The Prodigal Daughter Read online

  Richard began to whistle Dvorak’s Cello Concerto and by the time he arrived home, he had reached the end of the first movement. He couldn’t recall an evening he had enjoyed more. He fell asleep thinking about Jessie instead of Galbraith or Friedman. The next morning he traveled with his father down to Wall Street and spent a day in the Journal’s library, taking only a short break for lunch. In the evening, over dinner, he told his father about the research he had been doing on the stock exchange into reverse takeover bids and feared he might have sounded a little too enthusiastic.

  After dinner he went off to his room. He made sure that no one saw him slip out of the front door a few minutes before ten. Once he had reached the Blue Angel he checked his table and returned to the foyer to wait for Jessie.

  He could feel his heart beating and wondered why that had never happened with Mary Bigelow. When Jessie arrived, he kissed her on the cheek and led her into the lounge. Bobby Short’s voice was floating through the room: “‘Are you telling me the truth or am I just another lie?’”

  As Richard and Jessie walked in, Short raised his arm. Richard found himself acknowledging the wave although he had seen the artist only once before and had never been introduced to him.

  They were guided to a table in the center of the room and Jessie chose the seat with her back to the piano.

  Richard ordered a bottle of Chablis and asked Jessie about her day.

  “Richard, there is something I must—”

  “Hi, Richard.” He looked away.

  “Hi, Steve. May I introduce Jessie Kovats—Steve Mellon. Steve and I were at Harvard together.”

  “Seen the Yankees lately?” asked Steve.

  “No,” said Richard. “I only follow winners.”

  “Like Eisenhower. With his handicap you would have thought he had been to Yale.” They chatted on for a few minutes. Jessie made no effort to interrupt them. “Ah, she’s arrived at last,” said Steve, looking toward the door. “See you, Richard. Nice to have met you, Jessie.”

  During the evening Richard told Jessie about his plans to come to New York and work at Lester’s, his father’s bank. She was such an intent listener he only hoped he hadn’t been boring her. He enjoyed himself even more than the previous night and when they left he waved to Bobby Short as if they had grown up together. When they reached Jessie’s home he kissed her on the lips for the first time. For a moment she responded, but then she said “Good night” and disappeared into the old apartment building.

  The next morning he returned to Boston. As soon as he arrived back at the Red House he phoned Jessie: Was she free to go to a concert on Friday? She said she was, and for the first time in his life he crossed days off a calendar. Mary phoned him later in the week and he tried to explain to her as gently as he could why he was no longer available.

  When the weekend came it was memorable. The New York Philharmonic, Dial M for Murder—Jessie even seemed to enjoy the New York Knicks. Richard reluctantly returned to Harvard on Sunday night. The next four months were going to be long weeks and short weekends. He phoned Jessie every day and they were rarely apart on weekends. He began to dread Mondays.

  During the Monday morning lecture on the crash of 1929, Richard found he couldn’t concentrate. How was he going to explain to his father that he had fallen in love with a girl who worked behind the gloves, scarves and woolen hats counter at Bloomingdale’s? Even he couldn’t understand why such a bright, attractive girl could be so unambitious. If only Jessie had been given the opportunities he had had…He scribbled her name on the top of his class notes. His father was going to have to learn to live with it. He stared at what he had written: “Jessie Kane.”

  When Richard arrived back in New York that weekend, he made an excuse to his mother about running out of razor blades. His mother suggested that he use his father’s.

  “No, no, it’s all right,” said Richard. “I need some of my own. In any case, we don’t use the same brand.”

  Kate Kane thought this was strange because she knew they did.

  Richard almost ran the eight blocks to Bloomingdale’s. When he reached the glove counter, Jessie was nowhere to be seen. Maisie was standing in a corner filing her fingernails.

  “Is Jessie around?” he asked her breathlessly.

  “No, she’s already gone home—she left a few minutes ago. She can’t have gone far. Aren’t you…?”

  Richard ran out to Lexington Avenue. He searched for Jessie’s face among the figures hurrying along. He would have given up if he hadn’t recognized the flash of red, a scarf he had given her. She was on the other side of the street, turning toward Fifth Avenue. Her apartment was in the opposite direction; somewhat guiltily he decided to follow her. When she reached Scribner’s at Forty-eighth Street, he stopped and watched her go into the bookshop. If she wanted something to read, surely she could have picked it up at Bloomingdale’s? He was puzzled. He peered through the window as Jessie talked to a sales clerk, who left her for a few moments and then returned with two books. He could just make out their titles: The Affluent Society by John Kenneth Galbraith and Inside Russia Today by John Gunther. Jessie signed for them—which surprised Richard—and left as he ducked around the corner.

  “Who is she?” said Richard out loud as he watched her double back and enter Bendel’s. The doorman saluted respectfully, leaving a distinct impression of recognition. Once again Richard peered through the window to see saleswomen fluttering around Jessie with more than casual respect. An older lady appeared with a package, which Jessie had obviously been expecting. She opened it to reveal a full-length evening dress in red. Jessie smiled and nodded as the saleslady placed the dress in a brown and white box. Then mouthing the words “Thank you,” Jessie turned toward the door without even signing for her purchase. Richard barely managed to avoid colliding with her as she hastened out of the store to jump into a cab.

  He grabbed a taxi that an old lady had originally thought was hers and told the driver to follow Jessie’s cab. “Like the movies, isn’t it?” said the driver. Richard didn’t reply. When the cab passed the small apartment house outside of which Richard and Jessie normally parted, he began to feel queasy. The taxi in front continued for another hundred yards and came to a halt outside a dazzling new apartment house complete with a uniformed doorman, who was quick to open the door for Jessie. With astonishment and anger Richard jumped out of his cab and started to make his way up to the door through which she had disappeared.

  “That’ll be ninety-five cents, fella,” said a voice behind him.

  “Oh, sorry,” said Richard. He thrust his hand into his pocket and took out a note, hurriedly pushing it at the cab driver, not thinking about the change.

  “Thanks, buddy,” said the driver, clutching on to the five-dollar bill. “Someone sure is happy today.”

  Richard hurried through the door of the building and managed to catch Jessie at the elevator. He followed her into the elevator. She stared at him but didn’t speak.

  “Who are you?” demanded Richard as the elevator door closed. The other two occupants stared in front of them with a look of studied indifference as the elevator glided up to the second floor.

  “Richard,” she stammered. “I was going to tell you everything this evening. I never seemed to find the right opportunity.”

  “Like hell you were going to tell me,” he said, following her out of the elevator toward an apartment. “Stringing me along with a pack of lies for nearly three months. Well, now the time has come for the truth.”

  He pushed his way past her brusquely as she opened the door. He looked beyond her into the apartment while she stood helplessly in the passageway. At the end of the entrance hall there was a large living room with a fine Oriental rug and a magnificent Georgian bureau. A handsome grandfather clock stood opposite a side table on which there was a bowl of fresh anemones. The room was impressive even by the standards of Richard’s own home.

  “Nice place you’ve got yourself for a salesgirl,” he