by Vickie Hall
“Oh,” he said scratching his temple. “Well, let me take you somewhere you haven’t been. How about the Bombay Room at the Hotel Fontenelle? Ever been there?”
Bonnie shook her head and felt some relief they weren’t going to Comento’s. “No, I’m pretty new in town.” She noticed the “C” ration stamp in Paul’s window for gasoline. That was meant for essential drivers. How did he get that, she wondered. Was an attorney essential to the country? So essential that he deserved nearly limitless amounts of fuel? She decided not to ask him about it.
“So, what brought you here?”
Bonnie thought about the story she’d told Christine and decided she’d better stick to it in case they discussed her. “My parents were originally from Omaha,” she said with ease. “In fact, I was born here, but they moved to New York when I was six months old.”
“Really?” Paul said with interest. “So you’re a native Nebraskan.”
“I guess,” she said with a laugh. “But I feel like a native New Yorker.”
“What? You’ve forgotten all your six-month-old memories of good old Omaha?” He crooked his arm on the edge of the door. “So, what made you leave New York?”
Bonnie turned a little in the car so she faced Paul more directly. “Paul, you need to know up front that I was married. My husband…my husband was killed in the war…he was in a submarine…the Japanese sank it.”
Paul pulled his left hand inside the car and took the wheel with it while he placed his right hand briefly on Bonnie’s forearm. “I’m so sorry, Bonnie. I can’t imagine…”
Bonnie managed a smile and twisted back in her seat. “It’s been very hard,” she said, fussing with the scarf around her head. “I would have stayed in New York, but my parents were killed in a car accident not too long ago, and well, I’m an only child, so I didn’t have a lot of reasons to stay.” She gave out a little laugh. “Ijust wanted to get away from all the memories, and Omaha seemed like as good a place as any to do that.”
“Sure, sure, I understand,” he said.
They drove for a few more blocks in silence. Then Bonnie turned her face to his, studied his handsome profile, his straight long nose, the angle of his jaw. She couldn’t understand why she didn’t feel any attraction toward him. He was as good-looking as any Hollywood star, she thought. He was well off, successful, available. So why no spark, no zip? She looked to the road ahead. “You never expect someone to just be gone one day,” she said with a sigh. “I mean, one day my parents were home, happy, getting ready for a dinner party they’d been invited to on Long Island…and then they were gone...killed. No one knows what happened, what caused my father to crash into a tree. There were no skid marks left by the tires, like he was trying to miss something in the road…no witnesses who saw anything…he just drove into a tree and then they were dead.”
The silence between them was palpable. Paul kept driving, his fingers gripping the steering wheel and then relaxing again to hold it more loosely. Bonnie shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m afraid that’s not very good conversation.”
Paul flicked a brief smile at her. “It’s all right,” he offered. “I’m the one who asked the question in the first place.”
Bonnie folded her arms and leaned back in the seat. “I suppose I’ve been running away from death,” she said. “Maybe I thought if I ran far enough away it wouldn’t follow me. But at night I dream—I see my parents swerving into a tree, my husband trapped in that submarine, the explosion that must have happened, all of them drowning…”
Paul shifted in his seat and turned his troubled face toward her. “Bonnie…don’t talk about it…not if it’s too painful for you.”
Bonnie smiled at him, a soft smile of understanding. “No, it’s all right. Somehow I feel comfortable talking to you about it. I hope you don’t mind.”
Paul shook his head. “No, I don’t mind. I’m glad you feel comfortable.”
Bonnie laughed again. “I suppose that’s a good quality in a lawyer…being a good listener. Do all your clients confide in you so quickly?”
It was Paul’s turn to laugh now. “Not usually,” he said. “But in college, I always seemed to be the one everybody talked to about their troubles.”
“You went to Fordham, right?”
“For law school.”
