Four Seasons of Romance

by Rachel Remington

  “I can’t do this anymore,” she whispered, her voice wavering. “I love you, Leo, but I can’t live like this. I can’t watch you destroy your body and waste your life away. And I won’t share you with other women.” Her voice broke, the tears streaming freely down her cheeks. “I have to move on,” she continued, her voice choked. “You were my everything, but it can’t be like this. I’m sorry.”

  She stood to go, Leo still encircled around her legs, his arms gone limp. “I’m leaving,” she said. “And I won’t be coming back.” She placed her hand on Leo’s shoulder one last time but withdrew it quickly, holding back sobs.

  “Good-bye,” she said and walked out of his room and out of his life. The sobs that wracked Leo’s body then were like a ship run aground on the rocks—the sound of a broken vessel that would never float again.

  *

  Catherine felt lost as she walked away from the hotel, not even knowing which direction she was heading, just placing one foot in front of the other. The look on Leo’s face haunted her memory—a horrible look, full of loss and betrayal. Then, she remembered the way he had so cavalierly placed his hand on that woman’s leg... or the way he drank without stopping, even when she begged him to quit... or the fact that he had no job and nothing to offer her.

  Yet, there was a pang of doubt and a shadow of regret in her consciousness, the thought that maybe, just maybe, she should have stayed and helped Leo instead of abandoning him. On the other hand, she had no desire to stay out drinking or watch him race cars at breakneck speeds or have illicit rendezvous with random women they met at bars. That’s not romantic, she reasoned. That’s dangerous and irresponsible.

  She shook her head fiercely, hoping to shake away the tears spilling from her eyes. “It’s over,” she said aloud. “It’s the only way.”

  Catherine checked her watch. It was late, but she didn’t want to go home and face her thoughts lying alone in her bed. She decided to stop by Walter’s place instead.

  Desperate for at least a semblance of connection with another human being, she knocked on Walter’s door thirty minutes later, her heart beating so loudly in her chest she was afraid she’d wake the whole neighborhood. The porch light went on, and a few minutes later, a groggy Walter opened the door. His hair was tousled, as he stood there in his smoking jacket, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

  “Catherine,” he said. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes,” she said, but her face belied her as it crumpled into tears.

  Walter opened his arms as she buried her face in his shoulder. “Come in,” he said. “I hate the thought of you out this late alone. Please, come inside.”

  Gently, he led her to a velvet armchair and covered her with a blanket, then made her a cup of tea and sat beside her as she drank it slowly. Walter said nothing, waiting for her to speak.

  “You were right,” she said finally. “You were right about Leo. It’s over now.”

  Walter patted her head, offering no words of admonishment.

  She squeezed his hand. “I want to get married,” Catherine said. “To you. You’re the right man for me. And I don’t want to wait. If I could, I’d marry you right now.”

  Walter adjusted the sash of his smoking jacket. “Perhaps a marriage at two in the morning is not the best kind.”

  Catherine nodded. “I agree, but I don’t want to wait until October. Let’s elope.” The proposal shocked her, even though she was the one who made it. Elope with Walter Murray? An elopement was the sort of thing Leo Taylor would do—and, in fact, what he’d suggested for years.

  But to her surprise, Walter began to pace the length of the living room in serious contemplation. “What about Mother?” he asked.

  “We’ll have a reception after our return. For her and all our friends.” The wheels in Catherine’s head churned quickly as she set down her teacup, took Walter’s hand in hers, and kissed it. “Let’s go to Niagara Falls,” she said. “I’ve always wanted to see it. We won’t tell anyone—we’ll just do it. Then, we’ll come back and celebrate with the people we love.”

  Just in case he needed more convincing, Catherine kissed each of his fingertips lightly. “I love you, Walter,” she whispered. “I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

  Whatever calculations Walter did in his head, she couldn’t tell, but they must have worked. “All right,” he said. “We’ll go this weekend.”

