“Find anything?” His eyes danced above the beard when he saw the gown she had on. He had seen it when it arrived from Italy, it had caused quite a stir in the designer salon and was one of the most expensive ones they had, but he didn't look disturbed about it as he watched her. He was mesmerized by how exquisite she looked in the dress, and with his discount it wouldn't be too painful for him. “Wow! The designer should see you in that dress, Liz!” The saleslady smiled at him as well, it was a pleasure seeing someone as pretty as Liz so perfectly molded into a dress which enhanced everything from her golden bronze skin to her eyes to her figure. Bernie strode to where she stood and kissed her as he felt the soft fabric beneath his hands, and the door to the dressing room closed discreetly behind the vendeuse as she left, murmuring something about “look for something else …perhaps some shoes to go with …” She knew her job well, and always performed it with skill and discretion.
“Do you really like it?” Liz' eyes sparkled like one of the gems on the dress as she twirled gracefully for him and her laughter rang out like silver bells in the dressing room. He could almost feel his heart expand with delight just looking at her, and he could hardly wait to show her off at the opera.
“I love it. It was made for you, Liz. Do you see anything else you like?”
She laughed and her tan heightened with a rosy blush. She didn't want to take advantage of him. “I should say not. They wouldn't let me see the price tag on this yet…but I don't think I should even buy this one.” She knew just from the feel of the fabric that she couldn't afford it, but it was fun to dress up, not unlike something Jane would have done in the same circumstances, and she knew Bernie would let her use his discount. But still …
He was smiling at her. She was an amazing girl, and he was suddenly reminded of Isabelle Martin of the distant past, and how different they were. The one who couldn't take enough, the other who wouldn't take at all. He was a lucky man. “You're not buying anything, Mrs. O'Reilly. The dress is a gift from your future husband, along with anything else you see here that you like.”
“Bernie …I …”
He sealed her lips with a kiss and then walked to the door of the dressing room with a last look over his shoulder. “Go look at some shoes to go with it, sweetheart. And come up to the office when you're all through. We'll go to lunch afterwards.” He smiled at her and then disappeared as the saleslady reappeared with an armload of other dresses she thought Liz might like, but Liz absolutely refused to try them. She consented only to try on a pair of shoes to go with the dress and found a beautiful brandy-colored pair of satin evening shoes encrusted with stones that were almost identical. They were the perfect match and Liz looked victorious when she picked Bernie up upstairs, and as they left the store she was chatting happily, telling him about the shoes, how much she loved the dress, and how overwhelmed she was by how much he spoiled her. They walked to Trader Vic's arm in arm, and had a long lazy lunch, teasing and laughing and enjoying the afternoon, and it was with regret that he left her at almost three o'clock. She had to pick up Jane at a friend's. They were both enjoying their liberty before they started school again. They only had a few days left before they went back to school the following Monday.
But the opera was foremost on Liz' mind, and on Friday afternoon she had her hair done and a manicure, and at six o'clock she slipped into the magical dress that he had bought her. She zipped it up carefully, and stood staring at herself for a moment in amazement. Her hair was swept up and caught in a thickly woven gold net she had found during another foray at Wolffs and the shoes peeked out from beneath the heavy velvet folds of her dress, and she heard the doorbell faintly in the distance, and then suddenly Bernie was standing in the doorway of her bedroom looking like a vision himself in white tie and tails and the starched bibfront of an impeccably made English shirt and the diamond studs that had been his grandfather's.
“My God, Liz …” He couldn't say more as he looked at her, and he kissed her carefully so as not to disturb her makeup. “You look so lovely,” he whispered, as Jane watched them from the doorway, forgotten for the moment. “Ready?”
She nodded and then spotted her daughter. Jane looked less than pleased as she watched them. In a way, it pleased her to see her mother looking so pretty, and in another, it troubled her to see them so close. It had been worrying her since Lake Tahoe, and Liz knew they had to say something to her soon about their plans, but in a way she was frightened to tell her. What if she objected to their getting married? Liz knew she liked Bernie, but liking him wasn't enough. And in some ways, Jane considered Bernie her friend, more than her mother's.
“Good night, sweetheart.” Liz stooped to kiss her, and Jane turned away, with angry eyes, and this time she said nothing to Bernie. And as they left the house, for a moment Liz looked worried, but she said nothing to Bernie. She didn't want anything to spoil their magical evening.
They went to the dinner at the Museum of Modern Art first, in the Rolls Bernie had rented for the occasion, and they were rapidly swept into the throng of women in dazzling gowns and ornate jewels, and photographers fighting to take their picture. But Liz felt perfectly at home in their midst and proud on Bernie's arm as she clung tightly to him and the flashbulbs went off all around them. She knew they had taken their photograph too, and Bernie was already becoming known around town as the manager of the city's most elegant store, and many of the expensively dressed women seemed to know him. The museum had been decorated by the local socialites, and was filled with silver and gold balloons and trees that had been sprayed gold. There were beautifully wrapped gifts at each seat, cologne for the men, and a handsome bottle of perfume for the ladies, from Wolffs, of course, and it was easy to recognize their distinctive wrapping on every table.
