Seidel, Kathleen Gilles (30 page)

Jill was not offended. She remembered Susannah's ad. Her friend had worn a men's T-shirt belted up as a mini-dress over a mock turtleneck with a chambray shirt buttoned wrong. It had been a great look, casual and effortless. But Jill knew that it had taken the actress a good part of a day and fifteen thousand dollars worth of borrowed antique Indian jewelry to put the outfit together.

Susannah had enjoyed spending the day that way. Melody would have adored it. Not Jill. She wasn't very interested in clothes. She didn't mind wearing the same thing day after day because no two of her days were ever the same. Clothes were not what provided variety in her life. Nor did she need to use clothes to call attention to herself or to satisfy fantasies. If she had an urge for an African safari, she would go on one. She didn't have to use shopping at Banana Republic as a substitute.

"Washington has a Nordstrom's now," Melody told her. "Bloomingdale's has gone downhill, and with all those housewares and luggage, they've never been able to concentrate properly on clothes. I believe there are some Saks stores there, but you know I've never really liked Saks. If you have to go to the local chains, do that Woodward and Something over Hecht's, but try for the Nordstorm's. They are supposed to have the best service in the country."

Jill blinked, overwhelmed by this flood of information from a woman, who, as far as her daughter knew, had never been to Washington. Woodward and Something... was she really supposed to buy clothes from the two reporters who had covered Watergate?

"And, Jill..." Melody's voice grew tenative. "Why don't you let me send you a dress? It would save you so much time."

A memory swept over Jill, a pile of little dresses, white flannel sprigged with pale blue flowers, trimmed in eyelet lace; cranberry corduroy piped in cream; black watch plaid with hunter green cuffs and collar; daffodil yellow with a golden pinstripe—all for a child who wore a uniform to school.

On the other hand, Jill did not want to spend any more time inside a store than she had to. "Sure, Mother, that would be great. But nothing very dressy."

"I'll remember that," Melody promised.

It turned out that there was a Nordstorm's at Tyson's Corner, the big mall not far away. Doug parked the truck on one of the upper levels of the multi-tiered garage, then turned to Jill.

"I lied to you when I said it was fine if we went shopping," he said. "I really hate shopping with women. I've been fired. I've been captain of a team who had their faces stomped by a bunch of gorillas in the national finals on national TV. Those were both seriously unpleasant, but I would happily endure either one of those again rather than shop with a woman."

"You should have said something."

"I am. I don't mind being at the mall. I'll go to the bookstore, I'll go to a movie, I'll hang out, just
please
don't make me go with you."

Jill thought about her mother, how impossible it was to get her to be this direct about her preferences. What an easy companion Doug was. She reached across the truck and patted him on the arm. "We won't make you do anything you don't want to do."

He opened the truck door. "That's what they always say."

They arranged to meet in an hour. She chose the time, doubling what she thought she would need, in case of lines. Doug shook his head. "That's not very long."

"It's too long for my taste, but I don't know much about the retail collections—what's the difference between Calvin Klein and Ralph Lauren—I should have asked Mother."

But even without that key information, she was at the rendezvous point fifteen minutes ahead of schedule and had to wait for him.

He was clearly surprised to see her. He sat down, noticing that she had already drunk half a cup of tea. "You are the most remarkable woman. Is this what it's like to have money? It makes you able to shop fast?"

"I don't know that it's the money. I just don't like to shop."

"Can I ask you a personal question?"

"Only if you remember it will now be two-zip. You asked me about my mother yesterday. I haven't asked you a thing."

He frowned. "What on earth do you want to know about me?"

"You go ahead. I like this building up credit."

He looked uncomfortable, but when she continued to smile blandly, he went on. "You have all the money in the world, don't you?"

"I wouldn't go that far, but I am very comfortable." Jill knew that "very comfortable" was an understatement, and this was not someone she wanted to dissemble with. "By most people's standards, I really do have a lot, more than I'll ever need."

"Then how do you go about making decisions about things like clothes and such? For my sisters money is such a big part of that. If you're looking at two sweaters and they both look good on you, do you just buy both? Or all three hundred, since everything must look good on you."

