“And so do you, even if it will always fall upon me to remind you.”
Edward had been seen regularly with Florentyna during the year, and friends hoped they might soon announce their engagement, but Edward knew that would never be. This was one woman who would always be unattainable, he thought. They were destined to be close friends, never lovers.
After Florentyna had packed her last few belongings and said goodbye to her mother, she checked that she had left nothing in her room and sat on the end of her bed reflecting on her time at Radcliffe. All she had left to show for it was that she had arrived with three suitcases and was leaving with six and a Bachelor of Arts degree. A crimson ice hockey pennant once given to her by Scott was all that remained on the wall. Florentyna unpinned the pennant, held it for a moment, then dropped it into the wastepaper basket.
She sat in the back of the car with her father as the chauffeur drove out of the campus for the last time.
“Could you drive a little slower?” she asked.
“Certainly, ma’am.”
Florentyna turned and stared out of the rear window until the spires of Cambridge were no longer visible above the trees, and there was nothing of her past to see.
Chapter
Thirteen
The chauffeur brought the Rolls-Royce to a halt at the traffic lights on Arlington Street on the west side of the Public Garden. He waited for the lights to turn green while Florentyna chatted with her father about their forthcoming trip to Europe.
As the lights changed, another Rolls passed in front of them, turning off Commonwealth Avenue. Another graduate and parent were deep in conversation in the back.
“I sometimes think it would have been better for you to have gone to Yale, Richard,” she said.
Richard’s mother looked at him approvingly. He already had the fine aristocratic looks that had attracted her to his father over twenty years before, and now he had made it five generations of the family who had graduated from Harvard.
“Why Yale?” he asked gently, pulling his mother back from her reminiscences.
“Well, it might have been healthier for you to get away from the introverted air of Boston.”
“Don’t let Father hear you say that; he would consider such a suggestion nothing less than treason.”
“But do you have to return to Harvard Business School, Richard? Surely there must be other business schools?”
“Like Father, I want to be a banker. If I’m going to follow in his footsteps, Yale isn’t equipped to tie Harvard’s laces,” he said mockingly.
A few minutes later, the Rolls came to a halt outside a large house on Beacon Hill. The front door opened and a butler stood in the doorway.
“We have about an hour before the guests arrive,” said Richard, checking his watch. “I’ll go and change immediately. Mother, perhaps we could meet up a little before seven-thirty in the West Room?” He even sounded like his father, she thought.
Richard bounded up the stairs two at a time; in most houses he could have managed three. His mother followed behind at a more leisurely pace, her hand never once touching the banister.
The butler watched them disappear before returning to the pantry. Mr. Kane’s cousin, Henry Cabot Lodge, would be joining them for dinner, so he wanted to double-check that everything below stairs was perfect.
Richard stood in the shower smiling at the thought of his mother’s concern. He had always wanted to graduate from Harvard and improve on his father’s achievements. He couldn’t wait to enroll at the Business School next fall, although he had to admit he was looking forward to taking Mary Bigelow to Barbados that summer. He had met Mary in the rehearsal rooms of the Music Society and later they were both invited to play in the university string quartet. The pert little lady from Radcliffe played the violin far better than he performed on the cello. When he eventually serenaded the reluctant Mary into bed he found she was again the better tuned, despite her pretense at inexperience. Since those days he had also discovered she was highly strung.
Richard turned the dial to “Cold” for a brief moment before leaping out. He dried and changed into evening dress. He checked himself in the mirror: double-breasted. Richard suspected he would be the only person that night wearing the latest fashion—not that it mattered when you were a little over six feet, slim and dark. Mary had once said that he looked good in everything from jock strap to morning coat.
He went downstairs and waited in the West Room for his mother to join him. When she appeared the butler served them both a drink.
“Good heavens, are double-breasted suits back in fashion?” she inquired.
“You had better believe it. The very latest thing, Mother.”
“I can’t believe it,” she said. “I remember…”
The butler coughed. They both looked around. “The Honorable Henry Cabot Lodge,” he announced.
“Cabot,” said Richard’s mother.
“Kate my dear,” he replied, before kissing her on the cheek. Kate smiled; her cousin was wearing a double-breasted jacket.
Richard smiled, because it looked twenty years old.
Richard and Mary Bigelow returned from Barbados almost as brown as the natives. They stopped off in New York to have dinner with Richard’s parents, who thoroughly approved of his choice. After all, she was the great-niece of Alan Lloyd, who had succeeded Richard’s grandfather as chairman of the family bank.
Once Richard had returned to the Red House, their Boston residence on Beacon Hill, he quickly settled down and prepared himself for the Business School. Everyone had warned him it was the most demanding course at the university with the largest number of dropouts, but once the term had started, even he was surprised by how little free time he had to enjoy other pursuits. Mary began to despair when he had to relinquish his place in the string quartet and could manage to see her only on weekends.
At the end of the first year she suggested they should return to Barbados and was disappointed to find he intended to stay put in Boston and continue studying.
