“All right,” she said, managing to smile even though she felt like slapping that knowing look right off his face. “Maybe just ten minutes.”
From the minute Faye entered the restaurant, the music swept her away. A wrinkled, white-haired old man was playing an Irish fiddle tune while the crowd—families, adolescents, men and women of all ages—laughed and clapped along. Many were dancing out on the wooden floor, and as Ed cast a sly glance at her she knew she wanted to dance as well. They’d always had this kind of telepathy, a premonition about each other. Faye cast aside her stiff, sedate furs and launched onto the floor, doing the rapid footwork as best she could. The others applauded and egged her on as, care tossed away, she clogged around in complete, hectic freedom. The real me, the real me!
A young man grabbed her to him, and they did a swanky swing dance while the others laughed. Soon all were dancing to a jazzy tune in couples. Faye was in a dream. Somehow, the other partner disappeared and she was twirling with Ed. Around and around the floor they went, wild and free. Caught in his strong arms, she unleashed herself to the soaring, urgent tune. It was magical, exceptional. And as she gripped Ed’s hand and they slid across the floor in unison, kicking up their legs, she knew he felt the same way. Every pressure of his body near hers confirmed it—he also enjoyed dancing, and with her too.
The dancing broke off, and Faye tried to capture her breath as Ed reminded her to look at the time. Could an hour have passed? At first she couldn’t believe it and argued vigorously. But Ed grabbed her face, pointed it towards the clock, and forced her to see it was almost eleven. She’d spent an hour when she’d meant to spend ten minutes! And she knew the one who’d cast a haze over the passage of time was Ed. Curse him! Why am I attracted to him? Admittedly, he’s smart and interesting and always knows just what to do. But that isn’t everything . . . is it? I’m sure there’s something missing.
She knew what that something was, too. Commitment. To her—to God—to anything really. Ed had too much opinion of himself to settle into any one thing for long. She must remember that. Such a pity too. When his eyebrows arched like that, she dearly wanted him to settle into her. Not that he was going to do that, of course . . . jerk.
They boarded a trolley, and Faye let out a sigh as she collapsed wearily into the seat and took off her hat. The shaking of the streetcar and the white lights passing through the windows created a dreamlike scene. They were passing Broadway. Huge flashes of neon orange and blue lights reflected through the windows, casting paths of light so the trolley seemed no longer attached to the real world, but in a nebulous place of its own.
Chapter 18
Faye was alone except for Ed and two other passengers, a man and a woman. The woman’s face was obscured by a large hat with netting. Ed soon recognized the man as Stanley, the journalist from the gala, and they reunited as if they were the oldest friends in the world (which was not in fact the case.)
“Well, nothing surprising there. That’s why I love the city,” said Stanley.
Slowly, Faye realized the woman in the fashionable hat was the catty little British journalist she had seen at Bellevere—Jane Watson, was it? The one who wouldn’t give her the time of day.
“I believe I know you,” said Miss Jane, after a minute. “Didn’t we see each other at a party in Illinois?”
Faye turned. At close range it was even more apparent that Miss Jane possessed wonderful eyelashes. Faye rather got the feeling she was used to impressing people simply by walking into a room. But this wasn’t a room, it was a trolley. “I remember. But I wouldn’t say we really know each other, since you wouldn’t speak to me.”
Miss Watson’s smile looked exactly as the Cheshire cat’s might have if it had had perfect lipstick. Faye struggled not to envy her. I won’t. I won’t. Not happening. “What are you doing traveling by yourself in New York? Trust me, I’ve seen quite a bit of the world, and you, young lady, might be in great danger.” She bent her head when Faye didn’t answer. “You don’t think so?”
Faye shrugged. “It doesn’t matter what I think. You don’t think I’m interesting. I believe you generally don’t think other people matter at all.”
Jane seemed a little startled. “I will admit I’d be rather surprised if you were doing anything that would involve me. You’d struck me—well, I will be honest—as not likely to make any kind of big splash. Or be in a newsworthy situation.”
