The Secret Keeping (6 page)

Weekdays. Fridays. Saturdays. In “a coupla weeks” the movers had come and emptied her apartment. Had she thought of the blond in Frank’s Place in quite the vivid terms that Delilah had expressed? Is empty clean she wondered, bobbing through traffic like a robin in spring, on her way to lunch. Maybe nobody noticed her funny walk. The spring in it. Just Delilah. Crunch. She felt a foot beneath her own and apologized to its owner. When the red, red, robin goes bob, bob, bobbing. Where was spring this year? Lydia thought of Delilah’s warnings. Frying pans and fire. She was hungry. Starving. Lunch. Perfectly harmless.

_____

To her credit she had built many a fortune, including her own, on being patient and methodical. She never panicked, she always rode it out. Those were fine attributes for a financial strategist and they served her well at Soloman-Schmitt, but they were not much of an asset in the case where she was dying to meet someone, dying to know their name. In this situation she was out of her field of expertise, in uncharted territory and although the waiter seemed somewhat of an ally, Lydia was too cautious to enlist his aid in such an endeavor.

It was prudent to be cautious, general principles of probability and statistics informed her that the chances of the blond reciprocating her affections were slim to none. At least, for the moment, she was in her world, albeit less than an acquaintance. At least, for the moment, the woman acknowledged her existence there, smiling, sometimes even winking, other times mouthing hello over the edge of her book.

_____

Empty. Just a mattress, computer, telephone, answering machine, coffee maker…Lydia cradled her cup and contemplated her empty rooms, her next move. Should probably tell Delilah about this, she thought, smiling at the anticipated reaction. At least it’s clean, she might say in response. Is that all she should say?

_____

Another cocktail party at the lavish suburban villa of Mr. and Mrs. Paula Treadwell. Paula decided to play cupid with a forty-something divorcee who had the paucity of mind to bring his children along. The unhappy family of three and VP Treadwell hovered tactlessly at Lydia’s elbows all night, he with his my-children-need-a-mother eyes, the children with their we-already-have-a-mother eyes, Paula with her he’s-so-wonderfully-stable eyes. Lydia found it necessary to excuse herself and hid away for more than an hour in the upstairs library, drinking cognac with a few associates and discussing ad nauseam the consumer pricing index and prime lending rate. Later, when she got the nerve to go back downstairs, Mr. Dad reappeared at her side.

This time he told his kids to scram and she spent the rest of her sorry evening dodging his clumsy innuendo and not so subtle proposals for “polite sex.” Polite sex? No thanks. Sly Rio Joe had spoiled her for that, she realized, in a cab at ten o’clock, heading for home alone.

_____

Chief financial strategist for Soloman-Schmitt, Lydia Beaumont, kept her eyes open at happy hours, but nothing appealed to her. Nothing in a three-piece suit, that is. She was up on a shelf somewhere waiting to be brought down. She knew that, but so what? Get it up, Delilah urged her. She laughed her off.

The grueling work week seemed somehow shorter now, less demanding. Still the same nonsense, though.

She stayed on the sidelines of trouble, keeping VP Treadwell enlightened, monitoring, constantly monitoring illicit things. It was bound to come to a head someday. When it does we’ll pop it like a zit, Paula bragged.

Fine.

She wasn’t depressed about work anymore, didn’t mind the empty rooms that greeted her when she came home. Fridays, Saturdays. She searched her catalogues for new furnishings, hoping to be moved by the offerings. Moved. She was moved. But not materially. Move. Moved. Moving.

_____

She had been wrongly charmed. This, Lydia frequently suspected, was the case. This should greatly trouble her. It did not greatly trouble her. She was deliberately abandoning herself to a mistaken possibility.

That was not good. It was a fantastic mistake. It felt good. It made her feel strangely connected to people.

She was making a mistake. She was no different than anyone else. Did it hang off her sleeve? This should greatly trouble her. It was colossal, fantastic, maybe it even hung off her sleeve. She looked to the blond to stop it. It was her fault. No, she didn’t stop it. Indeed, her eyes were always warm. Wasn’t there a kiss in them? Kisses. Was it real or imagined? Weaker by the day. Unmistakable. Her head was dizzy. Her head swam. She kept all this secret. Jesus, how her head swam. Morning, noon and night. Is this platonic?

