No Time To Blink

by Dina Silver

  The anticipation was wonderfully agonizing. His hands slid from my chest to my waist. “Lie down,” he instructed while kissing the nape of my neck.

  I lay on the bed again and watched him remove his shorts before kneeling over me. I shimmied out of my skirt and then my slip and helped him slide my underwear off. Gabriel bent forward and took one of my breasts between his lips. My breath intensified, and I tightened my grip on his shoulders, closing my eyes. He tenderly squared my waist, then kissed his way from my chin to my chest again and down to my stomach before sitting up. I let out a small breath and clutched the sheets with my hands as he moved himself inside me, gently at first, and then harder after seeking permission with his eyes. He lowered his mouth on my breast and steadied himself as he tended to every part of my body. My limbs relaxed, and he increased his speed until we collapsed together.

  My nose searched for a trace of his cologne, and I nearly wept when I found it.

  Afterward, he covered me with the sheet and fetched a glass of water.

  “I love you, Catherine Clarke,” he told me. “More than I can express with just those words, this room, and this night together. More than I can say with my lips and my body and my heart.” He sat on the edge of the bed and touched my hair. “I hope you know that.”

  “I love you, too.” Tears were running down my cheeks. “So much.”

  Four weeks later, we eloped and moved to Chicago. We’d been in the city only a few months when I found out I was pregnant.

  Chapter Six

  CATHERINE

  Chicago, 1970

  After I finished dusting the apartment, I sat by the window listening to the “L” train whiz by the corner of Armitage and Sheffield, watching pedestrians scurry about the street corner beneath me. Our two-bedroom apartment was on the top floor of a three-story walk-up in Chicago’s Lincoln Park neighborhood, about a mile and a half west of Lake Michigan. There was parquet wood flooring throughout, with bright green and metallic geometric print wallpaper in the kitchen and bath. I’d purchased a matching emerald velvet couch for the main room and a bamboo dinette set when we’d first arrived.

  It was unseasonably mild for early December in the Windy City. My glass of iced tea was nearly empty, and I’d forgotten to get lemons at the market, which made me long for an iced tea from the Belle Haven Club. Strong, tart, and best of all, made for me and served to me along with a saucer of lemon wedges. Thanksgiving had come and gone and turned out to be a colossal disappointment. I’d promised Mother—and Laura—we would come home to Connecticut, but Gabriel was unable to take any additional time off work due to the honeymoon, and he forbade me from going alone in my condition.

  Since it was the first major holiday without my sisters and parents, he tried to lift my spirits by taking me to the Pump Room, located in Chicago’s Gold Coast neighborhood inside the Ambassador East Hotel. For years, the upscale restaurant’s Booth One was a celebrity hub for the likes of Humphrey Bogart, Lauren Bacall, Marilyn Monroe, and my favorite singer, Frank Sinatra.

  We sat under crystal chandeliers and ate steak Diane and Cherries Jubilee, made tableside. It was a lovely evening, but there was a part of me that felt horribly isolated. I was surprised by how much I missed being in my flannel pajamas on the couch in my family’s home, listening to Mary Grace and Patricia argue over walking the dogs or fetching Mother another vodka gimlet, and begging Jessie to make a dessert other than pumpkin pie for once.

  Christmas was to be my saving grace. Gabriel promised me two weeks at home. He would come for a few days, but I would take the train early and stay through the New Year and celebrate with my sisters. I smiled at the thought of it even though I dreaded the idea of leaving him for so long.

  Gabriel worked from 8:00 a.m. to 6:00 p.m. most days and was too tired to go out after work unless he had a business dinner, in which case he’d muster some mystery energy—that he could never find for me—and stay out until past midnight. I begged Laura and my eldest sister, Margaret, to come visit. I’d written to both of them and promised I would get us a room at The Drake hotel, a Chicago landmark famously perched on the edge of Lake Michigan, and we could spend a weekend shopping. But Margaret was enjoying her senior year at Boston College, and Laura had taken a job at a law firm in Greenwich where my uncle David worked. Juggling everyone’s schedules proved futile.

