by Toby Devens
“We’ll make a date if it’s okay with your mom. Lunch at the Breakers.” The most expensive restaurant in Tuckahoe. “And we’ll play with makeup after that. I’ve got all kinds of stuff here to experiment with. How does that sound?”
“Cool,” Merry said. She skipped a bewildered glance from Margo to her mother to me, then said, “My dad’s waiting.”
“Call me. Your mom has my number. Or better yet, drop by here and we’ll set something up.”
Margo waited until the door closed behind them before saying, “What the hell happened to that darling child?”
chapter fifteen
I decided Margo was right about getting on with my life.
When I finally told her about my semi-date with Scott at Coneheads and my waffling on a future one, she’d lashed out. “Oh, for chrissake, Nora—and forgive the blasphemy if you’ve decided to return to the Mother Church, which is the only possible explanation for your self-imposed chastity—what next? Entering the convent? The Sisters of Insanity? Really, what are you waiting for? Are you expecting Lon to float through the window and give you permission to live your life? To quote some rabbi, if not now, when? If not you, who?”
Margo and her Jewish wise guy swung my vote. When Scott and I were next in each other’s arms on Tuesday—swaying to some romantic slow dance—I’d say, “Your suggestion that we have a glass of wine after class tonight? I’d like that.” There. I had a plan. But first there was Lon’s legacy and that particular sputtering flame I did need to tend.
For eight years, I’d been wary of approaching his fourth book, but Thunder Hill Road was brilliant. I fell in love with the characters, which included two strong and vulnerable women, one of them a redhead, and was totally caught up in the story line when it ended abruptly, cut off by writer’s block and then the tragedy in San Francisco.
Jack spotted me reading the manuscript and lifted a page from the pile on the table next to me. He screwed up his forehead. “This some of Dad’s stuff?”
“Yup. The book he was working on when he died. He never got to finish it.”
“Damn shame. Maybe I’ll read it someday.”
Which could have led to an interesting conversation, but we got interrupted by my son’s phone beeping. Cellular ringing and singing surrounded him almost constantly these days. Dirk, I figured. Maybe Tiffanie, though he hadn’t mentioned her lately and in the past he’d peppered his conversation with quotes from her as if she were the Dalai Lama or Ellen DeGeneres. I hoped some of the calls were from the female coworker at Coneheads whose gift of home-baked chocolate chip cookies sat on our kitchen counter along with its note, “Enjoy!,” a tiny heart subbing for the dot above the i in “Claire.” God bless whoever was making him happy, even Tiffanie if she was the cause. And I was counting down until Tuesday, when I’d see Scott again. That was my current flirtation with happiness.
On Monday morning, I called Nate Greenberg, Lon’s agent, and asked, “How do we find the right person to finish Thunder Hill Road?”
“My God, you finally read it! And it’s that good?” He laughed boisterously and didn’t wait for an answer. “Email it as an attachment. Flag it for my eyes only. And then leave it to me. I know two writers I’d trust to bring this off. Let me approach them confidentially.”
“I want a say in the final choice.”
“Of course. You’ll have approval of everything. Writer, material, publisher because I’m not sure we want to go with the previous one after the last experience. If you send me the manuscript ASAP, I’ll get back to you quickly. Not too quickly, though. I want to make sure we do this right.” A long pause; then, after he cleared his throat: “This isn’t all business for me. You know that, right, Nora? I loved the man. He was a mensch—a man of honor. And as close to genius as anyone I’m ever going to represent. Frankly, his last novel wasn’t my favorite. But this gives us a chance to redeem his legacy.”
His legacy. Ah, yes. I felt the flood of relief. Nate and I were on the same page.
That afternoon, I received my own interesting email. Return address: [email protected]. That’s what my eye took in first. Then the header: From Dirk DeHaven, MD. So there was no possibility of mistaken identity and exile to my spam file.
My first reaction was a jumble of emotions. Could be he’d had second thoughts about shaking up the status quo and was enlisting me to prepare Jack for the bad news. For me, the doc’s change of heart might be a relief. But my son would be devastated. I opened the note, aware that my head had begun to ache—collateral damage, I supposed, from the war of feelings being waged inside.
