McNally's Dilemma Read Free Page B

emerald green, courtesy of a custom hatmaker in Danbury, Connecticut. They cause Seigneur to look upon me with misgivings and make mother giggle.
    We dined that evening on Ursi’s caneton à l’orange served with a perfectly chilled meursault and ended with a crème caramel as smooth as velvet. Those who wonder why I have never left home have never tasted one of Ursi’s culinary endeavors.
    Mother, who would like to see me married, asked after Connie. Mother is a lovely woman whom I cherish dearly. As often happens when we cross that line between middle and old age, mother is now sometimes forgetful and her mind is apt to wander now and then. It is a trait that renders her more, not less, precious to father and me.
    Mother is what might be called “pleasingly plump” or “stylishly stout,” and I use both of those archaic but kind descriptions in their best possible connotation. She suffers from high blood pressure, which may account for her florid complexion and shortness of breath. The latter causes father and me great concern. Last, but far from least, she dotes on sweets, her garden, and her son, Archy.
    I told her Connie was working late that evening and mother opined, “Well, perhaps when she marries she can leave the employ of Lady Cynthia and enjoy life.”
    “Are you implying,” the Master asked, “that working for Lady Cynthia is less than enjoyable?”
    Lady C. is one of mon père ’s richest, if not the richest, clients.
    “I don’t think so, dear,” his wife cooed.
    Alone in my third-floor digs, I lit my first English Oval of the day, poured myself a small marc, and put Chris Connor on the phonograph. “These Foolish Things Remind Me of You.” Of whom was I reminded? Consuela Garcia, or Ginny, whose dress was “off the rack”? I honestly didn’t know. Was it my fate to be forever cast in the role of the student prince who loves the girl he’s near when he’s not near the girl he loves?
    I blew smoke rings and watched them drift toward the ceiling in slow motion. I imagined myself in tails, hand in hand with a girl in a beaded gown (Archy and Ginger?), skipping through the ethereal hoops. Ethereal, alas, is as real as my love life gets.
    I sat at my desk and dutifully recorded l’Affaire Tremaine in my journal. Recording my experiences as CEO, Office Manager, Secretary, and Mail Boy for Discreet Inquiries is a chore I adhere to faithfully and one I enjoy. My jottings this evening, and my cool dip in the Atlantic earlier, reminded me of Lolly’s remark about cold water being Vance Tremaine’s undoing. The story played out thusly.
    Vance was in New York on business—what business will soon become clear—and stopping at the Yale Club, as they say. This twenty-one-storied limestone edifice, solid as the Rock of Gibraltar, is situated most conveniently on Vanderbilt Avenue between Grand Central Station to the east and Brooks Brothers to the west. After a hard day on Wall Street, an Eli on the run can purchase a pair of cashmere socks, sip a tall Scotch and soda, and still make the seven-fifteen to Greenwich with time to spare. That the school and club are now both coed went a long way in attracting the patronage of Vance Tremaine when in the Big Apple.
    We open with Vance sitting in the football-field-size second-floor lounge, furnished with leather chairs, couches, and mahogany tables. Two fireplaces, towering windows, and oil paintings of presidents who went from Yale to the Oval Office with nary a backward glance complete the picture of a gentlemen’s club favored by New Yorker cartoonists. The bar is also on the second floor, enabling the late-afternoon crowd to amble between bar and lounge, toting their drinks and little glass bowls filled with peanuts or other tidbits.
    Having been introduced to Vance’s predilection, it will not surprise you to learn that he struck up a conversation with a charming recent Yale grad wearing a very tailored aubergine skirt, white blouse, Hermès print