Peter looked at their half-full glasses. The idea of drinking champagne on top of the cognac and the cigar was disgusting. “Thank you!” he said. “Yes, that would be lovely.” Lovely? Lovely? Where in God’s name had that word come from?
Peter sat. A servant appeared with a glass and poured champagne for him. He drank some down and almost retched.
“Well, well,” said Arthur. “I’ve been neglecting my duties. Haven’t made my rounds. So I’m glad that we have a chance to meet.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You know, Holly, your friend here probably doesn’t talk to you about reinsurance very often.”
“No,” Holly said, laughing, “not really.”
“Well, he did a fine job, a fine job on a deal that was in trouble.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“And just now, Seth Bernard came by and met Holly and we mentioned you, and he told me that you’re working on something that we take quite an interest in.”
“I . . . yes, sir. That’s what he told me.”
“Well, that’s fine, fine. I look forward to hearing more about it. But we are committing a terrible sin, talking like this. It must be very boring for Holly.”
They looked over at her. Peter saw that she was beaming at him. He was making a good impression with the boss! Out of the corner of his eye, Peter could see Beeche studying Holly closely.
They chatted for a bit about nothing consequential. Peter could hardly manage to say more than three words in a row. He noticed that whenever either Arthur or Holly spoke to him, the other one did not look at him but at the speaker. Meanwhile, whenever Peter was speaking, their eyes tended to drift away from him and toward each other. They were like two people sharing a private joke.
After a few minutes, they heard a voice calling from behind them.
“Arthur, my dear!”
They turned and saw Mrs. Beeche approaching.
“Arthur, my dear,” she said again. “Here you are! I’ve looked all over for you.” Arthur, Peter, and Holly all stood up. “Oh, please, don’t get up,” she said.
“I’m so sorry, Mother. I was . . . detained here at my table.” He made the slightest nod toward Holly.
“Oh, I see,” said Mrs. Beeche.
“Mother, I’d like to introduce you to Holly Speedwell.”
“How do you do?” said Holly.
“Very well, thank you,” said Mrs. Beeche. “How very nice to see you.” As she looked at Holly, Mrs. Beeche’s face had the expression of someone who has been dragged around to dozens of houses by a Realtor and then walks into one that she instantly knows is perfect.
“And, Mother, this is Mr. Russell.”
“Oh,” said Mrs. Beeche, “I know Peter. Peter and I are old friends, aren’t we?”
“Yes, Mrs. Beeche,” Peter said. “Nice to see you again.”
“We were at the same table,” Mrs. Beeche explained.
“I see,” said Arthur. “Well, Peter brought Holly to the dinner tonight. Unfortunately, Mrs. Russell was unable to come.”
“That is unfortunate,” Mrs. Beeche said. “She wasn’t taken ill, I hope?”
“Oh no,” said Peter. “At the last minute, she was called out of the country. My parents always told me that death is the only proper excuse for missing a dinner party you have accepted, but this was something of a crisis.”
“Of course, I understand,” said Arthur. “I certainly hope that I do meet her someday.”
“You would like Charlotte,” said Holly.
“I’m sure I would,” Arthur said.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Beeche, “I look forward to seeing her on our opera date.”
Peter nodded politely.
“You and Peter are going to the opera?” Arthur asked.
“Yes, Arthur,” said Mrs. Beeche. “It will be a pleasure to be with a young person who appreciates what he’s hearing rather than one who fidgets the whole time and reminds everyone over and over that in Russian novels, when people go to the opera, they stay for only one act.”
“Mother and I,” Arthur said to Holly and Peter, “have different tastes in these things.”
“It isn’t a matter of different tastes,” Mrs. Beeche corrected him. “It’s a matter of having taste or having none.”
“Mother,” said Arthur with mock gravity, “let’s not have a family argument in front of our guests.”
“No, of course not,” Mrs. Beeche said. She bowed her head slightly to Holly and Peter. “Forgive me.