When Richard returned for his final year he was determined to finish at or near the top of his class, and his father warned him not to relax until after the last exam paper had been completed. His father had added that if he did not make the top 10 percent he needn’t apply for a position at the bank. William Kane would not be accused of nepotism.
At Christmas, Richard rejoined his parents in New York but remained for only three days before returning to Boston. His mother became quite anxious about the pressure he was putting himself under, but Richard’s father pointed out that it was only for another six months. Then he could relax for the rest of his life. Kate reserved her opinion; she hadn’t seen her husband relax in twenty-five years.
At Easter, Richard called his mother to say he ought to remain in Boston during the brief spring vacation, but she managed to convince him he should come down for his father’s birthday. He agreed but added that he would have to return to Harvard the next morning.
Richard arrived at the family home on East Sixty-eighth Street just after four on the afternoon of his father’s birthday. His mother was there to greet him, as were his sisters, Virginia and Lucy. His mother considered he looked drawn and tired, and she longed for his exams to be over. Richard knew that his father would not break his routine at the bank for anyone’s birthday. He would arrive home a few minutes after seven.
“What have you bought for Daddy’s birthday?” inquired Virginia.
“I was waiting for your advice,” said Richard flatteringly, having quite forgotten about a present.
“That’s what I call leaving it until the last moment,” said Lucy. “I bought my present three weeks ago.”
“I know the very thing he needs,” said his mother. “A pair of gloves—his old ones are nearly worn out.”
“Dark blue, leather, with no pattern,” said Richard, laughing. “I’ll go to Bloomingdale’s right now.”
He strode down Lexington Avenue, falling in with the
pace of the city. He was already looking forward to joining his father in the fall, and felt confident that if there were no distractions in the last few months he would come out in that top 10 percent. He would emulate his father and one day be chairman of the bank. He smiled at the thought. He pushed open the doors of Bloomingdale’s, strode up the steps and asked an assistant where he could buy gloves. As he began making his way through the crowded store he glanced at his watch. Plenty of time to be back and change for dinner before his father returned. He looked up at the two girls behind the glove counter. He smiled; the wrong one smiled back.
The smiling girl came quickly forward. She was a honey blonde with a little too much lipstick and one more button undone than Bloomingdale’s could possibly have approved of. Richard couldn’t help admiring such confidence. A small name tag pinned over her left breast read “Maisie Luntz.”
“Can I help you, sir?” she asked.
“Yes,” said Richard. He glanced toward the dark-haired girl. “I need a pair of gloves, dark blue, leather, with no pattern,” he said without letting his eyes return to the blonde.
Maisie selected a pair and put them on Richard’s hands, pushing the leather slowly down each finger and then holding them up for him to admire.
“If they don’t suit you, you could try another pair.”
“No, that’s just fine,” he said. “Do I pay you or the other girl?”
“I can take care of you.”
“Damn,” said Richard under his breath. He left reluctantly, determined he would return the next day. Until that afternoon he had considered love at first sight the most ridiculous cliché, fit only for readers of women’s magazines.
His father was delighted with the “sensible” present, as he referred to the gloves over dinner that night, and even more delighted with Richard’s progress at Business School.
“If you are in the top ten percent I shall be happy to consider offering you a position of trainee at the bank,” he said for the thousandth time.
Virginia and Lucy grinned. “What if Richard comes out number one, Daddy? Will you make him chairman?” asked Lucy.
“Don’t be frivolous, my girl. If Richard ever becomes chairman it will be because he will have earned the position after years of dedicated, hard work.” He turned to his son. “Now, when are you returning to Harvard?”
Richard was about to say tomorrow, when he said, “I think tomorrow.”
“Quite right” was all his father said.
The next day Richard returned not to Harvard, but to Bloomingdale’s, where he headed straight for the glove counter. Before he had any chance of letting the other girl serve him, Maisie pounced; he could do nothing about it except purchase another pair of gloves and return home.
The following morning, Richard returned to Bloomingdale’s for a third time and studied ties on the next counter until Maisie was busy serving a customer and the other girl was free. He then marched confidently up to the counter and waited for her to serve him. To Richard’s horror, Maisie disengaged herself in midsentence from her customer and rushed over while the other girl took her place.
“Another pair of gloves?” giggled the blonde.
“Yes…Yes,” he said lamely.
Richard left Bloomingdale’s with yet another pair of gloves, dark blue, leather, with no pattern.
The following day he told his father he was still in New York because he had to gather some data from Wall Street to complete a paper. As soon as his father had left for the bank, he headed off to Bloomingdale’s. This time he had a plan for ensuring he spoke to the other girl. He marched up to the glove counter fully expecting Maisie to rush up, when the other assistant came forward to serve him.
“Good morning, sir,” she said.
“Oh, good morning,” said Richard, suddenly at a loss for words.
“Can I help you?”
“No—I mean yes. I would like a pair of gloves,” he added unconvincingly.
“Yes, sir. Have you considered dark blue? In leather? I’m sure we have your size—unless we’re sold out.”
