Classic Love: 7 Vintage Romances (134 page)

The next week-end, four of us went to a deck party on the
Snow Goose
. The day began innocuously enough, with a pally breakfast with young Tom, then a morning swim, after which I went to say hello to Caroline, who took a walk with me on the grounds, where we ran into Lester.

“Good morning,” Lester said. “Oh, by the way, Caroline, would you care to join us for a drink late this afternoon with Gordon and Martha Comstock? The
Snow Goose
is lying in for repairs, and they’re having some guests. What do you say?”

“Bugger and bother,” Caroline replied. “I should die of boredom with those
arrivistes
. Though forgive me, I know he’s a client of your firm, Lester. I shan’t go, but take Jennie, and Peter will want to go too, as he’s smitten with my young friend.”

I had no idea who the Comstocks were and in any event said I wouldn’t go without her. “Nonsense,” Caroline put in, as if that settled it, and started for the house. “I shall ring up Peter; what time are you leaving, Lester?”

“Four thirty or so.”

“Good. Then it’s all arranged.”

“But Caroline,” I objected, and Lester intervened gallantly. “I’m sure you’d enjoy it,” he said to me. “In spite of what Caroline says, there will be good things to eat, and plenty of bubbly. It’s a stunning boat.”

“You’ll have a nice time,” Caroline assured me.

“But won’t you come too? I won’t know anyone.”

“You soon will, and without Tony and me. These people aren’t his style any more than mine. Or yours. But as Lester says, it’s a smashing boat and you’ll have plenty to eat and drink. A small diversion which you deserve. You can tell me all about it this evening.”

“Suppose we pick you up at about four-fifteen,” Lester suggested to me. “If you’re thinking about what to wear, just anything at all. No sweat about this.”

We went in the Mercedes, Kathy in a sparkling shortish skirt with a spanking sailor blouse, a genuine middy with stars on the square collar. Lester wore rep pants that were skin tight over his narrow buttocks, and a Lacoste shirt. Peter was in levis and a Guatemalan shirt. I myself had donned a new jumpsuit that Kathy noticed at once: she said, “My dear, you’re a knockout!”

“My sister’s handiwork. She ran it up on her trusty Singer. An Yves St. Laurent copy.”

“I adore it. I
adore
it!”

The
Snow Goose
, riding at anchor and stirring gently in lapping water, was a gorgeous craft, enormous and glittering white in the sun. We were greeted by its owner, Gordon Comstock, with a backslap and a kiss on both cheeks.

He was not a tall man and he knew it, so he stood as straight as he could, and he had decided, for the sake of glamor, to grow sideburns and wear his hair as long as a hippie. He was in his early or mid-sixties, and with that unruly shock of white hair, resembled Hemingway. I’m sure he traded on this likeness; he had adopted the Hemingway shark smile and the great white hunter stance. He was a vain man, about himself and about his possessions, and not long after our introduction took it upon himself to brief me on his boat.

His wife was one of those slimmed-down, middle-aged women who have let their faces go in favor of their silhouettes. She wore a size six or seven, and had nice, slim legs, though shortish, but her face was as wrinkled as a prune. Her hair was done just so, all spray and shape, and you knew that, between sets, it never saw a comb or brush. She had that gravelly, drawling speech that you hear on the upper East Side of Manhattan, and the affected pronunciation to go with it — tom
ah
to, cahviar.

Money and no polish, but who cared? Everthing was gala, including the guests. A lot of glossy girls, tossing their shining hair, eyes glittering behind false lashes, and the kind of clothes models wear while modeling. The young men (everyone was young except for our hosts) looked like Mr. Americas, and as if they showered several times a day.

You met these people at gallery openings, or first nights at the Met, or slumming in Soho, or jamming in Maxwell’s Plum. They were not fascinating, but they were pretty, like the
Snow Goose
.

The
Snow Goose
was truly magical; splendid and majestic, and there was a touch that was enchanting. About fifty little flags, colorful and brilliant, were run up on the halyards; he called them cocktail flags. “Kind of a tradition,” he said They fluttered in the breeze and looked like confetti.

“They’re lovely,” I said, and he replied, “Yeah, well we do that; yeah, they do look nice, I guess.”

I asked him what kind of boat it was.

