By dinnertime, Hetty had written an acceptance to Rachel Rusk and a thank-you card to Lamar for the flowers. The gamey taste of glue slid over her tongue as she licked the linen envelopes and sealed them. She left both on the silver tray in the foyer for Pick to hand deliver, then went down to the solarium for a smoke. When she returned to her room, she found a letter that had been slipped under her door. It read:
CAB
Dear Hetty,
From now on, I will only communicate with you through the written word. Please do not attempt to talk to me at any time. I have nothing to say to you.
What have you done to bewitch Lamar? I can’t imagine—well, yes, I can, knowing you. I can’t imagine why Lamar would choose you over me, unless you are squandering the only thing a woman has that she can give her husband upon marriage. If you’ve done that, I can’t forgive you. You’ve not only debased yourself, but our whole sex. Don’t you know that Lamar won’t ever respect you if you give away the pearl of great price? You’ll only earn his contempt. But I wouldn’t put it past you—I’ve seen how you behave at petting parties—I’ve seen how far you’re willing to go with boys and with what sangfroid you’re willing to do it.
You’ll never know how much you’ve hurt your little sister, how deeply you’ve wounded my heart with your ways. And then to rub salt into my wounds by preferring Garret to Lamar. Yes, Mamá told me of the horrid bargain you made with her. How could you steal my boyfriend away from me when you don’t even want him? You are the wickedest sister anyone could ever have. I hate you.
Love, Char
Hetty filled her pen with more midnight blue ink and answered it immediately:
EAA
Dear Char,
Why do you always think the worst of me? Your judgments are so harsh—I feel like I’m being scolded by a schoolmarm. Why would you blame me because Lamar chose me over you? How is that my fault? Between you and Mother, I can hardly breathe. I’ve done nothing to bewitch Lamar, other than being my usual wild and wicked self. Can I help it if boys like that? You should try it sometime.
As far as choosing Garret over Lamar, I haven’t done that yet. I’ll have to date both men for a while, of course, so I can decide which one I want to spend my life with. It’s not an easy decision. So much depends on it, I have to take my time and really be sure. I don’t want to hurt either one of them. And I don’t want to hurt you, either. I never did. Forgive me if I have, but if you knew what was in my heart, you wouldn’t feel this way.
Love, Hetty
PS: Don’t worry, I won’t try to talk to you. Mother says I’m to have Lamar meet me in the lobby so you won’t have to lay eyes on him. And could I have my vermilion lipstick back?
Hetty folded the letter into one of her monogrammed envelopes and threaded it under Charlotte’s door, which had been kept shut all day. She stood there in the dim hallway listening for any response from inside. There was none. She started to knock on the door, then hesitated. Even though she’d agreed in the letter not to talk to Charlotte, she longed to slip into the room and curl up among the eyelet laces for a tête-à-tête. She remembered what it had been like being sisters before things had gone so sour between them. A Spanish song rose up in her memory, one that Lina sang to them. Cielito lindo, dame un abrazo. “Pretty little darling, give me a hug.” Lina would sing it over and over—cielito lindo, cielito lindo—and they would dance together holding hands, then break apart and run over one at a time to embrace her. They liked dancing in the sunlight that seemed to stream endlessly through the nursery window in the old Allen manse when they still lived downtown. They’d been true playmates for each other back in those days, skipping between their giant Victorian dollhouse and their Humpty Dumpty Circus Tent, racing their Spinaway Coasters up and down the hallways laughing. The hallways seemed endless . . . and so did their childhood.
But it wasn’t, they soon found out. Flood season hit one fall, and it was all over. Day after day, the nursery window ran with rain. Hetty was sent off to grade one at the Kinkaid School, and Nella packed her bags and started traveling. In a house gone cold, thundering with a mother’s desertion, Hetty was left alone with Kirby and Charlotte pitted against her. What followed had forced her to adopt her best friend, Doris Verne Hargraves, as a sister substitute. It all started with the spiders—but I can’t think about that now, Hetty realized as she raised her hand again to knock. Her knuckles grazed the wood and stopped. The letter had ended: I hate you. Love, Char—so which would it be this time? Love or hate? She never knew and decided she didn’t want to spoil the perfect happiness she felt inside. She turned and tiptoed back into her own room, easing the door closed on the empty hallway. Communicating through the written word was just fine with her.
