The Secrets We Kept(48)

Ralph’s was a place for regulars: the typing pool gossiping in the back booth, the old-timers dipping their toast in their sunny-side-up eggs at the counter; the college students studying at the round-tops, having ordered only a coffee or a chocolate malt; the occasional lawyer or lobbyist who took clients there when they wanted to be incognito. Any newcomer to Ralph’s got the Pool’s attention—but this woman demanded it.

Judy pretended she was getting something out of her purse. “She looks familiar.”

Marcos had already come around from behind the counter and was pointing out each and every pastry in the case to the woman. Athena leaned against the register, her eyes on her husband, his eyes on the woman. She was of medium height but wore heels that hiked her up a few inches. She looked young but was far too sophisticated for someone in her twenties in her bright blue knee-length coat with red silk lining and fox fur collar. Her hair was a deep red and perfectly curled—the kind of hair that makes you want to say the color aloud. My own hair resembled the color of an underbaked oatmeal cookie.

“Politician’s wife?” Norma asked.

“Downtown at this hour?” Linda added. She wiped ketchup from the corner of her mouth with the tip of her napkin.

“Besides,” Kathy jumped in, “those heels sure as hell don’t belong to a politician’s wife.”

Judy dangled a French fry from her finger like a cigarette. “That’s an understatement.”

“Is she famous?” I asked. From where I was sitting, the woman could’ve passed for Rita Hayworth, but when she turned and I got a better look at her face, I realized she didn’t look like Rita at all—her beauty was her own.

“Hmmm,” appraised Linda. “Was she in that movie? The one that was banned? Baby Doll?”

“You’re thinking of Carroll Baker,” I said. “She’s blond, but I guess she could’ve dyed her hair.”

“Too old,” Kathy said at the same time Judy said, “Too curvy.”

Norma licked a spot of mustard off her finger. “That’s no Carroll Baker. Was she in that Garfinckel’s ad? You know, the one with the”—she lowered her voice—“magic inserts?”

“She doesn’t look like she needs any magic inserts,” I said, then covered my mouth as the typing pool burst out laughing.

The woman pointed to a cherry turnover and Marcos boxed up two. She paid Athena and shot Marcos a wink. She turned to leave, but not before a quick nod to our table. We all looked away, pretending we hadn’t been looking in the first place.



* * *



—

That was the first time I saw Sally Forrester, before I knew her name.

The second time I saw Sally Forrester was at HQ. We’d returned from Ralph’s and there she was, standing at reception chatting up Anderson. Anderson, who usually greeted us with some reference to working off the calories we’d consumed at lunch, didn’t give us a second glance as we passed and went to our desks.

“Why’s she here?” Judy asked.

“Someone important?” Norma said.

“One of Dulles’s?” Linda asked with a smile. The spy chief’s dalliances were no secret, and his affairs numbered well into the dozens. It was even rumored he’d dipped into the typing pool. But if that was true, none of us ever owned up to it.

“If that’s the case, no way she’d be standing in SR with Anderson,” Gail said. Anderson had eaten one of the woman’s cherry turnovers, evidenced by a glob of jelly on his baby blue sweater vest. He leaned against the reception desk, trying to look important or maybe casual—a sad attempt at flirting. But the woman wasn’t rolling her eyes like we would’ve. She just smiled and laughed and touched his arm.

She took off her blue coat and handed it to Anderson, who draped it over his arm like a waiter. Underneath, she wore a woolen mauve dress with a gold braided belt. I looked down the front of my navy shift dress and noticed a stain smack in the center of my chest—remnants of toothpaste I thought I’d gotten out that morning. I opened my bottom drawer and took out the brown cardigan I kept for when the building’s heat got spotty. Horrid, I thought, putting it on and rolling the sleeves into cuffs.

“New typist?” Gail asked.

“Nah,” Kathy said. “We’re full now with the Russian.”

“Russian American,” I corrected.

Judy tossed a broken eraser at me. “Go find out, Anna Karenina.”

But Anderson and the redhead were already moving toward us. He led the way, pointing out mundane features of the office, stating that the Xerox machine was “a year away from being released to the public” and the water cooler distributed “both hot and cold.” They reached my desk first.

“Sally Forrester,” the woman said and stuck out her hand.

I shook her hand. “Sally,” I said.

“You’re Sally too?”

“This is Irina,” Anderson said for me.

Sally smiled again. “Pleasure.”

I nodded dumbly, and before I could say it was a pleasure to meet her as well, they’d already moved on down the line, shaking hands with every member of the Pool.

“Miss Forrester is our new part-time receptionist,” Anderson said to everyone. “She’ll be in the office occasionally, helping out as needed.”