The Polka Dot Nude (4 page)

I glanced through a few of Rosalie’s letters, but my heart wasn’t in it, so I took Brad’s book of critical essays on Eliot to bed with me. It was wonderfully erudite, and the only reason my eyes were closing was that I was tired. If I remembered
The Waste Land
better, I’d understand the essays, find them more interesting. But what the hell was the “specious good,” and what did “prelapsarian” mean anyway? It wasn’t even in my dictionary. It meant he was a deep-dyed intellectual, and would soon discover I was shallow and superficial, with no real self to fill up my ego. But he hadn’t found it out yet, and Helen was in Greece on her honeymoon, so there’d be no interference from that quarter.

How had she gotten Garth to the altar so fast? To me, he used to talk about “a few years from now,” after he was settled more securely in his career. In a few years, I’d be thirty. I was
ancient.
I felt Time clawing at my back. Helen was thirty, and made no bones about wanting to get married. If Helen were here, Brad would be on his knees proposing before the end of the summer. How did she do it? What was the trick?

It seemed almost impossible that Brad had turned up here, in the woods of northern New York. What was a man like that doing here? Even I found the cottages awful, and he was used to the best. For privacy, he could have gone anywhere—to Cape Cod, or some quiet corner of Mexico, or Majorca. There had to be a lead lining in this bright and breezy cloud.

CHAPTER 3

Just as I was settling in at my desk the next morning, I heard Brad’s screen door bang. I hurried to the window for a glimpse of him. There he was, running along past the window in a navy fleecy and white shorts, which gave a stunning view of his long, tanned legs. In his white Reeboks and with a red sweatband around his head, he looked as if he’d just jogged out of a high school gym. He lifted an arm in friendly salute; I waved back, already feeling proprietarial.

The presence of a critic next door should have been enough to distract me, but it didn’t. I considered it a goad, and a challenge. The words
specious good
and
prelapsarian
didn’t actually appear on my pages, but I began to perceive some deeper meaning than mere entertainment in Rosalie’s story. I missed seeing Brad jog home, but that afternoon I spotted him down at Simcoe’s dock, getting into a boat with a fishing rod over his shoulder.

While he was out fishing, a small moving van stopped at his cottage, and as he wasn’t there, the driver came to mine.

“You can just leave the things in his cottage,” I suggested.

“We can’t get in, lady. The door’s locked, and somebody’s got to sign.”

“Locked? That’s funny. I guess you’d better put the things in my cottage then.”

They deposited an oriental carpet, a vacuum cleaner, boxes labeled FRAGILE, and a modern chair, all chrome and leather, of the sort immortalized by Mies van der Rohe. The old traditional and the best of the modern—it seemed symbolic of Brad. I tried the chair and found it uncomfortable. When I saw Brad wending his way up from the dock with his rod, I called out to tell him I had his things.

“You locked your door. Are you afraid of the wild critters, or me?”

“Force of habit, I guess. I’ll be right over. I have to put this gear away. Got any cold beer?”

“Coming right up.” I hurried in to brush my hair and put on some lipstick. It was five o’clock, and time to take my hard-earned leisure. The book was going great, which always put me in a good mood.

He was soon at the door, lounging in with only a preliminary tap. A day in the sun had deepened his tan to a rich, warm bronze. The white shirt contrasted sharply with it.

“How was the fishing? Did you catch anything?”

“Not yet. I was testing the water, and my lures. I see my Barcelona chair arrived. I can’t get comfortable on that lumpy sofa.”

“Sit yourself down on it, and I’ll get the beer. What have you done with yourself all day?” I asked, to conceal that I’d monitored his every movement.

“I jogged my four miles this morning, did a bit of housecleaning before that. I spotted some wild mushrooms when I was out jogging. It was a temptation, but they can be dangerous. Incidentally, I hope you like chicken Marengo. It’s not too late to change the menu if you don’t,” he said, with a questioning look.

“If it was good enough for Napoleon, it’s good enough for me. Does this mean I’m invited for dinner again?”

“I hope you’ll come. Presumptuous of me . . ."

“Presume away—I’m free. I’ll have to cook you a meal one of these days,” I said rashly.

