Dan Wakefield - Starting Over - A Novel

But Amelia loved it, exclaimed over each choice on the menu, spoke of food and of Living Well. Her molasses hair was clean and shimmering.

When he took her home, she apologized for not being able to ask him in, and allowed him a swift, sweet kiss good night.

The next day he sent her yellow roses.

Potter sent Amelia more roses, which she absolutely adored , and took her to lunch at Joseph’s, which she praised for its elegance . They held hands, and pressed their cheeks together in public. When Potter came to call, Amelia’s roommates grew giggly and pink-faced, like sisters in some turn-of-the-century family who realized the new gentleman caller was a serious beau.

Potter’s feeling of enchantment and generosity toward Amelia overflowed into other areas of his life, and he made a private declaration of amnesty to all those people he was or had been mad at. He called Marva Bertelsen, mentioning nothing of their past unpleasantness, and said he had a marvelous new girlfriend he was anxious for her and Max to meet. He knew Marva wouldn’t be able to resist a close-up look at the new woman in his life, and, as he expected, she invited them to dinner. Potter was pleased, for in addition to his altruistic feelings of forgiveness, he secretly suspected that Amelia would be most impressed with his fancy friends the Bertelsens and their classy town-house on Louisburg Square.

He was right. Amelia thought the place a palace , raved about Marva’s impeccable taste, went unerringly to the most precious antique pieces with knowledgeable appreciation, and praised Max’s study as being as warm and charming as Max was himself. Potter sat back basking in her glow. He realized that one of the factors enabling him to resume friendly relations with the Bertelsens was having a new girlfriend he knew they would approve, and who made him feel safe in this or any other potentially ticklish social situation not only because she was gracious and diplomatic but because she gave Potter the sense that she was with him, would be on his side in any argument or attack, would support his own cause and protect his best interests. Potter found these qualities especially comforting since his old rival as the Bertelsens’ most available bachelor, Hartley Stanhope, was also at the dinner, with a rather mousy and colorless lady who worked as a researcher in Stanhope’s firm. Stanhope asked Potter about his teaching at “that little college of yours, I can never remember the name,” and when Amelia spoke up brightly about how fascinatin’ she thought Potter’s courses sounded, Stanhope attempted to Southern-bait her with some heavy-handed questions about Nixon administration policy on school de-segregation. Amelia parried politely by expressing pride in “how much has been done down home, even though so much more remains to be done—just as it does up heah, I understand. Though I understand your Mrs. Hicks feels things have gone too far already?”

“She’s not my Mrs. Hicks,” Stanhope grumbled.

“Nor is the recent governor of Georgia her Lester Maddox,” Potter said firmly.

Though Stanhope seemed eager to carry this on, Max deftly moved the conversation to the subject of inflation, which everyone was against but no one seemed to know how to stop. Potter and Amelia exchanged a glance of loving camaraderie across the table, and Potter recalled approvingly a friend’s definition of a successful marriage as “a conspiracy of two people against the outside world.”

Marriage?

He was surprised, and a little bit scared, to have thought of it. But it was an exciting kind of fright.

When they left, Marva pulled him aside to say how wonderful Amelia was, and how “right” she seemed for Potter. He agreed.

Amelia didn’t want to get home too late because she had to go to Church in the morning with her roommates. They all went to church together every Sunday. They were Methodists.

Potter didn’t go so far as to offer to join Amelia and her roommates for Sunday services, but he did propose something that was almost as much out of character for him. He offered to take Amelia to a concert she had mentioned Sunday afternoon at the Gardner Museum. She said she’d adore it.

The concert was some kind of quartet playing works of a minor contemporary of Bach. Potter, in a warm sort of daze, let the sound slip through his head, like distant water running. Tootly-tweetly-toot-ta-tee-toot …

My God , he thought, what am I doing?

But just then Amelia’s hand closed softly over his own, and her fingers intertwined with his, making a slight pressure, a comforting hold, and Potter let doubt slide from his mind, let himself be lulled by the music.

Tootly-tweetly-toot-ta-tee- teet …

Potter moved with cheery absent-mindedness through his class preparations, his classes, his office hours, his daily life, all of which seemed only interludes between the times with Amelia; pleasant enough interludes, but pale and one-dimensional compared to the bright, full feeling that came when he was in her company.

After one Communications class, Miss Linnett asked Potter if he was high on something.

He only laughed.

“ Wow ,” she said with envy. “I wish I had some.”

“You will,” he assured her with a wink, and waltzed away down the hall.

In much the same spirit that had made him want to make up with Marva and Max Bertelsen, he wanted to resume his friendship with Gafferty in the old, trusting way it had been before Potter started getting his fantasy hang-ups about what student the guy was fucking. There had been no open split between him and Gafferty, but it was obvious that Potter had cooled toward him, and Gafferty had not again asked for the use of his apartment. Potter didn’t care now who the guy was fucking there. In the glow of his feeling for Amelia he didn’t even mind if Gafferty was making it with Miss Korsky or Miss Linnett. He would still give them A’s.

He found Gafferty in his office, reading papers, and invited himself in. He apologized for having forgotten about letting him use the apartment, but hoped he would do so again whenever he wanted to, most any afternoon that week would be all right. Gafferty, surprised, said that was asking a lot of a man, maybe he should never have done it, but Potter insisted it was fine, what were friends for, why didn’t they go over to Jake Wirth’s and have a couple beers. Gafferty said he just had to finish reading one paper, it would only take a few minutes, why didn’t Potter just make himself at home.

“Terrific,” Potter said. “Take your time.”

He picked up a copy of the Globe , and read about an interview President Nixon had given on the Today show. The president had said that the “fundamental cause” of unrest among American youth was not due to war, poverty, or prejudice, but “a sense of insecurity that comes from the old values being torn away.…”

The old values . It reminded him of Amelia. Everything reminded him of her. Maybe the president was right. Maybe if there were more women like Amelia.…

His musings were interrupted by a hesitant tap at the door, and he looked up to see a shy, studious-looking girl whom he recognized as one of the students who worked part-time in the Administration office. She was one of those pleasant-seeming but unobtrusive people, neither fat nor thin, tall nor short, ugly nor beautiful, the sort of person of whom it is said that they blend into the woodwork.

Gafferty looked up, reddened, and said, “Ah—Miss Griffin. Do you know Mr. Potter? Miss Linda Griffin.”

“Sure, I’ve seen you in the office,” Potter said.

Miss Griffin said, “Oh, yes,” looked nervously at Gafferty, and said, “I’m sorry Mr. Gafferty, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”