Classic Love: 7 Vintage Romances (129 page)

“Go back,” we said.

They didn’t want to go back. They wanted more. “We don’t have any more,” I explained reasonably, and showed them empty hands. “So go back.”

Unconvinced, they trailed us.

“You’ll be run over!” I shouted.

Which fell on deaf ears. I made some threatening gestures. “Scram, you.”

Tom threw a small pebble. They were outraged, and made angry noises, but finally took the hint. Disconsolate, grumpy, they waddled back to the leafy pond, climbed in and muttered irritably.

Tom and I resumed our walk back.

There was a long evening ahead, with no one to share it, and no one to drive up in a Porsche tomorrow. “I suppose you’re expected home for dinner,” I said.

“I suppose.”

“Then I mustn’t keep you.”

“Only,” he said, “if you’re going to have dinner alone, maybe I could have it with you. Do you think?”

“Well, but your family?”

“They don’t care one bit,” he said passionately. “Don’t you
know?
If I didn’t come home,
they
wouldn’t care.”

“Oh, Tom, I’m sure it isn’t like that.”

“It is like that. If you for some reason wanted me to eat with you, I could manage it. I mean, I could. Only if you wanted that, of course.”

“I’d love it. But I don’t want — ”

“Am I invited?” he challenged.

“Of course you are. Only — ”

“Then I accept,” he said loudly. “I’ll be back right away. I’ll tell them, and then I’ll have a coke while you’re having a drink. Wait for me.”

He bounded across the lawn. I watched him go into his house, and thought, I shouldn’t depend on that boy. I shouldn’t let him depend on me. He has his own family.

But I wanted very much not to be alone.

When he came back he was flushed and breathless. “It’s okay,” he said. “Can we cook outdoors?”

“Yes, sure.” I got some cube steaks out of the freezer. “While they’re thawing, we’ll have our aperitifs.”

We sat outside for an hour, Tom with his cokes, and I with my martini pitcher, before we went in. I tossed a salad, and it was almost nine when we put the charcoal on the grill, doused fluid over it, and then tossed in a match.

The charcoal ignited with a festive blaze, and I went back for the steaks. They were nice tender little steaks: they’d cost almost as much as filets, and while Tom watched over them, I set the table on the patio.

It was pleasant, with the candles I lit wavering in the soft dark, and both of us eating as if there were no tomorrow.

Afterwards, smoking a cigarette, I thought, somewhere in Germany Eric is doing his thing. We were separated by thousands of miles.

“Gee, that was great,” Tom said, patting his stomach. “I did a pretty good job on the steaks, didn’t I?”

“You sure did. Thanks, Tom.”

“Are you afraid to be here when you’re alone, Jan?”

“No, of course not. Why should I be?”

“Oh, just — ”

“Tom, this isn’t Manhattan,” I reminded him.

“Yeah,” he agreed.

We sat there peaceably, in the quiet night; the song of the sea, the country sounds, and the stars brightening the darkness were like blessings. We stayed outside until the mosquitos won, and then Tom helped me wash up, after which I saw him home.

He was shocked when I said I’d go with him. “Gee, I don’t need someone to hold my hand!” he said, looking offended.

“I just want to stretch my legs a little, that’s all.”

As we were crossing the lawn, his father, Garrison, came out of the house, saw us, and stood waiting. When we came up to him he smiled, his teeth flashing in the darkness. “I see you’ve charmed my son away,” he said.

“Hardly that, Mr. Lestrange.”

“Oh, I’m afraid so,” he said. “It looks to me like an early, first love.”

Even in the faint light I saw the boy’s flush.

“I’d like to thank you for letting your son share a lonely dinner with me,” I said. “It was very kind of you. And Tom, thanks to you, too. Good night, Mr. Lestrange. Good night, Tom.”

“Good night, Jan.”

Mr. Lestrange said, “Good night, Miss Stewart.”

Damn, stupid parent, I thought, recrossing the lawn.

No wonder there was a rebellion here. What a crass thing to say. An early, first love.

I went back to the cottage and to my aloneness. Everything was very quiet except for the night sounds; tree frogs, the rustling of leaves in the trees and the hum of the refrigerator as the motor recharged.

The city was far away, with its fire engines racing through the night, and the unceasing roar of cars along avenues and cross streets. This was East Hampton. It was muted here at nightfall.

