Beautiful Days

by Anna Godbersen

  “Thank you,” Letty managed to summon the breath to reply. She badly wanted to believe in Charlie’s compliments, but she couldn’t help the old suspicion, which she always had around him, that he was only waiting for the right moment to mock her again.

  “Darling, aren’t you going to have a club soon?”

  “Yeah, I guess I am. Letty, not only should you sing in clubs, you should sing in my club!” He beamed, looking pleased with what he’d just said, as well as with the world and everything in it.

  “Oh, marvelous!” Astrid exclaimed. “What a perfect Fourth it’s turning out to be. Letty’s going to sing in the Greys’ club, and I’m engaged for real now. Letty—look!”

  Letty took a dutiful step forward, conscious of Good Egg politely at her ankles, and bent to see the large, shimmering stone now adorning Astrid’s left ring finger and making her hand appear even more graceful and delicate than before.

  “Why that’s just . . .” she trailed off, unable to summon the right word. She’d never seen a ring so big or with so many stones, and the right word to describe it simply wasn’t in her vocabulary.

  “Divine? I think it’s divine. Isn’t that right, Charlie? Isn’t it utterly divine?” Astrid went on in a rush.

  “It’s the ring my girl deserves.” Charlie grinned at Astrid as though she were the only woman in the world. “Anyway, enough of that. I’m starved. Aren’t you starved?”

  “Completely.” Astrid threw her arms back up around Charlie’s neck and swayed against him. “Completely and entirely starved!”

  Sensing that she was about to be forgotten again, Letty took a step backward. It was dark, and the shadows were deep around the house, and it would be easy enough for her to slip away without them noticing.

  “Come on, I’ll make you eggs.” Charlie planted an almost chaste kiss on Astrid’s mouth, then turned to Letty. “Are you coming?”

  “Me?”

  “Yeah, you. Who else would I be talking to? The lady is wearing a big new bauble—we’ve got to do some celebrating. You’re in, aren’t you? And maybe you can do some more singing for us while I cook.”

  Already he had turned and was walking back toward the house when his welcoming words fully settled in with Letty. To her they seemed utterly remarkable. He had barely said ten sentences to her since she’d moved into Dogwood, and now he wanted her to sing at his club and celebrate his engagement over a midnight breakfast in the Dogwood kitchen. Suddenly all the moping she’d done earlier seemed like the emotions of some other time and place, and with a wink in Good Egg’s direction, she hurried up and followed Charlie and Astrid as they ascended the stone steps to the stately front entrance of their home.

  Chapter 6

  BY TWO O’CLOCK ON THE FIFTH OF JULY, MOST OF THE young women who lived in the big neighboring estates had already heard that Astrid Donal was wearing Charlie Grey’s ring, and that apparently it was very large. Several of these young women—who had gone to dances with Astrid and copied her irreverent style of dressing for years—went to the White Cove Country Club for lunch that day in hopes of getting a better look at the thing. But alas, Astrid had other plans.

  “Brenda, if you lay them like this, you see, you can get at least four more pairs in . . .” she was saying as she flitted back and forth between several open suitcases propped up on luggage stands across the room. Brenda, Astrid’s personal maid, was accustomed to fixing frayed hems and packing for a few days on a yacht, but was less skilled at fitting every single pair of Miss Donal’s considerable shoe collection into the old Vuitton cases that Mrs. Marsh had used when she and Astrid went to live in a string of European hotels following the death of Mr. Donal. The Donal women were in those days accompanied by Mrs. Ransom, who was much better at organizing large quantities of ladies’ clothing, but had unfortunately expired in the interim.

  Astrid had not dressed in her much-copied style that morning, but in a prim twill suit that fit close to her hips with a high-collared cream blouse. If she had trouble moving in the skirt—and from the look of it, most girls would—she didn’t let on. She was not wearing her hair in the usual way, either—it was slicked so that the high yellow shine was muted to a more grown-up shade. The message she was sending—that soon she was to be a married woman, and should no longer be treated as the kind of pleasure-seeking creature one might find swinging from a chandelier—was not intended to be subtle, and the various maids and butlers and cooks that worked at Marsh Hall understood it perfectly.