Hetty waited in the foyer for Garret’s knock, doing a final once-over in the rosy glass of the great round mirror. The alabaster clock had just chimed six the next Friday night, and she wanted to be sure she had pulled together a sufficiently vampy look. Her evening wrap of feathers floated up like a mist around her face, which had the necessary pallor slashed by oxblood red lips. Silver beads glinted on her head, making her look like Joan of Arc in chain mail. These aren’t hats, she thought. They’re helmets. She tried to keep a little nonchalance in her walk as she answered a light tap at the entrance. She threw the doors open to reveal him standing there, looking sharp in a navy club blazer and oxford bags. He tossed her a gift.
“What’s that?”
“Something you wanted.”
She jiggled it. “Hmmmm. Sounds interesting. Thanks, kiddo. Let me give you a tour before you have to run the gauntlet.”
The lights were low. It was the cocktail hour, which Nella celebrated nightly with appetizers and candlelight. They ended up in the kitchen, where Lina was putting the final touches on the hors d’oeuvre. The rich aroma of pâté and truffle oil made Hetty’s mouth water.
Garret sniffed the air. “Do you eat this rich every night?”
Hetty rolled her eyes. “My dad likes living beyond his means.” She showed Garret the white marble bath and her own room hung with chinoiserie. As they stepped back into the hall, she pointed at a door that was shut and whispered, “That’s Char’s room.”
Garret peeked into Kirby’s dark library, walked farther down the hall to the postigos. “What’s behind these?” He shook the heavy wooden doors.
“My mother’s secret room.”
“Is that where you keep your idiot brother?”
Hetty just laughed.
“Excuse the grape juice,” Hetty said to Garret. They were sitting in the drawing room with Nella, waiting for Kirby to arrive home from the bank. Lina hovered at the sideboard plating the appetizers.
“I’ve told my daughters they can drink once they’re twenty-one or married, whichever comes first,” Nella said.
“Yes, ma’am,” Garret said.
“Why don’t I open this lovely gift Garret brought me?” Hetty clawed nervously at the wrapping. Out of a blue velvet box emerged the longest strand of pearls she’d ever seen. “How swanky!”
“They’re from the Sea of Japan.”
Hetty looped them over her head. They hung down to her knees. Well, that settles it, she thought. He’s no chauffeur. She doubled them up. “Aren’t they beautiful, Lina?”
“¡Bella!”
“Bella they are,” Nella cut in. “But I’m afraid you can’t accept them, dear.”
“Why not?”
“She told me she’s always wanted some pearls from the floor of the Sea of Japan,” Garret said.
“I’m sure she does. That’s where the best pearls come from. But a lady can’t accept jewels from a man until she’s engaged to him.”
“But—why not?” Hetty asked.
“It implies an obligation she can’t fulfill. I’m afraid you’ll have to return them.”
Hetty uncoiled the pearls and threaded them reluctantly back into their velvet box. She handed it to Garret. “Mother has spoken.”
G
arret held the box limply and said, “Sorry—I didn’t know.”
No one responded. Hetty felt her cheeks flaming as the silence stretched on, broken only by the tinkle of ice cubes. Lina excused herself to the kitchen. Hetty glanced at her mother. A triumphant smile played over Nella’s lips as she sipped her highball and witnessed Garret’s embarrassment. This was just the sort of social blunder she was hoping for, Hetty realized. She’s going to let him sit here and writhe, the bitch. “Aren’t we going to be late for dinner?” she asked Garret after a moment. She grabbed his hand and started pulling him toward the door when Kirb barged into the foyer. “Sorry I’m late. We had trouble batching up the bank. A teller out seven dollars and three cents. A goddamned three cents!” He planted himself in front of the doors, six foot three, two hundred and forty-six pounds, the candles casting a monstrous shadow on the ceiling. He towered over Garret as he pumped his hand. “Mighty pleased, sir, mighty pleased,” he croaked.
