Bright Young Things Read online

  “Ah.” Darius shrugged, and he smiled magnanimously. For her the lie soured the afternoon a little, but he seemed unaware that anything was amiss. “Don‧t worry, my dear. You enjoy yourself tonight, and we will have our dinner tomorrow …”

  Then he kissed her forehead and sent her up the stairs. She had nearly made it to the third story when she heard him call out, “My girl is back.” When she glanced over the railing, he was nowhere to be seen, but she heard him calling, “I always knew she‧d come back to me!”

  12

  DOGWOOD, AS IT HAPPENS, IS EASIER TO SNEAK OUT of than into, a fact that applies to many places in this world but very few of life‧s situations. Among Cordelia‧s new possessions was a watch with a rectangular face and roman numerals, attached to her wrist with a delicate gold bracelet, and so she knew it was at precisely 5:49 that she discovered this to be true about her new home. She had taken a roundabout walk across the grounds, in a boatneck dress of midnight blue chiffon with a dropped waist and a low, open back, and snakeskin T-strap heels that kept sinking into the soft earth. Tonight she‧d wanted to be pretty but not too attention-grabbing, and by the time she tiptoed past the turned back of her father‧s guard, she was confident that she had succeeded in that mission at least. He was leaning against the guardhouse, his gaze directed up the road, and it took only a little courage for her to dart past him in the opposite direction.

  The traffic was sparse at that hour, and everything around was quiet, so she listened as her heart‧s thudding became less loud, and she let her pace slow to an amble. Even her feet scarcely made a sound, for every step was cushioned by clumps of fallen pine needles. A breeze picked up around 5:52, and the sun cast a long shadow. She worried that Charlie or someone would come after her now, and also that it would be difficult to regain access to the Grey estate later. But by 5:56, when she went around the next bend, every tiny shard of negative thinking left her mind completely.

  Thom was there already, wearing a white suit and tie, leaning against a gleaming black automobile. The dust around him had settled, and he had the air of having been there for some time already, though the waiting did not appear to have caused him any agitation. His arms and ankles were both crossed comfortably, and his chin was pointed up the road, in the direction from which she had come. When he saw her approaching, he grinned.

  They both regarded each other for a moment, considering the right greeting. Then, before she could become nervous, she thrust forward her hand.

  “So you‧re Darius Grey‧s daughter?” he said, still grinning, the skin of his palm pressing against hers.

  “Yes, I guess I am.”

  He whistled and let go of her hand. “Everyone at the club was talking about you. I must know: What do long-lost daughters do with their time while awaiting the moment of their joyous and unexpected returns, anyway?”

  Cordelia laughed, showing her broad white teeth. She wondered briefly what it was that Astrid had nearly told her about Thom, and then replied, “Maybe I‧ll tell you when I know you better.”

  “That‧s fair enough, I suppose,” he said, and then walked round the vehicle. Several seconds later, she realized that he was opening the passenger-side door for her, the way gentlemen were supposed to, and that she should come around the side, too.

  Lowering herself onto the seat, she felt the sweet weight of his attention upon her. His stare was concentrated but nonetheless subtle and untroubled, and even after she had settled in he did not immediately close the door. Her breath rose slowly inside her, and she turned her face up toward him and blinked. He was almost too handsome to look at straight on, but she didn‧t have to for very long, because he grinned again and pushed the door shut. With the sound of metal against metal, she felt that she‧d once again crossed over into another world—Thom‧s world, whatever that meant. Whoever he was, he certainly owned a fine automobile, and she took advantage of her brief solitude while he walked back around to the driver‧s side to run her hand over the soft leather upholstery.

  “To the city?” he said, as he put the car in reverse. She was relieved she didn‧t have to tell him she‧d rather not risk driving past her father‧s guards again.

  “I‧ll go wherever you‧re driving.” She had wanted to say something cute, but once she heard the words aloud, she realized how much she really meant them.

