by Marilyn Kaye
Sam finished the ‘seasons’ song and went into another. This one was a little harder for Allison to follow — it was a rambling ode that didn’t really have a melody. Since she couldn’t find a beat, she just started shaking the tambourine haphazardly. She glanced at Sam, and he nodded with approval.
Then she blinked. Was it her imagination, and the dim light in the station, or had she just recognized two figures coming through the turnstile? The closer they came, the more she kept blinking, hoping that each time she opened her eyes they’d have disappeared.
But then they were there, right in front of her — a smartly dressed woman who played canasta with her mother, and the girl who’d been president of her senior class. The girl spoke first — or shrieked, actually.
‘Allison!’
Stunned, she went right on shaking the tambourine, until she realized Sam had stopped playing his guitar.
‘String broke,’ he muttered, and lifted the strap over his head. Leaning the guitar against the wall, he crouched down and opened the guitar case. He ignored the people standing there, but Allison couldn’t.
‘Hello, Mrs Gardner. Hi, Martha. What are you doing in New York?’
‘Shopping,’ Martha answered her, but her bulging eyes were on Sam.
Mrs Gardner, however, didn’t even seem to have noticed that Allison wasn’t alone. ‘Well, isn’t this a coincidence! Normally we wouldn’t take the subway, but it was impossible to find a taxi. We heard there was a lovely art show in Washington Square Park, and we thought it would be amusing to walk around Greenwich Village and look at all the strange people. You know, the beatniks.’
‘Mother,’ Martha hissed, and for the first time the woman realized that one of these exotic creatures was just next to Allison, And that the tambourine in Allison’s hand indicated some kind of relationship between them.
Martha’s mother’s eyebrows rose. ‘Is this a friend of yours, Allison?’
She smiled sweetly. ‘More than a friend, Mrs Gardner.’ She moved closer to Sam, who was still crouched by the guitar case.
‘Stand up,’ she hissed.
His brow furrowed, but he obliged. Allison tilted her head up, closed her eyes and puckered her lips. He’d have to be an idiot not to understand what she wanted him to do.
Sam was no idiot. Right there, in the subway station, with people all around, he wrapped his arms around her. As he pulled her close, he ran his hand down her spine, and she trembled. He must have felt her body respond, because he did it again. Then he pressed his lips against hers and kissed her so hard it almost hurt. But not in a bad way.
This being New York City, the typical subway riders passing them paid no attention. But Allison was very sure that two visitors from Boston had their eyes glued to the scene.
For once Sherry didn’t care if she looked like an unsophisticated, small-town girl with limited experiences. She gazed open-mouthed at the Hartnell house in utter wonderment.
The white-columned mansion made Gone with the Wind’s Tara look like a cottage. The circular driveway curved through a manicured lawn that was more like a park, surrounded by perfectly trimmed hedges, dotted with flowering trees and with an enormous fountain in which massive dolphins poured forth streams of water. To one side, a beautiful rose garden was in full bloom. And the view — turning away from the house, beyond the trees Sherry could see waves crashing on a distant shore.
‘This is like something out of a movie,’ she murmured in awe.
Mike was shaking his head in disbelief. ‘No kidding. I mean, I knew the boss was rich, but this is incredible. Do you think that’s the butler?’
He was referring to a haughty, unsmiling man in a black suit who was waving the folks who had come off the bus towards the back of the house.
‘I don’t know,’ Sherry said. ‘I’ve never seen a real live butler before.’
The man spotted them lingering and beckoned them in a way that was more of a command than an invitation. Mike suddenly went stiff and saluted. Sherry burst out laughing.
Things had changed remarkably between them over the past week. After turning him down on the evening of Caroline’s party, she was very pleased when he asked her out again, and this time it was a real date. He picked her up at the residence, took her to a movie and paid for both tickets. It was a Japanese film with subtitles, the kind of movie she’d never seen before. With friends back home she saw Elvis Presley movies and beach movies, and with Johnny it was always action or horror.
