by Lynn Steward
Her mind was made up. She still had a few projects to close out at the store, such as the Nantucket line, and she wasn’t the type of person to just walk away and leave someone else to finish her work. She took pride in what she did and, when she left, she would have the satisfaction that she’d taken everything she’d begun as far as she could. When she was satisfied that all loose ends were tied up, she’d give her two weeks’ notice.
Until then, there would be no announcement. She would keep her decision to herself lest there be a lot of discussion or advice from Andrew, Johnny, Helen, Bob, or anyone else. She didn’t want to listen to protracted goodbyes or discuss plans with Uncle John while she was wrapping up her career with B. Altman. It would be distracting and perhaps even maudlin. That was part of taking care of herself as well. She would make the announcement when she was ready and not before.
Content with her decision, she went upstairs and read until it was time for bed. When she fell asleep, all doubts had been erased from her mind.
Chapter Eleven
Dana had gone jogging after work and was standing next to the table by the front door of her home, sorting through the mail, when the phone rang.
“Hi, Dana. It’s Mark Senger. How’s the party girl?”
“Still recovering,” Dana laughed. “Too much attention for one birthday! It wasn’t so much the dancing as all the talking and catching up with old friends. It was great. And thank you for coming.”
“By the way, how did you like La Grillade’s dinner?” Mark asked. “I can’t buy my way in. Reservations are six weeks out.”
“Dinner was excellent and the staff wasn’t intrusive. You should give it a try. I think you’d like it.”
“I’m on the waiting list. I have four weeks to go, but I’m calling about a more immediate request. Do you go out on school nights?”
“As long as I’m back in the dorm by ten,” Dana responded.
“I know how to sneak you in at eleven,” Mark said, “but for a first date, I promise we’ll make the curfew.”
There was that rapport again, Dana thought. She wasn’t imagining it.
“A date, Mr. Senger?” Dana asked playfully.
“A proper date, Ms. McGarry. Dinner, and a movie. How’s tomorrow night? And we forgot to discuss Vittorio De Sica at your party.”
“Ah!” Dana said. “The Garden of the Finzi-Continis.”
“I was thinking more along the lines of Two Women, Marriage Italian Style, Yesterday, Today, and To—”
“All right, I get it!” Dana interrupted, laughing. “We’ll battle it out over dinner.”
“Did you see Mazursky’s Harry and Tonto last year? The Paris is bringing it back for a return engagement since Art Carney won the Oscar.”
“No,” Dana said. “That one slipped by.”
“Good. I didn’t see it either. That’s where we’ll go. I’ll pick you up at six. We’ll have a quick bite and make the eight-thirty show.”
“Okay,” Dana said. “I live at Sniffen Court. The gate code is 009, and the house number is eight.”
“Great,” he said. “I’ll see you then.”
Dana hung up and stood frozen in disbelief. They’d picked up the conversation from Saturday night as if nothing had transpired between then and now. Since her birthday, she had made futile attempts to dismiss thoughts of Mark. He’d already accomplished for her what no one else had been able to do for a very long time: he made her feel happy. That positive feeling was empowering, especially at work. Maybe it was because he was a fresh face, someone new to talk to that was outside of her inner circle, or perhaps it was their shared interest in film and literature. Dana wasn’t going to over-analyze it, however. As her father would say, things always worked out in the end.
Dana glanced at Wills, who was looking up at her, patiently waiting for dinner. She picked him up and gave him a big hug and a kiss. “Just between you and me, Wills,” Dana said as she carried him to the kitchen, “Mommy has a crush on a very sexy man.”
• • •
Dana and Mark sat opposite each other at a small table at the rear of Café Pierre in the Pierre Hotel at Fifth and 61st. In the background, pianist Dickson Hughes played tunes from Broadway shows.
“Okay, back to De Sica,” Dana said. “I know no man can resist a film with Sophia Loren, but you had to be moved by The Garden of the Finzi-Continis. Mark, I saw it three times.” Dana’s gaze was intense.