“I was supposed to go to Smith—at least, that’swhat my father wanted me to do,” Bonnie said. “But Jimmy and I had different plans. He wanted to start his own band. He was a terrific trumpet player…had always been musically inclined. So, we worked to put a band together. I’d always done a little singing, you know—choir, high school chorus, at Mom and Dad’s parties. Anyway, Jimmy convinced me I could sing in his band, and well, I fell in love with the idea, sort of the way I fell in love with Jimmy. We were doing all right, touring the Northeast, trying to make a name for ourselves. And then the war came along and messed everything up. Between musicians volunteering and getting drafted, it was pretty pointless to go on.” Bonnie looked off to the side of the road. “Pretty pointless…”
Paul pulled up to the curb of the Hotel Fontenelle. Bonnie clasped her hand to her throat. “I’m so sorry, Paul. I’ve just prattled on the whole way. I wouldn’t be surprised if you dropped me off here and drove away.”
Paul smiled, picked up her hand, and pressed his lips to it. “Not on your life.”
Bonnie was surprised by his reaction. The valet opened her door and she stepped onto the sidewalk. “Well, Ipromise,” she said as Paul came up beside her, “I only want to hear about you for the rest of the evening.”
The center of the Bombay Room was filled with small tables for two, accompanied by padded leather chairs. There were some larger configurations for groups, while booths lined the walls. Long, pendulous lights hung from the ceiling, adding to the exotic look of the rich colors and burnished wood tables. Paul and Bonnie were seated at one of the tables, which was lit by a glass-encased candle.
“What would you like to drink?” he asked as the waiter came near with their menus.
“I’ll have a Manhattan. And ask the bartender to add an extra cherry.”
Paul smiled. “An extra cherry, sure.” He gave the man Bonnie’s request and ordered himself a stinger. He opened the menu and ran his finger down the column. “What sounds good, Bonnie?”
Bonnie read over the menu. She saw that the beef items were crossed off due to rationing. “I’ll have the baked chicken.”
“Excellent choice,” he said, closing his menu. “I’ll have the same.”
Bonnie interlaced her fingers and rested her chin on them. “So tell me about you, Paul. What about your family?”
Paul smoothed his tie down the front of his chest. “Well, I have one brother who’s in the Navy right now, been over in the Pacific almost a year. We get V-Mail from him every now and then,” he said, making a small rectangle shape with his fingers to indicate the microfilmed and miniaturized copies of letters sent to aid in delivery logistics. He drew in a long breath and sighed it out as the drinks arrived. “My sister is married and moved to Little Rock about three years ago. She has two boys and one girl, cutest little kids. Ihardly get to see them now that they’ve moved. Her husband works for an engineering firm down there. Nice guy.”`
“And your parents?” she asked, sipping her cocktail.
“They live here in Omaha. My father retired recently. He was the president of Omaha National Bank. He and I share a real love of the Civil War. We could talk for hours about the battles, the strategies, and so on.” Paul picked up his stinger and took a drink. “He contends that if Jackson hadn’t been defeated at the first battle of Kernstown in March of 1862—his only defeat, I might add—that the entire…”
Bonnie stopped listening at the very mention of the Civil War. She’d never cared about history, not in school, not as a hobby. She sipped her drink and nodded politely, interjected a comment or two as she could, but otherwise disengaged herself from the conversation. She was relieved wh
en their meal came and Paul’s mouth turned to eating. But after a couple of bites, he picked up the Civil War topic and carried on. Bonnie tried to keep her eyes on Paul and not let them wander off, as her mind wanted to do. She wished she could think of something she could say to change the subject. When a slight pause presented itself, Bonnie pointed at his plate with her fork. “How is your chicken?”
“Fine,” he said, cutting off another bite. “How’s yours?”
“Fine,” she agreed. “I’ll be glad when the war is finally over and we can stop all this rationing nonsense.”
“Mmmm,” he murmured, chewing on a bite. He swallowed. “It’s nothing compared to what’s happening in Europe. They’re even rationing clothes over there. Why, a tin of meat on the black market can cost—well, everything is in shortage over there. We’re lucky by comparison.”
“I suppose so.”
