Classic Love: 7 Vintage Romances

by Dorothy Fletcher

  “I’m glad I could assist. So did you, don’t forget. I might have had to forfeit my deposit otherwise. At the very least, I would have had a lengthy argument about it.” He looked at his wristwatch. “I’m afraid I’ve bored you to a fare-thee-well. I didn’t realize we’d been here all this time. And nothing to sit down on. It’s one-thirty, where’d the time go to? God, I’m sorry to keep you hanging around here all this time. You must both be starved. As a matter of fact so am I. Now. Where would you like to have lunch?”

  “Rodney? If it’s your treat you should decide.”

  “No, no, just wherever you’d like.”

  “I guess it’s up to you, Jack.”

  “There’s a place quite near here I go to a lot. Sure you have nothing special in mind? Well then, I’ll just lock up and we’ll get going.”

  Christine noted his smile of satisfaction as he gave a last look at the rooms that were now his. Turning, his eyes met hers. He laughed sheepishly. “Yeah, the cat that swallowed the canary,” he said as they went down the stairs. “If you could see the place I’m leaving you’d know why. A building that used to be good, but now they’re milking it, doing nothing, just letting everything fall apart, practically brick by brick. A recurring leak in my bathroom ceiling, the plaster hanging down like someone’s skin peeling. Insufficient heat in the winter and as often as not none at all. I had to go to the Hyde Park Hotel two nights this past February, otherwise I probably would have frozen to death. Never reimbursed for it, of course. Twenty-one degrees and cold radiators. When Gristede’s, which was on the corner, closed its branch there, all the Gristede roaches scrambled to find other quarters, which needless to say were the nearest houses, including mine. It was a day by day skirmish between me and the roaches, the survival of the fittest.”

  “Jack, how gruesome. Rent controlled?”

  “No. Low, admittedly. I know it’s next to impossible to maintain a building for rents that haven’t kept pace with the economy, but they could have some kind of landlord-tenant discussions. I for one would have been glad to pay an increase, and I think most of the others would have. You know what’s happening these days. These old brownstones aren’t bringing in any profit, so they hang on to them until such time as some developer buys up a whole block of them, tears them down and puts up a highrise. What are you gonna do?”

  Out on the street, he directed them toward Third. “Then we’ll head for Lex,” he said. “We’re going to Anthony’s. It’s quiet, leisurely and they have good drinks.”

  It was in the Fifties and it looked like a saloon from the outside, but then so did Clarke’s, and when they went in Christine felt comfortable right away. It was cool and dim and hospitable, with a big, weathered, dark oak bar and comfy chairs around fair-sized tables. A few booths. They sat in one of the booths, Rodney sliding in beside Christine and Jack opposite. It was a man’s place, you knew that immediately, but it was not raffish in any way, and there were two young women at, one of the tables. They looked like office girls on their lunch hour. “I’d like a martini,” she said, when a waiter came over.

  “One martini for the lady. Olive, twist, onion?”

  “Olive, thanks.”

  He greeted Jack by name. “Hi, Jack, Canadian Club for you?”

  “As always. Rodney?”

  “I’d like a gin and tonic, please.”

  “This is nice,” Christine said when they had their drinks. “I must have passed it a lot of times and never noticed it.”

  “It’s a respectable watering hole and the food’s really very high quality. Well, shall we heft a glass to our respective good fortune?”

  “Here we go. To you both, gentlemen, and all the best. Jack, an additional toast to you, and heartfelt thanks.”

  “I second the motion,” Rodney said, grinning. “You’re the undisputed hero of the day.”

  “Okay, enough already, you’d think I saved you from drowning. You’re British, Rodney, what brings you to these parts?”

  “Just thought I’d pop over and see how the Colonies were doing.” He shook his head. “No need to worry about them, they’re in great shape. Actually, I’m here on a visit, a bit of a holiday, that’s all. What do you do, Jack? You said you ditched your job, I believe.”

  “Yes, a few months ago.”

  “You’re looking for another one then?”

  “As a matter of fact, no. I’m working on a book, I decided to take the long chance.”

