“Anyway, the Post’s society editor wrote a column defending the cave dwellers,” Dorothy continued. “She said their parties were serving the war. She called them ‘parties for a purpose.’”
“Well, there’s an expression with wiggle room!” Maren said. “Don’t all parties have a purpose, even if it’s just to drink champagne and dance?”
“I suppose, but hostesses have taken it to heart. Everyone wants to claim they brought important people together to relax and discuss the war effort. They’re all competing to attract the right guests.”
“And Oliver Demarest makes a fine prop in his uniform,” Maren said.
“Rather! A Demarest of the Boston Demarests and a doctor at Walter Reed? A star guest, in or out of uniform. And they’ll get a lovely cadet nurse, to boot.”
“Any points of cave dweller etiquette I should know?” Maren asked.
“Maybe say ‘how do you do’ instead of ‘pleased to meet you,’” Dorothy replied, though she sounded agnostic even on this small point. “Truly, Maren, you have better manners than many people you will meet in Washington society. Or New York’s or Philadelphia’s, for that matter.”
Oliver arrived promptly in his fine dress uniform. Maren had replaced the standard-issue pumps with a nicer pair, but otherwise looked like a model for the sort of recruitment poster that had originally lured her into the Cadet Corps.
They headed into the chilly November night. Soon after they arrived at the stop at the corner, a streetcar pulled up, one of the World War I models, resurrected to accommodate wartime demand. Oliver guided her up the rickety stairs, and she felt a rush of pleasure at the pressure of his hand on the small of her back. They switched to a more crowded car at U Street, and Maren enjoyed the second leg of the journey even more, pressed into Oliver’s side as he smiled down at her in his distracted way.
They walked the last few blocks through the neighborhood dubbed Millionaires’ Row. Even in the darkness she could make out the federal-style town houses, their commanding façades softened by urns, stone swags, and fluting over the doors.
The hostess, he explained, was Mrs. Edward Bell, a widow. She and Mr. Bell had lived in Boston until he’d been called to work in the Wilson administration. Mrs. Bell, a native South Carolinian who had never acclimated to Boston winters, had stayed on after her husband’s death.
“This must be her fifth invitation, and I’ve not been to see her once. My father mentioned my negligence in a letter. I would never hear the end of it if I didn’t show my face.”
Even before they turned onto the flagstone walk that ran along the circular driveway, Maren could hear the music, voices, and tinkling glasses that swelled and ebbed with the opening and closing of the door. Oliver took Maren’s hand and led her to the entrance, where a uniformed maid gestured them into the large marble hallway.
After the maid took their coats, they entered a ballroom off the hall, quite large for what from the outside had appeared to be a compact property. Queen Anne chairs lined creamy yellow walls. In the far corner, a piano player’s talents were barely audible over the voices, which echoed in the cavernous, uncarpeted, almost completely unfurnished room.
The women were mostly middle-aged, with helmets of white coiffed hair, red lipstick, and elegant but shapeless dresses. Oliver led Maren across the room, where a bartender was pouring drinks. They attracted some notice as they moved through the crowd. The uniforms, she thought.
When they reached the bar, a portly woman with silver hair and a great green dress waddled up, her voice high and trilling.
“Oliver, dear, you’ve finally come!” she exclaimed, her arms outstretched. Maren detected a vestigial Southern accent.
“Hello, Mrs. Bell.” Oliver accepted her embrace and gave her a kiss on the cheek. He introduced Maren, whom she greeted pleasantly.
“Oliver, there are so many people here who’d love to meet you. But you must tell me first, how is your family? How is your mother?”
Maren detected an emphasis on the word mother, a subtle note of concern. Was Oliver’s mother ill? He hadn’t mentioned it, but he was so reticent about his family.
“Much the same, thank you,” Oliver responded, offering no clue to the question’s provenance.
