It Stings So Sweet (33 page)

My voice
wobbles. “Then maybe neither of us is very good for the other, are we?”

CHAPTER

Ten

The next morning, I catch a glimpse of Clara in the
lobby surrounded by an entourage of valets and porters carrying more shopping bags and hatboxes than
any one woman should ever need. Having returned from her trip to Cape Cod, she’s ornamented with a
glamorous wide-brimmed hat topped with a wild puff of yellow flowers. She sweeps right past me, then
stops, causing several members of the hotel staff to crash into one another.

“Sophie!” Clara
kisses both my cheeks, bu
t I realize that’s just a show for the onlookers when she hisses. “So what’s
the idea giving Robert the icy mitt? He’s crazy about you and you’re breaking his heart. You’ve
got him all balled up about—”

I turn away to hide sudden tears and shake my head, miserably.
The estrangement with Robert is more than I can bear; I don’t think I can take being bawled out by
her, too.

“Oh, don’t cry!” she says, pulling a handkerchief from somewhere inside the complicated
folds of her dress. “I can’t take it when anybody else cries because then I start to cry, too.”
She gives the handkerchief to me and I dab at the corners of my eyes, afraid I’m going to break down
right here in the hotel with everyone watching.

“Let’s duck into the ice cream shop and get
away from the crowd,” she says, and just like that, she abandons everything and everyone to usher me
into a leather booth where I try valiantly to compose myself.

“Oh, Sophie, I was all set to
blister your ears but good. But now I see that you’re just as balled up as he is. I don’t understand
why! Is it my fault? Is it what we did? That was just a little harmless fun . . .”

“No,” I
say, sniffling into her gardenia-scented hanky. “It wasn’t that. That was . . . a wonderful evening.
It isn’t you or Leo or Robert, or even the three of you together—”

“Oh, hell, we’ve had our
good times but I can keep my paws off him. Robert’s a swell fella, but he’s not
my
fella. In the
end, I swear to you, Leo’s the only one for me . . .”

“No, I mean it. It isn’t about the three
of you. It’s just that Robert is—”

“Rich and handsome? Witty and urbane? I can see how a girl
might hesitate to
settle
for that . . .”

She’s needling me. She doesn’t have to tell me his
virtues and in truth, she’s only talking about the ones on the surface. The aspects of Robert I love
most aren’t obvious to most people. Like his kindness, his compassion, and his genuine interest in
providing for people. “There’s nothing wrong with Robert,” I stoutly insist. “It’s just that . . .
he proposed marriage to me.”

“The rat bastard!” she cries and every yellow flower on her hat
shakes with merriment.

“You don’t understand . . .”

She’s still chuckling. “Oh, I probably
understand better than most.”

“I don’t want to be tied to a stodgy old legacy or imprisoned
by his family’s precious reputation. I don’t want to become a shadow of myself . . .”

“Do you
think Leo keeps me in a castle tower?” Clara asks. “Trust me, every day with Ace is the berries.
Marriage is what you make of it and anybody who tells you otherwise is selling snake oil.”

“But I know what Robert wants to make of it. Deep down he’s a traditionalist.”

“Sophie, all
he really wants is to be loved and cherished for exactly who he is and who he can be. That’s all anybody
wants.”

I don’t think I’ll have the courage to explain, but Clara’s the only person who might
understand. “It’s more than that—just the marriage proposal, I mean. Most men wouldn’t encourage
thoughts like I have . . . wouldn’t goad me to do things in bed that I ought to be ashamed of. I love
him for it, which means that there’s nothing to stop me. And something’s gotta stop me or I’m never
gonna be anything but what I am right now. Just a shopgirl in a hotel boutique where men think it’s
cute that I like to read a book or two.”

Clara tilts her head, her hat at a precarious angle.
She stares at me a few moments, then reaches into her handbag and pulls out a pack of Lucky Strikes.
She lights one, then waves down a waiter and says, “We’ll have two scoops, please. Make mine chocolate.
Sophie, what flavor’s your favorite?”

