Summer at Tiffany

by Marjorie Hart

  I PICKED MYSELF up and stumbled into our towels. Marty was already asleep. Now that the family near us had gathered up their stuff and left, I found more room to stretch out. After I lay down, the last thing I remembered was the salty taste on my lips.

  BOOM!

  A giant wave crashed on top of us and all of a sudden we were being pulled into the ocean! Our pedal pushers, halters, towels, purses, and shoes, even our half-eaten bag of peanuts had already left us, bobbing along in the foaming surf. Stunned and now very awake, we dove into the water and tried to grab everything, hurrying back before the next wave could swallow us. As that wave receded, back into the water we went, retrieving what hadn’t already sunk. When we dragged our sopping belongings up on dry sand, I froze.

  Holy moly! What had happened? Where was everyone? Just a few minutes ago there’d been hundreds of sunbathers and swarms of kids everywhere. Now they were gone! It was eerie.

  We were alone. How long had we been asleep?

  With killer sunburns, Marty and I trudged to the bus stop in water-logged clothes and squeaky saddle shoes, with tangled hair, carrying dripping suits and towels. Two buses, a train, and a subway ahead of us. We waited interminably. Where was that darn bus?

  It never arrived, but a shiny black police car screeched to a full stop.

  “What are you girls waitin’ for?” one of the policemen asked. Whimpering and sniffling, I couldn’t explain. Marty pointed to the bus stop sign. “We’re waiting—for the bus!” My cracked lips could scarcely form the words: “We’re from Iowa . . . and we’ve never been . . . to a beach . . . before.” The officers looked at each other and broke up laughing.

  “The last Jones Beach bus leaves every day at five o’clock,” one officer finally scolded. The last one! He must be mistaken. But then the officers took control. “Hop in—we’ll take you to the next bus. And just remember—we got oceans with tides. You’re not in Ioway anymore!”

  106 Morningside Dr.

  Dear Family,

  We made it to the ocean—finally! It took us a couple of hours to get there, but it was worth it. So exciting to dive through the waves—you can’t really swim in the ocean. But Phil, you’d love it. Right now we’re covered with Unguentine that Mrs. S. gave us for our sunburns. Afraid we did get burned.

  There are a lot of surprises when you’re having fun in the sun!

  Love, Marjorie

  Lots of surprises . . . That night, when I entered the lobby in my musty, damp pedal pushers, my hair in my face, carrying my towel and bathing suit, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Jim! Lounging in a lobby chair. I stared in silence, open-mouthed. Mortified!

  “Hi!” Jim said. “Been to the beach?”

  Have we been to the beach? Where have you been?

  I croaked out a “Hi,” or something like it.

  Marty sent me an eye-roll and was on her way to the elevator, while I stood there not knowing whether to be mad or to cry.

  Jim knew something wasn’t right.

  “You didn’t get my message last week, did you?” Had it been only a week? “That I’d see you this Saturday?”

  “No.” My voice wobbled. I could scarcely talk; my lips were cracked, and my face stiff from the sunburn. I suddenly realized how Jim was seeing me—how he could even recognize me! I was humiliated. “I’m sorry,” I said, my eyes smarting, “I didn’t get any message.”

  “We were moving back to John Jay Hall from the Hudson River—I called a couple of times and left a message.” He looked pointedly over at the desk clerk. “I hope you didn’t think I’d stood you up. Did you?”

  I shook my head—better than lying out loud.

  “Tell you what, kiddo, I have next Saturday off. I feel terrible that you didn’t hear, but right now you need to take care of that sunburn. Okay?”

  “Okay,” I said, wanting to smile through lips that couldn’t move. He still wanted to go out with me after seeing me like this?

  He waved goodbye and I limped to the elevator. It was amazing how one guy could take away so much pain. He’s back! He’s back! Ohmygosh.

  Chapter Sixteen

  MONDAY MORNING, the secretary stopped me on the way from our locker. “Mr. Wilson is looking for you,” she said, “he’s in his office now.”

  Oh boy! The door was open. Now what? Hesitantly, I asked, “Mr. Wilson—sir?”

  “Miss Jacobson—I need to tell you about a change,” he said, brushing off a tiny thread from his lapel. “Our third-floor supervisor is requesting help—would you like to be assigned there?”

