by Noreen Wald
“Well, yes, weren’t we in enough trouble without you raising his blood pressure?”
“Don’t worry, Kate. He still likes you. You could be dating him if…”
“If what?” The words spilled out before she could edit them. Leave it to Marlene to twist things around. And why had Kate just given her diversion credence?
“If you’d just get over Charlie and open yourself up to new experiences.”
“You don’t just get over forty-six years, Marlene. It’s not like the flu.” Kate’s voice broke. She bit her lip, wishing she were anywhere except trapped in traffic with her sister-in-law.
“Okay, you’re right. I was out of line. I’ll call Carbone and apologize...for real.” She reached over and patted Kate’s knee. “And I’m sorry if I upset you. You know I only want you to be happy.”
As she’d done for decades, Kate decided to move on. Sometimes she wondered if there would ever be a time when she couldn’t forgive Marlene. What would happen? How would Marlene handle it? How would Kate?
For now, Kate nodded.
And Marlene, as she’d done for decades, changed the subject. “So was Lucy Diamond a woman spurned or a woman obsessed? Either way the result would have been the same. She wanted Weatherwise in jail, right?”
“The result might have been the same, but not the motivation. Why would Lucy tell me that sad story of unrequited love? Why wouldn’t she have told me that she’d duped Walt and only flirted to set him up? Why stage a performance to convince me otherwise?”
“Strange.” Marlene veered into the right lane.
“Maybe not. If Lucy’s motive for seducing then turning on Weatherwise had preceded his financial shenanigans in Miami, perhaps Lucy had reason to hide that motive.”
“Or maybe Daphne had been misinformed—or, for some reason, misinformed us—about Lucy and Walt’s relationship.”
Kate shook her head. “I don’t think so. I had a feeling that Lucy was acting in my apartment last night. That she acts a lot.”
At the next light, Marlene made a right and headed east toward the beach. “She’s an attorney. They’re all actors.”
“Well, Bob Seeley deserves an Academy Award. He never let on he’d known Weatherwise before he moved to Ocean Vista, never mind that his bad advice had cost the weatherman millions of dollars.”
“Or not,” Marlene said. “More likely those two old crooks made millions, then stashed the dough in an offshore account, even if Lucy couldn’t prove it.”
“That’s the real mystery,” Kate said. “Why couldn’t she prove it?”
The opening bars of “As Time Goes By” filled the convertible. Kate grabbed her bag and scrambled to find her cell phone. “Hi, this is Kate Kennedy.”
“Kate, it’s Mary Frances.”
Kate whispered to Marlene, “Mary Frances.”
“I’m wondering where you are right now.”
“Marlene and I are driving up A1A, heading home from Miami.” Kate peered out the window. The sea had turned navy blue and the waves looked rough. “We’re about fifteen minutes south of Hollywood Beach.”
“Good. Thank God,” Mary Frances sighed. “Do you think you could pick me up at the airport? You’re only about thirty minutes away. I can wait.”
“What? You mean Fort Lauderdale Airport? You’re home?”
“She’s here?” Marlene asked.
Kate waved a hand to silence her.
“Yes, I called Joe Sajak, but he’s up in Palm Beach.” Mary Frances sounded sad, on the verge of tears. “Could you please come get me? Delta Airlines terminal. Please.”
“We’re on our way,” Kate said.
Marlene groaned.
“Oh,” Mary Frances said, “do you have the radio on?”
Puzzled, Kate said, “No. Why?”
‘Turn it on. They predicting another hurricane. And saying it could be as bad as Andrew.”
Twenty-Five
Monday, July 24, Fifty-Six Years Ago
It was inevitable—Kate’s new favorite word—that she’d run into Marlene. Jackson Heights might be part of New York City, but it was a neighborhood, their neighborhood. Of course, Marlene lived right next door, but Kate just knew they’d be destined to meet in the lobby of one of the town’s five movie theaters. It turned out to be their least favorite, the Polk.
