by Cat Gardiner
She chuckled sardonically. “Yes, we couldn’t have arranged for better weather. Of course, mother probably found a way to pay Mother Nature for her cooperation, but the American Red Cross will be happy since I persuaded her to make this a fundraiser of sorts. Once I convinced Mother that all the women of Glen Cove and the yacht club are involved in the war effort, she suddenly had to do her bit.” Lillian sniggered, enjoying every opportunity to mock her parents, their lifestyle, their opinions, and their gross affluence.
“The A.R.C. does so much for the Armed Forces. I’m glad Louie and I are here to represent two branches of service. Maybe there is someone here from the Navy?”
“Nope, just you two and boy am I happy you are. All I can say is … keep your sense of humor. You may need it.”
Again, the brothers looked to one another, curious by that comment.
“Follow me. We Renners have quite a day planned. The Robertsen family from the estate next door has called for a swim match and Father is keen on beating them this year. He’s so competitive—actually all us Renners are competitive, but he’s rapacious.”
“Robertsen? As in Robertsen Aviation?” Louie asked.
“Yes, that Robertsen family. Our childhood friends Greta and Susanna, as well as Susanna’s husband, will be swimming against my father and sisters, Ingrid and Lizzy. The Princesses Luxembourg are here as well, but they won’t be joining in the match. It’s reserved for the ongoing battle between our families: railroad vs. aviation. G-d help us all.” Lillian rolled her eyes dramatically.
Will raised his eyebrows when his brother looked his way, exchanging that silent communication they did so well. They both felt out of their league even though they grew up within what most people considered the “nouveau riche,” but this world—this level of affluence—was wholly unfamiliar to them. This class of gentry was their father’s clientele. F. Scott Fitzgerald clearly understood the denizens of this upper crust of society that he wrote about in The Great Gatsby.
Unlike the affluence within the Renner circle, the Martel money was never flaunted and never spent frivolously. Moreover, it was earned and accumulated as the result of their parents’ and aunt’s hard work. They lived unassuming lives in Park Slope, Brooklyn, an area also referred to by Brooklynites as the Gold Coast. It was there that the Martels had survived the depression because the european interests of their family’s business had flourished. Now with the outbreak of war—it was the reverse. Business was booming in America. Everyone was back to work with money to burn for luxuries not placed on the ration.
With each step down the grassy knoll, Will felt more and more out of place. Discomforted when he noticed a frown on the countenance of one particular man, insecurity caused him to straighten his uniform’s tie but then he figured it was the mud on his trousers causing the disapproval. Lillian continued to chat incessantly, clearly excited by Louie’s arrival. She certainly was a talker and made no bones about conveying her patriotism and commitment to the war effort.
That torturing laugh of the hotrod hellion woman grew louder, assaulting Will like a tease. He had to admit it was enchanting and would have been quite infectious if he didn’t feel the need to chew her out for running him off the road. He fought the curiosity to look in her direction, afraid of exhibiting uncouth manners by shooting daggers into her with the severe mien upon his face.
“Lizzy, Ingrid! Come meet the Marine I told you about,” Lillian shouted across the lawn with a wave of her arm.
“Ingrid is the blonde on the left and Lizzy is the brunette. My other sisters are beside Nurse Keller. Kitty is the one in the wheelchair and the khaki wacky one is Gloria.”
Will spared a quick glance at the two other sisters, but his attention fixed upon the woman in green when she dropped her croquet mallet and approached. This “Lizzy” was the Zephyr’s driver, Lillian’s sister and Meercrest was her home.
He fully turned to watch her draw near. Her cascading chestnut curls, refusing to remain pinned in place, seemed to have a mind of their own. They blew in the gentle breeze along with the flowing, short sleeves of her floral print dress, its shade of green billowing like a metaphor of her affluence. He was sure that smile of hers stopped his heart, but he willed it back to life when he reminded himself that Miss Hoity-toity was responsible for his soiled uniform. His resuscitation failed to work as that vibrant red kisser of hers neared. Suddenly, whatever annoyance he felt toward this Lizzy had dissipated in the coastal breeze.
There was only one thing he could do—stare, and stare he did.