  “A book? You’re a writer?”

  “More or less. That is, it’s been less to date, just a few pieces published, which netted me an agent, and four or five short novels, strictly hack stuff. Now I’m involved in something more — ” He made a solemn face. “More substantial. Ta da da.”

  “I’m most impressed.”

  “Rodney would like to write,” Christine said. “So you’re an author, Jack. That’s great. I guess you’re the first one I’ve met. My husband’s a doctor, so I meet a fair amount of doctors. They’re not very interesting. As a matter of fact they’re — well, at least in my opinion, dull as ditchwater, and monstrously pompous.”

  She laughed. “I’m not referring to my husband, he’s a very nice guy.”

  “So is his wife.”

  “Christine?” Rodney put in. “She’s more than nice, she’s Aphrodite with a soul.”

  “You sound like a groupie,” Jack remarked. “I can’t say I blame you.”

  “And her name, Christine, it sounds like shimmering glass. Christine, that was the name in O’Neill’s Mourning Becomes Electra.”

  “Oh, she was a bad lady,” Christine objected. “You’re not going to compare me with her? She did away with her husband. I have no plans to murder mine.”

  “Neither did she, but he showed up at an inopportane time,” Jack observed.

  “She must have known he’d make an appearance sooner or later.”

  “She probably thought he’d be killed in the war. And she didn’t reckon with that daughter of hers. Vengeful bitch.”

  “Whose side are you on anyway, Jack?”

  “I guess I always felt sorry for Christine/Clytemnestra. Love is a many-splendored thing. I’m on the side of love.”

  “No matter who gets hurt?”

  “Someone always gets hurt. So you’d like to scribble too, Rodney.”

  “I always have wanted to, you know. But it’s only a remote possibility.”

  “Writing for a living is chancy at best. As I’m sure I’ll discover when I’ve been at it long enough. It’s so damned reassuring to have that job, a structured life, you can’t flake off in a job.”

  “Why did you leave it? Couldn’t you do both?”

  “I decided you couldn’t. Or I couldn’t. Well, there were other flies in the ointment. I was in publishing, moved around a good bit, got shafted one too many times. So I thought I’d be an independent guy and let them publish me. It would be easier that way.” He smiled. “Famous last words.”

  “Are you having trouble with what you’re working on?”

  “I’m having trouble sitting still. No, the work’s going along creditably, it’s just a long, long process. I have to find the pace for it.”

  He picked up his drink. “You aren’t interested in all this.”

  “But we are, very much so.”

  “I’ve done nothing but talk about myself, a lot of crap. No more about me. So, how do you like my apartment?”

  Laughter all around: he was fun, Christine thought, very attractive, very entertaining, someone she would like to know better. She tried to guess his age. It was hard to tell. He could be twenty-eight, he could be thirty-two. He lived alone, it seemed: he could be single or he could be divorced or in the process of separation. She didn’t see any reason why she shouldn’t ask him.

  She didn’t have to. Rodney asked him. “Are you — ah, married or something, Jack?”

  “More like something. I’m divorced.”

  “Oh, I am sorry.”

  A quick laugh. “D
on’t be, Rodney.” Another quick laugh. “Just one of those things. Ever notice when things go wrong between people the reason is always that it’s just one of those things? How about you, Rodney, found any delectable girls to take out since you’ve been here? And how long have you been here?”

  “A month now. Girls? I daresay they’re about.”

  “They are indeed. I’m surprised they haven’t started ringing your doorbell.”

  “It’s still early times.”

  “Were there any children, Jack?” Christine wanted to know. “I don’t mean to pry.”

  “No children. Thank God for small favors. Children always make it hairier.”

  “Yes, of course. Could we order, Jack? I’m beginning to get light in the head; we haven’t been eating much in the way of breakfast lately. Too eager to get out and answer ads.”

  “Sure.” He caught the waiter’s eye, menus were brought over. “What’s good here?” she asked.

  “You can safely take your pick, but the eggplant parmigiana’s tops.”

  “Fine, I’ll have that. Rodney?”

  “Yes, the same for me, please.”

