To all the women I’ve loved, and, through no fault of their own, I’ve lost—
A novel by
Bradley Booth
This book is a work of fiction, but is based on a singular true event. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Published by:
Affluent Publishing
1040 Avenue of the Americas, 24th FL
New York, NY 10018
http://Affluent-Publishing.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.
Electronic Version
Copyright © 2010 by Bradley Booth
All Rights Reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-09822111-0-6
Copyright © 2009 by Bradley Booth
All Rights Reserved.
Library of Congress Control Number: 2008910706
ISBN: 978-0-9822111-9-9
Printed in the United States.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Acknowledgments
I LOVE THE SPRING NOW, BUT IT WASN’T ALWAYS THAT WAY. I can recall being so busy that I would go to the park with a cellular phone, laptop, and unfinished paperwork.
There I would sit with all my twentieth-century electronic gadgetry, not realizing that I was strangling life. I thought then that climbing the so-called ladder of success was the most important thing in life. But fortunately, sometimes when you’re headed in the wrong direction, as I was, people come into your life as a sort of warning, and may God have pity on your soul if you don’t heed them. I can remember my warning now, since hindsight is the best of all visions. “Be not deceived; I will not be mocked: whatsoever a man soweth, so shall he reap.”
Let me take you back to the beginning. I was a loner, not by choice, but by circumstances difficult to explain. Perhaps later I will be able to fully explain it, but for now I ask you to allow me to tell this story in my own way and at my own pace.
Since the day tragedy struck, I buried myself in work for solace and I decided that for my life to take shape. To keep from brooding over a past that I could not change, I would immerse myself in cultural activities with visits to art galleries, museums, and Broadway plays, and also develop my interest in jazz and classical music. But plans are sometimes a double-edged sword. At least they were for me.
I decided to spend an evening being entertained by the compositions of Beethoven, Haydn, Mozart, and Schubert at Avery Fisher Hall. Listening to the radio as I drove home from the office, I could never have guessed that I would set in motion events that would change my life. But I had better not get ahead of myself.
On that particular night, I dressed rather casually given the occasion, in a bluish-black checkered sports coat, a maroon merino-wool sweater, brown slacks, and my new tan alligator shoes. To round out my attire, I decided to wear my Omega Deville instead of the sportier Yacht-Master. In a good mood, I got in my car and headed to Manhattan to enjoy a night on the town, purposely arriving early enough to have sufficient time to eat.
There is an eating establishment in the hall; however, I believe everyone had the same idea to dine there before the concert, which left me to find another restaurant nearby so I could make it back in time.
The restaurant’s décor was designed to depict Italy with all its old world charm; the staff was decked out in attire reminiscent of that of a gondolier, and the tables were covered with red and white checkered table cloths. Although that bistro would never be mistaken as being pretentious, the smell of marinara sauce had my mouth watering.
The maître d’ ushered me to a table for two at the rear. From this vantage point, depending on the seat you sat in, you could either see the kitchen doors or the big column that blocked the view of the other patrons’ tables. Ah, I felt so at peace in that setting. I was exuberant with where I was seated: close to the kitchen to get the aromatic scent that drifted by when the doors swung open and sequestered off to the side so as not to be disturbed.
I ordered a virgin piña colada from an attractive young lady with long black hair tied into a side ponytail, the sort of waitress who adds charm to any restaurant. I exchanged a few pleasantries and couldn’t help noticing her lovely, petite shape when she went to get my drink. I make it a business of mine to study people—an exchange of only a few words can yield so much information about the true contents of their character. But, of course, sometimes I reach the wrong conclusion.
The maître d’, who had been so self-composed, returned soon after I had been served my drink, rubbing his hands together nervously.
“I hate to intrude, sir,” he announced, “but we are in a little bit of a jam. One of our regular patrons who usually lets us know ahead of time when a table is needed has arrived without a reservation. Would it be too much of an imposition if I were to seat her at your table?”
What to do? I thought. I could tell him that it would indeed be an imposition and refuse his request, or I could be gracious and comply. I decided on the latter.
“Sir,” he sighed, “please accept our apologies, and, for this intrusion, your meal will be on the house.”
Well, something good has come from following the Golden Rule, I told myself. But that was not the end of my reward. The valued customer who was promptly seated across from me turned out to be a very alluring woman.
She couldn’t have been more than twenty-two. Her most appealing feature was her bewitching green eyes, which seemed to look right through me. Her lips were sensuous and inviting, highlighted by an enchanting smile. She thanked me and ordered a bottle of Evian water with a slice of lemon. We introduced ourselves, and I barely caught her first name through the din of noise from the kitchen. I extended my hand and told her my name was Tony. She smiled and repeated her name, Christina. It occurred to me that this dubious “imposition” might turn out to be a very pleasant interlude.
