by Kitty Zeldis
“A gallery!”
“I’ve been thinking about, talking about it for years. But you were the gadfly, Eleanor. You pushed me to do it.”
“You’ll organize shows? Invite people to see them?”
“When I’ve gotten the place together, yes.” He drew her closer. “Happy?”
“Very. You?”
“Happier than I ever thought I could be.”
Eleanor pressed her face against his chest; even through the light jacket and shirt, she could feel the steady pulse of his heart.
“Marry me,” he said.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
She moved out of his embrace and suddenly the night, which had felt so temperate, went cold. “I don’t know what to say.” Last summer, she had wished to hear exactly those words. But things had changed. No—she was the one who had changed.
“Say yes.”
“Can I think it over?”
“Are you serious? I thought you loved me.” Angrily, he turned away; the ferry approached the terminal in Staten Island. Then he turned back to her. “I’m sorry. But that wasn’t the answer I was expecting.”
“I do love you.” She reached out to touch his face and he clasped her hand in both of his. “But I’ve only lived alone for such a little while. And I like it so much. I’m just not ready to give that up and become a wife.”
“So you’re not saying no, you’re saying, not now?”
“Exactly.” Relief washed over her. She didn’t want to hurt him. Or alienate him. But as the ferry docked with a small jolt, she realized just how much she didn’t want to marry him either.
They were mostly silent on the ride back to Manhattan, and when he dropped her off at her apartment, he didn’t kiss her good night. Inside, she went straight to her bed, slipped off her shoes, and lay down in the dark. Tom had just asked her to marry him. She ought to have been over the moon. Wasn’t this what every girl wanted, what she’d wanted and believed she’d never have? Yet she’d turned him down and she might have been even more surprised than he was. She wasn’t the same girl she’d been last summer. That girl was on a straight path: marriage, husband, children. Now she’d changed direction and didn’t know where she was going. Marriage might not have been the goal any longer. And even if she did want to get married, she didn’t know how she could marry Tom. How would it feel to be living in his world—the clubs, the hotels, the apartment buildings, the entire towns that said no to Jews? No to her. He’d say he didn’t care. But she cared. And so would her mother. Would Irina ever accept him? Accept them?
Hours later, the ringing of the telephone roused her from her light, restless sleep. Maybe it was Tom. Oh, if only it was. She hadn’t wanted to hurt him, she just—
“Eleanor, Eleanor, is that you?”
It wasn’t Tom. The voice was unfamiliar. Also drunk. “Who is this please?”
“Who is this? Why, it’s Wynn Bellamy of course!” He chortled.
“Mr. Bellamy!” Eleanor switched on the lamp and looked at the clock: 3:30. “Is everything all right? Has something happened to Margaux? Or to Patricia?”
“Margaux, no, nothing’s happened to her. Unless you’ve been poisoning her against me, just like you poisoned my wife.” The chortling turned to a snarl.
“I didn’t poison Patricia. I just told her what happened, that’s all—”
“And what happened anyway? Just what? Was it so terrible that I asked for a dance? Or a kiss, one lousy little kiss? Was that a reason to make such a fuss—”
“Mr. Bellamy, I don’t think this conversation is going anywhere and I—”
“Such a fuss and over nothing! You’d think I ravished you, for Christ’s sake! Now my wife despises me and God only knows what you’ve told my daughter—”
“I haven’t told your daughter anything. But if I ever hear from you again, in any way, shape, or form, I’ll tell her. I really will. Maybe she ought to know just what kind of man her father is.”
There was a short silence. “Oh no, you wouldn’t, you couldn’t . . . not my baby girl, no not that . . .”
He trailed off, and Eleanor realized he was crying. She listened and then put the receiver down. After a moment, she lifted it again, and when she heard the dial tone, she placed it next to the clock, off the hook, until morning.
Twenty-Seven
The morning after the ruined dinner party, Bridget was already in the kitchen when Patricia came in. Wynn was sleeping it off in the guest room—thank God for small favors. The coffee didn’t taste nearly as good as Henryka’s, but at least Bridget had made oatmeal. Oatmeal was good for a hangover, and Patricia definitely had one. She sipped the coffee and took tentative spoonfuls of the hot cereal.
