by Belva Plain
But the sales for Wright Glassware were down across the country, and Bradford, who had a marketing degree from Har-vard, had been highly recommended by several of Father’s friends. Father had signed him on—reluctantly. And Cassandra had fallen in love.
Cassandra sipped her coffee and leaned back in her chair.
So think back now, since my mind is already headed in that direction . . . how could I have loved Bradford? Yes, he was interesting. He was an intellectual, or was that just a pose? He was charming and fun. But there was more.
Not only did he come from a family that was far more distinguished than mine, he’d mentioned a trust fund—oh, so discreetly—so I thought he had money. I thought a man who was independently wealthy wouldn’t need to marry me for the glass works. I fell in love with Bradford because I thought he was interested in me for myself. I fell in love with him because he laughed at my jokes. Because he was good-looking with his red hair, and his blue eyes. And face the facts, I fell in love with him because Father didn’t like him.
But then she’d found out that while Bradford’s family pedigree was indeed as long as he’d said it was, there wasn’t any money. And knowing he was poor, all her father’s warnings about fortune hunters had come back to haunt her. When Bradford asked her to marry him she said no. She kept on saying it for a full year.
So why did I marry him? Because Father had died after a horrible six-month battle with cancer, and for the first time in my life, I was alone. Because after Father was gone there was no one to run the glassworks, and I thought I needed a man to do it. Because Bradford could be very persuasive. Because I was twenty-eight and tired of being a virgin.
Not the best reasons in the world, but she’d built a marriage on them. And then Bradford had died. And as Cassandra was preparing to fly to Louisiana to bring the body home she had a phone call from a lawyer she’d never heard of whose office was in New Orleans. The man said he had handled Bradford’s affairs in New Orleans. Cassandra hadn’t known her husband had any affairs in New Orleans besides those that concerned Wright Glass works. She and the man had scheduled a meeting for the next day.
And there she was, dressed in mournful black, sitting across a desk from a middle-aged lawyer whose voice was low and whose expression was very kind.
“You know,” he said in an accent that had a slur of the South to it. “Your husband came to this city quite often.”
“Yes, on business.” There was something about the way the man was looking at her that made her uncomfortable. She heard herself start to offer an unasked-for explanation. “The outlet here in New Orleans was his idea, you see, and I’m afraid it wasn’t doing very well. My husband felt an obligation to oversee it personally, to be hands-on. . . .”
The man opposite her had shifted his eyes away. He couldn’t look at her.
“But . . . there is something else you wanted to tell me,” she said slowly. “Some other reason why he came here so often . . .”
There followed a silence that she had never forgotten. Mr. Robichaud had lowered his glance to the floor, then raised it to the bright light beyond the windows, and speaking with obvious difficulty, he said, “Life is not always what we expect, is it? Every one of us has to learn that in some way, sooner or later.”
“With all due respect, I think I’ve learned that lesson . . . especially recently.” She drew in a breath. “Please, Mr. Robichaud, tell me what else it is that I have not expected.”
“That woman—the woman in the car—she was not . . .” He trailed off, his face reddening. And then she saw it. She knew.
“She was not simply an employee . . . someone he didn’t know well. . . . He wasn’t giving her a ride to her home to be kind. . . .”
The lawyer shook his head. “No . . . She worked in the bar at the hotel where he stayed . . . and she . . . well, she . . .” He was stumbling, trying to make this easier for Cassandra—but he knew he was making it worse.
“What about her?” Cassandra had to ask it.
The man took the plunge. “My dear, sometimes a man wants a woman who isn’t of his class, who isn’t an equal. . . . Do you understand?”
“Yes,” she whispered. In her head a voice was screaming, I don’t deserve this! This isn’t fair!
But then she looked at the lawyer again. “There’s more, isn’t there?” she said. And the man with the kind expression, who did not want to be the bearer of bad news, nodded painfully, and looked to the floor again. “Tell me,” she commanded.
“Your husband had a child. A baby. A girl. Ten months old now.”
When he looked up at her, their eyes met. A picture flashed through her mind—of other eyes meeting and words spoken solemnly: ’Til death do us part.
“A child?” She couldn’t make sense of the word. She couldn’t get her brain to take it in. She had wanted to have children, he always said he didn’t. “A baby? His?”
“Yes,” said the lawyer. “I’m afraid there’s no mistake.”
In the hall outside the room, there were disembodied voices, too loud and cheerful: “Hello! Good to see you! You’re looking great! Some tan you’ve got there!”
Inside the room there was nothing but the screaming of the voice inside her head.
I’ve been a good wife, damnit! A loyal wife. Even with all the doubts—and I have had them, God knows. I’ve known—deep down—for a long time that Bradford did marry me for the business, just the way Father said someone would. The business and the power, and my gracious home—don’t forget that—but I told myself he wanted me too. I told myself most marriages are a bargain and ours was no worse than any other. Oh, the lies I’ve told myself !
“How’s your tennis game these days?” asked the cheery voice in the hall. “You should come play at my club sometime. I don’t like to brag, but our courts are the best.”