They went out for something to eat afterwards, and again, it wasn’t what she was accustomed to — a burger, or a pizza. Mike brought her to a Chinese restaurant, where real Chinese people served them food she’d never seen before. He’d paid the bill.
Of course that could have been just a ‘thank you’ for typing up his short story, so she was even more pleased when he asked her out again.
This time they went to a concert in Central Park, to hear the New York Philharmonic Orchestra. Johnny would never have taken her to hear classical music. The concert was free, but there were vendors selling food, and Mike bought enough for a picnic on the Great Lawn of the park.
She wasn’t a greedy person. It wasn’t that she needed or even wanted to have everything paid for. She certainly wasn’t like Pamela, who demanded a sugar daddy. It was just that when a guy paid, the event became a real date, not simply two friends doing something together. And according to the rules of relationships, two dates in the space of one week meant that something was starting to happen.
And the conversations they had weren’t like those she’d had with other boys — gossiping about mutual friends, complaining about school, considering the championship potential of the local sports teams. Over the Chinese food, they’d talked about the symbolism in the Japanese film. During the intermission at the Central Park concert, they talked about how a person needn’t choose between popular music and classical music, that both could be appreciated.
She was liking him more and more. Which was why it bothered her a little that he’d made no effort at all to get physically close. If she counted the reading they’d gone to together a few weeks ago, then the concert had actually been a third date. But not only had there not been any necking, he hadn’t even kissed her yet. OK, there’d been a peck on the cheek when he left her at the door of the residence after the last date. But nothing romantic.
Maybe that was because Mike didn’t have a car, which was where all the necking went on back home. Still, she was beginning to get a little impatient. He should have at least made some show of affection by now. Which was why she was gratified when he took her hand as they obeyed the butler and followed the others around the side of the mansion. Handholding wasn’t much, but it was something.
The scene was even more breathtaking at the back of the house. Mr Hartnell had gone all out for his employees. Streamers, balloons and Japanese lanterns dangled from the trees. The land, which seemed to go on forever, was covered with decorated round tables sheltered from the blazing sun by brightly coloured umbrellas. Over by the hedges that bordered the yard were long tables covered with food. A barbecue pit sent forth delicious aromas, and there were several bars set up with uniformed bartenders behind them. A live band was playing. And beyond all this, tennis courts and a huge swimming pool beckoned. There had to be at least three hundred employees from Hartnell Publications milling about, but the area wasn’t even crowded.
‘West Egg,’ Mike declared.
‘What?’
‘That’s what this reminds me of. Didn’t you ever read The Great Gatsby?’
Embarrassed, Sherry shook her head. ‘It’s supposed to be the great American novel, isn’t it?’
‘It’s one of them,’ Mike said. ‘West Egg is what F. Scott Fitzgerald called the community on Long Island where the new millionaires in the 1920s lived. You should read it, Sherry. F. Scott Fitzgerald and Ernest Hemingway … they’re my idols.’
‘I’ll read them both,’ Sherry assured him. She really would too
. It was something a girl had to do to make a relationship work — show an interest in what he’s interested in. With Johnny, she’d forced herself to learn all about football. Following Mike’s interest was going to be a lot more pleasant.
‘Some day,’ Sherry said, ‘people will be talking about you the way you’re talking about Fitzgerald and Hemingway. You’re going to be just as successful.’
Mike shrugged. ‘Who knows? I have to do a lot of struggling first.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘That’s the way it is,’ Mike said. ‘Even Hemingway suffered. When Hemingway was writing The Sun Also Rises he was living in a walk-up apartment with no running water. If a writer’s serious, he has to be prepared to live like that. It can take a long time before you make any money.’
Sherry didn’t like hearing that. What did he mean by ‘a long time’?
‘What’s the matter?’ Mike asked.