She laughed, and he knew he must look like a complete fool standing shell-shocked and spellbound by her beauty, wondering if she was laughing at him.
In stark captivating contrast, Lizzy walked between two blondes—her sister Ingrid and a man their age. It seemed everywhere Will looked, the elite fair-haired, fair-skinned Herrenvolk surrounded him, as though he and Louie had just stepped into a mini-Aryan world that only Hitler could appreciate. Even the young woman in the wheelchair, as well as her nurse, was blonde. Of course, all except for the servants who wore and were black, but in society such as this, the contrast only caused them to blend into the unnoticed, unseen background, dismissed because of their race.
Will chastised himself for making the Aryan race analogy, but the military’s training movies had become ingrained and second nature in his thinking.
Keenly aware of Will’s directed stare at Lizzy, Lillian leaned into Louie, butting shoulders with her Marine. “See, didn’t I tell you?”
Will heard the whisper but begrudgingly remained captivated by the vision approaching him as though floating on Zephyr’s wings. Her laughter and buoyant spirit carried her in his direction. He didn’t know what made her so light and gay, but damn him, he wanted to find out.
Ingrid, looking lovely and sophisticated with rolled hair and pale colored lips, greeted the soldiers coolly; a nod of her head was the most she was willing to offer. Her haughty, disinterested demeanor made them feel neither welcome nor respected for the uniformsthey wore. Her missing requisite victory red lipstick made the passive statement. Even her eyes failed to convey any warmth or zest for life. Her pert nose, the exact nose as Lizzy and Lillian’s was held high in the air, literally and figuratively. No three sisters could have been more opposite in spirit.
“Welcome to Meercrest. I’m Ingrid Renner. My sister mentioned you would be attending our little lawn party. I’m sure she’s very pleased you’re here.”
The woman’s voice of affluent air wasn’t melodious and certainly not pleasant. Delivered through tight lips and a thrust jaw, her accent sounded dry and flat, lacking inflection or humor when she greeted them.
Ingrid gave a pointed look to Lillian before her glance traveled down to the muddy trousers. “Why, you’re positively inches deep in mud! Whatever happened?”
Will’s eyes met and fixed upon Lizzy’s. He watched as her perfect, cherry bomb lips twitched into an impish smile when he said, “My brother and I had a slight car accident when we were run off the road by some wise guy on our way here. A real pistol behind the wheel.”
“Maybe you were in the pistol’s way and driving like a fuddy duddy. Was that old timer rumble seat slowing you down, Flyboy?” she retorted.
“Maybe I was protecting the rubber on my tires and didn’t expect to be run off the road by such an inconsiderate driver.” He raised an eyebrow. Damn, she’s perfection.
Lizzy looked directly at him with confidence but sincere contrition. “I’m sorry about that. I was running late, and any minute longer my father would have been angry. That would have been a sight to see—one I was not eager to be on the receiving end of.”
“Hmm … then it would seem you were misbehaving after all. Tommy Dorsey was a fabulous ruse.”
The playful laughter in her voice affected him when she said, “Ha! Me? Misbehave? Never.”
For a minuscule second, Will wondered if she was flirting with him.
She smiled then held out
her hand for a shake. “I’m Lizzy, by the way.”
Warm hands met, and he couldn’t deny the attraction when his sweaty palms caressed her soft, self-assured, firm handshake.
“Nice to meet you, Lizzy. I’m William Martel and this is my brother, Louis.”
Louie shook her hand. “Please call me Louie.”
“Hi, Louie.” She greeted enthusiastically then turned back to face his brother. “And what can I call you? Certainly not something so formal as William? How about Billy or Willy?”
“You can call me Lieutenant Martel if that’s more to your liking.” Perhaps Pistol may be more appropriate than Lizzy.
“Well, you leave me no choice, Lieutenant. William it is.” She playfully smirked. I’ll just settle for Fuddy Duddy.
The young man who Ingrid had previously hooked arms with eagerly stepped forward, bearing a welcoming smile. He wasn’t in uniform and, given the fact that it was six months after Pearl Harbor, that was surprising since there had been an incredible surge in enlistment in one branch of service or another. Instead, he wore white slacks and a Basque sweater, both matching the brilliance of his countenance and happy manner. The brothers simultaneously wondered if his family’s wealth and War Department connections arranged for his non-service.
