Pages of Promise (17 page)

She was staying at the Hamilton House, and when they met in the lobby the next evening, Jake embraced her briefly and kissed her cheek, then studied her with approval. “I see you’ve been bargain hunting at the thrift shops again,” he said solemnly. Stephanie’s dress was a simple but elegant shirtdress made of a light rose silk. It had long sleeves, a narrow cloth belt around the waist, and came to just above her knees. The top of the dress was covered by a short off-white sweater that sparkled with beads, braid, and ribbon embroidery. She looked beautiful in it, though he would not tell her so. He was wearing a charcoal gray flannel suit with narrow shoulders and lapels, and the trousers were also of a narrow cut and had cuffs. His shirt was a light gray silk, and he wore a gray-and-black striped tie that peeked out of the buttoned jacket and a new black fedora purchased for the occasion. Stephanie smiled at him and said, “You look nice, too. I like that suit. My dad would say you look good enough to be buried in it some day.”

“Thanks a lot,” Taylor grinned. “You say the nicest things.”

“Just like you.”

They went to dinner at the most outlandish restaurant Stephanie had ever seen. Jake insisted on taking her to the Forum of the Twelve Caesars. When they were seated and looked around, Stephanie’s eyes opened wide. “This isn’t a restaurant, it’s ancient Rome!”

Laughing under his breath, Taylor nodded. “Two fellas called Baum and Brody bought portraits of twelve Roman emperors, and they made up their minds that New York was a whole lot like imperial Rome. So they set about replicating the Appian Way—that’s what we passed in the vestibule—and did you see the waiters? They’re all wearing togas!”

Stephanie looked at the wine bottles in ice buckets shaped like Roman helmets and said, “I think it’s a bit much.”

The waiter came, and Stephanie wanted to giggle, for he had hairy, pudgy legs. She studied the menu and was amused by it. There was “Fiddler Crab a la Nero: The noblest Caesar salad of them all” and “Sirloin in red wine, marrow, and onions, a Gaelic recipe Julius collected while there on business.” Finally she tossed the menu down and said, “You order, Jake.”

“Bring us each a sirloin, medium well, salad with Italian dressing, and a baked potato.”

The waiter looked at him as if he were a strange being from outer space, and his lips grew tight. “Very well, sir, if you insist.”

“I think you hurt his feelings, Jake,” Stephanie said as the waiter walked away.

“Well, he hurt mine with that idiotic menu.”

The food was good though the atmosphere was bizarre. They chatted through dinner about Stephanie’s family, Jake’s new position, Stephanie’s work, and politics.

“Do you believe Communism can be as pervasive as Senator McCarthy says? He hasn’t produced any convincing evidence,” Stephanie said.

“He is a spellbinder, though. The senate seems to think he might be on to something. Did you see where they voted $214,000 for his investigation of Communism in the government?”

“No, I missed that tidbit.”

After the restaurant, they went to see
The Crucible,
Arthur Miller’s new play about the Salem witch trials, which gave them further food for thought about hysteria and fear and Senator McCarthy. When they got to Stephanie’s hotel, Jake saw her to her door. She turned and said, “It was a lovely evening. It seemed nice to see you and to get caught up on what you’ve been doing.”

Taylor seemed preoccupied and somewhat downcast. Stephanie inquired, “What’s the matter, Jake?”

“I’ve missed you,” he said.

“I’ve missed you, too.”

“You never really said, but I got the idea that you left because of me.”

“I thought it would be too uncomfortable for both of us if I stayed around.”

“Maybe you’re right. Can I ask you something, though? As a reporter I just want to make sure I understand.”

“Of course. As a reporter.” Stephanie was puzzled. She hadn’t known what to expect of this evening.

He looked her directly in the eye. “You gave me two reasons why you wouldn’t marry me. Neither of them was because you didn’t love me. Is that correct?”

Her face felt stiff. “Yes, I’d have to say that’s correct,” she whispered.

“So, again, just to be sure I get the story straight, you wouldn’t marry me, but you were in love with me. Are you still? Or have you gotten over it?”

“No comment,” she whispered hoarsely. She turned quickly to go in, but he stopped her, turned her face to him. He looked into her eyes, his face very close. He ran his finger lightly over her lower lip. Stephanie was in tears then, and so was Jake. He blotted her tears gently with the back of his hand. Neither could speak. He kissed her lightly, opened the door for her, then gave a wave and a semblance of a smile, and turned toward the elevator.