“But it’s so disturbing,” Mark said. “Why would you torment yourself.”
“I loved the cinematography, the costumes, and the lighting. Most of all, it’s a moving and emotional story. I was fascinated by the Jewish-Italian family as they went about their lives behind their garden wall, believing they were immune from the spread of Fascism. After I saw it the first time, I immediately visited my grandfather and said, “Papa, I think we’re Jewish.”
Mark laughed. “Why do you want to be Jewish?”
“For one thing, the Finzi-Continis are blond blue-eyed Italians like, well, like me, my mother, my aunt, and my grandfather, who has the most beautiful blue eyes. And listen to this—my mother’s maiden name is Sommer.”
“Wait a minute,” Mark said, sitting back and rolling his eyes, pretending to be reflective. “Let me understand this. You’re an Italian girl with an Irish name, look like a WASP, and you appeal to a Jew.”
“Mark, I’m a little Jewish,” Dana said seriously.
“And how is one a little Jewish?” Mark teased.
“When my mother visited Bari, a city in Italy where my grandfather grew up, she did a little digging and learned that the Pesoli Vineyard was originally owned by the Sommer family. They were Jewish. Sure, I had a Catholic upbringing and education, but my ancestry clearly has both Jewish and Italian roots, just like the family in the film.”
“Dana, every politician in town would be lined up to marry you if they could hear this,” Mark said in between laughs. “You have almost every voter base covered!”
“You’re pretty comfortable in all situations, too” Dana said. “I’ve watched you interact with different groups at the store.”
“True,” Mark answered, “but to quote Groucho, I don’t want to belong to any club that will accept me as a member. When I was sixteen, I was turned down by a polo team, and I never got over it. It was the only club I wanted.”
“You were an equestrian?” Dana asked. “In the heart of Manhattan?”
“I was, and still am. I was first put on the back of a horse at summer camp in Maine. It was a Tennessee Walker, which is a beautiful animal. It has a mild gate and an even disposition, which makes it perfect when riding for pleasure even though it’s quite popular on the show circuit.”
“You’ve been riding from childhood? I’m guessing your family owned a horse.”
Mark creased his forehead for a split second, head tilted. “Horses were a bit too extravagant for my father. He had a rough time during the Depression, and no matter how much money he had, it was never enough. He didn’t like paying for my riding lessons, plus my father wanted my head in the books. He dreamed of my becoming a doctor.”
“Was he disappointed that Dr. Senger never materialized?”
“Of course! What Jewish parent doesn’t want to talk about my son, the doctor?”
Dana felt as if Mark were covering a more deep-seated conflict within his family, but she listened as he spoke further of his love for riding.
“We lived at Central Park West and 90th, just two blocks from Claremont Riding Academy. My mother let me take lessons over my father’s objections, and I still love riding to this day. Sometimes I just amble down trails in Central Park. It really keeps me … centered. I’m able to get away from things, and there’s something comforting about the measured, steady gait of a horse that relaxes me. When the horse stays in rhythm, so do I. My daughter Amanda inherited my love of riding, so much so that she’s a show jumper. She’s excellent, if you don’t mind my bragging.”
In the backg
round, Hughes was playing Cole Porter’s “I’ve Got You Under My Skin,” and for a few minutes Dana just looked at Mark, not hearing a word he was saying, her mind wandering with the lyrics. She was trying hard not to give in, but she knew her heart: she was clearly crazy about him.
“I understand,” Dana responded. “I feel the same way when I run. There’s a rhythm to jogging, a comfortable repetition that keeps my thoughts from flying all over the place.”
“Scientists say that running causes the brain to produce something called endorphins. It makes a person feel tranquil and balanced.”
“Is there anything you don’t know, Dr. Senger?”
“Quite a lot, actually.”
“Such as?”
“Whether or not you’d like to dance while we wait for our entrees.”
Dana smiled and extended her hand.
“I think that answers my question nicely,” Mark said, standing and taking Dana’s hand in his.