Dear Mrs. Farrell,
Perhaps in the not too distant future I’ll have your permission to address you as Nora. I hope so, but that will be your determination, as will be the subject of this email. I’ll be attending a conference in Baltimore at Johns Hopkins Hospital, which would place me within a few hours’ driving distance of Tuckahoe Beach. I could easily extend my Maryland visit to Saturday the ninth, which would allow me to meet and spend some time with Jack. I haven’t mentioned the possibility to him yet, thinking it best to clear it with you.
I look forward to hearing from you and, if and when you’re willing, to meeting you.
My best wishes,
Dirk
I read it three times before I walked off the deck and into a very dry martini. Okay, I thought, as the vodka worked its numbing magic, it looked as if I’d been too hard on the dude. The truth was he and Jack didn’t need my consent for any of this. Dirk’s request was a courtesy, though if I was cynical, possibly a clever man’s way of ingratiating himself with the mom, sending the coded message, “You’re still in charge, Mrs. Farrell. Nothing to fear from me.”
Play nice, Nora, I told myself. I waited until the martini buzz ebbed and sent a response thanking him for soliciting my input and said that, of course, the final decision was up to Jack. The tone of my answer was slightly warmer than a lawyer’s letter and included no response to his suggestion that he and I might, at some time in the future, have contact.
I signed it, “Best, Nora.” Which settled the name issue, at least.
I was stretched out on the living room sofa, watching the eleven o’clock news, when Jack just about bounced in from the kitchen, two of Claire-with-a-heart’s cookies in hand. His smile was high wattage. He bent nearly in half to kiss the top of my head, straightened, took a giant bite of a cookie, and handed me the other one.
Mouth crammed, amber eyes sparkling, he looked like himself as a kid on Christmas morning. The big gift—the scooter, the bike, the set of beginner skis—covered by the biggest green plastic trash bag Home Depot carried, or sometimes two sacks Lon had taped together, the awkward package topped with a gigantic red ribbon, was always opened last. The dream-come-true present. How long had Jack been dreaming about this one? Since Lon broke the news about his beginnings on the Lake Tahoe camping trip? Or since my boy’s father came home to Tuckahoe as ashes in an urn? Or did it start on the night Tiffanie ragged my handsome, tentative son about not knowing who he was?
“Dirk just emailed me about his visit.” Jack’s baritone reminded me how far he was from a kid. “He said you were okay with it. So, thanks, Mom.”
“No problem.”
“He said you sound like a great mother.” I gave my son an eye roll. “Hey, you are. Anyway, he’s driving in on the eighth after a dinner meeting at Hopkins, so he’ll get in late. He’s staying at the Boardwalk Hilton.” The hotel that abutted We Got Rhythm.
“That hotel was your idea?”
“I figured he’d like it. It has a gym—he works out—and the best rooms have the ocean view. And he has Hilton points. We’re meeting Saturday morning and then we’ll have lunch. If you want to join us . . .”
“I think it should be just the two of you this time, Jack.”
“I guess.” But he looked relieved. “So, we’ll hang out o
n Saturday, then dinner I don’t know where yet. And he needs to leave early Sunday to make his noon flight back to Frisco.”
“I don’t think people from San Francisco like it to be called Frisco.”
“Didn’t know that. Glad you told me.” Jack bit his lip. “Maybe you ought to be there so I won’t screw this up.”
“Hey, he’s the one who has to watch screwing up. You’ll be fine. Just be yourself.”
Which was enough, I thought. More than.
chapter sixteen
Scott Goddard played it cool as we gathered for the Tuesday night ballroom class. He positioned himself at the end of the line next to Lynn Brevard and partnered with her for two of the six practice dances. I’d gotten a wave from across the room when he entered and not much more. I finally landed him for the last foxtrot to what I thought was going to be “Cheek to Cheek,” the Sinatra version. Brave or foolhardy, I’d chosen that as background music for the first step in getting on with my life—my, as Margo had reminded me that morning, “emotionally stunted and stalled-out life.”