On Monday nights, the Polk Theater gave away free dishes. One per customer. Maggie never missed, often dragging Kate and Etta along, so they could bring home three cereal bowls. Kate figured if they all attended B movies every Monday night for the next twenty years, her mother might end up with service for twelve. Maggie, however, took a more optimistic point of view. “Just one more cup and two more saucers and I can serve four people tea.”
“Oh, Mom, do I really have to go?” Kate knew her protest wouldn’t deter Maggie from her mission. Her mother had fallen in love with those god-awful, ugly, olive-green dishes. And her grandmother had begged off, citing one of her bilious attacks, a vague stomach complaint that Kate had long suspected occurred on cue when Etta didn’t want to do something.
“Yes. Bread-and-butter plates, tonight.” Her mother shook, then folded, the tablecloth. “Go brush your teeth and change your blouse. We’re leaving in ten minutes.”
“What’s wrong with my blouse?” Kate loved her ruffled peasant blouse. She always loosened the drawstring at the neckline and dropped the sleeves off her shoulders as soon as she left the house.
“It’s too bare. The movie is air-conditioned, Kate. A shirtwaist would be better.”
Kate suspected the air conditioning had little to do with why her mother had dictated what her daughter should wear. Living with Maggie Norton was like living under Stalin.
Ladies from Corona, in cotton, flower-patterned housedresses, cluttered the small lobby. The Polk, on Thirty-seventh Avenue and Ninety-fourth Street, was only a short walk from Junction Boulevard, the dividing line between Jackson Heights and Corona.
Kate stared at the bow in the back of one woman’s apron-like dress. And her mother had been worried about Kate’s peasant blouse.
“Give me a break, Mom. That lady over there with the tight perm looks like a field of lilies on parade.”
“Lower your voice, Katharine. It’s rude to comment on what other people wear.”
“Never stopped you, Mom.”
“Enough.” Her mother sounded annoyed, but her blue eyes were smiling. “Do you want a box of nonpareils?”
A peace offering. Kate loved the little chocolate drops, topped with white sprinkles.
“Sure. Thanks.”
Standing in front of the narrow counter at the refreshment stand, Kate ordered, then felt a poke in the middle of her spine. “It’s good to see your favorite candy hasn’t changed.” Marlene’s laughter filled the small lobby.
She spun around, smiling, saying, “Hi, Marlene,” her voice tinny.
“I’m here as a stand-in for my mother. She and my dad are sitting with the dead. Well, with my aunt, who’s alive; it’s my uncle who’s dead. I’m excused tonight to get Mom a bread-and-butter plate.”
“I’m sorry for your loss, Marlene,” Maggie said. “Your father’s sister’s husband, right? I heard he’d been ill. Please give your parents my condolences.”
Kate could almost hear the click in her mother’s brain, as she made a mental note to buy a sympathy card. Emily Post has always been Maggie Norton’s favorite columnist. Mom often started sentences, “According to Emily Post,” and finished them with, “and that certainly applies to you, Kate.”
“My mother thought you could walk me home, Mrs. Norton,” Marlene said, almost hesitantly.
“Of course, Marlene,” Maggie said, “and you’ll sit with us too. Now how about a Milky Way? That’s your favorite, isn’t it?”
Midway through the coming attractions, Marlene had Kate laughing. They whispered during the Three Stooges short, since neither the girls nor Maggie could stand the slapstick routines.
By the time they reached the lobby, dissecting Destination Moon, the better of the two B pictures, they’d decided to fly to the moon when they grew up, figuring space travel would be as accessible as the subway.
They stepped out of air conditioning and into humidity. Kate could feel her hair turn to frizz. With her mother in the middle, they walked three abreast on the avenue.
Marlene, who’d grown quiet, mumbled, “I’m sorry, Kate. I acted like a real jerk with Pete Blake, who turned out to be a skunk.”
How about that? An apology. Out of the blue. Or maybe not. The pleased smile lighting up her mother’s face made Kate wonder if the entire evening had been a setup.
“How about an ice cream soda at Wolke’s, kind of a nightcap?” Maggie asked.
