The sloping hillsides on three sides of the lake meant that even the locals would have a good view of the races. They set up picnics and laid down blankets and made a family day of it.
We boarded the yacht at eleven o’clock and immediately the champagne began flowing. I’d seen horse shows; I’d been to football games, big ones with pride and rivalry fueling the atmosphere in the stadium. I’d even been to an opera attended by royalty, but I had never been to an event so charged with energy as this Gold Cup race day.
Some of the outfits were so outrageous you’d swear we were all attending the wedding of a dignitary, not a motorboat show. The women wore silk scarves over coiffed hairdos or huge, wide-rimmed straw hats with all sorts of embellishments. Dolly brought me a hat to wear and I was grateful because it made me feel the part. Some allowed their swimsuits to peep out from sweeping chiffon dresses that were daytime appropriate due to the pastel colors of yellow, blue or pink. It wasn’t apparent, until later that afternoon, that the relentless sun and libations would persuade us to strip down to nothing but swimming costumes and lounge around on the deck chairs.
About forty-five minutes into the party I finally met the host. Dolly and I were sitting at the back of the boat away from all the cigar smoke, debating how long it would take for the first drunken fool to tip over the side of the boat, when Winthrop Aldrick emerged from the water and climbed up the ladder.
“Much better,” he said as one of his servants appeared by his side with a folded towel, a tray with a cocktail, a cigar and a small bowl of fruit.
“Where have you been?” Dolly laughed.
“Away from those pills up front. Some men are so shortsighted, they can’t envision a world beyond the one they live in today. Need a refresher, ladies?” he asked; then without waiting for a response he nodded to his servant, who disappeared and reappeared just as quickly with two new glasses of champagne and a small cheese plate, fresh-cut fruit and crackers. He set it down on a folded table he had brought out with him.
“Winthrop,” he said, holding out his hand to Dolly and then to me. He was about fifty with a full head of silver hair but in impeccable shape for a man of his age. “I’m so glad you are enjoying my boat, ladies.” He turned to Dolly. “You’re Clark’s wife, if I remember correctly.”
“Correct,” she said. “Thank you for having us on board. I hope he’s not one of those shortsighted fools you’re speaking of,” she said. “He’s up front with the others.”
“Not at all. Actually, we’ve been trying to get him on the World’s Fair committee,” he said. “We need a few more people with his knowledge on the transportation division.”
“I know. He’s had several meetings with Mr. Bel Geddes.” Dolly looked to me. “From General Motors. They’re planning a simulated airplane ride through the American countryside made to look like it might thirty years from now,” she said, laughing slightly, as if she thought the idea of it, or perhaps the gumption they had at thinking they could pull it off with less than a year to go, was something to be chuckled at.
“People will wear special goggles and they’ll feel like they’re flying over express highways, radio-controlled cars, massive suspension bridges and high-rise buildings all without the plane even leaving the ground,” Winthrop said excitedly. “It’s going to be quite a spectacular ride and vision of the future.”
“They want Clark because of his investment in and knowledge of the railroad systems,” she said, again to me. “He might do it, but I keep warning him about his health; he can’t take on too much. He got very ill a few years back from working too damn hard; now I try to get him to take it easy.”
“Try to persuade him, Dolly,” Winthrop said. “This is the chance of a lifetime to be involved with such a visionary project.”
“He’s a man of his own mind,” Dolly said.
There had been a lot of chatter about the World’s Fair slated for the following year just outside Manhattan in Queens. Everyone was beginning to catch on to Roosevelt’s talk of hope and optimism for the future despite all the hardship going on around us that no one on this boat wanted to even tip their hat to, and this enormous effort was supposedly going to display the most promising developments of ideas, products, services and social factors of the day. There were to be scientists, inventors and some of the world’s best thinkers in attendance, giving the public a glimpse of what they thought the future had in store for us. It was, admittedly, quite exciting, albeit hard to fathom. There was talk of a dishwashing machine, a television, a xerographic photocopier, a jet-powered airplane, a mechanical computer and even a walking, talking robot, but I would have to see it before I could believe any of it. It all just seemed a little far-fetched.