“Are you going to see any particular show tonight, or are you just dining in the restaurant?” she asked.
There was nothing coy or flirtatious about the way she approached the conversation, so I relaxed. It seemed that if we had to dine together, she intended to make the best of it. But before I could answer, she asked another question—this one more direct and personal.
“I hope you are not going to take offense to this,” she said, “but why is a handsome man like you dining alone?”
Bursting into laughter, I began to look at this young woman in quite a different light. She was, apparently, unusually outspoken; perhaps I had been wrong in my assessment that she wasn’t being coquettish. I decided to respond in kind.
“I could say the same of you,” I countered. “Why is such a beautiful young woman sitting in a restaurant with a total stranger?”
I detected a look of sadness in her eyes when I said that, but the waitress came with our food and the expression faded. I decided not to pursue the matter, although, I must confess, it made me curious.
“Actually,” I said, sensing that I needed to uplift her spirits, “I’m going to the concert at Avery Fisher Hall.”
She smiled. “I heard that it is sold out. I believe they’re presenting the works of Schubert, Beethoven, Haydn, and Mozart.”
“Are you interested in classical music?”
“I dabble in it from time to time,” she told me.
Then, suddenly, our conversation took a more intimate path. Christina confided in me that she had lived a very sheltered life with parents who had forced her to devote most of her time to her studies.
“My father is really the stricter of the two,” she told me. “I wasn’t allowed to have many friends. They required my total dedication to my schoolwork. The friends I did make found me strange, I think. They teased me about being a wet blanket, since I did not share their love for mischief...”
Never before had a stranger provided me with such insight about her life in so short a time. And it was not just because she was passionate; certainly she was that, but every word she spoke struck a chord in me, perhaps since I also knew what it felt like to be hopelessly unhappy.
The hint of sadness resurfaced as she spoke, and I sensed a longing in her to be understood, even if only by a stranger whom she would never see again. I kept quiet and let her continue.
When dinner was over, I insisted on paying her check. It was then, when we both rose to leave, that she began to act strangely, as if she wanted to say something more or reach out to me. Her face was flushed, and she turned away dispirited, perhaps sensing the intensity of the conversation she had just had with a stranger.
I tried to brush it off, believing that having confided in me must have embarrassed her. But why feel embarrassed? After all, we would never see each other again. But strangely enough, when she left, I felt as though she was taking a part of me with her. Dismissing it as total nonsense, I watched her round the corner.
Checking my watch and noting that I only had ten minutes before the ringing of the bells, I thanked the maître d’ for his auspicious intrusion and bolted out the door.
Avery Fisher Hall is a prestigious place. Here you find the movers and shakers of the world, as well as the pretenders. And then there are people like myself who just want to enjoy the music. I arrived just as the bells began to peal and made my way to the prime orchestra seats.
The maestro tapped on his stand and the orchestra came to attention. All eyes focused on the conductor. He lifted his wand and then lowered it; the orchestra began to play Schubert’s Overture Italian Style in D, a piece that, according to the program, he had written to show up the composer Rossini.
It is said that music has the power to sooth the savage breast, and that night I understood this as never before. I was so engrossed in the beauty of the sound that it came as a sudden shock when I realized that the first violinist looked familiar. Could it be? Certainly, it looked like Christina. According to my program, she was Christina Jaloqua, a world-renowned violinist, once a child prodigy and now considered one of the world’s masters.
Mixed emotions rose within me. Joy at the way this young woman could play, and astonishment that earlier I had shared a table with someone of such prominence. At that moment, I realized she was looking directly at me. Our eyes met for only a split second and my body shivered, but anger was the cause of it, I’m sure; she had said that she “dabbled” in music from time to time. Dabbled!
Why had this lovely lady been sitting in a restaurant talking to me, a total stranger—and why had she not felt the need to tell me who she was?
Lost in these musings, I didn’t realize that the piece had ended until I heard the audience clapping. The maestro took a bow and pointed his wand at Christina, whereupon the audience applauded louder. He left for a few minutes while the stagehands pushed a grand piano in front of the orchestra. When he returned, he extended his hand toward Christina. This time she rose to even more boisterous applause, and I could see her more clearly. Dressed in an elegant black gown, she was even more radiant than she had been in the restaurant.
The applause subsided, the maestro again tapped on his stand, and the orchestra came to attention. The second selection was about to start: Beethoven’s Piano Concerto No. 4 in G. As the pianist began, I imagined a child lost in the wilderness, calling out for someone to respond, which the rest of the troupe did eloquently. Again the pianist played and waited for the troupe to answer. This exchange mesmerized the audience and me. I smiled; the evening was more than living up to my expectations.