Any other time Kate would have jumped at the invitation, but she wanted to get home and wash her hair. Her curls were out of control. She had a luncheon engagement with Mr. Provakov and Sophie at the Russian Tea Room tomorrow. How special was that? Their estimated time of departure from Queens was eleven thirty a.m. Kate wanted her mother to set those stubborn curls in bobby pins; then she’d keep the pins in overnight, and wake up with waves. Still, if she didn’t go for a soda, Marlene would think she hadn’t accepted her apology.
“Great,” Kate said, thinking she’d have to get up at the crack of dawn to wash and dry her hair.
Marlene seemed so pleased to be going to the ice cream parlor that Kate decided the inconvenience might be worth it. But if her hair looked fuzzy tomorrow, she might change her mind.
Wolke’s was located next to Brady’s, an Irish bar and grill on Ninetieth Street, steps away from the entrance to the subway on Roosevelt Avenue. Weary office workers could come down the staircase, make a right, and pop into Brady’s for a cocktail or a beer before heading home. The Norton family often ate dinner there on Friday nights. Delicious filet of sole, French fries, and coleslaw.
As Kate followed her mother and Marlene into the ice cream parlor, she noticed a man and a woman leaving the bar. She stopped short. The woman was Sophie’s mother. The tall, younger man was the same guy who’d been with Mrs. Provakov last week at her apartment house door when she’d ignored Sophie and Kate.
Good God! Could Mrs. Provakov be like Lana Turner in The Postman Always Rings Twice? Or Barbara Stanwyck in Double Indemnity? Could Sophie’s mother be having an affair?
Twenty-Six
Tuesday, July 25, Fifty-Six Years Ago
“Get your head out of the oven,” her mother screamed.
Kate, drying her hair on low heat, was kneeling, her face resting on arms spread across the open oven door. She scrambled backward to get up.
“Have you gone crazy, Kate?” Maggie sounded like that might be a real possibility.
“My hair’s still wet, Mom. If it doesn’t dry before I leave, I’ll be the only fuzz-head in the Russian Tea Room.”
“We have almost two hours. Come on, we’ll towel-dry it and I’ll set it in bobby pins, then we’ll have a nice cup of tea.” Her mother rubbed Kate’s arm. “You’ll have soft curls, honey, I promise.”
“I want waves,” Kate whined. Tired. Cranky. Anxious. She was behaving like a spoiled six-year-old. “Sorry, Mom. Thanks. Let’s get started.”
Maggie Norton worked magic. No waves, but Kate’s chestnut curls appeared glossy and smooth, not frizzy or dry. She liked the way they framed her face. And her mother said lots of young women would kill for those curls, for that thick hair.
Over tea, her mother had drilled Kate on table manners, focusing this morning on place settings. “Start with the fork farthest away from the plate.” She just nodded, though she could recite her mother’s Emily Post routine, chapter and verse.
Kate left the house feeling pretty good about herself. She wore a favorite sundress, dark green with a foil skirt, and a white-trimmed bolero jacket, white open-toe wedges, and carried a matching bag. Best of all, Mom had made her up. A smudge of eyeshadow made her green eyes bigger and brighter. A swipe of color on her cheeks, a light coating of coral lipstick, and her nails matched her lips. She’d bet she could pass for sixteen. Well, maybe, fifteen.
Sophie and her father were waiting for her at the bus stop on Ninetieth Street and Thirty-fourth Avenue. They’d ride to the Seventy-fourth Street terminal, then take the F train to the city.
Mr. Provakov appeared much more foreign in his well-worn tweed jacket, way too warm and out of season for the summer day. And the man had on Hush Puppies; his feet must be sweating. Could that be why his wife was seeing another man? Kate banished that idea. After all, Mrs. Provakov could have stayed late at the office, then stopped for a drink or a snack with her coworker.
She turned her attention to Sophie, who looked like the cover of Seventeen, in a fitted, chocolate brown linen dress and matching patent leather sandals, her dark hair pulled into a loose twist at the nape of her neck.
Kate suddenly felt as out of style as Sophie’s father.
