They broke early for the party, which thrilled no one. Up until that week, Lindie hadn’t heard one bad word about Jack. But by the time the director yelled the day’s “Cut,” she’d heard more than a few grumbles about Jack being a show-off, and the lunacy of throwing a party when there was so much work at hand, and that now that Jack was surely back in Diane’s bed he cared more about getting laid than getting paid. Lindie wondered if he’d miscalculated. Whom was he trying to win over with this grand gesture? Quiet, private June? Lindie wasn’t entirely convinced this would do it. But then, if he really was in Diane’s bed again, maybe he didn’t care about winning June at all.
At five, the town and crew slipped into their houses to gussy up. Lindie took a proper bath, scrubbing all the important bits, although she knew from experience that the soles of her feet would remain a permanent black. Back in her small bedroom, the heat bore down from the eaves, scalding the top of her head. She heard the first neighbors arrive. A small orchestra struck up a Strauss waltz from underneath the great white tent. Parched and exhausted, she stood before her closet and realized, with a growing sense of doom, that she’d outgrown nearly everything in it. But that wasn’t really it, was it? Not entirely. Because even if she had a dozen dresses in her size, the prettiest, most stylish dresses available, they’d still be wrong. Most of the time, Lindie could get by in dungarees, but tonight’s event was highlighting something she already knew but had been afraid to look straight in the eye: she couldn’t get away with her current wardrobe much longer.
All the anger and disappointment she’d been carrying around seemed to rush into her at once: June’s meanness, and June’s wedding, and Apatha’s secret, and the movie almost being over, and even, yes, having no mother with whom to talk about any of these things, and she looked down at her strange body and wept. She threw herself onto her bed and let the sobs overtake her.
On the bed, Lindie reasoned with herself—she could surely find some dress that would fit the bill. But as soon as she sat up, she was encircled again by doubt and fear. Even if she had a dress, could she bring herself to put it on? What was wrong with her? Because if she couldn’t wear a dress, she couldn’t go to the party of the century, which was happening just below her window. She was considering just flinging herself out that window once and for all, when she heard a knock.
She sat up and sniffed, wiping at her eyes. “Come in.”
Eben opened the door. He held up a boy’s suit on a hanger. The outfit was old-fashioned, with knickers instead of trousers, sewn from a shadowy velvet no boy would have worn anymore. “Uncle Lem had it made for me when I was about your age.” He hung it on the doorknob.
Lindie cleared the gunk from her throat. “I should wear a dress.”
“You should wear what feels right.”
—
Twenty minutes later, they stood in the Two Oaks foyer, side by side. Lindie’s fingers fiddled at the fine gray-brown fabric on her thighs. The collar was tight around her neck, but not uncomfortable. She’d opted to go without a tie, and made sure to brush her ear-length hair, hoping that, if she was clean, no one would make fun of her for dressing like a boy. She wore a pair of her mother’s shoes her father had dug up, simple, nondescript leather flats that most girls her age wouldn’t have been caught dead in, but which she already treasured.
Around her whirled the party of her dreams—bow-tied waiters and paid musicians, St. Judians unrecognizable in their fancy getups, glasses of real champagne, tea cakes, tiny little sandwiches on tiny little plates. Every door, save the one leading into the kitchen, stood open. There was a bar in one corner of the living room. A feast of candied ham and cookies and cut-up pineapple, of meringues and mint patties and plenty of other foreign delicacies, was spread across the dining table. Lemon’s office-cum-bedroom had been transformed into a sitting room for the oldest St. Judians, but people of all ages mingled across the front and back parlors, climbing the grand staircase and then ascending to the third floor, where she could make out Count Basie’s orchestra swelling on the record player in the long-forgotten ballroom. Children darted in from the side yard. Football players snuck sips of liquor when they thought no one was looking. The movie people arrived: Ricky and Sam wore bow ties; the makeup girls had done themselves up to look like stars. Lindie admired the physics of the girdle as Cheryl Ann glided across the parlors toward Uncle Lem, who was propped up on the yellow tufted couch. Dressed in a brown cotton dress, Apatha stood at his shoulder, leaning down to whisper the names of the mayor and the police chief. Lindie felt Apatha’s eyes pull at her. Lindie looked away, afraid the secret would be written all over her face.