  So they did—down the White Cove main road, catching glimpses of the blue water through the trees, small colorful vessels moving calmly across the sound, and then into the low suburbs, with their dense, careless structures. They exchanged easy words—about the warmth of the day and the taste of old-fashioned cocktails—as twilight came on. By the time Cordelia experienced the elation of rising swiftly upward onto the Queensboro Bridge, a sliver of moon was hanging against a lavender background and the setting sun was already half obscured by the striving and clambering of New York‧s big buildings at a distance.

  “What‧s that?” Cordelia asked, pointing at a long stretch of land in the middle of the East River, which they were then passing over.

  “Blackwell‧s Island,” Thom explained. “That‧s where they keep criminals, didn‧t you know that? Mae West spent ten days there, bragging that she brought silk panties to prison with her. Not to mention Dutch Schultz—”

  “Who‧s Dutch Schultz?” Cordelia asked before she had time to wonder whether she ought to already know.

  “Dutch Schultz? He controls the Bronx,” Thom replied slowly. He paused and glanced over at his passenger, and the brief meeting of their eyes caused her to forget what they had just been talking about and made her heart soar. “You really are new to this town, aren‧t you?”

  Cordelia laughed. “You didn‧t believe me till now?”

  “I suppose you haven‧t got any reason to lie to me, since you don‧t know me at all.” To her chagrin, his tone had become serious, as though he was turning something over in his mind.

  The car passed under the shadow of one of the bridge‧s spans, and Thom stopped squinting, and his words became weightless again. “Anyway, if you really are a stranger to New York, all the better for me—it‧ll be much easier to impress you.”

  “Don‧t count on it,” she shot back playfully.

  The roadway was descending now, and in the thickening dusk the playful brilliance of his eyes and smile were even more prominent, and she found that every inch of her wanted to sing, I can‧t believe I‧m out with a boy like him! I can‧t believe I‧m out with him!

  “Well, baby,” Thom began, turning the wheel sharply and picking up speed as they cruised down the off-ramp, toward the streets. She was surprised by the way his voice could change all of a sudden, from careful and florid like a college boy‧s to clipped and a little rough. It was like the color of his eyes, she supposed—not quite one shade or another, and utterly unlike anyone else‧s. She loved the idea of driving in a car with a boy like that. “You stick with me. I‧m gonna show you what‧s really hiding behind all them straight-faced facades.”

  As they sped down a broad avenue, past slower cars and grand entrances guarded by green awnings and uniformed doormen, it occurred to her that she didn‧t know Thom at all, that she‧d never known a man of Thom‧s type—or even if he was a type—and this added to the shivery pleasure of his playing tour guide with her. In a matter of days, everything about her life had changed, and she couldn‧t really be blamed for regarding every future moment as though it contained a surprise, some treasure better than any she‧d yet seen.

  Such was her experience when she stepped into a small oak-and-mirror-paneled room in the lobby of an elegant hotel and felt the floor begin to rise beneath her feet.

  “Oh,” she gasped and grabbed Thom‧s arm. Then she realized this was what was meant by a lift, that they were going to the top of the building, and they both laughed.

  On the roof there was a little bar and a number of lithe people swaying gently in the cool darkness. Thom ordered old-fashioneds and ushered her over to the building‧s edge, a
nd Cordelia felt a pleasant rush of fear when she saw how high up they were. She peered down those many stories, where miniature-sized people got in and out of cabs. Beyond them lay Central Park, the tops of its trees forming a forest far more vast than she could possibly have imagined while on the ground, but which was nonetheless neatly framed by the uninterrupted progression of buildings and streets that seemed to cover every other inch up and down the island.

  After a while, Thom turned and propped his elbows against the carved stone barrier that protected them from what surely would have been a fatal fall. For a moment she thought he might kiss her; her face began to tingle.

  But then he didn‧t.

  “You‧re bored here, aren‧t you?” he asked, furrowing his brow.

  There was nothing to do but smile at his concern, for though she was afraid to say so, she felt she would never be bored, no matter where she was, so long as she was in his company. But perhaps he heard her silent thoughts, because he smiled back and held her gaze. Then he took her hand, and they hurried to the elevator and out of the hotel.

