Classic Love: 7 Vintage Romances (58 page)

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t know anything about it. Believe me, I can understand how you feel. But I’m already late for an appointment. You must let me call you at another time.”

“No no, we must get this straightened out now … because it is of the utmost importance. Senorita?” His voice went up an octave.

“Forgive me,” she said. “I must go now.”

And above his frantic protestations, she hung up.

What was it all about? At the moment she didn’t care. I’ll worry about it tomorrow, she thought, and taking a last careful look in the mirror, she left the room again and went downstairs. She left the key at the desk, with Miguel, and walked into the lounge. Steve Connaught was there, near a window. The late afternoon light gilded the table top, streamed gloriously through the violet and crimson leaded panes. There was a bowl of dried flowers, soft beige mixed with a harsher red, in the center of the table. There were about a dozen persons in the room; a mixture of English, Spanish and French assailed Kelly’s ears.

“Hello,” Steve said, and rose.

“Hello.”

“You’re only twenty minutes late,” he said pleasantly.

“I’m late because people insist on ringing my telephone with insoluble problems.”

“How so?”

“For one, the Nascimentos. You remember the Spanish couple on the plane?”

“The ones who kept the little boy occupied?”

“Yes. I’ve had quite a day. They’ve called me twice.”

“What about?”

“First, to let me know that Richard went off with the Senora’s knitting bag.”

“He did?”

“Yes. Apparently the Nascimentos were delayed at Customs. Richard had this bag belonging to them. When they got off the line Richard had disappeared.”

“With the bag.”

“With the bag. The next call I had was from Richard. He was in the lobby, with the knitting bag.”

“You did have quite a day.”

“There’s more to it.”

“Tell me.”

“Oh … on the plane Richard managed to break the Senora’s string of pearls.”

“Yes, I remember. Everyone was on hands and knees.”

“And then when they were all collected and accounted for, the Senora stuffed them into her knitting bag. Can you conjecture?”

He looked at her. “The pearls were expensive?”

“Yes, I had a good look at them.”

“You think they were purchased outside of Spain.”

“I think it’s a safe guess.”

“Happens all the time,” he said. “Are you worrying about it?”

“Not in the least. I wouldn’t have given it a second thought if it hadn’t been for one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“I left the bag at the desk, and Senor Nascimento was to call round for it. I had a pleasant afternoon, shopping with a friend, and just as I was about to come downstairs to meet you, the telephone rang again.”

“And?”

“It was Senor Nascimento once more. He had picked up the bag, but there was something missing.”

“Not the pearls.”

“Oh, but yes.”

“What could have happened?”

“I have no idea. I didn’t think to look in the bag. It’s just another nagging, troublesome
je ne sais quoi
in the life of an airline employee. May I have a martini?”

“Straight up or on the rocks?” he asked, signalling the waiter.

“Up.”

When the drink came she asked him how he had spent his own time. “I sightsaw,” he said. “Mainly, the Prado.”

“Nice place.”

He looked discontented. “The lighting’s bad. The Michelangelos on the staircase, for one thing. Sisyphus … you have to stand on your head, practically. But of course the Goyas and the Velasquez rooms were all right, and they were my chief interest.”

“Have you been to Madrid before?”

“This is my first visit to Spain.”

“Madrid’s a stately city. Do you like it?”

“Very much, what I’ve seen. I thought about going to Barcelona first, but that can wait.”

“Barcelona’s all right. Raffish. A seaport city. I’m not too partial to it. The Estoril, of course, is beautiful.”

“When are you returning to New York?” he asked.

“Not for a while. I have some time off. In a few days I’ll take off for Malaga. Drive through Andalusia. I’ve never done that.”

“Sounds nice.”

“Yes, I think I’ll enjoy it.”

“When are you leaving?”

“I’m booked for a Wednesday flight at ten in the morning.”

“I see.”

“And where are you going next, Mr. Connaught?”

“I haven’t decided.”

He picked up his glass again. “I usually manage to work in Paris, whatever else I do. So as usual, I suppose I’ll end up there.”

“It happens to be my favorite city.”

“Does it?” He gave her a long, assessing look. “Then we seem to be on the same wave length. It’s mine too, that is, in Europe.”

And soon they were comparing impressions. “Montmartre in the evening, the Ile St. Louis by day,” Steve said.

