Classic Love: 7 Vintage Romances

by Dorothy Fletcher

  “Yes, fine.”

  “Until then,” he said and, nodding, moved on and out the front doors.

  “Good-looking,” Miguel repeated, smirking conspiratorially. “Muy simpatico.”

  “I’m a little afraid of him.”

  “Why? You have a chaperon, the boy. Nothing to be afraid of.”

  “I didn’t mean that, exactly.”

  “Then what?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She went into the lounge. Lucille was on her second brandy. She was a little high. “I’ve been waiting,” she complained. “What have you been doing?”

  “Resting,” Kelly said ironically, and they went out together into the bright Madrid sunshine.

  CHAPTER 3

  The Casa Bique, a stately old mansion hidden behind immense trees, had an American management and so did not observe siesta. The interior was cool, due to its thick stone walls, and the girls wandered through the high-ceilinged rooms, selecting, rejecting, and finally settling on a few objects that were too glittering to resist. Lucille’s silver cigarette box was, fortunately, still unsold.

  “I’ll stick it in my make-up kit,” she said to Kelly. “No one will be the wiser.”

  Both of them bought gifts, and some things for themselves as well. Totalled, their purchases came to about a thousand pesetas, or just over three hundred dollars.

  This haul would enter the U.S. undeclared. Somehow, each of them would find a way to get the stuff in without paying duty. And again Kelly thought, we’re all venal at bottom. She had never really dwelt on it before, but thinking now about the volume of illicit traffic in small and large items, she was a little ashamed. It was not that she was Establishment; it was more that, after her many forays abroad, with treasures she had slipped in from other countries to her own, she thought now that it was no more unworthy to smuggle priceless things than it was more modest purchases.

  Where did you draw the line?

  Later, they walked a bit and then had a tonica at an outdoor cafe on the Plaza de Cibeles. Kelly sipped her drink and said suddenly, “Lucille …”

  “Yes?”

  “We’re friends, right?”

  “I’ve always thought so. What’s the pitch?”

  “Would you do a big favor for me?”

  “Sure.”

  “I have something I don’t want to declare. Would you put it in your bra on your return trip?”

  “Good heavens. Okay. Will it fit?”

  “Yes. And then, darling, leave it off at the apartment for me. All right?”

  “Sure. No trouble at all.”

  “It’s just a little hash.”

  “What?”

  “You don’t mind?”

  “Who are you carrying hash for?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “No, of course not,” Lucille said hastily. “It’s your business.”

  But she was glad to see a reserved look in the other girl’s eye. “You’re not keen about doing it, are you?”

  There was a little silence. “Well, I — ” Lucille shrugged. “I just didn’t figure you for — ”

  “Okay, I was only making funnies.”

  The other girl gave her a long look. “What led up to this?” she finally asked.

  Kelly picked up her glass, with the slice of lemon at the bottom. “Forget it. I don’t have anything for you to sneak in. It was just … a train of thought.”

  “But what started it?”

  “Some people on the plane. I just suddenly started thinking about how hard it must be for Customs. That they must have one hell of a problem with … people beating the rap.”

  Lucille’s bright face, topped by her blond, cropped hairdo, was questioning. “Are you suffering from fatigue syndrome?” she asked sympathetically.

  “Maybe. No. Not really.” Kelly, surrounded by sunshine and sheltering palm trees, shaded in a quiet oasis on a beautiful avenida in Madrid, laughed. “File it away in a corner of your mind and for the moment stop thinking about it. It may mean something some day. But for now, allow as how I didn’t say anything.”

  “You mean I should pay duty on what I bought today?” Lucille asked, astonished.

  “No, silly. Don’t give it another thought. I just have a funny feeling.”

  “About what?”

  “I’m not sure. But I think I’ve stumbled on to something. It’s just a feeling. God, it’s hot. Catch that waiter’s eye, if you can. I could go for another tonica.”

