by Joan Smith
These feelings of inadequacy weren’t good for me. I went back to the table and started to read over the five pages of Queen of Hearts written so far. That was the working title of Rosalie’s book. I had about umpteen compound sentences in a row, and marked them for revision. When I looked at my watch, it was five o’clock. I had intended to call Bell about getting a phone installed, but Brad’s visit put it out of my mind. An editor (or a handsome neighbor for that matter) couldn’t call me if he wanted to. Nobody else would. The family were the only other ones who knew where I was.
The next thing to consider was food—whether to fry a couple of eggs here or drive into town for a hamburger. While I stood staring at the carton of eggs, there was a wrap at the door, and Brad peeked his head in.
“Me again. Have you eaten?”
I was startled that he’d come back, and so soon. “No.”
“Good—don’t. I’m simmering a boeuf bourguignon. It should be ready in a couple of hours. Why don’t you come over around six-thirty and we’ll have a drink first?”
“A boeuf bourguignon?” I asked, bewildered.
“It’s fast and easy.” An egg was fast and easy. A steak was possible; boeuf bourguignon was for restaurants. “I just want to put a few things away and take a shower. I look forward to seeing you at six-thirty.”
“I’ll be there. Thanks.”
The black head vanished, and I put the eggs back in the fridge. Boeuf bourguignon! He hadn’t even unpacked yet and he was simmering a French dish. Was this man real, or was I dreaming him? “I bet he even does windows,” I muttered to myself, and grabbed an apple to sustain me till dinnertime.
I decided to pop over and use Simcoe’s phone to call Bell. For some as-yet-undetermined reason, he was always reluctant to let me inside his house. I thought maybe his wife was a bit strange. She sat behind the curtains at the window all day, peeking out. At the door, Simcoe said he’d make the call for me, and let me know when Bell could come.
“Thanks, Mr. Simcoe.”
“You’re very welcome. I guess you were pretty surprised to see young O’Malley land in on you, eh, Miss Dane?” His merry blue eyes danced behind a pair of glasses. Simcoe was best described by what was missing. His glasses were rimless, his head was hairless, and his mouth partially toothless. He was a short, stocky man, who had worn the same blue shirt and trousers and suspenders since the first time I saw him.
“I certainly was. You didn’t mention renting the other cottage.”
"I wanted to surprise you,” he said, and laughed.
Simcoe was definitely not the kind of person to plan delightful surprises for his tenants, but I just said, “You succeeded.”
“Oh I can keep a secret.” He laughed again, and closed the door.
I went back to my own cottage, puzzling over that cryptic conversation. For some reason, it reminded me of the fleeting moment when I’d looked up and seen Brad narrowing his eyes at me. I shook the thought away. Neurotic, that’s what I was. A silver cloud had chanced my way, and I wouldn’t spoil it by looking for a lead lining. Ah, “The Leaden Echo and the Golden Echo”! Hopkins had written that one. Lousy poem.
CHAPTER 2
You could hardly wear jeans and moccasins to a dinner whose main course didn’t even speak English. Sorting through my clothes, I decided unwrinkled white slacks were better than a rumpled skirt. The navy silk shirt was okay; the boring old gold chains worn with everything went with it as well. What bliss to slide into high-heeled sandals, knowing you wouldn’t have to either buckle your knees or stoop, or else soar above your date’s head. I have this theory that short men and tall women share a similar complex—like Napoleon’s being an overachiever to compensate for being a little runt. There were lots of others too—Voltaire and the Marquis de Sade came to mind. And since women are supposed to be small, maybe we have to over-compensate if we’re tall. If I could only think of a few tall female achievers . . .
The mirror in the bathroom was designed for Napoleon. I kicked off the sandals to consider renovations to my face. Some vestige of my mother’s Slavic origins were still visible in my high, wide cheekbones and full lips, but the strain was diluted by her Anglo-Saxon spouse. I credit my straight nose and green eyes to Dad. People who didn’t have to contend with it admired my ruler-straight hair. I wouldn’t mind a wave or two myself, but the roller hasn’t been invented that can accomplish that miracle. At the moment, a tawny mane hung in straight shocks down either side of my face. I brushed it back and twirled it into a figure eight on the back of my head.
