by Joan Wolf
“I still am,” Patsy said instantly. “I’d love to go.”
“It’s Thursday afternoon.”
Patsy mentally canceled a lunch with a movie agent. “Fine.”
They made arrangements to meet at the stadium and Patsy hung up. Her mood of depression had quite vanished and she went to bed in a decidedly cheerful frame of mind.
* * * *
The weather was perfect for opening day. Steve had been given tickets for one of the boxes, and Sally and Michael were in heaven.
“I can’t believe you grew up on Long Island,” Steve grumbled good-naturedly as he listened to his wife. “Long Islanders are supposed to root for the Mets.”
“Anyone who knew Mr. Melville rooted for the Yankees,” Patsy informed him kindly. “It was a matter of sheer survival.”
Michael, who had been looking around the stadium, turned to his brother-in-law and grinned. “The Mets stink,” he said simply.
“They have some good, young talent this year,” Steve defended his team loyally. “I think they’ll do all right.”
The public-address system crackled and then the announcer boomed out a welcome to the fans. The stadium was quite filled for a midweek afternoon, and Patsy found herself smiling with pleasure. All four of them were wearing slacks and sweaters. The men had taken their jackets off, but Sally and Patsy still wore theirs. The April sun was warm but there was a spring chill in the air.
“I haven’t been to a ballgame since high school,” Patsy said in surprise.
The visiting team was being introduced and Michael turned to her. “You probably haven’t been to one since Dad took us all for Sally’s sixteenth birthday.”
“You’re right. That’s the last time I was here.” She looked around as well. “It’s changed.”
“Here they come!” Sally cheered, and seconds later the announcer started to introduce the home team.
“Batting first and playing second base,” the loudspeaker boomed, “Joe Hutchinson.” They all applauded vigorously and Michael threw in a whistle for good measure. The second and third batters were introduced and then came the announcement the whole stadium was waiting for.
“Batting fourth and playing center field,” the announcer shouted, and the spectators rose as one to their feet, “Rick Montoya!”
Sally shrieked, Patsy shouted, and Michael let out a sort of yodel that Patsy instantly recognized from bygone days. The ballplayer they were all so loudly saluting jogged onto the field, tipped his cap, and then flashed his famous grin at the fans. They yelled back louder than before.
“The guy hasn’t even swung his bat yet,” Steve said.
Michael sat down. “Watching Montoya swing a bat is sheer poetry,” he remarked to Steve. “Even the Mets might win if they had him in their lineup.”
“And he’s so gorgeous,” Sally added. “I think he was smiling right at us.”
“Were you applauding his skill or his pulchritude?” her husband asked.
Sally grinned. “Both.”
“I need a beer,” Steve said, and Patsy giggled.
It had been a perfect day, Patsy thought two hours later as the game moved into the ninth inning. She had forgotten what vociferous fans the Melvilles were. She had forgotten, too, what tremendous fun a baseball game could be.
“Good God,” Sally mumbled a little acidly, “here comes the TV camera again. I’ve been afraid to blow my nose all afternoon.”
“The camera is not focusing on you, Sal,” her brother said unkindly.
Sally stared at him, affronted, and Steve put an arm around her shoulder. “That’s all right, Babe. Patsy may have a TV camera following her about like a shadow, but what does she know of the binomial theorem?”
“Not a damn thing,” Patsy answered cheerfully.
“A beautiful thing, the binomial theorem,” Michael put in. “Sheer poetry.”
“It is not,” Patsy said positively. “Wordsworth is poetry. And Yeats. Not the biniminal theory—or Rick Montoya’s swing, either.”
Michael winced as if in acute pain. “Binomial, Patsy. Not biniminal.”
“Whatever,” Patsy said sunnily, and smiled. It was her best smile, the one that usually reduced men to quivering jellies at her feet.
Michael said blandly, “The camera is thataway,” and went back to watching the game.
Patsy stared at his faintly hawk-like profile and inwardly fumed. He had been much nicer when he was younger, she thought.
