The Bette Davis Club (29 page)

A few weeks later, I happened through Washington Square Park. The sun was shining and there were lots of people about—chess players, street performers, parents pushing strollers. Through a forest of strangers, I glimpsed Finn. He was alone. He was gazing up at the famous arch.

He must have sensed that someone was watching him, because he turned and saw me. I froze. What if he was angry? Worse, what if he ignored me? This man I had loved with all my heart—what if he acted as though we had never met? I did not think I could bear that.

Finn came over to where I stood, near the fountain. He was wearing a tweed sport coat, gray slacks, and a white shirt. I was wearing a green dress.

“Hello, miss,” he said. He bowed. “How are you this fine day?”

I stood there, shaking my head, staring at the ground. I could hardly breathe. I had cried so much the last few weeks, I didn’t want to cry anymore.

“Margo,” he said. He bent toward me, trying to catch my eye. “Margo, it’s all right. I was . . . too old for you. I know that. I’m old enough to be your father. Forgive me.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said.

“No, no. It was my fault. It usually is. Mea culpa. Mea maxima culpa.”

I lifted my head to him. We looked at each other. He smiled the same blue-eyed, boyish smile I had always loved. He asked if there was any chance I’d like to go—right then, that moment—for coffee. Despite all that had happened, I laughed. I said, Yes, I would love a cup of coffee.

We walked to the café. When we got there, we sat and talked for a long while. Without saying so, we forgave each other. But for what exactly? It did not matter, and I did not care. Somehow, in some way, Finn was back in my life. I felt like I had come home. I let myself be carried away by the sound of his voice, the sweetness of his company.

I think there must be times in a young woman’s life when she is vulnerable to a sort of romantic imprinting. I imprinted at the age of seven when Cary Grant took me for a ride in my father’s MG, and I subsequently fell in love with his old films. I imprinted again at nineteen when I met Finn. Both these men had a style, a sophisticated manner, that I delighted in. Problem is, it was a style—a fantasy—found in classic movie stars and closeted male homosexuals.

I would not, could not, cut myself off entirely from Finn. In a strange way, I felt we were family. Gradually, he and I worked our way round to a different kind of relationship. We would meet, though not so often as before, for coffee or a walk in the park. Occasionally, we went dancing or to dinner. We would laugh because the waiter would mistake us for an old married couple.

At other times, months went by and we did not communicate. This was not because we were angry or tired of each other. I never grew tired of Finn. It was because I would ask myself,
What is the point?
I would stay away for a while. But I always came back.

And if I didn’t come back, if I stayed away longer than usual, then fate would throw us together. There would be an art opening or a downtown party, like the one where we first met at Tommy’s loft, and there Finn would be.

Of course I had lovers, was involved with other men. Twice, I had proposals of marriage. But none of these men compared to my image of Finn, compared to my dream of him. I began sometimes to look for solace in places you will never find it. I drank, took my share of drugs.

And what about Finn? What did he want from me? Did he still make that incredible eye contact? Still tell me how pretty I was, then reach out to hug me just long enough for me to imagine something in him had changed? Sometimes.

I remained forever curious about Finn because he was forever a mystery. He had told me he was not complicated, but in truth, he was the most complicated person I ever knew. He was still a man who avoided talking about himself. Why did he not come out of the closet? It was becoming commonplace to do so, why shouldn’t he? I never asked. If I even came close to the topic, Finn always managed to skitter away from it.

I inquired about his life in other ways. One time at Manhattan Architectural Salvage, I said, “What do you think made you collect all these things, these bits and pieces of the past?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Finn said. He heaved a pair of cast-iron brackets off the floor and up onto a shelf. “It seemed a shame to let it all go off to the landfill, the way Penn Station did. That’s what happened in the old days. There wasn’t any salvage then, only the dump. It seemed sad that people—all of us—we’re here a brief time and then . . . we’re gone. I wanted to take notice. Perhaps people a hundred years ago were nicer, kinder, than people today. Anyway, it’s pleasant to think that.”

It was early evening, the shop was growing dark. Finn lit some candles in an old candelabrum. The brass and marble around us gleamed. “I do know,” he said, “that the people who came before us made beautiful things. Such lovely buildings.”

Then one day, a couple years back, I looked at Finn—really looked at him—and knew that he was growing old. He was sick and his heart was failing. He was no longer lanky and distinguished. He was brittle and thin.

I began spending a great deal of time with him. Some people said I looked after him. Finally, he caught a virus, and it turned into pneumonia. He went into the hospital.

