CHAPTER FOURTEEN

TOUT DE SWEET

WHEN FREDDY TOLD BEATRICE TO MEET HIM at the Oak Bar on Thursday and that she was in for a surprise, she wanted to be ready on all fronts, mentionable and otherwise. She hadn’t given much thought to undergarments except in a utilitarian Land’s End sort of way. Probably not since Albert died. Had it been ten years already?

The salesgirl at Agent Provocateur had looked at her like a curiosity when she walked in. Her feathers were already a little ruffled from the frigid welcome, but when the salesgirl suggested that she might find the lingerie department at Lord & Taylor more her style, Beatrice made it clear she had no intention of wearing panties from the fifty-shades-of-beige granny section. She wasn’t going to let this buxom brunette sexpot in a lab coat intimidate her.

The salesgirl arched her eyebrow, and then smiled. Beatrice knew she’d win her over eventually. Game on.

“I have just the thing,” the young woman said, opening the mirrored drawers behind the long glass counter one by one until she found exactly what she was looking for, and draped a few barely there wisps of silk over her arm.

In the dressing room, though, Beatrice lost all her nerve. She sat on a tufted boudoir chair and counted the minutes until she could make her sortie without losing face. It didn’t feel right, she’d say. Then the curtain parted and a glass of wine appeared, conveyed by an arm tattooed with two interlocking Venus symbols. Next, a pair of patent-leather slingbacks and body glitter.

Tipsy but fortified, Beatrice emerged, wearing a short white silk robe, her legs shimmering like a bronze figurine. Twenty-five years of Jane Fonda had a silver lining.

The salesgirl adjusted the hook-and-eye closures. “You’re one hot mama.”

Beatrice thanked her. And it was true. She was still attractive, no matter what the odometer said. She didn’t feel half bad either. The Love Lava was flowing!

At the counter, the salesgirl slipped a three-pack of neon condoms gratis into the shopping bag and recommended Beatrice try the Drone, a pair of remote-control vibrating thong panties.

“Your man can pilot you from across the room at a cocktail party,” she said.

“No thanks,” Beatrice replied. “I like to be the pilot in command.”

“Take it anyway,” the salesgirl whispered. “You’ll thank me.”

* * *

Sitting at the bar in the Oak Room on a high green stool all “tarted up” waiting for Freddy (already twenty minutes late), Beatrice felt as conspicuous as a red cape in a bullring. What must the other patrons be thinking? A woman alone at a bar at four in the afternoon? She felt like some sort of specialty AARP prostitute waiting for her geriatric john.

The place looked different since the last time Beatrice had been there before the renovation. Impossibly newer. Her memories of mayhem in the dark corner booths were wiped clean with the recent renovation. The coffered wood ceiling gleamed. Never in a million years would she have guessed that the famous murals of Central Park in winter had been intended to be so vibrant, but then it was amazing what a person could get used to. Decades of smoke-laced varnish had been stripped, revealing the painting’s true colors: touches of pale blue moonlight on the Pulitzer fountain; the red lipstick of hopeful young women strolling the southern end of the park. She remembered feeling that way herself in the early days, racing across Grand Army Plaza to meet Albert on the rare weekends they spent together.

Freddy entered the Oak Bar, trailing clods of dirt from his white-knobbed shoes. Obviously he’d been golfing, or maybe mowing the lawn. He looked “faux” dapper in his checked pants and yellow pullover. The green key blazer with gold buttons, however, Beatrice found a little smug. He kissed her and rested his hand on her lower back.

“Dewar’s on the rocks,” he said to the bartender.

Beatrice winced. She almost made a comment, but let it go. Freddy should be Freddy. Albert had always complained that she was trying to improve him. Still, Dewar’s? And maybe he shouldn’t drink too much. Didn’t want her cowboy to have to pop one of those little blue pills.

“I hyperventilated on Metro-North,” he said. “The conductor was about to call the paramedics. I told him I was just lovesick.”

“Stop it, Freddy. You’re acting like a schoolgirl. Now, what’s this about a surprise?”

“You’ll know soon enough. Malcolm arranged everything.”

“Malcolm? Why did you even tell him?”

“What? Put the room on my credit card? Muriel would have a cow.”

Somehow the man in the safari suit she’d run into on the Peter Pan bus, as sweet as taffy, did not quite seem the paradigm of discretion. Well, no sense worrying now.

Freddy downed his scotch and threw some bills on the bar.

“What’s the rush?” Beatrice said. “I could stay here forever. I always think if I sit here long enough, a girl I used to know might show up.”

“You incurable romantic, Beatrice.”

“Hardly. I just feel at home in a place that’s been around the universe a few times and had its share of scandals.”

“We’ll come back for a nightcap,” he said. “I can’t wait another minute.”

The bellhop escorted them upstairs, regaling them with the history of the hotel, rattling off movie titles filmed on the premises, the famous celebrity guests. “You’ve heard the story of Cary Grant and the three English muffins?” he asked.

“Who hasn’t?” Freddy answered.

“It’s rare to meet such an aficionado as yourself,” the bellhop said. “I usually do the teen tours and all they want to hear about is Gossip Girl or if the bathroom fixtures in the Edwardian Suite really are plated with 24 karat gold.”

“I thought they were 14,” Freddy said.