The Yankee pitcher retired three men in a row in the top of the ninth and the game was over, the Yankees winning three to one. As they left their seats, Michael and Sally absorbingly discussed the team’s prospects for the coming season, while Patsy and Steve walked behind them, chatting casually.
“Where did you park your car?” Steve asked Patsy as they reached the sidewalk.
“Nowhere,” Patsy replied. “I took a cab.”
“A cab?” Steve frowned. “You’re never going to find another taxi in this crowd.”
Sally had overheard the last part of this exchange. “We’d run you home, Patsy, but I promised the baby-sitter we’d be back before six. If we delay any longer, we’re going to hit the rush.”
“That’s okay, Sally. If I can’t find a cab, there’s always the subway.”
“The subway,” Steve said darkly. Like all suburbanites he held the view that the subways were only slightly less dangerous than Beirut under siege.
Michael laughed. “Not everyone who rides the subway is inevitably raped or murdered,” he said to his brother-in-law. “However, to soothe your jangled nerves, I will drive Patsy home.”
“So chivalrous,” murmured Patsy, who hadn’t taken her car precisely because she wanted things to fall out this way.
“Sometimes I even astonish myself,” he replied. “Come on, my car is this way.” After a round of thanks and promises to call soon, Patsy left the Maxwells and followed Michael to the lot where he had left his car.
Traffic around the stadium was heavy and it took them quite a long time to get out of the Bronx and into Manhattan. Michael didn’t say much; he had turned on the radio and appeared to be listening to the music. Patsy rested her head against her seat and watched him drive. His car had a standard shift and he let the clutch in and out automatically, changing gears with easy competence, his mind clearly on something else.
“When you traveled,” he said abruptly, “who made your arrangements—plane fare, hotels, so forth?”
She stirred slightly. “Fred, of course.”
“You went on vacation last year to Africa?”
“Yes. To the Serengeti game preserve. Then I spent some time in Egypt.”
“Mmm. And Fred made all the arrangements?”
“Yes.” Her brown eyes looked troubled. “Why are you asking me this, Michael?”
He changed the subject. “Do you have a bank account in the Cayman Islands?”
“Of course not!” She was beginning to sound impatient. “Why on earth should I have an account there? I’ve never even been to the Cayman Islands.”
“The Cayman Islands operate a banking system not unlike Switzerland’s.” His voice was expressionless. “No names are used—only numbers. You can stash quite a lot of money in a numbered bank account, and there’s no way the IRS will know it’s there. You’re supposed to report the account, of course, but very few do.”
“Well, I don’t have an account like that,” she repeated.
“When I went to Zimmerman’s office the other night, I cleaned out all his files pertaining to you. One of the things I found was a bank book from the Cayman Islands.”
“In my name? Oh, no, you just explained there was no name.” Patsy pushed a stray piece of hair off her forehead. “Well, then, the bankbook must have been Fred’s.”
“Yes,” Michael said in that same expressionless tone. “That’s what I figured.” He stopped at a light and turned to find her regarding him worriedly. He smiled. “I don’t want to drive home in this traffic,
and I owe you a dinner. Is there a restaurant where we can go dressed like this?”
Patsy’s brow smoothed out. “Of course. Luigi’s. The best Italian food in New York.”
“Luigi’s. How original.”
“That’s really the owner’s name,” Patsy said serenely. “And wait until you taste his cooking.”
Luigi was always thrilled to see Patsy, and he put forth his best efforts in her behalf. It was almost nine when she and Michael left the restaurant, and they had done a lot of filling in of those seven years during which they hadn’t seen each other.
They walked slowly along the sidewalk toward her apartment, still talking easily.
“Come up for a nightcap?” she offered as they reached the car, which her doorman had parked in front of her building for them.
Every other man Patsy knew would have jumped at the invitation; Michael merely shook his head. “Thanks, but I’d better be getting home. I’ll have to work twice as hard tomorrow for taking the afternoon off today.”
