Dear Diary, I'm In Love Page 7

  Marc’s visit to the gallery served to reinforce my determination. His own genuine interest in art, as well as intellectual qualities which appeared to rival those of my daughter, indicated to me that I was making a wise choice. We went to lunch, and more and more I wondered how such a charming young man could have been fathered by the pretentious creature my daughter thought she was in love with.

  I like to think that my approach to the subject of Marc Fuller was a subtle one. Whether or not it was, my daughter was so enamored of the father that any lack of subtlety on my part with regard to the son would have been lost on her anyway. I even arranged for Dicey to drop by the gallery one day when I had invited Marc to see a special exhibit we were putting on. I made it a point to leave them together, excusing myself because of the press of business. The relationship went nowhere. Dicey left early—I’m sure to keep an appointment with another member of the Fuller family.

  That aborted meeting made me resolve to take the bull by the horns. I invited Marc out to dinner for an evening when I was certain that Dicey would be home. If throwing them at each other was what was required, then I was ready and willing to do the pitching. I’m really not sure what would have happened if my scheme hadn’t gone awry. At the last minute, after Marc had arrived, I received a call from Dicey. She was rife with apologies, but didn’t try to hide the fact that Lew had suddenly gotten tickets to Tosca and there was no way she could turn him down. So Marc and I had a dinner all to ourselves, accompanied by a true confession on my part… perhaps not a complete one, but a confession none-the-less.

  As it turned out, Marc was well aware of his father’s penchant for affairs with various female students. “My mother long ago gave up on him,” he said. “She figures it’s like alcoholism, though less debilitating. He has run into some problems with the university administration, but the attitude these days is that if the student doesn’t complain, then the eyes of the authorities will be turned elsewhere.”

  “So you know what I’ve been trying to do.”

  He smiled that attractive smile of his. “I rather suspected you were trying to match us up, but Dicey’s obviously not much interested. I can’t say that I am either. She’s nice enough, but anyone so gullible as to fall for Dad’s line isn’t for me.”

  The comment rather annoyed me, though I could see its validity. It also made me give up my original scheme in favor of a new one. I broached the subject, but only very tentatively.

  Marc’s eyebrows arched as I tried to explain what I had in mind. “You mean you intend to make Dicey see the ridiculousness of her relationship with a much older man?”

  I smiled. This young man easily penetrated subtleties. “Exactly. I’m not going to keep trying to substitute you for your father, but I am going to give her something to think about. She insists that age differences make no difference. How do you think she’ll react if she thinks I’m having an affair—a serious one with someone young enough to be my son?”

  His smile slowly turned into a frown. “So you’re assuming she’ll begin to see how silly it is to be caught up with someone who is old enough to be her father.” Before I could comment, the frown morphed into a broad grin. “I’m no longer going to be bait. Just kind of a bad example.”

  “You catch on fast. We’ll be infatuated with each other. If nothing else, it will be fascinating to see her reaction.”

  “Her reaction? What about my father’s reaction? That’s what will really be fascinating.”

  The remainder of the evening was spent in making plans.

  Marc’s visits to the gallery became more frequent, especially on those days when Dicey and I had planned for lunch together. I noticed her becoming distinctly uncomfortable as Marc held the chair for me, paid close attention to whatever I might be saying and even occasionally reached across the table to put a hand on mine. And, on the nights she spent at home, I usually managed to have a theater engagement or some other evening out, only casually mentioning that my escort would be Marc.

  At Marc’s instigation, we arranged to meet at the University cafeteria on a day when we knew Dicey and Lewis would be having lunch there. As it turned out, they were sitting at the same table where we had first met. It soon became obvious that Dicey had been talking about our growing relationship and, if anything, Lewis appeared even more uncomfortable in his son’s presence than he had been on the previous occasion. He also sounded angry, though not saying what he was upset about.

