“You remind me of the Queen’s husband,” I said, and my voice sounded odd to me.
Caroline threw me a triumphant look. “You’re very observant,” she said. “I might have known you’d see the resemblance.”
“I was wondering if Anthony had Greek blood too.”
“Yes,” he said. “My mother. She’s dead now, but she was very lovely.”
“I’m sure she must have been.”
“Still, Father’s not bad-looking,” he said. “Though he’s a bit under the weather these days from drink.”
He saw my discomfiture. “Oh, it happens in the best of families,” he said, smiling, and Emily gave Caroline a long, hard look.
“As I’ve found,” she said tersely, and Caroline laughed, throwing back her head.
“She thinks I’m a drunk,” she cried. “But then I suppose I am! What else is left but booze and memories?”
“And friends,” Anthony said, reaching for her hand. “And friends,” Caroline agreed, letting her hand lie in his. “A few still remain; thank God for it.”
We took our leave an hour or so later. “See you again,” Anthony Cavendish said, rising, and Caroline waved to us as we stood in the doorway.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” she called. “It gives me such a secure feeling.”
Emily passed, not even glancing up.
“What did you think of him?” I asked Eric as we walked down the flagstoned path.
“The noble peer? A little competition there, I’m afraid.”
“Never.”
“Hypocrite. You couldn’t tear your eyes away from him.”
“Purely aesthetic.”
“Sez you.”
I put my arms around him. “I’m so glad we’re by ourselves again. Nothing means anything without you.”
“A propos of what? I haven’t threatened to cast you aside.”
“I just wanted to say it.”
“Glad you did. I wonder where they all are?” He looked about.
“The Maidstone, I suppose. I don’t know. Having lunch. I don’t know. I don’t care.”
And then, as if on cue, someone came out of the house nearest my cottage. A girl … a woman, rather. She was slim and trim and dressed very understatedly in a little daytime dress, for wear in the country, or in the city for lunch at, say, La Caravelle. Her hair was shining and clean and natural-looking. Her face was fresh and scrubbed to a shine and there was appealing color in her petite face. She had candid hazel eyes and a faint, very faint aura of something plain and inoffensive, like Bond Street or Yardley’s.
She had probably gone to Chapin, and then Foxcroft, and had a carefully unpretentious debut somewhere in between. This was no Bobo Lestrange. This was a fortyish woman who looked twenty-odd, except for the fine lines at the corners of the eyes. She was snub-nosed and strong-chinned. She probably traveled, too, with her own Porthault sheets, and was an honored guest at all the Ritz hotels on the Continent.
She held out a friendly hand and said hello. “Hello there,” she said. “I’m Kathy Lestrange, and you must be Miss Stewart.”
I said I was, and introduced Eric, at which she appeared with it and understanding, nodding to him vigorously and letting him have her hand too.
“You’re enjoying yourselves, I hope,” she went on, a constant, cheerful — even merry — smile on her girlish face. “We like being here in the summer, and don’t go anywhere else until September. My husband and I feel we need this rest.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “It’s wonderfully peaceful.”
“Oh,” she said, striking her forehead. “But I mustn’t forget! Tomorrow, which is the Fourth, we always have fireworks in the evening. It used to be for the kids, but the kids are adults now, except for Garry’s boy. Anyway, we still gather together on the lawn at around nine or so, when it’s gotten dark. Won’t you join us? Something to eat, and drinks. You will be part of it?”
“We haven’t made any particular plans …”
She put a friendly, girlish hand lightly on my arm. “It should be rather fun for you,” she said. “My cousin Peter’s got a houseful of guests, around your age, and … well, we’ll make our own excitement. All right?”
“By all means,” Eric said. “Thanks much. We’ll be there.”
“Oh, I am glad,” she said, and walked briskly in her little Ferragamo pumps to a buff-colored Mercedes; she got in, waved amiably, and purred away down the drive.
“Do you really want to go?” I asked Eric.
