“Justine was right, Patsy, this is in my blood. I feel it. I found my niche. I’m happy, Patsy, really happy. I don’t ever want to do anything else. Thanks to Justine.”
“Mrs. Landers must be a very fine lady.”
“A very misunderstood lady, Patsy. I am so blessed.”
“You’d be more blessed if you’d find a nice husband,” Patsy said sourly.
“Now, that’s where you’re wrong. I can see the handwriting on the wall. This magazine is going to be my life. If I had a husband, he’d divorce me in a minute. I don’t think you can have a successful career and keep a husband happy. Of course, I’ve never tried it, but knowing me, I wouldn’t be able to give either one a hundred percent, and that wouldn’t be fair to a husband or the magazine. I’m not unhappy, Patsy.”
“I know you’re not, and that worries me. You need friends, you need to get out more. Sex,” she said, turning rosy pink.
“You don’t have to get married to have sex, Patsy. When I have time and my life is under control, I might think about it.” She thought about Woo then and wondered what he was doing.
“By the time you get around to thinking about it, you’ll be old with wrinkles of your own,” Patsy said. “Life will pass you by.”
“Life is full of choices, Patsy, and don’t ever forget it. For now, this is my choice. Mine. I know now I can do whatever I set my mind to doing. This is my choice for now.”
“Alright, Miss Ryan, if you say so,” Patsy grumbled as she held the door for her boss.
Jory smiled. “I say so.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Clarence Henderson stood in the doorway to Jory’s office and watched his boss stare out the window. For the past seven years he’d always, somehow, managed to catch Miss Ryan staring out the window. Particularly at this time of year. It also seemed, to his experienced eye, that she grew sadder each year. He looked at the Christmas issue of Serendipity. It had been Miss Ryan’s idea to forgo the traditional Christmas tree cover and go with Grandma Moses’s 1953 painting of rural America, Joy Ride, on the cover; to honor the 101-year-old artist, Miss Ryan had said at the September cover conference. Sadder now since the artist passed away.
“Penny for your thoughts, Miss Ryan,” he said, knocking on the open door. “Here it is, first copy off the press. It’s a beauty. I brought the mail. I think you have a letter from Mrs. Landers.”
Jory smiled. “And we both know what’s in it. Lord, it’s beautiful,” she said, holding up the slick magazine. “We did okay this year. I think we might be in the black for the second year in a row. It’s been a long hard road, Clarence. I truly believe I would have quit after the first year if it wasn’t for you and Justine. Okay, let’s see what our benefactor has to say,” Jory said, ripping open the air mail packet. “Ah, here it is. It says Clarence Henderson on the envelope. And there’s one for me.”
Clarence accepted the square white card. “Everything’s ready for the party, Miss Ryan,” he said. “I went over to the hotel myself to check on things about an hour ago. It promises to be a very festive evening.”
Jory nodded, her thoughts on her own white envelope. “Clarence, please close the door on your way out.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Jory ripped at the envelope, not bothering with the letter opener. It wasn’t a long letter, shorter than the usual ones Justine wrote from time to time. She leaned back on the pearl-gray swivel chair and lit a cigarette.
Dear Marjory,
It looks like another year is about to draw to a close. For you it’s been a good year. The magazine is absolutely stupendous. I knew you could do it. I learned if you don’t have faith in yourself, no one else will. Breaking even three years in a row and two in the black should make you delirious.
There were times during this past year when I wanted to come back, but my doctor felt it wasn’t wise. I’m coping.
I’m looking forward to your visit. I can’t promise to entertain you personally, but I’ve met this handsome Swiss banker who will make your blood sing. I talk about you a lot to him. He’s a kind, gentle man, and so good-looking he could be a film star. He reads your magazine and has seen your picture. He says you are unbelievably gorgeous. Right up front I told him you can’t have children. None of my business, eh? You’re right, but I did it anyway. He loves dogs and has three of his own. If you two don’t hit it off, I have four other possibilities on my list. I believe this is the man for you, Marjory, and yes, I have a heart. His name is Griffin Ballon. He lives here, but his mother was American, which means he has dual citizenship. I think he was born in Chicago. Alas, there won’t be time for you to request more details before your trip.
