An Independent Woman (11 page)

She walked through the house, long, stamping strides.
Why do I stay in this ridiculous old shack? Why don't I go to England? I haven't been to England in years. Why don't I go to Australia? I've never been to Australia
.

She picked up the telephone and called Eloise. “Eloise,” Barbara said abruptly, “would you go to Australia?”

“What on earth for?”

“With me. Would Adam let you?”

“Adam is not my keeper. Why on earth do you want to go to Australia?”

“I've never been there.”

“That's no reason. I've never been to Syria, and I certainly don't want to go there. Barbara, you're babbling. What is wrong with you?”

“I have a letter. I want to read it to you.” Then she read the letter to Eloise, and Eloise replied that it was a lovely letter.

“You don't think it's absurd?”

“No. The man wants to have dinner with you. It's a perfectly nice, decent letter. He's the minister at the church you went to, isn't he? He says he's a single, lonely man. Why shouldn't you have dinner with him?… Does this have anything to do with your trip to Australia?”

“No. I'm not going to Australia.”

“Why? Because I won't go with you? Barbara, dear, I'd love to go somewhere—but Australia?”

“No, no, I'm sorry, darling. I'm not myself.”

“Barbara—”

“I'm perfectly all right,” Barbara assured her. “This whole thing about Australia is just a crazy notion.”

“Barbara, do you want me to drive in and talk to you?”

“No, I'm fine.”

Or am I?
she asked herself as she put down the telephone. She picked up the letter again. Then she dialed the number of the Unitarian church. A woman's voice answered, and Barbara tried to remember her name—Reba something.

She told Reba-something her name and asked whether she could speak to Philip Carter.

“Give me a moment, Ms. Lavette, he's staining a rostrum.” And then Barbara heard her shout, “Phil, I have Barbara Lavette on the telephone!”

A few seconds went by, and then he was on the phone. “Ms. Lavette. You must forgive me for that silly letter. I'm afraid I don't know how to address a woman and ask her to dinner—I've never done it before—I mean, except for my wife. Will you have dinner with me?”

“Certainly. I'm baby-sitting tonight, but tomorrow, if that's clear for you?”

“Friday. Of course. When should I pick you up?”

“Seven?”

“Good. Yes.”

“I'm on Green Street. The number—”

“I know the number. Then tomorrow, at seven. Is there any special place you'd like to eat?”

“I'll leave that up to you.”

“Wherever you choose.”

“Good. Then I'll see you tomorrow.”

He sounded like a young boy on his first date, Barbara thought. Well, it is his first date. Five years without taking a woman to dinner—or to bed, I imagine. Now what have I gotten into
? She went to a mirror and examined herself thoughtfully. Not too many wrinkles, considering her age. She wore her white hair pulled back and clasped at her neck, but wouldn't it look better if she simply combed it out and let the cowlick shape it? She tried that and shook her head.
Too young, much too young, Barbara
. She retreated from the mirror, and then turned around quickly, trying to see herself as a stranger.
Well, I rather like it
. She decided that she would wear it that way tonight and note her son Sam's reaction. Then she reversed the thought. Sam would scowl. She would not be pushed around by Sam. His comment about having her committed had been teasing but utterly thoughtless, and like all surgeons she had ever met, he was dictatorial, convinced that surgeons were the chosen of God. She recalled his irritation when Sally came to him to find someone to do a face-lift. Her husband, Joe, a general practitioner, had bridled at the thought, so she went to Sam, who told her sourly that she was beautiful enough and that she did not need a face-lift; she had found her own surgeon, and fortunately he was a good one. Sam's wife, Mary Lou, was a gentle, submissive Southern girl who was totally willing to wear her hair, or anything else, exactly as Sam desired.

Barbara's hair was cut shoulder length, and unlike most straight hair, it was thick and still lustrous. Once it had been a fine honey color, and Barbara had always delighted in it; but most of its turning white had happened in the six months after Carson's death, and Barbara, deeply depressed, had had no thought of touching up the white streaks. As with all slow changes, she had looked into the mirror one day and realized it: She had gone white. She rather liked it; it set a seal on Carson's departure. He would be the last man in her life; she'd had enough of marriage and men, and now it was over.

