Classic Love: 7 Vintage Romances (158 page)

They wound up at a coffee shop on MacDougal Street, for espresso. It was a wonderfully atmospheric place where a hi-fi piped Schubert’s
Death and the Maiden
into the Italianate, ornate room, and where they got into conversation with a couple sitting at a neighboring table.

Celia, the young wife, was dark and piquant, not so much pretty as poetic-looking. Bob, her husband, was tall, reed-thin and wry. “We had a fight before coming here,” he confided. “Celia’s mother made me mad as a wet hen. I told her we were going to have a good steak dinner somewhere. She said, in that maddening way she has, that you didn’t have a steak dinner, which is — according to Celia’s mother — a vulgarism. You have a good
steak.
You
never
have a good steak dinner. Or a good chicken dinner. You get the distinction, I hope?”

“Oh, shut up,” Celia said, good-naturedly.

“A snob is a snob is a snob,” Bob said. “Deliver me from prosperous matrons who live at the Ritz Towers.”

“Why don’t you drop it?” Celia said, still amenable. “Let’s enjoy. I’d like some pastry.”

“Can we join tables?” her husband asked, and they joined tables.

“This is Dinah Mason and I’m Dick Claiborne.”

“Bob Harrison. My wife Celia.”

It was one of those evenings of which the stuff of dreams were made. Nothing was consequential; the conversation was hit or miss and who were Bob and Celia anyway? Yet Dinah wanted to spread her arms around them, include them in her euphoria. It was all young and adventurous and incalculable. Nothing was planned, sensible or had a future. There was only the background music and the gingerbready Neapolitan coffee shop where bearded students clustered with their girls, talking about Céline and Genêt, about Timothy Leary and Jane and Paul Bowles, and the hot, steaming aroma of the bitter coffee.

“I’ve had a lovely day,” Dinah murmured, when they stood outside the Wallaces’ Park Avenue building. “It was fun all the way through.”

“Me too.” He came closer to her, and she was aware of the male smell of him, of his light-weight tweed jacket, his shaving lotion and his own, faint, personal smell. She hadn’t given more than a fleeting thought to Mike Corby all day, but she did now, and a kind of sadness swept through her when she considered that she had dated Mike for more than a year and not once had she felt this sense of involvement with him.

Poor Mike. Or perhaps, poor her. Because — and she might just as well admit it — she was already half in love with Dick Claiborne. Where
that
might lead her, she had no idea.

She deftly fielded his forward surge, and his kiss landed on her forehead. “Thanks, it’s been lovely,” she said, gave him her hand in a quick brush and walked into the lobby. “Yes, a very nice time,” she told Mrs. Wallace, who was still awake when she looked in on her. “How about a back rub?”

“Not tonight. Get some sleep. I’m glad you had fun, Dinah. The girls were very good tonight. I think you’re instilling some discipline into them.” She rolled over, settling her afflicted limb om a relatively comfortable position. “I’ve just taken a Tuinal. I’ll sleep, I think. See you in the morning.”

“Good night.”

“Um, Dinah?”

“Yes, Mrs. Wallace?”

“You’re a sweet girl. I hope you’ll be happy.”

It was sentimentality, born of the gratuitous effects of a sleeping pill, but it was nice to hear. She went off to bed in a glow. Next Thursday she would see Dick again. He had asked her on the way home, in the taxi.
“What night do you have off?”

She fell asleep remembering the music of the carousel. The music of eternal enchantment, Dick had called it.
I never thought anything like this would happen
, she thought. How wonderful that it did.

Just the same … poor Mike …

Poor Mike called early the next morning. “What are your days off?” he asked. “And your evenings.”

“Well, it’s a little harried here,” she fenced nervously. “I’m sure it will be easier next week, though, Mike.”

“What do you mean? Surely you’re not working seven days a week?”

“It’s just this first week … the first week or two. Mrs. Wallace is totally helpless. Just as soon as things get better organized, Mike.”

“Now wait,” he said. “You’re not working around the clock, are you?”

“This is
truly
a trying case,” she insisted, feeling lower than a garden slug. “I just can’t foresee when I’ll be able to get away. It will have to be improvised for a while. Of course I’ll let you know.”

There was a momentary silence. Then, “Don’t you have
any
idea of what arrangements they’re going to make for you?” he asked.