I look forward to seeing you. I promise you a wonderful holiday. I know you will enjoy your first overseas trip.
Affectionately,
Justine
Jory sat back in her chair, her eyes closed. Seven years were a long time not to have seen someone.
All the details of her trip had been taken care of. She had her brand-new passport, her airline tickets, and Clarence and Tillie were going to stay in the house in Chestnut Hill and take care of the dogs. She had two suitcases full of new clothes and a fashionable new haircut the beautician said took five years off her age.
Because it was the holiday season, she thought about Ross and Woo, which wasn’t to say she didn’t think of them at other times of the year; she did. She tried not to think of them, but somehow they invaded her life almost on a daily basis. Her eyes snapped open. Perhaps it was the picture on her desk, a bifold: the left picture of the four dogs sitting like little soldiers, with the Gucci collars Justine had sent the first year she went to Geneva; the picture on the right was of her, Woo, and Ross standing by the door to the carriage house. Many people had asked her who the two men in the photograph were, and she always said the same thing: “They’re someone I used to know.” It didn’t matter that the sentence didn’t make sense. Each of them was a someone. Someone she’d loved for a little while.
Both Woo and Ross were doing well, so well they’d opened two other offices, one in Brewster and one in Germantown. Woo walked with only one cane these days. She knew that because she’d seen him in Wanamaker’s one Saturday afternoon a year ago when she was Christmas shopping. She’d seen him in time to dart out of sight. She’d felt silly and foolish, but she’d done it anyway. A more sophisticated person would probably have gone up to him, stretched out her hand, bussed him on the cheek and trilled some kind of greeting. She remembered the way her heart took on extra beats and the way her eyes burned. An hour or so later, when she was paying for a pair of gloves, she heard Ross’s voice and then Woo’s response. And then she’d heard two female voices joining in the conversation. They were behind her, waiting in line. She used up five seconds of precious time thinking about how she looked before she forced a smile to her face and turned. Both Woo and Ross looked stunned; the young women, both pretty, wore equally surprised expressions. She’d said something appropriate, like, “How nice to see you,” or something like that. Everyone said how well everyone else looked. Introductions were made. Hands were shaken, and she would have had to be blind not to see the diamonds on the young women’s left hands winking under the overhead store lights.
Somehow she’d gotten out of the store to the parking lot, where she collapsed in a heap behind the steering wheel. She still didn’t know how she managed to get home without causing an accident, because her attention was on everything but the road in front of her.
She’d finally seen Lena Davis up close. And the young woman with Woo was pretty and wholesome-looking. Her name was Ann Marie something. She’d read their engagement announcements. She’d gotten drunk that night and slept on the floor in front of the fire. Both Woo and Ross would be married in two weeks, New Year’s Day. A double wedding. How like the two of them to have a double wedding.
And that, she thought, leaning over her desk, was the reason she finally decided to make this trip. She needed to put as muc
h distance between herself and Philadelphia as possible when the double wedding took place.
She told herself over and over she didn’t love either Ross or Woo. How could you love someone who said they would marry you anyway, even if you couldn’t have children? How could you love someone who put his friend ahead of you and was willing to walk away from you so as not to hurt that same friend? Did Woo know Ross didn’t care about him in the same way? Of course, it wasn’t fair of her to think such a thing. If Woo didn’t tell Ross his feelings for her, how could Ross know? She always got a headache when she came to this point in her thoughts. She felt one coming on now.
“Time to go home,” she muttered. She whistled for the dogs, who came on the run, their leashes dragging behind them. Bringing the dogs to the office was one of the fringe benefits of owning the business. Everyone took turns walking them and feeding them. They were as much a part of Serendipity as she was. Hanging on her wall was a blown-up version of her first-anniversary cover, with her and the dogs posing in front of the office Christmas tree they’d put up in July for the cover shoot. She always smiled when she looked at it.