The pianist, another internationally known figure, received a standing ovation when he had finished. The stagehands started removing the piano as the bell sounded for intermission.
This time I had an opportunity to look around the lobby. There was a concession stand in the middle where concertgoers could buy books about famous classical artists. Next to the booth where I had purchased my ticket were programs for upcoming events; I stopped there for a few minutes to peruse the schedule for the rest of the year before going to the bar where they were serving wine, champagne, and soft drinks. The crush of people reminded me of feeding time at the zoo. Not able to get closer, I had just decided to venture back upstairs when my pager went off. I reached in my pocket and realized that in my haste I had left my phone in the car.
The usher pointed out the phones and I dialed the strange number, only to discover it was an old friend, Jackie, calling to say hello. I hadn’t heard from her in quite some time and wondered if she realized why I had distanced myself from her. I was trying to think of a way to rush her off the phone when someone tapped me on the shoulder.
It was the same usher who had led me to the phones. He looked around curiously then handed me an envelope. I hesitated before taking it as Jackie screamed out my name. I told her to hold on and turned to ask the usher what this was all about, but he was gone. I didn’t know which disgusted me more: the fact that I couldn’t find him or that I would have to call Jackie back.
I decided to open the envelope, although I was convinced that it must have been meant for someone else. On top of this distraction, which had me anxious and nervous, the bells indicating that the concert was about to resume began to peal. I ripped open the envelope and quickly read the note, only to be pleasantly surprised by its contents.
Tony,
Please do not be angry with me for not telling you who I was. You treated me like a normal person, and I cannot begin to tell you what your little act of kindness meant. I would like the opportunity to talk with you again. I am enclosing my number. I would be very happy if I could see you again.
Christina
Receiving a letter like that made me very happy indeed, but it also filled me with trepidation. After all, her world was different from the quietness and anonymity of mine. Tabloid and fan magazines chronicled her every movement, which meant that anyone entering her life would be put under the media’s scrutiny. It occurred to me that, since we had dined together, it might already have begun. I began thinking of all the worst scenarios for tomorrow’s headlines: “Mysterious Stranger Dines with Christina Jaloqua... The Marriage of Figaro?”
Coming to the conclusion that my problem was no real problem at all, since I simply need not call her, I headed back upstairs to enjoy the concert, pleased with myself for coming up with a quick solution.
Taking my seat, I started reading the program. This time it stated that a famous cellist, Boris something-or-other, would be making his orchestral debut. A tall man in his mid-thirties, with long, curly black hair and a well-groomed moustache, took his seat directly in front of the violin players with the other cellist, ready to begin Haydn’s Cello Concerto in C. Taking his cue from the maestro, he started playing, and a melodic sound permeated the hall.
It was turning out to be a wonderful evening. While waiting for the last piece to be played, I pondered my decision not to call Christina. After all, there might be a way to make her acquaintance and still maintain my love for privacy. Finally, deciding that my original decision was the best course of action, I prepared to listen to the last selection, Mozart’s Symphony No. 38 in D.
As the violinists began to play, I focused most of my attention on Christina. Watching that delicate flower rest her face gently on the violin, I started imagining how wonderful it would be to one day sit at her feet, marveling at the way she played.
When the last selection came to an end, everyone rose to his or her feet and gave the orchestra another boisterous ovation, which lasted several minutes. When the maestro came back the final time, he handed a bouquet of roses to Christina, whose smile ignited the audience again. This time the applause reached a crescendo that was ear shattering.
People lingered when it was over, as though they could not bear for the evening to come to an end. I did likewise, recalling with pleasure all the events of the past few hours.
Christina’s note still bothered me. It was an odd thing for her to do. No, I thought to myself, no response would be the most prudent course of action. I simply couldn’t let another woman be of any importance in my life again.
I WAS A MARKETING CONSULTANT LIVING A VERY ORDINARY life at that time. I had become a creature of habit, and prided myself on my emotional stability. I got to my office by eight every morning. I arrived before my secretary so that I could have an hour to unwind by playing works of the great composers, such as Vivaldi, Bach, Strauss, or Mendelssohn, music that I have always found uplifting. My secretary, on the other hand, preferred listening to golden oldies. We had a longstanding agreement not to try to convert the other to our particular taste, although, if the truth were known, I sometimes found myself listening to her favorite radio station.
Mrs. Bickerstaff had been in my employment for about five years. I had placed an ad in the Times and a slew of women showed up, most of them sadly lacking in qualifications. I was wearily concluding an interview with yet another applicant who clearly would not do, and I found that everyone except the lady I came to know as Maggie had left the outer office. It transpired that she had taken the vacant secretary’s desk and told the remaining applicants that the position had been filled. Handing me her résumé, she went about straightening up my waiting room, while I, dumbfounded by her audacity, went into my office and pored over her résumé in an attempt to find some reason not to hire her. I am, after all, a man who has his own ways, and I had no intention of being manipulated. This was, I fear, how I saw it at the time. However, no matter how hard I searched, there was no doubt that she was ideally suited for the job.