“No, 24, sir.”

“I’m pretty sure they’re 14,” Freddy said. “I have a photographic memory.”

At the fifth floor, the elevator opened. A little girl and her mother stepped on. The girl was sulking.

“I’m sorry, dear,” the mother said.

“You promised,” the girl whined.

Freddy gave an exaggerated sigh.

“We’ll do it for your birthday next year,” the woman said. “I promise.”

The girl cheered up. “Can I bring my guinea pig?”

“Yes, sweetie.”

Freddy shook his head. “Little girl, they don’t allow pets at the Plaza.”

“Actually they do,” the bellhop said. “As long as they’re in cages, under twenty-five pounds, and kept on a very short leash.”

Beatrice looked at Freddy. It was tempting to make a joke at his expense. Again, she bit her tongue.

In front of room 1832, Freddy handed the bellhop five singles and ordered a bottle of champagne.

“The key, sir,” the bellhop said. “Enjoy your stay.”

Without turning on the lights, Freddy rushed her inside, pressed her against the wall in the small entry foyer, and kissed her. Now that’s progress. A far cry from the altar boy she knew at Dartmouth. She heard his belt unbuckling and the jangle of pocket change as he slipped off his trousers.

“Don’t you want to wait for the champagne?” Beatrice asked.

“Damn it,” Freddy said. “I thought I had a rubber in my jacket pocket.” He fumbled with the light switch.

The room brightened. The suite was a pink jewelry box. Above the bed, a neon sign flickered before settling into a cool pink light after the mercury vaporized. The Eloise Suite! Malcolm hadn’t arranged this; Freddy had. She felt the same tingles of anticipation she had all those years ago when the two of them had collapsed into a sea of pink in his younger sister’s Eloise-themed bedroom.

She wrapped her arms around his neck, but Freddy pulled away, reaching for his cell phone. “I need to call Malcolm.”

“Please thank him for the pink surprise,” she said. But from Freddy’s tone, it was clear he was neither pleased nor amused. In fact, he was annoyed, angry even.

He stepped into the entry hall wearing only his green blazer and boxers and closed the French doors. “What on earth were you thinking, Malcolm? Romantic? Are you out of your mind? You always were a jealous little . . .”

After he finished dressing down Malcolm, he called the concierge and asked if they could change rooms. Nope. The hotel was totally booked up. He slumped at the foot of the pink bed. So Freddy didn’t remember the first time he’d made love to her, but apparently Malcolm knew the story.

“Let’s cut our losses,” he said. “I’ll call you a car.”

“The room’s paid for,” she said, sitting next to him.

“How silly. You’re right,” Freddy softened. “You came all this way.”

“And gladly, I might add.”

“I’m very glad you did too.” He stood up. “There’s absolutely no reason not to take advantage of being in New York.” He put on his overcoat. “If I hustle I can just make the 9:45.”

“You’re leaving because you don’t have protection? I brought rubbers. What color would you like?”

Freddy didn’t seem to find the assortment of neon condoms in her hand at all amusing.

“Really, Beatrice. Look at this ridiculous room.”

“I can’t believe you’re letting something so silly, or anything, ruin the night.”

“Malcolm ruined the night.”

“You’re a big baby, Freddy. When did you turn into a stick in the mud?”

Freddy looked as if she were speaking another language. He was straddling the doorway, one foot in, the other out.

“Just go, Freddy,” she said, and he was off.

Moments later there was a knock on the door. A smiling waiter in a white jacket wheeled in a cart, a silver ice bucket, a bottle of champagne, and two flutes.

Beatrice handed him a twenty to pop the cork, then collapsed into a floral armchair. She made an attempt to turn on the flat-screen using the gold-plated remote, but could only get it to dim the crystal chandelier and adjust the thermostat. She rummaged in her bag for her Stephanie Plum novel, laughing when she came across the Drone, but the only book in her bag was that silly Love Book, a seeming force of nature which had once again insinuated itself uninvited into her tote bag. She tossed it across the zebra carpeting and searched for some other distraction, but the only thing to read in the entire place were Eloise books.

How nauseating! Then, in the stack of books, another title caught her eye: Eloise’s Guide to Life, or How to Eat, Dress, Travel, Behave, and Stay Six Forever!

Beatrice read the first page: Getting bored is not allowed.

The little kid certainly seemed to have it all together.

She drew a bath and undressed. It was only after taking off the bra from Agent Provocateur that she realized she hadn’t removed the legendary Lessons of Seduction tag. Underneath a black-and-white photograph of a woman wearing the skimpiest of white lace thongs: Leçon n°114. L’emmener jouer dans le grand bain.

Take him to play in the deep end.

If she wasn’t going to listen to The Love Book, she certainly wasn’t going to take advice from a bra, although it was admittedly a good marketing campaign.

After soaking in the marble tub, the body glitter rising to the surface like an oil slick, Beatrice wrapped herself in a pink chenille robe hanging next to a matching pint-sized one. Curious, she put on her reading glasses and read the instructions on the back of the box of the vibrating panties. Batteries not included. Of course. But a 24 karat gold–plated remote control had to be good for something.

Before falling asleep between crisp white sheets, she said to herself: I am Beatrice. I am sixty-nine years old. I’m an Oklahoma City girl. But tonight I’m staying at the Plaza.