon as Graciela was distracted, she snatched a chunk of melon from the fruit plate.
“Ay-yi!” Graciela made a soft swat of her hand. “Now there’s a gap.” She went about filling in the missing spot by rearranging the remaining fruit, tsking good-naturedly. “There. Take some cheese. I have too much on the plate.”
Dana obeyed, helping herself to one more piece of fruit since Graciela was rearranging it anyway. Had somebody told her a year ago that she would be standing on a stone-tiled patio, looking out over a lush garden, and feasting on exotic fruit and cheeses, welcome to all she wanted and more, she would have dismissed him as a cruel, delusional fool. She’d finished most of her snack when she realized Graciela hadn’t answered her question, so she repeated it.
“No sé.”
She’d picked up enough of Graciela’s Spanish to translate that she was claiming not to know who was coming to lunch, and she’d lived in the house long enough to learn there
was absolutely nothing Graciela didn’t know. This was her way of delaying any delivery of bad news.
“Celeste didn’t tell you?”
“That man, Mr. Lundi—him. And someone else, too.”
Dana studied the plates on the table. “Two guests. Shall we set another place?”
“When Mr. Lundi is here, I eat in the kitchen.”
“Oh.” She was about to protest such an injustice, but Graciela’s winking delivery made it clear that the choice was entirely hers.
Just then Celeste arrived, wearing a gauzy, peach-colored dress trimmed with silk at the neckline and sleeves. Her head, too, was wrapped in a wide silk scarf, knotted behind one ear and flowing over her shoulder.
“Dana, darling, go upstairs. I’ve laid out something lovely for you. Celine from Les Femmes en Vogue sent it over with some other things they want me to model. This, for example.” She struck a dramatic pose. “But the one I left upstairs just isn’t right for me. A bit too matronly, but perfect for you.”
Graciela chided her for the backhanded compliment, but Dana took it in stride. “I’m sure I’ll be fine.” She was wearing a plain skirt and blouse. What the saleslady had called “serviceable” when she went to the department store the day before boarding the train in Chicago.
“Really? Even if Werner joins us for lunch?”
The suggestion brought her to absentmindedly finger the unremarkable cotton of her sleeve, remembering the feeling of silk against her skin as she gazed across the darkness at the twinkling starlike lights in the valley. And then, later, when they returned to the party, he never once left her side, reassuring her that she looked every bit as beautiful as any woman in attendance. He had to lean close to speak into her ear, so close that she felt the faint
brush of his whiskers against her cheek, giving the word
beautiful
life as he spoke it.
That was two weeks ago, and while Celeste had been gone night after night to one party or another, Dana had been home, spending quiet evenings playing rummy with Graciela, eating sugar-coated pastel pastries that melted on her tongue as if they’d never existed at all.
“What do you mean by
matronly
?” The word hadn’t meant a thing when Celeste first uttered it.
“Honestly?” Celeste bit her lip in a rare show of uncertainty. “It’s a bit too big for me. And you’ve become, shall we say,
healthier
lately.”
“Ay! Chica moderna.”
Graciela made a dismissive gesture. “All of you girls today are too skinny. All bones and elbows, like sticks in all your fancy clothes. This one had an excuse to be nothing but skin and bones,
escuálida
. Couldn’t even stand up straight. You remember?”
Dana did. She also remembered the weariness in her bones, but mostly because everything seemed so
vast
here. The walk from the drive to the door had felt like a mile, and the stairs? Only the promise of a bed gave her the strength to mount them, pulling herself hand over hand up the banister.
“I happen to think it will look better on you,” Celeste said. “Go see. I left you stockings, too. And feel free to go into my closet for a hat. You’ll know the one when you see it.”
Dana thanked her and maintained her composure until she hit the stairs. She’d never run up them before, but she did at that moment, feeling lighter than Celeste would ever believe.
Immediately upon seeing the dress, she understood Celeste’s reasoning. It was a beautiful garment, deep blue with draping across the bodice and peacock feathers painted directly onto the
skirt. Even having lived hidden away from changing fashions, Dana knew this was a dress meant for a woman, not a girl of twenty. In addition to a pair of stockings with a subtle feathering pattern along the seams, Celeste had left her a long string of painted wooden beads and a pair of patent-leather camel pumps fitted with blue ribbon.
Though she watched the transformation unfold in the mirror, the final effect was stunning. Not like the black silk and sequins she’d worn to the premiere. That was Celeste’s dress; Dana had been nothing but the body within. This, as far as she knew, had never been worn by anyone, and it touched every point as if it had been designed, cut, and sewn to her figure’s specifications.
Figure.
Thirty-two years old, and she’d never given the word a thought. She placed her hands on her hips and studied herself from all angles. “Healthier,” Celeste had said. Health in the roundness of her bust and hips. A nipped-in waist, a curve to her calves, and cheekbones hidden beneath a new softness.
Accepting her style guardian’s offer of a hat, Dana ventured into Celeste’s room to collect. Despite the general unruliness of the closet, she did find the ideal match—a bell-shaped cloche with a ribbon that perfectly matched the color in the eyes of the peacock feathers on the skirt. But trying it on, and tugging it down to the angle she knew to be the most alluring, she was disappointed at the shadow its brim cast on her face. They weren’t leaving home, after all, and were eating on a shaded patio. Celeste herself wasn’t wearing a hat, but a pretty scarf that showed her face to its best.
I want him to see me.
She clutched her stomach at the thought.
I want him to look at me.
