Jane Austen in Boca (12 page)

“Sid, I already told you,” said Mel with mock exasperation, “we’re not looking for ourselves. Just taking a ride.”

“Mel and I go way back, so I know his tastes,” interrupted Sid, speaking directly to Flo. “Mel’s modest. He doesn’t like to
say things so direct. I’m Jerry Lewis; he’s Dean Martin, the cool one. It’s always been that way. I accept it.”

As they drove away, Mel was apologetic. “I’ve known Sid forever, so you’ll have to excuse his style. We both grew up in the Bronx, and he, I’m afraid, never got very far beyond his roots. Couldn’t buckle down in school, never did very well in business. This real-estate gig is a big step up for him, and though he’s crude, I admit, I have affection for him. I’m loyal to my friends, you see, and I try not to judge them.”

Flo said that she admired the trait.

Mel had pulled into a stretch of beach and told her that he’d been here before on his own to admire the scenery. “I like this spot. I visit when I feel the need to put things in perspective. It helped during that Stan Jacobs thing. Grounded me; calmed me down.” He paused and then took Flo’s hand, looking at her as he recited, “ ‘Ah love, let us be true to one another, for in this world that seems to lie before us like a land of dreams, there is really neither joy, nor love, nor light, nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain—’ “

“ ‘Dover Beach,’ “ said Flo. “It’s one of my favorite poems.”

“I read it in college, and it stayed with me. It seemed to speak the truth.”

“I don’t know about that,” objected Flo. “I used to think so when I was younger and liked to indulge the tragic perspective. But now, with life mostly behind me, I’m less pessimistic.”

“You’re lucky My experience has reinforced what the poem says.” Mel spoke softly, but his voice had grown gruff with emotion. “I don’t have a very elevated view of human nature, you see. Comes with the territory, I guess. I’ve encountered some ugly things in my line of work”—-he paused and looked out to sea—”and I’ve been lonely.”

“I’m sorry,” said Flo.

“But I don’t feel lonely now.” He turned and looked deeply into her eyes. “I’d like never to be lonely again.” Then he leaned forward and kissed her. It was a strange feeling. She knew that at some point he was probably going to kiss her, but, even so, she wasn’t prepared. She felt his lips on hers and wanted to respond, but drew back. Part of her was resistant.

“I like you,” said Mel. “I don’t want to spoil things.”

“I appreciate that.”

They drove to a small seafood restaurant nearby, where the owner seemed to know Mel and gave them a table toward the back.

“There’s a hotel down the road,” said Mel. “I was hoping we could stay over and drive back tomorrow. Take our time.”

Flo felt tempted, as she had guessed she might be, but again she resisted. “No, I’d like to get back, if you don’t mind,” she said. “It’s far, I know, and I’ll share the driving, but I have an appointment with the club pro in the morning, and I promised May I’d go with her to look for a dress for the Valentine’s Day dance. She’s been hocking me about it for a week.”

“No problem,” said Mel. He was trying not to look disappointed.

“I hope you’ll come to the dance. It’s Boca Festa’s gala event. From a strictly anthropological point of view, it’s worth seeing.”

“Of course I’ll come,” said Mel, his voice deep with emotion. “If you ask me, I’ll go anywhere.” Then, regaining his more ebullient tone: “It’ll be something of an expedition in itself digging into my closet and dusting off the tux. It used to be an old friend: wore it almost every week, what with the diplomatic parties, the press club affairs, and so forth. But it’s been a while. It may be a little snug under the arms. Are you good enough with a needle to let it out?”

“I’m afraid the needle and I have never hit it off,” said Flo, “but May’s a wonder when it comes to sewing. I know she won’t mind. She really loves to do things like that.”

“Such a sweet woman,” Mel mused.

“Norman Grafstein also, I’m convinced, is a genuinely good person,” added Flo. “Maybe a bit under the spell of his friend, but with the judgment and sense to make decisions on his own in a pinch.”

“I hope so,” said Mel. “But I’d keep an eye out if I were you. Norman may seem nice, but he’s got a powerful influence in Stan Jacobs. And you never know what people’s motives really are.”

