“I have another box in the back,” he said. “Would you like me to bring them out?”
“No, thank you,” she said.
“I have some beautiful plums. Some strawberries, fresh from upstate.” He tried his best to turn on the charm.
CeeCee finally turned from the fruit to Mickey. It was clear she would have to make a quick refusal to fend off further advances. But she was surprised, when she looked up at Mickey, to find such a handsome face. His rectangular jaw, his thick lips, and his gnarled forehead conjured a strong, inviting tree. His jet-black curls were untamed, lustrous, and inviting. He didn’t look Jewish, more Italian, even with a bit of Irish, the short, upturned pug nose and his lips reflected the majesty of some of the black jazz stars she had met. She knew he too couldn’t place her background. It was a common theme.
Mickey stared at CeeCee, taken by her lovely face. The symmetry, the almond-shaped eyes, the luscious smile, the smooth complexion, the brilliant white row of perfectly arranged teeth. Was she Spanish, French? Clearly somewhere the sun shone.
“What are you making?” he asked her, smiling now with the knowledge of her interest.
“A peach pie,” she said. “For my boss’s client who is in from the South and loves peach pie.”
“Are you a cook?”
“No,” she said, “I do everything.”
“Everything?” He smiled.
“Everything.”
“Not fair,” he said.
“And why is that,” she said.
“Because I want everything too. Especially a girl who can do everything.”
“I think … you deserve everything you get.” She eyed him, rendering him speechless.
The exchange of money and the backroom peaches were not only a chance to secure her number, but an opportunity that Mickey did not waste to grasp CeeCee’s hand and give her a bag of free ripe plums in addition to the peaches.
“Come back tomorrow?” he said. It had the inflection of a question, but it was, in fact, a statement. “I’ll have something even better for you.”
CeeCee smiled, accepting the gift and the invitation. She turned and headed back to her apartment to make the pie for Constance’s meeting, nursing her smile as she walked, not unaware of the delight she felt in Mickey’s enticements. She felt the heat of his eyes on her back as she walked away. She returned the next week, curious to see his next offering. He invited her to join him for dinner that night and, for the next three years, the two hardly spent a night apart.
14
SOMETHING BORROWED
New York City, 1930
Harald Forrester-Smith, the venerable Park Avenue lawyer, sat in his sun-faded leather chair in his oak-paneled office. With ramrod-straight posture, he shook his large, defined head. In profile, with the sun pouring in on another day in the gritty city, he looked like a marble bust of a disdainful Roman emperor. He had seen many things in his career as a lawyer, but this request was entirely unfamiliar. He scratched his impressive thatch of white hair and slipped the thick gold pocket watch out of his vest pocket. “Clearly not responsible.” He flipped through the papers he had received on his desk. This was a new, vexing generation indeed, impulsive, demanding, and frivolous. One would have thought the stock market crash the year before would have brought these two young men to their senses, but no—it seemed to have had the opposite effect. He looked with dismay at his watch again, which he held in the palm of his hand.
One half hour late, the sheepish Van Wyke and his wingman, the dashing, degenerate Topper Stanton, arrived looking as though they were recovering from a bachelor party; at least, this would have offered some explanation as to why they were hungover on a Monday morning and not coming directly from work. Harald had seen the look before and shook his head once again. Decadent. Dissolute and drunk, no less!
Apologies for their tardiness were extended, with Van stumbling into the leather high-backed wing chair and Topper tucking his wrinkled and stained white shirt into his pants. Van squirmed in the chair like an errant fifth grader. Strong black coffee and tomato juice were immediately summoned and produced on a highly polished silver tray by an efficient and stern grey-haired secretary. Her pernicious glare as she handed the young men their beverages set Harald Forrester-Smith’s legendary ire into action as they both surveyed the general wreckage. Silent, withering looks were exchanged, at which point his secretary shook her head and sniffed, turning away on her capable and sturdy heels, making a clucking sound as she left. The sound only damned them further.