“We have wanted to get to Haven Point to see them, but these rations! Whenever we try to fly, we are bumped off by soldiers, though God bless them, we do understand. I hope this war will be over soon so we can all go back to normal.”
Maren smiled to herself. Washington’s upper echelons were notorious for their resistance to privations of war. Gas rations were allocated based on one’s relative importance, and the poor schoolteachers charged with doling them out were terribly harassed. A waitress became a minor celebrity when a customer demanded more sugar after already receiving his share. “Stir what you’ve got!” she’d snapped in reply. Washingtonians were not good at “stirring what they’d got.”
After Mrs. Bell excused herself, Oliver got Maren a soda water, and a scotch for himself. He soon attracted the attention of a group of older gentlemen, and Maren listened as he answered their questions about research and advancements at the hospital. After a few moments, one of the gentlemen pointed toward the door.
“Oh, there’s the ambassador,” he said. They briefly turned for a look then resumed their conversation. Maren wondered at such a figure being so commonplace that his arrival heralded little more than a murmur.
Oliver eventually extricated himself from the conversation and guided her toward the buffet, or what remained of it. A few small dishes of salted peanuts sat near a larger silver bowl, which contained only melting ice cubes and a lonely shrimp tail that hinted at a long-gone appetizer. Maren was surprised at the paucity of refreshments. Even in wartime, she would have been far better fed at a Minnesota hot-dish supper. Maren did not say anything, but once again Oliver seemed to know what she was thinking.
“This is why cocktail parties are so popular,” Oliver explained. “It’s cheaper and easier than trying to figure out an elaborate meal on war rations. The British think it’s passing strange, people gathering for drinks with nothing to eat. I suppose if you attend enough events in one night, you can cobble together a reasonable meal.”
“Enough events and the right timing. Twenty minutes earlier, we might have had a piece of shrimp!”
“Yes, that’s how it’s done. A shrimp at one house, a peanut at another, and eventually you’ve had the equivalent of dinner. But if you don’t mind, I’d rather have it the old-fashioned way. I made us a dinner reservation. Shall we greet the guest of honor and get on our way?”
Maren nodded, and they wriggled through the crowd toward the ambassador. Oliver introduced them, and they had a brief exchange. Maren made some mental notes to share with her parents, who would actually be interested. After they said their good-byes, they got a cab on Connecticut Avenue.
Washington, not a gourmet town to begin with, was even worse for rationing. Even after setting aside certain days as meatless, the number of points available to most restaurants limited how many filet mignon and other choice cuts they could serve.
Oliver, however, had finagled a reservation at the Occidental, which had been exempted from ration rules under the theory that a few restaurants should be available for high-ranking diplomats and military officials.
Maren glanced about the room as the maître d’ led them to their table. A long, deep, dark wood bar with comfortable stools and a brass rail ran along one side. The dining tables were small, but chairs had substantial leather seats and deep arms. Photographs of notable patrons lined the walls, mostly politicians and generals, with a few actors and artists sprinkled in.
“Robert Frost!” Maren said.
“How like you to note the poet amid the politicians.” Oliver smiled. Maren felt a bubble of pleasure at his having formed this assessment of her. When they sat and opened their menus, Maren gasped aloud.
“Red meat!” Oliver said.
“I don’t kno
w when I’ve ever been so thrilled.”
It was not the best meal of her life, coming as she did from a working farm, but recent deprivations made it seem as if it was. The filet was tender and juicy. The crispy skins of the roasted potatoes were flavored with salt and rosemary. The asparagus was served plain and delicious. For dessert they shared a root beer float, a quirky Occidental tradition.
As they rode back to Walter Reed, Oliver sat close to her in the cab, holding her hand loosely in his as they watched the blur of nighttime sights out the window. On several corners they saw older uniformed auxiliary policemen, recruited to take the place of the younger men who had been called to war. Oliver pointed out the outlines of 40 mm antiaircraft guns, visible in the moonlight on some rooftops.
