“Yes,” Letty managed after a minute.
“You‧ll never be the queen of high kicks, I‧m afraid.”
“No.” Letty sighed. “But I can sing.”
“Even better. Show me.”
“Show you … now?” They came to a busy avenue, where people were walking by on both sides. The first floor of every window was a storefront, inside which shopgirls leaned against counters and stared out at the passing pageant. “Here?”
“Why not?”
“But—but there are all these people.”
“Oh, what does it matter? Everyone is always just paying attention to themselves anyhow.”
They were still walking, but Letty let her eyes drift closed and stopped thinking about her forward motion. She remembered the reflection of the girl with the smart bob, and she lifted her hands and began to sing a song she knew from the radio, about the joys of dancing barefoot until two o‧clock. Her voice was timid at first, but then it rose to full capacity, and when it did she forgot the people around her and began to move a little with the melody.
When she was finished, she did a twirl and bowed toward Paulette. Then she peeked, with a mixture of pride and fearfulness, to see what she thought. Paulette‧s eyebrows were raised, and her eyes were round with sincere admiration. “You got it, kiddo,” Paulette said.
But before Letty could thank her or even absorb the full pleasure of that subtle, stylish endorsement, she got another.
“Bravo!” a man called out, and she turned toward the sound of clapping.
There were people all around, some of them watching her with sudden attentiveness, but most of them going about their business, just as Paulette had predicted, and it took another few moments for her eyes to settle on the gentleman in question. He was fair, wearing a straw boater, and he was hanging from an idling electric streetcar. Though his nose had decided character, his face was soft and gentle like a college boy‧s. There was something teddy bear-like in the way his gray herringbone suit fit. His eyes were observant but not piercing, and set back so that his brow cast a shadow over them, and when he noticed that Letty had spotted him, he began clapping again.
“Bravo!” he repeated.
To hide her blush, Letty gave an even deeper curtsy, bowing her head so that the tips of her dark hair cut across her cheekbones. Then she stood up quickly and grabbed for Paulette‧s hand, so they could hurry away before anyone noticed the embarrassment coloring the skin from her face down to her clavicles.
“Where can I see you again?” the young man called after her. The car had lurched into motion and was now passing the girls as they ran hand in hand up the avenue.
“You know where Seventh Heaven is?” Paulette called out.
The man nodded.
“She works there! Come by and see her sometime.”
The man lifted his hat and tipped it in their direction as the car continued uptown, and the girls’ run slowed to a brisk walk.
“He was nice!” Paulette said, laughing and catching her breath. “You see the kind of attention a little talent and a good haircut will get you?”
Letty nodded in agreement. “But I don‧t work at Seventh Heaven,” she said when her giggles had subsided.
“Well, rent doesn‧t pay itself, sister. We‧ve gotta get you something to do.”
“Rent?” They turned off the avenue onto a side street, and Letty let the word echo in her mind. She found it had never held so much appeal. “You mean, I can be your roommate?”
“Yes. You‧re one of us now, which—I‧m sorry to inform you—is pricier than life back in Indiana.”
“Ohio,” Letty corrected her, but she smiled anyway.
“Ohio. But the manager, Mr. Cole, he likes me—he‧ll hire you if I ask nice.”
“Thank you,” Letty whispered, though no matter how she tried, she wouldn‧t have been able to convey the gratitude she felt toward this girl who, in less than a day, had turned her fortune around so completely.
9
ON CORDELIA‧S SECOND MORNING WAKING UP TO THE Calla Lily Suite, at Dogwood, she experienced not even a hint of disorientation. It was as though she‧d opened her eyes to exactly this room every day of her life. By then she knew that the flaky, crescent-shaped pastries they brought in the morning were called croissants, and she had gathered—although she still hadn‧t heard anything to confirm it—that the bizarre flowers filling the tall, rectangular silver vases all over the room were calla lilies, even though they were more austere and futuristic than any lily she had ever seen, like flowers that grew on the moon.