“Well, Arthur,” she continued, “I wanted to say good night. I had a wonderful time. You know how much I always enjoy talking to these bright people. And tonight I sat next to Seth, and that is always a treat. But, Arthur, he seemed to be a little thin. Is there anything wrong?”
“Not at all, Mother,” said Arthur. “I imagine he’s on a diet. He usually is.”
“He is such a dear person. I suppose he’s worried about his mother. Terrible.” Her eyes cast down, Mrs. Beeche shook her head and remained silent a moment. Then she looked up and said brightly, “Well, I shall wish you all a good night. Good night, Peter. We will check our calendars, won’t we?” Then she turned to Holly. “Good night. Any friend of Peter’s is a friend of mine.”
“Good night!” Holly said.
Here Mrs. Beeche took the briefest pause and tilted her head one degree more toward Holly. “You must call on me sometime, too, my dear.” She said this in an offhand way, with a simple, friendly smile, but also with purpose and deadly aim.
She took both of Arthur’s hands in hers and held her cheek out for a kiss. “Good night, darling,” she said. “Do get some sleep, will you?”
“Yes, Mother. Good night.”
“Oh, and Arthur, you might want to check Roger’s book. Just a notion I have from what I’ve picked up. Your father . . . well, but times change.”
“Thanks, Mother. I’ll do that.”
“Good night, all!” Mrs. Beeche said.
She toddled away and the others watched her.
“Arthur, I’m so glad to have had a chance to meet your mother,” Holly said. “She seems wonderful.”
“Yes,” said Peter. “I enjoyed being at her table very much.”
“Thank you,” Arthur said. “I’m pretty fond of her myself.”
Thoughts of Mrs. Beeche hung in the air for a moment.
Then Holly spoke. “Well, now,” she asked, “what time is it?”
Peter told her.
“Oh no!” Holly said. “I had no idea it was so late! Poor Peter! I’m sure you were coming to fetch me! We really ought to be going.”
“Not at all!” said Arthur. “The night is still young.”
“You’re very kind, but really, it’s time we were off. Don’t you think, Peter?”
“If that’s what you’d like, Holly.”
“Very well,” Arthur said. “If you insist. I’ll see you out.” He spread his arms, inviting them to walk ahead of him. “Do you need a car?” he asked.
“No, thank you,” said Holly. “We came in one. Peter told the driver to wait.”
“I see,” said Arthur. “That’s fine, that’s fine. If for any reason there is a problem, please just let me know. I’ll have someone take you.”
“That’s so nice of you, Arthur,” said Holly. “Thank you!”
“Yes, thank you,” Peter said as brightly as he could.
“But,” Holly continued, “I’m sure that won’t be necessary.”
During the next few minutes, as they walked toward the entrance hall, Holly and Arthur talked about a couple of people at their table; Holly asked Arthur about the predella she and Peter had admired earlier, and he said that it was funny she should have noticed it because it had always been one of his favorite pieces. Peter watched the other two; he smiled; he nodded; and by his general demeanor he tried to act as if he were actually a participant in the conversation. In the entrance hall, other departing guests approached Arthur to say good-bye. Servants appeared with Holly’s and Peter’s ove
rcoats. Other servants held open the doors, and Arthur accompanied Holly and Peter outside. Arthur and Holly stood on the landing of the flight of steps down to the sidewalk; Peter stood one step below them. The night had become gusty; coats flapped and women put a hand to their hair. Gunning their engines loudly, limousines and black sedans pulled away from the front of Beeche’s house, and others replaced them. Their doors opened and shut, drivers called to their passengers and vice versa; guests called and waved good-bye to Arthur; other guests rushed up the steps to retrieve a thing or person that had been forgotten; while still others rushed down to meet those they had kept waiting. Cars on the avenue raced by.
Arthur held out his hand to Peter. “Good night, Peter. We must have you around again sometime. Can’t let Mother keep you to herself!”
“It was a terrific dinner, Mr. Beeche. Thanks very much.”
“Arthur!” Arthur said.
“Arthur. Thank you.”
Arthur now turned to Holly. They looked at each other bashfully. There was a pause before either spoke.