“That was a bold move on your part,” I said, calling her into my office. “Suppose I would have taken offense?”
“It would have been a great loss,” she said, simply enough.
And of course she was right. It would have been foolish of me to lose her, this I knew. Fortunately for me, so did she.
An intimidating figure, although only five feet tall, Mrs. Bickerstaff had short, reddish-brown hair with a smidgen of silver protruding at the front, and wore old-fashioned glasses that, most of the time, dangled from her neck on a gold chain. A former executive assistant for a Wall Street broker, she had left her job to care for an ailing husband. Now widowed, she was adamant that she would never return to that stressful environment. Her professional demeanor and perfect diction gave my office a large degree of respectability.
Maggie has been my confidant and my best friend for five years now. She is still full of fire and brimstone but possesses a most loving touch. She has gone head-to-head with me on numerous occasions, one of which immediately comes to mind.
“You simply cannot keep up this pace,” she told me the day after the concert when she discovered that I intended to stay in the office until midnight, if necessary, in order to make up for the work time lost during that evening of pleasure. “You know what you need?”
“No, but I am sure you will tell me.”
“You need to find someone to settle down with, someone who will help you take a much needed rest from work.”
“They stopped making your model a long time ago, Maggie,” I told her. “Besides, who could put up with a workaholic like me? How many times must we go through this?”
“Why push yourself so hard?” she demanded.
“Because I have nothing else in life,” I told her, “but my work. I didn’t plan on anything else.”
“One does not plan love,” she admonished me. “It has a way of coming at the most inopportune time.”
Self-assured, I told her not to worry. I was, after all, far too busy to fall in love.
If only I had taken her warning more seriously.
The week was going well. I was trying to close a big deal with a well-known company. Several larger and more prestigious advertising firms were bidding against me, but what gave me the edge was our personal service. Maggie and I have an eye for details, and we constantly double-check each other to ensure that, when I make my presentation, everything is accurate. More important, she concentrates on their personal lives: their likes and dislikes and the clubs that they frequent most. Armed with this information, we go to work to ensure that I am able to meet these clients on their home turf. Pooling resources with other executive assistants, she knows where their bosses will be, giving me the opportunity to be there as well. I have closed more deals on golf courses, at tennis matches, or over lunch at some exclusive club, than I care to remember.
Let me give you an example of her Machiavellian manner. Last month she discovered that a particular client always plays a round of golf on Wednesdays. John, a rugged man with features more resembling those of a lumberjack than a suave businessman, was very competitive. I had purposely fallen behind on the front nine while he teased me about my game.
Although we talked about a wide variety of subjects, I was determined not to bring up business unless he did. When he asked, I explained that even though mine was a small and growing company, we have found our niche by offering personalized service. We decided to take a break and finish our discussion over lunch. He then felt compelled to give me some pointers on how I could improve my game.
After lunch, the game turned decisively in my favor. It is amazing how a man’s disposition can change when his shots are not falling. I began to reveal the full compliment of my game and stood in awe of the debacle that unraveled before my eyes. John’s ire grew with each missed shot and he began to mumble profanities.
John snatched his clubs and threw them into the lake when I birdied the final hole. I quietly withdrew as he stood frozen, staring into the lake. Part of me admired how he played with zeal, while part of me wondered if I could ever get that passionate about anything again.
I filled Maggie in on what transpired on the golf course and told her that she couldn’t have picked a better site for me to see John. I was so sure that we wouldn’t be venturing into business together when she told me he was on the other line.
“I can’t remember when I’ve been outfoxed and outclassed like that,” he told me. “You put one over on me, coasting the way you did. And after you hooked me, reeling me in—you showed your real game on the back nine. I felt like a fool going into the lake to retrieve my clubs.”
I maintained my innocence and told John that it’s that obsession for winning that has guided his company to the success it now enjoys. He started laughing and told me that he would not underestimate me again.
We cemented the deal on Friday, at which time he lavishly praised Maggie. Jokingly, he told her if she ever became tired of working for me, he would be glad to have her on his team. Whereupon, being the consummate professional, she assured him that she was quite happy where she was.
The only problem working with someone with Maggie’s perspicaciousness is that she misses nothing, absolutely nothing, and I had made the mistake of telling her about Christina.
“You don’t have any excuse not to call that young lady from the concert,” she reminded me a week later. “She must be wondering why you haven’t called. Don’t tell me you haven’t been thinking about it. I’ve noticed that you have been doodling her name all over your notepads.”