Then she went into the library and dialed Audrey’s number. She wasn’t calling to talk about the night before. She was calling to get the name of the lawyer who had handled her divorce.
“So it’s finally gotten to you?” Audrey asked. “I’ll confess I’ve wondered why you haven’t left him before this. But then again, I know it’s not easy to go. Look at how long it took me.”
“It was hard, wasn’t it? Especially in the beginning?”
“Awful. All those people you thought were your friends—pitying you, judging you, ostracizing you.”
“And yet you did it.”
“Because staying was worse than all that. Much worse.”
“That’s how I feel. Or I think I do. And it will help to talk it over with a lawyer.”
“His name is Theo Prescott and he’s experienced, discreet, and a gentleman—utterly unlike my ex-husband. Tell him I told you to call.”
Patricia took down the name and number. “You won’t mention this to anyone, Audrey? Please?”
“Not a word,” Audrey said. “You can trust me.”
As they were saying good-bye, Patricia heard a subtle but still audible click—someone had picked up the extension in the other room.
“Hello? I’m on the phone.”
There was another click. Whoever it was had put the receiver down. Had it been Bridget? Or more likely, Wynn? She went in search of her husband and found him.
“You were listening,” she said.
“And why shouldn’t I? You were talking about me.”
“All right then. I don’t care if you know. In fact, I want you to know.”
“Know what?”
“That I’m serious,” said Patricia. When he didn’t answer, she said, “Did you hear me? I’m divorcing you, Wynn. You said I wouldn’t do it, but you were wrong.”
“Go ahead, call the lawyer. Spin your little tale of woe for him, and then brace yourself for the bill. A telephone call? Easy. Divorcing me, not so much. I’ll fight you, Tricia. I’ll fight you with everything that’s in me. And it won’t be pretty.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“No. I’m just telling you what to expect. Giving you fair warning, as it were. You really don’t want to do this. Think of Margaux, for God’s sake.”
“I think of her all the time. And I’ve decided that maybe it’s time she understood what kind of man her father truly is.”
Wynn visibly paled. “She’s behind all this. It’s her fault. She’s turned you against me and she’ll do it to Margaux too.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Eleanor Moskowitz. That’s exactly what she said—that she’d tell Margaux what kind of man I was.”
“She said that? When?”
He turned away abruptly. “Last night, not that it matters . . .”
“Last night! You went to see her?”
“No. I telephoned.” His back remained to her.
“You did? What were you thinking?” She stared at his back and when he wouldn’t turn, she walked around to face him.
“What was I thinking? That I wanted to get my life back from the she-wolf who devoured it.” There were tears in his eyes. “I want things to be the way they were before she came here.”
> “Can’t you see it’s too late for that?” But a tiny part of her wished it too.
They stood staring at each other for several seconds, seconds during which Patricia tried to absorb the enormity of what was happening. She could remember so vividly how Wynn had looked at her from across that room, the dawning happiness she’d felt when he’d walked over and asked her to dance, and the exhilaration when he spun her around. He wouldn’t let anyone cut in and she didn’t care if it was rude—she’d wanted to be with him, and only him. Later, they’d gone outside and when the cool night air made her shiver, he’d taken off his white coat and slipped it around her shoulders. She’d thought him so gallant, so charming, so dear. He hadn’t even kissed her that night—later he told her how much he wanted to, but he knew she was going to be someone special in his life and he’d wanted to wait.
Patricia turned and left the room. She didn’t know what he planned to do with himself and she couldn’t let herself care. Instead she dressed quickly and left the apartment. She’d go to the Colony Club; the spring day was so lovely that she would walk down Park Avenue to Sixty-Second Street. Once there, she was able to telephone Theo Prescott with privacy, and then she stayed on for lunch. She walked home on Fifth Avenue and on impulse, stopped into the Frick Collection on East Seventieth Street. There she spent a long time in front of Ingres’s Comtesse d’Haussonville, whose smooth, rounded arms were crossed over her body and delicate hand propped up her chin. The shimmer of her ice blue satin dress seemed palpable, and Patricia suddenly wished that she, like Maddy, could write about why such a thing moved her, almost to tears—the magical illusion that turned two dimensions into three.