“I think I owe you an apology, Mr. Allen. For my blunder at the cotton carnival.”
“You’ll learn our rules soon enough.” Kirb wielded a Citizen’s Bank cash envelope. “Here’s another one,” he said, unbuttoning Garret’s blazer and dropping the parcel into his vest pocket. “No pay-and-pet for my daughters. That should cover Esther’s dinner.”
“Dad! Let us by, please.”
Hetty’s irritation at her family soon evaporated into the open air over the Auburn as they glided along the esplanades of Main and arrived at the Rice Hotel. Twilight was dyeing the sky a deep blue, and streetlamps were warming up the flickering shadows all along the ornate wrought iron veranda. Garret tossed the keys to a colored attendant and came around to open the door for Hetty. A satin slipper stepped down to the sidewalk, and all the lights ran to the snowy feathers that frosted her shoulders. White, too, was the lobby they walked through, cool and immense, faced with Italian marble and lit by the sparkling wheels of crystal chandeliers. The elevator girl took them to the eighteenth level, where they ascended the wide steps to a dance floor that unfolded under the stars. As the maître d’ escorted them through the glamorous maze, Hetty felt a little airborne, as if she’d already had a glass or two of champagne, when in fact she’d only had a few strong whiffs of Garret’s lime-rich cologne. They wove between cages full of twittering canaries and widely spaced tables flowing with skirts of white linen. Hetty spotted a couple of Blue Birds and some oilmen with their wives. After pulling out Hetty’s chair, the maître d’ struck a match to three candles of different heights, protected from the night winds by hurricane lamps.
They lit up and toyed with menus, settling on prime rib. They passed Garret’s flask under the table, laughed about Nella’s grape juice, and gazed at each other’s faces through a golden haze of candlelight. They discussed the future. And the past. She asked why Garret had left Montana.
“There’s no future there,” he told her. “Over two hundred banks have failed.”
“Two hundred banks! Whatever for? The rest of the country is flourishing.”
“Years of drought and plague busted the homestead boom.”
“You don’t seem like the Old Testament type.”
“Nope. Not me. I came to the Promised Land.”
“You mean the young man’s town?”
He laughed and lowered his voice to imitate her father: “Mighty pleased, mighty pleased.”
“I’m sorry about the pearls.”
“That’s all right. I wouldn’t want you to be obligated to me.”
“Oh yes, you would.”
“It’s true. I admit it. I had my heart set on paying and petting.” A cigarette danced in Garret’s fingers. “So you want to go on dating me?” he asked, as he lit it.
“I hope to tell you!”
“Even though Mom and Dad don’t approve?”
“I try to tell my mother nobody cares about that stuff anymore. It’s not modern. When I get stuck on the right guy, I’ll know it.”
He smiled at her, a long sweet smile. “Are you feeling the least bit gluey tonight?”
She looked away and raised one bare shoulder out of her evening wrap. “Yes, now that you mention it, a little sticky.”
“Think we could get glued together on the dance floor?”
“I think we could,” she answered and let the feathers fall in a whispering cascade to her chair as she rose.
Their prime rib grew cold as they moved among the other couples, dancing number after number, letting it loose for the shimmy and pulling up tight for the slow dancing, when Hetty felt as though she were being ushered through low-lying clouds as she laid her cheek on Garret’s chest and looked up to see the faintest glimmer of stars spinning by as they turned.
She’d always prided herself on being a little cynical when it came to romance and was amazed at being smitten by the very feelings she found so silly in love songs. Like the one being played by the band right now about whispering. She wanted to step up to the mike and sing. As if reading her thoughts, which happened a lot when she was with Garret—they were so in sync, he started crooning the lyrics into her ear, slipping his warm breath up under the beads of her cloche. He’s getting through my armor, she thought and tried vainly to resist.
