Classic Love: 7 Vintage Romances (96 page)

“Not like what?” she asked, sharply.

He gave her a side glance. “Nothing … just better to remember a person at their best.”

“You said she didn’t suffer.”

“Went quick,” he said again, and stood by her chair admiring her salad. “Beautiful,” he enthused. “Eyecatching, just beautiful.”

It was a Salade Niçoise. She had raked the supplies for anchovy fillets, croutons, herbs and seasonings, had curled onion slices into pretty shapes, hard-boiled three eggs. “It does look nice,” she said contentedly, and got up to start on the dressing for it. Pompey started singing a hymn,
Rock of Ages
, and she took the second part. They finished that and then sang
From India’s Coral Strands.
The already bleak day darkened further and the kitchen clock said four and the pork roast sizzled in the oven.

Like always,
Margo thought. Except for one thing. Aunt Vicky would not appear for dinner, there would be that vacant chair, and nothing would ever be the same again. Victoria Brand was dead, dead and buried, and a once dear face was never to be seen again. The reality of it penetrated at last, and the pain was so acute that she felt faint, and then there was the sound of the front door opening and closing.

And a voice.

“It’s me.”

“Mr. John,” Pompey said matter of factly, and the footsteps came closer and he was standing there, someone she hadn’t seen for thirteen years. He came into the kitchen, rain-wet but looking unwilted in a summer-weight suit, tie impeccable.

She went over to him and he put his arms around her. “I came home early, soon as I found out you were here.”

“How did you know I was here, John?”

“How could I help it? You were spotted all along the line. Margo’s here, I was told.”

“Oh, come on, John.”

“All right, then. Pompey phoned me. Said you were damper than a wet hen and prettier than ever.”

“And you came home early. How nice of you, John.”

He stood off and looked at her. “Is this really that little girl?”

“Is this really that little boy?”

Remembering, remembering … the twins, all lithe, long legs and wiry bodies, beautifully shaped heads, tanned, firm skin and handsome features. “Almost
pretty
,” Aunt Vicky used to say. “With all that dark, gypsy hair …”

They
had
looked like gypsies. Wild and free and untamed. It was how she remembered them, and she had to smile, for John was anything but gypsy-looking now. He was the complete young attorney, tall and lean and immaculate, very sure of himself, easy in his manner, authoritative. For one fleeting moment she was able to isolate his head from the rest of him, and see once again the reckless, daring face of the young John, like that of a street Arab in some Renaissance painting … and then the vision vanished. He was once more the John Michaels of today.

“I’m so glad to see you,” she said.

“And I you. It must have been a great shock, Margo.”

“I was just so unprepared.”

“I wasn’t. Just the same it doesn’t hurt any the less.”

“I know, I know.”

“I’ll make drinks,” he said. “Come along.”

“Wonderful.”

They went into the living room, where John switched on a few lamps because, he said, “It’s such a dark day, maybe this will help a bit. Gin’s all right?”

“Yes, fine, Pompey made me a martini earlier.”

“Olive, twist or onion?”

“Twist, please.”

He made the pitcher of drinks and filled two glasses. “As for me, I go for olives,” he confessed, and handed her her glass. “Too dry, Margo?”

“No, just right. I’m glad you’re here, John, cheers to us both. How’s Mr. Bach?”

“Just fine. Pompous as ever, but underneath a dry sense of humor and fine character. He’s terrific to work with. He’s not your average small-town attorney, he’s got a first-rate brain, and he knows
law.
I couldn’t have asked for a better mentor.”

“I used to be afraid of him.”

“So was I.”

“With those
pince-nez
and the black cord dangling from them. And that voice way down in the cellar.”

“Not to mention the bone-crushing handshake.”

“Oh yes, that too.”

“Tell me about yourself, Margo. About your life abroad; I’d really like to hear about that.”

“Well, it was … years in school, you know, and — ”

“And growing up.”

“And growing up.” She smiled across at him. “In the meantime, you did too. And now here we are, adults, drinking martinis together.”

“And me wanting some liquid refreshment,” Pompey said, strolling in.

“I thought you were slaving over a hot stove.”

“Everything’s under control, Mr. John.”

“What’s wrong with the cooking sherry?”

