Classic Love: 7 Vintage Romances (154 page)

The feeling of
déjà vu
swept over her again and now she acknowledged it for what it was. It wasn’t something that had happened before. It was very near to it, though. In fact, what was happening was something she had always dreamed of … that out of the crowd of strangers passing by, one intriguing stranger stopped and singled her out. Someone different. Someone just a little bit out of the ordinary.

Romantic?
Jean’s right
, she thought.
I’m full of childish dreams.
What was the matter with her that she kept on looking, wanting something that simply didn’t exist? She was Elsa, looking for a Siegfried.

“No, not an operation,” Mrs. Paley was saying.

“Whatever it was you don’t seem the worse for it.”

“Really?” This was short, dry.

“People coming out of the hospital generally look pale and listless. They look as if they’d lost something.” Dick’s smile came again; Dinah was watching him in profile. “I’m still thinking of terms of an operation, I guess. A removed gall bladder. Or an appendix.”

“I lost something
before
I went to the hospital,” Mrs. Paley said.

“Oh?”

“Everything,” she said. “I lost everything.”

There was a rather dreadful silence.
Oh, she shouldn’t have said that
, Dinah thought.
This nice young man … doing us a favor …

Unexpectedly Mrs. Paley laughed shortly. “Sufficiently puzzled?” she asked.

“Vastly,” Dick said.

“Good. You young people are always so sure of yourselves. Now try to figure my enigma out. It won’t hurt to stretch your brain a little.” There was a short, terse pause. Then, “Forgive me,” Mrs. Paley apologized in a small voice. “What am I saying? Pay no attention. Put it down to the ravings of a sick woman.”

“Mrs. Paley’s been through a trying time,” Dinah said quickly.

“No one can escape trying times,” Mrs. Paley murmured. “And that, folks, is that. Period and end of chapter.” She cleared her throat, obviously making an effort. “Did you order this lovely day for any special reason?”

“Of course,” he said easily. “I always order lovely days for people who just get out of the hospital.”

“Thoughtful of you.”

“Not at all.”

“It’s the next westbound street.”

“Right,” Dick said, and turned at the corner.

And then they were all standing out on the sidewalk, saying things like, “Thank you so much … it was a pleasure … no, no, it was immensely thoughtful of you …” It was only when they were inside the building that Dinah asked herself if he had said, “I hope to see you again,” or if she had only imagined he’d said something like that. It was over very quickly, the good-byes and the thank you’s, and she had been too proud to turn around, as they gained the lobby, to look back again, though she had the impression he was still standing there, just beyond the entrance. “It was good of your friend to help out,” Mrs. Paley said, and then you could see that she had dismissed the episode from her mind, because as they rode up in the elevator she was twisting her gloves and it was plain there was only one thought uppermost, that of returning to her lonely home.

“Oh well,” she said, as she put her keys in the door. “I haven’t been away very long at that. Scarcely time for my plants to need watering.”

RICHARD CLAIBORNE occupied a particular niche in the law firm of Martinus, Claiborne and Walsh; he was the only nepotistic member within its staid and dark-paneled walls. Frederick Martinus had two daughters but no sons. Emerson Walsh was a bachelor who had been a
bon vivant
in his day; whatever children he may have fathered went unacknowledged. There was a cluster of bright young men at Martinus, Claiborne and Walsh, garnered from the ripe campuses of Yale and Princeton and Harvard and the other Ivy League halls of learning. The fact that Richard was the son of one of the senior partners had never seemed to set him apart, though that was part Dick’s doing, for he was determined not to trade on the name of Claiborne.

Their equality was based on common background anyway, as Dick’s confreres had prepped together, gone to dancing classes together and later shared dates and girls together. It was the only world most of them knew, the only world some of them would ever know. Dick’s first serious love affair had been with Chris Newton’s cousin Francesca; through Francesca he had met Dodie Bannister, who was at the same time Francesca’s roommate at Radcliffe and Hardy Wheately’s sister. These two affairs had cooled and he had gone on to others: Ned Baxter had an Italian cousin, Bianca, who had visited one summer and whom Dick had taken up with mad enthusiasm. The Anglo-Italian romance had sputtered out like all the others, but via Bianca, Dick met Camilla, who was now his fiancée.

