Classic Love: 7 Vintage Romances

by Dorothy Fletcher

  He was a born collector, with a taste for amassing beautiful objects, and this gorgeous young woman was a cherished possession, it was clear. And yet there was something about Dolores that smacked of the streets, a certain manner of speech which suggested that she came from a lower stratum of society from her husband. Kelly decided that Dolores was not high-born, but had come from pedestrian surroundings; however she had learned how to play the social game and did it very well.

  That was, until her third cocktail. After that she effervesced a bit too much, laughed a little too loudly, and her lovely eyes were slightly filmed. At that point her husband took over and directed the conversation.

  It was really very pleasant. A beautiful house, a beautiful room, delightful flower smells and excellent talk — for Constant Comstock was an erudite man and a gifted anecdotist. He was plainly taken by Steve, and was giving him a rough itinerary of some of the things to see in Madrid.

  “The Cathedral of La Almudena. It’s to the left of the Palace and has a facade in the neo-classical manner. Also the Church of San Francisco el Grande, the interior of which has a great dome which was decorated by Goya.”

  “Steve’s a Goya buff,” Kelly said.

  “I don’t blame him. So am I.”

  “Oh, but those awful war pictures,” Dolores said, shuddering.

  “That’s only one phase of his work,” her husband said, looking indulgent. “Well, for me, of course, the second hand bookstalls on the Cuesta de Moyano are a great lure. I have found many of my treasures there. If you have any bibliophilic leanings, that’s the place to go.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind.”

  “And don’t bother going to the Flea Market again. Go to the Calle de Cervantes. In a small quarter there I stumbled across a sale of paintings and sculptures. It didn’t look like much, but behind a jumble of junk I found one of those attenuated bronze figures. Of course it couldn’t be a Giacometti. Everyone is imitating Giacometti. However, I decided to buy it anyway; obviously the dealer thought it a fake but had priced it fairly high, reasoning that some fool would take it for the real thing and gamble on it. What do you think?”

  “It was the real thing,” Steve hazarded, rolling his cigar to the other side of his mouth.

  “It was, it was!”

  “Oh, could I see it?” Steve asked, leaning forward.

  There was a sudden, rather loud laugh from Dolores. It was almost a hoot. Her husband looked quickly at her and then said, “Am I boring you, darling?”

  He didn’t wait for an answer. “Of course I am,” he said to the others. “She wants to talk about herself. All women want to do that. You see, she was a model when I met her. A very bad one, but that was the only thing she knew how to do.”

  “Don’t listen to this man. I was a very good model. Of course I was looking all the while for someone to take care of me.”

  “So you admit it,” Comstock said.

  “Certainly, si. Otherwise, why are we women? If you are beautiful you deserve the best.”

  It was said without the slightest trace of self-consciousness. Or even with vanity. It was simply stated as a fact.

  “However,” she went on, “I picked the wrong man. I thought he was rich.”

  It was taken as a joke until Kelly saw the faint flush on the man’s cheekbones. At the same time Dolores sent a challenging, defiant look her husband’s way. There was a small, rather uncomfortable silence and then Constant said, “All women want to be Jacqueline Onassis. With unlimited funds.”

  “All women want security,” she cried, and this time her expression was decidedly unpleasant. “All right, show them the Giacometti,” she said. “Go on, our guests want to see it.”

  The flush had risen on Comstock’s face. “Dolores … if you please,” he said quietly.

  “You know why you won’t see it?” the woman said. “Because he sold it. To a gallery in New York. It brought in a lot of money. So you see, until the last piece is sold, we live very comfortably.”

  She settled back in her chair, looking satisfied, as if she had gratified her desire to wound her husband. And she had certainly succeeded. By this time Constant Comstock was almost livid.

  Steve broke the ugly silence. “It costs a bundle to live these days. Who doesn’t feel the pinch?”

  Just the same, their host had lost some of his aplomb, That he was upset and angry, and embarrassed as well, was evident. “We still have a few minutes before the meal will be served,” he said, getting up. “I thought you might like to see the gardens.”