“Good night, Holly,” Arthur said. “It’s been a pleasure. It’s too bad Mrs. Russell couldn’t come, but if Peter had to bring a substitute, he did very well in making his choice, in my opinion.”
“I had a wonderful time,” said Holly. “Thank you. It was so much fun, and the food was so delicious. Everything was perfect. I’m glad, too, that Peter needed someone to fill in.”
“Well, good night,” said Arthur.
“Good night.”
They shook hands and then stuttered with their bodies for a moment before awkwardly giving each other a kiss on the cheek. Having retreated from this, they continued to hold hands and fleetingly looked into each other’s eyes. Finally, they released their hands, and Holly stepped down to join Peter.
“Good night!” Arthur called.
“Good night!”
“Thank you!”
As they walked down the steps, Peter looked over at Holly, about to say something, but he could see that she was smiling, that her eyes were bright, and that her mind was dwelling somewhere pleasant. Peter chose not to break this spell. They reached the sidewalk and Peter muttered that he would look for the driver. He took some steps this way and that, surveying, and then returned to her.
“I don’t see him,” he said. “He’s probably waiting around the corner. I’ll go check.”
On his way, Peter walked by several drivers, some in their cars, some standing. Every morphological type, and every shade of complexion from jet black to paste, was represented. But he did not see his driver even though the lane in front of the house was not too crowded at this point, so he could have brought the car around. Peter turned the corner and was disheartened, but not altogether surprised, to see not a single black sedan parked along the side street. It was a very fine street, lined with handsome town houses; the orange light from the streetlamps reflected off the ironwork and the asphalt, which had that dark, soft look indicating that it was new. Despite these virtues, the street nevertheless lacked one thing: an idling black sedan.
Peter shut his eyes, took a deep breath, and let it out. He would look again in front of the house; he would even go around the other corner (pointless, since the one-way side street ran in the wrong direction). He walked back as he had come; the cars were fewer now. The last guests were leaving. Holly stood there hugging herself against the chill of the wind.
When Peter reached her, he said, “Oh, Holly, he wasn’t there!”
“I’m sorry — what?” Holly answered.
“The driver wasn’t there. Waiting around the corner. He wasn’t there.”
“Oh no!” said Holly. “You’re kidding!”
“He hasn’t shown up out front here, either. I’ll check the other side street, just in case.”
“Okay.”
He walked to the other corner and saw a street as handsome as the other; this one featured a fine row of four Georgian houses built by a developer in 1886. But no idling black sedan.
Turning and retracing his steps, Peter had half a block during which to observe Holly as the wind whipped around her and she retrieved and attempted to secure the locks of hair that it set flying. She was completely alone now. A servant tripped down the steps and spoke to her. She shook her head and pointed to Peter. With a little bow the servant withdrew.
“Well,” Peter said, opening his arms and shrugging, “I can’t find him. He must have gone cruising for fares and hasn’t made it back.”
“How irritating!” Holly’s tone betrayed no irritation whatsoever, and she had obviously said this for Peter’s benefit. As she knew, men set great store by showing mastery over drivers, train conductors, airline-ticket-counter attendants, and other such-like transport personnel, and so, since the driver’s treachery surely distressed Peter, she wanted to show that she took it as seriously as he did.
“What should we do?” she cried plaintively.
Peter steeled himself and then asked as matter-of-factly as he could, “Would you like me to ask Beeche if we could take him up on his offer?”
“No!” said Holly, laughing. “Of course not.”
“Well, then,” said Peter, “I guess we’ll just have to find a cab.”
Peter said this in the manner of a cowboy telling the womenfolk that, because of the avalanche, they were going to have to take the pass through Indian country. In fact, as Holly and Peter both knew, nothing could have been easier than finding a free cab, for at this hour they flowed steadily down the avenue. But if Peter were to regain some face by wrangling one, the fiction had to be kept up that this would be a challenging task.
“Will you try?” Holly asked.
“Sure,” said Peter. He stepped off the curb, raised his hand, and a taxi pulled up in front of them about five seconds later.
