Mrs. Grayson drove down Royal Poinciana, one hand on the wheel while the radio played Tex Williams singing “Smoke, Smoke, Smoke That Cigarette.” I sneaked looks at her, trying to pinpoint her glamour. How did a woman do it, get you to think she was beautiful when she wasn’t? She had a flat face and a wide mouth and small nut-brown eyes. It didn’t add up to much if you saw her, say, with wet hair in the pool. But if you watched the way she moved through a room or bent over to pick up a drink, you couldn’t stop watching.
Today she didn’t wear a hat, just a scarf to tie her thick dark hair off her forehead. A puckered top was pushed down off her tanned shoulders, and a full striped skirt swooped all the way to her ankles. A wide silver bracelet with a turquoise stone slid up and down her arm every time she raised her hand to push her hair back or stab the cigarette lighter.
It was hard to remember her now the way I’d seen her that night, with her face blurry with tears. It was like I’d dreamed it.
“Is Mr. Grayson really going to buy the hotel?” I asked.
She let out a noise—ppffff—as she made a left turn with the heel of her hand. “He just has a case of tropical fever, that’s all.”
Just then I saw a convertible ahead of us. It turned down one of the small side streets, toward the center of the island. My heart thumped, and I couldn’t see for a minute. It was Peter’s car. He was still here! If only he’d seen me, riding with Mrs. Grayson. Maybe we would have waved, maybe he would have followed us, maybe…
“The Breakers was a hospital during the war,” Mrs. Grayson said. “There was a USO café on that corner. So they tell me. The war gave us so much, in a funny way, didn’t it? It gave even the small-minded among us something to do. Now they have the Commie spies to focus on, I guess.”
I’d never heard anyone talk about the war that way. Maybe it was because Mr. Grayson hadn’t served.
“Did you lose anyone in the war?” I asked. It was a question you didn’t ordinarily ask people, even if it usually ended up coming out anyway.
“Yes,” Mrs. Grayson said. We were on Clematis Street in West Palm now, and she pulled into a space. She reached for her straw purse, and that was the end of the conversation. Usually people would give you names and battles, like “We lost my uncle Jimmy on Guadalcanal,” or, “My brother John died on Omaha Beach.” And you’d know everything, because you knew every battle in every country, every tiny island in the South Pacific, so you’d know the year and even the month.
But Arlene Grayson had only said yes.
Clematis Street was busy with people walking, shopping, dipping into the coolness of the shops. Mrs. Grayson jumped out, closing the door with her hip like she was doing the rumba. I saw a man literally stop in his tracks to watch her.
I followed her into a shop. She flipped through the racks, the hangers rattling with her speed. She politely ignored the comments of the saleslady—“This is a popular item” and “This peppermint stripe keeps you cool on hot days.” I flipped through a few dresses and hesitated over a pink rayon nipped with a peplum and a long pleated skirt.
“No pink,” Mrs. Grayson said, putting it firmly back on the rack.
My arms full of dresses, I stepped into the small dressing room. It was hot as blazes in there, and I was afraid of sweating on the dresses. I could feel Mrs. Grayson waiting, and I didn’t know how long I had before her impatience would push us out the door. I tried on the first dress, seersucker with bare arms and a cinched in waist. I was surprised at how well it fit.
“Well? Let me see,” she called, and before I could reply she moved the curtain back. She eyed me and twirled her index finger, indicating that I should turn around.
“Good. Try the print.”
I tried on a rayon print with short sleeves and red buttons, but she shook her head this time. “Now the other one,” she said.
I put on a full swinging skirt and a gingham off-the-shoulder blouse, similar to hers.
She nodded. “We’ll take that, and the seersucker, and a pair of those white slacks. You can wear the blouse you have on with them. Take that bow off it, though. Borrow one of Beverly’s scarves and use it as a belt. Show off that waist, dearie—one day it will be gone, I promise you. Now here. You need something for special occasions.” She thrust another dress toward me, a pale blue evening dress, with a sweetheart neckline, bare shoulders, full skirt.
