Her Father's House (2 page)

Lillian exclaimed, “It's lovely! The cobalt blue paint and that grass green lamp, the chair—all just right. I'm amazed. Most men don't know about colors. Most people don't, for that matter.”

“Well, I assure you that I'm one who doesn't. I merely copied the idea from a window on Madison Avenue. I thought it looked nice.”

She drew back the curtains and looked out into empty darkness. “I was wondering whether you had a view, and that's why you moved so high up.”

“No, if I wanted a view I'd move to the twentieth floor in one of those new buildings on the avenue.”

“Why don't you?”

“Too expensive, when I started out. I had to pay off my college loans and start saving. Then by the time I was free of debt, I was used to it here. There wasn't any reason to move. I work in a fine office, I go out into the world, and when I do have an evening at home, all I need are my books and my music records. I'm satisfied. It's clear sailing for me.”

Why was he telling her all this, too?

“You must have two hundred albums on those shelves. Opera—do you like opera?”

“Very much. Do you?”

“I went when I was in Italy, but never here. I suppose it's the same.”

“We'll go sometime. . . . Why are you smiling?”

“Because you're taking it for granted that I'll go with you.”

“That's true. I am.”

“Well, you're right. I will.”

“Good. Better to be honest with each other from the start instead of just guessing.”

“Then give me a drink. We'll drink to that.”

“Wine, or what?”

“Wine, please. Or anything. It doesn't matter.”

“Be comfortable,” he said, motioning toward the only upholstered chair.”

“No, you take it. I like to sit on the floor. I'll lean against your knees. I'm comfortable that way. I insist. Would you like some music?”

“Not now. Just silence, and the wine. It was cold walking here.”

She leaned with confidence against him. When he looked down, he saw two twinkling diamonds in her earlobes; her fragrance was faint as a whiff of summer. He had known her only a little more than twenty-four hours. A sense of unreality swept over him.

She spoke softly, hesitating. “I was thinking that thirty-one hours ago we didn't know each other, and here we sit.”

“I was thinking the same.”

Then silence returned. Donald's thoughts were whirling. He wasn't used to moving quite so fast, although many men—possibly most men—were. There were of course times when he had done so, but not with a woman like this one; this one was by turns outspoken and reserved, by turns reflective and vivacious; he knew only, as he had known when they met, that he did not want to lose her.

She stood abruptly. “Let's see the rest of your house.”

“House? There's only one other room.”

“Well, show me.”

There was just the narrow bed, made up in tight army style, a dresser, and a small table with a lamp and a pile of books on it.

She looked and nodded. “Monastic. No cobalt and green. This is your other side.”

Arranged on one wall was a series of historical prints: Custer's Last Stand, the Lincoln Memorial, Lee's surrender at Appomattox, and Washington taking the oath of office in New York.

After examining each one, she turned to him. “You're a very interesting person, Donald Wolfe.”

“And you,” he replied.

“You're not a monk, are you?”

“No, not at all.”

They stared at each other. My God, he thought, this is different. I never—

“I'm twenty-six,” she said. “I'm not a virgin.”

“I didn't think you would be.”

“It's you who've done this to me. I don't want you to think . . . I'm not really . . .”

“That's all right. That's all right. Come here.”

   

Past midnight, he found a taxicab and took her home to a modest apartment house.

“The next time, Lillian? When shall it be?”

“Any time.”

“Tomorrow, then.”

“Tomorrow.”

He walked home, although the cab could have taken him back. But he needed to move, to feel the night air, and to come back to reality. So he told himself.

Emotion! All the women, beginning with girls in high school up to last month's charming friend in Paris, who still, after two years, hoped for him to say something definite—all of them, and never anyone like her. So smooth, so cool, and still so fiery!

“Lillian,”
he said aloud, and the sound of the name took visual shape as sounds sometimes did for him, so that as he walked he was able to see it before him, a presence white and silken, shimmering through the darkness:
Lillian
.

Chapter 3

I
f he had ever had to fill out one of those questionnaires in which you were asked to answer such perplexing subtle questions as, “Do you consider yourself happy?” Donald would not have hesitated to write yes. He took a plain view of life. It was supposed to present problems and one was supposed to solve them if one could. For a long time now, he had had no problems. His health was excellent, his profession was in every way rewarding, he had agreeable friends, and the world was a splendid place. So yes, simply put, he was happy.