  “Okay, Mario, we’re all agreed. Three eggplant.”

  “Coffee with?”

  “Later for me. Rodney likes his later too.”

  “Can we have the garlic bread right away, though, Mario?”

  “Garlic bread coming up. You want some Chianti?”

  “How about it?”

  “Not for me, and I think not for Rodney either. These are lusty drinks.”

  “We’ll skip the wine, Mario.”

  He was back with two baskets of the bread in a second or two, the smell of the garlic preceding him. “Guaranteed to put hair on your chest,” he said with a wink, and went away again. “Wow,” Christine said, putting a piece in her mouth. “This is garlic bread to end all garlic bread. Lord, it’s fantastic.”

  “It’s great butter too. Sweet as field flowers.”

  “Isn’t this marvelous. I suppose I shouldn’t have scotched the Chianti. It’s just that the two of us are pooped after killing ourselves for two weeks looking for a place for Rodney. I don’t particularly care to fall flat on my face. In Florence we drank Lacrima Cristi. Teardrop of Christ. I loved the name.”

  “A great many of our friends live in Florence,” Rodney said.

  “That’s not surprising. There are more English in Florence than there are native Florentines.”

  Jack said he had spent a month in Florence. “Loved it, absolutely unforgettable. Crossing the river at nightfall, after spending the day on the Oltrarno, with the sun flaming and then dying down, everything purpling, the bridges like misty webs. It stays like a dream landscape in your mind. Italy’s so preposterously beautiful. Lacrima Cristi — yes, I drank it too.”

  “Italy’s God’s country. I suppose you’ve been there often, Rodney, not having to cross an ocean to get there.”

  “Twice, to be exact. I’m fonder of France, though.”

  “Nothing wrong with France.”

  “Aha! Here comes lunch.”

  “Hot plate,” Mario said. “Okay, folks, buon appetito.”

  “Grazie.”

  “It looks super,” Rodney said, digging in. “Whoops — careful, it’s hot.”

  “I’ll have some more bread.” Christine wiggled her fingers. “Please? I don’t know how you managed it, Rodney, but both baskets are on your side of the table.”

  “Oh. Sorry. Here you go.”

  “Jack, you were right. The eggplant’s sublime. Say, how’d you find this place?”

  “Ah, it’s very well known among us cognoscenti. Stick with me, kid, old Jack knows where it’s at.”

  “I bet you do,” she replied, laughing. He was really charming. “You come here a lot,” she said. “Now I know why.”

  “Yeah, it’s a haunt of mine.”

  “Do you cook for yourself?”

  “Maybe a chop once in a while. Mostly it’s TV dinners.”

  “They’re supposed to be nourishing enough.”

  “They’ll do. With a green salad. No work entailed, why not?”

  “I’m sure it’s what I’d do if I lived alone.”

  “Rodney, now that you’re setting up housekeeping, what’s your plan of action?”

  “Why, I suppose about like yours, Jack. Something prepared, just shove it in the oven. Or else dine out.”

  “If you really mean ‘dine,’ you won’t have any trouble finding restaurants,” Jack told him. “If you mean just fill your stomach and refuel, there are a few places around. I mean that won’t cost an arm and a leg.”

  “And of course you’ll be at our house for dinner a lot,” Christine reminded him. “No invitation necessary, I’m sure you understand you’re always more than welcome, Rodney. And yes, we must not forget to call your mother tonight. Be sure to outline some kind of budget, so you won’t run low on cash. She has to have some way of knowing what your essentials will be.”

  “Christine, I’m perfectly capable of managing things,” he objected, flushing. “I’m not, after all, a teener.”

  He put down his fork. “Sorry, love, I didn’t mean to be shirty.”*

  “You’re right, though,” she said good naturedly. “You must be left to live your own life, and I am a smothering sort.”

  “You’re an angel. I adore you.”

  “That’s nice. Jack, I’m a horrible pig, but do you think he’d let us have some more garlic bread? It’s all gone, alas.”

  “No sooner said than done. Mario?”