A jar of pink lotion sat amid a dozen other bottles on top of the bureau. Dana took a dollop and, after rubbing most of it
into her hands, ran her fingers through her casually unruly hair, bringing new definition. She twisted and shaped and created a part above her right eye, encouraging the curls to follow. Pawing through Celeste’s cluttered dresser top and drawers, she found a jeweled hair clip, which she slid into the mass at her left temple.
All the while, she hummed a languid tune she remembered from the party that night. It played on the radio often enough to be familiar, and Werner had caught her off guard, leading her onto the dance floor before she could protest, and holding her close in the gathered mass of people. Just one dance, and she’d insisted on returning to her seat. Whatever terror she felt was now long forgotten.
The chime of the front door startled her from her reverie. Quickly, she powdered her nose and touched up her lips, having become quite adept at the art of makeup. The house knew its share of visitors, but Celeste had driven home the fact that Graciela was to open the door, greet the visitor, and instruct that person to wait until either Celeste came to the entryway, or she summoned the party to be escorted to wherever she’d set herself up for receiving. Apparently it was that kind of thing that made her a star.
At this moment, Dana was grateful for the protocol, as the bravado that constituted her self-admiration soon dissipated at the idea of coming face-to-face with Werner. All of a sudden, her voluptuousness seemed vulgar, her makeup garish, the jeweled clip an overreaching attempt at youth. She glanced at her reflection again, decidedly less pleased with the image looking back at her. She fidgeted with the dress, thinking she might beg off lunch after all. But she wanted to see him; moreover, she wanted him to see her. First, before filling his eyes with Celeste in all her unmatronly, dewy-fresh, peach-gauzy glory.
Three deep breaths, and she descended the stairs. Slowly,
alluringly, as she’d seen Celeste do when she wanted to make an impactful entrance, and was rewarded—somewhat—for her efforts.
“Baby doll! Baby doll, look at you.” Roland Lundi, wearing an impeccable pale-pink suit, waited at the foot of the staircase.
Dana smiled, amused, and extended her hand. “Good afternoon, Mr. Lundi.”
He pulled her close and planted a stylish kiss on each of her cheeks. His own skin was warm and smooth, like she imaged a lizard basking in the sun might feel to the touch. “Seeing you all dolled up like this, I don’t know if I want to get you in the movies or get you down the aisle.”
He was somehow more handsome now than he had been the day she met him. His skin a deeper tan, his hair a glossier black, with isolated gray strands few enough to be counted, and artfully placed.
“And wouldn’t you be absolutely terrified if she took you up on your offer?” Celeste breezed into their presence, Graciela trailing behind her, and Roland repeated his affectionate greeting.
“You got me there, baby. No offense, sister.”
“None taken,” Dana assured.
“Besides, I’m holding out for this
mamá
here.” He waggled his brows and gave Graciela a playful grin before the two of them launched into a spirited Spanish dialogue that ended with Graciela fanning her blushing face, and Roland twisting his pinkie ring in a gesture of triumph.
“Dame tu sombrero,”
Graciela said, holding her hand out for Roland’s straw boater.
“You be careful with that. Cost me three clams at the pier.”
Graciela’s retort made him hoot.
The three had arrived at the doors leading to the patio when
the bell rang once again. By this time, Roland’s witty banter had put Dana completely at ease, and she’d almost forgotten to be nervous about Werner’s arrival. She must have expressed her renewed anxiety because Celeste offered a comforting squeeze and said, “You look lovely, really.”
The sideboard held four sugar-rimmed glasses and a pitcher of fruit punch festooned with bouncing lemon slices. Roland took on the role of bartender and poured for each of the ladies, and then a third with a splash from his flask for himself.
“Bit early in the day for that, isn’t it, Lundi?” Werner crossed the threshold onto the patio, delivering a handshake with the good-natured accusation.
“Or late in the afternoon. Whatever’s your pleasure.” He poured a glass of punch for Werner and offered to add a bit of liquor to it.
“No, thank you. In deference to our host. I would hate to see Hollywood’s newest star in the newspapers for a liquor raid.” Werner kissed Celeste’s cheek in delayed greeting, then made his way around the table to offer the same to Dana, saying, “You look lovely.”
She’d had at least seven steps to prepare herself for his touch and must have felt like a wooden Indian in reaction to his appropriate, friendly embrace. It occurred to her to be annoyed at the fact that nobody took the time to tell Celeste that
she
looked lovely too, which she did—like something pretty enough to adorn the table. But then again, that kind of beauty was a given for Celeste. For Dana, it appeared to be almost the working of a miracle, and she fiddled with the jeweled hair clip in self-consciousness.
“Everybody, please.” Celeste invited them to sit, she opposite Roland, and Dana facing Werner. He was wearing a lightweight argyle sweater over a starched white shirt, and though his hair had
more gray in it than Roland’s, its perpetual disarray made him appear much younger. No more than forty, she guessed, finding him to seem younger and younger with each meeting. Soon they’d be the same age.
No sooner had they settled than Graciela appeared carrying a large wooden bowl and a clear glass pitcher of fresh water. She filled each glass, then set the pitcher on the sideboard.
“Ensalada?”
“Gracias,”
Celeste said and allowed Graciela to fill her plate with a mixture of greens and peppers tossed with a tangy spiced oil. Finished, she was about to leave when Werner asked her to stay while he, with Celeste’s permission, blessed the meal. The four around the table took hands, and Graciela stood just behind Celeste, making her familiar sign of the cross right before and after the brief prayer.