Before I could open my mouth to utter a word in my defense, she continued. “It is no good trying to deny it,” she said. “You can bluff others with your straight face, but I have worked with you for over five years now and I know you better than you know yourself.”
There is an eerie silence that pervades a building when all of its occupants have gone home. One could usually find me at my desk on Friday nights, recapping the week that had just passed and planning the next week’s objectives. I opened my planner and there was a note in which Maggie congratulated me on the closing of another deal, along with these words of wisdom:
We do not always look for love,
Yet love finds us.
We believe it is our right to choose,
Never realizing we were chosen.
She was right, of course. Love had found me. I had carried that envelope with Christina’s note for over a week, taking it out whenever I had a quiet moment. Reading it one more time, I decided I would make that call.
Nervously, I began dialing... only to stop halfway through and put the phone down. It was difficult to believe that a man who had outmaneuvered a CEO to land a big contract for his company would be here with butterflies knotting up his stomach, trying to make a simple call. Disgusted with myself, I tried to make the call several more times, always with the same result.
I was glad that Maggie was not there to see me, because then she would know that I cared more than I was letting on. Determined not to be deterred, I picked up the phone and dialed the entire number.
Christina was direct, as usual. “I am glad that you called tonight,” she told me. “We’re having a few close friends over. I would be happy if you came.”
“I was really looking forward to going home and unwinding,” I told her. “It’s been a very hectic week.”
She persisted with a tenaciousness that would have made Maggie proud. I offered an array of excuses, from having to fight traffic to get a change of clothing, to feeling out of place. Her pertinacity was unbelievable and before I knew it, I had consented to join in the festivities.
What is this strange power she has over me? I asked myself as I turned off the lights, at the same time becoming aware of my renewed enthusiasm and vigor.
It is usually a forty-five minute drive from my Madison Avenue office to my home in Lynbrook. Unlike my other associates, who had chosen to live in Manhattan, I had opted to leave the bustle of city life for a town with shopping centers and a nearby park with a clean pond. At night the park is illuminated, and one can sit there and think, undisturbed.
Most of them had queried if I was getting old and had wondered how I could leave the nightlife behind. Ironically, five years later, all of them have followed suit, though they may have done it for different reasons, since all are either married with children or engaged.
I had chosen a simple, single-family home made of brick and vinyl siding, with an attached garage. Arriving home, I opened the garage from the car and drove inside, wanting nothing more than to flop down on the couch and go to sleep but knowing that I had better not, since I had given Christina my word.
I turned on the stereo and was about to go upstairs, when my Abyssinian cat nudged my leg. As I poured milk into her bowl, I couldn’t help but recall how she came into my world. Shortly after moving and getting everything squared away, I had been alone one night listening to music as I reviewed some reports on my computer. A habit of mine back then was to have the television running while I worked in my den. As I worked through the night, a commercial ran several times about cats that were being offered in Port Washington, Long Island.
I decided that was what my home needed: someone quiet to share my world. Two weeks later I found myself in a dreary brick building crammed with people obviously there for the same reason. That day everyone seemed intent on getting a Persian or Siamese cat.
“Those cats are the favorite pets of prominent figures and nobility,” the attendant, a young woman in a white smock, explained. “I will be glad to put you on the list for either.”
Demurring, I began peering into every cage until I was irresistibly drawn to a pair of almond-shaped green eyes—and thus I met Lady, who was to become an important part of what could otherwise have been a lonely life.
LEAVING LADY TO ENJOY THE MILK, I HEADED UPSTAIRS TO shower and shave. Wrapping a towel around my waist, I went back to the bedroom to dry myself, taking a few minutes to admire my washboard stomach. Reaching the conclusion that my medium build would prevent me from ever resembling Arnold Schwarzenegger, I had long since decided to work on a perfect midsection.
I was undecided on what to wear to Christina’s informal gathering but settled on a charcoal-gray sports coat with a silk handkerchief, a white merinowool sweater, blue trousers, and tan Italian loafers. The only thing left to do was to spray on some Fahrenheit and see, as Steve Cole’s song suggests, “Where the Night Begins.”
Arriving at the Waldorf, I elected to go through the Astoria entrance. Nothing could have prepared me for the lovely setting which the lobby presented with its glittering chandeliers, Rockwood stone columns, and the most magnificent bronze and mahogany clock I had ever seen. Definitely impressed, I went to the front desk and gave my name. As the clerk looked down the list, I saw that what was supposed to be a small party had apparently ballooned to over one hundred people.
Great! I’d been hoodwinked again, and I had no intention of going up there and feeling out of place. I would have made it out the door and gotten clean away if it hadn’t been for Helen Fosdrick, a social wannabe who seemed to be at every event in Manhattan. She was a middle-aged blond with a raspy voice who tried to hide her considerable weight with loose-fitting gowns.
