Classic Love: 7 Vintage Romances (138 page)

“You do?”

“Yes,” he said. “I would imagine you would feel the same way.”

I fiddled with the blotter on my desk. “You know I had planned to take the next two weeks as full vacation,” I said. “Did you forget that, Eric?”

“No, I know you’d planned that,” he said.

I swallowed again. “Are you coming down?” I asked.

He was quiet and thoughtful. “I don’t know what I’ll do,” he said, in a light, unaccented voice. “You see, Jan, I don’t quite know where I stand.”

I said, passionately, “Why, all of a sudden, don’t you know where you stand?”

“Jan,” he said, “I have this ineluctable feeling that one of us — perhaps both of us — is at a crossroads of some nebulous kind. That nothing is as certain as it seemed a few weeks ago.”

“That’s the way you feel,” I said, staring at my wall calendar. “
I
don’t feel that way.”

“I think you do. Maybe you aren’t conscious of it, but I think you do, Jan. And we must be wary of our next steps.”

“Does this mean you’re not going to join me at the shore at
all
?”

“As I said, I don’t know.”

I couldn’t believe it. That I had been hit, all of a sudden, with this
thing
. That, out of the blue, our whole life together was in danger. I had been dry-eyed and numb, trying to absorb Caroline Lestrange’s advice, and wisdom. Thinking that all I had to do was pass on her admonitions to Eric, take heed of them myself and then everything would be all right.

This was clearly not the case. Apparently my life was in a sorry mess, and this reasonable man over the telephone, with his measured words and calm demeanor, had suddenly become a stranger.

Or an enemy.

But
why?
I hadn’t attacked anyone, hadn’t maltreated my mother, and certainly hadn’t maliciously been traiterous toward Eric Why did he treat me like —

Like an enemy?

There was virtually nothing left to say.

I said, “I see. It’s up to you, then. At any rate, I’ll be in East Hampton for the next two weeks, beginning this week-end. You know that, and I can only add that if you decide to join me, I’ll welcome you with open arms. Be well, Eric, and for now, good-bye.”

I hung up before he could answer.

And then I escaped to the ladies’ room, went into one of the booths and cried. I hadn’t really cried that way since I was ten years old and read about Beth’s death, on the lonely seacoast with her sister Jo, in
Little Women
.

This isn’t happening to
me
, I told myself, sobbing. It simply can not be happening to me.

I got through the day, and the week, somehow, some way.

When I drove out to the Island on the next Saturday morning, there had been no word from Eric. I saw now what happened to many people. One minute you thought you had the world in the palm of your hand, and in the next, knew you had been wrong, dead wrong. You’d lost, only you hadn’t known it.

But I had gotten my aplomb back. Crying was over: I was composed, steely, and — if not philosophical — at least able to cope.

Caroline said as much when I went to say hello to her on my arrival, around three in the afternoon. “Hello, dear, sweet girl,” she said, holding out her arms. “You seem so much better. Is everything all right, then?”

“Yes, just fine,” I said. “Eric will have none of me, but I plan to go on living just the same.”

“What do you mean, he’ll have none of you?”

I shrugged. “He’s thinking things over.”

She was really shocked. “I can’t believe it’s come to that!”

“It has. And now, Caroline, not another word about it. There’s nothing more I can do and I’m just damned well going to take it in stride. I’m paying you some of my hard-earned cash for this holiday, and I’m determined to have a smashing time.”

“You’re picking up Tony’s vocabulary,” she said darkly. “No wonder your young man got the wind up.”

“Phooey.”

“I shall see that Anthony has nothing whatever to do with you.”

“Caroline, don’t you dare to — ”

“I shall put him in Coventry,” she said, decisively. “It’s just about time I showed him a thing or two.”

I had the uncomfortable feeling that she was seizing on this episode to make Anthony a scapegoat for all the men who would never be drawn to her again — as they had once been drawn in the years of youth and beauty — and whom she wanted to pay back for the harsh penalty of growing old and undesirable.

Tony Cavendish was handy as a whipping boy, and besides, he had said that awful thing to her.

“… spending large chunks of their time with lonely old ladies …”

I had the distinct feeling that Caroline Lestrange would never, in this life, forgive those unpardonable words.