_____

She did not know what was possible or impossible anymore. She could not conclusively discount that she may be in love with the occupant of the window seat. She had no idea what to do with her apartment. She couldn’t find her CD player now. She must have sent it off with the movers. She could play CD’s on her computer. Oh, that’s right. That’s all right then. She couldn’t swear she wasn’t in love. Thank god nobody noticed or asked her. She hadn’t told Delilah yet about the furniture. That she had no furniture! God! Did she know anymore why she got rid of the furniture? She had no recollection of having possessed that urge. It had been an impulse. She had an impulse now. To scream with joy.

_____

What had first attracted Lydia to her penthouse apartment was its large and airy rooms. She had liked, too, its lack of nooks and crannies, its white undecorated walls, the hard slate-gray flooring throughout, how the click of her heels as she walked on that surface pierced the solemn air of the apartment and traveled into every room. The swift report issuing back, telling her of the vast emptiness that surrounded her was, at that time, pleasant and reassuring. It did not speak of isolation then, but rather of wide open spaces, room to live in, as opposed to the cramped and cluttered accommodations she had been used to before.

It was the vast emptiness she wished to preserve, she had informed her decorator then. He had understood this, furnishing the penthouse with his sharply functional and utilitarian sensibilities, the kitchen completely in stainless steel. Over the large, otherwise sunny living room windows he had hung serious and industrial looking curtains. Devoid of pattern, their color was consistent with that of the floor and with the overall palette, the mostly cold grays of fabrics and metals that were sparsely arranged throughout her rooms.

That was years ago and Lydia had never disturbed it, except on one occasion, just a few months ago, when she had contacted the decorator again, for the purpose of selecting a rug or “something soft” to put on her hard living room floor. He had selected an industrial weave “inspired” (he said) by the “mood” of the place and the color of the furniture and floor. At least it was soft.

But her interiors had become architecturally undigestable and now Lydia found her penthouse cold and drab. Its repetitive emptiness and its nuanced reminders of emptiness were depressing and uninspiring and she felt on edge there, unable to relax. She had come to hate the uncomfortable couch, was repelled by the cold metals and rough fabrics of her chairs, despised the oversized paintings of polka dots that had been selected to liven the living room. That was all there was to it. The place, she had finally concluded, was simply a mockery of life. Emptiness was not a real life, not what she was after. At least not anymore. She began wondering about real people and how real people furnished real homes.

_____

Lydia’s decision to redo the penthouse from the floor up caught Delilah off guard. She had been encouraged to believe by her friend’s recent demeanor that the crisis had passed and that she was on the road to recovery from…well, from whatever it was that ailed her. Delilah gasped into the receiver. Lydia had emptied the posh apartment of all her furniture except a mattress.

“But, Liddy. Why?”

“I hated it, that’s why.”

“But you spent a fortune on it.”

“I don’t care about the money, Del.”

“Just a mattress? Liddy! How will you live?”

“Plus I’m having parquet floors installed this week!”

“Floors–Liddy! You can’t stay there then. When will they be done?”

“A week and a half they say. I’m going to do the rest after that.”

The line was quiet. It was done. She knew Delilah was accepting it, probably smiling already at the entertaining picture she had created. Lydia Beaumont, interior renovator extraordinaire, covered with paint and–

“Liddy, you’re nuts. Get some things together. You stay here till it’s done.”

“Okay. Tomorrow, though, Del. I’m leaving for lunch now.”

“Where are you going? I’ll meet you.”

Lydia hesitated. “Nah, meet me at the paint store, Del. The one on the corner. Yeah, that’s the one. Oh, it’s no biggee, wait till you see. I’m picking them out by myself, Del. I’m thinking antiques. I don’t know yet.

One piece at a time. I don’t care. Del…meet me at two. Yes, I have clothes. Two. See ya!”

Empty window seat at Frank’s. Lydia stood at the door watching as the waiter sat an older couple there. It instantly put a damper on her spirits and she wondered elaborately over the reason why the woman couldn’t lunch today. No clue from the waiter. He was his typical affable self as he escorted her to her regular table where she then lingered indecisively over the menu and unknowingly cast resentful glances over the edge of it and across the room.