“I suppose you will,” Patsy said a little forlornly.
They had stopped next to his car, and Michael reached up and tilted her face toward the glow of a streetlamp. She looked at him, acutely aware of his strong, slender fingers lying so lightly on the curve of her jaw.
“I have theater tickets for tomorrow night,” he said softly, “and, like you, I recently broke up with the person I’ve been going with.” His eyes were half-hidden by his lashes. “Would you like to go?”
“Yes,” Patsy answered instantly.
She could see him clearly in the light, but she could not read the expression in his narrowed green-gold eyes. A faint smile touched his mouth. “They’re for The Real Thing” he said.
“Great. I haven’t seen it yet.”
The pressure of his fingers on her jaw increased infinitesimally. He bent his head and kissed her, casually and gently. “I’ll pick you up at seven-fifteen,” he said, and turning away, unlocked his car door.
The doorman of her building, who had been an interested witness to the scene, moved forward, and Patsy turned to him. “Good evening, Howard,” she said. “Thanks for parking the car for us. However do you always manage to find a spot right in front of the building?”
Chapter Six
Patsy had her delayed lunch with the movie agent on Friday and then did some shopping. At Saks she bought a lovely spring-green silk dress by Bill Blass and a new pair of evening sandals with heels lower than those she usually wore. She went home, showered, had a light supper, and put on the new dress. She brushed her hair away from her face and high up on the back of her head, with just a few ringlets falling artistically along the white slender-ness of her neck. When she had finished, she surveyed herself in the mirror. The slim bodice and waist of the dress fit her perfectly and the full, soft skirt fell gracefully to just below her knees. Patsy thought with satisfaction of the luck that had made her a perfect size eight and went into the living room to wait for Michael.
He was on time and they decided to leave his car with Howard and take a cab to the theater. Michael’s tickets were for the third row in the mezzanine.
Patsy draped her lightweight coat around the back of her seat and sat down, calmly ignoring the stares she was provoking from all sides.
“Sorry it’s not the orchestra,” Michael murmured into her ear.
“Don’t be smug,” she returned imperturbably, and he gave her a quick sideways grin. He was wearing the same light-gray suit she had seen on him the other day, and she thought he looked extremely handsome.
The play was wonderful, both funny and thoughtful, and the acting was superb. They decided to walk to Sardi’s for an after-theater drink and snack, and as they strolled down Shubert Alley, Michael commented on the quality of the performance.
“I know,” Patsy returned. “Seeing Jeremy Irons and Glenn Close like that only confirms my determination to stay a million miles away from the movies.”
“Have you had offers?” Michael asked curiously.
“Not exactly, but I’ve had plenty of agents who swore they could find me a role and could launch me on a whole new career. I had lunch with one this afternoon, in fact. He couldn’t believe I wasn’t interested.”
“Why aren’t you?”
“Simple,” she replied. “I can’t act.”
“That hasn’t stopped Marly Andrews,” he murmured.
She grinned appreciatively. “Yes, well I hate making a fool of myself. And think how scandalized Mother would be. I saw this guy this afternoon only because he was a friend of Fred’s.”
“Ah,” he said, “Fred.”
They had reached Sardi’s and the maitre d’ proved very accommodating, finding them a table even though the restaurant was crowded. They ordered drinks and Patsy said she didn’t want anything to eat.
“Are you sure?” Michael asked. “I’m going to eat. I only grabbed a quick sandwich for supper—I worked until after six.”
“You go ahead,” Patsy replied. “I never eat this late at night. It’s the worst possible thing you can do—the weight just pours on while you sleep.”
He looked at the spring-green size eight sitting so gracefully across the table from him. “Do you have to worry?”
“I make sure I don’t have to worry,” she said firmly. “I eat three sensible meals a day and at the proper hours. I absolutely loathe dieting. It’s much easier not to have to.”
“Makes sense, I guess.”
“Besides,” Patsy said truthfully, “I’m not hungry.”
