by Cat Gardiner
So occupied in their ardor, his service cap fell backward to the ground but neither paid any mind. A low moan escaped her lips when his hand stroked her neck, sliding to her décolletage with a tentative tuck of his fingers below the neckline. In response, she forwarded her own daring exploration, gently grinding her hip into him to once again feel him against her. The sensation of which, the first time, was like none other. He met her action with a low guttural moan, and she knew this could be dangerous. She was well aware, even in the moment, that propriety required she tamp down her rising passion; nonetheless, she chose to blatantly ignore her conscience.
Their kisses grew to a fever pitch and her hand slid between their bodies, touching him, feeling the confined evidence of his desire for her. Solid and hard, stiff yet sensual, his erection caused the fluttering within her to grow, the need building like a tightly wound cord.
He spoke her name before his lips suckled the heated flesh of her shoulder when the strap to her dress dropped, and she smoothed her palm over his straining arousal, molding around its girth. Both moaned and breathed heavily in the moonlight.
Suddenly, Will removed her hand, clasping it in his and giving her one final tender kiss to her lips. “You’re dangerous, my love.” He whispered. “For both our sakes, let me escort you back to the hotel lobby, okay?”
He was smart to do so, and she nodded regretfully, but darned if she didn’t want to continue.
~~*~~
Twenty-Two
Begin the Beguine
June 1992
Maxine stood at the top of the stairs on the second floor of Primrose Cottage in Brooklyn. Leaning over the wood banister, her ears caught the sound of Juliana in the kitchen singing along to the record playing in the parlor at the far end of the hallway. Happy for her friend was an understatement. After Juliana’s visit to Long Island three days prior, her young friend had returned feeling elated by the unexpected revelations about her grandmother and her own connections to the mysterious Lizzy. Meeting her great-aunt Kitty, learning she had family who welcomed her and whom she would see again, had filled Julie with renewed spirit. Then there was the matter of Jack; Maxine hoped he would be calling for a date. Lord knows, as much as Juliana resisted, she was interested even if he had been evasive about his affiliation to the Renner family.
The pleasant aroma of percolating coffee overtook the lingering remnant scent of the recently baked chicken. It was the best damned roast Maxine ever ate, succulent inside and golden brown outside, and she made a mental note to look into vintage Roper stoves when she and Andy remodeled their kitchen.
She called down from the top step, “I love what you did with the bedrooms, Julie.”
Juliana poked her head out the open doorway into the hall. “I didn’t do anything apart from cleaning. The house’s interior is just as I found it. Although, I did update the electricity and have someone install the ceiling fans. Did you check out the herringbone floor pattern in the master bedroom?”
“Old world crafted parquet floors like those in the library were reserved for the wealthy. Your uncle certainly spared no expense.”
“It was actually built in 1901 during the Gilded Age, but he must have paid a fortune for the house in 1942.”
Despite the lack of central air conditioning, Maxine had fallen in love with Primrose Cottage. The house felt light and bright, even in the evening hours. Pale colored walls had been washed, and the ambient lighting cast homey shadows from the now squeaky-clean, glass fixtures. This house was nothing as Juliana had described it—death didn’t lurk here—life did. There was nothing remotely eerie about how the vintage knickknacks gleamed, the music floated, or the floors shined. The pervading aura felt like love dwelled here, not dead secrets of a silent generation or an aged couple, just their romantic enchantment. Time capsule, yes, but alive in the here and now. She had felt it even as she drove up, parking her Volvo in the driveway that ran beside the bow window of the library. Every single light burned brightly in the three-story residence when Benny Goodman greeted Maxine with a song her father always loved, “I Thought About You.” There was something magical about Primrose.
She wandered from the master bedroom into the adjoining sitting room where a large bay window offered a clear view into the neighbor’s modernized bathroom. “Julie, you’d better get some window treatments up before you and Jack knock boots in this sitting room.”
“What!”
Maxine laughed. “You heard me.”
“That is so not going to happen. I still stand by my earlier assertion; true love in 1992 just doesn’t exist. I’ll stick with reading letters from 1942, thankyouverymuch.”
