Rules of Civility - Amor Towles [72]
She had also done her homework:
—I’m told the cook on your plantation is the Hush Puppy Queen!
—Yes, said Wallace with enthusiasm. Her recipe is a . . . closely guarded secret. Kept under . . . lock and key.
Every time Wallace stalled midsentence, she scrunched her nose and gleamed, as if it was just so endearing. Well, it was endearing. But she didn’t have to make such a fuss about it. So I crashed her little tête-à-tête.
—I hate to interrupt, I said while slipping an arm under Wallace’s, but weren’t you going to show me the library?
She didn’t bat an eye.
—The library is splendid, she said, exhibiting her superior familiarity with the Hollingsworths’ house. But you can’t go in just now. The fireworks are about to start.
Before I could rebut, there was a general movement toward the water. By the time we got to the dock, there must have been a hundred people on it. A few drunken couples had climbed into the Hollingsworths’ catboats and set themselves adrift. More people came from behind and pushed us toward the diving board.
There was a loud whistle as the first rocket shot from a raft offshore. It wasn’t the sort of pennywhistle that had accompanied the teenage rockets from the neighboring yard. This sounded more like a piece of artillery. It climbed a long ribbon of smoke, seemed to expire, and then exploded in a white distending sphere. Its sparks broke apart and fell slowly toward the earth like the seedlings blown from a dandelion. Everybody cheered. Four rockets followed in quick succession creating a chain of red stars concluding with a terrific clap. Even more people jostled onto the dock and, apparently, I shoved a little too closely to my neighbor’s hip. She tumbled into the drink, furs and all. Another rocket burst overhead. From the water came a thrash and a gasp as she resurfaced in the blue hydrangea light with entangled hair, looking like the Countess of Kelp.
Dicky found me on the terrace as everyone was heading up from the fireworks. Naturally, he knew Wallace—though indirectly, through Wallace’s youngest sister. The differential in age seemed to temper Dicky. When Wallace asked him about his ambitions, Dicky lowered his voice an octave and mentioned some nonsense about applying to law school. Wallace excused himself politely and Dicky led me to the bar where the others were waiting. In Dicky’s absence, Roberto had apparently gotten sick in the bushes, prompting Helen to wonder if it wasn’t time to go home.
Though we had taken the Williamsburg Bridge out of Manhattan, Dicky took the Triborough back. This would make it most practical for him to drop everyone off before me. So soon enough, it was just the two of us headed downtown.
—Land ho, Dicky said as we approached the Plaza. How about a nightcap?
—I’m done in, Dicky.
Seeing his disappointment, I added that I had work tomorrow.
—But it’s Saturday.
—Not at my office, it isn’t.
When I got out of the car on Eleventh Street he looked glum.
—We never had a chance to dance, he said.
His tone of voice suggested a certain resignation, as if through inattention and a little bad luck he had missed an opportunity that might not present itself again. I had to smile at his boyish concern. Though, of course, he was more subtle than I gave him credit for, and more prescient too.
I gave his forearm a reassuring squeeze.
—Goodnight, Dicky.
As I climbed out of the car he grabbed my wrist.
—When shall we two meet again? In thunder, lightning, or in rain?
I leaned back into the roadster and lay my lips against the whorls of his ear.
—When the hurlyburly’s done. When the battle’s lost and won.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Honeymoon Bridge
On Sunday afternoon, Wallace