V
ALENTINE’S
D
AY WAS THE BIG ANNUAL EVENT AT
B
OCA
F
ESTA.
Other clubs went all out for New Year’s or for the spring gala that marked the end of the season for the “snow birds,” those who lived only half a year in Boca and flew north to children and grandchildren during the late spring and summer months. But Boca Festa had developed a unique affinity with Valentine’s Day ever since the wedding ten years ago of Phyllis Dickstein and Morris Kornfeld.

The Dickstein-Kornfeld romance was legendary at Boca Festa. Phyllis and Morris had each been married to beloved spouses for almost fifty years, and had been widowed for several more before meeting each other. They shared the same mix of reverence for the past and joy in the present, which made their companionship seem a pleasing coda to two wonderful lives. In the ceremony marking their union, staged in the Boca Festa dining room, children and grandchildren on both sides had been present to give testimonials. Morris and Phyllis had spoken at length about their departed spouses, explaining to the assembled company that though they loved and admired each other, no one would ever hope to replace the lost loved one at the center of their affections. The entire ceremony was deemed “classy beyond words,” and when it was topped by an extravagant bequest for a yearly Valentine’s Day celebration, the couple entered the pantheon of Boca Festa Greats that included the millionaire developer who had endowed the poolside cabanas and the best selling author of
Keeping Slim Over Sixty,
who had given money
to keep the Boca Festa salad bar stocked with tofu (“the secret,” she said, “of feeling full without blowing up like a balloon”).

Morris Kornfeld had worked on Madison Avenue and, ad man that he was, had not been content to bankroll the Valentine’s Day event; he had also stipulated certain rituals. These were simple: He wanted the club, as he put it, “to bond” during the festivities, and mandated that a period after the main course and before the dessert be set aside for interested guests to stand and pay tribute to important relationships in their lives, past or present. He conceived of the testimonials as proceeding in the manner of a Quaker meeting, until someone pointed out that Quakers were supposedly anti-Semitic at some point in their history, and the analogy was dropped. In any case, it became a source of delight and pride on the part of many Boca Festa residents to take part in the Valentine’s Day event, using it to wax nostalgic about dead spouses, to celebrate friendships, to boast about the engagements of children and grandchildren, and, most popular, if rarer, to announce the engagements of residents themselves.

The Valentine’s Day dinner-dance was, owing to its generous budget, the most lavish of the many lavish affairs at Boca Festa. Decor, food, and clothes were important features of any Boca Raton event. The gold standard was the Long Island bar mitzvah and, given that the inhabitants of Boca Festa had been to many of these, every effort was made to imitate such affairs to mark the seasonal passage of time and the principal secular holidays throughout the year. Religious holidays were never formally celebrated at the club. Most of the inhabitants were Jewish, but there was a tacit understanding that the festivities be maintained on a purely secular level. There were several reasons for this. For one, religious holidays were conventionally spent up north with the children and grandchildren, who, it was believed, were likely to lapse into total nonobservance were their elders not present to make them feel guilty about it. And what would the holidays
be, after all, without at least one substantial fight that both sides could stew over for months afterward and make the subject of lengthy long-distance phone calls?

Another reason why the club steered away from religious observance was because there was considerable disparity in the piety of the residents. Some had not attended synagogue for years; others remained dutifully attached to the major rites and rituals; there was even a small contingent that observed kosher dietary practices—perhaps five percent, for whom special meals were provided—though they were impossible to differentiate on the golf course from their more secular peers. Overall, it was the unspoken view that the club was a social community rather than a religious one: The members were bound together less by faith and ceremony than by similar life experiences in the New York boroughs and suburbs, by a shared sense of humor and taste in food, and by resemblances in the education and accomplishments of their children, whose lifestyles they could all boast about and disapprove of in the same basic proportion.

The Valentine’s Day event was always a subject of intense speculation. The menu for the affair was widely discussed. Filet mignon was a given. Morris Kornfled had decreed it—he was one of that generation of men who were fond of pronouncing that “nothing beats a good steak and baked potato.” But there were always at least three more main dishes, not to mention the endless number of side dishes, salad combinations, and famous desserts. The presentation was as eagerly awaited as the food. Who could predict what the club president, in consultation with the assistant manager (a woman who had once served as a store decorator at Neiman Marcus), would come up with in the way of positioning tables, designing centerpieces, and coordinating tablecloths, napkins, plates, and cutlery?

