The Witch and the Borscht Pearl (6 page)

Since Pearl never really mingled in village daily life, the excitement faded quickly. Tourist season was in full swing and we shopkeepers, at least, had no time to stand around speculating, except in blessedly rare lulls. We all had a good season that year.

A good season for me meant the mortgage and bills were paid through September (including last winter’s arrears) and I was able to stash enough surplus to carry the shop, me, and Daniel until the Holidays began in mid November. I was at that break-even stage in business, where only my nose was above water.

Time sped by and it was early November before Pearl and Bella appeared on the local gossip network again. And again it concerned a party. A small one, this time, scheduled for the following Saturday night. As before, Pearl had invited Mrs. Risk and said I was welcome to come, too. To the best of my knowledge, in the three months since Pearl’s birthday, the necklace hadn’t been found. Bella hadn’t been spotted around Wyndham in weeks. It was with high excitement that I accepted Mrs. Risk’s invitation to go with her to this second party.

That Saturday evening, a maitre’d directed us to what Mrs. Risk informed me was the choicest table in the place—a dimly spotlighted corner with a cushy banquette on one side. Windows behind the banquette gave us a romantic view of the moonlit Sound. We were two villages east of Wyndham in the tiny five-star French place called Bon Nuit, outwardly a modest white house tucked just off the main road (yes, still Shore Drive), but inwardly the most exalted and prestigious temple to fine food on Long Island. I’d heard about it, but had never been here. Not at these prices. I’d had to borrow the little navy velvet dress I wore from a friend. (Dresses weren’t in my budget until next year.) Mrs. Risk, of course, wore black. Chic, tailored, just touching the knee, black.

Judging from the number of places set, this party was small indeed. When Mrs. Risk had told me the purpose of the evening, I’d felt a little awestricken to be included. We arrived first, but Pearl walked in right behind us and greeted us with hugs. Not to sound cynical, because in spite of not knowing her very well I really was thrilled to see Pearl, but everybody hugs in New York. The ‘air’ kissing thing happens a lot, too.

Anyway, we hugged. Though her pallor was evident even in the restaurant’s dim light, she still radiated a performer’s vibrant persona that unconsciously captures center stage. She was just at six feet in her low French-heeled shoes, nearly as tall as her manager, Solly. With such a large-boned frame, I could easily envision her as a gangly teenager—all arms, legs, huge feet and hands.

I’d seen films of her earlier routines in comedy clubs or on television variety shows, and she’d carried substantial weight then. After the death of her husband, Bernie, and the subsequent development of her heart condition, she’d dropped forty pounds or more. Excess, unfilled skin had given her a hound dog look until she’d had a local surgeon snip it off—I’d heard. She looked strangely elegant in her black dinner sheath. I use the word ‘strangely’, because elegance had never been her style. Brash, raucous, ‘in your face’, garnished with sequins and vulnerability. Her fans adored her. I was one of them. Daniel, too, which again just shows his superiority, in my opinion.

Her subject was life, and she was a Jewish philosopher whose warm hearted hilarity at her own foibles had endeared her to humanity. At the end of each routine, her wide open arms seemed to gather her audience for a comforting hug. Few failed to be charmed.

Tonight she looked sensational. I told her so.

She laid a warm hand on my shoulder and grinned. “Did you hear about the guy who dreamed God told him to fix himself up? He gets a hair transplant, a nose job, diets until he’s nice and slim, and buys new clothes. All of a sudden, he’s struck by lightning on a local golf course. He goes to heaven, but God doesn’t talk to him. No matter what he does he can’t get God’s attention. Finally he shouts at God, ‘Hey, you told me in my dreams to better myself. I had a nose job, got a hair transplant, I took off weight—now you won’t even talk to me?’ God says, “Don’t holler at me, Irving. I didn’t recognize you.”

“Ooof,” said Mrs. Risk, making a sour face.

I laughed.

Pearl tsked at Mrs. Risk. “Rachel obviously has all the sense of humor between the two of you.”

