It was January 1949. The Downbeat Club, one of Catherine’s favorites, was hosting a jazz quartet that drew visitors from all over town—they’d been written up in the Philadelphia Inquirer the day before with a half-page spread. Catherine had never heard them play. So, she put on her favorite taffeta gown and her checkered fleece coat—the one with the deliciously deep pockets—and headed out for the night.
Michael Snell saw her the moment she came in. His saxophone to his lips, he was playing a melancholy warm-up tune when a petite brunette sauntered through the front door, motioned to the barman for a drink, then took her checkered cape off with a flourish and sat at a table for one.
Even after the quartet began their first set, Michael couldn’t take his eyes off her. There was something pure in her essence, so different from the women he usually met in his line of work. Indeed, this woman didn’t seem to belong under the dim lights of a jazz club at all.
She left while he was still onstage; there was no way he could put down his sax and follow her, though he thought of it. At intermission, he poked his head into the Philly street to see whether he could spot her, wondering whether the cigar smoke had gotten to her or whether the music was too loose and restless for her taste.
But Catherine was already gone and the reason why was simpler—Catherine was sleepy. She had ordered a Stinger from the bar, and the potent mixture of brandy and white crème de menthe had gone straight to her head—she never held her liquor well. But Catherine had noticed the saxophonist looking at her from the stage.
The next morning, she wondered whether she’d imagined it. I’m just flattering myself, she thought. Her head pounded from the brandy, and she tried to wipe the memory from her mind.
But it lingered, so persistent that she found herself scouring the Inquirer for the jazz quartet’s next performance, discovering to her delight, it was the following night.
She sat at the same corner table, and this time, there was no denying it—the handsome saxophonist was smiling in her direction.
Michael Snell was determined not to lose her again. Between songs, he set his saxophone on top of the piano, hopped off the stage, and pulled up a chair at Catherine’s table. “I noticed you the other night,” he said, by way of introduction.
“I noticed you noticing me,” she said, giving her best coy smile.
“Please don’t leave early this time,” he said, brushing her hand lightly with his. “If you stay, I’ll buy you a drink.”
Catherine felt her cheeks grow rosy. “I’d like that,” she said. “Very much.”
At the first break, he bought her a drink and got to know her more, asking about her family, her job, even her political involvement. Catherine glowed at the unexpected attention.
“How old are you?” he asked.
“Twenty-three,” she said. “How about you?”
He ran his hand through his curly dark hair, reminding her of Leo. “Ancient.”
“No. How old?”
“Thirty-three,” he said, “but I don’t look like an old man, do I?”
She blushed. “Not at all.”
After the concert, they shared another round of drinks. Then, Michael leaned in and whispered in her ear. “How would you like to go to my place?”
She hesitated. The liquor had made her a little lightheaded, but she liked his confidence and the way he took charge. “I’d like that,” she said, “but just so you know—I’m not one of those girls who are easy on a first date.”
He kissed her cheek. “I didn’t think you were.”
Half an hour later, they were making out passionately on Michael’s couch. A phenomenal kisser, he pressed himself against her and kissed her lips much the way Leo had done, making Catherine weak in the knees. She had just undone her satin cloche hat and set it on the coffee table when Michael started to unbutton her blouse.
“I can’t,” she said, laying a hand on his wrist. “Not tonight.”
“Why not tonight?” he asked, stroking her hair. “You’re so beautiful. You’re so… different.”
“Exactly,” Catherine said. “I told you—I don’t ever sleep with a man on a first date. I don’t even sleep with a man in the first month!”
“But I feel like I’ve known you for years,” Michael protested, kissing her again, as she felt warmth course through her body like a summer heat wave. It was strange, but in a way, she felt that she had known him for years, maybe because he reminded her of Leo. Or what Leo would have grown into, had he survived the war.
“Just be patient,” she murmured. “Can you do that for me?”
