"Mr. Duvalnik," I said, "what happened to that beautiful painting by Hawkin?"
"Haven't you heard?" he said. "Theodosia Johnson has been arrested, the marriage is off, and now Chauncey Smythe-Hersforth refuses to pay. He commissioned it and I suppose I could sue, but I don't want the hassle."
"So it becomes the property of Mrs. Louise Hawkin?"
"I suppose so," he said glumly. "I talked to the widow and she really doesn't want it. Told me to sell it for whatever I could get. One of the tabloids offered a thousand dollars but that's ridiculous. I end up with three hundred? No thanks. I spent more than that on Hawkin's exhibition."
"I'd be willing to pay ten thousand for the portrait," I told him, "if you'd sell it to me on time, perhaps ten or twelve monthly payments."
"You're serious?"
"I am."
He brightened. "I'll speak to Mrs. Hawkin. I'll tell her of your offer and urge her to accept."
"Thank you, Mr. Duvalnik," I said. "I admire the painting and would be proud to own it."
"And why not?" he cried. "It's a masterpiece!"
"It is indeed," I agreed.
I tooled homeward, convinced that eventually I would become the legal owner of Silas Hawkin's painting of Madam X. Not the nude. I knew that wood panel would remain in police custody as evidence during a criminal investigation. I had no interest in its final disposition. I didn't want it. Too many bad vibes.
But I wanted the formal pose: Theo seated regally in an armchair framed by crimson drapes, her lips caught in an expression so mystifying that it made Mona Lisa's smile look like a smirk.
I would not hang the portrait on the wall of my bedroom, of course. That would be a bit much. I would hide it in a closet, and occasionally I would take it out, prop it up, and look at it fondly while remembering and perhaps listening to a tape of Leon Redbone singing "Extra Blues."
I had time for a curtailed ocean swim, then returned home to shower and dress in a slapdash fashion for Lady Cynthia Horowitz's informal seafood buffet. We skipped the family cocktail hour that evening, and at seven o'clock the McNallys set out. My parents led the way in father's black Lexus. I followed in my flaming Miata, feeling more chipper than I had any right to be.
The Horowitz estate was all aglitter with ropes of Chinese lanterns, and a goodly crowd had already assembled by the time we arrived. Tables had been set up around the pool and the buffet was being arranged by caterers, pyramiding seafood onto wooden trenchers lined with cracked ice. A small outdoor bar was already busy, and in the background a tuxedoed trio played Irving Berlin.
I sought out our hostess. Lady Cynthia was an old friendly enemy and she gave me a warm welcoming kiss on the lips.
"My favorite rogue," she said, tapping my cheek. "Have you been behaving yourself, lad?"
"No," I said, "have you?"
"Of course not," she said. "At my age naughtiness is a necessity-like Fiberall."
"At my age, too," I said, and we both laughed as she drifted away to greet newly arriving guests.
I looked about for Consuela Garcia but couldn't immediately spot her. So I ordered a kir royale at the bar and joined the gossiping throng of friends and acquaintances. You must understand that you are required to pass a Gossip Aptitude Test before you are allowed to live in the Town of Palm Beach.
That evening the only topic being bandied about was the Chauncey-Theodosia affair. There were many reports, rumors, hints, insinuations, and much ribald laughter. I listened but contributed nothing.
Finally I espied Connie. Zounds but she looked a winner! She was wearing a mannish suit of white linen, fashionably wrinkled, and a choker of black pearls I had given her. With her bronzy tan and long ebony hair she made the other women at that soiree look like Barbies. I hastened to her side.
"Hello, stranger," she said with a bright smile.
"Connie," I said, "you look marv. May I have the first dance?"
"I'll be too busy getting the place closed up after dinner."
"Then may I see you home, later?"
"I have my own car," she said and looked at me speculatively.
I interpreted that look to be half-challenge, half-invitation. "Suppose I tailgate you to make certain you arrive home safely," I suggested.
"If you like," she said. "Now go eat before all the prawns are gone."
I dined at a table for four with my parents and Mr. Griswold Forsythe II, a superannuated bore who had depleted his repertoire of anecdotes fifty years ago, which didn't prevent him from repeating them ad infinitum. The only things that saved me were that piscine buffet and the bottle of chilled sancerre on each table, replaced as needed.
After that yummy feast was demolished, dancing commenced on the pool verge and the cropped lawn. I watched affectionately as my parents waltzed to a fox-trot, and then I lured mother into joining me for a sedate lindy. We did beautifully, and it was a moment to treasure.
The night spun down, Mr. and Mrs. McNally departed, other guests shouted their farewells and were gone. The caterer cleared up, spurred on by Connie Garcia, and the trio packed up their instruments and left. The bar closed, lanterns were extinguished, and quiet took over. The hostess was nowhere to be seen and, knowing Lady Cynthia, I suspected she had retired to her chambers with the pick of the litter. And I assure you he would not be the runt.
Finally, only Connie and I remained. We met at our cars in the driveway and, giggling, she displayed her loot: two bottles of that sharp sancerre.
"Bless you, my child," I said gratefully.
She drove back to her condo and I followed closely. We arrived without incident and within fifteen minutes were lounging on her miniature balcony, gazing down at a simmering Lake Worth and sipping sancerre. What more, I wondered, could life hold for a growing boy.
"Tell me, Archy," Connie said lazily, "what have you been up to?"
"Busy, busy, busy," I said. "Dinners, parties, dances, and licentiousness. And you?"
"More of the same," she said, and we both burst out laughing.
"Actually," I said, "it's been sluggish."
"A drag," she said.
"Nothing," I said.
"Zip," she said.
We were contentedly together.
"Must you go?" she asked in a wispy voice.
"No," I said, "I must not."
"Promise not to snore?"
"I never snore," I said indignantly.
"Perhaps not but you do burble occasionally."
"I'll promise not to burble if you promise not to kick."
"I never kick," she said firmly.
"Do so."
"Do not."
"Then you sometimes jerk in your sleep. You convulse."
"Convulse?" she said. "Is that fun?"
"It can be," I said. "Under the right circumstances."
She refilled our glasses. "I've missed you, Archy," she said casually.
"And I've missed you, Connie," I said, just as casually.
"It's been silly-time," she added.
"Too true," I concurred.
"Right now?" she asked.
" 'Barkis is willin'," I told her.
"Who's Barkis?"
"A close friend of mine."
"I think I've had enough of your close friends," she said.
I skinned down and had popped between the sheets before Connie finished locking up and dousing the lights. She left a single bulb burning in the bathroom and when she came out starkly naked I almost swooned with longing. What a delight she was! And no tattoos.
She climbed into bed and we moved close.
"Let's go for it," she said.
I still refuse to believe romantic love is a myth. But an intimate friendship between a man and a woman is better.
I think.