"Well, then, get
going!
It'll be time to leave before you—"
"Bill, do you really think we ought to leave so soon and
for so long? I mean, with the ranch just sitting here and—"
"It won't be just
sitting
here, dopey. Joe and Ronnie
win be in charge. They know exactly what to do no matter
what comes up. We're not expecting any people and even
if people should come—which they won't in November—
the Vigils can make them comfortable enough. Now get a move on."
While Bill talked on about theater tickets and people we simply had to see, I set about my packing at a tortoise's pace. With my hair still damp and a large knot
in the pit of my stomach we set off on the dot of six, after
having embraced Joe and Ronnie and May and The Girls
and Sandy and all the horses.
I felt rather teary as we drove past all the beloved, familiar sights of Santa Fe and I knew in my heart that
I'd never see them again. Then Bill got past the Santa Fe neighborhood and began picking up speed.
"Gee," he said, "I can't wait to see
The Teahouse of the August Moon."
"Neither can I," I chimed in, "or that new English thing about the twenties—
The Boy Friend."
"And we've got to go back to that little French restau
rant on West Fifty-somethingth Street. You know—the
one where we had those good mussels and the bill was so
low."
"Oh, yes, Bill. I know. Chez Somebody. And a decent
Chinese meal, too. I don't mean just a chop suey parlor, but the real McCoy."
"And a trip to the Blue Angel," Bill said. "I don't
much care who's performing there, but a trip to the Blue
Angel is essential."
"It certainly is," I said, brightening. "An absolute must."
Streaking along the deserted highway, I began to forget
my melancholy for New Mexico and to think of nothing but life in the big, bustling maelstrom that is New York.
I was tired from having had no sleep the night before,
and as my head began to nod I could hear the tires
rhythmically striking the seams in the highway. "Manhattan, Manhattan, Manhattan," they seemed to say.
"Manhattan, Manhattan, Manhattan."
There's something about approaching New York that is always thrilling. Flying over its diamond brightness at
night just before that scary, steeplechase landing at the
water's edge of LaGuardia is too exciting to describe. Seeing the city from shipboard—even if it's only the
Staten Island ferry—is like gazing at a corny but drench
ingly romantic Maxfield Parrish mural. And even ap
proaching New York from the nasty, pungent Jersey Flats,
as Bill and I did, can be beautiful if you look onward and upward, instead of to the left or the right, and try
your level best not to breathe. There stood New York in
the November haze, looking pearly and ethereal and much, much cleaner than it actually is.
In a few minutes we were there, and in a few more
minutes we were in our own little overheated hotel room
with a bellboy who dashed about pulling blinds up and down, switching lights on and off, and practically show
ing us how a flush toilet worked, as though we were hope
less hicks who had never seen such wonders before, while
Bill and I fished around for a suitable piece of change to
serve as ransom money for our suitcases. (I don't know why it is that neither of us ever has anything larger than
a nickel or smaller than a twenty-dollar bill when a bell
boy is involved. It's always been that way.)
Two tremendous bouquets and three telephone mes
sages made it clear that Connie had been anticipating our
arrival and I was in the bathtub when she called again.
Could we dine with her and her beau? We could.
An hour later we set off on foot to cover the few blocks
between our hotel and Connie's apartment.
Coming to New York for the first time is wildly ex
citing, but almost too exciting because of the confusion.
There's just too much to see to be able to get acclimated
Even more fun, I think, is arriving in New York the second time, because the city never stands still. Turn your back on the place for a month and some old land
mark has disappeared and a new skyscraper has taken its
place. New York had pulled all kinds of tricks on us in our year and a half absence.
"Look, Bill," I said. "That little John Frederics build
ing is down. What do you suppose they did with all those
hats? And look up there. There isn't any Sherry's. Just
think of all those wedding receptions and luncheons for
lady poets."
"Say, they're certainly swanking up the Old Ambas
sador, aren't they?"
"And look! That must be Lever House!"
"Now, that's
nice!"
Bill said. "That really is a good-
looking building."
"
I
rather preferred Park Avenue the
old
way," I said,
reactionary to the end. "Now it's solid business buildings
as far up as you can see. And, just look, would you—they're even starting to tear down that immense apartment house over there."