“We call that color moonlight,” the saleslady said. “It’s the prettiest dress in the store.”
“Can we have a pair of high heels to try on with it, please?” Mrs. Grayson asked. Somewhere in her tone she told the lady to stuff her advice.
I slipped into the dress. Mrs. Grayson came in and smiled at me. “You’re going to have to lose this,” she said, and in one swift move she unhooked my bra and tossed it in the corner. I felt my face get hot. But her fingers were cool and practiced as she zipped me up and slid eyes into hooks. The dress pulled me in and up.
I put on the high-heeled sandals, shoes I could never, ever imagine wearing to school or church. The dress fit like a dream, tiny waist and a sweep of silk down to my ankles—a blue so pale and shimmering it was almost white.
“I can’t let you buy me this,” I said. “It’s too much.”
Mrs. Grayson looked at me in the mirror. “On every shopping trip, there is one indulgence. This is it.” She slowly unfastened the back again. “The thing is, Evie, it will give me more pleasure to buy you these things than you know.”
“Mrs. Grayson, I don’t know how to thank you—”
“Have some fun,” she said. “That’s how. And stop wearing your hair like that.” She reached over and took out the clips that kept it off my forehead. “Wear it loose. Part it on the side, and use pincurl clips at night.” She smiled. “It’s a good age to have your first romance. Just a little one. So you can go home and tell your best girlfriend about it.”
She went to the counter to pay, and I scrambled back into my clothes, embarrassed that she’d seen what I thought I’d hidden. I wanted to tell her that I wasn’t thinking of what I could impress Margie with. Not anymore. That would be something a teenager would do. I was already older, and I knew it.
He was underneath every word and every thought now. All I could think about was when I would see him again. It was the first time I knew what that kind of hunger, terrible and magnificent, was like. It was so much more than the words I heard in movies.
We pushed back out into the flattening heat of Clematis Street. Mrs. Grayson tossed the packages into the backseat of the car.
There was something about her I could trust. She talked straight to me, almost like I was a pal and not someone’s daughter. The packages piled in the backseat made the car feel cozy enough for secrets. I had to tell someone who would understand. So I found myself blurting out my fear.
“I don’t know when I’ll see him again,” I confessed, feeling the pain of each word.
“You’ll see him in the hotel.”
“No, he’s gone.”
“Petal, he’ll be back tomorrow. He works there.”
It took me slow seconds to realize who she meant.
“Cute kid,” she said.
She thought I had a crush on Wally. The pipsqueak. That to her was a great match. Evie and Wally, sitting in a palm tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G.
It was hard to be mad at her after she’d bought me all those clothes, but I managed it. We got in the car and I slammed the door.
“I’m not like other girls, you know,” I said. “I’ve been taking care of myself since I was little. I’m not a kid. Mom worked since I was little. I made my own sandwiches for school since first grade. I put myself to bed plenty of times. Made the supper when she was tired. I did all that, and more, too.”
I thought she’d understand, but she didn’t. I could tell. She wasn’t seeing me anymore. Now I recognized that other woman, the one I’d seen angry and turning her face away. All that pizzazz, and underneath it was a whole lot of sad.
“Okay,
Evie,” she said. “You’re not a kid. Got it.” She turned on the engine. “Just don’t grow up too fast, that’s all.”
The mood had changed. Why had she invited me today? She’d asked me right after I’d read part of her letter. Was this shopping trip some kind of bribe? So that I wouldn’t tell anyone what I’d read? So I wouldn’t tell what I’d overheard?
It could all explode in our faces
I won’t do it
If you do it, you do it alone
Chapter 12
The next day I sat with a schoolbook in my lap, under the shade of a tree that fractured the sunlight into points of fire. Numbers swam in front of my eyes. School seemed so far away. I was thinking of Peter, but I was also thinking of Arlene Grayson’s suddenly cold eyes.
A hand reached over my shoulder and closed the book.
A flash of wrist, white cuff.
He whistled softly and raised me up, then stepped back to look at me in my new seersucker dress. I’d pulled in the belt as tightly as I could and my hair was loose and down to my shoulders.
