by Diane Hoh
You’re bein’ sore ungrateful, she scolded mentally. Isn’t Flo the very first person in America to give you a chance? Stop bein’ so finicky and do what your da drummed into your head since you were knee-high … do your best, no matter what it is you’re doin’.
She would do her best, wee ones or no wee ones.
She turned her attention to the sheet music. And her heart sank again. “Oh, Flo,” she wailed, waving the papers in the woman’s face, “these are songs I been singin’ my whole life! Can’t I do somethin’ different? Somethin’ new? The songs John plays on his phonograph are so pretty. I sing them while I’m doin’ chores, and all the boarders say how nice it sounds.” Especially John. He loved her singing. He said it reminded him of home.
Flo sighed, but explained patiently, “I’m not selling you as a singer of popular songs, Katie. That’s been your mistake all along, going to see agents and singing the same songs hundreds of other young girls sing. Anyone can sing that stuff. But not everyone can sing an Irish tune as if they’d wrote it themselves, as you can. Look again, there are a few popular songs in there. The two that Pauly mentioned, I got those for you. And I was thinking you should sing, ‘When Irish Eyes Are Smiling.’ ” She grinned. “Could have been written just for you.” Then she added dryly, “Though I have yet to see much in the way of smilin’ eyes from you. But I can see that it’s in you. You just haven’t been in the mood yet. You will be, you’ll see.” More briskly, she went on, “And I especially want that piece you sang for me, that ‘I’ll Take You Home Again, Kathleen’ in every performance. Maybe at the end. It can be your finale, what we call your signature song, the one everybody remembers long after the performance is over.”
“But it makes me sad!”
“It’ll make everybody sad. That’s why they’ll remember.” Flo stood up. “Now, the social starts at seven on Sunday night. It’ll take us a while to get there, so I’ll be picking you up around five o’clock. That’ll give you time to do some vocalizing before you sing. You can do it in the car on the way there if we’re pressed for time. I won’t mind.”
It struck Katie then that this was actually going to happen. Butterflies assaulted her stomach. Never mind that it was just a little ice cream social, probably with more wee ones than grown-ups. Never mind that she wasn’t going to be paid a fortune. She was going to be singing in public, in front of strangers, in America, for the very first time. What if she wasn’t ready? What if they hated her? They might not be familiar with the songs Flo had picked. What if Flo was making a terrible mistake? If Katie sang the songs they all knew, wouldn’t they like her better?
She didn’t even know where Long Island was. Paddy and Belle and sometimes Edmund Tyree had taken her to Steeplechase Park on Coney Island, a wonderful fun place, and to the Statue of Liberty, and to the Astor Mansion on Fifth Avenue, though of course they couldn’t go inside, what with people living there. She had refused to go down into the subway, though Paddy had wanted her to. She never would go down there. But she’d been to the American Museum of Natural History, an amazing place with great wonders, and to Fifth Avenue to see the shops, though she hadn’t bought a thing, with everything so dear. She liked just looking in the windows. Her second favorite place, after Coney Island, was Central Park, for the sheer greenery of it. She made Paddy take her there every chance she got. But she had not been to a place called Long Island.
Music in hand, Katie turned to leave.
Seeing the look on her face, Flo came out from behind her desk to pat Katie’s shoulder and say, “Cheer up, dearie. There’ll be better things comin’ along than ice cream socials. Word will get around that Flo Chambers has a lovely little Irish girl ready to sing her heart out, and people will be askin’ for you. Take my word for it. I’m never wrong about these things.” She reached out and plucked the simple green dress off the wall. Smiling, she said lightly, “Don’t forget this. You’ll be wearin’ it when I pick you up, won’t you, Kathleen?”
Katie sighed heavily. “I will.” The color did remind her of Ireland, just a bit. Not that she needed any reminding. Wasn’t home and family always on her mind?
“Hair down on your shoulders, and no makeup to speak of, right?”
Another glum sigh. “Yes, ma’am.”
Flo relented. “You can wear a bit of lipstick and a tiny bit of rouge, only because my guess is you’ll have a touch of stage fright. That’ll wash you out some. And you can powder your nose a bit so it’s not too shiny. That wouldn’t do.”