I felt a catch at my heart when I opened the door to Finn’s hospital room and saw him lying there on the bed. When I glimpsed his blue eyes and thick shock of hair, now mostly white, but still lush and aristocratic. For the thousandth time, I thought of the child we might have had together.

“Hello,” I said.

Finn turned his head to me. “Oh, it’s you, Margo,” he said. He looked exhausted, worn-out. “I wanted to ask you something.”

“What’s that?” I said. I stood by the door.

“Have I ruined your life?” His beautiful voice was hoarse. “I mean, did I ruin your life?”

I pulled a chair up by the bed and sat down. “Of course not,” I said. “Why on earth would you say that?”

He laughed weakly. “Been thinking about years gone by, I suppose. The rake’s progress.”

Knowing Finn had enriched my life, I told myself. Not ruined it, never ruined it.

I moved my chair closer to the bed. “As long as we’re putting it all out there,” I said, “there’s something you should know.” I paused a moment, choosing exactly the right words. “And it’s just this: if I’d been born a man, you’d never have gotten away from me.”

“A gay man, you mean,” Finn said thoughtfully.

In all the years I knew Finn, that was the one time he identified himself as homosexual. Even after our wedding was called off, the subject of his sexual orientation never came up. The topic was off-limits.

But now he was dying. The truth no longer threatened him. And I understood that at the end of his life he wanted a witness to who he really was. He wanted a friend.

“You, born a gay man,” Finn said. “Wouldn’t that have been interesting? Although if you’d been born a straight man, you’d have ended up with Dottie.”

“As it is, Dottie’s sort of ended up with me,” I said. “She seems to think she’s my big sister.”

“Good.”

I rose from my chair and went to the window. God knows why. Whatever was going on in the world, I didn’t want to watch.

“I’m leaving you the shop,” Finn said to my back.

“Please don’t,” I said to the window. “I don’t want it.”

“Oh, you won’t have it for long.” He coughed. “It’s bankrupt. The only way I kept the place running all these years is because I drew on my grandparents’ trust. I’d leave you that as well, but the money vanishes the moment I do. Want to know where it goes?”

I couldn’t look at him.

“An organization dedicated to preserving—and I quote—‘marriage as the exclusive sanctity of men and women.’ A clause in my grandfather’s will.”

I watched a man in the street below buying flowers from a cart. It was the only thing I could stand to look at.

“The business is in trouble because you won’t sell anything,” I said. I put one hand flat against the window. “People ring up and you tell them the thing they want has been sold, even when it’s right there in front of you. Or you raise the price and when they meet that, you raise it again.”

“
Vincit veritas
,”
Finn said. He coughed again. “I’ve been keeping a private museum, not a shop. I still have pieces of Penn Station, including that capital you found years ago. Do you remember that day? You were innocent then. I liked that about you. And you looked so young and pretty. Do you remember?”

“Not really,” I lied.

“Then you fell in the mud, and you still looked pretty. But mostly, you looked so very young.”

Down in the street, someone bumped into the man who was buying flowers. The bouquet fell from his hands. I watched him rush to pick it up. I was thinking how most people don’t make you feel much of anything at all. Don’t make you feel like time spent with them has grace, like every moment in their company is a gift. But Finn did. Finn, my midsummer night’s dream.

We didn’t talk after that. Finn was tired. He fell asleep. I stayed in his room for several hours, watching over him. A nurse brought in a cot, and I lay down on it.

In the middle of the night, I heard a profound sigh and got up to look. Finn’s shoulders were slack. His head had slumped forward. I called for the nurse, and they all came running with the crash cart. But it was pointless.

Finn was gone.

CHAPTER TWENTY

BABY, COME TO LONDON

I
’m in a deep sleep on the Victorian fainting couch in Finn’s office, when a persistent and irritating singsong noise wakens me. I fumble for the cell phone on the table beside me, but by the time I finally pick up, no one is there. Nor do I recognize the anonymous number on the caller ID.

It’s the morning after Tully’s and my arrival in New York. Now that I’m awake, I lie on the couch, regarding the familiar mess of Finn’s office. Sunlight shines through the upper windows, brightening the mezzanine in an encouraging way.

One of my suitcases is on the floor beside me, resting against the couch. A book that I have no memory of owning peeks out from a side pocket of the case. A shaft of sunlight hits the volume’s faded spine. I reach down, snatch up the book, and examine its tattered cover. I realize it’s the vintage marriage manual given to me by the old woman at that run-down gas station on the outskirts of Palm Springs. I recall the woman saying the book had helped her “considerable.”