“You know what I’m most excited about?” Dolly asked. “The time capsule. They’re going to put all sorts of things from our time inside this metal container and bury it, not to be opened for five thousand years.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Oh really, like what?”
“Thousands of pictures and articles on reels of microfilm,” Winthrop said.
“And fashion from our time,” Dolly added. “Say, who can I talk to about getting one of my designs in?”
Winthrop smiled. “I’m sure it’s all been decided, but I’ll find out for you.”
“This is one of Dolly’s designs,” I said, doing a little twirl to show off the hat. “But wait a second; who’s to say all the artifacts won’t just rot, buried underground for so long?”
“They’ve thought of all those things, Bethany,” Winthrop said, looking pleased with himself.
“Beatrice,” I said.
“I stand corrected, Beatrice. They are going to make it with a special metal that resists corrosion and it’s going to be filled with a gas that prevents things from spoiling.”
He seemed like the kind of person who didn’t have to work for any of the beautiful things that he had, as though he’d had everything handed to him his whole life. He was the kind of person whom everyone agreed with, whether they believed him or not.
“I wonder what life will even be like five thousand years from now. What if the English language has been replaced? How will they read all the articles on microfilm? And what if no one even knows to look for it? It could be a big waste of time and money.”
“Darling.” Dolly reached over and gave my arm an uncomfortably tight squeeze. “The man has just gotten out of the water; give him a chance to get dressed before you pepper him with questions.”
“Oh, it’s quite all right,” Winthrop said, turning to me. “I like a lady with such an active mind.” He took my hand and held it for a second. I quickly pulled it away. “And such a quick spirit,” he said. “It’s not often you see beauty and brains in one package. How very refreshing.” His stare lingered and I felt the need to cover myself up. He wrapped his towel around his waist and smiled. “And who are you here with today? Am I fortunate enough to have a single lady among the crowd of couples?”
“Hardly,” I said, lifting my hand to make sure he saw my wedding band. “I believe you invited my husband, Harry Bordeaux.”
“Lucky man,” he said. “Well, I must excuse myself, to attend to my guests and to find Mrs. Aldrick, but I’ll seek you both out later,” he said, fixing his eyes on me, then winking before disappearing to a lower deck.
“Well, he sure took a liking to you,” Dolly said, lighting a cigarette. “Despite your tone.”
“He’s a bit disrespectful,” I said. “Going on like that when he knows I’m a married woman.”
“I wouldn’t call it disrespect; I’d call it flattery. Enjoy it. Besides, he’s very influential; you should indulge him a little.”
I shook my head and took one of Dolly’s cigarettes. “And he’s married?”
“Of course,” Dolly said. “To a very ‘understanding’ wife. But it’s okay to be feminine, you know, and to allow men to admire you.” She sat back in her deck chair, propping her feet up on the side of the boat. “It’s what y
ou do with that admiration that can get you in hot water. But you mustn’t be so cold; it won’t get you anywhere and you’ll get yourself a bad name.”
“I wasn’t cold.”
“Just learn to say ‘thank you’ now and again, and say ‘yes’ sometimes, too. You have to know when it’s okay to take pleasure in a man’s advances.”
“I don’t know about that; he rubbed me the wrong way,” I said.
“Goodness, just enjoy the moment,” she said. “That’s all.”
An announcement came over the loudspeaker to signal the beginning of the races.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we are pleased to announce the commencement of the Gold Cup Regatta, held for the first time on Lake Montauk. Fifteen of the fastest boats ever made will be racing three thirty-mile heats—these boats are the handiwork of the country’s finest naval architects and boatbuilders.…” The announcement went on and everyone turned back to his or her present company, and so the day unfolded.
* * *
There was a funny feeling in the air that evening at the Star Island Yacht Club casino night, a mix of weariness and exhilaration. Two back-to-back parties were too much really, but Montauk Mae had won the race and everyone who had even the tiniest connection to Montauk, be it a local or a summer guest, somehow felt responsible and proud of its success.