• • •

No word came from Eric as the hours passed, and then the days. It was as if we had dated briefly, decided we were not compatible, and so had closed the book on that little encounter.

Or it was as if it had never been.

I began to pass almost all my vacation hours with Caroline. I might be playing bright-eyes and bushy-tailed, but I was very much in need of succor, and I took it from her. I would have bedded down at her house, if she had asked me to. The cottage had become hateful to me: it pinpointed, in every way, my aloneness.

When I wasn’t with her, she called constantly. “Are you all right, Jennie?”

And, as if I were in a sickbed in some hospital, my answer would be, “Yes, fine, better every day.”

“Come early for lunch.”

“All right, fine.”

“I’ll have extra special drinks made, and soft-shelled crabs, because you’re fond of them.”

The patient, though pretending a speedy recovery, was in need of solace.

Once Caroline said, “I don’t know why, but I have this uneasy feeling.”

“What about?” I asked.

“I don’t know, a sick trepidation … as if something terrible were going to happen.”

“Like what, Caroline?”

“I don’t know! Just … as if something dreadful was in the wind.”

We spent long hours discussing life itself.

“I know now,” she said, “what is meant by a reverence for life. That life is really very precious. That you cling to it, in spite of everything. I never would have thought it true, that when you lose everything — your beauty, health, enthusiasm, all those things and so much more — that you can still find pleasure in living. Breathing, resting, being comfortable, tasting.”

She broke off abruptly. “My suicide attempt — did that shock you?”

“No.”

“It would some.”

“It doesn’t me.”

“You have compassion about other people’s lives. That’s one reason I prize you. I love you for it.”

“No one amounts to anything without compassion.”

“True.” She made a face. “I’m afraid, when I was your age, I didn’t have much of it. Admittedly, I was a selfish sort. Well, I still am. Only fairly recently, I admit I’ve learned to think of others. When you lose just about everyone your own age, when you’re the last of your generation, you stop holding yourself so dear. What are you, when it comes right down to it? Look at me, half blind, half crippled, totally unappetizing as a woman. Who wants you? Who gives a damn? So your mind starts growing feelers, antennae. You start noticing others. It’s a kind of painful process; you begin seeing suffering in others. It’s like that fairy tale of Hans Christian Andersen about the Little Mermaid. She loves a mortal, and she asks for legs, to be mortal too. And you remember how it hurts? The poor thing walks on those legs and feels any amount of pain — she suffers. Because now she’s human, and comes to understand human suffering.
There
’s a fine allegory for you! And I, comparing myself to the Little Mermaid. Well, in a way I am.”

She stirred restlessly. “Am I making any sense? Probably not. I’ve an undisciplined mind, always did have. What I’m trying to say is that I’ve been humbled. Cut down to size. Age is a great leveler. What we once were counts no longer. You get old and it comes down to the creature comforts, that’s the size of it. Lying on cool sheets, with a soft breeze blowing over you, smelling nice smells — the sea, the newly cut grass. Waking up to sunlight, thinking of breakfast as you smell Claire’s bacon on the griddle.”

“But all that’s so
heartening
,” she said, turning a beaming face on me. “You
appreciate
it. Just those little things! Smells and cool sheets and bacon frying.”

She sat quietly, looking out to sea. After awhile she spoke again. “I’ll tell you one thing,” she said, turning back to me. “I won’t try suicide again. In fact, I no longer want to die. Oh, not that I
fear
death. That was never the case. I was always totally contemptuous of danger. The thought that I might be killed, in a car accident, or whatever, never fazed me. And I’ll always be that way, contemptuous of hazards.”

She smiled fondly at me. “I guess you’ve made a difference to me. Don’t be embarrassed, Jennie. You
have
made a difference. Anyway, I find myself prizing my life. That’s good, isn’t it?” she asked, like a child wanting to know if her behavior was commendable.

“Yes,” I said. “It’s good. It’s very good, Caroline.” I laughed. “I’m glad you’re not suicidal, that you’re not contemplating jumping out a window. It would spoil my summer, and I wouldn’t want that.”

She laughed delightedly. “Why, of course that’s the
main
reason,” she cried. “Not to spoil your summer.”

