Classic Love: 7 Vintage Romances (4 page)

“Okay. I’ve so enjoyed today.”

“Me too. Better hurry, it’s a few minutes to.”

They made it in time, and stood smiling as they joined the attentive throng in front of the Delacorte clock, where the beguiling bronze animals revolved slowly and with an endearing pomposity, beating their drums and wielding their batons. “Five o’clock and all’s well,” a smiling mother said to her toddler. “Wasn’t that fun, Jeffrey?”

“Well, back to the salt mines,” Ruth said briskly, and they left, arm in arm, and ambled back home. Ruth turned off at Sixty-sixth, her street. “Take it easy,” she called.

“You too. We’ll do something next week.”

“I’ll probably see you at the supermarket on Saturday.”

Three blocks farther the complex that was Christine’s own home grounds loomed, the Colonnade, so named because of some architectural features that were functional but gave the impression of decorative pillars if you stretched your imagination a bit.

It was an enclave, housing God knew how many souls within its confines, and a kind of superhuman effort must have been required to prevent the block-long, block-wide structure, in its elephantine proportions, from appearing to be either a hospital or a penal institution. Miraculously, whoever had mapped out this sprawling monstrosity had been in the main successful. There was much lush planting inside girdling stone walls that gave the clever impression of being built out of adobe brick, like that of an old Mission, and winding, woodsy little paths where you half expected to see an elf or two. There were imaginatively-shaped espaliered trees and dappled expanses of lawn dotted with lacy benches and chairs. It was rather like a Maxfield Parrish conception of paradise.

The Colonnade had been one of the first luxury houses to employ concierges. Just like in Paris, some residents commented with only marginal irony. Where you lived in this monolithic beehive determined which concierge was assigned to you and which elevator you used. Also which maintenance men got your money at Christmas. It was a fortress in the jungle of Manhattan: there were many such. It had gone co-op some years ago, though there were still, it was said, some nonsubsidized units. Famous people lived there and some infamous people. Money was the requisite, though controversial political figures and flamboyant film personalities had a tough time finding their way into the bastion. It was well patrolled and there had been relatively few burglaries and there was a marked absence of small children, though there were many pint-sized dogs with cranky barks who had been trained to wait until they were out on the sidewalk before emptying their bowels.

Carl Jennings had had the foresight to see the wave of the future, that cooperatives and condominiums would swallow the rental market, a shark wolfing down smaller fish. You didn’t have a prayer these days unless you had lots of money in the bank. If you had it you thanked God for it and tried not to think of less fortunate people. For the eight-room apartment Carl had bought in 1977, he had paid the sum of $190,000 which, at the time, had seemed a princely sum but which inflation had beggared, so that by this time the asking price would be something like three times that amount, and he never tired of reminding Christine of that fact.

He arrived home while Christine was putting the artichokes in the steamer. “What’s to eat, honey?” he asked her, accompanying the question with a pat on the rump.

“Linguine with clam sauce. Artichokes, and I made a flan for dessert.”

“Sounds tasty.” He kissed her. “How was your day?”

“I had lunch with the girls. You?”

“So so. Anything I can do?”

“No, sit down and read the paper or something. This will be ready in half an hour. Tell Nancy.”

No one had to tell Bruce; he was setting the table. He was increasingly thoughtful, maybe a little apprehensive too, wistful, clinging even, for he would be going away to college next year, and anyway he had always been her shadow. Nancy was Daddy’s girl, but Bruce and Christine had a dialogue that was very precious to her.

Next fall he would be vamos. Home for the holidays, but no longer under her aegis. His room would be empty.

God, I’ll miss him, she thought.

It was a good dinner, she was a good cook. Many years had accomplished this, and these days it was her only duty around the house. It irked her that Nancy was picking at her food. “Aren’t you hungry?” she asked her daughter.

“Not very.”

“I can imagine why. You had junk food after school. Why do I bother to cook?”