How her husband Harry—a likeable chap with grayish-black hair, cold, piercing eyes, and a jaw of granite—had managed to stay married to her for so long was still a mystery to me.
I saw Helen first and tried to duck behind one of those Rockwood columns, but it was no good—she had seen me already.
“Yoo-hoo, Tony,” she called. “Yoo-hoo!”
“Hi, Helen,” I said, not wanting her to think I was avoiding her. “Is Harry with you?”
“He is outside talking with the valet,” she said cheerfully. “You know how he is about that car of his.”
Harry’s pride and joy was his blue and gray Bentley, which, as I often tease him, he treats better than he does Helen.
When Harry appeared, he enveloped me in a bear hug. One thing I have always admired about him is the fact that he is so down-to-earth.
“Son,” he had told me one day when we had been out sailing, “You can always spot a poor man, because he is trying to impress you with what he doesn’t have. His house is mortgaged to the hilt, and his credit cards are all maxed out from trying to keep up with the Joneses who aren’t even aware of his existence.”
“Son, what are you doing here?” he asked as he released me. “I’ve never known you to be out on a Friday night. You’re usually in the dang office playing with that computer.”
“Harry,” I said in a low voice, while Helen tried to comfort the wife of a drunk who had sought refuge in an elevator, “help me to get out of here.”
“What’s your rush?”
Before I could finish, Harry cut me off.
“So you were invited by the young gal that plays the fiddle,” he said, slapping me on the back. “Good. You can keep me company since... Helen, will you leave that poor woman alone? How many times must I tell you to stop meddling in other people’s affairs?” Harry demanded, as we made our way to the Palm Room.
Christina stood by the entrance, greeting her guests and wearing a clinging black evening dress with a split that revealed her lower thigh.
It wasn’t long before we were face-to-face, staring at each other. Her eyelashes stood up as if at attention. Above her eyelids, I could see traces of a soft reddish color that complimented the rouge on her face, and below her eyebrows was a faint green, matching the color of her eyes. Her lips were sensuous, more inviting... the color of a delicate rose. Those sultry and bewitching eyes were drawing me in again. Her face glowed. Her very presence radiated throughout the... Stunned by her beauty, I found that I could not speak. I could have stood there gazing upon her forever.
“Darling,” Christina cried, taking my arm and pressing herself close to me, “I am so glad you could make it.”
I was a bit bewildered, particularly since Harry was looking at me with raised eyebrows; but then again, this woman was part of the show business world in a way, and everyone knew how effusive they were, even with relative strangers.
What to answer? I thought to myself, as the cameras flashed in my face. Why had I accepted her invitation? My worst fears were suddenly upon me. Harry and Helen on my heels, I reluctantly took Christina’s arm as we entered the Palm Room.
A tremendous round of applause greeted us when we entered the lavishly embellished room. Everyone who greeted us, oddly enough, expressed how happy they were for her and congratulated me.
I thought, perhaps vainly, they had mistaken me for a celebrity. Christina held on tighter to my arm as she waved to the crowd. Before I could ask her why they were applauding, she had led me to the dance floor.
It had been so long since I was locked in a woman’s embrace. Was it her perfume or how tightly she held me? My palms started sweating and a tingling sensation traveled through me.
“You are not leaving now, are you?” she demanded when I tried to step aside at the conclusion of the song.
“No,” I said, thinking quickly. “The room has become warm all of a sudden, and I think we both could use a drink.”
“Congratulations, son,” Harry said, slapping me on the back at the bar. “Why didn’t you tell your old friend that you were dating Christina? You had us all fooled. You made it sound like work was the only thing you had time for. Helen really thought... ”
“What the—what are you talking about?” I exclaimed. “Whose coming-out party is this?”
“The fiddle is not the only thing that the young lady can play, son. While you danced with her, Christina’s agent told us this would be a joyous occasion and that shortly she would be showing off her beau. Imagine my surprise when I saw the way she clung to you on the dance floor.”
“What in God’s name are you talking about, Harry?” I demanded.
“Son,” he told me, “I hate to say it, but it looks like you were set up from the word go.”
“What possible reason could she have for doing this? I hardly know the woman. We briefly shared a meal at a restaurant, and when I called her earlier today she extended me an invitation to this small, informal gathering.”
My mind was having a hard time grasping those seemingly unrelated events. I needed to escape, get to my car and sort this out. I kept looking at Harry for answers.
“Don’t you think you’re asking the wrong person?” Harry asked me. “I agree with you, it doesn’t make sense, but you can call this party anything except small.”
“I have had enough of this!” I exploded. “Why is she using me? I am getting out of here now! Let her clean up the mess she created. This is what I get for almost falling for a pretty face.”
