Mrs. Houdini(57)

“Charles,” she said, “what would you say if I invited you to a party tonight?” The bespectacled man Gladys had been conversing with at Niall’s party had become a full-blown romance, apparently. The man, Lloyd, a stockbroker, was having people out to his country estate.

“Tonight?” Charles blinked, surprised.

“You don’t have to go back right away, do you?”

“No, no. I can stay. I just thought—you were so eager to see these photographs.”

“I am.” Bess’s voice caught in her throat. “I am just so tired. And it sounds counterintuitive, I know, but nothing seems more relaxing to me right now than a fun party, full of strangers.” She usually spent so many hours in her tearoom, playing hostess and entertaining other guests, that the idea of simply being part of a crowd seemed liberating.

“I’m just not sure—”

Bess gripped his hands. “Please join me. I could use the company.”

Charles sighed. “Where are we going? I’m not much for parties.”

“I actually don’t know the fellow. I’ve only met him once, but he’s got a house out on Long Island. Harry’s sister, Gladys, is in love with him I think.”

Three hours later they were standing on the lawn of Lloyd’s estate, staring out at Long Island Sound. Across the expanse of green grass, Bess could see Gladys, wafting over the grounds on Lloyd’s arm, in a yellow dress, as if she had never been reclusive at all. Bess could hardly believe the change in her.

“What do we do now?” Charles asked, fidgeting. The place was swarming with people. A group played croquet, drunkenly, near the water. “Do we approach anyone?”

Bess thought about it. She looked around her at the white candles floating on the pool, the waiters serving lobster croquettes in the sunken garden. “I don’t suppose I usually do that. Usually people approach me.” She paused. “That sounded very narcissistic, didn’t it?”

“Yes, a bit.”

She turned to see Gladys and Lloyd making their way toward them. Lloyd greeted them but then was dragged away by a group of male friends. “Will you be all right here?” he asked Gladys as he left.

Bess found the question insulting. “Of course she’ll be all right. I’m here.”

Lloyd held up his hands. “Sorry.”

Bess leaned toward her sister-in-law when he had gone. “Are you sure he’s trustworthy?”

Gladys laughed. It was a sound Bess had not heard in some time. “What could he possibly be taking advantage of? My money? We both know he has loads more than I do.” She frowned. “You’re the one who encouraged me to get out of the apartment more.”

Bess took her hand. “I’m just looking out for you.”

“Well, you don’t need to.” Gladys reached for the concrete edges of a sundial to support herself. “What about you? I can tell you’ve got a man there. Is that a date?”

“No!” Bess sputtered. “This is Charles Radley. He’s—” She thought quickly. “He’s a photographer. He’s photographing my house.”

Charles held out his hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”

Gladys looked at him quizzically. “Charles Radley? Your voice sounds familiar. Do you live here?”

“No. I came up from New Jersey.”

“That’s odd. I’m certain I’ve met you before. You’ve never lived in New York?”

“No. I spent a few years in Iowa, but that didn’t last.”

“Iowa?”

“My mother died when I was eleven. I was sent on an orphan train to live out there.”

Bess turned to him, surprised. “I didn’t know that. Why did you come back east?”

Charles shrugged. “That’s a story for another day.”

Gladys held up her hands. “Do you mind if I feel your face?”

Charles blinked and glanced at Bess. “All right, I suppose.”

Gladys pushed a strand of dark hair behind her ear and reached for his forehead. She ran her fingers gently over his eyebrows and down the sides of his cheeks. Bess had rarely seen her do this, but she seemed unusually intent tonight. Charles closed his eyes. There seemed to be something between them, she thought, some kind of attraction. At last Gladys said, “You’re right. We’ve never met.”

Charles stepped back. Jack Dempsey had arrived—Gladys had said he might—along with his manager and a crowd of other men, and the exclamations of the women were growing noticeably louder.

“Why are you having your house photographed?” Gladys asked. “You’re not planning on selling it, are you?”

“No, nothing like that.” Bess searched hurriedly for a response. “I feel I owe it to Harry,” she said, taking another sip of champagne. “He put a lot of thought into the place, and it ought to be commemorated.” She looked at Gladys. Bess could tell she didn’t believe her. Gladys had a knack for sorting out truths from falsehoods.

Now that the sun was almost down, the white brick walls of the house took on the pinks and egg blues of the sky. Bess could hear the water splashing faintly against the rocks, past the clatter of the party, and she imagined it could be very peaceful when it was quiet, but also very lonely. All the big houses out here were probably filled with children, and nannies, and tutors, and the children’s friends. She wasn’t quite sure what one would do, however, without children, or work. Her own days were only partially full taking care of Harry’s affairs, and running the tearoom; but she still had empty hours, mostly at night, when a kind of darkness sometimes descended upon her. When Harry was alive, she had felt this emptiness less often, only when he was immersed in his work and excluded her from his thoughts. But looking back, she realized that they were always traveling, and when they were at home, there was Mrs. Weiss puttering about, and Gladys, and all of Harry’s business acquaintances passing through the house with some urgent matter or another. She had had no idea how hollow the nights could feel, the bruised blue of the darkness seeming to last forever. She wondered what she would do with herself if her tearoom failed.