Yet never, as spring moved toward summer, had the world been so splendid. Of course he had read those old sayings about how the world seems to smile on lovers, and of course he had thought that was all sentimental nonsense, yet now he had to admit that it was quite true. Strangers whom he passed on the street all seemed to be smiling; people held doors for him and said “good morning” in such a friendly way; the weather itself was especially wonderful this year, and the city never more beautifully arrayed with tulips everywhere and a sapphire sky overhead.

A free hour away from Lillian was a wasted one. Sometimes they met for a sandwich lunch in the pocket park where it had all begun. On Saturdays when he was not catching up on work and always on Sundays, they roamed through the city. They took brisk walks around the reservoir in Central Park, they took a boat ride around Manhattan, they visited the medieval marvel of the Cloisters, where she began his education in art. At the Metropolitan Museum, she led him in big leaps through the ages, from the Egyptians through the twentieth century. She did not know that although he wanted to absorb what he was seeing, most of the time he was more aware of her than of anything else. He was charmed by her velvet voice, her earnest explanations, and the white frill around the neck of her summer dress.

“Now you see,” she said one day on the one time he visited her apartment, “now you see why I shall never be an artist.”

Fastened by tape to one whole wall were oils and watercolors done by Lillian. Looking them over, he was not quite sure how to be both frank and truthful.

“Well,” he began, but she did not let him finish.

“Don't spare me. I know better. They look like greeting cards, don't they? Answer yes or no.”

Her eyes went straight to his. There's no point fooling her, he thought. People won't ever be able to fool her.

“Yes,” he said.

“Thank you for being truthful. It's easy to get along with people who tell the truth.” She sighed. “I'll tell you something, though. If I'm ever rich, I'm going to buy paintings. I'm going to wake up in the morning and look at beautiful things.” She motioned to the wall. “I really want to take these horrors away, but believe it or not, Cindy wants them up. When I move out of here, whenever that will be, I'll leave them for her, and good riddance.”

He could have said also, but naturally did not say, “Good riddance to Cindy, too, when you move.”

Beside her somewhat coarse manner, which might be forgiven because no one had ever taught her anything else, Cindy was cynical and hard. A strange companion for Lillian, he thought; and very delicately, he suggested so.

Lillian shook her head. “No, no. You don't know her. She's a very, very good person. She's had terribly hard luck. I pay three quarters of the rent here. She has nothing. And I'm used to her ways.” She laughed. “When you work in Buzley's office, you meet all sorts.”

It was this brief visit that gave Donald the impetus to make some changes. In a brand-new building not far from his present quarters, he found two attractive apartments typical of the ones occupied by those of his unmarried friends who did not live downtown in a loft. One, on the twenty-ninth floor just beneath the penthouse, had a grand view of Manhattan's entire width from east to west; the other, on the third floor, had a view of the traffic on the avenue. The design of each was identical, the only difference, a considerable one, being the price. Reasoning that money was better off invested than being handed out every month to the landlord in exchange for a view, he chose the lower floor and quietly went ahead with his plan.

At this point, he stopped being frugal. Don't be a miser, he said to himself. You're living in New York. Get a decorator. These rooms were to be a fit setting for a lovely woman. The bedroom must be feminine; it must remind her of a garden. The “extra room” must fit his needs for big chairs, a huge desk for the work that he brought home, and shelves for his by now considerable library.

The young decorator apparently sensed that Donald was in a frantic hurry, and he worked with amazing speed. Soon then came the day when the last curtain was hung and the surprise could be revealed.

Lillian was enchanted, as he had known she would be. On their first evening, she arrived with a perfectly cooked dinner and six gardenias, which she set floating in a shallow dish at the center of the table. She looked around the room and sighed, “I can't believe I'm here. It's so beautiful. Poor Cindy, I feel so guilty about leaving her alone. She'll probably be moving soon, she says, and I do hope so. She has a new man, but I don't know about him. Anyway, you wouldn't like him.”

“How do you know I wouldn't?”

“Oh, I know you pretty well, darling, pretty well.”

He laughed and took another helping of dessert, and felt that he was living on top of the world. What peace! And afterward, the soft new bed in the cool room under the blue-and-white covers.

   

Donald's friends, when he began to introduce Lillian to them, were all impressed. She was charming. Many of the men were lawyers; she had the good sense not to offer opinions on the strength of what she had learned as a legal secretary. Some of them were married, and she had the patience to listen to lengthy anecdotes about babies. Above all, she was friendly and, as one of the men joked to Donald, “Best-looking girl in the room, yet none of the other girls hated her.”