I was about to turn and leave when Helen appeared, her face flush with excitement.
“Tony! Tony!” she cried, edging in between us. “Why didn’t you tell me? Imagine—your and Christina’s coming-out party. You could have at least told me. How long has this been going on?”
“Helen—Helen.”
“You sure are a cool one. But you’re getting a wonderful girl. She is so incredibly talented. Everyone knows that Christina... ”
“Helen, leave him alone,” Harry interrupted. “Tony has to tend to some unfinished business.”
Turning from them, I headed toward Christina, intent on setting the record straight. I was halfway there when Harry yelled, “...hard a starboard, son—hard!”
I ducked just in time. Returning the blow, I connected with the chin of the drunk we had seen in the elevator earlier. The room erupted in bedlam.
“Now this shindig is getting exciting!” I heard Harry shout.
Suddenly, three men were attacking him from the right, while I was occupied with two on my left, and then Helen was in the middle of things, hitting Harry’s attacker with the heel of her shoe.
Total chaos ensued on the floor of the Palm Room and someone shouted, “Call the police!”
I saw a clear path to the elevator and yelled out to Harry and Helen to follow me. Helen quickly asked for Harry’s phone and let out an earsplitting scream. She told someone at the front desk that Harry had been attacked by a drunk and demanded that my car be brought to the front of the hotel immediately. Harry wondered about his car, but she told him not to worry, since the most important thing just then was to get me out of there.
At their Park Avenue apartment, Harry got the fire started while Helen fixed us something to eat. I couldn’t believe what had just happened. If it wasn’t for Helen’s quick thinking, what a mess I would have been in. I could imagine tomorrow’s headline: “Businessman Brawls over Debutante.”
“Harry, I always wondered why you stayed married to Helen. I guess that tonight I got my answer. You should be commended on your choice of wife. I hope that one day I am so fortunate.”
He smiled and pointed toward the kitchen. “Then you better go and thank her, for she chose me. I’d be lost without her, even though I kid her a lot. She means the world to me.”
“Helen, I want to thank you for your quick thinking tonight,” I told her. “I confess that I had you all wrong. I only hope that someday I am as fortunate as Harry.”
“Go on, Tony,” she said, flicking a dishcloth at me. “You don’t know what you have gotten yourself into. But let me finish in here. I will be out shortly.”
I went back into the living room where Harry was pushing the poker into the fire. I wondered what Helen was talking about. I didn’t do anything. Why was Christina acting so strangely? Why give the impression that we were more than strangers? I hoped it would all blow over and that no damage had been done.
“Son, are you sure...?”
“Excuse me?”
“You didn’t do anything else with that young gal, did you?”
“I am absolutely... ”
“Tony, don’t think you’re innocent in all of this!” Helen interrupted, as she passed me a plate.
“But what did I do?” I said, curious about Helen’s remark. “We briefly shared a table before her concert.”
“Sometimes that’s all a woman needs to fall in love,” she told me. “Don’t underestimate the power of your charm, young man. A woman doesn’t need a man just to jump on her pelvic bone from time to time.”
“She doesn’t? Now that’s news to me.”
“Tony! Will you be serious!”
Harry and I began laughing.
“So you find it funny, too.” She threw a napkin at him. “Never mind. I am not saying another word.”
“I’m sorry, dear. But this is a serious matter for Tony. All of this is apt to be plastered all over the tabloids tomorrow.”
“I’m serious,” Helen assured him. “A woman wants a man to listen to her, to console her, to let her know that her needs are above everything in this world, to shower her with words of affection, adoration, and endearment, and back that up with loving deeds. But when you do that, you’d better make sure you care about her, because you’ll not only have unlocked the key to her heart, but to her body as well.”
“Son,” Harry said, “even though I’ve been laughing with you, an old phrase comes to mind. If you’re going to play with fire, expect to get burned. You have lit that young woman’s pilot light, so what are you going to do now?”
“Nothing! Are you two forgetting what happened tonight?”
Before going to bed, Helen told me that when she first met Harry, he had been engaged to another woman, a woman whom his family thought would be fitting for the business empire he would eventually inherit. She smiled as she related seeing him for the first time. It had been his first day out of college, and he had been walking through his father’s plant. She had felt uneasy whenever he had been around and hadn’t taken notice of the fact that he would always stop and say hi before going to his father’s office until one of the girls had pointed it out.
Helen said she had become the butt of everyone’s jokes for sitting in the park opposite the building. She had been known as a wallflower who lost track of time by reading romance novels on her lunch hour. One day Harry had snuck up behind her. He had covered her eyes and told her to “Guess who.” She had known it was him, she sighed, by the scent of his cologne. They had started talking and naturally she lost track of time. When she realized it, she had jumped up and ran inside, unaware that Harry had been behind her.
