Over the years, Amanda learned to shut her eyes to the realities of her marriage, and although it was painful, she eventually came to accept the arrangement. The sherry helped, and of course there was Bobby. The complaisant baby she held too briefly in her arms, the dutiful child who suffered her embraces with acute embarrassment, the fine young man who now smothered her with bear hugs whenever he was home— he had become her only reason for being.
Her heart would all but burst when she thought of him, so bright, so handsome, so well-behaved. And such a good boy, so kind and considerate, that he had never caused her a moment’s anguish. He was consistently at the head of his class in school, appreciated by his teachers, admired by his opponents, and envied by his peers. In his entire life, whatever he had asked for, she never came upon a good-enough reason to deny him.
Amanda knew she had done herself proud in raising the boy. Going far beyond teaching him his letters and his manners, she had worked hard to instill in him a sense of responsibility for who he was and what was expected of him. He was no ordinary young man, after all, and she felt it was essential that he understand, at the earliest possible age, the tradition into which he had been born.
“Having wealth and influence means nothing in and of itself,” both her father and her grandfather had liked to say. “True character is the ability to take whatever you are fortunate enough to be given and use it for the good of mankind.”
It was clear to everyone that, although his name was Willmont, Bobby was every inch a Drayton, and no one who had any contact with him doubted that he had an exceptional future awaiting him.
Indeed, Robert had had very little to do with his son’s upbringing. On the rare occasion when he was home at all, he would closet himself in the richly paneled library with strict orders not to be disturbed. At the dinner table, he was usually too preoccupied with his own concerns to have much interest in a growing boy.
In just a few short weeks, that growing boy would be graduating, with honors, from Harvard Law School, as he had graduated from Stanford University three years earlier, and he had already been offered positions at no less than three of San Francisco’s best firms, one of them being his father’s.
“I didn’t even know he interviewed with us,” Robert said with an indifferent shrug when his wife attempted to express her appreciation.
The one and only time that Amanda could ever recall him involving himself in his son’s affairs was in the middle of Bobby’s third year at Stanford. It had something to do with a girl, and Amanda recalled that Robert had been furious. He ordered the boy home from school late one night. They met in the library, behind closed doors. But they spoke so loudly that Amanda, standing in the hallway, had no difficulty hearing at least part of the conversation.
“How dare you put me in this position?” Robert barked. “I’ve worked my ass off for too many years to get myself accepted in this goddamn town to have you destroy it all with one of your stupid blunders.”
Bobby murmured something Amanda didn’t catch.
“What did you think would happen, you fool? Did you think she’d say thank you and just walk away?”
Again, Amanda missed Bobby’s response.
“He threatened me, that’s what he did,” Robert shouted. “Walked right into my office and threatened me—someone I wouldn’t let shine my boots. ‘I don’t really want to go to the police on your boy,’ he whines, ‘but my Polly’s only seventeen, and someone has to look out for her.’ Of course he meant me. A hundred thousand dollars—that’s what it’s costing me to clean up your little mess. I ought to take it out of your hide.”
“Look, I’m sorry,” Bobby pleaded, his voice rising loud enough for his mother to hear. “I didn’t think he’d have the balls to go to you. Anyway, I never forced her to do anything. Believe me, she wanted exactly what she got.”
“It doesn’t matter what she wanted or didn’t want. Get it through your thick skull—she’s only seventeen. That’s statutory rape in this state.”
Bobby laughed harshly. “Let them prosecute. It’s my word against hers, and I’ll say I never even heard of her. Who do you think they’ll believe? This town isn’t going to convict me of anything. I’m a Drayton.”
There was the sharp sound of an open hand coming in direct contact with a soft cheek.
“You’re a Willmont,” Robert roared. “And don’t you ever forget it. The Draytons are nothing but a bunch of lily-livered snobs, and there isn’t a one of them who wouldn’t disappear into the woodwork at the first hint of a scandal, including your dear sherry-nipping mother.”
“So what am I supposed to do?” Bobby asked with a mixture of petulance and belligerence in his voice.
“You’re supposed to keep your mouth shut, that’s what you do,” his father snapped. “No bragging to your buddies, no boasting about your great conquest, and you make damn sure that you never come within a hundred yards of her again, understand?”
“How can I do that?” Bobby whined. “She’s all over the campus.”
“You see her, you walk in the other direction. Not a word, not a gesture, not so much as a look. Do you hear me?”
“I hear you.”
“I’ll pay her medical bills. I’ll pay the rest of her way through Stanford. Hell, with a hundred thousand bucks in the bank, she’ll be set for life. But that’s where it ends. Don’t ever expect me to bail you out again.”
“No, sir,” Bobby murmured.
“You get in a mess, you get out of it. If you need to play that rough and tumble, figure out how to do it without having to pay the piper. It’s time you learned. Because if you ever put me in a position like this again, I’ll cut you off without so much as a cent. And make no mistake—I control all your mother’s trust funds and I can do it. And I will.”
“You’re not going to tell her about this, are you?” she heard Bobby ask anxiously.