The conversation stalled, and Bonnie glanced around the room, wondering what she’d be doing if he hadn’t asked her out. Whatever it might have been, she was certain she wouldn’t be as bored. She didn’t care about the Civil War, or rationing. She wanted him to make her laugh, to make her feel alive. So far, the evening promised none of that.
Paul waved his fork in the air and raised his brows as if he’d been struck by a sudden thought. “Did you know that during the Civil War, there were more deaths caused by dysentery than anything else?”
Bonnie set her silverware down on the edge of the plate and patted her mouth with the napkin. Her expression must have given him pause to realize what he’d said. Paul cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, Bonnie. Sometimes I forget myself. That wasn’t a very pleasant thought to bring to the dinner table.”
She gave him a slight nod and picked up her fork again. “I’m excited to hear the Dorsey Band,” she said. “And to dance, of course.”
“You like to dance?”
“Love it,” she said with a broad smile. “I hear music and I can’t keep my feet still.”
“Me too,” he said as if they’d just shared a pivotal moment. “I can cut a rug with the best of them.”
“I’ll hold you to that,” Bonnie said with a grin. “I’m a pretty fair dancer myself.”
Paul turned his wrist over and glanced at his watch. “We should finish up and get over to AkSar-Ben.”
“That’s Nebraska spelled backwards.”
Paul smiled and motioned for the check. “See? You are a native.”
///////
Paul Warsoff was a very good dancer. Bonnie leaned into him as he maneuvered her around the ballroom floor. She loved to dance and had always wished she were Ginger Rogers. She imagined herself in the movies, dancing and singing. That wish seemed like years ago now, years before San Diego, before life became twisted and hard.
Bonnie forced her attention to the present. It was a thrill to hear and see Tommy Dorsey in person again. She loved the smooth rich tone of his trombone, the look of the band, decked out in pearl-gray tuxedos, except for Dorsey, who wore a white tuxedo jacket with black trousers and bowtie. His long, straight nose seemed to fit perfectly on his square face and the lights from the bandstand glinted off his rimless glasses. They played all of her favorites one after another—“The Music Goes ‘Round and Around,” “Marie,” “All The Things You Are,” “I’ll Never Smile Again,” “I’m Getting Sentimental Over You.” Bonnie lost herself in the music, in the dance. She leaned her head against Paul’s shoulder during the slow songs, kicked up her heels during the Sw ing numbers, danced until her feet ached. But she didn’t care. She was out on the town, living life with a desperate bravado. She wished it would never end.
Between numbers, Paul glanced at his watch. “It’s nearly midnight,” he said. “How about we go to my place for a nightcap?”
Bonnie raised an eyebrow. “Your place?”
Paul wound his arm around her waist. “Sure. Nothing wrong with that, is there? I make a mean martini.”
Bonnie pursed her lips and tilted her head to the side. “How about you take me home and we’ll have that nightcap another time?”
Paul looked at her and offered a crooked smile. “Resistance is futile, you know. Women find me irresistible.”
She leaned into Paul, let her eyes penetrate his for an instant. “Yes, I can see that.”
He grinned, took her hand, and walked her out to his car. A full moon gleamed overhead, its mellow light glowing through the dark. Paul stopped her by the car, pressed her against the cool metal, and slid his arms around her waist. Bonnie felt that familiar panic rise in her gut, wanting to push him away. She fought against the urge and let her lips meet his. She brought her hands up to his chest, slowly, letting his kiss deepen and then gently pushed him back. “Let’s get something straight,” she said, the moonlight glistening off his sandy hair. “I’m still in love with my husband. I know it sounds crazy, but I’m not ready for another serious relationship just yet.”
He traced the line of her jaw with the tip of his finger. “Okay. Who says we have to be serious?”
Bonnie lowered her voice to a cool warning. “And I’m not a cheap date, or a party girl. So if that’s what you’re looking for, then this’ll be our first and last date.”
Paul peered into her eyes, a little surprised. He brushed her cheek with the back of his fingers. “I never thought of you as any of those things. The way you dress, wear your hair, the way you walk… I think you’re extraordinary.”
