by Trisha Baker
"Is there some reason women shouldn't go to college?" she demanded to know.
"Of course there is—they should be at home."
"And who has been running this country—the factories, the banks—during the war?" she inquired heatedly.
"Listen, that's only while the men are away. No soldier's gonna want to come home to some broad who wants to wear the pants."
"Why does the thought of a woman having an education or a job threaten you?"
"It doesn't threaten me, but who needs some ball breaker, excuse my language," he said hastily at a dark look from Simon, "some… ah, woman… who wants to compete? I don't need that. And neither does any guy with sense."
"I see," Maggie told him. "I guess you need a woman to be completely dependent on you in order to be able to function with her."
"What the hell do you mean by function!"
Fortunately, the cab had arrived at the Staten Island Ferry Terminal. Simon paid the driver and told him, "My young companion has some nonconformist ideas."
The cabbie seemed ready to continue the argument until he looked at the money in his hand. Then his face lit up like a sunrise. "Gee, thanks! And don't worry about her ideas. She'll grow out of that At least she's pretty."
Simon pulled her away from the taxi before she could tell the hack exactly where to put his archaic, unsolicited opinions. "How much did you tip that philistine?" she demanded. "What a patronizing, old-fashioned, boorish…"
"Meghann, don't be so hard on the poor fellow. On one point, he was quite right."
"About women staying home?" she asked in a viper's tone.
"About you being beautiful," he replied, caressing her cheek.
Flustered from both the compliment and the caress, Maggie muttered, "He didn't say I was beautiful. He said I was pretty."
"Then I say you're beautiful." Simon noticed the hateful blush coloring her face. He turned her toward him. "Hasn't anyone ever told you that you're beautiful? You seem so bashful when I compliment you."
"Well,s-sure," she stammered, "but they never said it as… uh… as, um… extravagantly as you do."
"That," he said softly, looking deep into her eyes, "was their mistake. I do not intend to repeat it."
He was leaning toward her. Maggie stepped away hastily, telling him, "I'll go see what time the next ferry leaves."
As she walked away, she acknowledged to herself ruefully, Face it—this is a date. Now if you had any brains at all, you'd leave this minute. That was great advice—too bad she felt completely incapable of following it.
"We're in luck," she told Simon, who had walked over to her. "The next boat leaves in a few minutes."
Simon looked around the circular, cavernous room with its ugly yellow-tiled walls. "The view does get better?" he asked hopefully.
"Don't be silly," she giggled, "of course it does."
While they waited for the boat to dock, Simon asked her how old she was.
"Eighteen," she told him. "I'll be nineteen in July. How old are you?"
Something about her question seemed to amuse him. "I'm thirty-three," he said.
There weren't very many people on the ferry. She and Simon stood by the rails, staring at the activity by the Brooklyn Piers. Ships filled the port, and men were busy unloading cargos. "Does your city never shut down?" he asked her.
"Nope, there's always something going on." Taking on her role of tour guide, she pointed out the Brooklyn Bridge and the Manhattan Bridge, the lights from the cars twinkling in the dark.
As the boat pulled away from the dock, they were able to see more of the city skyline—including the Empire State Building.
Simon took in the well-lit buildings. "Did someone forget to tell New York about the dimout?"
"A lot of people ignore it," she told him and gestured to some of the dark buildings. "But some people observe it—normally you see a lot more lights—and the Empire State Building used to be lit up on top."
"You seem to know the skyline very well."
"I love it," she told him. "On the night before my… fiancé"—she stumbled over that word a little—"was called to duty, we went up on my dad's rooftop and got dr… uh, intoxicated. Then we watched the sunrise over the city."
"Why didn't you marry before he left?"
"Well, I was only seventeen and my father said that was too young to be married." She wasn't going to add all the unflattering remarks her father made at the time—ranging from his dislike of Johnny Devlin to Maggie being too young and silly to know what she was doing.
