windar
Teller of Tales
Chapter 15.
Had Stan been shocked to have seen Barbara at breakfast? Yes and no. Of course, it was strange to find someone that you had been desperately trying to meet for months literally falling into your lap a couple of hundred miles from where you had been looking for them.
But, on the other hand, it wasn’t that surprising. People with fortunes like James Moore and the families that he hoped to marry his daughter into didn’t spend the summer in the city. They went either to Newport or Saratoga. Newport was a bit stuffy for a rugged Midwestern type like Moore, so it wasn’t completely unexpected that he would turn up here.
Still, when he had locked eyes with her as he made his way to his table, he had felt the same magnetic force pass between them that he had in Delmonico’s when they had first laid eyes upon each other. He had thought about approaching her, but on what pretext? Her father was a not a man to tolerate being approached by someone like Stan Goldman.
The end result would likely had been to have been publicly chastened in front of the entire assembled crowd and thrown out of the hotel, which barely tolerated people such as himself in the best of circumstances. Why, given James Moore’s bulk, developed during his early years laboring in the north woods, it was not out of the question that Stan could have suffered real physical harm.
So, he had continued on to the table that the hostess directed him to. And as he sat there eating his breakfast, he couldn’t help noticing that every time he looked up, Barbara was staring at him, even while conversing with her father. Stan was convinced that whatever he felt, she was feeling, too.
Then there was that “stumble”. Stan hadn’t succeeded to the extent that he had swimming with the sharks on Wall St. and at the racetracks without knowing a trick when he saw one. To have tripped right in front of him and fallen into his arms was no co-incidence, of that he was quite sure.
And, when he had caught her, she didn’t pull back, as a woman of her social standing might well have done. No, she lingered in his arms longer than was strictly necessary to regain her balance. Not that he minded in the slightest. It felt quite wonderful to hold her-especially that tight little ass of hers, from which she made no effort at all to remove his fingers.
Then how to play it? He certainly knew who she was. But to greet her as a friend or even an acquaintance in front of the other guests, at the nearby tables, many of whom had looked up from their breakfasts when Barbara had tripped, would have been risky, particularly with her father nearby.
So he had feigned ignorance of her identity. And, quickly rising to the occasion, she had feigned ignorance of his. At least he thought she knew his name; after all, she had agreed to meet him in the Melville Room at the Plaza, even though she had bowed out of actually doing so.
Unless, he considered, Mario had made the whole thing up. But, he had tested her with a cryptic reference to her standing up gentlemen and she had not looked puzzled or offended, but rather came back with a witty retort. ‘No,’ he decided, ‘Mario hadn’t made the prospective meeting up’.
Barbara did indeed know who he was. Which meant that she was not a bad actress at all, perhaps even better than her fellow Minnesotan, Emily, whose acting talents hadn’t been sufficient to keep her out of Rose Callahan’s employ.
As for her father, he was clearly not impressed either by Stan’s personage or by the name that indicated his heritage. Stan had wanted to introduce himself by the name that he had registered at the hotel under, Gould, but Barbara had beaten him to the punch and given his true name. ‘What’s done is done,’ Stan thought.
He watched her walk down the aisle, obediently following her father. He had a fleeting vision of her naked, bent over the stool in Rose Callahan’s basement, like Emily had been. Shaking his head, he glanced down and noticed a lacy white cloth lying on his table that was definitely not part of the hotel’s breakfast linen.
He picked it up and pressed it to his nose for a moment, inhaling the soft scent. It was at that moment that Barbara reached the door to the dining room and turned to look back just for a moment. He waved the handkerchief at her, then, as she turned towards the exit, pocketed it.
Stan stood near the rail at the track among the touts and hustlers. Behind him, under the roof of the grandstand, protected from sun and rain alike, were the society types. Stan kept one eye on the horses and the other on the stands, in case Barbara put in an appearance. There were many attractive ladies, decked out in flowered hats, chattering happily, drinking ice tea or lemonade, or perhaps something a bit stronger. None of them was Barbara Moore.
Stan bet only casually on the first six races, a dollar or so, just to keep his interest up. It was the seventh race that he was focused on. A trainer he knew well, whose words were usually worth listening to, had told him on his visit to the stables yesterday, to watch his horse, Eastern Prince, in the seventh.
