Searching for Grace Kelly (12 page)

“What do you mean?”

She searched the girl's face. Blank. “I mean, one minute you're talking to Agnes Ford at the front desk, the next you take off, just vanish on some trip to see an aunt with no warning? It's not like you.”

“We've known each other, what,
a week
, Laura?” Dolly said. “You have no idea what's like me.”

The iciness in her voice left Laura blindsided. She dropped her hand. “Of course. You're right.”

Dolly sank down on the bed, kicked off her shoes. She stared at the floor as she spoke. “Sorry. That was mean. I just . . . I don't want to talk about it, okay?”

Laura's instinct was to push, but she thought better of it.
She'll tell me when she's ready
. “Okay.”

Dolly returned a wan smile. And then, there they were—sitting right on the desk. Agnes Ford's white gardenias, a bit droopy from three days of heat but holding their own in a full vase of water. “Oh, yes,” Laura said. “I'm sorry about those. I tried my best to keep them going, but gardening has never been my strong suit. You can ask my mother. I was absolutely hopeless at the Greenwich garden club. But Metzger told me Agnes had given these to you, and they seemed too pretty to throw away, so I kept them for you.”

Dolly nodded slowly, unblinking. “Yes. That was very thoughtful.”

“Hey . . . you want to come with me? I'm going back to your favorite place, the bookstore in the Village, to see Connie. Please come. Afterward I'll take you to the San Remo and we can people-watch. It's like the Stork with angry intellectuals.”

“No, no, you go. I'm tired. I think I'm actually going to take a little nap.” She pushed back two more of Laura's halfhearted but well-meaning entreaties. Ten minutes later, Laura walked out the door, headed for the Village.

Dolly lay back on the bed and closed her eyes, waiting for sleep to overtake her. When she got up, she would get a paper sack and put the gardenias in it, walk down the hall, and send them plummeting down the trash chute.

 

“Well, well, look who's back!”

Connie lowered his glasses from behind the small counter. He looked genuinely happy to see her, which pleased her. She loved the idea of being a regular at a little bookshop in the Village.

“I've brought another recruit,” Laura said, holding the door open. “Hopefully this one won't abandon us for the siren's call of shopping.”

In the lobby she'd bumped into Vivian, who, professing both boredom and hunger, had volunteered to accompany her to the bookstore if there was a promise of lunch at an outdoor café afterward. After brief introductions Vivian went off to explore the books, though Laura strongly suspected it had been years since Vivian had actually read one. Connie kept peering over at her like a smitten schoolboy. “Your friend,” he said, “she's rather . . . different. Showgirl?”

“Even when there's no audience,” Laura said.

Connie smiled. “How was your first week at
Mademoiselle
?”

“Good. At least I think good. Not quite as literary as I had hoped. Too many handbags, not enough E. B. White. But there's three weeks left. I still have time to plan a takeover of the editorial department.”

Connie excused himself to help two older women who'd come in. Laura wound her way through the narrow aisles and found Vivian in Popular Fiction, flipping through a used copy of
Rebecca
. “Ohhh,” Laura said, looking over her shoulder. “I adored that book.”

“You American girls and your romance novels. It singularly explains the existence of Johnnie Ray. How to find pleasure in a book where the heroine is mistreated by her husband, pushed to the brink of suicide by the maid, and doesn't even warrant enough respect to be given a proper name? Ask an American.”

Laura swiped the book out of her hands. “I'll remind you this book was written by an Englishwoman.”

“Barmy.”

“I don't know what that means, and I don't care. You're missing the point, as usual. She's nameless because she's every woman who's ever dreamed of a better life and been scared to imagine it. And Maxim . . . Maxim is scared, too, in his own way. He's haunted by the fact that he killed his first wife. And he knows that his new Mrs. de Winter may be his only real chance at happiness.”

Vivian let out a gaping yawn.

“Another late night with the Italian?”

“You have no idea.”

“Did his mother make you breakfast on this go-round? Or did you just stay locked in his room again and let your hair down out the window?”

Vivian grabbed the book back and hit her in the arm with it.

