Manhattan Lullaby

  Manhattan Lullaby

  A Novel of Love in New York

  Glynnis Walker writing as Olivia De Grove

  To Sabrina,

  “A gentle nymph that sways

  the smooth Severn stream.”

  Part One

  Hel-lo Ba-by!

  Chapter One

  Dear Maxine,

  I don’t usually write to advice columnists, but I have a problem which I can’t really discuss with my friends because it’s a little, well, weird is the word, I suppose. So, since I read your column in Destiny magazine every month and you seem to get some fairly outrageous letters, I thought maybe you might be able to handle one from me.

  My husband and I have been married for five-and-a-half years. In the beginning we had a fairly active sex life. I mean actually it was extremely active, hectic even. But about a year ago it seemed to taper off. My husband said he still loved me as much as before, but he needed a little something “extra” to get turned on. I tried to go along with his ideas, and I didn’t mind the garter belt and stockings or the fantasies, that kind of stuff. (After all, I grew up in the sixties, so I do have an open mind.) But it’s reaching the point where I think things have gone too far.

  He recently read somewhere about using whipped cream—you know, spreading it on and then licking it off. I told him he could do it to me but I wouldn’t do it to him because of the calories.

  Anyway, the next thing you know it was cream cheese. (He says he prefers that because he doesn’t really care for sweet things.) And then, he brought home lox. I’m sure you can see where he was heading.

  Maxine, I just don’t know what to do. He says that playing “Delicatessen,” as he likes to call it, is driving him wild. It’s just the thing he needs to keep the excitement in our marriage. Last night he wanted to try pastrami with Russian dressing! (I can’t even tell you what he had in mind for the pickles!!!) And next he says he wants roast beef with mayonnaise. What am I going to do? You know how hard it is to get Russian dressing out of percale, never mind mayonnaise? So please, tell me, Maxine, what should I do? Tell him to forget it? Find a good laundry? What?

  Going Crazy in Cleveland

  Maxine Kraft shook her head and picked up a pencil. “Look at it this way, at least you don’t have to cook,” she wrote in the margin. And then at the bottom of the page she added, “Only kidding, Marge. I’ll get to this one in the morning,” just in case her secretary found the letter and decided to send it off to typesetting as is. God forbid.

  Then she took the letter with the little blue violets running around the border and what looked like a grease spot from a dab of cream cheese in one corner and put it in the “Current” file.

  “I wonder if they were kosher pickles.”

  “If what were kosher pickles?” came a voice from the doorway.

  Startled that someone had been listening to her talking to herself, Maxine swiveled her chair around to see who it was. With any luck it wouldn’t be someone important. Someone who thought that Dear Maxine—the country’s newest advice guru and resident authority on changing social mores—was a real expert and not just a divorced woman in her mid-forties whose husband happened to be the editor-in-charge of the magazine where she worked and who had thought that putting his ex-wife to work was a clever way to get out of paying her support.

  But she didn’t need to worry. It was no one important. Just Harry. “Oh, it’s you.” She sounded relieved.

  “Who were you expecting? Someone tall, dark and handsome?” Harry was leaning against the doorframe. Watching his ex-wife nattering on to herself reminded him of the old days, the good times before the divorce—long before. Lately it seemed that everything reminded him of something that had gone before. His life had become like summer television. Full of reruns.

  “These days I have to watch Tom Selleck to get tall, dark and handsome. But I did think you might be someone about five-eight, smooth-talking and in advertising.” She cleared a pile of filing folders off the other chair. “Sit down anyway.”

  It wasn’t much of an invitation, but Harry maneuvered his length into the cramped space that served as Maxine’s office. “God, it’s a good thing you’re not one of those tall, hefty women, otherwise we’d have to get you a bigger office.”

  “It’s a good thing I’m your ex-wife, otherwise you’d have to give me a bigger paycheck too,” replied Maxine, who was no fool. “I am developing a very big readership, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

  “Says who?”