  They went through to the back of the house. There were delightful little salons on either side of a long, columned passageway and then there was a kind of enclosed atrium, with open windows on either side. The gardens sprang into view through the apertures and then they were outside, in a veritable paradise. Poplars and twisted cypresses and plane trees stood high, and the flowering bushes, crimson and pearly white and deep pink, with the glory of the ubiquitous purple, like the mantle of a Herod, abounded. It was cool now, with a soft, whispering breeze.

  “What a way to live,” Steve muttered to Kelly, as they walked the tiled paths.

  “I could get used to it in no time,” she murmured back.

  At the end of the driveway, to the far left of the gardens, was a large garage, vine-covered. The doors were open and there was a glimpse of two cars inside. One was the limousine that had been standing outside the previous evening. And as they stood there, with Comstock explaining that this beautiful bush was a Glorioso and in spite of its marvelous beauty was almost a weed, the chauffeur came out of the garage and closed the doors.

  Kelly’s mind flashed back to the snapshot which had been taken at Botin’s. Yes, it was the same man. Now she was certain. He stood while the doors telescoped together, turned, raised a finger in the direction of his employer and employer’s wife, and then strode past them, on the balls of his feet, disappearing round a bend in the path.

  But not before Kelly saw the narrowed eyes of her host. He was looking closely at his wife, whose perfect, chiselled face was calm and indifferent. The picture shifted into a more distinct focus. Why, he’s jealous, she thought. Watchful, suspecting …

  Her eyes met Steve’s, and she saw that he was thinking the same thing. Shades of Lady Chatterly’s Lover, Kelly mused, and turned discreetly away. A few minutes later she asked Richard if he would direct her to the bathroom and when they were inside the house he took her upstairs.

  “Can you find your way back down?” he asked. “Or shall I wait?”

  “I can find my way.”

  “Holler if you need me.”

  “Don’t worry.”

  She came out a few minutes later, took a wrong turning and, blundering into the adjunct to a suite of rooms, heard raised voices, was about to turn away when, reflected in a large pier glass inside the rooms off the hall, she saw the figures of her host and hostess.

  They were glaring at each other.

  “You’re a vulgar bitch,” Constant was saying.

  “You’re a pauper!”

  “You stupid slut. You never had it so good. I took you out of the gutter.”

  “Stop screaming at me. They’ll hear downstairs.”

  “I don’t care if all Madrid hears.”

  “How amusing! You, of all people! Your respectability means more to you than — ”

  “What respectability? I gave up a good woman and married a — ”

  “Don’t say it,” Dolores ground out. “If you say it I’ll kill you. I mean it. I’ll …”

  “Shut your mouth,” he flashed back, in a strangled voice. “All you really want is bed, you bird-brained bitch. Don’t think I don’t know what’s going on. That truckdriver, that animal …”

  He put a hand in her hair and dragged her head backwards. “Just let me catch you. Then we’ll see who kills whom.”

  A cry of pain was wrested from the woman’s lips. Wide-eyed, wanting only to get back downstairs, Kelly was nevertheless transf
ixed by the drama inside. And then, as another cry burst from Dolores, the man’s arms went around her. There was a protesting struggle.

  “I hate you …”

  “You don’t hate me,” he said.

  “I do!”

  “You don’t. But I wouldn’t care if you did. You’ll stick with me and you know it. Who else would put up with you? There are a million women better looking than you and I could have any one of them. I could have a woman with money. Don’t you think so? Instead of pouring out thousands of pesetas practically by the hour on a gutter woman. I taught you how to behave and how to dress and — ”

  There was a glimpse of the woman’s eyes in the glass. They were suddenly terrified. She was really afraid of losing Constant, Kelly thought. She was afraid to move for fear of being discovered a party to this lurid scene. If they should see her there …

  And then Dolores sagged. She stopped struggling and ground passionately up against her husband. The fight had left her. She was totally submissive now.

