She was about to rise from the table when he took her wrist and pulled her down on the bench.
“Think about it, Bea. We’ve always had a swell time together. You’ve never had a boyfriend, and I can’t seem to keep a girlfriend. Why do you suppose that is?”
She gazed at him quizzically. “I’m too busy with my studies, and you’re a goof.”
He let go of her wrist. “Fine, Beatrice Darby. But just so you know, I won’t be waiting around for you forever. One of these days, I’m gonna meet a girl who’s gonna jump at the chance to marry a guy like me. Then you’ll be sorry.”
She swung her leg over the picnic table bench with a smile. “Well, I promise to let you be the first to tell me ‘I told you so.’ I’ll deserve it.”
*
After ice-cream cones and a walk along the windy pier, Robert was finally ready to hit the road home to Connecticut. He walked her up to her dorm and leaned the side of his body against the door expectantly.
She eyed him. “Rob, what are you doing?”
“Look, since that was the one and only date we’re ever gonna have, I figured maybe you wouldn’t mind kissing me good night.”
“If that were a date, you would’ve bought the pizza and ice cream.”
He shook his head playfully. “I may never see you again, Bea, especially if one of these Richie Riches comes along and sweeps you off your feet.”
His corny smile was adorable. How could she say no to a little kiss good night?
“Suit yourself,” she said, closing her eyes and puckering her lips tightly.
She expected a wet lip smack, quick and sloppy, but before his lips even made contact, the fingers on his left hand laced through hers as he glided the others under her chin and along her jawbone. It was very sweet and, dare she even say, romantic. So why hadn’t she felt the way she did when she was with Gwen—the stirring, the yearning, the desire to go beyond what was happening at the moment?
Her head began throbbing as she rehashed that tired idea. Should she give it a go with Robert? Maybe those feelings would come after they were together awhile. It happened in arranged marriages. Those people weren’t in love when they married—they fell in love after they’d been together and got used to each other.
“See you ’round, Beatrice,” Robert said, wiping the moisture from her bottom lip with his thumb.
“Good-bye, Rob.” The words fell from her lips without effort.
She watched him shuffle to the end of the hallway and wave in his sweet, good-natured way before descending the staircase. Maybe she needed to try harder. In truth, she really hadn’t made much of an effort not to think about Gwen that way.
She remembered how her dad had helped her get over her stage fright in the fourth grade. She was a finalist in the New Haven County School District spelling bee and was terrified about having to stand up in front of everyone under the glaring stage lights.
“Come on, Bea, you can do this,” he’d said as he arranged her stuffed animals like an audience on her bed.
“I can’t, Daddy. My knees are shaking so hard,” she replied, almost in tears.
“It’s okay that you’re nervous. Everyone up there will be nervous, but that doesn’t mean you can’t do it. You’re the best speller in New Haven, darling. All you have to do is get up there and do what you do best.”
“But everyone’s gonna be staring at me, Daddy. I don’t want them to.”
“Then pretend they’re not. Look down at me in the front row, and you won’t even notice anyone else.” He took hold of her little hand. “I know you can do it, Bea. You’re just about the toughest girl I know.”
Things would be so much easier if her dad were still here. After pausing a moment to gather herself, she pushed open the door to her new dorm room.
“Darby,” Gwen shouted, and ambushed her with a hug. “Long time, no see.”
Beatrice’s arms wound naturally around Gwen’s upper torso. “Did you have a nice summer?”
“Oh, sure. Sunning, boating, lobster bakes, the usual.” Gwen released Beatrice from her hold. “I do wish you’d come to Newport for a visit when I called in July.”
“I couldn’t get the time off from work,” she said.
“Are you sure you weren’t trying to elude meeting my snobby family?” Gwen said with a wink.
Beatrice grinned. “Are you kidding? I love snobs. I was born to be a snob.”
Gwen giggled and threw her arms around Beatrice again. “It’s so good to see you. I missed you like crazy.”
She allowed herself the luxury of melting into Gwen’s familiar softness, the flowery smell of her skin.
“I’ve missed you, too,” she whispered, her lips grazing Gwen’s ear and cheek as Gwen pulled away.
