The Secret Keeping

by Francine Saint Marie

  She entered Frank’s Place alone at about half past noon. The waiter saw her before she noticed him. She hesitated at the door. He was waiting on the blond seated with her book at the sunny window.

  Alone.

  Lydia had never been to Frank’s for lunch and it struck her as quite different from the raucous environment she was used to on Friday nights, a little more subdued than she had expected.

  “Madam,” said the waiter, “how nice to see you.”

  Lydia smiled cautiously. “Thank you,” she replied, indicating by pointing that she desired a table at the back of the room.

  He held her chair for her, placing the now familiar lunch menu on her plate.

  “I don’t think you’ll be disappointed,” he assured her.

  She smiled the same at him, careful to remain composed. He had made her feel awkward the night before, almost like a child. She had not fully forgiven him for it. When he subsequently returned with a glass of merlot that she hadn’t ordered she gave him an anxious look, which he utterly ignored. After that, through the rest of her meal, he acted virtually oblivious to her presence in the dining room for which she was exceptionally grateful.

  That was more or less how he treated the patron at the window seat, Lydia observed, as well as the dozen or so other discreet diners seated in distant places throughout the room.

  She liked how the place felt this afternoon, even though it was different than how she knew it. There was the low murmur of contented couples, the muted strands of the music in the background. The same old songs, she recognized, but only softer, seeming instrumentally more civilized this afternoon. Same songs, same lyrics. Maybe a bit more daring.

  Warm tones, charming light, peaceful time of the day.

  There were others alone at their tables. Like her, they seemed satisfied. They talked, ate, read. But one didn’t feel alone in this atmosphere. Not exactly. Except if one didn’t want to be alone.

  _____

  “Do you know what you’re looking for?”

  “No, not yet. I was hoping something would jump out at me.”

  Lydia’s searches had led her to the conclusion that there were basically three topics of fiction: love, war…or love and war. But nothing worth dying for is worth living for, she had determined early in life, so she came up empty-handed.

  The nonfiction section held limited allure for her as well. Its shelves were dominated chiefly with how-to instruction manuals that explored the gamut of human interests from abdomens to the zodiac, self-help books that covered a myriad of ailments and complaints whether real or imagined. Self improvement, a big industry. These nearly always occupied an area of their own which was usually located in the front of the store right next to the checkout.

  Bookstores overall had changed considerably from the last time Lydia had visited one. Now, with their wall-to-wall carpeting, their quiet reading areas, the out-of-the way-benches and comfy chairs littered with patrons absorbed in their seemingly sacred texts, the places more closely resembled libraries than anything else. Of course, unlike a library, you couldn’t take your favorite book out. In the end you had to buy it.

  Lydia spent the next week in much the same way as the last and failed to find anything to curl up with.

  She bought another CD.

  _____

  Oh, yes, she hated her job. She hated her job. She hated her job. There were too many Joes writing Dear Johns and too many like herself and her girlfriends reading them. Reading. The same letter, a chain letter, a pyramid scheme of lovers, loading the dice, moving from table to table, playing it like the numbers, exchanging commodities, leaving a collection of precious metals on the bedside. Junk bonds.

  That’s the marketplace, gambling over the limit, like Blackjack. Or Rio Joe.

  These are dark thoughts again, Lydia reminded herself, still at her desk on Friday at four o’clock. One more time, the phone. Vice President Treadwell. Lydia groaned into her sleeve. It looked like she would be there a while.

  “Hi, Paula. No, not bothering me at all. Oh, cocktails? You know I forgot all about it. I’ll put it on my calendar. Nah, I don’t want a secretary, I like to be alone in here. A while, maybe another hour or so. Okay, thanks, Paula.”

  _____

  Six(ish). Lydia arrived at Frank’s around six. The blond saw her first and smiled. The song on the juke was extra special loud, competing with her thoughts. She stood in the doorway, smiled back and then caught sight of Joe menacing the place with criminal looks and winking at her. She pretended not to see him and searched the room for her friends.