“Ow! That hurt!”

“Good. I'll have you know that we stayed in a lovely suite at the Plaza. Very expensive, very romantic.” Vivian had a brief flashback of watching Nicky on the phone, threatening to put someone in a cemetery. She was growing increasingly wary of his temper. And, if she was being honest, becoming somewhat addicted to what came after it. The lovemaking in the bath had also been epic.

Laura snatched the book back. “I'm buying this.”

“Oh, goody. Perhaps you can start a book club with the Women.”

Laura attempted to take a turn swatting with the book, but Vivian artfully dodged it as they wound their way back to the counter. Connie was nowhere in sight, but the bell tinkled again as the front door swung open.

Pete the San Remo bartender grinned as he walked in. “I should have known,” he said, laughing. He was carrying a stack of books under his arm. “The Barbizon girl returns.”

Laura felt her face flushing again—she was going to have to work on this—an embarrassment only compounded by regret. Why couldn't she have been wearing a dress? Instead here she stood, inside a dusty bookshop, in a sleeveless blouse, rolled-up blue jeans, and penny loafers. If Marmy saw her, she'd disown her. Or possibly shoot her.

Laura made polite introductions between Pete and Vivian but found herself distracted. She hadn't recalled him looking quite this dashing behind the bar. Or perhaps environment was everything. Standing here, one elbow casually resting on the counter, eyes dancing as Vivian fired off pithy comments about everything from the weather to the end of the Third Avenue elevated, he appeared handsomer somehow, the big nose and the cowlick and the prominent Adam's apple coming together, dovetailing into a more cohesive package. There was something about him, she had to admit. Something she didn't
want
to admit. Didn't she have a date with Manhattan's most eligible bachelor this very night, at the city's most sparkly nightspot?

Focus!

“And what brings you two here today?” he was asking her.

“Oh, you know, um, reading material.”
Pathetic
,
Laura
.

He looked down at her hand, cocked his head. “Du Maurier. Hmm. I have to admit, I found it hard to find a sympathetic character in that book.”

“Vindicated!” Vivian exclaimed.

Laura ignored her. “And you?”

He plopped his stack of books on the counter. “Connie's lending library. Perfect for the underemployed bartender. He lets me borrow books; I treat to the occasional beer on the house. Everybody wins.”

Laura cocked an eyebrow. “Weren't you the guy who told me he had no time to read?”

Pete laughed. “Busted. In my experience, girls like guys who sound busy.”

“Your day off?” Vivian interjected.

“No, I go in later. I'm off next Saturday, though, which is rare. So I want to make sure I do something with it. Thinking about going to the beach.”

Vivian slid an arm around Laura. “What providence! Laura was just saying on the ride down here that she hasn't been to the beach yet this year and has been dying to go.”

Laura could have murdered her. Taken a pair of hose and wrapped them around her English neck. “Wait, I didn't really say—”

“Well, hey, I'd love the company, if you're free. And I pack a heck of a lunch. In expertly constructed brown paper bags.” He stared into her eyes more directly than she was prepared for. “So, whaddya say? You girls want to join me next Saturday?”

It was all over before Laura knew what had even happened. Vivian dove in like an aerial bomber, inventing an excuse for herself and brazenly accepting for Laura, as if she had been given her proxy. Pete would pick her up in front of the Barbizon at ten that morning. He'd try to get his buddy's car, but they might have to take the bus. Was that okay? Laura had found herself so flummoxed that she and Vivian were out the door and halfway down the block before she realized she hadn't even bothered to ask which beach they were going to. She'd left Connie the money for the book on the counter.

Laura stopped mid-stride, grabbed Vivian by the arm. “What was that?”

“That,” Vivian said, “was me being a good friend.”

“I have a date tonight with Box!”

“And now you have a date next week with Pete. Oh, really, Laura. What the devil is the matter with you? Don't be all Ethel about it.”

“What does that even mean?”

