Come Pour the Wine

by Cynthia Freeman

  She managed to get dressed and then stand in line to be greeted by the captain, smiling vaguely as she shook hands. When she went to her assigned table, she was suddenly glad that she hadn’t followed her first impulse to ask for a table for one. She was sitting here with nine strangers to whom she didn’t have to say more than a casual good evening. Not that it chased her nervousness or discomfort, but at least she wouldn’t stand out as some oddity the way she would have if she’d taken a table alone.

  The woman seated to her left was at least in her seventies, was garrulous and hard of hearing. A considerable plus, relieving Janet as it did of any need to do more than nod.

  She wasn’t quite so fortunate, though, with the man who sat to her right. He was paunchy, talkative and much too interested in her.

  “Peter Gerard … call me Pete.” There was a hint of alcohol on his breath. He made small talk, his remarks punctuated by short, sharp laughs, then started quizzing Janet about herself. She wasn’t up to an interrogation.

  Her answers were hesitant and she spoke without looking at him. What she wanted to do was tell him to leave her alone. His familiar and overeager manner was somehow repulsive, and she felt embarrassed, claustrophobic and finally she panicked. When she stopped answering altogether, he put his moist hand on hers before she could draw it away.

  “Hey, what’s the matter, Jan? You’re on a cruise, lady. Time to relax and enjoy yourself. Get to know people. How’s about I pick you up at your cabin tonight and we go dancing?”

  “Please—” Janet pulled her hand away and sat in miserable silence.

  “What did I do—?

  “I think the lady wants to enjoy her meal in peace. You’re making it rather difficult.”

  Janet glanced across the table at the man who had spoken. He was looking steadily at “Call Me Pete,” who suddenly shoved his chair back, threw down his napkin and left the table.

  “He probably did a little too much bon voyage celebrating,” the man said.

  No response from Janet.

  “My name is Allan Blum.”

  “Janet McNeil.”

  He noticed the wide gold wedding band, but decided the look in her eye said single. It also said upset and uneasy. “Is this your first trip to the—”

  “No.”

  Nervous … unsure … all the symptoms were there. Was she taking a holiday alone or getting a divorce? He flipped a mental coin. It came up divorce. What man in his right mind would ever allow someone as lovely looking as this lady to take a separate vacation?

  “I’m from Chicago.”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes … well … and you?”

  “New York … You’ll have to excuse me. I left something in my room.”

  She fumbled with the lock for what seemed an eternity before she finally entered her stateroom. Quickly she swallowed another tranquilizer. Tonight had been awful. Sitting among strangers had made her feel more alienated and alone than if she’d sat by herself. Now she wished she had. At least there would have been no need for stupid, superficial conversation. And that awful Pete. God, he was like a caricature of so many of the men she’d met when she first moved to New York, the ones she had escaped by moving to the Barbizon. Maybe Pete Gerard today lacked their superficial polish, but he was in a sense what they might have become. Middle-aged, self-styled studs, panting after their youth. Just like … No, Bill was different … he wasn’t that far gone …

  She undressed and got into bed.

  At three o’clock she woke up with a pounding headache. God, how she wished she’d never come….

  Janet glanced at the travel clock on the nightstand. Ten in the morning. She wasn’t going to get out of bed. Besides, she’d missed the second sitting for breakfast anyway. What did it really matter?

  For the rest of the day she stayed in her cabin, thinking in spite of herself of all the fun and fancy freedom Bill was having … She wouldn’t be surprised if he’d slept with twenty women by now … The fantasies built to such a pitch that she picked up the water glass and threw it against the wall, watching it fragment into a dozen pieces. “Like my life,” she screamed silently into the silent room.

  By evening her anger was out of bounds … I wasn’t enough for you? Well, I’ll show you….

  I’ll show you, she repeated to her reflection in the mirror as she piled her hair on top of her head and curled tendrils in front of her ears. She observed herself in the mirror. Don’t lose your confidence, damn it. You’re beautiful … terrific … and don’t you forget it … Forget it? She didn’t even believe it.