She pushed herself up against the white leather upholstered headboard. The sun must have been high in the sky already; it flooded the room. The dress she had worn the night before was thrown over the white stuffed chair nearest the bed, and she had slept in her black slip, which itself had cost considerably more than any dress she had ever owned. On the other side of the room, across a carpet that spread out like a soft acre of new-fallen snow, sat a dozen or so packages from Bergdorf Goodman. Bergdorf, she now knew, was a place on Fifth Avenue that sold ladies’ clothing for outrageous amounts of money where she and Astrid had spent much of the previous day. Later, they had eaten dinner at a fancy hotel, and Charlie and his gang had met them, and then the girls had been sent back rather late to White Cove in the Daimler. She smiled, thinking of her new clothes and all the evenings on which she would wear them, but before she could help it her mind had turned to Letty and how much she would have loved all this, and her joy dimmed.
She poured a cup of coffee and crossed the room toward the terrace. Outside the air was warmer, and it was full of pollen and the smell of leaves. The white tent that she‧d danced under two nights before—it seemed a lifetime ago—was still intact, although all the evidence of broken champagne glasses and discarded shoes had been carried away. Two men wearing undershirts and trousers held up by suspenders were walking on the lawn in the direction of the entrance, one of them with a rifle resting over his shoulder.
“Miss Grey …?”
She turned at the sound of her name and went back inside. “Yes?”
Elias Jones, standing in the doorway, averted his eyes when he saw she was only wearing a slip. “I‧m … sorry. We aren‧t used to ladies—young ladies, ladies like you—here. Mr. Grey has instructed me to hire a maid for you. Then we won‧t have any more of these awkward intrusions.”
“That‧s awfully nice.” Cordelia smiled at the idea that someone was bowing to propriety on her account, and though she tried to look unfazed by the mention of the maid, a little private corner of her heart squealed at the notion that another girl‧s whole job might be to wait on her. “But I‧m not angry.”
“I‧ll find someone by tomorrow,” Jones continued, clearing his throat and ignoring her smile. “In the meantime, please let me know if there is anything you need.”
“Thank you.”
“And there‧s a telephone call for you.”
Cordelia nodded and followed him into the adjacent study, which housed a polished desk, a marmalade-colored rug with a geometric pattern on it, and a black telephone.
“Hello?” she said as Jones disappeared.
“Darling, it‧s me. I hope I didn‧t wake you …”
“No, not at all.” The sadness she‧d felt over Letty faded at the sound of Astrid‧s voice, which reminded her that she did in fact have a friend with whom to delight in this new, rich world. Anyway, had Letty believed Cordelia when she‧d finally told her about Darius, she might have been waking up here now, too. “Though I‧m still in my slip, which it seems I‧ve slept in.”
“Oh, dear, did I just make Elias walk in on you like that?”
“Yes!” Cordelia couldn‧t help but giggle as she pictured how Jones had blanched at the sight of her. “Do you think he‧ll ever forgive me?”
“Forgive you! Darling, I‧d put money on that being the most exalted moment of his day.” She snickered.
“It‧s going to be a beautiful
day, isn‧t it?”
“They‧re all going to be beautiful days from now on. Which is why I‧m calling, as it happens. Have you eaten?”
“No.”
“Then come have lunch with me at the club, won‧t you?”
“Isn‧t it a little early for a nightclub?”
“The country club, silly.”
“Oh.” Cordelia fidgeted with her hem. Of course, the White Cove Country Club—she‧d read once that the Greys were not members, because someone else supplied the club‧s liquor, but naturally all the other wealthy families in the area were. “Yes, of course. Should I tell Charlie?”
“No!”
The swiftness of Astrid‧s reply startled Cordelia, and she wondered if she had done something wrong. “But I thought you loved him?”
“Oh, yes, I love Charlie and Charlie loves me and everyone knows it,” she replied in a breezy, childlike voice. “Only—I‧m not in the mood for him just now.”
“All right.”