Apparently millionaire real estate owner Vincent Astor and aviator Charles Lindbergh were among the guests at the soirée, mingling briefly before making their way to the gambling tables. Many others were in attendance, too, faces I didn’t recognize and hadn’t seen in Montauk over the previous week, important-looking people who’d come in just for the races. Harry and I were making the rounds when he got pulled into a poker game. I turned and saw Dolly engrossed in conversation with some gentleman she’d introduced me to earlier who owned department stores up and down the East Coast, so I excused myself and made my way to the powder room.
When I returned, Harry was nowhere in sight, Dolly was still talking to the department store gentleman and the only other women I recognized were standing around Jeanie Barnes looking fascinated as she told an animated story about her “exhausting day” between two luxurious yachts. I couldn’t bring myself to join them, so I sat down, alone, took out my cigarettes and placed one into its holder. A man with small, round glasses flipped open a lighter and held it to my cigarette.
He was short, bald on top except for a few wispy hairs, with a full speckled grey beard. He wore a cream-toned three-piece suit.
“Adam Rosen,” he said. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Beatrice Bordeaux.”
“Are you visiting for the races?” he asked.
“Oh no, I’m staying for the whole summer.”
“Really.” He nodded thoughtfully. “What do you do with your days out in Montauk?”
“Well, it’s only been a week, but a little bit of everything really, social gatherings, sunbathing, swimming.” He nodded, waiting for more. I felt self-conscious about my response and how trivial it sounded. “Oh, and reading,” I added, relieved to come up with something else to add to the list. “There’s something very satisfying about sitting under the big tree at the Manor in the afternoon and getting lost in a good book.”
“Yes, fresh air and nature have the same effect on me.”
“My husband thinks reading can turn a person into a recluse!”
“Well, it sort of does for a moment in time,” he said. “But isn’t that the whole point, to lose yourself in a world that’s different from your own?”
“I agree; sometimes I’d rather be in the presence of fictional characters than real people.” I laughed but then looked around; speaking out of turn like that to a man I’d just met wasn’t going to do me any favors in this crowd. “I’m joking, of course.”
Mr. Rosen nodded. “So, so true,” he said, pulling at his thick, wiry beard as if he wished it were just an inch or two longer. “So where do you stay in Montauk?”
“At the Manor. I’m staying through Labor Day,” I said.
“Really, that long? Do most people stay the whole season?” He was asking a lot of questions for a first meeting, but I didn’t really mind; if it weren’t for him I’d be smoking alone.
“The women do, and then everyone clears out after the summer’s over. And, forgive me if this sounds rude, but may I ask why you are so interested?”
He shook his head and smiled sheepishly. “I’m a writer, a newspaper editor actually, and I have this strange compulsion to turn every conversation into an interview. It unnerves people apparently.” He took out a cigarette of his own.
“Ah, that makes sense.” I laughed. “I was starting to wonder.”
“The truth is,” he said, “I’m out here on an assignment, looking for a story angle.”
“Oh, how exciting. It certainly has become a very popular spot; people love it out here.”
“They sure seem to. By chance do you now know of anyone who might be a good interviewee, someone who’s pretty involved socially?”
I thought of Harry and his fellow investors.
“I might know some folks who are considering putting some money into Montauk,” I said, unsure how much Harry would want the attention and publicity or if they’d want to keep things quiet for fear of others reading about the opportunity and jumping in ahead of them. “I could ask around and see if any of them might want to talk.”
Mr. Rosen put his hands in his pockets and shrugged. “Fisher going bankrupt? We’ve covered that already. This is for the leisure section. What our readers really want to know is what people are doing out here and what they’re wearing.”
“You’re right,” I said. “I’m guilty of spending a disproportionate amount of time on the social, fashion and leisure pages. It’s addictive.”
“Morbid fascination, more like. Have you read Hedda Hopper?”
I shook my head.
