“What’s your favorite mural, Clover?” I asked, feeling that the two of them were never going to reach the end of this conversation unless I interrupted it. Clover sighed.
“When I was younger,” she began, “when I was younger … I think I liked Love Letters too, Franny, like you. I never cared for The Lover Crowned. I think the red in those roses is, I don’t know, violent somehow. I have always had this thing against brassy reds. In any event. Now the Fragonard painting I like best isn’t in this room, it’s in the Music Room. Let’s go look at it.”
What Clover liked best were three slender decorative panels of hollyhocks. I always thought of hollyhocks as being that wonderful shade of purple-blue but these ones were white and wintry. They made me sad. But knowing what I knew of Clover’s life, and how devoted she was to protecting her solitude, I could see why she was drawn to them.
“Boring,” said Valentine, who had not forgotten Clover insulting the color red in The Lover Crowned.
“You do have to be older to appreciate these,” said Clover. “You have to be older and you have to have lost things.”
“I’ve lost things,” said Valentine, hands on hips. “I’ve suffered. I’m suffering right now.”
“Oh, I meant,” said Clover with a little laugh, “you have to have lost things again, and again, and again.”
Was she thinking of her love affair with Digby, I wondered, or were there other men she was thinking about too? Also—and this question was very important—when I got to be Clover’s age, would I be the keeper of so many secrets myself?
After this we went and sat by the fountain in the middle of the courtyard. Clover said that this was one of her favorite places in the whole city, and I could see why. I loved the delicate sculptures of swans and marine nymphs, which reminded me of Clover’s own sculptures and her “old-fashioned sensibility.” But most of all, I loved the gentle sound of the running water. We cooled ourselves by sitting there before going out again into the hot city. A question occurred to me, sitting there:
“What is Aunt Theo’s favorite mural, do you suppose?”
Clover laughed, and said, “Oh, that’s easy.”
“Well, which one?”
“The second mural, The Pursuit. Before you get to Love Letters.”
“Oh? Why do you think that?”
“Because, silly,” Clover said, “Aunt Theo is all about handsome strangers and secret admirers. Intrigue; desire; mischief.”
18
Thunder!
Clover wanted to take Valentine and me out to dinner at this old French restaurant in the East Fifties called La Grenouille. But as the afternoon wore on, none of us felt like it. It was so hot out; we were in the middle of a heat wave. Clover said that most people who had the money to get out of the city in August did, but that she kind of liked it at this time of year.
“You do?” said Valentine, yawning. Now that things hadn’t worked out with Julian, she was ready to get back to San Francisco, and school, and especially her friends.
“Well, for one thing, all the summer places are way too crowded right now. I’m contrarian that way. I like to go to the seashore after Labor Day. I like the beach in winter.”
“Are we really supposed to go out for a big dinner later on?” Valentine went on, sounding a little ungrateful, I thought. But I had to admit that she had a point: Who wanted to go to a French restaurant in the middle of a heat wave and have to eat all of those fatty things in thick creamy sauces? And I love French food, just not tonight!
Clover, as if reading my mind, said, “Well, we could cancel our reservation, I guess. Come to think of it, La Grenouille is really more of a winter restaurant. I’ll take you there sometime, though, sometime when you come back to New York.”
“But what are we going to do?” wailed Valentine. “What are we going to do if we don’t go out to dinner?”
“How about the Oyster Bar? Oysters can be so cooling,” added Clover.
“Oh, you and Val go. She’s never been there before and I have. And anyway—”
“What is it, Franny?”
“I think I’d like to spend tonight alone.”
Somehow it seemed to me that this was the best way to truly experience New York: alone. Clover understood immediately what I was talking about, exclaiming, “Of course, Franny! Do whatever you like. Just promise me you won’t get into any trouble! And call me right away if you need anything.” Ever since the night I’d taken the cab ride by myself all the way from West Harlem, Clover had been acting more protective in her duties as “chaperone.”