  Marc and I managed to be completely attentive to each other—to my daughter’s and his father’s growing discomfiture. And it was in the midst of the lunch that the clincher occurred to me.

  Speaking to Dicey, I said, “I know it’s off-season, but I thought it would be nice for Marc to see what our Nantucket cottage is like. I’m sure the caretaker could turn on the electricity and get in a few groceries for the two of us.”

  While Lewis and Dicey seemed to have gone into shock, Marc instantly picked up on the suggestion. “Terrific idea,” he said. “I’ll bring some of my books along and you can help me with my art history class.” The amusement in his voice was obvious to me, but seemed to go completely over the heads of our luncheon companions. Soon, the two of us were discussing the weekend’s plans.

  Dicey came home early from school that evening, and there were no preliminaries. “Mother,” she said, “You can’t possibly be serious about spending the weekend with Marc.”

  “Why, of course I’m serious. Why not?”

  “What will people think?”

  “People can think what they please. It’s just a peculiarity of our culture that older women aren’t expected to be interested in younger men.”

  “But you’re old enough to be his mother!”

  “That’s another peculiarity of our culture… that that should make a difference.” I then cut off further discussion by moving on to other matters—only to be interrupted by a phone call I’d been anticipating.

  Marc’s voice was bubbling with laughter. “You should hear my father. He just got off the phone. He says it’s a disgrace for me to be spending the weekend openly with a woman who’s old enough to be my mother. He pulled all that sociological jargon on me—go figure! Said it was tantamount to incest. I let him rant and rave.”

  “Dicey’s in the other room, pouting.”

  “I’m sure Dad is pouting, too. He threatened to tell Mom.”

  “What did you say to that?”

  “I told him to go ahead. I think she’ll get a kick out of it.”

  “Are you going to let her know it’s all a plot?”

  There was a long moment of silence, then, “Hey. I was looking forward to seeing that cottage.”

  “Oh. I didn’t mean we wouldn’t go through with that. I just wanted your mother to know that this isn’t serious.”

  At that moment Dicey came into the room, and I made it a point to continue talking to Marc at some length about all of our plans for the coming weekend. When I hung up, Dicey said nothing, merely turning around and going off to her bedroom.

  The ferry trip to the island was a rough one, and we thoroughly enjoyed it. Even more enjoyable was the snug cottage, which I didn’t realize could be so comfortable in mid-winter. The caretaker had piled up an ample supply of wood, and the fireplace filled the room with cheerful warmth. The gloomy day outside made the intimate setting indoors that much more satisfactory—very satisfactory.

  The months have gone by since then. Dicey and a few friends attended our wedding. Marc’s mother did too, but Lew never showed.

  Oh, yes! Dicey’s now majoring in Physics.

  ____________________

  CROSSTIES ON A RAILROAD

  Slipping on his lambskin gloves, he mentally ticked off the list. The light in her apartment didn’t mean a thing. Someone with her kind of money couldn’t care less about minor items in life like an electricity bill. He’d watched the place enough nights to know the lights would indicate nothing about her presence or absence.

  The we
ather was just right. No rain. Overcast all day. Even though it was mid-August, it was cool enough so he wouldn’t sweat and get moisture on the concrete blocks. Beautiful blocks, by the way, with plenty of rough surface to provide ideal finger and toe holds. Which reminded him that his flexible-toed Nikes with the shaved-down soles were just nicely broken in? And now it was dark enough so he could climb the building sight-unseen. Best of all was that she lived on the third floor. Talk about a piece of cake! He’d done twelve stories once. Three stories would be a walk-up, especially with the balconies. Maybe he’d just ignore the second floor balcony. Go right up by it. The rush of adrenaline hit him the moment he touched the wall.

