Astor Place Vintage: A Novel (30 page)

“She’s still here, though. You can keep trying.”

“True. The cancer hasn’t affected her thinking. She’s pretty sharp for ninety-eight.”

“She sure is.” Mrs. Kelly had told me her age, but I’d forgotten she was that old. Subtracting her age from 2007, I came up with 1909. It didn’t seem like Olive was about to get married and pregnant, but anything could happen. “I wonder if your grandmother is even aware this journal exists.”

“Yeah, it’s terrible how family history gets lost.”

The waitress returned with our gigantic plates of food. “Need anything else here?”

“We’re good,” Rob said.

“No, thanks,” I added, not that she was directing the question at me.

“Enjoy.” The waitress winked at Rob before leaving. She sure didn’t seem to think he was gay. Thank goodness restaurant etiquette precluded joining your customers at their tables.

I dug in. The eggs were soft and creamy—the biscuits light and buttery. Total comfort, except for the guilty conscience. “This is yummy,” I said. “How’s your steak?”

“It’s done perfectly.”

I was about to say I was glad I’d suggested the place. Then I remembered he’d invited me to come along and I’d turned him down. As we sat there eating, a gap in the conversation began to feel awkward. “So,” I said, “about the journal . . . I was gonna mention . . . of course I want to return it, but I was hoping to finish it first, if that’s okay with you.”

“Sure, take your time. I don’t know about my grandmother, but I’d definitely like to take a look at it. I bet my daughter would love to read it at some point, too.”

Damn. “You have a daughter?” I would’ve preferred gay over married. I smiled and stopped eating so he could see I appreciated how wonderful it was that he had a child. I was sure his wife appreciated that he was asking women out to dinner while helping to sell off his dying grandmother’s stuff. What an asshole. “What’s her name?”

“Betsy.”

“I love that name.” Was I a magnet for married men? “How old?”

“Ten.”

“That’s the best age,” I said, as if I knew.

“I’m a little afraid of what comes next.”

“Oh, you’ll be able to handle it. Or your wife will, anyway.” Of course he was taken. And like an idiot, I was giving him a makeover and planning my entire future around him. Why wasn’t he wearing a frickin’ ring? I bet he was gay and his wife was just a beard. That would mean he had two beards.

“It’s tough, because my wife actually died in a car accident a few years ago.”

“Oh.” I was a jerk. “I’m sorry.” Thank god he couldn’t read my callous, cruel, mean-spirited mind. “That must be hard on your daughter.”

“She’s doing pretty well, considering.”

“It must be rough for you, too.” I put down my fork and gave him a sympathetic look. At least he was available again. And not gay.

“I met my wife in California, and she has lots of family there, but I miss New York. I’m thinking about coming back, especially since it looks like I’ll be inheriting my grandmother’s apartment.
Along with my sister, of course, but she likes her split-level house with a pool in Jersey and has no interest in moving.”

Not gay, runs a successful business, owner of prime real estate. “It’s a nice apartment.”

“I just don’t know how well Betsy will adjust.”

“Oh, you know how resilient kids are.” That’s what people said, anyway. “You mentioned growing up in Gramercy Park. Where did you go to high school?”

“Dalton.”

“When did you graduate?”

“1984.”

So he was two years older than I was. I dropped some names, and it turned out we knew a few of the same people. We finished the rest of the meal, trading high school memories. It was possible we saw Debbie Harry perform at CBGB on the same night. When we were done eating, he offered to walk me home.

“You’re on my way, so I’ll walk you home,” I said.

He pulled out his wallet. “Then at least let me get the check.”

“Don’t be silly.”

“I did ask you out to dinner earlier.”

“And I said no. I should make amends and take you out.”

“Now you’re being silly.” He flagged the waitress for the check.

“Thanks, that’s very nice of you.” I wanted to say I’d pay next time, but would there be one?

He opened the door for me, and we walked down Third Avenue. “How long will you be in the city?” I asked.

