by Cat Gardiner
“You speak of things I know nothing about, things that have been falsely reported and are hyperbole. I am a businessman, Lieutenant, and apart from the lucrative business of war, I see that Germany acts in its own best interest. Who are we to keep them from their expansion? Every nation, like America, has their own destiny, and we should not police them. This president has been influenced by those particular citizens to enter this war on their behalf.”
Before Will could reply to the boldfaced lie, because surely everyone knew that even New York City’s Mayor LaGuardia had never ceased in his encouragement for the president to do something on behalf of the populace Renner referred to, Lizzy came to his rescue.
She rubbed the back of her neck. Her eyes darted between Lillian and their mother already properly soused at the end of the table and raising her glass in agreement with her husband’s regurgitation of the America First Committee’s former position on war. Embarrassed by it all, Lizzy then noticed the sardonic aspect to Ingrid’s lips, which caused her to interject quickly, “And surely, there is a difference between Germany and Nazism, right? Isn’t that what German-Americans here have been stating for years?”
Admittedly, she knew almost nothing of importance on the topic at hand and felt painfully inadequate before this intelligent, honorable man who was a guest in their home. Almost pleadingly, she looked to her father, begging him to end the inflammatory conversation.
He did so, dismissing both her and William when he looked to his left to strike up a conversation with Greta Robertsen whose lips currently wrapped around the end of a long, ebony cigarette holder.
Lillian rose from her chair, nearly knocking it over, and shuffled to the gazebo as quickly as her utilitarian shoes could move her. Within seconds, the band began to play “Moonlight Serenade,” signaling to the servants to begin clearing the dishes and an end to conversation about war, Nazis, and National Socialism.
Gebhardt turned to face Lizzy. “Would you care to dance, Miss Renner?”
Before she could answer, Will promptly interrupted, “Forgive me, but Miss Renner has promised this dance to me.”
She faltered at first then beamed that radiant smile of hers. “Yes, that’s right Mr. Gebhardt. I’m sorry, but the Lieutenant here has promised to show me what a ducky shincracker he is.”
Will was thankful dinner had ended because surely he had lost his appetite. No amount of roast duckling was going to appeal to him after that conversation with a man he came to determine was a Nazi sympathizer. The distraction of this attractive woman in his arms or a stiff drink (and he didn’t imbibe) were the only welcome remedies to abate the bile rising in his throat.
He walked around the table then held back Lizzy’s chair, escorting her to the small dance floor illuminated by soon-to-be extinguished white lights draped overhead. Darkness was falling fast as the sun faded behind them and, within an hour of sunset, the blackout along the coast would be enforced.
He took Lizzy into his arms, guiding her across the floor with soft, smooth Fox Trot glides. Their bodies fit perfectly when they rocked to the gentle swaying rhythm. Will breathed in the orange and jasmine bouquet of her perfume and closed his eyes to its pleasurable assault upon his senses. Yes, much better. She smelled as delicious as she looked and felt, causing him to think about his other senses, the sound of her laughter and its tickle to his ears, the allure of what her lips would taste like against his—the sweetness of her kiss, her pink tongue playing with his. He nearly groaned at the thought of what kissing her would feel like.
Lizzy gave a slight squeeze to his shoulder. “Thank you for coming to my rescue. I’m not very keen on Mr. Gebhardt and the thought of dancing with him gives me the willies.”
“You came to my rescue, as well.”
A gentle turn under his arm, sending Lizzy away from him, kept her from replying.
With elegant grace and the sway of her silk skirt, she seemed to float back into their close dance frame. “You’re a lovely dancer, Miss Renner.”
“Miss Chapin’s school—both dancing and the school were the bane of my formative years. I’m more inclined to sports than dancing, but Mother was insistent on making an impression at my debut.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say you lack natural ability. I think you’re the perfect dance partner.” For me.
“Thank you but had you watched the swim match, you might have a different opinion of my proficiencies and what my natural abilities are, Lieutenant.”
