Jane Austen in Scarsdale

by Paula Marantz Cohen

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  THE APPEARANCE OF FELICIA DESIDERIO AND TREVOR HOPGOOD AT the door of her office the next day gave Anne a start.

  “We don’t have an appointment,” said Felicia, “but your secretary said you were in and that we could ask if you would see us.”

  Felicia looked different. Anne realized that she was wearing makeup. Trevor seemed changed too. He didn’t look surly.

  “We thought it might save time if you saw us both at once,” continued Felicia. “We both have stuff to talk about and, since we sort of worked together, we decided to come in together. Also, since we’re sort of going out”—this was added as an afterthought, though it was clearly the item of most pressing importance to Felicia.

  “That’s so nice,” said Anne. She stopped herself from saying more. Extensive experience with high-school romances had taught her to smile and nod and act as though the thing, no matter how bizarre it might seem, was entirely to be expected.

  “We talked about a couple of schools for Trevor,” Felicia explained excitedly. “He has lots of interests, so he could go lots of places.”

  “Is that so?” said Anne, recalling that Trevor had said he had no interests.

  “He especially likes music,” added Felicia.

  “Yeah,” said Trevor, “I’m really into music. My grandfather owned this music store in Maple Shade, New Jersey. I guess I got my love of music from him. He was great.”

  “But he died,” proffered Felicia.

  “I’m sorry,” said Anne.

  “It’s OK. He was really old,” said Trevor.

  “Trevor has an awesome music collection,” continued Felicia. “Like a million CDs.”

  “Not that many,” noted Trevor modestly. “But a lot. And some records: Led Zeppelin. The Grateful Dead.”

  “Ah!” said Anne. Curtis Fink had not been entirely off base after all.

  “So . . .” Trevor looked at Felicia, who nodded encouragingly. “We talked about it, and I decided that maybe I want to own a record store someday. Like my grandfather’s, only bigger.”

  “That sounds like a commendable goal,” said Anne. “It means you’ll want to take music courses but maybe major in business. Do I have this right?”

  “Yeah.” Trevor nodded.

  “He’s thinking George Washington University,” said Felicia. “It has a good business program, and it’s in DC.” The proximity to Georgetown was not lost on Anne.

  “And Drexel University,” said Trevor. “It’s in Philadelphia, which is only two hours from D.C.” He offered this for Felicia’s benefit, then continued: “Drexel has this really neat co-op program that lets you work at what you want to do while you go to school.”

  Anne nodded. “Northeastern has a co-op program too,” she suggested. “It’s in Boston.”

  “Boston is too cold,” asserted Felicia.

  “Yeah,” said Trevor. “I hate the cold.”

  “Then cross off Boston,” agreed Anne. “But GW and Drexel sound like good choices. You can start working on those applications now, and maybe look around for some others. Anything else?”

  Felicia, who had been waiting patiently for the conversation to get to her, now burst out: “I think I have a better handle on my Georgetown essay!”

  “That’s wonderful!” said Anne.

  “Trevor really helped me. He’s really good at spotting trite, fake stuff, and he got me to be more concrete the way you wanted. Listen to the beginning.” Felicia began reading from a sheet of paper she had been clutching in her hand:

  “ ‘I don’t want to be President of the United States. Or a US. Senator. Or even Mayor of Fenimore.’ ”

  Felicia paused to explicate: “It was Trevor’s idea that I should start with what I don’t want to do, as a way of getting attention.”

  “It’s a nice touch,” agreed Anne. Felicia continued:

  “ ‘Even though I don’t want to run for political office, I do want to pursue a career in politics. My interest has less to do with issues and candidates than with how democracy works. I am fascinated by how a country as large and diverse as ours can coordinate its many functions, and how the local, state, and national governments can work independently and together in the act of governance. I am proud that we can have free elections and maintain a political process that reflects the will of the people.’ ”

  “That’s my intro,” said Felicia proudly. “I’m not sure about some of the wording, and Trevor said that what happened in Florida during the Gore-Bush campaign contradicts my point a little, but I think the general idea is right and that this has a lot more energy than my other drafts.”

  “I agree,” said Anne, “it has a lot more energy.”

  “The rest is better too. Trevor and I started talking about the things I do in my volunteer work that seem unimportant but that are, like, necessary to the political process.”

  “Like the time cards,” prompted Trevor.

  “Yeah.” Felicia nodded. “I have a paragraph about how one of the things I do is hold up the time cards during the League of Women Voters debates (she read from her sheet): “ ‘Timing each speaker represents the ideal of democracy where everyone is held to the same standard. This is an ideal I strongly believe in, that is sometimes infringed upon, but that as citizens we must try to maintain.’ ”

  “Read the stuff about campaign finance reform,” urged Trevor.

  Felicia continued: “ ‘I have also been involved in the related area of campaign finance reform at my high school. As chair of the Elections Committee, I helped make the rule that kids couldn’t use professional ad agencies to make their campaign posters, even if their dads owned the agencies. This is another example of helping to promote the democratic process on a very basic level.’ ”

  “I remember you did that,” Anne said, nodding. “That’s an excellent concrete example.”