  “Good night, Mr. Hale,” the doorman said as they brushed past.

  The name sounded familiar, but before she had time to really think about it, they were driving downtown, the wind and the whole evening giving her pleasant chills. They stopped into a place in the West Fifties with no ceiling fans, where another doorman knew Thom by name. An all black five-piece band played in the basement, sweating through their button-down shirts, and Cordelia watched glittery-eyed at the sound they could make with their instruments. But the little tables were too crammed together for dancing, and they both agreed they wouldn‧t go home satisfied unless they found a place to do just that. Next they went to a pool hall—a long, vast room with lights dangling over green tables—and Thom taught her to play. She didn‧t try to hide how competitive she was when it came to a game, and he was undeterred by this characteristic; she beat him, but barely, and they walked down the single flight of stairs to the sidewalk hand in hand.

  Now when they drove, she began to recognize her surroundings—the great monolith of Penn Station, the night clouds above the Hudson, which were made visible against an indigo sky by the reflected glow of an electric city, the stream of traffic, substantial even as late as it was, past buildings a girl had to crane her neck to see. There was so much of everything—the headlights coming at them and the thousands of windows above, which held little flickering scenes from lives she would never know anything about. Her chest grew warm thinking of all that plenty, and also with the idea of expressing what she was feeling to Thom. Later, when this evening had crystallized into a perfect memory, the driving would be the part that characterized everything else—the two of them, sitting side by side in that great, polished piece of machinery, traveling fast to new places …

  “Thom Hale,” she said when his name surfaced in her thoughts again. “I hope you‧re not related to Duluth Hale.”

  His eyes darted toward her and back to the road. “He‧s my father,” Thom answered after a minute.

  “But your father and my father—”

  “—do not get along.” Thom grimaced.

  “You knew I was Darius Grey‧s daughter … and you still wanted to take me out?”

  She wondered if this meant the end of the evening, now that they couldn‧t avoid each other‧s identities, and began to experience a sinking disappointment.

  But then Thom shrugged. “At first I didn‧t know who you were. And then, after I did—how could I stay away from you?” he asked.

  They had come to a stop at a traffic light. The motor was shaking, and the smell of gas was sweet and sickening in the air. She opened her mouth to reply, but before she could think of an answer to a statement as beautiful as that, she felt his hand on her waist, and when she turned her face toward him, she saw that he was going to kiss her. His mouth was a pressure simultaneously soft and intense, and for a while she forgot that there was anything more to her than the spot where their lips touched. She felt as though they might go on kissing forever, but then horns blared behind them and they realized the traffic signal had changed and the hold-up they‧d caused.

  After that, their banter was different. A closeness filled up the vacant air between them on the bench seat, and the joking ebbed. The car proceeded another block, and then a slow smile crept across Thom‧s face.

  “I know where there‧ll be dancing,” he said.

  “It shouldn‧t surprise you by now,” Cordelia whispered, curling against the seat and watching Thom with starry eyes. “I wanna go wherever you‧re going.”

  13

  IN WHITE COVE THE SKY HAD TURNED FROM BLUE TO mulberry, which in that part of the world is synonymous with cocktail time. So it had been since the first American merchant decided to build himself a country castle there, and probably even before, for the local fishermen had an almost hereditary tradition of ending their days in the shacks that faced the sound. Astrid Donal had never set foot in anyplace like that, but she had attended plenty of gatherings that began in the late afternoon and stretched into the giddy hours following midnight. Many of these, like the party at which she was currently playing a somewhat unwilling guest of honor, had been hosted by her mother.

  “Oh, yes!” the third Mrs. Harrison Marsh II was saying, as the skin of her eyelids squeezed ever tighter in a show of mawkish joy, to her neighbor and most closely held rival, Mrs. Edgemont Phipps, née Narcissa Beaumont. Mrs. Phipps and Mrs. Marsh had been debutantes together, but they both had decidedly more gaunt faces now. “We are so happy to have her back.”

