Summer Darlings Page 5

  Heddy was in awe: Jean-Rose made grocery shopping look like a fabulous day in the park. While she was fetching her boss a carton of eggs, she overheard two women, their grocery carts nose-to-nose at the end of the aisle, talking quietly. One said Jean-Rose’s name, which made Heddy’s ears perk up. “She must be in denial,” the woman said. “I mean, he hardly even looks at her.”

  Heddy hurried back to Jean-Rose’s side, and the eggs went into the cart alongside two boxes of cornflakes and a carton of Minute rice. Heddy mentioned they were low on Tang—the children had to have it every morning at breakfast or they’d throw a fit; she’d learned that much already. While putting the canister of Tang in the cart, Heddy felt an elastic ping her ankle—something about her shoe had given out—and her sandal was now loose, dangling off her foot. She reached down to reseal the closure, but it was missing. The tiny buckle had popped off.

  Oh brother, she thought. She couldn’t possibly wear the sandal without a strap and buckle, and these were the only shoes she’d brought. For the entire summer.

  Jean-Rose tossed in a can of Cheez Whiz. “Have you ever tried this? It’s just divine. The bridge ladies love a smear on a Triscuit.”

  Heddy tried to hide the foot with the broken strap, dragging her foot behind her to keep the shoe from slipping off.

  “Why are you walking like that?” Jean-Rose pulled a bag of potato chips off the shelf. “Are you limping?”

  “It’s my sandal.” Heddy pulled the silver metal clasp out of her shorts pocket; there was a small square of elastic hanging from it. She opened her palm and held it up for Jean-Rose to see. “Do you have a safety pin to hold it in place?”

  Jean-Rose pursed her lips. “Let me see the shoe.”

  When Heddy held it up, her sandal, damp with sweat, appeared more battered than she realized. You could see just how much leather had worn away by the crisscrossing straps, how battered the sole. Her heart was racing the way it did when she was called on in class, like she needed to prepare an answer.

  Jean-Rose placed the shoe on a shelf lined with canned green beans, opened her purse and removed a handkerchief, wiping her hands clean. “There’s a safety pin in my wallet, but it’s probably time to retire this pair, dear.”

  Heddy grabbed the shoe, slipping it back on her foot. “I think I can sew it.” She took the safety pin from Jean-Rose, balanced on one foot for a moment and pinned the elastic in place. How could she tell someone like Jean-Rose she owned only one pair of shoes?

  Jean-Rose sauntered ahead, Heddy following behind. “I’ll dig through my closet. I’m sure I have something.” In the refrigerator case, Jean-Rose reached for a glass bottle of orange juice when they overheard a booming voice in the next aisle.

  “Yes, you should bring Meriwether. That would be just fabulous, sugar pie.”

  Jean-Rose froze, cocking her head to one side, shameless in her eavesdropping, so Heddy listened, too. A click-clack of heels inched closer to them. Jean-Rose pulled out her compact, rushing a few strokes of Chanel rouge onto the tops of her cheekbones, when around the corner walked a woman whose full lips were familiar, whose legs seemed to go on forever, and all at once, Heddy knew who it was.

  Gigi McCabe, the Gigi McCabe, and she was walking straight toward them. Heddy had never seen a movie star before, let alone one as famous as Gigi. Only those photos of her in Life magazine, where she’d posed on the island, her shirt unbuttoned just enough to tantalize the imagination. A butcher clerk in a white uniformed shirt, blood splattered on the front, leaned up on the counter, leering.

  Jean-Rose, who had thrown her compact in her purse in a panic, took on a contented stance, like she’d been deep in thought about the cookies. She clasped her hands together at her sparkly neck. “Gigi! I was hoping to see you here this morning. You look amazing, as always.”

  Gigi did that thing Heddy had seen her do a dozen times in the movies, when she tilted her chin down and turned her coquettish eyes up. “Oh, this? I wore it in Cannes,” she said, sizing up Jean-Rose’s white shorts, the pink espadrilles.

  Gigi wore a black-and-white gingham, knee-length skirt popped like a tutu below a fitted black short-sleeved sweater tank, pushing her large breasts up and out, which was precisely the point. A golden snake buckle clasped a thick elastic-band belt at her tiny waist, while oversize black sunglasses sat atop her head. Gigi flicked her wispy reddish-brown hair over her shoulder, like she was annoyed by it. “Are you coming to the party?”