“She’s an actress turned what they’re calling a ‘gossip columnist’ for the Los Angeles Times and she’s becoming quite popular, more than she was on stage or in the films. So now all the publishers are scrambling to do something similar. I’m more of a newshound myself. I’m addicted to the goings-on in the city. I really don’t get out of town as much as I should, and when I do my family and I weekend in the Catskills.” He shrugged. “It’s what we do.”
Jeanie and Cecil Barnes were walking past as if they had somewhere to be, but for some reason, probably because Mr. Rosen had been talking about gossip and society, I reached out and touched her arm as she went by. “Oh, hi there, Jeanie, great party, isn’t it?”
“Hello, Beatrice,” she said, barely slowing down as she kept walking, and then a few steps past she did a double take and tapped Cecil on the arm. They slowed and turned slightly toward us, looking from Mr. Rosen to me.
“How’s Harry this evening?” she asked.
“He’s fine, off gambling, I imagine. You must meet Mr. Rosen; he’s a newspaper editor.” I turned to him. “Mr. and Mrs. Barnes are often in the papers,” I said. “In the social pages; they are very well connected.”
“Great to meet you both.” Mr. Rosen held out his hand, but Cecil began to pull Jeanie away.
“We have to dash,” Cecil said, tipping his head to him instead of shaking his hand. “Good night.”
Mr. Rosen and I both looked out to the room not quite sure what to say.
“Gosh,” I said, embarrassed by their behavior. “Sorry about that. They seemed terribly hurried this evening.”
He just shrugged. “That’s okay. I’m used to that sort of thing. Thanks for trying.”
7
“Harry,” I whispered; he was snoring next to me. I wrapped my arms around him, trying to wake him gently. “Harry, I’ve got something exciting to tell you.”
He opened an eye, then closed it. I don’t know what time he came in. I’d searched for him in the smoky room of the yacht club, but he was nowhere to be found. He must have gone into one of the high-roller rooms i
n the back. After parting ways with Mr. Rosen I mingled briefly with a different group of women who were staying at Gurney’s; then, feeling somewhat accomplished in socializing, I called it a night and took a car back to the Manor.
“Harry, I met some ladies last night who invited me to play billiards this week—”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Beatrice.” Harry abruptly shoved my arm off his chest and turned to face the wall, pulling the covers tight over his head. “It’s the middle of the goddamn night.” A thick, rotten mix of whiskey and cigars hit me when he spoke. I looked at the sun streaming through a gap in the curtains, then to the clock on the mantelpiece. It was past eight o’clock.
“It’s later than you think,” I said, sitting up against the headboard, hoping that he had still been half-asleep and hadn’t really meant to speak that way. “I just wanted to tell you about my night, that’s all, since I barely even saw you yesterday.”
“What, that you were hanging around with a Jew last night? Yes, I heard.”
“What are you talking about, Harry? Mr. Rosen?”
“Don’t be a damned idiot, Beatrice. Spend time with whoever you goddamn please, but not Jews for Christ’s sake; that doesn’t exactly look good for me.”
“Mr. Rosen was a lovely person, Harry.” I couldn’t stand to hear him speak of my newfound acquaintance in such light. “You’re all wrong about him. He was very interesting and smart; he’s going to interview Albert Einstein at the World’s Fair—”
“Oh, leave me alone,” Harry groaned. “Hell, I’ve got a headache and you’re not helping.”
* * *
I didn’t want to breakfast alone among all the other couples, so I dressed quickly and quietly in the bathroom and walked fast and angrily into town. It was a good thirty minutes by the time I arrived at the Main Street and I was famished. I walked into the first place I came to, Loftus and McGunigal’s General Store. I looked around: it was part general store, part diner. There were fishing boots on one shelf, homemade bread on another and canned food on another. Three men in white aprons worked behind the counter serving coffee, eggs and toast to men who looked like they were either on their way to work or coming off a night shift. I should probably move on to the next place, I thought, a spot suited more for summer visitors, but I saw an empty stool at the counter and my eyes stopped on the back of a man shorter in stature, with a polished bald head.
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