Katie perked up a bit. With a bit of makeup on her face, the green dress might not seem so plain.
On the way home, she decided Paddy should come to see her first public performance. Heaven knew she’d gone to enough of them snooty literary gatherings with him. His new friends weren’t all that nice to her, either. They always asked her what she “did” in New York, and when she answered that she hoped to be a singer, some laughed, some turned away in dismissal, some said, “Oh, doesn’t everyone these days?” At one afternoon tea, a young woman with bobbed hair the color of lemons had asked, “And are you a writer like our darling Paddy?” Katie, bored and feeling out of place had snapped, “No, but if I was, I wouldn’t be wastin’ my time at parties like our darlin’ Paddy is doin’, I’d be home doin’ some writin’!”
Paddy had overheard and been insulted. They’d had a terrible argument, and hadn’t made peace for a whole miserable week.
He owed her for all those long afternoons and evenings spent in the company of them bookish snobs. She read books. She loved to read. They didn’t need to treat her like she was simple-minded.
If Paddy didn’t come to her ice cream social, they just might have another argument.
Actually, now that she thought about it, they seemed to be fighting a lot these days. Her aunt Lottie, who, like most women, had fallen under Paddy’s spell immediately and adored him, said placatingly, “You’re just adjustin’ to the new country, that’s all, Katie. And you’ve both been through a tumble time. Be patient, it’ll work itself out.”
But patience wasn’t Katie’s strong suit.
She wanted Paddy to do well. To be a great writer. She knew he could tell wonderful stories. Hadn’t he kept her and Brian entertained all the way from Ballyford to Cobh Harbor with his fine story-telling? But she didn’t see how going to all them parties and dinners and meetings was helping him get the words written down on paper. She had asked him, not long ago, how the book about the Titanic was coming along. He had fairly bitten her head off. “I can’t talk about that,” he had said, his voice harsh. “I need to save all my thoughts about that night for the book. Was I to keep talkin’ and talkin’ and talkin’, like you’ve a mind to, there’d be nothin’ left inside for puttin’ down on paper.”
Her feelings hurt, she had said indignantly, “I didn’t ask you to talk about that night, I asked you how the book was coming. And it seems to me, if you really was puttin’ words down on paper, you wouldn’t be gettin’ so mad when I ask you about it.”
He’d been so angry, he’d stalked off. She hadn’t seen him again that afternoon. Belle had had to send her home in Edmund’s car. When he finally called on the telephone, Katie hadn’t apologized. She had barely spoken two words to him until he said he was sorry. Which he did, though he took his own sweet time about it. And mumbled something about how “hard” writing was.
Katie had been unsympathetic. How would Paddy know writin’ was hard when he wasn’t doing that much of it?
Still, he was making progress in his career, and she was getting nowhere.
But that was before she met Flo.
Maybe Paddy would call on the telephone tonight. She couldn’t wait to tell him about the ice cream social. He didn’t call that often, though Edmund had seen to it that he had a telephone, saying he wanted to be able to get in touch with Paddy when he needed to. The only telephone Katie had access to was in the front hall of the roominghouse. She had precious little privacy when she was talking on it. But sh
e was always so glad to hear Paddy’s voice, she didn’t care.
If Paddy didn’t call, she might just go talk to John. He’d show some interest. He might even offer to accompany her on Sunday, to give her moral support, hear her sing, and eat ice cream all at the same time. John liked simple pleasures. It would serve Paddy right if she invited John to the social. And maybe if he knew there was another gentleman, an Irish one at that, paying some mind to Kathleen Hanrahan, he’d call her more often and come out to Brooklyn to see her more than once a week.
Or … Katie shifted restlessly in her seat … maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe he’d just say, “Well fine then, Miss Kathleen Hanrahan, you just go right ahead and cozy up to your John Donnelly. I’ve me own friends now, and Belle Tyree is a fine-lookin’ woman with a pleasin’ attitude and no bad temper to speak of, and that’s the truth of it.”
Tears sprang to Katie’s eyes. If Paddy ever said that, her heart would crack right down the middle like the great ship Titanic. If he ever said that, she wouldn’t be so glad that she had survived the terrible disaster. Not so glad at all.
