Affluent and opulent were two words that only touched the surface in describing Glen Cove, a small town situated on the North Shore of Long Island, New York in an area referred to as the Gold Coast.
Upon rolling hills of breathtaking vistas of the Long Island Sound, the resort locale boasted lavish mansions ranging from ostentatious castles to English country manors. It was a town where its wealthy residents were as separated and segregated as those who worked for them. Money—old blueblood, inherited wealth of Republican stock—differentiated these select denizens from every other American who survived the Crash of ’29 and the depression. Names such as Vanderbilt, du Pont, and Loews lived on sprawling estates built during the Gilded Age, and now, the next generation had taken up residence within these imperious dwellings.
Far from their home in Brooklyn, two brothers, whose dear mother often called them “thick as thieves,” drove up on a Saturday afternoon to the gated entrance of one of these ritzy mansions. They were about to visit the home of Mr. and Mrs. Frederick Renner for a Memorial Day lawn party.
Handsome in his Army Air Forces “green and pinks” uniform, William Martel stopped his father’s 1935 Auburn Cabriolet before the towering white stone and arched wrought iron entry. He gazed up at the giant letter M staring back at him through the windshield while his older brother, Louie sat chuckling from behind his new Kodak’s lens.
“Would you put that camera away? Do you really need a photograph of someone’s grandstanding wealth?”
“Well, then drive on,” Louie replied with a mischievous grin. “Don’t tell me you’re too chicken to hobnob with the likes of Benjamin Guggenheim and John Pratt?”
“Benjamin Guggenheim went down with the Titanic, you knucklehead.”
“Whatever. You know what I meant.”
Will nervously strummed his fingers against the steering wheel; the pilot gold insignia ring his parents gave him bounced up and down. “Hardly. It takes a lot more than this kind of money to intimidate me. Tell me again how you wrangled this invitation?”
Louie, the smooth-talking, charismatic charmer couldn’t resist bragging to his conservative polar opposite. “I met this dish at that U.S.O Ranch Party I went to while on pass. What a honey and she’s a volunteer with the American Red Cross Motor Corps.”
“You’re nuts! You went to Sweetwater Valley Ranch over two months ago. You mean to tell me we wasted all this gas and rubber and you might not really have an invite to this Meercrest place? We’re here at this highfalutin estate, about to crash some tycoon’s garden party, on the off-chance that this ‘dish’ remembers you?”
Louie’s pearly white, shit-eating grin gave away his implication, particularly when he added, “Oh, I have no doubt that Miss Lillian Renner will remember me. If I do say so myself, it was quite unforgettable.”
Will chuckled, shaking his head at his brother’s never ending doll dizziness. “You wolf.”
“Yup, and she tells me she has four single sisters, three of whom are just dying to meet a flyboy like you, which is fine by me because this devil dog is spoken for.”
He adjusted his khaki service cap with meticulous pride and rightfully so. Will knew that many of those in the Marine Corps were considered the toughest men fighting this war. He was proud of his brother’s enlistment and confidence.
“What’s wrong with the fourth sister?”
Louie shrugged a shoulder. “Beats me. I wasn’t about to ask. At the time, I had silky unmentionables on my mind.”
“You’re such a jarhead.”
“Personally I like leatherneck, which is certainly more admired than you being called an airhead or vaporhead.”
“At least I’m not a numbskull. I can’t believe you’re trying to fix me up. I’m leaving for Florida soon and you want me to get rationed. No way.”
“Hey, you need a girl and a little I and I before you get behind one of those B-26 Widowmakers and crash and burn to death in Tampa Bay.”
Will reached down and shifted the gear handle. The car slowly rolled through the open gates onto the narrow driveway. “I’ll leave the intoxication and intercourse to you, Lou. I’m not looking for a girl and won’t be until I return home—if I return home.”
There. He said it. He finally admitted aloud his whole rationale for not dating—getting close meant the possible breaking of a heart. Either hers at the receiving end of a Western Union Telegram or his at the receiving end of a Dear John letter. It was bad enough he knew the B-26 bomber was considered a death sentence—but wasn’t all war, in reality, a death sentence? Will didn’t even want to think about what his brother was going to encounter when Louie arrived in the Pacific, let alone the possibility of not returning home.
“Better not let Mom hear you talk that way. I was joking about crashing and burning. We’ll both return home.” Louie slapped his brother’s shoulder. “Now, let’s focus on what’s important—we have a few rich honeys to meet.”