She regained her composure enough to call out in a stage whisper, “See you tomorrow?”

He nodded, then was gone.

On the third day of Stephanie’s stay in New York, she got a phone call from her father. “Did you know Bobby’s there in New York doing a performance? He’s at the Imperial Theater. It’d be nice if you could go by and see him.”

Stephanie called Jake, saying, “Bobby is performing here in New York. I’d like to go see him. Will you go with me?”

“Sure.” He paused and said with a stern tone, “But I don’t want you mauling me after we get home like you did last night.” There was silence on Stephanie’s end, and he imagined the flush rising to her cheeks and laughed aloud. “It’s all right. You’re safe enough. I’d like to hear your brother perform again.”

The Imperial was headlined by a group called Bill Haley and the Comets. Haley’s name was outside on the marquee and, in much smaller letters, three other names. One of them was Bobby Stuart.

They entered the theater and looked around. Taylor said, “I feel like a grandpa in here. Why, these are all kids, Stephanie.”

Stephanie was also struck by the youthful crowd. There were some as young as twelve or thirteen, she estimated. The girls wore short skirts and saddle shoes or penny loafers. The boys were lean and undernourished-looking, for the most part.

“I see what you mean. I have no idea what to expect.”

The two found their seats. First up was a trio who gyrated a great bit and sang nonsensical lyrics at the top of their voices.

“I don’t think these kids will replace Frank Sinatra or Perry Como,” Taylor murmured.

The next act was a young woman who had a good voice, indeed, and sang songs such as Stephanie had never heard before.

“That’s New Orleans jazz,” Taylor said. “Got a lot of the blues in it, too, from Memphis. She’s good.”

The emcee came forward and quieted the crowd and said, “And now, here is Bobby Stuart!”

Stephanie had heard Bobby sing and play many times, but not recently. He was twenty, but she thought he still looked seventeen. He had auburn hair and large, direct eyes, and there was an assurance about him as he came out and went at once to the baby grand piano. Without sitting down or even greeting the audience, he ran his fingers across the keyboard and began to pound out a wild beat and to sing a song that Stephanie had never heard before. The crowd began to cheer, evidently familiar with it, and Stephanie leaned over and said, “I guess this is what they call ‘rockabilly.’”

Jake was studying the young man, watching his assurance and poise and listening to the music. He turned to Stephanie and said quietly, “Well, he’s got it, kid. Sex appeal, charisma, whatever you want to call it. Some people practice a lifetime and can’t even get mild applause. Others, like Crosby and Sinatra, all they have to do is step out on a stage, and they’ve got the audience crying for them. Your brother’s going places in this business.”

The crowd demanded that Bobby come back again and again, and finally the emcee came forward and said, “Well, folks, I can see how you feel about Bobby Stuart. He’ll be having his own concert the first thing you know. Now, it’s time for Bill Haley and the Comets!”

Stephanie did not really pay much heed to the group that played. They were clean-cut young men who had a great beat, but she was thinking about Bobby and wondering where he was headed with his career.

Stephanie wanted to go backstage after the performance, so Jake took her by the arm and firmly brushed by those assigned to protect the performers, holding up his press card and saying, “Hearst Papers.” This proved to be an open sesame.

They found Bobby sharing a small dressing room. He had put on his street clothes, and he opened the door immediately when they knocked. “Steph! I’m so glad you made it. Mom called and said you might be here. How are you?” He hugged her and kissed her on the cheek, then turned to look at the man beside her. “Is that Jake with you? He looks like an FBI agent.”

“No, they look much better than I do,” Jake said. “Most of them are lawyers, college graduates. I’m just your sister’s bodyguard this trip.”

Bobby laughed. He was still energized from his reception by the fans. He said at once, “Come on! I’m starved to death. Let’s go get something to eat.”

They went out to a little restaurant where Bobby ate enormous portions of spaghetti, while the other two toyed with their food. There was an electricity about him that he could not seem to turn off. When he’d finished eating, he talked rapidly about his music and about different places he had been.

“I’m gonna have my own concert. It won’t be as big as this one, but it’ll be a start. I wish you could be there, Sis, for my solo.”