  Word had also spread to her stepsister, Billie, who was sitting in one of the pale pink velvet armchairs in the corner of Astrid’s room, an ankle rested against the opposite trousered knee, watching the proceedings. The only person who presumably had no idea of Astrid’s change in stature was her mother, who had not yet risen from bed.

  “It’s going to be lonely around here without you,” Billie said, her dark eyes shining. Like her eyes, her hair was black and gleaming, and it was worn in a mannish style just long enough to peek out from behind her ears. She was very much her father’s daughter—observant, shrewd, hedonistic, and fond of automobiles—and was known to dress rather like him.

  “Aren’t you off for London any day now?” Astrid replied distractedly, as she picked up two satin-covered pairs of shoes and tried to assess their respective merits.

  “I keep delaying,” Billie answered in a faraway voice, as though she were speaking of the actions of some other person.

  “And then you’ll be back to college in the fall, and you’re always out and about, and anyway, you will come to Dogwood often,” Astrid went on without breaking her breezy tone. “I would, if I were you. This house is large, but not large enough that I can keep enough distance between Mrs. Marsh and myself.”

  “Oh, don’t let her bother you.” Now it was Billie’s turn to be breezy. Astrid turned, wearing a skeptical expression, and watched her stepsister as she lit a cigarette. “She’s only jealous of you, you know.”

  “Yes, that’s precisely what I find so disgusting. Brenda—these can stay, or you can have them if you like.” Astrid went on, changing the subject and thrusting a worn pair of satin heels toward her maid. She had never been a light packer, and the idea of leaving anything behind that her mother might then don for some party or other sickened her. “One can never be too thin or too rich—I still fit in all my daughter’s things, you know,” she could just imagine the old lady trilling at one of her evenings. But on the other hand, she had to remember that the less treasure she arrived at Dogwood with, the more there’d be for Charlie to buy her.

  “Thanks, miss.”

  Astrid, whose attention had been temporarily diverted by the beautiful new thing on her finger, replied with a distracted, “You’re welcome.” She was still gazing at her engagement ring, a little misty-eyed, when the door to the hall opened.

  “What’s all this?”

  Astrid rotated toward the entry and her hand went behind her back. Her mother was standing in the doorway, clothed in a white silk bathrobe, her makeup from the night before only partially removed from her face. Her eyes twitched over the scene, taking in the luggage and reading its meaning.

  “Going somewhere?” She pushed a fistful of dark hair away from her face.

  “Me?” Astrid replied innocently, taking a step toward her mother and keeping her hand resting girlishly at the small of her back. The thrill of what had passed between her and Charlie last night hadn’t faded even a tiny bit, but she now found herself even more breathless and proud as she paused, about to reveal it to her mother.

  “Yes, you.” Her mother took a long sip from her china coffee cup, observing Astrid over its rim. “I assume you aren’t sending all your favorite dresses to the Salvation Army.”

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Marsh,” Billie said, exhaling in her stepmother’s general direction, but otherwise not moving a muscle to express greeting.

  “Afternoon, Billie.” Virginia went slinking across the floor, balancing her coffee in front of
her and finding a place on the bedspread, in between the piles of lace undergarments, to recline. “Did you girls enjoy the party?”

  With exquisite patience, Astrid put both hands forward and ever so slowly lifted a silk camisole lying near the edge of the bedspread. She picked it up by the straps, folded it neatly, and placed it to the side so that she could perch on the corner of the bed and rest her left fingers over her right, Charlie’s ring sitting like a little jeweled crown on her lap.

  “What’s that?” her mother gasped.

  “Careful, darling!” Astrid cried out when she saw the sloshing of coffee in her mother’s cup. “My prettiest things are out now,” she went on in a patronizing tone, “and you’ll ruin them if you don’t mind your beverage.”

  “Did Charlie give that to you?” Her mother scowled as she leaned forward to get a better look.