"Cheer up, Barbara. St. Bartholomew's is still the same."
"More pigeons," I said. "But why do they have to pick
on Park? Couldn't they have rebuilt some crummy old
avenue like Third or Second?"
"Well, don't get upset about it," Bill said. "We're only here for a visit."
"Are we now?" I said, but my words were drowned out
by the din of one of those good old-fashioned New York
traffic jams involving six taxicabs, a big black limousine, a policeman, and a terrified woman driver from the sub
urbs who kept screaming that she could have sworn that
Fifty-fifth Street was eastbound. We hadn't seen anything
so exciting since the Rodeo de Santa Fe.
We turned into the tree-shaded elegance of Fifty-fifth
Street and eventually found ourselves being hugged by
Connie and ushered into her living room where a blazing
fire, a tray of drinks, and a fine specimen of a fiancé were
waiting.
To say that Connie's apartment was beautiful or tasteful
or elegant or smart or anything pallid like that is
just to waste words. It was perfect. That, I think, covers
everything. It occupied the drawing-room floor of what
had once been a most posh old town house between Park
and Lexington Avenues. The rooms were large and high,
with floors and French windows and moldings done with
a kind of attention to detail that neither time nor money can achieve nowadays. The furnishings were superb,
each piece a treasure. But there was nothing "interior
decorated" about the room, either. Well, I said it was perfect, didn't I?
It's a lucky thing alcohol doesn't affect people nearly
as much at sea level as it does up in, say, New Mexico,
because I was drunk with the beauty of the place–and
the thought that it could very easily be ours—before I
accepted the first cocktail.
And the evening was perfect, too. Connie had got her
man, all right, and flashed something that looked like the
Hope Diamond to prove it. She was gay as a linnet and
the beau was just right for her. The dinner was magnifi
cent—cooked, served, and washed up by Connie; oddly
enough, for all her money, Connie didn't keep a maid or even a cleaning woman, but flapped around the flat to her heart's content, cooking and washing and waxing
and dusting. After dinner we strolled on to the Blue Angel
and after that we country folk were good and ready for bed.
"Well?" I said tentatively to Bill as we let ourselves into our room.
"Wasn't that fun?" Bill said.
"Loads of fun, Bill. I haven't had an evening like that
since—well, not since we left New York."
"Neither have I. Say what you will, there's just some
thing about New York that no other city has."
"True," I said guardedly.
"And that's some apartment."
"Oh, it's beautiful," I said with some conviction.
'It must set her back a fortune in rent."
"Actually it doesn't," I said. "She pays less than a hundred a month."
"You're kidding," Bill said.
"No. She told me so herself."
"Well, if we could have a place like that, at a rent like
that, I wouldn't mind moving right in.”
"Indeed?" I asked. Then I changed the subject. "I liked her young man, didn't you?"
"Very much," Bill said. "I'm having lunch with him
tomorrow. With him and Connie's cousin Aristotle or Achilles or something like that."
"Oh?"
"I think he's the one who runs all of Papa's enterprises.
He wants to meet me for some reason."
"Well, that'll be nice," I said. "Won't it?"
The days in New York tumbled out at a dizzying rate.
Bill and I usually went our own separate ways during the
daylight hours and then joined forces with other people
after dark. Life was fast-paced, very gay, and very social.
We saw just about all the people we had wanted to see and were royally entertained by them all. But most of our time was spent with Connie and her fiancé. Connie
and I had lunch together almost every day, either in New
York's most lavish restaurants or in truck drivers' hang
outs up and down the less fashionable avenues, and
Connie went on being just plain Connie whether she was
eating in the Colony or at Joe's Quick Service Diner. And her young man kept Bill hopping at noontime, too, along
with Connie's tycoon-type cousin, who was christened
neither Aristotle nor Achilles, but Pericles. I didn't like to ask what they were up to, but all of it seemed to involve eating practically raw chops in those mysterious and gloomy-looking buildings that are said to be exclusive men's clubs.
And in typical Connie fashion, Connie was very cagey
about seeing who paid what. For example, when we were
doing things that were expensive, Connie would telephone
casually and say, "Somebody gave me four seats for an
opening tomorrow night. I hear it's going to be a big hit,
and, besides, the tickets are free. Will you join us?" She
had undoubtedly bought the seats at fifty dollars each
from some scalper, but she sounded awfully convincing.