  She decided to wear the most provocative dress she had, a white clinging matte jersey, long-sleeved and backless. At the plunging neckline she pinned a diamond brooch. She hastily applied a little more lipstick and then slammed the door as she left the cabin.

  As she entered the dining room, she walked determinedly with her head high and her shoulders back, her pace and manner that of royalty. She was aware of the admiring looks, and rather pleased that her playacting seemed to be working … if only for a few minutes. At least her days of modeling had prepared her for this. And it was surely what was needed by a lady whose self-esteem had been knocked six feet under.

  Thank you, Mr. William McNeil, prematurely aging bachelor, recently out of bondage.

  Allan Blum, her earlier rescuer, got up and helped her into the chair next to him.

  She rather formally nodded her thanks and began to attack the salad. From the corner of her eye she noted that Pete Gerard was sitting at the other end of the table and pointedly ignoring her. Good.

  “I was beginning to wonder if you were feeling all right. You weren’t here for breakfast or lunch,” Allan said.

  “I’m fine, thank you.” Cool. Chilly. And purposely so. But somehow she felt a bit redeemed, her self-image restored slightly. It was nice to have someone miss you, even if it was a stranger … whatever his name was …

  “Thank you, by the way, for getting me out of that embarrassing situation yesterday.” She spoke as if performing a duty which, once dismissed, closed all further need for conversation.

  Her attitude was not unnoticed. It said hands off. But Allan’s legal experience had taught him never to take the opposition too seriously. Patience, strategy could change one’s attitude … No question, he was attracted to Janet McNeil … which was putting it mildly. Who could not be, really? Early to mid-forties, lovely face and figure … and altogether a lady. She was angry, and he could guess why. It usually happened on the first trip after a recent breakup. He knew and recognized the symptoms. After all, that was his specialty. Divorce. What you need is a change of scenery and an ocean voyage … That was the usual prescription offered by friends and family … solved all the problems. Like hell it did.

  “I have Dramamine in case you need it—”

  “Thank you, but so do I. And I don’t think I’ll need it—”

  “You must be a good sailor …”

  She didn’t seem to hear. Her attention was on the waiter as he removed her salad plate and replaced it with the entree.

  “I said you must be a very good sailor.”

  “Pardon me.” She cut into the Jerusalem chicken.

  He wasn’t getting anywhere with these meaningless remarks. But then he knew as well as anyone what post-divorce depression was like. It was a time when you couldn’t reach outside your own grief and anger.

  He made no further attempt at conversation—if you could call it that—until dinner was over. They both seemed to stand at the same time.

  “Would you join me in an after-dinner drink?” he asked.

  “No, thank you. I’m going to the movie.”

  “I see.” He smiled. “It’s quite good, slightly antiquated but always appropriate for cruises. Deborah Kerr and Cary Grant in A Time to Remember. Shipboard romance, that sort of thing. But I enjoyed it last night myself,” he said as she walked away and headed for the theater.

  Shipboard romance … Everything, even t
he damn movie was conspiring to bring back memories. She sat in the darkened theater, not seeing Cary Grant on the screen but Bill McNeil. Who, my dear ex-husband, are you with tonight? She got up and left before the tears began.

  Escaping into the ladies’ lounge, she blotted away her smeared mascara, applied fresh lipstick, then stood wondering what to do now. She wasn’t about to go back to her stateroom and admit defeat. But she felt defeated nonetheless. A ship full of happy voyagers with a dozen things to do, and she felt alone …

  She walked slowly from salon to salon and then to the cabaret, but it was filled to capacity with an audience applauding the antics of Shecky Greene.

  Janet moved on.

  For lack of anything better to do, she went into a small lounge where a trio was playing music sane people could dance to. Janet was seated at a table for two against the wall.

  Her depression deepened as she sipped her daiquiri and took in the other people in the lounge. Widows of all shapes and sizes were dancing with men much younger than themselves; young divorcees were being held close by older men, many of them balding and running to fat. She cringed. Was this what a single woman had to settle for?

  She was about to leave when she looked up, and into the face of Allan Blum.

  “May I join you?” he asked.