The cab left them at the hospital’s Sixteenth Street entrance. It was dark now, and it had grown colder. As they followed the path toward Delano Hall, Maren stopped to pull her coat a little tighter.
“Let me do that,” Oliver said. He turned her toward him, buttoned the top buttons, and retied the sash, pulling Maren slightly closer to him as he did so. He popped up her collar and then chafed her hands in his.
“Warm enough?”
She nodded slowly. He leaned in and kissed her, one hand behind her neck. She put her arms around his back and returned the kiss. He pressed her more closely to him and they enjoyed a repeat of the interlude in the rose garden.
When she finally pulled back, he took her arm and led her back to her dorm. A few steps from the circle of light cast by the fixture at the entrance, he kissed her once more.
After they finally said good night, she walked to her room, a smile on her face. As keenly as she had felt her youth during the previous challenging weeks, there was something attractive in how in charge Oliver seemed all the time.
CHAPTER FIVE
Maren sprang out of bed the next morning, grabbed a book, and headed downstairs, hoping to find a comfortable place to read and relax. Brian O’Neill’s death had pulled her down to a level unusual for her, but it was the natural inclination of her mood to rebound. The evening with Oliver had given her a new charge. He was working today, but he’d promised to get in touch soon. She had finally begun to feel more certain.
As she approached the reading room, she heard Caroline Sturgeon’s piercing voice.
“Oh, good Lord, will you listen to this?” Caroline said. Maren heard the crinkling of a newspaper.
“‘Mrs. Edward Bell hosted the Dutch ambassador, Dr. Alexander Loudon, at her S Street mansion last night. Dr. Oliver Demarest of the Boston Demarests was one of many guests in attendance. An orthopedist at Walter Reed Army Medical Center, Dr. Demarest had a ready audience for his news about advancements in prosthetics to help our wounded soldiers.’”
Mission accomplished, Maren thought. Party with a purpose!
“‘Dr. Demarest was accompanied by Maren Larsen. Miss Larsen, a representative of the successful Cadet Nurse Corps program, was quite striking in her trim gray corps uniform.’
“Can you believe that girl?” Caroline added. “What pretensions!”
Maren felt a chill. She knew what Caroline Sturgeon thought of her, but it was unpleasant to have it laid before her so starkly.
Maren heard someone murmur in response to Caroline. Juliet, she presumed.
“Does she imagine she has a chance with Oliver Demarest? She hasn’t any idea of his family or their expectations for him,” Caroline said in her all-knowing tone. Maren looked around then took a silent step closer to the entrance of the reading room.
“His mother won’t allow him to end up with some farm girl, I can tell you. She can enjoy her little dalliance, but it won’t last. I saw him at the diner with some brunette last week. She looked much more the thing.”
Maren quietly returned to her room. At first, she discounted Caroline’s assessment. It didn’t square with the Oliver Demarest who had sat in the cab with her, holding her hand with such calm familiarity. Throughout the day, however, doubts crept in. She had proved her naïveté again and again since her arrival. What instincts did she have worth trusting? Maybe the reason Oliver never wanted to talk about his family was because Maren was too unsuitable to ever meet them.
In Ada, Minnesota, Oliver’s behavior would have signaled serious interest, but she knew nothing of his world. For all she knew, he could also be dating some “brunette who looked much more the thing.” He certainly liked her. He clearly found her attractive. Beyond that, of what could she be sure?
As one day passed, and then another, her confidence ebbed. She was consumed with thoughts of the mysterious brunette, desperate to know who it had been. She could not be someone who worked at the hospital, or else Caroline would have referred to her by name.
She said nothing to Dorothy, so her muddle of emotions built, unvented. One moment she felt rejected and foolish, the next moment annoyed with herself for allowing a man to threaten her normal confidence.
From time to time, she would revisit the idea that Caroline was wrong. Was it not folly to give credence to the words of someone so spiteful? The belief that perhaps she was not so terribly mistaken, that there was something special between her and Oliver, would pierce her gloom. Invariably, the doubts returned.