Whispering while you cuddle near me, he sang softly.
Whispering so no one can hear me
Each little whisper seems to cheer me . . .
Whispering that I love you.
And then they sang the words together, moving in a lazy fox-trot.
Finally they feasted on rare roast beef dripping blood into cold mashed potatoes and finished off with cherry cheesecake, another Rice specialty. When the waiter brought the check, Garret pulled out the envelope Kirb had given him and placed it on the table. They both looked at it. Hetty shrugged. “Just use it.”
The hour grew late. Garret bundled her into her velvet wrap and brought her over to the very edge of the rooftop, where they stood at the wrought iron railing and followed spoke after spoke of lights radiating out into the flat dark land. The cupola of the Esperson Building, illuminated, floated above them. They were at the center, leaning close together. He brushed his cheek against the feathers that surrounded her face, until he was nuzzling in her neck and turning her face up gently to kiss her. His lips grazed hers once or twice, then stopped and opened a bit until she could feel the warmth and wetness of his mouth, urgent and tobacco-scented. She liked men who smoked. She glanced back, making sure neither of the Blue Birds was watching, then unbuttoned his blazer and snaked her arms around him, wanting to unbutton his shirt to find the source of that deeper, richer smell. She held on, being kissed, stirring her legs restively under the slinky dress, aroused. Maybe next time she would let Garret pay.
“Tell me what’s behind those doors,” he breathed into her ear.
“Not yet,” she whispered back.
On the way home, she grew quiet. She was already thinking about the dinner she would attend the following evening at the Rusk mansion. How different it would be from tonight. Lamar would know things Garret didn’t. He was from an old Texas family, after all. He would know to bring her flowers, not jewels, on their first date. He would know how to present her properly to his family. It would happen in the largest residence in all of Courtlandt Place: Splendora—Chief Rusk’s immense antebellum estate with its sprawling gardens, greenhouses, and tennis courts. There would be no question of who would pay. They and dozens of other guests would simply share in the largesse of the Rusk oil fortune, spread out in baronial style throughout three or four grand reception rooms.
Lamar would escort Hetty across a wide veranda in the shadow of towering white columns right off a Greek temple. A Confederate flag would hang next to Old Glory. Under the blazing light of chandeliers, Chief Rusk would look at Hetty the way he looked at his prize heifers on the Splendora ranch: Was she good for breeding? How many Rusk grandsons could she bear? Rachel Rusk would be her usual charming but dotty self, making Hetty feel like the guest of honor even
though the circular dining tables would be crammed with an intimidating crowd of Courtlandt Place neighbors. Hetty would have to sit at the head table next to some socialite like Etta Garrow or Jessie Carter and endure her scrutiny. All through the evening, both Rachel and Chief would smile at her approvingly and would drop subtle hints that she was worthy to marry their only begotten son.
She would drink a lot of really good champagne but still wouldn’t be able to douse the doubt smoldering at the back of her mind: Would Lamar still want her when he found out what was behind the postigos?
Would Garret?
Would any man?
Chapter 3
Hetty had underestimated the difficulty of dating two men at the same time. She’d seen it merely as a matter of logistics, making sure they didn’t show up in the Warwick lobby on the same night, avoiding the least mention of one to the other, storing each in different compartments of her mind. She trusted in the Darwinism of desire: The one most suited to be her mate would eventually prevail through the rituals of courting. As the female in her season, all Hetty had to do was wait for a sign, a scent, a flash of bright plumage, and she would know. He’s the one. She couldn’t let tribal customs cloud her judgment, doing her best to ignore the drumbeats of gossip her dating life was stirring up in the distance. “You should hear what the old ladies are saying about you,” Wini reported with glee. “I won’t repeat the monikers . . . unless you want me to.” Hetty declined the offer. She’d expected to be misunderstood. What she hadn’t counted on was the inconstancy of her emotions. Biology wasn’t everything. The human heart had four chambers, after all, each one spacious enough to house her passion for the right kind of man.
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