“I’m flying out tomorrow.”

“So soon? What about your grandmother?”

“She has a really good live-in nurse, thank god, who just came back from vacation. And my sister checks in all the time. But I’ll be here again soon enough. There’s a lot that needs taking care of, and no telling how long Grandma will, you know . . .”

I nodded. “I bet your daughter misses you.”

“That she does.”

As we approached Jane Kelly’s building, I wondered if he might try to kiss me good night. We stopped in front of the curved driveway and faced each other. I thanked him again for the eggs.

“You’re welcome. And I guess you’ll be in touch about those clothes.”

“Yes, the ones on consignment. Absolutely.” Suddenly, I was scared by the idea of him kissing me. Not that there was any reason to think he would.

“Well . . .” He leaned toward me ever so slightly. Was he going to? No, it was just a nod. “Good night.”

“Good night.”

We parted ways. Maybe the idea of a kiss scared him, too.

AFTER FEEDING A
receipt into the tube, I looked up and nearly jumped out of my skin. Ralph Pierce, walking past, saw me the very moment I saw him. “Miss Westcott.”

“Mr. Pierce.”

His friendly smile faded as his eyebrows puckered with concern. “I heard about your father. I’m so sorry.”

“Oh, yes . . . thank you.”

“When my father told me what happened, I wanted to convey my sympathies. I contacted the Mansfield, but they said you’d moved and had no forwarding address.”

“I’m sorry. Circumstances changed and . . .” I trailed off with awkwardness.

“Please don’t apologize. I’m sure it’s been devastating. He was so young, and I could see the two of you were very close.”

“It has been hard.”

His eyes swept over the counter. “I see you’ve followed through
on your career plans. I’m impressed.” His tone was kind, with a touch of amusement.

“I seem to remember you disapprove of this environment.”

“Still. Lots of women wouldn’t have the gumption to go to work.”

“I had no choice.”

“Yes. Well, I should probably let you get back to it.”

“Yes,” I agreed, though no customer waited for my attention.

“Miss Westcott . . .” He hesitated. “Perhaps you’d allow me to call on you in the next few days.”

I imagined him in the dusty, dingy parlor of my boardinghouse. He wouldn’t be so impressed with my gumption then. “I don’t think that would be possible.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m terribly busy.”

“How about Saturday evening? Could I persuade you to dine with me?”

“Thank you, that’s very kind, but I have an engagement this Saturday.” It happened to be true. The producers of a Broadway show had donated tickets to the store’s employee association; once again Angelina had worked her magic with the social secretary.

“Perhaps the next Saturday?”

He was persistent. I wondered why. I couldn’t have made a good impression that first time we met. Perhaps he felt sorry for me. “I wouldn’t want you to be asking out of obligation.”

“I think we got off on the wrong foot that evening we met. I would be grateful if you’d give it another go.” He hung his head for a few moments and then looked back up at me uneasily. “To be perfectly honest, I’m going through a rough time of it. Nothing like what you’ve been through, but you see, I was recently engaged to a very nice girl from an excellent family—I’ve known her for years—and just last week I had a change of heart and called it off.”

“Oh my . . .”

“A lot of people happen to think I’m worth less than dirt right now. So I’d be honored if you’d keep me company over a good meal. And,” he added, “I’d wager your father would be pleased for you to keep a connection with Woolworth’s, even if it is one step removed.”

My resistance melted, and I consented. When he asked my address, I almost suggested meeting somewhere else. Then I decided there was no point in deceiving him. If he couldn’t accept the truth of my situation, then why bother with him?

The moment after he left, Sadie appeared by my side. “Who was that handsome gent flirting with you?”

“He wasn’t flirting. Just someone I used to know. He’s taking me to dinner.”

“See, you’ll be married in no time, all your worries behind you.”

“To him? Never. We don’t even get along.”

Sadie laughed. “Wait till he pays for your supper—you’ll see how easy getting along can be.”