  • • •

  After siesta they went to the Gran Via, window-shopped and picked up a few minor items, then returned to the hotel where a party was in progress in a stewardess’s room. It was just the girls, and they were going fairly light on the liquor but definitely bypassing rules by drinking at all so soon before flight time, which was only a few hours away. But of course Kelly wasn’t in danger at the moment, since she was not returning with them, and they knew she wouldn’t spill things to the Captain in command.

  It was shortly before six when the girls changed into their uniforms and settled their caps on their heads. “You with your twelve days off,” Lucille said, saying good-bye. “Nobody deserves it more.”

  They all went off with their loot, tipping on the way, and then Kelly went to her own room. It’s a funny life, she thought, sitting on the edge of the bed. Nice … but driftless.

  If it hadn’t been for the thought of the evening ahead, she would have felt lost, and lonely. Suddenly, with them all gone, everything seemed so terribly quiet.

  Damn it, can’t you ever relax? she asked herself angrily.

  At a few minutes past seven Kelly locked her room from the outside and was just about to go down the hall when she heard the ringing of the telephone inside.

  Should she answer that?

  When it kept on ringing she unlocked the door again. It was Senor Nascimento.

  “Yes, hello,” she said, trying not to sound rushed.

  “It’s terrible,” he said. “I can’t … Senorita, I don’t know what could have happened!”

  “Didn’t you get the bag?”

  “Yes. Thank you, gracias, but oh, my goodness — ”

  “What’s the trouble?”

  “An unforeseen development! I called for the bag, at your hotel. Thank you, Senorita. Only when I reached home there was something missing.”

  “Missing? Well, what?”

  “My wife’s beads.”

  “Your wife’s — ”

  “You know, the pearls,” he said, his voice dropping. “They were not in the bag.”

  Oh, for heaven’s sake, she thought. Why did I answer?

  “I’m so sorry, but I don’t know anything about it,” she said rapidly. “And Senor Nascimento, I’m in rather a hurry. Could I call you back tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow?” He sounded shocked. “But what about now? What about …” He wheezed. “Something must be done now.”

  “What would you suggest, sir?”

  There was a breathless pause, and then he came on again. “You must realize that it is a great disaster, Senorita. Can’t you — ”

  “I’m really very sorry,” she said implacably. “But I’m already late for an appointment.”

  This time the man’s voice was shrill. “But I don’t understand,” he cried. “You see, there were the beads. Well, not very expensive beads but my wife is — ”

  “Senor Nascimento,” she said, hanging on to the last shreds of her patience, “I can’t help you at the moment. I have to meet someone.”

  “Just the same,” he said desperately, “we have something missing, Senorita! You must comprehend! It is very difficult! My wife and I … we bought some valuable pearls. You must know how it is. Investments … everyone does it. My God, Senorita, they are gone! They were in the bag but they are not in there now …”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t know anything about it. Believe me, I can understand how you feel. But I’m already late for an appointment. You must let m
e call you at another time.”

  “No no, we must get this straightened out now … because it is of the utmost importance. Senorita?” His voice went up an octave.

  “Forgive me,” she said. “I must go now.”

  And above his frantic protestations, she hung up.

  What was it all about? At the moment she didn’t care. I’ll worry about it tomorrow, she thought, and taking a last careful look in the mirror, she left the room again and went downstairs. She left the key at the desk, with Miguel, and walked into the lounge. Steve Connaught was there, near a window. The late afternoon light gilded the table top, streamed gloriously through the violet and crimson leaded panes. There was a bowl of dried flowers, soft beige mixed with a harsher red, in the center of the table. There were about a dozen persons in the room; a mixture of English, Spanish and French assailed Kelly’s ears.

  “Hello,” Steve said, and rose.

  “Hello.”

  “You’re only twenty minutes late,” he said pleasantly.

  “I’m late because people insist on ringing my telephone with insoluble problems.”

  “How so?”

  “For one, the Nascimentos. You remember the Spanish couple on the plane?”

  “The ones who kept the little boy occupied?”

  “Yes. I’ve had quite a day. They’ve called me twice.”