With the approach of the event, May had confided to Flo that
she had asked Norman Grafstein and he had enthusiastically agreed to attend. Norman had called May soon after Flo’s encounter with him at the Y, and they had gone to the movies and dinner several times since. Their last date had been a very fancy dinner-movie combination at Boca’s famed Muvico complex, which featured a gourmet restaurant alongside a deluxe movie theater that charged fifteen dollars a ticket (
after
the senior discount). For the ticket price you got seats like armchairs and all the free popcorn you could eat. May had reported the extravagant evening to her friends.

“What’s so special about free popcorn when we can make it in the microwave at home?” asked Flo.

But Lila, attuned to the pleasures that her lack of money denied her, explained succinctly: “It’s the whole package. You go; you feel like a queen.”

May admitted that she had certainly felt like one, though it was more the presence of Norman Grafstein by her side than the plush carpeting and chairs to be credited for that.

“With Norman, we have enough for a table—almost,” said Lila now as she mulled over arrangements for the Valentine’s Day dance. “There’s Hy and myself, May and Norman, and you,” said Lila, motioning toward Flo. “I assume Mel will be coming? Did you ask him?” Lila knew that Flo was capable of forgetting to do this.

“Yes,” said Flo, “I asked him, and he’s coming.”

“Good,” said Lila, as though pleased to see that everything was as it should be. Then, triumphantly: “Do you realize that this is the first time that we’ll all have dates for the Valentine’s Day dance?”

“With that accomplished, we might as well die now,” commented Flo drily.

“Norman said that he’d like to bring along Stan Jacobs,” added May in a tentative voice. It suddenly appeared to her that
this might throw off the symmetry of the group. Plus, she knew Flo’s feelings about Stan.

“Absolutely not,” said Flo, “he’s been awful to Mel, and they hate each other.”

“Well, I’ll tell Stan that Mel will be there. Maybe he won’t want to come,” said May meekly. “But I can’t very well disinvite him, can I?” She seemed genuinely upset.

“It’s inappropriate,” added Flo with surprising vehemence. “It makes for an extra man.”

“And since when are we against an extra man?” said Lila. “I’d say it’s a nice change of pace.”

“It’s true,” said May, gaining some confidence and taking a new tack. “Since when are you into couples, Flo?”

“You’re right there,” Flo acknowledged grudgingly “I’m not saying it’s because we all have to have dates. I’m just saying that it will make things uncomfortable.”

“And since when are you against uncomfortable?” May prodded again. “You always like to stir things up.” Then, moving to a more heartfelt argument: “You’re much too hard on Stan. I know Mel doesn’t like him, but I’m sure he’s mistaken. He’s really a very nice man. Norman told me how he suffered during his wife’s illness, and how devastated he was by her death last year. It’s been difficult for him.”

“And not for us all?” snapped Flo.

“We all handle loss differently,” persisted May, “and for men, what with their difficulty expressing emotion, it must be much harder.”

“May, I’ll say it again: We have to give you mean lessons.”

“I just want you to be tolerant,” said May. “Besides, Stan’s a knowledgeable man; you can talk to him about books. And maybe you could play peacemaker between him and Mel.”

May had a point, thought Flo. Perhaps this was a way to get to the root of the matter. She had an interest in Mel, she admitted to herself, but she wasn’t in love with him—yet. It would
be interesting to see the two men interact and judge for herself. And there was the additional incentive, as May mentioned, of talking books with Stan. The idea of having two literate men around her for the evening seemed like a veritable feast to her starved intellect. Perhaps they would do battle over the chance to converse with her. Where other women might have fantasies involving push-up bras and stiletto heels, Flo’s involved good conversations about books. She let herself go: She’d have them discuss the latest Philip Roth she was reading. Time had certainly brought about a change in her fellow Jews’ response to this once-despised author—he had received a standing ovation last month when he spoke at Boca West. Flo was probably alone among her peers in thinking
Portnoy’s Complaint
a very funny book, the high point of Roth’s career, but she was eager to hear what the English professor Stan Jacobs and the cosmopolitan Mel Shirmer had to say on the subject.