  “We have it on our calendar.” Jean-Rose put down her basket of groceries, opening her arms in an embrace. “You’ll have to come to our clambake in mid-August, too—it’s become a highlight of the season, you know.”

  Gigi didn’t loop her arms around Jean-Rose, and Jean-Rose awkwardly hugged her middle. “If I’m here,” Gigi said. “Who’s this pretty little thing?” Gigi looked at Heddy just as she was working to hide her damaged sandal.

  Heddy sputtered. “I loved you in The It Girl. I want to write a movie like that someday.” It was true. Her dream, the dream she’d never admitted to anyone, was to write screenplays with an actress like Gigi in the starring role. Why she’d chosen this moment to blurt it out escaped her, and her cheeks flushed with heat.

  Jean-Rose rolled her eyes, and Heddy wished she hadn’t said anything at all. “This is our babysitter, Heddy. She’s staying with us for the summer, on break from Wellesley.”

  Gigi craned her head a bit to look around her, and Heddy swore she was trying to see her shoe. “A babysitter from Wellesley? And you want to be a writer? How interesting. I thought you were all debutantes perfecting your backhands.”

  She was waiting for Heddy to answer, so Heddy stopped chewing on her nails long enough to say: “Not all of us, Ms. McCabe.”

  Jean-Rose smiled broadly. “Gigi and I are old friends from Darien. Your neighborhood was still considered Darien proper, right?”

  Gigi held her head still, her eyes boring into Jean-Rose. “It’s nice to reconnect every summer, isn’t it, sugar pie? Reminisce about the old days, before you married that buffoon.”

  Jean-Rose breezed right over her statement. “Gigi bought the house two doors down from ours.”

  “I’d say it’s more than a house.”

  Jean-Rose turned to Heddy. “Remember the three driveways at the end of the gravel road? The first is Shirley Q’s. Oops, I mean, Gigi’s. Ash lives in the cottage in between.” Heddy pictured the house with the three brick chimneys she could see from her attic bedroom. She’d been staring at those chimneys more than usual since her mind wandered whenever she tried to read Revolutionary Road—she preferred to look out the window than dive into a book about marital discord. Why hadn’t Jean-Rose recommended a love story?

  Heddy willed the actress’s eyes away from her sandal. Of all days, this was the one she had to be walking around with a busted shoe. Fate could be so cruel.

  “Have you ever tried writing a screenplay?” asked Gigi. “It’s not exactly a growing field for women.”

  Heddy, the hair on her arm prickling with nerves, wondered if she should tell. It was silly to even admit. Childish.

  “There is one, but… it hasn’t amounted to much. Not yet, anyway.” Heddy licked her lips, her thoughts all mixed up, like swirling paint in a can.

  “Don’t write about anything you see in my house.” Jean-Rose chuckled, but the way she held her gaze, Heddy could tell it was a joke based in truth.

  “Jeannie, I have a swell idea. Why don’t you bring Heddy to the party?” Gigi’s eyes flicked.

  “How thoughtful of you.” Jean-Rose coughed. “But she’ll be watching the children.”

  Gigi twirled a piece of her hair around her finger, addressing Heddy. “It’s a Midsummer Night’s party the second-to-last Saturday in July. You’ll need a proper dress. Come over to my house next Wednesday, around two. You and I look about the same size.”

  Heddy wished that were true; her own boyish figure was more gamine than sexy, her bust line a constant source o
f disappointment.

  “That won’t be necessary, Gigi,” said Jean-Rose. She glided past her, the other shoppers pretending not to notice the movie star.

  “I’m sure someone else can stay with Anna and Teddy for one night.” Gigi tapped one of her black heels impatiently. “Or perhaps there’s another couple who would prefer your place.…”

  Jean-Rose froze. The air chilled for a second, and Heddy tried to think of something to say to offset the silence, an apology for mentioning the screenplay. It was the only reason Gigi was inviting her.

  “And she can bring the children to my house next Wednesday, Jeannie.”

  “But, Gigi, it’s the Fourth of July.”

  “Okay, Tuesday then. I picked up presents in Cannes.”

