by Belva Plain
She had to tell Celia Mapes. “Can you believe it? Richard Tory’s asked me out. And to his house, no less.”
Celia looked doubtful. “I believe it if you say so.”
“Well, it’s true. He’s really sweet. The only thing is, I hate the idea of being there with the family. They look like people who won’t be too thrilled about having me either.”
“You can bet they won’t be, honey. I’ve known them for twenty years, and I can tell you they don’t improve with age.”
“Oh, Lord, I’m scared to death already.”
“You’ll do all right, I’m thinking. You must have given that fellow some come-on.”
“I swear I did nothing of the sort. I didn’t do a thing.”
There was a new respect, almost comical, in Celia’s head-to-foot examination of Connie. “You’ll do all right,” she repeated then, with a wise nod.
In back of a long white brick house with symmetrical wings and a classical facade lay the perfect lawn, the tennis court, and the pool that one would expect to find there.
“We have the place to ourselves today,” Richard said. “My parents won’t be back till tonight.”
It seemed quite clear what these words meant. And something occurred in Connie’s head, a self-analysis swift as a computer printout: My heart’s excited. My first time, and it’s past time. I’m twenty years old. But should …? Does he expect it …? The day would unfold and end then, either in a bed upstairs or in the poolhouse.
At the moment, he was leading her to the tennis court. She had bought something new, a short Wimbledon skirt; it looked traditional, as shorts did not, and instinct had told her that a conservative effect would be a good thing to have today. Now that the parents were not here, she was sorry she hadn’t bought the shorts. However, this tiny flounce was becoming, too, as it whipped above long, tanned legs. She played well, feeling grateful to Eddy for all those mornings when he had made her rise early to get to the town courts before they were taken.
“Hey, you’re a great player. You didn’t tell me how good you were,” Richard called over the net.
He won the set, although not easily. But even if she had been able to beat him, she would not have done so. Never mind women’s liberation; certainly she was in full accord with it, yet there were basic truths that common sense wouldn’t let one deny, and one of them was that men didn’t like to be beaten.
Next in the pool, where she dove and raced with ease, she was thankful again for Eddy’s tough, insistent training.
“The more skills you have, the farther they’ll take you.” That had been his constant admonition, and she saw now that it had been worth heeding, for Richard was a graceful athlete and he was plainly admiring her skills.
“You’re terrific,” he kept saying. “Terrific!”
He had an enthusiastic way of speaking, with superlatives and exclamations, so that she had to wonder how old he might be; his manner seemed extraordinarily young.
So she asked him, and he told her. “Twenty-four. Why?”
“No reason, really.”
“Were you wondering why I’m still living here at home?”
He was more keen than she’d thought! And before she could reply, he said, “Actually, I’m planning to leave. I’ve applied for transfer to the New York office. I have to break the news gradually. It’ll be a real disruption in my parents’ lives because I’m the only child they have, and naturally, they hate to let go.” He added, smiling, “Not that it’s been any real hardship for me to live here.”
“I wouldn’t think so,” Connie said, looking around the terrace with its white wrought-iron furniture, its cobalt-blue awnings, and its petunias trailing out of stone urns. One would want to think it over more than once before departing from such a pleasure island, such a comfortable world as this.
“Come on, I’ll show you the house,” Richard offered. “Women always like to see houses, don’t they?”
“This one certainly does.”
One large cool room, dimmed by drawn blinds against the noon heat, opened onto another. They had walked into the eighteenth century. She might have foreseen that Mrs. Tory would belong here. She could have predicted that chairs would be Sheraton, sofas Chippendale, and that the dining room would be papered with Chinese peonies.
At the center of the table stood a crystal swan. And Connie smiled to herself, pleased to have recognized it as Lalique.
“It’s lovely,” she said now. “A lovely house.”
In the hall Richard paused, and the thought raced through her mind: Now he will suggest going upstairs.
Instead, he said, “The cook’s left lunch for us in the refrigerator. I thought we might take it outside.”
Not sure whether or not to be relieved, she helped him carry the lunch: a seafood salad, strawberry tarts, and a bottle of white wine, properly chilled.
The umbrella and the surrounding shrubbery gave shade. If a pair of mourning doves had not been cooing at the feeder, the garden would have been completely still, and Connie sighed with pleasure.
“I think I know what you’re feeling,” Richard said, remarking on the sigh. “Sometimes I think I’m crazy to give this up for a couple of rooms thirty-three floors above the New York sidewalks. And yet I want to.” He mused. “New York’s the origin, the fount, of good things. Not that we haven’t got plenty of them here, too, music, art— But then I guess you’ve found them for yourself.”
“I’m ashamed to say I haven’t.”
“Really? Well, then, we’ll have to do something about it, won’t we?”
So today was to be only a beginning! Connie’s heart acknowledged this with a small, eager leap. But her reply was calm.
“I’d like that very much.”
“There’s an exhibit of Western art on right now. I went last week, but I wouldn’t mind going again. Southwestern things are especially good. Red rocks and canyons and Indian faces—some people find them trite by now, but I never do.”
“Do you collect art?”