Flipping off the light switch controlling the upstairs hall fixture, Maxine made for the stairwell, enjoying the smooth feel of the polished wood banister as she descended. At the end of the stairs, she stopped to admire what looked to be a replica Hendrick Avercamp painting hanging upon the long wall leading toward the kitchen. “Do you know anything about this painting? It’s so detailed.”
Juliana leaned against the frame of the kitchen door, wiping her hands with a rooster dishtowel. “I don’t. Mr. Gardner said that it’s painted by a Dutch Master. I’ve been meaning to look into it, but haven’t had a chance. It’s interesting isn’t it?” She walked closer, black converse sneakers squeaking on the recently waxed wood floor. “The frame alone must be worth a mint.”
Maxine bent toward the painting, adjusting her black-rimmed eyeglasses to examine closely the detail of the antique frame. She pointed to the decorative edge, its intricate carving illuminated by the crystal ceiling fixture.
“See this ornate molding, certainly indicative of Victorian era plaster, or possibly gesso over hand carved poplar, making it much earlier and even more valuable. If I look at the back, I might be able to date it more accurately by examining the mitering on the corners.”
Juliana nodded at the suggestion, but both were perplexed when the painting did not lift from a hook and wire. Instead, the painting had been affixed to the wall by hinges, causing its movement to open outward, as though a door—and a door it was, concealing a niche in the wall, measuring about eighteen inches square. A velvet curtain, as if in a sanctuary, protected the contents within the hidden space.
“What the …?”
Their interest in the painting was forgotten when both women looked at one another until Juliana elbowed her friend, prompting her. “You go first. I’m afraid of what’s behind the curtain. It’s the attic door all over again. Damn, if this doesn’t seem to be a growing theme lately.”
“Chicken. This isn’t Let’s Make a Deal, and I’m not Monty Hall. You get to keep whatever is behind this curtain, good or bad.”
Juliana twisted the dishtowel and, consequently, the rooster’s neck when Maxine pulled the curtain back as though drum rolls should be playing. Cobwebs spanned from one side to the other, draping eerily over several tall and short items deliberately hidden within the lath and plaster walled cubicle.
“What are they?” she asked with wide eyes, gaping at two items covered with velvet and two others placed alongside, wrapped in silver grey felt.
Maxine removed the smaller of two pouches made from the same burgundy velvet as the curtain. Gold thread embroidered the top as well as the fringed bottom edge. “I don’t know what it is, but this writing is Hebrew.”
She handed it to Juliana who gingerly wiped the offending spider remnants with the dishtowel. Carefully untying the drawstring, she peered in, unfamiliar with the black, leather straps and small boxes nestled against the linen lining within.
The second pouch revealed more elaborate, gold embroidery with the year 1934 stitched below a six pointed Star of David.
Inside the purse-sized bag was a folded, fringed white and blue striped piece of silk fabric. Juliana withdrew a hand crocheted, small yarmulke, and she admired the handiwork and yellowed silk lining. It appeared heirloom.
“Was your uncle Jewish?”
Juliana rested
the velvet pouches on the nearby console table. “No. That would mean that my grandfather is Jewish, and I know he’s not. Maybe these were left here by the first owners who built Primrose Cottage. They were Jewish.”
Maxine removed the tall felt bag, untying the ribbon around the center. They both heard a subtle ping and ding when she removed the heavy contents: two ornate sterling candlesticks. The final felt bag revealed an ornate sterling silver goblet. The antique pieces had been protected from the air and kept from tarnishing by their individual soft wool felt wrappings encased within the wall these many years.
“Well, someone was Jewish in 1934. This goblet, I think is a prayer cup—and that christening pillow you found in the attic?—I asked around, it sounds like it’s a bris pillow used for circumcision.”
“Wow. It’s all so beautiful and … and antique. Why hide it in a wall?”
Maxine pointed to an envelope at the bottom of the nearly empty cubby. Its white paper, now turned beige, bore delicate handwriting. “Julie, look …”
Juliana withdrew it, holding it with reverence, recognizing the writing as her great-grandmother’s from the letters she had written William during the war. The still sealed envelope read, “Elizabeth.”