Where would the two friends live? Jory wondered. No doubt next to one another or in close proximity. Both Ross’s and Jasper’s houses in Society Hill had been sold. She’d seen a record of the sale in the Democrat. Maybe Jasper, Ross, and Woo would live on the same street. She giggled at that thought. She wondered what a psychiatrist would make of that.
She’d gone to a psychiatrist the year she started up Serendipity because her emotions kept getting in the way of her work. Dr. Seymour Ravitch was a kindly, elderly man who looked at her intently, a deep frown on his face. When she finished blurting out what she thought was wrong, he’d said, in his heavily accented voice, “But what is the problem?” And she’d repeated everything she’d said previously. “Go home,” he’d said. “There’s nothing wrong with you, your pride has been injured and your heart is bruised. Save the fifty dollars an hour I charge and buy yourself a new dress. Each time you feel this way, buy a new dress or a new hat. Now, because I have to charge you for this hour, let’s have a cup of my famous coffee and chat.” In the last thirty minutes of the visit she’d told him more about her life than she thought possible. He’d patted her shoulder when she was about to leave, saying, “Anytime you feel troubled, stop in for coffee and we’ll chat.” They had a long chat and two cups of coffee after the Wanamaker encounter and the engagement notice in the Democrat.
It was Seymour’s idea for her to make the trip to Geneva. “I think,” he’d said, “you need to see your benefactor and to be away from here when the double wedding takes place. You need to do something for this lady, show her some kindness. I could be wrong, and if I am, you will send me a bill.”
“I’m leaving, Clarence,” Jory called now from the doorway, the dogs’ leashes in her hands. “Take care of things for me.”
“I will, Miss Ryan.”
It was hard to believe, Jory thought, that these were the same offices she’d walked into years ago. All the old decor was gone, replaced with low, comfortable, modern furniture, busy green plants, and colorful, modern art on the walls. The ankle-deep carpets were a shade darker than the dove-gray furniture. The draperies were the same in all the offices, but streaked with a waffle-weave pattern of burgundy or pewter-blue. The glass and chrome gleamed and sparkled in the subdued lighting. Restful, comforting colors, but still vibrant enough to keep the employees moving at an even pace, herself included.
Outside, the wind whipped at her skirts, flattening the dogs’ ears against their heads as they walked into the swirling snow.
- “We’re going home, guys,” Jory said, starting her usual dialogue with the dogs, dialogue that continued until they pulled into the driveway.
This year she hadn’t decorated the house inside or outside. Christmas of late seemed like a chore. After Woo moved, she’d struggled with a tree that grew smaller each year, until it was nothing more than a piney stem with little branches she could pick up with one hand. All the joy seemed to be gone. For years now she did nothing but work late hours, travel home, feed the dogs, shower, and go to bed.
The price of success. By her own choice.
“It’s not that I don’t want to be successful, I do,” she said to the dogs. “But it’s a hollow success. There’s no one to share it with. You guys don’t care as long as you have your chicken gizzards and you get walked five times a day. I need more. I need a life outside Serendipity. Now that we’re a success and in the black, I’m going to have less of a life because I’m going to have to work harder, stay later, to make sure I keep pace with the competition. I want time to play, to get out there and spread my wings.” She made a funny sound in her throat. “It takes energy and gusto to have a career and a personal life, and mine has been seriously depleted. Relationships take a lot of work and time. My own fault. Your lot in life,” she said over her shoulder to the dogs on the backseat, “is to listen to me moan and groan. We’re home!” The dogs leaped over the seat to land in a pile on her lap.
“Looks like Harriet is home and has her Christmas lights up.” Harriet Mendelson, who rented the carriage house, taught junior high at Chestnut Hills High School and was an old maid by her own admission. She was cranky, belligerent, and she disliked animals. She paid her rent on time, but didn’t believe in fraternizing with her landlord, which was alright with Jory because Harriet depressed her. The reason she depressed her was she could see herself turning into a Harriet Mendelson in the years to come.