So the two of us were very close. She was like a duenna, a guardian, seeing to it that Anthony Cavendish was never at my disposal, and thinking up little treats for me, scheduling pleasant drives through the countryside, lunches at attractive inns and, a few times, a movie.

Peter’s attentions she encouraged; she never tried to interfere whenever he suggested some jaunt for the two of us. Peter and I drove, rode horseback and biked. He was quietly “pressing his suit,” and, why not? I was, having been written off by Eric, fair game.

I spent a lot of time with Peter. I was giving him some thought. I think we canvased every reputable hostelry, for lunches, dinners, and even breakfasts, in the immediate vicinity. We became known, as a matter of fact, as a twosome, and at one place, an attractive cocktail bar, had our “theme song.” I had been asked for a request number, one afternoon over drinks, and had casually chosen, “The Last Time I Saw Paris.” Thereafter, when we patronized that place, the pianist would break off whatever he had been playing and would welcome us with a swing into the sentimental song.

It would have all been very romantic, if it hadn’t been for Eric’s being in the wings. Absent or not, he was most decidedly still on my mind.

I kept reminding myself that I had found Eric by chance and might very well have lost him in just such a random fashion. That our year together could very well have been just that — ships passing in the night and then going on to other destinations.

In which case, why not Peter Lestrange?

I found him not unattractive in a physical sense. Rather, I was predisposed to his kind of looks. My father, for example, was just such a stocky sort in build, and even the two facial structures were similar. That I adored my father was no secret to him, to my siblings, or to my mother. Mother was a pal: my Dad was someone I adored unabashedly. An Elektra I might not be, in the full sense, but there was no man I had ever met who outshone my male parent. Eric had come closest to rivalling him.

Peter? He was, admittedly, a runner-up.

There was no compelling, sexual attraction, as there was with Tony Cavendish. But, as the psychologists insist, sexual attraction does not a lasting marriage make. “Something else” takes its place. And I could envision that something else. A hearty, loving companionship and a solid foundation for an enduring marriage. Children. Other lasting things.

Marrying Peter would mean a beautiful home with delights within, lovely china, silverware, fur coats, comfort. Freedom from monetary worries, an untroubled life. Breathes there a woman with soul so dead, who never to herself has said, “Give me pleasure or give me death?”

I didn’t claim to be different from most in every way. I too could consider a life of enjoyment.

I too could dream of a Fleetwood, chauffeur-driven, in front of a Park Avenue apartment, an apartment with seven or fourteen rooms, with a cook, a housekeeper, a nanny for the kids, and no harder work to think about but going over the week’s menu with the cook. Everything going for me, and no troubling about my old age.

My old age would be spent traveling to European climes with a doting husband, rooms at the Ritz, a masseuse, hairdresser, podiatrist, you name it.

A life of ease.

Who doesn’t have fantasies like that?

Eric couldn’t give me that. No man I had ever met could give me that.

Nevertheless, Peter was a slow strategist. Methodical, careful, not given to rash impulses. Peter was feeling me out, and himself as well. He didn’t “sweep me off my feet.”

His face might light up when we were greeted, at that chic little cocktail bar, with “the song.” He might grasp my arm and look into my face with possessiveness and pleasure.

But he was playing it close to the vest. He didn’t want to rush things. He was no pushover.

For my part, I thought it was better so. Commitment was a strong word.

Young Tom, too, had become a frequent visitor at Caroline’s. It seemed as though Caroline had just discovered a young boy’s appeal, taken note of a stripling approaching manhood. I don’t think she had ever given Tom Lestrange a thought, but at this moment in time she turned to him too, for companionship in her old age.

As for me, well, Tom was precious to me. In the mornings, at breakfast … pebbles thrown at my window. Such a silly thing to be glad about. But I was glad, and for his presence at my table. Picking up the crisped bacon in eager fingers: “Wow, this is great, Jan.” Watching him wolf down the meals I made for him. And sometimes, when Caroline was indisposed and I was on my own for dinner, he would share a meal with me out on the patio. He and I, throwing a steak on the barbecue, or a piece of fileted sole. The two of us, cheering when the flames ignited and the food began searing on the grill. He would say, “Doesn’t it make your mouth water … the smell of it, Jan?”