Loud honks and equally loud music from the car behind them interrupted the brothers from their banter-turned-serious talk. The incessant blaring of beep, beep combined with the swing sound of Tommy Dorsey’s “Keepin’ Out of Mischief Now” broke the peaceful air with its disturbing cacophony. Will looked in the rearview mirror to see the impatient noisemaker.
He noticed that the gorgeous woman in the driver’s seat of a shiny, black convertible insisted on coercing the older model car out of her way with each impatient depression of the horn.
Louie turned to look out the back window. “Hot Damn! That’s a convertible Lincoln Zephyr.”
Obviously frustrated by the slow, uncertain speed of what she probably thought a jalopy in front of her, one of the young woman’s gloved hands slammed against the horn again. The other remained gripping the steering wheel in anxious anticipation.
Beep, beep.
Will motioned with one arm out the window. “Go around,” he complained with equal frustration though his eyes remained riveted on the rear view mirror at the reflection of the woman adorned in a light green headscarf and tinted eyewear. After removing his Ray-Ban aviator sunglasses, he continued staring until the Zephyr sped past the driver’s side of the Cabriolet.
Taking up the entire expanse of the driveway, her luxury sports car caused Will to veer off into the ditch running parallel. He had just enough time to notice the woman’s pert nose, radiant smile, and beautiful profile as she raised her arm high in the air, waving to signal her thanks for getting out of her way.
Her laugh was almost taunting when she gassed the vehicle, kicking up gravel from her tires with a burst of cloudy dust. Even over the blaring swing music, Will heard the subtle pinging of rocks against the metal of his father’s car where it sat with its passenger side wheels six inches deep in mud.
The normally genteel and amiable pilot stuck his head out the window. “Thanks for burning the rubber my bomber wheels need!”
That devilish laugh of hers rang out in response.
“Holy smokes! Did you get a look at that dame? Wowza!” Louie exclaimed, obviously unconcerned that the car was now stuck. “Now, that’s one high-class woman.”
“Yeah, so high class she rudely ran us off the road. Her wealth obviously removes her from upholding gas and rubber ration constraints. If she keeps driving like that, her tires won’t last the duration. She’s not helping the war effort.”
“Don’t be such a hard-ass. Besides, gas ration was only put into place last week. You can’t expect these people to jump to it. That attitude isn’t going to win the war or get your johnson any closer to successful action either.”
Will rolled his eyes and answered his brother by getting out of the car followed by a hard slam to the door. He walked to the front end of the vehicle, motioning to Louie. “C’mon, help me get the car out of this mess.”
Thirty minutes later, the Cabriolet finally came to park at the public entrance of the estate on the opposite side of the mansion. Apparently, they had come through the private entrance and Will surmised it was the reason for Miss Hoity-toity’s frustration. Of course, that didn’t excuse her rude behavior, and he just wouldn’t let that go.
The two brothers walked along the pathway, around the sixty-thousand square foot mansion, to the gardens and lawn overlooking the Long Island Sound. The salty sea air grew stronger as they stepped onto the grassy hill, taking in the panorama before them. Both men resisted their jaws slackening in awe of the massive estate where building after building was as impressive as the vista and gardens surrounding them. All of it overlooked the deep blue water where Renner’s private yacht sat moored at the boat landing. Just beyond, U.S. Coast Guard Reserve patrol boats dotted the view of the water.
“Take a gander at this,” Louie stated in awe followed by a whistle.
“Yeah, we’re a far cry from Brooklyn.”
On one side of a fountain pond, in a small section of the estate’s one hundred acres, white tents billowed in the coastal breeze. Even a dance floor lay in the center of the field with lantern lights strung across it leading to a white gazebo where a band played.
Gentle strains of “I Don’t Want to Set the World on Fire” traveled from the wood structure, and it seemed that many of the guests matched the slow, dragging tempo. The women of society’s crème de la crème congregated on the lawn, each one wearing large hats and fashionable pale colored tea dresses. Some sat drinking tea or lemonade, as the men, clothed in summer suits, smoked or held drinks. Long tables laden with food and draped in American flag bunting sat under the tents and off to one side, a game of lawn croquet occupied some of the younger guests. The only spectators were a young woman in a high-backed, wicker wheelchair and her nurse standing at attention behind her.
