The Prince and the Pretender, page 18
“It was no trouble at all, ma’am. Any help I can be to you would make me happy.”
“You’re a very handsome man, Thomas Bradshaw.”
Tom actually blushed. “Thank you, ma’am.”
“Were you a friend of Eric’s?”
“Yes, at school. We didn’t see too much of each other after. We…” Tom left the thought unfinished.
“You traveled in different circles,” Mrs. Lindenhurst finished for him.
Tom grinned. “You might say that, yes, ma’am.” He glanced at Dicky who was sitting on the other side of Mrs. Lindenhurst, contemplating his hands.
“Would you like something to drink, Mr. Bradshaw?”
“Tom. Please call me Tom. Yes, I would. Is bourbon possible?”
Mrs. Lindenhurst smiled her serene smile and replied, “Anything is possible, Tom, that’s why you’re here tonight, isn’t it?”
Tom felt a sharp pain in the area of his heart. What the hell was that supposed to mean? Did she suspect? Was she playing with him? Why the hell didn’t Dicky say something? Mrs. Lindenhurst turned to Dicky Culver. “Would you mind playing host, Dicky?”
He jumped to attention like a puppet being manipulated by an invisible master. Tom watched him walk to what appeared to be a sideboard, pull down the panel and expose a complete bar set-up.
But that wasn’t all he observed. From the moment he had entered the house, and in spite of his nervousness, Tom tried to absorb as much detail as possible under the circumstances.
They were seated in what was obviously a family room in the rear of the mansion where tall, majestic windows overlooked a garden that was well tended and softly lit on this early spring evening. The room was dominated by an oil of the ambassador, Eric Lindenhurst, placed directly over the fireplace. He had been a very handsome man, here posed rigidly erect with a decorative ribbon of state cutting a diagonal across his black dinner jacket. Tom could feel the man’s piercing eyes staring down at him and was more than grateful for the drink Dicky now handed him.
Mrs. Lindenhurst accepted a sherry and Dicky went back to his chair carrying a glass of scotch. “Now, Tom,” Mrs. Lindenhurst said, “would you tell me in your own words how you found my Eric.”
Found my Eric? Tom took a healthy swig of the bourbon and didn’t even feel the whiskey go down his throat. Then he looked directly at Mrs. Lindenhurst and told his story as simply and clearly as possible. No embellishments for the lady…just the facts. His tale was met with a respectable silence and then Mrs. Lindenhurst said, “I see.”
Her grandson had returned from the grave and she says, “I see?” Tom was beginning to doubt his own sanity.
“You’re wondering at my calm acceptance of all this,” she said, as if reading Tom’s mind.
“Well…”
She brushed aside whatever he was going to say with a wave of her hand. “I never believed my Eric was dead. You might think that the ranting of a senile old lady, but I tell you in my heart I never believed he was gone. I knew Erica was, and Tony. But not Eric. No, not Eric. Do you know I had the area searched for almost a year after the accident? I did. But not Block Island.” She laughed, the sound a tiny silver bell in the still room. When she continued to speak she looked not at Tom and not at Dicky but at some distant point across the spacious room.
“Last January Milly Russell came to visit me. You know Milly, Dicky, or at least your mother does. I think they were at school together. Makes no difference. Milly had been to the opera, a Saturday matinee, and came on Sunday ostensibly to tell me about the performance but I knew from the moment she arrived that Butterfly, or whatever it was, was the furthest thing from Milly’s mind. I’ve known Milly since the day she was born and she’s never been able to stop her face from saying what’s on her mind.
“I let her talk, knowing sooner or later she would let it out, and sure enough, after boring me for almost an hour she suddenly jumped out of her chair and said, ‘Mary, I saw Eric yesterday,’ and then the poor thing burst into tears.”
Dicky adjusted his glasses and Tom raised one foot as if about to cross his legs and then changed his mind. The opera house was a few blocks from the apartment off Central Park West. Tom suddenly longed for his apartment. Longed to be there, waiting for Nicky to come home, to count the dollar bills and silver, to have a quiet drink together, to talk about the day that was coming to an end, to go to bed, to make love, to wake up and find that this was all a nightmare.
