Authors: Elizabeth Adler
Remembering her family history of whaling captains and explorers and seafarers, as well as bankers and pillars of society, Harry guessed she was right. “Whatever makes you happy,” he told her. “Just, for God’s sake, be careful.”
Her gray eyes, exactly like his, raked him scathingly. “Give me credit, Harry, please. I’ve gotten to this age without too much trouble, and I’m more likely to be run down on a Boston street than in the Sahara.”
Nevertheless, she was sixty-five, and her contemporaries had long been surrounded by daughters-in-law and babies.
She wanted Harry to marry again and give her grandchildren.
She had liked Harry’s first wife, even though she was not exactly the girl she would have chosen for him. But Harry was an independent cuss—always had been, always would be. It was a nice surprise, therefore, when he called and told her he was bringing a date to her birthday party.
“Do I know her?” she asked, still thinking hopefully of her friend’s charming daughter whom Harry had taken out a few times before his job got in the way, as usual.
“Perhaps you do, though not intimately” was his cryptic reply, which immediately set her to thinking of everyone she knew’s daughters. So as she prepared for her birthday party, she anticipated more than just blowing out the candles, seeing old friends all together again under her roof, and opening her presents.
The party was to be held at her weekend house, an hour’s drive out of town. It was a sprawling old place—a Jordan home, not a Peascott—and it brought back memories of her husband. It was the greatest pity, she thought as she did every year at this time, that Harald could not be there with her to celebrate, but they had both known when they married—he was in his forties and she just twenty-one—that they would not see out their old age together. Still, it had been worth it for the love and satisfaction their marriage had brought her. Harald would be there, in spirit, to wish her happy birthday, she knew it.
The white clapboard heart of the house had been a farm in the early eighteen hundreds. Dormers and wings and extra bits had been added hapazardly over the decades until it was a hodgepodge of oddly-shaped rooms, with strange staircases that sometimes led to nowhere more than a landing with a window and a view; as well as a generous supply of comfortable bedrooms and well-appointed bathrooms.
It straddled a small hill whose sloping pastures were
dotted with horses and a flock of Jacob sheep. The long wooden “sunset” porch overlooked a rushing little stream where visiting children liked to sit, with a miniature rod and line, hoping to catch brown-speckled trout.
Of all her houses—and she had three, including the old Peascott mansion on Boston’s Mount Vernon Street and a seaside villa on Cape Cod—Jordan’s Farm was her favorite.
An enormous tent lined with yellow taffeta had been erected on the back lawn. The round tables had matching pale yellow cloths, trailed with dark green ivy and full-blown cream roses. There were Georgian silver candlesticks on the tables and plain but elegant sterling flatware, and Lenox crystal next to the Henredon plates, even though she had been warned by the caterers that some would surely get broken.
“Let them,” she said, as carelessly as her son had of his antique rug when the dog chewed a bone on it. “They’re only plates. All they’re meant for is to give us pleasure. Just see that you have extra staff to wash whatever is left by hand, that’s all I ask.”
Her top-notch team of caterers, butlers, and waiters were busy in the kitchen and in the tent. The vintage champagne was on ice in the old wooden milking pails. Every room in the house was filled with her weekend guests, and more were en route in the buses she had chartered to transport them.
A string quartet from Boston’s Berklee School of Music was rehearsing in the center hall, the canapés were arranged on silver trays, and a band, which would play the nostalgic tunes Miffy was so fond of, was set up for dancing later. It promised to be a great evening, and she could hardly wait.
All she had to do now was to put on the sea-green Valentino that she had picked up in Rome a couple of months ago on her way back from Turkey. And then to
wait and see exactly whom Harry was going to surprise her with.
Harry was in the Ritz bar at precisely ten minutes before seven. He settled in a corner table where he could see the door, remembering when he had done this at Ruby’s and Mal had stepped in out of the rain looking like a tropical flower in a bunch of weeds. He straightened his black bow tie and ran his hands through his hair. It was still wet from the shower, and he wondered vaguely whether he had combed it. At least he had remembered to shave.
Thinking of Rossetti, he summoned the bartender and ordered two vodka martinis, but with olives—not the onions his buddy preferred—and he didn’t add the shaken-not-stirred bit either.