  “What about?”

  “First, to let me know that Richard went off with the Senora’s knitting bag.”

  “He did?”

  “Yes. Apparently the Nascimentos were delayed at Customs. Richard had this bag belonging to them. When they got off the line Richard had disappeared.”

  “With the bag.”

  “With the bag. The next call I had was from Richard. He was in the lobby, with the knitting bag.”

  “You did have quite a day.”

  “There’s more to it.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Oh … on the plane Richard managed to break the Senora’s string of pearls.”

  “Yes, I remember. Everyone was on hands and knees.”

  “And then when they were all collected and accounted for, the Senora stuffed them into her knitting bag. Can you conjecture?”

  He looked at her. “The pearls were expensive?”

  “Yes, I had a good look at them.”

  “You think they were purchased outside of Spain.”

  “I think it’s a safe guess.”

  “Happens all the time,” he said. “Are you worrying about it?”

  “Not in the least. I wouldn’t have given it a second thought if it hadn’t been for one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I left the bag at the desk, and Senor Nascimento was to call round for it. I had a pleasant afternoon, shopping with a friend, and just as I was about to come downstairs to meet you, the telephone rang again.”

  “And?”

  “It was Senor Nascimento once more. He had picked up the bag, but there was something missing.”

  “Not the pearls.”

  “Oh, but yes.”

  “What could have happened?”

  “I have no idea. I didn’t think to look in the bag. It’s just another nagging, troublesome je ne sais quoi in the life of an airline employee. May I have a martini?”

  “Straight up or on the rocks?” he asked, signalling the waiter.

  “Up.”

  When the drink came she asked him how he had spent his own time. “I sightsaw,” he said. “Mainly, the Prado.”

  “Nice place.”

  He looked discontented. “The lighting’s bad. The Michelangelos on the staircase, for one thing. Sisyphus … you have to stand on your head, practically. But of course the Goyas and the Velasquez rooms were all right, and they were my chief interest.”

  “Have you been to Madrid before?”

  “This is my first visit to Spain.”

  “Madrid’s a stately city. Do you like it?”

  “Very much, what I’ve seen. I thought about going to Barcelona first, but that can wait.”

  “Barcelona’s all right. Raffish. A seaport city. I’m not too partial to it. The Estoril, of course, is beautiful.”

  “When are you returning to New York?” he asked.

  “Not for a while. I have some time off. In a few days I’ll take off for Malaga. Drive through Andalusia. I’ve never done that.”

  “Sounds nice.”

  “Yes, I think I’ll enjoy it.”

  “When are you leaving?”

  “I’m booked for a Wednesday flight at ten in the morning.”

  “I see.”

  “And where are you going next, Mr. Connaught?”

  “I haven’t decided.”

  He picked up his glass again. “I usually manage to work in Paris, whatever else I do. So as usual, I suppose I’ll end up there.”

  “It happens to be my favorite city.”

  “Does it?” He gave her a long, assessing look. “Then we seem to be on the same wave length. It’s mine too, that is, in Europe.”

  And soon they were comparing impressions. “Montmartre in the evening, the Ile St. Louis by day,” Steve said.

  “I love the Quai des Augustins, with the antique shops.”

  “And the Pont Neuf … ever been to La Reine Jeanne, just across the bridge from the parvis of Notre Dame?”

  “A restaurant?”

  “One of the best.”

  He told her about it. “A bistro, but the best Coquille St. Jacques you ever tasted. A Coq au Vin you wouldn’t believe. The Pot au Feu …”

  “I must remember it.”

  “Go there, you won’t be sorry.” He cut the tip of a cigar and lit it. “Well, there’s Europe, which admittedly is an enchanted continent. But my heart belongs to Vermont.”

  “Vermont?”

  She couldn’t have been more astonished. Steve Connaught was Tangiers and Marrakesh. You could picture him in Greece, among the bitter lemons, or at Rapallo, on a terrace overlooking the sea. But in New England?

  “You come from Vermont?”