“You mean, malign her sainted son?” Robert sighed. “No, I’ll let her keep her illusions. What else does she have? She probably wouldn’t believe any of it anyway.”
The conversation continued, but Amanda had heard enough. Clearly, Robert had had a bad day at the office and was taking it out on the boy, misunderstanding some youthful prank or another. She was undressed and in bed, half an hour later, when Bobby came up to say good night.
He was still smarting from the humiliating encounter with his father. No one had ever spoken to him that way, and at that moment, he knew he would shed few tears if the man were to fall under a cable car. He sat beside his mother and held her hand. At least there was one parent he could always count on to see things his way.
The boy and his mother talked about his classes at Stanford and his position on the football team and his plans to go down to Mexico with friends during the Christmas holiday. Then he stood up and tucked the covers in around her and kissed her on the forehead.
“You’re my best girl, you know,” he told her. “You’ll always be my best girl.”
A few minutes later, Amanda heard his sports car roaring out of the drive. Nobody ever referred to the incident again, and over the years, the conversation faded in her memory, until it were as though it had never taken place.
Amanda pulled the ruffles of her dressing gown around her and poured herself another glass of sherry. The amber aperitif had long since lost its taste, but she sipped at it anyway, slowly, hardly more than a drop at a time, as she had been taught to savor fine wines. It wasn’t how it tasted that mattered, after all—it was how it made her feel.
Nothing had ever been said to any of the staff, but the large crystal decanter on the table beside the chaise longue was always kept filled. Most of the household help had come to Jackson Street from the Drayton mansion atop Nob Hill on the occasion of Amanda’s marriage, and had known her since she was a girl. It didn’t matter that they also knew her secret.
It didn’t matter that her marriage was a sham, either. All that mattered was Bobby, and the important things he had been born to d
o. That would be her reward for all the lonely years, all the unfulfilled dreams.
There was a soft tap at her bedroom door. Amanda looked up in surprise. It was still way too early for dinner, and she couldn’t think who might be rude enough to disturb her.
“Come in,” she snapped irritably.
The heavy door opened, and as the intruder entered, a big smile spread over Amanda’s face.
“Bobby,” she cried in pure delight. “What a wonderful surprise.” She frowned in sudden confusion. “But aren’t you supposed to be at school? Aren’t we coming to Harvard next week to see you get your degree?” She started to whimper. “Don’t tell me I got the dates wrong. Don’t tell me I missed your graduation.”
Robert Drayton Willmont bent over the chaise longue and wrapped his arms around his mother’s frail frame.
“No, dear, you didn’t get the dates wrong,” he soothed. “I just wanted to see you.”
“Oh, Bobby, how nice,” she cooed. “I’m so glad.” She smiled at him through blurry eyes. “I do believe you’ve grown an inch or two just since Easter. Why, you must be taller than your father by now. Wait till he sees you. I do hope he doesn’t have to work too late at the office tonight. He’ll be so pleased.”
It was important to her that the boy think well of Robert, and she had played the game for so long that the lies rolled off her tongue like truth.
“How long can you stay?” she asked.
“Just a day or two.”
“You’ve made a very long trip for such a short visit. It isn’t like you to be so frivolous.”
He knelt down in front of her and took both her hands in his, a thing Amanda could not remember him ever doing before, and she began to blink nervously.
“I have something to tell you, dear,” he said softly.
“Is it important?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Then why don’t you wait until your father gets home?” she suggested. “And then you can tell us both at the same time.”
“No, I can’t wait for that,” he said with infinite patience. “You see, there’s been … an accident, and Father… well, he won’t be coming home.”
“An accident? Did you say an accident?”
“Yes, dear.”
Harold Sutton, senior partner of Sutton, Wells, Willmont and Spaulding, had telephoned Cambridge at three o’clock in the morning.
“It’s your father, Bob,” he said with no apology for the hour. “He died of a heart attack an hour ago. I think you should get back here as fast as you can. It really would be best all around if you were the one to tell your mother.”
“She doesn’t know yet?”
The older man cleared his throat. “No,” he replied with obvious discomfort. “Your father wasn’t home at the time.”
The Harvard law student laughed aloud. He didn’t need a road map to tell him where Robert Willmont had been found.
“Well, at least the old man went out with a bang,” he said. “Good for him—he wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.”
“Look,” Sutton entreated, “your father’s private life was just that, and we can’t have any embarrassing publicity attaching itself to the firm.”
“Certainly not, sir,” the young man said, instantly somber.
“Yes, well, I’m glad you understand. I’ve talked it over with the other partners and we’ve decided to say that he was working late at the office when the, ah, unfortunate incident occurred.”
“Can you square that with the authorities?”
“I believe so. The police commissioner is a personal friend.”
“I’ll catch the first plane out.”
“That’ll be fine, Bob,” Sutton said. “Just fine. And, by the way, don’t think for a moment that this has any effect on our offer. We’re still hoping you’ll come with us after graduation.”
“One thing has nothing to do with the other, sir, I know that,” came the correct reply. “As a matter of fact, after careful deliberation, I’ve decided to accept your offer.”
In truth, he had not made his decision until that very instant.