“I love the Quai des Augustins, with the antique shops.”

“And the Pont Neuf … ever been to La Reine Jeanne, just across the bridge from the parvis of Notre Dame?”

“A restaurant?”

“One of the best.”

He told her about it. “A bistro, but the best Coquille St. Jacques you ever tasted. A Coq au Vin you wouldn’t believe. The Pot au Feu …”

“I must remember it.”

“Go there, you won’t be sorry.” He cut the tip of a cigar and lit it. “Well, there’s Europe, which admittedly is an enchanted continent. But my heart belongs to Vermont.”

“Vermont?”

She couldn’t have been more astonished. Steve Connaught was Tangiers and Marrakesh. You could picture him in Greece, among the bitter lemons, or at Rapallo, on a terrace overlooking the sea. But in New England?

“You come from Vermont?”

“Oh, no.” He leaned back, exhaling smoke. “I was born in Brooklyn.”

It was even more outlandish. “I don’t believe it,” she said.

“Oh? Must I remind you that Brooklyn has yielded some of the best talent of the century?” There was a slow grin. “When you spit on Brooklyn, spit with a smile.”

“I wasn’t spitting on it. It’s just … surprising.”

“It’s got a cachet of its own. I’ve been told that when the Americans liberated Paris, they did a good selling job on Brooklyn. The whole damned infantry came from there. In the movie houses, every time Brooklyn was mentioned in a film, the G.I.’s clapped and cheered.” His grin widened. “After they left, the French audiences carried on the tradition. Brooklyn? Everyone snickers; I’ve never known why. That crazy place has something. Damned if I know what it is. But it’s there. Maybe it’s the last stronghold of Americana. In some nutty way.”

“Three cheers for Brooklyn,” Kelly said. “A ho and a ho and a ho.” She leaned forward. Maybe it was only to claim his attention, because Connaught, even in the midst of a conversation, had a tendency to rove the room with his eyes. Is he with me or not? Kelly kept wondering, as his glance strayed to this person and then that. Or maybe it was because she liked the smell of his shaving lotion. She moved her chair forward a little. “All right, Brooklyn,” she said. “Now what’s this about Vermont?”

“Heaven on earth,” he said. “Highest suicide rate in the nation.”

“You do pique a person’s interest. First it’s heaven on earth and then it’s the place where suicide occurs oftenest.”

“Oh, it’s lonely,” he said. “Lonely as hell. Cold most of the time so that when the spring thaw comes, you think of Strindberg. You know? Where Elis says, ‘The double windows have been taken down and fresh curtains put up … yes, its spring again …’ ”

She stared at him. Strindberg? How were you supposed to tag this man? Looked like C.I.A. or even Mafia. And then he quoted from a playwright who was the darling of the intellectuals.

“I have a house there,” he said abruptly. “Had it built the way I wanted it. I go there whenever I can find the time.”

“Why aren’t you there now?” she asked quickly.

“Because I’m here,” he said flatly, and swivelled his eyes away from hers.

Was it meant for a laugh? She didn’t know. But she laughed anyway. He himself didn’t crack a smile. “What’s your house like?” she asked.

“Nutty. I damn near had a duel with the architect. You can’t do this, he kept saying. No one in his right mind wants six bathrooms for a four bedroom house. It was a fight to the finish, but I have my six bathrooms.”

“It does seem a little out of Krafft Ebbing. What is it in your past that makes you love Johns?”

“Eight kids and one can,” he said succinctly. “Satisfied?”

“Maybe I can understand that.”

“I wonder.” He gave her an almost hostile look. “You come from Greenwich, Connecticut and your parents had two kids, each with a room of their own, a nice room, with a toilet between you. You prepped at a good school, private, and you and your sister — or brother — never knew what it was like to be hungry.”

His jaw jutted out aggressively. “Correct me if I’m wrong.”

“It was Scarsdale,” she murmured.

“Same difference.”

“Are you an inverse snob, Mr. Connaught?”

There was a quick, wry smile. “Is this Mr. and Miss business going to go on all night?”

“Night” never had a more enticing sound. A little shiver ran through Kelly. To spend a night with this blunt, plain-speaking man …

“All right, Steve,” she said.

“I’m not any kind of snob. And don’t you be, either.”

