The Quintessence of Quick (The Jack Mason Saga) (22 page)

Wish I could give you the whole story, he thought, beginning with the fact that old Mose’s alive and kicking, and screwing ‘Miss Green’ silly as we speak. And that your precious sister-in-law and ‘Miss Green’ were tag-teaming old Rick at just about the same time she was giving you her version of the Bisque Follies of 1959. And that if you’d gone ahead and divorced Dad and married Mose before Dieter showed up, none of this would be happening; including, admittedly, the financial independence of one John Henry Mason. “No, let’s stay with the Miss/Mrs. Green situation, and least for long enough for you to understand it from my point of view. She’s a fascinating woman, all right, but for once Cordelia’s batting a thousand. All Linda’s ever been to me’s a car collector, and all I’ve ever been to her’s a prospective boat buyer. If she was 10 years younger, then sure I’d be interested, but c’mon, Mom, not in a lady nearly as old as you are, even if she does look almost as good as you.”

This time her smile, while it bordered on indulgent, ignited Serena’s green eyes. “You do say the nicest things, sonny boy. I’ll let it go if you’ll answer one more question for me; how does this particular nearly-as-old-as-me lady happen to be in good enough financial shape to afford all these exotic conveyances? Cordelia said that someone at the marina told her that Miss Green’s boat was the biggest pleasure craft that had tied up there in years.”

“Told me her divorce settlement, which is a couple years old, left her in real good shape. Seems that she had a good lawyer, and the lawyer had a good private eye.”

“How nice for her. Is she a little masculine or anything? I mean, boats and cars? Those are things you’d expect a man with money to spend to be interested in.”

“If she is, she hides it pretty well.” Giving in to the temptation, Jack added, “She’s also a pilot.”

The green eyes widened. “Good lord! What a picture I’m getting; she takes the boat out, lands a Marlin single-handed, hoists it onto the dock, tosses it into the Buick’s trunk, drives to the airport, loads it into a plane, flies over a cruise ship and drops it into the swimming pool in time to be filleted for dinner. She sounds like the ideal customer for a hopped-up Buick limousine.” She paused, looking out her studio window at a trio of fat pigeons caucusing on the ledge. “I couldn’t believe what a job you did resurrecting that old Buick; I’m sure the picture that you sent me only tells part of the story. Even though the color’s different, looking at it takes me back to what was best about the old Bisque days. I truly hope that she enjoys it.”

“I hope so too,” Jack said. “It made a lot of people happy back then, in one way or another, the Bishop twins probably most of all, since they had it all that time. You know they live here now...”

“Yes, I do. Cordelia…”

“Told you,” he said with a grin.

“That’s right,” she said, the words catching in her throat. “Oh, honey, if only Moses…”

“I know. A lot of things would be different if he were still around,” Jack said, “Still, he’d be happy that you’re succeeding at what you set out to do. He was probably the only person in Bisque, besides me, who understood that your art was way more than a hobby.”

Putting down her fork, Serena’s face acquired a new softness; she looked at him as though she were refocusing through a newly-mounted filter. Several seconds later, she said, “Could I be wrong, sweetie, or have you joined him in that opinion?”

Jack, too, was slow to respond. “Yes, Mom, I have. Guess it’s been sneaking up on me for quite awhile,” he said, substituting a wry smile for the tears he couldn’t yet shed over the love that he’d withheld from her, and of that that she’d withheld from Moses. And, excruciatingly, what about Linda’s misgivings, if any?

15 RETURN TO CROTCH ISLAND

Jack slept with his door open, taking Serena’s advice. “This time of year,” she’d said, “the weather’s so damn changeable that it confuses the old relic. I’m sick of fighting with the super about it; this seems like a good time to look around for something else, a little bigger and with better light.
Gramercy
Park’s nice, but a loft somewhere farther downtown would suit me a whole lot better. Moving’s such a pain in the ass, though...”

He was aware of her moving around, rattling a dustpan and making other random cleaning noises, while he was still half asleep. By the time he was on his feet, his watch said
ten past nine. They exchanged a wave as he made his way into the bathroom.

“Sorry to wake you up, bub,” she said, “but I told the Tiffany people that they could come at eleven, and I still have to vacuum this joint.”

