by Joani Ascher
Jane laughed. Mrs. McGill, whom Ellen called Grandma, talked a lot about honor. The woman was a model of honor and decency. If not for her, Ellen’s early years would have been much more complicated. As it was, they were almost as natural as those of the other children in the neighborhood. It was true Ellen’s mother worked, unlike most of the other moms, but her family life was as normal as anyone’s.
Looking deep into her daughter’s chocolate brown eyes, so like Olivia’s, Jane said, “Honor means someone who did something very respectable or something special. And your picture is very special, so we’ll put it right on the wall over the sofa.”
Ellen beamed. “Why were you so late coming home, Mommy?”
“I stopped off at Anne’s.”
“How is Irene? She must be so sad that her daddy is gone.”
Jane wrapped her arms around Ellen. The child, as young as she was, understood about Schuyler’s death. And she regarded Irene as an equal, a rather large six-year-old. “She’s sad, honey,” said Jane. “But they’ll be all right. We’ll make sure they are.”
“Is Schuyler with my first mommy?”
“I hope so. They were great friends.” The thought was a comfort to Jane, who missed her sister terribly. She still felt guilty that she had been so busy while Olivia was caught in the grip of her madness. If only she had gone with her to the doctor’s office. But as everyone had told her since, no one could have predicted that Olivia would do what she did.
Jane squeezed her eyes shut to blot out the waking nightmare. It must never touch this precious child. But someday, Jane knew, she would figure out that she was supposed to have a father too.
Ellen had never really asked about her father, Martin, but when she did, Jane had to have a story prepared. What it would be, short of saying he was dead too, eluded her. She only hoped that day of reckoning was far off.
The thought of that brought back the knowledge of who had paid him to disappear. Jane sat rigidly on the sofa, trying not to think about it.
“I’m going to draw a picture for Irene,” Ellen said. “I’ll make it happy so she can be happy.”
“That’s a good idea, sweetheart,” Jane told her. “I’ll sit right here next to you.”
Ellen was well into her drawing when Mrs. McGill came out of the kitchen and picked up her house keys. “What happened to you?” she asked.
“Why do you ask?”
“You have a look on your face that I haven’t seen since, well, let’s say for a very long time. What happened?”
Jane knew when she had seen that look. It was the day Prescott Weaver came to dinner, only to rush out and never come back. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Then just tell me who you were thinking about. Be honest.”
“Yes, Mommy. That’s what you always tell me.”
“Okay. I was thinking about Prescott Weaver. Anne told me about something he did.”
Mrs. McGill’s mouth formed an O. “There isn’t much point thinking about him, is there?”
“No, there isn’t.”
“I’m going now,” Mrs. McGill said. “Your dinner is almost ready.” She looked at Ellen, who had gone back to drawing. “Our girl is quite an artist, isn’t she?”
“She draws from the heart,” said Jane. “That’s the best crayon.”
“I’ll draw a picture for you tomorrow, Grandma,” said Ellen. She went over and hugged the woman. “Would you like that?”
Mrs. McGill smiled. “Yes. I’m going to go downstairs right now to find a place of honor for your drawing.” She turned to Jane. “Don’t waste time on things that can’t be.”
“I won’t.”
But long after Mrs. McGill had left, Jane was deep in thought.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Regina slammed down her powder puff. Prescott saw her do it through the connecting door between their bedrooms. He had seen that move before, and gritted his teeth. The emphatic way she thrust it back into its container made powder fly, dusting the mirrored table. It meant she was more angry than usual. She had become so bitter these last few years. All his efforts to cheer her up only made her more vindictive, to the point where he had given up altogether.
“We’ll miss the first act of the opera,” Prescott said, hoping to head off another tirade. Of late, they had been frequent. Reggie complained about everything, from the maids to the cut of meat the butcher had sent. The chauffeur was the latest victim of her ire.
“You didn’t seem to care about missing your golf game with my father,” Reggie said sarcastically. In the six years of their marriage she had not learned to talk in moderate tones. “And he had several prospective clients set up for you to meet.”
“You’ve already criticized me for that. I explained that I had to go to a funeral. And I had told your father to cancel the game.”
“He told you the game was important. It’s not like you’re willing to spend time with me. You could at least spend time with my father.” She paused, letting her resentfulness seep into Prescott’s guilty conscience. But she did not stay quiet for long. “Who was Schuyler Lewis anyway? He wasn’t even a client.”
“He was the husband of a dear friend of mine, as you well know.”
“You care more about Anne Canfield than me,” Reggie whined. “Maybe now she’s single again, you should marry her.”
Prescott found his mind turning immediately to the prospect of marriage not to Anne but to the woman who had stood at her side during the funeral. Jane. She had looked more beautiful than ever, even in grief. Her eyes, so caring and full of love for her friend, had only met his briefly, and when they had, the light in them had died. He knew he was the one who had killed it. But at least she had Ellen. That sacrifice, which had set him back a year on his plan to buy a seat, had been worth every penny. Thank goodness she would never know he had been the one to get rid of that leech Martin Roche. The only other person in the world who knew was his business partner, the one who had carried him for several months after the disbursement. He would forever be grateful to the man.