  Maxine shrugged. “Oh, a little bird told me.”

  “So Jeffrey Mondavi is still hanging about, is he?” Harry scowled. He hated Jeffrey Mondavi. He was young. He wasn’t bad-looking. He had all his hair. And he had his whole life ahead of him.

  “Let’s just say he keeps finding excuses to drop by. This morning he made a special trip from the twelfth floor just to tell me that advertising rates were going up. I told him I don’t care. I don’t advertise in Destiny magazine. I just write in it. The man can be a pest … But a cute pest.”

  Harry was nodding his agreement at the “pest” comment, but he stopped in mid-nod when Maxine slid the “cute” part onto the end of her sentence. He had no idea she thought about younger men that way.

  Maxine continued. “But then he said that it was my column that was boosting the readership. So of course I let him finish.”

  “Oh, he did, did he? Well just because he sells advertising space doesn’t mean he knows a damn thing about the magazine business.”

  “I think he likes me.”

  “Likes you! You probably remind him of his mother. He’s about, what, twenty-two, twenty-three?”

  “He’s twenty-seven.” Maxine had already decided that the two decades that separated them was nothing more than a daring difference with perhaps a tinge of wicked waywardness thrown in. And that made her feel good, sophisticated, worldly. Twenty-three years, on the other hand, was too close to one of those words psychiatrists used to describe people with peculiar habits. Like pervert.

  “The same age as our son. My point exactly,” returned Harry.

  “That’s not what I meant,” replied Maxine through clenched teeth. Sometimes Harry could be so … so … divorceable! What was wrong with her enjoying a little flirtation with a younger man? It wasn’t as though she had any plans to take it further than that. She decided to change the subject lest any more of her developing concepts about her life as a newly single woman came under fire. “About the wedding …”

  Harry nodded. “Right. I guess we should talk about it. Is everything all set?”

  “If you mean are you required to do anything, the answer is no, so you can relax.” She started to straighten up her desk. “Janie’s parents are doing most of the work. Or I should say Doris is doing the work. Marvin is still off on a trip to the moon on gossamer wings or wherever it is he goes when he gets that For Rent look on his face.” She paused for a moment. “God, I hope our genes are stronger than theirs. Anyway, all you have to do is show up and look proud. It should be a piece of cake. And speaking of showing up, is Joyce going to be there?”

  “Joyce? Joyce who?” The lines around Harry’s mouth deepened just a touch at the mention of his new wife’s name. Joyce was the replacement series in the summer reruns of his life. The only problem was, she was always on location.

  Maxine noted the tone and the mouth. He was pressing his back teeth together again in a prelude to going into one of his sulks. This could mean only one thing. “I take it she’s still in China?”

  “China, Hong Kong, New Zealand, Bora Bora, Mars, Jupiter, Uranus …” He threw up his hands. “Since we’ve been married I don’t think we’ve spent more than two weeks in the same city. If I’d known marrying Joy
ce was going to turn out to be so lonely I’d have stayed married to you.”

  “Thanks a lot.” Maxine finished straightening and, leaning back in her chair, she crossed one short, well-proportioned leg over the other.

  Harry sighed. “I just meant that—”

  “You just meant that you’re horny.”

  “I am not!” Harry stopped pressing his molars together long enough to defend himself. He didn’t want his ex-wife to think that he felt “that way” about his second wife. After all, he had promised to be faithful only unto her until death did them part and it didn’t seem that a mere divorce was enough to break a vow he had kept for twenty-five long years—even if he was remarried.

  “Well, if you’re not you should be. You’ve only been married a little while. It’s natural that you should want to be with her—physically. When we were first married—”

  “I don’t want to talk about sex,” interrupted Harry with what he hoped was a firm and final tone. Sex was a sore subject with him these days. To put it simply, he wasn’t getting any.