“Sure,” Michael said, kissing her neck. “I can wait.” The feeling of his lips against her clavicle made her shiver from head to toe.
He invited her over for dinner the next night. “I make a mean pot roast,” he said. Catherine had yet to see a man who could cook a pot roast that was even eatable, so she accepted, more out of curiosity than anything else.
When she arrived at his apartment the following evening, he’d already opened a bottle of wine. “It’s a vintage,” he explained. “I’ve been saving it for something special.”
“I’m something special?” she asked.
“Very special,” he said, kissing her on the ear.
Michael was as gifted in the kitchen as he was on stage. The pot roast was delicious, and so was the wine. Every time he smiled, the warmth that grew in Catherine’s belly spread through her body like fire.
After dinner, Michael pushed his chair back from the table. He walked over, lifted her chin, and kissed her with all the soul he put into his saxophone, lifting her from the chair as if she weighed no more than a quill. She melted into his arms.
“I’m going to take you to the bedroom now,” he said. Part of her knew she should object, but every bone in her body longed to be pressed up against him under the cool cotton sheets. Catherine Woods never slept with a man on a second date, but as waves of pleasure swept over her body that evening, she found herself happy to break the rule once.
*
During her first years in Philadelphia, Catherine rarely visited her family. So, it was a surprise to Josiah and Elaine when they received a letter from their daughter in 1951, telling them that she would be spending the weekend in Woodsville. She would also be bringing her beau.
“I hope he’s a doctor,” Elaine said.
“I’d prefer a judge,” the judge said, “but a lawyer would be acceptable. Depending on whom he voted for, of course.”
There was no end to Josiah’s surprise when Catherine showed up on the front porch with Michael Snell. The Woods kept the peace for the first day. But by the second, the veneer of their hospitality was cracking open. Michael played Miles Davis on the porch, while inside the house, Catherine and her parents hissed at one another in subdued tones.
“How old is he?” Elaine asked.
Before she could respond, Josiah interjected. “He’s much too old for you.”
“He’s only thirty-five,” Catherine said.
“A man that much older only wants one thing.” He looked at his daughter with disgust. “And it’s pretty clear he’s getting it.”
Catherine remained silent.
“I raised you to do much better than a musician,” Josiah growled. “How’s he going to provide for you? Are you going to raise your children in bars and nightclubs?”
“Why do you care where I raise my children?” Catherine asked. She’d had about enough of her father’s interference. “You don’t care about me. You don’t care about what I want or whom I love. You’re just afraid I’m going to shame the Woods family name.”
“You’ve already brought me shame—you and your choices!” her father yelled.
“Maybe that’s because I don’t give a shit about the family name!” Catherine screamed back, no longer concerned about keeping her volume down. “I don’t give two cents about this family. It’s a farce, anyway. You two barely tolerate each other. What if I want to actually love the man I marry?
Is that such a crime?”
Her father opened his mouth to speak, but Catherine was just getting started. “I guess it is a crime because you wouldn’t even let me spend time with the boy I loved. You robbed me of spending precious minutes with Leo, and now, he’s gone forever. Finally, I have someone new in my life… and you don’t care. It’s all about you! Your plan for my life. Your idea of a daughter you can be proud of.”
“Dear, we only want what’s best for you,” Elaine said.
Catherine shook her head fiercely. “No, Mother, you want what’s best for you.”
The music from the front porch had ceased. They all stood staring at one another, the veins popping out of their necks, regarding one another in furious silence, a silence full of daggers.
“Watch yourself, girl,” the judge cautioned. “I’ll take you out of my will.”
Catherine threw her head back and laughed. “Good, I’d welcome it. I don’t want anything to do with you.”
“Fine,” he said. “Your mother and I will leave everything to your three siblings who know what it means to show their parents some respect.”
Elaine’s eyes filled with tears, but Catherine wouldn’t let herself be swayed, ire pumping through her veins, and little space for regret.
“We’ll leave tonight,” she said, “and I’ll never come back to Woodsville again.”