Whenever we went out to some particularly rich meal, Connie engineered it so that it would be at a club where
only a member could sign the check and no guest was
allowed to do so much as tip the cloakroom attendant. Or she'd telephone and say, "I've got a new recipe that
has to be tried on someone. Why don't you and Bill serve
as guinea pigs, then we can all go to a picture or some
thing afterwards." But when it came to inexpensive treats
like the movies or a quick drink between the acts of a musical or an outing in the country, Connie sat demurely
by and gave Bill ample opportunity to pick up the check. In this way we felt neither like dead beats nor poor relations and Bill was never put in the embarrassing role of
gigolo or hanger-on. It was a thoughtful artifice and not
one many women would have been able to arrange so cleverly. Being another woman, I finally caught on, but
only after it was too late.
We'd been in New York for more than a week before
Connie even approached me about taking over the ranch. It was one of those bleak, penetratingly cold New York days when you don't know whether it's going to rain or
snow but you wish it would do
something.
I'd made a
stab at shopping that morning, only to find I couldn't af
ford anything I liked and didn't like anything I could
afford. The wind whistled through my coat. I had a slight
headache—yes, it was from partying the night before,
but that didn't make me feel any better about it—and I'd
nearly been struck down by a taxi that swept through a red light on Fifty-seventh Street. Connie said she'd
meet me at an especially posh restaurant and when I got
there I discovered I was the only woman in the place who wasn't wearing some form of mink. It was one of
my low-ebb afternoons, and a martini before lunch did
nothing to alleviate my gloom.
"Well, what do you think?" Connie said brightly over
the dessert.
"About what?" I said.
"Well, you know, Barbara. About changing places, kind
of. You and Bill taking over my apartment while we buy
the ranch business from—"
"I—I'm still game, I guess, Connie," I said. "But I
haven't said anything about it to Bill yet. Not a word. And
I don't intend to force his hand. You know what I mean—
that hysterical little wife who pouts and wheedles and
throws crying jags until hubby is bullied into doing just
what she wants."
"I should certainly hope not," Connie said. "But I don't
think you'll have to. My cousin Pericles is probably in
viting him to be a junior executive at this very minute.
And I bet he'll snap it up. Bill was interested in the family
business."
"Con," I said a little desperately, "are you really sure you're not just creating a soft job—some kind of pre-
feathered nest—for Bill simply so that
you can get
Rancho del Monte? It would kill Bill if he thought so.
Kill me, too. Besides, there are hundreds of ranches you
could buy. With your money, you could even—"
"I guess you don't know many Greek businessmen,"
Connie said. "Pericles wouldn't hire anybody who wasn't
good, and if Pericles ever did, then Daddy would fire both
him
and
Pericles. It isn't a charitable institution. But Bill's
good and he's smart and he
was
interested in the business."
"He did say something about the offices being very grand," I admitted.
"Pericles was really impressed with Bill, Barbara. He
even called up to say so. He told me Bill had showed
him a system that would save thousands of dollars and
hours every year and it was so simple that everyone wondered why they hadn't thought of it years ago."
"That's my boy," I said, feeling a little cheered. "But he's always got a lot of ideas. That doesn't necessarily
mean that he's going to throw over the ranch and every
thing else just to—"
"I think he might. Pericles is going to put it up to him
as a kind of challenge, and you know how Bill is about
challenges."
"Yes, indeedie," I sighed. "I certainly do."
"Well, hold your thumbs," Connie said. "Pericles is going to offer him a lot. More than I ever thought he
would. He's anxious to get Bill. Your husband's a bright
guy. You know that, Barbara."
"Yes," I said wearily. It suddenly occurred to me that possibly Bill was too bright to have me conspiring behind
his back to reroute the whole course of his life.
"Well, I guess we'll know today, won't we?" Connie said brightly. "You
do
still want to come back here to New York, don't you, Barbara?"
"Yes, I guess I do. If Bill honestly wants to, then I do.
But this has to be
his
decision, with no high pressure from
you or me or anybody else."