In the silence that had prevailed through most of the trip, they walked down the south side of Fifty-seventh Street. A canopy with big, bold, block letters signaled their arrival at the Russian Tea Room, slightly to the left of Carnegie Hall. Only the Rembrandt Building, that housed the Casino Russe, a Russian nightclub, stood between the restaurant and the concert hall. Kate once had seen a photograph of Yul Brynner sitting cross-legged at his sister’s feet, playing the balalaika in the casino.
Above a patch of black-and-white-checkered sidewalk, brass panels bracketed the restaurant’s revolving glass door. A menu in the window, displayed like a piece of precious Russian art, offered exotic fare, like zakuska, pojarski cotelettes, and lule kebab.
Kate could hear her heart pounding and feel her palms go clammy. She was about to enter a world she’d only read about, a world she yearned to see, touch, savor, and remember. She promised herself to order a dish she’d never tried, then giggled. That should pose no problem here.
“Something is amusing, Katya?” Mr. Provakov sounded gentle. Concerned.
“No, nothing. I’m just happy to be here.” Thrilled, actually. Kate sensed that Sophie and her father didn’t share her enthusiasm. Why? Here they were in the middle of Manhattan, about to celebrate Sophie’s thirteenth birthday in one of the city’s most famous restaurants. Why wouldn’t they be happy?
Mr. Provakov pushed the revolving door, followed by Sophie and Kate. They entered a red and gold room, unlike any Kate had ever seen, filled with huge urns holding spectacular flower arrangements, crystal decanters, and beautiful oil paintings. The long bar on the right had four red leather stools, matching the cushioned booths on the left.
Kate smiled. What a neat place. “Wow!”
Sophie nodded. “Even more than I expected.”
Behind a partition at the end of the bar, Kate could see the dining room. Red walls. Brass-trimmed, enormous, low-hanging chandeliers sparkled like jewels. Shelves held silver samovars. Tables, with their pretty pink cloths and napkins, were surrounded by more beautiful paintings.
A mustached waiter in a Russian tunic seated them. Kate felt overwhelmed, as if she’d entered a fairyland filed with grown-ups in business suits. “The young ladies, please to sit here.” The waiter pulled out two chairs at a table near the center of the dining room. “You can see my favorite mural while you eat.” The mural of two ballet dancers, the man lifting the woman into the air, delighted Kate.
Though nervous, she took Mr. Provakov’s suggestion and ordered the bilini with sour cream and caviar. The latter was so salty she wanted to spit it out. Maybe just having learned that caviar was made from fish eggs had colored her taste buds.
In such a festive
setting and with such attentive service, Kate again puzzled over the lack of laughter or even good conversation. Both Mr. Provakov and Sophie seemed preoccupied.
Over a delicious Charlotte Russe and dark, thick, hot tea, served in a tall crystal glass with a sterling silver holder, she gave Sophie her birthday present.
Kate and her mother had shopped in New York City for two full afternoons, finally agreeing they’d found the perfect gift: a hammered silver Russian-style cross on a sterling silver chain. They bought it in a jewelry store near the Park Sheraton Hotel and her father’s office, and not far from the Russian Tea Room. Her mother had wrapped the box in silver paper and tied it with a baby blue satin ribbon. And Kate had searched for, and bought, what she considered a perfect, not corny, birthday card.
But now, as she fumbled in her bag, then handed Sophie the card and the present, Kate was no longer sure they were perfect.
“This is very kind of you, Kate,” Sophie said with no conviction, barely glancing at the card. “I’ll put it on right now.”
The waiter brought Mr. Provakov another vodka, and more tea and dessert for all of them.
“Will you please help me with the clasp, Kate?” Sophie asked, struggling with the two ends of the chain.
Kate stood behind Sophie’s chair, closed the clasp, then sat and dug into her second Charlotte Russe. The ballet dancers seemed to be looking down at her and laughing.
A dark-haired middle-aged woman, dressed in a navy blue suit, averted her eyes as she passed by their table.
“Katya,” Mr. Provakov said, “will you do me a great favor?” He reached into his baggy jacket’s inside pocket and pulled out a white, sealed envelope. “Would you please deliver this note to the dark-haired lady who just went to the ladies’ room?”
Kate froze, a forkful of Charlotte Russe halfway to her mouth, and stared at him. “Now?”