In all the confusion that was Beatrice Darby’s life, at least one thing was clear—this was how she wanted to feel forever.
*
The November wind blew off the Atlantic so hard outside the dormitory it caused their drapes to waltz against the window. Gwen and Beatrice lay feet to feet on Gwen’s bed, huddled under her electric blanket as they prepared their discussion of George Bernard Shaw’s Saint Joan for Monday’s literature class surveying classic tragedies.
“It stinks that the only way to get canonized is to suffer and die a martyr first,” Gwen said.
“Were you hoping to be canonized some day?”
Gwen giggled. “Well, I hadn’t ruled it out.”
Beatrice smiled, burrowed her big toe into Gwen’s armpit, and gave it a wiggle.
“Knock it off, stretch.” Gwen grabbed Beatrice’s toes and bent them.
“Ouch,” she shouted, trying to wriggle free. “No fair, let me go.”
“Do you promise to keep your big feet to yourself?”
“I promise no such thing,” Beatrice said gravely.
Gwen stared her down, unflinching. “Then I’m sorry. I can’t let you go.”
Beatrice paused for a moment to let the ecstasy of hearing Gwen say ‘I can’t let you go’ wash over her.
“Unhand me,” she then demanded.
“Nope.”
Beatrice reached under the blanket and tickled the back of Gwen’s knees. At that, Gwen leaped up and surprised Beatrice with a flurry of tickling on the sides of her stomach and under her arms. She tried to restrain Gwen’s hands but couldn’t grab them for their lightning speed. Her only defense was to shove Gwen down on her back and use her own size to subdue her. Once she had Gwen’s arms pinned to the pillow, their snorting laughter faded to panting as they wrestled for position. Gwen was flushed, her milk-chocolate eyes gazing up at Beatrice for mercy. Her blond hair fanned across the pillow, framing her face like daisy petals.
Beatrice’s pulse pounded in her ears as she slowly descended toward Gwen’s mouth. She closed her eyes, licked her lips, and prepared for the exquisite landing.
“You’re hurting my wrists,” Gwen said casually.
“Oh, oh, I’m sorry.” She released her grip and rolled off Gwen. The sides of their bodies wedged against each other. Too ashamed to face her, she lay frozen, staring at the ceiling, waiting for Gwen to bolt from the bed to the other side of the room—then demand to know what the hell she was doing.
Gwen folded her arms across her chest and got quiet for a moment. “Bea, I want to talk to you about something.”
Beatrice clutched at the bedspread as her throat closed in a panic. Here it comes. How was she going to explain to Gwen what she just did or had almost done?
“Did you hear me?” Gwen kicked her in the leg with her ankle.
“What?”
“I have to ask you something.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Gwen looked at her quizzically. “I haven’t asked you anything yet.”
Beatrice sprang up and swallowed the bile that had risen in her throat. “What?” she asked, avoiding eye contact.
“Have you decided if you’re going home for Thanksgiving or staying her
e?”
“Huh?”
“You heard me.”
That was it? She wanted to know about Thanksgiving? Beatrice relaxed her stiff shoulders and reclined against the pillows again.
“I have to go home. My mom’s all alone this year. My brother’s working.”
Gwen propped herself up on an elbow and flashed an angelic smile. “Mind if I tag along?”
“You can’t be serious.”
Surprised by the request, she beamed, greedy to spend any extra moment with Gwen. On the inside, though, she was apprehensive. What would Gwen think of their working-class neighborhood, the lace tablecloth full of holes, or the dull, blotchy wood flooring?
“No, dummy. I asked you for my health.”
“You’re really willing to trade a gourmet Thanksgiving feast prepared by a private chef in Newport for dry turkey and canned cranberry sauce in New Haven?”
“I’d just like to have one holiday dinner where I don’t have to listen to my mother say how disappointed she is I didn’t get accepted into Vassar, the Ridgeway Alma mater.” Gwen’s face grew somber. “It’s exhausting always hearing ‘Ridgeways have a standard to uphold.’” She mocked her mother. “Funny thing is, she didn’t get accepted either. That’s why I’m a legacy here.”