Reggie had screamed when she heard he still did not have the money for his own seat. The fact that he would not explain why infuriated her. But she had actually managed to cut back on her spending, out of embarrassment, she said, so he was able to buy the seat in 1950. For all of three months, she had been proud of him, but then she had just gone back to her usual nit-picking, criticizing, complaining ways. And now she was complaining again, this time about him.
“I don’t know why I put up with you,” she said, crossing her room and coming into his. “You haven’t even given me a child.”
“There is only one way to do that,” Prescott said evenly, fighting his frustration and rage. All the years he had spent trying to figure out how to please Reggie, to make her want to have a family, threatened to spill over. But as usual, he fought the urge to tell her what he felt, and how hard it was for him seeing those other men with their children and their smiling wives. She never seemed to care anyway. Instead, he said, “You don’t seem willing to do your part.”
“I’m not willing? You act like you’re fulfilling an obligation, not like a man in love.”
What man would not? Prescott wondered. She held him at arm’s length, acting as if the feel of his body close to hers was repulsive, and lay in bed like a stone. His images of what a husband and wife would be like together never seemed to coincide with the reality of his wife and himself.
He had experienced more excitement just looking at Jane.
“Maybe I should divorce you for being unable to father a child,” said Reggie, derisively.
Prescott thought about it. Reggie’s reason was not grounds for divorce, but they both knew how easy it would be to provide them. He knew what that would mean, all the pain, the trumped-up adultery photos to satisfy the courts, such as those Anne and Hugh Canfield had submitted, and the notoriety. But maybe it would be worth it. “If that’s what you want.”
She looked at
him, wide-eyed, and burst into tears. “I can’t believe you don’t care.”
He wondered if she meant that he did not care about losing her. It didn’t matter, really, and he was not about to be drawn into comforting her. She had never once comforted him, not when his mother died, nor when his father had a stroke and was left paralyzed. “I’m sure I love you as much as you love me,” he said.
Reggie turned off the waterworks. “It would cost you, buster. I would get as much as Anne Canfield got from Hugh.”
“Percentage-wise, maybe,” said Prescott. “But I don’t think you would be as well off. Don’t worry, though. I’m sure your father would provide for you, until you found someone else.” He was amazed at the turn in the conversation, and excited. Whatever the cost, if he could get free of her, it would be worth it.
She came close to him. “You won’t get off that easily. I’m not ready to dump you yet. You promised ‘till death do us part.’ And you’re so damned honorable, you’ll keep that promise.”
Prescott took a drink after his wife went out of the room. “Damned” was a good word for it.
****
Jane’s hand shook as she raised it to knock on the door. She could not believe she was standing in front of Prescott Weaver’s office, about to talk to him. No words had passed between them in years.
Something hard inside her kept her from taking normal breaths. It was as if a piece of steel had lodged itself in her chest. She wondered how she would get through the next few minutes.
In answer to her knock, Prescott himself opened the door. He looked at her in astonishment. “C-come in.”
“I’m sorry to come without calling first,” said Jane. She had tried to call, several times, but got no farther than the third number each time, actually stopping the rotary dial on its return to position on her last attempt.
She looked at Prescott, searching for some sign that he would listen to what she had to say. While he was still undeniably attractive, almost like Cary Grant, she also saw that he was a sadder man. Not sad in the sense of grieving for a friend’s husband, as he had been at Sky’s funeral, but almost as if he was sad about life in general. Even though she knew his business was successful, as evidenced by his paneled office, finely crafted desk, and Persian carpets, she saw a man who was missing something.
“You don’t need to apologize,” he said. He motioned her to follow him to his inner office, a much better appointed one than when she’d worked for him. He had moved several years earlier, according to Anne, into this building. “My secretary has gone home or I would offer you some coffee or tea.” He took his seat and motioned for her to sit down.
“Prescott,” Jane began, hoping she could find the words. Ever since Anne had told her about Prescott’s gift, she had looked for the right way to thank him. But no inspiration came. She would just have to say it. “I just learned of what you did for my daughter and me.”
“How?”
“It doesn’t matter. I had to come and try to tell you how grateful I am.”
“It was nothing,” said Prescott. He stood up and started pacing. “You would have found a way if I hadn’t stepped in. I have faith in you.”
Jane had trouble telling what he was thinking, especially since he kept moving around. She went to him and touched his shoulder. “Please. You don’t understand. You probably saved our lives by doing what you did. And I didn’t even wonder why Martin backed down. What was I thinking?” She shook her head at her own naiveté. “How could I not see that someone must have intervened? Or was I just so desperate I didn’t want to see the truth?”
The hard thing that had been in her chest, constricting her breathing, suddenly vanished, and Jane dissolved in tears. “How can I possibly pay you back?”
“Jane,” said Prescott, handing her his handkerchief, “don’t do this to yourself.” He lifted her chin, forcing her to look into his eyes. “It’s one of the few things I’ve done in the past few years that made me proud of myself.” He turned away, and when he spoke again, his voice sounded strangely husky. “Please don’t diminish it by trying to repay me. It wasn’t about money.”