“I’ll do it.”

“Nope. You take a seat at the counter and eat your breakfast. Hope lox and bagels suits your fancy.”

“Always has, always will,” he said, happy to see the cream cheese at room temperature. “Remember Mose’s bagel runs to
Atlanta?”

“Oh, yeah. He was convinced that that place way out Peachtree-  Nosh O’Rye-  had the only decent bagels in the state. They always had nova, too.”

“And he always had it in the refrigerator,” Jack said, spreading cream cheese as he spoke. you can take the Jew out of
New York, but...”

“Yeah, yeah. You know he planned to move back here.”

“Matter of fact,” Jack lied, “he did mention it a time or two. If you did, that is.”

“Oh, he knew I was going to. It was just a question of when. Had to get you into school and so forth. ‘I’ll sell out the Hamm County Beverage Company, lock, stock and barrel,’ he used to say, ‘and keep you in a style that you’ve yet to become accustomed.’”

“That’s Mose, on the nose.” In a pig’s eye, he thought. By then, your chance had come and gone. But art for art’s sake. “I’d sure like to hear what he’d have to say about the Tiffany deal.”

“Oh, Jesus! Eat! I’ve gotta get this place looking halfway decent for these society types. By the way, one of them, Letitia Baldrige, was Clare’s factotum when she was ambassador to
Italy. So be on your best behavior.”

The doorbell rang at
eleven o’clock. Serena opened it to greet the Tiffany representatives, two women who, except for their relative size, were nearly identical. Gaunt, rock-coiffed and purposeful, they reciprocated her greeting and looked at Jack, affably quizzical, as he approached. “This is my son, Jack Mason,” Serena said, extending a hand in his direction. “Don’t let the accent fool you; he’s a
New York
native and Phi Beta Kappa, but you’ll never hear it from him. Jack, this is Letitia Baldrige,” indicating the taller one, and ...”

“Mary Briscoe,” the shorter, younger one said, taking his hand when her boss released it. “Do you live in
New York, Mr. Mason?”

“No, just up for a visit before I give myself up to the Navy,” Jack said, returning her smile.

“Jack’s going into the flight program, as if I didn’t have enough gray hair already,” laughed Serena.

“Really?” Letitia said, looking at Jack with heightened interest. “How very exciting! Serena, please let us know when Jack’s in town again. I’d love to hear, first-hand, how you like landing on a carrier.”

“It’ll be my pleasure,” Jack said with a grin.

“I hope you ladies have time for coffee,” Serena said, inclining her head toward a layout of brioche, butter and preserves on the dining table.

“Normally, we’d like nothing better,” Letitia responded, “But I’m afraid that we find ourselves in a bit of a crisis. We were driven down here by an unquestionably drunk cabdriver, whom we sent on his way. Now we have to get Clare- I’m assuming that’s she in the crate- down to the curb and into another cab. We’d have used Mr. Hoving’s car, but he’s halfway to the
Hamptons
in it by now. Could we borrow your phone to call another cab?”

“Might be quicker,” Jack interjected, “If I just take it down for you.
Gramercy
Park
seems like it’s full of cabs, particularly at this hour.”

“You know,” Serena interjected, “I’d feel a lot better if Jack took it down for you, too. And if he’s got the time, it might make sense for him to go with you. That way, if anything happened to my Clare, I wouldn’t be forced to kill a non-relative. Would you do that for me, honey?”

“Sure. That is, if you’re sure I wouldn’t be intruding ...”

“Are you kidding? I should’ve thought of that. If Clare missed the chance to meet a Phi Beta Kappa, soon-to-be carrier pilot who also happens to be the son of the artist to whom she’s entrusted her image, she’d be the one doing the killing. Do you have a dolly or hand truck or anything, Serena?”

“Hang on for a minute,” Jack said, squatting to get hold of the bottom of the crate. Standing up, he cradled it in his hands, jogging it up and down a couple of inches. “No truck necessary. Shall we go, ladies?”

The cabdriver edged his yellow Checker into a niche in the
Waldorf
Towers’ loading dock, next to a set of steps that led to dock level. Two uniformed porters came quickly down the steps; the first one opened the rear door closest to him. Smiling, he looked into the car and asked, “Are you the Luce party?” At Letitia Baldrige’s positive response, he extended his hand, saying “We have a cart up on the dock for your parcel.”

