by Jill G. Hall
“Since we aren’t together very often, it’s always electrifying.” Anne grinned.
“Oooh! Naughty.”
Anne felt her face turn red.
Fay continued. “It must be love. You can’t deny it.”
“Jeez! I guess so.”
“There’s nothing like love.” George walked toward the kitchen. “I need to finish dinner. Anne, sure you can’t stay?”
“No, I’ve got a late shift.”
“Do you need help, hon?” Fay smiled at George.
He turned and gazed at her with goo-goo eyes. “No, you chat with Anne.”
“Too bad you can’t stay. Next time have dinner and let’s play Scrabble afterward. I miss our game nights.” Paul rubbed behind Lucky’s long, droopy ears. “Still parking cars?” he asked Anne.
She nodded.
“I wish you’d let me help you. Sylvia would want that.” He closed his eyes.
“Thanks, but I need to be independent.”
Paul’s head nodded back on the chair’s headrest.
“Paul!” Fay hollered. “Wake up!”
“Sorry! I was just resting my eyes.”
“Tell Anne about the doctor.”
“He wants me to have cataract surgery.” Paul scowled.
Anne smiled at him. “That might be good.”
His brow furrowed. “I haven’t had surgery in all my eighty-some years. I’m certainly not going to start now!”
Fay tipped her head toward Anne.
Anne took another stab at it. “Wouldn’t it be great to be able to read more easily?”
“Never stopped.” Paul shrugged. “I listen to books on tape with my headphones. Much more relaxing than holding a heavy old book anyway.”
“I understand. But don’t they use lasers now? Haven’t any of your friends at the club had it done?” Anne asked, and nibbled on her martini olive.
“Maybe. But the doctor told me to have my knees done, too. That is out of the question. With Sylvia gone, I’m not dancing much anyway.”
Anne sighed.
George came to the door. “Dinner in fifteen minutes.”
“I’ve gotta go.” Anne jumped up.
Fay gave her a hug. “Ta-ta! Coffee soon?”
“Next week?”
“Of course.”
Paul stood with help from Anne. “It’s good to have you here, Anne. I’ve missed you. What was it about Sergio?”
“About the shoes was all.” She did a little jig and hugged Paul. She would wait and tell him about her move when her plans were firm. No reason to make him sad earlier than needed.
12
This certainly wasn’t Rudy’s. Everything shone. Chandeliers glowed onto round cloth-covered tables where silver bowls of sweet pea blossoms rested on mirrored glass. Gold-trimmed place cards had been set at every seat, adorned with the guest’s names in elegant penmanship. The dance floor had been polished to perfection.
Clair’s heart rapped rapidly in her chest. Her father was counting on her to make a good impression on this, her first introduction to society, which included eligible bachelors and their families.
The gloves felt smooth on her hands, and her blush-pink gown flowed softly over her body. Fortunately, a coconut-oil shampoo had made her hair more manageable. She had wound the never-cut mass of curls atop her head and slid the pearl band through her tresses. Still, she wished her father had let the jeweler make her a tiara.
For the thousandth time, Clair wondered if she had anything else in common with her mother besides their height and hair. Too bad her mother couldn’t be here tonight to celebrate her coming out. Perhaps the evening wouldn’t be a disaster after all. But then she caught sight of Mr. LeRue on the stage setting up his covered canvas and lost all faith.
He waved to her and hollered across the dance floor, “Can’t wait to reveal this to the world!” A ridiculous beret sat askew on his balding head, and he had draped a white- fringed scarf over his tuxedoed shoulders.
She found her father in conference with the caterers. He was clean-shaven and handsome, his wavy brown hair beginning to recede, which made him look even more distinguished.
“I hate to interrupt, but Father, I need to speak with you.”
“But I’m . . .”
“It’s urgent.” She tugged on her father’s arm and stuck out her lower lip, an expression she knew he never could resist.
His unusual eyes—one brown and one blue—softened, and he nodded. “If you insist.”
“It’s about Mr. LeRue’s painting.” She led him up the stage steps, rushing to pull the cloth off the portrait, but Mr. LeRue stepped in front of the easel with crossed arms. “Don’t spoil the surprise.”