“Why don’t you hire a
chef de maison
, then you won’t have to slave over a hot stove.”

“There’s little enough for me to do as it is. At least I can make a meal for my family. Damn it, Nancy, why do you do that?”

“Eat junk food? Live dangerously, I always say. You should be grateful I don’t go in for angel dust.”

“You go in for angel dust, you look for other accommodations,” Christine said calmly.

“May I be excused?”

“No you may not. Sit there and move the food around on your plate. What did you do with your hair?”

“Got tired of it and threw it in the trash can,” Nancy answered sassily, and Carl laughed.

Christine smiled. “Look who’s picking me up on semantics, of all people. However you fixed it, it looks nice. I used to part my hair in the middle.”

“I remember that,” Carl said. “You looked like a Renaissance Madonna.”

“She’s not a bad-looking chick,” Bruce conceded. “Not that she’ll ever be any competition for you, Mother. She’ll go downhill fast, she’ll be blowsy in her thirties.”

Nancy threw a crouton at him. “What’s for dessert?” she asked.

“I made a flan.”

“Oh. So I’ll hang around.”

“I thought you would.”

We’re really a pretty nice bunch, Christine thought, sitting at her end of the table, the day dying, the prospect of a good documentary on television later on. Her daughter was blooming, getting to look more like Ali McGraw every day, and her son had those soft, velvety eyes. Facing her husband, she had to admit that he was a fine-looking man, though his hair was thinning at the back and it wouldn’t hurt him to lose some weight around the middle. Still, and all things considered, they weren’t such a bad lot.

The burst of sun that snaked in from the terrace cast a glow on the domestic scene. The classic American portrait, father, mother and offspring, along with a well-filled table. Like a Norman Rockwell. Why then should she feel this malaise, this nagging discontent? There were no monetary worries, far from it. Carl’s earnings as a doctor were gargantuan, neither of the kids was in reform school and it would soon be summer, when the living was easy.

She poured herself some more Beaujolais, forked up the last of her salad and molded her face into a smile. This was hers, this was what she had, it was all she would ever have and she wouldn’t have it always. She sat there, with that fixed smile, which encompassed them all. Her family, two of whom she had brought forth from her own body.

And now it was time to get up and clear the table, bring in the dessert, the pot of coffee, fresh napkins. Bruce would help her, though Nancy would remain seated, keeping her father company, the two of them grinning at each other and he asking about her day at school. She would do one of her imitations, having inherited this dubious talent from her mother. Some instructor or other, mimic his speech or his stance or his pedantry. Carl would smile anticipatively. After a while, from the kitchen, she would hear his deep-bodied laugh, while she and Bruce exchanged amused glances. “There they go again,” Bruce would say.

Immobility claimed Christine this evening, however, and the entr’acte between the meal and the dessert was unduly prolonged. She had eaten very little, after the hearty lunch earlier in the day, so it had been for her mostly the green salad. She was still dwelling on the lunch, and her friends, and thinking that the walk later on with Ruth had been sort of idyllic. Two old friends strolling the well-trodden paths of Central Park. The sky had been so blue, like the portals of heaven. How lovely, how lovely …

Her eyes were heavy — too many martinis. Three. Surely no more than that? She couldn’t quite remember. But three at the most, she never went past three.

She heard the sigh escaping. It came from her. “Well,” she said, to no one in particular. “Everyone finished?”

Everyone was, it seemed. But she didn’t get up, just sat there. There were no remarks, no one made a crack at the unwonted delay, not even Nancy asked were they going to stay there all night or what. They just sat there waiting, sort of arrested in motion, almost unmoving, with the sun hitting Carl full in the face, so that he had his head slightly lowered, as if in prayer, and his eyes half closed. She thought of the ossified bodies in Pompeii, lying in their glass showcases on their backs, just the way they had fallen when the terrible blow struck, their voices stilled forever by the awesome force that ended the course of their lives in the midst of whatever they had been doing at the time. Maybe cooking, maybe tending a child, maybe getting ready for a party, maybe screwing, maybe waiting for their dessert to be served, who would ever know now?

