The Bungalow (4 page)

“It’s perfectly beautiful,” I said, pinning the piece to my dress.

She grinned. “I hope it will be a symbol of our friendship, a reminder to us both that we’ll never keep secrets from one another, that we’ll not let time or circumstances change things between us.”

I nodded in agreement. “I’ll wear it always.”

She grinned. “Me too.”

We sipped our sodas and scanned the bustling club, where friends, schoolmates, and acquaintances reveled in what could be the very last Saturday night before whatever waited in the wings scooped them up. War. Marriage. The unknown. I swallowed hard.

“Look at Ethel with David Barton,” Kitty whispered in my ear. She pointed to the two of them huddled together at the bar. “His hands are all over her,” she said, staring a little too long.

“She ought to be ashamed of herself,” I said, shaking my head. “She’s engaged to Henry. Isn’t he away at school?”

Kitty nodded. But instead of mirroring my disapproving gaze, her face told a different story. “Don’t you wish someone could love you
that
much?” she said wistfully.

I scrunched my nose. “That, my dear, is not love.”

“Sure it is,” she said, planting her cheek in her hand. We watched the couple saunter hand in hand out to the dance floor. “David’s crazy about her.”

“Crazy, sure,” I said. “But not
in love
with her.”

Kitty shrugged. “Well, they have passion.”

I retrieved the pressed powder from my purse and dabbed my nose. Gerard would be there soon. “Passion is for fools,” I said, snapping the compact closed.

“Maybe,” she replied. “But just the same, I’ll take my chances with it.”

“Kitty!”

“What?”

“Don’t talk like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like a
loose
woman.”

Kitty giggled, just as Gerard arrived at our table with his friend Max, a colleague from the bank—short, with curly hair, a plain, honest face, and eyes for Kitty.

“Do share your joke, Kitty,” Gerard said, grinning. I loved his smile, so charming, so confident. He towered over the table in his gray suit, adjusting a loose cufflink. Max stood at attention, panting like a German shepherd, eyes fixed on Kitty.

“You tell him, Anne,” Kitty said, daring me with her smirk.

I cleared my throat, smiling deviously. “Yes, Kitty was just saying that, well, that she and Max made a better dance duo than the two of us, Gerard.” I shot Kitty a victorious look. “Can you believe that?”

Gerard grinned, and Max’s eyes lit up. “Now, we can’t have her carrying on like that, can we, dear?” He looked toward the dance floor and held out his hand. “Shall we?”

The band began playing, and Max fumbled to his feet, grinning from ear to ear. Kitty rolled her eyes at me as she took Max’s outstretched hand.

Gerard clasped his arms around my waist, smoothly, elegantly. I loved his firm grasp, his confidence.

“Gerard?” I whispered in his ear.

“What is it, sweetheart?” He was an excellent dancer—precise in the same way he was about finances, never missing a penny in his budgeting.

“Do you feel . . . ?” I paused to consider what, exactly, I was asking him. “Do you feel
passionate
about me?”

“Passionate?” he said, stifling a laugh. “You funny thing, you. Of course I do.” He squeezed me a little tighter.

“Really passionate?” I continued, dissatisfied with his answer.

He stopped and lovingly pulled my hands toward his chin. “You’re not doubting my love for you, are you? Anne, you must know by now that I love you more than anything, more than anything on earth.”

I nodded, and closed my eyes. Moments later, the song stopped and another began, this one slower. I nestled closer to Gerard, so close I could feel the beat of his heart, and I was sure he could feel mine. We swayed to the clarinet’s haunting melody, and with each step, I assured myself that we had
it
. Of course we did. Gerard was head over heels for me, and I for him. What nonsense these feelings of uncertainty were. I blamed Kitty for planting them.
Kitty.
I glanced over at her dancing unhappily with Max, when, out of nowhere, Mr. Gelfman appeared on the dance floor. He walked straight toward her, said something to Max, and took her into his arms as Max, crestfallen, scurried away.