“Well,” Peter said. “Va va va voom. Look at you.”
“You checked out.” I blurted it out, then blushed, because it showed him that I’d been asking about him.
He sat on the wide arm of my chair. The sun hit his green eyes and turned the hair near the undone button of his shirt gold. “A friend has a house here—friend of the family. My father happened to tell him I was here at a hotel, and hoo boy, they were insulted. Peter can’t stay in a hotel, et cetera. So I’m at their house. It was closed for the season, but I’m camping out.” He took the book out of my hands and closed it. “It’s too hot to read. Let’s go to the movies. There’s an air-cooled theater in West Palm.”
My heart jumped around like a fish. I wished I could just leap up and go with him, without another word.
He knew why I hesitated, and he made a slight motion with his head toward the beach. “Your parents are down there. I’ll walk with you.”
We walked to where Joe and Mom sat under a tiki hut. I could see Joe talking while Mom looked out to sea. Peter waited while I slipped off my sandals.
“I hope he says yes,” I said.
“Make sure and tell him I’ll take good care of you,” Peter said, shading his eyes to look down the beach at them.
I skip-hopped over the burning sand. I stopped in the back of the tiki hut, pausing a minute as my feet hit the cooler sand that was in the shadow of the grass roof.
“You’ve just got to have the big picture, got to grab the biggest slice of pie,” Joe said as I hopped to the next cool piece of sand. He looked up at me, scowling, but I thought he was just squinting in the sun. I couldn’t imagine that there would be a time that Joe wouldn’t be happy to see me. His beach shirt was open, and perspiration snaked down his bare chest. Mom had just been in the water; her suit was wet, and drops sparkled on her legs. Her hair was pinned up on top of her head.
“Can I go to the movies with Peter?” I asked.
Joe blew out a breath and looked at the water. Mom drew a pattern in the sand with a shell.
“It’s air-cooled, and I’m so hot,” I said. “And he said…he said he’d take good care of me.” Somehow it came out sounding wrong, but I didn’t know why.
Joe twisted to look back up at the sidewalk where Peter waited. He stared for a long minute before he turned around again. “I don’t like this, Bev,” he said.
Mom shrugged. “She’s almost sixteen.”
“Which,” Joe said, “is actually my point.”
“So? It’s just a matinee, Joe. Don’t be such a stiff.” Mom tossed her towel in her straw bag. “Tell you what—I’ll chaperone. I’ve had enough sun anyway.” She stood and wrapped the matching skirt around her tropicalpatterned suit. She shaded her face with her hand and looked down at him. “I’ve had enough of this hot air,” she said.
She didn’t wait for Joe’s good-bye. She hurried me along the sand, as if it was burning her feet, toward Peter. I was the only one to look back. I could see the back of the chair, and Joe’s head, looking out to sea. His arm hung down next to the chair. His hand was curled into a fist.
The coolness of the theater made us shiver. Mom had changed into a white sleeveless blouse and a white skirt, and she glowed inside the darkness. Peter led us down to the middle section, close to the front. We were lucky. We came in during the newsreel.
The movie was Dark Passage, with Bogart and Lauren Bacall. Bogie’s face was bandaged up, and I lost the plot about twenty minutes in. I just soaked up the darkness and Peter’s arm next to mine. I could pretend that Mom was just a stranger on my other side.
But then the stranger nudged me. She put a whole dollar in my hand. “I’m starved,” she whispered. “Get us something, will you?”
“I’ll go,” Peter whispered, and someone said “Shhhh!”
“No, Evie knows what I like.”
I slipped out, bending down so I wouldn’t get in anybody’s way. I hurried to the counter. I didn’t really know what Mom would want—she never really ate candy except in a big box on Valentine’s Day. But I didn’t want to waste any time out here so I asked for Sno-caps and a Hershey bar and popcorn. Then I put the change in my pocket and went back on a run.
I stood in the back of the theater for a minute, waiting for my eyes to adjust. Peter had moved over into my seat. Mom’s blond head was close to his as she whispered something. The rest of the theater was dark except for those two blond heads, those white, white shirts gleaming in the darkness.
