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Cadence

1942

“Y ou won’t believe it,” Bess said, holding the kitchen curtain open.

I bent to look out the window, not knowing what to expect, and could hardly believe what I saw: The Putnam yacht was moored just off our shore.

“The Never Moor, ” I said, the words not quite registering.

Winnie and her friends, accompanied by a white-uniformed gentleman, climbed down a short ladder into a dinghy to come ashore.

Gram joined us at the window. “Is that your publishing ladies? Nice of them to come by.”

The ship’s horn blew, and I was afraid Bess would have the baby right there. “My God, it really is them,” Bess said, looking out over the water. “And they have Margaret,” she added in a glum tone.

The dinghy motored toward shore, with Margaret sitting at the front of it like a ship’s figurehead, hair blowing in the breeze. She wore a new jacket the color of violets, and I reminded myself she’d gone on that trip as a favor to us. If she got the job I could have had, there would be others. Would the ladies have more news about our book for the servicemen? Perhaps that would lead to something for me soon.

I plumped the living room pillows, sending dust into the air. Where was Briar? She would miss all the fun.

Gram started toward the stove. “They’ll be hungry.”

“They have a chef on board, Gram,” I said. “You can rest.”

Bess and I hurried down to the beach, quick as we could, mindful of Bess’s condition, Scout at our heels. As we descended the bluff, Margaret jumped out into the surf, carrying her shoes in one hand, and she ran up to embrace us.

“You won’t believe the time we had,” Margaret said, out of breath. “We went to Bergdorf Goodman and Bonwit Teller. And to a restaurant like a real pirate ship, where you can walk the plank.”

I congratulated Margaret, genuinely happy for her, and when she asked if she could stay over in the boathouse for the next week since her aunt was having guests, I agreed. Then Bess told her about her pregnancy, and she embraced her so sincerely that even Bess started to soften on old Margaret.

From the dinghy, Dolores waved to us, and Celia called out, “Yoo-hoo!”

The yacht’s captain—by the look of his white uniform—helped the Putnam ladies and Winnie out of the little boat. All three wore trousers, in various nautical shades. Winnie was in wide-legged navy-blue sailor’s pants, with a striped Breton top and a silk scarf to keep her hair back.

Bess pointed to the boat’s name, lettered on the stern. “ The Oxford Comma. Isn’t that perfect?”

Winnie came over to me. “We tried to radio ahead for you to meet us at the harbor but couldn’t reach anyone, so we had Captain Karl here drop anchor and bring us by.”

“I won’t even lie and say I hope we’re not intruding,” Dolores said. “Because I couldn’t wait to see this heavenly place.”

“We can’t stay long,” Winnie said. “But I thought we’d impose on you for a quick tour and then host you for dinner out on the boat.”

“I’ll die happy if I can see a beetlebung,” Celia said.

A second small boat launched from the yacht, with what looked like a staff of white-jacketed men. “It’s the bar,” Winnie said. “We brought our own glasses.”

Bess and I led them up the hill to the farm, all of them exclaiming over our little burgee flapping in the breeze atop the beach flagpole.

“The famous book-club burgee,” Celia said. “Long may she wave.”

“Army cadets called the Cape Cod Commandos work out on this beach every morning,” Bess said.

Dolores laughed. “What a glorious sight over morning coffee.”

“We’ve started having our Boston man send us down the Vineyard Gazette, just to read your column,” Celia said. “Such a lovely paper, and you’re one of the best parts of it, frankly.”

I stood, so paralyzed with happiness I could barely reply, and watched the phalanx of waiters land from the dinghy.

Winnie linked arms with me. “You look good,” she said as we walked together. She studied me as if I were a Ming vase. “Obviously in love.”

I smiled, taken aback. With whom? Major Gilbert? She was mistaken. We couldn’t even manage a kiss.

“I can always tell.” Winnie continued up the hill. “Just make sure he doesn’t keep you from Manhattan.”

“Margaret seems happy,” I said, braced to hear she’d taken a job that might have been saved for me.