Her father laughed. “What’s the harm?”
“The harm?” Mr. LeRue raised his hands. “The element of drama, the moment when the crowd applauds in astonishment and amazement at my talent.”
“Father, I beg you! Please look.”
He nodded at Mr. LeRue, who threw his hands in the air and removed the cloth.
Clair cringed. The painting was even more hideous than she had recollected! Puffs of salmon-colored swirls dominated the foreground, and black lines ran every which way into an oblong sphere, the head, which resembled a Macy’s parade balloon.
Her father’s eyes grew wide, and he started to cough. Mr. LeRue patted him on the back. “Yes! It is a masterpiece. Miss Devereaux has been such an inspiration.”
Aunt June climbed the stairs and joined them. Lovely in her midnight-blue gown, a halo of copper-colored hair surrounding her face, she reminded Clair of the angel paintings on display at the Met.
“I got here early in case you needed any help.” Aunt June ran her hand over Clair’s coiffed head and kissed her on the cheek. As her aunt turned, her eyes took in the picture. “Oh, my land!”
“Ultra moderne.” Mr. LeRue smiled with pride.
“Oui, très moderne.” Aunt June turned her large brown eyes to Clair’s father. “Leland, what do you think?”
His face turned red. “It’s, it’s . . .”
She smiled at Mr. LeRue. “Yes, it’s beyond words. So magnificent we should keep it all to ourselves. Don’t you agree, Leland?”
“But—”
“What a wonderful idea!” Clair chimed in with a nod and slipped her arm through her aunt’s.
Her father finally caught on. “Yes, of course. We’ll hang it in a place of honor.”
Mr. LeRue frowned. “But it requires a public exhibition.”
Her father pulled a roll of cash from his pocket, peeled off some bills, and handed them to the so-called artist. “Here’s extra for us to keep it private.”
“I couldn’t.” Mr. LeRue shook his head. “We should go on as planned.”
“It’s better this way,” her father said in a firm voice, holding out the entire handful of bills. “I insist.”
With lowered eyes, Mr. LeRue accepted the cash and slithered off the stage. He crossed the dance floor and slipped out the ballroom doors. Clair sighed with relief.
“Leland, you handled that very well.” Aunt June nodded at him.
“With your help.” He grunted and checked his pocket watch. “Clair and I had better get out of sight. The guests will be arriving soon.”
“This is a special night.” Aunt June looked into Clair’s eyes. “Be not afraid of greatness.” She stepped down the stairs and crossed the dance floor, ready to greet the guests as they arrived.
Clair smiled at her aunt’s Shakespearean advice and picked up the cloth that had covered the picture. “Father, thank you. I would have been embarrassed.”
“It looks like you.”
Tears sprang to her eyes. “Really?”
“I’m teasing, Raffie.” He winked at her.
He hadn’t called her “Raffie” for a very long time. The nickname had started years ago when he used to take her on outings to the zoo. She had yelled, “Hey, Daddy, that animal is tall like me!” From then on, he had called her “Raffie,”
short for “giraffe.”
“You look so grown-up.”
Clair hoped it was true.
Taking the cloth from her, her father covered the portrait and carried it offstage. Then he pulled the thick velvet curtains closed and returned to her.
“I have another surprise for you.”
Maybe the jeweler had made the pearl tiara for her after all. “What, Father?”
“I’ve chosen a fellow for you.”
“For what?”
“To marry.”
Clair laughed. “You are funny!”
Her father knitted his bushy eyebrows. “I’m not joking. I thought you’d be pleased.”
Clair couldn’t believe his words. “There’s plenty of time for that. Besides, the term starts in September.”
Her father paused and scratched his chin. “We’ll talk about college after you’re married.”
“But you’ve promised I could go. I’m already enrolled.” She tried not to cry.
He shook his head. “I’ve changed my mind. If you are too educated, no man will ever marry you.” He patted her arm. “He’s a fine chap. You will meet him tonight.”
Clair sensed there was no more to say on the matter. Seething, she wondered what kind of boy her father had chosen for her. She sang “Clair de Lune” in her head to help her calm down.