The crowd pressed them close as they walked into the huge hall where the tables were, and Liz looked up at Bernie with a smile as he squeezed her arm and another photographer took their picture.
“Having fun?” She nodded but it was difficult to call it that. It was a crush of bodies in exquisite evening gowns, and enough jewelry to fill several wheelbarrows had anyone wanted to try. But there was an aura of excitement too. Everyone knew that they were part of an important evening.
Bernie and Liz took their seats at the same table with a couple from Texas, the curator of the museum and his wife, an important customer of Wolffs and her fifth husband, and the mayor and her husband. It was an interesting table, and conversation was rapid and light as the dinner was served and the wines poured, and everyone chatted about their summer, their children, their most recent trips, and the last time they had seen Placido Domingo. He was flying to San Francisco especially to sing?ta??a?a this evening with Renata Scotto, and it would be a treat for the real opera lovers in the crowd, although there were few of those. Opera in San Francisco had more to do with social standing and fashion than it did with any real passion for music. Bernie had heard it said for months, but he didn't care. He was having a good time, and it was fun being out with Liz for such an elegant evening. And Domingo and Scotto were only additional treats as far as he was concerned. He knew very little about opera.
But as they walked across the horseshoe driveway a little later on, to the War Memorial Opera House, even Bernie felt the intensity of the moment. The photographers appeared en masse this time, to photograph everyone going into the opera house, and there was a crowd held back by cordons and police. They had come just to ogle the elegantly dressed crowd on opening night, and Bernie suddenly felt as though he were attending the Academy Awards, only the crowd was staring at him and not at Gregory Peck or Kirk Douglas. It was a heady feeling as he shielded Liz from the eddying movements of the crowd and ushered her into the building and up the stairs to where he knew their box was. They found their seats easily, and he recognized familiar faces all around him, the women anyway. They were all clients of Wolffs. In fact, he was pleased at how many of their gowns he had seen since the evening began. But Liz was by far the most beauti
ful in her magnificent Renaissance gown, with her hair caught up in the woven threads of gold. He found himself aching to kiss her as others looked at them admiringly, and he pressed her hand gently as the light dimmed, and they held hands through the whole first act. And Domingo and Scotto were extraordinary together. It was a breathtaking evening in every way, and they followed the others to the bar, where the champagne poured like water and the photographers were hard at work again. He knew they had taken Liz' photograph at least fifteen times since the evening began, but she didn't seem to mind it. She looked shy and demure and she felt safe at his side. Everything about her made him want to protect her.
He handed her a glass of champagne, and they stood sipping it and watching the crowd, and suddenly Liz giggled as she looked up at him. “It's funny, isn't it?”
He grinned. It was funny. It was so overwhelmingly elegant, and they all took themselves so seriously that it was difficult to believe that they hadn't been cast backwards into another time when moments like this were infinitely more important. “It's kind of a nice change from one's daily routine though, isn't it, Liz?”
She smiled again and nodded. The next morning she would be at Safeway buying groceries for herself and Jane for the week, and on Monday she would be writing simple additions on a chalkboard. “It makes everything else seem unreal.”
“That should be part of the magic of opera, I think.” He liked the importance of the event in San Francisco, and he liked being part of it. And most of all, he liked sharing it with her. It was a first time for both of them and he wanted to share a lifetime of firsts with her. The lights dimmed then before he could say anything, and then rose again, as a discreet bell sounded in the distance. “We have to go back.” He put down his glass, as did Liz, but he noticed rapidly that no one else did, and when they finally left the bar at the insistence of the bell, most of the crowd from the boxes remained at the bar, talking and laughing and drinking. That was part of the San Francisco tradition too. The bar and its intrigues being, in most instances, far more important than the music.
The boxes were half empty during the second act, theirs as well, but the bar was in full swing when they returned to it during the second intermission. Liz stifled a yawn, with a sheepish glance at Bernie.
“Tired, sweetheart?”
“A little …it's such a big evening.” And they both knew there was more. They were having supper at Trader Vic's afterwards, in the Captain's Cabin. Bernie was already a regular there, and after that they were going to make a quick stop at the opera ball at City Hall. He suspected they wouldn't get home until three or four in the morning, but it was the event that launched San Francisco's social season every year, and it stood out like the largest diamond in the tiara.
Their car was waiting for them in the driveway after the last act, and they climbed into it cozily, and then sped toward Trader Vic's. Even that seemed better than usual tonight as they drank champagne and ate caviar and Bongo Bongo soup and mushroom crepes. And Liz laughed with delight at the message in her fortune cookie. “He will always love you as much as you love him.”
“I like that one.” She beamed happily at him. It had been an incredible evening, and Domingo and Scotto and their entourage had just come in and been seated at a long table in the corner with a great flurry. Numerous people asked for autographs and both artists looked pleased. It had been a remarkable performance. “Thank you for a beautiful evening, sweetheart.”
“It's not over yet.” He patted her hand on the table, and poured her another glass of champagne as she giggled in protest.
“You'll have to carry me out if you give me much more of that.”