A few days later, Oliver sent a note to Delano asking if he might see her. By this time, Maren was thoroughly exhausted and terrified by the prospect of seeing him again. She had only just begun to master herself, forcing anger to prevail over other, more vulnerable feelings.
He is a snob. He has loads of women in his life. I’m just another plaything.
That would not do for Maren Larsen. She deserved better. Not only did she refuse to respond to his note, but she also asked for shifts on the convalescent wing at the Forest Glen annex, a few miles away. She would never see Oliver there.
“Maren, what is going on with Oliver? Why are you avoiding him?” Dorothy asked one night, a week after the Bells’ party. Maren had visited the library and was now ensconced in a Victorian novel, as anesthetic to her as vodka to a drinker.
“I don’t know. It just didn’t work out,” Maren replied, barely looking up. Dorothy looked sad, and a little skeptical, but she let it be.
The days went by. Oliver left another message.
Dear Maren,
I wonder if you hadn’t received my earlier note? And if you had, whether there was something wrong. Either way, I would be grateful to hear from you.
All my best,
Oliver
Again, Maren did not reply. She knew it was impolite. She owed Oliver an explanation, but she had no idea what to say. Honesty would mean even more vulnerability, and she already felt as if her skin had been turned inside out. When no further messages came, she considered it confirmation of her suspicions. If he was so taken with her, would he not try harder?
She almost began to enjoy her self-imposed solitude. Maren was a social creature, but she had the ability to lose herself in books and work. She added a fresh-air element to her exile. Raised with the Norwegian attitude that there was no bad weather, just bad clothing, she bundled up whenever possible and took long walks in Rock Creek Park. Occasionally, when she remembered the picnic she had enjoyed there with Oliver, she forced her mind in other directions. The painful moments grew fewer and farther between.
On the Friday evening before Thanksgiving, Maren was reading in their room when Dorothy entered the suite, eyes red-rimmed, her face the picture of despair. Maren sat up in alarm.
“Dorothy, what is wrong?”
“It’s terrible.” She sank into the love seat next to Maren and buried her face in her hands. “It’s Oliver’s brother, Daniel. He was killed in France. The family just learned the news.”
“Where is he?” Maren leapt up. “Where is Oliver?”
“He’s at the Moores’, friends of the family. They live in Georgetown. Oliver stays there sometimes. Maren, could you go to him? He would want you to.”
Dorothy’s expression was eager, almost
pleading, but Maren needed no convincing. Whatever Oliver thought of her, even if he had the brunette with him, Maren knew she must offer her consolation in person. Dorothy gave her the address, and she grabbed her coat.
“I’m sorry for your loss, too, Doro.” She hugged Dorothy tightly before racing out the door.
She ignored the bitter wind as she ran to the streetcar stop. After she sat down in the rattling car and took a breath, she felt an instant of hesitation, but immediately brushed it aside. Her mother’s words echoed in her mind. You can’t go wrong if you do the right thing. When someone died, you went to the family. It didn’t matter who was there with Oliver. Even if she turned around and left right after, she needed to address him in person.
She got off at P Street, briskly walked two blocks to the narrow house, compelled herself up the staircase, and rang the bell.
To her surprise, Oliver answered. She breathed in sharply at the sight of him. He wore dark trousers and a white button-down shirt, half tucked. He held a drink. His face was pale, the soulful eyes and beautiful angles shadowed with misery.
“Maren,” he said. His wooden expression changed slightly, and she detected a hint of relief in his voice, as if instead of saying “Maren” he might as easily have said “finally.”
“Oh, Oliver. Dorothy just told me the news, and I am so sorry.” To her own surprise (and, she imagined, Oliver’s) Maren burst into tears, right there on the front stoop of the elegant little townhome. She kept her arms by her sides, uncertain whether she should enter, or what precisely she should do besides say what she’d come to say.
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