  “Lydia!”

  Her friends finally saw her and they hooted and howled out unseemly hellos. The seating arrangements had changed. She wondered how it had happened that they were now sitting closer to the center, in the blond’s half of the room. Lydia glanced suspiciously toward the waiter, but he seemed to be unaware of her.

  She doubted the woman would be able to enjoy her book tonight and she grimaced as she made her way through the crowd to the noisiest table on the planet.

  “Boo! Hiss!” came a rowdy greeting from her friends.

  “Very nice.”

  “I am shocked, Liddy. Shocked I tell you. I think you did this to get even with us for last Friday. We’ve got a bottle…here…oh…ask the waiter for a glass…waiter! Waiter!”

  Frank’s was energized in a way that promised spring was near. Maybe that’s why they were moving closer to the windows, anticipating summer on the patio again. For days now warm winds had been blowing in from across the sea. They lingered there, down by the waterfront, where Lydia could be found from time to time lost in her lunch hour searches for a good book. The heat came from down there. She was sure of it.

  Deep beneath the water it lurked, perhaps all winter, simply waiting for an opportunity. It was finally near.

  “I don’t know what you’re suggesting, Del.”

  The waiter appeared with a glass and she thanked him.

  “Liddy, sit down and drink.”

  She sat.

  “Won’t be long now,” the waiter said cheerily.

  “What won’t?” she asked.

  “Spring!” he declared, leaving the table with a broad grin.

  From there he went directly to the window seat. Lydia observed the two of them lowering their heads together. Not about the menu, their conversation lasted only a few minutes before she saw him leaving again, the blond casting a furtive glance after him. What a busy man, Lydia thought. What’s going on? Nothing, he seemed to be saying. She turned back toward the blond. Look up. Look up. Yes, smile. Yes! Green eyes.

  Smile back at her, fool. Show her you have all your teeth, as daddy would say. Daddy? What in the world am I doing? Is she naturally blond? Yes, naturally blond. Accessories? None. No jewelry at all, save a thin gold watch on the left wrist. Nothing on her fingers, either. No ring. It was warm in the center of the room, cooler by the wall, Lydia suddenly noticed. About my age. Beautiful hands. Writers hands? Lydia studied them wrapped around the book. Can’t tell. Or was she a musician? Artist? She squinted but couldn’t make out the title. Green eyes, nice. A navy blue tailored pantsuit. Heels. No, definitely not an artist. Probably not a musician, either. Who in the world is this woman? What in the world is she doing here?

  There was the waiter again, returning with a drink that had been sent by the guy at the bar pantomiming a toast to the blond. No time for a drink. She had a harried look tonight. Lydia analyzed her face as she paid her bill, collected her things. One last smile?

  Yes. And then the blond with no ring was leaving, passing near Lydia’s table, the right hip swaying upward, the left shoulder dipping gently down. She moved rather than walked. Or flowed–god, the woman flowed just like water! Thirty fluid steps to the coat check. Lydia trailed her with her eyes until she was gone and then searched for the waiter.

  He was mixing drinks.

  I’m out of my mind. Would it be improper to ask the waiter for that woman’s name? Was there
an emergency or something; why was she leaving? She should ask him for that woman’s name. Lydia weighed it carefully, contemplating the vacant table with butterflies, trying to understand why the room seemed so empty. Was she planning to meet someone tonight, perhaps? Oh, ask the waiter for her name. But how would I explain it? I don’t think I could! What am I thinking?

  All this time Delilah had been gabbing away at her. It was when she stopped that Lydia suddenly remembered her friend again. She saw her posed with her legs crossed, her hands clutched around her knees, wearing an insightful smile that Lydia wished to avoid. She smiled weakly back at her.

  The music drifted over their heads and they sat eyeing each other, jostled in their chairs by people on missions to the dance floor or the bar. At their own table, their friends, oblivious, continued to shout and dare and cheer themselves on.

  “You’re being a Neanderthal, Liddy. I really mean it.”

