Treasures (6 page)

River Oaks. The grand stone houses under the grand old trees. Sighing, she put the directory back on the shelf.

• • •

The party went well. Fifty middle-aged ladies in silks and linens came bearing gifts, drank champagne, sang ‘Happy Birthday,’ and went home satisfied. At the end Mrs. Tory summoned Connie to compliment her cordially on the arrangements.

“Your son had as much to do with it as I did,” Connie told her, which of course was not true. Yet something compelled her to bring his name into the conversation.

“Really? Well, Richard has always had an instinct for doing things right,” his mother replied as she departed.

It had occurred to Connie that he might perhaps drop in at the party to see how things were going. But since he had not done so, it was hardly likely that she would be seeing him again—although it was absurd to think it would make any difference in her life even if she were to. So it was with some surprise that she looked up from her desk one morning in the following week to find him at the door. He was wearing tennis whites and carrying a racket.

“I hear the party was a great success, so I thought I’d come by to thank you.”

“It was a pleasure to do it,” she replied.

He stood in the doorway as if uncertain whether to say more, to come farther or to retreat.

“I haven’t played tennis here in a couple of years,” he said then. “It’s handier to play at home. But I thought I’d give this a try for a change to see whether I could beat the pro.”

“And did you?”

“No, but I gave him a run for his money.”

“You must be pretty good.”

“Well, I’m not bad.”

His face was open, with a wide forehead and a friendly mouth. He had a vital look. Wholesome, she thought.

“I’m not bad either,” she said immodestly. “My brother taught me, and he’s marvelous.”

“Then would you like to have a game sometime?”

“I’d love to, but don’t forget I’m a working girl.”

“And I’m a working man. This is my three-week vacation. Otherwise, I’d be in the office at ten-thirty in the morning. Ten-thirty at night, too, often enough.”

How could this be happening? It seemed as if she were delicately balancing, teetering on a narrow plank, placing one foot softly ahead of the other with arms out, fearful of a fall. The wrong word, either too eager or too indifferent, could bring about the fall.

She said carefully, “I have Sundays and usually Mondays, unless there’s a wedding or something, and—well, it’s flexible time, depending on the schedule. They’re very considerate of me here.”

“They should be. So, when are you free? Anytime this week?”

“It happens that I’ve got this afternoon off. But you won’t want any more tennis today, will you?”

“No, it’s gotten beastly hot. I will want lunch, though, won’t you?”

“Oh, I never miss lunch. Sorry to say, I’ve got a healthy appetite.”

He smiled. “So have I. There’s a great place down the road. I’ll go change, and then how about meeting in the parking lot at half past twelve?”

• • •

I can’t believe this, Connie kept thinking. He’s so easy to talk to. He reminds me of Davey. Lara would like him. He’s not at all what I’d expect from anyone who lives in River Oaks. But what do I know about anyone who lives there? I do know he doesn’t seem like the men I’ve been watching at this club with their skeptical, suave faces. The restaurant was emptying out, and they were still settled in a booth with a second order of iced coffee before them.

“I usually like to travel someplace for my vacation,” Richard was saying, “even if it’s only up to New York. The company has me spending so much time there that I’ve got myself a small apartment near the U.N. building. My parents like to fly up for theater weekends, so they can use it too. Do you like New York?”

“I’ve never been there. I’ve never been anywhere, actually.” Then, because that sounded pathetic, Connie fell back upon the explanation she had devised and now knew by heart. “First my father always said he couldn’t leave his business. A large furniture business. He was a real workaholic—you know the type. Then when he got sick, naturally …” She made a pretty gesture with her hands. “After that Mom got sick, too, and we couldn’t leave her, wouldn’t leave her.” She did not finish.

“It must have been awful for you,” he said kindly. “Well, I’m sure you’ll get to see the world. If you want to, you will, you know.”

“I’d especially love to see England. My family was always so aware of roots, and they were all in England except for a bit of Dutch way back. Distant relatives of the Vanderbilts—or maybe not so distant. And then
there’s a Catholic branch,” she added, suddenly remembering a fact from American history class. “Some ancestor came to Maryland with Lord Baltimore.”