He shook his head. “I’m not a collector of anything except books. I feel that great art belongs in museums where thousands of people can see it. Besides, I couldn’t afford great art even if I wanted to.”
“I agree with you—about art belonging in museums, I mean.”
Richard responded quickly, “Do you? I’m glad. Most people around here use paintings for status. The higher the price you paid, the higher your status. And some of the stuff they buy is nothing but fad stuff. Why, I was at a house last week when the funniest thing—oh, I shouldn’t bore you.”
“Please. I want to hear it.”
“But you don’t know the people I’m talking about. You don’t know the way they think, and if you don’t, my story loses its point.”
“No names, but just tell me. Do they belong to the club?”
“Yes. Most of the people I know belong to it.”
“Then I have a pretty good idea how they think.”
She met his glance, and in the same instant they both laughed. Oh, I. like him, I like him, she thought. He’s smart and funny, and honest, and I like him.
The afternoon went fast. “I’ve had a great day,” he said when they arrived at her door. “I hope you did too.”
“It was wonderful,” she answered. His good-bye kiss was gentle, a chaste kiss.
They saw each other every day that remained in his vacation. When she had to go to work early, he called for her and returned to bring her home. On late nights he waited for her. It was remarkable how easily one could fall into dependence on such attentions, could assume that the face with the good smile would be there on the other side of the door.
He took her to the exhibit of Western art, to some concerts, and a ballet. All of these were enchantments for Connie. Certainly she had known they existed, and yet she was astonished when they materialized before her eyes and ears, as if they were a kind of lovely magic.
She thought about Richard almost all the time, while she was
working or falling asleep or after restless sleep, waking too early in the morning. Who could tell whether anything more was to follow these few bright days? Nothing was sure, she told herself, with the remembrance of her mother’s misguided optimism to warn her.
He hadn’t taken her to bed. He hadn’t brought her to his house since that first day, which meant quite obviously that his parents had already disapproved, or that he knew they would disapprove if they were told. Subtleties, things spoken and unspoken, were making clear to her acute mind that Richard feared their disapproval.
This insight by no means lessened her respect for him. Was she falling in love with him? There flashed before her a picture of Lara at her wedding, of her face turned toward Davey, of the trust, the adoration, and the joy in that face. And Davey had had nothing to give Lara except himself.
However, I am not like Lara … for a moment she felt guilty. Suppose that Richard worked in a gas station and lived in a two-room flat, would he be just as desirable? No, of course he wouldn’t. Yet that wasn’t a fair supposition either. One might just as easily ask whether, if she herself had bad skin and were fifty pounds overweight, Richard would want her! Of course he wouldn’t, even though she’d be the same person inside. The facts were simple: You can’t separate a person from externals. They’re all part of the person.
Days passed. They went on picnics. They spent a day in San Antonio. They danced at country barbecues and dined at sumptuous French restaurants in town. By the third week they were still what they had been in the first week, a congenial couple having a wonderful time, who ended their pleasant hours with a rather tender kiss. When, sometimes, Richard stroked her breasts, Connie felt intense excitement and anticipation, but he never sought more.
On this night, however, there came a difference. Suddenly over the coquilles Saint-Jacques and the wine, he fell into silence. Over the candle tips and the bavaroise au chocolat, his eyes, empty of their customary humor, fixed themselves on Connie with an almost stricken gaze. Then she, too, not knowing what to say, fell silent.
“You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,” he said.
She responded lightly, “Beauty is in the eyes of the beholder.”
“Ah, don’t be flippant, Connie. Let’s get out of here. Can’t talk in this place.”
When they were in the car, he commanded, “Now listen to me.” He grasped her two hands. “Listen. They’re finally transferring me to the New York office, and I can leave next week. But I don’t want—I can’t go without you, Connie. I’m in love with you. I never thought—I mean, you read about these things, but they never made sense, at least to me, they didn’t. That a person could feel the way I do now, and be so sure of wanting to spend the rest of his life with someone! And yet I’m more sure about this than I’ve ever been about anything. What about you, Connie? Can you love me? Can you marry me?”
How could she not love a man who looked at her, who touched her, as if she were the most precious object ever made? The moment was brilliant, exquisite, and filled with a kind of awe. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears.
“Oh, yes,” she said. “Oh, yes.”
After a few minutes he released her and turned on the motor. “I want to get you home because I’m going to pick you up early tomorrow morning. You’ve got to meet my parents.”
“Have you said anything to them?”
“No. There wasn’t anything to say without knowing your answer.”
She felt a small chill of dismay. “What if,” she asked, speaking carefully, “they don’t like me?”
“Oh, they will. When they see you—”
“Maybe I’m not what they expected for you.”
“But you are. Connie darling, you’re a beautiful lady. So fine—it shows in everything you do.”
“But if they still shouldn’t want me?”
“Then no matter. I want you.”
In front of Connie’s house they kissed again. The night was calm and bright. When, still held against his warm chest and shoulder, she opened her eyes, she saw that the sky was filled with stars. It seemed as if she had never seen so many before. Surely they were a good omen.
“I hate to leave you like this,” Richard whispered. “I wish I could walk in that door with you right now and stay.”