  I glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall above the stove. It was 11:00 a.m., and Gabriel would be home from work at 6:00 p.m., expecting dinner on the table. That evening I would serve roast turkey breast with steamed carrots and instant mashed potatoes, but first, I had something very exciting planned—my first official assignment as a writer.

  As soon as we’d arrived in the city, Gabriel had encouraged me to apply at the two largest newspapers, the Chicago Tribune and the Chicago Sun-Times. Within four weeks, I had an interview with an assistant features editor at the Tribune.

  Once the day of my interview arrived, on my way to the building, I found my reflection in the window of a retail shop and applied some lipstick. A light coral Revlon shade. “Never wear red when you want to be taken seriously,” Mother always said.

  I squared my shoulders and pushed through the revolving door of the Tribune Tower. A lobby receptionist directed me to the elevator banks that would take me to the twelfth floor, where a second receptionist asked my name.

  “Catherine Clarke Haddad, here to see Mrs. Rushton.”

  Behind the desk were four rows of narrow tables, each with about five typewriters on them. Some had people vigorously pecking away and flipping through notepads as they tapped their cigarettes into ashtrays. A smoky haze filled the air, and the walls were in desperate need of some color. The whole place reminded me of the recreation room at a psych ward I visited as part of a Junior League excursion in college.

  “Right this way, Catherine,” the receptionist said.

  I followed her down a long hallway to a tiny windowless office. A lovely young woman, no more than five foot one, stood and offered me her hand. I had to bend to greet her. “Abigail Rushton,” she said. We shook. “Please have a seat.”

  Abigail was a clever-looking gal. She wore a royal-blue tunic with matching pants, hair very straight and parted severely down the center. On her face was a pair of black-rimmed glasses with thick lenses that made her lashes appear three-dimensional when she looked directly at me.

  I did as she suggested and sat opposite her. “Thank you so much for meeting me.”

  She lifted the résumé and article I’d sent her off her desktop. I could see they’d been creased in the mail. “It’s what I do.” She smiled. “So, Ms. Catherine Clarke Haddad.”

  “Please call me CC.” I smiled back at her.

  She scratched her chin. “You may not believe this, but I think I went to Dartmouth with your cousin Henry Downing,” she said, still grinning. “As soon as I saw that you were from Greenwich, I figured, how many Clarke families are there in Greenwich besides the ones related to the Downings!”

  Despite my aversion to playing the Downing family name game, I couldn’t help but appease her. “Why, yes, he did go there. What a small world.” I folded my hands in my lap.

  She leaned in and winked. “I’m a married woman now.” She fluttered the fingers on her left hand. “But I must confess that Henry was quite the looker!” She smiled with her mouth wide open that time.

  I giggled. “Henry and his brothers are blessed in the looks department, yes.”

  She reached for a chain-mail cigarette case and offered me one.

  I shook my head and placed my right hand on my stomach. “I’m trying to cut back, thank you.”

  “Are you expecting?”

  I nodded.

  “How exciting. Why on earth do you want a job?”

  It’s true, my sisters and I were raised to be debutantes and wives. Education and occupation were minor priorities. I didn’t even look for a job when I first came back from Mount Holyoke because Mother had snubbed her nose at the tho
ught of my becoming a writer. I spent my time having parties and going to parties and shopping for a husband, but Gabriel changed all that. He pushed me to recognize my worth and realize there was value in the expectations I had for myself. Rebellious as being with him was, he gave me a reason to live my life as I wanted, not as my mother dictated.

  “As you see”—I pointed to my résumé on her desk—“I have a degree in English, and I’ve always wanted to be a writer, specifically a reporter. I was planning on getting my graduate degree . . .” I looked down at the gold band on my hand. “Well, not everything went as planned.” I paused. “I’ve kept many journals over the years and thought maybe one day I could tell my story.” I blinked. “I know that sounds proud, but I’ve been blessed with an interesting life—not just charmed—and family, and have chronicled much of it in my own words. My own voice. Not everything is always as perfect as it seems.”