“You wouldn’t let me go out and do whatever I like,” Valentine sulked.
“Because you would get into trouble and Franny wouldn’t. That’s the difference.”
I love Clover, but to tell you the truth, her saying that hurt my feelings just a little bit. Nobody wants to be told that they’re not even capable of getting into trouble! Maybe that’s why, later on that evening, when Clover and Valentine set off all dressed up for the Oyster Bar, I left the apartment at the same time but didn’t tell them where I was going. I had on my white sharkskin dress and sunglasses. Valentine pointed to the sunglasses and said, “But, Franny, it’s about to get dark out!”
“Not for a while yet,” said Clover soothingly.
But Valentine was right: the days were definitely getting shorter now. It was that time of the year.
I’d decided to go and check out this thing called the High Line, which I’d only ever heard of because Julian took Valentine there on one of their first dates and because it was supposed to be very romantic. I could even walk there easily from Aunt Theo’s apartment, if I just kept on going west. Was it going to rain? I wondered, looking at the sky. Then I figured oh well, I wouldn’t mind if it did. The air was still so hot outside, it just might be a relief.
The High Line is this park that runs above the Lower West Side of the city. Before they got the idea to put up the High Line, it used to be just part of this elevated railroad that nobody used anymore, and now it’s all fancy. Even Clover, who usually dislikes new things, admitted that she likes what they’ve done with the High Line.
I could see why: it’s so nice to see green things growing in the city! I really appreciate nature more in New York than I do in San Francisco, where there’s a lot more of it. The colors in San Francisco are pale—California colors—so when you come across something green, it doesn’t stand out. But in New York, the colors are darker, and the green stands out so much when you see it. And not just green! I stopped to take in the garden plots. There were soft flowering quinces, and asters, and small star-shaped purple flowers I didn’t know the name of, and all these different exotic kinds of grasses, bluish green and rusty pink, making me think, somehow, of the kinds of colors you see in an aquarium. It was all very magical!
I got so carried away looking at the flowers and the grasses that I almost forgot to check out the view. But that was silly, because of course the whole point of the High Line is that it’s above ground and that you can look down on the city streets while you’re up there. I was staring down into the streets of Chelsea, trying to pick out a couple of tiny figures to stare at and make up stories about, which is something I love to do with strangers, when all of a sudden—thunder!
For a split second, as the first drops started to crash down, I thought of how Clover and Valentine would be so cozy and safe indoors at the Oyster Bar and I almost wished I was with them. But no. I had wanted an evening of adventure. An adventure I would have on my own.
There are different kinds of rain, though. This was the kind of rain that actually hurt, it was coming down so hard. And wouldn’t you know it, I just had to go and have on a white dress tonight. I looked down at it. It was all spotted and practically see-through! Time to go home. I started running in the direction of the exit, or so I thought, when a stranger approached me, saying, “Here, here, come underneath.” Then he gestured to his umbrella.
“Oh no, I couldn’t poss—”
I began. I thought of how Valentine and I had been raised not to speak to strangers. But this young man looked perfectly presentable.
“You’re soaked,” the stranger said. He sounded gentle and, besides, I was relieved to see that he was young—about Valentine’s age, I thought. Maybe seventeen or eighteen, tops. I don’t know that he was wildly handsome or anything but there was something sympathetic about his face. He was tall, with sandy blond hair, and was wearing beige corduroys and brown lace-up shoes, even in the summer; I’ve noticed that this is a very East Coast look for men. And I wondered, vaguely, if he went to a prep school.
Was he blushing? Just a little? Why—maybe he was shy. Boys sometimes were, I’d noticed. The nice ones, anyway.
“I’m Franny,” I said, putting out my hand. “Franny Lord.”
“Alexander,” he said.
“Alexander what?”
I became aware, as I was saying this, that I was tilting my head to the side and there was this kind of lilt in my voice. Oh, no, I thought. I’m turning into Valentine! I’m flirting.
“Alexander Austin.”