Then a commotion at the door drew our attention. Solly strode in, flushed with cold and as radiant as a traffic light gone amok. His proprietary hand cradled the elbow of a woman, and that woman was Bella. Petite, at least eight inches shorter than her sister, her fragile frame had obviously come from a separate branch of the family tree. Unlike, and yet—a resemblance existed. Both were dark and had strong features, with prominent cheekbones and large eyes. They had similarly low foreheads, from which their thick glossy hair, with no visible grey, swept back, although their styles couldn’t have been more different. Bella swirled her hair into a simple twist and tuck, where she anchored it with a long pin. Pearl’s short cropped hair spiked like a little boy’s when she dragged her fingers through it, a habit she had. Still, even ten years apart, no one could miss that Bella and Pearl were sisters. I didn’t know them well enough to compare beyond physical attributes.

Even though I’d been warned what to expect, I still breathed in Mrs. Risk’s ear, “Look at that!” as Solly marched towards us, towing his prize.

“Hush,” she replied, eyeing Pearl.

I lowered my voice even more. “Don’t kid me! You’re as amazed as I am! You didn’t know what was happening, or you would’ve told me long before now! Gee, I hope your powers aren’t slipping.”

After a long suffering sigh, she said, “You might want to collect your things from that chair so somebody can sit there.”

I hastened to comply, then here they were.

“Hello, hello!” Solly hugged and kissed all around, even me, and especially Pearl. “Has anyone else arrived?” He bounced on his toes like a little boy. Bella and Pearl nodded to each other warily, omitting the regulation hug.

“Take a deep breath, Pearl,” murmured Mrs. Risk, peering at her closely. Pearl flushed, which, to my relief, added color to her skin.

Then two more couples entered the room and made straight for our table, followed by a very thin deeply tanned older woman with unnaturally vivid red hair—the Leeann woman I remembered from Pearl’s party.

One of the couples I knew and greeted enthusiastically—Dr. Tony Savoia and his tall, elegant, and indulgent wife, Fran. The other couple was introduced to Mrs. Risk and me as Stephen and Melissa Graham, Pearl’s new accountant and his wife. A medium tall, medium sized guy with medium brown hair, Graham had the perky wholesome air of a spit-shined Boy Scout. His wife, also a collection of ‘mediums,’ looked equally young, but defensive and a little sour. Both had under-dressed, or maybe L. L. Bean ruled their closets.

Then a slim darkly beautiful woman in her forties quietly glided up to us: the jazz singer, Ilene Fox. She had come alone and stood silently until Pearl claimed her with a warm hug.

With some chaotic maneuvering, for the restaurant was crowded, a beaming Solly arranged the seating of everyone while chattering male nonsense. “Well, well, we’re all here! Look at this! Doc, Stephen, and I have collected the most gorgeous women on Long Island. What can all the other men be doing tonight, poor things?”

Leeann giggled as if she believed every word.

While Solly sent our waiter running for champagne, I admit I stared, who could help it? After Bella’s startling appearance at Pearl’s house, the theft of Pearl’s necklace, and then Pearl’s condemnation of Bella as the thief, who wouldn’t stare? How had events progressed from there to this? ‘This’ turned out to be Solly’s and Bella’s engagement party. Solly and Bella sat centered in the long banquette across the table, entwined hands on the table between them. A pale yellow diamond the size of a sugar cube winked and gleamed in the candlelight from its home on Bella’s third finger of her left hand.

“Well.” Solly cleared his throat and stood, speechmaking obviously his intention. I thought I detected a tinge of panic in his smile. “This little family gathering tonight makes it official. Thank you, Stephen and Melissa, Tony and Fran, and you girls,” (meaning the rest of us women—to Solly, I’d already learned, single women of any age are ‘girls’) “for joining us to help celebrate this, the happiest event in my life.” A brilliant spot of crimson dotted each lean cheek.

After a deep breath, he began a confused explanation of why certain close friends (naming Vivian Steiner, Roselle and Simon Lutz, for example) were absent tonight, moved into some kind of philosophic essay—and my attention wandered.

It must be an awkward, maybe even an unnerving experience, marrying for the first time after a bachelorhood of sixty years. Especially if you intend to marry the sister of a woman who’d agreed to marry you only a few short months ago. What had happened? Had the sisters bargained over Solly like the last sweater on a sale counter? Had Bella won?

And what about managing Pearl’s life and career for twenty seven years—wouldn’t there be a certain amount of closeness, a bond between Solly and Pearl after so long an association? What would happen to that now that he’d ditched her, romantically speaking? And with Pearl’s big comeback to manage? Thanksgiving wasn’t far away.