But it wasn’t that, after all, and it wasn’t a Norman Rockwell drawing, all folksy and heartwarming. It was Duane Hanson, of course, of
course
. They were Duane Hanson figures, cast in plaster and then clad in store-bought clothing, large as life and real as life, artfully posed in the most natural postures imaginable, a striking facsimile of honest to God people. There they were, right in her own dining room, to add to the decor. Pretend companions, that’s what they were. She was playing house and force-feeding them, the way she used to do with her dolls.
Eat that up, you bad girl …

What did she know about them anyway, these days? Everything and nothing. What did they know about her? She was chief cook and bottle washer, the fixer. It was her fault, it must be her fault. She should have realized, years and years ago when there were two babies in the house and an attractive young man for a husband, that this present situation would arise, that she would be taking a back seat, that Carl would turn into a busy man in a busy world outside her own and that Bruce and Nancy would grow up, assume other identities, become
people
. She should have known better, should have farmed the kids out to a woman for daily care, found a top job somewhere, lived a separate life the way Carl did and the way the children were doing. She should have
been
somebody.

“I’ll get the dessert,” she said, pushing back her chair, and went into the kitchen, with her son, carrying plates, close on her heels.

It was always a delight to get one of those pale blue, tissue-thin airmail communications; you immediately placed yourself in the city it came from, in this case London. There it was, wedged in with the nuisance mail, the flyers and department store circulars and the utility bills. It was from Peggy Thornley, and it started the day off just right.

Peggy Thornley was a woman Christine and Carl had met on one of their trips abroad; she was now a valued acquaintance. They saw each other infrequently, but had a sporadic correspondence and Peggy’s letters were always a cut above those annual Christmas card things in which you scribbled some stale news and info about the weather in your parts. And this particular letter was pleasing because it offered some diversion for Christine.

It seemed that Peggy’s son, the older one, would be wending his way to the U.S. for what Peggy termed “a year of American seasoning, Henry James in reverse.” Ventures, and adventures, she asserted, were few and far between in these days of an empireless Britain. “For ‘this scepter’d isle’ substitute sequestered isle.” England was dying, she added elegiacally, and no one felt it more keenly than the young.

Then she got down to business. “You remember Rodney,” she penned, in her non-American handwriting, all round and firm and positive. “He had quite a crush on you when you visited us at our vacation place in Annecy. He’s twenty-one now, very tall and thin as a walking stick. Quite the grown man, or so he thinks, but in reality a silly young ass. But he’s quite well behaved, I’ve seen to that.”

He would have to find a flat, Peggy explained, and went on to ask if it would be too much of an imposition for Christine to assist him in this undertaking. And could she possibly book him a room until he was settled?

It was like a present, like a gift. Christine was elated. Something to
do
. And of course he would stay with them until he found a place to live during his “year of American seasoning.” She would unearth some cute little nest for Rodney, help him furnish it, make it a small showplace. She remembered the Thornley boys as charming, with beautiful manners. And yes, Rodney had had a bit of a crush on her. Carl had remarked on it. “That boy has eyes for you, Chris.”

She and Carl had visited Peggy and Tony Thornley in Annecy, France, a lovely little canal city where for that particular summer the Thornleys had rented a villa. It was the first time they had encountered the Thornley children, Rodney and Douglas. They had been teenagers, but British teeners, with the polished manners of British children.

The younger boy, shy and — well, something like Bruce, soft and brown-eyed — had been very much in his brother’s shadow, as Rodney — hazel of eye and sun-streaked of hair — was like a young prince, almost arrogant, and wonderful to look at. “A bit of a showoff,” Carl had said. “But a fine kid all the same.”

