Four Seasons of Romance (8 page)

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.