"Then I owe your father my thanks." Before Maggie could recover from that remark, he asked, "Do you live with your parents?"
"No, Daddy knew how angry I was about him not letting me marry Johnny. So his graduation present to me was that I could live in an apartment in the city with my best friend, Bridie McGovern. See, she'd been accepted to nursing school and I was going to Hunter. Since we were both going to be in Manhattan all the time, he said it made sense for us to live there on our own. He knows the guy who owns the building we live in." Maggie gestured to the passing sites. "Look, there's Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty. Hey!" she said indignantly. "You're not looking!"
"I'd much rather look at you." He put his hands on her hair.
Maggie yelped when he started taking out the hairpins. "What are you doing?"
"Be still," Simon ordered, and she stood quietly while he took her hair down. He didn't hurt her at all when he took the pins out, but his touch was making her feel queasy and warm… and weak. She found herself gripping the ship's rail.
When the last hairpin was out, Simon fluffed her hair around her shoulders. Keeping his hands in her hair, he tilted her face up to him. "Titian hair… You look radiant in the moonlight."
His hands were keeping her hair from blowing into her face. He leaned down to kiss her—it should have been a romantic moment. But the wind from the river was cold, and Maggie hadn't bothered to wear a coat to Pauline's. When she started shivering, Simon took his tuxedo jacket off and wrapped it around her shoulders. "Shall we go inside?"
There was hardly anybody inside. She and Simon were able to sit by themselves on one of the wooden benches by the windows. Maggie started to sit on the bench, but Simon grabbed her without a word and placed her on his lap.
"Do you mind?" His tone seemed to imply that it wouldn't matter if she did.
"No," she told him, "but you really can't see much from here."
"I'm seeing all I wish to see," he said. Then he started stroking her arms. "You have a rather strong right arm."
"I pitch for the softball team at school."
Simon's eyebrows shot up. "I thought baseball was a man's sport?"
"Not entirely," she replied. "A lot of girls like it—but when you're the youngest child and you have six brothers, I guess you grow up as a tomboy."
"Ah, so that explains why you go around stomping on toes and arguing with strange men without any thought of consequence."
Maggie laughed, feeling quite comfortable on Simon's lap. "Well, they taught me how to throw a punch, climb a tree, and hit a ball. Do you know I never had any dolls or tea sets? My dad just never thought to buy me anything like that. Instead, I had my brother's old baseball cards and old footballs to play with."
"You only mention your father. Didn't your mother try to stem this masculine upbringing?"
Maggie looked down. "Well, she died when I was five. She had cancer."
"I'm sorry. Do you remember?"
Maybe it was the fact that they were practically alone on the boat. Or maybe it was Simon's soft amber eyes making her feel so protected, but she found herself telling him things she'd never told another person before. He never interrupted; he simply stroked her hair while she told him of the sketchy images she had from that time.
"I don't really remember my mother at all. All I remember is my brother Frankie telling me one day that he was going to take me to school because Mommy was too sick. And then I remember waking u
p late one night." Her voice got a little shaky. "I heard someone moaning in pain, so I went to the door of my bedroom. My father was in the hallway, outside his bedroom. He saw me and shouted, 'Maggie, go back to sleep! Everything's okay.' And then in the morning, my mother was dead. Daddy didn't let me go to the funeral—he said I was too young. So Brian—one of my other brothers—he stayed with me. I remember him crying."
Someone came over. "I'm sorry, but you have to leave now. This ship isn't leaving for a half hour."
Simon looked up at him. "Is there some reason we couldn't wait?"
The man seemed about to shake his head, but then he said uncertainly, "Well, sure. I guess it's not a problem." He wandered away.
Maggie forgot her sadness. "How did you do that? They almost always make you leave."
"I've been told I can be quite persuasive. Are your brothers overseas now?"
"Four of them are. Frankie, the oldest, is a cop and has three kids. They haven't taken him yet. And Paul was wounded in North Africa, so he came home."