What I thought then was I needed to do that, think of a remark to tell Peter so I could lean with my lips close to his ear.
I slid into the seat next to Peter and passed the candy to Mom and the popcorn to him.
Peter held the popcorn in his lap. Mom and I dipped our hands in and out, occasionally bumping fingers, watching the plot tangle and untangle as the bad guys got shot.
It was mid-afternoon when we came out, the time of day when the heat bounced up from the sidewalk and slammed you in the face, and you felt like you could lick moisture out of the air.
“How about a soda at Walgreens?” Peter asked.
“A soda at the drugstore,” Mom said. “That sounds keen!” She said it with a too-chirpy voice, and Peter grinned, even though I guess she was teasing him about being young, and not that nicely, either. He was a good sport not to get mad, and I wanted to kick Mom for being mean to him.
We sat at the soda fountain and ordered Cokes. The ice was crushed, and the soda was cold and delicious. There was a local high school crowd there, and I saw Wally again. He looked different now, in loose pants and a short-sleeve shirt, his hair unruly. Instead of looking younger, he looked older, my age. In his evening clothes and his bellhop uniform he’d looked like he’d been wearing his father’s clothes. I was glad that he could see me now. I tossed my hair as I smiled up at Peter, just so Wally would know I was on a date.
He raised a hand to wave at me, and I gave him a little wave back.
“Friend of yours?” Mom asked.
“He works at the hotel,” I explained.
“Why don’t you go talk to him?”
“I don’t want to.”
Peter gave me the tiniest push at the base of my spine. “Come on. Give the fella a thrill.”
I could feel that one tiny spot burning as I walked over to Wally and said hello. “We’ve been to the movies,” I said.
“Yeah, that’s the way to keep cool. I saw that picture, too.” Wally slurped up some soda and looked at his shoes. He didn’t even know enough to ask me to sit down. “So, New York, have you ever been to the Empire State Building?”
“Sure,” I said.
“How about Radio City?”
“You bet. You can get free tickets to the radio shows.” I wondered if Wally was going to lead me through a list of New York tourist attractions. He was trying to make conversation, and he was a bore. Behind me I heard Peter laugh at something Mom had said. Was he b
eing a good sport again? I was dying to get back so I could protect him from her.
“I went to Washington, D.C., once, before the war,” Wally told me. “My dad is going to take me to Tampa.”
“That sounds nice,” I said politely.
“We go out on the boat every Saturday. It’s not a big boat, but it’s fun. There’s plenty of stuff to see, neat places to go. Have you ever seen a cypress swamp?”
True, I was in a whole new state. But could it be that a boy was getting up the nerve to ask me to tour a swamp?
“You want a cherry Coke? I’ll get Herb to mix you one.”
“I’d better get back to my date,” I told him.
“Your date?” He looked surprised as he looked over my shoulder at Peter and Mom. “Well, okay. See you around.” No boy had ever asked to buy me a soda before. A month ago, it would have felt nice, even though it was only Wally the bellhop. Now it didn’t mean anything, because all I could think of while I was talking to him was how quickly I could get back to Peter.
Mom was looking in her compact and Peter was tossing coins on the counter when I finally rid myself of Wally. It was the end of my date, and I’d hardly said more than ten words to Peter. On the drive back to the hotel I wondered how I could see him again. Ahead stretched an evening of cards and dinner and staring out the window at the moon. It seemed impossible that I could get through it without him.
He drove up to the hotel and parked. When he came around to open the door for us, he leaned in before we got out.
“Thank you for the company, ladies. Let’s do it again.”
Mom got out of the car and I followed, embarrassing myself by sticking to the seat as I tried to wiggle over. I tried to swing my legs out gracefully, the way Mom had.
Mom put out her hand, and he shook it.
“Thanks for the movie,” she said. “And the keen soda.”
“Anytime.”
“Well,” Mom said, slipping her hand out of Peter’s, “I think I’ll go for a walk down Worth Avenue and see if I can find a store that’s open.”