Helen’s supervisor yelled out her name and Helen had closed her eyes for a severe tongue-lashing, but it had never come. She had opened her eyes to find the supervisor’s mouth wide open and Harry standing behind her, smiling.
“Harry didn’t know what he started that day, but he released passions in me,” Helen concluded. “My days were consumed by thoughts of him, and even though I knew he was to marry another, it made no difference.”
Helen went on to point out that a woman could be just as conniving, resourceful, and cunning as me on one of my business deals when going after what she wanted.
“I vowed to be his wife,” she said emphatically, “and nothing he or anyone else did was going to prevent me from living out my dream.”
“But, Helen,” I protested, “that was you and Harry. Christina couldn’t possibly feel that way about me.”
“Then you have a lot to learn,” she said, kissing me gently on the cheek. “I hope you are prepared to handle the fire you have lit.”
I wanted to go home, but how could anyone refuse Helen’s hospitality? Besides, there was another reason. Looking back on it now, I realize how silly I was. I couldn’t shake the feeling that tabloid photographers lurked around every corner and that, somehow, I would be safer and better off staying with Harry and Helen.
Even though Helen had prepared the guest room, I fell asleep in front of the television waiting for news of the night’s fight. Harry woke me up early the next morning and invited me to jog with him through Central Park.
“Tony, this is far more serious than you think. A determined woman will do everything in her power to have what she wants.”
“Harry,” I said, “you and Helen are making a big deal over nothing.”
“Then why didn’t you go home?” Harry asked as he trotted over to a bench. “I know Helen’s persistence and I know your determination.”
I didn’t know how to answer him. What could I say to make him believe otherwise? I was confused about last night and wished more than ever that the two of them would just drop the subject.
“I can’t begin to tell you all the things Helen did to win me over,” Harry told me in earnest. “All I know is that every time I turned around, she was there. I wonder if you’ve really given any thought to the gravity of the situation you now find yourself in.”
What was he trying to tell me? Could a simple dinner conversation have led to all this? I decided to defer to his experience and felt it best to remain quiet and listen.
“You’re a proud and obstinate man who loves the challenge of competition,” he continued. “I must warn you, though, that if you try to be as cunning as a woman at her game of love, you most certainly will lose.”
I became intrigued by Harry’s theory. He may have lost with Helen, I thought, but I’m never going to see Christina again.
“Shucks, son, they don’t play fair, and given their emotional temperament, they think of things that the logical minds of men cannot. Greater men, with far superior minds than ours, have attempted to understand them and failed. That is one of the great mysteries of the world that God probably never will allow man to solve.”
I listened to him as a child would to his father. When he finished speaking, I had only one question: “Harry, what if I choose to ignore everything that has happened?”
“Son,” he simply answered, “I am afraid that you are in for a rude awakening.”
We were on our way back to the apartment when we saw Helen waving frantically from the balcony.
“It seems that all hell broke loose after we left!” she said, as we came through the door. “The police detained a lot of prominent citizens, since the Waldorf’s security was unable to stop the fracas. No one was arrested, though. And no one knew who started the fight. The media has gotten wind of the story, and now the faces of some of New York’s outstanding citizens are gracing the front and back pages of every tabloid in town. So, my dear, we got out in the nick of time, with no bad publicity to look forward to.”
“The drunk may have started the fight,” I said, “but all the blame lies with me. I made two idiotic mistakes.”
“What are you talking about?” Harry demanded. “Didn’t you hear what Helen just said? Her quick thinking saved us from all that bad press.”
“Don’t the two of you see? I should have never agreed to let her dine with me, and worst of all, I should have never accepted her invitation. Our reputations could easily have been dragged through the mud. I’m truly sorry for the trouble I’ve caused. Thanks for your hospitality. I must be going home!”
The open road has always been a sort of refuge for me. I opened all the windows and stepped on the accelerator. My life was complete, albeit bereft of passion. I couldn’t afford to be entangled again. I had suppressed my emotions all those years. I would never let another woman drive me down that road again.
AH, MONDAY MORNING, THE BEGINNING OF A NEW WEEK. Maggie called before I had had my morning cup of tea.
“Have you seen the morning papers?” she said. “That commotion at the Waldorf is all over the news. Every television and radio station claims to have the exclusive on what happened and who caused it. What on earth happened?”
How could I tell her that a pacifist like me had gotten himself into a fight with a drunk? And, worst of all, that I was unnerved by the prospect of seeing Christina again? I told Maggie everything about the night before, except for the private talks I had had with Harry and his wife, not wanting to taint her judgment on what would be my best course of action. When I had finished, she, quite uncharacteristically, said nothing. Curious, I pressed for an explanation. “Maggie,” I said. “Are you all right?”