Simon took in her gown and makeup. "What did you tell me? That you grew up as a… tomboy? But obviously, someone taught you other skills."
His look flustered her again. What was wrong with her? "Well, Frankie got married when I was twelve, and his wife, Theresa, took an interest in me. She taught me all about dresses, lipstick, and high heels. And then there was Bridie. We pretty much learned a lot together… from the makeup counter at Woolworth's and the movie magazines. Wait a minute! I'm being so rude." She castigated herself, and smiled. "Here I've been talking my head off and I never asked you anything."
"I want to know more about you. Tell me what young people do in America. How do you entertain yourselves?"
Maggie thought about that. "We go to movies and ice-cream parlors. Sometimes we go on dates to the nightclubs… but usually my boyfriends don't have the money for that. And then in the summer we go to ball games, the beach, and Playland."
"The beach?" Simon questioned. "You're very fair, Meghann. Doesn't the sun burn your skin?"
"Oh, sure," she replied. "If I'm not careful. I have to keep remembering to put on the suntan lotion or I get burned. And I also wind up with a million freckles. I don't mind, though. I love the sun." Maggie took a look at Simon. If he had one flaw, it was that his skin was too pale. "What about you? You don't like the sun?"
"No," he told her flatly. "I don't."
"Then what do you like?"
"You." He smiled.
People were coming onto the boat again. Maggie stood up. "Come on," she told him. "I promised you a tour of the city. And you're getting one whether you want it or not!"
"I hardly dare argue. You might do grave injury to my toes."
"Kippy deserved that," she protested.
"He deserved far more, but at the time I was more interested in meeting you. You knew the young man?" They walked back outside.
"He's Pauline's cousin. I bet anything they'll get married someday—no one else is going to want them."
"How catty, Meghann—I like that."
They were both quiet on the way back, staring at the moonlit water. Maggie thought she'd never forget this night, or the man she was with. Was this what people meant by shipboard romances? She had asked him how long he was going to be in New York, and he told her a few more days. What harm could there be in seeing him? He'd be gone soon. She was sure Johnny must have had a few girls while he'd been in Europe.
They were coming back into Manhattan. With a sense of mischief, Maggie showed Simon the old fort on Governors Island. "That's where the colonists fired on the hated British ships when they came into the harbor."
Simon raised an eyebrow. "Hated British, is it?"
"Hated," she said firmly. "Absolutely despised. Who could like anything about such a loathsome race?"
Simon picked her up and swung her around. She giggled and demanded to be put down. "Not until you take back those slurs on my ancestry."
"No way!" she laughed. "So I guess you'll just have to hold on to me forever."
"I suppose I shall," he said, bringing her very close. "Or do my very best to persuade you to look on at least one Englishman with favor." He tightened his arms around her, and kissed her very softly on the lips.
Maggie could not understand how one small kiss could make her feel so weak. "Please put me down," she murmured.
He released her immediately, and they left the ferry. "I feel terrible about such a cheap date, Meghann. Didn't you mention before that some of your beaux didn't always have enough funds to entertain you in style? Tell me someplace you've never been that you've always wanted to go."
"The Stork Club?" she suggested.
Simon hailed another cab, and admonished her, "No arguing this time."
"Do you think women should stay at home?" she asked before he opened the car door.
He pulled her close again. She shivered and he smiled very softly. "If I wanted a woman to stay at home, I would make sure she enjoyed the time there."
"This place is wonderful," Maggie said enthusiastically after they walked through a small lobby and she had her first glimpse of the elegant supper club. Its posh barroom was on her left, with a long mirror above it; everything was illuminated by a soft, rosy light.
"I'm glad you like it."
In truth, Maggie was more spellbound by Simon Baldevar than the Stork Club. She reflected ruefully that her other dates (including Johnny Devlin) had behaved like country bumpkins compared to him.
Sometimes they had taken her to nightclubs… places that were cheap rip-offs of the Stork Club or El Morocco. Even there, the boys had been cowed by the condescension of headwaiters, not knowing how one got a table that was not right next to the kitchen.