—

Saturday night, Sadie and I arrived at the Empire Theatre on Broadway with the secret satisfaction of knowing everyone else had paid for admission while our tickets were free. Angelina was already waiting for us in the lobby. She looked stunning, if a bit showy, in a cobalt-blue dress with black lace trim. The cut emphasized her hourglass figure. Was it a gift from her gentleman friend? She’d made her gorgeous hat, a black boater adorned with two gracefully drooping ostrich plumes on a wide floppy brim.

Sadie was all gussied up in a pink ready-made dress trimmed with yellow ruffles along the hem and a matching sailor hat that sported a fat pink bow. It broke my heart to think how she’d scrimped and saved to buy the ensemble from a cheap shop on Fourteenth Street.

I wore the finest dress saved from my old wardrobe. This day marked my first chance to make use of the tailor-made green satin
with a contrasting purple sash wrapped around the empire waist. Purple rosettes circled the crown of my matching green Pamela hat. It had been such a long time since I’d felt pretty.

As we entered the auditorium, I observed how the theater had been designed, like the department stores, to flatter the middle-class patrons’ hunger for sumptuous upper-class surroundings. Plush velvet chairs and three tiers of boxes faced a vast stage. Carved golden cupids ornamented the ceiling, along with the largest chandelier I’d ever seen.

Our free admission included the privilege of sitting up in the second balcony. When Father used to take me to the theater, we always sat in the orchestra, preferably on the aisle, so he could stretch his long legs. Angelina took the seat between me and Sadie. I leaned forward to peer down at the orchestra section.

“Did you hear the latest?” Sadie said as we waited for the play to begin. “The Prince George Hotel threw Evelyn Nesbit out of her rooms. They said the other guests complained because she attracts too much attention.”

“Still?” I asked with amazement. It had been at least two months since the trial.

Angelina fanned her face with the program. “The judge is supposed to decide on her annulment suit next week.”

Sadie shook her head with disappointment. “I don’t see why she’d want to give up Harry Thaw, even if he is crazy. That family’s got a fortune.”

“Thaw’s mother probably forced her into it,” said Angelina.

“You think they still love each other?” Sadie asked.

No one had an answer to that. The play began, and I soon forgot where I sat. A woman secretary, played by the famous Eleanor Robson, marries her rich employer, played by a chubby middle-aged actor I’d never heard of. She moves into his Fifth Avenue mansion and promptly falls in love with the handsome
chauffeur. The dashing young actor who played him made most of the women in the audience fall in love, too.

After the show, we went to a low-priced restaurant that catered to the theater crowds. A hidden orchestra churned out show tunes loud enough to fill an auditorium, but the patrons seemed happy enough to scream over the noise to converse. The maître d’ led us to a table in a back room for women only. The air was muggy with steam heat.

Angelina and Sadie swooned over the menu even more than the actor. My mouth watered at the idea of steak and potatoes, though I knew the modest prices meant mediocre food. After ordering, we didn’t waste a moment before reaching into the bread basket.

“What did you think of the play?” I asked, spreading a thin layer of butter on my roll.

Angelina buttered her own piece of bread more generously. “The girl’s big mistake was getting married. Up until then she had everything she wanted.”

“Are you kidding?” Sadie tore her roll in half and dipped it directly in the butter pot. “If a rich man asks, I’ll marry ’im in a second. I’m tired of playing the game.”

I ate my roll slowly, savoring my first taste of real butter in weeks.

Angelina laughed. “You? Tired of good times? Going out?”

“I like having my boyfriends,” Sadie admitted, “but every year I get older, the odds get worse. I’m ready to be a one-man girl and raise babies. I even told my stockbroker friend to stop coming by.”

I finished swallowing before asking why.

She grinned. “I can’t stand kissing a man without a mustache.”

“Same here,” Angelina said. “Feels like kissing a baby’s bottom.”

Though I still didn’t know what a kiss on the lips felt like—with mustache or without—I smiled along in agreement.