by Anita Abriel
“That was almost a disaster,” Marcus laughed. “The attendant slipped a note with his phone number into my coat and Preston found it. I had to swear I didn’t say two words to him; it was completely one-sided.”
“Preston is the owner of the gallery where Marcus shows his work,” Edith said. “He owns the apartment where Marcus is staying.”
“Not for much longer,” Marcus announced. “After the next sale, I’m buying my own place in Gramercy Park. It’s only a studio apartment, but I’ll have a key to the park. Can you imagine?” He grinned. “Marcus Sorrento strolling in a private park!”
“We’re so proud of you.” Vera smiled. “Only the most talented make it in New York.”
“The critics write that I have a ‘special eye.’ But the truth is I fall in love with my subject.” Marcus gazed at Edith.
“You were never in love with me,” Edith retorted.
“Of course I was in love. Perhaps not with my body, but here.” He touched his heart and sighed. “If only the heart and all the organs could agree on everything, life would be perfect.”
“Don’t worry; I got over it,” Edith laughed. “I hope Preston treats you right. You don’t need him; you’d do fine by yourself.”
“Preston has his own side adventures, and what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.” He reached into his pocket and took out two envelopes. “We’re not here to talk about my romances. I have a surprise for both of you.”
Vera opened it and inside was a check for ten thousand dollars.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“The photographs of you and Edith in LIFE magazine were bought by a member of the Astor family,” Marcus said. “I decided we should split it three ways.”
“We can’t take this.” Vera handed it back. “It’s your photograph.”
“If it wasn’t for those photographs, I’d be lugging my camera around Naples and working part-time in Paolo’s restaurant,” Marcus responded. “Instead, I’m living in New York and being fed steak and baked Alaska.”
Vera remembered sitting at the outdoor cafés in Naples with Anton, and her heart constricted. He’d be wearing his khaki uniform and asking if she’d like a strawberry or lime gelato.
“Don’t look sad; we all get nostalgic for the time we spent together,” Marcus said, noticing her expression. “Life is simple when it’s about having enough to eat and seeing a roof over one’s head instead of the stars. Now we have to grow up and prove ourselves.”
“Look who turned into a philosopher.” Edith grinned.
“I’m only saying what’s true,” Marcus replied. “I get letters from Paolo and Leo. The black market has dried up because people can find things in the shops, and men aren’t buying jewelry for their girlfriends because they’re not afraid of going off and getting killed. They both have to work hard for a living. Because of that photograph, I get to do what I love. You both deserve part of it.”
Vera picked up the check. She could buy back her diamond ring and Edith could pay off the creditors.
Vera looked at Edith and Edith nodded.
“All right, we accept,” Vera beamed.
“I knew I could make you see it my way!” Marcus exclaimed. “We must have dinner tonight to celebrate.”
Vera had mentioned to Ricardo that she was meeting Edith and Marcus for drinks, but she didn’t say they were having dinner. But Ricardo wouldn’t be home until midnight. Why shouldn’t she stay? She was already here and she was hungry.
“I’d love to.” Vera nodded happily. “As long as we split the check three ways.”
“That might not be fair.” Marcus glanced at the door. “I invited a friend to join us.”
Vera followed Marcus’s gaze and saw a boy of about twenty with dark hair and narrow cheekbones. His shirt was unbuttoned and a blazer was slung over his shoulder.
“Where did you find him?” Edith wondered.
“I met Philippe on the airplane.” Marcus waved him over. “If all men in Caracas look like Philippe, I’ll have to stay longer.”
* * *
They moved to a booth and ordered shrimp cocktail. Philippe sat next to Vera, with Marcus and Edith across from them.
“Philippe is an art student at the university and he models for some of the art classes.” Marcus dipped his shrimp in sauce. “I offered to photograph him, but he refused.”
“First Marcus has to prove that photography is real art.” Philippe looked at Marcus mischievously. “Then I’ll let him take my picture.”
