Cutler 02 - Secrets of the Morning

I concocted it. "We talked and talked and then he began to meet me at the school . . . to walk me home. He walked me home today."
    "How old is he?" Trisha asked and held her breath.
    "He's easily in his early thirties," I said.
    "Thirties!"
    I nodded.
    "What's his name?"
    For a moment I was stumped. My mind spun like a top passing every boy's name I had ever known.
    "Allan," I said. "Allan Higgins. But you must swear, and promise not to say a word to anyone."
    "I won't. Of course, I won't," she said, drawing her fingers across her mouth as if she were closing a zipper. "What does he look like?"
    "He's tall, six feet two or three, and he has eyes the color of almonds and dark brown hair. He has a very sensitive face, the kind of face you can look into and trust. He's very, very polite and considerate. We've had some wonderful talks while he walked with me."
    "But a man in his thirties!" Trisha shook her head. "What would he want with you?" Her eyes brightened with another outrageous thought. "He's not married, is he?"
    "He was, but his wife died after they had been married only three short years. He said he hasn't even looked at another woman until now, and the only reason he looked at me was because I reminded him of her."
    "What does he do?" Trisha asked in a breathy voice.
    "He's a business executive. I know he's doing well because he has an apartment on Park Avenue. He's invited me there," I said. "Tonight," I added.
    "Tonight! What are you going to do?" she asked.
    "I want to go, but I don't want Agnes to know where I'm going, of course. I'll tell her I have a special piano lesson and I have to go to the library to do research for a term paper. Will you help me and back me up if she asks any questions?"
    "But to go to his apartment, a man you just met and a man in his thirties!"
    "I can trust him; I know I can. He's so sweet. We're just going to listen to music and talk."
    She shook her head, astonished.
    "Was he ever at the luncheonette when you and I were there together?"
    "Yes, he was, but he didn't have the nerve to speak to me, which shows you how timid and polite he is."
    "I don't remember anyone like that," she said sadly. "Will you introduce me to him?"
    "When he's ready. Right now he's understandably reluctant to meet anyone."
    I waited to see how she would accept my story.
    "All right," she said, "I'll back you up at dinner if Agnes asks you any questions, but be careful," she warned.
    "Thank you. I knew I could trust you."
    "Over thirty," she muttered to herself. I hid my smile and turned to my homework so I would have nothing to keep me from going to Michael Sutton's,
    Even though Michael had told me to come as I was dressed, I changed into a nicer sweater, my pink one with the mother-of-pearl buttons. It had been one of the first things ray mother had bought me in preparation for my attending Bernhardt, and when I put it on now, I noticed it was tighter around my bosom. I slipped into a dark blue, pleated wool skirt and chose a pair of dark blue loafers. I wore my hair loose and down and borrowed Trisha's tiny pearl earrings.
    "Why are you so dressed tonight?" Agnes asked suspiciously. I told her I had to return to the school for a special piano lesson and there might be some people there to listen. I mentioned that I had to do some work on a term paper, too. Trisha played along by complaining about the assignments, flashing conspiratorial glances at me from time to time. I almost got caught in my lie on the way out when Agnes noticed I didn't have any books in my hands.
    "I'm just reading and gathering information at the library tonight," I told her quickly. "I'm working with another girl." She accepted my explanation and I left.
    Michael lived in a fancy apartment house. The lobby had a gold marble floor, red leather sofas and chairs, glass tables in brass frames and a long box filled with bright flowers and plants. A doorman showed me to the elevator, and my finger trembled with excitement as I pressed on Michael's door buzzer. A moment later he appeared dressed in a beautiful charcoal-gray suit made of the softest cashmere wool I had ever seen or felt.
    "Hi," he said. "Very prompt. My other guests should take lessons," he added and stepped back.
    His apartment was luxurious, from the marble entryway to the sunken living room in which he had a circular silk sofa, a large glass-top table in a black metal frame, and an enormous fireplace. The floor was covered with a deep, soft, marshmallow-white