Jory unlocked the kitchen door. This was the part she hated the most, coming home to a cold, dark house.
Jory clapped her hands. “Dinner for you, a drink for me, and maybe a sandwich later on. We don’t want to mess up things for Clarence and Tillie. A fire would be nice. We haven’t had one in a long time.” She was talking just to hear her own voice. Talking and getting through the hours until it was time to board the plane for Geneva.
The hours ticked by until it was time to carry her bags down to the front door. Time for the limousine to pick her up for the drive to Kennedy Airport in New York.
Clarence and Tillie arrived at seven o’clock in the morning complete with a Christmas tree in the trunk of their car and a backseat full of luggage and brightly wrapped presents.
“You enjoy yourself, Miss Ryan,” Clarence said. “Don’t you go worrying about anything here. Tillie and I will take good care of the dogs. I’ll check in at the office once a day. Wish Mrs. Landers a happy holiday and . . . and . . .”
“Give her a big hug and kiss. I always warm the dogs’ food for them.”
“I know that, Miss Ryan.”
“They need their sweaters on in this weather. Clancy pees on his, so you have to wash it more often.”
“I know that too, Miss Ryan.”
“I bought you a turkey and all the . . . stuff you’ll need for dinner.”
“Yes, Miss Ryan.”
“The Christmas tree stand is in the garage.”
“You told me that.”
“Miss Mendelson doesn’t like the dogs, so make sure you keep them out of her way. For some strange reason they like her. I don’t understand that. She doesn’t like them, but they like her.”
“We’ll keep them out of her way.”
“I bought her a fruitcake and wrapped it up. Give it to her when she comes to pay the rent the first of January.”
“Get in the damn limo, Miss Ryan,” Clarence said, nudging her forward.
“Have a wonderful holiday, Clarence.”
“I’d like to get started on it, but I can’t if you’re going to keep me standing here in the cold,” Clarence grumbled.
“I’m going. ’Bye.”
She was on her way. She was really going to Switzerland. Her first real vacation, ever. Four-day trips to Florida didn’t fall into the same category as this vacation.
Eleven hours later Jory stepped into a second waiting limousine, this one hired by Justine Landers to take
her on the last leg of her journey.
It was dusk, and all she could see was snow and more snow. She wanted to ask the driver questions, but she was too tired. Exhausted would be a better word, she thought as she leaned back in the warm comfort of the limousine. “How far is it?” she asked the driver.
“A two-hour ride, miss,” the driver said.
Jory closed her eyes and was instantly asleep. She woke when she felt the car glide to a stop. The second thing she felt was a cold swhoosh of air when the driver opened the back door. Jory stepped down onto hard-packed snow, the cold swirling about her ankles. She shivered, her teeth chattering.
“The door’s open, miss, I’ll bring your bags in. It’s warm inside and there will be hot cocoa waiting.” Jory ran, her steps loud as gunshots as she sped across the frozen snow.
“Madam is waiting for you, miss,” the tall, regal housekeeper said briskly. “Try not to tire her. She’s not supposed to be downstairs, but she insisted on welcoming you properly.”
Jory jammed her hands into the pockets of her wool skirt. Tomorrow she would look at the furniture, the paintings, and the rest of the decor. Now, she only had eyes for the wizened creature propped up on the sofa in a mound of blankets and pillows. This couldn’t be Justine. Not the Justine she knew. How ill she looked, how wasted. She fought the tears that were about to puddle in her eyes.
“I’m here! I cannot believe it! You live in nowhere! It’s good to see you, Justine,” Jory said, bending over to kiss Justine’s wrinkled cheek.
“Just don’t say I look well. The last time I looked in the mirror I scared myself, so I had them all taken out. Stand back, let me look at you.”
Jory dropped to her knees and reached for Justine’s hand. “You should have told me. I would have come sooner,” she said huskily.
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