by Belva Plain
“I have to tell you something,” Eddy said. “It’s something I’ve been waiting to say and putting off because I feel a certain guilt about it.”
“Why? What have you done? Been sleeping with my secretary?”
“I’m not kidding, Pete. The fact is, I want to leave, I want to leave you. I want to strike out on my own.”
The other sat up straight. “Hey! I thought we were going along like a house afire! What is it? Anything you don’t like about me? Give me the truth, Eddy. On the level.”
“On the level. You’re my friend, Pete, and I don’t want you to think for one split second that I don’t appreciate a thousand times over, that I’m not completely grateful, that I don’t know how lucky I am that you and your uncle—what a fine, generous man!—chose me for your partner. Gosh, after all our college years, you’ve got to believe me, and—”
Pete waved his hand. “All right, all right, I believe you, but get to the point. What’s the complaint?”
“It’s not a complaint. It’s that you and I go at different speeds, and—”
Again Pete interrupted. “Oh, because I don’t want to take money out of the firm and invest, because I don’t want a fancier office, because I’m satisfied with—”
“You’re satisfied with less than I want out of life. That’s about the size of it, Pete.”
“More out of life! You’ve got a regular income, an apartment, friends, this whole fantastic city to play in. What’s the more that you want out of life?”
The more. It was almost impossible to explain. It would sound absurd to say that this fantastic city had overwhelmed him with desire. What good was it to walk on Fifth Avenue or Madison or Fifty-seventh Street, gazing at the shops and the galleries filled with paintings of such beauty that you could hardly tear yourself away; what good to look at the airlines’ posters of Paris, Hawaii, and Morocco, to stare at splendid women as they stared into the windows of splendid jewelers’ shops, when every one of these was beyond one’s reach? What Pete called an “apartment” was a remodeled flat on the top floor of a walk-up. A real “apartment” was on the Upper East Side on a wide avenue, Fifth or Park, or on a quiet side street with a doorman standing under a green awning. There was no use in trying to explain.
So he simplified his thoughts. “I’d like to expand, that’s all. You remember how I talked to you about tax shelters? You said no. Positively no.”
“And I still do. We’re stockbrokers, Eddy.”
“We’re not limited to that, though. That’s the way I see it. And you don’t. But that’s okay. Friends don’t always have to see things the same way.”
“Eddy, you’re a gambler at heart.” The tone was mildly reproachful. “You’ve got a gambling streak, and it’s dangerous.”
“Who, me? A gambler? You’re all wrong, Pete. I’ve saved all my earnings. Built a nice fat nest egg. That’s why I’m in a position to go out on my own. After I repay your uncle’s loan and my half of the office expenses, I’ll still be solid.”
“Taking in a partner?”
“No, no. I’m setting up by myself. Osborne and Company. I’m the ‘Company.’ Brokerage and tax shelters. There’s a tremendous call for them. Perfectly legal. But you have to know just how to structure them for big write-offs. Customers will come flocking if you can.”
Pete shook his head. “Big. It looks like big trouble to me.”
Eddy laughed. “No, no, no. But you know what’s wonderful? That we can part with no hard feelings. Not on my part, at least.”
Pete stood up and put out his hand. “Nor on mine. I wish you all the luck in the world, Eddy.”
You had to spend money to make money. That was axiomatic. The decoration of the new office in a well-kept building on Madison Avenue had cost somewhat more than he had intended, but the result, as the decorating firm had promised, was totally pleasing.
“It’s foolish to skimp on the quality of carpeting,” the man had told Eddy. “You can actually feel the richness of good carpet underfoot. It conveys an unmistakable impression.”
And it was true, he thought as he glanced about the new domain, from the dark green carpet to the elegantly framed etchings of classical Rome. What a relief after that dump of Pete’s!