  “Yes, sir,” I exclaimed, with relief. Though I’d only had a glimpse, I knew the third floor was a fantasyland of glistening crystal stemware, English flowered tea sets, gold-rimmed china, and gigantic ornate vases. Enviously, I had watched mothers and daughters taking the elevator to the second floor for their silver patterns and to the third for their china and crystal, or waiting standing in line at the Bride’s Register.

  Mr. Wilson jotted my name on his memo pad. “Good enough—so after your lunch hour the supervisor will be expecting you.”

  When I told Mrs. Ross, the nurse, she cried, “I could spend hours on that third floor! Just wait till you meet Mr. T.C.!”

  “Mr. T.C.?” I asked. Did I hear right?

  “That’s what we call him. The secretary jokes that it stands for tall and cute! She has quite the crush on him,” she added, raising an eyebrow.

  “But Marjorie”—she pulled me aside—“what happened to you this weekend—the beach?” she prompted. “Try some of this; you’ll feel better.” She reached for a salve. Whether it was blisters, burns, or a broken heart, Mrs. Ross always knew just what to do.

  When I told Marty, at lunchtime, she laughed. “Those old gals would go into a swoon for anybody in pants.”

  “I know—like that Andrew Sisters song, “ ‘They’re either too young or too old—they’re either too gray or too grassy green’! Those salesmen are old enough to be our grandfathers! And I’m certainly not going to call that supervisor by his initials!”

  WHEN I TOOK the elevator to the third floor, an imposing gentleman with deep blue eyes and a shock of sandy hair strode over to shake my hand.

  “I’m Theodore Louis Cassidy,” he said, towering over me, “but just call me Mr. T.C. We want to welcome you to the third floor, Miss Marjorie.”

  Miss Marjorie? Wow! With his resonant bass voice, my plain name rang out like a heroine’s in an English novel. I could barely speak.

  After introducing me to the salesmen, he smiled. “Now for a tour, Miss Marjorie!”

  “First, we’ll look at the model table settings,” he announced as we marched to the front of the floor near the lustrous and tall windows overlooking Fifth Avenue.

  “This one has the blue Wedgwood pattern,” he said, showing me the colorful china on a sleek blond table with curved-back chairs and a sidebar for cocktails.

  “And this one,” he said as we sauntered to the alcove on the opposite side of the room, “has our traditional setting—Royal Doulton’s Old Leeds Spray for the Sheraton table.” I caught my breath—my family’s best china! It was arranged on the table with a wide array of crystal glasses and silver flatware, and a graceful silver candelabrum. Around the table were eight mahogany chairs with a handsome breakfront by the wall.

  “Which would you prefer, Miss Marjorie?”

  “The Sheraton table is particularly lovely,” I said, not able to tell him that the colorful hexagonal plates and cups conjured up wonderful memories for me. “It has a special . . . éclat,” I said.

  “And this fork”—he chuckled, picking one up—“is only for oysters—n’est-ce pas?”

  I knew now why everyone was crazy about him.

  I treaded gingerly beside Mr. T.C. as we continued the tour, and he pointed out the gold-rimmed Minton china, crystal stemware for cordials, toasting champagne flutes (flutes?), cups and porringers for children, and at the end of the counters, stunning ornate vases enclosed in glass cas
es. I was dazzled. We had only covered part of the floor when the chime of the elevator startled me. So much to learn, but one thing was obvious. Everything was fragile, delicate—and breakable!

  Stepping out of the elevator was a formidable robust lady, wearing a white straw hat with a large speckled pheasant feather. With long strides, Mr. T.C. hurried across the floor to welcome her.

  “Mrs. Robert Rutherford,” I heard him say as he swooped down to greet her, “lovely to see you this morning.” Her face turned pink as they chatted and with tiny steps she followed him to a counter of cocktail glasses.

  “So much work now,” I heard her sigh as the long feather from her hat swayed back and forth. “We have to be ready for the fall round of parties—left Maine early, you know. Now with the war finally drawing to an end—it does look like it will end, doesn’t it?” She seemed to be waiting for a definite answer.

