Paperback Romance Page 6

  Nick understood Oscar’s fear of Nick’s being labeled gay. If she weren’t wearing male clothing they’d probably be pretending to be lovers a la Svengali to keep anyone from guessing that Nick was a lesbian. She knew the disguise hid the real drawback—her gender. She could count on one hand the prominent women conductors. She respected them from the bottom of her heart, but she dreamed of going further than any of them would ever be permitted to. Her most sustaining fantasy was of the day she arrived at the pinnacle of success and revealed her womanhood.

  “Being a man has limited benefits,” she said aloud.

  Oscar looked up. “Quite.” He studied her for a moment, then with a slight smile, asked if she’d like some tea.

  Well, the crisis is passed once more, Nick told herself. She had these soul searchings every so often—but it did seem they were happening more frequently on this blasted tour. Enough, enough, she told herself. It’s just being away from the sanctuary of home. It doesn’t matter that you’re lonely as hell and you have to mail-order clothes and wear suit jackets in raging heat.

  As she turned resolutely to the study of Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto Number Two, the centerpiece of the Munich concerts, she flashed on a snippet from the movie Victor, Victoria, when the cross-dressing Julie Andrews had complained her bosom would end up looking like two empty wallets. Nick’s bosom was well on its way to walletdom.

  Chapter Four

  Full Moon and Empty Arms,

  Opus 18

  Carolyn was glad to be away from Paris and truly on vacation at last. The casual beauty of Paris seemed deadly. She stepped from the train into cooler air under a dark Munich sky. She felt a surge of purpose flow through her—an urge to be productive and fertile. Maybe she would make use of the notebook in her suitcase and get some work done on her next book.

  The taxi turned a corner onto a view of a modern sculpture garden composed of brightly painted forms. Children swarmed over the smaller creations, sliding across the smooth surfaces. The effect was so unexpected that Carolyn almost laughed. To heck with work—she would find a way to play in sober, austere Munich. Already she’d regained her guttural German accent. French was squeezed out of your cheeks and nose for best effect; German came from the throat.

  Her ease with the language earned her a look of respect from the hotel clerk when she saw Carolyn’s American passport. The lobby wasn’t busy and Carolyn spent almost fifteen minutes chatting with the clerk, who looked like a statuesque heroine from a Wagner opera. By the end of their talk Carolyn knew where the locals ate dinner, where the best shops were and what time the museums were less crowded.

  She settled into her room and then took the clerk’s advice and went to a small restaurant just outside of the Hofgarten for dinner. The wurst was freshly made with a light mix of spices and accompanied by hard bread smeared with Edam cheese. As in France, fresh fruit was the valued dessert. The ale, served in a heavy stein, was strong and clear. Thoughts of romance and sex and any of that nonsense were miles away.

  She plotted her time in Munich carefully and spent the next morning immersed in the Kandinsky and Klee exhibit at the Stadtische Galerie. She sampled the more classic displays of Rubens and Brueghel the Elder at the Alte Pinokothek and ended the afternoon at the Deutsches Museum, situated on Isar Island, which turned out to be a high tech version of San Francisco’s Exploratorium. She’d earned her nephews’ undying love by taking them to the Exploratorium for a day of playing with science, and she was sure she’d cement their affections with the well-chosen souvenirs from the Deutsches Museum gift shop.

  The next day she took a tour out to the Schloss Nymphenburg. She had no difficulty imagining herself as a Bavarian Princess, at home in lavish rococo rooms filled with living versions of the portraits displayed throughout the Schloss—beautiful women in glorious silk ball gowns. She knew the clothes were much nicer to look at than to wear, but in her imagination the clothes didn’t weigh forty pounds and whalebone wasn’t squeezing the breath out of her.

  She put her hands around her waist and grimaced. There was a soft laugh behind her. She turned and smiled at the small, elderly woman clad in sensible shoes and a functional hat.

  “It wouldn’t become you,” the woman said. “It didn’t particularly become her,” she added, gesturing at the painting.

  “Oh, I know it must have hurt like anything,” Carolyn said. “I was just imagining all that squeezing.” She felt like a schoolgirl caught doing something silly. She would bet anyone just about anything that the British woman had been a schoolteacher.