The horse had never won a race in his entire life, finishing second only a few times. He started the pre-race betting at 15-1, but the odds flattened steadily, reaching 8-1 just before post time. Perhaps Stan’s trainer had mentioned something to a few others. Still, the payoff on his $ 20 bet would be quite acceptable.
Eastern Prince was in the pack that trailed the two leaders for most of the race. Stan was beginning to be concerned. But, as they rounded the final turn, suddenly Eastern Prince got a miraculous second wind just as the two leaders were flagging. He caught first one, and just a few lengths before the wire, caught the other as they lunged for the finish line.
As Stan stood at the betting window watching the teller carefully counting out his winnings, he could feel that many of the bettors milling about were looking daggers at him. He pocketed the cash, turned and smiled at them and headed for the exit, keeping a lookout for Barbara, but not really expecting to see her.
After dinner, at which Stan had not caught sight of the Moores, something unsurprising given the immense size of the dining room, Stan took a short walk to clear his head. He considered returning to Willow Walk and perhaps once again enjoying the skillful art of Susanna, but decided against it.
As he passed through the doors to the hotel, Stan heard the sound of waltz music drifting out of the ballroom. He knew that the famous Victor Herbert, possibly the greatest musical genius in America, was in residence at the Grand Union, and decided it might be worth investigating. Of course the possibility that Barbara might be there was tantalizing, but Stan’s parents had imbued him with enough love of music that he could enjoy the experience regardless.
Stan stopped at the bar beside the entrance and ordered a bourbon with ice, then took a place against the adjacent wall to enjoy the spectacle of the waltzing couples and the music that reminded him of the lands his ancestors had come from.
Then, suddenly, he saw her. She was dancing with a young man, perhaps a few years older than her, who was leading her reasonably competently through the steps. She was smiling and exchanging a few words with him as they danced.
Stan put his drink down on the bar table next to him and folded his arms, watching. Her back was towards him, but as the couple swung around in time with the music, he saw her looking straight at him and his heart fluttered.
The music was rising to the finale and Stan desperately wanted to approach them and ask if he could have the next dance. But on what pretext could he do so? Then he remembered. He reached into his pocket and felt it-the handkerchief from this morning.
He made his way through the couples and approached, theatrically extracting the cloth from his pocket. “Miss Moore, I believe you left this at my table this morning,” he said, presenting it to her.
She smiled graciously, accepting it. “Thank you, Mr. Goldman,” she replied. “I owe you a debt for your gallant conduct.”
Her date was staring at Stan, not with the hostility her father had shown, but with curiosity. “Ah, I am forgetting my manners,” Barbara continued. “Mr. Stan Goldman of New York, may I present Mr. Archibald Vandergrift, of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.”
Stan reached out and shook Vandergrift’s hand. “Pleased to meet you. I hope you will be so generous as to allow Miss Moore to repay her debt by allowing me the next dance.”
“And what debt is that, Barbara?” Vandergrift asked. She briefly explained to him the incident that had taken place at breakfast. “Well, then, alright, one dance,” he allowed. “Would you like something from the bar, Barbara?”
“Thank you, I’m fine,” she replied, as he walked away.
“He seems like a nice young man,” Stan said.
“He is. Unlike some, I suspect he wouldn’t stand a young lady up.”
“Excuse me?” Stan said. “It was I who was left waiting in the Melville Room at the Plaza, and on a day when my wits and talents were much needed at the Stock Exchange.”
“But it was I who sat there on the 25th of May from 10:45 until almost noon, waiting for you.”
Stan looked at her. “Did you say the 25th?”
“Yes, that was what the letter that you were supposed to have received said.”
“Oh,” Stan replied, “I received the letter, alright. But it said the 26th. I am as certain of that as I am of the fact that Eastern Prince won the seventh race this afternoon.”
They looked at each other and both burst out laughing. “Oh that Mario Pellegrino is a sly one!” Barb exclaimed.
“Like a fox!” Stan concurred. The orchestra had begun playing again. He took her in his arms and began leading her around the dance floor. It felt good to hold her.
“Have you been to the track yet?” he asked her.
