Valentine, page 26
“Of course we are!” she said, reaching over to squeeze Gwen’s hand.
The other authors were there—all but the new one, she noticed. Several couples she’d never seen before milled among them, introducing themselves. There was quite a crowd around Barbara Benson and Jeffrey Monk, the most famous writers. Two local teenagers, obviously hired for the evening, were serving drinks on trays, and a third manned the bar in the comer. Mike’s promised big band music played softly in the background.
“Coats go on the bed upstairs,” Gwen said above the din. “Then I’ll take you around, introduce you to everyone.”
Jill nodded and headed for the stairs.
He stood naked before the full-length mirror on the bathroom door of Cabin 5, listening. He heard the low rumble of voices and Benny Goodman music coming from the main house, through the trees and across the clearing. The party had begun.
As he dried off with the towel, he inspected himself. My face is pale, drawn, and I’m entirely too thin, he decided. Oh, well, I can’t worry about that now. Now there’s something I must do.
Jillian Talbot.
She doesn’t recognize me, he thought. Not from the street that day, and not from outside the phone booth on Sixth Avenue, when I heard her talking to Gwen Feldman. And the address of this place, Peconic Writing Colony. She couldn’t recognize me from the restaurant on the ground floor of her building: I was wearing that disguise, just to be safe.
So, here I am. With Jillian Talbot . . .
Thinking of her, and of what tonight would bring, he slowly began to dress. He put on his underpants, socks, white shirt, gray slacks, striped tie, and shoes. He donned his double-breasted navy blazer and his thick winter coat.
The Beretta went in his coat pocket.
Then he left Cabin 5 and walked through the mounting snow toward the lights of the main house.
Jill put down her ginger ale and inspected her watch: nine o’clock. Verna Poole wouldn’t be in the office this late, she reasoned. With a sigh, she fished in her purse for her wallet. Drawing out Barney’s card and two singles, she went over to the phone and dialed his home number in Brooklyn. No answer.
She was replacing the receiver, wondering if she should call Nate, when someone touched her elbow and asked her to dance. She turned around, already forming a polite smile and a polite refusal.
It was Richard Farnum, looking more handsome than usual in a double-breasted navy jacket and gray pants.
With a bright smile, she accepted.
He didn’t get out of the gallery until nearly nine-thirty. He and the assistants carefully hung the big final painting, Life, on its own wall at the end of the exhibit. As soon as it was in place to everyone’s satisfaction, he grabbed his coat and headed for the door.
“Don’t forget,” Henry Jason called after him. “The opening party is at seven o’clock next Wednesday. Seven o’clock!”
He nodded and ran out to his motorcycle. Five minutes later he ran into his own building and up to the second-floor apartment. He grabbed the things he’d need and threw them in his saddlebag. Then he ran back down to the street.
Nine-thirty, he thought as he strapped on his helmet. In this snow, I’m going to be slowed down. I should get a car. Williamsburg Bridge, Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, Long Island Expressway to Riverhead, Highway 25 to Cutchogue, Cutchogue to Peconic. . .
He started his engine and raced across Seventh Street to Second Avenue, then south toward Delancey Street.
She wondered where he’d learned the Lindy. He started with her, and soon he had everyone out in the middle of the floor, jumping and swinging as if they’d done it all their lives. Even Barbara Benson, who, judging from her age, had probably done it before, hopped around the room now with a succession of partners. Jill smiled as she danced, thinking of Gwen’s comment about the high school gym. Tonight, everyone was having even more fun than that. They all danced to Mike’s old 78s featuring Harry James and his band as the snow continued to fall outside.
At ten-thirty, Gwen clapped her hands, calling the room to order, and announced the sweetheart prizes. This involved all the women in the room writing their names on slips of paper and placing them in a bowl. Then, the men would each draw a name, and they got to kiss that woman and dance with her.