“Her car got caught in traffic and while the driver idled she looked out the window and saw Eric walking on the street. He was carrying what appeared to be a bulging pillow slip.”
Good grief, the laundry. Nicky had been taking the laundry to the Laundromat on Columbus Avenue.
“Well, then I knew what I had always thought was true. But if Eric were here, in the city, and hadn’t come to me, then I also knew that something was frightfully wrong. I called my solicitor, Jack Goodwinn, and he told me that Milly Russell had seen Germans behind every bush in the park in the nineteen forties and a communist under her bed in the fifties. True, Milly was always a little…impressionable, but she had seen Eric. I never doubted it for a moment. The only advice Jack gave me was not to advertise or say anything to the press. I would be overwhelmed with pretenders and, of course, he was right. I called my friend Henry Kissinger and enlisted the help of the FBI.”
Tom suppressed a groan and asked, “Do you mind if I smoke?”
“Not at all, Thomas. I used to, you know. So did the Queen, but never in public.” Tom silently thanked the Queen and lit a cigarette.
“They did what they could,” the old lady continued, “but to now they have had no luck locating my Eric.”
Because they never looked, Tom thought. A grand old lady, more or less in her dotage and wishing for the impossible, had been placated by the FBI. Respect her as they would, they owed it to her, but search for her dead grandson they would not. Suddenly Tom was flushed with elation. He was going to bring back her grandson.
He was going to show those fuckers that this sweet old lady was right. The bastard was going to stick it to Mr. Goodwinn and the entire Federal Bureau of Investigation.
Tom leaned forward in his chair, exhibiting the courage he thought had deserted him outside the front door of the mansion on Ninety-second Street and said, “I think I found him, Mrs. Lindenhurst.”
“I know you have, Thomas. I know you have.” Mrs. Lindenhurst began to cry.
Dicky looked embarrassed and made a futile attempt to take charge of the situation. “Everything is going to be all right, Mrs. Lindenhurst.”
“I’m sure it is, Dicky.” Then she turned to Tom. “Do you have his confidence, Tom? Does Eric trust you? I realize how ill he’s been and I don’t want to upset him.”
“Yes, ma’am, I think I do. I told him he looked like someone I knew and he’s asked me about that several times. I…I didn’t want to do or say anything until I had spoken to Dicky…and you.”
“You’re a very wise and sensitive boy, Thomas. I will call my physician in the morning and then… “ Her entire face lit up. “And then I want you to bring my grandson to me. I want you to bring my Eric home.”
Walking toward Fifth Avenue Dicky still looked slightly shaken and a little chagrined. Tom walked like a man who owned the world. “Do you want me to come with you tomorrow?” Dicky asked.
“No, I don’t think that’s necessary,” Tom answered.
16
The whirl of activity that had begun when Dicky saw Nicky and culminated with his and Tom’s visit to Mrs. Lindenhurst had no effect on the person who was the cause of all the speculation, planning and plotting. Years of listening to his aunt and uncle discuss his situation and their individual hopes for his future without consulting their young ward had conditioned Nicky to accept whatever destiny satisfied his mentors’ desires. He had not defied Uncle Alexis because, as Nicky often noted, he owed his life to Alexis Romaine; he would not now defy Tom Bradshaw who had come to his rescue when he had been left adrift in a somewhat leaky boat.
But Tom had done more than just rescue Nicky. He had fulfilled Nicky emotionally and physically and had given him, however briefly, the independence Nicky had long desired. What had never occurred to this young man almost bereft of ego was that he was giving Tom as much, or perhaps more, than he was getting. But Nicky had had a taste of that independence and he gave in to Tom’s wishes reluctantly. He had always known what he did not want but now he knew what he did want.
“My own restaurant. I was going to open my own restaurant. French. That’s the cuisine Uncle Alexis knew best and taught me to appreciate.”
“When you meet her, Nicky, you’re going to love her. She’s the nicest and grandest lady it’s ever been my pleasure to know and you’re going to make her so happy.”