I open the manual and flip through it. Eventually, I turn to the very last paragraph of the very last page and read: “But most of all, remember that marriage is about much more than mere carnal desire. It’s about being good to each other. It’s about being kind. It’s about seeking the very best within your own soul and sharing that very best, that goodness, with your partner. Only then will you truly start your new life together. Only then will you truly be married.”

I close the book. I place it carefully on the bedside table. I get up, find my robe, and go downstairs.

The Vanderbilt bathtub is empty. I call Tully’s name, but get no answer.

I walk over to the kitchen area. The Fairy Castle books and mementos are still on the table. There are no eggs and no milk, however I brew a pot of coffee and get down a tin of English chocolate biscuits. (I became fond of this particular brand of biscuits—cookies—when I was at school in England. Ever since I discovered that you can buy them in New York, I always keep a supply on hand.)

I sit at the table, drinking coffee and munching on a biscuit. I’m looking round idly at the shop when I notice a shadow at one of the soaped-over front windows. Tully?

The shadow moves to another soaped-over window. Shadowy hands come up and frame a shadowy head, as though someone is trying to peer in. But who? No one comes to Manhattan Architectural Salvage. Hardly anyone even knows we’re here.

I recall what Dottie said last night, that the
Spy Team
script is valuable, that I should go somewhere safe. Well, it’s too late for that, isn’t it? Too late to worry if the shadow at my window is a confused tourist . . . or Boone.

The shadow moves off. A moment later, though, it looms large through the frosted glass in the front door. For an instant, nothing happens. I don’t budge, I barely breathe. Then I feel a shiver as the old brass doorknob rattles and turns a bit.

All right, this is getting spooky. But while I’m aware of being afraid, I also feel myself growing angry. How dare someone come prowling round here!

I rise from the table, tighten the belt on my robe, and reach for a large chunk of marble. Too clumsy. I put the marble back and instead, with trembling hand, grab a wrought-iron fire poker. My heart is pounding. Clutching the poker, I creep toward the front door. When I get there, I wait, unmoving and noiseless.

The doorknob rattles again.

Enough. Poker held high, I whip open the door. In a flash, I perceive the face of someone I know. It’s Dottie.

“
Mon Dieu
!”
she says. She’s standing on the broad single step up from the street and staring, wide-eyed, at the metal rod I’m brandishing above her head.

“Bloody hell!” I say, lowering the poker. I’m shaking. “You scared me half to death! Why didn’t you ring the bell?”

“That bell has not worked since dinosaurs ruled the earth. And I imagined you and Mr. Benedict might be in repose.”

“Too much going on for any reposing,” I say, blinking out at the morning light. I gaze at the street, the blue sky, and I remember that it’s spring. A man and woman pass by, holding hands.

“When I was a child,” Dottie says, still standing on the stoop, “my mother heard a noise at the back door. She opened it and found a mongrel puppy. We didn’t know it, but someone had deposited a litter of hounds in our yard. One by one, the little things found their way to our door. By day’s end, my sisters and I were the proud owners of three roly-poly pups.” She rests one hand against the doorpost and the other on her ample, well-tailored hip. “May I come in? Think of me as a puppy.”

She comes in. I lead her to the kitchen area, put aside the fire poker, and pour her a cup of coffee.

“
Pas de lait
?”
Dottie says, her eye scanning the table for a creamer.

“No milk,” I say. “Sorry.”

We stand there, like guests at a party, talking and drinking our very black coffee.

“Where is Mr. Benedict?” Dottie says, looking around.

“Out,” I say. I hold up the tin of chocolate biscuits. Dottie shakes her head.

“I’m always happy to see you,” I say, “but what are you doing here?” I return the tin to its spot on the table. “Did you call me a while ago?”

“No, I did not.” She glances down at the table, changes her mind, and helps herself to a chocolate biscuit.

“I am here,” she says, between bites, “because I could not sleep. I was too worried about you. I got up early and told Gerard no morning sex, and that he’d have to cook his own breakfast. He took it like a man. By this I mean he announced he was going out for an omelette.”

Dottie surveys the vast room and the objects in it.

“God, this place,” she says. “I haven’t been here in ages. Of course, every dealer in town knows the legend of Finn Coyle. The man who accumulated, but would not sell.”

Dottie rests her coffee cup on the table. She wanders over to a pair of stone cherubs and puts on her reading glasses. “So many of these things bring back memories,” she says, examining the cherubs. “It’s like looking at old photos. You were such a sweet girl, Margo, at nineteen. And after all that business with Finn, well . . . you never really recovered.”