  “Trevor’s going to help me come up with a third example— because I think it’s always good to have three. And then I’m going to end with how“—she returned to her sheet—” ‘Georgetown, by being located in our nation’s capital and having an excellent reputation for its coursework in political science and governance, will allow me to learn more about the fascinating political process that I have become interested in through my volunteer work on the local level.’” She stopped suddenly. “Uh-oh, I used ‘fascinating’ again,” she noted. “I may have to edit that. But you get the idea.”

  “I do,” said Anne, relieved. The last paragraph aside, Felicia had finally broken through the cliches that had dogged her writing and arrived at something that, if not earthshakingly profound, at least showed some genuine glimpses of who she was.

  “It sounds like you and Trevor make a really good team,” Anne went on. With the addition of her own letter as head of guidance—not to mention letters from the president of Fenimore’s League of Women Voters and various aldermen, councilmen, and assemblymen for whom Felicia had uncomplainingly fetched coffee and stuffed envelopes—Anne felt that the girl now had a good shot at Georgetown.

  “We do,” agreed Felicia. “He needs to try harder and I need to not try so hard. We sort of balance each other.”

  “Well, I’m very proud of the good work you’ve done,” said Anne. “We’ll send out your application, Felicia, once you finish editing your essay. Trevor can continue researching colleges and getting his references lined up.”

  “He spoke to Ms. Fineman and she agreed to write him a letter,” volunteered Felicia. “She said that after listening to him this week in class, she thinks she can write something positive.”

  Anne had suspected that, given a hint, Marcy would see something in Trevor. “This is great,” she said, “this is fantastic. But there’s still something important left to do. Trevor”—she waited for the boy to look up from trying to get a comfortable grasp of Felicia’s hand—“you still have to speak to your father.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  “WE MAY HAVE A WINDFALL!”

&nb
sp; It was Sally Solomon, the Realtor, calling Anne one morning about a month after the house had been on the market. She was whispering. Sally’s involvement with houses was so intense that she may have believed that other houses under her watch would get jealous if she spoke too loudly.

  “There’s interest,” she whispered excitedly. “I’m not saying it’s certain. But you know I have instincts, and my instincts give me a good feeling about this one. I’ll want you to be available when they take a walk-through early next week. So keep your afternoons free. I’ll be in touch.”

  Anne felt a mixture of elation and sadness at hearing the house might be sold soon. On the one hand, it was a necessity— the bills had mounted to a point where she had begun to worry that the gas and water would be turned off and Winnie would be left parched and shivering in the dark. But the loss of the house where she had grown up was still hard to take in. And it was the idea of Winnie being uprooted at the very end of her life that upset her most.

  “My dear, stop worrying,” said Winnie philosophically, when Anne relayed Sally’s news. “If need be, I can always go stay with Serge Freedman in Paris. He’s ninety now and senile, but he’s still your grandfather’s cousin and was once in love with me. And the poor man has more money than he knows what to do with.”

  “So now you’re saying you’re going to go live with a ninety-year-old senile Frenchman?”

  “And why not? A senile Frenchman is likely to be more interesting than an American with all his marbles. And I’m not saying I’m going to live with him. I’m just saying I could. I also have it from good authority that the senior facility in Larchmont is very nice.”

  “And what authority is that?”

  “Harriet Ackerman’s second husband was there. He died of a massive coronary last year, poor thing. But they say he was very happy.”

  “Who said?” pressed Anne.

  “Not Harriet, I’m afraid. She died of viral pneumonia three years ago. No, I heard it from someone. Don’t ask me who. He’s probably dead anyway.”

  “Winnie, you’re terrible!”

  “Not terrible, dear, just realistic. Everyone’s dead except me.” “Oh Gram!”

  “I’m rather proud of it, you know. Besides, it’s not your place to worry about me. It’s my place to worry about you.”

  “And why would you worry about me?”

  “Because, dear, you are almost thirty-five years old and you’re not married. There’s nothing wrong with the single life, mind you. My friend Sadie never married and always said it was the best decision she ever made. But some women are meant to be married, and you’re one of them.”

  “I’ve had plenty of chances to marry.”

  “Precisely what worries me. You met one man whom you liked and you can’t seem to move on. It’s not normal. I admitted I was wrong about the fellow and I’m sorry for it. But mistakes happen and one gets past them. I never imagined you’d be so stubborn.”

  “I’m not stubborn,” said Anne. “I’ve just never met anyone that I liked as much.”

  “ ‘Liked as much!’ “ exclaimed Winnie. “For goodness’ sakes, all you need is to like someone enough. Life isn’t a Jane Austen novel. It’s one thing to be long-suffering in a story, where the author can make it worth your while, but in real life, who’s going to make sure it ends happily? Just look at what happened with poor Jane Austen. She worked things out for that long-suffering ninny, Anne Elliot, in her last book, but who worked things out for her? The woman probably waited around for her Ben Cutler to show up, which he never did. If you ask me, it’s a good thing this Cutler fellow is back in the area. You can take a good look at him and see that he’s not Prince Charming. Believe me, my dear, no man is a prince, except in the imagination.”