“I don’t see how we can avoid it. If we’re home they’ll know. They’ll see the lights. Unless we do something else that keeps us out until midnight or after. Let’s play it by ear. We agreed not to make any far-ranging plans on these week ends. Let’s just keep on doing whatever the spirit moves us to do.”
“You accepted.”
“Honey, it was a casual invitation and a casual acceptance.”
Yet perversely, lying on the beach later, he turned to me.
“Things are working out a little bit differently from what we expected, wouldn’t you say?”
“In what way?”
“I don’t know. We got off on the wrong foot, that’s the thing. Becoming friendly with Caroline and all.”
“But if it weren’t for Caroline we wouldn’t be here.”
“We’d be somewhere else.”
“Not so easy. It’s more difficult than ever to rent a summer place. Fewer people are traveling abroad. Summer rents have skyrocketed this year. Cal Morrison nearly fainted when I told him what I was paying. Do you realize people are paying for a week what I’m paying for the season? And most of them can’t get anything.”
“Okay,” he said peaceably. “Let’s get ourselves wet again and then go back and change to go somewhere.”
“Race you to the water.”
After our swim we climbed back up the hill, showered, and toweled ourselves dry. “Where do you want to go?” I asked Eric.
“Montauk, I thought. I haven’t been there for some time. I love that ghostly lighthouse. I love all lighthouses. Montauk’s so nice and wild. Fairly unspoiled even today. Get into something wild, darling.”
“I’ll only be a minute,” I said. “A sarong will do? It will have to, as my breechcloth needs laundering.”
The Fourth of July dawned bright and clear.
I turned over and nudged Eric, who stirred sluggishly and started to burrow deeper into his pillow. “No, you don’t,” I said. “It’s the Fourth of July and it’s beautiful out, so get up.”
“Pretty soon,” he mumbled.
I left him coming out of his morning stupor and made my way toward breakfast. Through the kitchen window I caught sight of Tom wandering thoughtfully not far from my cottage.
“How about some breakfast?” I called.
He turned around and his eyes lit up. “Sure,” he said.
“Okay, come on.”
When Eric, his hair wet from a shower, drifted into the kitchen in his terry robe, Tom was setting the table. “This is Tom Lestrange,” I told him. “A good, new friend of mine, and Tom, this is Eric Sloane, whom I told you about.”
“Greetings,” Eric said, sliding into a seat. “Are you planning to steal my girl?”
The boy flushed, and then grinned. “I’ve been thinking about it,” he said, quick as a flash, and Eric grinned back.
“My seconds and I will meet you at dawn. Pistols or sabers, old man?”
“I’m a pretty good shot, so I guess pistols,” Tom said; there was some more sparring between them while I finished making the griddle cakes. The three of us ate and talked companionably. The boy and the man hit it off very well together. As a matter of fact, most of it was man talk, and I wondered just how much time Garrison Lestrange gave to this young son of his.
He was really unusually responsive to Eric. He had to know where Eric worked, what he did, and when he heard that Eric was an editor he confided, a little shyly, that he had certain writing aspirations.
“Or even a reporter,” he said earnestly. “Anyway, something to do with words and sentences. I’m a dud at math, but I shine in English. I always get A’s on my essays.”
“Any time you get a novel under your belt, come to me,” Eric told him. “I give you my word that no second string editor will play around with it. I’ll be happy to give it my personal attention.”
“Maybe in about ten years,” Tom said. “If you still remember me ten years from now.”
“I have a hunch I will. And that some day you’ll get down, very seriously, to a book of some kind. Of course in ten years or so I’ll be a hundred years old, but I may still have my faculties.”
“Gee, you’re young,” the boy said. “My father’s old.” Then he flushed, and his blue eyes became anxious. “He’s not old, I didn’t mean that, I just meant you’re young.”
“Tom’s father’s Garrison Lestrange,” I said. “I’ve met him. He’s a fine man, and very handsome.”
“And so’s his son.”
“Ugh … I’m just a callow kid,” Tom said, looking uncomfortable.
“You’re okay, you’re damned jolly well okay,” Eric said, and passed Tom the sausages. “Eat up, old man, put some meat on those bones.”