A wedge of cynicism cleaved her thoughts. She knew how men could be, how they would try to wheedle their way into her bed with flattery and patience. She wasn’t fooled by him for a minute. His intensions were as transparent as the rhinestones in her necklace. “And I’m not easily flattered, either.”
Paul gave her a smirk and opened the car door. “You puzzle me, Bonnie,” he said, turning to face her now. “But I like puzzles.”
Bonnie slipped into the car and glanced up at him. “I like to keep a man guessing.”
“I’ll bet you do,” he said as he closed the door. He walked around the car and got in beside her. “So, let’s get you home before you turn into a pumpkin.”
Bonnie’s brow creased. “What does that mean?”
Paul chuckled and seemed a bit amused she didn’t know. “Oh, it’s something my mother used to say. Remember the story about Cinderella? The coach turned into a pumpkin if she wasn’t home by midnight?”
“Oh, Cinderella. I don’t like fairy tales.”
Paul shook his head, still chuckling. “Bonnie Cooper, you truly are a puzzle.”
Bonnie stopped believing in fairy tales long ago. There were no gallant knights on white chargers, no happily ever after, no such thing as true love. She let out a tiny sigh as he started the engine. Maybe she had misjudged him. Maybe. But probably not.
///////
Bonnie sat at her station Monday morning, her thoughts scattered and distracted. She couldn’t help but think about Paul. He’d surprised her by taking her home. Maybe he wasn’t what she thought he was, or he was very good at the game. Whatever the case, she would never be used, not by anyone.
It was near lunchtime when someone knocked on the exchange door. Mrs. Kemp marched between the rows of operators to answer. Her lips were pursed tight as she past Bonnie, rushing by so fast she left a slight breeze in her wake. Bonnie watched from the corner of her eye as Mrs. Kemp nodded, reached through the door, and brought something back in her hand. The door closed again and she turned, her eyes angling in on Bonnie. Bonnie gave a quick glance around the room as every available operator watched Mrs. Kemp approach her. She blinked as Mrs. Kemp thrust a gift wrapped box in front of her. “It would seem you have an admirer,” she said with an acid-edged voice.
Bonnie took the box, her eyes darting to the other girls as they stared at her. “I’m sure I don’t,” she offered with a lame shrug.
“Well, wait until your lunch hour to open it,” Mrs. Kemp snapped. “We’re still working here.” She spun in a slow circle, her brows drawn tog
ether as she shooed the operators to get back to work.
Bonnie placed the box, wrapped in lovely paper covered in pink roses, beside her. She saw a small envelope attached beneath a pink bow with her name on it. She waited until Mrs. Kemp walked away, then inched her fingers toward the card. Her board lit up and Bonnie forced herself to take the call.
There was a persistent buzz of conversation around her, the other girls speculating about the gift and who had sent it. Bonnie tried to keep her focus on her work, but the urge to tear open the gift kept her glancing at the clock. When her lunch break finally came, she pulled off her headset, swiveled, and placed the present on her lap. She took out the card and read it. Call you soon, Paul.
Bonnie became keenly aware of the other girls watching her. If the gift had been flowers, she need say nothing, but a wrapped gift—that was another matter. She stood and went to the back room where she could open it privately. She heard a couple of moans of disappointment from the girls as she closed the door. Bonnie slid her finger beneath the paper of pink roses and tore it away. She stared at the box. It was a puzzle of the Mona Lisa with her enigmatic smile.
She tucked the puzzle inside her locker, took out her purse, and clocked out for lunch. When she strolled through the exchange, every eye was on her. She kept her expression placid, composed, like a good poker player. Walking into the lobby, Bonnie knew Christine would be there, waiting and wondering what had happened Saturday night.
Christine rushed forward, her eyes wide with curiosity. “I’ve been dying all morning,” she gushed. “How did it go?”
Bonnie glanced at her as they exited the building. Christine turned toward Woolworth’s, but Bonnie motioned her away. “Let’s go to the Rome today,” she said. “It’s a bit more private.”