There was really nothing to do but go to bed.

• • •

I breakfasted at around ten, and was not even finished with the dishes when I had a visitor. An unexpected visitor. It was Bobo Lestrange.

She stood on my doorstep and asked if I were very busy. I said no, not particularly, and invited her in, seeing that that was what she wanted. “How about some coffee?” I asked.

She held her lovely head to one side and asked, “How about a drink instead?”

It was barely ten-thirty.

She saw my startled look and said, “I know. But I’m upset. Need a drink.”

“Sure. Of course. What can I give you? I have most everything, I think.”

“Bourbon, then.”

“Okay, Bobo, sit down.”

She sat on the sofa, stiffly, looking uptight. I hoped I wasn’t going to be treated to a saga of misfortune, but rather thought that that would be the case. When an almost-stranger barges in and asks for a drink because they’re upset, it’s generally because they have “things” on their mind and want to spew them out.

I resigned myself. I handed her a generous drink and sat down beside her.

“Oh,” she said. “You’re not having anything?”

“I’m not upset at the moment,” I said.

“You’ve got to have
something,”
she said, distressed. “I can’t drink
alone.”

“But I — all right. I’ll have a little campari.”

I poured a thimbleful into a glass and sat down again. It was a small gesture, but it satisfied her. “That’s better,” she said, and raised her glass.

“Cheers,” she said.

“Cheers.”

We made a little small talk. Her glass was empty in no time at all. She looked at it, and then held it out wordlessly.

I got up and refilled it.

She didn’t say anything until she took a deep swallow. Then she sighed, took a deep breath, and said, “Thanks. Thanks a lot. Ah, that’s better.”

“Something wrong?” I said.

She said, “Yes, but there almost always is,” and then seemed to forget about me as she went on emptying her glass. And once again, it was empty rather quickly.

She held it up, as if it were a test tube, and she in a lab; she was scrutinizing a magic formula which would cure cancer or multiple sclerosis — or whatever. At last she convinced herself that it was, indeed, empty, and she gave me a rueful little glance and said, “May I have some more, please; I’ll remember to replace this with a bottle.”

“I wouldn’t think of it,” I said. “I’m always happy to have people drop in.”

I got up and refilled the glass.

She took it avidly, almost grabbing it. Another greedy swallow, after which she choked a little, coughed, hiccuped, and then said, almost sighing, “Christ, I needed that.”

Then she put down the glass, this time far from empty, since what she had so far drunk had apparently done the trick, and launched into an incoherent exposition, a spate of quick, impassioned words, jerky and spastic.

“Don’t you worry,” she told me, and her eyes were bright and furious and feverish. “Don’t you worry one bit. I’ll pay him back, wait and see if I don’t. I won’t rest until I — ”

She broke off then, because tears rose to her eyes. With tears in her eyes she looked even more stunning. I could suddenly see why men couldn’t stand to see a lovely woman cry. She was so gorgeous and flamingly angry, and so quintessentially beautiful in that anger that I understood a man’s instant thaw at the onset of tears from a bewitching woman …

“Oh, don’t cry, Bobo,” I said, unnerved.

“Crying, who’s crying,” she flung at me. “Why should I
cry?
You think he can make me
cry?
I just want to kill him, that’s all.” She beat her hands against her chest. “Oh, if I could just — ”

“Well, okay,” I said. “Anger’s a good thing. Better to get it out of you. I guess we all have our beefs, Bobo. I know I’ve had mine.”

She looked at me blindly, unheeding. She looked through me, really. “No one can treat me like that,” she cried. “No one, least of all
him.”

I thought of her patrician husband, Garrison, and my lively imagination pictured a scene between them. He shouting, “Your damned extravagance. I’ll cut off your charge accounts …”

Bitter words between them, and one thing leading to another, finishing off with, “I picked you up out of the gutter, a cheap floozie in a chorus line.”

What else could it be but something like that? I felt sorry for her. She wasn’t very hard, not as hard as she looked, I decided. There was a kind of bovine defenselessness about her … this big Junoesque woman … blowsy, but not very shrewd. Poor thing, I thought, and pitied her. She stood out, like a sore thumb, from the rest of the Lestranges; in time, I felt sure, Garrison Lestrange would kiss her off with a settlement and a quick divorce.

