“All right,” Kathy agreed. “We’ll go in and buy you an almond cookie.”
With Jesse and Lee headed for home, Kathy and Marge strolled down Grant Avenue with the air of teenagers on an unexpected school vacation day.
“I love San Francisco,” Marge confessed, “though as a New Yorker I feel like a traitor admitting it.”
“There’s only one thing that I resent here,” Kathy said, her eyes reflective. “How can a city as liberal-minded and cosmopolitan as San Francisco keep the Chinese boxed in Chinatown?”
“Yeah.” Marge nodded sympathetically. “It’s so tough even for American-born Chinese to find apartments. We forget most of the time because it’s not a problem we face.”
“I worry about Rhoda and Frank,” Kathy said. “When will this crazy red-smearing stop?”
“Have you heard any news about Frank’s finding a job?” Marge knew that Rhoda was postponing all thought of job-hunting until after the baby was born.
“Nothing so far,” Kathy reported. “He’s sold an article to some low-paying magazine. That’s not going to keep them going.” She felt recurrent guilt over Phil’s actions. If it were not for her, Phil would have lost touch with Rhoda and Frank; he would not have got them blacklisted.
Now they arrived at Little Italy, with its air of a Mediterranean seaside village that slithered from the heights to the water below. The area, dominated by Telegraph Hill and Russian Hill, was favored by the city’s bohemians.
“Let’s stop and have coffee here,” Kathy said on impulse as they approached a sidewalk café.
“Great.” Marge sighed nostalgically. “It looks like something back in Greenwich Village.”
They settled themselves at a table and ordered pastry and espresso, both caught up in the convivial atmosphere created by the obviously bohemian patrons clustered about them.
“I feel so young here,” Marge whispered. “Instead of an old bag pushing thirty.”
They listened to the lively chatter at the table behind them, which hopped from books to painting to the Beats of Los Angeles’ Venice West.
“I can close my eyes and think I’m sitting at a café on Bleecker Street,” Marge said. “Remember that terrific Italian place that used to be right off Bleecker? The one with the sensational garlic bread? We used to go there on Saturday nights our last year in school—”
“Guido’s?” a masculine voice suggested, and they both turned in surprise to the table at their right. “I was at school in New York for two years,” the handsome bearded young man at the next table said reminiscently. “They served shrimp scampi and garlic bread that you could die for.”
“Where did you go to school?” Marge asked.
“Columbia,” he told them.
“I was at Barnard,” Kathy said, feeling an instant rapport with him. He was about their age, she guessed. He seemed warm and sensitive and rather sad. “I graduated in ’45.”
“I was there in ’42 and ’43.” His smile was electric. Kathy sensed he was lonely. “Then my mother’s health started to fail, and I had to switch to Berkeley. Of course, she lived another nine years after that, but nothing would do but to have me within five minutes’ driving distance.” Now Kathy sensed bitterness. A demanding mother, she thought. “I didn’t fight in Korea.” A note of apology in his voice.
“Not everybody your age fought in Korea,” Marge said dismissively.
“Remember the West End Bar?” His face lighted in recall. “Those were good years for me. Before I let myself get caught up in the guilt of the affluent.”
“I went to Barnard, but we were hardly affluent,” Kathy said. He was part of that new scene of bohemians who were disillusioned with the American dream, who considered it a disgrace to be affluent.
“I went to Hunter,” Marge laughed. “You can’t get less affluent than that.”
“I’m fourth-generation San Franciscan and damn sick of the way the world’s going. This rotten Cold War, the greed everywhere, the obsession for material things. We have to change, you know. Have you read Kerouac?” All at once he was reverent.
“I’ve never heard of him,” Kathy confessed.
“He went to Columbia.” Their new acquaintance seemed proud of this. “You’re going to hear a lot about him.”
Now they introduced themselves. He was Noel Bartlett. He had a sister who lived in New York and was furious with him because their mother had left him the family house, a mansion on Nob Hill, they gathered, though he was casual about this.
