The Whiskey Sea (13 page)

He seemed unfazed by the house. He even came to the door and spoke to Silver, who glared at him suspiciously. Princeton tolerated that, met Bea, and then the two of them were on their way.

“You clean up well,” he said to her as he drove, one hand draped casually over the steering wheel. In the bright sunlight he looked and smelled wonderful—a little like oranges, a little like mint. “Nice rags.”

“Thank you. It all belongs to my sister.”

“She’s quite pretty, your sister.”

“Yes. I know.”

He reached over and touched her hair. “But I like your looks better. Say, I’ve never seen your hair like this before.”

“That’s courtesy of Bea, too.”

“I like it.” He stared ahead at the road. “Yes, she’s pretty and blond and bobbed, like so many pretty and blond and bobbed girls. You’re different.”

She faced ahead and tried not to get swept away. “This is too much. All these compliments. I’ll turn pompous.”

He laughed. “You? Never.”

He explained that he was driving them to the ferry in Atlantic Highlands so she could enjoy riding there in the car, although the ferry service also came to Highlands. On the way he drove as fast as the crowded streets would allow. Streams of tourists were flowing to the shore from the city, the opposite way they were heading, but Princeton took charge of the roads like a holy man who could part waters.

By the time they pulled into the Atlantic Highlands ferry station, she felt at ease. They waited for the
Sea
Bird
of the Merchant Steamboat Company to come in, packed with tourists, and he bought her a lemonade from a nearby vendor. She looked down into the glass of lemonade and was surprised to see that the liquid was trembling.

The sun was out, hot and bright, and only a few streaks of cloud tails marred an otherwise vast blue sky. His arm came around her waist, and he found her gloved hand and smiled in a knowing, calming way. He had to see how different this experience was for her—the dress, the gloves, the car, the ferry. She had taken the trolley to Atlantic Highlands a few times with Bea; otherwise, she’d never been outside Highlands. Drawing a breath, she moved closer to him.

Another time she would’ve laughed at herself. But she was undergoing a magical transformation, and she was letting it happen. With the surging bay before her, the gulls cawing, this handsome man with his hand on the small of her back, the clear arc of the sky above, she let herself savor her first taste of a lovely attraction and a glimpse of the life that she knew others led but had never interested her before. She waved to the tourists, who were gleeful upon their arrival to the shore. He was studying her reactions to everything, but she could only glance at him for a few moments at a time before having to look away.

Before the ferry emptied, she excused herself to use the facilities and almost ran into a man, who stunned her not only with his unexpected presence but also with his appearance. A man perhaps in his forties with white-blond hair and eyes the same color of blue as Bea’s. He shoved past her without as much as a glance, but she turned around and followed him with her eyes. Someone called out to him, “Hey, Whitey,” and he strode away toward an obvious rumrunning shore boat very similar to Dutch’s.

The resemblance went far beyond the coloring. She saw it in the tip of his nose, the angle of his eyes, and even the way he walked. He was Bea’s father. She knew this as she knew nothing else, and this knowledge threatened to destroy the magic of the day like someone popping a balloon. It took her right back to poor Della. Obviously this man, Whitey, had frequented the whore of Highlands, perhaps keeping her a safe distance from his place in society. What a bastard. And yet he was another runner, like her. She slowly became aware that the ground was still beneath her feet.

“What’s wrong?” Princeton asked when she returned to his side. “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Nothing,” she said. She had let him see the way she lived, but this was too much.

“Hmm,” he murmured. “That’s one of the things I like about you, Frieda. You won’t let me all the way in, will you? You keep things close to your chest. Most girls I know won’t stop gabbing about themselves. Open books that after a little while you want to slam shut. But not you.” He hugged her. “My mysterious Frieda.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

On the way across the bay to New York, she let her anger toward Whitey sail away as the tall buildings and docks of the city came closer into view. Gulls swooped in the sky, waves careened against the hull, and the air was rich with ocean salt, humidity, and perfume. Women wore matching sweater and skirt ensembles, sailor blouses, and ankle-strap button shoes, and men wore slim, unpadded jackets with their baggy trousers and nice new skimmers, boaters, and Panama hats.

