Chapter Seven, part two

That night, the Breakers’ dining room smelled of bisque and fried onions. Charlie spent most of the meal listening for Violet’s voice, though he heard it only twice. Not that that was surprising. In a group of twelve people, it was hard to get a word in. He himself didn’t speak once, at least not until Earl said, “I hope you weren’t disturbed, Violet, by having to see that vagrant outside the yacht club.”

Charlie tilted his head to hear. This had to be the same Army veteran that he and Henry had picked up.

“Oh, no. No, he seemed harmless enough.”

“All the same, I saw to it that he was run off. We can’t have riffraff like that clogging up the doorways. I asked the stewards to keep an eye out for him.”

Charlie squeezed his fork. Was Violet relieved that Earl had come so gallantly to her rescue, running off the riffraff? Well, even if she was, even if she would hate him for what he’d done, he wasn’t about to hide it.

He let his fork clink onto his plate. “Was it the man on crutches? The veteran? You don’t need to worry about seeing him again. I gave him a lift to Portsmouth.”

That brought stunned silence.

“You what?” Earl asked. “How?”

“I was out for a ride in the Breakers car. Don’t worry—I wasn’t driving myself.”
Only one person laughed, but he couldn’t tell who it was.

“You’re saying,” Earl continued—had his voice always sounded so pompous? “that you let a hobo into the Vanderbilts’ car?”

“Yes. And I gave him a lift to Portsmouth. Clearly no one was going to help him around here, and he couldn’t walk all that way.”

“Oh, good!” This was from Violet. Her words ran through Charlie like an electric charge, encouraging him to keep speaking.

“He deserved a better shake than what he got at the yacht club,” Charlie went on. “He didn’t want our pity. But he was war wounded, for God’s sake.”

“You think I treated him wrongly?” Earl asked. “He was trespassing.”

“He had nowhere to go. He thought wealthy people, who have more than enough, might extend a helping hand. What he found was the opposite.”

Someone cleared their throat. One of the ladies giggled.

“That was mighty presumptuous of you,” Earl went on. “To let a vagrant into the Vanderbilts’ car. He may have had lice!”

Charlie paused, fighting to keep his voice calm while inside he was roiling for a fight. “That man was nearly torpedoed to death in the battle to liberate Cuba from Spain. He fought for our nation, in our Army, and lost the use of one of his legs in the bargain. The fact that he’s fallen on hard times is a burden for all of us to shoulder, whether we’re Vanderbilts or not.”

He took a breath and tried to settle down. He was angry at Earl, but not at the others. “Thank you, Reggie and Flora, for the use of your family car. It was hardly any skin off anyone’s nose in this house, but it had a big impact on him, I promise you that.”

--

After supper, Charlie trailed behind the others to the grand salon, skirting walls with his finger. The grand salon was such a cavernous, echo-y room. Not his favorite. He’d heard Earl offering Violet his arm, so he guessed they were seated together. He hovered at the entrance and jumped when a female hand caught his arm.

“It’s Flora.” Her words were apple-tart with elongated vowels. With her came a halo of bourbon. “Come sit next to me?”

He could hardly do otherwise. With a nod, he took her arm and followed where she guided him, to a seat on the edge of the crowd. By the scent of cigars, Reggie was at the room’s far end.

Flora sat close enough for their knees to touch. Charlie edged back automatically, but he had to wonder—if he could see her, would he be edging forward instead? It was hell, not being able to judge people by the sight of them. And here he was, trapped on the divan next to a virtual stranger. Thank God Anna arrived and put a fresh drink in his hand.

Flora didn’t have much to say. The ice clinked in her glass. “You’re really blind, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I seem to be.”

Another voice—Cora Worth’s, nasally, high pitched, said, “You can’t see how many fingers I’m holding up? No? How about now?”

Charlie shook his head, his collar feeling tight. If this was the start of people making him dance like a monkey, he’d have to bolt.

“Cora, don’t be a bore. Charlie, tell us, are all of your other senses heightened, like they say?”

Charlie stifled a sigh. Just because he’d lost his sight didn’t mean he had the hearing of a wolf. All it meant was that he couldn’t see. “Maybe,” he said, striving to be kind. “It’s hard to tell. I certainly focus on them more than I used to, since they’re all I have to go on.” For instance, he’d detected Violet’s voice, halfway between himself and Reggie Vanderbilt. Earl was near her. He couldn’t hear Helena Voldore, but she was likely in the room. If Flora would stay quiet for a minute, he could hear what the main group was saying.