“Not
yet.
The poor woman is … Mike, she’s in an enormous cast, and in considerable pain and discomfort. And there are the children, two of them. Just little kids, needing constant attention. And poor Mr. Wallace.”

“Let Mrs. Wallace worry about Mr. Wallace,” he said. “Listen, I’ll be waiting for a call, Dinah. You figure something out. I’ll be damned if I’m going to sit still for these people exploiting your good nature. You just — ”

“Don’t worry, it will work out in time,” she said. “I have to dash now. I hear her bell; she’s ringing for me.”

“Let her stew for a while.”

“Unfeeling beast. Honestly, I must go.”

“Call me then. I’ll be waiting.”

“Will do. Be good.”

“That goes double,” he said, and Dinah hung up.

She called Jean right away. “Will you do a favor for me?” she asked. “I’m in a quandary about Mike.”

“Who’s Richard Claiborne?” Jean asked, without even inquiring about the state of Dinah’s health.

“A friend.”

“Fine, but who is he? Where did you meet him? And when?”

“Recently.” A white lie … “I met him through Mrs. Paley.”

“Oh?”

“Don’t say ‘oh’ like that, in that particularly irritating way. What’s the idea of the third degree?”

“What do you want me to say?”

“Forget it. I called up to tell you that I just talked to Mike and had a rather difficult time getting out of seeing him this week. Simpleton that I am, I thought I could confide in you and ask you to — ”

“Confide what? That you’re two-timing him?”

Anger and guilt and the injustice of being cast in the role of the betrothed woman, which she very definitely was
not
, poured through Dinah in a stifling wave of resentment. “I met a man I might be able to like very much,” she flared. “And I intend to give it a chance. I’m quite aware it might come to nothing, but leave it to me,
please
, to decide how to manage my life. It’s
my
life.
Don’t
cooperate, then, I’m sorry I called. I — ”

“What role have you cast
me
in, if I might ask?” Jean’s voice rose as well. Dinah had a fleeting picture of them as children, when sibling rivalry had been very much a part of their relationship.
“I’ll tell Mother …”

“The aider and abetter?” Jean demanded. “I’m supposed to lie through my teeth if Mike calls me, is that it? You want me to — ”

“Oh, go scrub the sink,” Dinah said, and slammed down the receiver.

The phone rang again almost instantly.

“Dinah?”

It was Jean, of course.

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry. Forgive me. I had no right to — ”

“No, you had no right to. But I understand. It’s all right.”

“I just happen to like Mike, that’s all. So does Doug. We feel he’s so right for you, Di. And you’ve made this investment of over a year. That’s nothing to take lightly.”

“Yes, I know.”

There was a humming silence. Then Jean’s voice came again. “But you’re still not sure, are you?”

“Not a bit sure.”

“What can I say?” Jean sounded tired. “You’re right about its being your life, of course. I can’t twist your arm. It’s up to you.”

“Yes, I guess it is.”

“Is he nice? I mean, this other man?” Jean’s attempt at a sister-to-sister enthusiasm was quite touching.
Why don’t I just give in and say yes to Mike?
Dinah thought wretchedly.
I’m twenty-six years old. You can’t drift forever.

“He seems nice.”

“I hope he is. You want me to stall Mike when he calls? What is it you want me to say, Di?”

“Just say I’m frightfully busy here. That he must understand that I have … that I have my professional pride … in my work.” She swallowed. “You say whatever comes to your mind, Jean.”

“All right.”

“Thanks.”

“It’s okay. How’re you feeling?”

“Pretty good. And you?”

“Not bad.”

“Good. Give my love to Doug.”

“Hold your horses. About this new man of yours.”

“Yes, what about him?”

“I want to meet him.”

“I suppose you will, eventually.”

“How eventually?”

“When the occasion arises.”

“See that it arises soon,” Jean said. “Seriously, darling, bring him around. I’m sorry I was cross. Do let us meet him.”

“All right, just as soon as I can arrange it.”

“Good. Doug will feel as I do. This is your home, and you must remember that. Please visit soon, Di.”

“Yes, I will, Jean.”

“Meanwhile, have fun.”

“Yes. Thanks.”