  “Suit yourself. But just let me say that you’re the one who’s to blame if you’re lonely. You’re her editor. You keep sending her all over the world and now you’re complaining that she’s never home.” She wagged her finger at him, “Dear Maxine” in full swing. “You’ve got to make up your mind, Harry. You can’t expect her to be an old-fashioned wife and a new-fashioned career woman all at the same time.”

  Harry looked mildly shocked. His ex-wife was siding with his second wife. He kept tabs on all the talk shows. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to be. “Since when did you get to be such a fan of my second wife?”

  “Harry, you know I always liked Joyce. It’s not her fault you married her. And it’s not her fault that she’s in China and you’re lonely. Just be thankful that you have a wife whose absence makes your heart grow fonder instead of one whose presence makes you think of rye bread.”

  “Rye bread?”

  “Forget it.” Maxine waved the subject away. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. Besides, there is something else I’ve been meaning to mention to you about the column. You remember last month, the letter about the absentee mother who wanted to give her child back to her ex-husband?”

  Harry nodded. “The one where you said it was O.K. because she had her own life to think about and she shouldn’t try to raise a child if she didn’t want to and—”

  “I know what I said.”

  “We got a lot of letters about that. A lot of women thought that was great advice. A lot—”

  “I made it up.”

  “You what?”

  Having told the worst of it, Maxine retraced her steps. “Well I didn’t actually make it up—from scratch. I saw it on ‘Donahue’. I needed a normal letter for the column. I can’t keep printing stuff about cream cheese and men dressing in monkey suits.”

  “What’s wrong with men dressing in tuxedos?”

  “I don’t mean tuxedos, Harry. I mean real monkey suits. You know, like gorillas, chimpanzees …”

  “And doing what?”

  Maxine shook her head. “Never mind. In your condition it wouldn’t do you any good to know.”

  “I can’t believe you’d actually make up a letter.”

  “From a possible scenario.” Maxine retracted her confession just a little further. The fact that so many women had written letters to the editor proved it was an issue that needed her attention, didn’t it? And the fact that nobody had actually written her a letter about it was really little more than a technicality.

  “I don’t know, Maxine.” Harry shook his head. “There are ethics. There are rules. As your editor I have to say I’m very disappointed in you. Please don’t let it happen again. And as your ex-husband I have to say … Tell me what they were doing in those monkey suits. Please.”

  Maxine breathed a silent sigh of relief. She had expected Harry’s standard “journalistic integrity” lecture, but he had let her off easy. “Maybe later.” She looked at her watch. It was after five. She stood up. “Well, it was nice talking to you, Harry, but I’ve got to go.”

  Harry remained seated. Somewhere in between his office and Maxine’s he had begun toying with the idea of asking his ex-wife to have dinner with him. He was fed up with eating alone, and besides, with Bradley getting married on Saturday he was beginning to feel more than a little nostalgic for their marriage. And, he had to admit, he was lonely.

  “Harry, I said I have to go.” Maxine pointed at his legs, stretched out like a barricade across the only open space in the office.

  “What’s the rush? I though maybe we could go for a drink. Or have dinner? We could go back to your place. Maybe you could just whip up a little something, you know. You’re such a terrific cook.”

  Maxine shook her head. “Oh, no, you don’t. Just because you miss your wife, don’t expect me to pinch-hit for her—in any room in the house. Besides, I’ve got a date.”

  Harry sat up, alert. “A date? With a man?”

  Maxine took her compact out of her purse and checked her face. “That’s the usual arrangement.”

  “Who is he? What does he do? Where did you meet him?” demanded Harry, firing off a staccato barrage of questions like an anxious father whose teenage queen is off on her first date.

  Maxine held the lipstick poised just in front of her mouth. “Uh, Harry, I don’t know if this has just slipped your mind or what, but you are Bradley’s father, not mine, remember?”

  “I was just asking.”

  “And I’m just saying it’s none of your business.” Maxine applied a fresh coat of lipstick, replaced the tube and the compact in her purse and snapped the clasp shut. Then she noticed the look on Harry’s face and decided to relent. “Oh, all right, if you’re going to look like that. His name is Solly Berman. He’s a doctor and I met him while I was jogging in the park. O.K.?”

