by Jill G. Hall
Now she picked one up and easily crushed it in her hand with a puncturing burst of power. With her clean hand, she held up her skirt and waded into the icy water, rinsing the mess off her hand in the cold current and drying it off on her hem.
She wandered farther up the beach and perched on a rock. Mr. Benny had seemed much younger than her father, with a striped swimsuit that exposed big muscles and a funny anchor tattoo on his arm. Her beautiful red-haired mama had laughed at his jokes. Clair laughed, too, even though she had no idea what they were all about. It must have been a weekday, because her father wasn’t there. He only came up on weekends.
“Honey, go down and make drip castles, why don’t cha?” Mr. Benny had suggested to Clair.
“Yes, make one as tall as you can, darling.” Mama gave her a hug.
Clair obeyed and went to work. She looked up for approval and saw Mr. Benny put his hand on Mama’s leg from underneath the parasol. Father got angry when her face got too ruddy. But when Mr. Benny was near, it turned red anyway.
Clair now put her hand on her own hot face as Mr. Benny and Mama’s behavior became clearer. Had her father ever found out?
That same summer night, after her bedtime story, her mama said, “Don’t tell your father Mr. Benny was here.”
“Why not?”
“It’ll be our little secret.” Her mother kissed her forehead. “That’s a good girl.”
When her father came up that Friday night and Mama wasn’t in the room, he asked Clair if any strangers had visited during the week. She kept the secret but had been confused. She always obeyed her mother, but she had also been told never to lie.
Now that Clair had lost her own innocence, she understood that Mr. Benny and her mama had been attracted to each other. Maybe her father had found out, and that’s why he had called her mother a tramp. If he knew about Clair’s own tryst, he would certainly call her a tramp, too.
Back at the cottage, she wiped her feet in the mudroom as the phone rang twice in the kitchen. It must be her father. She considered not answering it, but decided she’d better.
“Farley will be there to pick you up this afternoon.” Her father’s voice was filled with rage.
She hoped nobody was listening in on the party telephone line.
Clair’s stomach clenched as she sat on a straight-backed chair. “Father. I need some time. Please allow me to stay for another few days.”
“What’s going on with you?”
“I’m considering your request that I marry Farley.”
“That’s good, but it’s not right for a young lady to be out there all alone!” She wanted to ask him if he worried she might have a Mr. Benny there.
“When you’ve been in the city, the Nelsons have always kept an eye on me. Besides, the season is over, and there’s no one else here.”
“That’s what I mean.”
“Please?”
He grunted. “Okay, a week. Farley can pick you up then.”
“Thank you, Father.” She hung up the phone as exhaustion overpowered her. She pulled on her nightdress, climbed into bed, and instantly fell asleep to the sound of the rumbling waves.
That night she dreamed of riding the elevator down to the hotel lobby. As she promenaded through the lobby, everyone stared at her with smiles on their faces, and she felt they must be admiring her bob.
Mr. O’Shaugnessy tried to stop her and called, “Miss Devereaux!”
But she ignored him and kept going through the door and out onto the sidewalk into the sunshine.
A man driving by in a truck honked his horn. A-oo-gah, a-oo-gah. “Look at those gams!” Everyone on the street gaped at her.
Clair glanced down and realized she had on the pink silk corset with lace trim. Her long legs were bare as birch trees in winter. She awoke covered in sweat, trying to decipher the dream. Did it mean she was exposed, and anyone who saw her would recognize what she’d done?
At dawn, the sun peeked over the bay with a glint of gold. On the edge of sleep, Clair’s memories from her dream and the tryst with Mr. X swirled in her mind, billowing there. Upon fully awakening, instead of feeling regret and guilt, she smiled, lingering in bed, reliving the moments. How could God make it a sin if it felt so good? Or maybe it was a sin because it felt so good.
Famished, she slipped on her wrapper and padded to the kitchen. Mrs. Nelson’s fresh muffins sat on the counter in a blue-and-white Wedgwood bowl. A note told Clair to let her know if she needed a hot breakfast cooked. She took the bowl back to bed and munched on the muffins there, something she had never allowed herself to do before.
She changed into her favorite bathing costume, the sleeveless one with the fitted bloomers. Her father had said it was too skimpy, so she never wore it when he was around. He had said, “It’s a disgrace the way young men and women frolic on the shore together.”
She ran her fingers through her bob with a smile—she would forgo her swim bonnet. That thick hair had always been a nuisance. Salty seawater soaked it into hemplike snarls that took forever to comb out. What a relief it would be not to have to deal with that!
In season, the cove was always crowded. Today, the smoke-colored clouds in the sky were her only companions. The weather matched her conflicting emotions, and the tangled knot in her stomach twisted tighter.
Out on the promontory, she stepped carefully in her thin booties to avoid the sharp rocks. Wind whipped her body as her eyes scanned the far-off horizon, her mind taunted by thoughts of a life with Farley. She’d never be able to abide him touching her.