“Gosh, I’m a plebeian compared with you. Most of my folks were Irish who came over during the potato famine. And I’ve got a Polish great-grandfather who worked in the coal mines.”

Connie spoke lightly. “What difference does it all make? People are people.”

“Right you are. When shall I see you again? Saturday? Sunday?”

“Sunday would be lovely.”

“Okay. Write down your address, and I’ll pick you up. And bring your swimsuit. We’ll want a swim before lunch.”

She had to tell Celia Mapes. “Can you believe it? Richard Tory’s asked me out. And to his house, no less.”

Celia looked doubtful. “I believe it if you say so.”

“Well, it’s true. He’s really sweet. The only thing is, I hate the idea of being there with the family. They look like people who won’t be too thrilled about having me either.”

“You can bet they won’t be, honey. I’ve known them for twenty years, and I can tell you they don’t improve with age.”

“Oh, Lord, I’m scared to death already.”

“You’ll do all right, I’m thinking. You must have given that fellow some come-on.”

“I swear I did nothing of the sort. I didn’t do a thing.”

There was a new respect, almost comical, in Celia’s
head-to-foot examination of Connie. “You’ll do all right,” she repeated then, with a wise nod.

In back of a long white brick house with symmetrical wings and a classical facade lay the perfect lawn, the tennis court, and the pool that one would expect to find there.

“We have the place to ourselves today,” Richard said. “My parents won’t be back till tonight.”

It seemed quite clear what these words meant. And something occurred in Connie’s head, a self-analysis swift as a computer printout: My heart’s excited. My first time, and it’s past time. I’m twenty years old. But should …? Does he expect it …? The day would unfold and end then, either in a bed upstairs or in the poolhouse.

At the moment, he was leading her to the tennis court. She had bought something new, a short Wimbledon skirt; it looked traditional, as shorts did not, and instinct had told her that a conservative effect would be a good thing to have today. Now that the parents were not here, she was sorry she hadn’t bought the shorts. However, this tiny flounce was becoming, too, as it whipped above long, tanned legs. She played well, feeling grateful to Eddy for all those mornings when he had made her rise early to get to the town courts before they were taken.

“Hey, you’re a great player. You didn’t tell me how good you were,” Richard called over the net.

He won the set, although not easily. But even if she had been able to beat him, she would not have done so.
Never mind women’s liberation; certainly she was in full accord with it, yet there were basic truths that common sense wouldn’t let one deny, and one of them was that men didn’t like to be beaten.

Next in the pool, where she dove and raced with ease, she was thankful again for Eddy’s tough, insistent training.

“The more skills you have, the farther they’ll take you.” That had been his constant admonition, and she saw now that it had been worth heeding, for Richard was a graceful athlete and he was plainly admiring her skills.

“You’re terrific,” he kept saying. “Terrific!”

He had an enthusiastic way of speaking, with superlatives and exclamations, so that she had to wonder how old he might be; his manner seemed extraordinarily young.

So she asked him, and he told her. “Twenty-four. Why?”

“No reason, really.”

“Were you wondering why I’m still living here at home?”

He was more keen than she’d thought! And before she could reply, he said, “Actually, I’m planning to leave. I’ve applied for transfer to the New York office. I have to break the news gradually. It’ll be a real disruption in my parents’ lives because I’m the only child they have, and naturally, they hate to let go.” He added, smiling, “Not that it’s been any real hardship for me to live here.”

“I wouldn’t think so,” Connie said, looking around
the terrace with its white wrought-iron furniture, its cobalt-blue awnings, and its petunias trailing out of stone urns. One would want to think it over more than once before departing from such a pleasure island, such a comfortable world as this.

“Come on, I’ll show you the house,” Richard offered. “Women always like to see houses, don’t they?”

“This one certainly does.”

One large cool room, dimmed by drawn blinds against the noon heat, opened onto another. They had walked into the eighteenth century. She might have foreseen that Mrs. Tory would belong here. She could have predicted that chairs would be Sheraton, sofas Chippendale, and that the dining room would be papered with Chinese peonies.

At the center of the table stood a crystal swan. And Connie smiled to herself, pleased to have recognized it as Lalique.

