He doesn’t say I won’t be here long. She doesn’t ask.
They dance for a long time. Sometime after two, he offers to show her his truck in the alley.
She pulls back a little, meets his eye.
“You picked the wrong girl for that line,” she says, not as cruelly as she could—not as cruelly as she has, with other men.
He nods seriously, apologizes with a flush at his temples, and doesn’t suggest it again.
(She’ll be the one, weeks later, who leads him into the dark cellar. It’s summer, sticky even underground, and she’ll comb her damp bangs out with her fingers just for something to do with her hands.
He’ll stand a few inches away from her, and wait a few moments after she drops her hands before he leans forward and kisses her.)
Later that night, he’ll ask Jo her name for the first time, and hear no.
(Ella has already perfected “Don’t you like calling me Princess?” and Doris likes “You can’t pronounce it.”
Jo favors the level look and “Does it matter?”
That one she doesn’t try; to Tom, it matters plenty.)
• • • • • •
Her father’s note arrived with breakfast.
Dinner party this evening, eight o’clock. Four guests expected. Have already spoken with Mrs. Reardon about menu. Love, Father.
So much for Jo seeing anything ahead of time.
There was no mention of which guests were expected, or for whom these upstanding young men would be intended.
Jo handed the note to Lou and sat down at their writing desk to reply.
Lou frowned at the note as if she’d accidentally read it upside down. “He told you he spoke with Mrs. Reardon about the menu, and not one word about the guests?”
“Well,” said Jo, “I suppose he doesn’t want us to worry about the menu.”
“I hope you have a brilliant plan to get them out of this,” said Lou, perching on the edge of her bed. “I’m more than happy to get out of here alone—I’ll find something—but that still leaves plenty.”
“All suggestions welcome.”
Lou narrowed her eyes. “I suggest you come up with a brilliant plan to dissuade Father before all of us end up married off and locked up tight along Park Avenue.”
“Very helpful,” said Jo, and turned her attention to her note.
Dear Sir,
I would very much like to speak with you regarding plans for this evening. Please call for me at your earliest convenience; I will make myself available at whatever time suits you.
Josephine
It suited their father that Jo meet with him at two.
She wore the gray dress that made her look secretarial and (she hoped) would suggest to their father that she was capable of handling all the weight and import of a four-person guest list.
Walters left her at the foyer where it led to the pale front parlor. The pocket doors to the gold-and-green dining room had been pulled open at the far end of the room, an uneasy contrast that looked, at a glance, like a white beast opening its vast mouth.
(It would devour them just the same, she thought.)
From where she stood in the foyer, she watched her father overseeing as two women bustled back and forth from the butler’s pantry, arranging plates and bowls and thin-stemmed glasses at nine settings around the enormous oak table. They looked up as she entered, one assessing glance, and then turned back to their work.
There was no light of recognition; if they had even been at the house when Jo and Lou were sneaking out to the flicks, they’d paid no notice back then, either.
When Jo cleared her throat, their father turned and smiled cheerfully, waving her over.
“Josephine, come and have a look at this. Your mother selected a beautiful china pattern, don’t you think? It’s so like her.”
It was white porcelain with a filigreed and gilded edge an inch wide, fussy and impersonal—the sort of thing a woman chose when she was afraid to really choose.
It looked expensive, too, which was probably what he liked about it.
Jo said, “It’s lovely.”
“It looks very sharp with the crystal,” he said. “Tonight should be a great success. Mrs. Reardon, if you please, could you wash the champagne flutes as well? I think we’ll serve some from the cellar with dessert.” He turned to Jo. “No harm in bringing out a little something you’ve had on hand.”
That sounded close to home.
“Of course, sir,” said the older woman, and disappeared into the kitchen.
So that was Mrs. Reardon, with whom she might be expected to be lady of the house for the dinner parties that would follow this one, as soon as their father tired of the novelty.
“About tonight,” said Jo. “I was hoping to speak with you about the gentlemen guests who are coming.”
He blinked. “What about them?”
Jo balled her fists.
“You can’t expect—” she said too sharply, swallowed, and tried again. “You can’t expect us to sit down with them, without knowing what they know about us. That’s—that’s—”
Her father frowned, pulled back an inch, and she remembered what it was to be ten years old and really fear him; she went cold.
“Hardly sporting,” she finished, and attempted a winning smile.
(She should have sent Ella. Damn, damn.)
He didn’t return it. Jo held the smile until her mouth ached, not knowing what else to do.
Finally he raised one eyebrow and turned back to the table. “I suppose the guests can know a bit about each other beforehand. I don’t really know party manners these days.”
Jo wasn’t surprised. “It would be nice, sir,” she said. “For the other girls.”
He considered it a moment longer, unused to arming them with knowledge of anything at all; then he nodded, as if satisfied it wouldn’t actually arm them much.
“Bring me the business cards from my office desk, there’s a girl.”
Well, Jo thought as she crossed the foyer, at least the secretary outfit worked.
Their father’s desk was covered with papers and items neatly stacked: the business cards in a small pile off the edge of the blotter, and the day’s paper folded in quarters at his left elbow, his magnifying glass resting on top of a small advertisement on a back page.