“Some tips for the new and improved you,” she’d said. “Be open, warm, toss your damn Giorgio perfume, which is très cliché and très passé. I recommend Prada’s scent called Candy, which makes you, well, edible. Wear those shoes I forced you to buy at the Coach outlet. They make your legs look fabulous. And, for God’s sake, show the man a little cleavage. He’s a war hero; he’s earned it.”
I followed three of her four suggestions, though Candy, the quickly purchased Prada perfume, smelled fattening to me. But no cleavage. Not with Tom Hepburn, his cataracts recently removed, on the prowl.
When I finally landed Scott—outmaneuvering Mrs. Powell, who was also headed his way—he seemed unimpressed with my efforts. His leg had been working fine with Lynn during the tango. She’d only just learned the basics, but Scott had mastered some pretty fancy steps two years back and led her with confidence. Positioned properly, upper body against upper body, he spiraled her flawlessly on the turn. As I watched both of them laugh at the smooth perfection of the move, I felt a sting of jealousy. An exotic feeling for me, jealousy.
Lynn had gotten the relaxed version of Scott. As he and I began to dance, I got what he’d once called “post posture,” ramrod-straight spine and stiff arms, which I didn’t correct because I concluded—pulse picking up—that he knew better and was sending me a message. Maybe that his invitation for an after-class drink had expired due to my silence, my cowardice. In spite of which, and in spite of Bobby’s unannounced switching from “Cheek to Cheek” to “Strangers in the Night,” which I should have taken for a stop sign, I plunged ahead, wanting to get it over with, not wanting to answer to Margo.
So I blurted into what was essentially empty space, “That glass of wine after class? I’d like to take you up on it. How about tonight?” There. Done. Margo would be proud.
Or not. Because as I finished my blurt with a hard swallow, Scott missed a step, and although I gripped his hand and shifted my weight to help him balance, he floundered before he was able to right himself. He muttered, “Sorry, Nora. Don’t know what happened there. I’m a little unsteady.”
Me too, I thought.
“I swear I haven’t been drinking.” Then he smiled. The smile expanded to a grin. “Absolutely yes to the wine. I missed dinner too. But let’s see if we can remedy that on both counts. Have you been to the Flying Jib yet? It’s only been open a month.”
Okay, here we go. It should have been an easy response. A sprightly, “No, but friends of mine have”—Margo and Pete, who never missed the newest, trendiest restaurants—“and they liked it a lot.” Simple. Instead, his question translated for me as “On your mark, get set . . . !” and I choked at the starting line. Come on, Nora! I coached myself into a negative shake of the head.
“No? Me either. But it’s got a great view of Teal Duck Creek, I hear the calamari is fantastic, and one of my VFW buddies is the manager. Sound good to you?”
My head bob elicited a hand squeeze from Scott.
Margo might have been right. Saying yes to him was like hitting the ocean in June when the water was still cold. The icy first wave paralyzed you. But if you dipped deeper and stayed in longer, you got used to the temperature and soon you were bathed in something warm and wonderful. I’d already lost my shivers. The apprehensive ones, anyway.
“Did you drive into town?’ he asked.
I’d walked, to discharge some nervous energy, to see how the hibiscus and the magnolia trees were blooming in the yards along the residential stretch and the geraniums were flourishing in the window boxes of the shops on Clement Street, but mostly wanting to have the right answer if Scott asked that question.
His eyes brightened at my response and he said, “If you wait at the back door after class, I’ll get the car and pick you up.”
As Sinatra sang, “Dooby-dooby-doo,” and Scott swung me into the final turn, I noticed some looks had settled on us. Usually any chatter between my partner and me was focused on brief instructions or corrections: lean into the step; pivot on your heel for that turn. But Scott and I, even with Bobby’s musical substitution, were less strangers in the night and more cheek to cheek. Also whispering nonstop. That drew occasional, and I thought approving, glances from Tom Hepburn, and a lingering inquisitive stare from the Felchers. The last thing I needed was teacher’s pet gossip circulating in this group.