She giggled. “The Raymonds would probably drop dead of shock if they found you in my room in the morning.”
“That’s not the only reason. We could have had my house all to ourselves and done anything. But somehow I couldn’t ask you, and I wouldn’t ask you now. I guess I knew from the start that you weren’t going to be any one-night stand or anything temporary. I guess I’m just old-fashioned, Connie.”
She giggled again. “You’re from another century, darling.”
“As long as you approve of me.”
“I approve of you.”
“Then I’ll be here early. Nine-thirty? That’ll give me time to tell my folks first.”
She was too overwhelmed to sleep. Consuelo Tory, she thought. She sat down on the bench before the dressing table and stared into the mirror. Astonished eyes stared back at her. Why me? they asked. How can it be possible to get what one wants so easily, so soon? People always tell me life isn’t like that.
On the back of the envelope that lay there she wrote, Consuelo Osborne Tory, reflecting on the elegance of that name engraved in navy-blue script on a pale blue paper. Then, after tearing the paper into pieces too small for Mrs. Raymond to decipher, she threw them into the wastebasket and prepared for bed.
Disconnected shreds and fragments floated through her head. Tomorrow’s dress: a white silk shirt and pleated skirt with black-and-white shoes and a flat black taffeta bow at the nape of her neck would be right, refined and demure. The wedding ring: Dare she ask for a diamond band? No, ask for nothing; just be delighted with anything you get. That day at his house the dessert plates were lovely, a single dark blue flower on a pale yellow ground. Lovely. I wish I knew where to get them. Eddy will be amazed when he hears. We’ll be seeing each other in New York.… Eddy will be pleased with Richard … happy for me.
The air conditioner’s sleep-inducing hum took hold. Still, in her dreams, the shreds and fragments floated, in dreams such as children have through the long impatient night before Christmas.
By eight o’clock she had already been on the telephone with Lara for half an hour.
“But you can’t do this,” Lara kept crying. “You hardly know him.”
“Peg knew Pop six weeks before she married him, and they’d still be together if they’d lived. You know that.” When no reply was made, Connie persisted, “I can tell what you’re thinking. But Richard is not an alcoholic any more than Davey is.”
After a moment Lara asked what he did for a living.
“He’s in the advertising business, and we’re moving to New York.” Hastily she added, “But he’s not at all what you think of when you hear ‘Madison Avenue,’ sharp and competitive—you know? Richard’s got a kind of innocence, almost, that’s very appealing. And he must have a lot of talent, or they wouldn’t be promoting him. Lara, he’s wonderful, he’s everything you’d want for me, and I love him.”
“Well, if you’re sure …”
“Darling, I’m sure. Aren’t you sure about Davey?”
“When shall I meet him?”
“He wants to be married next week. Can you get down here?”
“Honey, I can’t possibly do it on such short notice. Davey’s having trouble with his father, another stroke and—can’t you wait a little?”
“Richard doesn’t want to. But it’s okay. Obviously, we’re not having a big wedding. So we’ll come visit you afterward instead.”
And suddenly a picture printed itself in Connie’s head: the peeling paint on the two-family house, the scruffy weeds in the yard, Richard climbing the stairs … Not that he would ever care; he was too decent, too intelligent, for such snobbery; wouldn’t he care, though, that she had lied to him?
The
re was time enough, however, to think about that later.
“So will you tell Eddy? I tried to get him on the phone just now, but there was no answer.”
“He’s probably at his club for the weekend. Our Eddy seems to have made contact in high places.”
Not as high as mine, I’ll bet, Connie thought, but did not say.
Later, in the car, Richard said, “I’ve told them, and they’re expecting you.”
“And?”
“Well, they were surprised, of course. It is a little sudden, after all.”
“Just surprised? No objections?”
“They’re only worried about whether I was sure, and I told them I was and that you were too. So,” he said, “you haven’t the slightest reason for being nervous. Just be yourself.”
The Torys were standing at the front door when Richard stopped the car. In the second before recognition and greetings Connie had an illusion of Grant Wood’s “American Gothic,” the farm couple in overalls and housedress, standing stone faced and rigid together. The illusion dissolved into brass-buttoned blazer and printed silk as they all shook hands.
“I’m sorry, you’ll have to get back into the car,” Mr. Tory said, “and drive your mother to your aunt May’s. She’s sick again. Miss Osborne can stay here with me.”
“But that’ll take all morning,” Richard said.
“I know, but it can’t be helped. I’d go myself, except for an important call that I’m expecting.”
“I’m really sorry,” Mrs. Tory explained. “Miss Osborne, make yourself at home. You’ll have lunch with my husband and Richard will be back by two o’clock, I’m sure.”
Connie looked sympathetic. “I do hope your aunt—”
“My sister.”
“Your sister will be all right. And do please call me Connie.”
Richard seemed flustered. “I don’t know whether I told you, her real name is Consuelo.”
“Consuelo? As in Vanderbilt?”
Connie smiled. Her closed-lip smile, she knew, was charmingly modest. “As a matter of fact, there is a relationship. Cousins, way, way back.”