  She looked at him closely for the first time. He was no more than in his early forties. Tall, very good looking, she admitted, with a mass of reddish hair and nice green eyes. All right, just what did she have to lose? He was a whole lot more attractive than the types she was looking at gyrating out on the dance floor.

  Deborah Kerr would have said … “Of course, why not?”

  He took the chair across from her.

  “Did you enjoy the movie?”

  “Yes … very appropriate, as you pointed out.”

  He looked across the table and watched her take the last sip of her drink.

  “I’m going to have a Scotch and water. May I order another for you?”

  “Thank you …”

  The waiter brought their drinks.

  “You’re from New York?”

  Fascinating conversation…. All right, the obvious answer. “Yes.”

  “I love New York. It’s a cliché to say it, but the place really is stimulating. We have a branch of our firm there as well as in Chicago.”

  An exciting piece of news. It deserved … “Well, I guess it’s a nice place if you like it.” She took a sip. Come to think of it, maybe it didn’t deserve that.

  “You’re not having a very pleasant trip, are you, Mrs. McNeil?” he said quietly.

  It was so sudden, and personal, she felt caught off guard. It’s none of your business, she wanted to say. But she replied, “Not very.”

  No sooner had she said those two small words than she wondered why she was bothering. Men didn’t happen to be her favorite part of the human race this year.

  “Forgive me, but you’re going through a transition and it’s always rough, Mrs. McNeil—”

  She looked at him, moistened her dry lips. “I don’t even know you, Mr. …”

  “Allan. Allan Blum.”

  “Yes … well … I don’t know you and I think you’re asking some rather personal things—”

  “I’m sorry, but I think I know just what you’re going through. I think I can empathize—”

  “Really! Are you a fortune teller, or a psychiatrist?”

  “Neither. I’m an attorney. I not only specialize in divorce, but I’m also a victim of my own expertise, you might say. So I understand. You’re uptight and on the defensive, and the hardest thing in the world right now is to relax and allow yourself to have a little fun. Even though it’s the best thing you could do for yourself. It could even be pleasant …”

  She took a sip. What a bitch she’d turned into. At least he was trying to be pleasant and, so it seemed, he was a gentleman.

  “I’m sorry, I was rude … And you’re right. It’s just not easy.”

  “I know. I went through it three years ago. My wife thought fifteen years with me was enough. She married my best friend. Fortunately, we didn’t have any children and that made it a little easier.”

  “I have two, thank God … it gave me something to live for or I think I would have lost my sanity—”

  “I suspect it’s better to have children. It was tough being replaced by another man, I assure you … made me feel like, if you’ll excuse the expression, horse manure.”

  “Makes you feel like that when you’re not replaced by anyone else too.”

  “What did yours do, go into the priesthood?” Not very funny, he thought. Even for a divorce lawyer.

  “Something like that. Except his monastery is Manhattan, without taking any vow of celibacy. You see, he wanted to be free and good-by to almost twenty years and two children. I think it’s better your way. At least she left you for someone. Mine left for nothing.”

  Allan shook his head. “Unbelievable,” he said, and meant it.

  “I thought so too.”

  “I simply can’t understand anyone leaving someone like you.”

  “Well, you don’t know that much about me. But I … I tried … I really did—”

  “That I believe.” And he really did.

  “Since we’ve become … so confiding in so short a time, tell me, what makes a man walk away from a marriage for no apparent good reason?”

  “Well, you hear about it all the time, not that it makes it more palatable, but some men—and women—are petrified of growing old, feel like they’re going to miss the boat, and become obsessed with holding on … or rather out … How old is your husband?”

  “Forty-five.”

  “That’s about when it most often happens. The seven-year-itch or the twenty. No one really knows the answer. But you’ll pick up the pieces and one day someone will walk into your life out of the blue … You’re much too young and far too desirable to live alone. You’ll marry again—”

  “Never …”

  “A very long time, as I’m sure you’ve heard.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’m partial to the notion of one special person to share my life with. When she comes along, I think I’ll know … Now, let’s dance….”