He launched into an enthusiastic explanation. “This is a Palmer-Johnson Swan 43. That means it’s forty-three feet long It’s a sloop Got that?”

“A sloop.”

“It’s made of fiberglass, and the sails are dacron. Now, as you can see, there are two spinakers. That’s for sailing downwind. Got it?”

“I’ve got it.”

“And there, see? Those are the jibs This boat has three.”

He poked me in the arm. “See the emblem on that spinaker?”

I had noticed it. Clear at the top of one spinaker was a beautiful abstract of a snow goose, sparkling white against its background of pale blue, riding high, like a proud proclamation.

“It’s gorgeous.” I said politely.

He preened. “Comes with the territory,” he whispered, and poked me in the arm again. “I’m not a penniless man, little girl.”

“I imagine not,” I told him; his eyes sharpened, and he got a predatory look, reminding me of a barracuda. I wondered how many of these glossy girls he had had a go at, and as I didn’t plan to be one of them, changed the subject hastily and said I guessed I was ready for another drink.

That didn’t get rid of him, however. “Daddy will take care of this little girl,” he said and, slinging an arm around my shoulders, led me to the buffet table on the foredeck, where he asked me what my poison was.

I said Canadian Club; he splashed liquor into a glass, dropped in some ice cubes and handed it to me with a flourish. Then he urged caviar and hors d’oeuvres on me. There were also prosciutto and melon, good cheeses, turkey, salmon, and what not.

Everyone was chattering and laughing and trying to outdo each other with witticisms. It was like a Warner Brothers spectacular, an over-budgeted opus. The stars were Mrs. and Mrs. Comstock and the rest of us were extras. We were background, like the cocktail flags.

Mr. Comstock, who had vanished suddenly, was at my side again. “You’ll want to see below. Come on, I’ll give you the grand tour.”

I followed him. We went down the narrow flight to the main salon underneath, where there was another buffet and more people looking just like those on the upper deck. There were seating arrangements ranged around the wall, covered in apricot-hued naugahyde, and at the portholes were apricot-colored drapes on traverse rods.

“How many people does this boat sleep?” I asked Mr. Comstock, still polite.

“Six … eight … twelve, if you want. All very compact. These wall seats open up into berths, too, you understand. On a boat you don’t waste space. Everything’s built in.”

I caught Peter’s eye and he grinned, shrugging.

“The powder room?” I asked, and Mr. Comstock poked me in the ribs, then looked into my eyes, chuckling. “The little girl wants the little girls’ room? Come on, honey, Daddy will show you.”

He opened the door of a john for me and put his face close to mine. “Tell me, honey, how do you do it in that kind of one-piece thing?”

“You take it off,” I said. “You take it all off.”

“Sure you don’t need any help?”

“I think I can manage, but many thanks.”

He let me go reluctantly, and once inside I locked the door.

There was a skylight in the ceiling that made everything inside the room look gilded and mellow. In fact, there was some real gold: the faucets were gold, ornately designed with big-busted mermaids, and the Sherle Wagner trough, all water lilies and gilt, made me want to wash my hair in it. The toilet seat was in matching water lilies and gilt fronds, and the tiling was in the same vein.

I could hear the steady drone of voices from afar, and high-pitched laughter, and then suddenly I heard voices quite close, as far, I would say, as outside the other john. I stopped dallying, not wanting to keep anyone waiting, and slithered back into my jumpsuit; then I recognized the voices.

There were two of them; one was Kathy Lestrange’s, the other, Mrs. Comstock’s pretentious Manhattanese. Mrs. Comstock was saying, “Who’s that girl you brought?”

“Some person Auntie took a fancy to.”

Mrs. Comstock said, “That’s peculiar.”

“My dear, you don’t
know
,” Kathy said. “She’s beginning to get on my nerves. It wasn’t
my
idea to cart her along. Caroline arranged
that
. Really, that woman is in her dotage. It’s too irksome, the things she does. Something will have to be done one of these days. Lester and I — ”

Then the voices faded away and soon there was just the overall hubbub in the distance. Everything had gone very quiet and I was almost shaking: I hesitated before opening the door, for fear of finding them both — or one of them — out there; I didn’t see how I could handle that. I was too unnerved for a confrontation.

I finally unlocked the door, threw it open bravely, and found the corridor empty.