"It's simple. I don't have the closet space."

"The closet space. Wait a minute, time out here." He made a T with his hands. "People who live in trailers don't have enough closet space. People who live in Manhattan don't have enough closet space. But you... how can you not have enough closets?"

"I air-conditioned my house. I lost part of every closet to the duct work, and I didn't have that many to begin with." Jill noticed that she was talking about her house as if it still existed—not a good sign. "But it's not only that. I like to keep my life simple. Things have a cost besides their initial price—there's giving them space, thinking about whether or not to wear them, and just taking care of them. So often really wonderful things aren't worth how much care they require."

"For example?"

"Oh... linen sheets. They feel great to sleep in, they're so cool and soft, not like silk, which I find too hot and slippery, but—"

"I don't know that hot and slippery is always bad," Doug reflected.

"But the sheets?"

"Good point. I'm sold. Linen it is."

"No, it's not. Not unless you iron them every day. Can you imagine, getting up every morning, knowing that you've got to iron your bed?"

"I don't get up every morning and
make
my bed. I always feel so pleased that I've managed the getting up part that I don't like to tax the system. But surely you could pay someone to do the ironing."

"And that means having someone come into your house everyday, that means finding that person, deciding what degree of her personal problems you're willing to have come in your front door, etc. No set of sheets is worth that. Cotton's easier."

"I'm crushed. What's to become of us boys from the wrong side of the tracks and all our sick fantasies, if the rich girls of the world are sleeping on ordinary sheets?"

"Don't be so quick to call cotton ordinary. A friend of mine just bought a set of cotton voile sheets for fifteen thousand dollars."

"Fifteen thous— That's not possible."

"It was for the whole ensemble."

"I don't care. Fifteen thousand dollars... my dad can put you in a real nice Chevy for that."

Now that he had a clearer fix on Jill's plans, Doug cut a deal with his mother. He would produce Jill for Sunday dinner if she could guarantee a No-Sisters event.

"I wouldn't have minded meeting your sisters," she protested as they were driving up to Winchester Sunday.

"I know, but I would have."

That was not true. Doug liked his sisters. But he had seen how Jill operated in a big crowd. She was pleasant and polite, but there was something withdrawn about her. She was holding back, watching, observing, without being involved. When she met his parents, he wanted her to be there, both feet planted, bathing suit wet, the whole works.

By and large, he felt good about the way things were going. Friday had been great, Saturday even better. She had spent the day doing strange but seemingly knowledgeable things to the flowers, and then, without it even being a question, they had spent the evening together, driving into Harrisonburg to see a movie. They weren't kids; they both knew where things were heading.

Then a thought would cut him off at the knees.
This woman is the single richest person that you have ever met.
It was a challenge that might undo more than his knees.

Seeing her with his parents would be a reality check. Doug thought the world of his parents. The whole time they were growing up, he and his sister never understood car salesman jokes. His father was so well respected, so well liked.

Doug knew that everyone in college basketball thought he was a great motivator, but he wasn't anywhere near as good as his dad. Ward Ringling, more than any psychology textbook Doug had read, knew how people went about making decisions. His job, he believed, was not to sell people cars, but to guide them through the decision-making process. Doug had stood on the floor with him, eavesdropping on other salesmen's pitches. "He lost them right there," Ward would say. "He just made the decision too hard." Or—"She's letting them get off track; now they'll have to come in next week. They're going to end up with the Celebrity wagon. They're not crazy people, you can tell that. But now they've got to go home and remember why they shouldn't buy a Blazer."

Every bit of success Doug had had as a recruiter had been thanks to his father. What a kids' family really wanted was not a free Chrysler, but an easy decision. Doug had learned how to make decisions easy for people.

As he turned into his parents' drive, his mother, Grace, was the one who came to the door. She came out onto the porch, putting out her hand to Jill. "I've been hearing such lovely things about you—how you helped the boys with the flowers... and defrosting Gran's freezer for her. My girls are writhing with guilt. One of them should have gone over and helped her ages ago."