“What is Kitty doing with
James Gelfman
?” Gerard asked, frowning.

“I don’t like it,” I said, watching as Mr. Gelfman twirled her around the room like a doll. His hands were too low on her waist, his grasp too tight. I thought of Kathleen, poor Kathleen, and winced.

“Let’s go,” I said to Gerard.

“So soon?” he said. “But we haven’t even had dinner yet.”

“Maxine left some sandwiches in the icebox,” I replied. “I don’t feel like dancing anymore.”

“Is it Kitty?” he asked.

I nodded. I knew there was no stopping Kitty now. She had made that much clear. But I’d be damned if I was going to watch my best friend give away her heart, her dignity, to a man who wasn’t worthy of her—a
married
man who wasn’t worthy of her. But there was more to the story, something my mind wouldn’t acknowledge just then, though my heart already knew: I envied Kitty. I wanted to
feel
what she was feeling. And I feared I never would.

The doorman handed me my blue velvet coat, and I tucked my hand into the crook of Gerard’s arm. Warm. Safe. Protected. I told myself I was very lucky.

On the drive home, Gerard wanted to talk about real estate. Would we buy an apartment in the city or something in Windermere, the opulent neighborhood of our youth, near our parents? The apartment would be closer to the bank. And how gay it would be to live on Fifth Avenue, he crooned. But the Buskirks would be selling their home this fall, the big Tudor with the four dormers in front. We could buy it and renovate; build a new wing for the help and a nursery for the baby. For the
baby
.

Gerard droned on and suddenly the air in the car felt warm. Too warm. The road blurred in front of me and the street lights multiplied. What was wrong with me?
Why can’t I breathe?
Dizzy, I clenched the door handle to steady myself.

“Are you all right, darling?”

“I think I just need a little air,” I said, rolling the window down.

He patted my arm. “Sorry, honey, am I overwhelming you?”

“A little,” I replied. “It’s just that there are so many decisions to make. Can we take them one at a time?”

“Of course,” he said. “No more talk of homes for now.”

He turned the car in to Windermere, passing the stately, lit columns flanking the entrance. Within was a well-tended sanctuary, where gardeners spent hours manicuring lawns and grooming flowerbeds, not a petal askew, and governesses tended to children in a similar fashion. We passed Gerard’s parents’ home, the gray gable mansion on Gilmore Avenue, and the Larsons’ white colonial, with the clipped boxwood hedges and stone urns shipped from Italy.
What is wrong with me?
Here was a man who loved me, who wanted to give me a beautiful, comfortable life, a life I was accustomed to. I scolded myself.

Gerard parked the car in my parents’ driveway, and we walked into the house and straight to the darkened kitchen. “Maxine’s probably gone to bed,” I said, looking at the clock. Half past nine. Maxine always retired to her downstairs quarters at nine.

“Would you like a sandwich?” I offered.

“No, I’m fine,” Gerard said, consulting his watch, a Rolex—my gift to him on his twenty-fifth birthday.

We both looked up when we heard footsteps.

“Papa?” I said, peering around the corner, where I detected a female form coming down the stairs in the darkness.

“Mother?” I turned on the hallway light and realized I’d been mistaken.

“Your mother isn’t home yet,” Maxine said. “I was just stocking your bathroom with towels. Francesca wasn’t here today, and I wanted you to have some for the morning.”

“Oh, Maxine,” I said. “Look at you worrying about
my towels
at this late hour. I will not hear of it! Please, get some rest. You work far too hard.”

When she turned her head to look at the clock, I thought I detected a glint of moisture in her eyes.
Has she been crying or is it just the day’s exhaustion?

“I think I shall say good night,” she said, nodding. “Unless you need anything.”

“No,” I said. “No, we’re fine. Sweet dreams, Maxine.” I wrapped my arms around her neck the way I had done as a girl, taking in a breath of her vanilla cheeks.