“My mother left the house to me because she knew I’d hang on to the old homestead. She knew Wilma would insist on selling it if she left it to both of us. Wilma stopped talking to me when the lawyers made it clear there was no way she could break our mother’s will. The trust fund doles out a set amount of money for us every year for the next dozen years, then we share the principal. My mother figured by then we’ll both have our feet on the ground.”
Before Kathy and Marge left the café, they agreed to meet Noel when they closed the shop the following day. He was eager to show them a new bookstore that had just opened on Columbus Avenue. The first all-paperback bookstore in the country.
“It was opened by guys named Lawrence Ferlinghetti and Peter Martin. Ferlinghetti has a degree from Columbia, in addition to one from the Sorbonne,” he pointed out with pride. “Columbia students do get around.”
Kathy knew that she and Marge had discovered a real friend. She realized, too—though Marge frankly considered this a loss—that they would never have to worry about a romantic entanglement with Noel. He was candid about his homosexuality.
Kathy exhorted Jesse not to dawdle with his dressing.
“You don’t want to be late for school,” she warned while she stirred his cereal on the stove.
She glanced out the kitchen window. The morning fog seemed to swallow up the whole city. There were two kinds of fog in San Francisco. The ordinary kind, like today’s, and the tule fog—low-hanging clusters of clouds that floated about in fanciful serpentine drifts and settled over only one segment of the city, leaving the rest gloriously sunny.
She switched on the kitchen radio, fidgeted with the dial in search of a weather report. It wasn’t going to rain today, was it? In October you never knew when the fog might give way to a drizzle. The phone rang, and she instinctively tensed. When would she stop feeling defensive every time the doorbell or the phone rang?
She reached for the phone.
“Hello.” Her voice guarded from habit.
“Kathy, don’t get upset when you hear what I have to tell you,” Marge urged. “We can handle this—”
“Handle what?” Despite her determination to be cool, Kathy knew her voice was strident.
“I was busy with the sketch pad last night so I didn’t settle down to read Women’s Wear Daily until too late to call you.” Marge paused an instant. “Phil will be here in San Francisco this afternoon. Something to do with the company opening up a concession in addition to the San Francisco store.”
“I have to get away!” Kathy fought panic. “Did Women’s Wear Daily say how long he’d be in town?”
“He’ll just be here for three days,” Marge soothed. “But I don’t think it would be a good idea for you to show up at the shop while he’s in town. I’ll call Melinda to cover for you.” Melinda was a neighbor who helped out in the shop on occasion.
“I think Jesse and I are going on a short trip,” Kathy said, her voice indicating to Marge that he’d just walked into the kitchen. “How would you like that, Jesse?”
“I have to go to school,” he said reproachfully.
“I’ll explain to your teacher that … that you’ve never seen the redwood trees. Jesse, they’re the tallest trees in the world! We’ll just be gone four days.” A day extra, she promised herself, in case Phil extended his trip. Why was her heart pounding this way? Phil wouldn’t find them.
Kathy and Marge discussed the most advisable destination. Kathy would rent a car, it was de
cided, and drive with Jesse to Monte Rio—crowded during the summer but sparsely occupied now. They’d have no trouble finding a place to stay.
“Even though it’s close to San Francisco,” Marge recalled, “it’s kind of isolated. It still has that turn-of-the-century look. Phil wouldn’t be caught dead there.”
“We’ll pack a picnic lunch,” Kathy said, pleased that Jesse’s eyes widened in pleasurable anticipation. “We’ll be on the road before noon,” she told Marge. “I’ll call you tonight.”
Phil took a taxi directly from the airport to the Palace Hotel. This was his first stay at the Palace, but he remembered the model from the shop who had sulked because he had taken her to a smaller, more private hotel for the night they’d partied together on his last trip out here.
What was her name? Something exotic. Sascha, he remembered, and felt the first tingle of arousal. Tonight he had a business dinner, but tomorrow night he’d entertain Sascha in a suite at the Palace. She wouldn’t turn him down, he thought smugly. She knew he’d see to it that her salary went up if she was good to him.