  So, Catherine and Walter were married that weekend in Niagara Falls, New York, a whirlwind of a wedding. All the normal trappings were discarded—Catherine protested that she didn’t want a dress, flowers, or any usual nonsense. She just wanted to be married to Walter so they could begin their life, and Walter was happy to defer to her wishes.

  The wedding was hurried and unremarkable, as was the consummation of their marriage, but Catherine had expected as much. She hadn’t chosen to marry Walter because he’d be a fantastic lover. In fact, she’d been betting on the fact that he’d be anything but... and she was right.

  When they returned to Philadelphia, Catherine headed to her apartment to gather her belongings. The phone rang every half-hour, and she knew it was Leo. After a few hours, she pulled the cord out of the wall, wrapping the disconnected phone in newspaper and laying it in the bottom of a cardboard box

  But the next day, Catherine was held to account; she was alone in her apartment separating things for the movers when she heard someone pounding on her door. When she opened it, there he was on her step—the same Leo with his large imploring eyes, holding a vase full of wild lilies and black-eyed Susans. Bowing his head slightly, he held it out to her as she accepted it awkwardly

  “May I come in?” he asked.

  “I don’t know whether that’s really...”

  Before she had time to finish her sentence, Leo looked behind her and saw the piles of boxes and packing tape and his eyes lit up. “You’re packing for DC!” he said. “I knew you hadn’t given up on us.”

  Catherine shook her head slowly, struggling to find the right words, then, she held up her left hand. The ring Walter had bought her was simple but unmistakable—a slender gold wedding band.

  “We eloped,” she said, trying not to look at Leo’s stricken expression. “And it wasn’t his idea, but mine. It was the only way I thought I could end things between you and me.” She set the flowers down carefully on the ground. “Please, Leo, try to understand. I had to end our affair once and for all, I couldn’t deal with...”

  Catherine couldn’t speak. All the strength she’d tried to muster over the last few days, all the times she’d tried to tell herself she didn’t love Leo anymore, that it was a foolish, unhealthy love... all that dissolved in the tears that rushed down her cheeks and pooled on her chin.

  “I cried at the wedding too,” she sobbed. “Not with happiness, but because I realized I’d lost you forever. But I went through with it; I had to.”

  “Why did you go through with it?” Leo asked, his voice choked. “Why?”

  Catherine blinked through her tears as Leo stared in her eyes, seeing that she was broken, that she was desperate, that even though she married another man, she still loved him and only him like no one else. In that moment, they understood each other; Leo knew Catherine chose security over passion, however much she loved him. The bets were made, and Leo did not draw the winning ticket.

  She watched Leo transform before her eyes as his face twisted in agony, the rage coursing through him. In one swoop, he picked up the vase of flowers from the floor and hurled it down the steps of her building, smashing it, the steps covered in gnarled green stems, torn petals, and jagged shards of glass.

  As he turned to go, she wanted to reach out for him, to hold him one last time, comfort him, speak to him—anything. But what could she say? The choice was made; lives were changed and hearts broken.

  Leo stormed down the front steps without looking back; as he vanished from view, she sank to the floor, hugged her knees to her chest, and wept.

  A few hou
rs later, Catherine had recovered enough to have a reserved lunch with Walter, managing to carry on small talk as her heart writhed beneath the surface. Meanwhile, Leo packed his belongings, hailed a cab to the train station, and left Philadelphia for good.

  The train sent him hurtling down one path, and Catherine’s marriage kept her rooted in another. The future had been carved in stone—Leo and Catherine would be apart forever.

  Or so, they thought.

  The Second Interlude

  A matter of more pressing urgency soon replaced the pain that threatened to swallow Catherine whole. It wasn’t that she ceased to grieve Leo—far from it. Someone new demanded her time and attention, however,—a baby.

  Weeks after Leo’s departure, Catherine discovered she was pregnant. Walter’s mother was ailing rapidly, and they began to make plans to move into the Liverpool Mansion. As Catherine nursed her broken heart, she felt comforted by the baby growing in her womb.