Faye pointed to Jane’s manicured red nails. “What beautiful nails you have! You must spend half of every day just fixing your hair and shopping for those dinners with rich people where you make small talk so they’ll read your column. But I grew up in a shack and I’ve always had to work, labor that really matters instead of gossiping for a living. And if you just stepped out of your perfect little world for five minutes, you’d learn fast what an interesting situation really is.”
Jane sucked in her breath and sat upright. “What would you know about it? I served in the Great War as a nurse. On the battlefield, Miss Powell. Do you have any idea of what a horror that is? Blood and amputations and bombs going up in your face. So many wounded you just want to shoot them to put them out of their misery. I spent hours without sleep, holding hands and patching wounds. I trudged with convoys through mud until my feet ached. And I’d have you know, through all of it, I still had perfect nails! Because I am completely swell.”
Faye shrugged. “So, maybe it’s always best to get to know people instead of making assumptions. Isn’t it?”
After a minute, Jane smiled and held out her hand. “I agree.”
When the trolley stopped, Faye and Ed disembarked onto the steps of the ornate former Victorian hotel. Somewhere in this impressive-if-stuffy building were Mr. Rivers’ apartment and the Haverton sisters. Faye saw light pouring ahead of her through a thick glass entrance door. Beyond it, indistinct, milky shapes of women in high heels and black evening gowns with low, bare backs walked alongside men in tuxedos. A chandelier in the hall sent millions of points of golden light reflecting through the door. Faye turned to see the skyline behind her, the Empire State Building rising high above a sea of trolleys and office buildings like a beacon of modernity and power. Then she realized that Miss Watson and Stanley had not continued in the trolley. They were standing beside her, also looking at the house.
“It seems our destinations are the same!” exclaimed Miss Jane. “Why am I not surprised?”
“My cousin Myrtle’s husband lives here,” Faye explained. “I need to pay them a visit.” No need to blab about BeBe’s pregnancy to a news reporter! Surely even Faye could avoid making that mistake.
Jane flipped aside a trailing arm of her jacket and rang the doorbell. “Are they by any chance interesting? I was invited here and decided I absolutely would not go. I really hate parties, but nobody will believe it because I write about them so often. Stanley assured me that I would miss out if I did.”
Faye congratulated herself on detecting a trick question. Luckily she knew Jane’s profession, and was forearmed to conceal incriminating information—in which, unfortunately, the Havertons abounded at the moment. “I’ll admit they’re not at all. They’re a model aunt and uncle and a set of spankin’ cousins, and I think the world of them. But they’re not very interesting to others, I think.”
Jane rang the doorbell more firmly. “I am soooo glad Stanley made me come here. He does sometimes know what he’s doing.” As she saw a horrified look flash across Faye’s face, she let out a small laugh. “You are a very nice person, Miss Powell, and an honest, sympathetic American working girl. But you’re a terrible liar.” She broke into a dazzling smile. “Which is a compliment, of course.”
Faye gulped. Best change the subject. “Your friend seems to know Ed pretty well. Yet you don’t appear to know Ed at all. How is that?”
Jane shrugged as they proceeded inside. “Stanley has a large acquaintance. He always says he knows almost no one—which of course means he’s a cat about town. People do not always explain thi
ngs quite accurately, you know, especially when the topic is themselves.”
With Jane beside her, Faye was able to enter the hotel completely unnoticed in much the way a meteorite becomes invisible when thrown near the light of the glowing sun. Mr. Rivers’ suite was on the second floor. A very few minutes of climbing up a chic, red-carpeted staircase brought Faye to the front room of his set of rooms crowded with upper-crust guests. People immediately clustered around the journalist, anxious to impress her with their culture and biting commentary on the New York scene. For some reason that Faye could not quite fathom, Miss Watson had this magical effect on people. Pleased to be left to herself, Faye sidled around the crowded rooms of the apartment in search of BeBe. The party was winding down, with half of the guests already departed. The remains of a huge dinner lay spread out in a nearby room, while waiters carried pails of drinks on ice back down to the kitchen. Near crimson curtains, a few men still clinked glasses and chatted with expensively dressed women who sported diamonds and pearls. Biting her lip and stepping back so the ice buckets could pass, Faye glanced towards an open door.
“Hello there!” a voice exclaimed behind her. “It’s you, isn’t it? Young woman?”