“I can manage that.” He put a gentle arm around her and toasted her with his eyes. It was after one when they left Trader Vic's and went on to the opera ball, which was almost anticlimactical after all the earlier events of the evening. Liz was beginning to recognize the faces she had seen earlier, at the museum, the opera, the bar, Trader Vic's, and everyone seemed to be having fun. Even the press had begun to relax and enjoy themselves. By then they had gotten most of the photographs they needed. Although they took another of Liz and Bernie as they circled the floor easily in a graceful waltz that made her dress look even more lovely.
And it was that photograph which ran the next morning. A large photograph of Liz in Bernie's arms, as they circled the floor at the opera ball at City Hall. You could see some of the detail of the dress, but more than that, you could see Liz beaming up into Bernie's face as he held her.
“You really like him, huh, Mom?” Jane had her chin propped up in both hands, and Liz had a terrific headache as they read the newspaper over breakfast the next morning. She had come home at four-thirty and had realized, as the room spun slowly around her as she tried to get to sleep, that they must have consumed at least four or five bottles of champagne that evening. It had been the most beautiful night of her life, but now just the thought of the sparkling wine made her nauseous. And she was in no shape whatsoever to spar with her daughter.
“He's a very nice man, and he likes you a lot, Jane.” It seemed the smartest thing to say and the only thing she could think of.
“I like him too.” But her eyes said she wasn't quite as sure as she had once been. Things had gotten complicated over the summer. And she instinctively sensed the seriousness of their involvement. “How come you go out with him so much?”
Liz' head pounded ominously as she stared at her daughter silently over her coffee. “I like him.” To hell with it. She decided to say it. “Actually I love him.” The woman and the girl stared at each other over the table. She wasn't telling Jane anything she didn't know, but it was the first time Jane had heard the words and she didn't think she liked them. “I love him.” Liz' voice wobbled on the last word and she hated herself for it.
“So? … So what?” Jane got up and flounced away from the table as her mother's eyes grabbed her back.
“What's wrong with that?”
“Who said there was something wrong?”
“You did, by the way you're acting. He loves you, too, you know.”
“Yeah? How do you know?” There were tears in Jane's eyes now, and Liz' head was throbbing.
“I know because he told me.” She stood up and walked slowly to her child, wondering just how much she should tell her and tempted to say it all. She had to tell her eventually, and maybe it was better sooner than later. She sat down on the couch and pulled Jane onto her lap. The little body was stiff, but she didn't fight her. “He wants to marry us.” Her mother's voice was soft in the quiet room, and Jane couldn't fight back the tears any longer. She buried her face as she sobbed and clung to her mother. There were tears in Liz' eyes, too, as she held the little girl that had once been her baby, and in some ways always would be. “I love him, sweetheart. …”
“Why? … I mean why do we have to marry him? We were okay just us.”
“Were we? Didn't you ever wish we had a daddy?”
The sobbing stopped, but only for a moment. “Sometimes. But we did okay without one.” And she still had the illusion of the father she had never known, the “handsome actor” who had died when she was a baby.
“Maybe we'd do better with a daddy. Did you ever think of that?”
Jane sniffed as Liz held her. “You'd have to sleep in his bed and I couldn't get into bed with you anymore on Saturday and Sunday mornings.”
“Sure you could.” But they both knew it would be different, and in some ways it was sad and in other ways it was happy. “Think of all the good stuff we could do with him … go to the beach, and go for drives, and go sailing, and …think of what a nice man he is, baby.”
Jane nodded. She couldn't deny that. She was too fair to ever try maligning him. “I guess I kind of like him …even with the beard …” She smiled up at her mother through her tears and then asked what she really wanted to know. “Will you still love me if you have him?”
“Always.” The tears spilled onto Liz' cheeks as she
held her. “Always and always and always.”
Chapter 9
Jane and Liz started buying all the bride magazines, and when they finally went to Wolffs together to pick out their dresses for the wedding, Jane was not only resigned, she was beginning to enjoy it. They spent an hour in the children's department, looking for just the right dress for Jane and they finally found it. It was white velvet with a pink satin sash, and a tiny pink rosebud at the neck, and it was exactly what Jane wanted. And they were equally successful finding a dress for Liz. And afterwards Bernie took them to lunch at the Saint Francis.
And the following week in New York, Berman had already heard the news. News traveled fast in retail circles, and Bernie was an important man at Wolffs. Berman called him with curiosity and amusement.
“Holding out on me, are you?” There was a smile in Berman's voice and Bernie felt sheepish replying.
“Not really.”
“I hear Cupid has struck a blow on the West Coast. Is it rumor or truth?” He was pleased for his longtime friend and he wished him well. Whoever she was, he was sure Bernie had made a wise choice, and he hoped to meet her.
“It's true, but I wanted to tell you myself, Paul.”
“Then go ahead. Who is she? All I know is that she bought a wedding dress on the fourth floor.” He laughed. They lived in a tiny world run by rumors and gossip.
“Her name is Liz, and she's a second-grade teacher. She's originally from Chicago, went to Northwestern, is twenty-seven years old, and has a delicious little girl named Jane who is five years old. And we're getting married right after Christmas.”
“It all sounds very wholesome. What's her last name?”
“O'Reilly.”
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