Beatrice nodded in sympathy. “You haven’t heard anything till you’ve heard Eloise Darby’s patented, ‘You need to marry a college boy, or you’ll end up with some bum who’ll have you living in a tenement’ speech.”
She leapt up and pretended to feel faint as she imitated her mother for Gwen’s amusement.
“‘Your father was a no-account who had me squeezing nickels till Jefferson farted.’” She collapsed dramatically on her bed and then popped her head up, reveling in Gwen’s uncontrollable giggles. “‘You’ll be forced to make your kids sell pencils on the street corner to feed them,’” she added, showing no mercy as Gwen clutched her stomach.
“Oh, Bea, you’re such a card.” She gasped for breath.
“Our mothers make a fine pair, don’t they?”
“God, yes,” Gwen said as she caught her breath.
Beatrice suddenly grew dreamy watching Gwen twirl the ends of her shiny blond hair. She and Gwen made a fine pair, too.
“Penny for your thoughts,” Gwen said as she sat up.
She shook away her daydream. “Having you over for Thanksgiving dinner is a swell idea. Maybe your presence will keep my mother out of my hair all weekend.”
“It’s official. We’ll be each other’s mother-repellant this holiday season,” Gwen said, and they both broke into raucous laughter.
*
Beatrice sat with her hands folded at the edge of the kitchen table watching in amazement as her mother fawned over Gwen. One would think it were President and Mamie Eisenhower joining them for Thanksgiving dinner. Like her daughter, Mrs. Darby was drawn to Gwen but with an entirely different agenda.
“I understand your father owns his own business in Boston, Gwen,” Mrs. Darby said. It was like watching Bela Lugosi lure Renfield into his clutches in Dracula.
“Yes, ma’am. Ridgeway Enterprises. My great-grandfather started it over seventy years ago.”
“What type of business?”
“Exporting.”
Mrs. Darby’s eyes sparkled. “Oh, now isn’t that interesting.”
Old money. This topic should keep her mother off her back for the rest of the day. “When are we going to cut the turkey, Mom?”
“Very soon, dear. I have a surprise for us.”
Beatrice and Gwen looked at each other.
“What kind of surprise?” Beatrice asked.
Mrs. Darby glanced up at the kitchen clock. “Oh, you’ll see. Any minute now.” She whipped her head toward Gwen. “Now do you live in Boston?”
“Yes,” Gwen said, looking modest.
“In the city?”
“The Beacon Hill section.”
“Oh, I read that’s where all the millionaires live.”
“Mom, maybe we can stop grilling Gwen and start slicing some turkey.”
“Beatrice, I taught you better table manners than that. I’m trying to get to know your friend.” Back to Gwen. “Beatrice mentioned something about living in Newport?”
Gwen’s eyes darted self-consciously between Beatrice and Mrs. Darby. “Well, sort of. My family summers and sometimes takes holidays in Newport.”
“How lovely,” Mrs. Darby said. “We summer here in New Haven—summer, fall, winter, and spring,” she added with a laugh lousy with affectation.
Beatrice rolled her eyes. This was going to be a long dinner.
“Happy Turkey Day.” Quentin’s voice boomed from the hallway. He blew into the kitchen, his sport jacket slung over his shoulder in a Tab Hunter sort of way, grinning at everyone like he could sell flood insurance in the Sahara.
“Surprise,” Mrs. Darby exclaimed, lightly clapping her hands.
Beatrice gaped at him like she was witnessing an avalanche.
“We’ve been waiting, darling. What kept you?”
“Lots of traffic. Guess everyone’s going over the river and through the woods today,” he said, oozing charm.
“Well, better late than never,” Mrs. Darby said.
Beatrice’s jaw nearly fell into her butternut squash when she observed Gwen’s eyes following Quentin’s every move, every gesture. What in the hell was he doing here?
Quentin kissed his mother’s cheek, winked at Beatrice, and grinned at Gwen as he began to carve the bird. “So, Bea,” he said as the blade sliced through the browned turkey breast, “when did you start getting chummy with beautiful girls?” His velvet blue eyes shimmered in the glow from the hanging light fixture.