But June—where was June? Where, for that matter, was Jack? Diane? Artie? Clyde? A new wave of guests arrived through the front door, and the crowd pushed Lindie and Eben apart. Eben rode the wave farther into the back parlor, where Fred Ripvogle and Alan Shields clapped him on the shoulder and ordered a round of whiskey. Lindie was drawn toward the spine of the building, that intricately carved staircase she’d once thought of as hers. She ran her hand along the smooth banister and decided to simply knock on June’s door. She’d apologize. She couldn’t stand this silence.
The Two Oaks stairway had been built for a party like this. Plaster garlands adorned the top bit of the ceiling, mirroring the wreaths that decorated the waxed, quarter-hewn oak baseboard railings. Lindie joined the stream of traffic to the second floor, avoiding jabbing elbows and bare heels and short strides. On the eighth step, she passed Gretchen Beck and Ginny Sherman. They snickered as they traveled past, but it didn’t occur to Lindie that she was the object of their derision until she was nearly on the landing.
But those stupid girls didn’t matter. Not as she forged her way up through the tightly packed stairs, darting under arms and around canes. Evening light streamed in through the stained-glass fleurs-de-lis. She was about to make things right with June. And then she sensed it, above her—an ever-so-slight parting of the crowd. She lifted her eyes to the top of the stairs.
June. June looking as Lindie had never seen her before, but somehow distilled to her most essential self, head held proudly but without pretension, hands folded neatly at her front. Her hair was pinned up in an old-fashioned chignon. Her dress was virginal white cotton; simple, unadorned. Cheryl Ann had probably picked something much flashier and would be steamed. But June had the right instincts. She looked like something out of a storybook, and she was coming right toward Lindie.
But then, she was coming down toward everyone, and Lindie was not the only one to notice her. The stairway leading down into the foyer was like a stage, and June its ingenue. People just entering the foyer hushed to watch her descend. Those as far away as the back parlor quieted their conversations to eye her. The crowd on the stairs parted ever so slightly; as she passed, Lindie found herself tongue-tied, unable to say June’s name or draw her attention. Instead, Lindie stepped out of June’s line of sight and watched everyone watch June—Ricky and Sam, the makeup girls, Mr. and Mrs. Freewalt and their four little Freewalts, and, there, at the far end of the foyer, Diane DeSoto and Clyde Danvers.
As soon as June’s foot touched the ground floor, the curtains swayed shut across the moment. The St. Judians went back to their conversations, to chasing after their hooligan sons, to finding refills of their gimlets. June turned toward the side door and out onto the side lawn, where the orchestra was now playing standards from the war. Lindie changed tacks, deciding to head back down the stairs to follow June, but, without the collective hush of June’s presence, the river had turned back into sludge. Lindie found herself caught behind old Mr. and Mrs. Fishpaw; she had a bad knee, he took each stair with two careful feet, supporting her.
Diane’s eyes followed June; once the girl was out of sight, Diane whipped back to Clyde, a sly smile raking her lips. He leaned into her and whispered something that produced from her a cool, wicked laugh. Her eyes flicked up to catch Lindie watching. Diane curled her finger in a gesture of enticement.
Lindie didn’t much want to see Clyde, but, by the time she reached Diane, he had disappeared into the crowd.
“What a handsome little monkey you are,” Diane said, holding Lindie by one hand and insisting she twirl with the other. It didn’t sound like a compliment.
“It was my father’s.”
“I’m going to take you shopping,” Diane said. “Find you some proper clothes, little beast.” It wasn’t the first time she’d promised this, and Lindie thanked her politely, as she always did, without believing it meant anything real.
Then the crowd parted for the second time, this time at the front door, and a collective cheer went up, and Diane turned her swan-like neck toward the entry, and Lindie could tell, from the way her smile snaked its way across her lips, that Jack Montgomery had finally arrived.