  “All that pain just for fashion.” She made a peculiar, but very British noise of disgust.

  “And who are you to talk?” Another woman joined them, clad identically to the first woman, except she wore thick trousers instead of a Harris tweed skirt and support hose. “I’ve been trying to get Hilary to give up hose and skirts for thirty years, but she won’t.”

  “I’m quite comfortable, June. There’s no need to go on about it,” Hilary said. Oh, yes, Carolyn thought, definitely a schoolteacher. The tone of voice would have silenced a room of ten-year-olds.

  Carolyn spent the rest of the tour with the two older women, enjoying their mini-lectures on history and fashion as much as they appeared to enjoy giving them. Just as she had at every other place, she bought a postcard for Alison. With any luck, Alison would get one a day, sort of like a phone call.

  When they got back to the autobus to return to Munich, Carolyn was alarmed to see Hilary pale as she sank into her seat. She began to offer help, but June was already proffering a small cup and canteen of water mysteriously produced from the voluminous satchel she carried. “There you are, dearest,” June said. “Why didn’t you tell me you were having one of your spells.”

  “Can I get anything?” Carolyn rose, prepared to ask the driver not to close the doors yet.

  “No, no, my dear, she’ll be fine once we’re back in our room.” June put away the water and then patted one of Hilary’s hands. Carolyn looked back at them several times as they made their way to Munich, but June never looked up. Her gaze was constantly on Hilary’s face. When the autobus stopped, June said softly, “We’re here, dearest.”

  Dearest again, Carolyn thought. She remembered the women in the Louvre. These two weren’t that way—they were older. Yes, they were probably pooling their limited resources for a modest vacation. That was perfectly understandable. Carolyn found herself noticing every movement of June’s body as she helped Hilary to her feet. Hilary insisted on walking unaided, but she leaned on June as they made their way down the autobus steps. Carolyn hailed them a cab and waved goodbye. She could see Hilary’s head cradled on June’s shoulder.

  It doesn’t mean anything, Carolyn told herself. They were longtime friends, that was all. Not like the women in the Louvre who had definitely been—together. What did it matter to her, anyway? If she didn’t hurry, she wouldn’t have time for dinner before the concert.

  She had enough time, in the end, to walk through the Residenz to the National-theater. Life, she decided, could not be more satisfying. The performance included both Bach and Rachmaninoff, but she wanted to be surprised by the selections. So she ignored her program notes and watched the audience instead. The stately dowager in front of her caught her attention, and Carolyn wished she had a notepad with her to jot down a description of the coiled gray hair adorned with a simple tiara that would have been ludicrous on a younger woman, but was dignified on the older woman. Some writer you are, she thought. She chided herself and closed her eyes to appreciate the tuning strains that began to fill the hall. She liked the mix of sound—there, that snippet from a violin was definitely Rachmaninoff—Piano Concerto Number 2. It was buried under a trumpeter’s practice scale. Then the musicians quieted and the audience applauded at the entrance of the conductor. She opened her eyes. And blinked.

  Nicolas Frost. The tall, slender figure turned, bowed in acknowledgment of the applause, and then gave the upbeat for the firs
t selection. It was a coincidence, but if he saw her, he’d never believe it. He was just egotistical enough to believe that Carolyn was following him around—that she’d eaten rancid eclairs just to get an introduction. She wished she had tossed her cookies on his shoes.

  She intended not to enjoy herself, but the music couldn’t be resisted. At the most, the orchestra had had four days rehearsal with Maestro Frost, but they sounded as if it had been weeks. For an arrogant ass, that man had talent, which seemed unfair somehow. The opening Bach suite was precise without being mechanical. Sort of—like a chocolate truffle—a self-contained, diminutive treat. She sighed as the very last note faded. After a pause while a piano was added to the front of the orchestra, Nicolas Frost swept the performers into the Rachmaninoff. She’d heard it many times, and yet she could almost believe she was hearing it for the first time. When it reached the third movement, featuring the theme someone—not Rachmaninoff—had titled Full Moon and Empty Arms, the music was unnervingly passionate without degenerating into sentimentality. Carolyn felt her toes curling in her shoes with the intensity of the longing, lonely tones. Keats had said this kind of music was yearning, like a God in pain.

