Hemingway's Girl (19 page)

The more sinister issue of Pauline’s money struck Mariella. Was Papa so sick of his
poverty that he’d seen Pauline as a way out? Mariella felt sure Papa would never have
admitted to himself at the time that Pauline’s money and lifestyle attracted him to
her. But maybe it had. Or maybe he was just Pauline’s target. The rich were used to
getting what they wanted.

Mariella did find it strange that whenever Papa’s first wife, Hadley, was brought
up, everyone had kind things to say about her. Even Pauline didn’t say unkind things.
Mariella thought she must have a lot to learn about men and women.

Her thoughts returned to Gavin, and her stomach roiled. She
tried to think of when the afternoon with him had turned sour. Was it the thought
of him as a charter fishing boat captain? His reluctance to share his past? Or the
exchange with Hemingway at the car? She decided that Papa was the tipping point, or
rather, her reaction to Papa. She felt guilty for her indecision and abandonment of
Gavin, but she had to get to work, didn’t she?

“Okay, turn that down,” said Isabelle. “Help me get these shrimp peeled, honey.”

“What’s the occasion tonight?”

“Just a meeting with friends. The Thompsons will be here. John and Katy Dos Passos.
Sara Murphy’s in town, though her husband couldn’t come for some reason. Jane and
Grant Mason.” Isabelle raised her eyebrows.

“Who are the Masons?”

“Some fancy couple who live over in Cuba. She used to be a model. He’s got money from
some airline. They used to spend a lot of time with Papa and missus, but they haven’t
seen them for a while. Mrs. Papa doesn’t like her much.” Isabelle raised her eyebrows
as if to say,
You’ll see why
.

“It sounds like there’s more to that story,” said Mariella.

Isabelle crept to the hallway and looked both ways. Then she came back in, peeked
through the door to the dining room, and returned to Mariella’s side. She leaned in
close and spoke in a whisper.

“Mrs. Mason went out the window of her house in Cuba a while ago and broke her back,
supposedly after a fight with Papa.”

Mariella gasped. “She tried to kill herself?”

“Don’t know. Some say so.”

“What’s with her husband?” asked Mariella. “Does he know?”

“They have a strange marriage,” said Isabelle.

A noise in the hall sent Isabelle and Mariella scurrying to finish their preparations.
Isabelle finished peeling and deveining the shrimp, while Mariella went to the bar
they’d set up in the living
room to cut lemons and limes. Papa was in there with Pauline. They got quiet when
she entered. The air in the room felt heavy with their argument.

Mariella made herself as small as she could. She watched only the fruit while she
cut it. Its sour fragrance and sticky juice masked the smell of shrimp on her hands.
She heard Papa’s voice from the other end of the room.

“Don’t start,” he said.

“Do you invite Jane to torture me?”

“Jealousy doesn’t become you.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Why should I? She’s a dear friend and has been to you, so don’t treat her ill tonight.”

“You correspond more with her than you ever did with me.”

“You know that’s not true.”

“Do I?”

“She’s a friend.”

“She’s a harlot.”

“That’s a pretty sharp judgment from a woman who stole another’s husband. Or does
it take one to know one?”

Pauline recoiled as if she’d been slapped. Mariella burned inwardly for her. She flicked
up her eyes and saw that he’d changed his posture. His shoulders slumped and he looked
at Pauline with remorse. He pulled her into him. Mariella looked back at the lemons.

“I don’t mean that. You know you’re my one true girl.” Mariella couldn’t help but
look up again, and saw him lean in and kiss her on the neck. She saw Pauline soften
and put her arms around him.

“She’s just so beautiful,” said Pauline. “It’s hard not to feel like an ugly duckling
around her.”

“I swear I only have eyes for you. She only flirts to torture her husband, poor bastard.”

Pauline kissed Ernest, and Mariella thought that if she was
ever in a position in her life to have servants, they wouldn’t know her private life.
It was such a strange thing to be a living, breathing, feeling fly on the wall—in
plain view but entirely unnoticed. It made her skin crawl to be a witness to such
intimacy and have no connection to it. She derived no voyeuristic pleasure from the
scene, only a mixture of emotions that left her unsettled—jealousy, anger, and guilt.

If only Gavin were here.

But then what? He would be a witness to her unease, and she would be exposed for coveting
another woman’s husband. And Gavin probably wouldn’t be able to see her longing for
him, which was every bit as strong as her longing for Hemingway, but so much simpler.
No, it was best he wasn’t here.

Mariella felt small and dark next to Jane Mason’s bright, strawberry-gold beauty.
It radiated from her as she slipped through the guests and their conversations. Her
hair was pulled back in a tight chignon at the base of her neck. She wore an airy
dress in pale green that contrasted beautifully with her tanned skin. She made the
women slouch and the men stiffen. She was wholly fascinating to watch.

Mariella wanted to get close to Jane Mason. She wanted to hear her talk. She knew
that from behind the bar she wouldn’t get a chance—the men ordered the drinks.

Mariella watched Papa watching Jane when Pauline was otherwise occupied. His desire
seemed to burn, growing hotter with each drink. Pauline lost her grace around Jane,
and Mariella found herself feeling strangely protective of Pauline. She wouldn’t necessarily
call Pauline a friend, but a line was being crossed, and Mariella wanted to protect
Pauline’s family. This simpering beauty was a threat.