  “Indeed, Mrs. Rutherford; we’re all hoping so,” he said to reassure her. They commiserated as they examined the champagne flutes. She held up one glass after another, rotating each stem to catch the light, tilting her head, as she continued to chatter about her rigorous summer in Maine.

  After that recital, Mr. T.C. brought her over to meet me.

  “Mrs. Rutherford,” he said, congenially, “may I introduce Miss Marjorie, our new girl. She’ll be in charge of your champagne glasses for the shipping room.”

  I smiled. My lowly page job had just been raised a notch.

  “Oh, my goodness—how lovely to have you here,” she gushed. “Now please tell me—where is it that you’re from?”

  “I’m from Iowa,” I said, flustered by the attention.

  “Oh, my dear!” She shook her head, her feather bobbing. “Here on the East Coast—we pronounce it O-hi-o!”

  I bit my lip. Mr. T.C. winked. A conspiratorial wink. Besides the wild “Iowa-ho-ha” lines the Easterners fed us, now we weren’t even on the map! Wait till Marty hears this one. She had vowed that the next time Iowa was put down, she’d say, “Do you know which state has the highest literacy rate?” We had a heyday dreaming up comebacks.

  On my way to the elevator with my box of champagne flutes, I felt giddy, as if I was entering a new stage in my life. Now, working on the third floor with the distinguished Mr. T.C., becoming an Easterner, and soon to be a student at Yale, I had grown up. I had changed. Engrossed in my newfound status, my chin high, I marched confidently to the elevator—and bumped smack into Mrs. Ross, the nurse.

  She caught me as my high heel slid, and Kevin, the elevator operator, yelled, “Hey, goil,” as the box fell to the floor. Quickly, he reached to cushion my fall. Horrors!

  My new job gone before it had started!

  Mrs. Ross said, “I’m so sorry—my fault—too much of a hurry!”

  “Not your fault at all . . . I wasn’t paying attention.” My eyes teared as I sat on the floor and reached for the box of champagne glasses, expecting to hear the clatter of broken glass. Quaking, I lifted the lid. We gaped. Like little Kewpie dolls, the champagne glasses were nestled neatly in their white tissues, untouched. They hadn’t moved. For seconds I was motionless, trying to catch my breath, my chest heaving. I looked up as Mrs. Ross and Kevin helped me to my feet.

  “Are you all right?” she asked, steadying me.

  An overwhelming feeling of relief spread over me as I thanked them, profusely! They had saved me from landing on that box of priceless glasses. From now on, I promised myself, no more daydreaming. I needed to get a grip!

  At lunchtime, I dashed to the locker room, anxious to tell Marty the latest. She wasn’t there—it was after twelve. Disappointed, I changed into my sleeveless dress and went to the main floor to find out what had held her up. Was there a celebrity getting the attention?

  The center of attention on the main floor was Marty. At the front counter facing the Fifth Avenue entrance, salesmen were circled about her. Holding out her left hand, she was modeling a brilliant solitaire.

  “I’m engaged!” Marty exclaimed. Like the glamorous model in the magazine ad: She’s engaged, She’s lovely, She uses Pond’s. With her beautiful, long, slender fingers, the diamond looked fabulous on her fourth finger. Marty had a way of lightly tapping her cigarette over an ashtray like Rita Hayworth. It was enough to make you want to take up smoking.

  The front-counter salesman beamed with pleasure. “That diamond is worth fifty thousand dollars,” he said to me casually, as if it were pocket change. Fifty thousand for just a ring?

  “So, if you’ll excuse me,” Marty said, as she rolled her eyes, “I need time to think it over—will let you know after lunch.” We laughed.

  But when she tried to remove it, the ring wouldn’t budge. She stared at her finger. “I didn’t have any trouble putting it on.” She turned to the salesman.

  “No problem,” he said as he reached under the counter and brought out a tube of ointment. “We’re prepared for this.”

  After rubbing the slick ointment on, she turned the ring back and forth but was unable to twist it past her knuckle. She sent me an anxious look. I started to run for the nurse, but remembered she had left for the day.

