The Coach House (3 page)

“Cream and sugar?” he breathed as he placed his hat on the table.

He went to the counter to place their order. When he walked back toward her, she traced his gaze to her long slim legs, which she had crossed under the glass tabletop. For the second time that morning, Marie felt the warmth of a flush rising up her neck and face.

He leaned in, his forearms resting on the table. “I would like to start out by confessing that I didn’t invite you here to talk about your window display. My motives are completely and shamelessly ulterior,” he admitted. The gleam in his eyes and inescapable smile set the tone for their chance meeting.

“What exactly did you have in mind then?” she asked in a curious tone as she checked out his flawless haircut and perfectly knotted silk tie. She appreciated a man who took an interest in how he looked.

“Have dinner with me tonight,” he said without flinching.

Her eyes flashed big for an instant, and then her head made a small jerk backward. Just then the waitress brought their beverages, and Marie was grateful for the few seconds it gave her to think of a response. Her brain told her
not so fast,
although her heart was delightfully seduced.

“But I don’t even know you.”

“But you
could get
to know me over dinner,” he appealed.

She hesitated before responding. “No. I don’t think so.” She looked down toward her tea cup, taking notice of his sharply creased pants and polished wingtip shoes through the glass tabletop. “I don’t know anything about you.”

“Well now, that’s true. That’s very true.” He sipped his coffee. “But I can change that.” He leaned back in his chair. “My name is Richard Marchetti. I’m twenty-four-years old and single. I sell medical equipment.” The more he revealed about himself, the faster he spoke. “I’ve never been in any trouble with the law. I go to church regularly…well, maybe not that regularly. I shower every day, sometimes twice, and I like to cook.” He paused for a few seconds. “I live in a small, but nice apartment in Little Italy, next to an Italian restaurant where they have the best veal Parmesan you will ever taste in your life.” Another pause. “I’m a Sagittarius, and my most prized possession is a 1936 Auburn Boattail Speedster…dark blue convertible with a tan interior.” He heaved an exhaustive sigh, sat back in his chair, and looked at her with a placid expression.

Marie shook her head and twisted her lips, trying to hold back a smile. She sat up a little straighter in her chair and took a sip of tea. “That’s all very interesting, but it’s still not that much information.”

“What else would you like to know? I have nothing to hide.”

She tried to think of something definitive he hadn’t revealed, but it was hard on such short notice. “You left out, uh…your favorite color.” She wondered if that sounded as stupid to him as it did to her.

He searched her face for a couple of seconds, and then a slow smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “It can be any color you want it to be,” he said with a naughty-boy twinkle in his eyes.

“You are just too charming, Mr. Marchetti,” she whispered, completely taken in by him but not wanting him to know it. “But how do I know if any of what you’ve told me is true?”

He looked at her for several seconds, pulled out his wallet, and showed her his driver’s license. He pointed to the name on the card. “See? Richard Marchetti. 1506 West Taylor Street. The restaurant next door is Rosa’s. They all know me in there. In fact, the owners call me ‘son.’And here’s my birth date, December 1, 1920. Sagittarius.”

Marie looked down at the cup of tea and methodically stirred it for several seconds. She laid the spoon in the saucer and took another sip, put the cup down and patted her lips with a napkin while he patiently waited for a response.

“No.” Her smile was polite. She shook her head and tried to sound nonchalant, but at the same time she had to control her internal excitement. “You seem like a very nice man. I’m
sure
you’re a very nice man, but I’m just not comfortable going out with a complete stranger.”

“Let’s change that,” he suggested.

“You’re very persistent,” she accused, feeling more flattered than annoyed by it.

“Yes, I know.”

She raised her eyebrows. “That wasn’t a compliment.”

“I find it generally works for me,” he said with a hint of a smile.

“I’d feel better if I knew someone who could vouch for you.”

“Me, too,” he admitted. “But in absence of that…”

She sipped more tea and fiddled with her napkin. “Okay,” she surrendered, desire overruling logic. “I’ll have dinner with you tonight. At Rosa’s.”

His eyes widened. “Then it’s a date! I’ll pick you up at eight and…”

“Seven thirty. And I’ll meet you there.”

He studied her face. “Seven thirty it is.”

“I hate to run, Richard, but I have to get back to work.”

She got up from the table and walked away from him, feeling his eyes on her back. Before the elevator doors closed, she watched him reach over to touch her lipstick-stained napkin.

After work that day, Marie flew home to get ready for her date. Half listening to Bing Crosby sing “Just One of Those Things,” she slipped out of her dress and stood in front of her closet in her teddy, garter belt, and lace-trimmed silk panties—lingerie she had treated herself to a few months earlier when the post-war rations on lace and silk had been lifted.

It was just one of those things

Just one of those crazy flings

After considering a dozen different outfits that now lay scattered on her bed, she settled on a black knee-length pencil skirt and pale gold silk blouse. The soft ruffles down the front of her blouse came to a V as they neared her breasts, exposing just a hint of cleavage. She added a belt to the skirt that accentuated her waistline and completed the outfit with a pair of black high heels. After adjusting the seams in her stockings, she looked in the mirror and gave herself a smile of approval.

Marie had dated a few young men in college but had never felt the level of excitement she was feeling while getting ready for her date with Richard. Something about him made her think it wasn’t going to be just a date. With other men, she gave little thought about what she wore, how much she would tell them about herself, and what questions she would ask. But this time was different.