  You couldn’t have asked for a better climb. Pacing himself nicely, he found crevices for the fingers on his right hand, moved his left foot up, knee out, to find a suitable ridge for his first and second toes. Then he moved his left hand up, then his right foot—slowly, steadily. There was no reason to hurry. Even so, it seemed to take no time at all before he was within reach of the third floor balcony. That was when he thought something must be wrong. Music! Then it struck him that anyone who left lights on would be just as apt to leave the radio running. He couldn’t remember ever working a house to the sound of music, but he didn’t mind. NPR, probably. Mahler’s Fourth, definitely. It was also a good choice as far he was concerned.

  As expected, the French doors into the living room were unlocked. Why shouldn’t they be unlocked? Who would expect a burglar to come in on the third floor? Slipping in quietly, he checked the luxurious surroundings. One or two minor items he could pick up on his way out. Beautiful state-of-the art music system, surround sound, the works. Hardly what he could walk out with by the security guard without being challenged. No. But most of what he was here for was jewelry.

  Beautiful baubles. He’d checked her out closely as she left for dinner this evening in a taxi, and there were no signs of the fancy stuff—beyond that fabulous diamond ring—anywhere on her. If it was all in a safe, it would be a nuisance, and it would take time, but that he had plenty of. She never took less than two hours for dinner. Nice to be rich. No reason not to dawdle. So on to the bedroom, with the orchestra working up to that marvelous third movement crescendo.

  He walked softly. Not that he felt the need to, but mainly from habit. Only his occupation, with that tremendous demand for alertness, for quickness of motion, for readiness for anything, made him react the way he did. She was there in the bedroom, standing by the window, looking out at the city, an automatic in her hand moving slowly up to her head. The next few moments were chaos.

  She yelped in surprise as he grabbed her hand, struck out at him as he pried the gun loose, then broke into a stream of semi-coherent questions as he slipped out the clip, threw it in one direction, and the gun in another. “Who the hell are you? What are you doing here? How did you get in here? What do you think you’re doing?”

  By then he had fallen back into one of the bedroom chairs, well away from her. His hands were still shaking. He kept repeating, “You dumb broad! You dumb broad!”

  The silence that followed was broken only by the soft sounds of the Fourth’s vocal section. He was the first to recover. “How do you think I got in here? It sure wasn’t by that thug of a security guard down below. I climbed the wall?”

  “You what? Nobody could do that.”

  As he felt himself relaxing, he also found himself smiling at the confused skepticism he invariably encountered on the few occasions when his trade came under discussion. “Well, I did. It’s really not that tough. Besides, just three stories.” Then, his own question followed. “How did you get in here? I’ve been watching the building since you left at eight-thirty to go to dinner. You never passed that security guard.”

  “You’ve been stalking me.” Her flashing eyes matched the accusation in her voice.

  The remark surprised, then amused him. “Stalking you? Hell, I was trying to avoid you.”

  It was evident her anger was subsiding, and she was now appraising the intruder. Whatever she had decided as a result of the appraisal, she seemed to visibly relax. “So you called me a dumb broad. Well, you’re not all that smart, yourself. I didn’t go to dinner. I went out to pick up my car at the shop where they’d left it out for me. There’s an underground garage to this building.”

  He struck his forehead with the open palm of his right hand. He’d known about the garage. A speaker at the entrance to it was used to contact security, who would then open the garage door. The elevator inside could be operated only with a key. So much for all his plans depending on her being somewhere out in the city stuffing herself.

  There was a trace of a smile at that response to her revelation. She asked, “How did you find out what apartment was mine?”

  “Sorry, that’s a professional secret.”

  Her smile disappeared. “The building manager, I’ll bet. Mr. Peepo Creepo, himself.”

  He shrugged, not about to tell her it had actually been the nighttime security guard who had been willing to talk at length over a few beers about all of the tenants. But the end result was now a fiasco. The best he could hope for was to leave before she set up a ruckus. The thought must have communicated something of itself to her.

  “Well, as long as you’re here, and even though you’re not exactly a guest, how about something to drink?”