  But when it came time to decide on a name, she and Walter were at odds. If the baby was a girl, there was no question; they would name her Lily after Mrs. Murray, whom the doctor predicted would not live long after her first grandchild was born. But if the baby was a boy, there was only one name Catherine would consider.

  “Leo,” she said simply. “I want to name him Leo.”

  Walter objected, as one might expect, but she shook her head.

  “It’s not what you think. I know I’ll never see him again—this isn’t about him. My grandfather’s name was Leonard, Leo for short. I want to name the baby in his honor.”

  Suspicious of the story, Walter did a little digging at the library where he found the U.S. Census supported Catherine’s claims. She had indeed had a grandfather named Leo Woods who’d been an Air Force major in World War I.

  That night, when Walter came to bed, he kissed her cheek, then laid his hands on her belly and kissed the baby too. “I’m sorry I doubted you,” he whispered to his wife. “If we have a son, I’d be honored to name him Leo, after your grandfather who bravely served his country.”

  It was indeed a son, as fate would have it. Shortly after Leo’s birth, Mrs. Murray died, and they moved into Fox Chase. It was the life Catherine had always wanted—babies, a beautiful home, and a faithful husband.

  Her love for Leo was ever in her heart, but now there were enough distractions to keep her busy as babies quickly consumed Catherine’s waking hours (and too many of her sleeping ones too). Two years after little Leo was born, she gave birth to a daughter, whom they named Lily, and a second daughter named Sarah was born in another two years.

  Walter’s success as a Sun Oil accountant and his inherited wealth allowed Catherine to stay home with her children. Her life became one of a homemaker, filled with play dates, PTA meetings, ice-cream socials, and afternoons in the park. It was the life she wanted; yet, it was staler than she imagined.

  For one thing, Walter was much less comfortable as a father than Catherine thought. He did not like disciplining his children and went out of his way to shirk his paternal responsibilities. Thus, the task of disciplining Leo when he disobeyed or Lily when she told a lie fell squarely to Catherine.

  This was complicated by Walter not seeming to relate to his children very well. The logistics of changing diapers and feeding them mashed peas eluded him entirely, and because money was no object, Walter hired a part-time nanny to absolve him of his duties as a parent.

  He spent more and more time away from his family to hang out with “the boys,” something he didn’t do during their courtship. Walter had always had very few friends, as it happened, which seemed normal to Catherine, as Leo was the same way. Still, if he wanted to spend time with the guys from work, she supported him.

  On weekends, Walter spent hours at The Old York Road Country Club with his friends playing golf and tennis during the day and, sometimes, cards at night; however, he didn’t neglect spending time with Catherine either. They attended important social functions, played bridge with other couples, and once in a blue Moon, they hired a babysitter and saw a movie together. Nevertheless, Catherine felt alone in her marriage, her world revolving around the children and a handful of women friends.

  Then, there was Leo, not Leo Taylor, but little Leo—Leo Murray, her firstborn son. As the boy grew up, his olive skin and dark, curly hair reminded his mother more and more of her lost love. Leo had a quick wit and a flair for artistic things; sometimes, he flashed a smile that cut straight to Catherine’s core, and when he tugged on her skirt or misbehaved, it was as if she had been transported back to her fourth-grade classroom in Woodsville with young Leo straining to get her attention.

  As baby Leo became a young man, Catherine admitted to herself what she had always known deep down—Leo was not Walter’s son. She feared that Walter would put two and two together. After all, Leo Murray was the black sheep of the family, his hair and eyes so different from his sisters and his temperament nothing like Walter’s or Catherine’s. Walter never played catch with Leo or built a tree house in the backyard, although the boy would have loved to. Walter preferred the company of his daughters, but despite that, Catherine didn’t think he suspected Leo was someone else’s son.

  As the children grew older, Catherine and Walter grew further apart; Walter had his well-established circle of friends, and she had hers. Their sex life was suffering—although to be fair, it had never been particularly spry in the first place. She wondered whether Walter was having an affair; after all her certainty that Walter would never stray, she was no longer so sure.