“So avoid Charlie on your way out, and try to get Danny, you know the young one, the guard you fooled the night of the party, to drive you …”
Cordelia cracked a smile and then remembered that Astrid couldn‧t see it. Few of the small houses in Union had telephones, and Aunt Ida‧s certainly didn‧t. It was new for her and a little peculiar, having a casual conversation like this with someone‧s disembodied voice. “I‧ll see you there in an hour?”
“Perfect, darling. Bisous, bisons!”
“Bisons,” Cordelia replied, though she didn‧t know what the word meant.
An hour later, when the long-lost daughter of Darius Grey, whom everyone was dying to catch a glimpse of, walked onto the terrace luncheon room of the White Cove Country Club, Astrid Donal was already ensconced in a corner table with a particularly good view of the green. Like everyone else under the blue-and-white-striped awning, which shielded the round tables, Astrid was wearing white—a crewneck sweater and an A-line skirt—and a wide straw hat drooped over her pretty face.
Beside her was Billie Marsh, her stepsister, who was a student at Barnard College in Manhattan, and who usually favored darker shades but had that afternoon complied with the unspoken dress code of the place by donning white slacks and blouse. She had not, however, bowed to the tradition stating that women who smoked should do so discreetly; her pack of Chesterfields sat on the table in front of her. Her dark, mannishly cut hair was slicked behind both ears, and her eyes were covered with small, perfectly round black sunglasses. These two girls did not, at a glance, appear to be members of the same family, and it was possible, given the lives their parents had led, that they viewed every domestic arrangement as more or less temporary.
“That can‧t be her,” said Billie, exhaling a cloud of smoke, in a voice devoid of shock that implied of course it must be.
There was a chorus of porcelain teacups being placed back onto porcelain saucers. The din of conversation fell to silence and then rose back to a low hum. Astrid‧s big eyes sailed to a tall girl approaching the Marsh table in a red boatneck dress that was loose in the middle but clung lightly to her hips. Astrid had seen that dress on Cordelia yesterday at Bergdorf and had told her new friend she really ought to have it. The thing just fit her too well. But the cut was a rather audacious choice for an institution as old and formal as the White Cove Country Club, and the color put her completely afoul of many decades of tradition.
“How brave,” Billie commented.
“Yes,” Astrid replied, just before Cordelia came into earshot. “That was one of the first things I noticed about her.”
A moment of awkwardness ensued, in which Cordelia appeared perplexed about the right way to greet them, but then Astrid lifted up her arms to bring her new friend in for a kiss on either cheek.
“Cordelia Grey, this is my stepsister, Billie Marsh.” The girls shook hands. “She insisted on meeting you.”
“Charmed,” said Billie.
“Yes, exactly,” Cordelia replied and sat down.
“I‧m starving,” Astrid said. “Can we order, please?”
For a moment they turned to their menus, but then Astrid noticed that Cordelia was looking over her shoulder at all the people uttering low murmurs and covering their mouths were their hands.
“They‧re staring at me,” she whispered.
“Yes.” Astrid slammed her menu closed. “Ignore them, darling. They are quite shocked that you wore red. We dress in white for the club.”
“You‧ve performed a public service, really,” Billie elaborated in her usual dry tone.
“True.” Astrid signaled the waiter. “Everyone will have something to talk about at dinner.”
“They all want to meet you, you know.” Billie put out her cigarette and smiled. “I‧m not the only one.”
“I had no idea I was supposed to wear white.” A cloud of confusion lingered briefly over Cordelia‧s brow, and then she shrugged, and the light came back into her eyes. “But I am always happy to be of service, and anyway, didn‧t you say you were starving?”
“Yes!”
They ordered bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwiches and iced tea, and enjoyed being watched by the staid old members of the club, who were so obviously pleased to be scandalized. Their food arrived, and as Astrid began to eat with her hands, she felt her contentedness soaring upward to its high point of the day. Each bite was salty and crunchy and fresh, and she had a new friend who was really such an interesting person—and she‧d had no one interesting to talk to in a long time—and she was glad for having successfully avoided Charlie. Plus, she‧d lured his sister to the club where it was a point of pride for him not to go.