ANY MAN W/INFORMATION ABOUT DANCING SOCIETY SISTERS INVITED TO APPLY DIRECTLY TO 3 E 84TH ST.
She read it twice; she’d seen the front of the house so rarely that it took a moment for their address to register.
Then she grabbed the cards and moved deliberately back to the dining room, a small smile fixed to her face, wondering how many times it was possible to feel sick in a single afternoon.
• • • • • •
Rebecca was sitting on the landing of the third floor when Jo took the stairs back up.
“What did he say?”
“Round them up,” said Jo, not slowing.
Rebecca scrambled out of the way and swung into the doorway to Rose and Lily’s room. “Come on, she wants us!”
Rebecca was only a step behind her all the way up the stairs, and by the time Jo was in her room they were coming, taking positions on the bed, the desk, the floor. By now, they all had places; this was their war room, and they were soldiers.
“Last in close the door,” said Jo, and someone did, the key turning with a satisfying clack.
When Jo pulled the cards out of her pocket and they realized what she was holding, there was a collective intake of breath.
“I want information on . . . Robert Foster,” she read, and glanced up.
“Oh God,” said Araminta a few moments later, one hand pressed to her cheek, “I know him. He’s been out a few times. I don’t think he’s ever been sober enough to put a sentence together. Father can’t mean for us to marry a flat tire like that.”
“If he can afford to get blotto, then he can afford to buy up one of us,” said Lou.
“We can hope he
passes out in the soup,” said Jo. “Next is Michael Prescott—the Fourth, heaven help us.”
A couple of the girls groaned, but nobody offered any information. Either he was too square to go out, or he was too discreet to give his name to girls he met in dance halls. Bad news either way.
Jo read out, “Samuel Lewisohn.”
There was a little silence as the girls realized that their father had no intention of keeping them all in the same social register, if he was bringing in Jewish suitors.
But Doris started at the name, and smiled.
“Yes,” she said. “Sam. He used to go to the Kingfisher a few years back. He was nice—one of my firsts. After a while he stopped coming.”
That didn’t sound good. “What happened to him?”
“He said his father was putting pressure on him to take over the family business? Something about clothes. He was a sweetheart, no trouble, if that’s what you mean.”
“Yes, now I remember,” piped up Ella. “He couldn’t waltz, but he was very nice.”
“Handsy?” asked Araminta.
“No,” Doris and Ella answered at the same time.
“Nice enough to keep his mouth shut?” said Jo.
“I hope so,” said Doris with a slightly stricken face.
Jo let it be. Sam wasn’t the worst news she was carrying.
She looked at the fourth card a moment longer, as if hoping the name would change.
At last she said, “And we have David van de Maar.”
No one volunteered; they were watching Jo worry the edges of the card in her fingers.
“You all won’t know him,” she said finally, glancing up at Lou and then at Ella. “He’s one of Father’s business associates. Lou, Ella, you might remember. I see him here, from time to time.”
Ella and Lou exchanged blank looks.
Araminta made a face. “Father’s age? He’d be sixty!”
Jo didn’t answer—his age was the least of her worries—and the significance of the silence passed from girl to girl.
At last, Jo slid the cards back into her pocket. “So, this is who we’re up against. Four rich men—two old men, one stranger who may know who we are, and one man who definitely knows. Doris, Lou, Ella, and I will be representing us, with the expectation that each of these men will find a wife under this roof.”
Rose went white. “But, Jo—I mean, you won’t—”
“That will be all,” Jo said, so sharply that Rose swallowed the rest.
“I’ll have more to tell you tomorrow,” Jo said, more calmly. “Lou, Ella, Doris, please stay.”
They filed out in despairing silence, until only the four oldest were left.
As soon as Jo closed the door, Doris whirled on her. “Jesus, Jo, why not just slap them all on their way out?”
Jo sighed. “What am I supposed to do, Doris, tell them four handsome princes are coming to dinner? They’re in serious trouble. There’s no point lying about it.”
“You could make it sound a little less horrifying,” said Ella.
“It is horrifying,” said Jo. “They’re not stupid. They deserve to know what they’re up against.”
“But—oh, it’s all so awful.”
“Don’t worry, Ella,” said Lou. “At least it won’t be dull. Nothing worse than a dead party. We’ll have plenty to tell the others on the way to the Marquee.”
“We’re not going out tonight,” said Jo.
They looked at her.
“There’s too much risk now,” she said, the secret of their father’s little newspaper ad leaving a metallic taste in her mouth. “He’s suspicious, more than ever. Just, take my word. Please.”
They waited a moment longer for an explanation she didn’t know how to give. She couldn’t risk their knowing—Lou wouldn’t be able to keep it off her face if she knew.
“Well, I’m going to get ready for dinner, then,” said Doris finally, pushing Ella out the door ahead of her.
When the door closed, Lou turned to look at her.
“I’m frightened,” Jo said, a whisper that got caught in her throat.
It was like dropping a heavy coat, and when Lou moved closer, Jo leaned on her more than she’d ever admit.