“No, but I would like to go. Father doesn’t really like gambling, though. He feels people should work for what they have.”
“Well, for me, the track is not gambling. Much like the Stock Exchange, though I think you would find it more interesting.”
“You could tell I was bored that day at the Exchange?”
“Yes, though I think I could make it more interesting for you if we get the chance again. But the track you would definitely enjoy. The horses are quite magnificent.”
“I had one back in Minnesota,” she said. “Sparky. I miss him.”
“Then perhaps you could convince your father to allow me to accompany you there.”
Barbara laughed. “I think the odds on that would be very long, Mr. Goldman.”
“I like long odds,” Stan replied.
“I suppose you do,” she replied.
“But I don’t suppose your father would like you dancing with me, either.”
“I’m sure he wouldn’t. Fortunately, he has retired early this evening.”
“Yes, but I think he is still watching.”
Barbara stopped for a moment. “Whatever do you mean?” she asked.
Stan twirled her so that was facing the wall with the bar. “Do you see that rather corpulent man in the rather unattractive suit standing against the wall with a drink in his hand?”
Barbara nodded. “He seems to be staring at us,” she said.
“He certainly is. I am fairly confident he is a house dick.”
“A what?” she replied, looking shocked.
“A hotel detective. Likely an ex-cop, possibly dismissed from the force for excessive drinking, by the look of him. Hired by this fine establishment to make sure that no immoral goings-on tarnish the good name of the Grand Union Hotel. And, given his attention to you, I suspect, generously remunerated above and beyond his meager salary by a certain Mr. James Moore.”
“Really?” Barbara said. “Perhaps we should go for a walk, then. It’s a lovely evening.”
“Indeed it is,” Stan said. “And the springs in Congress Park are most refreshing, but I see that our time together may be coming to an end, at least for now.” For, the music had stopped and Archibald Vandergrift was making his way across the dance floor to reclaim his date.
“Thank you very much for allowing me this dance,” Stan said, releasing Barbara form his arms. “I hope you will be more careful, Barbara. I can’t always be there to catch you.” Stan turned and headed up to his room.
Had Stan been shocked to have seen Barbara at breakfast? Yes and no. Of course, it was strange to find someone that you had been desperately trying to meet for months literally falling into your lap a couple of hundred miles from where you had been looking for them.
But, on the other hand, it wasn’t that surprising. People with fortunes like James Moore and the families that he hoped to marry his daughter into didn’t spend the summer in the city. They went either to Newport or Saratoga. Newport was a bit stuffy for a rugged Midwestern type like Moore, so it wasn’t completely unexpected that he would turn up here.
Still, when he had locked eyes with her as he made his way to his table, he had felt the same magnetic force pass between them that he had in Delmonico’s when they had first laid eyes upon each other. He had thought about approaching her, but on what pretext? Her father was a not a man to tolerate being approached by someone like Stan Goldman.
The end result would likely had been to have been publicly chastened in front of the entire assembled crowd and thrown out of the hotel, which barely tolerated people such as himself in the best of circumstances. Why, given James Moore’s bulk, developed during his early years laboring in the north woods, it was not out of the question that Stan could have suffered real physical harm.
So, he had continued on to the table that the hostess directed him to. And as he sat there eating his breakfast, he couldn’t help noticing that every time he looked up, Barbara was staring at him, even while conversing with her father. Stan was convinced that whatever he felt, she was feeling, too.
Then there was that “stumble”. Stan hadn’t succeeded to the extent that he had swimming with the sharks on Wall St. and at the racetracks without knowing a trick when he saw one. To have tripped right in front of him and fallen into his arms was no co-incidence, of that he was quite sure.
And, when he had caught her, she didn’t pull back, as a woman of her social standing might well have done. No, she lingered in his arms longer than was strictly necessary to regain her balance. Not that he minded in the slightest. It felt quite wonderful to hold her-especially that tight little ass of hers, from which she made no effort at all to remove his fingers.
Then how to play it? He certainly knew who she was. But to greet her as a friend or even an acquaintance in front of the other guests, at the nearby tables, many of whom had looked up from their breakfasts when Barbara had tripped, would have been risky, particularly with her father nearby.