The two stayed hidden behind the curtain, listening to the guests’ voices as they entered the ballroom.
As the lights lowered, Mayor Walker slipped through the curtains, shook her father’s hand, and grinned at her. “Ready?”
“Yes, sir.” Feeling weak, Clair pulled the satin gloves toward her elbows.
“This is it.” Her father hooked his arm through hers.
The mayor stepped though the curtains out onto the stage and spoke into the microphone. “May I have your attention, please?”
The crowd continued to talk. Mayor Walker cleared his voice and spoke louder. “Your attention, please.”
The noise died down. “Ladies and gentlemen.” He paused. “It gives me great pleasure to welcome you here this evening. Don’t forget at the next election to vote for your favorite mayor!”
The crowd chortled.
He waited for the room to quiet down once more. “First, allow me to introduce DAR member, former head of the Lady’s Auxiliary for the Vote, and the debutante’s aunt, Miss June Dudley. Please stand and show everyone that lovely face.”
Soft applause ensued. Clair peeked through the curtains to see Aunt June stand from the front table with a wave.
“And now I give you Leland Devereaux—broker extraordinaire, cultural and commercial juggernaut, Grand Poobah of the Odd Fellows Section Number 25, and deacon at Grace Church—with his charming daughter, Clair April Devereaux.”
As if by magic, the curtains opened and the orchestra began to play “The Blue Danube” waltz. With a measured gait, her father guided her across to center stage. The blinding lights hit her, and the room fell silent. She froze as if she were a Macy’s mannequin. Unlike a mannequin, her real heart beat faster than ever.
“Smile,” her father said under his breath. A polite applause began, which gradually grew louder. “Hear that? They think you’re beautiful.”
She managed a smile. He paraded her down the stairs, across the dance floor, and down the aisle through the standing guests to the receiving line area. She towered over most guests as they shook hands.
“What a pretty gown,” she must have heard fifty times. In preparation for their balls, all young girls were taught how to behave properly—how to curtsy, what to say.
“Hello, Bea.” Beatrice Beach Bernard had debuted last year. Her beady eyes reminded Clair of the buttons on Aunt June’s boots. “So kind of you and your parents to come.”
“Hello, Clair.” Bea held her head high. She always acted as if she was better than Clair.
Mr. and Mrs. Jefferies and Johnny came by next. Both Beatrice and Johnny attended Clair’s church. She had known them since childhood. He had always been kind to her. With his neatly combed hair, he looked rather dapper, even though he was quite a bit shorter than she. She doubted her father would have selected him for her.
The line dwindled as guests began to find their tables. Someone handed her a silver goblet. She took a sip of the too-sweet punch and handed it back. Despite prohibition, she’d heard at some of these affairs the punch was laced with alcohol. Wouldn’t that be fun? But with her teetotaler father, she knew that wouldn’t happen this evening. No one would dare.
Her stomach growled; she hadn’t eaten a thing all day. She wondered what Winnie would say if she were here. “Hey doll! Great dress. When are we gonna eat?” Her giggle would sure liven up this stuffy crowd.
Her father touched Clair’s back. “Dear, please meet Farley Parker, a client of mine.”
The stocky man seemed about thirty. His hair had been parted in the center, and he wore an outdated walrus mustache. His eyes were an eerie hurricane gray.
She curtsied, took the man’s hand, and stood erect. “Pleased.” Feeling his sweaty grip through her gloves, she tried to loosen her hand.
“I’m sure your father has spoken of me.” His eyes shifted from side to side.
Clair couldn’t recall if she had heard his name. “Yes, of course, Mr. Parker.”
“Dazzling. Simply dazzling.” He was staring at her.
Managing a smile, she finally pulled her glove away, rubbed it on her lace handkerchief, and proffered it to the last person in line.
By the time she reached her table, the centerpieces had begun to wilt. The mayor stood, pulled her chair out for her, and took his seat between her and Aunt June. Her father sat beside her on the other side. Dr. Johnson, with his small pointy nose, sat on the other side of her aunt. An empty chair stood at Mrs. Schmidt’s place. Her cold had turned into bronchitis. Surprisingly, Mr. Parker had been assigned to their table, too.