‘Oh, nothing,’ she said quickly. ‘I was just thinking about what you said. How a writer has to suffer. But what if a writer is really, really talented and gets published right away?’
‘That’s one in a million,’ Mike said. ‘Besides, I won’t mind suffering for my work. It’s tradition! And maybe I’ll do my struggling the way Hemingway did. In Paris.’
‘Paris,’ Sherry murmured. The city of her dreams. Of course, her fantasy of Paris included plumbing …
‘In fact,’ Mike went on, ‘I’ve been thinking. Maybe I should do that now.’
Sherry stared at him. ‘Now?’
He laughed at her shocked expression. ‘I don’t mean right this minute. But why should I spend the money I’m saving on university tuition? I mean, is formal education going to make me a better writer? The cost of living is a lot cheaper in France. Maybe I should move to Paris in September and just write.’
‘But you need an education,’ Sherry protested. ‘The money you’ve saved — it won’t last long. You’ll need a job. And what kind of job could you get without a degree?’
Mike shrugged. ‘I could wait tables, clean houses, something like that.’
But how could he support a wife and family that way? she wanted to know. And she gave herself a mental kick. He wasn’t even her boyfriend yet, and she was thinking of him in the role of husband and father.
‘Hey, folks, have you seen that buffet?’ Pamela had popped up before them. ‘It’s amazing!’
The plate she held was piled high with food, but that wasn’t what amazed Sherry. While they’d been told this would be a casual affair, and practically everyone was wearing shorts, Pamela had taken casual to the extreme. She wore a hot-pink bikini.
‘Why are you wearing that?’ Sherry asked. ‘There’s a cabana by the pool — you could have changed there when you’re ready to take a dip.’
Pamela responded with a mischievous wink. ‘You think I’m going to pass up an opportunity to flaunt myself?’
Sherry didn’t miss Mike’s smile, and she managed a small one herself. ‘Where’s Mr …’ she caught herself in time. ‘Where’s your friend?’
Pamela shrugged. ‘I haven’t seen him yet. It doesn’t matter — there are plenty of fish in this sea. See you later!’
‘That looked good,’ Mike remarked as Pamela sauntered off.
Sherry looked at him sharply. ‘Yes, Pam’s cute,’ she said.
‘I was talking about the chicken,’ he said. ‘But yeah, she’s a cute girl.’
Couldn’t he say something like, ‘but not my type’? Or ‘you’re cuter’? Then she kicked herself again. It wasn’t as if they had any kind of commitment to each other.
Maybe it was because of a dream she’d had the other night, one that woke her up in a cold sweat. She’d dreamed of Aunt Agnes, coming for Christmas dinner. Only when the door opened it wasn’t Aunt Agnes. It was old Aunt Sherry, the spinster.
Lying in bed, it had taken her less than a second to realize she’d been dreaming. But even so, she was momentarily overcome with panic. Could this be a premonition of her future?
As they filled their plates from the buffet table she scanned the crowd. The Gloss fiction editor, Mr Gold — he had to be there somewhere. Maybe she could arrange to accidentally-on-purpose bump into him. Find a way to casually ask if he happened to have read Mike’s short story yet.
And Hartnell Publications included a book division. Mike had told her he was writing a novel. Maybe she could get him to show her a few chapters, a synopsis, something like that. She could figure out a way to meet one of those book editors, get the material into his hands …
With plates in their hands, she looked around for a table with empty seats. But Mike had another idea.
‘I think I saw a bench by the rose garden in the front,’ he said. ‘Let’s go there — it’ll be quieter and we can talk.’
This was nice — he wanted to be alone with her.
Away from the crowd, with only the faint strains of music following them, they found the bench and settled down. Mike picked up a fried chicken leg and attacked it with gusto. Sherry poked her fork at some macaroni salad.
‘So what do you think of my idea?’ he asked. ‘Can you see me writing in an attic in Paris?’