The waiter set the martinis on the table along with a dish of pretzels and nuts. When Harry glanced up, Mal was standing in the doorway, looking at him.
She was wearing a long taupe-colored slip dress in some sheer material, swirled with the tiniest golden beads and cut to a very low V in front. It clung to the right bits of her as though it had been designed specially to show off her graceful body. What there was of the dress was held up by two barely visible straps. Harry figured they must have sold it by the ounce.
He loped across the room and took her hand, then gave her a courtly little bow. “You look sensational,” he said, dazzled. “Whatever do you wear under something like that?”
She gave him a smiling sideways glance as they walked to the table. “Don’t even ask.”
The back of the dress was cut even lower than the front, and as she walked, it slithered smoothly over her beautiful butt like cream over peaches. Harry took a deep, amazed
breath, running his hands through his hair as they sat down.
She looked severely at him. “You shouldn’t do that. Now it looks as though you forgot to comb it.” Then she laughed. “Come to think of it, I’ve yet to see you with your hair combed.” She eyed him up and down, considering. He looked handsome and totally at ease in a well-cut dinner jacket. In fact, he looked like a man in a Ralph Lauren ad—the kind who made women’s hearts beat a little faster. “I thought you’d been born wearing Levi’s and black leather. I’m glad to see I was wrong.”
“Classy, huh?” He fingered his satin lapels, grinning confidently. “By the way, I ordered drinks.”
She eyed the two martinis with raised eyebrows and he said, “I’ve been informed by a reliable source that martinis are the drink of the moment. And that women consider them glamorous.”
She tasted the drink cautiously. “I’ve never had a martini before.”
“I never even got as far as margaritas.”
Their eyes met, and they laughed. “Wouldn’t you rather have a beer?” she said.
He shook his head. “This is definitely a champagne occasion, and as Doris noticed the first night we met, at Ruby’s, you are definitely a champagne woman. I just ordered the martinis to impress you with how au courant I am in the fashionable world of drinking and dating.”
“Is this really a date?”
“If it isn’t, I don’t know what is.”
“Then I intend to enjoy myself.”
“Okay. So do I.” He took her hand, and they smiled happily at each other. “We’ve been together five minutes and not one cross word.”
“Must be some kind of record.”
He nodded. “Are you going to drink that thing?”
She shook her head. “I’m saving myself for the good stuff.”
“Very wise.” He signaled the barman for the check. “We’d better get going.”
She looked surprised. “I thought you said eight o’clock.”
“I forgot to tell you it’s out of town. Mom always throws her birthday bash at the farm.”
She glanced at her dress, dismayed, imagining a country barbecue. “I’m not dressed for a farm.”
“Don’t worry, they’ll lend you some overalls and gumboots when you get there.”
He paid the bill and swept her out of the bar and through the foyer.
She stopped at the front desk and picked up a gold-wrapped parcel. “Birthday present,” she explained, when he looked questioningly at her.
He groaned. “I knew I forgot something.”
An enormous white stretch limo was waiting at the curb. Mal laughed. “Nice going, detective,” she said. “I feel like a Hollywood starlet.”
“Detectives and starlets never drink and drive. And let me assure you that the last time I did this was on prom night. With Jessica Brotherton in strapless shocking-pink taffeta that shocked the hell out of me—I’d never seen so much bare skin. We necked all the way home, and she let me put my hand inside her dress.”
He grinned at her, and she said crisply, “Don’t bet on lightning striking twice, detective.”
He clasped his hands to his heart, gazing to heaven. “Oh, Malone, you don’t know how those words wound me.”
She gave him a scathing look. “Now I know you’re crazy.”
“Me? I thought it was you.”
She looked around for the dog. “What, no Squeeze?”
“He’s not good at parties. He’s staying with Myra tonight.” She raised her eyebrows. “Myra’s the other woman in my life.”
“I should have known there’d be another woman,” she said resignedly as the limo edged its way out of the city.
Harry took a bottle of his favorite champagne from the ice bucket and poured her a glass. “Welcome to Jordan’s Farm, Mal Malone,” he said softly. And he meant it.