  Harry bolted to his feet. “You talked to a stranger in the park? Are you out of your mind?” He shouted, all his husbandly proprietary urges surging into action.

  “He wasn’t a stranger. He was a jogger,” corrected his ex-wife.

  “A jogger?” cried Harry, flailing his arms in disbelief. “Muggers can be joggers, rapists can be joggers, kidnappers can be joggers! Maxine, this is New York City, for God’s sake, every criminal on the streets is running!”

  “It wasn’t as though he was running with a television set under his arm, Harry.”

  But Harry was still shaking his head.

  She patted down the collar of her blouse. “Solly seems like a nice man. He’s a widower. And anyway, we’re just having dinner—at his place.” As soon as she said it, she regretted adding this last piece of information.

  “You’re having dinner, with a widower, at his place?” Harry was shaking his head so fast his eyes were having trouble keeping up. “Maxine, you don’t know what men are like. You’ve been married all your life. After dinner he’s probably planning on serving dessert in the bedroom!” Harry began pacing in the small office. Two steps up, two steps back.

  Maxine looked up into her ex-husband’s rapidly reddening face. “And what exactly did you have in mind for after dinner—mints?”

  “That’s different. You’re my—”

  “Ex-wife. And if I want to date another man, sleep with another man, go to Timbuktu with another man, then that’s precisely what I intend to do. You don’t own me, Harry.”

  Harry paled and swallowed hard. “You mean you’d actually have sex with another man?”

  Maxine shrugged. “If I felt like it. But as far as I know, I’m just having dinner with Solly.”

  A fistful of air forced itself down Harry’s nose. “First it’s dinner,” he snorted. “Then it’s breakfast. The next thing you know, you’re on your way to Quogue for the weekend.”

  “Harry, you’re jealous?”

  Harry lowered his voice. “Jealous? Of course I’m not jealous. Why would I be jealous? I’m just … concerned. That’
s it, concerned. One of my employees is about to put herself in a possibly dangerous situation by having dinner in a strange man’s apartment, a man she knows absolutely nothing about. And in this day and age that can be fatal,” he cautioned her. “Remember Looking for Mr. Goodbar? Huh? Huh?”

  “Solly isn’t the type to own a strobe light.”

  “You think you’re so smart. What about Fatal Attraction?”

  “Rabbits aren’t in season right now.”

  “You’re missing the point!” cried Harry in frustration. “What I’m trying to say is, going out with strangers can be dangerous.”

  Maxine shook her head. “Oh, Harry, for God’s sake. I’m just having dinner with a nice man I met in the park.”

  But Harry, who had been watching too many late-night news broadcasts while Joyce had been away, had managed to work himself into an absolute frenzy of urban paranoia. “What about the letters you get? Those people are probably jogging in parks all over this country, and people probably think they’re ‘nice’ too, until they expose the seamy underside of their perverted lives to you.”

  “The seamy underside of their perverted lives?” she quoted back to him, laughing. “They’re just trying to cope with life like the rest of us, Harry. Of course some of them cope a little less well than others but …” She shrugged. “Have you been eating all right?”

  “My diet is not the topic of this discussion!” he cried, slamming his fist into the top of Maxine’s desk. It hurt. He paused to let the pain subside and to catch his breath. While he was doing so he had time to consider if maybe he was going just slightly overboard. He decided he was. But the idea of his ex-wife dating had hit him a blow he hadn’t been expecting. It was a possibility he had never seriously considered. “It’s only natural I should be … concerned about you, that’s all,” he finished off lamely.

  Maxine nodded. She understood exactly what was going on. She had had a letter about something very similar only last week. “Well, just to alleviate your natural concern as an employer, maybe you’d like to have a look at this.” She picked up a file folder from the desk. The white label on the outside said “Berman, Dr. Solly S.”