“Hello, Alexander Austin,” I said, and laughed. Just because. “Do you live around here?”
“Oh, no, just visiting. I’m from Boston actually.”
“Boston!” I was thinking of Clover and Aunt Theo.
“You’ve been there?”
“No actually,” I admitted. “I’m not from New York either. I’m from San Francisco. My sister, Valentine, and I have been spending the summer here. But Clover—she’s our chaperone—she’s from Boston…”
“Your chaperone?”
“Oh yes. Aunt Theodora insisted we had to have one while we were here.”
“Aunt Theodora?” And now he was the one laughing at me. But not unkindly. Just enough so that I knew that he had a sense of humor, which is very, very important. “What does a chaperone do, anyway?”
“I guess it might sound kind of silly, but she’s teaching us how to be young ladies. Now we wear dresses all the time. We didn’t used to, back in San Francisco. Aunt Theo wants us to learn how to live Life with a capital L.”
“Oh, I get it now. This is supposed to be your sentimental education,” he said.
“What?”
“Flaubert.”
“Oh, right. We haven’t read him yet. Valentine and I go to French school,” I added.
“Ah! French. Would you believe it? I study Greek and Latin.”
“In Boston?”
“Uh-huh. My parents are professors. We always come to New York to see exhibits. We came this weekend to go see this one at the Frick on the Turkish influence in—”
“I was just at the Frick!” I said. “We sat for hours by the fountain.”
“Didn’t you look at any of the artwork?”
“Well, some.”
“Didn’t you get to look at any of the porcelains and bronzes, at least?”
I paused. Was now the time to tell him that really I preferred paintings? Would I have been so self-conscious if I’d been talking to another girl? Probably not.
“We spent a long time in the Fragonard Room,” I said. “That’s Clover’s favorite.”
By now the weather had started to clear. It was still raining but only very lightly, and as if reading my mind, Alexander closed the umbrella. I saw drops of water fall. They were this delicate lilac color.
“Shall we?” he said.
I thought of hesitating but decided against it. With a stranger, you don’t have to act shy; you can act like anybody you want to be. That’s what I was trying to do right now, when I said simply: “Yes.”
And then he led me toward the water—the Hudson. New York City seen from this view was timeless; I thought of movie openings and postcards. There was a big white ship in the distance.
“That’s the Queen Mary 2,” said Alexander, sounding knowledgeable and all of a sudden much older than a teenage boy. “The original Queen Mary is retired. She’s moored somewhere in Long Beach, with nowhere to go.”
“How do you know that?” I asked.
“I know a lot about ships. I even build ship models.” And now he was blushing again, but there was this kind of defiance mixed in with the blushing, as if actually he was dying for me to be impressed.
“Oh, how—” I began.
“I always wanted to be a naval architect,” he said. “But the thing is, the age of the really beautiful ships is past. They don’t build them like that anymore. So now I think I’ll probably be a regular architect.”
“My mother’s an architect!” I exclaimed, and had this pleasant feeling of the two of us having things in common.
“What kind of buildings does she do?”
“Oh, wineries and stuff. We live in San Francisco, so—”
Alexander was looking at me with this deep focus, almost as if he were playing an instrument, and I thought all of a sudden of Julian being a cellist. I thought: This is what Valentine must have felt when she was with him. All of this exciting attention. I forgot where we were in the conversation. I was still thinking about lilac-colored raindrops.
Then suddenly I was conscious that the heat wave had lifted. The city was cooling. The flowers along the High Line were blown open and damp. I could still see that big white ship, swaying in the distance.
Alexander Austin, I thought to myself, stealing a glance at him from underneath my lashes. Why couldn’t I see him again, anyway? After all, I had the perfect invitation in mind …
“How long are you in town?” I asked him. “Do you want to come to this party I’m having on August 14?”
19
An Omelet and a Bottle of Champagne
I decided against telling Valentine or even Clover about meeting Alexander on the the High Line. For one thing, I liked having a secret. For another, I figured that they would get to meet him at Aunt Theo’s party, and when they did, wouldn’t they be surprised!