And Carl was right, Rodney hadn’t been able to take his eyes off her, those large and brilliant gray eyes with secrets behind them, secrets of growing up, of being between boyhood and manhood, God knew what he was thinking when he looked at her like that.

She wondered what he was like now, at twenty-one. Worriedly, she realized it wouldn’t be the easiest thing in the world to find a low-rent apartment in a safe neighborhood. She would have to begin combing the real estate ads right away. But it was a delightful assignment, something to look forward to.

She dashed off an answering letter. She would meet Rodney’s flight, of course, and they had a spare room for him for as long as he needed it. “It will be such a pleasure,” she effused. “Such an unexpected pleasure and Carl, as you may-imagine, will feel the same way, as will Bruce and Nancy.”

She sealed the envelope and, dressing, went out and mailed it, then bused down to Bloomingdale’s to see what goodies she could spot for the apartment-to-be of Peggy’s son. Modern, certainly. In all the British films she saw there was a heavy emphasis on what was called industrial modern, with a lot of Beylerian imports and chrome-framed posters. Knock-down furniture — it came cheap and was suited to a short-term “adventure.” Too bad Nancy was only fifteen, otherwise she’d have a hand-picked date. But at twenty-one, Rodney would probably consider her beneath his notice. It was she herself who, in the end, would benefit most from Rodney’s sojourn in this country. It would be an adventure for her too, and the sofa in the study was a daybed, so that he would have all the comforts of home until she got him settled.

• • •

They met on the lower level at Kennedy, he with an enormous suitcase plus a rucksack across his back. She had recognized him from the gallery, after dismissing one or two other young men who somehow didn’t look British, though she was a bit tentative in her greeting, not absolutely sure. “Rodney?” she hazarded, walking up to him.

“Mrs. Jennings?” Then he laughed. “I don’t know why the question mark in my voice, because I knew you right away. Well, here’s the nuisance arrived at your doorstep. I must say you put a good face on it, because that smile looks genuine.”

“It is, it is! Hello, Rodney dear. It’s
lovely
to see you …”

He sighed. “You
are
a brick.” Then he put his arms around her and hugged her. “So,” he said, when they let each other go. “How are you? I haven’t even asked.”

“I’m fine, Carl’s fine, everyone’s fine.”

“Good. I’ll be happy to see Mr. Jennings again too.”

“Why don’t you call us Carl and Christine? You’re going to be part of the family for a while and there’s no reason to be formal. You’re a big boy now. Come, we’ll find a porter and get your stuff in a cab. You must be tired after your trip. Was it a good flight?”

“Yes, splendid. It’s really okay if I stay at your house until I’m shored up in a flat? My mother said I was not to be a bother.”

“We wouldn’t hear of anything else. We have a study that’s scarcely ever used, with a very good sofa sleeper and you’ll have your privacy. A bath to yourself, though for showers you’ll have to share with Bruce. My son. Rodney, you’ve grown so tall!”

“Douglas is catching up to me.”

“How is Douglas?”

“A pain in the you know what, younger brothers always are. No, seriously, he’s okay. A bit full of himself, quite the
grand seigneur
.”

Again the laugh, the hand reaching up to toss back the shock of fair hair, the display of excellent white teeth. Christine hid a smile of her own. Saying his brother was full of himself! But she loved his youthful assurance. Why shouldn’t he be egotistic? Youth was the time for that.

“We’re going to have a marvelous time,” she assured him in the cab. “I’ve all sorts of things planned. Also I’ve started looking in the paper for apartments. So far nothing much, but we’ll find something just right. You won’t mind if I help you fix it up?”

“You’d do that?”

“You may regret it. Possibly I’ll get in your hair, be bossy, and … Rodney?”

“Yes, Mrs. — ” The smile flashed again. “I mean, yes, Christine?”

“Could you give me some idea of how much rent you had in mind?”

“No idea at all,” he said cheerfully. “I expect it will take me some time to think in dollars rather than pounds.”