The orchestra played softly. White-gloved waiters offered round bread rolls along to the right. Clair spread one with a scalloped pad of butter. Though a few moments before she had been starving, she could barely take a bite. She studied the room wondering which boy her father had picked for her. She couldn’t believe he wouldn’t let her go to college in the fall.
The salad was served, a strange combination of apples, celery, and walnuts. She declined the creamy white dressing offered.
“Do you have an automobile?” Mr. Parker asked no one in particular. “I recently bought one of those Lincoln Town Cars. It cost me an arm and leg. I tried to get the price down, but . . .”
Clair and Aunt June exchanged glances. Her aunt tried to cut off Mr. Parker’s monologue. “Leland, this is a dish fit for the gods.”
Clair’s father smiled at her aunt and drew a figure eight with his fork over the salad. “It looks quite the newfangled mess, but yes, it’s delicious. The chef highly recommended it as his own recent creation.”
“Oh, dear. It’s going to be quite a year for influenza.” Dr. Johnson fretted. Some salad dressing dripped off of his muttonchop sideburns.
“You don’t say? I had it once so bad I couldn’t get out of bed for a month.” Mr. Parker finished his salad and wiped his mouth with his napkin.
The next course was escargot, small dots of wonder that still sizzled in a ceramic plate’s petals. Clair stabbed her tiny fork into one, delicately lifting it to her mouth. They had lobster thermidor for the main course, and red velvet cake for dessert.
The orchestra began to repeat “The Blue Danube” waltz, and her father led her onto the dance floor and took her in his arms. All eyes were on them, which was thrilling because she knew she could dance well.
“Who is he, Father?” she asked as he guided her to the right.
“Can’t you guess?”
“I have no idea.”
“You’ll know soon enough.”
Next she danced with the mayor and then Dr. Johnson, who kept tripping over her. Even after she counted aloud, “One, two, thre
e—one, two, three,” he still couldn’t get the rhythm.
Johnny Jefferies asked her next. He didn’t seem to mind that she was taller. She enjoyed being waltzed around the dance floor by him.
As the evening progressed, she had danced with practically every man, young and old, in attendance. This was completely different than her night at Rudy’s dancing with Winnie. She grinned at the notion of asking the orchestra to play a jazz piece and all the guests jumping up to do the Charleston.
Finally, Mr. Parker swaggered toward her. “Let’s dance.” He put one arm on her shoulder and another around her waist, holding her more tightly than called for. He smelled of the petroleum jelly he’d used in his hair.
His strong arms led her decisively around the floor, making her feel lighter than air until he said, “You remind me of a summer swan,” and he eyed her as if he were Valentino and then turned his gaze away.
Why would he say something so inane to her? He acted like he wanted to court her. The song finished and another began. Instead of letting Johnny Jefferies tap in, Farley ignored him and continued to guide her through the next song.
She glanced at her father, sitting at the table, in hopes he might save her, but he smiled at her as if she had found a prince.
Farley escorted her back to their table, and his hand skipped down her derriere. She hoped it had been by accident. Her face turned fiery, and she promptly sat down. Everyone had left the ballroom except Mr. Parker and her father. “Clair, you were the belle of the ball.”
Yes, she’d been the center of attention, every debutante’s dream, but she longed for home. Her feet were killing her, and she desperately wanted to take off her shoes.
“I’m tired.” She yawned and stood, but Mr. Parker wouldn’t take the hint.
“Might I call on you some evening?”
Her father perked up and patted him on the back. “Certainly, son. Anytime.”
She had a moment of panic. This old man couldn’t be the one her father had chosen for her. He couldn’t be!
13
As Anne crossed Union Square, she waved at the Goddess of Victory atop the soaring pillar. American flags flapped in the wind in front of the St. Francis Hotel, and cedars lined the square near fuchsia blossoms. A pandemonium of chattering, like monkeys in a tree, came from above. She gazed up at the flock of chartreuse parrots, like small winged limes shooting through the sky. She loved seeing them.