  I was nine years old when I’d learned about my father’s first affair. Mother was at the hospital, having just given birth to Mary Grace, while my other sisters and I were back at home. There’d been a wicked spring storm that night in April, with thunder and lightning trying to outdo one another for hours. After one particularly loud crack, I ran into my parents’ room and found a woman sitting on top of the bed. She turned when the door opened, covering herself with her hands, and froze. A moment or two later, I noticed my father was beneath her. Seconds after that, he was screaming at me to leave the room and not come back. From my bedroom window, I could see that one of the many trees in front of our house had been struck and had fallen across the driveway, blocking any cars from entering or exiting. Maybe thirty minutes after that, a taxicab pulled in, up to where the tree had fallen, and someone got in and drove off.

  When I’d turned away from the window, I’d nearly choked on my own breath when I realized my father was standing in my doorway.

  “Stay in bed from now on, and do not say anything to upset your mother,” he’d said and then closed the door.

  I wasn’t exactly clear on what had happened. It all felt very wrong to me, but at the time, I was sure there was a reason for it. My journal entry that next day read: There was a really bad storm and a lady in the house.

  The second time I found out my father was having affairs was much worse.

  “I see,” Abigail said. “Well, I read the article you sent, of course. It was good, but I think you could do better. Don’t hold back with this voice of yours. As you say, you have an impressive East Coast lineage that our Midwest readers would find quite intriguing.” She leaned in, sensing my battle between being my own person and resting on my laurels. “Don’t fight who you are, CC. You must know that it’s fascinating to people. You’re an authority on many things by association.”

  I crossed my legs. “I can see that, yes.”

  She lifted the article and waved it gently at me. “You can still be humble, if that’s who you truly are, but write from here”—she tapped her heart—“and people will respond to you. You don’t have to write what you think people will like. Just write what you like, and readers will find what’s relatable to them, and if it’s not relatable, it will be that much more interesting.”

  “Thank you for that. I would love the opportunity to do so.”

  She put my article down. “OK, then. Let’s get your feet wet with something festive, given that the holidays are soon upon us. How long have you lived in Chicago?”

  “Just over three months.”

  “We’re doing a lot of seasonal pieces right now. Have you been to the Walnut Room at Marshall Field’s?”

  I shook my head no.

  “Perfect place for a socialite to start!”

  And with that, I had my first assignment. Writing an article about lunch at the Walnut Room during the Christmas season. Two weeks after my meeting with Abigail, I had my reservation booked.

  I’d never been to Chicago before moving there, but I was somewhat acquainted with Marshall Field’s and its renowned Walnut Room, and I was thrilled to have been given such a task. I woke up the morning of December 5 determined not to waste another moment holed up in that apartment. Next year I’d have a baby by my side and not a lot of time to focus on much else, so that afternoon, I would enjoy lunch at the Walnut Room and pen my first article for the Tribune with my very own byline. Plenty of women were attempting to have babies and careers, and I was determined to be one of them.

  More than a retail shop, Marshall Field’s was a Chicago institution. The grand dame of department stores. I pulled my bright blonde hair into a low bun, penciled in my brows, tied a scarf around my neck—one that matched my pale-blue sweater set—put on my pearls, and paired the look with some navy slacks and loafers. In my canvas tote was my wallet, lipstick, compact, two pencils, and my writing journal.

  A valet opened the door when I reached the expansive four-block-wide building. “Welcome to Marshall Field’s, madam.” He nodded and repeated the greeting to some other women entering behind me. I floated through the first level, inhaling the fragrant scent of perfumes and powders and lotions and anything else a woman might desire to make her feel even more feminine and glamorous than she already was. I paused at one glass counter and sampled a hand cream that filled my nose with the bouquet of a dozen roses.