Startled, she whirled around. Mr. Rivers stood there, now stuffed into an unflattering tuxedo that made him seem really bald instead of just male-pattern. Something was wrong. He looked even more sour than usual and his face was red. Had he finally begun to suspect Myrtle, or was he just being childish? After lengthy time spent with him during the summer, Faye knew it could easily be either one.
She blinked. “Yes, actually. It’s me. Faye, you remember.”
Mr. Rivers twitched his lips and glanced towards a distant room filled with luxury furniture. It looked empty to Faye, but she could only see half of it. “That Horace Carter said he had something to tell me tonight. Told him to meet me in that room.” He glared at Faye. “What could he possibly have to tell me? It’s odd, I tell you. Odd.”
Faye supposed it was, but decided it was wisest to avoid the subject. She inquired where BeBe was, saying she had a message from her aunt and uncle to their daughter. Mr. Rivers, shrugging indifferently, directed her towards the distant sitting room he had just indicated. The room was empty except for BeBe, who sat in a red plush chair. She was wearing a low-cut, silver evening dress that fell tightly to the knees, and her now very sizable bulge was visible through it. Faye remembered when BeBe bought that dress. It wasn’t a maternity dress. A tear came to her eye at the thought that BeBe didn’t have the things a new mother really needed—loving support from other women, most especially from her mother. It must be shattering to be so alone.
BeBe tried to leap to her feet and escape, but was too weighed down by her bulge. “Whatcha doing here, Faye? I told ya, I’m not going back home. I can’t tell on Artie. I can’t!” Tears streamed from her eyes as she settled her weight grudgingly back into the chair and blew her nose. “Ya don’t understand! His pop is like mine. Strict as anything. If he finds out Artie’s been doing a gig with me so I can get set up in the radio business, he’ll fire Artie.”
Faye sat alongside BeBe and squeezed her cousin’s hand. “I understand. I really do. You’re in a bind. But your mom and pop love you very, very much BeBe. They’re worried about you, is all.”
BeBe’s shoulders trembled as she clutched the handkerchief. “But I’m scared, Fed. I’m awful scared. You’re not preggers, of course you aren’t scared of them!” She coughed and wiped her eyes with the handkerchief. “Oh, I guess you’re right. They’re good folks and all that junk. Maybe I can work things out with Artie.”
“Maybe you could marry him,” Faye suggested. “I’m sure they wouldn’t object to that.”
BeBe’s eyes widened. “Do you think he would?”
Yikes. “You mean you . . . .” Faye fumbled for words. “You haven’t discussed the subject with him? At all?”
BeBe twisted her handkerchief self-consciously. Her voice was soft, mumbling. “Well jeez, no. It wouldn’t go through. People don’t marry after they do stuff together. He’s got no incentive.” Faye saw a tear slide down her cheek. “And after all, who’d marry me? He can have anyone.”
Faye’s heart swelled. BeBe had often cranked when younger about the openly held opinion that Myrtle was more attractive. In recent years she’d managed to overlook it and form a friendship with her sister. But still, Faye saw the second-fiddle view of her held by their shallow set had affected her beyond expression, deep in her perception of herself. How I wish she could see herself as God sees her, not as man does! She’s beautiful, charismatic, funny, and interesting. Why can’t she see that? It’s tragic.
Faye struggled for the words. “Couldn’t you at least try? Give him a call. I think maybe you’re selling yourself short.” Or wildly overselling Artie.
Before BeBe could answer, Horace marched into the room, followed by a perplexed-looking, white-faced Mr. Rivers. Myrtle stormed after them, slamming the door. She wore a revealing blue evening dress and looked absolutely furious. Faye rose, but was unable to leave now they were all in the room. BeBe paused with her mouth open.
“Why in God’s name would you tell Bill something like that, Horace?” Myrtle hissed between her teeth. “Oh, shut up, Bill, quit whining like a little kid. It’s no big deal anyway . . . now you know.”
