“It was a great party, True Heart. Really great. Have you seen the newspapers?”
“Oh, those old things.” Truman waved his hand dismissively, but his eyes gleamed. He looked a little puffy and tired this morning, Slim thought—but then, who didn’t? She wouldn’t even look in a mirror yet, herself. But this morning, puffy and tired were badges of honor; only those who had danced all night at Truman’s party—and looked it—were in.
“Did Kay have a good time?”
“The best. Tell me again, what was your favorite part?”
“When Tallulah Bankhead flashed her bush at Cecil Beaton. I thought poor Cecil was going to faint dead away.”
“Oh, that’s precious! Too precious! I didn’t see that! But it was grand, wasn’t it, my dearest Big Mama?”
“So grand. The grandest!”
Truman kissed her and went on his way. Slim picked up the papers. She’d hidden the ones that were not so complimentary; the ones that more than hinted it was just a little appalling that Truman had been able to give such a fabulous party because of the slaughter of a Kansas family.
The ones that wondered if, now that he was such a social success, Truman would ever write anything good, ever again.
—
TRUMAN HAD SAVED the best for last.
He walked into the apartment, past the Picasso, and into Babe’s open arms. She looked gorgeous, fresh, completely made up, and he marveled again at her discipline, her devotion to her best creation, her exquisite self.
“Bobolink! My most precious person ever! Tell me, tell me all!”
“Oh, Truman, it was wonderful.” And Babe said it quietly, seriously, with none of the exaggerated after-party brightness of the others, and maybe Truman registered that, and maybe he didn’t.
“It was, wasn’t it?” He sighed, kicked off his shoes and they both settled into a sofa, his head in her lap, his feet tickling a velvet pillow. She had tea waiting, and a special vase of lilies of the valley just for him—she’d known, hadn’t she, that perfect creature, that simply everyone in the world would send him flowers this morning, flowers and gifts and thank-you notes and telegrams. So she’d saved her flowers—their flowers, the ones they sent to each other each time they suspected the other was a little blue—to give him in person. Babe was the most thoughtful person he knew.
“Truman, I mean it. I haven’t been to anything like it. You did it, you were marvelous, and I’m privileged to have been there.”
“You stood out, of course, the envy of all. Slim and I were just talking about you—were your ears burning? You, my dearest, were a rare flower, in a sea of garishness. Not that everyone wasn’t beautiful—they were—although Slim, poor thing. What are we going to do with her? She has lost all her style. Simply lost it.”
“I thought she looked lovely, Truman,” Babe said, quietly admonishing. “I heard you tell her so, yourself.”
“Well, of course I did! It was the charitable thing to do! But you, my darling Babe, were singular. You always are.”
“You are sweet to say so.” But Babe flushed, and she ducked her head, and Truman squeezed her hand. Dozens of people a day told Babe Paley how beautiful she was. But she really believed it only when Truman did.
“Now tell me—tell me everything. Everything wonderful about last night. Tell me a story, Mama.” Truman closed his eyes, nestled deeper into her lap, and smiled in anticipation.
And Babe, who had never read a good-night story to her children when they were young, for she was always getting ready to go out or down to dinner when they were put to bed, and that took time, of course, time to array herself to perfection so that Bill might notice her, so that at least he would be proud to have her on his arm, took a deep breath and began,
“Once upon a time, there was a wonderful party, a beautiful fairyland of light and flowers and people, and one in particular, the most wonderful, the host….”
And soon Truman was asleep. And Babe was content, that aching pit in her belly filled with gratitude and purpose, and still she talked on and on in her low, soothing voice, spinning him a tale that weaved back and forth through time, from a chance meeting on an airplane long ago, vacations together, shared intimacies, secrets, fears and hopes and dreams, until last night, and this morning, and the future, and the two of them together, always, trusting, loving, for they only had each other, didn’t they? Children grew up, grew beautiful, grew successful in their own right. But Truman—Truman would remain the same.