“Very well,” Josiah said coolly. “You are no longer a Woods—not in name, not in trust, not in my final will and testament.”
Elaine’s shoulders shook silently as Josiah guided her to the doorway and pushed her through it. He started to walk away himself, but then paused, Catherine staring at him, her eyes ablaze, fists tightly clenched in the weak lamplight.
Her father cast one last look over his shoulder, but instead of offering any token of sorrow or forgiveness, he simply shook his head. “Good-bye, Catherine Delaney. Consider yourself disowned.”
*
Michael was waiting for her on the porch outside as she sank into a rocking chair next to him, too exhausted to cry.
“I heard,” he said, placing a hand on her knee. “I’m sorry.”
“We’ll need to pack our things,” she said.
“I’ll do it. We’ll be just fine.” But they wouldn’t be, even if, at the time, Catherine had only the faintest idea why.
The break with her parents seeped into their relationship like lead from a water pipe. Michael’s music was his only income, a sporadic one at best, and although Catherine longed for stability, she didn’t worry about money; their feelings were what she held dear.
But in 1952, she walked in on Michael with another woman. He’d told her he was at a last-minute rehearsal for a special performance, when in reality, he was with a waitress he’d used for fooling around. Catherine had seen signs of his infidelity before, turning a blind eye until now.
Once the veil had fallen, she went through Michael’s pockets and found love notes, napkins with lipstick marks, and even a pair of earrings he had bought for someone else. To make matters worse, he wasn’t satisfied with just one girlfriend but needed three.
“Did you think I wouldn’t find out?” she asked after returning to collect her things.
“I hoped you wouldn’t,” he said. “You’re so different from those girls—so pure and faithful and trustworthy. It’s as if you’re in a different stratosphere.”
“Yes,” she agreed, “a stratosphere that no longer includes you.” The disappointment stung deep, and, for the first time, she considered her father’s words—perhaps she couldn’t trust her feelings when it came to matters of the heart.
Michael vowed to change and sent roses and presents. Catherine longed for him, but had no tolerance for a cheater; loneliness and disappointment filled her days.
Michael’s infidelity highlighted the mistakes she had made—for the passionate men she attracted did nothing but burn her in the end. Catherine longed for a different romance with a different man—a man who would stand by her and bring security to her life. And as she considered that sort of marriage, that sort of man, she bumped into Walter Murray.
It had been four years since she met Walter at the Philadelphia headquarters of the Wallace campaign, but she remembered him well, partly because he had kept up with her since the campaign ended. Walter was a Sun Oil accountant, made good money, and, when he did call, always invited her to Philadelphia’s finest restaurants.
She expected him to make an advance—she was used to men doing that—but he never had. Granted, she had been seeing Michael for almost the entire time Walter and she had known each other, but that never stopped other men in the past. Catherine saw Walter as a trustworthy friend, a gentleman who valued her friendship, and unlike other men, respected her commitment to Michael. Eventually, Catherine found she respected Walter more than she respected anyone else she’d met in Philadelphia.
On February 14, 1952, she told Michael there was no hope of her coming back. No more intimate evenings of his trying to woo her back, she would accept no more letters or flowers or mink stoles. “Don’t contact me again,” she told him, and he never did.
She called Walter later that day, wondering whether he might be out on a date—it was Valentine’s Day, after all—but as she learned minutes later, he was alone. She would then wonder whether it had more to do with fate than luck.
After she took the initiative, the months rolled on, and their courtship progressed naturally. Walter brought few surprises, which pleased Catherine after her adventures with Michael. A true gentleman, Walter took her to the theatre and symphony; Catherine loved patronizing the city’s thriving art scene. Mild mannered and respectful, he came from one of Philadelphia’s wealthy families. How ironic, Catherine mused, that once my family disowns me, I meet a man they’d adore.