“I’m John Robertsen. It’s swell to make your acquaintance. Lillian told me a lot about you, Louie. Lucky devil you are to be headed into the fight.” He eagerly shook both men’s hands. “What about you, William, are you headed to the Pacific or Europe?”
“I wish I could tell you, but for the moment I’m just headed off to B-26 bomber training in Florida.”
“Uncle Sam needs men like you too, John,” Louie said.
“Unfortunately, he didn’t want me. They declared me 4F for no particular reason other than a little shortness of breath. It’s certainly not enough to keep me from fighting. I’ll be involved in this war one way or another.”
“Don’t be foolish, John. I’m sure your father went through great lengths to keep you out of this silly war,” Ingrid stated.
“That’s not true, Ingrid. Besides, it would have been for naught because I’m thinking of working at the plant out in Farmingdale where we build the P-47 Thunderbolts.”
Ingrid gasped. “You can’t be serious, darling!”
“Well … maybe … or I’ll become an Air-Raid Warden.”
Lizzy reached out, thoughtfully touching John’s forearm. “I love the idea of you volunteering as an Air-Raid Warden. You would be especially valuable to Long Island. News of that U-boat torpedoing off the shore in January scared the daylights out of me and everyone else on the North Shore. That was too close for comfort in my opinion. Some say there are Nazi saboteurs everywhere!”
Louie pulled at his collar with his index finger. “Gee, I’m sorry about the classification. Look, even Frank Sinatra is 4F, and he’s got dames falling at his feet, so don’t sweat it. Lizzy’s correct, there’s a lot you can do on the home front. I know pilots like Will would appreciate your work in the factory.”
Will nodded politely in agreement as the discussion continued, but he was oblivious to most of it, particularly the fact that Ingrid’s interest had wandered to two older men standing across the lawn, two men who stood watching the assembled group of new acquaintances.
All Will noticed was the way Lizzy’s pinky finger continually tucked a stray curl behind her ear every time it dislodged in the breeze. He grew fascinated by that unconscious motion as well as the joyful expression in her eyes as she listened attentively to the conversation. That sparkle of effervescence held him captive—a prisoner of her blithe spirit.
He resisted the urge to scoff at his previous words of not wanting to meet a girl because this girl, Lizzy the pistol, had a magical air about her. He was intrigued by her and thought very briefly that he just might be willing to risk heartbreak. Furthermore, she just might be strong enough to survive the dreaded War Department telegram. But, he knew she would give him the brush off if he tried to talk to her. A high-class dish like Lizzy Renner wouldn’t be interested in the son of a merchant.
~~*~~
Three
Mr. Five by Five
May 30, 1942
From inside the pool house, Lizzy heard her father’s latest boast through the white louvered dressing room door.
“It’s Olympic-sized! Largest in the area and even larger than the pool we have in the bathing casino!” Frederick Renner declared with bombastic pride of the newly dug, outdoor swimming pool. He stood poolside, arms akimbo, with his hands resting upon his chubby hips and his thin, grey mustache twitching as he snickered. “Even larger than yours, Robertsen!”
“It might be bigger, Renner, but that doesn’t mean your children will be victorious today!” Herbert Robertsen slapped his son-in-law, Lionel Hearst’s shoulder. “Like this war, it’s the power in the air that’s going to win. The only purpose your tired railroad serves is troop transport. Big deal, so rail travel has gotten a second wind.”
“Second wind? Second wind? You underestimate our strength. Railroads built this nation!”
“And flight will take it into the future!”
“Balderdash. We’re transporting supplies, machinery and don’t forget coal, Robertsen … without the railroad your planes and the men who fly them aren’t going anywhere. This war is the best damned thing to happen to the railroad. Don’t be so sure about winning today or even this war for that matter. Renners are fueled by superiority!”
Mocking his tormentor’s schoolyard style bravado, Robertsen responded with a lip flapping raspberry.