She dove into the Atlantic, the water an icy shock to her body. From shallow foam she rose, her feet setting down on soft sand. Water swirled around her. Salt clung to lips that now had been kissed. Sunrays licked her wet shoulders that Mr. X had touched. She swam breaststroke toward the horizon, turning her head side to side, inhaling the briny air.
Soon she fell into a rhythm as if she could swim all the way to China. The frigid water began to numb her mind and body. Over and over, she reimagined the tryst of the night before. She swam farther away from the shore. As a wave passed under her, she wished it could cleanse away her desire for him. The undertow tried to pull her back toward the shore, but she had to stay away from the sandy gravel and hunt for peace in her soul.
As much as Clair tried to shut down her lustful impulses, they wouldn’t let her go. What did her future hold? As a tarnished woman, she wouldn’t be able to get married like her father insisted. Or would she have to?
31
Clair let herself in the suite. All was quiet; her father must still be at work. She had sent a telegram to Farley telling him not to come pick her up, and she made her way back to town on the train alone. In her room she dropped her valise on the ground, closed the curtains, and stretched out on the bed.
It had been a week, but it felt like an hour. Instead of the memories of her night with Mr. X growing dim, they continued to deepen. She had hoped the respite would erase him from her mind, but instead it reinforced the memory, the lingering tangy scent of him, the simmering touch of his hands tracing the lace of her corset.
She wouldn’t ever forget him and the lusciousness of their night together. Never telling another soul, she’d keep the secret memory in her heart, like a picture hidden in a closed locket, to open and remind her that she’d been made love to with an irresistible desire.
She sat on the sofa, pulled her list from her pocket, and studied it.
Reasons not to marry Farley:
1. His cowlick won’t be tamed.
2. His roaming hands are sweaty.
3. He talks about money all the time.
4. He’s a terrible braggart.
5. He’d never let me go to college.
She crumpled up the list and tossed it in the trash. If she refused to marry him, her secluded life would tighten its hold on her. She tried to convince herself that marriage to him couldn’t be that bad. She didn’t really believe it. But if she could talk him into letting her g
o to Juilliard, then it might be worth it.
If she married, she’d have to give herself to him whenever he reached for her. Perhaps if she had children, she might be satisfied. She’d love them even if they inherited his gruff manner. Maybe he’d be a good father. Fat chance!
Spring was a long way off, and she still had time to work it out.
She recognized his knock on the suite’s door and held her breath.
“Clair, are you in there?” Farley’s voice rang out coldly.
She was tempted not to answer. However, at some point she needed to face him, so she might as well get it over with.
She walked to the foyer and slowly opened the door.
His cowlick pointed straight up, more pronounced than usual. “I went to the station, but I couldn’t find you. Why didn’t you look for me? You’ve been gone for days. Didn’t you miss me?” He slid inside, reached for her, and attempted to kiss her. How she wished Mr. X reached for her instead of Farley.
“Don’t.” She stepped back. He grabbed her waist, and Clair pulled away. “I’m alone. You’re not supposed to be here.”
“I’m allowed. Your father and I have completed all the details.”
With a frown she put a hand on her hip. “What details?”
“The wedding.” He grinned at her.
“Wedding?”
“Your father decided we should wed without delay. The ceremony is in three weeks.”
“Three weeks!” She followed him into the parlor. Rain began to pound on the window as loudly as the beating of her terrified heart.
“Aren’t you thrilled?” Farley helped himself to a cigar on her father’s desk, and lit it. “A small affair with just one hundred guests. More rain is expected. Don’t get your hair mussed. Bring an umbrella.”
Clair stared at him. “I can’t.”
“Can’t what? Bring an umbrella?”
“It’s too soon.” She sat in a chair. “We said spring.”
“There is concern about the market, and he insists we marry right away.”
“What’s happened?” She hadn’t read the paper while she was gone.
“Don’t worry your pretty little head. I have plenty of money.”
She tried to get a word in with no success. “Farley—”
“We make a good team, you and I. In a year, we’ll buy a house uptown. You will spend your days with the children.”
“But I want to go to college before having children.”
He looked at her sideways. “Oh, that’s right. I forgot. You can go after we’re married.”
She didn’t believe him. Not one minute more could she be in the same room with him, let alone marry him. She hated to disappoint her father, but it just had to be.
She took a deep breath. “Farley.”
Another squall of rain hit the window, and he glanced out, puffing his cigar.
“Farley, look at me.” She waited until their eyes met, and said, quite distinctly, “I can’t marry you.”
He bolted back as if shocked. “You don’t mean that. It’ll be wonderful. After the reception we’re going straight on our honeymoon. Your father has booked us on an ocean liner to Europe.”
“I’d rather go over Niagara Falls in a barrel!”
Farley blinked at her. “I’ve never thought of that.”
He can’t really be that stupid. “You need to go.” She walked to the foyer and opened the door.
“But I just got here.”
She put her hands on his chest and pushed him out the door. She paced the suite. After she was sure he was long gone, she grabbed her raincoat and left in search of Winnie. Clair had made up her mind. She’d find out who Mr. X was, no matter what. She just had to see him again.
Clair stopped at the Macy’s candy counter. “Two scoops of nonpareils, please.”