Yet she could not help thinking of how good Sally had looked after the face-lift. Sally was only twelve years younger than Barbara, yet when they walked on the Embarcadero, men's heads turned to look at her, not at Barbara.

It was Barbara who made that distinction. Her eyesight was still good—not 20—20, but good enough for walking if not for driving—yet she insisted on wearing her glasses. Sally once whispered to her, via Dorothy Parker, “Men don't make passes at girls who wear glasses,” and somewhere in Barbara's mind that must have stuck. She had not worn her glasses when she spoke to Philip Carter.

But she would never have a face-lift. As she said once to Eloise, she had earned every wrinkle, not on the sands of some Hawaiian beach, but under the hot sun of North Africa during World War II; and. as for her hair, she would comb it out and wear it that way—let Sam say whatever he would. She sensed the contradictions and the general confusion of her thoughts, and admitted to herself that in spite of her initial reaction to the letter, she was quite excited about tomorrow's evening.

F
REDDIE HAD NOT EXACTLY
picked up Judith Hope, but on the other hand, he had not exactly been introduced to her. He had gone into the bar at the Fairmont, and every table was taken except one, where a black woman sat alone. She was a good-looking woman, indeed a beautiful woman, and her face was somehow familiar. He stood and tried not to stare at her while he searched his mind. The name came to him, and he walked to her table and said, “Aren't you Judith Hope?”

She looked up at him with a glint of amusement in her eyes. “I don't think we've met.”

“No. Quite true. But your picture was on my desk last week, and I took the liberty—”

“Why was my picture on your desk, if I may ask?”

“May I sit down?”

“I'm waiting for someone. He should be here very soon.”

“Until he comes?” Freddie asked.

She scrutinized him carefully, head to foot, and he had the feeling that she was stripping him down to his bones. Then she nodded, and he took the chair facing her. “I'm a vintner, Ms. Hope.”

“You sell wine?”

“We own a winery, my father and I, out in the Napa Valley.” He was struck by the fact that she knew the precise meaning of
vintner.
“We grow the grapes, make the wine, bottle it, and sell it. We're not a very big operation, but we do some advertising.” He placed one of his business cards on the table in front of her. “We've never dealt with the Nob Hill Agency; they're too big for us; but they're after our business, and Frank Fellish over there sent me a stack of photos, yours among them. When I saw your photo, an idea struck me. I feel we make the best Cabernet in America, and I thought,
Why not use a beautiful black model and pitch the ad to the black middle class?
”

A long moment passed, and then she said, smiling slightly, “And are you going to?” She didn't drop her eyes to look at his card.

“I'm afraid not. Your price is out of our league.”

“You're not here to talk my price down, are you?”

“For heaven's sake, no. I saw you, and I wanted to meet you and talk to you.”

“Why?”

“Why not?” Freddie persisted. “I'm not married and looking to cheat on my wife. You're a beautiful and interesting woman.”

“Thank you. But you're white and I'm black.”

“I happened to notice that,” Freddie said. “Does that mean you can't talk to me?”

“Certainly not. I talk to all sorts of people. By the way, what is your name, Mr. Vintner?”

“Frederick Lavette.”

She raised a brow at that. “One of the great Lavette family?”

“Not great, but we are a family.”

“And that's a virtue these days. And now that we've been introduced, Mr. Lavette… ?”

“Would you have dinner with me?”

“Possibly. Where and when?” She slipped his card into her purse, and glanced behind him.

“Thursday, here,” Freddie said. “Seven o'clock, in the lobby.” He pushed back his chair and turned around. A short, well-dressed black man was approaching their table, and since she said nothing to Freddie to make him stay or to introduce him, he walked on past the small man, who nodded and went on to the table where Judith Hope sat. Freddie caught her eyes again as he left the bar, and at least it appeared to him that she nodded slightly. He recognized the black man as Jerry Delrio, the jazz pianist.