“You seem disappointed that I didn’t admire your form.” He smiled in playful banter, pulling her closer to him and reveling in the feel of her small waist below his fingers.
“On the contrary, I would rather your attention be to Kitty whenever possible. I greatly appreciate your concern for her, and I’m sure she thought your conversation a welcome diversion. Kitty’s confinement to her wheelchair these past four years has been a challenge to her. I know it kills her to see us participating in things she used to love to do. She and I are the competitive tomboys of the family and well, her sitting on the sidelines when it comes to swimming or croquet is very hard.
“There are many things that she can do, in spite of the chair.”
“You are right! And she does. Much to my mother’s abhorrence, she is learning archery from the chair.”
“That’s impressive and shows a strong determination to move beyond the incapacitating label of ‘crippled’ that everyone seems to dole out with no thought. Prejudice can be quite oppressive in itself, but Kitty, with her chin held high, seems to rise above the snide comments made by that unbeguiling Greta Robertsen and your youngest sister Gloria.”
“Yes, they are very cruel to her, and she’s such a darling, bearing it all with a smile through her hurt.”
“If you don’t mind me asking, what is it that afflicts your sister?”
“Poliomyelitis.”
Will turned Lizzy again, and she floated back into his arms as though the most natural thing. “I thought so, given her leg braces, but I wasn’t sure.”
“She never complains though.”
“Not only is Kitty a sweet girl, but I understood her to be extremely intelligent and certainly protective of you.” Will chuckled. “She thinks you drive too fast—too reckless.”
“Ha! It seems to me you two are in cahoots, and you don’t even know me, sir.”
There it was, that humor of hers again reaching into him, eliciting a continuance of the repartee she clearly enjoyed.
“Maybe, but Kitty also thinks that you and I should be sweethearts.”
Lizzy looked at him with a wry smile. “And what do you say?”
He didn’t answer. Frankly, he didn’t know what to answer. The woman in his arms was a dangerous enticement—one his conscience was battling with, but she was causing him to flirt and banter shamelessly. Moreover, he was enjoying her provoking flirtation.
The bandleader took to the microphone, and they continued to dance in silence wondering what the other was thinking, as the romantic lyrics spoke of love, stars, and dreams. They were caught in the whirlwind of their rapid heartbeats and tingly palms, holding onto one another while dancing and daydreaming.
The song ended and before they parted Will leaned into her. “Well?”
“Well, what?”
“Am I a ducky shincracker?” He folded his arms before his chest, grinning broadly.
He didn’t miss her meaning, but his gut cautioned him strongly when she replied with a beautiful twinkle to her eye, “William, you can hold me in your arms anytime. You’re a wonderful dancer.”
~~*~~
Four
Mean to Me
June 1992
The view of Central Park was spectacular through the windows of the dining room at the exclusive members-only Metropolitan Club, but it did nothing to divert Juliana Martel’s recent preoccupation. That preoccupation had compelled her to ask for this unprecedented lunch with her estranged mother Susan.
She had loathed making the phone ca
ll and loathed even more sharing the next hour with the woman who negligently tossed her husband and daughter aside eleven years prior for her boy-toy Jazzercise instructor.
Across the table sat the former Mrs. Gordon Martel looking as poised and elitist as her new trendy image allowed given that she was a forty-three year old attempting to look twenty-three. She wore perfectly coiffed, big, blonde hair, which hid any telltale signs of her recent facelift. Her glossy manicured nails casually smoothed the clingy v-neck of her dress selected to accentuate her new breasts. Husband number four was obviously very wealthy and generous—two traits Susan required in choosing and preparing for the eventual, inevitable disposal of a husband. Nikola Markopolousolous was obviously worth the unpronounceable, six syllable, sixteen-letter last name. The previous husband’s surname was Ho. Juliana had a good laugh at the dichotomy.
