The waiter approached our table.
“We’ll have anchovy canapés and the stuffed celery to start,” I said. “Oh, and Mother, you must try the cassoulet of lobster. Would you like that?”
“Just tea,” she said demurely. “Thank you.”
“The new season just started. TheMidnight Frolicis going really well,” I said, but I saw my mother look down as I said it. The word “frolic,” perhaps, was off-putting. “It’s a late night revue, a way for audience members to see more of the show,” I said, gauging to see if this satisfied her. “I’m the star of that show, Mother. I’m not in theFolliesanymore, I’ll tell you about that later.…” I trailed off when I realized she wasn’t really listening, or interested, smoothing the tablecloth, looking around the room, slightly uneasy.
“What are you doing here, Olive?” she asked again.
I paused. I couldn’t force her to care about the show. “I have a beau.”
Almost immediately my mother’s face started to light up. “Well, that’s good news. Your father will be thrilled.”
Her response made me tense. Why did it have to be this news that gave her the greatest thrill, not my well-being, not my success? I tried to settle myself and revive the excitement I had just felt in anticipation of telling her about Archie.
“I can’t wait for you to meet him. He runs a gas company in Cincinnati, but this is his New York home.” I spread my arms open as if to suggest he owned the place. “I have my apartment, of course, with Ruthie, as I told you in my letters,” I quickly added, not wanting her to get the wrong impression. “But it’s lovely to come here for lunch or tea now and again. They treat me very well here, even when Archie is away on business.”
She looked around the room as if to see what all the fuss was about. I suddenly felt silly, as if I were showing off, as if I needed to impress her, as if I wanted her to go home and tell my father how well I was doing, that I had made it, without compromises. Was that what I was trying to do?
“How is the apartment, with the girls?” It seemed to pain her to ask—the thought of her only daughter living independently in the big city like a sinner.
“It’s great,” I said, sipping my tea. Ordinarily, my mother would have loved it here at the Palm Court, ornate and luxurious, but she seemed too uneasy to be impressed.
“Is he kind to you, Olive?”
“Oh Mama, the kindest.”
“And does he know about…” She paused, and I tensed, wondering what she might bring up. “You know, your performing?”
“Of course he does! Ugh, Mother, you are starting to sound like Papa.”
“I’m just asking because you know how men can be.”
“He’s not like other men. We met at the theater, he’s cultured, he’s seen the world. He collects art,” I blurted out. “My performance was what drew him to me.”
She nodded. “Don’t get upset, darling, I’m just saying that sometimes what attracts a man to a woman is not always what he wants in a wife.”
I rolled my eyes. She didn’t understand and she wouldn’t until she met him for herself. I was agitated all over again and I didn’t want to be. I wanted her to be happy for me, to trust in my ability to choose a man who wanted me for who I really was. I knew she had reason to doubt my judgment, I’d made mistakes, but I wasn’t the same girl anymore, I’d grown up.
Forgetting myself for a moment, I slipped an Egyptian cigarette out of my jeweled cigarette case, placed it in its ivory holder and held it out for a waiter to light. When I looked up, my mother was staring at me with her mouth open.
“Olive, what are you doing?”
I froze for a second. Never in a million years would I have anticipated lighting a cigarette in front of my mother, but it was too late to pretend that it hadn’t happened, so I chose to go on. “Oh Mother,” I said quietly. “We’re modern women now. It’s okay.”
“It’s not okay,” she said in a hushed voice. “It’s not ladylike, Olive, smoking is a man’s habit.”
“Times have changed,” I said, wondering momentarily if I really believed it.
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. As she did so, the waiter approached and I leaned into him, expecting a match to be litand held out for me. I’d already pulled out the cigarette, I might as well smoke it. But I was mistaken.
“Miss Shine,” he said firmly, “smoking is absolutely not permitted in the Palm Court.”
“Excuse me?” I said, taken aback. “I happen to know for a fact that Mr. Carmichael is free to smoke when and where he wishes.”
“Yes, in the Oak Room with other gentlemen only,” he said.
It took me a minute to comprehend what had just happened and then compose myself. In a matter of seconds, I had not only disgusted my mother but been rebuked by a waiter in front of her.