I suppose I should have pumped her, asked her to confide in me, but to tell the truth, I was afraid she
would
confide in me, and although I was sympathetic, I didn’t want any part of the Garrison Lestrange’s marital troubles. My mind, in fact, was busy trying to figure out how I could get rid of her. Without hurting her feelings.

She picked up the glass again, with those tight, jerky movements, and drained the contents of it. Then, and this time in a very aggressive manner, she held the glass out to me. Her eyes had become inflamed with tears and rage, and she reminded me of a bull in an arena, facing a matador.

I hesitated, and then gave her a refill.

She drank that one straight down, as if swallowing castor oil; if this would do the trick she would grin and bear it.

With the glass still in her hand, totally empty, she looked up, and suddenly her eyes became glassy. Her beautiful face sagged, her mouth fell open wetly, and she shuddered. “Wow,” she said thickly. “That one had a kick.”

“You feel better now?” I asked anxiously.

She looked at me as if she had never seen me before. As if I had just that moment appeared, and what the hell was I doing there? Apparently her vision had blurred, because she blinked again, squinted, and said, “What did you say?”

It came to me then that there had been mint on her breath when she came in, and suddenly the whole picture was clear. She was a lush, a hard drinker, and she had been toping before she came to the cottage, possibly quite heavily. And now it had hit her, hit her hard.

So that was the reason for the Garrison Lestrange’s marital troubles …

She got up slowly, stood very erect, with her arms hanging down at her sides and said, “I think I’ll just go and lie down.”

I thought, dear God, don’t let her throw up, and then changed my mind. Better have her throw up, and do it in the proper place, rather than later, on my bed, or on the rug. I reached for her hand, intent on leading her to the bathroom, but she got quite petulant, waving me away. “I can manage,” she said, her shrill voice slurred, and she made her way to the bedroom, weaving noticeably.

“Are you sure you don’t want the bathroom?” I asked, persuasively, but she didn’t answer. She went straight to the bed, sat down carefully, then just as carefully stretched out. She lay there like a dead thing, her eyes closed. She looked like a body in a mortuary.

What a kettle of fish, I thought helplessly, and stood watching her for a while, alert for signs of nausea. But she almost immediately fell off into a deep sleep, breathing with great heaves of her magnificent bosom. Otherwise she didn’t move a muscle.

I was beside myself with annoyance. What was I to
do?
For all I knew she might sleep the day away; meanwhile I was a prisoner in my own house. I couldn’t
leave
her. If she came to and started drinking again, who knew what the end result might be.

I jumped when the doorbell rang. I wanted it to be Garrison Lestrange … and I didn’t want it to be him. On the one hand, he would rescue me, but on the other, it would be horribly embarrassing for both of us.

The bell rang again and I had to answer it.

But it was not Garrison Lestrange. It was Peter. I was very relieved. “Oh, Peter,” I said. “I’m in the most terrible quandary.”

“You are?” he said. “Okay, spill it, maybe I can help.”

I listened, but there was no sound from the bedroom. I kept my voice low. “It’s Bobo. She came over very troubled about something and asked for a drink. She drank quite a lot. Now she’s out. She passed out.”

His face changed. But not unpleasantly. He didn’t look disgusted, or even irritable. He just shook his head, almost humorously, and said. “It’s been known to happen. I’m sorry it involved you. I’ll get her home.”

“I don’t think you can. She seems in a stupor.”

“Don’t worry. I’ve done it before.”

I started to follow him toward the bedroom, but he put a hand out. “No, stay here. In fact, disappear. Go in the kitchen, or outdoors in the back. I’ll handle this.”

“Can’t I help you?”

“Not necessary.”

I went into the kitchen. There were some faint sounds from the bedroom, muffled stirrings, then a strident, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

It took about fifteen minutes for the whole operation. Venturing a peek, I saw the two of them emerge from the bedroom, with Peter supporting Bobo in a very expert way, and guiding her on her unsteady legs toward the front door. She had gone all compliant and unprotesting and was, fortunately, ambulant enough to do her part in their staggering exit.

I went to the living room and looked out to see how they were managing. They were walking huddled together, like lovers, somehow, as if they couldn’t bear to separate their bodies, and at last they reached her house and they went in.