One shouldn’t come between one’s husband and his family—my mother would certainly have said the same—but that little voice whispered that Joe wanted me all to himself, and the idea wasn’t unwelcome.
Today, though, there was no choice, for Hanukkahwasa religious holiday, if a lighthearted one, and we must attend. We traveled on the train, as before, and when we reached the station in San Francisco, for some reason a most Spanish-looking building, Joe hailed a taxi that took us up a series of hills. It was a very hilly place altogether, San Francisco, with many ornate houses, at first attached and then, as we ascended higher, separate from their neighbors, but all made of wood and mostly painted battleship gray, like theQueen Mary.Perhaps there had been a great deal of leftover paint after the war? I approved of the frugality, if not of the effect; it was very German.
The blue waters of the bay, in contrast to the gray houses, sparkled in the sunlight below us in stunning fashion, mirroring the blue sky above, and the bridges stretched across it like graceful necklaces. The Golden Gate Bridge was not golden but red, to my surprise, and very lovely. Joe pointed out the green hills across the bay to the east and said, “That’s Berkeley, where the other main university is. That’s a pretty town too, and much closer to the folks. I considered going back to school there instead, as it’s cheaper, but I thought Stanford would still work, so …” He shrugged, but his face wasn’t happy and his voice wasn’t easy.
Finally, near the top of the hill, the taxi deposited us before a large house, painted gray once more, which made it lookrather drab. Unnecessarily so, for it was full of pointed gables and windows and archways and curlicues; the sort of elaborate trimmings that my Rococo Dresdner heart had to admire. How much lovelier if the colors had been brighter? A light olive, perhaps, with dark green accents? That shade of gray that’s nearly lilac, with dark purple trim? The house called to me like an undecorated Easter egg. It even had a turret!
“You lived in a castle as well,” I said as we climbed the steps. Chattering, really, to calm my nerves. Joe didn’t answer, but hedidtake my hand as we entered the house, even as he set down our suitcase and called out, “Hi! I’m home!”
I tried to imagine coming into theResidenzschlossand calling out in such a way, and had to laugh inside. Herr Wolmer, the butler, would have beenmostsurprised. I should probably not share that. I would be most careful not to share much at all, in fact, unless I were asked.
Unfortunately, that wasn’t quite how things turned out.
13
IN WHICH I DO IT ALL WRONG
The first person to appear was a teenaged girl. As long-legged and gawky as a baby colt, her brown curls held back with a blue ribbon that matched her dress and her glasses flashing in the light as she clattered down the stairs. She shouted, “Joe!” and he dropped my hand to hug her.
“I’ve missed you so much!” she said, stepping back. She had a most charming gap between her front teeth and that half-a-child, half-not air about her, for she was fourteen.
Joe said, “Have some manners, kiddo, and let me introduce Marguerite.”
The winning smile turned on me, then faltered. She glanced at Joe, then back at me. Why? I put out my hand and said, “You must be Sophie. I’m very pleased to meet you.”
“Gosh,” she said. “What’s— I mean, that’s a very nice dress.” She was staring at my face. Was the bruising so obvious?
“Thank you,” I said, feeling rather self-conscious. I was wearing my Chanel-inspired white jacket and full black skirt, along with my black hat and white gloves, andhadfelt quite glamorous. “You look lovely as well. How pretty your dress is.”
Sophie made a face. “Oh, sure. That’s Mom, though. She still wants me to wear these things with smocking and puffed sleeves, like I’m ten. Why can’t she see that I’m nearly grown, and how unflattering this style is? The woman really hasnodress sense.” She gave an exasperated sigh.
“Mothers can be very trying in this way,” I agreed, laughing. “They want to keep their daughters young and innocent, I think, while the daughters wish only to go out and explore the wide world. For me, it was the circus. The Sarrasani Circus, you know, with beautiful white horses and elephants and lions and music and wonderful performers from all around the world—tightrope walkers, acrobats, trapeze artists, jugglers, and many others. How I wished to see them for myself!”
A younger man and woman came out of a doorway, and I broke off, but the man said, “Oh, go on and tell us the rest.” He had glasses, too, and pale-brown hair swept back over a bony, distinguished sort of face. I was sure he smoked a pipe. He seemed that sort of man.
“It was a schoolgirl dream only,” I said, “for I never saw the circus. My mother said it wasn’t appropriate. My schoolmates had all been, though, and as Sophie and I know, one always wishes to do the exciting things others have done.Na ja,it was very sad.” I smiled and put out my hand. “Good afternoon. I am Marguerite, and you must be Barbara and David.”
David smiled still, but his gaze was sharp on me, and beside me, I could feel Joe stiffen. I’d covered my injury by wearing much more pancake makeup than I normally would, plus a liberal amount of powder to set it. Joe had said he could barely see the dark bruise that spread over my cheekbone and along my jawline, so how could it be that? I’d thought I looked rather glamorous, and flattered myself that I bore a slight resemblance to Marlene Dietrich, with my hair and brows and makeup styled just so, and dressed in my most modishcostume and Joe’s pearls. But perhaps I appeared overdressed? Barbara was in a tailored gray flannel dress with a black velvet collar, though, and wore pearls as well, so I couldn’t betoofar off.
The next to arrive were Mr. and Mrs. Stark. Mrs. Stark air-kissed my cheek—I winced a bit despite myself when she touched the left one—and Mr. Stark shook my offered hand, though he looked bemused by it. I said, “Does one not shake hands, then? I do wish to know how to go on.”
“You’re fine,” Barbara said. “A lady offers her hand to a gentleman if she chooses to, but he doesn’t offer his first. Women don’t shake hands much with each other, though.”
Another sigh from Sophie. “All these old-fashionedrules.Honestly, Barbara, you’re practically an antique!”
“That’s enough, Sophie,” Mrs. Stark said. “Let’s not stand around in the hall. Come into the living-room. We just have time for a cocktail before dinner.” She led us into a large, tastefully decorated front drawing-room, with a small chandelier, wall sconces, and a fluffy sort of carpet that was new to me. It reached into all the corners, but was absolutely plain, entirely unlike the elaborate Oriental carpets of the palace. The carpet was very soft underfoot, though, which was pleasant, and would be cozy if the weather ever got cold here.
“Don’t forget lighting the menorah,” Sophie said. “Come sit by me, Marguerite.”
“Yes, of course, the menorah,” Mrs. Stark said, as I sank onto the sofa and Joe took a seat on my other side, sandwiching me between friendly bodies. “We’ll have to explain our customs to Marguerite.”
“Because you’renot Jewish,”Sophie said to me in a stage whisper. Mrs. Stark pretended she hadn’t heard, and I kept my smile determinedly polite rather than laughing. I was quite proud of myself, actually, because Joe grinned.
“Well,” Mr. Stark said, rubbing his hands together, “who wants a martini? I’ve got a shaker in the freezer all set to go.”
“I do!” Sophie said.
“I’m not going to dignify that remark with an answer,” Mr. Stark said, but he smiled. “Stay my little girl a year or two longer, would you?” Upon which Sophie sighed again and muttered, “Hopeless.”