"No, no," Jill protested. "I didn't do it to make anyone feel bad. I had my own agenda."

"Whatever the reason, it was nice of you. Now, come out back. Ward is fussing with the charcoal."

Actually he was coming through the house, drying his hands on a tea towel. He extended one to Jill. "So you're the young lady responsible for those velvet collars."

Jill drew back. "I beg your pardon?"

"Do you hear that, Grace? All that trouble and she doesn't even know what we're talking about." Ward drew Jill into the living room, telling her a story that Doug knew well.

Years ago a picture had appeared in a magazine of Jill and her father. They had been at a funeral or something, and Jill, no more than seven or eight, had been wearing a little wool coat trimmed with a velvet collar and velvet cuffs. The picture had made its way up and down the Valley with all the young girls swooning over the velvet collar and cuffs. So, that Christmas, Marie Ringling had bought two yards of velvet and made collars and cuffs for her daughters' coats, stitching them on after the girls had gone to sleep Christmas Eve.

Jill was shaking her head. She didn't even remember the coat.

Doug started whistling "She'll Be Comin' Round the Mountain."

"It looked pretty odd," Ward finished, "the beautiful collars on these ratty old coats, but the girls loved them... even the ones who were old enough to know better."

"Doug," his mother asked. "Why are you whistling? It's not polite."

"Your mother's right, Doug," Ward agreed. "But it is a good song." He started whistling too. Doug picked up a harmony. He thought it sounded pretty good, a regular church choir. Thinking maybe they could get a three-part thing going, a descant or something, he looked over at Jill. Alas, she and his mother were fleeing into kitchen.

He and his dad finished a few more verses, did a rousing chorus of "Clementine," and then went out into the kitchen where the two women, sensible people that they were, were mixing drinks for themselves.

"So, tell us, Jill," Ward said as he took over the bartending duties, "what do you drive?"

That was an interesting question. Doug realized he didn't have a clue what kind of car she drove.

She answered. "A Chevy."

He didn't believe her. He was willing to believe that his father could sell her one, but he didn't believe she already had one.

"Good for you." Ward handed her her drink. "Which model? Do you like it? Is it a good car?"

"I love it. It's a wonderful car."

Doug ran through the Chevrolet's product line in his head. What possible car could she think was so wonderful? Doug felt a stiff breeze whirling about his knees.

He called her bluff. "You didn't say which model." He figured that there was a good chance that she wouldn't know the names of any Chevy cars.

"Oh, it's an old one."

"How old?" he asked.

"Pretty old."

Suddenly this all made sense. "It's not older than me, is it?"

Her eyes rolled upward; she was doing some subtraction in her head. She was enjoying this. "Pretty close." Then she relented. "I have a '57 Bel Air."

A cut lime went splat on the floor. Ward clapped his hand over his heart. "A '57 Bel Air. I don't believe it. Don't tell me, is it a two-door hardtop?"

Jill nodded. "Colonial Cream," she said, naming the paint color.

"That was the ultimate cruising car. My first boss had one of them. They only made 150, 175 thousand." Ward shivered in delight. "Oh, God... would you marry me? What's the mileage?"

"Around forty thousand."

"Forty thousand? How is that possible? People who bought those cars first time around
loved
to drive."

"Apparently my original owner had to sell it to his mother."

"That could account for it. Now, may I ask the sleazeball question? What did you have to pay for it?"

"Nothing. It was a gift."

"A gift?" Ward moaned sadly. "Oh, Douglas, what chance do guys like you and me have when other people go around giving girls '57 Bel Airs?"

"It was a professional-type thing," she explained. "Do you remember the movie
Bob's Drive-in?"
Apparently some friends of hers had produced the movie, and the set had been riddled with drug usage, causing delays that were costing about a thousand dollars a second. The producers called Jill, and she flew out to the location. She claimed she didn't do much. "But they all knew I was the last step before calling the real grownups. So people shaped up. Afterwards my friends gave me this car. It wasn't the one used in the movie. Mine's better. It's never needed restoration. It's still got the original paint job."