She could already feel the pulse of the city before they docked. A feeling of being shaken and then of being consumed as they hailed a taxi, more people and cars and buildings than she’d even imagined. From a distance it looked small and orderly, but once here the city surged chaotic and huge as men in suits rushed about, heads down, as if on important business. Couples walked with their arms linked, and small groups of women pushed baby carriages. In this part of the city at least, many people had the same aristocratic looks and clothing that Princeton had, and she forced herself to hold her head high and pretend as if she belonged. But nothing had prepared her for this onslaught. Only the man beside her kept her centered. He looked after her like a treasured child. His eyes, however, held anything but a parental type of affection.

“How do you like it so far?” he asked her.

“I like it,” she said, and then, “sort of.”

He laughed. “We’ve only just begun. By the time the night is over, you’re going to love it. I promise. And if not, we don’t have to come back. There are plenty of other places I can show you.” He told her that most people started out drinking in midtown speakeasies, then as the night wore on headed uptown to the Cotton Club. But he had other places to take her on this, her first day in the city.

They strolled through Central Park and then took a taxi south to Bleecker Street, into the Italian section. Princeton told her of a cozy little hot spot of a restaurant where they could get a bottle of good red wine and a shot of
strega
, all made locally.

Around them in the restaurant, groups of stylishly dressed people shared animated conversations and toasted each other in different languages. The men wore cuffed baggies, close-cut jackets, and unblemished felt hats. A few wore long-tailed tuxedos as if a theater date awaited. Women pulled gold and silver compacts out of their purses and openly applied makeup in public. They pursed their oxblood-red, Clara Bow lips together, checked their thinned eyebrows, and crossed legs clad in patterned silk stockings that coordinated with their outfits. Most of the women were thin with cropped hair and greeted each other with air kisses first on one powdered and rouged cheek, then the other. Occasionally people looked at Princeton and her, as if trying to identify them from memories of past parties.

She and Princeton topped off their dinner of rich Italian food and alcohol with a
caffè espresso
. He told her stories of his exploits at Princeton, and she talked about Bea and Silver and even explained the basics of clamming and how she had lost her boat.

“Better now?” he said, and took her hand.

“Much better.”

They went to the section of Greenwich Village near Fifth Avenue where the establishments were more on the Bohemian side, with candles flickering on small intimate tables, the cellar walls painted with colorful murals, and bands playing on small stages. They visited the Pirate’s Den, a replica of a pirates’ lair entered through a dank and dark basement, and then the Blue Horse, a jazz club restaurant. Drinks were served in tea and coffee cups while people pulled out cigarette cases, ivory cigarette holders, silver lighters, and flasks. Frieda overheard snippets of conversations referring to artists and poets, parties, meetings, and the arrival of this person, the departure of that person. Everyone seemed to flit through the illustrious city as if nothing in the past existed and the future was unimportant, as if only these moments had any power and they must live entire lives in one night in case the future were never to come.

Frieda drank an Orange Blossom; she had never consumed so much alcohol in one night. Soon a flood of warm contentment rushed through her. The tables around them filled up, and occasionally Princeton greeted someone: a handshake for a man, a nod or a gesture for a woman, and then a quick smile before returning to Frieda and their conversation, showing enough disinterest in others that no one attempted to join them. She began to relax. No one had so much as sent anything but a brief appraising glance her way. No one had seen the girl from Highlands out in the city for the first time, and Princeton moved through these waters as if he could float through anything.

He ran into an acquaintance from school and introduced her without hesitation. Toby Hamilton seemed as if cut from the same cloth—smart clothes, blue-blooded looks, an air of sophistication. He was attractive in a way, but his face reminded Frieda of a horse, albeit a thoroughbred. No one was as handsome as Princeton.

Princeton and Toby conversed about politics, the quality of the whiskey in various establishments, the best food in the Village, and reminisced about professors and classmates. There was an easy familiarity and rapport about the men’s interaction, and Frieda thought she was witnessing the reunion of dear, old friends.

Toby said to Charles, “What are you doing this summer?” as his eyes floated curiously over Frieda.

“Nothing. Just trying to avoid thinking about school again,” Princeton said.

Frieda didn’t know how to feel about his answer. So far this summer was the most momentous one of her life. But perhaps he simply didn’t want to divulge the truth about the running, or about his involvement with
her
. That part stung. He had introduced her by name but with no qualifiers, such as
“my girlfriend,” “my new gal” . . .