  “Yes, of course! Who else would have given it to me? I don’t have other beaux,” she added with such lightness that anyone other than her mother might have missed the point. But Virginia was no fool, even on mornings like these, and she heard the undercurrent of Astrid’s statement perfectly. When she turned her green eyes up at her daughter, they had a kind of desperation in them, but Astrid was determined to smile back with nothing but peachy innocence. “Isn’t it pretty?” she prodded.

  “Very.” Virginia took a sip of her coffee before casting her eyes around the room. “Is Charlie taking you on a cruise of the Orient now?”

  “No! Nowhere so far as that.” Astrid stood and walked over to the shoe suitcase, where Brenda was still standing, looking a little fearful of what might yet happen between her two mistresses. “Only . . . now that we’re going to be married, and everyone can see that from the ring I’m wearing, it seemed silly for us to be apart any longer.”

  “You’re not married yet,” Virgina replied, rather too quickly.

  “Mother—” Astrid’s eyes flashed. “I might almost think you’re not excited for me.”

  “Of course I am, dear.” Now Virginia began to regain herself. Her voice became smooth, and she even managed to seem disinterested. “Charlie is very exciting and he always gives you the nicest things. But you can’t blame me for being a touch concerned. It’s simply not how things are done.”

  “Moving in before the wedding, you mean? Well, of course not. But—” She paused and shifted her gaze toward Billie with a conspiratorial twist at the corner of her mouth. Billie only raised her skinny, penciled-on eyebrows and switched the cross of her legs. “But,” Astrid continued, undeterred, “you must know how old-fashioned you sound. Of course I’m not going to sleep in the same room as Charlie, and everybody will know that. We young people do not share in your foolish prohibitions—we do not go around calling a girl ruined just because she lives under the same roof as her fiancé.”

  The emphasis she had put on the word young was a cruel stroke, she knew, and she felt almost sorry when she saw how stiffly her mother rose to her feet.

  “I thought I knew everything when I was your age, too,” Virginia said bitterly. If there had been pity in Astrid’s heart a moment before, it disappeared when she heard her mother’s tone. “And contrary to what you may believe, I am always happy when my daughter receives a new piece of jewelry.”

  Jewelry, she pronounced as though she were speaking of the kind of toys children play with once and then discard. She tightened her robe and gave a slight bob of her head before turning and leaving her daughter’s bedroom. Astrid sighed and ran her fingers over her hair. The brilliant mood she’d woken up in was somewhat dampened, but in the next moment Billie let out a loud, blasphemous laugh, which cut away the tension in the room.

  “Oh, poor, damned Virginia, who is fated to be always exactly twenty-two years older than her daughter!”

  Astrid began to giggle, too, and to realize, somewhat late in the game, how much more tolerable Marsh Hall had always been when her stepsister was there. Billie was in the habit of being right about everything, and yet she never forced her wisdom down anyone’s throat. “Oh, please, promise me you’ll come visit me often. And when you do you must bring me little shards of gossip so that I don’t grow imbecilic and think I miss this place!”

  “Cordelia?”

  “Yes?” she answered, reluctantly lowering the newspaper so that she could glance over its pages at her brother. Charlie strode out onto the south-facing verandah and pulled up a chair at the large iron table where they had been eating most of their meals lately. He was wearing a white tennis shirt that he seemed on the verge of busting out of, and his hair was pomaded into place.

  Cordelia knew from Letty—who had returned to the Calla Lily Suite with a giant smile on her face the night before, bubbling over with new stories—that Charlie had proposed to Astrid after the Beaumonts’ party, this time with a ring, and that that somehow made their engagement more official and thrilling. And she could tell from his face that he was feeling boisterous and happy in the aftermath of his big gesture. This was all very nice, but Cordelia was still reeling from her various run-ins of the afternoon before, and wasn’t quite ready to share in anyone else’s joy.

  “You feeling sore about that pilot?” Charlie asked, his eyebrows drawing together. The concern he wore on his face was kind, but Cordelia didn’t want to be pitied. She quickly folded up the paper and put it to the side. “Astrid told me Max Darby slighted you. What scum, acting like that after what you did for him.”