Outside, the air was sweet and the light was fading. Crowded as it was inside Two Oaks, most of the St. Judians could be found seated at tables under the vast tent, or dancing to a crooner who’d adopted all the best vocal tricks of Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin. Lindie wended her way through the great herd, eyes darting for a glimpse of June’s ear, for her delicate hand or the milky nape of her neck, but June had disappeared into thin air.
Lindie made her way slowly, steadily, around the tent at the side yard and into the back, where a smaller tent had been pitched. She downed a root beer poured by one of the imported soda jerks.
“What are you wearing?”
Lindie turned to find horrible Darlene Kipp and her henchmen, Ginny Sherman and Gretchen Beck, giggling a few feet away.
“Is it made from drapes?” Gretchen added before Lindie could summon a witty retort.
“If you want my opinion, a girl shouldn’t come to a party without a party dress.” Darlene’s voice was all Miss Priss to match her golden curls. Lindie called up the delicious memory of Ricky’s pin stabbing her ankle.
“Maybe she’s not a girl.” Ginny smirked coyly at Darlene.
Gretchen shrieked. She covered her mouth with her hand.
“Maybe she’s finally grown a little man,” Darlene whispered lustily.
“Well, hello there, ladies.” They all looked up to discover Jack Montgomery’s arm falling familiarly across Lindie’s shoulder. Darlene, Ginny, and Gretchen all gaped, but he played it cool. “Nice night for it.”
“Yessir,” they mustered in unison.
“Linda Sue.” Jack cut them off. “You’re the only one I can trust.” He glanced at the other girls then, as if they were an afterthought. Furrowed his movie star brow. Deepened his voice to a grave bass note. “You mind giving us a minute? It’s a private matter.”
They blathered apologies, tripping over themselves as they kowtowed toward the house. Jack waited until they were gone, then winked.
“What is it?” Lindie asked.
“Top-secret message,” he replied gravely.
Lindie leaned in to receive it.
Coyly, he put his hand up to shield the confidence, but all he said was: “Don’t let the bastards get you down.” His eyes twinkled as he picked up a whiskey sour from the bar. And then Diane found him.
“Darling,” she said, as though Lindie wasn’t there, “I’d love another vodka tonic.” She held up her empty glass and shook it in his face. For a fleeting moment, she looked messy, unhinged. Then she straightened herself and narrowed her eyes.
Lindie watched a muscle in Jack’s jaw clench, then release. He took the glass from Diane’s hand, careful not to touch her, and headed for the back porch and into the house.
Diane watched him go, then swayed toward Lindie. “You know what I’d like to do?” She didn’t wait for Lindie’s reply. “I’d like to take you on a shopping trip, get you some proper clothes.”
Apparently Diane had no idea she’d just mentioned this. How many drinks had she had? The party was only an hour old.
She reached out and brushed Lindie’s cheek. “You are too, too pretty to waste your life in pants.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Lindie said, pretending to believe her.
It wasn’t yet dark but the lanterns had been lit. The evening took on a boozy, raucous quality. Out on the side lawn, the band played “Cheek to Cheek,” “I’ve Got a Crush on You,” and then “As Time Goes By,” which everyone recognized from Casablanca. Those who’d made it through the war clung together on the dance floor. Diane signed autographs; Lindie tried to slip away, but Diane kept her close. The party dazzled on as they awaited Jack’s return.
But instead they heard a “Miss DeSoto?” and turned to find Cheryl Ann charging toward them. She waved a drink in the air. Her hair had come unpinned and she was slick with sweat, breath rasping as she pushed through the crowd.
Diane couldn’t hide her disdain. Her lip curled and she tried to edge away, but everyone was watching and she couldn’t exactly brush off her hostess. “Jack told me to bring you your martini!” Cheryl Ann explained, as Artie Danvers walked by balancing two drinks. Lindie slipped behind him, into the party, unnoticed.
