Read Classic Love: 7 Vintage Romances Online
Authors: Dorothy Fletcher
Classic Love: 7 Vintage Romances (93 page)
This edition published by
Crimson Romance
an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.
10151 Carver Road, Suite 200
Blue Ash, Ohio 45242
Copyright © 1971 by Dorothy Fletcher
ISBN 10: 1-4405-7200-3
ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-7200-5
eISBN 10: 1-4405-7199-6
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-7199-2
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
Cover art © 123rf; istockphoto.com/skynesher
Dorothy Fletcher
Avon, Massachusetts
CHAPTER ONE
The plane landed at Kennedy Airport at eight o’clock in the evening, daylight saving time. The stream of passengers, disgorged from the belly of the ship, trudged across the sun-lit field, tired but starry-eyed, and straggled into the TWA arrivals center. There was a scramble for luggage carts, a bedlam of voices. Up above, waving through glass windows, were people waiting to welcome vacationing friends and relatives.
But not for me
, Margo thought as she lined up at Customs.
“Anything to declare?”
Bags zipped open, the line moving slowly, inexorably. “Is this a new coat?” No air conditioning, and for a June evening it was warm and humid. “Does it have to take all
night?
” someone muttered, wiping his forehead with a wilted handkerchief. “Move ahead, please,” a Customs official said crisply.
The tall girl with the wheat-colored hair made a move to lift one of her suitcases to the counter. “That’s top heavy for you,” the man behind her said. “Let me give you an assist.”
“How kind of you,” she said, perspiring.
“Not at all.”
He hefted her three suitcases to the counter. “You don’t travel light,” he remarked, smiling.
“I’ve been living abroad. Thanks, I know they’re like lead.”
“Will you share my cab back to town?”
“Thanks very much,” she said, surveying him. Fiftyish, a good, honest face, nothing to worry about. “I’d be delighted,” she said gratefully.
“Good girl. I live in the East Fifties. I can drop you wherever.”
“Perfect,” she said.
“Whereabouts are you going?”
“I don’t know, I don’t live anywhere,” she said, and saw his startled eyes. At the Inspector’s request, she opened her first suitcase. The man, out of long experience, searched through it, scarcely disturbing the contents. He closed the grip, put a chalk mark on it, and started on the second, his fingers deft. In due time that too was zipped up. Then the third, which was books and letters and photography equipment. “Is this a new camera?” the Customs Inspector asked.
“No, it’s not new at all; as I said, I’ve nothing to declare.”
“How long was your visit?”
“Thirteen years.”
His head shot up. “You’re an American citizen?”
“Yes I am.”
He gave her a quick, appraising look, then smiled pleasantly and said, “Welcome back, Miss.”
“Thanks very much,” she said, and the man behind her spoke imperatively. “Just wait outside the gate,” he said. “I won’t be long.”
“It’s very good of you.”
“No bother at all.”
She stood there waiting, and shortly he joined her. “I’ll just get a cab,” he said, and was back in no time at all. “Here we go.” The black porter slung the bags on a cart, eeled his way past the throngs. The cool, shadowy evening was very lovely, though somehow perplexing. She was accustomed to French, Italian, Spanish airports; there was a difference here, a hard, pitiless quality. But this was home! After many a wandering, like Ulysses, she had returned, and she looked out the wndow of the cab, saw clustering groups embracing and gesturing. “Where to?” the driver asked.
“Manhattan,” the man said. “When we get there I’ll tell you the address.”
“Yes, sir.”
He leaned back and took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, shook one out for her. “Thanks,” she said, and he lit it with a Dunhill lighter. “Where am I taking you?” he asked.
“Oh, I suppose the St. Regis or the Plaza. What do you think?”
“Either. Of course I have a soft spot in my heart for the Plaza, but it’s up to you. I heard you tell the Customs man you’d been away for thirteen years. Where?”
“At school, in Switzerland. When I left there I went to Paris, studied there too. Now I’ve come back to where I started. A job. Some free-lance work. Whatever I can find. A place to live.”
She saw his eyes travel over her clothing, her well-cared-for person, and lifted a hand. “I’m twenty-one,” she said. “It’s time for me to make my own way. Life doesn’t owe anyone a living.”
“I see,” he said, and she liked the look she saw on his face, a look of respect. “I have good training,” she explained. “Now it’s time for me to put it to use. But enough about me. Was your trip business or pleasure?”
“Business,” he said. “I’m in import-export, I travel frequently. Sometimes my family goes with me, this time they didn’t. I have a daughter your age, and a son who’s married. I’m, in fact, a grandfather. I’m not sure I like being one. I suppose none of us likes to get old.”
“You’re not old at all.”
“Thanks for the compliment; I’ll treasure it.”
They approached the bridge. “Have you decided where to stay?” the man asked.
“The Plaza. You said you had a soft spot for it, so the Plaza, then. You see, I’m a bit bewildered. I didn’t think I’d feel so … so lost. But I do.” She turned away and looked out the window, at the drab industrial buildings of Queens. “There were all those people at the airport,” she said. “Arms stretched out, and glad faces. Coming home and being met with tears and laughter and flowers. It made me — ”
“I can understand,” he said.
“You seem to understand,” she said steadily. “And I’ll never forget you, or how you came to my aid. I can’t thank you enough.”
“The pleasure’s mine,” he said, warmly. “My name’s Nelson Crawford, and I’d like very much to know yours.”