  “Not while I’m on duty.” She laughed aloud at his remark. It was a melodious laugh. He wondered how she could be so much at ease. Then it occurred to him that someone who had been about to commit suicide should be able to handle about any situation with aplomb.

  “Coffee, then? I need some, even if you don’t. We might as well unwind over a cup before I call the police.”

  “Sorry about that, but I won’t let you.”

  She shrugged. “OK, I won’t. Let’s have coffee anyway.”

  He watched her as he followed through the living room into the oversized kitchen that seemed remarkably barren of anything resembling cooking devices. A faint odor of what he knew must be expensive perfume remained behind in her wake. A nice figure. He had to admit he hadn’t noticed it before, concentrating on the business at hand as he had. She opened a cupboard that was also virtually empty of anything having to do with food. A drip coffee maker, a small package of beans, a grinder, some mugs, salt and peppershakers—and that was about it. She didn’t seem especially efficient but, somehow, the finished product ended up in the cups.

  Sitting across the table, he became fully aware of her for the first time. At the banquet, he’d been turned on only to the diamond earrings and the sparkling choker she’d worn. Thirty-five maybe. Not bad-looking at all. Tall, almost his height. Brown hair that some hairdresser was taking good care of. A nice complexion. And large dark eyes which he wondered about not having noticed before. They were actually a rather startling feature.

  The brown eyes peered at him over the rim of the steaming cup. “Why did you call me a dumb broad just because I decided to kill myself?”

  “Look, lady. Killing yourself is your business, but not while I’m here. Can you imagine what it would have looked like to have security or someone else come storming in and finding me in the room with a corpse with half its head blown off?”

  She nodded. “You’re right. I guess that would have been kind of embarrassing for you.”

  “Embarrassing is putting it mildly.”

  “You needn’t have bothered, though. Walls in this place are about as sound proof as they can get.” She seemed to be thinking of something else. He was aware the music had ended, to be replaced by silence. A CD evidently, special for the occasion. “Why did you pick me out? Or, rather, how did you spot me and my diamonds in the first place? I doubt that we hang out in the same places.” The last remark was said in a neutral tone.

  “But we do,” he said with a grin. “I was at the AOARF banquet last month. You know. The African Orphan Aids Relief Fund.”

  “You’re kidding. You shelled out a thousand do
llars for that ten-dollar lunch?”

  “Uh-uh. I was one of your waiters. Really more of a busboy. Poured your coffee for you. By the way, this is good coffee.”

  Her mouth fell open. “Of course. Somehow you looked vaguely familiar.”

  “I doubt it. Nobody notices busboys. But that was a good night. Remember the fat gal sitting at your table, the one wearing the pearls. The one with the loud guffaw.”

  “Estelle! Estelle Pickens. Did you hit her apartment? Tell me that you did. That’s great.” She clapped her hands in enthusiasm

  “Yup. She’s off to Florida on vacation. Has a four-story brownstone in the South End. Flaky burglar-alarm system. Pearls are fake, by the way. But there were a couple of good items in her jewelry case. She won’t find they’re missing until she gets back. I could have lasted a while on what they brought, but the set-up here was too good to lose out on. Normally, I spend what I have and don’t go back to work until the money’s gone.”

  “I know what you mean. I did that for years.”

  “You’re sure not doing that now.” He gestured with his head at the surroundings.

  “More coffee?”

  “Yeah, sure. Much appreciated. Really great taste. What kind is it?”

  “Shade-grown Costa Rican with just a pinch of salt added. Ecologically sound and costs a fortune. Funny how I still think in terms of price even though I don’t have to.”

  “So why don’t you have to? Marry rich?”

  “You sure are nosy. But, then, I guess you have to be in your business. I tell you what. I’ll trade. You first. What’s your background?” She scrutinized the rather boyish face, deciding that he was really too pretty to be called handsome. The slender figure disguised his obvious strength, which she had felt when he yanked the gun away.