I peeked at Pearl. She sat on my side of the table with Mrs. Risk between us. As she impassively watched Solly make his speech, was she thinking about how Bella had made off with her fiancé thirty years ago, comparing that event and now?

Throughout Solly’s speech, the candlelight made twin flames in the dark pupils of Bella’s eyes. Her stillness fueled my curiosity about her feelings, which were not on display. Was she normally this reserved? I sighed. So many questions, none of which would likely be answered, so I might as well spare myself.

Solly’s words finally trickled away. Reading his silence as a cue, we all surged to our feet in relief and grabbed up our now warm champagne. After clanking glasses to shouted toasts and ‘hear, hear!’, we drank and sat down again. Memories of my own brief but disastrous marriage darted through my head and I shuddered. To banish the ghosts, I seized the basket of hot fresh bread. “Rolls?” I asked the table in general, which brought the conversation around to refreshments. Our waiter, sensing his moment had arrived, dashed up to take orders.

When that was settled, Mrs. Risk commented, “I see this as a special occasion in more ways than the obvious.”

“What d’you mean?” asked Pearl brightly.

“This is the first time the village has seen the two of you sisters together in public since the theft,” Mrs. Risk explained.

I closed my eyes in disbelief.

Pearl looked down at her clasped hands where they lay in her lap. “That’s true.” Her vivid personality diminished briefly, then revived, like the temporary flicker of a dazzling candle.

Mrs. Risk lifted her wineglass, “To the wisdom of reconciliation,” she declared. After an extra heartbeat, everyone followed suit, touching glasses in a subdued manner.

“Solly, are you responsible for this event?” Mrs. Risk continued.

Maybe it was my imagination, but it seemed to me that everything she said could be understood in more than one way, if you wanted to think so.

Solly attempted a roguish wink, but failed. “I guess I am. I’ll take credit for it, anyway. Managers are expert at taking credit for somebody else’s work, aren’t they?” We all obliged him and laughed.

“Everybody wants to be a comic,” Bella complained suddenly, to my overwhelming surprise. That was Pearl’s customary line.

After Mrs. Risk’s bombshell opener, I suppose everyone felt nothing much ruder could be said (except for the obvious issue of stolen fiancés which Mrs. Risk seemed content to ignore—for now) and the relief made conversation flow. Everyone else discussed the weather (harsher than the normal November), the variety of food on the menu, and the latest theater offerings (On Broadway and Off). And I studied the two sisters.

Bella, like myself, left conversation mostly to others, but sent me a guarded glance now and again. I suppose my scrutiny was a little open, maybe it bothered her. I tried to remember my manners.

The waiter brought a fresh bottle and refilled our glasses, then laid out a presentation of paté. Mrs. Risk picked up a knife and, while delicately shaving off a sliver, asked, “Pearl, was your necklace ever recovered by the police?”

My glass slipped through my fingers, splashing champagne across Bella’s hand.

“I’m sorry!” I exclaimed, my face hot as I dabbed at her with my napkin. Why can’t Mrs. Risk signal when she’s about to plunge into disaster? What if Bella had really stolen the necklace? What if Pearl had merely misplaced it and had falsely accused her own sister? What if they’d rather forget the whole thing?

Bella pressed her linen napkin to her lips. Her eyes shifted warily from person to person.

Solly gripped the table edge with both hands and leaned back, pressing his torso into the soft banquette as if wanting to put as much distance between himself and Mrs. Risk as possible. I could sympathize with this attitude.

Pearl gave a shaky laugh. “I, uh, never called in the police. I didn’t want to deal with the—the publicity, and so on. Anyway, no, it hasn’t been found.”

Mrs. Risk asked in astonishment, “But how did you make an insurance claim without a police report?”

“I don’t want the insurance money,” said Pearl, not meeting Mrs. Risk’s eyes. She waved a bony hand negligently in the air as if a quarter of a million dollars was mere lunch money.

“Pearl, this just isn’t sensible of you. Unless of course, there’s some question of whether the necklace was actually stolen. Do you think you just misplaced it?”

“Uh, no. I’m sure that’s not the case.”

“Then theft? Who do you think took it?” Mrs. Risk pressed. I could barely keep myself from groaning aloud.

Solly, bless his managerial instincts, leaped to action. “Proof, my dear Mrs. Risk. Surely you see how harmful it could be to cast about casual accusations without proof. Why, even that caterer woman could’ve taken it.”