  “I am?” A nervous laugh. “I don’t know what you mean, Del.”

  “No?” Delilah leaned forward and Lydia felt compelled to do the same.

  “Did you know, Dame Beaumont, that here on earth where most of us reside most of the time, that we are all perfectly safe from the destructive power of solar flares?”

  “Del, I don–”

  “That’s because I’m not done. But that if you were actually to be near one, my dear friend, act-u-al-ly near one, Lydia…Neanderthal…Beaumont…you’d be dead in a matter of hours. Huh? I’ll bet you didn’t know that. I want you to think about it while we both get drunk here. I want you to roll it over in your mind,” she said, raising her glass, “and I want you to respond in complete sentences.”

  Solar flares…Lydia sipped at her wine thoughtfully. The window seat was filled once more, this time with a loud and frolicking foursome. Neanderthal Beaumont, that’s kind of funny. How should she respond?

  Probably best to say nothing, since something clever was out of the question. I’m out of my mind. Is that a complete sentence? She glanced at Delilah as she filled her glass again. Up at the bar she saw Joe trying to make her feel naked. It was easy to ignore him tonight for some reason. Peering back at her from behind the counter Marlene Dietrich looked as cool as a cucumber in a big, black and white poster that boldly declared THE DEVIL IS A WOMAN. The devil a woman? Nah, Lydia doubted it. Pure nonsense. What could they possibly mean by that? She glanced at Delilah sipping her wine, waiting patiently. She’d know the answer.

  Lydia still had nothing to say. She gazed into Marlene’s steely eyes. There was another poster beside that one portraying the actress as BLOND VENUS. Blond Venus. So what’s so weird about that? Isn’t Venus blond?

  _____

  The women had met and become friends while finishing their MBAs. Delilah was the senior of the two.

  Now, over forty and solidly single, she managed her personal affairs much as she handled matters at the bank she ran. Lydia, on the other hand, had never been committed to such a lifestyle. It had simply developed in that direction with the financial markets her primary focus in life.

  It was in that capacity that she had met an underling named Joseph Rios, who quickly knocked her out of sorts, as Delilah liked to put it. Before then, no fraternizing. That had always been Lydia’s policy in the past.

  She had made a fatal exception. Prior to that unhappy event, the two women had seemed like philosophical twins, stoics, taking comfort in each other’s company whenever things got hairy, discussing and dismissing professional or personal difficulties as they occurred. A problem was a mere conundrum or a ridiculous quandary, never a quagmire like Rio Joe had become, faithless Rio Joe. The relationship had made Lydia different, changing her for the worse and even now it was impossible to be of any assistance to her because she refused Delilah’s confidence. She could only guess that Joseph Rios had devastated her friend as months had passed since she had broken it off and she was still not fully recovered yet. And recovery seemed nowhere in sight.

  There had never been any secrets between Lydia and Delilah, aside, perhaps, the sticky details of that tortuous romance, which were easy to guess at anyway, judging from its long lasting effects. On Delilah’s part, she had shared everything. One night stands, kinky interludes, pathetic lovers, even the unwanted pregnancy. The only thing that Lydia didn’t know about Delilah was that she had to color her hair.

  Delilah was now of the opinion that Lydia had not only become secretive, but morose and morbidly self reflective, dwelling, undoubtedly, on some supposed personal defects instead of admitting the obvious, that it had simply been an unlucky event, becoming involved with a man who was just a pathological misogynist. It could happen to anyone if you’re not careful. Which Ms. Beaumont hadn’t been.

  The new Lydia Beaumont was troubling to Delilah. It was unhealthy to be so elusive and joyless. It was unhealthy not to date. And there were certain moments when Lydia even appeared tentative, undecided, dangerously suspended in a state of second guessing. This might happen even if she was only buying bread or ordering something in a restaurant. And now speaking in broken sentences. The voice trailing off effect was absolutely maddening. And that perpetually quizzical expression, as if all of life had instantly become curious and overwhelming. She pictured the sudden paralysis that overcame her friend whenever she happened to lay her eyes on that miserable, miserable man. Delilah wanted to see her cured of this and she constantly encouraged Lydia to at least say hi to him, in the hope that being able to do so would break the spell. But no.