I backed him. When there was criticism of his policies at the glassworks, I refused to listen. I told the foremen and the managers and the men who had been with my father for decades that my husband was in charge. I said they must obey his orders. I made them respect him! And this is how he repaid me. The woman in the car was not a casual acquaintance. She was the mother of his child.
Something was burning on her left hand. She looked down and saw her wedding ring. The lawyer was still watching her with his kind sad eyes.
I will not cry or curse him—the man who was my husband. I will not disgrace myself. Not for Bradford. He was what he was. A lot of men are like him. I know that. I never wanted to know it, but now I do. Suddenly the ring had become too hot to stay on her finger, she pulled it off with a trembling hand, and laid it on the desk in front of her.
“I can’t . . .” She stumbled. “I don’t want it. Not another second. Would you . . . is there some charity you know here in New Orleans?”
“I could sell it for you. I could give the money to the poor box at my church.”
“Thank you.”
Mr. Robichaud really was a good man.
* * *
Cassandra got up out of the chair and went to look out the window again. But it didn’t stop the memories. So she let her mind go back to New Orleans. To the city everyone said was so charming and colorful, but to her it would always be gray and drab.
* * *
She hadn’t planned to see the baby—after all, it had nothing to do with her. Someone would have to take care of it, since both of its parents were dead. Who that someone might be was no concern of hers. She didn’t want to know what was going to happen to the little girl Bradford had made with his other woman.
But then the lawyer had said, “Your husband’s child has no one. None of our local agencies have been able to trace her mother’s people . . . and as for your husband . . .”
Bradford had had one sister who lived in California. She prided herself on being a moral and upright Christian woman and would have been appalled at the idea of taking in her brother’s love child.
“I’m afraid you are as close to family as this
baby has,” Mr.
Robichaud said.
How did a person walk away from a responsibility like that?
And besides, now that the initial shock had worn off, she had to admit that a part of her was curious. In a sad, angry way that she wasn’t proud of, she wanted to see the baby her husband—who wouldn’t have a baby with her—had had with someone else.
“I have some time tomorrow,” she told the lawyer.
“I’ll drive you to her home.”
* * *
She wasn’t a pretty child. She was small for her age, and her features were weak: a pinched little nose and thin lips. She hadn’t gotten those from Bradford. And those brown eyes weren’t his—the unknown woman was responsible for them too. But there was no question that she was her father’s daughter. She had his square jaw, his chin, and most importantly, that unmistakable red-brown hair. Cassandra would have known it anywhere. She looked at a little hand with its tiny seashell nails and for a few minutes she just stood there, gazing.
The child was very still—shouldn’t a ten-month-old baby be crawling around? Trying to walk? Crying because there was a stranger in the room?
“Is she always this quiet?” Cassandra asked the woman who had been hired to help take care of the baby since she was born.
It seemed that Bradford had indulged his lady love with household help.
“She’s good as gold,” said the woman looking down at the child who was sitting in her lap. The little girl was afraid, that was clear, but she wasn’t cowering. She stared at Cassandra from behind the nursemaid’s fleshy arm.
Good for her! The thought flashed through Cassandra’s mind. She doesn’t want to show she’s afraid. I wouldn’t, either. I think we may be a little alike. Except for the red hair.
“She never cries,” the nursemaid said.
Or laughs, I imagine, Cassandra thought, looking at the serious little face. I wonder what it would take to make her smile. . . .
“Lotta has been staying here in the house with the baby. She’s been paid through to the end of the month,” the lawyer said. “The house is rented by the month too. After that . . .” He let the sentence dangle.
The poor little thing has been through so much already. And if someone doesn’t do something for her . . . But there is that red hair . . . his red hair . . . Do I want to see it every day of my life? Don’t be so petty, Cassie! Father would say I’m better than that. But am I?
“What will happen to her?” Cassandra asked.
“If you don’t intervene? The state will take her.”
“And they’ll find parents for her. A good family. Right?”
“They’ll try. But she’s ten months old, and most people want to adopt an infant. It’s more than likely she’ll wind up in the system.”
“The system?”
“Foster care.” He sighed. “That’s a slippery slope. The longer a child is in it, the harder it is to get them out.”
So there they were. A man and a woman had had some pleasure and the result was a human being who didn’t ask to be born, but she had been anyway. She was small and weak at that moment, but she had a right to grow and find her place in the world. And there was no one to help her except Cassie Wright—who knew if a stray dog had landed on her doorstep that was half as vulnerable and needy as this child, she wouldn’t have hesitated to rescue it.
I wanted a child. I wanted one so much. And this would be the right thing to do. I can ignore the red hair. In time I’ll get used to it. . . .
Mr. Robichaud said he’d take care of the paperwork for the adoption. The only thing left to do was shut down the little girl’s life in New Orleans. But that was a revelation. It seemed that the house in which she lived, the nursemaid who cared for her, and the bank account that had been opened in her name had all been charged to Wright Glass works. Clearly, I’ll have to call for an audit of the company now that Bradford is gone, Cassie thought. It was her first inkling of what was to come.
