Summer and the City

“But what if-” I pause, remembering that’s what I’ve always thought I wanted as well. Until now. I narrow my eyes. Maybe it’s simply a leftover sentiment from Castlebury.

We get through the rest of dinner, but it’s awkward, with me saying things I know make me sound like a jerk, and Maggie being mostly silent, and Bernard pretending to enjoy the food and wine. When our plates are cleared, Maggie runs to the bathroom again, while I scoot my chair closer to Bernard’s and apologize for the lousy evening.

“It’s fine,” he says. “It’s what I expected.” He pats my hand. “Come on, Carrie. You and Maggie are in college. We’re from different generations. You can’t expect Maggie to understand.”

“I do, though.”

“Then you’re going to be disappointed.”

Maggie comes back to the table beaming, her demeanor suddenly light and fizzy. “I called Ryan,” she announces. “He said he’s going over to Capote’s and we should meet them there and then maybe we can go out.”

I look at Bernard, pleadingly. “But we’re already out.”

“Go,” he says, pushing back his chair. “Have fun with Maggie. Show her the town.”

He takes out his wallet and hands me twenty dollars. “Promise me you’ll take a cab. I don’t want you riding the subway at night.”

“No.” I try to give back the twenty but he won’t take it. Maggie is already at the exit as if she can’t get out of there fast enough.

Bernard gives me a quick peck on the cheek. “We can see each other anytime. Your friend is only here for two nights.”

“When?” I ask.

“When what?”

“When will I see you again?” I hate myself, sounding like a desperate schoolgirl.

“Soon. I’ll call you.”

I leave the restaurant in a huff. I’m so mad, I can barely look at Maggie.

A cab pulls up to the curb and a couple gets out. Maggie slides into the backseat. “Are you coming?”

“What choice do I have?” I grumble under my breath.

Maggie has written Capote’s address on the back of a napkin. “Green-wich Street?” she asks, pronouncing each syllable.

“It’s ‘Grenich.’”

She looks at me. “Okay. Grenich ,” she says to the cabbie.

The taxi peels away, throwing me against Maggie. “Sorry,” I murmur coldly.

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

“Nothing.”

“Is it because I didn’t like Bernard?”

“How could you not like him.” It’s not a question.

She folds her arms. “Do you want me to lie to you?” And before I can protest, she continues, “He’s too old. I know he’s not as old as our parents, but he might as well be. And he’s strange. He’s not like anyone we grew up with. I just can’t see you with him.” To soften the blow, she adds kindly, “I’m only telling you this for your own good.”

I hate when friends tell you something is “for your own good.” How do they know it’s for your own good? Do they know the future? Maybe in the future, I’ll look back and see that Bernard has actually been “good for me.”

“Okay, Mags.” I sigh. The taxi is racing down Fifth Avenue, and I study each landmark: Lord & Taylor, the Toy Building, the Flatiron Building, committing each to memory. If I lived here forever, would I ever get tired of these sights?

“Anyway,” Maggie says cheerfully, “I forgot to tell you the most important part. Lali’s gone to France!”

“Really?” I ask dully.

“You know how the Kandesies have all that land? Well, some big developer came along and bought, like, fifty acres and now the Kandesies are millionaires.”

“I bet Lali went to France to meet Sebastian,” I say, trying to act like I care.

“That’s what I think too,” Maggie agrees. “And she’ll probably get him back. I always thought Sebastian was one of those guys who used women. He’ll probably be with Lali because of her money.”

“He has his own money,” I point out.

“Doesn’t matter. He’s a user ,” Maggie says.

And while Maggie natters on, I spend the rest of the taxi ride thinking about relationships. There must be such a thing as “pure” love. But there also seems to be quite a bit of “impure” love as well. Look at Capote and Ryan with their models. And Samantha with her rich mogul boyfriend. And what about Maggie and her two boyfriends-one for show and one for sex? And then there’s me. Maybe what Maggie was hinting at is true. If Bernard wasn’t a famous playwright, would I even be interested?

The taxi pulls up in front of a pretty brownstone with chrysanthemums in the window boxes. I grit my teeth. I like to think of myself as a good person. A girl who doesn’t cheat or lie or pretend to be something she’s not in order to get a guy. But maybe I’m no better than anyone else. Maybe I’m worse.

“Come on,” Maggie says gaily, leaping from the cab and hurrying up the steps. “Now we can finally have fun!”

Chapter Fifteen

Capote’s apartment is not what I expected. The furniture consists of soft couches and armchairs, covered in chintz. There’s a small dining room with decorative plates on the walls. In the bedroom is an antique armoire; the bedspread is yellow chenille. “It looks like an old lady lives here,” I say.

“She does. Or did. The woman who lived here is an old family friend. She moved to Maine,” Capote explains.

“Right,” I say, dropping onto the couch. The springs are shot and I sink several inches below the cushions. Capote and his “old family friends,” I think grumpily. He seems to have an inside track on everything, including apartments. He’s one of those people who expect to get things with very little effort, and does.

“Drink?” he asks.

“What do you have?” Maggie says coquettishly.

Huh? I thought she was interested in Ryan. But maybe it’s Capote she’s after. On the other hand, maybe Maggie flirts with every guy she meets. Every guy except Bernard.

I shake my head. Either way, this situation can lead to no good. How did I get involved in the aiding and abetting of this?

“Anything you want, I have,” Capote replies. He doesn’t sound particularly flirtatious back. He actually sounds very matter-of-fact, as if he’s not exactly thrilled we’re here, but has decided to tolerate us nonetheless.

“Beer?” Maggie asks.

“Sure.” Capote opens the refrigerator, takes out a Heineken, and hands it to her. “Carrie?”

I’m surprised he’s being so polite. Maybe it’s his Southern upbringing. Manners trump personal dislikes.

“Vodka?” I get up and follow him into the kitchen. It’s a proper kitchen, with a counter that opens into the living room. I’m suddenly a bit envious. I wouldn’t mind living here in this charming old apartment with a fireplace and working kitchen. Several pans hang from a rod in the ceiling. “Do you cook?” I ask, with a mixture of sarcasm and surprise.

“I love to cook,” Capote says proudly. “Mostly fish. I’m famous for my fish.”

“ I cook,” I say, somewhat defiantly, as if I know everything about it and far more than he can possibly comprehend.

“Like what?” He takes two tumblers out of the cabinet and sets them down, adding ice and vodka and a splash