“It’s lovely,” she said now. “A lovely house.”

In the hall Richard paused, and the thought raced through her mind: Now he will suggest going upstairs.

Instead, he said, “The cook’s left lunch for us in the refrigerator. I thought we might take it outside.”

Not sure whether or not to be relieved, she helped him carry the lunch: a seafood salad, strawberry tarts, and a bottle of white wine, properly chilled.

The umbrella and the surrounding shrubbery gave shade. If a pair of mourning doves had not been cooing at the feeder, the garden would have been completely still, and Connie sighed with pleasure.

“I think I know what you’re feeling,” Richard said,
remarking on the sigh. “Sometimes I think I’m crazy to give this up for a couple of rooms thirty-three floors above the New York sidewalks. And yet I want to.” He mused. “New York’s the origin, the fount, of good things. Not that we haven’t got plenty of them here, too, music, art— But then I guess you’ve found them for yourself.”

“I’m ashamed to say I haven’t.”

“Really? Well, then, we’ll have to do something about it, won’t we?”

So today was to be only a beginning! Connie’s heart acknowledged this with a small, eager leap. But her reply was calm.

“I’d like that very much.”

“There’s an exhibit of Western art on right now. I went last week, but I wouldn’t mind going again. Southwestern things are especially good. Red rocks and canyons and Indian faces—some people find them trite by now, but I never do.”

“Do you collect art?”

He shook his head. “I’m not a collector of anything except books. I feel that great art belongs in museums where thousands of people can see it. Besides, I couldn’t afford great art even if I wanted to.”

“I agree with you—about art belonging in museums, I mean.”

Richard responded quickly, “Do you? I’m glad. Most people around here use paintings for status. The higher the price you paid, the higher your status. And some of the stuff they buy is nothing but fad stuff. Why, I was at
a house last week when the funniest thing—oh, I shouldn’t bore you.”

“Please. I want to hear it.”

“But you don’t know the people I’m talking about. You don’t know the way they think, and if you don’t, my story loses its point.”

“No names, but just tell me. Do they belong to the club?”

“Yes. Most of the people I know belong to it.”

“Then I have a pretty good idea how they think.”

She met his glance, and in the same instant they both laughed. Oh, I. like him, I like him, she thought. He’s smart and funny, and honest, and I like him.

The afternoon went fast. “I’ve had a great day,” he said when they arrived at her door. “I hope you did too.”

“It was wonderful,” she answered. His good-bye kiss was gentle, a chaste kiss.

They saw each other every day that remained in his vacation. When she had to go to work early, he called for her and returned to bring her home. On late nights he waited for her. It was remarkable how easily one could fall into dependence on such attentions, could assume that the face with the good smile would be there on the other side of the door.

He took her to the exhibit of Western art, to some concerts, and a ballet. All of these were enchantments for Connie. Certainly she had known they existed, and yet she was astonished when they materialized before her eyes and ears, as if they were a kind of lovely magic.

She thought about Richard almost all the time, while she was working or falling asleep or after restless sleep,
waking too early in the morning. Who could tell whether anything more was to follow these few bright days? Nothing was sure, she told herself, with the remembrance of her mother’s misguided optimism to warn her.

He hadn’t taken her to bed. He hadn’t brought her to his house since that first day, which meant quite obviously that his parents had already disapproved, or that he knew they would disapprove if they were told. Subtleties, things spoken and unspoken, were making clear to her acute mind that Richard feared their disapproval.

This insight by no means lessened her respect for him. Was she falling in love with him? There flashed before her a picture of Lara at her wedding, of her face turned toward Davey, of the trust, the adoration, and the joy in that face. And Davey had had nothing to give Lara except himself.

However, I am not like Lara … for a moment she felt guilty. Suppose that Richard worked in a gas station and lived in a two-room flat, would he be just as desirable? No, of course he wouldn’t. Yet that wasn’t a fair supposition either. One might just as easily ask whether, if she herself had bad skin and were fifty pounds overweight, Richard would want her! Of course he wouldn’t, even though she’d be the same person inside. The facts were simple: You can’t separate a person from externals. They’re all part of the person.