Was it a closed, tight little social circle? It was a closed tight little social circle, like a large, comfortable family really, and so Dick wasn’t in the least surprised when Daphne Wicker, Camilla’s
absolutely
best friend, rang him up on a Wednesday afternoon, wanting lunch. They taxied uptown to the Colony and had a pleasant, rather bibulous lunch, after which they parted with an agreement to do those deliciously plebian singles’ places on First Avenue later in the evening. They did Maxwell’s Plum, Friday’s, and Mr. Laff’s. Then they cooled it, because Richard was a little beat, what with the heat — it had also been a tough day at the office — and Dick took Daphne home. He kissed her good night when her lips were offered to him, thought nothing of it, and left her with a date for the following Friday all arranged.

“There’s this tiresome do at the Havellands’,” Daphne said. “We’ll show, just to be polite, and then do something really yummy.”

As it happened, though, Daphne called him the next day, saying that there was a co-op up for sale on Fifth which she was considering buying. “The apartment is owned by a friend of a friend. It’s a teeny-tiny, just a bitty place,” she told him over the phone. “But I’m twenty-two, Dickie, and it’s high time I got off on my own, and since there’s no one I want to marry really
desperately
, I might as well have my own things. At least I can have some interesting
affairs
, if that’s what it must come down to for the present.”

Dick said why not, and agreed to canvas the Fifth Avenue cooperative that evening after work. “I must have your
experienced
opinion,” Daphne insisted.

It was very nice digs, in the upper Seventies, and Dick said she was lucky to have found it; it wasn’t every day you came across a small apartment with reasonable maintenance fees. “Go to it, old girl,” he said, over the third drink Daphne brought him from the well-stocked bar of the co-op apartment.

“So you approve.”

“Definitely.”

“Is it a place you’d enjoy coming to?”

“Any day. It’s nice.” He leaned back.

“With my own things, of course. You
will
help me select, darling, won’t you?”

“Delighted.”

The drinks were rather stiff, Dick thought, mildly surprised. Of course it was hot weather … his day had been somewhat arduous … the air conditioner hummed, ever so softly, and the apartment was delightfully cool. Still … he definitely felt a bit woozy.
I’ve been working too hard
, he told himself. “How about dinner?” he asked, to rouse himself.

“Soon, darling. Just … it’s just you haven’t really
looked
at everything properly.” She pulled him up and led him through the rooms again. In the bedroom she pointed out, once more, the small terrace that ran the length of it.

“My own, sweet, private little patio,” she said, hugging herself. “This is a lovely, quiet room, isn’t it, pet?”

“Really nice,” he agreed, blinking. How many martinis? He was sure it had been only three.
I must
be getting old
, he thought.

Daphne stood in the middle of the room, her arms outspread. “Mine, all mine,” she said, slitting her amber eyes. “Shall I take it then, Dickie?”

“I think yes, you should,” he said earnestly, deciding that now this was settled they had better get some dinner fairly soon.

“And if I do …”

She came over to him. “You’d come here often, wouldn’t you, darling?”

“Sure. Give me some good eats and I’ll be a regular customer.”

She giggled. “The way that sounds! Oh, darling, the way that sounds … you know?” She ran a hand up her arm. “I sort of like the way that sounds. As if I were …
you
know …”

“What?” he asked, longing for a good steak. “As if you were what?”

“
Silly.
As if you didn’t know what I mean …”

He was totally unprepared. They were kissing suddenly. Why, hell, they were kissing. How had that happened? He savored the kiss, because after all he was young, and a man, and she was a girl, very pretty. Also, the martinis. It was when Daphne started gently pulling that he began to come to his senses. Because the direction in which she was pulling him was that of the bed. No mistake about that; in fact he had to steady himself, or she would have gotten him down on it.

“Hey,” he said, sobering more quickly than he would have thought possible.