“What the Village needs is a good French restaurant and I wouldn’t be taking any customers away from the Casa Maria. I wouldn’t want to do that to them. They taught me the business from the ground up. Mine would have a very different ambience.”
“Oh…in three months you know the business from the ground up?” Tom finally decided to mesh his conversation with Nicky’s.
“In another year I would have been ready.”
“For what?”
“The Chez Nicky.”
“Christ…” Tom doubled over and looked as if he were about to lose his dinner. “For originality you take the prize. Why not the Left Bank or the Red Mill?”
“I like the Chez Nicky.”
“Do you know how much it costs to open a restaurant in this town?”
“I still have some of the money Aunt Marie left me.”
“Twenty-one hundred bucks. Ten times that wouldn’t get you off the ground.”
“I would borrow from the bank.”
“Not my bank. I would turn you down flat.”
“Because you’re a prick.”
“Nicky…Nicky…come on, let’s talk,” Tom pleaded with open arms.
“We are talking.”
“In circles…avoiding topic number one. Tomorrow is the big day.”
“Your big day…and Culver’s. I’m just going along for the ride.”
“You’re the fucking star.”
“No, Tommy, I’m the patsy.”
“Did you hear what I said about the old lady?”
“I did, and the thought of making a fool of her makes me sick but it doesn’t seem to be bothering you.”
“When you meet her you’ll change your mind. Nicky, you’re going to feel like a hero.”
“Whose hero?”
“Mine, dammit. Don’t you like me, Nicky, even a little?”
“Don’t start that shit. It always ends up the same way…in the sack, and then I do whatever you want me to do.”
“A compromise?” Tom offered.
“I agreed to one last week and look where it got me.”
“One more…come on, Nicky…one more.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“You meet Mrs. Lindenhurst tomorrow and, if for any reason, you don’t want to go through with it you can tell her who you really are or tell her anything you want and walk out.”
Nicky looked skeptical. This was too good to be true. “And what will you do if I walk?”
“Wash dishes at the Chez Nicky.”
And so on the eve of the resurrection the star fell asleep clutching a straw of hope. Tom had offered him a way out and this made Nicky’s heart a little lighter. Was Tom saying he was not certain he wanted Nicky to go through with the charade? Nicky thought so, but he wanted Tom to admit it to himself and not leave it to Nicky, like the toss of a coin, to tell Tom what he truly felt. If Tom refused to realize that he wanted Nicky in the flesh and not Eric Hall in spirit then Nicky would lose no matter what he did. If he stayed in the mansion on Ninety-second Street he would lose himself. If he walked out he would lose Tom. Ever the romantic, Nicky dreamed that Tom would offer him a reprieve in front of the double oak doors of Mrs. Lindenhurst’s home.
Beside the sleeping Nicky, Tom lay wide awake. He had just wagered one hundred million dollars on Nicky’s soft heart and his friend’s inability to walk away from a sobbing old lady. One hundred million bucks! Why had he made the offer? Nicky would do anything for Tom. Why had he given him an out? Christ, he wasn’t trying to get rid of Nicky, he was offering him the world. He wanted Nicky…but with Eric’s money. A hundred million bucks…Christ! Tom finally drifted off into a restless sleep counting stacks of dirty dishes piled high in the tiny kitchen of Chez Nicky.
Amy Culver thought of what tomorrow would bring in terms of her social standing. Certainly things would improve. She didn’t need anyone to tell her that since the sun (Eric) had gone out of their lives, she and Dicky were not quite as popular as they used to be. Now they would be in the eye of the hurricane which would herald Eric’s return and thereafter they would be an important satellite revolving around the heir to the Lindenhurst millions. After all, her husband was Eric Lindenhurst Hall’s closest friend. Amy turned uneasily in her oversized single bed. Would she once again be relegated to the position of indulgent wife, pretending to be having such fun while her husband followed Eric around like a puppy dog? Would she once again flirt with any man who appeared interested only to see Dicky yawn at the sight while he turned livid over anyone, man or woman, who came near Eric? She had never forgotten Dicky’s reaction to Tom Bradshaw…Tom Bradshaw…
Again Amy tried for a more comfortable position.