“How about you leave first,” I said, hitching my neck toward the others, who always exited, not out the main door to the boardwalk, but through the back door to the street. “I’ll follow in a few minutes and, if you don’t mind, stop for me in front of Ledo’s Pizza.” The opposite direction from the Turquoise Café, where this gang went for coffee after class.
He got it. “Copy that.” Then, after a pause: “I’ve got to tell you, Nora, I didn’t think you remembered our last conversation. The end of it anyway, when I asked you for a . . . well, I guess you could call this a date, right?”
Margo’s invisible hand smacked my head into a nod.
“And if you did remember, I bet on no for an answer.”
“Stay away from Atlantic City,” I said. “You’d lose your shirt.”
He reared back, off the beat, and gave out a hearty laugh. My cheekiness had caught him by surprise. Me too. Or maybe it was my dimple that emerged only with my widest smile. This was a Nora he hadn’t seen before. I think he liked her.
At the Flying Jib, we were greeted by Scott’s buddy with a half bow for me and a cuff on the shoulder for Scott, who’d phoned from the car to reserve a table. I got the once-over, twice. Scott got a discreet bob of the head. Affirmative, I guessed.
“I put you right on the water,” the manager said, as he personally escorted us to the table set next to a panoramic sweep of window.
“May I present Teal Duck Creek, complete with a raft of green-winged teal and mallards, plus a few cranky geese and a couple of imported swans. It’s beautiful in this twilight, isn’t it?”
A flock of ducks, their tails shimmering iridescent, took off into a cloudless pewter sky. “Very,” I said.
We peeled our gazes from the creek and took in the room, which was spacious and dressed in brass and mahogany with nautical touches. This late, it was only a quarter filled, with subdued chatter from other tables. He handed us the drinks menu. “Happy hour is over, but for you, mate, and the lady, of course, we’ll make an exception. Our fried green tomatoes are the best on the shore.”
After consulting with me, Scott ordered the mini crab cakes, calamari, and the tomatoes to share and a vodka martini with three olives for himself. I ordered something called a Mango-Peach Fizz, which sounded frilly even to me. When I told the server to go easy on the peach schnapps and asked to substitute seltzer water for the champagne, Scott raised an amused eyebrow. And when the server placed the drink in front of me, he commented, “It matches your dre
ss.”
It did. The dress was made of a silky fabric that defined my shape but didn’t cling, and its creamy coral color was a flattering choice for a redhead. I’d added a gold chain and gold-and-coral earrings. “I guess I’m coordinated,” I said.
“You won’t get an argument from me on that. In my case, even when I had both my own feet, they were two left ones.”
I laughed. “You’ve come a long way, Scott. I can say from recent personal experience, your lead is strong and confident.”
“Well, that depends on who I’m leading.” He turned away to gaze out the window, where a parade of geese waddled down the lantern-lit pier. I heard him inhale a deep breath before turning back to say, “I’m glad we—well, especially you—decided to do this, Nora. Lesson here. You never know what life has in store.” He lifted his glass. “To . . .” He stalled out for a few seconds. “To surprises.”
I lifted mine to the sentiment, though my record with surprises wasn’t particularly reassuring.
We took our first sips.
“Ahhh. Fine martini. Dry as Blackbeard’s bones. How’s yours?”
“Nice, fruity. Blackbeard would have pitched it overboard. It’s what my mother would have called a ladies’ cocktail.”
“Your mother.” He leaned toward the just-arrived food, which was a small-plate feast, speared a ring of calamari, and handed me his fork. The bite of squid was crisp outside, tender within. “You mentioned her in class a few times. She was some kind of professional dancer. Onstage, right? Broadway?”
“The Fifties Follies was her only show, and it closed after a week. But for ten years, she danced as a Rockette at Radio City Music Hall. That’s where my dad met her. He was what they used to call a stage-door Johnny. Love at first sight.”
“I hear that can happen,” Scott remarked, stabbing a crab cake. “Sometimes it works out. Sometimes not.” Ah, were we in the Bunny hutch here?