Taking the proffered hand, Ms. Baldrige exited the cab, saying “Thank you; please be very, very careful.” Jack, who had been in the front seat, opened the other rear door for Mary Briscoe. The three waited at the rear of the cab as the porters, with studied slowness, removed the crate, carried it up to the dock and placed it into a deep, canvas-sided laundry cart. Only then was the cab dismissed, the Sisters Tiffany and Jack trailing porters and cart into the elevator at the far end of the bay, whose doors carried the red words “freight only.”  Catching the porter’s eye during the elevator’s long ride to the thirty-sixth floor, Ms. Baldrige said, “I hope we’re not breaking any rules, riding up with you in the freight elevator.”

“Oh, no ma’am,” the porter, a tall, fiftyish man whose bearing suggested that he’d been born to the job, responded with a deprecating smile. “Well, let’s just say that when it comes to Mrs. Luce, the normal rules don’t apply.”

The doors opened to a reception area lined with white-streaked black marble. A trim brunette woman dressed in something gray that might very well have had a Chanel tag attached, smiled a greeting at them. “Good day, Ms. Baldrige; Mrs. Luce is waiting for you in the main salon. Please excuse me while we see to the uncrating. This way,
Eugene,” she said, indicating a set of double doors some fifty feet behind her.

“Thank you, Catherine.” Turning to Mary and Jack, Letitia Baldrige indicated with a flip of her hand and that they should precede her down the deep-blue carpeted hall some twenty feet in the opposite direction, through an arched portico into a large room whose windows overlooked the gray-green East River and beyond it, the Statue of Liberty and Brooklyn, where Jack’s immediate interest was drawn to the incredible bulk of a Forrestal-class aircraft carrier, at anchor in front of the Navy Yard. A massive granite fireplace dominated the room; they took seats on three massive sofas of a matching gray wool that faced it, open-box fashion, surrounding a low, square marble-topped table with five-foot sides. Wide doorways that Jack estimated to be at least ten feet high flanked the fireplace; Clare Boothe Luce entered the room through the one on the left. To Jack, it was as though Miss Liberty had dismounted from her pedestal and walked up the East River to meet them, delaying just long enough to slip on a gold-belted emerald green shift that fit her as well as it would have a girl in her twenties.

“Hi, Tish! I wouldn’t have kept you waiting, but I needed to satisfy myself that Catherine had the uncrating under control. Hi Mary dear,” she said, shifting her eyes quickly to Jack as she extended her hand. “And you’re Jack Mason. I could’ve picked you out of a lineup, with those green, green eyes. They’re as striking as your mother’s.”

He blinked, seeing her suddenly as an older Cordelia and jogging his hormonal circuits to attention. Taking her hand, he responded in the way Tish Baldrige had suggested, but a half-octave or so higher than normal. “It’s an honor to meet you, Madam Ambassador.”

“I’ll bet Tish put you up to that,” she said, her smile turning mischievous as she released his hand. “Your mother calls me Clare, Jack, and I wish you would, too. You were awfully kind to help Tish and Mary out the way you did; Serena and I have way too much work invested in that ageless self of mine to let anything happen to it. You may not be an officer yet, but you’re unquestionably a gentleman.”

“Thanks, uh- Clare. I’m glad I could help.”

Upping the smile’s wattage, she continued as though she hadn’t heard. “I do know a bit about the officer caste,” she said. “Besides reporting on the war, I spent a lot of my time in Congress in Military Affairs Committee hearings. Have you looked out the window? The good ship
Saratoga’s at anchor off the Brooklyn Navy Yard. She was built there, you know. Hanson Baldwin had quite an article on her in the Sunday Times.”

“She’s really something, even from this distance. Have you been aboard her?” Jack asked.

“Regrettably not. But I did go aboard her sister ship, the Forrestal, a couple of years ago. Didn’t I, Tish?”

“In a big way,” her ex-factotum smiled. “That was quite an end-run you pulled on them, getting the Secretary of the Navy to fly you down in that jet- a Panther, wasn’t it? To
Naples; and that fiery orange Fabioni flight suit; Mama Mia!”