Winnie pulled me close. “To be honest, that’s part of the reason we’re back so soon. Celia wanted to turn around and bring her back after the first hour on board. She can’t abide a chatterer. We told dear Margaret the issue, but it didn’t help, so Celia just stowed her in the guest room and had her secretary take her out to shop. They didn’t even get a chance to pitch the books.”

“But the telegram—”

“It seems that great minds think alike: When Celia called the Army, we heard that a fellow by the name of Ray Trautman at the Army Library had already come to them with a similar idea.”

I stopped walking. “Oh.”

“But the committee liked the authentic way it developed and wants you to be involved. We’ll fill you in after dinner.”

I wasn’t proud to think it, but I was relieved that Margaret had not taken New York by storm in my place and was thrilled I still might get a chance to go to New York, even if Mr. Trautman had beaten us to it.

As we walked, Bess told the Putnam ladies and Winnie why she had to take it slow, and they all fussed over Bess and her baby news, none of them the least bit put off by the lack of a wedding ring. We made it to the cottage and Gram came out, the screen door banging shut behind her. “Welcome to Copper Pond Farm!” she called out, a little out of breath. “Donuts in the kitchen.”

“It’s just as I pictured it,” Dolores said to Winnie, stepping back to take in the stone facade and the barn, the roof as swayed as an old mare’s back. “ Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm meets The Grapes of Wrath. ”

We all went into the house with Gram and “Chef Delon,” as they called him, a young French-trained cook who apparently wasn’t allowed a first name. Celia told the story of how she had poached him from the Grand Central Oyster Bar, where she had to bunk when her train got stuck in the tunnel during a snowstorm and the whole city closed down. Chef had been there, glumly shucking drums of the briny bivalves with the rest of les misérables, and they all ended up spending the night eating Blue Points, raiding the wine cellar, and sharing stories of their first loves. The next day, once they dug out, Celia packed them all up and took them aboard the Never Moor.

Dolores leaned in. “Chef’s terribly grateful to her now and will make anything, except chicken for some reason. The more butter the better, so just ask.”

The barmen had stayed down at the beach to set up their station and start shaking cocktails. Gram showed Chef how to make her donuts, as they waited for the canapés to heat. Captain Karl sat at the kitchen table watching it all, sipping a glass of aquavit, transfixed by Gram.

Bess, Margaret, and I gave Winnie, Celia, and Dolores a tour of the barn. “We could have a smashing party out here for the book launch,” Celia said.

“Which book?” Bess asked.

“Or should I say books?” Winnie asked.

“The ASEs, of course,” Dolores said. “At least that’s what they’re calling them. Armed Services Editions. There’s a whole committee being formed.”

“They’re working on a compromise,” Celia said. “Between the Army and Navy, who want current bestseller titles, and the publishers, who favor more serious fiction.”

Dolores held out a thin rectangle to me. “But Putnam ran a prototype of our own, on a magazine press, and here it is. We told them this title would be especially meaningful to you.”

I took the little blue book from her and read the cover. Emerson’s Essays. Tears blurred my view and I handed it to Bess, who hung her head, one hand to her face.

“This is beautiful, thank you, and so good of you to honor Tom. We’ll send it to him right away. He’ll be thrilled.”

“The Army and Navy are full speed ahead on these books,” Celia said. “They questioned Plato’s Republic being on the list, saying it was too scholarly, but didn’t want a Sad Sack comic, either.”

“Everyone’s an editor,” Dolores said.

Winnie stepped to Gram’s red cookie jar on the counter, the lid broken long ago. “They want us to choose ten titles from the cookie jar and tell them as soon as possible.”

“Let’s get down to the beach for cocktails,” Celia said. “And then back to the ship. Chef’s making lobster Newburg.”

I soaked in the joy of it all. This would be my life one day, hopefully soon, working in publishing with remarkable, smart women.

After a lovely cocktail hour, the captain ferried us all to the Never Moor, and I felt like Jay Gatsby rowing out to meet copper magnate Dan Cody’s yacht. One of the white-jacketed men took my hand and pulled me up onto the ship, and we entered the main cabin.