  With coffee, Jack suggested brandy. “They’re not much on desserts,” he admitted, “so how about a brandy instead? The drinks have worn off by now.”

  “All right, fine.”

  “Rodney?”

  “Yes, please.”

  They sat sipping, talking idly, smiling at each other. “I hope you’ve enjoyed this as much as I have,” Jack said.

  “I’ve had a lovely time.”

  “Can we do it again?” Rodney asked eagerly. “It would be super to meet again like this.”

  “Nothing I’d like better.”

  “Yes, by all means,” Christine agreed. “I’d like to know how you’re getting on, Jack. When you’re moved and settled, why not give me a ring? Rodney, would you write down our phone number, please?”

  He pulled out a pen. “When we get home I shall have to call the telephone company about a phone for myself. There, Jack, the Jennings’ number.”

  “Many thanks. I’ll write it in my directory right away.”

  Rodney, with a certain panache, paid the check. “It was my idea,” he insisted. Jack said no, it had been his idea, but Christine murmured to him to let it go. “Of course he owes you, certainly Rodney will take care of this. It’s little enough. Jack, you’ve truly been a godsend. I can’t thank you enough.”

  “I’ll look forward to seeing you again.”

  “And I to seeing you. You have my number. Good luck with the moving; that’s not very much fun.”

  They parted outside the restaurant, with nods and smiles, and then she and Rodney walked home. “Nice chap,” Rodney said. “Well, I must say this turned out to be a banner day.”

  “It certainly did. And now we must furnish your apartment. We’ll go first thing in the morning with a yardstick, make our notes and then start in picking and choosing. I have a few ideas.”

  “Good. I shall have to depend on your expertise, Christine.”

  “You did point out that you were capable of managing things yourself,” she observed.

  “For which I could cut off my tongue. With all you’ve done … I just had a moment of rebellion, sometimes one feels so bloody juvenile.”

  She said be glad to be young, it didn’t last forever.

  *Shirty — An Anglicism meaning “huffy.”

  6.

  The house seemed quiet without Rodney’s robust cheer, though Christine, who was up to her ears in making a “showplace” of his new flat, was
far from regretful. She was glad to return home each evening, slip off her shoes and relax over a glass of Chablis. He had moved, suitcase and rucksack, into his snuggery, as he called it, just as soon as he had a bed, chest of drawers and two chairs. He was thereupon keen on filling up all the spaces pronto, ready to settle for anything that took his fancy. If she left it up to him, Christine told him, he’d be living in some kind of old curiosity shop. “No,” she kept saying patiently. “No, Rodney, it’s nice, but it’s way out of proportion for your place, you must see that.”

  “But it’s a smashing étagère! Chris, we seem to be getting nowhere.”

  “Rome wasn’t built in a day.”

  Of course he had no way of knowing that she had earmarked pieces as they went along, for future reference, that she had a master plan which was slowly taking shape, and so his astonishment was profound when she informed him that now they had everything they needed for his place. All they had to do was return to the stores that had them and buy them up.

  “Don’t worry, Rodney, everything I chose was something you approved of, so I’m sure you’ll be satisfied.”

  “But I don’t understand.”

  “You’ll see.”

  By the end of the month Rodney’s flat was fully equipped. It looked, if she did say so herself, as elegant as something a decorator whipped up, and without the grotesqueries they always stuck in. It looked great, and Rodney was almost sickeningly self-congratulatory, though open-handed in his appreciation of all the “help” she had given him, as if the whole splendid orchestration had been conceived and executed by himself, with her as apprentice. She was vastly amused by his lapse of memory as he completely forgot that almost everything he had wanted to snap up would have been totally out of scale and, to boot, without any overall scheme or harmony.

  But let him preen, the darling: he was so twenty-one-year oldishly cute, like an urban squire, fiddling possessively with his bay window draperies on their traverse rods, plumping cushions and rushing out to the kitchen to empty ashtrays as soon as someone put out a cigarette. It wouldn’t last long, she surmised; his householder’s pride, his Craig’s wife fussiness would give way to other serendipities. She just hoped he wouldn’t end up leaving clothes all over the place, it was too small for that.