It was also true that a man’s suit conveyed an unmistakable impression. One of the older men whom he had met at Pete’s uncle’s tennis club had recommended a tailor. What a difference a custom-made suit could make! And he stroked his arm, now encased in the best British worsted. What a difference!
At three he had an appointment with a builder. And hastening up Madison Avenue—someday he, too, would like a really distinguished office farther up the Avenue—he reflected upon the nice way things could mesh. This builder, the same man who had recommended the tailor, was planning a shopping center on Long Island and needed investors. At the same time some of the brokerage accounts who had left Pete to follow Eddy were looking for investments, shelters by which to cut their income taxes. It was encouraging to note how many customers had chosen him over Pete. And he hadn’t by even the slightest hint lured any one of them away; he would never have done that. No, they had followed him of their own volition, proving that a good part of the business had come through him and not through Pete in the first place. But Pete had never been especially sociable. You had to be upbeat, you had to smile, if you wanted to attract people.
He was smiling when he entered Mr. Hartman’s mahogany office.
“I want to thank you for recommending your tailor, Mr. Hartman. How do you like the suit?”
“You look like a million dollars, Eddy. If I had a son, I’d want him to look like you. So, let’s get down to business. I’m swamped today, so let’s waste no time. I hope you haven’t come emptyhanded.”
“No, sir, I definitely have not. I’ve got five names, and I’ll have two more by Wednesday sure.”
The two men sat down with papers spread out between them.
“These are all responsible people, Mr. Hartman, as you can see. I’m about through checking their references, and they’re all top drawer.”
“I see they are. Always stick with the top drawer, young man.” The older man placed Eddy’s papers in a tidy pile. “And speaking of that, how would you like me to put you up for membership in my tennis club on the Island?”
“That sounds great, Mr. Hartman!”
“They’ve got nice accommodations. You can spend the weekend there next summer whenever you want. Get out of the city, play tennis, have a swim. It’s all there. The fee’s pretty steep, but it’ll be worth it to you.
“I know it will, Mr. Hartman. I’m honored that you’ll endorse me.”
“No problem, Eddy. My pleasure.”
They shook hands, and Eddy went down onto the street. It was all he could do not to whistle. This was the way you got ahead, step by step. An entrée like this one at the club would mean the opening of more new doors. He saw a long vista, a bright corridor lined with opening doors.
In such a mood, walking uptown for no reason other than that he felt like doing it, he stopped before the window of an art gallery. There, all by itself, hung a small watercolor of a pond, with catkins along the shore. Neo-Impressionist, he decided as he regarded it, set probably in New England. He had been buying art books, teaching himself against the day when he would be a buyer of art. And he went inside to inquire of a rather distinguished gentleman the price of the painting.
“Twelve thousand dollars. The artist has been doing very well. His prices are rising.”
The distinguished gentleman spoke defensively, as if, Eddy realized at once, he had mistaken Eddy’s expression for disapproval. Actually, Eddy’s attention had been suddenly attracted by another watercolor on the wall.
“This one’s better,” Eddy said.
He moved closer to it. Here, too, was water, a cove or inlet where sailboats were at anchor in the evening; so deft, so real, was it that one could almost hear the soft lapping of the water and feel the cool air. Yet f
or all its realness it was no picture postcard; there was something—something else that the artist had put there. He couldn’t have defined what the something was, he only knew that it was there, and it was art. A marvelous, unfamiliar excitement rose in him.
“Yes,” he said. “Much the better of the two.”
“You’re right, of course. Quite right. He’s a finer artist than the other.”
“Naturally, it must be more expensive?”
“Actually, it’s two thousand less. The man’s just coming up, you see. The other has a bigger name. That’s why his work’s in the window.”
“Ah, I see.” He knew that he had spent an awful lot on the office, and he was due to move out of the walk-up flat next month, and would need to furnish the new place, but he wanted this picture.
“I’m going to buy it,” he said. Then, bluntly, although it was no one’s business, he added, “The price is a bit high for me at present, but this will be the first picture I’ll have bought, and I really want it.”