Simon certainly didn't have any problems with head-waiters, she thought, watching a captain greet him effusively. There was something about Simon that made people jump to do his bidding, Maggie observed as the fawning captain opened a thick glass door and led them into a huge room paneled with mirrors that reflected the tuxedo-clad men and fashionably attired women dancing, drinking, and chattering at the tables.
Maggie glanced at one of the mirrors and then blinked in confusion. Either she had dust in her eyes or someone hadn't cleaned the mirror properly because Simon's reflection was all blurred… nearly invisible.
Simon gave her arm a gentle tug, and they continued to follow the captain past the main room and into a small oak-paneled room.
"This is the Cub Room," Maggie whispered excitedly after the captain seated them at a small banquette table. "I read about it in Winchell's column all the time!"
"That gossipmonger," Simon scorned, but he gave her a smile.
The waiter returned, bearing the bottle of Dom Perignon 1911 Simon ordered.
Maggie had never had champagne like this. Even the stuff at Frankie's wedding tasted like cheap seltzer compared to this dry liquid that went down her throat like silk.
"This tastes great," she enthused, starting to rummage through her purse for a pack of cigarettes. She was eager to be able to tell Bridie she'd used one of the famous Stork Club ashtrays, dipped her ashes right onto the stork wearing a black top hat.
"Don't," Simon said, putting his hand over the unopened pack of Lucky Strikes.
"Why not?" Maggie was surprised; she hardly knew anyone who didn't smoke.
"I dislike the taste of tobacco."
"But if I'm the one who's smoking, how will you taste—oh!"
Simon grinned and extended his hand to her. "Would you like to dance?"
"One O'clock Jump!" Maggie glowed when the horns started thumping out the infectious, lively beat.
Tuck in, throw out, change places, sugar-push, do a tight whip… Simon performed all the steps with a grace and agility that made Maggie feel like she was dancing on air. What a marvelous dancer he was! Was there nothing this man couldn't do?
When they linked hands to trade places, Maggie felt his eyes on her and looked up, puzzled. It was almost like
he was trying to come to some kind of decision, she thought while her feet pounded out the swing steps without missing a beat.
For the next song, the orchestra started playing "It Had to Be You."
"Much better," Simon whispered into her ear.
"What do you mean?"
"This time, you're not dancing with me for spite." He nibbled her ear, and she felt like she would have fallen if he weren't holding her up.
"You shouldn't do that," she protested in a soft voice that probably would encourage him to do more rather than less.
"Why not?"
Because it made her want more. Because it made her feel like she was melting, like she wanted him to peel her clothes off and kiss her like that all over…
Jesus Christ! She felt her cheeks turning red again. Maggie had never had thoughts like that, ever! She looked up into Simon's arch grin, and thought it was almost like he knew exactly what she was thinking.
"This… this could be our song." Why did her voice sound so tremulous?
"What does that mean, sweetheart?"
"Well, when people, uh, go together, they're supposed to have a song—something they'll always remember each other by. And since we've danced to it twice in one night…"
"I hardly need a song to remember you by, Meghann. But I rather like the idea of 'going together.' " He pulled her very close, kissing her neck.
"Please stop doing that," she whispered.
"Don't you like it?" Simon kept her close. "I thought you said you were engaged."
"Well, Johnny never did anything like that." Her prim words completely clashed with the new, sultry purr she heard in her voice. What was this man doing to her?
Simon raised an eyebrow in disbelief.
"Well, we're Catholic," she explained defensively. "Everything is supposed to wait till you get married."
Simon laughed. "Ah, yes… No pleasure, purely procreation. Is that right?"
"Well…" It did sound kind of silly when put that way. Why hadn't Johnny done any of this? She liked it a lot.
Simon looked down at her quizzically. "You are aware of what happens when people marry? Or has the church decided knowledge has to wait until after marriage too?"
"My sister-in-law told me when I got engaged."