“Strawberry,” I murmur, craving any sweetness that might
chase away the bitter.

When the waiter leaves, Clara asks, “Those reporters out there trying
to get a glimpse of me through those windows are going to write about what flavor ice cream I ordered.
What do you think it says about me that I like chocolate? Do you think it means I’m a pushover
or a Dumb Dora?”

I’m not sure what she’s getting at and I shake my head. “Neither . . .”

“Then it must mean that I’m a terrible actress or maybe it means that I can’t make a good film.”

“It just means that you like chocolate.”

“Now you’re on the trolley.” She exhales, a spiral
of smoke escaping from her ruby red lips. “My favorite flavor of ice cream doesn’t have a damn
thing to do with anything. And if I weren’t famous, nobody would even care. I’d walk into a shop, make
my order, eat my ice cream, and close the door behind me when I was done. It seems to me, that’s
what you oughtta do.”

The waiter brings us two scoops, just like we asked for, and two spoons.
“You really think it’s that simple? That people can just do whatever they want in bed?”

“Sex
is never simple. But everybody’s got a favorite flavor. Doesn’t matter if they’re a sinner or a saint.
So you like strawberry. So what? It’s nobody’s affair but your own. So eat it. Enjoy it. Then go
be whoever you want to be. You’re going places, with or without Robert Aster.”

We don’t say
anything else for a while. I’m too lost in thought and by the time I’m ready to take a spoonful of
my ice cream, Clara’s already finished hers. “I better get a wiggle on or Leo will send out a scouting
party for me . . .”

“Thanks,” I say.

“We’re headed back to Hollywood in the morning. Come
and visit us sometime,” she says, sliding out of the booth to give me a tight, affectionate embrace.
“Oh, don’t get nervous. It’ll all be completely innocent. I just thought you’d like to see what
it’s like to make a film about Sacco and Vanzetti.”

“That’s so kind of you,” I say, my throat
tight with emotion, because I’m grateful for so much more than the invitation.

She smiles,
dropping too much money onto the table. “Enjoy your ice cream.”

And then, with a sashay of
her hips, she’s gone.

The next day, we strike.

We picket on the street in front of the hotel with hand-painted signs and placards. Bellboys and maids,
kitchen staff and table w
aiters, shopgirls and florists, janitors and shoe-shine boys, Negro workers
and white workers. All of us dressed in our Sunday best and singing little slogans as the ambassador’s
driver pulls his breezer up front and the old man snarls from the backseat.

“You’re all fired!”
Old Mr. Aster shouts as the traffic backs up behind him and shrill whistles and horns sound from
the street. “What’s more, if you don’t leave the premises immediately, I’ll have you arrested for
trespassing.”

A ripple of fear passes down the line and I hear gasps and low murmurs even though
I know every one of us prepared for this possibility. Flustered, I clutch the sign in my gloved
hand as a gust of wind blows two pamphlets out of my pocket and into traffic. If I chase after the
errant pages as they tumble down the street in front of the hotel, I won’t have to face the ambassador.
But if I don’t, who will? “It’s a public street, Mr. Aster,” I say, putting steel into my voice.
“Besides, you can’t fire all of us. If you do, you won’t have any way of running your hotel.”

“Is that what you think, young lady? I could find a replacement for each and every one of you
within a day.”

“What about me?” The voice comes from down the street and everyone turns to
look. I don’t need to look, but I do. There Robert stands, dapper as ever in my favorite blue linen
suit, the one that makes his eyes look greener and fits snug around his broad shoulders. “Can you find
a replacement for me, Father?”

I’ll give the old bastard credit for one thing: He hides his
surprise, assessing the situation so swiftly that he doesn’t miss a beat. “You’d be the easiest one
to replace, Bobby!”

Robert shows a flash of teeth, a charming smile that almost disguises the
feral anger underneath. Then he laughs. “You’re probably right. You never needed me to run this place.”