“I see.” That wasn’t much help, she thought. It was true the Thornleys had all kinds of money, but still …

“So this is America,” he remarked, looking out the window.

“This is America,” she agreed. “I suppose you’re starved. I’ve made a festive dinner for you. It’s cooking away in the range right now, a standing roast. Will you like that?”

He put two of his fingers to his mouth and kissed them. “La la,” he murmured, then put a hand over hers. Just for a second, but it felt so warming, it made her feel right at home. Though why she should think that when it was she who lived here she had no idea. She supposed it was because Rodney had been, in a way, an X quantity, and it had turned out that he was everything she had hoped for. Nice, friendly, companionable. Not at all ill at ease. He would fit in very well with the rest of them.

“It’s a big place, this town,” he said a little later.

“We’re far from “this town,” she told him, smiling. “This is no-man’s land, just a lot of dumps and factories, but before long you’ll catch a glimpse of this wicked city.”

“It’s wicked?”

“Just another metropolis with good and bad. Like London or Paris or Rome and so forth. Honey, you’re to be cautious, though, you must learn the no-nos. For example, Central Park. Off limits after five at the latest. My kids will set you straight.”

“How old are your kids, Mrs. Jennings?” He caught himself up, his smile mischievous. “What did you say your name was?”

It was like that all the way into town. Bandying back and forth; he was a bit of a tease, this Rodney. She felt as if she had known him all her life. How’s that for triteness, she asked herself.

“Remember, in Annecy,” he said at one point, “when you couldn’t find a snapshot in a roll of film you’d just had developed? It was one of you, standing in front of the Casino. We were all passing the snaps around and then that one was missing. I filched it. You never could figure out where it disappeared to. I still have it.”

“Rodney Thornley, you imp! I’m not sure I recall that — well, perhaps vaguely. Anyway, I’m flattered.”

“I was a prurient little bastard, I expect. Well, then, I thought that would get a rise out of you, Christine.”

“You sound like a native,” she objected. “Get a rise out of me indeed. You’re supposed to teach my kids the proper way to speak. I’ve sort of been depending on it.”

“I shall try,” he said solemnly. “Then you can tell my Mum what a lovely boy I am.”

“You are a lovely boy,” she said warmly. “Rodney, how is your mother?”

“Very well, thank you. Garden Club, lawn parties, lending a helping hand where a helping hand is needed. You know, small philanthropic enterprises.” He slid down in his seat and chuckled. “Quite the English gentlewoman.”

“While I vegetate and don’t engage myself in a single worthy cause. No, don’t shake your head, I mean it.”

“A worthy cause is sitting beside you at this moment,” he reminded her. “That is if you really mean it about giving me aid and assistance in my haphazard peregrinations.”

“You seem so much older than American kids your age,” she told him, wishing her own offspring had his verbal gifts. “Older and — well, different. A kind of different I very much like. And the way you take things in stride …”

“Yes, well,” he said slowly, “we English are very good at maintaining a facade. The sky could fall and we’d still have tea at four of an afternoon. Don’t — uh — let it fool you. At the moment — ”

He cleared his throat. “I wonder if you’ll believe this. I’m scared. It’s true. I want new experiences, but when they come my way I go all bonkers. Right now I feel about twelve years old, and that’s one reason I came, to get out of the bell jar. As you said, I’m a big boy now.”

“Oh, Rodney,” she said, concerned. “Don’t be scared, don’t go bonkers. Don’t be homesick! I know, we’re just people you met a long time ago. Not so long for us, but practically eons for you. Relax, darling. You’re with friends. Take your time, take it slowly. Remember, you’re with people who love you. I mean that, Rodney. Carl and I have never forgotten you, or those lovely few days we spent in the Haute Savoie with you boys and your parents. It’s a precious memory.”

“I never forgot you either,” he said, and straightened up in his seat, his face composed again.