“Gee, I don’t like to be a pig.”
“Come on, eat up, that’s a good boy.” He watched Tom sliding the sausage onto his plate and said, “We’ll be going for a swim shortly. How about joining us?”
“Gee. That would be great. Except I don’t want to horn in.”
“You won’t be horning in. Just get your trunks.”
“Yeah, sure. Thanks. Thanks a lot. ”
“That was nice of you,” I told Eric, when Tom dashed off to change.
“He’s a nice kid. Why not?”
I bent and kissed him. “You’re a nice guy, you know that?” We spent the whole morning in the water and on the sand. I mostly listened: there was an old male solidarity between them. God knew I wasn’t interested in Isaac Azimov or science fiction or Star Trek, but Tom was, and Eric had been a boy once. He knew how to talk to boys. I wondered if he ever talked to Kenny like that, and didn’t know.
After a while my thoughts wandered, and I was conscious mainly of the lovely day and the sun on my face, the feeling of peace that pervaded me. And if another face intruded … a fine, British-Greek face framed by golden hair, that was only natural too. People swam into your consciousness, meaning little or nothing often; they’d just left a mark on you.
It really didn’t mean much, I told myself, that I was thinking of Caroline’s Viscount. That’s an attractive man, I often thought, as I walked along the street, and I might remember that stranger’s face at some odd moment, on a coffee break, or in the shower. I’m sure it was the same for Eric, that a pretty face and a shapely body turned him on as he was buying a newspaper, say. Life was like that. Life included seeing a lot of people you didn’t know and would never know, but who vaguely attracted you.
I said, murmured, apparently aloud, “Stop it, Jan.”
Eric, raising his head, said, “What’s that?”
“Nothing,” I said. “I was talking to myself in my sleep.”
“Watch that,” he said. “It could be Bellevue next.”
He turned over and started talking with Tom again.
6.
The Fourth of July celebration given by the Lestranges was superlative fun. I couldn’t have asked for a better way to celebrate the holiday.
It got going along about nine or shortly after, and as Eric and I dressed for a festive evening, we could hear sounds of merriment from outside. When we left the cottage we saw some thirty or so people shlepping around, and the visual effects were impressively gala.
There was a great trestle table set up in the middle of the enormous center lawn, with a sprinkling of small tables on which stood the ubiquitous summer mosquito lamps, in green, pink, salmon, violet. Girdling all this were tonga torches that sent out radiant flares of light, somehow looking decadently sacrificial, almost pagan.
On the large table a beautiful buffet was laid out on a salmon-pink damask cloth, and the flatware was silver, though there were paper plates and plastic glasses. The groaning board was literally groaning … I saw a whole ham, a whole turkey, all kinds of salads. I was glad we had gone light on supper.
Liquor was flowing freely: everyone had a filled glass, and the tinkle of ice cubes vied with the hubbub of voices and laughter.
I saw Caroline at once. You couldn’t miss her; she was seated in a high-backed chair, obviously from her own house, looking regal and typically grande dame. The spread was clearly from a local caterer’s, and they had presumably furnished the small tables and folding chairs that everyone else was using.
She saw us and beckoned us over.
“Here you are,” she said gaily. “I was afraid you weren’t going to show up.”
“Oh, we’re not late, are we?”
“There’s nothing to be late for. It’s a casual affair. It’s just that I’ve been waiting for you.”
“Everything looks lovely,” I said.
“It is pretty, isn’t it? You, Eric, get this girl something to drink, there’s a good chap. Now pull over that chair and sit with me, Jennie.”
I did that, and she gave me an approving glance. “You look wonderful,” she said. “All tanned and sleek. Your eyes are like stars.”
“I second the motion,” a voice said; Anthony Cavendish had made his way to us. I thought, if anyone looked wonderful, he did, with his long, lean legs in navy twill pants and a bloused shirt, bright white in the night, billowing around the upper part of him. It was open to the chest bone, showing his smooth, tanned skin to advantage, and he wore the Greek eye on a gold chain around his neck.