I carefully applied a blusher and lipstick, then picked up the eyebrow pencil. In an uncharacteristic fit of gullibility, I had listened to a salesclerk who assured me this stick of kohl would transform me into a beauty. Used by Cleopatra, she said. I wondered how tall Cleopatra had been. Cleo had obviously known something I didn’t. The kohl crumbled and smudged, and made me look as if I’d caught my head in a chimney. I wiped till only a suggestion of smoke clung to the base of my lashes. After the red from rubbing had faded, I stuffed a fresh pack of cigarettes into my purse, put my sandals on, and was off.
“I’m glad you decided to come casual. I meant to tell you to,” Brad said at his front door, where he met me a minute later. He was done up in a white shirt and striped tie, navy blazer and fawn trousers himself, and looked about as casual as an engraved invitation to the White House.
My senses were assaulted on all sides as I went into the dimly lit cottage. Strange discordant music issued from the stereo. There was a wail of violins carrying the melody, enriched below by breathy woodwinds, and the throb of drums. It was an insinuating rhythm that obtruded on the ear. An infernal racket might be a clearer description. The spicy aroma of meat simmering in herbs and wine wafted on the air, mingling with the music, but the greatest assault was on the eyes.
I had seen this cottage myself two days ago. It had been a dump, like my own. What had he done to it, to make it look like a seraglio? The embroidered throw covering the sofa vaguely suggested India. On it were tossed a dozen or so gold-tasseled cushions, reeking of Persia. Candlelight hid the atrocities of chipped, cheap furniture, and glowed on a table that belonged in Maxim’s. Across the room, candlelight twinkled on crystal and silver and a floral centerpiece. All nice and casual.
Brad politely ignored my gawking. “Sit down and make yourself at home,” he said, gesturing to the sofa. I sat, and looked at a coffee table covered with a lace cloth, on which rested a lovely crystal ashtray, a silver box holding cigarettes, and a matching silver table lighter. There were also a bottle of wine and two footed glasses.
"I’ve opened the wine to breathe,” he mentioned.
‘We wouldn’t want it to suffocate.”
He displayed his flashing smile in appreciation of this humor and settled on the sofa beside me to pour the wine.
“Go ahead and smoke if you want,” he offered. “It dulls the palate, but when I invite company, I try to make them comfortable. I noticed you smoke, so I put out the accoutrements.”
“Thank you.” He kindly averted his eyes when I opened my purse to rummage amidst the welter of wallet, keys, comb, and Kleenex for my cigarettes, but as soon as I got one out, he had the lighter flaming under my nose.
This done, he turned his attention to the wine. “Pineau des Charentes,” he said, lifting the bottle. “An interesting aperitif wine. This one is Château de Beaulon.” He poured the ruby liquid into glasses and handed me one.
I repeated, “Thank you,” and sipped, while my mind ran over clever things to say. “Very nice,” I said cleverly. Nice! The word had been condemned for its dullness since the nineteenth century.
“Fruitier than the white Pineau des Charentes. I thought you might like it before dinner. Supple, aromatic,” he added, sniffing the bouquet before drinking.
“The rascal of the vineyard. It’s quite sweet.” I understood a dry wine was more sophisticated.
“The fermentation is muted by the brandy that’s added,
so it keeps its sweetness. Accidentally discovered in the fifteen hundreds in France, when a worker added brandy to the wine by mistake and hid the cask. Years later it was discovered, and this fortified wine was born. Necessity may be the mother of invention, but accident is the sire. Wonderful clarity,” he informed me, holding his glass to the candle.
What I knew about wine would fit in a shot glass. I could only retaliate with words. “I guess you’re an oenophile, are you not?”
“As the man said, I don’t know much about wine, but I know what I like.”
The ensuing monologue revealed that he did, in fact, know a great deal about wine—more than I cared to hear—but there was no stopping him. He was a veritable torrent of words. When he stopped for a breath, I derailed him.