As the cab pulled up before the elegant Palace Hotel at Market and New Montgomery, Phil reminded himself to phone Sascha before his dinner appointment. Tomorrow night with her would be the highlight of this trip. It had been a tough battle to persuade the old man to let him develop a concession deal, but already they could see signs that it was a new and profitable trend for them. Something else he was contributing to the company, he thought with satisfaction.
Settled in his top-floor suite, he phoned Sascha. She wasn’t surprised to hear from him, of course—the shop staff knew he was arriving this afternoon.
“Phil, I can’t wait to see you,” she said in a throaty drawl. “Tomorrow night, baby. I’m at the Palace.” He heard her sensuous murmur of approval. “I’ll call you and let you know when I’ll be clear of business.”
Later he played the gracious host to the two top executives of the department store that was taking in Julius Kohn Furs on a concession arrangement. The three men sat at a table in the glass-roofed Garden Court with its crystal chandeliers and stained-glass windows and, over a superb dinner, discussed their mutual project with soaring optimism.
He was relieved when their dinner meeting ended rather early in the evening. He was still operating on Eastern time. While preparing for bed he forced himself to map out his next day’s schedule. In between business meetings he had to check out Marge’s shop.
Damn, the old man was being a bastard about releasing the stock that was to be transferred to his name. He wouldn’t feel secure until it was in his name. Brenda and Gail were seething that they’d never be part of the business. He wouldn’t put it past them to try something funny.
He could hear his father’s voice right now: “You get a divorce from Kathy with no financial settlement or alimony, and you get back Jesse. Then—when I know she can’t get her fucking hands on the business—I’ll put the stock in your name.” Fifty percent of the company. When their father went, the other fifty percent of the company stock was willed to him. Hell, he’d earned it.
Kathy waited until she was sure Jesse was asleep on one of the twin beds in their motel room before she phoned Marge. He’d sleep well tonight, she thought tenderly. He’d been awed by the huge redwood trees they’d seen in the state park, intrigued by the deer they’d seen feeding as they sought a spot to have their picnic spread. They’d stopped by the road to inspect a windmill. It had been a full, satisfying day for Jesse. He’d forgotten that he was missing school.
Now she reached for the phone, and dialed Marge’s apartment. Marge answered immediately.
“Hi—”
“Jesse had a great day,” Kathy reported. “Did Phil show up?”
“He was scheduled to arrive in town this afternoon,” Marge reminded. “And he did. I called the Mark Hopkins, the Fairmont, and the Palace. He’s registered at the Palace. I’ll know when he checks out. Try to relax and consider this a vacation.”
“He didn’t come to the shop?” Kathy persisted. Needing reassurance.
“Sweetie, he arrived this afternoon. Knowing Phil, his first destination was the bar for a drink. If he comes to the shop at all, it’ll probably be his last day in town.”
“I can’t keep running away every time he appears in San Francisco.” Kathy strived to be realistic. “He’s in town two or three times a year. But if he’s talked to you and believes you don’t know where I am, I’ll feel safe.”
“I’ll give him an Academy Award performance,” Marge promised.
“I’ll call you tomorrow night. Oh, is Melinda available to fill in for me?” she asked in sudden concern.
“Melinda’s all clear for the next ten days, and Phil is scheduled to be in town for just three. He won’t find you. And even if he did, I don’t think any court in the world would let him take Jesse from you,” Marge repeated for the hundredth time.
“You’re thinking logically. The world doesn’t work that way. With all their money and their connections, I can’t gamble on Phil’s finding me.”
“Are you staying there for now?” Marge asked.
“We’ll be here. Let me give you the phone number. If I don’t hear from you before that, I’ll call tomorrow at this time.”
After an afternoon conference with the manager of the San Francisco shop, Phil decided to run over and talk to Marge. The old man would be expecting a phone call tonight. With the difference in time he’d have to get over to her shop pronto, or it’d be too late to call New York.
“I’ll meet you for dinner at Trader Vic’s at 6:30,” he whispered to Sascha. “Be there.”