I was overcome by the grandeur of it, the entire interior lined in teak, with room for a small round table set for ten people; the fancy linens and silverware alone were worth more than everything in our house. Soft swing music played, piped in from somewhere, as the glorious scent of lobster wafted from Chef’s little flambé table. The alcohol was well protected on shelves along the wall above the leather-upholstered bar, the glasses held safe behind wooden slats and the crystal decanters buckled in, in case of rough seas.

“Nice ship,” Bess said, as she and Margaret came aboard.

Celia sipped her wine. “It’s my only perk. For client lunches, I practically have to eat at the Automat, or accounting calls me up ranting.”

“Just go to Coney Island,” Dolores said. “Without question the best food, and clients find it amusing.”

“Where’s your sister?” Celia asked me. “Briar, is it? Is she part of the book club?”

“Yes. But she’s not a big fan of fiction.”

“I understand.” Dolores leaned in. “Try reading ten manuscripts in a day.”

Bess poured herself an orange juice. “Not like Cadence. She used to tell her friends she was being punished, so she could stay in and read.”

Celia lit a cigarette. “They say television will be the death of reading.”

I loved that Celia made sudden pronouncements like that, throwing out literary proclamations like little cyclones, and just moved on.

We had our celebration and then chose titles from the cookie jar, which we’d brought aboard with some of the book club’s favorite titles hastily scribbled on scraps of paper. Dolores noted them on her pad. The Education of Hyman Kaplan, by Leo Rosten. C. S. Forester’s The African Queen. My favorite , The Years, by Virginia Woolf. The Good Earth, by Pearl Buck. The ladies even agreed to include The Great Gatsby, despite its lack of commercial success.

“The Council on Books in Wartime plans on printing 1,322 titles—123million books altogether—so we may need to come back for more,” Celia said with a laugh.

We thoroughly enjoyed our lobster Newburg, though I sat on tenterhooks all through it, wondering what Winnie had to tell me in the way of employment. Finally, as the evening wound down, she came to me at the ship’s railing. It was a beautiful night, the moon a waning crescent over the cottage up on the bluff. In just a few days the new moon would rise, and there’d be a different sort of ship out there, waiting for its passenger to go back to Germany. Were they out there this very minute, watching us?

Winnie came to me at the railing. “Your grandmother seems better.”

“I think so.”

“I wanted to tell you that the committee for the ASEs has offered you a position. Celia just told me this morning and thought it would be nice for me to give you the news.”

Joy swelled in me. “How wonderful.”

“You’d work for both the ASE committee and Putnam. The pay is pretty good. Enough to keep you fed and some sort of roof over your head.”

“When does it start?”

“That’s the catch,” Winnie said. “They need you right away. If you can get your things and come back with us tonight, we have a stateroom prepared for you.”

I looked to Gram, who was still having trouble breathing. How could I leave? And Bess would be having her baby before we knew it. Briar would help, but she couldn’t handle it all.

I shook my head, trying not to tear up.

A light came on up at the cottage, in the attic. And there was Peter.

Winnie followed my gaze up to the house and looked back at me. “Want to talk about it?”

“Someday. But I still can’t leave. Not right now.”

“Oh, well. It’s perfectly fine. They’ll hire some dull Vassar girl who quotes T. S. Eliot and fines Celia a nickel per profanity, and I’ll keep an eye out for the next job. Putnam hasn’t stopped pressuring me to work there, so they may wear me down someday.” She tapped her cigarette pack on the railing. “Either way, I’m not giving up on you, Cadence Smith. You’ve got the gift. A real feeling for words that can’t be taught.” She leaned in. “And I think it’s about time life paid you back.”

I swallowed hard. “Thank you, Winnie.”

“Just keep writing those columns and getting your life’s odds and ends wrapped up. Because if I join the workforce, you’re coming, too, my dear. So get ready.”

I could only nod. How good it was to have someone care.

“And whatever you do, don’t have a baby yet. There’ll be plenty of time for that once you publish your first novel.”

Winnie’s encouragement made it even harder to leave them, but we eventually made it into the dinghy and back onto terra firma. I stood there on the beach and watched the Never Moor sail off for Manhattan, along with my newly made-up stateroom and the lobster Newburg, the ship’s running lights drifting out to sea.

I would get there someday. Or die trying.