It was a magnificent night: balmy, cloudless, a full moon. The string quartet was playing Haydn, and white-jacketed waiters were crisscrossing the wide flower-filled porch serving canapés and champagne. Guests milled on the lawns and lingered by the stream. Miffy Jordan drifted elegantly around, greeting the new arrivals with little shrieks of delight, kissing everyone soundly.
“None of this air-kissing rubbish,” she said, handing them a Kleenex from the box she carried. “You just have to wipe off the lipstick, or else live with it like a badge of honor given you by your hostess.”
The long white limousine looked out of place as it rolled up the lane behind the chartered bus. “Now I really feel like a starlet,” Mal said, glancing uncomfortably at the sedate black Mercedes and Saabs parked in the yard.
“Old guard New Englanders don’t belong to the if-you’ve-got-it-flaunt-it category,” he explained. “Except for my mother. Wait, you’ll see what I mean.”
Miffy was in the hall asking the classical musicians if they could play “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes.” “It’s my favorite song,” she explained as they stared blankly at her.
Mal thought she looked exactly like the Hollywood version of a well-brought-up rich woman of a certain age: flawlessly dressed in Valentino couture, every perfect natural platinum hair in place, cheekbones to die for, and a tight elegant body.
Harry gave her a big hug, then took Mal’s hand and introduced them. “Mom, this is—”
“Mallory Malone,” she said, astonished. “Well, I never. What a pleasant surprise. And so much lovelier even than on television. Welcome, my dear, welcome to Jordan’s Farm.”
She gave Mal a lipsticky kiss, then handed her a Kleenex. “I don’t care what they claim, nothing is kiss-proof,” she said, taking Mal by the arm and leading her into the throng. “Now, I want you to meet my guests, all family and old friends.” She glanced shrewdly at Mal. “You needn’t worry, I shan’t let them pester you with questions.”
“Besides, Mom’s the star of this particular show,” Harry said. “She doesn’t need you stealing her thunder.”
“Is that a gift, dear?” Miffy said, ignoring him. “How kind of you. I expect Harry forgot again. He always does. Harry, put it on the table with the rest. I’ll open them later.”
“After midnight.” Harry remembered the annual routine from his childhood days. His mother had been born at midnight, and she claimed both days as her anniversary. The candles were blown out on the stroke of twelve, and the presents were opened after that.
Miffy had her arm around Mal as she introduced her to her friends. She turned and looked over her shoulder at Harry, beaming and nodding approvingly. He groaned—he only hoped his mother wasn’t going to read more into this than there was, because at the moment, there wasn’t much. Besides, he had promised Mal no strings, and he meant to keep his promise.
A
T ABOUT THE SAME TIME
that Miffy Jordan’s birthday guests were sitting down to dinner, the man parked the gunmetal Volvo on the shabby little street in South Boston where Suzie Walker lived, in the turn-of-the-century cottage that, like so many others, had become a rental unit.
The upstairs portion of the house had been vacant for several months, which was quite a relief to Suzie, because when she worked nights, she needed her sleep and the previous tenant had been a student who liked to play Whitney Houston singing “I Will Always Love You” at full blast, any hour of the day or night.
She relished the peace and quiet. Besides, it meant she could give a party—and play her own choice of music as loudly as she liked—without having to consider the upstairs tenant or, worse, invite him.
She was working the night shift this week, and she had spent a pleasant afternoon having her hair styled and doing a bit of shopping, finding a couple of bargains at the Gap and a terrific little silk dress that she could have sworn was Anne Klein II in Filene’s Basement. Her sister, Terry, was having a party next week, and it would be exactly right.
She puttered about the cottage, hanging her purchases neatly in the closet, tidying up. She preferred living alone in a cheaper area to living with a couple of roommates in
cramped quarters nearer the hospital, sharing a bathroom and getting on each other’s nerves.
The night was warm and she opened all the windows to let in whatever breeze there might be. She fixed herself a cup of herbal tea and took two Tylenols for the headache that had been bothering her all day, then heated the packaged low-fat-chicken-with-pasta she had picked up in the supermarket. She ate it standing at the kitchen counter, rereading a letter from her sister that said she was getting engaged to the young man she had known since high school, and that the wedding would be in July and would she be the bridesmaid.