“Well there goes your previous owner theory. Open it!”
“No. I can’t, not now, not knowing that Lizzy is alive. This is written to her from my great-grandmother and not meant for me.”
Another record dropped from the automatic orthophonics and its upbeat tempo broke the seriousness of the moment. Artie Shaw’s “Temptation” seemed prophetic because certainly holding that letter in her hand was tempting to open. It very well could be the answer to what happened to them, what put an end to their romance, but knowing that Lizzy was out there somewhere meant that this letter, no matter how many years later, should be delivered to her.
Maxine nodded, placing the goblet back in the cubby. “I suppose you’re right. Will Kitty introduce you?”
“She said she would; I’ll be patient. Until then …”
Outside the open wood door, just beyond the front porch, the sudden introduction of ramped up contemporary music invaded their 1940s world, colliding with the snappy big band tune inside. Juliana walked to the ugly, modern security door and peered out the screen. In the darkness, the streetlight illuminated one very fine looking man wearing a polo shirt, sitting in the driver seat of a red convertible Alpha Romeo. In that quick glance down the front steps toward the street, she observed Jack tapping on the steering wheel to “Life is a Highway,” and she panicked.
“Oh. My. G-d. It’s Jack!”
Impulse and nerves caused her to panic into an immediate retreat, running into the parlor, pressing her back against the wall beside the open French door so as not to be seen.
“Jack, Jack?”
The music and engine cut off, the driver door slammed, and his continuing whistle drew nearer.
Juliana whispered, “Yes, Jack and he’s headed this way. Why is he here?”
“Duh? Looks like you may christen that room after all.”
He stood at the opened door, holding a pie, sheepishly grinning at Maxine on the other side of the mesh and wrought iron. “Maxine! I didn’t expect you here?”
She unlocked the door and swung it wide to bid him entrance. “Of course you didn’t, darling. You brought a pie, oh you charmer.”
“I … um … it’s homemade cherry … from the Island.”
“A peace offering of apology?”
“Yes.”
Maxine’s tease did little to ease his nerves, and he faltered where he stood until Juliana peeked her head around the French door.
Juliana could feel the flush expanding, growing hotter on her cheeks by the second and hated that her heartbeat was now doing some funky dance at the sight of his windblown hair and sincere smile. Her eyes made a quick up and down scan from the piqué Nautica polo to brown Sperry boat shoes, and she liked what she saw.
She stepped hesitantly back into the entry hall. “Hi, Jack.”
Suddenly shy and feeling uncomfortable Jack simply replied, “Hi.”
An awkward silence ensued between them until he jutted out the pie in her direction. “Er, this is for you. My aunt made it from the cherry tree harvest at Evermore, my grandmother’s estate.”
She couldn’t help the accusing remark that sprang from her lips, having yet to release her displeasure at his previous stonewalling. Her visit to Glen Cove could have been so much easier had he only told her the truth. She took the pie from his hands, their fingers brushing when she did so, sending sparks up her double crossing arms. “Your Robertsen grandmother? The one who probably knew Lizzy.”
“I’m sorry, Juliana.”
“Cherry tree … I cannot tell a lie. Clever, though not very applicable to you.”
Maxine clapped her hands together, disrupting the suddenly caustic atmosphere. “Well, kids, this is where I bid you goodnight and take my leave.” She walked to the console table, grabbed her purse, then kissed both her friends’ cheeks. “Thanks for a wonderful evening, Julie. Dinner was excellent.” Her eyes bore into cool blue ones. “Now play nice and I’ll call you next week.”
“But … but, Max, you’re supposed to be going with me to the National Archives by Battery Park the day after tomorrow.”
“Nope.” Her eyes met Jack’s. “I think you have another research buddy now.”
Juliana sighed. “Fine. I’ll call you. Thanks for driving down to Brooklyn.”
More awkward silence ensued after the screen door slammed behind Maxine. Juliana noted how Jack’s eyes were drawn to the opened painting, and he furrowed his brow.
