Manhattan Lullaby

Manhattan Lullaby

A Novel of Love in New York

Glynnis Walker writing as Olivia De Grove

To Sabrina,

“
A gentle nymph that sways

the smooth Severn stream
.”

Part One

Hel-lo Ba-by!

Chapter One

Dear Maxine
,

I don't usually write to advice columnists, but I have a problem which I can't really discuss with my friends because it's a little, well, weird is the word, I suppose. So, since I read your column in
Destiny
magazine every month and you seem to get some fairly outrageous letters, I thought maybe you might be able to handle one from me
.

My husband and I have been married for five-and-a-half years. In the beginning we had a fairly active sex life. I mean actually it was extremely active, hectic even. But about a year ago it seemed to taper off. My husband said he still loved me as much as before, but he needed a little something “extra” to get turned on. I tried to go along with his ideas, and I didn't mind the garter belt and stockings or the fantasies, that kind of stuff. (After all, I grew up in the sixties, so I do have an open mind.) But it's reaching the point where I think things have gone too far
.

He recently read somewhere about using whipped cream
—
you know, spreading it on and then licking it off. I told him he could do it to me but I wouldn't do it to him because of the calories
.

Anyway, the next thing you know it was cream cheese. (He says he prefers that because he doesn't really care for sweet things.) And then, he brought home lox. I'm sure you can see where he was heading
.

Maxine, I just don't know what to do. He says that playing “Delicatessen,” as he likes to call it, is driving him wild. It's just the thing he needs to keep the excitement in our marriage. Last night he wanted to try pastrami with Russian dressing! (I can't even tell you what he had in mind for the pickles!!!) And next he says he wants roast beef with mayonnaise. What am I going to do? You know how hard it is to get Russian dressing out of percale, never mind mayonnaise? So please, tell me, Maxine, what should I do? Tell him to forget it? Find a good laundry? What
?

Going Crazy in Cleveland

Maxine Kraft shook her head and picked up a pencil. “Look at it this way, at least you don't have to cook,” she wrote in the margin. And then at the bottom of the page she added, “Only kidding, Marge. I'll get to this one in the morning,” just in case her secretary found the letter and decided to send it off to typesetting as is. God forbid.

Then she took the letter with the little blue violets running around the border and what looked like a grease spot from a dab of cream cheese in one corner and put it in the “Current” file.

“I wonder if they were kosher pickles.”

“If what were kosher pickles?” came a voice from the doorway.

Startled that someone had been listening to her talking to herself, Maxine swiveled her chair around to see who it was. With any luck it wouldn't be someone important. Someone who thought that Dear Maxine—the country's newest advice guru and resident authority on changing social mores—was a real expert and not just a divorced woman in her mid-forties whose husband happened to be the editor-in-charge of the magazine where she worked and who had thought that putting his ex-wife to work was a clever way to get out of paying her support.

But she didn't need to worry. It was no one important. Just Harry. “Oh, it's you.” She sounded relieved.

“Who were you expecting? Someone tall, dark and handsome?” Harry was leaning against the doorframe. Watching his ex-wife nattering on to herself reminded him of the old days, the good times before the divorce—long before. Lately it seemed that everything reminded him of something that had gone before. His life had become like summer television. Full of reruns.

“These days I have to watch Tom Selleck to get tall, dark and handsome. But I did think you might be someone about five-eight, smooth-talking and in advertising.” She cleared a pile of filing folders off the other chair. “Sit down anyway.”

It wasn't much of an invitation, but Harry maneuvered his length into the cramped space that served as Maxine's office. “God, it's a good thing you're not one of those tall, hefty women, otherwise we'd have to get you a bigger office.”

“It's a good thing I'm your ex-wife, otherwise you'd have to give me a bigger paycheck too,” replied Maxine, who was no fool. “I am developing a very big readership, in case you hadn't noticed.”

“Says who?”

Maxine shrugged. “Oh, a little bird told me.”

“So Jeffrey Mondavi is still hanging about, is he?” Harry scowled. He hated Jeffrey Mondavi. He was young. He wasn't bad-looking. He had all his hair. And he had his whole life ahead of him.

“Let's just say he keeps finding excuses to drop by. This morning he made a special trip from the twelfth floor just to tell me that advertising rates were going up. I told him I don't care. I don't advertise in
Destiny
magazine. I just write in it. The man can be a pest … But a cute pest.”

Harry was nodding his agreement at the “pest” comment, but he stopped in mid-nod when Maxine slid the “cute” part onto the end of her sentence. He had no idea she thought about younger men
that
way.

Maxine continued. “But then he said that it was my column that was boosting the readership. So of course I let him finish.”

“Oh, he did, did he? Well just because he sells advertising space doesn't mean he knows a damn thing about the magazine business.”

“I think he likes me.”

“Likes you! You probably remind him of his mother. He's about, what, twenty-two, twenty-three?”

“He's twenty-
seven
.” Maxine had already decided that the two decades that separated them was nothing more than a daring difference with perhaps a tinge of wicked waywardness thrown in. And that made her feel good, sophisticated, worldly. Twenty-three years, on the other hand, was too close to one of those words psychiatrists used to describe people with peculiar habits. Like
pervert
.

“The same age as our son. My point exactly,” returned Harry.