  The concluding Wagner, which followed the intermission, was an unusual mixture of the overture from Parsifal and Seigfried’s Funeral March, arranged and scored by none other than Maestro Frost. Carolyn stayed long enough to applaud through the fourth curtain call, forgetting for the pleasure of the performance that Nicolas Frost was pond slime—as Alison would say.

  As she walked back to the hotel she decided it wasn’t fair for a jerk like that to have the gift of making such incredibly passionate music. Nicolas Frost hadn’t struck Carolyn as the passionate type—angry, but not necessarily passionate. She found herself humming Full Moon and Empty Arms and tried, unsuccessfully, to think about something or someone else. But Nicolas Frost’s gray eyes haunted her.

  ***

  Dear A-Woman:

  By now you should be deluged with postcards that demonstrate just how touristy I’m being. I was going to tell you all about the München Zoo, but everything has gone completely out of my head because I saw Dachau this afternoon. I can’t begin to describe the way I could actually feel death in the air. If I try to describe it I’ll start crying again so I’ll just tell you what happened while I was there.

  I know I promised not to mention Nicolas Frost, but to tell you what happened I have to at least say that his manager, for lack of a better word, is Oscar Smythe, the famous conductor and critic. He sent me chicken soup while I was ill in Paris and he reminds me of Daddy because his eyes twinkle. I know that’s corny, but they do.

  Alison closed her eyes for a moment. Carolyn’s father had been a very nice man, soft-spoken for someone in the construction business, who had cared gently for his ailing wife. A perceptive man, too. Alison had always had the nervous feeling that he knew just how deep her feelings for Carolyn were.

  I’m sure Mr. Smythe would vehemently deny any eye-twinkling on his part. Anyway, the whole reason I picked Europe was because of this deal where concert tickets are included for every stop. The concert last night was very romantic—and you won’t believe who was conducting. I won’t mention the name. I had decided the fates were out to curse me with that arrogant s.o.b., but now I think they wanted me to meet Oscar. He was at Dachau to remember a loved one who died there. It’s hard to share the experience of seeing a place like that without feeling closer to the people you’re with. We all huddled in one cluster, afraid to be alone, I think. He gave me a handkerchief after I used the last of my tissues. We talked for a long time over an early supper when we got back to Munich, about art, life. He’s known so many interesting people—Maria Callas for one, and he was tutored by Solti for a summer. Tomorrow’s the last day here for both of us so he’s going to go sightseeing with me. He said I have remarkable taste for an American and as long as I don’t squeal or take pictures of him in front of landmarks, he’ll be glad to escort me. It’s going to be fun—I wish we had longer.

  You’ll be happy to know that I am taking notes on people and places the way you think all “author people” should. Maybe I will get Numero Six-o started when I get back. But then again maybe I won’t. Sometimes I think I should get a real job and not live so much in my ivory tower. I hope McNamara Literary can stand the strain. Philosophically yours,

  C-Woman

  What was she supposed to think? That Carolyn was finally recovering from the crushing blow that her brief marriage had dealt her belief system? That maybe Carolyn was finally growing up—a real late bloomer? That maybe Carolyn would figure out she had a different kind of story to live and write? McNamara Literary would survive.

  It astonished her that women could have intense emotional relationships with other women and never suspect they might be lesbians. Carolyn had turned to her when her father died, and again after that last trip to Paris, but she knew Carolyn had never considered the possibility of joining their lives permanently—or their bodies as frequently as possible. Someday Carolyn would know that urge, that desire, and then she would feel the searing delight of truth.

  “Sorry I’m late,” someone said. Alison jumped, then said hello to Sam as she put the letter in her pocket. “Hope you haven’t been waiting long.”

  “Not long. The owner hasn’t called the cops for loitering.” Alison scrambled out of her car as Sam led the way to the “Junque Shoppe.” In an ivory linen suit and brilliant rose blouse, Sam was the last word in elegance as she stepped around various chests, bookcases, and tables on her way toward the rear of the store. “Now be honest. Do you think it’s her?”

