Florence Adler Swims Forever(98)

“Did she?”

“Maybe,” said Isaac. “Does it matter?”

Joseph returned to the letter and read it all the way to the end. At Florence’s signature, which Isaac had gotten just right, Joseph let out a soft moan.

“If you tell Fannie you found this letter in Florence’s things, I don’t think she’ll figure out Florence couldn’t have written it.”

“It’s very good. Where’d you learn to do this?”

“There are probably some good reasons the Florida real estate market collapsed.”

Joseph shook his head and refolded the letter, which he slid into the pocket of his own jacket.

“So, you’ll give it to her?”

“At some point, all this lying has to end.”

“Please.”

“Maybe,” said Joseph.

“It might be the only worthwhile thing I’ve ever contributed to this family,” said Isaac. “If you don’t count Gussie.”

Joseph let out a choked laugh. “Lucky for you, I do.”

Without any more discussion, the two men began walking in the direction of the train station. Isaac thought about telling Joseph that he didn’t need accompaniment, that he was capable of catching the train just fine on his own. But it wasn’t all bad having someone see him off, to leave Atlantic City under the pretense that there were people who would think fondly of him when he was gone.





Stuart


In the elevator, on Tuesday morning, Stuart silently rehearsed what he’d say to his father.

He had been running through the conversation in his head all morning, really ever since Saturday when he’d seen Anna at the pageant swim. Throughout the race, she had been careful to avoid looking in his direction—even when she and Gussie had walked out onto the pier. But back on the beach, during the awards presentation, she had had no choice but to see him, and he her.

Stuart tried to put his finger on what had bothered him about all Anna’s marriage talk. It wasn’t that he couldn’t see himself as her husband, or she his wife. In fact, he could see their life together quite clearly. And it seemed nice. Better than nice. Damned near perfect. No, what bothered Stuart was that all Anna’s figuring had made him question what was real. Had she been as oblivious to his family’s wealth and position as she’d initially let on? Had she really wanted to learn to swim? Had she truly felt the weight of Florence’s loss? Until that night on the beach, it would never have occurred to him to ask these questions, though if he had, he would have answered each one with a resounding yes. Now, he couldn’t be sure.

Stuart was embarrassed to admit to himself that there was at least some small part of him that didn’t give two shakes about Anna’s motivations. If she married him for his citizenship but he got the thrill of kissing her warm lips and the pale skin that was left exposed when the strap of her bathing suit fell off her shoulder, weren’t they both winning?

In the end he decided that she was right to have been straightforward with him. Would he have rather she said nothing and simply al lowed him to fall further and further in love with her, never recognizing what she needed? The way he figured it, everyone needed something.

It had occurred to Stuart, as he walked back to his boardinghouse after the pageant swim, that Anna might both need something from him and also want him for her own unselfish reasons. The trick was figuring out how to separate the two.

It wasn’t a trick that was wholly unfamiliar to Stuart. These last several years, the Atlantic City Beach Patrol, the dingy Northside room, and even cantankerous Mrs. Tate had allowed him to keep his father at arm’s length. As long as Stuart remained financially self-sufficient, he had assumed he could make any life he chose for himself.

When Stuart realized what he had to do, his impulse had been to hurry to The Covington and get the whole idea out to his father in one giant breath. But he had decided to wait. It was too important a request to rush, so he had spent two long days watching the surf and practicing his pitch. Now here he stood in the elevator, still completely unsure of what to say.

The elevator arrived on the second floor, and Stuart nodded to Cy before making his way to the administrative suite, where his father’s secretary, Louise, sat at her desk, guarding the door to his office with nothing more menacing than a stare.

“Is my father available?” he asked.

“He will be soon,” said Louise, glancing at the telephone on her desk. “He’s wrapping up a call.”

Stuart took a seat in one of the chairs that lined the far wall. He was tempted to take a peppermint from the glass dish on Louise’s desk but didn’t want to risk walking into his father’s office with his mouth full. After several minutes of jiggling his knee, the light on Louise’s phone switched off and she said, “You can go in now.”

Stuart stood, smoothed his pants, and made his way into his father’s office.

“Morning,” he said, closing the door quietly behind him.

“To what do I owe this pleasure?” his father asked, looking up from a stack of papers.

The lead-in was the part Stuart was least sure of. Should he make polite conversation about the Phillies’ double header or get right to the point? He considered walking over to the bar in the corner of the office and pouring his father a scotch. Anything to ease his way into the conversation. But all of it—the baseball stats and the booze—seemed disingenuous. Stuart wanted to be the type of man who said what he meant.