  “But I don’t think our babysitter needs an invite,” Jean-Rose said.

  “Oh, Jeannie, just let her come.”

  Heddy looked from Gigi to Jean-Rose, like they were smacking a tennis ball back and forth. Then Jean-Rose’s hard look softened. “It’s a swell idea,” she said.

  “Really?” Heddy had a mouth full of sand. “Me?”

  “Yes, you,” Jean-Rose said, her voice high-pitched. “Isn’t that wonderful?”

  “Don’t be such a baby, sugar pie. The party is going to be outrageous. Hollywood types will be there.” Gigi picked up another lock of hair, twirled that one around her finger, too, pleased with herself.

  Hollywood people. Gigi had been connected in the tabloids to Cary Grant, controversial since he was at least twenty years older and not yet divorced—was he going to attend? How would her friends at school react when she told them about the party? She wouldn’t have to listen silently to all the other girls’ lavish reports; she was going to a real-life movie star’s party! Then she remembered the letter. The scholarship. That unless she found a way to get two thousand dollars, she wasn’t returning to school at all, and her knees felt like Jell-O.

  Gigi kissed Jean-Rose once on each cheek, then turned to Heddy to do the same, but Heddy turned her face the wrong way at the wrong moment, slamming her nose right into Gigi’s lips. “I am so sorry. Thank you, Ms. McCabe. Thank you.”

  Jean-Rose pushed past Heddy with a peevish sigh, walking toward the cashiers, where the kids were playing tag with another child. “Let’s check out.”

  Gigi waved, closing one finger at a time into her palm. Her peach lipstick was so lush it looked painted, her eyebrows arched with interest: “Au revoir, mes enfants.” Heddy had been so awestruck she didn’t even notice her sandal flopping off her heel as she walked to the registers.

  “Not so fast, miss.” It was Gigi’s husky voice, and when Heddy turned, the actress was dangling something shiny and silver from her fingertips. For a moment, Heddy mistook it for a sardine. “I think you lost something,” Gigi said.

  Heddy pushed back her shoulders and reached for the safety pin; this would go down as one of the most humiliating moments of her life. “Thank you. The strap popped. I’ll just grab another pair from my suitcase. Maybe the red ones with the little bows.” She’d cut pictures of those shoes out of a catalog and glued them in her journal. One day, she’d wear shoes so chic no one would ever guess she’d once had only one pair. She backed away, the safety pin buried in her palm. “Thank you, Ms. McCabe. Thank you very much. I’ll be going now.”

  Gigi’s voice was breathy. “Don’t let her fill your head. She’s the destroying type.”

  Heddy curtsied, then laughed at how idiotic it was, like Gigi was royalty. She hurried to Jean-Rose, who was at the cashier, the steady ding of the checkout ringing up the groceries. “Twenty-three dollars,” the cashier announced.

  Jean-Rose hollered to the kids, and she and Heddy carried the paper bundles out to the convertible. Heddy got in the passenger seat, looking back at the double screen doors of the market, wondering what it would be like to be Gigi McCabe. That’s when she heard the driver’s side door of the convertible swing open, slamming the car next to them. Jean-Rose had pushed the driver’s side door open with all her might, hitting hard into the aqua Thunderbird’s glossy passenger side door. A small dent shined next to the silver metal handle.

  “Oops,” she said gaily. She jerked her door shut, scooting herself into place behind the wheel. “I can be so clumsy.”

  Heddy squinted from the passenger seat, trying to see how much damage she’d done. “Gosh, maybe you should tell someone.”

  Jean-Rose spit through gritted teeth. “If people knew who she really was! The things she did.” She smacked the steering wheel, started the car. “And this nonsense with you. Why would she be so interested in you?”

  FOUR

  That Saturday, Heddy found herself helping Jean-Rose organize an elaborate luncheon. Ted smoked a cigar and made notes in a lined yellow notepad on the wraparound porch while Jean-Rose flitted around him in periwinkle satin shorts, preparing the tables set up for three dozen guests. She wanted every napkin folded into an accordion fan and spread across a lattice-patterned salad plate, which was stacked on top of a larger coordinating dinner plate. From inside came the clatter of spoons stirring pots, the refrigerator door opening and closing, the busy swing of the porch door as caterers in pressed black dresses ran items in and out of the kitchen.