“That's not what I meant,” replied Maxine through clenched teeth. Sometimes Harry could be so … so … divorceable! What was wrong with her enjoying a little flirtation with a younger man? It wasn't as though she had any plans to take it further than that. She decided to change the subject lest any more of her developing concepts about her life as a newly single woman came under fire. “About the wedding …”

Harry nodded. “Right. I guess we should talk about it. Is everything all set?”

“If you mean are you required to do anything, the answer is no, so you can relax.” She started to straighten up her desk. “Janie's parents are doing most of the work. Or I should say Doris is doing the work. Marvin is still off on a trip to the moon on gossamer wings or wherever it is he goes when he gets that For Rent look on his face.” She paused for a moment. “God, I hope our genes are stronger than theirs. Anyway, all you have to do is show up and look proud. It should be a piece of cake. And speaking of showing up, is Joyce going to be there?”

“Joyce? Joyce who?” The lines around Harry's mouth deepened just a touch at the mention of his new wife's name. Joyce was the replacement series in the summer reruns of his life. The only problem was, she was always on location.

Maxine noted the tone and the mouth. He was pressing his back teeth together again in a prelude to going into one of his sulks. This could mean only one thing. “I take it she's still in China?”

“China, Hong Kong, New Zealand, Bora Bora, Mars, Jupiter, Uranus …” He threw up his hands. “Since we've been married I don't think we've spent more than two weeks in the same city. If I'd known marrying Joyce was going to turn out to be so lonely I'd have stayed married to you.”

“Thanks a lot.” Maxine finished straightening and, leaning back in her chair, she crossed one short, well-proportioned leg over the other.

Harry sighed. “I just meant that—”

“You just meant that you're horny.”

“I am not!” Harry stopped pressing his molars together long enough to defend himself. He didn't want his ex-wife to think that he felt “that way” about his second wife. After all, he had promised to be faithful only unto her until death did them part and it didn't seem that a mere divorce was enough to break a vow he had kept for twenty-five long years—even if he was remarried.

“Well, if you're not you should be. You've only been married a little while. It's natural that you should want to be with her—physically. When we were first married—”

“I don't want to talk about sex,” interrupted Harry with what he hoped was a firm and final tone. Sex was a sore subject with him these days. To put it simply, he wasn't getting any.

“Suit yourself. But just let me say that you're the one who's to blame if you're lonely. You're her editor. You keep sending her all over the world and now you're complaining that she's never home.” She wagged her finger at him, “Dear Maxine” in full swing. “You've got to make up your mind, Harry. You can't expect her to be an old-fashioned wife and a new-fashioned career woman all at the same time.”

Harry looked mildly shocked. His ex-wife was siding with his second wife. He kept tabs on all the talk shows. This wasn't the way it was supposed to be. “Since when did you get to be such a fan of my second wife?”

“Harry, you know I always liked Joyce. It's not her fault you married her. And it's not her fault that she's in China and you're lonely. Just be thankful that you have a wife whose absence makes your heart grow fonder instead of one whose presence makes you think of rye bread.”

“Rye bread?”

“Forget it.” Maxine waved the subject away. “You wouldn't believe me if I told you. Besides, there is something else I've been meaning to mention to you about the column. You remember last month, the letter about the absentee mother who wanted to give her child back to her ex-husband?”

Harry nodded. “The one where you said it was O.K. because she had her own life to think about and she shouldn't try to raise a child if she didn't want to and—”

“I know what I said.”

“We got a lot of letters about that. A lot of women thought that was great advice. A lot—”

“I made it up.”

“You what?”

Having told the worst of it, Maxine retraced her steps. “Well I didn't actually make it up—from scratch. I saw it on ‘Donahue'. I needed a normal letter for the column. I can't keep printing stuff about cream cheese and men dressing in monkey suits.”

“What's wrong with men dressing in tuxedos?”

“I don't mean tuxedos, Harry. I mean real monkey suits. You know, like gorillas, chimpanzees …”

“And doing what?”

Maxine shook her head. “Never mind. In your condition it wouldn't do you any good to know.”

“I can't believe you'd actually make up a letter.”

“From a possible scenario.” Maxine retracted her confession just a little further. The fact that so many women had written letters to the editor proved it was an issue that needed her attention, didn't it? And the fact that nobody had actually written her a letter about it was really little more than a technicality.

“I don't know, Maxine.” Harry shook his head. “There are ethics. There are rules. As your editor I have to say I'm very disappointed in you. Please don't let it happen again. And as your ex-husband I have to say … Tell me what they were doing in those monkey suits. Please.”

Maxine breathed a silent sigh of relief. She had expected Harry's standard “journalistic integrity” lecture, but he had let her off easy. “Maybe later.” She looked at her watch. It was after five. She stood up. “Well, it was nice talking to you, Harry, but I've got to go.”

Harry remained seated. Somewhere in between his office and Maxine's he had begun toying with the idea of asking his ex-wife to have dinner with him. He was fed up with eating alone, and besides, with Bradley getting married on Saturday he was beginning to feel more than a little nostalgic for their marriage. And, he had to admit, he
was
lonely.

“Harry, I said I have to go.” Maxine pointed at his legs, stretched out like a barricade across the only open space in the office.

“What's the rush? I though maybe we could go for a drink. Or have dinner? We could go back to your place. Maybe you could just whip up a little something, you know. You're such a terrific cook.”

Maxine shook her head. “Oh, no, you don't. Just because you miss your wife, don't expect me to pinch-hit for her—in any room in the house. Besides, I've got a date.”