  The sound of Constant Comstock’s hard breathing was upsetting … and disgusting, somehow. As quietly as she could manage, Kelly tiptoed down the carpeted corridor and found the stairs.

  So that’s what it was. Love and hate and rivalry. God knew what went on in this bizarre household.

  Turn over a rock and all sorts of things crawled out.

  “Well, you were gone long enough,” Steve said. “What did you do, take a bath?”

  He must have seen her discomfiture and her attempt to hide it. He lit her cigarette and, in her ear, asked what was wrong. She shook her head in the direction of Richard, and he got the message.

  After a quarter of an hour or so Constant came in, apologizing for leaving them. “So sorry,” he said. “I had a business call.”

  He picked up Steve’s empty glass and refilled it, then insisted on pouring a little more into Kelly’s still half-filled glass, and opened another coke for Richard. “Where’s Dolores?” the boy asked. “Aren’t we going to eat soon?”

  “Dolores has a slight headache,” his uncle said, and turned to the others. “Men get ulcers, women headaches.” His smile was the usual charming one. “I’m sure she’ll join us in a second or two and yes, Richard, we are going to have dinner soon.”

  Shortly afterwards Dolores came, tidied up, and they went into the dining room. The meal was excellent, beautifully served. Kelly was urged to tell about her adventures in flight; she related an anecdote or two.

  “You must meet many interesting people,” Dolores said.

  Yes, she did, Kelly agreed. “For example, I met a very interesting young man on my last flight.”

  “Really?” Dolores leaned forward breathlessly.

  “Richard.”

  There was laughter.

  Richard laughed too, rather sheepishly. “I imagine I was kind of a pain in the neck for a while. But Kelly put up with me. And of course the Senor and Senora kind of took me off her hands.”

  “About whom are you talking?” Constant asked.

  Steve said, “A very nice Spanish couple who took Richie under their wing.”

  “I sat very still,” Richard said. “So that the Senora could wind the wool around my hands. She was knitting.”

  Long afterwards, Kelly remembered that it was Steve who said, “And then he broke her pearls.”

  “How come?” Constant asked, looking at his nephew.

  “I never did know,” Richard said, “but they broke, and then everyone was looking under their seats. It was okay, they were all found. And she was very nice about it.”

  “It turned out to be a cause celebre,” Steve said.

  “How was that?” Constant asked interestedly, and Steve looked at Kelly. “Ask her,” he said. “She was the one who had to straighten things out.”

  “What happened?” Comstock asked.

  “Oh, they called me,” she said. “The husband phoned my hotel, very distressed. What happened was that when the pearls broke the Senora stuffed them in the bottom of her knitting bag and asked Richard to carry it for her. Then apparently they were held up at Customs and your driver spirited Richard away, still with the knitting bag.”

  “You don’t say!”

  “I’m sure they didn’t expect anything like that. I have a feeling they were bringing in expensive goods and that they exploited Richard to get past Customs.”

  “Richard, you didn’t tell me any of this!”

  “I didn’t think it was pertinent, Uncle Constant.”

  “How is it you didn’t give back the bag?”

  “It was Jose. I told him, but he only laughed at me and made me get in the car.” Richard took a last bite of his entrecote and then neatly laid his knife and fork across the plate. “But anyway, I fixed it up. When I got here I was put to bed and then I called the hotels and found out where Kelly was staying. Then I went around there and gave her the bag.”

  His uncle looked stunned. “The devil you did!”

  “I had to,” Richard insisted.

  “It’s really all right,” Kelly said. “I had a taxi take him home here again.”

  “But this is fascinating,” Dolores said. “Tell me, Senorita, have you been, at some time, in a plane that was … how you call it?” She smiled helplessly and lifted her shoulders. “You know … where it should go to a place and then someone makes it go somewhere else?”

  “Hi-jacked?” Steve suggested.

  “Yes, yes.”

  “Not yet,” Kelly said.

  “It happens often, si? To Cuba?”