‘It sounds romantic,’ she conceded, ‘but I’ll bet the reality isn’t so nice.’
‘Probably not,’ he said.
‘And maybe not all writers have to suffer,’ she continued.
‘What makes you think I’d be the exception?’
‘Because you’re so good!’ she exclaimed. ‘That story you wrote, about the boy and the horse — I can’t tell you how much it moved me.’
‘Really?’
She nodded vigorously. ‘And I can’t wait to read your novel. Maybe I could type up the chapters as you finish them.’
His eyes widened. ‘You’d do that for me?’
Again she nodded.
He gazed at her in wonderment. ‘Why?’
Because I want you to be a success, she thought. Because I want you to be in a position where you can be thinking about the future, about getting married, having a family, making a living to support them.
But of course she couldn’t say that, not yet. It was way too soon, she would scare him off. She looked down.
‘Because … because I think you’re a great writer. I believe in you.’
He stared at her for a minute. Then he reached over and touched her chin. She raised her face to him. He was looking at her so intently, she could practically feel his eyes. She wanted to feel more.
Touch me, she implored silently. Touch me now. All the feelings she’d been holding inside rose to the surface. A lock of hair had escaped from her headband. He reached out and brushed it away.
‘You’re so pretty,’ he whispered, and she couldn’t breathe.
He took his plate off his lap and set it down on the grass. He took her plate off her lap, and set it on the grass too. And then he took her in his arms and kissed her.
Pamela was puzzled. Here she was, looking so sexy in her pink bikini, and she’d barely had a glance from any of the men. She was beginning to have serious regrets about allowing her hair colour to be changed. Platinum blondes always got attention.
She spotted her bosses, Doreen and Darlene, joined at the hip as usual. They were sitting together at a table that held only other women, which wasn’t very interesting. But when they spotted her and beckoned for her to come over, she had to respond.
They were whispering together as she approached, and Darlene got up to join her before she reached the table. She pulled Pamela aside to speak quietly.
‘Pamela dear, this really isn’t appropriate.’
Pamela looked at her blankly. ‘Huh?’
‘What you’re wearing. It’ll be OK when you’re at the pool, but you shouldn’t wander around in a bikini. You don’t see anyone else wearing a swimsuit, do you?’
Which was exactly why Pamela wanted to wear one, so she’d stand out. ‘But it’s a party!’
‘You need to cover up,’
Darlene said firmly.
Pamela reached into her bag, took out her little dress, and slipped it over her head. ‘OK?’
Darlene didn’t look impressed, and Pamela could guess why. The dress was very short and very tight, and the fabric was practically transparent.
Darlene sighed. ‘Better,’ she allowed. ‘Now come sit with us.’
It was while she was listening to the editors’ conversation that she finally realized why she hadn’t been getting any attention from any men at the party.
‘Did you see Felix Duncan’s wife? She’s twice his size!’
‘I like what Mr Simpson’s wife is wearing. The necklace is all wrong though.’
She hadn’t even noticed that there were a lot of women here she’d never seen before, and she realized then who they were. She should have guessed that all those wives who’d been stashed on Long Island for the summer would be joining their husbands for a party on this very same Long Island. And men wouldn’t flirt or even wink at her if their wives were by their side.
So when Alex finally did show up, it was no great shock to see him with a woman too. By then, Pamela was at the pool, free to wear her bikini uncovered. She had a good view of Alex and the woman she assumed was his wife as they emerged from the cabanas with their swimsuits on.
So this was Mrs Parker. Pamela had no idea what her first name was. During their evenings together Alex never spoke about her, or his kids either for that matter. All he ever really talked about was his work — how he’d snagged some account, or his efforts to get some shoe company to advertise in the magazine. It wasn’t all that interesting to Pamela, but she could tell that he took a lot of pleasure in describing his job. She got the feeling that he was simply lonely, that he needed someone to talk to. And she was perfectly happy to be that person, as long as he kept taking her to nice places.
