there might be any romance going on. At the office Christmas party, he’d stood like the former soldier he was when his own wife came in late and threw her arms around him. If you knew John, you could have seen a tiny gleam of pleasure flicker in his eyes, though, as he’d handed her a cup of punch. The office was all about business, and Richard worked hard and wanted to do well—at least as well as he’d done at Princeton.
“Mr. Farnsworth,” Belinda, the secretary, called after him, as he was walking down the stairs. “Mr. Farnsworth, would you have time to sign this letter?”
He walked back to the doorway, where she stood smiling inquisitively. Belinda Hayes had just graduated from school and come to work in her father’s office. She had golden hair and smiling cheeks. She was a clever girl, so she might have known that quite a few men in the office admired her beauty, but would not dare approach because she was the boss’s daughter. He took thefountain pen she handed him and put his signature on the document, practicing trailing the final
h
of his name into a little upward turn, like a check mark approving his own name.
This was the afternoon he had long been waiting for, through the long winter with snow that piled up everywhere like reams of untouched typing paper. It was not Belinda Hayes, however, to whom he wanted to dedicate the novel he was planning to write. It was his best friend Bill’s sister, Harriet Reese Miller, who had returned from summer camp the day before, and called Richard just as she’d promised she would.
Harriet Reese Miller, at eighteen, was too old for summer camp, but she loved it so much that the owner of Camp Walla-Wahee had arranged for her to return as a counselor. Though Richard had never seen her in a bathing suit, he imagined her dressed in one every night before he fell asleep, a black bathing suit that drew attention to her beautiful swan neck, with a white band that accentuated her slim waist and provided a clear indication that she was mostly girl and just a little bit swan.
The street ahead was lined with buildings where angels peered from pilasters and columns supported impossibly heavy weights, like performers whose act involved standing stock-still. It was the act performers wanted you to notice, not them, because they were mere instruments of transformation. He looked at the sky and saw the clouds slowly drifting, like sentences trailing other sentences, growing wispy and evaporating if they were not recorded. He should be writing his book, he knew that, but he needed a job so he could save the money to marry Harriet, and when that book was closed, when she was his very own, he would have the courage to take on anything in the world. He noticed, again, the Corinthian column, with its ornate top, and patted his hair to make sure he looked neat, stood upright because rising an inch higher made himfeel a bit more powerful. He had learned from his boss’s manner, without being told.
He went to a florist’s and gazed at the flowers, imagining them as a bouquet Harriet would hold in front of her, walking slowly toward the altar. But today he could pick only one, the perfect flower for the most beautiful girl. He considered Queen Anne’s lace, but his love was an all-American girl, so he decided that was too regal. And if a rose by any other name would smell as sweet, perhaps it would be more imaginative to select something other than a rose? “Does she have a favorite color?” asked the perky young woman behind the counter. Of course! Her favorite color was . . . well, it might be pink. He had never asked, he realized. He remembered the white belt of her bathing suit and decided white might be better. White suggested purity, but also conjured up his secret vision. He pointed to a vase that contained a stalk of something whose name had as many syllables as his heart had constant thoughts of her. The flower was called “delphinium,” and it had many, many blossoms
“Mr. Farnsworth,” Belinda, the secretary, called after him, as he was walking down the stairs. “Mr. Farnsworth, would you have time to sign this letter?”
He walked back to the doorway, where she stood smiling inquisitively. Belinda Hayes had just graduated from school and come to work in her father’s office. She had golden hair and smiling cheeks. She was a clever girl, so she might have known that quite a few men in the office admired her beauty, but would not dare approach because she was the boss’s daughter. He took thefountain pen she handed him and put his signature on the document, practicing trailing the final
h
of his name into a little upward turn, like a check mark approving his own name.
This was the afternoon he had long been waiting for, through the long winter with snow that piled up everywhere like reams of untouched typing paper. It was not Belinda Hayes, however, to whom he wanted to dedicate the novel he was planning to write. It was his best friend Bill’s sister, Harriet Reese Miller, who had returned from summer camp the day before, and called Richard just as she’d promised she would.
Harriet Reese Miller, at eighteen, was too old for summer camp, but she loved it so much that the owner of Camp Walla-Wahee had arranged for her to return as a counselor. Though Richard had never seen her in a bathing suit, he imagined her dressed in one every night before he fell asleep, a black bathing suit that drew attention to her beautiful swan neck, with a white band that accentuated her slim waist and provided a clear indication that she was mostly girl and just a little bit swan.
The street ahead was lined with buildings where angels peered from pilasters and columns supported impossibly heavy weights, like performers whose act involved standing stock-still. It was the act performers wanted you to notice, not them, because they were mere instruments of transformation. He looked at the sky and saw the clouds slowly drifting, like sentences trailing other sentences, growing wispy and evaporating if they were not recorded. He should be writing his book, he knew that, but he needed a job so he could save the money to marry Harriet, and when that book was closed, when she was his very own, he would have the courage to take on anything in the world. He noticed, again, the Corinthian column, with its ornate top, and patted his hair to make sure he looked neat, stood upright because rising an inch higher made himfeel a bit more powerful. He had learned from his boss’s manner, without being told.
He went to a florist’s and gazed at the flowers, imagining them as a bouquet Harriet would hold in front of her, walking slowly toward the altar. But today he could pick only one, the perfect flower for the most beautiful girl. He considered Queen Anne’s lace, but his love was an all-American girl, so he decided that was too regal. And if a rose by any other name would smell as sweet, perhaps it would be more imaginative to select something other than a rose? “Does she have a favorite color?” asked the perky young woman behind the counter. Of course! Her favorite color was . . . well, it might be pink. He had never asked, he realized. He remembered the white belt of her bathing suit and decided white might be better. White suggested purity, but also conjured up his secret vision. He pointed to a vase that contained a stalk of something whose name had as many syllables as his heart had constant thoughts of her. The flower was called “delphinium,” and it had many, many blossoms
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