  “Do you mind?” their host said peremptorily. “I’m concerned with Richard’s foray into unfamiliar territory.” He eyed his nephew. “So you left your bed and went traipsing around through the city,” he said testily. “I don’t know what to think about that, Richard.”

  “I had to get the bag back,” Richard said stubbornly.

  “He’s here safe, can’t you see?” Dolores said, gesturing. “So in the end everything came out all right.”

  “Not quite,” Steve said, and Kelly was quite displeased with him. It would have been better to leave it where it had ended.

  “What do you mean by that?” Comstock asked.

  “Ask Kelly,” Steve said.

  Comstock shifted his attention. “What does he mean?”

  “Oh, just that I had another call. Senor Nascimento thanked me for the return of the bag, but he claimed that the pearls weren’t in it.”

  “And?” Dolores asked, her eyes bright and curious.

  “I said I was sorry, but that I didn’t know anything about it. I never looked inside the bag. There were more pressing matters.”

  “She had a date with me,” Steve said.

  Dolores clapped her hands. “Adventure!” she cried. “What fun you have, Senorita Kelly. My life is so dull. I should do something like that. Yes, Constant?”

  “Um hum. We must talk about it some more. But right now I know someone whose bedtime it is.”

  “Not yet,” Richard pleaded.

  “It’s way past time.” Constant tinkled a little bell and the pretty little girl came in. “Joia, please,” he said, and a few minutes later the deformed woman came into the room.

  “Say good-night,” Richard’s uncle said.

  The boy stood up reluctantly.

  “Good night, everyone.”

  “Kiss your aunt.”

  Richard went dutifully over and put his mouth against Dolores’ cheek. Then he shook his uncle’s hand and, passing Kelly and Steve, said gruffly, “Thanks for everything.”

  “See you subsequently, all right?” Steve said.

  “I hope so.”

  And then Joia took him up to bed.

  • • •

  It was later, in the library, that a few things became clear. Steve and Dolores were deep in a conversation of their own; Kelly thought, she’s a born man-eater. Please, God, don’t let her swallow Steve whole.

  “I want to show you a rare edition of GIL BLAS,”
Constant said, guiding her into the book-lined library. “Elzevier … I picked them up in Paris. That is, three of the volumes. I had to hunt six years for the fourth.”

  He pulled out four tiny, leather-bound books, scarcely larger than the miniature address book she carried in her purse. “I found the final volume in Vienna,” he said. “Of course I advertised, and at last my efforts bore fruit.” He laughed. “I paid three times as much for the fourth book as I paid for the other three combined. Five thousand schillings. The law of supply and demand, of course. But it gave me this complete set, and some day it will be worth its weight in gold.” He stroked the tiny books. “Aren’t they pretty,” he murmured, as if he were talking about a woman.

  “Very pretty.”

  “I love things,” he said. “Beautiful things. It’s a curse, possibly. I can’t help myself.”

  There was a brief silence and then he put the books aside. “Well,” he said, “you’ve been very good to my nephew. You and your friend.”

  “It was easy. He’s a nice child. We both like him a great deal.”

  “So do I. He’s a very lost little boy.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “I know so. And I’m not at all happy about his future.”

  She didn’t know what to say, so she murmured, “I understand your brother is in Afghanistan.”

  “In …” He stared at her. “My brother?”

  She looked up quickly. “Oh, did I misunderstand? I naturally assumed that you were Richard’s father’s brother.”

  “I am.”

  “Then — ”

  “But my brother, Richard’s father, died over a year ago.”

  It was like a punch in the stomach. Richard’s father died a year ago? Mr. Comstock saw her consternation and sat her down. “Tell me,” he said, kind and steady and reassuring. “Just tell me what this is all about.”

  She told him. “Richard said his father was off somewhere … in Afghanistan and that he was a financier.”

  “He was a financier,” Comstock said. “When he was alive. But he died about fourteen months ago, of a coronary. Lawrence was four years older than I, and I’m fifty-nine. His wife — ”

  His face hardened. “His wife is barely thirty. And a reprehensible, worthless person.”