The Swans of Fifth Avenue(90)

But all he heard was silence. Everywhere he went in Manhattan—and he haunted the places he still held dear, Tiffany’s and the Plaza and Bergdorf’s and 21; to tell the truth, he loathed Studio 54. It was so hot and the music hurt his ears—all he encountered were icy stares. The time-honored social “cut” he himself had practiced so many times.

But never had Babe used it, he realized. No, Babe had been too kind ever to do that to anyone. He wondered how she was doing. He’d heard that she wasn’t getting any better. He picked up the phone to call her, dozens of times a day. But he always put the phone back on the receiver before he could.

And then, one day, he saw her again.





CHAPTER 22


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There once was an old woman who lived in a shoe….

No, this couldn’t be her, the woman he saw at lunch one day at Quo Vadis. No, this couldn’t possibly be his Bobolink, not this frail, terribly aged creature who was so thin the clothes, for the first time in her life, did not look fabulous. No amount of expensive tailoring could make this woman look as if she belonged in anything but a hospital gown.

But it was Babe, after all; her beauty still shone, gallantly, through the grim mask of pain. And Truman, who had been lunching alone—none of his new “friends” ever got up before three in the afternoon—felt his heart beat wildly at the sight of her. For the first time in months he felt whole, perfect, and beautiful. As beautiful as he once had been—with her.

“Hello, Babe.” He rose, his napkin clutched in his sweaty hand.

Babe paused; she was with her sister Betsey, who looked down at Truman as if she might want to eat him. “Hello, Truman.” Babe didn’t look at him; she didn’t break into the joyful, delighted smile that he had been used to seeing.

Once upon a time.

“I—Babe, I did it for you,” he found himself blurting out, even if she didn’t appear to want to know anything further about him other than what he was eating for lunch. “I only did it for you. I thought you should know.”

Babe cast her glorious eyes downward; he saw her shoulders tremble before she gathered herself. When she raised her face to him, she was herself once more; his, his beautiful Babe. The only woman—hell, the only person—he realized with a jolt, that he had ever loved.

Even more than his mama.

Babe’s eyes, for just that moment, were completely sympathetic, aware; full of knowledge. Knowledge he alone had imparted, a secret code between best friends. Her eyes were warm—and grateful.

“I know,” she whispered, turning away from Betsey, her voice intended for only his ears. He had to lean in to hear. “I know. And thank you.”

He wasn’t sure he’d heard it right; he thought he had. He wished he had—Dear God let this be true forever and ever Amen.

But she was already gone, gliding away, pulled by her sister; elegant as always, although very slow, each step deliberate, a defiant act of living. Her back was straight, formidable; she never turned to look at him. And so he wasn’t sure, after all.

“Babe?” he whispered, and it was like before; he was sure she would hear him above the din of people laughing and chatting, and stop, pick him out, come back for him, take him with her.

But she didn’t. He turned around, blindly, and felt hot, disapproving stares burning into his flesh. His ears buzzed with hissing and sneers, taunting, dismissive.

Truman plopped back down, knocking over a water glass, sending cutlery falling softly to the plush carpet. His heart slowed, but now his lungs seemed to be working overtime; he was cold and clammy, listing to the right, then to the left, as helplessly as if he were on choppy water, unmoored. Unloved.

And to his astonishment he burst into tears, sloppy, messy tears, and whispered, a cry from the tattered heart that he hadn’t understood he’d possessed until now, “Babe, Babe, Babe,” and then the ma?tre d’ was grabbing his arm, holding him up and escorting him from the restaurant, trying to shield him from the stares. The proprietor mumbled something about taking care of the bill, but Truman didn’t care.

He knew that he would never see her again.





CHAPTER 23


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And they lived happily ever after….

Who did? Who the hell did? Babe wanted to know, on the days when she felt strong enough for outrage. Because she didn’t. She sure as hell didn’t. Life was no fairy tale, no matter what her mother had told her. She had no prince to kiss her, to wake her up from this nightmare.

She’d had a prince. Once.

It wasn’t the tall man, stooped now, his shoulders hunched always with regret, with thinning silver hair, who sat by her bed and held her hand and sloppily cried on it. No, Bill wasn’t her prince, and had he ever been? Maybe, once, when he promised her salvation in the form of riches, a fabulous partnership designed to be the envy of all. Maybe then. When riches and prestige were the only things that mattered to her; when she was still her mother’s daughter.

But then she met another. A fair-haired prince, her true love. And they told each other all their secrets, bared to each other their souls, and were going to live happily ever after together. They’d even talked about it, how she’d most likely outlive Bill, and so the two of them would live together, become one of those touching older couples who still held hands, still danced in the evening when the shadows were long, while a scratchy phonograph played “The Tennessee Waltz.”