It was Jane’s familiarity with the men that put Mariella on edge. Jane knew she was
the most beautiful woman in the room and shamelessly lorded it over the men. They
were helpless to her charms. She laughed too loud. She talked about shooting and fishing
too much. She was never without her hand or arm on one of the men, but never her husband.
He stood at the bar with a bland, vacant smile, watching Jane with indifference.

Papa, at least, seemed to respect Pauline by keeping himself out of Jane’s hands.
But contact or not, his eyes did the talking. Mariella saw Pauline excuse herself
when the boys got home. She helped Ada get them off to bed, leaving Papa to openly
admire Jane. The look Jane gave him caused Mariella to blush. Papa looked toward the
bar at Mariella and she turned a deeper shade of red. He walked over to her.

“Daughter, why are you so red?”

Mariella wiped off the counter in slow circles. She looked at him with open hostility.
“It’s too hot in here.”

He sipped his drink and squinted his eyes. “Step out with me for a breath of fresh
air.”

Mariella scanned the crowd. Everyone’s drinks were full, so she walked out from behind
the bar and toward the open French doors. The contrast of the party with the night
was acute. Palms rustled in the breeze and the lawn was dark with shadows.

“I don’t need two women judging me all night,” he said.

“Why would you worry about my judgment?” asked Mariella.

“I wish I knew. You’re the help, for chrissake.”

Mariella flinched. He continued. “Jane’s harmless. She just needs every guy panting
after her, but that’s it.”

“How do you think that makes the wives feel?”

“Their insecurities are to blame for the way they feel, not Jane.”

“Why does her husband put up with that?”

“What would you do if you were him?” he asked.

“I’d tell her to knock it off.”

“Do
you
respond well to coaching?”

“No, but I would never carry on that way.”

“What way?”

“Interfering with other women’s men.”

“Really?” The question hung in the space between them until Mariella grasped its meaning.
Her face burned; then the very object of their discussion saved her from the moment.
Jane walked out holding a bottle in one hand and a spoon in the other.

“Darling, the Green Fairy has arrived.”

Hemingway leaned in and kissed Mariella on the cheek. Jane looped her arm through
his and led him back into the house. Mariella stepped into the doorway and watched
Jane set the bottle on the bar.

Absinthe.

Jane placed a sugar cube on a slotted spoon she balanced over the rim of a martini
glass. She poured a shot of the green liquid over the sugar cube and into the glass
and then used a match to set the cube on fire. The party grew silent and watched as
the little white cube was consumed by the fluid blue flame and dripped into the absinthe.
She topped it off with a shot of water and stirred the concoction. She handed the
first to Hemingway and then made one for herself. Jane looked over to Mariella in
the doorway and held up her drink.

“Cheers.”

Absinthe took the crowd to a new level of intoxication, and things went downhill fast.
John and Katy left in a huff over a rude remark from Papa. The Thompsons followed
shortly thereafter. Sara Murphy left to call and check on her boys back home because
one had been sick. Jane and Papa grew intolerable, and Pauline left the party,
slamming her bedroom door. Grant Mason sat at the bar sipping his cocktail and looking
around the room in confusion. Mariella kept his glass full and watched Papa make a
fool of himself.

When Jane and Papa started to dance seductively, Grant finally intervened and ushered
his wife out the door. Papa threw a fit because everyone had abandoned his party,
and then he said he needed to write. Mariella heard him pound up the stairs, through
the master bedroom, and out to the walkway to his studio. She cringed at the thought
of him navigating the high walkway in his inebriated state, and said a silent prayer
that he wouldn’t fall.

She walked out to the yard and watched his dark form struggle with the door to the
cottage. He kicked it and tried to punch it in, mumbling something about his missing
keys. She watched him stagger back into his room, heard him yell at Pauline and then
stagger back to the cottage. He fumbled with the door for a while and nearly fell
in when it opened. He slammed it hard.

Mariella walked back into the house, her heart pounding. Isabelle came in. “Go home.”

“I’m sure he’s passed out,” said Mariella. “Let’s get this place straight.”

Isabelle nodded and returned to the kitchen with a tray of discarded plates and napkins.
Mariella righted the bar, moved the chairs back into the dining room, and fluffed
the pillows on the couch. She swept the living room and collected the remaining glasses.
She stopped when she reached a half-full glass of absinthe. She looked around the
room to make sure she was alone and picked up the glass. It smelled like a mixture
of flowers and herbs. She looked around again and took a sip. It tasted like black
licorice, and was not at all unpleasant. It was refreshing and opened up her chest.
She wanted to drain the glass, but thought better of it, and took it to the kitchen
to dump down the sink. When she went back into the living room, she saw that a quarter
of the bottle remained.

As she went to place it on the shelf, she thought that she could hear crying. Mariella
went to the bottom of the stairs and heard Pauline crying in the room upstairs. Pity
made her start to climb the stairs, but she stopped halfway up. What could she say?
Surely Pauline would want to be left alone. Surely she wouldn’t want the help to intervene.

Mariella went back into the living room. The absinthe sat in the middle of the bar,
glittering in the light of the chandelier. She watched the sheers blowing gently in
the night breeze and heard Pauline’s muffled anguish. She walked over to the bottle
of absinthe, carried it out to the yard, and poured it over the grass.