  Astrid, ten or so feet away, smiled faintly and gazed out the window. From the parlor on the first floor, one could see all the way down the drive to the inlet and the road that ran along the shell-strewn shore. Like her mother, she wore white; the dress was composed of a loose-fitting bodice with slender silver straps and a skirt that skimmed the hips and then flowed outward to the feather-lined hem at midcalf. Her mother‧s gown was decidedly more décolleté, though it had been created with a touch of the same whimsy.

  “She‧s more like a lady every time I see her,” replied Mrs. Phipps, who was decked in severe red, which brought out all the other severe aspects of her appearance. Then she turned her back on Astrid, perhaps because her own daughter, Cora, was nothing to brag about in the looks department, and changed the subject. “What a summer we‧re going to have! I can just imagine all the parties, I have so many ideas, and …”

  Mrs. Phipps went on like this, but Astrid had moved away from the window until her voice became part of the symphony of ice cubes clinking against crystal and sotto voce gossip and smug laughter. The crowd was composed mostly of people who could afford to have begun their day long after noon. Astrid‧s stepfather had opened up his booze larder, and their guests were all sipping from goblets of real French champagne or else tumblers of the latest intoxicating concoctions. Her mother had redone the parlor along with all the other rooms when she became the mistress of the Marsh mansion. There was a high gleam on the gold-inlaid palmwood furniture, and the neutral South American rugs underfoot suggested the classy minimalism of the house‧s occupants. The white and black cloisonné floor vases were stuffed with pink flowering branches; the prevailing mood, as usual, was one of unhurried luxury.

  “Miss Donal?” said a waiter, approaching her with a vast copper tray. She was not in a festive mood and had thought her mother might realize how unwelcome this party was if she noticed that her daughter was uninterested in drinking. But now Astrid saw that the rims of the drinks were frosted with powdered sugar and she couldn‧t help but take a glass, before moving on across the floor.

  She bent her head, which was encircled in a yellow haze of hair, and sipped. The sweet, exhilarating drink made her current circumstances instantly more palatable. Not that her situation was so very bad … but she was feeling distinctly left out. Her new best friend Cordelia had promised to be there early, but then had rung up a few hours before the party to say s
he wasn‧t feeling well. The afternoon had brought many deliveries—from the florist and the grocer and the iceman—but the ringing phone was never Charlie calling for her.

  “You don‧t seem particularly thrilled.”

  Over the sugared rim of her glass, Astrid glimpsed Billie, who was wearing black trousers with a high waist and a bejeweled little matador‧s jacket, which she‧d bought in Spain from a bullfighter she knew, for a cask of red wine, or so the story went. The house was large and so the stepsisters crossed paths less than one might think, and it was almost a surprise to see her now. No one would ever have called Billie pretty, but she certainly was handsome. Her dark hair was parted straight at the middle and smoothed down behind her ears, so slick with pomade that it appeared wet, and her tone was as dry as ever.

  “No, I‧m having a swell time,” Astrid replied.

  Billie raised a high, thin semicircle of an eyebrow and surveyed the crowd. “And why shouldn‧t you? Same faces as always, same topics of conversation.”

  “I suppose it should have been a party for you, too,” Astrid continued, after a pause. “You‧ve returned from school as well.”

  Billie batted the suggestion away with a breezy: “But I haven‧t returned, really. I‧ll be leaving for Europe in a few days, and anyway, I don‧t like being the center of attention.”

  “How dull!” Astrid returned, without particular animosity or even any certainty about which part of Billie‧s statement she was responding to. She had spent a good deal of time in Europe as a little girl, in between her mother‧s marriages, mostly waiting for ships to depart and trains to arrive, and her recollection of that continent was not overly rosy. She also believed it was a girl‧s duty—if she was bright and good-looking—to try to be the center of attention at least half the time.

  “I prefer to watch from the sidelines,” Billie went on, a touch wistfully.