Being a braggart was something those in Renner’s circle accepted about the verbose financier of FHR Worldwide Investments. His hospitality and contrived friendliness toward those neophyte attendees made them feel important, and he knew that a coveted invitation to his home falsely cemented their social climbing aspirations. He was, after all, one of the top five wealthiest men on the Gold Coast and an invitation to Meercrest represented acceptance. It was as though these newcomers imagined they were being invited into the inner sanctum of Yale’s Skull and Bones secret society, that Meercrest was “The Tomb,” and they were now “Bonesmen.” That was hardly the case even if Renner and many others in their elite society were, in private actuality, members. Ultimately, what Renner wanted was to part these social climbers from their newfound wealth.
Although she loved him dearly, Lizzy hated this aspect of her father’s personality. She never approved of his grandstanding, but like most facets of his disposition, she rationalized them away. His self-importance was considered pride in Renner achievements born out of his own father’s rise as a railroad magnate. Frederick H. Renner insisted on remaining at Meercrest even when others were vacating the opulent, over-sized mansions. Lizzy admired her father’s commitment to secure the Renner legacy and heritage, believing it to be the means of promoting his daughters to the best suitors as well as providing for Kitty’s polio-stricken future. All but one of his five daughters believed his intentions were always the best, even if there was no true need to tell everyone that the Jamaican palms in the tropical house set him back sixty thousand dollars or that his 147 foot yacht, the Odin, sleeps 10.
Not everyone from the Robertsen and Renner families were nearby for the anticipated swimming competition. Lizzy’s mother, Frances, remained with several guests on the lawn, discussing the latest events printed within the Gold Coast Social Diary. Who married who, and whom her daughters should marry. Who, due to the war, had closed up their winter retreat homes in Florida and worse yet—who had enlisted or been drafted. It was just as well that she remain at a comfortable distance, blissfully ensconced with her Gordon’s martini, getting soused in the tea gazebo.
Lizzy breathed a faint sigh of relief, thinking the less her mother exposed herself to the Martel brothers, the better. Checking the fit of her blue and yellow one-piece swimsuit in the mirror, she engaged her reflected image with exasperated humor, imitating Frances’s high-pit
ched childlike voice. “And my Ingrid will marry John, of course, and poor Kitty will remain a spinster with those withered legs of hers. And Elizabeth, I just don’t know what to do about that girl. Fair hair is so much more becoming, so much more suited to families of our stature and bloodline.”
Her mother’s opinion of her didn’t matter, but her opinion of Kitty mattered a great deal to Lizzy. She, of all her sisters, was most beloved to her.
She walked through the Palladian doors into the beating sun, sensing almost every male head and too many eyes turning in her direction. She palpably felt two soldiers, a childhood friend, and her father’s employee staring down her trim form—in spite of her atypical dark hair. A year ago, she might have delighted in the overt attention of several suitors, but today it strangely unnerved her—all except the stares from one—the dreamboat in the Army Air Forces uniform.
Following Ingrid’s elaborate debutante ball of 1938, Lizzy’s debut presentation to society at eighteen in 1940 at the Waldorf Astoria was of equal extravagance. And like Ingrid, the requisite following year to “marry well” had passed with all the various social obligations failing to produce a suitable suitor. In Lizzy’s opinion, not a single man vying to win her hand was deemed exciting or intriguing enough to tempt her, and in her father’s opinion, none were of the right “quality.”
Born ten months after her, Lillian’s debut had also passed, but she refused a coming out ball to begin with, not even a small tea dance. In her altruistic sister’s opinion, the whole notion of being a debutante and having an extravagant ball analyzed and touted in the New York Times and the Diary while people were starving in Greece and Russia was repulsive. Next year would technically have been Kitty’s coming out, but sadly their mother decided that girls with polio would never find a husband, nor warrant being presented to society, so why spend the money. Nineteen forty-five and the lavish expense of a ball for the youngest daughter Gloria loomed ahead, but Lillian cautioned that if the United States yet remained at war, then more and more things would be put on the ration even for those with wealth. Most likely a small tea would be more suitable. Mother’s reply was ridiculing laughter. She could and would have anything she wanted and no local ration board was going to contradict that. Pfft, points and ceiling prices!