  They stopped in front of a brass headboard. The posts curved upward and joined in an arch that curved downward in the middle, like the top of a heart. In the middle brass strands formed a traditional love knot. The four strands of the knot attached to the top and bottom for stability as well as beauty.

  Alison swallowed, her imagination going a mile a minute. “Yes, it’s her. Classic and romantic, but not red plush velvet, if you know what I mean.”

  “Umm-hmm,” Sam answered as she weighed the price tag in her hand.

  “Is that all they’re asking for it?”

  “It’s badly scraped on the back. Someone had a very active sex life.” Sam winked.

  “Maybe it’ll rub off on Carolyn,” Alison muttered. Sam glanced at her with something like laughter and pity, and Alison felt herself blushing. “Buy it.”

  They went to the counter and Sam haggled over the price with the owner. After a few minutes both were happy and Sam wrote out a check. “Come on,” Sam said to Alison, “I need those muscles.”

  “How are we getting this to Carolyn’s?” It was heavier than it looked and Alison didn’t want to huff and puff in front of Sam. “Won’t fit in my car.”

  “Did you think I drove a v-a-n just to carry softball gear?” Sam didn’t appear to be having any trouble with her end. If Alison were to wrestle Sam she’d lose—a prospect that made her lighthearted.

  “I’ll follow you,” Sam said, after they’d cushioned the headboard in some old sheets and blankets in the back of the van.

  “If you can keep up,” Alison said. She gave Sam an I-dare-you look and hopped into her car. Sam was right behind her when she finally made it to the freeway.

  Sam didn’t know the shortcuts to Carolyn’s and Alison lost her easily. She was grinning in triumph as she rounded the last corner, only to stare dumbfounded at Sam, who was already unlocking the back of the van.

  “I’ve been waiting and waiting,” Sam said, her dark eyes glowing with laughter.

  “Can’t resist a challenge, can you?”

  “N-o.” Sam’s smile was provocative and Alison smiled in return.

  They carried the headboard in and rested it against Carolyn’s dresser. It had been ages since Alison had been in Carolyn’s bedroom. Yes, there was the old ballet-dancer headboard. The room was filled with echoes of Carolyn, right down to the sweatpants fo
lded over a chair, and her worn pink terrycloth bathrobe across the foot of the bed.

  “Stop swooning,” Sam said. “I think it’ll be great, don’t you?”

  “Perfect,” Alison agreed.

  “Do you think she’d be upset if I bought her a new mattress?” Sam bent over Carolyn’s bed and pressed down. It squeaked. “It has frightful lumps.”

  “How would you know?”

  “Do you doubt me?” Sam turned back, one hand on her hip.

  Alison opened her mouth, closed it, then laughed. “Sam, I think I know where we’re headed, but I can’t think straight in Carolyn’s bedroom.”

  “I don’t want you to think straight,” Sam said.

  Alison took a step closer. The lightheaded feeling she’d had at the antique store came back and translated itself to warmth spreading all over her body. “I just couldn’t—not on her bed.”

  “But we’ve just got her a new headboard and I’ll be getting her a new mattress so it’s not going to be her bed any more. It’ll be a last hurrah.”

  “You’re screwing with my mind,” Alison said, trying to keep her tone light. Her sense of propriety was wrestling with lust. Lust was winning. “You know how I feel about her and if I lie in her bed I’ll be thinking about her while you—”

  “While I do what I’ve been wanting to do for a long, long time.” Sam’s voice dropped into her chest, husky. “I know you’ll be thinking about her, maybe at first. I’ll take my chances with later.”

  “Sam—”

  Sam kissed her hard. “Any more objections?”

  “Are we getting her new sheets, too?” She swayed when Sam let go of her.

  “You have a point. I’m tacky, but not that tacky.” Sam reached under the corner of the mattress and started pulling. “They’ll have to be changed anyway when the new mattresses get here.” She stripped the mattress bare and turned back to Alison, pulling Alison slowly toward her. “Let’s pretend we’re starving in a garret with nothing but our love and a lumpy old mattress to sustain us.”