Hughes was now playing a slower tune, “Where or When,” and she followed Mark’s every step for the next three minutes as they slow-danced. He held her right hand softly, and as the song progressed, he brought it closer to his body. Dana didn’t have to concentrate on Mark’s steps, for she instinctively anticipated his every move. She felt relaxed and secure in his gentle embrace and wasn’t conscious of the room or anyone else in it. Endorphins? Apparently, dancing with the right partner could produce them just as well as jogging. Except on a crowded floor at a wedding, she and Brett hadn’t been dancing in years, and as she let herself be guided by Mark’s effortless flow across the floor, she realized that she hadn’t had such a pleasant evening out in—well, she couldn’t remember when, nor did she want to. She was enjoying the music and the moment too much.
Hughes stopped for a break, but Mark and Dana continued dancing for another fifteen seconds before looking at each other and laughing.
“When did the music stop?” Dana asked, blushing.
“I didn’t think it had,” Mark said as he stepped back and looked Dana in the eyes.
The waiter interrupted their reverie as he brought their entrees to the nearby table, but Mark’s words echoed in Dana’s mind. I didn’t think it had. Could he have said anything more endearing at that moment?
Dana thought it unlikely, and she felt mesmerized by her date as he asked her about her parents and brother over dinner.
“Matthew is at the University of Hawaii studying marine biology,” Dana said. “When he’s not surfing, that is.”
“Did you know that certain species of whales can talk to each other even when they’re thousands of miles apart?” Mark asked. “Especially humpbacks.”
“I’ve heard that they sing, but I don’t know much about it,” Dana confessed.
“I find it utterly fascinating that two whales can communicate over such long distances.”
“What do you suppose they’re saying?” Dana asked.
Mark looked thoughtful. “Scientists aren’t sure. Some say the sounds are mating songs. Others believe the whales are helping guide each other during their migrations.”
“What do you think they’re saying to one another?”
Mark put his fork down and leaned closer to Dana.
“Maybe they’re just saying hi to make sure they don’t feel lonely.” Mark paused and then smiled ever so slightly. “Or maybe they’re just telling each other how much they enjoy dancing when they get together.”
Dana thought her heart would melt right then and there.
• • •
Three hours later, Dana and Mark strolled down the sidewalk after leaving the Paris Theater. In the movie, Harry Coombes was an elderly widower forced from his condemned building on the Upper West Side. Rather than become a suburbanite at his son’s home, he begins quoting from King Lear about his life and children and eventually buys a used car and sets out on an odyssey across the country with his cat Tonto. The people he meets on the way to Los Angeles are diverse: an evangelical hitchhiker, a childhood sweetheart suffering from dementia, a hot redhead named Ginger, his divorced daughter, and a Las Vegas hooker. After being seduced by the prostitute and then being arrested in Vegas for drinking too much, he spends the night in jail with a Native American man before moving on to Los Angeles to find a new apartment.
“I loved it,” Mark said. “How about a nightcap? The only thing better than seeing a wonderful film is discussing it. We can go to the Palm Court.”
“Okay, but what about Mother Mary. It’s past my curfew,” Dana said, taking Mark’s arm as they walked around the corner to The Plaza Hotel.
“You mean you don’t know about the kitchen door trick?” Mark said. “I’ll have to show you how to get around Mother Mary.”
Sitting next to each other in a booth, Mark couldn’t contain his enthusiasm for Harry and Tonto. “Each of Harry’s encounters was more disheartening than the one before. He’s seventy-two and keeps experiencing one disappointment after another on his journey.”
Dana cocked her head thoughtfully. “For me, the most poignant moment in the film was Harry dashing frantically after the stray cat, thinking it was Tonto. Even though you knew Tonto was dead, didn’t you feel a rush of excitement, hoping that the new cat would heal Harry’s heartache?”
“Yes, I did,” Mark said. “I wanted another Tonto to make things okay for Harry.”
“Then he picks up the cat, rubs its little head, and lets it go. And you know that Harry will return to the bench and the woman who had invited him to move in and share expenses.” Dana said, closing her eyes. “Mark, that scene will remain with me more than any other in the film. In less than a minute, it said so much.”
