each other in New York.… Eddy will be pleased with Richard … happy for me.
The air conditioner’s sleep-inducing hum took hold. Still, in her dreams, the shreds and fragments floated, in dreams such as children have through the long impatient night before Christmas.
By eight o’clock she had already been on the telephone with Lara for half an hour.
“But you can’t do this,” Lara kept crying. “You hardly know him.”
“Peg knew Pop six weeks before she married him, and they’d still be together if they’d lived. You know that.” When no reply was made, Connie persisted, “I can tell what you’re thinking. But Richard is not an alcoholic any more than Davey is.”
After a moment Lara asked what he did for a living.
“He’s in the advertising business, and we’re moving to New York.” Hastily she added, “But he’s not at all what you think of when you hear ‘Madison Avenue,’ sharp and competitive—you know? Richard’s got a kind of innocence, almost, that’s very appealing. And he must have a lot of talent, or they wouldn’t be promoting him. Lara, he’s wonderful, he’s everything you’d want for me, and I love him.”
“Well, if you’re sure …”
“Darling, I’m sure. Aren’t you sure about Davey?”
“When shall I meet him?”
“He wants to be married next week. Can you get down here?”
“Honey, I can’t possibly do it on such short notice. Davey’s having trouble with his father, another stroke and—can’t you wait a little?”
“Richard doesn’t want to. But it’s okay. Obviously, we’re not having a big wedding. So we’ll come visit you afterward instead.”
And suddenly a picture printed itself in Connie’s head: the peeling paint on the two-family house, the scruffy weeds in the yard, Richard climbing the stairs … Not that he would ever care; he was too decent, too intelligent, for such snobbery; wouldn’t he care, though, that she had lied to him?
There was time enough, however, to think about that later.
“So will you tell Eddy? I tried to get him on the phone just now, but there was no answer.”
“He’s probably at his club for the weekend. Our Eddy seems to have made contact in high places.”
Not as high as mine, I’ll bet, Connie thought, but did not say.
Later, in the car, Richard said, “I’ve told them, and they’re expecting you.”
“And?”
“Well, they were surprised, of course. It is a little sudden, after all.”
“Just surprised? No objections?”
“They’re only worried about whether I was sure, and I told them I was and that you were too. So,” he said,“you haven’t the slightest reason for being nervous. Just be yourself.”
The Torys were standing at the front door when Richard stopped the car. In the second before recognition and greetings Connie had an illusion of Grant Wood’s “American Gothic,” the farm couple in overalls and housedress, standing stone faced and rigid together. The illusion dissolved into brass-buttoned blazer and printed silk as they all shook hands.
“I’m sorry, you’ll have to get back into the car,” Mr. Tory said, “and drive your mother to your aunt May’s. She’s sick again. Miss Osborne can stay here with me.”
“But that’ll take all morning,” Richard said.
“I know, but it can’t be helped. I’d go myself, except for an important call that I’m expecting.”
“I’m really sorry,” Mrs. Tory explained. “Miss Osborne, make yourself at home. You’ll have lunch with my husband and Richard will be back by two o’clock, I’m sure.”
Connie looked sympathetic. “I do hope your aunt—”
“My sister.”
“Your sister will be all right. And do please call me Connie.”
Richard seemed flustered. “I don’t know whether I told you, her real name is Consuelo.”
“Consuelo? As in Vanderbilt?”
Connie smiled. Her closed-lip smile, she knew, was charmingly modest. “As a matter of fact, there is a relationship. Cousins, way, way
The air conditioner’s sleep-inducing hum took hold. Still, in her dreams, the shreds and fragments floated, in dreams such as children have through the long impatient night before Christmas.
By eight o’clock she had already been on the telephone with Lara for half an hour.
“But you can’t do this,” Lara kept crying. “You hardly know him.”
“Peg knew Pop six weeks before she married him, and they’d still be together if they’d lived. You know that.” When no reply was made, Connie persisted, “I can tell what you’re thinking. But Richard is not an alcoholic any more than Davey is.”
After a moment Lara asked what he did for a living.
“He’s in the advertising business, and we’re moving to New York.” Hastily she added, “But he’s not at all what you think of when you hear ‘Madison Avenue,’ sharp and competitive—you know? Richard’s got a kind of innocence, almost, that’s very appealing. And he must have a lot of talent, or they wouldn’t be promoting him. Lara, he’s wonderful, he’s everything you’d want for me, and I love him.”
“Well, if you’re sure …”
“Darling, I’m sure. Aren’t you sure about Davey?”
“When shall I meet him?”
“He wants to be married next week. Can you get down here?”
“Honey, I can’t possibly do it on such short notice. Davey’s having trouble with his father, another stroke and—can’t you wait a little?”
“Richard doesn’t want to. But it’s okay. Obviously, we’re not having a big wedding. So we’ll come visit you afterward instead.”
And suddenly a picture printed itself in Connie’s head: the peeling paint on the two-family house, the scruffy weeds in the yard, Richard climbing the stairs … Not that he would ever care; he was too decent, too intelligent, for such snobbery; wouldn’t he care, though, that she had lied to him?
There was time enough, however, to think about that later.
“So will you tell Eddy? I tried to get him on the phone just now, but there was no answer.”
“He’s probably at his club for the weekend. Our Eddy seems to have made contact in high places.”
Not as high as mine, I’ll bet, Connie thought, but did not say.
Later, in the car, Richard said, “I’ve told them, and they’re expecting you.”
“And?”
“Well, they were surprised, of course. It is a little sudden, after all.”
“Just surprised? No objections?”
“They’re only worried about whether I was sure, and I told them I was and that you were too. So,” he said,“you haven’t the slightest reason for being nervous. Just be yourself.”
The Torys were standing at the front door when Richard stopped the car. In the second before recognition and greetings Connie had an illusion of Grant Wood’s “American Gothic,” the farm couple in overalls and housedress, standing stone faced and rigid together. The illusion dissolved into brass-buttoned blazer and printed silk as they all shook hands.
“I’m sorry, you’ll have to get back into the car,” Mr. Tory said, “and drive your mother to your aunt May’s. She’s sick again. Miss Osborne can stay here with me.”
“But that’ll take all morning,” Richard said.
“I know, but it can’t be helped. I’d go myself, except for an important call that I’m expecting.”
“I’m really sorry,” Mrs. Tory explained. “Miss Osborne, make yourself at home. You’ll have lunch with my husband and Richard will be back by two o’clock, I’m sure.”
Connie looked sympathetic. “I do hope your aunt—”
“My sister.”
“Your sister will be all right. And do please call me Connie.”
Richard seemed flustered. “I don’t know whether I told you, her real name is Consuelo.”
“Consuelo? As in Vanderbilt?”
Connie smiled. Her closed-lip smile, she knew, was charmingly modest. “As a matter of fact, there is a relationship. Cousins, way, way
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