A shadow loomed over the table and Vera looked up. Ricardo stood at the end of the booth. His brow was knotted together and his eyes were black as thunderclouds.
“Ricardo! What are you doing here?” Vera exclaimed. She pointed at the two men. “This is Marcus and Philippe.”
“I see that I surprised you.” Ricardo’s voice was tight.
“I didn’t expect you back so early,” Vera stammered. “Please join us.”
Ricardo’s eyes stayed on Vera. “I don’t think so. It seems the table is full.”
“We’ll make room,” Vera said, but Ricardo had turned toward the door.
She squeezed out of the booth and hurried after him. The door to the restaurant closed and he stepped onto the street.
“Ricardo, wait! I can explain.” She ran after him.
Ricardo got into his car and turned on the ignition. His face was red and he raised his voice. “There’s nothing to explain. I’m sorry I interrupted your dinner.”
The car raced down the avenue and Vera stood frozen on the sidewalk. She didn’t know whether to go back inside or go home. She thought about the look of distaste in Ricardo’s eyes and felt a pit in her stomach.
* * *
Vera stood in the living room of her new house and peered out the window. She had made her excuses to Edith and Marcus and driven home. But it was ten p.m. and she hadn’t heard from Ricardo. He hadn’t come home.
If only she had told Ricardo that Marcus liked men, he would have realized that Philippe was there for Marcus. Instead he thought he interrupted a romantic dinner and didn’t give her a chance to explain.
She picked up the phone and dialed his parents’ phone number.
“Hello, its Vera,” Vera said when Alessandra answered.
“Vera, why are you calling so late? Is everything all right?”
“I wondered if Ricardo was there.” She clutched the phone.
“No, he’s not.” Alessandra paused. “Should he be?”
Vera took a deep breath. Alessandra was the only person who understood Ricardo well enough to know what to do.
“We got into a fight and I don’t know where he went,” she admitted.
The phone was silent and then Alessandra’s voice came over the line. “Why don’t you come over and talk?”
* * *
“I told Ricardo I was meeting Marcus and Edith for drinks, but I didn’t know we were going to have dinner,” Vera said to Alessandra. They sat in the living room of the Albee mansion. The chandeliers were dim and the house was quiet.
“Ricardo came into the restaurant and saw us in the booth—” She fiddled with her teacup. “There was another man at the table. Marcus met him on the airplane; he was very attractive.”
“An attractive man?” Alessandra repeated.
“Marcus likes men,” Vera said uncomfortably. “I should have told Ricardo, but I thought he wouldn’t approve. Now he thinks I was with another man.”
The expression on Alessandra’s face changed and her shoulders relaxed.
“I see. That explains everything. You have to understand why Ricardo was upset. In Venezuela, it’s not done for a married woman to dine in public without her husband,” she said thoughtfully. “Naturally he thought something was going on.”
“It was perfectly innocent, but I’ve never seen Ricardo so angry. He drove off without letting me explain.” Her eyes widened. “What if he got into an accident?”
“Don’t worry. Ricardo has been
driving since he was fourteen,” Alessandra assured her. “Ricardo loves you very much, but sometimes love comes with many emotions. Pedro is the same. When we were first married, Pedro didn’t like me talking to men at parties unless he was standing beside me. He still treats me like one of his family’s racehorses: he’s proud of my accomplishments, but he’s afraid of anyone stealing me away.”
“That doesn’t upset you?” Vera wondered.
Alessandra nodded. “It did at first. I attended lectures and read books that men and women should be equal. But even if that’s true, marriage is about making each other happy. Sometimes that takes work.”
“What should I do?” Vera asked.
“You tell Ricardo the truth,” Alessandra said simply. “And then you forgive each other.”
* * *
The light in the living room was on when Vera arrived home. She walked down the hallway and found Ricardo sitting on the sofa.