She trusted Tom as far as she could throw him and she trusted her husband, where Eric Hall was concerned, about the same distance.
Without telling anyone she had journeyed down to Bleecker Street and entered the Casa Maria as if looking for someone she knew among the diners. She found someone she knew among the help and almost fainted on the spot. Tom had not lied and Dicky had not been misled. Eric Hall was alive. And how queer that Tom Bradshaw, of all people, had discovered this fact. Yes, all things considered, queer was the perfect adjective for any situation involving Tom Bradshaw.
Dicky Culver, in his oversized single bed, wondered why Mrs. Lindenhurst had excluded him from tomorrow’s interview. He, of all people, should be present at Eric’s homecoming. And Tom, the bastard, kept insisting that Eric was his friend. Just what the hell did he mean by that? The waiter was Tom’s friend but tomorrow the waiter would become Eric Hall and as soon as Eric came to his senses he would tell Tom Bradshaw to go take a flying shit.
But suppose Eric felt indebted to Tom? So indebted that he would turn his back on Dicky in favor of Tom? No, that was impossible. Dicky and Eric went back a long way together and Tom Bradshaw was not one of us. All it would take was a little time and then everything would be just the way it had been before the accident. He couldn’t wait to get Eric on the squash court. Damn, how he had missed his friend.
Mrs. Lindenhurst had very little to do to prepare for her grandson’s return. Indeed, she had been preparing for it since the day Eric had “left.” His room, except for being scrupulously cleaned every week, remained untouched. Even the chocolate mints Eric so loved were on hand in the kitchen pantry. Tomorrow he would be with her and this house would no longer be a museum but a real home once again. Eric laughing and talking aimlessly, the telephone always ringing and every night company for cocktails and dinner.
Yes, every night, lots and lots of young people would once again fill her life. Her eyes clouded with tears as she looked up at the imposing portrait of her late husband. “He’s coming home, my love, our Eric is coming home. But that’s no surprise to us…we always knew he would come back.”
§ § § §
The couple employed by Mrs. Lindenhurst to run her home, Olga and John, had been with her for over twenty years. Naturally, when the entire family had occupied the house there were many more servants to see to their needs and wants. Tony and Erica Hall had been very social and were known for their fun parties and intimate dinners where the guest lists ran the gamut from politicos to maestros to the latest Hollywood bombshell or heartthrob. When young Eric had reached his majority he began to imitate his parents’ style so that before long the mansion became known, to the cognoscenti, as the Grand Hotel. And, like that hotel of fiction, it took a great deal of help to keep the management and guests happy.
But since the death of her husband and the tragic accident which had swept away the remainder of her family, Olga and John were all that Mrs. Lindenhurst required. The day after the accident the Grand Hotel had closed its doors, prematurely but permanently, and its vast rooms were never again to be filled with the glitter and chatter of those who lived in the limelight. Olga cooked and did some light cleaning. Her husband was butler and jack-of-all-trades which included tending the garden, polishing silver which was now never used and chauffeuring a limousine which had not left its garage in months. They were a self-sufficient little island plunked smack in the center of the largest metropolis on earth.
For almost two years Olga had tried to get her mistress to go out more or have friends in on occasion. This began when, after a respectable period of time, Olga had hinted that perhaps Mr. Eric’s clothes should be given to a worthy charity as had been done with the belongings of Eric’s father and mother and even the Ambassador’s.
“You know how he hates to have us fuss with his things, Olga, and I’m sure Mr. Eric will want to keep some of them. Why, he practically lives in that old corduroy jacket.”
After this conversation Olga immediately consulted her husband. “She’s balmy,” John announced. “It’s all been too much for her and she’s gone off the deep end. Should I call Goodwinn?”
“It might be temporary,” Olga mused, “and besides, she ain’t doing no harm. All the poor thing has is her memories and dreams, so let her keep them.”
So the loyal couple continued to indulge their mistress. “These mints are stale, Olga, and the chocolate’s melting. You know Mr. Eric likes them crisp and fresh.” So fresh mints were ordered and when they went stale and the chocolate once again began to melt they were tossed out and mints were once again placed on the shopping list.