Presently he returned and handed her a drink. She recognized it immediately.

“Cognac?”

“Yes, cognac.”

“Anonymous?”

“But of course.”

She grinned and took a small sip. “Mmmmm. And what do you think anonymous would want me to have for lunch today?”

“Well,” said the waiter, “I can ask for you, if you give me a minute.”

Ask?

He didn’t give her a chance to take it back. She watched in bewilderment as the waiter placed a phone call from behind the bar, watched his amiable facial expressions as he conspired with the unknown party on the other end of the line. Oh, no, she worried. No time for this. Had she unwittingly made herself the object of romantic subterfuge? She downed the cognac and waited anxiously for him to get off the phone so she could call the whole thing off.

He was in no hurry.

Fun with food. First cognac and now lunch. One missing blond. Lydia suspected a connection. There’s a connection. It’s obviously connected. She glanced at the waiter. Only he could say. He hung up and with an inscrutable expression went into the kitchen. She laughed to herself then. Forget asking him. What if there’s no connection at all? Well. You can’t be debauched by a lunch, she told herself, the cognac nestling warm in her empty stomach and slowly going to her head. She settled into her chair and surrendered.

It was not long after exiting for the kitchen that the waiter returned to her side delivering with a satisfied grin a chilled asparagus salad drenched in fresh raspberry vinaigrette. Finger food. Was she drunk or was there something suggestive about this? She blushed at its arrival. He set a fluted glass down beside it and made to leave again.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“Champagne.”

She smiled and shook her head. In deep. “Thank you,” she said, taking a sip and waiting till he was out of sight before nibbling at the asparagus.

The lunch entree arrived and was not to be outdone by a salad. It sat flamboyantly before her. She gulped at the bubbly and tentatively inspected a French pancake overstuffed with creamed oysters, dripping with a butter sauce.

She sighed and whispered, “Impressive. And this is?”

“A crepe, madam.”

Mmmmm.

“Enjoy.”

She did.

The finale came as a bright, reddish liquid.

“Orange fruit soup.”

Oh, sure. She brought a spoon of it to her lips and swallowed. Delicious.

“The check is taken care of,” he said later, refusing her card.

“Oh, my god,” she said wistfully, “I could get used to this.”

He smiled and without a slip said, “I’m sure your benefactor will be glad to know that.”

She faltered at the door and he assisted her with her jacket. The question begged but she didn’t dare ask it.

Instead, she thanked him and stepped outside. It had become spring without her knowing it. She was hot under all her clothes.

_____

“Something warm.”

The clerk brought Lydia another batch of color chips and she oohed and aahed over olives and mustards for an hour while Delilah looked on skeptically.

She preferred white or off-white combinations to greens or yellows and warned emphatically that the wrong paint will make the space seem too small.

Lydia wanted that.

“If you’re not careful it’ll end up looking like a Hungarian whorehouse.”

“Hah! I’ve made worse mistakes!”

They spent the rest of the day walking the waterfront, scoping out the curios and antique shops. In one of them Lydia found a pair of black netted gloves still in their box.

“Now where would you wear these?” she asked Delilah. She was infatuated.

“Ooh, slinky.”

“Silk,” uttered the blue-haired proprietor. “They are of silk.”

Lydia couldn’t place the woman’s accent. She had a sly, sophisticated face covered with age spots and wrinkles, and the overall patina of wealthier days, albeit faded.

She slipped one of the gloves onto Lydia’s hand.

“For the bedroom,” the woman said in a sultry tone. “Special.”

The universe contracted and then expanded again.

“A gift for the woman he wants in his bed,” she added. “You don’t wear them too long, I don’t think.”

“I thought we were looking for furniture, Liddy.”

Something for the bedroom…

“I’ll take them.”

The sun came out and Delilah went to greet it.

“Good luck,” said the shopkeeper as Lydia was leaving.

The bell over the shop door tinkled as it closed behind her.

“I couldn’t resist, Delilah.”

“I see that. Now all you need is a dresser to put them in.”

_____

The Dow was barely three thousand when Lydia had started out, and even that, her father had assured her, was astonishing. In those days a four or five-hundred-point fall was considered a collapse and it still made her nervous when it happened.