“I am so, so sorry, Harald. Father would never approve of our tardiness and my current state. It is unconscionable. I am truly sorry.” At least Van had good manners, as opposed to the unrepentant playboy Topper Stanton.
“And what say you, Mr. Stanton?” he asked. “I don’t assume in your condition either of you is coming from the office?”
“We were actually with a mutual out-of-town client last night,” Van offered. “He was eager to see the sights.”
“And I am sure you were both marvelous tour guides.”
“Well, let’s just say the Statue of Liberty wasn’t the only woman we showed him,” Topper joked. “You know what they say … ‘When in Rome.’” They both cracked up laughing.
“Mr. Stanton, please do me a favor.” Harald peered at him through his wire-frame eyeglasses.
“Of course, Mr. Forrester-Smith.”
“Tell me a joke?”
“A joke? Are you serious?”
“Yes, tell me a joke.”
He and Van looked at each other quizzically but he shook his head and did as he was told.
“Well, let’s see. I just flew in from Chicago. Boy, are my arms tired.” He and Van dissolved into peals of laughter.
“So that is your joke?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, Mr. Stanton. It is clear to me that you will never earn a living as a comedian. You don’t possess the talent of Mr. Chaplin or Buster Keaton. So I would advise you to become more serious. And for the record, Van, I was young once, but please have some coffee and come to your senses. Life decisions are at hand for you both, and you need to be alert.” He shook his head so hard they saw spittle fly from the corner of his mouth.
‘Yes, of course. I am sorry. We both are. Aren’t we, Topper?” Van shot Topper a look. Topper nodded.
“Apology accepted. As you know, I have been a trusted adviser to both sets of your parents and your late mother’s estate, Van. I know what close friends you are, so while this may appear a bit unorthodox, may I speak freely to both of you together since your parents urged me to and I serve as trustee for you both individually?”
“Yes, of course. Nothing is between us.”
“Good. First, I want to congratulate you both on your recent engagements. It is quite respectable you both have found love, and hopefully you will both settle down to responsibility through the institution of marriage. I understand it is a different world today with you young people. However, I want you to know that marriage is not something to be taken lightly. It’s the most important decision one makes in life, and it has far-reaching effects on family and children. What is the moral character of the young lady, et cetera, et cetera. I personally do not believe in prenuptial agreements for first-time marriages. I know your parents have told me you will not have one with Lally, Topper. However, Van, in all my years this is the first time I have ever been confronted with a situation like the one I am presented with today. And I must say … I am at a loss.” He grasped the air with his wizened, veined hand.
“And what would that be?” said Van.
“Now, I have had young men and their families demand a prenuptial agreement before their son marries someone unsuitable such as a showgirl, but I have not seen a case where a young woman … namely one”—he peered down at a sheaf of papers for confirmation—“Constance Gardiner and her lawyer, are actually asking for us to furnish her with a prenuptial agreement excluding all your rights and claims to her
business, Gardiner Cosmetics, in the event of a divorce. Is that correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Van, this raises so many important questions. Namely, are you aware that you are marrying a businesswoman? There are no businesswomen. Are you aware that your wife intends to be working when she gets married and that if you divorce, you have no legal rights or claims to her business? Van, have you read what you are getting into?”
Van’s face turned a beet purple. “I am very well aware. Constance is a brilliant young businesswoman and that’s one of the reasons I find her so … interesting. Her company is already doing hundreds of thousands of dollars in turnover.”
“That may be so, but as your trustee, I have to ask: Does one want to be married to a woman who works? Lally, as an example, has a small income off a trust. She comes from a fine, notable, and respected family and will not be working. Are you sure about this woman, Van?”
“Yes, entirely, Harald.”
“He understands,” Topper offered. “Van is the one who doesn’t want to work. It’s a match made in heaven.” They both guffawed.