“Will you be doing some writing while you’re here, Brad?” I asked swiftly. “A treatise on modern poetry?”
“Possibly, but I’m really here to relax. I plan to do some fishing, reading, get the old body back in shape after a year at my desk,” he said, thumping his lean, firm stomach. “Are you ready to eat? This dish should be served cuit au point—of course that applies to all cooking.”
“I’m ready and waiting.” My stomach emitted an audible growl to confirm it.
He drew my chair before putting dinner on a table heater. But before he put the dinner on, he had to remove the plates, which had been warming. I didn’t have to turn one over to know they were Wedgwood or Minton. The aperitif wine was replaced by a Médoc, which he explained used the same grapes as the former. Nonetheless, the Médoc had to be served in fresh glasses. I bet he was wishing he’d brought along his dish washer.
“This Médoc is more subtle,” he decided, after tasting it. “I like a laid-back wine with dinner.”
Before he went off on another wine spiel, I said, “You’ve done wonders with the cottage.”
“Not much so far, but I’ll soon make it decent. I’m having a rug and a few things sent from my apartment. ‘Gathering my creature comforts around me,’ as Byron said.”
“I’ve decided to try an ascetic work space for the summer. No distractions.”
“Luxury never distracts me, but then I didn’t come to work, as you did. Rosalie Hart’s biography, I think you said?”
I nodded till I had swallowed a truly divine chunk of beef, tender and permeated with spices. “It’s hard to believe she’s still alive. She’s over eighty, but still active. You wouldn’t believe the stuff in her diaries and letters. She knew everyone. I’m half-afraid to use some of the material. I mean the families are still very influential—presidents, ambassadors, industrialists, you name it.”
“They say if the past is scarlet, the book will be read. Is this American families you’re talking about?”
“Some of them, but she spent a lot of time in Europe, too. Oh, crowned heads! She knew all the playboy princes."
“It sounds fascinating. Could I have a peek at the research sometime? As I said, I’m probably her number one fan.” The melting glow in his eyes hinted there was room for a younger lady in his life.
“I don’t see why not, if you’re very careful. I’m using the original manuscripts. The ink’s so faded it didn’t photocopy very well. Her story will all be public knowledge soon. Of course I wouldn’t want you broadcasting secrets to your colleagues. Till the book is out, we want to keep all the goodies secret.”
“I’ll be the soul of discretion. How did you come to get into ghostwriting, Audrey? Don’t you find it restricting? The creative impulse would have to be severely stifled, I imagine.”
“Not at all! Of course it’s different from writing fiction. I can’t change the story if I don’t like it, but then in your academic writing, you’re held to another person’s work too, aren’t you?”
“Critical analyses are interpretive work,” he explained. “Fiction would be amusing, creating characters and plots to elucidate important themes, but just to tell another person’s story . . . You must have a very small ego, Audrey.”
My hackles began to lift. “Not as large as some. I’ve never cultivated a bloated ego.”
“Ego is just another word for self. If there’s a lot of self to be accommodated . . .“ He hunched his shoulders.
This oblique comment on the insignificant stature of my ego cut me to the quick. I would not argue with him! I was having a superb dinner with a handsome, intelligent man, and I would gush if it killed me. “This is a wonderful dish,” I gushed, and dipped a crusty French bread into the last of the sauce.
It worked. He stopped bragging and smiled. “I enjoy puttering around the kitchen. I don’t know why women despise it. I’m afraid dessert is only fresh strawberries and clotted cream, but I can vouch for the coffee. I have it specially blended.”
Every berry was a ruby jewel. There wasn’t a white-centered, sour one in the lot. The coffee was perfect too, deep and mellow with no bitter aftertaste. We took it to the sofa and relaxed against the velvet cushions. I felt like the queen of the harem, but a tiny suspicion was sprouting that my companion was no sultan. When a man is so actively interested in interior decorating and cooking, there’s a tendency to check the firmness of his wrists.
“Now I’ll allow myself the luxury of a cigarette,” he decided, and helped himself from the silver box on the table. “A little Cointreau with your coffee?” The wrist lifting the Cointreau looked firm enough.