Richard looked at the name on her lapel badge: Jessie Kovats. She passed him the gloves. He tried them on. They didn’t fit. He tried another pair and looked toward Maisie. She grinned at him encouragingly. He grinned nervously back. Jessie Kovats handed him another pair of gloves. This time they fit perfectly.
“I think that’s what you’re looking for,” said Jessie.
“No, not really,” said Richard.
Jessie lowered her voice and said, “I’ll go and rescue Maisie. Why don’t you ask her out? I’m sure she’ll say yes.”
“Oh, no,” said Richard. “You don’t understand. It’s not her I want to take out—it’s you.”
Jessie looked totally surprised.
“Will you have dinner with me tonight?”
“Yes,” she said shyly.
“Shall I pick you up at your home?”
“No. Let’s meet at a restaurant.”
“Where would you like to go?”
Jessie didn’t reply.
“Allen’s at Seventy-third and Third?” Richard suggested.
“Yes, fine” was all Jessie said.
“Around eight suit you?”
“Around eight,” said Jessie.
Richard left Bloomingdale’s with what he wanted and it wasn’t a pair of gloves.
Richard couldn’t remember a time when he had spent all day thinking about a girl, but from the moment Jessie had said “Yes” he had thought of nothing else.
Richard’s mother was delighted that he had decided to spend another day in New York and wondered if Mary Bigelow was in town. Yes, she decided, when she passed the bathroom and heard Richard singing, “Once I had a secret love.”
Richard gave an unusual amount of thought to what he should wear that evening. He decided against a suit, finally selecting a navy-blue blazer and a pair of gray flannel slacks. He also spent a little longer looking at himself in the mirror. Too Ivy League, he feared, but there wasn’t much he could do about that at short notice.
He left the house on Sixty-eighth Street just before seven. It was a crisp, clear evening and he arrived at Allen’s a few minutes after seven-thirty and ordered himself a Budweiser. Every few moments he checked his watch as the minute hand climbed up toward eight o’clock, and then every few seconds once it had passed the agreed hour, wondering if he would be disappointed when he saw her again.
He wasn’t.
She stood in the doorway looking radiant in a simple blue dress that he assumed had come from Bloomingdale’s, though any woman would have known it was a Ben Zuckerman. Her eyes searched the room. At last she saw Richard walking toward her.
“I am sorry to be late—” she began.
“It’s not important. What’s important is that you came.”
“You thought I wouldn’t?”
“I wasn’t sure,” Richard said, smiling. They stood staring at each other. “I’m sorry I don’t know your name,” he said, not wanting to admit he had seen it every day at Bloomingdale’s.
She hesitated. “Jessie Kovats. And yours?”
“Richard Kane,” he said, offering her his hand. She took it and he found himself not wanting to let go.
“And what do you do when you’re not buying gloves at Bloomingdale’s?” asked Jessie.
“I’m at Harvard Business School.”
“I’m surprised they didn’t teach you that most people only have two hands.”
He laughed, already delighted that it wasn’t going to be her looks alone that would make the evening memorable.
“Shall we sit down?” suggested Richard, taking her arm and leading her to his table.
Jessie began to study the menu on the blackboard.
“Salisbury steak?” she inquired.
“A hamburger by any other name,” said Richard.
She laughed and he was surprised that she had picked up his out-of-context quotation so quickly, and then felt guilty, because
as the evening progressed it became obvious that she had seen more plays, read more novels and even attended more concerts that he had. It was the first time in his life he regretted his single-minded dedication to studying.
“Do you live in New York?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said as she sipped the third coffee Richard had allowed the waiter to pour. “With my parents.”
“Which part of town?” he asked.
“East Fifty-seventh Street,” Jessie replied.
“Then let’s walk,” he said, taking her hand.
Jessie smiled her agreement and they zigzagged back across town on their stroll toward Fifty-seventh Street. To prolong their time together, Richard stopped to gaze into store windows he would normally have passed on the trot. Jessie’s knowledge of fashion and shop management was daunting. Richard felt sorry that she had not been able to finish her education but had left school at sixteen to work in the Baron Hotel before going on to work at Bloomingdale’s.
It took them nearly an hour to cover the sixteen blocks from the restaurant. When they reached Fifty-seventh Street, Jessie stopped outside a small, old apartment house.
“This is where my parents live,” she said. He held on to her hand.
“I hope you will see me again,” said Richard.
“I’d like that,” said Jessie, not sounding very enthusiastic.
“Tomorrow?” asked Richard diffidently.
“Tomorrow?” queried Jessie.
“Yes. Why don’t we go to the Blue Angel and see Bobby Short?” He took her hand again. “It’s a little more romantic than Allen’s.”
Jessie seemed uncertain, as if the request was causing her a problem.
“Not if you don’t want to,” he added.
“I’d love to,” she said in a whisper.
“I’m having dinner with my father, so why don’t I pick you up around ten o’clock?”
“No, no,” said Jessie. “I’ll meet you there. It’s only two blocks away.”
“Ten o’clock then.” He leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. It was the first time he was aware of a delicate perfume. “Good night, Jessie,” he said, and walked away.
The Prodigal Daughter Page 16