“You’re too busy. And I like cooking. I finished Rosalie’s diary over lunch. A certain supreme court judge won’t be too happy to hear his father dallied with Rosalie, but it should be good for sales.”

“Shocking, huh? There’s another you should take a look at—the father of one of our past presidents, and the worst skinflint in the world. He gave her jewelry, and took it back when she broke off with him.”

“It just goes to show you,” he said, and took a drink from the bottle. He had glanced at Rosalie’s painting a few times. Its brilliant colors stood out like a new cushion on an old sofa in the dingy room. “That’s an interesting painting. Not quite in harmony with Simcoe’s rubbish. It must be your own. It’s Rosalie, isn’t it?”

“Yes, a self-portrait. She gave it to me.”

“Really?” He struggled out of the Barcelona chair and walked toward it. “It’s very good. It could pass for a Pissarro, or do I mean Seurat? One of the pointillists anyway. I wouldn’t have thought Rosalie would have the patience to do it, all those little dots of color, like confetti.”

“The man who framed it for me called it the ‘Polka Dot Nude.’ I think it’s lovely.”

He backed away to allow the dots to merge into a pattern, and I regaled him with its history, as told by Rosalie. “Rosalie was kind of an art groupie. She hung out with that set in France on her holidays. Early in her career she started painting, and when she retired from work, it became an avocation. She did this picture in the south of France, at Picasso’s studio. Jean Cocteau was there, Léger, and Villon. She and Cocteau spent an evening doing it with confetti from an old photograph, then Picasso opened a door and the whole thing blew away, so she decided to paint it. She could have been a good artist, if she’d exerted herself in that direction.”

“She
is
pretty good, to judge by this. Did you see any other of her works?”

“She was working on an abstract expressionist thing when I was at Hartland. Of course her eyesight isn’t what it was, but I didn’t care for it. I know painting’s been her hobby for ages, but she didn’t have any others on display. Some of them must be worth a lot of money. She mentioned that Picasso had drawn a girl, and she painted it. She might have had help from other famous artists as well—she knew them all. I certainly treasure this.”

“Paintings by famous people have some interest value, even if they’re not top quality. A Churchill, for instance, would be something to treasure,” Brad said. “I wonder what she did with them.

“She probably gave them away, as she gave me this one. Or maybe her daughter has them.”

Brad’s head jerked up. “Daughter?” he asked, in a loud voice.

“She doesn’t admit she has one, but there’s a year or so of her life that isn’t very well accounted for. Her diaries from that period are sketchy, to say the least. She misplaced one, she said. The last one before that mentions gaining ten pounds, and in a letter she received from a friend there’s a question about whether she’s feeling better. After the war, Rosalie had what she calls a nervous breakdown, and went to a clinic in Europe to dry out.”

“Oh, really? Whereabouts in Europe?”

“She says it was a spa in Switzerland, but I haven’t been able to corroborate it in her diaries. They’re not complete, by any means. There are a few suspicious entries—mentions of stomach upset and weight gain, then there’s blank till she returns home. I tried to question her companion, but came up against a brick wall.”

“Who is her companion?”

“A woman named Lorraine Taylor—she used to be Rosalie’s stand-in. She always went with Rosalie everywhere, and when they came back to the States, Lorraine had a new daughter with her. The girl’s name is Drew Taylor. Lorraine was officially married, although she hadn’t lived with her husband for years. He was a prop man in Hollywood. Rosalie was single at the time.”

“And you think Rosalie was the real mother, that they fudged the records somehow?”

“I think so. In those days, an illegitimate child wasn’t considered good publicity. The Hays Office influence. Rosalie was trying to make a comeback, but it didn’t take. Before long, she married an oil tycoon and gave up films for good. And even when she was married, Lorraine and Drew still lived with Rosalie. It kind of makes you wonder.”

“Who do you figure the father was, if she really had this child?” Brad asked. He was frowning, maybe disillusioned with his heroine.

“She had a hot and heavy affair with a French director before she left for Europe, but according to Drew Taylor’s birth date, he can’t be the one. It would have to be somebody she met while abroad. I haven’t given up getting the whole story out of her.”

His frown deepened. “People are entitled to some privacy, even aging actresses who have to sell their stories to survive."

“She’s not exactly starving. She could sell Hartland for a couple of million. She’s just bored, being out of the limelight.”