“Now you just pour me one of those, young man.”

He took a swallow of the drink John handed him and leaned back. “Nice to see you two together,” he remarked. “Been a lot of years, and a lot of water under the bridge. I can’t get over you being so tall, Miss Margo. You were always such a little thing, like a canary.”

“Oh, Pomp, your memory’s gone back on you,” John laughed. “She was a great, strapping girl and she ate like a hog.”

“I can’t remember what I was like,” she said, and they sat there talking quietly until Pompey caught sight of the clock on the mantel, and sprang up.

“Got to shuck that corn now,” he said, and started issuing orders. “Mr. John, you take your shower, get all clean and refreshed, and Miss Margo, I’ll take your bags up now.”

“I’ll do that,” John said. “Come on, Margo, you’ll want to wash up too. We’ll have another drink when we come down. Pompey, keep your eye on that roast, it smells damned good.”

“Slaughter in the pan,” Pompey announced. “Pork chops and apple slices and little potatoes.”

“That sounds like something to look forward to,” John said, and led Margo up the lovely stairway, with its bull’s-eye newel posts and exquisite spool carving on the verticals. “I’m directly over you on the top floor,” he told her. “I’ll try not to thump about with my big feet. Doug always says I dig my heels in when I walk. There’s a telephone on the landing right outside your room.”

He pointed it out, on top of a small table over which hung a framed sampler done by a child of another century: GOD BLESS OUR HOME. “I have my own number,” he explained. “A lawyer is like a doctor, calls frequent and sometimes very late at night. I couldn’t inflict that on Aunt Vick.”

He held her hand for a moment and then released it.

“Well, Margo,” he said quietly, “it’s been a long time, and I’m sorry you had to come back, after all this time, to — ”

He didn’t finish. Simply lugged her bags inside her room, patted her shoulder, and went to the door. Just outside he turned.

“It’s changed all our lives,” he said. “You must know that. Nothing will ever be the same again.”

He closed the door and she stood there uncertainly, glancing vacantly around her “old room,” with its tester bed, walnut
armoire
, chest on chest, lowboy and
semainier
, and all the rickety little Hepplewhite chairs, and the prints on the walls, and the great mirror topped by the American eagle, and the twin lamps made out of cobble-glass, and the daisy wallpaper old and faded. The same wallpaper … nothing had changed, not even the wallpaper.

She stood there, looking out at the rain-drenched twilight.

So it was true, Aunt Vicky was really dead.

When she went downstairs again, after changing, there was someone in the living room. A girl sitting on one of the sofas, leafing through a magazine. She saw Margo, threw down the magazine, and stood up.

“Do you remember me?” she asked.

“I’m embarrassed,” Margo confessed. “I don’t seem to — ”

“Norma Calvet.”

Again the past. The mousy little girl from the wrong side of the tracks. An absentee father and a mother who whiled away lonely hours in cheap bars. Norma Calvet …

The mousy little girl was mousy no longer. She was, in fact, breathtaking. She had height, a willowy body, eyes like jewels. She was wearing a simple banlon dress, tied at the waist, and her long legs ended in sandals that showed off lovely, tanned feet with curved toes and lacquered nails.

Doug and John and Margo and Norma … all those summers ago.
We smelled like children then
, Margo thought,
dusty and sweaty and faded blue jeans the worse for wear and the soles of our feet black from the dust of country roads …

And now we’re women, perfume-scented …

“Norma, it’s such a pleasure,” she said, and meant it wholeheartedly. “How wonderful of you to drop over.”

“As soon as I heard you were here. Margo, darling, I’m so terribly sorry about your aunt. I had become such good friends with her. I can imagine how you feel. And John. She was like a mother to him. Margo, I just want to say that I did everything I could. I read to her, and bought her those cocoanut candies she liked so much. She was always so kind to me. My childhood wasn’t very pleasant, and she was always so kind to me.”

“She was kind to everyone in her orbit,” Margo said. “She was a very unusual woman.”

“John’s taking it like a man, but I know it’s a frightful adjustment. Poor boy, his eyes are so sad.”

And Margo, assessing, thought,
There’s something between them, Norma and John. Well, why not? She’s very lovely-looking.
“You’ll stay for dinner, won’t you?” she said.