The names were drawn. The next thing Jill knew, Craig Palmer had arrived to kiss her on the cheek and lead her out to the floor. She glanced over to see Richard Famum doing the same with a pretty young local woman. He winked over at her as he swept the woman into his arms.
After that, she had to stop to catch her breath. She threw herself down on the couch next to the telephone, looking at her watch. Ten forty-five. She’d pay the kitty later, she decided as she reached for the receiver and dialed.
She let it ring ten times. The machine wasn’t on, she noticed. Oh, well, Nate must be out somewhere. I’ll call him tomorrow. . . .
He watched her replace the receiver. Then he grabbed two heart-ringed plastic tumblers of champagne from a passing tray and made his way over to the couch. Sitting beside her, he held one glass out to her.
“No, thank you,” she said. “I’m not drinking these days.”
“Just one glass,” he insisted. “For Valentine’s Day.”
She smiled and took it from him. They toasted, and she took a tiny sip before setting it down. “That’s enough for me. Actually, I’m rather hungry.”
“So am I,” he said. With a smile, he reached for her hand. After a moment, she placed her hand in his, and he led her across the room to the dinner table.
They dined on cold turkey and asparagus vinaigrette and salad. He washed his down with more champagne, she with more ginger ale. They laughed a great deal, and then she danced with him again.
As she moved slowly around the room in his arms, she thought of Nate. They had had evenings like this—they had met like this, at the dance club in the Village, when he’d spilled his drink and she’d offered him her napkin. And they would have many more together. It made her happy just to think of it. This man seems very nice, she thought, but Nate’s the one for me.
I’m going to have his child. Our child. Funny; what seemed like such a problem such a short time ago now seems to be a blessing. And it is a blessing.
She smiled up at Richard Famum, thinking, I love you, Nate.
He had to stop for gas in Ronkonkoma, and it seemed to take forever for the sleepy teenager to come out of the warm station office to fill up the tank. He threw a twenty at the kid and took off down the road, searching for the ramp that would lead him back onto the Long Island Expressway. At last he found it, and the motorcycle roared off again. Past Holbrook now, on his way to Manorville, then on to Riverhead.
He glanced at his watch as he drove: ten after eleven . . .
A few more people had arrived, and now the party was in full swing. Gwen announced that the dance contest would take place at midnight, the minute it was officially Valentine’s Day. First prize: a bottle of Dom Perignon. Second prize: a box of Godiva chocolates. Gwen, Mike, and Barbara Benson would be the judges. Everyone applauded.
Then Gwen came over to Jill. As she arrived by her side, Jill reached up to stifle a yawn.
“I’ve just brought out the hot drinks,” Gwen said, pointing at the urns on the bar. “You look like you could use a cup. So could I, for that matter.”
Laughing, the two women made their way over to the bar, where Gwen poured decaf for both of them.
“I’m sorry, Gwen,” Jill said. “It’s a lovely party, really, but I’m suddenly exhausted.”
“You mean you’re not going to stick around for the contest?”
“Oh, I just couldn’t. I’m going to get a good night’s sleep and tackle my new story first thing tomorrow morning.”
Gwen nodded. “Good for you. But I know someone who’s going to be very disappointed.” She jabbed her thumb across the room, indicating Richard Farnum.
“Yeah,” Jill said, laughing. “He’s very sweet—but he’s not for me, thank you. I already have a dance partner.”
Her friend smiled. “Yes, you do, don’t you?”
He looked around the room, wondering where she could be. Then he saw her at the bar in the comer with Gwen Feldman. The two women were chatting together as they drank coffee. He excused himself from Mr. and Mrs. Monk and went over to join them.
“May I have a cup?” he asked, smiling.
“Of course,” Gwen said, and she poured one for him.
“So,” he said to Jillian Talbot, “are you going to be my partner for the dance contest?”
She smiled and shook her head. “Sorry. The truth is, my coach turned into a pumpkin about five minutes ago. I’m dead on my feet.”
His eyebrows rose at her choice of words, but he quickly collected himself. “I guess I can’t persuade you?”