Soon she found herself in the side yard. June was waiting at the edge of the dance floor under the vast white canopy. The orchestra was playing “It Had to Be You.” June was turned away from Artie, and Lindie, swaying ever so slightly, watching a handful of married couples twirl together. Artie sidled up beside her and offered the drink. She turned to him with a wide, friendly smile, and Lindie ducked behind one of the tent poles so June wouldn’t see her. She had to admit they looked genuinely happy as they talked and sipped. She thought again of Artie’s letter; what had read, at first, like cowardice, now seemed as though it might have been the brave truth. What if he was a truly honorable man, the kind who’d stay away from the woman he loved in order to give her a choice? Maybe the choice, for June, wasn’t simply between Jack or Artie; maybe it was based on a much more complex calculus than even Lindie could understand.
The orchestra began “I Get a Kick out of You.” Artie tipped his head toward the dance floor. A blush brushed June’s cheeks. He offered to take her drink, and she acquiesced. He set it down on the nearest table and held out his hand. She looked at it, then him, resting her palm on his and letting him lead her onto the dance floor. Lindie watched them swirl out into the music together, his right hand light against her lower back, his left hand gripping hers. They eyed each other. He looked grateful and pleased, and she looked as elegant as ever.
When the song finished, a bright sound tinkled across the tent: silverware rapping against crystal. It grew louder and more definitive as it became clear that Cheryl Ann, Jack, and Diane had gathered below the porte cochere, that damn porte cochere that Lindie had spent the past three years scrambling up.
Diane beamed at the crowd as it pressed in around them, appreciative silence falling over everyone. A flashbulb lit up the night. “On behalf of the cast and crew of Erie Canal,” she said, “Jack and I want to say thank you.” The crowd clapped and murmured gleefully. Diane tilted her head like a queen might, overseeing her peasants.
Jack raised his glass too. “You’ve been the best hosts us thugs from the West Coast could hope for. We sure are going to miss you.” Diane interrupted him then, apparently not yet done with her speech. He frowned, peeved.
As Diane interjected her thoughts about the perfect weather and the true meaning of hospitality, Lindie’s attention was pulled toward the front of the house, from which two men had just emerged. A flash of silver at one of their waists drew her eye. Curious, she edged out of the crowd. By the time Lindie made it to the porch, the men had walked around the far side of it, toward the kitchen. She followed, dashing across the front of the house and then leaning into the rhododendron bush to hear better.
It was Uncle Clyde; the torchlight had caught the silver gun at his waist. The other man was Fred Ripvogle, and, though Lindie couldn’t hear what that man was saying, she could see he was trying to calm Clyde down.
But Clyde was steamed. His voice carried across the night wind. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you, old ma
n. You go back into that office and you fight for the bid. ‘No’ isn’t good enough. I thought you had this locked down.”
Ripvogle was crisp and efficient in his long suit, and Lindie could tell that he wished to be anywhere but there. But his back was turned to Lindie, so she couldn’t hear his response.
Clyde laughed hard at whatever Ripvogle said; it was clear he’d been drinking. He looked all around them then, to make sure no one was listening; Lindie pressed herself between the bush and the house. Through the leaves, she watched Clyde lean toward Ripvogle, one hand shielding his mouth. “I shouldn’t be telling you this, old man, but as soon as you-know-who dies, and this house is mine, well, let’s just say I’ve got plans.” Ripvogle didn’t seem the slightest bit interested in hearing what these plans were, but Clyde plowed right through. “We both know a house like this is worthless, taking up all this space. Who wants to live like this anymore? We’re talking three acres, right in the heart of a perfect little town on its way up in the world. I say, let’s tear it down and build modern houses, modern amenities. With you winning the bid on the interstate—”
“I told you, Clyde,” Ripvogle said, trying to extract himself, “none of that is going to happen.”
But Clyde came around Ripvogle, blocking him. “What the hell is wrong with you? If you know what’s good for you, you’ll walk right into the governor’s office and tell him you’re back in.”
Ripvogle was a gentleman, Lindie could see, but Clyde had tested him. “You’re the big man, aren’t you, Clyde. Full of ideas. But seems to me you’ve got no way to carry them out. Nice dream to think of turning this place into small lots, but how will you do it? Who holds the deed after he goes? How will you get it from them? You’re small town, Clyde. I should have known better than to waste my time with small town.”
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