Rosie gazed at the velvet sofa in bright bottle green against a citron wall, plush cushions with pink silk fringe and orange tassels. Oil paintings. She recognized some of the Hudson River school, and, incredibly, a Miró above an elegant antique desk. Persian rugs on polished cherry-wood floors, looming vases of cut flowers, heavy drapes in peacock blue. She loved the confident riot of colors, she could not imagine being so bold.
“Yoohoo!!!” The high trill belonged to a tall, brittle blond in a black dress, waving, the many rings on her fingers glittering. “There you are!” Rosie watched as this woman threw her charred arms around Bennett. Her lips were bright peach. “You are adorable! Thank you for coming! Oh, you do look like your mater!”
Her appearance was entirely constructed. Her movements jerky and imprecise. She was a kind of puppet, and inside there was another woman, perhaps a tiny, quick brunette, busily working the gears and levers.
“Mitzi, darling, you look spectacular!” Bennett kissed her taut cheek.
“And you are Posie!” Mitzi pivoted to Rosie, who imagined she could hear the mechanical whirring and clacking.
“Rosie.”
“Of course, Rozzzeeee. Is that Rosemary? Rosalind? You prefer Rozzzeee. How sweet! Welcome. How is everything at the boathouse? We’re so glad you’re staying there. We do like to have it used. No point in leaving such a divine little place to rot.” Mitzi smiled, the little woman inside her frantically pulling and pushing the levers, locking them into the smile position. “Do you need another drink?” A twiglet arm extended into the air with a clatter of gold, diamonds refracting like a disco ball. “Selena! Selena!” As Selena abruptly turned and approached, Rosie noted the little white cap she wore to match the white frilly apron over the black uniform. “Posie needs another glass.”
“No, I —” Because the first glass was fizzing the cauldron of her stomach.
“Or would you prefer something else?” Mitzi began to speed up, something was wrong inside her. “We have a full bar bourbon Scotch gin and of course wine very nice Napa Chardonnay surprising what is coming out of California these days though my father would roll over in his grave he was with the 82nd Airborne and would only ever drink French wine absolutely banned Riesling bloody Krauts he’d say though didn’t think much of the French either they fight with their feet and fuck with their face he’d say so no Riesling even with pudding and brandy if that’s your thing vodka —”
Rosie looked to Selena but Selena’s expression remained blank.
“Ouzo Grappa a fruity Beaujolais —”
“Water,” Rosie blurted.
“Water, Selena.”
Selena turned on a dime like a soldier, and Mitzi’s crazed eyes locked on to Rosie. “Water? You’re not pregnant, are you? Good God! Bennett as a father!” She laughed in a short, hard spurt, then her gaze shifted abruptly. “Do excuse me.” Her hand briefly perched on Rosie’s shoulder, and she marched into the crowd, performing again and again a flawless turn, pivot, twist while chiming “Yoohoo!!” like a faulty doorbell.
In the quiet eddy of Mitzi’s wake, Rosie caught her breath. Then she turned, surveyed the room. She did not see Bennett and noted the hallway to the left. Escape, she thought, and eased through the crowd. Here, the decorator had picked up the peacock blue on the walls in a vibrant wallpaper print, contrasting with a bottle-green carpet. The carpet was so plush that Rosie took off her shoes to feel it against her feet and to relieve the squeeze of her right big toe. Hunting prints lined the hallway — caricature horses with spindly legs, arched necks and bulging shoulders leapt over ditches or pranced against a screen of autumnal woods. Midway along, a table with delicately turned legs displayed a cluster of photographs in silver frames. Rosie scoured the images: attractive people in white Victorian ruffles with tennis rackets; in riding clothes with hounds; a debutante’s ball — a pretty girl with a chin like Hobie’s; sailing (was that a Kennedy at the helm? Certainly the teeth); a couple on a tropical beach (was that Princess Margaret?). Gran had managed to stick Rosie’s school portraits onto the fridge with free magnets from an insurance company. Her father and grandfather, Jim and Jim, looked down from plain black frames in the hallway. And her mother, her mother? “You’re her spitting image,” Gran had declared. “I hope you will be more sensible.” Rosie’d looked in the mirror, trying to see her insensible mother, for there was no photographic record, and sometimes Rosie felt Gran wanted to wipe her away as well. Then there’d be no trace at all.
The hallway smelled of lemon and silver polish, of the freesias in the vase by the photographs, of Mitzi’s perfume, and, she thought, of shoe polish. She dug her feet into the carpet and felt the real wool, thick and soft: plush. Could she recall one plush thing from Gran’s house? One of the lodgers had been a woman with a satin wash bag. Rosie could even now recall the wonder of it in the second-floor bathroom, the pale blue glimmering fabric, a tuft of lace and sequin on the front, and inside, pots of fragrant cream and make-up. Rosie had licked the satin as if she might assuage the hunger it made her feel — the coveting. The blue washbag mocked the rough towels, the tacky linoleum, the polyester sheets that snagged on the tiniest hangnail. Yet Rosie had feared for the woman. No good would come to someone with such an indulgent washbag. Fate would see it, glowing like a flare, and stamp her out.
“Are you looking for the double u c?”
Hobie, drink in hand, the ice gently clinking.
“Yes,” Rosie waivered. “No.”
“Usually, one’s not ambivalent about such things.” He smiled. She was suddenly aware of how clean he was. He was white linen on a breezy day. Maybe money made you cleaner than other people. His hand rested on the pretty wooden table — nails, neatly trimmed, the cuticles obedient.
“I don’t know —” Her words wandered away, dandelion seeds in the breeze.
He smiled, kind, and what lovely teeth. “What a double u c is?”
Instead of a nod, she pressed her lips together.
“Ah.” Another smile. “W dot C dot. W.C. Water Closet. Toilet, bathroom, john. Loo if you’re from across the pond.”
Rosie could lie, that would be easiest, but then she would have to go to the bathroom, and she’d have to come back from it and he’d expect her to re-enter the party. “No. I don’t need the W.C.”
Hobie leaned in, a co-conspirator, “I hate parties, too.”
“Your house is so beautiful.”
“Mitzi is a genius.”
“I love the wallpaper.”
“Ah, the wallpaper.” He chuckled privately. “And you’re at college?”
“Parsons School of Design.”
“An artist. I say! Are you any good?”
As she faced him, she wondered if he was attracted to her. “I’m not sure.”
“Are you working on anything this summer? Painting the sea?”
Rosie flushed, lowered her gaze. Her body reacted to him — she wanted to curtsey again. “Not the sea. Gloves.”
“Globes?”
“Gloves. A pair of gloves.”
“What kind of gloves?”
“White gloves,” she said.