“Would you like a brandy?” He raised his glass. “Or have you had enough? It’s midnight, you must have had quite a few.”
“I’ve been at your mother’s,” Vera replied. “I should have called to see if you were home.”
“What were you doing at my mother’s?” Ricardo asked suspiciously.
“Marcus likes men,” she began. “Philippe was his date.”
Ricardo sighed.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Ricardo asked. His voice sharpened and he grabbed her wrist.
Vera felt the weight of his hand on hers and shifted uncomfortably. “I thought you might not approve of him.”
Ricardo let go of her wrist, then stood up and walked to the bar. His back was to Vera and she couldn’t tell what he was thinking.
“In South America, a wife doesn’t dine in public without her husband. You don’t know what it was like to enter that restaurant and see you all together.” He turned around. “How would I keep my wife if the first night I’m away, she’s with another man?”
“I hadn’t planned on staying for dinner, and I would never be with another man,” Vera responded. “You’re my husband and I love you.”
Ricardo took her in his arms. “My darling Vera, please forgive me.”
Vera thought about the time Ricardo got so angry with her at Alberto’s nightclub because he had seen Captain Bingham entering her office. A chill ran down her spine. But Alessandra said they should tell the truth and then forgive each other.
She kissed him.
“I cannot live without you,” he whispered. “I promise I won’t doubt you again.”
Ricardo held her hand and they walked upstairs. He undressed quickly and kissed her again, undoing the buttons on her dress.
Vera peeled off her stockings and joined him on the bed.
“Mi gran amor,” he whispered. “You’re everything to me.”
She started to answer but he was already on top of her. She closed her eyes and his hands moved skillfully over her body. Then he was inside her and his moans became one long, final groan.
* * *
Vera waited until Ricardo was asleep and then padded downstairs and poured a glass of water. Alessandra said that love came with many emotions, but was that always true? She and Anton had been in love, and it simply meant that they wanted to spend all their time together.
The war made her appreciate the importance of family and security. If Ricardo couldn’t control his small jealousies, it was up to her to put him at ease. She finished the water and walked back upstairs. Ricardo was her husband, and she would do everything to make it a happy marriage.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
December 1947
Vera sat at her desk at J. Walter Thompson and studied the sketch of a young woman sitting in the driver’s seat of a yellow convertible. Underneath was her English copy: Give her the keys to a GM car and win the keys to her heart.
Her own green car was parked outside, and she was meeting Ricardo at the Plaza Altamira for lunch. It was wonderful to be able to go wherever she pleased. And since she started driving, the ideas for ad copy came so fast she kept a notepad and pencil in the glove compartment.
After her dinner with Edith and Marcus, she resolved there would be no new secrets in her marriage. She used Marcus’s check to buy back her engagement ring. She even debated telling Ricardo about Anton.
Ricardo had been solicitous, arriving home with a pretty bracelet or a box of bonbons. In return she learned to cook his favorite recipes and took his shoes to the shoeshine. Ricardo inherited his love of fine shoes from his father, and he liked to have them shined to perfection.
There was a knock. Mr. Matthews stood in the doorway.
“It’s wonderful having you back.” Mr. Matthews entered her office. “Your copy is excellent, and the office smells of perfume instead of the chicken Juan ate at his desk for lunch.”
“I love being married, but I missed working,” Vera agreed. “It’s nice to think about something other than how many spoonfuls of sugar to use in a quesillo.”
“The ad campaign aimed at women is brilliant,” Mr. Matthews said approvingly. “You’ve opened up a new market.”
“You were right. You can’t describe the thrill of driving until you get behind the wheel.” Her eyes sparkled. “Now I’m like Joan Crawford in her Lincoln. There’s nothing better than flying down the road wearing leather driving gloves and the wind in your hair.”
“There’s something I want to talk about.” Mr. Matthews sat opposite her. “Harold is moving back to Boston and I need a head copywriter. I was going to start interviewing but you could save me the trouble. I wondered if you’d like the job.”