The confrontation between father and son is so personal it’s painful to watch, but none of us
can seem to turn away from it, least of all me. Of all the times to make a stand against his father,
this seems like the worst moment Robert could choose. I’m proud of him, but also overcome with a
desire to save him from this ugliness. “Robert, please . . .”

My voice is drowned out by the
ambassador’s fury. “This is all your fault, Robert,” he says, waving his cane in our direction to
encompass the entire picket line. “I put you in charge here and look what you’ve let happen. You’re
to blame.”

Robert takes a few more steps towards his father, hands in his pockets, nodding
his head. “You’re absolutely right. If I’d run the place the way I wanted to, maybe the hotel staff
wouldn’t be so unhappy.”

“Not another word, Robert,” the ambassador says, fuming. “This isn’t
the time or place for this conversation. Get in the car.”

“I’m not getting in the car and I’m
not crossing this picket line.”

“Your mother was always too soft with you,” the old man fumes.
“You were her baby so I let her spoil you. You’ve had everything handed to you.”

Robert presses
his lips together in grudging admission. “You’re right yet again. Almost everything good I’ve got
was a gift from you or somebody else. But there are a few things I’ve earned for myself, and one
of them is standing right here.”

At this, he makes a half turn to face me.

The ambassador
looks befuddled. “Are you talking about this girl?”

“Yes, I am. Because you see, I think she
loves me.”

My hand goes to my mouth and the sign I’m holding in the other hand starts to flap.
“Robert . . .”

“In fact, I think she loves the very things about me that you can’t stand. And
if I’ve won her love, it’s something I did all by myself. Maybe the best thing I’ve ever done.”

“I might have known you’d lose your head over some little chippy,” the ambassador snarls.

Robert’s head snaps in the ambassador’s direction, his expression dark as a storm. “You’re my
father, so you get a warning. But only one. If you ever call her that again, I’m going to smash your
teeth in.”

His earnest threat of certain violence shocks me into a wide-eyed gasp. I don’t
know what to say. I don’t know what to think. It’s all madness.

Robert turns to face me again.
“I’m not asking anything from you, Sophie. You don’t even need see me again after today. I just
need to know whether or not you still love me. Because I’ve been giving the matter some thought, and
I’ve realized you’re the smartest, bravest, kindest, sexiest woman I know. You’re
it
. You’ve changed
my whole life.”

“Robert—”

“I sleep now, you know. Right through the night. And I don’t
need liquor to do it, either. I thought I couldn’t sleep because I didn’t know who I was; the truth
is, I just didn’t know what kind of man I wanted to be. Now I know, and that’s because of you. And
even if I’ve lost you, it’ll all be worth it if I know you love me.”

“Oh, Robert,” I say, shaking
my head, unable to say more.

“
Do you
still love me?” he asks again.

My heart leaps to
my throat. “Of course I do!”

His smile is soft and soulful. “Then give me a sign to carry.”

His father’s voice booms over the passing cars. “Robert William Aster, I vow by the Almighty,
if you carry a sign for these ungrateful reprobates, I’ll disown you. I mean it. I’ll cut you off
without a penny.”

Robert doesn’t even glance over his shoulder. He’s just stares into my eyes.
“It’ll be worth it.”

“Robert, stop,” I say, unwilling to be the cause of this kind of strife.

“Listen to her,” the old man says. “All your life you’ve been a somebody. But you’re nothing
without the family fortune. You’ll be a nobody.”

“I don’t want to be somebody. I just want
to be good for something,” Robert says, pushing an errant wisp of hair out of my eyes. “And for someone.”

“That’s it. You’re cut off! You’ll be a penniless beggar, that’s what you’ll be.”

“I don’t
think so,” Robert says.

“You’re dreaming, my boy.”

“Maybe.” Robert takes the sign from
my hands. “But at least I’ll be able to sleep at night.”