“Your father’s quite the entertainer,” I say, staring at the lake through the windscreen. “Who is it tonight? I’d say Roosevelt, but I know better than to think your old man would invite the president of the United States into his study for cognac and cigars.”
You lift your chin, piqued by my tone. “Why would you say that?”
“It’s no secret where your father’s loyalties lie, Belle. He’s a Lindy man, and not quiet about it. And like Lindy and the rest of his America First compatriots, he’s dead set against your government getting involved in Europe. And more than fine with Hitler’s anti-Semitic policies. Surely you knew.”
You shrug. “I told you, I don’t bother with politics.”
“A luxury members of your class can afford, since their interests will always be protected. Meanwhile, there’s a certain faction in this country—men who call themselves patriots—who are quietly working to undermine the very values they claim to stand for. And they’re counting on people like you not bothering. They claim to be patriots, ginning up the public with talk about purity and real Americans, but what they really want is to marginalize Jews, remove them from powerful places, deny them a place in society entirely if they have their way. That’s how it started in Europe, Belle, with a bunch of patriotic Germans spouting nonsense about purity, and they want to do the same thing here. They’re organizing right now, right under your noses. The Bund. Lindbergh and his crowd. Charles Coughlin, a priest with an anti-Semitic radio show. And they’re gaining traction. The Bund held a rally in Madison Square Garden. Twenty thousand people doing the Nazi salute on American soil, and no one’s paying attention. Some are even cheering them on. The only way to keep those so-called patriots out of power is to pay attention, Belle, to decide where you stand on the issues before you accidentally find yourself on the wrong side.”
You wait until I finish, then give me one of your cool looks. “And is there always a wrong side?”
“Maybe not always, but just now—yes, there’s a wrong side. Not all the bad guys are in Germany, Belle. People need to realize that. They need to pay attention.”
You study me a moment, perplexed and a little annoyed. “Is this why you brought me out here? To lecture me on my patriotic duty as an American? Because it sounds a little odd coming from someone who’s over here sleeping in his boss’s guest room rather than in his own country joining the fight.”
I stiffen. You’ve brought it up before, in little ways. My lack of means and the fact that I’m a Brit. Sometimes I think you say it as much for your sake as for mine, a reminder that I’m a bad idea. An outsider, not to be trusted. Which happens to be true. I’m not to be trusted. But then, neither are you when it comes to us. I feel it. Have felt it for a long time. Like a dark spot on the horizon, growing steadily larger.
“So,” I say, needing to take the edge off the conversation. “No guess as to who tonight’s guest of honor might be?”
You shrug, clearly indifferent. “I never know their names. I just show up when I’m told to. But it’s guests—plural. Some businessmen from Chicago, a senator from Montana of all places, and a couple men from LA.”
Chicago. Montana. Los Angeles. My mind shuffles through a list of possible names. Cobb. Dillon. Regnery. Wheeler. A veritable Who’s Who of noninterventionists and Nazi sympathizers.
“Los Angeles is where you keep your movie stars,” I say, trying to sound casual.
“In Hollywood, yes.”
“Maybe your father has invited a pair of movie moguls. Or film stars. Errol Flynn or that dancing chap Astaire. Perhaps He Who Shall Remain Nameless should be worried one of them will steal you away.”
You turn your face to the window, a punishment for breaking the rules. In trying to deflect from my own jealousy, I have blundered onto forbidden ground. After all these weeks—eight glorious, torturous weeks—the subject of your engagement is still avoided. But sooner or later we’ll have to discuss it. What it is, what it isn’t—and what to do about it.
A better man would have faced it by now, would have tackled it straight on and forced you to choose. But I’m not a better man. I’m a selfish man who wants what he wants, though I’m too craven to press the issue, because deep down I already know what you’ll choose—and why. Not for love. You don’t love that great clod of a boy. But you’ll have him—and all the pretty trimmings that come with his last name.
The money, the standing, the parties. Everything you’ve been used to. Of course you will. Any woman brought up as you have would. But to say so out loud at this moment would mean the end of what we have, however little it is, and I’m not ready for that. Not yet. And so I swallow my pride—again—and resolve to be happy with what I can have of you.
We finish our sandwiches in silence, washing them down with awful, tepid coffee. I reach into the lunch bag, pull out a packet of molasses cookies, and hand you one. You accept my peace offering and my shoulders relax.
“No doubt you’ve something smashing to wear this evening. I wish I could see you in whatever it is.”
“Blue velvet, off the shoulder, cut rather low in back.”
I flash a grin, eyebrow cocked. “I’ll have to imagine it.”
“No,” you say suddenly with a cunning little smile. “No, you won’t.”
“What?”
“Come to dinner.”
“What?”
“Come to dinner. Teddy had to beg off. He’s stuck upstate seeing to a problem with his newest stud, so we’re a man short. You can get a look at the movie stars.”
I blink at you, rerunning what you’ve just said. Dinner. At your father’s table. With his . . . guests, who are almost certainly not movie stars. It’s the opportunity I’ve been angling for. And yet, my conscience chafes. “Do you think that’s wise? Parading me around in front of your family?”
You smile, all innocence. “I have no intention of parading you anywhere. And people rarely notice what’s right under their noses.”
“Your sister won’t appreciate a crasher.”
“My sister will just have to make the best of it. The kitchen was planning on twelve, and twelve is what they’ll get. We’re basically talking about rewriting a place card. I’ll write it myself if she likes.”
There’s an alarming whiff of recklessness in your words, a mix of glee and daring that makes me want to give you a shake. “I’m not worried that the foie gras won’t stretch, Belle. I’m thinking about the kinds of guests your family is used to having at their table. We both know I’m not up to scratch.”
You pin me with one of your dark, steady gazes, the kind meant to make a man squirm, and I find myself wondering where you learned it or if it comes naturally. “Don’t you want to meet my father?”
I’ve wanted nothing more since getting off the boat, I think to myself. But that isn’t the point. “I’m not a suitor, Belle. That’s not what we’re talking about.”
“What are we talking about?”
I bite my lip, realizing that in my frustration, I’ve nearly said too much. “Nothing. We’re not talking about anything.”