When she returned home, Bridget was waiting. “Mr. Bellamy, he asked me to give you this,” she boomed and handed Patricia a sealed envelope.
Patricia opened it. I’m going to Argyle to sail, he’d written. Back Sunday night. Finding him gone was like an unexpected gift. She gave Bridget the night off and went to 21 by herself, to see how she felt dining alone; she found the experience unfamiliar but not intolerable. Sunday dawned clear and bright so she skipped church and took a taxi to the Claremont Riding Academy on West Eighty-Ninth Street instead. She hadn’t ridden in Central Park in years, but Jester, the dark brown gelding she’d selected, was sure-footed and even-tempered, and he seemed unfazed by the stream of parkgoers strolling, pushing prams, lugging picnic hampers, or flying kites. The day clouded over and the wind picked up but Patricia was loath to leave the park. It was nearly seven o’clock when she took the horse back; she watched him being walked into his stall and she wanted to say Not yet, please, just a little longer. But she hailed a taxi and rode uptown, pleasantly tired from her exertion.
“There’s roses in your cheeks, Mrs. Bellamy,” Bridget said when Patricia came through the door. “They become you, yes they do.” Then she drew herself a bath and afterward had dinner alone, in her robe, which felt both a bit decadent and thoroughly delightful. She wasn’t at all lonely, and she dreaded Wynn’s return. But the evening wore on and Wynn didn’t appear.
“Are you sure there weren’t any messages today, Bridget?” Patricia asked.
“No, ma’am,” said Bridget. “The apartment was as quiet as a tomb.”
So Patricia said good night. She wasn’t unduly worried. There had been a couple of times when he’d stayed at the Yale Club after a quarrel. He’d come back. He always did. Fortunately, her day on horseback had worn her out, and despite her apprehension about seeing him, she slept soundly.
She was still in bed on Monday morning when the telephone rang, the sound shrill and vaguely ominous. It was Wynn’s secretary, Miss Blodget.
“It’s after nine thirty and Mr. Bellamy hasn’t come in yet, so I was wondering if he might be home sick,” she said.
“No, but maybe he has a meeting with a client outside the office.”
There was a pause. “I keep his calendar,” Miss Blodget said. “There’s no outside meeting today.”
“He was away for the weekend,” Patricia said. “He might have been delayed. I’ll be sure to have him call you as soon as I hear from him.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Bellamy,” said Miss Blodget.
She was an older woman, and she’d been with Wynn for several years. Wynn never seemed to keep the young ones around for very long, and suddenly, the reason for that seemed obvious. Why hadn’t she seen it before? Patricia got dressed, and decided to call Dottie. Perhaps she’d been in Argyle over the weekend. If she had, she might have seen Wynn. But no, Dottie hadn’t gone to Argyle. And Patricia ought to have remembered that the substance of Dottie’s conversation was almost always gossip, often of the wounding variety. Today was no different.
“I heard your dinner party got a little out of hand.”
“Where did you hear that?”
“Joan Barlow. She couldn’t tell me what happened, only that Audrey and Harold left in a big hurry, and that Harold threatened to punch Wynn.”
“He didn’t threaten him, for God’s sake. He was just upset because Wynn was being . . . uncouth.”
“There is that side of him . . .”
Something in the way she said this alerted Patricia to a possibility she hadn’t considered previously. “Dottie, was Wynn ever . . . I mean, when we were in the country did he . . . ?”
“I’d rather not say . . .”
“Please tell me,” Patricia said.
“Well, he wasn’t quite so bold, but yes, there were a couple of times when his hands were a little too . . . familiar—if you know what I mean.”
“You never told me.”
“Did you really want to know?”
