“But you weren’t his first love, it doesn’t sound like,” Val pointed out.
“Hardly,” admitted Clover, with one of her light little laughs. But then turning more serious she went on, “One thing I’ve always remembered about that night is: the next morning he wasn’t there. I remember I got up and I decided to walk straight to the beach. I had on a yellow eyelet dress, funny, I never seem to wear the color yellow anymore. I stared out into the sea and I thought: So this is the summer. The summer I will always remember. Girls, you will have one summer like that too. The summer that you will remember all your life.”
I was still thinking about Clover’s story by the time the lemon soufflé was ready. It filled the apartment with the clean scent of citrus. When I tasted it I thought it was absolutely delicious, and said so.
But Val tasted it and said, “Good, but not as good as chocolate.”
And Clover, with a far-off look in her eyes, said something else: “Not as good as the first lemon soufflé I ever had.”
Lying in bed later that night, I couldn’t fall sleep. I always sleep soundly, so something was up. Val appeared to be sleeping all nicely in the bed next to mine. I got up to get a glass of water from the kitchen. When I turned on the lights, something caught my eye on the counter. It was a blue envelope, the same good thick quality as the stationery Aunt Theo used. The envelope was addressed to “Miss Clover Leslie.” But the handwriting wasn’t Aunt Theo’s—it didn’t slant and swoop like hers and it wasn’t so mysterious or so feminine. I had the feeling that this handwriting—so straight and bold—belonged to a man. There was no return address, but it was postmarked from Rome. I turned over the envelope and saw that the upper right corner was torn. So Clover must have opened it already, which made me feel not too, too bad about what I was going to do. Slowly, the way you pause before you open a present, I took the letter out of the envelope. It read: Dear Clover,
Coming to the States, and will be in New York for a couple of days. Are you still at Theo’s digs in the Village? I hope so, as I like picturing you there. Perhaps with that turtle of yours__Carlo, was it?
I’ll be staying at my club on East 50th. Breakfast lunch drinks etc. etc. etc.?
Your old admirer,
Digby Mansfield
I tucked the letter into the envelope and put it back on the counter. So that explained it! Why there was more to Clover weeping on the sofa than just Carlo dying, and why she had been moved to tell Val and me that story tonight, of all nights.
And maybe it even helped explain why Val and I had suspected that she’d been sad about something or other from the beginning of the summer. She was twenty-eight. She’d been in love. She’d had a disappointment. But maybe—just maybe—this visit could make it up to her, and maybe I, Franny, could even help her?
12
This Is Not Central Park
In a few days’ time, another note arrived from Aunt Theo across the ocean. This time it was just a postcard—on the front it showed a Degas painting, Three Ballet Dancers, One with Dark Crimson Waist, and on the back it said:
Dear Frances not Franny,
C. tells me V. has an admirer. Remember. You are only in New York a little while longer. What about you?
I wrote back:
Dear Aunt Theo,
It isn’t a question of having an admirer. It’s a question of finding an admirer who interests me.
Another postcard came from Theo, another Degas, this time a rose-tinted sketch called Seated Dancer:
Isn’t it lucky for you that my old beau Leander is coming to New York? That is all I am going to tell you.
T.
The day I got this postcard, Val was off somewhere with Julian and Clover and I were drinking coffee on the secret roof-deck. Not that it was quite so secret anymore. I think Clover felt guilty about letting Valentine use her bathroom to primp for dates with Julian, so she let me drink coffee with her there as a treat. I think it was so I wouldn’t feel so left out. Clover can be kind of a pushover as a chaperone. She’s not so strict as that word would suggest.
I never drank coffee in San Francisco but I don’t know how I’m going to give it up when we go home! My parents started letting Val drink coffee regularly when she turned sixteen, but she drinks it loaded with lumps and lumps of sugar. Clover and I take ours hot, with just a nip—Clover’s word—of heavy cream. (I do put just one lump of sugar, which Clover says I won’t need in time.) She always serves the cream in a little buttery yellow pot of Aunt Theo’s with a cracked spout, so you have to pour it out very carefully.
Clover says I am a natural coffee drinker. She says she is not so partial as a rule to tea drinkers, and neither is Aunt Theo, because coffee drinkers, they swear, are apt to have more character.
Somehow I feel very protective of Clover now that I know she has a secret.
This afternoon, I showed her Aunt Theo’s postcard and said, “Who is Leander? Have you ever met him before, Clover?”