“Well, okay. But I’m going to have the biggest cheeseburger they can make.”
While he ordered, Patsy sipped her white wine slowly, and when he turned back to her, she made an obvious attempt to brighten up.
“What’s the matter, Red?” he asked softly. “You’ve been downcast ever since we left the theater.”
She forced a smile. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to be a wet blanket.”
“What’s bothering you?” he repeated. “Was it the play?”
She sighed. “Yes. It hit too close to home, I guess.” She looked into her glass and slowly moved the wine back and forth. “I guess I saw a little of myself in Annie,” she said, still looking at her drink, “and I can’t say I liked what I saw.” He didn’t answer, and she looked up to find him watching her gravely. “You know that scene at the beginning, when she tells her husband she’s in love with Henry and she’s leaving him? And then, when the husband falls to pieces, all she can think of is that his distress is in such bad taste?” He nodded, still not speaking. “Well,” she continued unhappily, “it reminded me of Don and me. I broke up with him Sunday, you see, and he made the most ghastly scene. The thing was, he really meant it. He did care. And all I could think of was that his dramatics were in such bad taste. He made me feel guilty and uncomfortable, you see, and I just wished he would stop and go away.” She pushed her drink toward the middle of the table and said tragically, “I’m a terrible person, Michael. I don’t mean to be, but I am.”
He smiled very faintly, although his eyes remained grave. “You’re not a terrible person, Red.”
She felt tears sting her eyes. “What’s the matter with me?” she almost wailed. “I gave a year of my life to Don. I thought I loved him. And now I don’t care if I ever see him again.” She sniffed. “In fact, I hope I don’t.”
He handed her his handkerchief. “You made a mistake,” he said matter-of-factly.
Patsy blew her nose. “It wouldn’t be so bad if it were just Don,” she continued, her voice muffled by his handkerchief. “Sally was teasing me about always being in love, and it’s true. I do think I’m in love, and then it always turns out that I’m not. It’s very depressing.”
Michael’s quick smile flashed. “I see,” he said. And then he laughed.
“It isn’t funny,” Patsy said mournfully. “I want to feel about love the way Henry did in the play tonight. I want to find ‘the real thing.’ But I’m afraid I never will. I’m too
shallow.”
“The one thing you are not, sweetheart,” he said comfortingly, “is shallow.”
The waiter arrived with his cheeseburger and Michael ordered another round of drinks. Patsy watched him bite into his burger. “You don’t think so?” she asked hopefully.
“Nope.”
“Then what’s the matter with me?” she repeated in genuine bewilderment.
“Not a thing in the world,” he assured her. “Mmm, this is good. Want a french fry?”
“All right.” Patsy reached out and snared one off his plate.
“You just haven’t met the right guy yet,” he said after he had swallowed. “You have a great capacity for love, Patsy, I’m quite sure of that. Up until now you’ve mistaken liking and sexual attraction for love—it’s something that’s very easy to do. The number of divorces proves that, I think.”
“I guess so,” Patsy said doubtfully.
“When you meet the right man, you’ll know it.”
Patsy took another french fry. “How can you be so sure?”
“Because it’s a completely different feeling. When ‘the real thing’ hits, you’ll know it, all right.”
“Has it hit you?” Patsy asked very softly.
“Yep. So I know, you see. The other thing is just a diversion.”
He knew. That meant ... Patsy did not like to think of what it meant. “What happened?” she asked.
“She didn’t love me,” he replied simply, and took another bite of his cheeseburger.
“Oh, Michael.” Patsy’s great brown eyes were filled with compassion.
He smiled crookedly. “Don’t look so tragic. I’ve learned to live with it.”
“She’s a fool,” Patsy said abruptly, and he shook his head.
“No. She’s a lot of things, but she’s not a fool. Have another french fry?”
“if you insist,” Patsy said, and helped herself.
* * * *
His car was parked once again in front of her apartment. “Come up for a cup of tea,” she said as they got out of the cab.
“I don’t think—” he began.