Over the music, Will heard that familiar melodious—mischievous—laugh carry in the wind. It was her. He saw the woman in green raise her croquet mallet high in the air in victory, and it got under his skin. Irked, he looked down at his brother then his muddied trouser bottoms and once shined shoes. He clenched his jaw. “I think you and I stick out like sore thumbs—not to mention filthy ones at that. We’re the only GIs here. Are you sure we’re welcome?”
“Of course we’re welcome. Stop being such a stick in the mud. What’s really eating you—the dame in the Zephyr or your dirty uniform?”
“They’re one in the same.” Will sighed. “Maybe I’m more offended by the Zephyr itself. Don’t these people know there’s a war on?”
“Life goes on brother and when you’ve got it—flaunt it. Someone had to buy the few cars rolling off Ford’s assembly line before they started building bombers and tanks.”
Will resisted the urge to spit at the name “Ford” and it was a darn good thing he did.
Louie raised his arm, waving at a young woman. Will assumed it was the one and only Miss Lillian Renner, who approached up the small hill, wearing the standard issue American Red Cross Motor Corps blue-grey uniform. She was a looker—definitely a dish—and he now understood his brother’s interest.
Blonde tresses, blue eyes, and a beaming, welcoming smile greeted them. “I knew you would come! My sister Ingrid tried to convince me otherwise, but I just knew it!”
The object of Lillian’s affection was suddenly shy and uncomfortable, and Will smiled inside when he noticed his brother was shifting his weight from one foot to the other. It was obvious that Louie was smitten with this girl, and Will reveled in the fact that finally someone had unseated his brother’s womanizing bravado.
Louie kissed Lillian’s cheek. “Thank you for inviting us. It’s swell to see you, Lillian. Say, this is my brother, Will. You remember I told you about the knucklehead who wants to fly bombers?”
Lillian shook his hand. “Welcome to Meercrest. I have a few sisters who will love to make your acquaintance. The youngest is an outrageous flirt, and a pilot is right up her alley, so look out.”
Genuinely pleased to meet her, Will smiled broadly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lillian. You have a beautiful home, and the weather is just perfect to celebrate Memorial Day while enjoying the magnificence of the estate.”
She chuckled sardonically. “Yes, we couldn’t have arranged for better weather. Of course, mother probably found a way to pay Mother Nature for her cooperation, but the American Red Cross will be happy since I persuaded her to make this a fundraiser of sorts. Once I convinced Mother that all the women of Glen Cove and the yacht club are involved in the war effort, she suddenly had to do her bit.” Lillian sniggered, enjoying every opportunity to mock her parents, their lifestyle, their opinions, and their gross affluence.
“The A.R.C. does so much for the Armed Forces. I’m glad Louie and I are here to represent two branches of service. Maybe there is someone here from the Navy?”
“Nope, just you two and boy am I happy you are. All I can say is … keep your sense of humor. You may need it.”
Again, the brothers looked to one another, curious by that comment.
“Follow me. We Renners have quite a day planned. The Robertsen family from the estate next door has called for a swim match and Father is keen on beating them this year. He’s so competitive—actually all us Renners are competitive, but he’s rapacious.”
“Robertsen? As in Robertsen Aviation?” Louie asked.
“Yes, that Robertsen family. Our childhood friends Greta and Susanna, as well as Susanna’s husband, will be swimming against my father and sisters, Ingrid and Lizzy. The Princesses Luxembourg are here as well, but they won’t be joining in the match. It’s reserved for the ongoing battle between our families: railroad vs. aviation. G-d help us all.” Lillian rolled her eyes dramatically.
Will raised his eyebrows when his brother looked his way, exchanging that silent communication they did so well. They both felt out of their league even though they grew up within what most people considered the “nouveau riche,” but this world—this level of affluence—was wholly unfamiliar to them. This class of gentry was their father’s clientele. F. Scott Fitzgerald clearly understood the denizens of this upper crust of society that he wrote about in The Great Gatsby.
Unlike the affluence within the Renner circle, the Martel money was never flaunted and never spent frivolously. Moreover, it was earned and accumulated as the result of their parents’ and aunt’s hard work. They lived unassuming lives in Park Slope, Brooklyn, an area also referred to by Brooklynites as the Gold Coast. It was there that the Martels had survived the depression because the european interests of their family’s business had flourished. Now with the outbreak of war—it was the reverse. Business was booming in America. Everyone was back to work with money to burn for luxuries not placed on the ration.