“No, really. But thanks. I’m going to go back to my cabin in a few minutes.”
Ah, he thought.
“I’ll walk you there,” he said. “In the dark, with the snow still falling. . . .”
“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” she said quickly. “Gwen issued flashlights to everyone whose cabin is far away, and mine is in my coat. I’ll be fine.”
“Please, I insist.” He smiled his brightest smile.
That did the trick. He saw her hesitate a moment, then she capitulated. “Well, if you really want to. . . .”
“I really want to. Now, one more dance—for the road.”
She glanced over at Gwen Feldman, who was smiling again.
“Oh, all right. One for the road. Thank you.”
“My pleasure,” he whispered, leading her out on the floor. As he took her hand in his, he glanced down at his watch: eleven thirty-five.
Twenty-five minutes, he thought.
Twenty-five minutes to Valentine’s Day . . .
The Andrews Sisters belted out “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy” as he whirled her around the floor, complete with lifts and dips and all the rest of it. The room began to spin around her, and she was aware that everyone else had stopped dancing to watch them. She grinned and gave herself over to it, allowing him to lead her through the paces. When the song ended, he kissed her on the cheek as the crowd around them burst into applause.
She smiled around at everyone, preparing to leave the dance floor, but she never made it. At that moment, Mike put on another record, and the room was suddenly bathed in the soft tones of an old favorite, “Dancing in the Dark.” Richard took her in his arms and everyone around them began to dance as a low, smoky woman’s voice began to sing.
Richard Famum was holding her close, and she could feel the heat emanating from his body. She relaxed against him, resigning herself to the inevitability of one more dance. It wasn’t bad, really: this song reminded her of her parents. Her father had played it on the record player in the living room on Central Park West when she was a little girl. Once, when they’d thought she was asleep, she’d tiptoed out of her bedroom and stood in the living room doorway, watching her mother and father dance slowly around the room to this very song.
The mirror ball was spinning, casting a million flickering spots of light around them. She closed her eyes and hummed along with the recording, remembering her parents and being a child, small and protected and safe. She leaned against the tall, dark, handsome man, thinking, Nate. Nate . . .
Jamesport and Mattituck had flown by him, mere blurs of light beside the highway. He’d almost missed the road in Cutchogue, turning right instead of left and traveling for several minutes before he saw the sign with the word, PECONIC, and an arrow pointing in the opposite direction. He’d squeezed the hand brake, nearly going into a skid on the snowy country road. Then he’d turned around and sped off the way he’d come.
Now the flat, open fields of Suffolk County had disappeared, and there was thick black forest on either side of the road. He slowed the bike, looking for signs. He was sure the map had indicated that the turnoff to Lake Peconic was on his left somewhere around here, before he came to the town itself. He peered ahead through the snowflakes.
And there it was. Two big wooden posts with a crossbar, the rustic-looking painted wood sign hanging down. Peconic Writing Colony.
The drive that led away from the road through the dense forest was piled high with snow. There was no way the bike would make it. He cut the engine and leaped from the motorcycle, pulling it off the road into the trees near the signpost. When he was several yards in, he lowered the kickstand. He quickly removed his helmet, chained the front tire, heaved the saddlebag from the seat and over his shoulder, and set off down the winding drive, slogging through foot-high piles of snow in the direction of the lake. As he made his way, placing each foot carefully before the other in the dark, his boots sinking before him, he looked down at his watch.
Eleven forty-five.
When “Dancing in the Dark” ended, she smiled and gently pulled away from him.
“Thank you,” he said.
“Anytime,” she replied.
Then Mike’s booming voice filled the room. “And now, folks, let’s get a jump on Valentine’s Day!”
The music began again. She stood there for a moment, rooted to the spot, not believing her ears. Then, an instant later, she remembered that she hadn’t told them that part of it. Mike and Gwen had only been given a rudimentary, sketchy version of her recent ordeal. She’d never mentioned Valentine’s Day, or the song, the significance of it. It wasn’t the Sarah Vaughan recording, but some woman was singing it, just the same.