“You can’t go back.”
“No, you can’t, and as much as he wanted to replace Tonto, Harry was wise to know that. In that moment he had a choice. Discover another path with a roommate or try to duplicate his past life with Tonto’s look-alike. From the happy expression on Harry’s face, he was ready for a new adventure.”
“Are you concerned about that?” Mark asked. “Concerned you might try to duplicate what you had?”
“Not really. Although I do think it’s easy to fall into that trap—the comfortable world you knew. In my case, I’m surrounded by well-meaning friends and family trying to put me back together. They think that the right guy will wash away the pain of the past year so I can pick up where I left off as though nothing happened.”
“And what do you think,” Mark asked.
“I think what I had was what I needed at one time, but it’s not right for me now.”
“And what is right for you now?” Mark asked.
“Frankly, I don’t know. I only know that I don’t want to go back.” Dana said, smiling coyly at Mark. “I’m rather enjoying being pas engagé.”
“Really, Madame,” Mark said, leaning closer to Dana. “Might you make an exception and engage in a delicious French dinner with me Friday night at La Fleur?”
Dana’s smile and the twinkle in her eye said it all. “J’adorerais.”
Mark reached out and squeezed Dana’s hand. “I’ll be by at eight.”
The pair took a taxi back to Sniffen Court. At the front door, Dana took out her key and began to speak. “I had a lovely time to—”
Mark put his index finger against Dana’s lips and quietly said, “Shh” before kissing her lightly on the lips.
“See you Friday,” he said with a big smile.
Dana entered her apartment as Mark walked away beneath the gaslight at the end of the flagstones.
After a quick walk with Wills, Dana went to the kitchen, got a glass of water, and climbed the stairs. She hadn’t planned on dating again for some time, but the night with Mark had been magical, as though it was meant to be. Glancing at the alarm on the nightstand, she saw that it was one o’clock, so she got in bed and turned out the light. As she slowly drifted into the twilight of sleep, she saw herself on a calm, moonlit ocean. In the distance, a whale was singing a song to her.
She wondered if Mark was thinking about her—wondered if he’d enjoyed their dance as much as she. And maybe—just maybe—he was at his apartment on the Upper West Side, listening for a song in the distance, just as she was.
Chapter Twelve
Patti Hartlen spent most of Tuesday morning on the sixth floor of B. Altman with the special events coordinator, making sure everything was ready for the private viewing and cocktail reception that afternoon to celebrate the opening of Lord Snowdon’s retrospective exhibition of photographs for the benefit of the Association Residence for the Aged. Antony Armstrong-Jones, 1st Earl of Snowdon, was married to Princess Margaret, sister of Queen Elizabeth II. A famous portraitist and photographer, his work included fashion photography, images of urban life, and pictures of celebrities such as Laurence Olivier and J. R. R. Tolkien. Much of his work appeared in Vanity Fair and Vogue. Patti had been informed that he would be giving interviews at the reception, as well as signing copies of his new book, Assignments.
Since the doors opened, the store had been filled with shoppers hoping to get a glimpse of Lord Snowdon when he arrived, and there was a considerable buzz circulating among the store’s staff as well. But Patti was distracted, finding it difficult to focus on the visit of such a luminary. She was thinking about her husband’s recent change in mood and temperament, something she initially blamed on their relocation to New York and the stress from working feverishly to open Hartlen Response’s new office. But that was four months ago, and the company was up and running. Patti was highly intuitive—nothing escaped her notice—and she’d helped identify burglars at the Sherry-Netherland Hotel the previous December because she’d seen them and remembered their car’s license plate when she’d gone down to the lobby at six in the morning. As much as she tried, her instincts told her Jack’s irritability stemmed from something more serious. Always an easy-going, quiet, and congenial man, Jack now had a short fuse, was anxious and distracted much of the time, and when Patti expressed her concerns, he became defensive. The situation was puzzling, and her astute mind knew that if she didn’t find the missing pieces, her marriage might not survive.
