Rules of Civility - Amor Towles [71]
As a waiter passed, I traded in my gin for a glass of champagne.
All the French doors to the Hollingsworths’ great room were open and guests were flowing in and out, instinctively maintaining a constant equilibrium between the terrace and the house. I wandered inside trying to size up the invited as Mason Tate would have. On the edge of a couch, four blondes sat in a row comparing notes like a conspiracy of crows on a telephone wire. By a table crowned with two cloved hams, a broad-shouldered young man ignored his date. While before a pyramid of oranges, lemons and limes a girl in full flamenco was making two men spill their gin with laughter. To the unpracticed eye they all looked of a piece—exhibiting a poise secured by the alchemy of wealth and station. But aspiration and envy, disloyalty and lust—these too were presumably on display, if only one knew where to look.
In the ballroom, the band was beginning to pick up the tempo. A few feet from the trumpet, Dicky was doing a jitterbug with an older woman at pace and a half. He had taken off his jacket and his shirttails were loose. One of the flowers that had been in his breast pocket was now cocked behind an ear. As I watched, I became aware of someone standing quietly beside me, in the manner of a well-trained servant. I emptied my glass and turned with my arm extended.
—. . . Katey?
Pause.
—Wallace!
He looked relieved that I had recognized him. Though given his preoccupied demeanor at the Beresford, I was surprised that he had recognized me.
—How have . . . you been? he asked.
—All right, I guess. In a no-news-good-news sort of way.
—I’m so glad to . . . bump into you like this. I’ve been . . . meaning to call.
The song was winding to a close and I could see Dicky preparing for a big finish. He was going to tip the old lady like a teapot.
—It’s a little loud in here, I said. Why don’t we go outside.
On the patio, Wallace secured two glasses of champagne and handed me one. There was an awkward silence as we watched the goings-on.
—It’s one heck of a shindig, I said at last.
—Oh, this is . . . nothing. The Hollingsworths have four boys. Over the course of the summer, each . . . gets to throw his own party. But Labor Day weekend, it’s an all-out where . . . everyone is invited.
—I’m not sure I’m in that everyone group. I’m more in the no one group.
Wallace offered a smile that gave no credence to my claim.
—Let me know if you ever want to . . . trade places.
At first glance, Wallace had looked a little uncomfortable in his tuxedo, like one who’s dressed in borrowed clothes. But on closer inspection, you could tell the tuxedo was custom-made, and his black pearl shirt studs looked like they’d been handed down a generation or two.
Another silence.
—You were saying something about meaning to give me a call? I prompted.
—Yes! Back in March I made you a promise. I’ve been meaning to . . . make good on it.
—Wallace, if you want to make good on a promise that old, it had better be a doozy.
—Wally Wolcott!
The interruption came from a business school classmate of Wallace’s who was also in the paper business. When the conversation turned from mutual friends to the Anschluss and its effect on pulp prices, I figured it was a good opportunity to visit the powder room. I couldn’t have been inside more than ten minutes; but by the time I got back, the paper manufacturer was gone and one of the blondes from the couch had taken his place.
This, I suppose, was to be expected. Wallace Wolcott had to be in the sights of every young socialite without a ring on her finger. Most of the able-bodied girls in town would know his net worth and the names of his sisters. The industrious ones knew the names of his hunting dogs too.
The blonde, who looked like she