Is that what I want?
Dinah thought, as she went back to Mrs. Wallace’s room.
Just fun? Am I infantile; is it that I resist settling down?

Mr. Wallace was just leaving for the office. He was sitting on the edge of his wife’s bed; both of them had their arms around each other. They weren’t acting like lovers; it wasn’t that. It was the trust and affection, the fond familiarity that shone in their faces as they broke apart at Dinah’s entrance, that struck her.

Home
, she thought.
I’m looking for a home, and home is really someone you love more than anything else in the world.

She didn’t love Mike that way.
Why, it’s not infantilism
, she thought with relief.
On the contrary, it’s maturity.
She knew what she needed and she was looking for it. It might not be easy, but she’d keep on looking for it.

“Take care of the missus,” Mr. Wallace said, whacking his wife’s bottom lightly with his folded copy of the
Times.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Wallace, I will.”

“See you tonight, Poppy,” Mrs. Wallace said, and watched him as he went out of the room.
That’s happy
, Dinah thought, and felt very pleased about the whole thing.
If someone else had it, chances were you might find it too. Here’s luck to you, Miss Mason
, she thought, and started plumping up pillows and straightening sheets.

Thursday was slow in coming, but time did have a way of elapsing and when it did arrive it was obligingly clement. No sign of rain and not too muggy. Dinah wore a lime-green suit of raw silk with a matching shell. Mr. Wallace wanted to know where she and her young man were going, and Dick said they were having cocktails at the Drake Hotel and that he had no idea where they would wend their way after that.

“The Drake,” Mr. Wallace exclaimed. “Son of a gun. My wife and I had our first date there, to the music of Cy Walters. Barbara had a Vermouth Cassis, which she pronounced incorrectly. The
‘s’
is brought into play, you know. I said, ‘Darling, it’s Cass
is,’
and she was quite miffed. We started out badly all around, as a matter of fact, arguing about the merits and deficiencies of Schönberg and Mahler. She was hip on the Teutonic composers. I wasn’t. Nor am I to this day. You can have Bruckner with my compliments. It was a bomb of a first date.” He laughed. “And here we are, with two kids. What do you think of that, Dinah?”

“I think it’s fine.”

“Me too,” Dick said. “Thanks for tipping me off. I won’t even mention the Teutonic composers.”

“I like you,” Mr. Wallace said cordially. “Which is a good thing, considering that I’m inordinately fond of Dinah. I hope you have a good time at the Drake, though I doubt if it’s Cy Walters these days. Tempus fugit, unhappily.”

Whoever the pianist was, the music was memorable. They entered to the strains of a classic French song.

I have no appetite
, Dinah thought. For the first time in her life she had no desire for food. The thought of it gagged her. On the drive over, Dick had suggested the Copenhagen for dinner. That meant smorgasbord. But she wouldn’t be able to eat.

“What would you like to drink?”

“How about what Mr. Wallace was talking about?”

“Vermouth Cassis?”

“Please.”

“And a J and B for me,” Dick said.

The waiter padded away.

The plaintive song came to an end. “That was lovely,” Dinah murmured.

“No, it was morbid,” he said.

“How so?”

“Know French?”

“
La plume de ma tante.
That’s about all.”

“I’ll translate,” He leaned back. “It’s like a song … we’re like a song … you whom I love … you who love me … We live together … you who love me, I who love you. But life separates those who love … and what is left is only a memory. And the sea erases, on the sands, the footprints of lovers who have drifted apart.”

“Yes, that’s terribly melancholy. Is that really what it means?”

“That’s exactly what it means.”

“Still, it’s beautiful,” she said.

“Yes, but a bit bleak.” He leaned toward her. “First I thought your eyes were blue. Imagine my astonishment when I discovered that they were brown. Like sherry.”

“So far as I know, they’re just plain brown.”

“No, winy brown. I was never particularly partial to blue eyes.”

“Why?”

“Blue eyes are a dime a dozen.”

“So are brown.”

“Not sherry brown.”

And so it went. Fencing, parrying.
Flirting is fun
, Dinah thought. Only she hoped it wasn’t only that.
There’s that scared little girl in me
, she told herself,
the fearful, prideful woman that’s in all females.
She wanted so badly to erect an edifice, a stout bulwark against the world. It seemed so easy, when one was sixteen, but now it was like a mountain to climb.