After she’d left, Gerard kissed me, gently, quickly.
Why can’t he kiss me longer?
“It’s getting late,” he said. “I suppose I should be on my way too.”

“Do you have to go?” I said, pulling him toward me, eyeing the couch in the living room with other intentions.
Why must Gerard be so practical?

“We need our rest,” he said, shaking his head. “Tomorrow’s going to be a big day.”

“A big day?”

“The party,” he said, looking at me suspiciously. “Have you forgotten?”

Until that moment, I had. Gerard’s parents were hosting an engagement party for us at their home, on that enormous lawn, trimmed so perfectly that it resembled the ninth hole at Papa’s country club. There would be a band, croquet, ice sculptures, and platters of tiny sandwiches served by white-gloved waiters.

“Just put on a pretty dress and be there by two,” he said with a grin.

“I can do that,” I replied, leaning into the doorway.

“Good night, darling,” he said, walking out to the driveway.

I stood there watching as his car motored away, until the sound of the engine was swallowed up by the thick quiet of the August night.

“M
axine!”

I opened my eyes, blinking a few times, trying in my deep state of grogginess to place the voice—loud, shrill, a bit angry, but mostly annoyed, and definitely frustrated.

Mother.
She was home.

“I told you Anne would wear the blue dress today—why isn’t it pressed?” The voice was nearer now, right outside my bedroom door.

I pushed the quilt aside and sat up, reaching for my robe before setting my feet down reluctantly on the cool hardwood floors.
Poor Maxine.
She didn’t deserve to be shouted at. Again.

I opened the door. “Mother,” I said cautiously. I knew better than to contradict her fashion decisions. I walked slowly into the hallway. “I thought I’d wear the red one today. The one you bought in Paris.”

She smiled, a few paces away on the landing, yanking the drapes open with a vexed glance at Maxine. “Oh, good morning, dear,” she said, walking toward me. “I didn’t know you were up.” She reached out her arms and cradled my face in her hands. “You look tired, love. Were you out late last night? With Gerard?” She always said his name with a tone of excitement, the way one might gush about a chocolate cream pie. It had occurred to me at least once that Mother might like to marry Gerard Godfrey herself.

I shook my head. “No, it was an early night.”

She pointed to the puffiness under my eyes. “Then why the dark circles?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” I said.

Maxine approached timidly, with a dress on a hanger. “Antoinette,” she said. “Is this the one?”

I nodded.

“I wish you wouldn’t call her that, Maxine,” Mother snapped. “She’s not a girl anymore. She’s a woman, and about to be married. Please use her given name.”

Maxine nodded.

“Mother,” I squeaked, offering my hand to Maxine, “I
like
to be called Antoinette.”

Mother shrugged. A new pair of diamond earrings swung from her lobes. “Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter now. Next month you’ll be Mrs. Gerard Godfrey, the most important name of all.”

I felt a prickly sensation in my underarms. My eyes met Maxine’s, and we shared a knowing look.

“Must you wear the red dress, darling?” Mother continued, tilting her head to the right. She was a beautiful woman, far prettier than I would ever be. I’d known it since I was young. “I’m not sure it’s your color.”

Maxine looked Mother straight in the eyes, something she didn’t do often. “I think it’s perfect on her, Mrs. Calloway,” she said, leaving no room for further argument.

Mother shrugged. “Well then, wear whatever you wish, but we need to leave for the Godfreys’ in two hours. You had better start getting ready.” She was halfway down the hall when she turned back to Maxine and me. “And put your hair up, dear. Your profile looks so much more becoming that way.”

I nodded in compliance. Mother subscribed to all the fashion magazines and attended the runway shows in New York and Paris each year. She cared a great deal about appearances, in a way that other mothers didn’t—always designer dresses, perfect hairdos, the latest accessories. And for what? Papa hardly noticed. And the more clothes she amassed, the unhappier she seemed.