He left Julius Kohn Furs, San Francisco, and took a taxi to the 4-S Shop, near Union Square. She couldn’t afford to be on the Square, he thought with characteristic arrogance. And what a stupid name for a women’s store!
If it wasn’t for the old man, he wouldn’t be in such a rush to track down Kathy. He was in no hurry for a divorce. Of course, he missed the kid, he told himself with a temporary surge of guilt. And until he cleared up this mess with Kathy he wasn’t going to see that stock in his name.
The taxi driver pulled up at the curb before Marge’s shop. Not bad-looking, he conceded, but shops like this were a dime a dozen. She’d be lucky to stay alive with all the competition that was coming along these days.
He opened the door and walked inside, his eyes automatically checking the staff. Marge—talking with a customer—and another woman who was setting up a table display of sweaters. The woman came toward him with a smile.
“I’m an old friend of Marge’s from New York,” he explained. “I’ll just hang around until she’s free.”
“Phil!” All at once Marge spied him. “Be with you in a few moments.” She was winding up a sale.
“Hey, the shop looks great!” he said when she came over to greet him. They contrived a light embrace. “How’re things going?”
“Good,” she told him with a breezy smile. “Is Kathy in town with you?”
“No.” All at once he was irritated. Marge must know they were separated. “I thought you might know where she was.”
Now Marge’s smile faded. Her eyes seemed anxious. Was she putting on an act?
“It’s been an awful long time since we’ve exchanged letters. You know how it is when you’re so far apart.” She paused, as though mentally debating. “I gathered you two had separated, but I figured it was just some spat and you’d made up by now. Some character came around here—I guess it was sometime last month—and he was asking questions about Kathy.”
“She walked out with Jesse. We’ve been frantic to find them. She didn’t even leave a note. I don’t know what triggered her running off like that,” he lied. He often asked himself if Kathy had talked with Rhoda about what happened. Wouldn’t Rhoda have written Marge? The three women were thick as thieves. “It’s as though Kathy and Jesse had just disappeared from the face of the earth,” he said with an air of bewilderment.
&n
bsp; “That’s not like Kathy.” Marge appeared upset. “And it amazes me that she didn’t get in touch with me. We’ve always been so close.”
“If you hear from her, will you phone me? Call collect,” he said, turning on the slightly jaded Phil Kohn charm. She didn’t know anything about Kathy—she was pissed that Kathy hadn’t been in touch. “I’ll be at the Palace Hotel here in town until Friday morning. After that, you can reach me in New York.”
“I’m sorry, Phil. I can’t imagine Kathy going off like that.” She hesitated. Her face troubled. “You’re sure she and Jesse went off on their own volition? They—they couldn’t have been kidnapped?”
“Kathy didn’t leave a note, as I told you,” he said tersely. That cinched it. She didn’t know anything. He was wasting good time here. “Just a scribbled memo that the Caddy was at the White Plains station.”
“It’s weird.” Marge shook her head in disbelief. “If you hear anything, will you please let me know?”
“Sure thing,” he promised. Now let him get the hell out of here. He had a heavy date for tonight.
The midday sunshine had given way to a dreary drizzle. Kathy and Jesse returned from sightseeing to settle themselves in their motel room. Kathy with a magazine to read and Jesse with a new puzzle to put together. Even while she read, Kathy half-listened for the sound of the phone.
The jarring ring—when it came—sounded overly loud in the silence of their room. She picked up the phone on the first ring.
“Hello—”
“Everything went fine, Kathy,” Marge reported, her voice jubilant. “He came here. We talked. He’s convinced I don’t know where you are. I suspect he believed I’m annoyed that you weren’t in touch with me. You know, our being best friends for so long. You would have been proud of me. Like I promised, an Academy Award performance. And he’s leaving on Friday morning.”
“I’ll drive home early Saturday morning,” Kathy said after a moment. “Just to make sure he’s gone.” It was absurd the way her heart was pounding, just because she knew Phil was here in San Francisco. “Let’s hope we’ve put this scene to rest.”
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