always seemed to resent my influence with them. He couldn’t stand having his word challenged.”
“I’ve seen that side of him,” acknowledged Flo.
“Although I have no proof,” continued Mel, “I suspect that he worked behind the scenes to deprive me of a plum job—a chaired position in journalism at Florida Atlantic that would have been a nice way to ease into retirement.”
“That’s horrible!” exclaimed Flo.
“Yes, it’s why I left the area a few years ago. I went right up to Washington and did some consulting for a PR firm there; put my nose to the grindstone, made some money for a rainy day. Then, a few months ago, I said to myself, ‘Enough! Now’s the rainy day I’m tired, worn out; I want sun; I want poolside. The hell with Stan Jacobs,’ I said to myself. ‘Boca isn’t all Stan Jacobs.’ “
“But Norman Grafstein’s such a sweet man; how could he be devoted to someone like that?”
“That’s the thing. Jacobs has a powerful personality. He can be quite charming when he wants to be and, to his credit, fiercely loyal to his friends, so long as they kowtow to him. I can’t say I know Norman Grafstein; he seems like a nice enough fellow. But some people, weak people, feel nattered that Jacobs gives them attention, and develop a kind of slavish devotion.”
“I knew he was arrogant, but I didn’t think he was that narcissistic!” exclaimed Flo.
“I can’t say I know what to call it,” said Mel. “I only know that he’s not a man I like to see, though he’s the one who has reason to dread the encounter. It’s
his
conscience that should suffer. It’s certainly not going to get in the way of my happiness.” He looked into Flo’s eyes for a moment and then, as if not wanting to expose his feelings too fully, turned abruptly to the screen, where the documentary had gotten under way.
Flo also turned to watch the film. Diana Trilling was talking about how she and Lionel had broken ranks with the New York intellectuals over Stalin. It was a topic that would normally have held her interest, but now she could only think of Mel’s appreciative look, and of what he had told her about Stan Jacobs’s malevolent plotting.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
F LO FELT IT WAS IMPERATIVE TO TELL M AY WHAT M EL HAD SAID about Stan. She had no wish to cast aspersions on Norman, but she thought the story had indirect bearing on him and thus was something May should know. She was further troubled, though she didn’t mention this to her friend, by Norman’s appearance at the Y with another woman. Albeit a casual date, it indicated to Flo that Norman was still playing the field.
“I can’t believe it,” said May when Flo told her Mel’s story May had developed a true liking for Stan and often conversed with him about gardening, a passion they shared.
“So what are you saying—Mel is lying?” demanded Flo.
“No,” said May, who liked Mel, too, “I think there’s probably been a misunderstanding and that each one has gotten the wrong impression about the other.”
“Oh, May,” said Flo with some exasperation, “you need to take mean lessons. You couldn’t see bad in a person if they rubbed your nose in it.”
May shrugged. In fact, she couldn’t begin to imagine how anyone she knew could be bad. “Bad” was what you saw in the movies; real people, if they weren’t good, were good enough. She put the best construction that she could on everyone’s behavior—or simply failed to notice if they treated her shabbily.
“Stop telling me to be nice,” Flo responded irritably when May urged her to take a kinder view of others. “It’s not in my nature. It’s one thing to appreciate you, another to be like you.I can appreciate a good meal, but I can’t cook one—and if I can get you to do it for me, why should I?”
May told Flo that she was nicer than she thought (which was what nice people always said), and continued looking through her drawers for a good recipe for borscht. Flo had
“I’ve seen that side of him,” acknowledged Flo.
“Although I have no proof,” continued Mel, “I suspect that he worked behind the scenes to deprive me of a plum job—a chaired position in journalism at Florida Atlantic that would have been a nice way to ease into retirement.”
“That’s horrible!” exclaimed Flo.
“Yes, it’s why I left the area a few years ago. I went right up to Washington and did some consulting for a PR firm there; put my nose to the grindstone, made some money for a rainy day. Then, a few months ago, I said to myself, ‘Enough! Now’s the rainy day I’m tired, worn out; I want sun; I want poolside. The hell with Stan Jacobs,’ I said to myself. ‘Boca isn’t all Stan Jacobs.’ “
“But Norman Grafstein’s such a sweet man; how could he be devoted to someone like that?”
“That’s the thing. Jacobs has a powerful personality. He can be quite charming when he wants to be and, to his credit, fiercely loyal to his friends, so long as they kowtow to him. I can’t say I know Norman Grafstein; he seems like a nice enough fellow. But some people, weak people, feel nattered that Jacobs gives them attention, and develop a kind of slavish devotion.”
“I knew he was arrogant, but I didn’t think he was that narcissistic!” exclaimed Flo.
“I can’t say I know what to call it,” said Mel. “I only know that he’s not a man I like to see, though he’s the one who has reason to dread the encounter. It’s
his
conscience that should suffer. It’s certainly not going to get in the way of my happiness.” He looked into Flo’s eyes for a moment and then, as if not wanting to expose his feelings too fully, turned abruptly to the screen, where the documentary had gotten under way.
Flo also turned to watch the film. Diana Trilling was talking about how she and Lionel had broken ranks with the New York intellectuals over Stalin. It was a topic that would normally have held her interest, but now she could only think of Mel’s appreciative look, and of what he had told her about Stan Jacobs’s malevolent plotting.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
F LO FELT IT WAS IMPERATIVE TO TELL M AY WHAT M EL HAD SAID about Stan. She had no wish to cast aspersions on Norman, but she thought the story had indirect bearing on him and thus was something May should know. She was further troubled, though she didn’t mention this to her friend, by Norman’s appearance at the Y with another woman. Albeit a casual date, it indicated to Flo that Norman was still playing the field.
“I can’t believe it,” said May when Flo told her Mel’s story May had developed a true liking for Stan and often conversed with him about gardening, a passion they shared.
“So what are you saying—Mel is lying?” demanded Flo.
“No,” said May, who liked Mel, too, “I think there’s probably been a misunderstanding and that each one has gotten the wrong impression about the other.”
“Oh, May,” said Flo with some exasperation, “you need to take mean lessons. You couldn’t see bad in a person if they rubbed your nose in it.”
May shrugged. In fact, she couldn’t begin to imagine how anyone she knew could be bad. “Bad” was what you saw in the movies; real people, if they weren’t good, were good enough. She put the best construction that she could on everyone’s behavior—or simply failed to notice if they treated her shabbily.
“Stop telling me to be nice,” Flo responded irritably when May urged her to take a kinder view of others. “It’s not in my nature. It’s one thing to appreciate you, another to be like you.I can appreciate a good meal, but I can’t cook one—and if I can get you to do it for me, why should I?”
May told Flo that she was nicer than she thought (which was what nice people always said), and continued looking through her drawers for a good recipe for borscht. Flo had
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