Brad finished his beer, and I offered to help him take his belongings to his cottage. I smiled to see a microwave oven unpacked, along with one of those impossible machines that slices, dices, minces, mashes, shreds, and otherwise makes food unrecognizable. I always wondered who’d be fool enough to buy one.

“Now, Audrey, I suggest you take advantage of what’s left of the sun, while I start dinner,” Brad said.

“Yes, boss. I’ll let myself out.” I didn’t want to delay his cooking.

On my way through the living room, I noticed one of the Madison Gantry books was open, facedown, on the coffee table. Between Rosalie’s diary, which he had finished reading, and this book, entitled
Serenade for a Sinner,
I didn’t think he’d had much time for Popper’s philosophy. I took an hour of late-afternoon sun on the dock before dressing for dinner. The sun wasn’t hot enough to tint my Pillsbury Doughboy body, but it felt good.

It was another wonderful evening. Aware now that his casual was my semiformal, I wore a green and white skirt and scrounged through drawers till I found a blouse to go with it. It was only a simple peasant blouse, off the shoulders, but with some lace trim to enliven it. The music at Brad’s cottage was recognizable on that occasion: Chopin, played by Rubinstein. It was the food I didn’t recognize. He had gone to the bother of making hors d’oeuvres, which sat in state on the coffee table on the hot tray.

The setting sun slanted through immaculate windows—when had he had time to clean them?—casting a golden glow on the oriental carpet, already installed underfoot.

“I have breaded oysters and eggplant fingers to go with our aperitif wine,” he explained, as he handed me a plate and serviette. “I’m serving the white Pineau des Charentes with this. Coq d’Or, it’s called. Let me know what you think.”

Brad was looking rather appetizing himself, with a sports shirt open at the neck beneath his jacket, giving him a more casual air. As the aroma from the hors d’oeuvres wafted toward him, however, I turned my attention to them. They were so good it was impossible to stop eating till they were gone.

“You should be a chef,” I told him. “Open your own restaurant—you’d make a killing.”

“Actually I
do
have an interest in a little place in New York. Le Pavillon d’Antibes, it’s called. You may have heard of it?”

“No, but I’ll certainly look it up when I get back. Who runs it for you?”

“My chef’s name is Pierre Leblanc, from Paris. We work out the recipes and menus together. Pierre swears by Escoffier, but I’m working on him to be more venturesome.”

“How can a professor afford to buy a restaurant?”

“I have my writing as well.”

“You know, Brad, I can’t figure out what brought a man like you to this backwater for the summer. Why didn’t you go to Spain, or something? You obviously don’t like roughing it in the bush, or you wouldn’t have brought so many things with you.”

“Just a change of pace—I like the fishing and fresh air. And the company.” He smiled, in a way that made me forget further questions.

If the chicken Marengo hadn’t been so irresistible, I couldn’t have done it justice. His apologies for not having concocted a dessert were heard with relief.

Somehow, a box of Godiva chocolates had found its way to the coffee table, and had to be sampled. They were so pretty it seemed a shame to eat them. “I’m going to put on about fifty pounds if I keep doing this,” I lamented happily as he poured the coffee. Brad turned on the radio to avoid having to select records.

He ran his dark eyes over my anatomy. “All the more of you to admire,” he smiled. “Women worry too much about their weight. You certainly don’t have to.”

“It’s not just the weight, it’s the distribution.”

“The distribution curves look pretty good to me. Would you like to go out somewhere?” he asked suddenly. “I’m showing you a flat time, expecting my unadorned company to keep you entertained.”

“There isn’t much to do around here. That’s why I chose the place, to keep my nose to the grindstone.”

He ran a playful finger along my nose. “Why would you want to wear that pretty little nose to a point?”

Tall, lanky women don’t have much chance to feel cute. I realized what we were missing. I felt cute and cuddly and cherished when he put his arm around me and pressed my head against his shoulder.

“On the other hand,” he went on in a relaxed drawl, “I don’t know why we should go out, when we’re so comfortable here. Good wine, good company—what more could we want?”

I sighed contentedly and said, “Search me.”

Brad’s head angled down. “That’s the best offer I’ve had all day,” he said, softening it with a smile. “Where do you suggest I begin?”