“I congratulate you on your taste. You have a fine eye. And you will not be sorry. In a few years’ time I predict you’ll get twice the price back should you ever decide to sell it.”
After identifying himself Eddy wrote a check and carried his happy purchase home, where he hung it on the wall opposite his bed. It was a good investment, the man had said, so it was nice to know he might someday sell it and get something more valuable in its place. So much the better. That was not why he had bought it, though, and he did not believe he would ever want to sell it.
At night his room, because of the streetlamps, was only gray-dark. He lay for a while with open eyes, gazing at his purchase and smiling to himself. The artist had made magic in his ordinary little room; the purest starlight streamed from the picture on the wall and quivered, touching the very air with silver.
And this beautiful thing was his. I’m really moving up, he thought, before he fell asleep. I’m moving up.
• • •
In the service wing of the building Connie had a little office, not much larger than a cubby, with a desk and two wooden chairs. One morning a young man knocked at the open door and introduced himself. “I’m Richard Tory, and I understand you’re the person to see about a surprise luncheon for my mother. You are Miss Osborne, aren’t you?”
“I am, but I’m always called ‘Connie’ here.”
“I didn’t know. I hardly ever come to the club, although my family’s been here since before I was born.”
His was, indeed, an unfamiliar face. If she had seen him before, she would have remembered him, for he had a distinctive crown of light, very curly hair, fair skin, and aquiline features that one would more readily expect to find on a dark Roman aristocrat. Nor would she have expected him to be the son of a “crank.”
He gave her a smile that was almost shy. “I’ve never done anything like this before. I hope you’ll help me.”
“No problem at all. You want to give a luncheon.”
“Yes. It’s my mother’s fiftieth birthday, and I thought of assembling her best friends, about fifty in all. I’d love to have it at home, only then it wouldn’t be a surprise. You’ll be sure not to give it away?”
“No, no, don’t worry.”
“I suppose you know my folks?”
“Yes, they’ve been here quite often.”
“My mother likes things simple. What I mean is, no favors or balloons, nothing like that. It wouldn’t be her style.”
“I shouldn’t think so.” The words had come out unbidden, with a ring that gave Connie a shock, for he might well have heard a sardonic tone that she had not intended.
But his eyes held humor. “Well, then, I’ll leave it to you. Plenty of flowers on the tables—she loves flowers. In wicker baskets, do you think?”
“That’s always pretty. Any special color?”
He considered. “She likes blue. Cornflowers, maybe? Cornflowers and white daisies?”
“You have good taste. I can get blue-and-white checked tablecloths, a country-garden-party effect. How does that sound?”
“Good, good! And you’ll know what ladies like to eat at these lunches?”
“Oh, most of them are dieting. Why don’t you let me talk to the chef and make up a menu? Then I can phone you for your approval, and we can go over more details.”
“Of course. Be sure not to call me at home, though. I live with my parents. Here’s my office number. And thanks a lot.”
What a nice person, Connie thought when he left. Nice. She looked at his business card. McQueen-Bartlett Advertising. The telephone directory listed it at a prestigious address downtown. Then, turning pages to the residential listings, she found Roger Tory at a River Oaks address and Richard Tory with a separate number at the same address.
River Oaks. The grand stone houses under the grand old trees. Sighing, she put the directory back on the shelf.
• • •
The party went well. Fifty middle-aged ladies in silks and linens came bearing gifts, drank champagne, sang ‘Happy Birthday,’ and went home satisfied. At the end Mrs. Tory summoned Connie to compliment her cordially on the arrangements.
“Your son had as much to do with it as I did,” Connie told her, which of course was not true. Yet something compelled her to bring his name into the conversation.
“Really? Well, Richard has always had an instinct for doing things right,” his mother replied as she departed.