“My Funny Valentine.”
The momentary shock passed, and she became aware that Richard Farnum was watching her face closely.
“What?” he whispered. “What is it?”
She regained her composure enough to shake her head. “Nothing. It’s nothing, really. I—I’m very tired. I think I’ll go back to my cabin now. . . .”
“Sure,” he said. “I’ll take you. Wait here a minute. You have that white wool coat, the one you were wearing earlier today, right?”
She nodded. Then she watched as he made his way swiftly through the crowd and bounded up the stairs to Gwen and Mike’s living quarters.
“Darling, are you all right? You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”
She turned in the direction of the voice. Gwen was now at her side, reaching out for her arm, a look of concern on her face.
“I’m okay,” she assured her friend, forcing herself to smile. “Just tired, that’s all. Richard’s gone to get our coats. I hate to desert you like this, but—”
“Oh, don’t worry. I understand. You go back to your cabin and get a good night’s sleep. This is probably going to go on for a while: Mike hasn’t made his way through half of his collection of old records yet, and he’s not going to stop till he’s played every last one of them!”
She found that she was laughing, laughing with Gwen as Richard arrived before her with their coats and the music once more crashed into her consciousness. Then he was helping her into her coat, and she was smiling rather foolishly around at everybody, and he was gently removing the flashlight from her hand.
“I’ll take that,” he said.
Gwen kissed her on the cheek. “Good night, darling. Sleep well.”
And he was taking her by the arm and leading her across the floor, through the crowd and out onto the porch, into the cold, snowy night.
He kept his hand clamped firmly to her elbow, flashing the powerful beam ahead of them as they made their slow, steady way through the mounting snowdrifts toward the path at the edge of the woods. She seemed calmer now that they were outside, and she even giggled once or twice as they slogged across the open field.
“I hope Gwen has a lot of sleeping bags handy,” she said, pointing. He looked in that direction, and they both laughed. The parking lot near the lake was covered, the van and the cars of the local guests nearly invisible.
“Oh, I’m sure everyone will manage,” he said.
They made it to the edge of the field and plunged into the darkness of the forest, moving slowly, carefully up the path toward Cabin 12.
The strains of the song followed them.
“I’m sorry to be such a spoilsport,” she said, peering forward into the beam from the torch to avoid running into the trees that loomed up at either side of the narrow path. “I hope you’ll find a good partner for the contest.”
“Oh, I think I’ve had enough dancing for one night,” came the voice from the dark beside her. “Besides, I’m a little tired, too. I’ll see you to your door, then I think I’ll call it a night.”
“Yes,” she said. “That’s probably best.”
“Just a few more steps and we’re there,” he said.
He could hear the music ahead of him, and he saw the lights through the trees. A party, he thought. They’re having some kind of party. He moved forward toward the parking lot at the end of the long, long driveway. He was at the edge of the forest now, looking out at the big main house and the snowy baseball field and the still, black lake.
Then he saw it, off to his left: the beam of a flashlight moving up the path through the trees. And he heard voices fairly close to him, a man’s and a woman’s.
Jill.
He stopped in the drive, clutching the helmet in his left hand, the saddlebag slung over his right shoulder. He looked at the house by the lake again, all lit up and shining in the snow. Everyone else is probably there, he thought. But Jill wasn’t there: she was walking away through the woods somewhere on his left. Walking with a man . . .
He left the road and plunged into the trees, in the direction of the flashlight beam and the voices.
“Well, here we are,” she said as they arrived at the door of Cabin 12. They stood together in the pool of light from the single bulb above the door. “Thank you for seeing me home.”
“Of course.” Richard Farnum smiled. “You don’t happen to have anything warm to drink in there, do you?”
“No,” she said. “Sorry. I just want to get to bed, really. Thanks again.”