But I thought that Aunt Theo would like to know. (When you have a crush, you do want to confide in somebody! Otherwise it doesn’t feel quite real somehow.) So I went back to that Italian stationery store on Lexington and chose a card with delphiniums on it because I was feeling all romantic and because delphiniums are some of the prettiest flowers. And I wrote her:
Dear Aunt Theodora,
I just thought you’d want to know. It happened: I found an admirer who interests me. You can look forward to meeting him at the party, as I look forward to finally meeting you. He will be my mystery guest.
Safe travels and see you soon——
XXX
Frances
* * *
As things turned out, there wasn’t as much to do as I had thought there would be to get ready for the party. Back at home, whenever Mom and Dad throw a party, they always get all nervous, cleaning the house and making lots of new recipes to impress their friends. But Clover said that what Aunt Theo liked best was for the feel of a party to be spontaneous.
“What does Aunt Theo serve at her parties?” I asked Clover.
“Deviled eggs.”
“Deviled eggs and what else?” Valentine wanted to know.
“Just deviled eggs. Or, if she doesn’t make deviled eggs, then maybe she’ll make an omelet.”
“What do you mean, an omelet?” repeated Valentine. “You mean to say that she makes one omelet, for a whole bunch of people?”
Clover nodded.
“But that’s ridiculous. That’s insane. I would starve!”
Val and I do like to eat. Whenever we’re at a party with our parents, we go straight for the cheese platter: it’s true.
“An omelet and a bottle of champagne, Theo used to say…” said Clover dreamily.
“I know!” I said, remembering that it was still the month of August and probably going to be very hot on the night of the party. “Let’s have picnic foods. Like, not deviled eggs, they’re too sloppy! Let’s have hard-boiled eggs and those yummy pale green olives and cold chicken—chicken is so delicious when it�
��s cold, cold, cold—and tomatoes and salt and…”
“Sea salt,” said Valentine, opinionated.
“Sure, sea salt. And fruit. Fruit for dessert!”
“Figs,” said Clover. “Figs would be just the thing in August.”
“I don’t like that,” said Val. “Not that I have anything against figs, but. It does seem to me that if you want a party to be festive, you have to have cake.”
“Wise words, Valentine,” admitted Clover. “Franny, dear, I think your sister’s quite right. If you want a party to be festive, you have to have cake. Even if Aunt Theo will not be likely to eat it herself.”
“We will!” Val and I said together, and laughed. Cake is like cheese and crackers. We simply can’t resist it.
Leave it to Clover to know the place to go for cake. She knows the place to go for everything. And when the day of the party finally came she sent us uptown to a bakery on Madison Avenue called Lady M. It was very fancy and also it was Japanese. There were these Japanese ladies behind the counter. Val and I oohed and aahed, and got to taste different samples. There was this green tea crepe cake, which I thought was just heaven—the most exquisite soft pale green: like eating poetry—but Val said, no, we have to get chocolate. I did have to admit she had a point about that. So we ended up choosing this type of cake they called “Checkers,” which was black and white and really great-looking. Classic-looking, I thought, just the thing for Aunt Theo. Still, who could resist vanilla and chocolate sponge cake with fresh whipped cream? Not us! Oh, I hoped that Aunt Theo would like it, even though—to tell you the truth—I couldn’t really picture her eating pastry. Pastry is for mere human beings, and she still seemed to me from everything I had heard about her to be something apart or above.
20
Palazzo
“Who’s coming to this party anyway?” Val wanted to know. We were on the secret roof-deck, secret no more, and the three of us were busy arranging flowers. Anemones in particular—Clover had bought bunches and bunches of them, saying that they were her favorite. Anemones are purple and red and white and look kind of like sea creatures. Not as pretty as roses, say, but interesting. Kind of like Aunt Theo herself.
The Summer Invitation Page 12