  I made my way to the elevator and rode it to the seventh floor. When the doors opened, I nearly tumbled backward with surprise when I saw Sander Crawley standing before me. He was wearing a dark suit with a narrow tie, a tweed overcoat, and carrying a matching fedora in his hand. He tipped his head when he noticed me and took a small step backward.

  “What on earth?” My face lit up, and so did his.

  We locked eyes until he placed his hand on the door to prevent it from closing. “You might want to exit the elevator,” he said.

  I laughed and stepped out. We hugged and then I offered him my cheek, where he planted a kiss. “How lovely to see you here, and what a surprise.”

  “I’m in town with my aunt Violet and cousin Martha. She’s touring Northwestern University.”

  “Are they here with you?” I glanced behind him.

  “No, they’re at the hotel. I’m here picking up some Frango mints and perfume for my sisters back home.”

  I crossed my arms. “Such a gentleman you are.”

  “How about you?” he asked. “Are you alone?”

  I shifted my tote from one shoulder to the other. “I’m writing an article for the Chicago Tribune. East Coast girl lunches at the world-famous Walnut Room for the first time.” I pulled out my journal and showed him. “I’ve been hired to do a features column for them.”

  “That’s incredible. Good for you.” He smiled. “I hear additional congratulations are in order, Mrs. . . . ?”

  My marriage to Gabriel was anything but predictable. The Greenwich gossip hounds had been barking for weeks afterward, according to what Laura had told me. “Haddad.” I said my new last name proudly. There was a part of me that was genuinely pleased to be relieved of the name Clarke and all the societal pressures that accompanied it, yet there would always be a part of me that would never quite shake the awkwardness that came with a shotgun wedding. It just wasn’t what “we” did in our family. I decided not to mention the baby.

  “Well, Mr. Haddad is a lucky man.” He winked.

  “You have always been too kind.”

  Sander checked his wristwatch. “It was a pleasure running into you. I hope that you’re happy and enjoying the change of scenery here in Chicago.” He leaned forward and kissed my cheek again. “It certainly sounds like your career is on track. I hope you have a very merry Christmas, CC.”

  “I’ll be home for the holiday, actually. Will you be around?”

  He nodded. “Good luck with your article.”

  “Thank you, Sander. Please give my love to Martha and your aunt.”

  Seeing Sander was another reminder of how often I thought of Greenwich since I left, which was ironic since all I ever did when I lived
there was dream about being anywhere else. It was in that moment, watching him disappear when the elevator doors closed, that I made a promise to myself to never look back. I would be back home for Christmas and New Year’s, and that was enough. After the New Year, I would leave country clubs and clambakes behind and focus on my writing career, my husband, and our child.

  I walked into the restaurant, and a young man showed me to my table. The glow from the colossal Christmas tree in the center of the room was magical, breathtaking. The tree’s décor that year was “country living,” and all the ornaments were themed as such. Green upholstered chairs and crystal sconces on the walls and columns that proudly stood throughout the impressive space accented the room’s walnut paneling. Each table had its own lamp, omitting the need for bright overhead lighting and lending a tranquil intimacy to the grand room. Once my waiter approached, I placed my order for chicken potpie, the dish that had started a culinary revolution, from the bit of research I’d done. According to legend, a store clerk working in Marshall Field’s millinery department overheard two women customers complaining that they were hungry, but there was nowhere close by to eat. The store clerk, wanting to do anything she could to keep them shopping, offered them the potpie that she’d brought with her that day for herself. That clerk’s name was Mrs. Herring, and Mrs. Herring’s Chicken Potpie was still the most popular item on the menu nearly one hundred years later.

  Back at home that evening, I played my favorite Frank Sinatra album and nearly danced my way through preparing the roast turkey and instant mashed potatoes. At 6:00 p.m., the door to our apartment opened, and Gabriel came home in an even better mood than I was. He lifted me off my feet and pressed his lips to mine when he found me in the kitchen. “Hello, my love,” he said and smoothed the back of my hair. “How was your day?”