“It means you could be like those sad girls at the Barbizon who spend their nights dreaming about your choices. Or you could be the girl, as you now are, who has two dates with two very attractive men on two different days, the second thanks to
moi
. I would count this as an unqualified success for someone who has been here for a little over a week. You're working at a fancy magazine in New York City. Perhaps you should start acting the part.”

“I don't want to start ‘acting' anything.”

Vivian flung an arm around her, started propelling them down the sidewalk. “All right, then. Sorry if I acted a bit dodgy in there. I just felt you needed a little push, that's all. I
saw
the way you looked at him. I thought I was doing you a favor.”

Laura sighed wearily. “I . . . I've never been good at juggling boys.”

“Who said anything about juggling? Look, go with Box tonight, and if it turns out it's the night of your life and you're ready to start ordering note cards with ‘Mrs. Box Barnes' stenciled on them, you simply call Pete and make an excuse and get out of the beach. And if things with Box go just all right or worse, then you've got a little extra deposit in the bank and you can keep the date. No one's proposing marriage here, my pet. A bit early to put all the chips in the fryer just yet. Why don't you just wait and see. Remember: There's a reason the fairy godmother gave Cinderella two glass slippers.”

Laura chuckled. She'd never get tired of hearing Vivian talk. “There were, I don't know, ten metaphors in that last statement. I don't know whether you're brilliant or insane.”

“A little bit of both, darling. A little of both.”

Pacing the rear of the Barbizon mezzanine, Laura felt sick. She clutched once again at her pearls, which had belonged to Vivian's grandmother. “A woman going out to El Morocco must wear either diamonds or pearls,” Vivian had insisted, and personally hooked the strand around Laura's throat. Laura had worried that pearls were a bit much in warm weather; Marmy would have been aghast. How much time this week had she wasted thinking how aghast Marmy would be at something she was doing or not doing? But the gesture was too sweet, too un-Vivian, to refuse. Besides, she had already ditched the opera gloves. Too much costume for a date that already had more than enough theatricality.

Vivian had already left for her shift at the Stork, delivering some ridiculous goodbye (“Cracking, darling! Best of British!”) before scurrying out, but Dolly was now a floor below her in the lobby, awaiting Box Barnes. Laura had begged off the whole Shakespearean “waiting on the balcony” scene, but Dolly had insisted, convincing her that if she waited in the actual lobby in her ball gown, she'd only attract
more
attention from the girls drifting in and out, and if she waited in their stuffy room, she'd wilt like a week-old violet. Laura suspected this was really all about Dolly wanting an excuse to talk with Box in front of the others. If it took that to get her out of her recent funk, so be it.

Laura looked at the clock. Nine. She sank onto a settee, willed herself to stop fidgeting.
I need to think about something else
.

Pete.

She hadn't wanted to acknowledge that her mind had drifted to Pete more than once since she and Vivian had returned from the Village. Even as she'd brushed and pinned her hair into soft waves and shimmied into the most beautiful dress she'd possibly ever wear, he had crisscrossed her thoughts. Was it wrong to be preparing to go out on a fancy date with one guy while you were pondering a date with another?

Such was life inside the Barbizon, she'd learned. In short order she'd discovered the hotel was more of a play than a residence, populated by three distinct casts of characters. There were the glamour girls like Agnes Ford who dashed out every night, the echo of their heels reverberating on marble as they disappeared with square-jawed men into idling pastel sedans. Then there were the supporting players, the girls from Iowa and Maine and Louisiana who had won their local chamber of commerce's modeling search or beauty contest and, brimming with bravado and squaring their shoulders, had arrived on the doorstep of the hotel to find fame, fortune, and a rich husband, not necessarily in that order. The Katie Gibbs girls like Dolly were also part of this group, the ones whose nights out meant movies with their girlfriends and eyelash-fluttering at strangers in the coffee shop afterward, or not-so-cozy nights in the television room, their faces blank in the ashy reflection of the tube. And finally there were the Women, skulking about the halls, their faces hardened a little more each day, like individual pictures of Dorian Gray. During the day they ventured out to their jobs as bookkeepers and librarians and English literature teachers; at night they returned to rooms that had become cells.