“Thanks, Margo, I was hoping you’d ask.”

Why, she’s become charming,
Margo thought.
Manners like a duchess, if you please. And a frank, engaging twinkle in her eyes.
She remembered the forlorn little girl with the upstate twang. No longer the twang: her speech was perfect.

“What are you doing these days?” she asked.

“I work for Mr. Bach, I’m his secretary. My dear, I could tell you some stories … the things people tell their lawyers! Things they wouldn’t tell their best friend.” She laughed infectiously. “You know … up state author rips lid off staid old country town. Rape, incest, you name it. Get me drunk enough some day and I’ll give you the low-down.”

“Naming names too?”

“Have to get me
very
drunk for that.”

When John came down they were sitting on the sofa, tittering. “And then this
very
proper pillar of the Methodist church threw their infant son’s potty at his wife, with the result that she was in the hospital a week with a mild concussion and three broken ribs and a fractured elbow, because he threw the potty a second time. She happens to be an ex-prostitute from Buffalo, though that’s only known to our firm; if the Commonwealth knew there’d be
such
a scandal. Oh, here comes John; he’d have a fit if he knew I was divulging the secrets of our trade. Do let’s be ladylike.”

She crossed her legs elegantly and when John came into the room, was saying, “That school in Switzerland, was it very posh, my dear?”

“
Very.
Daughters from minor royal houses, and those of film actresses.”

“Covered with money from top to toe.”

“You betcha.”

“Hello, girls,” John said, looking well-washed and cool, in white pants and a striped blue shirt open at the throat. “Like old times, isn’t it?”

Looking up, stunned, Margo could scarcely believe her ears. What a
heartless
remark … just like old times …

After all, it was anything
but
like old times. The guiding spirit of this house was gone. And, she thought wonderingly, John’s eyes didn’t look all that sad to
her.
If he was indeed grieving, as Norma had said, it didn’t particularly show. He stood at the liquor cart, a hand dashing back his dark, thick hair, and filled glasses from the martini pitcher. There was a cigarette between his lips now; he squinted against the smoke and brought their glasses over, very much the man of the house. Leaning against the mantel, his drink in a well-kept hand, he was the epitome of a “gentleman at ease,” Margo reflected, putting the phrase into quotes in her mind. Handsome, lean, composed, he stood there, and with a pleasant smile, said, “To you both.”

“Even in fatigues you look elegant, John,” Margo said. The words came out by themselves. She was aware that they had a tart tone.

“Compliment or criticism?” he asked, with the same pleasant smile.

“Compliment, of course.”

“As for you,” he said, “you’d look good in a gunny sack.”

“Compliment or criticism, John?”

“Compliment, of course.”

“Would you mind telling me I’d look good in a gunny sack?” Norma asked. “Just so my nose won’t be out of joint.”

“You’d look good in a gunny sack,” he said dutifully.

“It loses something in the repetition,” she said, grinning.

“Then let it be a lesson to you.”

“You can’t win with John,” Norma asserted, and turning to Margo, said substantially what John had said earlier in the day. “Tell me about your life abroad. We’re the stay at homes; you must have had multifold adventures.”

“You must have had too,” Margo objected. “We all have our adventures, it doesn’t matter where they happen.”

“I’m not sure about that,” John said. “I’ve never been beyond the eastern seaboard. No time for travel. I hope there will be now.”

Once more she scored against him, lifting her head suspiciously. Why would there be time now? Because Aunt Vicky was dead? She swallowed, gulping down her anger and bewilderment.

“That’s plain silly,” she cried. “European travel is far less expensive than American travel. Ask any European who comes here for a good time. They leave their shirts here. Whereas in Europe you can go first class everywhere and manage very well. What’s keeping you, John?”

“Well, of course there was Aunt Vick, she hasn’t been well for several years.”

“It’s so odd. I talked to her just last week and she sounded super.”

“Oh, no,” he said. “She’s been failing for some time. Tell her, Norma.”

“Yes, it’s true,” Norma agreed. “A very slow and very sad decline. She was frail this year, her face paper-white. The doctor said — ”

Pompey poked his head in the door and said dinner was ready, come in before everything was burnt to a crisp.