“Thank goodness!” Holly said.
Peter opened the passenger door.
“Now, let’s see,” said Holly. “How should we do this?”
“I’ll take you home,” said Peter.
“Oh, Peter, that’s so sweet of you,” Holly said, “but it’s really not necessary. I live twice as far away as you! Here, we’ll both go uptown, and then —”
“No,” said Peter. “That means you have to backtrack to get across the park. I’ll take you home.”
“But, Peter! That’s just silly. Really. I’m sure the night has already been long enough for you.”
“No, I insist.” Peter had an edge in his voice. “Come on, now, get in and I’ll see you get back safely, like a proper escort.”
Holly put her hand on Peter’s forearm and kissed him on the cheek.
“Oh, Peter. You’re sweet. I really can’t let you go to all that trouble.”
The driver, a chubby man with a complexion the color of wet sand, listened to this conversation through his open window. He sat impassively, as one who, possessing the wisdom of eternity, never suffered impatience, and who also knew that this was a fare and he could cruise for another twenty minutes without finding another one.
“No!” Peter cried. “Holly —”
Peter stopped himself and looked at Holly’s face. He read there that the “ball” had indeed transported her; she had been lifted up to a higher plane of feeling and being; all her senses were atingle. It was a brilliant plan, and it had worked perfectly! The only problem was that, having drunk the magic potion, Holly had opened her eyes and seen the wrong man. Given Holly’s current state, Peter realized, it would be not only pointless but perhaps even a bit counterproductive to force upon her the talk that he had proposed earlier and that clearly was now the furthest thing from her mind. He smiled at her affectionately.
“Okay,” he said. “All right. I’ll let you go on by yourself. But you go straight home, now. No stopping off anyplace where you could get into trouble. “
“I promise,” Holly said. “Can’t I drop you?”
“Oh, no, that makes no sense. Anyway, I think I might just walk home.”
“Sure?”
Peter nodded.
“Okay, then.” Holly gave him a hug and kissed him again on the cheek. “Thank you so much, Peter. I did have a wonderful time. What a place.”
“It’s pretty incredible, isn’t it?” Peter said.
“And he’s a nice guy.”
“Yes.”
“Well, good night!” Holly got into the cab and Peter closed the door behind her. He saw her lean forward to speak to the driver, placing a hand on her sternum. Loose hair floated around her as if she were underwater. She sat back; the driver shifted, and then, with a lurch, took off at high speed.
Peter now stood by himself on the sidewalk. There were no other pedestrians. The wind shook the trees and rattled a parking sign and rolled a plastic bag down the road like tumbleweed. Shut up tight, the doors to Beeche’s house looked as if they never had been nor ever could be opened. The windows were as dark as ink pads. Peter remembered that when he had seen Holly standing at this spot a few hours earlier, she had been gazing at the sky. He looked up over the park and saw a featureless black expanse, without even the fuzzy orange tinge that the streetlights produced elsewhere. The moon had set. Peter hiked up his shoulders and pulled his coat tighter, and began his walk home.
11
As soon as he arrived at the office the next day, Peter received a call from Mac McClernand. When Peter told him about his encounter with Seth Bernard and that, after hearing what Peter was working on, Bernard had said that he wanted to set up a presentation with Arthur Beeche, McClernand remained silent for several moments, then whimpered, then exclaimed, “Straight to Arthur Beeche! You see, didn’t I tell you to do some selling? Didn’t I tell you to let him bring it up? But, my God, Pete, I knew you were good, but not that good!” Peter said he couldn’t understand how Bernard knew all about their project, and McClernand responded patronizingly to his evident naïveté. “Peter, Peter,” he said. “Do you think that anything goes on around here that Beeche and Bernard don’t know about? And when they get a line on something terrific, they hustle. It’s that kind of thing that has kept Beeche so agile even as it has grown.” McClernand then launched into an increasingly hysterical recitation of all the tasks they had to complete before their presentation. “We have to be ready for anything they throw at us: what about the trade-in credit card points?”
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