She collapsed sullenly against the door with her arms folded. Her eyes darted angry glances at Mr. Rivers, who stood in a peculiar, stiff posture with one hand on his heart and his eyes narrowed. He seemed to be trying to pretend he was the only person in the room. Faye was suddenly rather sure the previous closeness between Myrtle and Horace had not ended with her marriage. Perhaps it had even erupted into an affair? But why on earth would Horace tell about that? It seems to be a surprise to Mr. Rivers—what’s the purpose of this confession? The door pressed against Myrtle and she bounced off, throwing her hands in the air as Ed entered.
“Oh Hallelujah, just what we need. More witnesses to a conversation we shouldn’t be having,” Myrtle exclaimed.
Horace turned to Ed. “Thank you for coming in. And do let me explain, Myrtle. Please try to understand. I need to do this. For us.”
Myrtle stamped her foot. “How can telling my husband you had an affair with me possibly help us in any way? I hate you by now, I honestly do! I wish I’d never laid eyes on you.”
She cast her eyes on the ground and wouldn’t look up. Faye looked in alarm at Mr. Rivers, whose eyes were half-shut. His lined features were haughty. Ed was enigmatic and BeBe’s face had turned white.
“Myrtle, I thought sure you dropped him after the engagement!” BeBe shook her head disapprovingly. “You went on with it when Bill was there? Sure, that is not right.”
Myrtle cast out her arms jingling with bracelets and defiantly flung her platinum hair out of her face. “Oh, sure, judge me. Just what I need to hear, more long faces and moaning voices. Just shut up if you haven’t got anything else to say. Shut up and go get a breath of fresh air.”
Horace turned to Mr. Rivers. That man was clutching his tuxedo buttons as if trying not to hear the words. Horace’s eyes were serene, gentle even. “Bill, I was wrong to deceive you about how much Myrtle and I loved each other. It was unfair to Myrtle as well as to you not to come forward and try to separate you from Myrtle a long time ago. I told you because I realize that now. I recently learned from someone very wise that love and respect go hand in hand. That simply liking a woman isn’t enough if I’m not willing to walk with her to the altar and spend all my days with her.”
Faye sucked in her breath and put a hand to her heart. Was that what he had been working through when he said she and Myrtle were so closely linked in his mind? Had her words touched him so much? She gulped, trying to restrain her emotions, as Horace took her hand and turned again to the company.
“It was during a talk with Faye that I came to understand it. You see, Faye looks much like her cousin, but I felt more respectful of her than I did of either o
f you. I was confused about that until she put me right. Faye’s presence was always reminding me I should be more appreciative of Myrtle’s love for me instead of viewing her as a temporary moment in my life. And that all of us, male or female, should submit to a higher calling than what surrounds us on earth. The more I pondered that, the more I realized you, Bill, should be no longer deceived. I would like you to give up Myrtle, since her relationship with me predates yours and must be more binding.” He touched Mr. Rivers’ shoulder. “And towards you, I can only say that I hope in the future we can be friends in all honesty.”
Bill, still seeming rather dazed, gulped and looked at the hand Horace offered to him. Slowly, his breast heaving with injured pride and vanity, he withdrew and his brows lowered. “I see. Well . . . if that’s how you feel, you’ll get your divorce. Certainly. I have to say I’m appalled at how unappreciative you are, Myrtle. Why, my family has made money for one hundred years, and I own a house frequented by Hollywood royalty! I wish I’d been able to teach you your place during the time we were together.”
Frowning, he ignored Ed’s efforts to detain him and marched out of the room, slamming the door. They heard another door slam and then another and another as he proceeded through the house. Faye’s heart ached as she saw the dejected faces around her. Mr. Rivers was unbending to the end. How troubling that he insisted on making himself unhappy. But everything else was a happy, reasonable closure. She had always known Horace would be a powerful servant of God if he once learned to use his talents properly. And the thought she’d had some little part in it . . . as she saw Myrtle, smiling, come towards Horace’s outstretched arm, she choked a bit. It was too wonderful.
“But there is one more thing,” Horace continued. “Ed, Helene and I talked last night and she realizes I have chosen faith in God. She is staying with her friend Amy, and they will soon be traveling to Europe for a vacation.” He held out a note to Ed. “This is from her to you.”
Bellevere House (Vintage Jane Austen) Page 16