“I don’t think this is very funny at all. What will happen when there are children? Don’t you think they would find the situation very confusing?”
“I assume we will have nannies. My mother was hardly available.” Van shrugged.
“Your mother was a noted hostess and a bridge player.”
“Yes, she went to and hosted a great many parties and played cards. She was hardly around. What is the difference between a woman never being around because of card parties or cosmetic meetings?”
“There is a big difference.”
“Such as?”
“Your mother didn’t work. She was admired in her circle for her many talents.”
“Harald, with all due respect, I admire Constance for her intelligence, not her bridge or golf score. And she is beautiful and, if you must know, I never had anyone of her caliber pay attention to me.”
“You are aware of the Wyke name and legacy and the prestige it brings to the table?”
“Yes, but my looks haven’t brought many women to my table,” Van said, looking down.
“I see.” Harald Forrester-Smith at last understood as he studied the two young men: the handsome Topper and the prematurely balding and lumpy Van. Still, he had to press on. “Van, are you sure?”
“More than anything. It’s her business and if she wants to protect it, so be it.”
“Well, I do hope she appreciates how forward-thinking you are. I do insist, however, that if you sign her prenuptial agreement, she has to sign one for you as well, that your trust is yours if the marriage dissolves. What is good for the goose…”
“I think that is fair. Thank you, Harald. That is very good advice. However, anything after the marriage and children should be considered fifty-fifty.”
“Fine. And you, young man.” He gazed at Topper. “Sit up straight and stop slouching.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Can we discuss your situation in front of Van?”
“Yes, Van knows of everything.”
“Well,” he sighed. “You are aware, Topper, that your father called me and your trust is no more since the crash?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Does Lally know?”
“I’m not sure.” He looked away, now serious.
“Well, I suggest you tell her before you walk down the aisle. The poor girl needs to know the truth before you marry, Topper. It would be unfair.” He paused for dramatic effect. “I have known you since you were a small boy. I will tell you how I see it. You have it all: looks, personality, good breeding. But you, young man, are lazy. And if you are both not up front about your realities, your expectations, you are actually doing a great disservice to these young ladies. Have I made myself clear?”
“Yes, thank you, sir.” They both nodded.
“And when will the weddings take place?”
“Topper and Lally will have a big wedding in Locust Valley at Christmas. Constance doesn’t want a fuss, so we are planning on getting married at City Hall and going to the Breakers for a few days for our honeymoon. Topper will of course be my best man.”
“And vice versa,” Topper said.
“It’s nice to see such close friends. I want to be clear that I had no intention of raining on anyone’s parade. That said, I do hope you will both give some serious thought to what I said. I have seen good marriages fail for less.”
“Thank you, sir. It’s been a pleasure and an honor to have your guidance.” Van looked Harald in the eye. “And thank you for the coffee. I am feeling much better. We greatly appreciate your advice.”
“I always try to do the right thing for the families,” he said.
“You have more than executed your duties.” They stood and shook his hand before walking out of the office past his secretary, who “harrumphed” at them as they passed.
As the chauffeur opened the door to Van’s father’s Packard, Van and Topper fell into the back seat and burst into hysterical laughter, pulling out their hidden flasks of gin.
“Hair o’ the dog.” They toasted each other.
They took turns mimicking certain phrases of Harald’s, which prompted more toasting, laughter, and swigs of gin.
“Old fool. Here’s how I see it…” Topper grinned, his bright white teeth and tan rosy cheeks suggesting eternal youth, protection from the vicissitudes of life.
“We are both marrying women for their looks and money, et cetera, et cetera.” They both broke into sidesplitting laughter. “And they are marrying us for our venerable names as they were raised to do.”
“Here, here. To the girls.”
“To the girls!” At that moment, Van asked his driver to pull over. The car pulled up to the curb just in time for Van to vomit. Topper followed suit.