  The day the ship lay at anchor in Kingston, Jamaica, Janet and Allan stood at the rail watching the young Jamaican men dive for coins in the wondrously pellucid, clear blue-green sea. The money was retrieved and brought to the surface within moments. Laughing, they shook the water from their heads, held up a hand and called out, “More!”

  Allan threw a handful of coins and quickly they dove back and out of sight.

  Janet said, “Aren’t they wonderful?”

  Allan wanted to say, yes, and so are you. Instead he said, “I think it’s time for us to take the launch.” With a lady like Janet, you didn’t rush. He took her arm, led her down the gangplank and helped her into the small boat.

  Kingston could never have been adequately described in the travel folders. Statuesque Jamaican women with twisted turbans and ropes of colored beads strode majestically in bare feet. Shopping for the food their families would eat that night, they bartered not so differently from the ladies on Hester Street whom she remembered. Janet and Allan stopped at a bazaar where musk oils from the East and perfumes from Paris were sold. She allowed herself to accept a bottle of Patou’s Joy that Allan assured her … more than once … was only the gesture of one shipmate to another, a remembrance of good companionship on this brief excursion … No, you surely didn’t rush this lady … Further on, the bazaars became more exotic, and she bought earrings and beads for Nicole, Kit and Kit’s daughters, Deborah and Becky. She had no difficulty selecting an ivory bracelet for her mother, but Effie was a problem. After a dozen items were eliminated she finally gave up and settled on a colorful petticoat which she knew Effie would never wear. For Jason, Nat and the boys she bought wristwatches.

  The day was an enchantment. As they sat on the wide terrace
of the Jamaica Inn, sipping a rum-and-fruit drink, Janet felt the first complete sense of peace she’d known since she started this … was odyssey too strong a word? Ironically, the realization of it made her momentarily uneasy.

  The waiter came by and asked if they’d care for more drinks.

  Slightly light-headed, Janet looked at Allan. “Should I risk it?”

  “Live dangerously. Besides, you’re in good hands, if I do say so myself.”

  She was beginning to have few doubts about that. “Well, all right, and then I think we should have lunch.”

  As they lingered over coffee, Janet said, “You know, Allan, it occurs to me that I’ve been burdening you with my problems for over a week, but I really know very little about you …”

  Allan laughed. “Well, to be perfectly immodest, I’m afraid my story would read like a Jewish Gone With the Wind.”

  “Really? Well, I’d love to hear about it. Family sagas are my favorites.”

  “Maybe that’s because you’re a romantic …”

  “About some things, I suppose … anyway, start properly … at the beginning.”

  Allan not only knew his family tree, but was rather fascinated by it. His great-grandfather, Julius Kahn, had arrived on the shores of Louisiana from Alsace-Lorraine two years before the outbreak of the Civil War. Julius’s wealth was not quite large enough to finance the Southern cause, but the funds he contributed were considerable nonetheless. Julius was integrated into the upper strata of Jewish society, where he met and married Amanda Langer. It was a lavish wedding, and the house in the French Quarter that he gave his wife as a wedding gift was considered one of the Quarter’s true showplaces. Not many weeks after being carried over that imposing threshold, Amanda was able to whisper in the silence of their bedchamber that Julius could be proud, that she was expecting a child. Nine months later they became the parents of a blonde, blue-eyed little girl that they named Evelyn. In the next few years Andrew and Charles were equally welcomed. It was a home of love and devotion, and of spirituality too. Julius, in fact, was one of the first and largest contributors to New Orleans’s new Reformed Temple. Julius Kahn was also an astute student of human nature, as well as of history. When the first shot at Fort Sumter rang out, Julius understood that it also signaled the end for the glory of the old South. Inevitably, he felt, the Confederacy’s cause was doomed. Democracy and slavery were incompatible. And separatism could only be the death of the Union. He’d had quite enough of being separate, thank you, before reaching his hard-won status in America. By the end of the war Julius’s Confederate dollars had long since been converted into francs and marks, and were deposited in a secure Swiss bank. Disposing of the few holdings that he still retained, he moved his family north to Philadelphia.