melancholy. “My late husband, Louis,” she said, pronouncing the name “Loo-EE.” “I guess that’s why I told Reggie I would talk to you, because you have the same name. That, and you seem like a right gee.”
“Thanks.”
The phone started up again. Margery leaned forward, sending the dogs flying. She yanked the champagne bottle from the bucket and topped off his glass.
It was ten-thirty in the morning. There was no sign of food coming yet.
What the hell. He took a drink.
“Maybe we should start with me,” Margery said, lying back against the cushions. The little dogs quickly reclaimed her lap. Except for the one at Louis’s thigh. It was still staring at him like he was lunch.
“I’ve lived here forever,” she said. “Well, since I was thirty, anyway. Before that, Lou and I lived in Paris—that’s where he was from, being French, of course—but he was living in New York when we met, in this big old town house on Fifth. He was fifteen years older than—”
She stopped, smiled, and wagged a finger. “You didn’t stop me.”
Before Louis could answer, Margery jumped up, sending the dogs scrambling again. “Franklin! Bring me my book! And the Sears catalogue, too!”
Margery and the dogs resettled into the cushions. “Unlike most of the people here, I wasn’t born into money,” she said. “My people were farmers in upstate New York, and it about killed my momma, so I sure as hell didn’t want to live the rest of my life with dirt under my fingernails.”
Franklin appeared, cradling a large red book and a small black one. He set them before Margery and left, without bothering to pick up the extension of the still-ringing phone.
Margery brushed the dogs from her lap, swept thenewspapers off the coffee table, and opened the red scrapbook so Louis could see it.
“Now, where’s my cheaters?” she muttered, looking around. “Ah! There you are.” She snatched up a pair of pink glasses and perched them on her long, thin nose.
“I left home when I was eighteen and went to Manhattan,” she said, flipping the pages. “I got work as a cigarette girl at the Trocadero, and then—” She pointed a long red fingernail. “
Voilà!
That’s me!”
It was a large black-and-white photograph, creased with age, a full-length portrait of a young woman posed seductively on an ornate cushion. An elaborate peacock-plumed headdress framed her short, wavy hair and lovely face. Other than the headdress and a coy smile, she wore very little else, just some strategically draped pearls and scarves over her chest and long legs.
“You’ve heard of the Ziegfeld girls?” Margery asked.
“Sure.”
“I was one. For ten fabulous months,” Margery said. “I was eighteen, with long legs—that’s my nickname, did I tell you? Legs, that’s what they still call me. Everyone here has a nickname—Buffy, Rusty, Bunny, Hap, Bobo—although Bobo hates it when people call him that.”
Nicknames? For one second, Louis thought of asking her about Sam.
But Margery was still speeding down memory lane. “I wasn’t a star, of course, but I could fake a little dancing, so I got a spot in the chorus. In a jungle number, I got to ride a live ostrich. One night, the damn thing panicked and carried me right out onto West Forty-first Street.”
She laughed. “Lou used to hang around the stage door of the Amsterdam, and finally I gave in and went to dinner with him. A week later, we were married.”
She flipped a page of the scrapbook and pointed to a photograph of a dark-haired man in a bow tie. “That’s Lou. My sheik.”
She sighed and sat back, pulling one of the dogs to her breast. “We lived like royalty for a year. Did I mention that I posed for Guy Pène duBois? You know who he is, dear, right?”
Louis shook his head, but Margery was already off and running again. “Well, then the Crash came, of course, and everyone was jumping out of buildings. Lou had most of his money in gold—God, he was so
“Thanks.”
The phone started up again. Margery leaned forward, sending the dogs flying. She yanked the champagne bottle from the bucket and topped off his glass.
It was ten-thirty in the morning. There was no sign of food coming yet.
What the hell. He took a drink.
“Maybe we should start with me,” Margery said, lying back against the cushions. The little dogs quickly reclaimed her lap. Except for the one at Louis’s thigh. It was still staring at him like he was lunch.
“I’ve lived here forever,” she said. “Well, since I was thirty, anyway. Before that, Lou and I lived in Paris—that’s where he was from, being French, of course—but he was living in New York when we met, in this big old town house on Fifth. He was fifteen years older than—”
She stopped, smiled, and wagged a finger. “You didn’t stop me.”
Before Louis could answer, Margery jumped up, sending the dogs scrambling again. “Franklin! Bring me my book! And the Sears catalogue, too!”
Margery and the dogs resettled into the cushions. “Unlike most of the people here, I wasn’t born into money,” she said. “My people were farmers in upstate New York, and it about killed my momma, so I sure as hell didn’t want to live the rest of my life with dirt under my fingernails.”
Franklin appeared, cradling a large red book and a small black one. He set them before Margery and left, without bothering to pick up the extension of the still-ringing phone.
Margery brushed the dogs from her lap, swept thenewspapers off the coffee table, and opened the red scrapbook so Louis could see it.
“Now, where’s my cheaters?” she muttered, looking around. “Ah! There you are.” She snatched up a pair of pink glasses and perched them on her long, thin nose.
“I left home when I was eighteen and went to Manhattan,” she said, flipping the pages. “I got work as a cigarette girl at the Trocadero, and then—” She pointed a long red fingernail. “
Voilà!
That’s me!”
It was a large black-and-white photograph, creased with age, a full-length portrait of a young woman posed seductively on an ornate cushion. An elaborate peacock-plumed headdress framed her short, wavy hair and lovely face. Other than the headdress and a coy smile, she wore very little else, just some strategically draped pearls and scarves over her chest and long legs.
“You’ve heard of the Ziegfeld girls?” Margery asked.
“Sure.”
“I was one. For ten fabulous months,” Margery said. “I was eighteen, with long legs—that’s my nickname, did I tell you? Legs, that’s what they still call me. Everyone here has a nickname—Buffy, Rusty, Bunny, Hap, Bobo—although Bobo hates it when people call him that.”
Nicknames? For one second, Louis thought of asking her about Sam.
But Margery was still speeding down memory lane. “I wasn’t a star, of course, but I could fake a little dancing, so I got a spot in the chorus. In a jungle number, I got to ride a live ostrich. One night, the damn thing panicked and carried me right out onto West Forty-first Street.”
She laughed. “Lou used to hang around the stage door of the Amsterdam, and finally I gave in and went to dinner with him. A week later, we were married.”
She flipped a page of the scrapbook and pointed to a photograph of a dark-haired man in a bow tie. “That’s Lou. My sheik.”
She sighed and sat back, pulling one of the dogs to her breast. “We lived like royalty for a year. Did I mention that I posed for Guy Pène duBois? You know who he is, dear, right?”
Louis shook his head, but Margery was already off and running again. “Well, then the Crash came, of course, and everyone was jumping out of buildings. Lou had most of his money in gold—God, he was so
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