It had occurred to Connie that he might perhaps drop in at the party to see how things were going. But since he had not done so, it was hardly likely that she would be seeing him again—although it was absurd to think it would make any difference in her life even if she were to. So it was with some surprise that she looked up from her desk one morning in the following week to find him at the door. He was wearing tennis whites and carrying a racket.
“I hear the party was a great success, so I thought I’d come by to thank you.”
“It was a pleasure to do it,” she replied.
He stood in the doorway as if uncertain whether to say more, to come farther or to retreat.
“I haven’t played tennis here in a couple of years,” he said then. “It’s handier to play at home. But I thought I’d give this a try for a change to see whether I could beat the pro.”
“And did you?”
“No, but I gave him a run for his money.”
“You must be pretty good.”
“Well, I’m not bad.”
His face was open, with a wide forehead and a friendly mouth. He had a vital look. Wholesome, she thought.
“I’m not bad either,” she said immodestly. “My brother taught me, and he’s marvelous.”
“Then would you like to have a game sometime?”
“I’d love to, but don’t forget I’m a working girl.”
“And I’m a working man. This is my three-week vacation. Otherwise, I’d be in the office at ten-thirty in the morning. Ten-thirty at night, too, often enough.”
How could this be happening? It seemed as if she were delicately balancing, teetering on a narrow plank, placing one foot softly ahead of the other with arms out, fearful of a fall. The wrong word, either too eager or too indifferent, could bring about the fall.
She said carefully, “I have Sundays and usually Mondays, unless there’s a wedding or something, and—well, it’s flexible time, depending on the schedule. They’re very considerate of me here.”
“They should be. So, when are you free? Anytime this week?”
“It happens that I’ve got this afternoon off. But you won’t want any more tennis today, will you?”
“No, it’s gotten beastly hot. I will want lunch, though, won’t you?”
“Oh, I never miss lunch. Sorry to say, I’ve got a healthy appetite.”
He smiled. “So have I. There’s a great place down the road. I’ll go change, and then how about meeting in the parking lot at half past twelve?”
• • •
I can’t believe this, Connie kept thinking. He’s so easy to talk to. He reminds me of Davey. Lara would like him. He’s not at all what I’d expect from anyone who lives in River Oaks. But what do I know about anyone who lives there? I do know he doesn’t seem like the men I’ve been watching at this club with their skeptical, suave faces. The restaurant was emptying out, and they were still settled in a booth with a second order of iced coffee before them.
“I usually like to travel someplace for my vacation,” Richard was saying, “even if it’s only up to New York. The company has me spending so much time there that I’ve got myself a small apartment near the U.N. building. My parents like to fly up for theater weekends, so they can use it too. Do you like New York?”
“I’ve never been there. I’ve never been anywhere, actually.” Then, because that sounded pathetic, Connie fell back upon the explanation she had devised and now knew by heart. “First my father always said he couldn’t leave his business. A large furniture business. He was a real workaholic—you know the type. Then when he got sick, naturally …” She made a pretty gesture with her hands. “After that Mom got sick, too, and we couldn’t leave her, wouldn’t leave her.” She did not finish.
“It must have been awful for you,” he said kindly. “Well, I’m sure you’ll get to see the world. If you want to, you will, you know.”
“I’d especially love to see England. My family was always so aware of roots, and they were all in England except for a bit of Dutch way back. Distant relatives of the Vanderbilts—or maybe not so distant. And then there’s a Catholic branch,” she added, suddenly remembering a fact from American history class. “Some ancestor came to Maryland with Lord Baltimore.”
“Gosh, I’m a plebeian compared with you. Most of my folks were Irish who came over during the potato famine. And I’ve got a Polish great-grandfather who worked in the coal mines.”
Connie spoke lightly. “What difference does it all make? People are people.”
“Right you are. When shall I see you again? Saturday? Sunday?”
“Sunday would be lovely.”
“Okay. Write down your address, and I’ll pick you up. And bring your swimsuit. We’ll want a swim before lunch.”