“I’m going back to London in a couple more days, but maybe Mom and Dad and Richard can come. Where will it be?”

“Memphis,” he said. “It’s where a lot of this music starts. The blues had their birth there, not far from New Orleans. But tonight we leave for Detroit.” He grew thoughtful then and stared at Stephanie. “How are you doing?”

“I’m doing fine,” she said and started to tell him about her UN assignment.

Jake interrupted, “I made a good reporter out of her. She didn’t know a thing when I got her, but I taught her everything she knows.”

Bobby grinned, liking the reporter very much. This was obvious to Stephanie. She brought Bobby up to date on her work in London and her part in the trip to New York to interview Hammarskjöld. “I won’t even get to meet him; I just do background research for the interviewer and write up his notes. I’m filing some other reports on the UN’s activities, though.”

When they parted, Bobby said, “Take care of yourself, Sis.”

“And you take care of yourself, Bobby,” Stephanie said, hugging and kissing him. “Write to me.”

Jake and Stephanie spent the next afternoon seeing some of the sights in New York—the Empire State Building, the Chrysler Building—and taking the ferry to see the Statue of Liberty. In the evening, they had supper at a sidewalk cafe, then rode through Central Park in a horse-drawn carriage.

At her door, he put his arms around her and held her close. She was returning to London the next day. “When will I see you again?” he asked.

“Don’t ask, Jake. Maybe never.”

He looked in her face and smiled. “Maybe I’m a romantic after all. I believe true love will conquer all.”

“Sometimes it doesn’t. You know that, Mr. Hardboiled Reporter. Remember what happened to Romeo and Juliet.”

He saw she was near tears. He bent his head and kissed her, lingeringly, then longingly.

She felt something virile and strong and heady in his embrace and in his kiss, and she put her arms up around his neck. She clung to him, pulling even closer. All the world faded away, and she was aware only of this man, this moment, and the love she felt for him.

Some sense of propriety returned. She removed her arms from his neck and put her hands on his chest and pushed him back. His arms were still around her, and she breathed with difficulty as she looked up into his eyes.

Taylor shrugged. “You mad at me?”

“I guess not, but—” she halted, composing herself, and then said, “you must never do it again.”

“I know. You don’t trust yourself, do you, Steph?” He smiled broadly.

Stephanie’s face grew red, for she knew he was well aware of her capitulation, and it made her angry. “Good night, Jake.”

Taylor reacted to the anger in her tone and said, “You don’t have to treat me like I’m Attila the Hun, and you don’t have to be afraid of me.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” Stephanie said defiantly.

He turned and walked to the elevator, angry too. But by the time the door opened he was over it, and as he got in he raised his hand and said,
“Chemain de Fer.”

She looked at him quizzically. “I don’t understand French,” she said. “What does that mean?”

“It means railroad,” he said. “Road of iron.”

Stephanie laughed. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“I know, but it’s all the French I know. Good night, Steph.”

As it turned out, Stephanie’s departure was so rushed as to prevent a long good-bye—there were many details that at the last moment became her responsibility. She was both relieved and unhappy as the DC–3’s props began to warm up for takeoff. She offered a prayer of thanks that she’d gotten a job that would keep her away from Jake, because she felt that if she’d remained anywhere near him she’d have married him, right or wrong, no matter what the obstacles between them. “I want to do what you say is right, Lord, even if it’s hard.”
And
it is hard,
she thought, tears welling up in her eyes.

10
“F
IND A
C
AUSE
W
ORTH
L
IVING
F
OR
!”

R
ichard entered the country store. Behind the counter Phineas Morgan was cutting a thick wedge of yellow hoop cheese with a large knife. He tore a length of brown paper from a roll, carefully wrapped the cheese, and sealed it with tape. His customer took a long swig from the chocolate Nehi he was holding, handed over a dollar bill and took his change, then ambled out, the cheese under his arm and his left thumb hooked under the support of his bib overalls.

Moving along through the stacks of clothes, shoes, pots and pans, tools, and food items, Richard picked up a can of Hershey’s chocolate syrup and smiled, then moved back to the counter. He added four cans of pork and beans, two packages of weenies plus the buns to go with them, and half a dozen bottles of Nehi strawberry drink.