“Certainly.” The man behind the counter handed her the bagful.
“Have you seen Winifred today?” Clair took out a candy and sucked on it.
“No, ma’am.”
She rode the escalator up to the second floor.
Mr. Smithers approached, peering over his glasses. “Hello, Miss Devereaux.”
“May Winifred assist me, please?”
He frowned. “She’s not here today. Is there something I can get for you, or may I have one of the other girls help you?”
“I’ll check back another time.” Clair dared not ask him for Winnie’s address at the boardinghouse.
Clair could take a taxi to the speakeasy tonight, but of course it would be closed. She’d read that after a speakeasy had been raided the owner would move it to another location. Rudy had always talked about getting “bigger digs.” More likely though, if they hadn’t gone to jail, they were both on the lam.
When she arrived home from Macy’s, her father sat in his easy chair reading A Farewell to Arms. He looked up at her.
She’d better start softly. “I really enjoyed that one.”
“Yes, it’s a goody.”
“Father, thank you for allowing me to stay at the cottage.”
He smiled at her. “Did you have enough time to come to your senses?”
“I can’t believe you pushed up the date. Three weeks?”
“You two will be very happy.” Her father lit a cigar.
She slumped in a chair across from him. “Happy? Never! I can’t marry him.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t love him.”
“Love can grow.”
She sat up and leaned toward her father. “Really. Did your love for Mother increase over time?”
He looked stunned. “Of course.”
“Did it?”
“Yes.”
He must think Clair was stupid. “Also, I’m certain he won’t ever allow me to go to Juilliard.”
Her father puffed on his cigar. “He promised me he would, after the honeymoon.”
“I don’t trust him, and I say no to the wedding!”
“You have no choice!” Her father raised his voice. “I need you safe and sound, in case something happens to me.”
“Nothing is going to happen to you!” She ran to her room and slammed the door.
32
When Anne awoke, it was still dark. Her heart chakra roiled with fire, and she couldn’t breathe. From the coffee table, she picked up the rose quartz heart and held it in her hand. Inhale: one, two, three. Exhale: one, two, three, four, five. She visualized clear colors in her chest, but all she could see was black, gray, ebony—sorrow colors.
She got up, put the kettle on to boil, made a cup of licorice tea, propped up a pillow, and climbed back into bed. Ever since Sergio broke up with her two weeks ago, her morning rituals had been off-kilter. Sleeping in used to be one of her life’s pleasures, but not now. Her body and mind wouldn’t allow it. Her heart beat so rapidly each morning she didn’t even want to drink caffeine.
She missed him. At least once a day she texted or called him, but he wouldn’t respond. She consulted the weather app on her phone. It was eight o’clock New York time, and the weather was already eighty degrees. She pictured him getting ready for work in a lightweight suit over a white shirt, slim canvas Ferragamos on his feet. Which hat did he choose? The Panama, or his straw fedora? Was he thinking of her, too? She resisted the urge to send him a thinking of you text.
She dunked the tea bag in her cup and took a sip. She’d come to terms with the reality that she’d really blown it. As a modern woman, why had she been so shallow as to want him to propose? She should have agreed to move there even without a commitment. It would have been better than feeling this miserable. She needed to take it all back, but he wouldn’t even talk to her. It wasn’t something she could say in a text or an e-mail.
Tears began to well in her eyes. Before, even when they weren’t physically together, she always felt grounded, just knowing he loved her and lived in her world. They had talked or texted every day. Now the hours ticked by without him, and her calendar was filled with empty pag
es, projecting a lonely future without him.
She sat up, pulled a Kleenex from the box, and blew her nose.
Since Anne was awake, she knew she should use her time wisely—write in her journal, practice yoga, or do some art. Even though all she wanted to do was go back to sleep, her body just wouldn’t cooperate. She hadn’t been able to eat since he left, either. She never weighed herself—she didn’t even own a scale—but she could tell by how her clothes fit that she had lost quite a bit of weight.
She picked up her journal and wrote:
Maybe he would have wanted to marry me if—
I was more sophisticated.
I had manicured nails instead of chipped and paint-stained ones.
My hair didn’t always look as if a cyclone had hit it.
My feet were smaller. (Even though he said he liked them big.)
This is stupid.
Journaling wasn’t doing it for her. Maybe she’d feel better if she did some yoga. She forced herself to get up, spread her mat on the floor, slip the yoga CD into her computer, and lay on the ground. Bending her knees toward her chest, she began to follow the directions the best she could. After a few downward-facing dogs, planks, and child poses, the mojo hit her and she had the urge to create an art piece. She would use her sadness and longing to be deeply loved.
The shoes sitting on the counter reminded her of the joy of dancing with him at his co-op right after she bought them. The shoe painting on the easel still stymied her. No matter which artistic techniques she used, the rhinestones wouldn’t shine on the canvas.
Time to start fresh. She laid newspaper on the kitchenette table and from her stash picked out a narrow box, fourteen by four inches, separated into three-tiered niches perfect for found objects. She mixed blue and green paints together, and with a brush slapped on the concoction.