Glowering, she watched the woman—“mother” by DNA only—spread a translucent, barely worth the effort, sliver of butter on a warm dinner roll. The woman’s delicate hand mirrored her own, causing Juliana to frown with each passing swipe of the knife. Susan’s crystal-blue eyes were the same color as hers and her petite figure was almost identical—with the exception of the 34D bustline and an additional fifteen pounds. Juliana hated the fact that genetics made them look like sisters but even more so because natural youth was apparent in her whereas, her mother simply refused to allow the natural progression of aging. The younger resisted chuckling when she equated the older woman before her to the physical state of Primrose Cottage: Frozen in time.
Susan opened the conversation with her usual tone of obnoxious, deliberate haughtiness that always grated on Juliana. It seemed that her Locust Valley Lockjaw had grown even more pronounced since recently purchasing a new mansion on the North Shore of Long Island.
“It was good to hear from you, darling. I’m surprised, but delighted nonetheless. It’s been what, eight, ten months?”
“It’s been a year and a half. Don’t you remember the last time? The meeting with my father’s divorce lawyer?”
“Oh yes, that’s right. I remember now—Collins that sycophant.”
“What are you talking about? You slept with him, too.”
Susan chuckled. “How do you think I got the Jaguar?”
The waitress delivered a small Cobb salad. “Aren’t you eating anything, darling?”
Juliana looked down at her empty bread dish and played with her fork. “The crackers are enough.”
“You really should eat something. You’re as thin as a rail.”
Fighting her knee jerk reaction to make a scene, Juliana snapped, “That’s my business. When I called you to meet for lunch, I didn’t think you would insist on Dad’s club. Didn’t your membership expire after the divorce and doesn’t your new husband have his own membership somewhere—maybe in Greece?”
“Your father graciously reinstated it for me several years ago. You just know how I always disliked the Colony Club,” Susan harrumphed. “I don’t care what the history is or who its patrons are. The whole idea of a ‘women’s only’ club repulses me.”
Juliana couldn’t suppress her annoyance from surfacing. “Gee, there’s a surprise.”
“Juliana, cheap, low class shots do not become you. I didn’t agree to this lunch to subject myself to your vitriolic jabs. Divorce happens, darling and so does death. Both are like taxes—inevitable. The quicker you realize that, the quicker you can begin enjoying life and reaping the benefits of an expertly negotiated pre-nup.”
Susan reached across the table and placed her hand upon her daughter’s.
The newest huge diamond solitaire nearly blinded Juliana.
“Speaking of death, how are you making out? Gordon’s tragic passing was so sudden, and I’m terribly sorry for your loss. You were very close to your father, and he loved you so.”
A strained smile answered Susan’s unexpected sincerity.
It may not have appeared so, but the woman was genuinely sorry for her ex-husband’s premature death. That’s not to say she wasn’t overwhelmingly jealous that her daughter’s fortune now exceeded her own, especially since the girl didn’t have to endure four marriages to acquire it.
“I’m fine, Susan. Dad left me with many wonderful memories.”
“Not to mention money.”
Ignoring her mother’s passive aggressive comment, Juliana took a moment to turn back toward the expansive view of the bustling city. It was a beautiful day, although sitting across from Susan had quickly zapped that wonderful, romantic feeling she had awoken with in her dust laden new home. The room she had chosen as her bedroom had a stunning genuine Louis Comfort Tiffany semi-circular window. The priceless art glass had been installed near the ceiling within a dormered eave, allowing the morning sun to douse the room with a colorful spectrum of light.
“Susan, believe it or not, the reading of the Will is the reason I asked you to lunch today. I was given Great-uncle William’s house in Brooklyn.”
“Of course you were. Your grandfather Louie is in no position to inherit that big house, which makes you the logical Martel heir—you’re the only family remaining. Had your father and I remained married, then I would have inherited, but I’m happy for your newly found wealth.”