With each step down the grassy knoll, Will felt more and more out of place. Discomforted when he noticed a frown on the countenance of one particular man, insecurity caused him to straighten his uniform’s tie but then he figured it was the mud on his trousers causing the disapproval. Lillian continued to chat incessantly, clearly excited by Louie’s arrival. She certainly was a talker and made no bones about conveying her patriotism and commitment to the war effort.
That torturing laugh of the hotrod hellion woman grew louder, assaulting Will like a tease. He had to admit it was enchanting and would have been quite infectious if he didn’t feel the need to chew her out for running him off the road. He fought the curiosity to look in her direction, afraid of exhibiting uncouth manners by shooting daggers into her with the severe mien upon his face.
“Lizzy, Ingrid! Come meet the Marine I told you about,” Lillian shouted across the lawn with a wave of her arm.
“Ingrid is the blonde on the left and Lizzy is the brunette. My other sisters are beside Nurse Keller. Kitty is the one in the wheelchair and the khaki wacky one is Gloria.”
Will spared a quick glance at the two other sisters, but his attention fixed upon the woman in green when she dropped her croquet mallet and approached. This “Lizzy” was the Zephyr’s driver, Lillian’s sister and Meercrest was her home.
He fully turned to watch her draw near. Her cascading chestnut curls, refusing to remain pinned in place, seemed to have a mind of their own. They blew in the gentle breeze along with the flowing, short sleeves of her floral print dress, its shade of green billowing like a metaphor of her affluence. He was sure that smile of hers stopped his heart, but he willed it back to life when he reminded himself that Miss Hoity-toity was responsible for his soiled uniform. His resuscitation failed to work as that vibrant red kisser of hers neared. Suddenly, whatever annoyance he felt toward this Lizzy had dissipated in the coastal breeze.
There was only one thing he could do—stare, and stare he did.
She laughed, and he knew he must look like a complete fool standing shell-shocked and spellbound by her beauty, wondering if she was laughing at him.
In stark captivating contrast, Lizzy walked between two blondes—her sister Ingrid and a man their age. It seemed everywhere Will looked, the elite fair-haired, fair-skinned Herrenvolk surrounded him, as though he and Louie had just stepped into a mini-Aryan world that only Hitler could appreciate. Even the young woman in the wheelchair, as well as her nurse, was blonde. Of course, all except for the servants who wore and were black, but in society such as this, the contrast only caused them to blend into the unnoticed, unseen background, dismissed because of their race.
Will chastised himself for making the Aryan race analogy, but the military’s training movies had become ingrained and second nature in his thinking.
Keenly aware of Will’s directed stare at Lizzy, Lillian leaned into Louie, butting shoulders with her Marine. “See, didn’t I tell you?”
Will heard the whisper but begrudgingly remained captivated by the vision approaching him as though floating on Zephyr’s wings. Her laughter and buoyant spirit carried her in his direction. He didn’t know what made her so light and gay, but damn him, he wanted to find out.
Ingrid, looking lovely and sophisticated with rolled hair and pale colored lips, greeted the soldiers coolly; a nod of her head was the most she was willing to offer. Her haughty, disinterested demeanor made them feel neither welcome nor respected for the uniformsthey wore. Her missing requisite victory red lipstick made the passive statement. Even her eyes failed to convey any warmth or zest for life. Her pert nose, the exact nose as Lizzy and Lillian’s was held high in the air, literally and figuratively. No three sisters could have been more opposite in spirit.
“Welcome to Meercrest. I’m Ingrid Renner. My sister mentioned you would be attending our little lawn party. I’m sure she’s very pleased you’re here.”
The woman’s voice of affluent air wasn’t melodious and certainly not pleasant. Delivered through tight lips and a thrust jaw, her accent sounded dry and flat, lacking inflection or humor when she greeted them.
Ingrid gave a pointed look to Lillian before her glance traveled down to the muddy trousers. “Why, you’re positively inches deep in mud! Whatever happened?”
Will’s eyes met and fixed upon Lizzy’s. He watched as her perfect, cherry bomb lips twitched into an impish smile when he said, “My brother and I had a slight car accident when we were run off the road by some wise guy on our way here. A real pistol behind the wheel.”
“Maybe you were in the pistol’s way and driving like a fuddy duddy. Was that old timer rumble seat slowing you down, Flyboy?” she retorted.