15
LONDON CALLING
London, 1930
Josephine paced her elegantly furnished and newly rented Belgravia study and read her sister Sybil’s letter with careful deference. After reading it a second time, she laid it calmly on her antique French writing desk, her Vionnet dress catching on the bronze ormolu and creating a run in the skirt that she tried to smooth, despite the news. The entire town house, which she had rented from an impoverished lord who had gone bust in the crash, was so ornate it seemed the type of place that would immediately stifle feelings, with its plush carpets and ornate boiserie. The house conveyed true grandeur except for three or four “holes on the walls” featuring faded empty spaces where a Reynolds or two had been recently plucked and sold. She poured a small glass of schnapps and steadied herself, her stormy eyes convulsing as she digested the contents of the note—and the liquid. When she had downed the last burning drop, she took the small, clear glass and threw it into the fireplace, watching it explode into razor-like shards. Not even a passing affair! In less than a year, Jonathan had a pregnant mistress in Melbourne. And with her money to boot!
While she knew she had banished Jon to Australia, and essentially had cut herself off from him physically, it made little difference to her. Jon Blake was a khamer, a cheater, and a donkey. She was working night and day for her, for him, for them, and for their soon-to-be-born child, and he had betrayed her. He had dashed her simple dreams. All because he was lazy; a shikker, a drunk. A good-looking good-for-nothing! And she had been a fool as well, never questioning his ever-increasing requests for money. The shame was deafening, as she knew her uncle and aunt were relishing the news.
Jonathan’s own letter arrived days later with a profuse apology. He had physical needs and she had created the situation. She was cruel and not a wife to him. That said, he wrote, he was stupid, horrified, and contrite. A low-class girl who worked in a saloon and meant nothing to him had seduced him, entrapped him. He would do anything, he pleaded, to save the marriage. He loved his wife, feared her, had never met anyone quite like her, and was desperate to one day see his only true child, the son or daughter
she was carrying. He had paid the girl to go far away and would never see her or the baby again. It was nothing; he had been a fool, a drunk, and would change his ways. Josephine chose the one thing she knew would hurt the most: silence. She wouldn’t write him or speak to him by telephone or send his allowance. She would wait until her own baby was born to see if she had any feelings left.
Sybil would come for the birth. She would take Jon’s place, and he would have to stay and help oversee the operation if he wanted any chance of reconciling with her. She had just brought over her middle sister, Raisel—now called Rachel—and Sybil had trained her to look after the Melbourne store. Josephine’s father had once told her that the original Mayer Rothschild had five sons whom he dispersed throughout Europe to create an international banking family. Josephine never forgot this tidbit. Only Chana, too young to travel, remained behind with her mother.
While Jonathan’s son was born prematurely, Josephine’s was born late, as if he didn’t want to be pried free of such a powerful life force. In typical fashion, Josephine worked up to the very last minute in the shop in Mayfair and, when she felt the labor pains, called Sybil to take over her duties at the shop. She checked herself into the hospital for the delivery with the same efficiency as going into the stockroom to handle reorders.
Eight days later, she had a small bris with Sybil and a few new friends who were “sympathetic” to her religion and the shop. She knew deep down that while business was strong, it had been a bit hard going cracking the fashionable London set, as she had not entirely penetrated the inner core of London’s carriage trade. Yet she was making major inroads with a few fashionable women of her kind: Lady de Rothschild, a formidable new client who had sent many of her friends for skin treatments; and Madame Marks, whose husband, Michael Marks, co-founder of the Marks & Spencer department store, was a Polish Jew and had kindly recommended the mohel who would perform the ritual circumcision. During the ceremony Sybil cried for their father, who had died years earlier in the influenza epidemic as the rabbi gave the boy his Jewish name, Menachim Ephraim, honoring both her father, Menachim, and Jonathan’s grandfather Frank. At the last minute, touched as she was by the infant’s crystal-clear blue eyes and recalling her original promise, Josephine had decided to honor Jonathan’s side of the family.
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