I told him he was Rodolfo in La Bohème.
“Will you be my Mimi?” he asked, and picked up one of my hands. “Ah, che gelida manina …”
Then he sank down gracefully on the grass at our feet, leaning against Caroline’s legs. She stroked his hair rather abstractedly, and told me my young man was trying to get my attention.
Eric stood at the bar cart, holding up a bottle of Canadian Club inquiringly.
I nodded, and watched him drop some ice cubes into a glass. A very pretty girl, a little high, put a hand through his arm. “I saw you yesterday,” she said, and in the clear night air her voice carried. “Why aren’t you at Peter’s houseparty? I’m inviting you. There’s an extra room right off mine. What am I bid?”
I heard Eric say, “Sounds great, but I don’t think my mother will let me.”
“Where is she?” the girl demanded, and Eric, damn his eyes, gestured over toward me.
There was a giggle. “Your mother,” she said, “seems to be rather well occupied with that nice looking gent. And so I repeat my — ”
“You’re a darling,” Eric said. “Meet me in the Orangerie at midnight. Don’t forget, now, and not a word to my dear old Mum.”
She wasn’t quite up to this; I could see her struggling to come up with a snappy rejoinder, but someone cut between them at this point and Eric was able to bring me my drink. Young Tom and his mother spotted me, and Bobo waved, while Tom rushed over and said, “Hi, what do you think of this, isn’t it something else?”
Kathy, who seemed to be in charge of everything, was evidently too occupied with organizing the waiters to take much notice of us. She was apparently the majoress domo of the evening.
The five of us, Caroline, Anthony, Eric, Tom and I were a kind of island in the midst of it all. I didn’t feel I could make any attempt to mingle, because Caroline acted as if I were a kind of extension of herself, with her hand often firmly on my arm. I felt a bit like a lady in waiting.
I felt, almost, in fact, as if I were in an iron grip, and began to notice, with some embarrassment, that she was addressing herself almost entirely to me, as though the others weren’t there. Or were there only for her pleasure and mine. She was calling me, not Jennie, but “my dear,” an
d, “yes, pet,” even “my darling.”
“You do dress so charmingly,” she said. “I love long dresses, they’re so graceful. Though you shouldn’t hide those superlative legs; it’s almost a sin. Where did you buy that marvelous dress?”
“A place I like, the Greek Islands. It is Greek. I’m glad you like it.”
“You look a dream.”
“You look lovely, Caroline.”
“Oh, nonsense. This is an ancient rag, a Dior. Nobody wears Dior any more. It’s just a thing. I’ve lost all vanity, and about time, I daresay.”
“Oh, Caroline …”
She looked at me fondly. “It’s your turn now, bewitching girl. I’ve had my day, now it’s yours. But my darling, your glass is empty! Someone, get this poor dear a drink.”
“I will,” Tom said eagerly.
“And a big mess you’d make of it, silly child. Anthony, do the honors.”
“Charmed,” he said.
“Have I lost my priority?” Eric asked lazily.
“But dear boy, you neglect her.”
“Caroline, don’t tease him.”
“Well, he must learn to value. Are you comfortable in that chair, Jennie? Shall I have one brought from the house?”
“I’m fine. Please. I’m just fine. And having a lovely time.”
With the second drink I felt less strange. There was a slight breeze, and it warmed me, and then there was someone else with us; a rather stocky but nice-looking guy had came over. He leaned down and gave Caroline a peck on the cheek. “Hello, Auntie,” he said. “You’re the belle of the ball, as usual.”
“Oh, Peter, hello,” she said. “You know, your guests are, as always, totally uninteresting. Where do you pick them up, in saloons? Jennie, this is my grandnephew Peter Lestrange. Jennie Stewart. You know Tony. This is Eric. Dear boy, please furnish your last name, I can’t, simply can’t ever remember …”
“Eric Sloane. Hello.”
“Everyone having a good time? Hi, Tom. You’re getting bigger.”
Classic Love: 7 Vintage Romances Page 105