“Why, Katie-girl,” her aunt Lottie said, leaning forward to touch Katie’s arms, “you’ve tears in your eyes. Are you not happy about singin’ in public, then?”
“ ‘Course I am. I’m just … a bit nervy, that’s all. Stage fright, like Flo said. It’ll pass. I’ve sung in public before, Aunt Lottie, back home.” Where everyone knew me, and everyone was kind, Katie thought but didn’t say. “I’ll be right as rain by Sunday, that’s certain.”
But in her heart, Katie knew she would only be right as rain if Paddy was there to cheer her on.
Elizabeth didn’t see Max for a few days. When he telephoned, he said he was busy painting. But Saturday afternoon, shortly after lunch, he rang the doorbell at the mansion on Murray Hill. When Elizabeth, still in tennis whites from a match with her mother on their backyard court, answered the doorbell instead of Esther, the housemaid, Max’s eyebrows went up. “Don’t tell me, let me guess. You’ve let all the servants go. From now on, you and your mother are going to do the housekeeping.”
Elizabeth laughed. “Can you see my mother wielding a dusting cloth?”
“No more than I can see you buying lettuce at a produce stand.”
Elizabeth bristled, but she let him in. “I know how to buy lettuce. You … you thump it to make sure it’s fresh.”
It was Max’s turn to laugh. “That’s melon, Elizabeth, not lettuce.”
With a careless shrug, Elizabeth led him into the sun room and flung herself down on a white wicker settee plump with green flowered cushions. April sunshine spilled in through the window and across the gleaming hardwood floor, warming her. This was her favorite room, because it was seldom as cold as the larger rooms. And because her father’s desk was still in here, just as he’d left it. She felt closer to him in this room.
She smiled at Max. “If you think I’m so spoiled and stupid, what are you doing here?”
He sat down beside her and put a comforting arm around her shoulders. “I do not think you’re stupid. Far from it. And I’m here because I think,” he said calmly, “that you’re bright and clever and interesting, and you have a warm heart. I like a warm heart. Especially when that warm heart likes me back.” Smiling, he peered into her face with eyes so deep a blue they reminded Elizabeth of the ocean. That unsettled her, and she pulled away. She didn’t want to be reminded of the ocean.
But Max persisted. “You do still like me back, don’t you, Elizabeth? Say it! Or I’ll go back home and paint all day instead of beating you at tennis.”
She aimed a questioning glance at his gray slacks and blue sweater. “You can’t play tennis in those clothes.”
“I brought whites. They’re in my car.”
His car? Elizabeth squealed and bolted upright. “Tour car? You bought a car? Oh, Max, what fun! Let me see it!” She jumped up and ran to the door, yanking it open. Without waiting to see if he was behind her, she ran down the steps. The car was parked at the curb. It was quite new, its paint shiny black, its upholstery white. There was a small glass vase attached near the window, and Max had already filled it with a single pink rose.
Clapping her hands in delight, Elizabeth cried, “And it’s all yours?” She whirled to throw her arms around his neck, without a thought for disapproving passersby. “I thought you said no one needed a car in the city.”
“Changed my mind. If I ever decide to do landscapes again, I’ll need a car to go exploring the countryside. And,” he said, grinning, “this’ll make it easier to see you, too. It’s a Kettering. No cranking. Don’t have to worry about fracturing my painting arm. Want to go for a spin?”
“You bet! Wait’ll I run in and tell Moth —” Elizabeth stopped speaking abruptly, and frowned. “Oh, no. I just remembered. We’re to meet with the dressmaker in forty-five minutes. Mother’s bathing, and I’m supposed to be doing the same.” Disappointment clouded her face.
Max leaned against the car, his arms folded over his chest. He was no longer smiling. “The dressmaker? You’d rather be stuck with pins than go for a ride in my new car?”
“No, of course I wouldn’t.” Elizabeth looked longingly at the car. “But we have this appointment, and Madame Claude-Pierre is not someone you break appointments with. She’s French, you know. Not exactly the soul of patience.”
“Why can’t your mother go alone?” He didn’t add, “For a change,” but Elizabeth heard it in his voice.