There was Blanche Worth’s voice: “Did everyone see that photo of Irene Castle and what she’s done to her hair? They call it a ‘bob.’”

Pearl Wainwright: “So snakey!”

Floyd: “My father was looking to order a new racing yacht, but they say there’s some kind of materials shortage. The steel, I guess. Too bad. He was prepared to pay a pretty penny. Lucky for you, Tibbens, or we’d be gunning for the cup this summer.”

Earl: “It’s more than a great yacht you need. It’s the crew, my boy, the crew! And you’ll never get at ours. We throw them a bash afterwards like you’ve never seen. Champagne and lobsters all around.”

Floyd: “I’d sure like a boat of my own one day, but I’ll never afford it, not until my grandfather kicks it. The old fellow’s as tightfisted as they come. There’s no point in my asking—he’ll just tell me he’s not about to squander the principal.”

Earl: “It’s fifty thousand a year to keep up a yacht. And that’s once you have it.”

Charlie listened a while longer, then gave up. Violet didn’t seem to have anything to say on the question of yachts or bobbed hair or waiting for grandparents to die. If only she were sitting closer. Or the others would move to another room. But drinks were flowing, the chatter was warm, and no one seemed inclined to go anywhere. If he couldn’t talk with her, he could at least work on their surveillance project. Besides, he didn’t want to be reminded of fathers and grandfathers. He owed his own father a telephone call. He turned to Flora.

“Is Mrs. Voldore here? I was wondering—do you know if she reads futures?”

“Oh!” she clutched his arm. “I’m so glad you brought it up. I’d been meaning to ask her. Helena! Helena! Could I trouble you to join us?” There was rustling and clinking. “What’s that you’re drinking, dearie? A Manhattan? You must try this rum cocktail. Very fruity. Charlie, will you try one? No? Sticking to your gin fizz?”

After some commotion, a third person joined them on the divan and Helena Voldore’s brawny voice said, “Thank you. Very nice.”

Flora clinked glasses with her, then he felt a knock against his own glass.

Flora spoke. “Charlie and I wanted to know, do you read palms? Or the tarot? Or—what’s that thing with the bumps on the head?”

“Phrenology,” Charlie put in.

“Yes, right, phrenology. Do you do those?”

“Palmistry, I do,” Mrs. Voldore said. “Not the others.”

Flora squealed. “I’d love to have my palm read. Only now I’m nervous. Here,” she grabbed Charlie’s right hand and pulled it across her lap. “Do Charlie’s.”

His face grew hot, and he was suddenly aware that the room had fallen silent. Everyone was looking, and there was no graceful escape. Even if he yanked back his hand and tried to leave the room, it would take him five minutes to maneuver through the maze of divans and chairs.

Helena’s hands were warm. She turned his palm-up and rested the back on a pillow between them. “Let me just get my glasses on,” she said, and now he was surprised by the gentleness of her voice.

She cupped his hand slightly and traced her finger across the palm. “Your Mount of Jupiter is pronounced,” she said. “That indicates strong leadership. Wisdom. And your head line and heart line are nearly parallel. Neither one rules the other. But your heart line is pronounced, deeply cut. You are a person who feels things profoundly.”

Flora tittered. “Does that mean he’s a Don Juan?”

“No, no. The opposite perhaps. More inclined to one strong attachment than to many. When a person with an emphatic love line finds his true love, that love flows into all aspects of his life. Financial. Emotional. Practical. It brings luck to every corner.”

Now Charlie’s face was really hot. Flora caught his arm to keep him from pulling away. “Does it tell if he’ll find true love? Can you read that?”

Mrs. Voldore chuckled softly. “Our palms tell us about our character. Our tendencies. What we do, who we meet, who we find—that’s up to us.” She folded Charlie’s hand closed. “Your life line is steady,” she said, patting his closed fist. “Good follow through.”

Charlie pulled his hand back and reached for his drink. That had been more personal than he’d expected. But pointless. What good was a strong love line if you couldn’t support a wife? Couldn’t even tell a girl she looked pretty?

“So, nothing on Charlie’s hand predicted….” Earl sounded as if he was standing. Had everyone relocated while Charlie had been distracted? Where were they all? Where was she?

“My being blind,” he supplied. At least Earl was asking the question on everyone’s mind.

“Our palms don’t spell out life events,” Mrs. Voldore said. “They describe the people we are. Because, of course, what does Mr. Tremblay’s war experience have to do with how well he can fall and stay in love?”

Someone snorted. Feet shuffled. Clearly some people agreed with him. The blind fellow never gets the girl.