I stood there for a moment longer to compose myself, then, putting a bright smile on my face, walked past the luxurious sleeping quarters and back to the main salon. I saw Kathy right away: she was talking to a decorative looking Rock-Hudson type, and she must have felt my eyes on her, because she looked over, smiled jubilantly, and said, “Look what
I
found in my Christmas stocking.”

Great, I mouthed back, and decided I wanted some air rather quickly, so I climbed back up to the poop, where Mr. Comstock was leaning against the rail, deep in conversation with Lester.

It looked like business talk, and I was relieved not to have pretend-flirt with him. Then Peter found me threading my way through an animated group and claimed me.

“Where’ve you been all my young life?” he demanded. “Your hands aren’t holding anything. What do you want to drink and eat?”

“A drink only, please. Canadian Club with a few rocks.”

“Water too?”

“Skip the water.”

With the fresh drink the impact lessened. So what, I told myself. What did it matter about the other Lestranges? I wasn’t there to woo them. I was there to live in the cottage and be Caroline’s friend whenever Caroline wanted my friendship. The hell with any of the others.

Except for Peter. And Tom.

But it stung. And when we drove back, at around eight, with the day coming to a purpling close, Kathy’s insincerity was repugant to me: I would rather have had her open hostility. Some honesty from her.

She was so
roguish
, telling me, archly, that
Mrs.
Comstock had better keep an eye on
Mr
. Comstock, since that gentleman had asked her for my telephone number.

“You
do
charm them, my dear,” she said, sighing, and then, giggling, “I didn’t do too badly myself. You saw me with Tucky Bollinger? Isn’t he sinfully attractive?”

“He looked like Rock Hudson,” I said.

“Yes, rather. Oh, and when you see Caroline, please tell her she was missed. She does so little these days. But then, of course, she’s older. And not what she once was. I really don’t know what’s to become of her.”

“What slush,” Peter said. “She’s smarter than the rest of us put together.”

“Yes, of course,” Kathy said quickly. “It’s just that she does seem to be slipping of late. Well, here we are. Would you care to come in for a drink, you two?”

Peter was all for accepting, but I declined. “I think I’ll just run up and say hello to Caroline,” I said. “Thanks anyway, and thanks for a pleasant time.”

“We enjoyed having you,” Kathy answered, and smiled charmingly, while Lester echoed the sentiment, and we all got out and went our separate ways.

Caroline wanted to know all about it. “They’re not the best, are they?”

“Just people with a lot of money.”

“Too much, and too quickly. Well, no matter, did you enjoy it?”

“Yes, some.”

And I had. If it hadn’t been for overhearing the exchange between Kathy and Mrs. Comstock, it would have been an amusing afternoon.

All that really remained, though, were the nasty words to which I had been privy. Why was Kathy so hateful in regard to me? What did they
want
from me? What did any of them care that their old aunt had taken a fancy to me. What did it matter to them?

I wouldn’t treat any of them this way, I thought unhappily. I had my own life to live. They should live theirs, and leave me out of it.

Oh, I wish Eric were here, I thought. I felt lonely, and angry.

Kathy wanted me to leave.

Also Emily.

And Toussaint

I felt quite defenseless. There was a shadow now over my pleasure in the East-Hampton cottage, and I felt a sense of loss, as if I had been violated for no understandable reason.

Another fact that hit home with increasing cogency was Caroline’s growing dependency on me and, as a result of it, her changed attitude toward Anthony Cavendish.

With Emily she was a little more acerbic as well; she began asking me to do things for her that Emily had been used to doing. Now she was asking me to make martinis, too, which had been Tony’s job, asking me to give directions to Claire, telling me to see that John had the car ready for her …

I knew that Emily felt the difference keenly, and that her hostility toward me had increased because of it. However, there was little I felt I could do to ameliorate the situation. Intervening on Emily’s behalf might only serve to worsen the situation, and I had no doubt that I wouldn’t be thanked for it.

It was for Anthony that I felt badly. I’m not even sure, to this day, that he noticed Caroline’s growing impatience with him at first. It started, to tell the truth, slowly, almost imperceptibly, and I didn’t see it at once, either.

She had snapped at him several times on past week-ends, but then she was eccentric, and I always had the feeling that her particular attraction for me might taper off in time, too. She had been so much like a child with a new toy.