“You want me to be head copywriter?” Vera gasped.
“There would be more responsibility and you’d work longer hours, but you’d get a raise and an expense account.” He grinned. “Clients love to be taken to lunch by our star copywriter.”
If Vera got a raise, she could help her father earn his law degree. But how would Ricardo feel if she worked later? Would he approve of her dining with strange men?
“Thank you, it’s a tremendous opportunity.” Vera reached over to shake his hand. “I’m meeting Ricardo for lunch. Do you mind if I ask him first?”
“I’m sure Ricardo will say yes.” Mr. Matthews shook her hand and stood up. “He was the one who suggested I hire you in the first place.”
* * *
The Plaza Altamira was an elaborate square in the middle of the city, with an obelisk taller than Caracas Cathedral and a stone fountain. Couples shared picnics under oak trees and tourists strolled past flags from different countries.
“It was a great idea to come here,” Vera said to Ricardo when he spread a blanket over the grass. He carried a picnic basket with a loaf of pan de jamón, cheese, and fresh fruit.
“Arthur Kahn designed the Plaza Altamira a few years ago.” Ricardo handed her a plate. “He had a vision of Caracas resembling Paris with its wide boulevards and elegant squares. I thought you’d enjoy it; it’s one of my favorite spots in Caracas.”
“I have exciting news,” she began. “Mr. Matthews came into my office this morning. The head copywriter is leaving and he offered me the position. I’d get a raise and an expense account.”
Ricardo peeled a grape and looked at Vera. His eyes were dark. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he said in a clipped tone.
“I thought you’d be pleased. After all, it’s because you gave me the car,” she said gaily. “I love to drive and it shows in my work.”
“You don’t have to work. We agreed you’d give it up after a year.”
“We said we’d talk about it,” Vera responded. “I want a family, too, but these days women can do both.”
“You sound like the lectures my mother attends at the university.” Ricardo’s voice was sharp.
“What if I do?” Vera asked. “Alessandra supports them.”
“With her donations. Not by working herself,” Ricardo said, and then his voice softened. “My mother understa
nds her place in Venezuelan society, and you will too. Why should we change things? There’s no one I’d rather have lunch with than my beautiful wife. I don’t want to share you with businessmen. And you don’t need more money. You can spend what you earn now on yourself and help your parents.”
Vera opened her mouth to say something, but Ricardo leaned forward and kissed her.
“Let’s talk about it tonight. After we eat, we can stroll around the fountain.” He sliced a peach and gave it to her. “It’s a beautiful day and you only have an hour for lunch.”
Vera accepted the peach and felt deflated. She had hoped Ricardo would have been more supportive. But there was no point in spoiling their time together. She would try to convince him later.
“All right, we’ll talk about it tonight.”
* * *
All afternoon Vera watched the clock and hoped Mr. Matthews didn’t return from his client meeting until five o’clock. She needed to talk to Edith but she couldn’t see her until after work.
Finally, Vera waved good-bye to the receptionist and jumped into her car. She drove to the building in the Las Mercedes neighborhood and hurried up the stairs to Edith’s workspace.
“Look at you,” Vera said, admiring Edith in her black dress with her blond hair tied in a bun. “You look like the magazine photos of Coco Chanel in her atelier before the war.”
“We’re hardly the same,” Edith grunted. “By the time Coco Chanel was twenty-five she owned an apartment building on the rue Cambon in Paris. I’m already twenty and I can barely afford the rent on a tiny workroom that smells of black beans and garlic because it’s too hot to close the window,” she said. Her face broke into a smile. “But I’m so grateful to Marcus for bailing me out. I’m happiest when my fingers are flying over the fabric.”
Edith had used Marcus’s check to appease the creditors and make a payment to the bank. She gave up the boutique in the Majestic and traded a more spacious workroom for a small space above a restaurant.