So he had feigned ignorance of her identity. And, quickly rising to the occasion, she had feigned ignorance of his. At least he thought she knew his name; after all, she had agreed to meet him in the Melville Room at the Plaza, even though she had bowed out of actually doing so.
Unless, he considered, Mario had made the whole thing up. But, he had tested her with a cryptic reference to her standing up gentlemen and she had not looked puzzled or offended, but rather came back with a witty retort. ‘No,’ he decided, ‘Mario hadn’t made the prospective meeting up’.
Barbara did indeed know who he was. Which meant that she was not a bad actress at all, perhaps even better than her fellow Minnesotan, Emily, whose acting talents hadn’t been sufficient to keep her out of Rose Callahan’s employ.
As for her father, he was clearly not impressed either by Stan’s personage or by the name that indicated his heritage. Stan had wanted to introduce himself by the name that he had registered at the hotel under, Gould, but Barbara had beaten him to the punch and given his true name. ‘What’s done is done,’ Stan thought.
He watched her walk down the aisle, obediently following her father. He had a fleeting vision of her naked, bent over the stool in Rose Callahan’s basement, like Emily had been. Shaking his head, he glanced down and noticed a lacy white cloth lying on his table that was definitely not part of the hotel’s breakfast linen.
He picked it up and pressed it to his nose for a moment, inhaling the soft scent. It was at that moment that Barbara reached the door to the dining room and turned to look back just for a moment. He waved the handkerchief at her, then, as she turned towards the exit, pocketed it.
***
Stan stood near the rail at the track among the touts and hustlers. Behind him, under the roof of the grandstand, protected from sun and rain alike, were the society types. Stan kept one eye on the horses and the other on the stands, in case Barbara put in an appearance. There were many attractive ladies, decked out in flowered hats, chattering happily, drinking ice tea or lemonade, or perhaps something a bit stronger. None of them was Barbara Moore.
Stan bet only casually on the first six races, a dollar or so, just to keep his interest up. It was the seventh race that he was focused on. A trainer he knew well, whose words were usually worth listening to, had told him on his visit to the stables yesterday, to watch his horse, Eastern Prince, in the seventh.
The horse had never won a race in his entire life, finishing second only a few times. He started the pre-race betting at 15-1, but the odds flattened steadily, reaching 8-1 just before post time. Perhaps Stan’s trainer had mentioned something to a few others. Still, the payoff on his $ 20 bet would be quite acceptable.
Eastern Prince was in the pack that trailed the two leaders for most of the race. Stan was beginning to be concerned. But, as they rounded the final turn, suddenly Eastern Prince got a miraculous second wind just as the two leaders were flagging. He caught first one, and just a few lengths before the wire, caught the other as they lunged for the finish line.
As Stan stood at the betting window watching the teller carefully counting out his winnings, he could feel that many of the bettors milling about were looking daggers at him. He pocketed the cash, turned and smiled at them and headed for the exit, keeping a lookout for Barbara, but not really expecting to see her.
After dinner, at which Stan had not caught sight of the Moores, something unsurprising given the immense size of the dining room, Stan took a short walk to clear his head. He considered returning to Willow Walk and perhaps once again enjoying the skillful art of Susanna, but decided against it.
As he passed through the doors to the hotel, Stan heard the sound of waltz music drifting out of the ballroom. He knew that the famous Victor Herbert, possibly the greatest musical genius in America, was in residence at the Grand Union, and decided it might be worth investigating. Of course the possibility that Barbara might be there was tantalizing, but Stan’s parents had imbued him with enough love of music that he could enjoy the experience regardless.
Stan stopped at the bar beside the entrance and ordered a bourbon with ice, then took a place against the adjacent wall to enjoy the spectacle of the waltzing couples and the music that reminded him of the lands his ancestors had come from.
Then, suddenly, he saw her. She was dancing with a young man, perhaps a few years older than her, who was leading her reasonably competently through the steps. She was smiling and exchanging a few words with him as they danced.
Stan put his drink down on the bar table next to him and folded his arms, watching. Her back was towards him, but as the couple swung around in time with the music, he saw her looking straight at him and his heart fluttered.