  “There’s still no sign of Ruth?” Jean-Rose phrased it like a question.

  Heddy had just tried her. “No one is picking up.” She returned to setting the table with heavy silverware from a box lined in garnet velvet. She wondered if the children, or the guests for that matter, would be able to lift these forks to their mouths.

  “She’ll be here soon.” Ted cleared his throat, and perhaps to distract Jean-Rose, he spoke to Heddy. “Where do you live at school?”

  Tickled that he’d asked, she replied, “In that dreadful dormitory with Beryl.” Her classmates often griped about Tower Court, so she never let on she loved that housekeepers vacuumed the couches daily and shined the floors with lemon Lysol (actual housekeepers!) and there was nary a cockroach in sight. Her mother had stared at a photo of the Gothic brick building in awe.

  “Living there must feel like a million bucks,” her mother had said, and Heddy nodded, because it did.

  “I’ve done business with Beryl’s father, and by business, I mean we both smoke cigars at Cincy’s Supper Club on East Thirty-Second. He’s a bit of a lout, though, I think his wife hikes her skirt for someone else.” He blew his cigar smoke upward, a grin on his face, and Jean-Rose scolded him for being crude.

  Heddy forced a smile. She’d overheard him on the phone earlier bellowing about how he didn’t want to look at that inbred monkey anymore, referring to his secretary.

  “By the time I get back, have one of those cuties in typing waiting for me,” he’d said. She didn’t like the way he’d said, cuties in typing, like the woman was something for him to enjoy, rather than a professional doing her job. Fathers shouldn’t talk that way; as Heddy saw it, once a man had a child, particularly a daughter, he should tamp down any vulgar aspects of his personality. But boys will be boys, she supposed.

  “Beryl and I considered moving off campus together, but living in the dormitory is closer to class.” It was also cheaper.

  Jean-Rose came over to them, lovingly smacking Ted in the shoulder with a napkin. “It’s true—Beryl’s mother is a bit wild, just like Beryl—but she can be great fun.” Jean-Rose was refolding every napkin Heddy arranged, making her self-conscious about whether she was placing the silverware to Jean-Rose’s liking.

  “We’ve been best friends since freshman year,” Heddy said. At first, they weren’t the obvious match. Beryl had tried to win Heddy over minutes after she twirled into their room, a string of bellhops following behind. She invited Heddy to the movies and on shopping trips for dresses for the mixers, but Heddy had made excuses—she was too proud to admit she had only enough money for books, and even then, she’d had to ask one professor to lend her a science textbook. Soon, Beryl stopped asking her to come out, smuggling gin into th
eir room instead. While studying, they began to commiserate about how greasy the eggs were at the commissary, how hard it was to do their business in the bathroom with so many girls coming in and out. That’s when they promised to guard the door for each other. “Don’t let anyone in until I flush,” Beryl said, and the first time, Heddy had had to chase away pouting Anjelica Smythe with her toothbrush already pasted.

  Jean-Rose examined the floral tablecloths, the mauve placemats, the lattice-patterned plates centered on top. “I want it to look like this Good Housekeeping spread, but something’s missing.” She thrust the magazine in front of Ted, his head buried in a newspaper cover story: “Is President Kennedy at Fault For the ‘Flash Crash’?”

  Jean-Rose elbowed him, causing Ted to glance up: “Ash Porter’s a salesman, Jeannie, not an ambassador, and I’m not interested in buying the swampland he’s peddling.”

  Ash? The handsome bachelor. Coming here.

  “Don’t be such a sourpuss.” She pouted. “We have the china, the linen napkins, the peonies.” Jean-Rose’s eyes followed Heddy’s hands placing the silverware. “Let’s put them a bit farther from the plate edges.” Jean-Rose moved a fork and knife a millimeter, if that, and Heddy adjusted each one.

  “Do you think Beryl will marry Phillip?” said Jean-Rose.

  Rich and handsome. Of course she would. She and Beryl made a pact before they left school that they’d return engaged in the fall. How that would work in Heddy’s favor now! No one would even question why she didn’t come back to school if she were engaged. “She thinks he’s going to ask this summer.”