“Darling silly darling …”

“Now listen, Daphne old girl …”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, be
nice
…” Her lovely eyes were lustrous. They were also shining with determination. “Here we are alone … sweetie, I assure you we won’t be disturbed …”

For one tired moment he was ready to capitulate. After all, why not … if they weren’t going to be disturbed. Then he knew why not. Not a sporting thing to do to Camilla, he told himself righteously, but in the next instant he knew it wasn’t that. A face had come into his mind, a face and some pale gold hair framing that face like a soft cloud.

That face …

Astonishment flooded through him, because it was a face he had seen for only a short while on an afternoon a whole week ago … and now he was holdiing Daphne Wicker and he had her lipstick smeared all over him and Daphne just wasn’t
there. That
face was there, and that lithe, long-legged figure in the white uniform. He felt as if, were he to close his eyes for a second, that girl (who wasn’t as stunning as Daphne, really) would be standing in front of him, with her arms slithering around his neck.

Love a duck
, he thought.
What’s this?

“Hey, let’s break,” he said, disentangling himself not without effort, because Daphne had a stranglehold on him. It took her a little time to understand that he didn’t want to play, but she did finally, and then she was angry at him … maybe angry at herself as well. “It’s just that it isn’t done,” Dick said, knowing it sounded square. “For God’s sake, Daph, I just got engaged, for God’s sake.”

“Does that mean you’re going into a monastery until she gets back?” Daphne demanded.

“Let’s eat,” he said, breathing hard. “What we need is something in our stomachs.”

“Are you brushing me off?” she demanded, sparks in her eyes. “Do you mean to stand there and tell me that — ”

“I’m hungry,” he said loudly. “What we need is — ”

“What
you
need is a bust in the jaw,” she said, and even saying that Daphne sounded very high-class. “You’re a worm, you know that?”

“You’re a beautiful girl,” he said quickly, in an attempt to assuage her. “Don’t stand there and tempt me. What about Cam?”

“Ho, if it’s only
that,
” she said, and undulated toward him again. But he put out a hand. He did more than that … he started for the door. Her angry eyes gleamed at him, two glistening jewels, as he slid through into the hall, dusting himself off as if her raven hair were still clinging to him, as if he were
guilty
, for God’s sake. But again, it wasn’t Camilla he was thinking of. It was a doll he had seen on a recent weekday afternoon, a girl he had forgotten and then remembered … for what reason, he couldn’t have said. All he was certain of was that he wanted to see her again, and was going to.

He’d call that woman tomorrow, the one she was taking care of. Whatever her name was. What was it? Dinah …? No, Dinah was the girl. Mrs… .? Mrs… .

It would come to him. He had the address, anyway. Mrs… .

Anyway, he had the address. The name would come to him. Mrs. Something. “You miserable fink,” Daphne growled, coming out of the bedroom. She was combing her hair as she walked toward him, her arms raised over her head.
Lord, she’s easy on the eyes
, Dick thought, but without titillation. He had just made a discovery. They were all so much alike, these girls from Miss Hewitt’s and Foxcroft. They all had the same voice and the same handwriting and the same groomed good looks.

And the same smell. He sniffed. Daphne was wearing Givenchy. It could have been Caron … Fleurs de Rocaille. Or Balenciaga. They all used the same scents.

“What’s the matter now?” Daphne asked peevishly, dropping her comb into her handbag. The handbag snapped shut with an angry sound. “You look ridiculous with your mouth hanging open that way.”

“I just thought of something,” he said, rattling some loose change in his pocket, a habit of his when he was completing a train of thought. It was the perfume, of course. Daphne’s well-bred scent, so popular with her and her kind, hitting him hard when they had been in that clinch. Yes, sure, it was the perfume, drifting up to him, which had reminded him of another perfume. One he wasn’t familiar with. Equally ladylike, but different somehow.
That
was what had made him think of that girl.

Dinah Mason
, he said triumphantly, but only in his mind. And the woman was Mrs… .

No matter. If he couldn’t manage to remember her name, at least he knew where she lived.
I have to ask that girl what kind of scent she uses
, he told himself …
and then we can take it from there.

“Thought of what?” Daphne asked petulantly.

“Of where we can go for dinner.”

“How thrilling,” she said witheringly, and preceded him to the door.

There was that split second of unreality, that swift, charged moment of nonrecognition as the sun pricked Dinah’s eyelids and woke her up.