  “Oh, no.” He leaned back, exhaling smoke. “I was born in Brooklyn.”

  It was even more outlandish. “I don’t believe it,” she said.

  “Oh? Must I remind you that Brooklyn has yielded some of the best talent of the century?” There was a slow grin. “When you spit on Brooklyn, spit with a smile.”

  “I wasn’t spitting on it. It’s just … surprising.”

  “It’s got a cachet of its own. I’ve been told that when the Americans liberated Paris, they did a good selling job on Brooklyn. The whole damned infantry came from there. In the movie houses, every time Brooklyn was mentioned in a film, the G.I.’s clapped and cheered.” His grin widened. “After they left, the French audiences carried on the tradition. Brooklyn? Everyone snickers; I’ve never known why. That crazy place has something. Damned if I know what it is. But it’s there. Maybe it’s the last stronghold of Americana. In some nutty way.”

  “Three cheers for Brooklyn,” Kelly said. “A ho and a ho and a ho.” She leaned forward. Maybe it was only to claim his attention, because Connaught, even in the midst of a conversation, had a tendency to rove the room with his eyes. Is he with me or not? Kelly kept wondering, as his glance strayed to this person and then that. Or maybe it was because she liked the smell of his shaving lotion. She moved her chair forward a little. “All right, Brooklyn,” she said. “Now what’s this about Vermont?”

  “Heaven on earth,” he said. “Highest suicide rate in the nation.”

  “You do pique a person’s interest. First it’s heaven on earth and then it’s the place where suicide occurs oftenest.”

  “Oh, it’s lonely,” he said. “Lonely as hell. Cold most of the time so that when the spring thaw comes, you think of Strindberg. You know? Where Elis says, ‘The double windows have been taken down and fresh curtains put up … yes, its spring again …’ ”

  She stared at him. Strindberg? How were you supposed to tag t
his man? Looked like C.I.A. or even Mafia. And then he quoted from a playwright who was the darling of the intellectuals.

  “I have a house there,” he said abruptly. “Had it built the way I wanted it. I go there whenever I can find the time.”

  “Why aren’t you there now?” she asked quickly.

  “Because I’m here,” he said flatly, and swivelled his eyes away from hers.

  Was it meant for a laugh? She didn’t know. But she laughed anyway. He himself didn’t crack a smile. “What’s your house like?” she asked.

  “Nutty. I damn near had a duel with the architect. You can’t do this, he kept saying. No one in his right mind wants six bathrooms for a four bedroom house. It was a fight to the finish, but I have my six bathrooms.”

  “It does seem a little out of Krafft Ebbing. What is it in your past that makes you love Johns?”

  “Eight kids and one can,” he said succinctly. “Satisfied?”

  “Maybe I can understand that.”

  “I wonder.” He gave her an almost hostile look. “You come from Greenwich, Connecticut and your parents had two kids, each with a room of their own, a nice room, with a toilet between you. You prepped at a good school, private, and you and your sister — or brother — never knew what it was like to be hungry.”

  His jaw jutted out aggressively. “Correct me if I’m wrong.”

  “It was Scarsdale,” she murmured.

  “Same difference.”

  “Are you an inverse snob, Mr. Connaught?”

  There was a quick, wry smile. “Is this Mr. and Miss business going to go on all night?”

  “Night” never had a more enticing sound. A little shiver ran through Kelly. To spend a night with this blunt, plain-speaking man …

  “All right, Steve,” she said.

  “I’m not any kind of snob. And don’t you be, either.”

  It was as if he had said, “No snobs in this family.” It was intimate and … I’m getting way ahead of myself, she thought, and reminded herself that this was just a date with someone from her most recent flight.

  He signaled the waiter. “What time are we calling for the … what was it you called him?”

  “The unaccompanied minor. I said we’d be around there at about eight.”

  “That gives us plenty of time for another drink,” he said, and asked for refreshers. After that they talked idly, until he looked at his watch and said it was just about time to get going. Did she want to powder her nose?