horn sounded outside the operations shack, and Lindbergh bounded in the door, carrying a gray tweed coat and a green-striped tie. "I thought you might want to borrow these—Jack Winter said he'd take us somewhere fancy."
*
Manhattan/May 16, 1927
Fancy in Salinas had been the Country Club Inn; Bandy had never dared set foot inside. His heart tumbled when he found out that fancy to Jack Winter was the Waldorf Astoria. He'd been quite comfortable on the ride in, listening to Lindbergh's serious dis cussions with his mother on how he was to behave in Paris. He'd gawked at the tall buildings on their walk from the garage up 34th Street to the rambling twin buildings that formed a hotel so fabled that they'd heard about it in Salinas.
The gorgeously decorated Peacock Alley, the Waldorf's multi colored showcase for the celebrating rich, more than lived up to its name, and his eyes fastened on a glittering passage of laughing, confident young women borne on the arms of equally happy young men in evening clothes. He felt a constriction in his loins when he saw, in the window of a diamond-bright jewelry shop, the collar of his borrowed tweed coat riding up around his plaid flannel shirt, pushing his tie askew. He was glad it wasn't a full-length mirror, for he knew that the bottoms of his wrinkled black pants were riding an inch above his high-top brown shoes.
It was like a movie trip down death row, a brilliantly lit struggle to get to the point of execution. The noise was deafening, a constant ripple of laughter and chatter, of fleeting names he'd never heard, places he'd never been. He had to steel himself not to turn around and catch the ritzy-looking couples pointing at him and grinning.
The walk became a jelly-legged nightmare as he straggled beside Mrs. Lindbergh and Slim, his feet, suddenly feed buckets, flopping in wide arcs to left and right. He was an ambulatory contradiction, the clownish focus of attention of a crowd of rich bastards, not one of whom would look at him. He hated them all, began to hate the Lindberghs, who didn't seem to see them, and most of all he thought he hated Jack Winter, the man waiting at the entrance to the restaurant, standing at the top of the little flight of stairs carpeted inches deep in luxury.
Winter and his wife were both smiling broadly. As the three of them approached, the pair seemed to grow in size, Winter's faultlessly cut evening clothes blossoming to block out the light behind them, his patent-leather hair glistening as brightly as his patent- leather shoes. His wife, dressed in a low-cut orange silk dress and a matching turban, was simply, starkly, beautiful. An orange-tipped white fringe, a feathery python, curled around her neck and down her arms, seeming to caress her with a life of its own.
Bandfield glanced from one to the other, speechless, wondering what on earth they were making of him, this country bumpkin from the West. Winter, his diamond studs holding their own in a fierce competition with the chandelier, pumped Lindbergh's hand while his wife and Mrs. Lindbergh exchanged near-miss kisses. Winter's dazzling grin plainly said that Bandfield was dressed well enough for him. Mrs. Winter, straight out of a Woodbury's soap advertisement, pressed his hand, murmuring her name, Frances, which he promptly forgot.
And with her name went all of his concerns about clothes, place, and time, for from behind Winter emerged a shy young woman, looking as desperately anxious as Bandfield felt. He had had many girlfriends, had made love to many women, and had almost been engaged once. But he had never been prepared to be poleaxed, to feel himself fall irrevocably in love with any girl before he had even learned her name.
"Millie, I believe you know Mrs. Lindbergh. May I present Charles Lindbergh and Frank Bandfield? Gentlemen, this is our niece, Mildred Duncan."
She held out her hand, and Bandy said, "I'm really glad to meet you," in a tone that made everybody believe
*
Manhattan/May 16, 1927
Fancy in Salinas had been the Country Club Inn; Bandy had never dared set foot inside. His heart tumbled when he found out that fancy to Jack Winter was the Waldorf Astoria. He'd been quite comfortable on the ride in, listening to Lindbergh's serious dis cussions with his mother on how he was to behave in Paris. He'd gawked at the tall buildings on their walk from the garage up 34th Street to the rambling twin buildings that formed a hotel so fabled that they'd heard about it in Salinas.
The gorgeously decorated Peacock Alley, the Waldorf's multi colored showcase for the celebrating rich, more than lived up to its name, and his eyes fastened on a glittering passage of laughing, confident young women borne on the arms of equally happy young men in evening clothes. He felt a constriction in his loins when he saw, in the window of a diamond-bright jewelry shop, the collar of his borrowed tweed coat riding up around his plaid flannel shirt, pushing his tie askew. He was glad it wasn't a full-length mirror, for he knew that the bottoms of his wrinkled black pants were riding an inch above his high-top brown shoes.
It was like a movie trip down death row, a brilliantly lit struggle to get to the point of execution. The noise was deafening, a constant ripple of laughter and chatter, of fleeting names he'd never heard, places he'd never been. He had to steel himself not to turn around and catch the ritzy-looking couples pointing at him and grinning.
The walk became a jelly-legged nightmare as he straggled beside Mrs. Lindbergh and Slim, his feet, suddenly feed buckets, flopping in wide arcs to left and right. He was an ambulatory contradiction, the clownish focus of attention of a crowd of rich bastards, not one of whom would look at him. He hated them all, began to hate the Lindberghs, who didn't seem to see them, and most of all he thought he hated Jack Winter, the man waiting at the entrance to the restaurant, standing at the top of the little flight of stairs carpeted inches deep in luxury.
Winter and his wife were both smiling broadly. As the three of them approached, the pair seemed to grow in size, Winter's faultlessly cut evening clothes blossoming to block out the light behind them, his patent-leather hair glistening as brightly as his patent- leather shoes. His wife, dressed in a low-cut orange silk dress and a matching turban, was simply, starkly, beautiful. An orange-tipped white fringe, a feathery python, curled around her neck and down her arms, seeming to caress her with a life of its own.
Bandfield glanced from one to the other, speechless, wondering what on earth they were making of him, this country bumpkin from the West. Winter, his diamond studs holding their own in a fierce competition with the chandelier, pumped Lindbergh's hand while his wife and Mrs. Lindbergh exchanged near-miss kisses. Winter's dazzling grin plainly said that Bandfield was dressed well enough for him. Mrs. Winter, straight out of a Woodbury's soap advertisement, pressed his hand, murmuring her name, Frances, which he promptly forgot.
And with her name went all of his concerns about clothes, place, and time, for from behind Winter emerged a shy young woman, looking as desperately anxious as Bandfield felt. He had had many girlfriends, had made love to many women, and had almost been engaged once. But he had never been prepared to be poleaxed, to feel himself fall irrevocably in love with any girl before he had even learned her name.
"Millie, I believe you know Mrs. Lindbergh. May I present Charles Lindbergh and Frank Bandfield? Gentlemen, this is our niece, Mildred Duncan."
She held out her hand, and Bandy said, "I'm really glad to meet you," in a tone that made everybody believe
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