And now it was Thursday, a week later, and Freddie had been waiting for Judith Hope for twenty minutes in the lobby of the Fairmont, and he was ready to give up, afraid that he would never see her again. Then his fears were set at rest as she appeared at the entrance to the hotel, and Freddie realized that he had only seen her seated, never standing. She was at least six feet tall, wearing a white sheath, a loosely woven ruana wrapped around her shoulders, her height enhanced by two-inch heels. As she swept into the lobby, all eyes turned toward her, and Freddie stretched his six-foot, two-inch length as he went to meet her.

She took his hand, smiled her slightly ironic smile, and regretted being late. “You will forgive me, Mr. Vintner?”

“There is nothing to forgive,” Freddie said gallantly. “Waiting for you is part of the pleasure of seeing you.”

“Very nice.”

“I try,” Freddie said.

The headwaiter was all smiles. “Mr. Lavette, I have your special table. And Ms. Hope, a pleasure to see you again.”

Again, all eyes were on them, and Freddie speculated that by tomorrow, this would be the prime discussion at Highgate as well as in various places in the City. With dinner, Freddie ordered a bottle of Cabernet—”Highgate, you know.”

“As if I didn't know.” The waiter smiled.

Ms. Hope ordered a small New York steak and a salad.

“I don't drink red wine,” she said.

“We have a Highgate Sylvaner,” the waiter suggested.

“Sylvaner?”

Freddie waited, watching her keenly.

“I don't think so. I don't like German wines. Too sweet.”

Score one for her
, Freddie thought, and said gently, “Not German, my dear. Alsatian—that is, in the original. We keep the European names, I don't know why, but this is a Napa Valley vintage, much drier than the Alsatian.”

“Let me call the sommelier,” the waiter said, not willing to get into a discussion of wine on this level. The sommelier was a grandly stout man, with a red apron and a set of keys dangling from a leather belt.

“I suggested our Sylvaner,” Freddie explained, “but the young lady prefers something drier.”

“With steak,” Ms. Hope said sweetly. “I know it's odd, but I can't tolerate red wine.”

“Perfectly natural,” Freddie said. “I often feel that way myself.” The sommelier frowned at this desecration but smiled quickly and suggested a Chardonnay.

“French, please.”

“Of course. We have a Château Lemaire 1977—an excellent vintage.” Freddie, who knew the wine list, recalled that a Château Lemaire 1977 was priced at sixty dollars a bottle, but he joined in the approbation, swallowing his distaste for any wine not grown in California. As for Château Lemaire 1977, he considered it dry to the point of sour and a highly overrated wine.

The meal, however, went well. Freddie turned on all of his charm, and bit by bit, he was able to break down the wall of distrust and sarcasm. He learned that she had a degree from Berkeley, a master's in business management; that her father was a dentist in Oakland; and that when she applied for her first job, at a tire factory, they had decided that they preferred her as a symbol for their product.

“They wanted to break into the black trade—blacks buy a lot of used cars and they're a good market for tires. But when I appeared at the Nob Hill Agency—they handle Magnum Tires—my business career was over. That was seven years ago.”

“And today you're the highest-priced model in California.”

“So they tell me.”

“And you don't wear a wedding ring.”

“Why should I? I'm not married. Are you, Freddie?”

“No. I'm divorced. But you—you're one of the most beautiful women I've ever seen.”

“Well, flattery helps. You don't know much about colored folk, do you, Freddie?”

“No, not very much. But I'm willing to learn.”

She leaned back, looking at him thoughtfully. They had each of them consumed most of their bottles of wine. Freddie was not obviously drunk, but he had that alcoholic feeling of being very clever, very charming, very desirable.

“Are you a good learner?”

Freddie shrugged.

“Tell me, child,” she said, “do you own this great winery of yours?”

“No. I suppose I will someday. My father, Adam Levy, owns it.”

“Oh, are you Jewish?”

“Does that matter?”

“Why should it matter? I'm black, in case you haven't looked at me closely.”

“Oh, believe me, I have. No, I'm not Jewish, although I just as soon would be. My father was Thomas Lavette. My mother divorced him and married Adam Levy. I came with the package.”