The music was rising to the finale and Stan desperately wanted to approach them and ask if he could have the next dance. But on what pretext could he do so? Then he remembered. He reached into his pocket and felt it-the handkerchief from this morning.
He made his way through the couples and approached, theatrically extracting the cloth from his pocket. “Miss Moore, I believe you left this at my table this morning,” he said, presenting it to her.
She smiled graciously, accepting it. “Thank you, Mr. Goldman,” she replied. “I owe you a debt for your gallant conduct.”
Her date was staring at Stan, not with the hostility her father had shown, but with curiosity. “Ah, I am forgetting my manners,” Barbara continued. “Mr. Stan Goldman of New York, may I present Mr. Archibald Vandergrift, of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.”
Stan reached out and shook Vandergrift’s hand. “Pleased to meet you. I hope you will be so generous as to allow Miss Moore to repay her debt by allowing me the next dance.”
“And what debt is that, Barbara?” Vandergrift asked. She briefly explained to him the incident that had taken place at breakfast. “Well, then, alright, one dance,” he allowed. “Would you like something from the bar, Barbara?”
“Thank you, I’m fine,” she replied, as he walked away.
“He seems like a nice young man,” Stan said.
“He is. Unlike some, I suspect he wouldn’t stand a young lady up.”
“Excuse me?” Stan said. “It was I who was left waiting in the Melville Room at the Plaza, and on a day when my wits and talents were much needed at the Stock Exchange.”
“But it was I who sat there on the 25th of May from 10:45 until almost noon, waiting for you.”
Stan looked at her. “Did you say the 25th?”
“Yes, that was what the letter that you were supposed to have received said.”
“Oh,” Stan replied, “I received the letter, alright. But it said the 26th. I am as certain of that as I am of the fact that Eastern Prince won the seventh race this afternoon.”
They looked at each other and both burst out laughing. “Oh that Mario Pellegrino is a sly one!” Barb exclaimed.
“Like a fox!” Stan concurred. The orchestra had begun playing again. He took her in his arms and began leading her around the dance floor. It felt good to hold her.
“Have you been to the track yet?” he asked her.
“No, but I would like to go. Father doesn’t really like gambling, though. He feels people should work for what they have.”
“Well, for me, the track is not gambling. Much like the Stock Exchange, though I think you would find it more interesting.”
“You could tell I was bored that day at the Exchange?”
“Yes, though I think I could make it more interesting for you if we get the chance again. But the track you would definitely enjoy. The horses are quite magnificent.”
“I had one back in Minnesota,” she said. “Sparky. I miss him.”
“Then perhaps you could convince your father to allow me to accompany you there.”
Barbara laughed. “I think the odds on that would be very long, Mr. Goldman.”
“I like long odds,” Stan replied.
“I suppose you do,” she replied.
“But I don’t suppose your father would like you dancing with me, either.”
“I’m sure he wouldn’t. Fortunately, he has retired early this evening.”
“Yes, but I think he is still watching.”
Barbara stopped for a moment. “Whatever do you mean?” she asked.
Stan twirled her so that was facing the wall with the bar. “Do you see that rather corpulent man in the rather unattractive suit standing against the wall with a drink in his hand?”
Barbara nodded. “He seems to be staring at us,” she said.
“He certainly is. I am fairly confident he is a house dick.”
“A what?” she replied, looking shocked.
“A hotel detective. Likely an ex-cop, possibly dismissed from the force for excessive drinking, by the look of him. Hired by this fine establishment to make sure that no immoral goings-on tarnish the good name of the Grand Union Hotel. And, given his attention to you, I suspect, generously remunerated above and beyond his meager salary by a certain Mr. James Moore.”
“Really?” Barbara said. “Perhaps we should go for a walk, then. It’s a lovely evening.”
“Indeed it is,” Stan said. “And the springs in Congress Park are most refreshing, but I see that our time together may be coming to an end, at least for now.” For, the music had stopped and Archibald Vandergrift was making his way across the dance floor to reclaim his date.
“Thank you very much for allowing me this dance,” Stan said, releasing Barbara form his arms. “I hope you will be more careful, Barbara. I can’t always be there to catch you.” Stan turned and headed up to his room.
another excellent chapter Windy, crackling with atmosphere ...