When she arrived at Rosa’s, Richard was already there, chatting with the owners, Beatrix and Arturo. Cubby-faced Beatrix, somewhere in her fifties, was barely five feet tall. She was so buxom that the hem of her dress was an inch higher in the back than it was in the front. She greeted Marie with open arms. After the embrace, she shook her fist at Richard and advised Marie through her toothy smile, “If this goombah gives you any problems, you let me know.”

Marie and Richard settled into easy conversation. Marie told Richard about her background, how her mother raised her, how she died when Marie was sixteen, and how the neighbors took her in until she graduated from high school. When Richard asked about her father, she admitted she had never known him.

When she told Richard that she graduated from New York’s Parsons School of Design right after the war, he was surprised. It was an era when very few females went to college, let alone during wartime. He asked her if she went there on a scholarship. Then came the second most difficult thing for Marie to admit about her past: that someone had established a college fund for her, and she didn’t know who it was.

Richard asked her a litany of questions that evening, but he left the most substantial one until last.

“When can I see you again?” He made Marie feel so relaxed, she had no hesitation accepting a second date, despite the fact he had shared very little about himself.

And so began the courtship.

Richard proved to be an attentive suitor. Like the time when her car wouldn’t start after work. After an unnerving trip home on the el, a form of public transportation Marie had never quite gotten the hang of, she was greeted by a very patient Richard leaning up against his sports car in front of her apartment.

She was an hour late for their date. After she had given him the miserable details of her car problems and nerve-racking journey home, he offered to pick her up the next day to take her to work. While she was at work, Richard had his mechanic fix the problem with her car and give it a long overdue tune-up. He then had it washed and waxed. He left a note for her on the front seat.

She purrs like a kitten now.

See you tonight!

- R

Just weeks later, Marie’s boss, Catherine, called her in for a meeting. “Come in, Marie, and close the door behind you,” she had said that day in a tone Marie hadn’t heard before. Catherine, who was in her forties but looked much older, wore one of her usual unflattering dresses. Her flat brown hair was in a tight bun. There was little if any makeup on her pale skin which didn’t help. She waited for Marie to sit down in the large drab room with its mismatched furniture and scuffed grey linoleum floor that Catherine used as an office.

Catherine clasped her hands in a prayer-like position while she talked. “I want to talk to you about your future here.” Her demeanor was gruff, like always.

Marie’s stomach did a couple of flip-flops. The gossip among the staff about her and Richard’s relationship had been rampant. She feared she was about to receive a lecture about it.

“You’ve been here less than six months, and I’ve formed a very strong opinion about you.” She paused while she scrutinized Marie’s face for a reaction. Getting none, she went on. “How do you feel about your job here?”

“I like working here. And I can tell you the more variety you give me, the more I like it.”

“How long are you planning on staying?” she asked with the same deadpan expression. Most of the employees were afraid of Catherine, but Marie was able to look beyond her rough exterior.

“I honestly don’t know. I have no plans to leave, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“What about you and your new boyfriend? Any plans on getting married?”

“Why no. We just started dating.”

“The gossip around here is that you’re getting married.”

“That’s just gossip, Miss Olsen.”

“Here’s the deal, Marie. I like you. I like you a lot. The other day I met with Mr. Bakersfield, and he agreed to approve a new position under me: buyer. I’d like for you to have it,
but
not if you’re going to run off and get married on me. I would be investing a lot of time training you, and I wouldn’t want it to be a waste.”

Marie sat back in her chair and let out a silent sigh of relief. “I’m flattered. What would I be doing?”

“Here’s a list of things I came up with off the top of my head. It’s a new position, so it’ll evolve over time.” She hesitated a moment before continuing. “Tell me, Marie, how do you get along with the other employees?”

“I get along with them just fine.”

“How about the janitors?”

“Sure. Them, too.”

“Give me back the list.” She added a line at the end and handed it back to her. “The less I have to deal with people, the better off we all are. The job pays $180 a month. You’d be salaried. No more punching in and out. You’ll also be eligible for a bonus if you do good enough.”

Marie couldn’t contain the smile. Her long-range goal was to work in a large company until gaining enough experience to own her own interior design firm. Things were falling into place for her. “Thank you! When do I start?”

“Today. Before the uppity-ups change their minds. We’ll need to find someone to fill your position. When we do, she’ll report to you. In the meantime, do you think you can juggle both?”

“Uh…I think so. But Miss Olsen, I’ve never supervised anyone before.”

“Well, I can’t teach you that. I stink at it. You’ll have to learn that as you go along.”

“Okay. And thank you for this opportunity. I won’t let you down. I promise.”

“I know. That’s why I offered it to you.”

Marie got up to leave when Catherine said, “That last item on your list of duties? I’m serious about it. I don’t like dealing with people. Truth be told, I’m scared of them. And if you ever repeat that, I’ll fire you.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I’m going to tell Esther Adams that effective Monday, she reports to you. Do you have any problem with that?”

Marie hesitated. Esther was not only a co-worker but also a friend. “No ma’am.”

“Marie.”

“Yes?”

“One more thing. Can you call me Catherine?”

No one ever called Miss Olsen by her first name.

Marie checked the break room for Esther on her lunch hour that day. The room was packed, standing room only, and everyone was talking about the memo Catherine had posted on the bulletin board announcing Marie’s promotion. In it Catherine directed anyone who needed to see her on any matter to go through Marie.

“Hey! Come in here, Miss Buyer. Congratulations!”

“Let me shake your hand,” said one of the janitors. “So this means I don’t have to deal with the old battle-axe anymore?”

Marie shook his hand. “Shame on you, Jimmie,” she whispered. “How do you know I won’t be worse?”