Walter earned a good salary and benefits at Sun Oil and treated Catherine with generosity. Stability and predictability were Walter’s chief traits, and they were the qualities Catherine wanted. And, unlike Michael, he never looked at another woman: Catherine was at the center of his universe, and as a result, she shone brighter than the Milky Way.
On Valentine’s Day of 1953, Walter took Catherine to Maison de Campagne, his favorite French restaurant near Rittenhouse square with high-class elegance and prices to match. Catherine and Walter feasted on a dinner of scalloped chicken and veal croquettes paired with Chardonnay, surrounded by white tablecloths, crystal plates, and sterling silver cutlery that sparkled in the candlelight. After dessert, a man carrying a violin approached the table.
Catherine lost track of time as the musician put his bow to the string. A distinct melody sang from the instrument, so rich her eyes filled with tears. She recognized it from Rachmaninoff’s Second Piano Concerto, the first orchestral performance she and Walter had attended together.
Catherine turned to face him, but Walter was no longer sitting in his chair but on one knee at her feet. And unlike Waldo Ayers all those years ago, he had no trouble opening the small velvet box in his hand.
“Catherine Delaney Woods,” he said, as the violin music came to a crescendo behind him. “Would you do me the honor of being my wife?”
Catherine imagined the life they could have together—not one of great drama or romance, but a life of mutual respect, support, and commitment. The diamond ring glistened on its velvet throne as Catherine knew she couldn’t decline. She might not have loved him the way she loved Leo—but that same feeling led her astray with Michael. As for the other things she craved—the love, the passion—she was willing to put those things aside because they led to nothing but ruin.
“Yes,” she said, clasping her slender fingers around his steady hand as he slipped the ring on her. “Oh, yes.”
Catherine leaned in and placed her lips gently on his, but she heard no fireworks, felt no familiar lightheadedness that usually came at such moments. Even the violin music had ceased, and she heard only the metallic scrape of knives against plates—the soundtrack of the nearby restaurant pa
trons.
She didn’t love Walter the way she loved Leo, but Catherine was no longer a schoolgirl, and Leo was not coming back. She felt ready to make peace with the dreams she had once harbored; she craved stability, and the wild life of a brazen twenty-something in Philadelphia held no further appeal. Catherine was now engaged to Walter Murray. They would settle into a tranquil, comfortable engagement—just as tranquil and comfortable as their courtship had been. Catherine’s life had changed in an instant, though she couldn’t shake the feeling that it was the same.
*
Far across the Atlantic Ocean, Leo’s life was anything but tranquil. In the last seven years, he had reinvented himself so thoroughly that he sometimes didn’t recognize himself in the warped mirror hanging from the wall of his Paris apartment.
“Bonjour,” he would say to the face staring back at him.
“Bonjour,” the face said at the same time, mocking him with a sad knowing smile.
His relationship with Nicole had ended in early 1947. She left to study art history at the Sorbonne, and they parted on friendly terms, plans of marriage abandoned as their infatuation wore off. By then, Leo had found considerable work in construction as post-War France was rebuilt. He discovered many teachers on the bustling streets of Paris, gifted sculptors who worked with him to refine his art. But, in truth, he spent more time perfecting his racing skills than he did molding clay and plaster.
By 1949, he was twenty-four and one of the city’s most eligible bachelors, handsome, and unmistakably American with his shock of curly dark hair and broad shoulders. The French women loved him—and he loved the French women. He was always in a relationship—usually more than one—but none of them eased his heartache over losing Catherine.
As the abstract expressionist movement took off in France, Leo’s sculptures became more avant-garde—the beginning of his lifelong affair with the abstract. As a wave of industrialism swept France, Leo also became fascinated with a different medium. He struck up a friendship with an industrial worker who taught him how to weld, ushering in a new era in Leo’s creative life as he worked with metal to make unique, imposing, twisted art. His broken dreams’ brittle pieces were reflected in his new sculptures’ jagged, hard, and rusted metal outlines.
Four Seasons of Romance Page 6