He had lied to her—it was subtle, but she was sure of it, because Cordelia and he had crossed paths at a nightclub on an evening she distinctly remembered him saying he was doing nothing, just a little business. Last night, when she and Cordelia were out with Charlie‧s gang, it had been confirmed for her—Danny, the youngest of Grey‧s men, kept apologizing for some scene he‧d made at Seventh Heaven, and saying that really, it was all Charlie‧s fault. Which Astrid was sure it was. Though she was not particularly put out about the lie, she felt that a girl should always return even the smallest transgression with a day or two of cold shouldering, to make her fellow wonder what is wrong and to remind him that he should try extra hard to please her. Yet none of that seemed particularly bothersome to Astrid now. The day was fine and clear, and when Billie finished her food and lit another cigarette, it seemed to punctuate the slow-moving pleasure of the day.
But in another moment, Astrid‧s contentedness shriveled away to almost nothing.
“Hello, dears.”
On the other side of the low stone wall that demarcated the edge of the luncheon room stood the third Mrs. Marsh, wearing jodhpurs and a black velvet riding hat. Her mouth was smirking, and the expression she wore seemed to suggest she was terribly pleased with herself. A few feet behind her stood Luke. Astrid‧s throat constricted. There was that same incongruity to his appearance as the other day—the hard, ropey body and the sweet, sad lashes—and she found she liked looking at him now just as much as she had then. The sun was very bright, and she was glad that she had to squint, which somewhat obscured the flirtatious face she might otherwise have made.
“Whom do we have here?” Astrid‧s mother asked.
“This is my new friend, Cordelia Grey.” There was a kind of pride in Astrid‧s voice when she said it, but she could not bring herself to smile. “This is my mother, Virginia.”
“Ah, the Cordelia Grey!” Mrs. Marsh said grandly, and then she stepped forward and extended her hand to grip Cordelia‧s. The older woman‧s eyes burned with fascination, a kind of voyeuristic interest that might have irked Astrid at another time, except that Astrid was having a hard time not gazing past her at the handsome boy in denim, and he was having a hard time not reciprocating. The skin under his eyes was delicate, and his black hair kept flopping in his face when he tried to avert his gaze fro
m the young Miss Donal.
“We have all heard about you, you know,” Virginia Marsh continued. “What a wonder that you have been returned to your father. You‧ll have to come over and visit. We—my husband and I—love to entertain.”
“Thank you,” Cordelia replied.
“This is Luke, my riding instructor.”
Billie lit another cigarette. “I wouldn‧t think you‧d need lessons, Mrs. Marsh.”
“One can always be more perfect.” Astrid‧s mother moved her body so that she eclipsed her daughter‧s view of Luke, an act that flooded Astrid with irrational sorrow. She didn‧t want anything particular from the boy who had once walked her pony for her, except that she found his eyes so nice to look into, and she wanted to go on doing it and not think of anything else. He was just like summer, and she loved summer. If she had any wish, it would be to live a lifetime of summers. “And Luke is such an excellent instructor.”
“Yes, he must be.” Astrid inclined herself so that part of the riding instructor‧s face was again visible, and she let her fluffy blond hair fall girlishly across one cheek. “You‧ll have to give me a lesson one of these days,” she added, and for extra measure gave Luke a slow, flirtatious wink.
Virginia Donal de Gruyter Marsh stiffened and reached for the young man‧s hand. “He‧s quite busy, dear. We‧ll ask for the club to assign you someone else. You do need the discipline.”
Then the elder lady turned on her heel and went striding forward across the green, pulling the handsome young man after her, as though he were an accessory. Astrid simmered—she couldn‧t stand her mother. Her desire for the young man to turn back and look at her one more time was almost equal to her desire for her mother to twist her ankle right then, in the bright sunlight, with all of the White Cove Country Club watching. But Virginia Marsh didn‧t falter, and when Astrid forced herself to stop gaping at their receding figures, she noticed that her new friend was pushing back from the table.
“Where‧s Miss Grey going?” Billie asked as Cordelia strode purposefully away.
Bright Young Things Page 9