  Mr. Hutchison left his counter to bring a small bottle of lotion. After examining her finger, he advised the salesman to let Marty rest her hand. “I think her finger’s a little swollen,” he said. He was right. Her finger had reddened. The small cluster of salesmen began to kill time recalling similar incidents, and one joked about sending an armed guard with us to the Automat. I could see from Marty’s face it was nothing to joke about. She looked desperate.

  After a brief rest, Marty tried again. Beads of perspiration broke out on her forehead and the salesman began to stutter as he gave her advice. I felt sorry for her, with everyone staring while she was frantically trying her best.

  Exasperated, Marty exclaimed, “I know how I could get it off—let me go to the ladies’ room and run cold water over my hand. I’m sure I could remove it with soap and water.”

  Leave the counter with a fifty-thousand-dollar ring? They shook their heads. But I could see from the grimace on Marty’s face, she was in pain. Those salesmen with all their lotions, ointments, and advice were of no help.

  For an hour, after alternating between resting and trying to take off the ring, Marty clenched her teeth. “One more time—” I held my breath.

  She rotated the ring back and forth, stopping and starting, until she finally closed her eyes and pulled it—forced it—over her swollen knuckle. When it slipped off, the salesman audibly sighed. Marty’s eyes were almost brimming with tears.

  “I’ve never felt anything so painful,” she confided afterward, wrapping her hand in a handkerchief. “And I’m never putting a ring on that finger again—not until I am engaged!”

  106 Morningside Dr.

  Dear Family,

  Everyone here is wondering when the war will end. I miss Eric Sevareid’s broadcasts—feel so cut off without the radio. Isn’t he related to the Sevareids in Story City?

  Yesterday: I began working on the third floor—I love it! Wish you could see our china pattern displayed on their beautiful model table. I’ll soon be an expert on crystal and china. Lots to learn in this city.

  Love, Marjorie

  “Lordy—what was that?” Carolyn exclaimed, jumping up in the dark when we heard the crash on the floor. I stuffed a pillow over my mouth to muffle my laughter; I knew exactly what that was. It was Marty, her midshipman, and the studio couch!

  Our dark brown, armless upholstered couch, which had come with three unattached overstuffed pillows, enjoyed a life of its own and called for great respect. If you dared to sit near those pillows and lean against the wall, the couch would skate across the room on the hardwood floor, as if it were heading for the Hudson River. The ride was a merry one, until you fell on the floor.

  “I felt sorry for this guy,” she told us later. “I asked him if he’d like something to eat. ‘You betcha,’ he said. When I brought him a bowl of our lime Jell-O�
�it was the only thing in our refrigerator—he made a lunge for me. I leaned against the pillows to give the couch a start—and away we went! We landed on the floor, green Jell-O and all.”

  “Bet we won’t be seeing him soon again.” I laughed.

  Thank heavens—besides being a girl’s best friend, that couch had talent. It could skate on four wheels, careen on three, and with a good push—you’d have the Ride of the Valkyries! We should’ve nicknamed her Brunhilde.

  Chapter Seventeen

  IT WAS a fierce downpour. Marty and I leaped over puddles to reach the employees’ entrance as the rain streamed off my umbrella and trickled down my neck.

  “We’re in for it now!” Mr. T.C. said when I reached the third floor and watched the rain pound against the Fifth Avenue windows.

  “Exciting, isn’t it?” I said. The ends of my hair were wet, my rayon hose were baggy, and my patent-leather pumps squeaked “miss you—miss you,” with every step. It didn’t matter—thunderstorms were romantic. On one of our first dates, Jim and I had run for shelter in a downpour, and ducked into a porch, half-drenched. How exhilarating that had been!

  Watching the traffic snarl on Fifth Avenue, lost in my thoughts, I didn’t hear Mr. T.C. call the first time. Ohmygosh, he was waiting for me.

  “I’ve something to show you,” he said, holding a bell-shaped decanter filled with an amber liquid. “My customer told me if we could remove the glass stopper of his heirloom decanter, the brandy was ours! So, Miss Marjorie—how would you like a lesson in brandy sniffing?”

  Didn’t he mean sipping?

  “You’ll find out what it’s all about,” he said, leading me to the Sheraton table with the other salesmen. “No one will be up here this morning—not in this kind of weather.”

  With that soaking rain and streaks of lightning, who would be out?