“They’re my clothes, too, Max. It’s spring. I can’t wear my winter clothes in the springtime.” This struck Elizabeth as very ironic, because she would have preferred to continue wearing the warmer winter clothes. But if she admitted that to Max, he’d tell her again that she should see a doctor about her constant chill, as he had at Christmas. “And my mother would be very upset if I said I wasn’t going. You know how she gets.”
He shrugged. “Okay. If you don’t want to take a ride in my new car, I guess I’ll go home and paint.”
“I’m sorry, Max.” She was very sorry. But her mother’s reaction if Elizabeth said she wasn’t going to the dressmaking appointment would be much worse than Max’s reaction. Max never overreacted the way Nola did. Or maybe he was just becoming accustomed to her choosing her mother over him. He did not look happy, though. “You could come back later,” she suggested. “We should be home by three. Or we could go tomorrow afternoon.”
“That’s half the afternoon gone, three o’clock,” Max said, his voice cool. “And I think it’s going to rain tomorrow.” He shrugged again. “Your mother probably has something planned, anyway.” Without a good-bye kiss, he moved away from Elizabeth, around the front of the car to climb into the driver’s seat. When he was behind the wheel, he added, “I hope you’ve noticed that I’m not arguing about this. But it’s not because I don’t care. It’s because I know it would be a waste of time. But you know what, Elizabeth? I don’t for a minute believe your father meant you should give up your whole life. I don’t think he’d want you to do that.”
“Max …” Elizabeth was close to tears. It was a wonderful car, and the thought of spending the whole, sunny afternoon riding around in it at Max’s side was exactly what she wanted to do. It would make her feel happy again, and young and carefree, things she hadn’t felt in a very long time. Not since … no, she wasn’t going to think about that. Anger was a much safer emotion, so she let it flare up. “You should have telephoned first!” she called heatedly as he pulled away slowly. “That’s the proper thing to do.”
But the sound of the car’s engine drowned out her words.
And then Max was pulling away, chugging off down the street without her.
Elizabeth whirled and ran inside, tears of frustration stinging her eyes.
Chapter 5
TO KATIE’S BITTER DISAPPOINTMENT, Paddy failed to make it to the ice cream social on Long Island. He had promised to be there. “Wouldn’t miss it,” he said when she finally reached him on the telephone
on Thursday afternoon.
But he did miss it.
And although he telephoned her later to apologize, sounding genuinely regretful and using the excuse that Edmund had called him Sunday afternoon to say there was a new agent he wanted Paddy to meet with that evening, Katie refused to forgive him. “If you’d really wanted to be there to hear me sing,” she told him scornfully, “you’da been there. That’s all I know.” And she’d hung up, slamming the receiver into its wall hook with so much force she nearly broke the cord.
It wasn’t as if she hadn’t enjoyed the social. But it would have been much better if Paddy had been sitting at one of the large, white, round tables arranged on the lush green lawns, listening attentively as she sang.
Long Island was so much prettier than Brooklyn, shaded by huge old trees and carpeted in velvety green grass. Even the spring air seemed fresher, and though the drive was tiring, it was exciting to be in a nice, big car with the breeze blowing around them. Flo seemed a good driver, as if she’d been doing it all her life instead of only a year or two, as she admitted to Katie. The social was held at a fine estate in a place called Garden City, where every home seemed to be grander than the next. The grounds were near as big as all of Ballyford, with plenty of room for over a hundred tables with matching white chairs. To Katie’s amazement, the hostess had hired an orchestra to accompany her, and to play for the guests when Katie wasn’t singing.
At home, an ice cream social was held most often at the church, to raise money. Everyone in town came, bought ice cream, ate it, did some socializing, maybe some singing, then went home. So Katie had expected people to be coming and going all evening, which she knew she would find unsettling. It would be hard to concentrate on the words of the new songs with people jumping up and skedaddling every few minutes.
But it wasn’t like that. To her surprise, all of the guests had been invited, as if it were a party. They arrived on time and stayed all evening, sitting quietly in their seats, ice cream dishes in front of them and perhaps a coffee cup or two, while Katie sang. Flo explained that these were all wealthy people who had already donated generously to the Women’s Club.
