The Hunt

“Of course, what’s the matter with me?” he said and stepped back, swinging the door wide for her.

The living room was the size of a loft with a massive picture window overlooking a balcony and beyond it, the East River. The French doors on either side of it were open and a cool breeze billowed through the drapes. The furniture, lamps, tables, were all rounded at the corners and had a soft, inviting quality, the latest in art deco. The room was painted in light shades of pastel—grays, yellows, blues. There were three Impressionist paintings in the room, one by the recent Spanish discovery, Picasso. An open brick fireplace dominated one side of the room and facing it were floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, both of which offset the pale colors and gave the room a strong masculine quality. On a table in the corner was a picture of Jenny, Bert and Keegan at Longchamp. It was the only photograph in the room.

Vanessa saw the three glasses on the coffee table next to the open scrapbook.

“Oh,” she stammered, suddenly embarrassed. “I didn’t know you had company. What a brazen thing for me.

“I don’t have company,” he said flatly.

She looked down at the glasses again and he wondered how it must look, a man sitting alone in an apartment with three glasses of champagne. How the hell does one explain that? he wondered.

“I was . . . I was drinking a good-bye toast to Bert. Why don’t you join me?”

“I’m sorry, this was presumptuous . .

“I’m glad you came,” he interrupted. “C’mon, I’ll get you a glass of champagne.”

“Why don’t you just drop a lemon peel in one of those,” she said with a smile.

“Still remember that, huh?”

“I remember every second of those two days,” she said very directly. “I also know about your friend and what happened to her. You’ve had more than your share of grief. But you can’t stay alone forever, Kee.”

He smiled as he poured her glass. “That carved in stone?”

“No,” she said, her shoulders sagging a bit. She took the glass and followed him out on the balcony. The soft summer breeze stirred her collar. She leaned on the balcony, staring at a tugboat put-put-putting up the river. “It’s probably carved in desperation.”

“Desperation?”

She took off the hat and shook out her hair. She had let it grow down to her shoulders.

“I’m absolutely shameless where you’re concerned,” she said. “For four years I’ve gone to every first-night, every gallery opening, every party, your favorite restaurants, hoping to accidentally bump into you. But you don’t go to openings or parties. And I guess you eat at home.”

“I’ve turned into a helluva cook, Vannie,” he said. “I’m just not ready for the social swim yet.”

“After four years! You have friends here who care about you and miss you.” She turned to him, leaning her back against the balcony rail. “At least one, anyway.”

She was still as splendid as she had been in Berlin but the bright-eyed look of innocence was gone, replaced by the first signs of cynicism, the first cruel lines of maturity.

“I heard you got married.”

“So you do still talk to the living.”

“I was never really a part of your society, Vannie. Your father made that clear to me.”

“What do you mean?”

“That I’d only be accepted if I played by their rules.”

“Which you didn’t choose to do.”

“Hell, I’m not an aristocrat. My blood is definitely not blue. The last party I went to was . . . I guess three years ago, after the Normandie’s maiden voyage. Marilyn Martin filled me in on you.”

“I know. I saw you for just a minute. Remember?”

He nodded slowly. “Sure I remember,” he said. “You were the most stunning woman there

Sleek and proud, the Normandie steamed loftily into New York Harbor while thousands lined the waterfront, cheering her to her berth. Hundreds of tiny boats clustered around her like puppies around a Great Dane. She had just broken the world speed record on her maiden voyage, easily stealing the honor from Germany ‘s Bremen, so the crowd was particularly gleeful. Horns honked. Whistles shrieked. A storm of confetti fell on Wall Street as she passed lower Manhattan on her way up the Hudson. There had been a clatter of fireworks as she negotiated the wide turn into her berth at the foot of West 49th Street.

Keegan arrived just as the party, which had started on the broad, gaily lit first-class deck, spilled into the main salon. Benny Goodman’s Trio kicked off and charged into “I Got Rhythm.” The uptown crowd, at least Jive hundred of them enjoying the hospitality of the French line, jammed against the stage, applauding Goodman’s joyous playing, the thunderous beat of Gene Krupa drums and Teddy Wilson s subtle counterpoint as his fingers barely brushed the keys. At the back of the dance floor, behind the crowd, the more adventurous guests jitterbugged frantically, spinning away from their partners and back, high-kicking, their feet a lively blur. Keegan got a drink and was sampling the hors d ‘oeuvres when a voice behind him said:

“Francis?”

He turned and stared down at a diminutive redhead. Her hair was auburn, cut short and close to the nape and covered with a sequined cloche. Her green eyes were saucer-round and ebullient. Energy radiated from her. Her white, sequined dress barely contained a spectacular figure, the small stones glittering in the light, twinkling as she walked and turning every step into a shimmy. A true sprite, Keegan thought. A dazzling imp.