  Last week in Frank’s Place–it was a spell her friend was under and Delilah was sure that she was falling deeper into it. To her way of thinking, Lydia just needed to get laid, that’s all, and there were plenty of one-night-easy-overs standing at the bar. You don’t throw yourself into the fire to escape a hot pan. Go for the easy conquests. That’s how you get yourself back into the game. She’d work on this theme all through Wednesday if necessary. Both of them had taken the day off to go shopping together and to grab some nourishment along the way.

  _____

  “I ask only that you be articulate and clever. I don’t care if you talk with your mouth full, as long as you talk, Liddy.” She glanced at her watch. “Go!”

  “Okay, Del. Only four more years till I retire.”

  Delilah counted the words out on her fingers. “Give me at least ten more.”

  “I hate my fucking job. I hate my fucking job.”

  “That’s lovely, dear, just lovely. Have some water. You must be exhausted.”

  Lydia grinned. “Del, have you ever…?” her voice trailed off as she set the glass down without drinking anything.

  “Try again, Liddy. I probably have.”

  Probably not, thought Lydia. Or she’d know about it.

  “I’m going to be frank with you, Liddy. Ever since that creep dumped–”

  “No, no! Please, Del. Not dumped. Come on, Del. Dumped?”

  Delilah took a deep breath. “Walked all over you?”

  Lydia sucked in her air, too. She stared out the window. “Walked is…well…a little harsh.” She paused and looked away. “Okay, I’ll admit to walked.”

  After awhile Delilah said, “Have I ever what?”

  Lydia considered the question. She couldn’t ask it now.

  “Okay, whatever it is, if I haven’t I would have. Especially if I were you, okay?”

  Lydia laughed and feigned to be counting her words. “How am I doing?”

  Delilah rolled her eyes, “I’d really like to know.”

  _____

  It wasn’t a huge office, but it had a floor-to-ceiling window which looked down onto the street. If she stood at the far right end of it, she could peer out toward the harbor, midtown if she stood left of center, although there was another office building directly across the street. She liked to stand at the glass sometimes and watch the people below. They never noticed her.

  It was a teaser. Sixty-five degrees by three o’clock. The end of the week and Lydia was daydreamin
g at her window. She was thinking of leaving when she heard the door open and close with a quick click. She turned and was not happy to see Joe standing there.

  “Lydia,” he crooned.

  “I’m not going to endorse it,” she said abruptly. “You know better.” She grabbed her briefcase and began packing it up for the weekend. She had been surprised Thursday morning to find his paperwork waiting on her desk, complete with a cover letter that smelled like his cologne. The odor had infiltrated her office and it served as a terrible distraction, which, she was sure, he had intended it to do. She made to leave and he grabbed her arm as she passed.

  “Not once,” he began. He liked her startled look.

  She extricated herself and stepped around him. “No, so you know better, I said.” She disliked his expression. “I’m leaving now,” she added.

  He blocked her exit. “Not even when I was screwing you.”

  He saw the blood rise to her cheeks.

  “You approved of that, didn’t you, your highness? Screwing your brains ou–”

  “Your…these numbers don’t add up…you…” she stopped and took a step backwards.

  He was pleased to see he could still wound her.

  She grabbed the papers from the desk. “You can’t make these projections,“ she said, throwing them at his feet. She watched silently as he picked them up, then sidestepped him and held open the door.

  He was wearing his sneer; she had learned to hate it. “You have absolutely no right to speak to me that way,” she whispered angrily.

  He didn’t reply.

  “Get out,” she finally said in a shaky voice.

  He did.

  _____

  C’mon ta my howz, my howz-ah c’mon…happy hour…I’m gonna give ya candy…c’mon ta my howz…ahhh…my howz-ah c’mon…I’m gonna give ya…everything at Frank’s seemed normal.