“Oh,” Jane gasped, putting her hand to her mouth. “Now I’ve insulted you. I’m only making it worse.” She stood up. “I have to go.”
“Wait,” he said, turning back and taking her arm. He looked right into her eyes, and then at his hand, and let go abruptly. His voice was without emotion when he said, “Don’t go while you’re upset.”
“Prescott,” Jane said, barely able to look at him. “Please let me leave. Let me try to keep some of my dignity. God knows I have little enough left.”
He turned away again, not even saying goodbye. She slipped out the door.
Not until she was outside in the stairwell did she let her tears flow again. Biting the handkerchief to keep from crying out, she stayed there for a half hour, hoping no one would come by.
When she heard the doorknob rattle and thought Prescott would be leaving for the day, she darted away, down the stairs and out into the darkened street.
****
“I’m not taking any handouts,” said Jane.
Anne shook her head. “That’s the same song you’ve been singing since I’ve known you. If you don’t let someone help you, it will take years to get established. It’s already been four months since I asked you to handle my investments.”
“I can work for someone, if it means that much to you.”
“Prescott?”
“No! There are other brokerage houses.”
“Which one will hire a woman? Besides, I thought you wanted your own firm.”
“I do. I did. I don’t know. I had given up this idea a long time ago. There’s Ellen to consider. With my job now, I can spend much more time with her than if I were totally dependent on myself to make my business successful. How would you feel leaving Irene alone all the time? And she’s almost an adult.”
“Only chronologically,” Anne reminded her. Her eyes clouded, and it was as if her thoughts were far away. “I used to dream of her teenage years, before she was born, and I saw…” She looked at Jane and smiled halfheartedly. “But she’s happy. What more can I ask for? Not every dream comes true.”
Jane knew many other women would have caved in under the mountains of grief Anne had experienced. She had truly loved Hugh Canfield, and his abandonment of her, little by little over the years and finally for good when she insisted she had to bring their daughter home against his wishes, had left a huge hole in her heart. And she had loved Schuyler, whose warmth and love had healed most of the deepest wounds. Now Anne was dealing again with the loss of her long-repressed dreams of bringing her daughter out into society, but it explained why she did not want her friend to abandon her own.
As if for emphasis, Anne added, “And Ellen will be proud of you, when she’s old enough to understand.”
Jane did not tell Anne she had figured out a way to do it. She did not want to get her hopes up until all the details were worked out. It would mean a lot of juggling, but since she would be starting with just Anne as a client, she could manage. If she could set up an affiliation with a seated broker, she could still keep up with her work for Mr. Dobbin.
“I’ll let you know,” Jane said. She could not hide the smile on her face.
Her friend did not miss it. “Good.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
“Jane,” said Mr. Dobbin, stepping into the small cubicle that was her office, “there is something we must discuss.”
Jane looked up from her double-entry ledger. She could tell by his tone that whatever he wanted to say was serious. A knot of fear about what it might be gnawed at her all the way to his office.
“Sit down,” he said, seating himself behind his desk. He looked sad, and his eyes were watery.
Jane leaned forward. “What’s wrong?”
“I want to talk to you about getting a replacement. It’s time for you to move on.”
She leaped to her feet. “What are
you talking about? Why do you want me to leave?”
“Please, Jane,” said Mr. Dobbin, holding up his hand. “Don’t think I want you to leave. But you must pursue your dream.”
Jane took a moment to try to calm herself. “Don’t you know that my dreams are not as important as my family? You are part of my family. I couldn’t leave you.”
“I’m not asking you to forget about me,” said Mr. Dobbin with a weak smile. “Please. This is so hard. I don’t know how I’m going to stand not seeing you every day, not having your ideas and opinions. Without them this place would have closed a year after the war. But you have always wanted to be in the market, and now it’s time.”
Shaking her head and forcing a smile, Jane said, “I am doing just that. I’ve been doing it for a while. You know all about it, it was the only topic at last Sunday’s dinner.”
“That’s what I mean. You should have seen your face. You were more than fascinated. It all made perfect sense to you, the rhythms of the market, far more than it did to me. You will make a lot of money when you have your own business, and so will your happy clients.”
“I don’t need that,” said Jane. “Not if it means leaving you.”
Mr. Dobbin pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his eyes. “We’ll still see each other. And you don’t have to leave right away. First you’ll train someone, and hopefully make a smooth transition to being a stock broker full time. And you can expand, following up on your idea of getting middle-class people involved. You said yourself that it seems unfair only the rich can get richer.”
“All of that is true,” said Jane, thinking about the many people afraid of losing their savings the way their parents had. To help them overcome their fears and enter the market, they needed someone who had gone through the same things, someone like her, so they could invest for their futures.
She realized she’d felt pulled away, bit by bit, from Mr. Dobbin and his business. “Have you forgotten my fiasco with investments when I was trying to build a nest egg for Z.Z. and his father?” She swallowed, feeling as if a bad taste had gotten into her mouth.