“Won’t you come in? I’m sorry about the heat, but I haven’t gotten estimates for the central air conditioning yet.”
She watched how he took in every detail of the hallway, from the antique bronze, converted gas chandelier, the hand tooled crown molding, the inlaid star design in the wood flooring, to the magnificent fireplace in the parlor. He seemed to take it all in with wonder and awe. And she loved his spontaneous appreciation.
“This house is incredible. I feel something here.”
“Now do you understand? Come, why don’t we sit in the kitchen and have some pie.” She tilted her head to catch his eyes wandering into the parlor.
It was clear to her that he was resisting the pull to enter the room where William’s Artie Shaw record continued to play. “Yes, that mantel is the shrine to Lizzy that I told you about. I have added some other items I found over the last two weeks. In fact, Maxine and I just discovered some other things right before you arrived.”
“I … um … hope I didn’t come at an inconvenient time then. I’m sorry to have run Maxine off.”
“It’s okay. I am glad you came. I think we have some things to discuss.”
“We do, and I hope you’re not too mad at me to understand how difficult a position I found myself in. The coincidence was a total shock to the ticker.”
She smiled warmly. “I don’t completely understand your subterfuge, but, like my Aunt Kitty explained, I have to have faith in fate and let the truth come to light in due time, with patience. As you once said, everyone has things to hide.” G-d, it feels good to say Aunt Kitty!
Juliana closed the painting back against the wall, and again his eyes were drawn to the details of it. The ice skating, the windmill, and the community scene were the signature subject depictions by the well-known Dutch artist Hendrick Avercamp.
Together they walked down the hall into the white and red kitchen, where little, vintage rooster details caused him to smile, not to mention the appealing shape of Juliana’s backside in those denim shorts that made him feel downright excited.
In the kitchen, still warm despite large open casement windows above the porcelain sink that allowed the delightful, summer evening breeze in, the lingering scent of a home-cooked meal welcomed him.
Juliana stood on tiptoes to remove two cups and saucers from an upper cabinet,
and he couldn’t resist his eyes once again fixating and scanning up and down her trim form. Deliberately attempting to distract the direction of his stare, Jack pointed to the Frigidaire refrigerator.
“Does that work?”
“It all works. None of it was hardly used. I figure my uncle probably lived here for four years at the most. Four bedrooms, an empty basement, and an empty attic—hardly a house that was ‘lived in’. I learned from the Brooklyn Historical Society that Primrose Cottage was a honeymoon residence built for a Guggenheim daughter in 1901. I’m guessing it was barely used by them as well.”
“Hmm … the Guggenheims. My grandmother knew the family. They had a few houses on the Gold Coast. In fact, the late Harry Guggenheim, whose Falaise mansion is on the Gold Coast, founded Newsday.”
She placed two distinctly Delft dessert plates upon the kitchen table pressed against the wall beneath another set of open windows. The details of the Palladian stained glass arch above them and the overgrown rosebush outside were both obscured by the darkness.
“So many Guggenheim connections. Would this be your cherry-tree-owning, sky-diving, seventy-year-old-who-adopted-your-father-as-a-toddler grandmother?”
When he chuckled, she knew that he knew she was fishing for any other connection. Damn, if that smile of his wasn’t warm, self-effacing, and so perfect.
“Yes, she’s the one.”
Juliana poured their coffee and sat catty-cornered from him, cutting into the pie, which was still slightly warm. “Your aunt made this? It looks delicious. Please thank her for me.”
“I will. I spoke to her about you. The day after you and I met, I went to visit her at the museum to discuss your curiosity over the Renners and the secrets, many of which I think you may know by now. We saw you that day with Kitty, and I knew she was sharing with you the story of your grandmother and how it relates to my dad.”
Juliana closed her eyes at the sublime first taste of cherry pie in years. “You could have told me.”
“No. I couldn’t then, but I will now. I don’t know how much Kitty explained but I know I owe you reasons for my evasion and my silence. Do you want to hear them? Is it too late to offer my explanation and tell you what I failed to do on Friday?”