“A whole lot of nothing, huh?” Toby said with obvious doubt on his face.

“I’m having a bit of an escape before my real life has to resume.”

“I understand,” said Toby, and the men clinked glasses.

After Toby moved on, Frieda asked, “Did you grow up together?”

Princeton downed the rest of his drink. “I barely know the chap.”

She was taken aback. “But you seemed so chummy. I thought you were old friends.”

He shook his head.

“You must
barely know
a lot of people.”

Sitting back, he signaled the waiter for another round. “In fact, that’s exactly how I feel. I know lots of people, but not in any meaningful way. It’s all so . . . lonely.”

Frieda, stunned by his extraordinary honesty, sat still. “I’m sorry you’ve been lonely.”

“I’m less lonely now,” he said.

He told her stories of other classmates, those who had gone to Paris to paint or were studying abroad, and he explained that he didn’t know them on a deep level. As he spoke of his world, he didn’t seem bothered by her lack of knowledge of things outside the borough of Highlands. On the contrary, he asked her about fishing, about the history of the Twin Lights, the Sandy Hook Light, and Bahrs, and he responded as if her experiences were no less valuable than his were. By now she had told him about everything—almost. Not about her mother. She didn’t know if she could ever put
that
into words. If he knew, how would he react? Would he judge her, as the town once had? Would that herald the end of them?

A drummer launched into a solo onstage, and it shook the floor. All at once happiness flooded her body. She stood at the center of a new, more complicated world. Before she had always seen things as split in twos: the good and the bad, the poor and the rich, the known and unknown, home and not home—but maybe she’d been wrong to look at the world in such a black-and-white delineation, to place such separations between things, especially people.

She watched people doing the best renditions of the Charleston she’d ever seen, so unlike the jigs and feeble attempts at more modern dances that some of the fishermen’s wives jumped into from time to time when they’d been drinking. Talent had always amazed her—people who could sing, play an instrument, dance . . .

“Come on. Let’s join them,” Princeton said.

She shook her head. “I can’t. Really.”

“Of course you can.”

“I’m not being humble; I don’t know how. I’ve never had a lesson or even practiced with my sister.”

“Then practice with me. There’s nothing to it. I’ll show you the ropes. Dancing happens to be one of my many charms. Even if you were to fall on your face, do you think anyone would notice? That’s one of the beautiful things about the city. Everyone blends in. Even you, Frieda. You just don’t know it yet.”

Why not? She joined him on the dance floor and imitated what she saw others do, laughter flying out of her chest all the while.

“Did I do alright?” she asked him after they got tired and returned to their table.

“You did fine. But do me a favor. I said you could blend in, if that’s what you want. But the truth is I don’t want you to blend in too much. You’re not like the girls in here, mostly frivolous. You’re more real than all this.”

Blushing—she never blushed!—she said, “Thank you.”

“So,” he said, leaning forward, “do you agree that dancing is one of my many charms?”

“Yes,” she answered.

But his eyes asked for more, and then he said, “What else do you find charming about me?”

Stunned that he was seeking compliments from her, she finally said, “Everything. I find everything about you charming.”

“I know you can do better than that. Tell me.”

The insecurity she saw in his eyes made him even more charming. Endearing even. And it dawned on her that he was being more open to her than she to him. She must learn to let down her guard. Finally she winked and said, “You’re damn handsome, you know.”

He shrugged. “Just a shell.” And then waited.

“You’ve seen the world.”

He shrugged again.

He had been so free with his feelings, whereas she had been self-protective. She gathered her strength; he deserved no less. “I’ve never known anyone like you. You’ve done so much and have so much, and yet I believe you’re kind at heart. You’re full of goodness. You’re soft and tender inside, and I admire you. I think you have a sense of honor.” These were difficult words for her to say, as they came straight from her heart, and revealing her feelings had never been easy.

He smiled wryly. “Honor? You don’t know me all that well. I haven’t always been so nice.” He paused. “But maybe you bring out the best in me.”

She loved those words. “It has to be in there to begin with. Honor. Goodness. It can’t be faked.”

Taking her hands in his, he said, “That’s one of the nicest things anyone has ever said about me.”