Screaming, I’d rather have my father, to her mother would have been fruitless—loveless, self-absorbed creature that Susan was. Juliana would never forgive her for her abandonment. She bit back her words of anger and retaliation and continued in her “interview.” That was, after all, the only purpose of this meeting. Certainly, it wasn’t to form any sort of bond with the woman. As subconsciously starved as Juliana was for a close-knit family and a place to belong, and as strange as it sounded, she would never pursue it with, of all people, her mother.
“You’re wrong. You never would have inherited Primrose Cottage. At some point, it was left in trust to me by Great-uncle William. Whether Dad died or not, the house became mine when I turned twenty-four. Since you apparently forgot to send a card—that was last month.”
“You know I’m never one for cards, darling. Well, I suppose it’s just as well that I didn’t get the house. I hate Brooklyn. It’s almost as bad as Staten Island.”
Juliana rolled her eyes, removing a pen and steno pad from her over-sized, backpack handbag. Preparing to take notes, she waited for Susan to stop carefully chewing the minuscule piece of chicken she just placed in her mouth. She mused whether the woman had trouble eating with her new porcelain veneers.
“I was wondering, what can you tell me about Great-uncle William? Do you remember hearing anything about the house or his life? Anything at all might be helpful to me. I arrived at Primrose Cottage a few days ago and it was left … well … left untouched and rather spooky.”
“Well, I can tell you very little. The person you need to speak with is your grandfather.”
“You know that’s not possible. I saw him last week and he couldn’t even acknowledge Dad’s death.” She sighed. “I think grandpa is too overcome by his grief to speak.”
“Overcome? He hasn’t uttered a sound in almost two years. I’m sure now that you own the majority of DeVries Diamond House (DVDH) it is your obligation to take over his remaining share of the business and move him into a nursing home. He shouldn’t be living alone in a senior community. He’s senile, Julie and it’s about time you acknowledge that.”
“He’s not senile! He’s healthy as a horse and I believe, after Grandma’s death, he’s simply chosen to remain silent as a clam. It’s grief, Susan. I’m not here to discuss Grandpa or DVDH. Besides, it’s not like you care. You stopped caring on April 7, 1981 at 4:11 in the afternoon.”
“What happened on that date to make you believe that I don’t care?”
Juliana’s eyes widened and her jaw slacked. “Duh … that’s the day you abandoned Dad and me.”
“Oh, poo. I do care, Julie. All of that is water under the bridge.” She took another drink then continued. “Well then, is this research about Pri
mrose Cottage for the magazine? The mystery surrounding your grandfather’s brother could perhaps, make a fascinating article.”
“I’m now working for that new magazine, Allure. I don’t think they would be interested in the disappearance of a man back in 1950.”
“Allure? Are you still an administrative assistant?” her mother asked.
She shook her head in annoyed wonderment. “No. That was over two years ago when I graduated NYU and worked for Women’s Wear Daily. I’m a junior freelancer for the magazine—in fashion and style editorial.”
“Yes, now I remember.” Susan’s eyes traveled the length of Juliana’s flat chest and thin torso. “Maybe you should consider an article on the fashion faux pas of this messy, baggy look combined with this waif-like Kate Moss image.”
“Look, if it’s okay with you, I’d like to stick to the subject of our meeting, please. Do you remember anything about William? Anything that Dad or Grandpa may have said over the years?”
“Such an interesting mystery, isn’t it? One that inquisitive mind of yours feels compelled to get to the bottom of, but be careful where this may take you, darling. You just may find him alive and wanting his money back.”
“Is he alive?”
Susan shrugged a shoulder. “How should I know? Last I remember was your grandfather’s distress following a letter he received. Hmm … around 1980, as I recall. It was postmarked from Paris. I remember the year because at that time, I just had my first poodle perm and it was atrocious. Not to mention, I was annoyed because your father never took me to Paris.”
Juliana stubbornly remained on point, refusing to be diverted by her mother’s narcissism. “What was so disturbing about the letter? What did it say?”