  By 1968, Catherine decided it was time to draw a line. One Friday morning, after she’d fed a breakfast of eggs, pancakes, and orange juice to her family, packed three sack lunches, and walked the children out to the curb to wait for the school bus, she came back inside just as Walter was snapping his briefcase shut.

  “Can we talk for a minute?” she asked.

  “I don’t want to be late for work.”

  “It’ll only be a minute.”

  Catherine noticed his golf clubs leaning against the wall and put her hands on her hips.

  “Golfing today?”

  “I have a tee-time with the boys after work. What about it?”

  She sighed. “Walter, I’m worried about us.”

  He swung the clubs over his shoulder. “What’s to worry about?”

  “What’s not to worry about?” she asked. “We hardly see each other anymore, much less talk. Our sex life is nonexistent. I’m concerned about our marriage.”

  He grudgingly set the clubs back down on the floor. “I don’t know why you’re upset,” he said. “I work hard to make a living so you and the kids can have food and clothes and nice things. Haven’t I earned myself some time to relax and play golf?”

  Catherine shook her head. “That’s not what I’m saying. Of course, you should have some time off. I just feel so... alone.” She took a deep breath. “I was talking to Harriet about a doctor she and Joe have been seeing. I scheduled an appointment for us next week. I’m hoping you’ll go with me.”

  Walter looked skeptical. “What kind of doctor?”

  “They call it ‘couples counseling.’”

  A wave of distaste passed over Walter’s face, but he set his mouth in a smile and nodded. “If it’ll make you happy, then yes, of course.”

  He was reluctant but went out of courtesy to her. The initial appointment turned into weekly sessions, and soon, Catherine and Walter met regularly with the neighborhood therapist. In 1968, nobody wanted to talk about going to therapy—especially not the men—but Catherine knew from her friends that almost all the couples in their group had sat on the same couch at one time.

  A few months into therapy, Catherine felt certain that Walter wasn’t cheating on her, as it was evident he still cared about her deeply.

  “This isn’t an issue of infidelity,” the therapist said. “You simply have contrasting personalities.”

  “Is that a bad thing?” Catherine wanted to know.

&
nbsp; “It happens. In fact, I’d say it describes more than half the couples I see. It also has a tendency to get worse with time. After a certain point in your marriage, you just don’t have as much in common anymore.”

  When Catherine thought about it, she had to admit they’d never had much in common. Yes, Walter took her out to see art and theatre in Philadelphia, but he’d never professed much interest in those things himself and as far as the “missing passion” in their relationship... it had been missing from the beginning.

  “So what do we do, Doctor?” Catherine asked.

  He shrugged. “What all married couples do. Talk about things rationally. Hang in there. And, most importantly, come to therapy regularly.”

  Their sessions petered out though, and neither she nor Walter made a fuss about reinitiating them. Catherine had to face something she had always known, but didn’t want to admit—Walter simply was not a passionate man. He would never love her the way she wanted, not the way Leo had, and perhaps it was time she accepted it.

  After their last couples therapy session, she and Walter sat side by side in the car in silence; Catherine reached out for his hand, and he let her take it.

  “I do love you, Walter,” she said quietly.

  “And I you,” he replied.

  True, there was no passion, no deep well of shared interests, but Walter was a good man who had done what he promised—taken good care of her and their children. You couldn’t ask for water from a desert and perhaps it was her fault she couldn’t be content?

  In that moment, it seemed her marriage with Walter was a pendulum and could swing either way. They could decide to end things and go their separate ways, but perhaps, if she accepted her husband for who he was, she would get all she asked for. The key was to stop asking for too much.

  As years went by, Walter and Catherine stayed together but lived increasingly separate lives. He worked long hours and played sports and cards with the boys. She focused on raising her children who were now teenagers. It became the unspoken treatise between them, the bargain they had made, but it’d been years since they’d as little as kissed in bed. But Catherine was in her forties; she told herself it didn’t matter—that the last thing she needed was some young stallion in bed.