  Anne realized that Winnie had been storing up this lecture for weeks. She had sat by and watched as Anne cried over Ben Cutler during their last outing, but she was not about to tolerate any more tears. Life meant reducing expectations and making-do with what one had. What was the point of boo-hooing, as she saw it, when “no man is a prince, except in the imagination”? It was the same thing Marcy had said: “No one is as good as you think they are.”

  Only Ben was as good. Encountering him again had not just confirmed Anne’s sense of his qualities but added luster to them. Everything she had once loved in him—his kindness, his intelligence, his imagination—had gone into making him the person he was now. And if that wasn’t enough, the attraction she had once felt was still there. He still had the capacity to make her pulse quicken by simply looking at her.

  Everything he had become had been inherent in what he had been. Why, then, had she been persuaded to give him up? The reason was simple. She had been afraid to stand up to her family and to trust herself. He had known it. It had been the accusation he hurled at her that last time.

  They had been together for eight months and he had met her family, who had pretended to be polite while asking him pointed questions (whose answers they already knew) about where he had gone to college and where he worked. She had hoped that Winnie would engage with him about a book or an idea, but she had spoken to him only briefly turning aside to discuss a charity benefit she was planning with Allegra. It had been a busy time for her then, and she had always had a tendency to make snap judgments about people. “I can take their measure in a few words,” she liked to say. “And I always look at their shoes. Shoes, you know, speak volumes.” At the time, Ben owned only a pair of scruffy sneakers, and Anne had wondered what volumes they spoke.

  She found out only a few days later, when she joined her grandmother for lunch at a little restaurant on East Sixty-seventh Street. In those days, there had been a car to drive them into the city and some half-dozen unpretentious (but not inexpensive) bistros where the maitre d’s knew them and always found them a table. Winnie was dressed impeccably that day in a Chanel suit with a Hermes scarf draped around her shoulders and a Tatiana hat perched on the top of her head. She had an appointment later with someone from the mayor’s office (“They probably want me to host another gathering for the landmark commission”). From there, she was going on to Mort Feinberg’s on Central Park West for a light dinner. “Ever since his wife died, he’s been nagging me to marry him; I won’t hear of it. But his cook is excellent, so I don’t mind having dinner with him.”

  Winnie had lived with the benefits of money for so long that she had lost track of how much it could blunt and derail judgment.

  “I’m not saying your friend isn’t a good person,” she launched forth once they had settled in the corner of the bistro, “I’m just saying he’s not worthy of you. You know I don’t usually side with your father, but here I must admit, he has a point. What does the young man have to recommend him? He’s good-looking enough, which I suppose counts for something. But believe me, the sexual part doesn’t last, and once that’s gone, what will you have? I shudder to think what his family is like. Can you imagine sitting around a kitchen table in Queens? And what are his prospects? To ascend to the august position of manager of a travel agency? Or perhaps to lead one of those tour groups that visit eleven cities in ten days? It will be bad enough for you, dear, but think of him. These lopsided relationships are always worse for the men. In the end, it makes them bitter. Gert Ros-ner married some boy who worked in a deli, and she showed up at my door one day with a black eye. I know you, Anne; you wouldn’t like having your husband dependent on you. And he’d feel your disapproval and resent you for it.”

  It was amazing how Winnie had managed, in a few strokes, to paint a picture that made everything seem so complicated. It was true: Ben had no knowledge of her world and was likely to feel out of place in it. And Anne had no good answers for the questions about his work. What was he going to do with his life? He seemed without clear ambition, content to continue working in a travel agency.

  Winnie was so definite that Anne suddenly saw the relationship through her grandmother’s eyes: She had a childish crush on an inappropriate person; perh
aps she had fallen for him because he was inappropriate. A travel agent in a Queens College sweatshirt was her attempt at rebellion. But what right had she to rebel against Winnie, who loved her more than anyone else in the world?

  She had spoken to Ben several days later during a visit to the

  Met, as they stood, as they sometimes did, in front of the Titian. They had been holding hands, but it was as though she were keeping her hand apart. He felt it in the tension of her fingers, and looked at her face for a while as she stared blankly at the portrait.

  “What’s wrong?” he finally asked.

  “I think,” she responded, in the quiet deliberate way she had when she finally made up her mind to something, “we should cut it off.”

  “Cut what off?” he said tensely but attempting lightness. “Are you suggesting we take a hatchet to some part of my anatomy? I was under the impression that you liked it the way it was.”

  Anne did not smile. She did not even look at him. “Cut off our relationship,” she clarified bluntly.

  He didn’t say anything for a moment. He had recognized the finality of her tone. “Why?” he finally asked.

  “We’re too young.”

  “I’m twenty-five.”

  “I’m too young, then. And you’re not—” “Settled?”

  “I suppose that’s it,” admitted Anne.

  “OK, you’re too young and I’m not settled. We don’t have to get married now. We’ll wait till you’re older and I’m settled.” “That’s not the whole problem.” “Then what?”

  “We’re just not right for each other.”

  “Because I work in a travel agency. Because I went to Queens College and my parents have blue-collar jobs?” Anne was silent.