  “Max who?” she replied, reaching for a cigarette from the pack that lay on the table beside the remainders of her lunch. Her brother returned her grin as he leaned in to light it for her. “I don’t believe I know that name,” she added dryly.

  “That’s my girl.”

  It pleased Cordelia to think that Charlie was proud of her brash reply, just as their father might once have been. Unfortunately, her flip attitude was somewhat contradicted by the morning hours she’d spent poring over the papers for any mention of the pilot.

  “He’s boring and righteous and you’re lucky to be disliked by him,” Charlie went on. Cordelia nodded and exhaled a big cloud of smoke.

  In fact, several times that morning she’d thought more or less the same thing. As she discovered in the many profiles of him, he was a teetotaler, and he disliked parties, and his patroness was the president of the Suffolk County Women’s Christian Temperance Union. All of this only confirmed her impression of the day before: that he had a very dull and narrow view of the world.

  And yet even so she couldn’t help but notice the mention of a patroness, and read between the lines an implication that he was an orphan, like her.

  “I know something that will cheer you up.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah—I found the place. Put something pretty on. We’re going to the city—you’re about to see the future home of the Grey family’s first speakeasy.”

  By the time Cordelia returned to the foyer—in a smart little jacket over the red boatneck dress she’d worn to such tremendous effect that day at the Country Club, and with her tawny hair mostly tucked under a cloth cloche—a first wave of luggage had arrived from Marsh Hall. It was now arrayed over the dark wood floorboards, somewhat complicating her journey to the front door.

  “You’re going to have to move a few hoodlums out of the house to make room for this stuff, I think,” Cordelia said to Charlie as he emerged from the library in a dark-colored suit.

  “Tomorrow. All that’s for tomorrow,” he said, linking his arm with hers and giving off the air of the sort of blisteringly good mood that no cloud is strong enough to pass over.

  Then the two heirs of the Grey bootlegging concern went down the stone steps of their home and into the chauffeured Daimler that would carry them through country lanes, over the broad span of a bridge, toward the big city. Even the glossy water beneath the Queensboro was busy with tugs and barges and pleasure cruises, and by the time they spun off its final curve and onto the streets of Manhattan, they were thoroughly transported from the sha
dy calm of White Cove into a land far more buzzing and cluttered.

  Their destination was in the middle of a block in the West Fifties, the floors of which were mosaic swirls of turquoise and gold, far below an arching ceiling that had once been covered with murals of cherubs and clouds. That the paint on the ceiling had begun to chip and fall away and expose the stone and plaster beneath only added to the mystery and beauty of the vast room. Either wall was flanked with windows covered by iron grates that opened onto other darkened rooms, and at the end were elaborate double copper doors.

  “What was this?” Cordelia gasped.

  “A bank, of course.” Charlie’s footsteps echoed as he moved across the floor. As soon as he said it, Cordelia found that she was able to identify the smell of money, among the other odors of dust and mildew that permeated the place. “Those were the tellers’ windows. Small bank, not very good—they went belly up last year.”

  “You mean the bank lost their money?” Cordelia couldn’t help but smirk at the thought. She understood how a farmer whose crop is ruined can go belly up, or a family that has begun to live far beyond its means. In Union, there had been only one bank, and everybody in town had put their money into it, and so the idea of a bank short on cash seemed to her if not exactly funny, then at least absurd.

  “They lost all their money, but you’re going to make us lots of money here. I figure we can have the bartenders behind those teller windows—that way, if there’s ever a raid, they can just the shut the windows and have enough time to slip out the back way before any seizures are made.”

  Cordelia nodded. She was listening to him, but also already she was imagining the nights that would be had in a place like this. Girls would dance onstage, and the music would be fast and loose, and the chatter animated and witty and full of the life of the city. She had come a long way to witness nights like those, and now she felt a little rush thinking that she would have some role in creating them. That had been her father’s genius—he’d been a master of staging the sort of evenings where people wanted to drink his wares in vast quantities. On one of his final days, he’d told her he wanted to teach her the business. Now she would make good on that wish.