Patricia didn’t have to answer aloud. They chatted for a little while longer before hanging up and then she chided herself for staying on as long as she had. By tying up the line, she might have prevented Theo Prescott from reaching her—his office said he would call on Monday. Or Wynn’s office—they could have been trying her as well. But when Patricia called Miss Blodget, the secretary said no, they had not heard from him, and that one of his clients had waited for him for over an hour before finally leaving. Patricia hung up and then called the Yale Club. No, Wynn had not checked in there either.
Where could he be? Patricia vacillated between concern and irritation. Maybe talking about divorce had hurt him more than she knew. Or maybe he was once again behaving selfishly and irresponsibly. Then it occurred to her that he’d probably gotten drunk and was sleeping it off. Of course that was it—why hadn’t she thought of it before? Quickly, she dialed the number of the house in Argyle but the phone just rang and rang.
At twelve thirty, Bridget asked if Patricia wanted lunch, but Patricia told her she’d eat later. She was upset, angry, and though she’d slept well the night before, she felt utterly drained. If she could close her eyes for a little while, she might feel better. Sleep came easily and the loud knocking on the door had insinuated itself into her dream for several seconds before she finally woke up. “What is it?” she said crossly.
“Telephone, Mrs. Bellamy,” Bridget called through the closed door.
“Is it my husband?” Patricia’s mouth was dry and her head hurt. So much for a nap improving things. “Or his office?”
“No ma’am.”
“Then take a message and say I’ll call back.”
“It’s a gentleman calling from Connecticut,” said Bridget. “He says it’s urgent.”
It must have been one of their friends calling about Wynn—finally. Patricia got up, smoothed her hair, and hurried to the phone.
“Mrs. Bellamy? This is Norville Ledbetter. I’m the chief of police here in Argyle and I’m calling to—”
“Have you found him?” she interrupted. “I do hope he hasn’t caused any trouble.”
“Trouble, Mrs. Bellamy? No, I wouldn’t say that he’s caused trouble—” Ledbetter sounded surprised.
“He’s not . . . drunk, is he?” She ardently hoped the answer was no.
The man was silent
and Patricia felt her irritation simmering, about to boil over—
“No ma’am. Not drunk. You see . . . well, I’m sorry to say the truth of it is that Mr. Bellamy—he’s dead.”
Twenty-Eight
The morning after she’d gotten the call from Wynn Bellamy, Eleanor was afraid to replace the telephone receiver. That conversation had so disturbed her that she didn’t want to risk hearing his voice again. But she knew she wasn’t being practical. She’d have to put the phone back on the hook sooner or later. And she did want Tom to be able to reach her, so with some hesitation, she gently set it back in the cradle.
Tom didn’t call though. Not Saturday, and not Sunday either. She debated whether to call him and got as far as dialing the first few digits before she decided against it. Finally, she picked up the phone again, but not to call Tom; instead she called her mother and invited her to dinner.
Eleanor set her tiny round table with the pale blue damask cloth and napkins she’d found at a secondhand shop. The tablecloth had a blurred, red-brown stain in the middle but she was able to cover it with the dishes, also secondhand. She prepared fresh fettuccine from Raffetto’s on Houston Street, and served it with the bottled tomato sauce they sold. With a salad and a loaf of Italian bread, it made a satisfying meal. Irina seemed to enjoy it, though she declined the grated Parmesan cheese Eleanor offered with a dismissive wave of her hand.
After dinner there was tea and the lace cookies Irina brought from Kramer’s. “So you’ve made a home for yourself,” Irina said, looking around. “I still don’t understand why, but at least you’ve done it well.”
“Thank you, Mother.” Eleanor helped herself to a cookie.
“You like the new job?”
“Very much.”
“And what about teaching? You have a gift, you know.”
“Maybe I’ll get back to it. But for now, Zephyr is where I want to be.” Eleanor didn’t say that although she did miss working with students, she was also excited by the people she met through her work—writers, editors, literary agents—who were very different from the sort of people she met in the staid world of Brandon-Wythe.