• • • • • •
The four sisters met at five minutes to eight, in the front parlor adjacent to the dining room, where they arranged themselves in a line to receive the visitors.
Once they’d taken their places by birth order, they waited in taut silence, hands folded like witnesses outside a courtroom.
Jo’s dress was black with net overlay, like a housekeeper at a costume party.
She’d worried how the girls would appear (if they would dress beautifully), but they knew better than to look too fetching just to spite Jo.
Lou was in a dress of Araminta’s, high-necked pink with long sleeves, her hair glued down; Doris was in an ill-advised dress and reading glasses she must have borrowed from Rebecca; and Ella was wearing a dress the color of mustard that made her look ill.
Their father came down the stairs as the clock struck eight and surveyed them, looking slightly disappointed.
“You look well, I suppose,” he said at last.
Doris bent her head to hide a smile.
His tuxedo made him look even taller and slimmer, and his hair was pomaded. Jo could see the sort of man he must have been out in the world, elegant and reserved and admired, and no one ever thought to ask about the daughters he’d been so unfortunate as to collect at the expense of his departed wife.
The doorbell rang, and Walters materialized to answer it and get the name of the gentleman at the door.
“Robert Foster,” Walters announced.
And the auction begins, Jo thought.
Robert Foster had a round, tight face that seemed younger than forty-five, but Jo knew that alcohol sometimes acted as a preservative for the right kind of man. His tux was custom cut to fit the beginning of a paunch, and he smelled slightly of brine.
“Ladies,” he said, and smiled with shining eyes.
“Foster,” their father greeted him. “These are my daughters: Josephine, Louise, Doris, and Ella.”
Jo held her breath, but Foster smiled politely without any light of recognition. He shook hands just as blankly with Lou and Doris; he paused only in front of Ella, whom he kissed on the cheek.
“Come and have a drink, won’t you?” their father suggested, a hand on Foster’s shoulder to guide him away from Ella and toward the sideboard.
“Well, now we know who’s reserved for the youngest and handsomest gent,” muttered Lou through her teeth.
Michael Prescott came to the door a few minutes later, looking like a catalog ad for a Rolls-Royce.
“And now we know who he is,” said Doris.
Young, tall, blond, and crisp, he kissed them each on the hand with an “Enchanté.” Lou rolled her eyes as he passed. He, too, lingered over Ella, complimenting the house and asking how she was finding the spring.
“I’d hardly know,” said Ella, and he smiled like there wasn’t an edge in her voice, and talked about driving.
When Prescott joined their father and Foster, the men shook hands pleasantly.
“I recommend the sherry,” said Foster, winking at Prescott.
Jo’s stomach sank.
After as many years of nightlife as she’d seen, she knew that when women were involved, old men and young men didn’t get along.
For these young men and old men to both be pleased, their father must have pledged to the older men that they wouldn’t go empty-handed in favor of the young.
Without moving, she said to Lou, “He’s already promised each of them something.”
Lou held her head higher, as if she hadn’t heard, but her jaw trembled.
“David van de Maar,” called the butler.
He was of their father’s make, at least sixty, at least as cold. He looked them over impassively. Then he kissed them on the cheek like an uncle, murmured his hellos, and mo
ved through the parlor without a second glance to shake hands with the men.
“Disgusting,” said Lou.
Doris shushed her. “Not as bad as some. You could go to Paris for a month and he’d never even notice you had left.”
Jo doubted it; if van de Maar was anything like their father, he liked to keep count of all his possessions.
The gentlemen came back with sparkling fruit punch for the ladies. Lou, on her best behavior, silently accepted a glass from Foster, even though Jo knew she could probably drink him under the table with straight gin.
“So,” Foster said, addressing Jo but glancing back at Lou, “lovely of you to extend the invitation. Your father didn’t mention an occasion?”
“He’s putting some things up for auction,” said Jo.
Lou coughed into her punch.
“Samuel Lewisohn,” announced Walters, and Lewisohn, garment-factory owner and onetime hoofer carrying a secret that could ruin them, stepped into the room.
He was tall and scrawny, impeccably dressed in clothes that didn’t suit him, and he looked like he’d been sent on a distasteful errand—the only one of them who seemed to think it at all strange to go to a man’s house and shop for a wife.
At the threshold, he pulled himself up and smiled politely around before he recognized the four of them.
Then he went white as a sheet.
(He was nearly as white as Lou had gone.)
“Lewisohn,” called their father, “not a moment too soon. Good to see you! Come in, come in. These are my daughters, and we have sherry at the sideboard. Come and have a drink before we go in to dinner.”
Lewisohn blinked at the style of the introductions and cast a sidelong glance at the four of them, as if waiting for a cue as to what to do next.
Jo shook her head tightly, once, trying not to shout—He doesn’t know about us, don’t tell him, please don’t tell him.
Lewisohn let out a breath and stepped forward, grinning.
“Sam Lewisohn,” he said, sticking out a hand. His expression was comically polite. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Likewise,” said Jo, meaning it for the first time that evening. “Josephine Hamilton.”
“Louise,” said Lou, shaking his hand with better grace than she had managed for any of his predecessors.
The Girls at the Kingfisher Club: A Novel Page 10