“I’m Margo Brand.”
They headed west, and the city lights were winking now. Tall buildings, taller than Margo remembered, looming against the evening sky. Glass and steel, intimidating. Wonderingly, she said, “It looks so different. I didn’t remember it like this.”
“It is different,” Mr. Crawford said gravely. “It’s different every year, every month.”
“I’ll have to get used to it.”
“
I’m
not used to it. It’s grown beyond me. Left me behind, if you will.” They came to Park Avenue and she peered out the window, looking south. “What’s that?” she asked, pointing.
“The Pan Am Building. An eyesore? Only one of many. I’ll retire one of these days, go to Mallorca or some such place. I’ll be happy to shake the dust of this misbegotten city off my — ” He apologized a moment later. “Excuse me,” he said contritely. “Don’t let me discourage you. It’s your city now, you young people. I’m sorry to have sounded off. Well, my dear, here we are.”
They came to the lovely square just off 59th Street, facing the well-lit and hospitable hotel. Mr. Crawford leaned forward. “We’ll get out here,” he said, and fished in his wallet for a bill. “There you are,” he said, “don’t bother about the change, keep it.”
“Thank you, sir,” the cab driver said.
A porter dashed out of the hotel, dragging the suitcases from the trunk of the cab. A party of people dressed for an evening abroad came down the steps, headed for the parked taxi. “Hey, there …”
The lobby was pleasant and spacious. Mr. Crawford, at the desk, said the young lady wished a room with bath.
“For how long a stay?” the desk clerk asked.
“Indefinitely,” Margo said.
He consulted a room schedule. “I could give you a single with bath on the fourteenth floor. Twenty-seven dollars a day.”
“Nothing less expensive?” Mr. Crawford asked.
“It’s all right,” Margo said.
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, it’s fine.” She got out her traveler’s checks and paid a week’s rent in advance.
“Call if you need help,” Mr. Crawford said.
“Oh no, everything’s fine. My parents are very well-to-do. I’m only twenty-one, they’re still responsible for me. It’s my pride, you understand. I’m eager to be on my own. Meanwhile I have to accept their largesse.”
“Where are your parents?” Mr. Crawford asked.
“In the East, doing research,” she said. “I haven’t seen them for ten years.”
“For ten years?” he repeated, looking hard at her.
“Except for a day here and a day there. They’re a well-known team of writers. You see, Mr. Crawford, I was an accident. They never wanted to have a child. They didn’t need a child. I was only an embarrassment to them. I accepted that long ago. I’m sure you’re in a hurry to get home to your family, Mr. Crawford, but before you go may I buy you a drink? I’d rather give you emeralds, but I’m afraid all the jewelry stores are closed. I wouldn’t take up much of your time, but it would give me pleasure to … to buy you a drink.”
“No no, I’ll buy you a drink,” he said, touched to the quick. “It isn’t often I’m in the company of such a pretty girl.” And over her protests he marched her back to one of the small salons and ordered champagne cocktails. “Unless you’d rather have something else?” he asked her.
“No no … but I do want to be host, Mr. Crawford.”
He smiled, patted her hand, and was so deft at drawing her out that she told him a great deal about herself. “My parents? They’re achievers, they travel all over the globe. I’m sorry I said that about my being an accident, it sounded cheap and cruel. I don’t blame them one bit, they’re so busy, and so famous.”
She looked up. “And very, very much in love with each other.”
And with themselves
, Mr. Crawford thought, unable to imagine casting off his own daughter like some second-hand bit of goods. He looked across at the lovely, fresh face of the girl opposite him and thought,
This child was given everything … and nothing.
“Actually, I had a very happy childhood,” she said, as if she sensed his unspoken criticisms. “I spent many, many summers with a wonderful woman, and I must call her, now I’m back.”
“Who’s that?” Mr. Crawford asked.
“My aunt. Godmother and aunt. Victoria Brand. If anyone cares about me, she does.”
“Tell me about her,” he prompted. “Where does she live?”
“In a small country town, upstate, very pretty, you know, the hinterlands. All sorts of things going on up there, hexes and feuds and inbreeding and, like Salem, once witches were burned at the stake. I like it, have always liked it, because it makes me think of the beginnings of this country, and it’s changed so little. I spent my summers there when I was a kid, and my Aunt Vicky practically brought me up. Her house is very historic, a landmark in the region; people come from all over to see it. It was wonderful for me as a child, I felt a part of history.”
“I’m sure your aunt can’t wait to hear from you.”
“She doesn’t expect me back until autumn. She’ll be
very
astonished. I hope she won’t have a heart attack when she hears my voice.”
“Why a heart attack?”
“She’s not young any more. Well, actually, she’s my great-aunt. She’s in her … I guess eighties by now.”
“Rather than a heart attack, she’ll undoubtedly start polishing the family silver,” Mr. Crawford said with a broad smile. “That’s what these landowners do for the returned prodigal, isn’t it? And dust cobwebs off vintage wines …”
He was rewarded with a tinkling laugh. “I suppose,” she said, chuckling. “She’ll order everyone about and stalk through the house seeing that the antimicassars are in place, the old dear. I wish I had everything settled, so I could dash right up and be cosseted. But I must see to living quarters, and about a job … oh, no thanks, not another drink, this was lovely. And won’t you let me treat? I have no other way to thank you for your kindness … for …”