“Oh, please,” I say. “It’s been decades since I fell in love with Finn. I long ago got over him.”

“No, I don’t think so. You never did. Not completely, anyway.” Dottie removes her readers, crosses back to the table, and retrieves her coffee cup. “Even when you sometimes went months without seeing him, everyone knew you adored him. It was like you were under a spell. I don’t know why this particular occasion comes to mind—but remember the night you and I went to
La Bohème
and we ran into Finn? He was pleased to see you. Genuinely happy, I think. He hugged you.”

I remember.

“The three of us ended up going for a late supper. Finn was charming, amusing, entertaining as always. That man went through life
glowing
. I can still see the way he smiled at you, the way he held your hand. When the meal was over, he insisted on picking up the check. But then he said good-bye and walked away. One look at your face, and I could tell what running into him like that had done to you. I took you straight to the nearest drinking establishment. ‘Emergency martinis,’ we called it.”

I picture the bar Dottie and I went to that night, the table where we sat.

“Then these last few years,” Dottie says, “Finn got sick, got old. And when you heard he was ill, you sought him out anew. You looked after him. At the end, you were practically living with him. But in taking care of him, you gave up your job, your apartment. Over the years, you gave up so many things because of Finn Coyle. Some of them indirectly, I realize.”

I laugh. “You make me sound like Miss Havisham,” I say. “For your information, I have not wasted my life. I did not fall in love with the wrong man, who then deserted me on our wedding day. I left Finn, remember? I jilted
him
.”

“You didn’t go far, though, did you?” Dottie spreads her arms at the room.

“Oh, for God’s sake! Just because Finn and I stayed friends, doesn’t mean I haven’t had relationships. I lived for ten months with . . . with . . .”

“Doug Irving?” Dottie says. “So unforgettable you fumble for his name?”

“Never mind him. I spent five and a half years with Michael.”

“Michael Gray?” Dottie gives a half frown. “Mister Multiple Personality Disorder?”

“I dated,” I say, beginning to feel like someone defending herself in a court of law. “I had boyfriends, lots of them. More than most people.”

“That you did. Which, in a way, makes my point.”

I’m incredulous. “You think Finn hurt me in some way?” I say. “You think caring about him kept me from . . . what? Falling in love with someone else?”

“Finn was a good man, a kind man,” Dottie says. She sips her coffee. “But his life was not authentic. Huge parts of it were invented to please other people, to fit their image of what they thought he should be. His grandfather was homophobic. Did you know that?”

“Yes.”

“Can you imagine how that must have confused Finn, especially when he was young? I believe many people, an entire culture, did wrong by that man. They injured him emotionally, damaged him, and probably, on some level, enraged him. All of which made him . . . je ne sais pas. We’ll never know. But because of what Finn did to get along in the world, the lies he told himself and everyone he met . . . yes, I think he hurt you. I think you never did resign your membership in The Bette Davis Club.”

“Well, you’re wrong,” I say.

“Of course, I will grant that your own childhood—the deaths of your parents, being sent away to school in England—didn’t make you a promising candidate for a healthy relationship with anyone.”

“Thank you
so
much,” I say. “It’s not even noon, but you’ve already managed to make my day.”

“I’m not finished,” Dottie says. “Because to top it off, at the end, you and Finn had folie à deux, a shared madness. He’d been refusing to sell anything for years, getting more and more eccentric, everyone knew it, and yet during the time you took care of him, you went right along with it. Folie à deux! And now, with the bill collectors at your heels, bankruptcy closing in, Finn’s been dead a year and you still haven’t sold a damn thing. Not so much as a newel post!”

“That’s because I’m . . . getting round to it!” I say.

“No, it’s not. It’s because Finn Coyle couldn’t let go of his infatuation with the past. And you can’t let go of Finn Coyle.”

I look at her. She stares back. We’re at an impasse.

There’s a knock at the door. “That’ll be Tully,” I say.

Dottie peers at me over the rim of her coffee cup. “Or a puppy,” she says.

I walk to the door and open it, expecting to see Tully. Instead, I find a young woman. Physically, she’s gorgeous, really beautiful. And there’s a scent of perfume that . . . Oh. Oh, my God. Dior Pure Poison.

“Auntie Margo?” the woman says.

I realize who I’m looking at. It’s Georgia, all grown-up. It also hits me that I’m staring at sixty thousand dollars, the finder’s fee promised me by Charlotte. I reach out, grab Georgia by the wrist, and fairly yank her inside.