“Maybe I was protecting the rubber on my tires and didn’t expect to be run off the road by such an inconsiderate driver.” He raised an eyebrow. Damn, she’s perfection.
Lizzy looked directly at him with confidence but sincere contrition. “I’m sorry about that. I was running late, and any minute longer my father would have been angry. That would have been a sight to see—one I was not eager to be on the receiving end of.”
“Hmm … then it would seem you were misbehaving after all. Tommy Dorsey was a fabulous ruse.”
The playful laughter in her voice affected him when she said, “Ha! Me? Misbehave? Never.”
For a minuscule second, Will wondered if she was flirting with him.
She smiled then held out her hand for a shake. “I’m Lizzy, by the way.”
Warm hands met, and he couldn’t deny the attraction when his sweaty palms caressed her soft, self-assured, firm handshake.
“Nice to meet you, Lizzy. I’m William Martel and this is my brother, Louis.”
Louie shook her hand. “Please call me Louie.”
“Hi, Louie.” She greeted enthusiastically then turned back to face his brother. “And what can I call you? Certainly not something so formal as William? How about Billy or Willy?”
“You can call me Lieutenant Martel if that’s more to your liking.” Perhaps Pistol may be more appropriate than Lizzy.
“Well, you leave me no choice, Lieutenant. William it is.” She playfully smirked. I’ll just settle for Fuddy Duddy.
The young man who Ingrid had previously hooked arms with eagerly stepped forward, bearing a welcoming smile. He wasn’t in uniform and, given the fact that it was six months after Pearl Harbor, that was surprising since there had been an incredible surge in enlistment in one branch of service or another. Instead, he wore white slacks and a Basque sweater, both matching the brilliance of his countenance and happy manner. The brothers simultaneously wondered if his family’s wealth and War Department connections arranged for his non-service.
“I’m John Robertsen. It’s swell to make your acquaintance. Lillian told me a lot about you, Louie. Lucky devil you are to be headed into the fight.” He eagerly shook both men’s hands. “What about you, William, are you headed to the Pacific or Europe?”
“I wish I could tell you, but for the moment I’m just headed off to B-26 bomber training in Florida.”
“Uncle Sam needs men like you too, John,” Louie said.
“Unfortunately, he didn’t want me. They declared me 4F for no particular reason other than a little shortness of breath. It’s certainly not enough to keep me from fighting. I’ll be involved in this war one way or another.”
“Don’t be foolish, John. I’m sure your father went through great lengths to keep you out of this silly war,” Ingrid stated.
“That’s not true, Ingrid. Besides, it would have been for naught because I’m thinking of working at the plant out in Farmingdale where we build the P-47 Thunderbolts.”
Ingrid gasped. “You can’t be serious, darling!”
“Well … maybe … or I’ll become an Air-Raid Warden.”
Lizzy reached out, thoughtfully touching John’s forearm. “I love the idea of you volunteering as an Air-Raid Warden. You would be especially valuable to Long Island. News of that U-boat torpedoing off the shore in January scared the daylights out of me and everyone else on the North Shore. That was too close for comfort in my opinion. Some say there are Nazi saboteurs everywhere!”
Louie pulled at his collar with his index finger. “Gee, I’m sorry about the classification. Look, even Frank Sinatra is 4F, and he’s got dames falling at his feet, so don’t sweat it. Lizzy’s correct, there’s a lot you can do on the home front. I know pilots like Will would appreciate your work in the factory.”
Will nodded politely in agreement as the discussion continued, but he was oblivious to most of it, particularly the fact that Ingrid’s interest had wandered to two older men standing across the lawn, two men who stood watching the assembled group of new acquaintances.
All Will noticed was the way Lizzy’s pinky finger continually tucked a stray curl behind her ear every time it dislodged in the breeze. He grew fascinated by that unconscious motion as well as the joyful expression in her eyes as she listened attentively to the conversation. That sparkle of effervescence held him captive—a prisoner of her blithe spirit.
He resisted the urge to scoff at his previous words of not wanting to meet a girl because this girl, Lizzy the pistol, had a magical air about her. He was intrigued by her and thought very briefly that he just might be willing to risk heartbreak. Furthermore, she just might be strong enough to survive the dreaded War Department telegram. But, he knew she would give him the brush off if he tried to talk to her. A high-class dish like Lizzy Renner wouldn’t be interested in the son of a merchant.
~~*~~