“This is Gwen,” she mumbled flatly. “We’re dorm mates…and friends.”
“Best friends.” Gwen corrected her with a flirtatious lilt in her voice.
“What a pleasure it is to meet you, Gwen.” Quentin winked as he placed several thin slices of white meat on Gwen’s plate.
Beatrice was furious. This son of a bitch was supposed to be lost on the road somewhere in Pennsylvania peddling bicycle parts first thing in the morning for the big-deal sales job he boasted about. If he had to show up today, why couldn’t it be with one of those curvy bubbleheads that seemed to stick to him like gum on a sneaker.
Sensing the threat of competition, Beatrice suddenly lost her appetite. Girls got all stupid when they were around Quentin. All that dirty-blond hair that waved across his head like a lush wheat field, those crystal-blue eyes, his strong jaw and cleft chin made girls lose all sense of reason. Sure, Quentin was Mr. Charm at first glance, but Beatrice had witnessed too many young ladies cast out like the day’s eggshells and apple cores, weeping at their front stoop while Quentin ducked out the back. But why was she working herself into a froth now? Gwen wasn’t like other girls. She was intelligent enough to recognize a fraud when she saw one.
Mrs. Darby handed Quentin her plate. “Gwen was just telling us that her father owns Ridgeway Enterprises.” She winked at Gwen as though they were part of the same secret society. “Quentin has aspirations to be a business executive someday, too.”
“Ridgeway Enterprises,” he said. “They’re one of Boston’s biggest exporters.”
Gwen leaned toward him with dreamy eyes. “Oh, you’ve heard.”
What was happening here? How the hell did Quentin know about Ridgeway Enterprises? Beatrice didn’t believe for a second that the company was mentioned in his crummy community-college business class. She looked at her mother, who winked conspiratorially at her.
“Are you girls here for the whole weekend?” he asked.
“Yes,” Beatrice said. “I’m taking Gwen on a tour of the city tomorrow.”
“Do you like pizza, Gwen?” Quentin asked.
“Sure, who doesn’t?”
“Well, you haven’t tasted pizza until you’ve had a pie from Frank Pepe’s. What’s say I treat you gals to dinner tomorrow night after your t
our?”
Before Beatrice could voice her objection, Gwen replied, “Oh, that would be lovely.”
Beatrice glanced at her mother, who was watching the sparks fire between Quentin and Gwen with a knowing grin. So that was why Quentin had ended up home when he was supposed to be on the road until Saturday. Beatrice seethed at her mother for choosing Quentin’s best interests over hers. Gwen was her friend. What right did her mother have interfering with her friendship so she could play Cupid for Quentin? He never seemed to have any difficulty finding girls on his own.
As the evening went on, she began to wonder if she was still in the room. The flirtatious banter between Gwen and Quentin was nauseating, almost as nauseating as her mother trying to nose her way into their conversation like they were the Three Musketeers. Tired of picking at the turkey and trimmings on her plate, she emptied them into the garbage can.
*
By the end of the holiday weekend, Beatrice was hard-pressed to decide whom she found more annoying, her brother or her best friend for making her feel like a third wheel on what was supposed to be quality girlfriend time for two. As they boarded the Greyhound in the New Haven terminal Sunday evening, she entertained visions of pouring her bottle of Foxon Park white birch beer over Gwen’s head—anything to wipe that irritating smile off her face.
After they settled into their seats, Gwen closed her eyes with the dreamiest of smiles. “What a lovely weekend.”
Beatrice played it cagey. “It would’ve been better if my dopey brother hadn’t wormed his way into everything we did. Sorry about that.”
“Oh, I didn’t find him dopey at all. He’s so handsome and rugged.”
Beatrice scoffed. “Rugged? Did I ever tell you about the time he got stung by a yellow jacket and ran into the house screaming for my mom while I had to finish whacking down their nest under our porch?”
“Oh, you were kids then.”
“He was fifteen, and I was only eleven.”
Gwen grinned. “Well, you’re lucky you’ve always been a strong, self-sufficient woman.”
The Revelation of Beatrice Darby Page 9