It was as if he had said, “No snobs in
this
family.” It was intimate and … I’m getting way ahead of myself, she thought, and reminded herself that this was just a date with someone from her most recent flight.

He signaled the waiter. “What time are we calling for the … what was it you called him?”

“The unaccompanied minor. I said we’d be around there at about eight.”

“That gives us plenty of time for another drink,” he said, and asked for refreshers. After that they talked idly, until he looked at his watch and said it was just about time to get going. Did she want to powder her nose?

“No.”

He gave her another one of those assessing looks. “That’s fine. I don’t like mirror-lookers much. Anyway, you have a face that doesn’t need much working-over, I’d say.”

“Thanks.” Damn it, that sounded prim, she thought.

“That’s all the compliments I’m going to pay you tonight,” he said. “Have to save some for tomorrow.”

As they walked through the open glass doors, he put his hand on her elbow and, at the first street crossing, pressed closer to her, so that his hand lightly — oh, very lightly, touched her breast. She had the feeling it wasn’t even intentional. And when they had reached the other side, he let go of her arm, but the tingle of the contact remained. Spring surged through Kelly’s veins, and the purple bougainvillea on the Avenida de la Castellana stabbed at her with its lush beauty. The center esplanade was studded with palms, imaginative and exotic. This was one of the most beautiful streets in the world.

She had explained that it was within walking distance, and they strolled leisurely. “It should be right about here,” she said after a while. “Number 1400 … I think the next one must be it.”

• • •

The Comstock house was on the Paseo de la Castellana, recessed from the broad avenida, with a front courtyard behind an iron gate. The building itself was almost concealed behind lush trees and planting. It was four stories high, a soft-white brick with beautiful embellishments and balconies.

“Pretty fancy,” Steve commented, as they went up the tiled walk and climbed the four broad stone steps to the handsome doorway. He put a finger on the bell.

Waiting, he reached up and plucked a spray of purple flowers from an overhanging bush. “For you,” he said, handing it to her. “It matches your eyes.”

“Flattery will — ” she started to say, and then the door opened. A rather pretty young girl in a crisp white uniform welcomed them in when they said who they were. She padded ahead of them, in some kind of soft slippers, and led them into a small
sala.
“Please wait, thank you,” she said and then, with a shy, dimpled smile, left them.

Like all Spanish interiors, there was an immediate impression of repressed brightness; louvres were slatted at the windows, but the fugitive gold from outside shot in to make random patterns on the carpet. Greenery, in stone pots, and the inevitable purple bougainvillea massed in great bowls on table tops gave the room a hot-house atmosphere in spite of the very creditable air-conditioning, which seemed to be centrally-controlled.

Dim, mysterious, with the heavy, dark, carved furniture indigenous to Spanish rooms, it was a lovely salon in what was undoubtedly a magnificent house. The entrance hall through which they had passed had been stately and high-ceilinged, with a frescoed dome and splendidly tiled floors.

“Not bad,” Steve said.

“It’s lovely.” She sat beside him, waiting. “I’ve walked down this street many an afternoon. I’ve always longed to see the inside of one of these houses.”

“A dream realized,” he drawled.

“In a way it is,” she said, faintly irritated, which he sensed at once.

“I didn’t mean to be cynical,” he apologized. “I understand completely. In my own way, I’m a dreamer too.”

They weren’t alone for very long. There were footsteps on the tiled floor outside and then Richard walked chipperly into the room, with a woman behind him.

“Hi,” he said, and saw Steve right away. “Oh, you were on the plane,” he said. “You’re the one who smokes the cigars.”

“Any objection?”

“No! Gee, I didn’t know there’d be three of us. But I think I have enough money for us all.”

“Save your dough for bubble-gum,” Steve said. “Tonight is my treat.”

“It’s very nice of you. I’m afraid I don’t know your name.”

“It’s Steve Connaught.”

Richard turned to his duenna. “These are my friends,” he announced, and then introduced the woman. “This is Joia.”

Joia. Did it mean “joy”? If so, the bent old woman was inaptly named. She was like a Kathe Kollwitz drawing, with eyes that looked burnt-out and bleak. Yet there was sweetness in back of them, and her hands on the child’s shoulders were solicitous.

She nodded. “So, then. You will have a good time with these friends of yours.”