The Mayor grinned.
“Now listen. I’m going to take my shower and get going up to Kew Gardens or Forest Hills or wherever this garage is. I know you’re going to be annoyed at me but you can’t come with me this time. Now don’t look at me like that. Someone’s got to stay and watch the house.”
Certainly, thought the Mayor. But he could do it just as well from across the street at Natasha’s.
“You remember what happened last time,” she poked him in his tender, portly ribs. “Oh, come on. Don’t look like that. I’ll be back this afternoon.”
But four-thirty found her sitting slumped and even somewhat content over some fabulous white coffee and a peach-kiwi tart. She was up in the Gardens, right across the square from the Forest Hills Inn. It was as green and lush as only old money could make it. Ivy climbed white trellises and mauve stucco walls encased old lead paned windows. The cobblestone road encircled a caretaker’s island. On one side were the steep yellow steps of the Long Island Railroad Station and on the other the sleepy Tudor shops. You really thought you were in Nymphenbürg or Bogenhausen.
Claire gazed morosely into her empty cup. The last time she’d had a cappuccino had been with Johnny, down in Sheepshead Bay. “What is it you’re looking for?” he’d asked her. Kindly he’d said it, but directly, grazing her fingertips with his own the minute Red had left the table. He’d caught her off guard. “Plenty,” she’d said just for something to say. “Oh,” he’d sighed. “You see, with me it’s different. I don’t want too much. Just a boring, old-fashioned life if I can swing it. Like a family,” he’d sniffed casually. “But then I don’t have the kind of opportunities in life like you’ve got.”
“No,” she’d grinned back at him, tit for tat, “I guess you don’t.” What a pompous ass she’d been. He’d been trying to be straight with her and all she could give him was a snippy answer like that. How much time she’d wasted worrying that he was just a cop when she should have been wondering if she were good enough for him. And now it was probably too late. “Quite honestly, your majesty,” she addressed her higher power, “if you give me another chance here, I’ll do my best to live up to it.” She thought of the pile of laundry on Johnny’s porch floor. “On the other hand,” she added, “if you’re saving me for something else, well, you certainly know best.” Claire eyed her watch suspiciously. She’d parked the car over on Austin Street, the only place to park around here, and she’d been happy to find that, even if it was a meter. If they caught you parking in here, not only would they tow you, but they’d plaster your car windows with impossible-to-remove rebukes. Claire took a bite of the buttery-crusted tart. This was so good that she was going to have to have another. The rain-drenched vines hanging down the arcade shimmered prettily with sunlight and the start of a breeze. When she got herself a camera she was going to come back and photograph those houses along there toward the tennis club. Where the little red Porsche was coming down the lane. Good Heavens! That was Stefan! “Hello! Yoo-hoo! Hello!” she stood up tall and flagged him down. He didn’t see her at first, but he had to come around the island to turn and then he did see her, guffawed right away, pulled the car right up to the café (gliding right through the red light) and hopped out without opening a door. He was wearing (what else?) his tennis whites.
“Now this is a pleasure,” he shook her hand warmly and kissed her cheek. “May I join you?”
“Yes, of course. I was just sitting here dreaming.”
“It is a delightful spot. Especially in this chaleur!”
Claire scurried her ice-cream chair over to make room for him. Vanished were the eerie feelings she’d had about him in the dark. He was so clean, the way the rich so often were. Right out of the locker room shower. A dental cleaning and gum massage every seven weeks. Ensembles that wouldn’t dare pill. For one enraptured moment Claire saw herself waking up in a sunlit room in Stefan’s house. She was swaddled in cashmere. A breakfast tray was on her lap. An Ida Lupino telephone jingled.
“Claire?”
“Huh?”
“I just asked you if you’d like another tart.”
“Oh. Me? I couldn’t! One of those is plenty. You go ahead.”
When the waiter left with Stefan’s order, Stefan whisked a dove gray suede packet onto the table. Out came a spotless mirror rimmed in jade and a cloisonné box. With all the finesse of a surgeon he poured out a perfect little mountain and divvied it up into several neat rows. Then he handed her a sterling silver straw. She shook her head no. He sniffed two lines up with wild, professional snorts and winked at her as he returned the paraphernalia to its purse.