* * *
Cassandra closed her eyes and leaned against the window. Even now after all these years, now when she was safe, she couldn’t think about the time that had come next without shivering. And yet, it had been the making of her. What was that saying? That which does not kill you makes you strong? Well, it was true. Although there were times when she thought if she’d known what she would be facing, she might never have boarded the plane for home.
Chapter Eight
Cassandra arrived in Wrightsville with the solemn-eyed baby she had named Gwendolyn after her mother. The child had had another name, one that had been given to her by the mother and father who had died in the automobile crash. The parents Cassandra wanted to forget. This baby is mine now. Maybe I should have let her keep the name they called her. Perhaps I shouldn’t try to erase all traces of them from her life. Well, I’m not that big a person. Sorry, Father.
Gwendolyn was installed in her new home with a new nursemaid to take care of her, and her new mother. And if the child was frightened or unhappy she didn’t give any indication of it. She ate her food, she took her naps, and she never cried herself to sleep at night. But she didn’t smile, either.
Meanwhile Cassandra was facing disaster as one by one the heads of departments at Wright Glass works came forward to report to her.
“I’m afraid we’re very much behind the rest of the industry when it comes to research and development of new products,” said one of the top managers. “Mr. Wright—that is, Mr. Greeley—put more of an emphasis on selling than production. . . .”
“We’re pretty much shut out of the fiber optic field,” said her father’s trusted vice president. “I felt we ought to get into it, but Mr. Greeley didn’t agree. Now it’s too late.”
“We’re miles behind Corning and the other companies.”
“I don’t mean to disrespect your husband’s memory, but he never really understood the glassworks. . . .”
“He said our high-end glassware was the jewel in our crown, but that is not where our money is made.”
And then came the terrifying reports. The reports that sent ice water down the veins.
“I tried to warn your husband that we were overextended. . . .”
“Your husband kept saying you have to spend money to make money . . . but we weren’t making it.”
“I’m afraid we haven’t paid the taxes. . . .”
“There’s a discrepancy in the employees’ pension fund. . . .”
“We’re late with the bank loans. . . .”
“Good God, what a mess,” said the outside accountant Cassandra finally brought in to try to make some sense out of the books that seemed to be bleeding with red ink. “How did your people let it get this bad? I know these men; some of them have worked here since your father was alive. Why didn’t they say something?”
Because I told them not to. Because I said Bradford was the boss.
Because I was being a loyal wife.
“How much time do I have to turn it around?” she asked.
“I don’t see how you can. Your best bet is to declare bankruptcy and get out now.”
I’m going to be the one who loses Wright Glass works? My family’s company is going to go under on my watch? No! Never!
“I know how hard that sounds,” said the accountant sympathetically. “But it is done all the time. . . .”
But not by my family! I come from a long line of survivors. My great-great-grandfather lost his leg in the Civil War, so he went into the business of making artificial limbs and equipment for the disabled. He made a fortune, sold out, and founded the glassworks. My great-grandfather lost his personal fortune in the Great Depression, but he hung on to the glassworks and he and my grandfather worked three jobs each to make enough money to keep it going. I can’t let it go under. I won’t!
So she started fighting. Bail out the financial mess first, she told herself. Mortgage to the hilt the house you grew up in, and don’t think about the fact that you could be living on the streets if yo
u lose it. Liquidate your portfolio, and don’t even let yourself wonder how you’ll support yourself if you can’t revive the glassworks. Sell the jewelry. Start with all those showy pieces Bradford gave you and pray they’ll bring enough, because if they don’t you’ll have to sell your mother’s diamond brooch and your grandmother’s pearls. Try not to sell the Tang horse your great-aunt Cassandra left you in her will. Try not to sell the Corot your father loved so much. Gamble although you’re not a gambler, take risks with things it will break your heart to lose. You’ll have to do whatever it takes. And this time you’ll do it yourself. You won’t try to find a man to do it for you. Because you aren’t going to hand over your company, your legacy, your sacred family trust to anyone ever again.
What she accomplished with her fire sale was that she bought herself time. “Not a lot,” the accountant told her, “but it could be enough to get the business moving again. With a little luck.” But she didn’t believe in luck anymore. She believed in being smart.
So educate yourself, Cassie. You, who majored in Old English in college. You, who wrote your senior thesis paper on the Wife of Bath. Learn to become an expert on the various industrial uses of glass. Go to the local college and pick the brains of the science and engineering professors. Give yourself a crash course in the photonic products that are used in the telecommunications industry. Learn about optic materials used in the semiconductor industry. Find out what the semiconductor industry is. Find out what a ceramic substrate is, and how it’s used in the automotive industry. Oh, and in your spare time, learn to be a businesswoman. And do it all yesterday.
* * *
She did it. It took her three years. Years when she didn’t sleep. Years when she would have killed Bradford with her own hands if he had been alive. And during those years there were times when she was exhausted and frightened and she’d see his child with his red hair playing in her playpen, or sitting in her highchair. And Cassie would have to turn away. She’d feel herself pulling back emotionally from Gwen; she wouldn’t want to, but she couldn’t help it. All she could do was hope that the little girl didn’t sense it. The smart quiet little girl who still wasn’t smiling.