There was just the slightest hesitation at the San Francisco end of the line. “Well, that’s good news, indeed,” the senior partner said heartily. “We’ll be looking forward to it.”
“Thank you, sir.”
In Cambridge, a big grin spread across the young man’s handsome features. Like father, like son, he could almost hear Sutton thinking.
“Now, you be just as gentle as you can with your mother. She’s a bit fragile, you know.”
Amanda Willmont was indeed fragile, never more so than when she had consumed half a decanter of sherry.
“What kind of accident, Bobby?” she whimpered.
“It was a heart attack.”
“A heart attack?”
“Yes, dear.”
“Is he—was it—you mean, he’s—?” Somehow, she couldn’t get the word out of her mouth.
“I’m afraid so.”
“When?”
“Last night. He was working late at the office.”
Amanda closed her eyes. Her husband had been dead for almost an entire day, and she hadn’t even known it. A heart attack—an attack of the heart. The irony was obvious to her because she knew exactly where Robert had died, and it had nothing to do with the office. How kind it was of Bobby to want to protect her.
In spite of herself, she felt hot tears pressing against her eyelids. Robert had been an absentee husband for twenty-five years and she had learned to live with it. Now that he was dead, she missed him. She had played the part of a happy wife for more than a quarter of a century, and that had been a sham. Now she would play the part of a grieving widow, and that would be real.
“You’re all I have now, Bobby,” she sobbed.
“Don’t worry, dear,” he said. “I’ll take care of you.”
She smiled at him through her tears. “You’re such a good boy. You’ve always been such a good boy.”
“And you’ve always been my best girl,” he replied.
How like his father he was, Amanda thought, so tall and broad, with the same dark hair and beautiful face. In the dim light, it could almost have been Robert kneeling before her, looking up at her with such concern. Except, of course, for the one feature that Bobby had inherited from her side of the family, and which marked him as a Drayton above everything else—the extraordinary aquamarine eyes.
PART THREE
1969
Learn from the past, live for the present,
look to the future.
—Anonymous
one
Karen Kern hurried up Fifth Avenue, as quickly as the slight stiffness in her reconstructed left knee would allow, and turned left on Twelfth Street. Both the temperature and the humidity registered in the upper nineties, and Karen was perspiring freely beneath her bulky black coat.
She had regained her health and most of her weight. Her skin glowed a rich bronze from weekends in the sun, setting her blue-gray eyes off dramatically. Her dark hair, which grew well below her shoulders, was pulled back at the nape of her neck. A pale touch of lipstick was her only makeup.
Shifting the sack of groceries she carried, she began to fumble for her door keys when she was still half a block from the solid concrete building where she shared an apartment with Arlene Minniken, her former roommate from Cornell.
“Good evening, Miss Kern,” Martin, the doorman, said as she approached.
Her parents had insisted on her living in a building that provided round-the-clock doormen for extra security.
“Hello, Martin,” she replied with the plastic smile she had perfected for almost every man with whom she came in contact, regardless of the circumstances.
The lobby of the ten-story apartment house was dim and
functional, in contrast to the splendid opulence of Jill Hart-man’s building on West End Avenue, but Karen hardly noticed. She pulled an assortment of bills and advertising circulars from
her mailbox and rode the tired, creaking elevator to the sixth floor.
Letting herself into her apartment, she dropped her coat on the floor, deposited the bag of groceries on the kitchen counter, and hurried over to flip the switch on the air conditioner. The unit was old and rattled so much that she and Arlene almost had to shout to hear each other above the racket, but it provided a modicum of relief that was better than nothing. Then she kicked off her shoes, fixed herself a vodka collins and collapsed on the living room sofa.
For the past six months, Karen had been working as the assistant manager of the Washington Square Bookery, which wasn’t exactly on Washington Square, but close enough for the owner to get away with the namesake.
Housed in the dim, quiet, faintly musty basement of an old brownstone, the Bookery specialized in previously owned, rare, and hard-to-find books and periodicals. Peace posters hung everywhere, along with a sign that read, “Make Love Not War,” and a cartoon of Lyndon Johnson riding the top of a bomb about to plunge into a crying baby, which said, “Bombs Hurt.” Burning incense spread a pungent odor over everything.
A number of regulars, mainly friends and neighbors from Greenwich Village, came in to browse and pass the time of day with Demelza, the rather eccentric proprietor, but the shop was not generally frequented by uptown customers. Karen kept track of inventory, placed orders, organized the woefully disorganized owner, and made sure there was always a pot of herbal tea brewing. The job was interesting and just a short walk from the apartment, and the money didn’t matter because her parents footed the bill for her major expenses.
When she wasn’t at home or at the Bookery, Karen could be found on a bench in Washington Square with her nose deep in one of Demelza’s treasures, or wandering around the nar row streets of Greenwich Village peering into secondhand shop windows, or sitting by herself in one of the coffee houses that were an integral part of the area’s offbeat charm.
Nobody bothered her. Like marbles bouncing off one another, people of the Milage met, touched briefly and then veered away, strumming their guitars, selling their wares, keeping their distance and protecting their own painful secrets behind hard, glossy shells.
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