“I’m sated.”
“Oh, sorry!”
“No, I meant it as a compliment!”
“You mean you’re replete. I was afraid I’d stuffed you past comfort.”
What I take to less kindly than anything else is having my grammar and/or vocabulary corrected, especially when I’m wrong. “Actually I meant sated, but it’s not your fault I stuffed myself. I feel like a Strasbourg goose.”
He smiled forgivingly. “I should have known a writer would say what she meant. I’ll skip the Cointreau and have it later for a sleeping draft. When can I have a look at Rosalie’s diaries?”
“Any time you want. I can get some now if . . ."
He held me down by putting a hand on my arm, and melted me with an intimate smile. “I’m not in that big a rush. I’d prefer to get better acquainted with you tonight, and meet Rosalie tomorrow.”
I ransacked my brain for something interesting to say, but I’d shot my bolt in bragging about Rosalie’s biography.
“Where are you from?” he prodded.
The smoke from our cigarettes mingled in the air above us. Candlelight, the exotic surroundings, and especially the model-perfect man beside me created an aura of romantic unreality, as ephemeral as the smoke above. The last thing I wanted to do was drag in reality. In less than two minutes I sketched the history of my life. Born and raised in Brooklyn; university; and the remove to the East Side of New York, where I’d got a precarious foot in the door of publishing. It didn’t take much of an ego to hold my story, or my “self.”
Brad made a more interesting tale of his boyhood exploits in Ireland, his graduation from Dublin University (with a double first), to the English publication of his first critical work, which got picked up in the States, where it caused some stir in literary circles. This led to an offer of a teaching post, so he’d picked up and come to the States.
“I have a copy of my book here. Since you’re interested in modern poetry, you might want to look through it,” he said, and went to a bookcase.
He handed me a slim volume bound in morocco leather with gold trim. The Art of Eliot, it was called. A quick flip through showed me such intimidating and pretentious words as prelapsarian, specious good, and coercive evil. “It looks fascinating. Thanks,” I said, and slid it in my bag.
“I haven’t scratched the surface of The Waste Land,” he admitted. “This was my first attempt at literary criticism. I’ve gained more mature insights since then. Maybe I’ll start to analyze them this summer, while you type Rosalie’s biography.”
He would engage in his deep, cerebral, serious wor
k, while I typed. The man was insufferable! “Actually I have to write it, before it can be typed up. Since you’re so fastidious about words, I just mention it.” The voice in which I mentioned it was waspish, but he didn’t take offense. He was too busy preparing more insults.
“A slip of the tongue. I’d be happy to look over your work before you submit it, if you like,” he offered. “If it’s well written, the book clubs might take it up. There should be a serious theme in Rosalie’s life. The legendry of the American dream—the sort of thing Fitzgerald handled so well in fiction, and so abominably in practice.”
I counted to ten, and should have gone on counting till I simmered down, but the silence was stretching noticeably. “The rags-to-riches-to-ruin theme is pretty well worn by now. I wouldn’t dream of wasting your valuable time. The public won’t be looking for philosophy when they buy this book. They already know the story; they want the intimate details.”
“Of course, a sort of long gossip column.” He nodded patronizingly. “You don’t want a literary critic getting his heavy hands on a work of light entertainment. It was just an idea.”
I opened my mouth to remind him that critics were lice on the locks of literature, when he spoke up to subdue my hackles. “To be honest, it was an excuse to see more of you.'
A frank, warm smile creased his beautiful wrinkles. My resentment vanished like dew in the noonday sun, leaving hardly a trace. Here I thought I’d been making a terrible impression on him. That he’d made a terrible one on me was beside the point. “I’ll be pretty busy, but I’m sure we can work something out.”
“I know how hard you’ll be working, that’s why I was trying to find an excuse to hang around. It was a dumb, arrogant thing for me to say to an established writer like you. Blame it on my profession. Once a teacher, you know . . . But you won’t be working day and night, I hope?”
“I only work during the day.”