One day his closest friend in the office, Ed Wills, who already had two children and a third on the way, asked him frankly whether he was “serious” about Lillian. Had he, or was he planning to, ask the big question?

Yes, he had done some thinking about that. He had been playing with the idea of making an immediate proposal. Why wait? They were living together in a cozy home and were as good as married. Yet something, most likely his innate conservativism, held him back from doing anything quite so abrupt. They had met, after all, only three months ago. On the other hand, people had always made hasty marriages, and many of them had worked out just as well as any. Again on the other hand, most people did take a little more time and live together for a while before they took the step. Might it not be irresponsible, even somewhat adolescent, to rush into something after an acquaintance of ninety days? Did Ed agree? Yes, Ed did agree. Three months was a short time, and you never knew. . . .

Ultimately, though, Donald had no doubt, none at all. One day, testing himself, he had even sat down and done his best to separate head from heart. Had she any discernible faults? For every human being on earth has faults, isn't that so? Was she a little bit stubborn? Maybe, but only maybe. Was she a bit fanatic about art? Well, maybe again, but if you had to be fanatic about anything, art was no bad choice. He gave up. She was marvelous. She had everything: beauty, intelligence, humor, refinement, kindness. Look how she cared for that poor soul, Cindy! Yes, she had everything. And chuckling, he wondered what faults she would find in him were she to make the same kind of list.

   

Lillian's two-week vacation came in August. Cindy and she were going to a spa in New England. She teased Donald: “You'll be pleased to know it's for ladies only. No gentlemen allowed in.”

Puzzled, he asked how she could afford it. “And I suppose you're treating Cindy, too?”

“Yes, but it's not as painful as it sounds. In fact, it's not painful at all. Mr. Buzley gave me a bonus for extra work, combined with my Christmas present that I had asked him to keep until next summer so I wouldn't spend it.”

“Save it. Put it away. Let me pay for the treat.”

“No, no, you already do so much for me, living here where I do. But thank you, anyway.”

He had not seen Cindy since the one visit she had made to the new apartment. It had bothered him to think that he was perhaps the cause of separating Lillian from her friend. What kind of a snob was he? Yet he knew very well that he was almost as far from being a snob as anyone could be. At the same time, whenever he broached the subject of inviting Cindy, Lillian made it clear that she did not want the visit.

“Listen, Donald. You two are poles apart, so why try to force you together? Forget about it.”

Well, let them enjoy their two weeks of luxury, the massages and swims, the dinners and mountain hikes, the girl-talk, although what those two young women had in common to talk about, he could not imagine.

August had never lasted as long. He met new clients, went out to eat with some of the men at the office, and returned to an apartment grown deadly silent and suddenly too large. Never in his life had he felt so strong a need for another human being.

Then while she was still away, two things happened. The first was his advancement to a partnership in the firm; it meant a name at the bottom of the letterhead and a considerable increase in earnings; it meant, more than anything, enormous respect. The second thing was an unexpected conference in London—and the decision that, he realized when at later times he thought about it, was hastened because of his going to London.

Waiting for him there was the same young woman whom Augustus Pratt had once admired. Well, Donald admired her, too; he was indeed very fond of her, as he had from time to time been fond of another young woman in Paris, and also of more than one back home. But never had he misled any one of them to think in terms of marriage.

Therefore, he was unprepared for the reproof that was given to him over drinks at the end of a day in the London office.

“I am getting married next month and moving to Edinburgh,” she told him, “so we are not likely ever to meet again, Donald. And since that's the case, I feel free to speak my mind. I really loved you, Donald. I would have married you if you had asked me. Each time we were together, I was hoping you would before you left again for home. When you didn't, I swore to myself that I'd ask you the next time you were here. I guess I had too much pride, false pride, to do it. After a while I got tired of waiting and found another man. We love each other, and I am very, very happy.”

For a minute or two, Donald was unable to find a response. She was looking straight at him and surely was aware of the burning heat in his cheeks. She was, in her poise and dignity, quite lovely; she had always been lovely. Yet seeing her at that moment, all he could feel were a deep regret and guilt for having so clumsily hurt her.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “I didn't know. I never thought. Please forgive me if you can.”

Back at the hotel, he fell into a panic. Had he been taking Lillian for granted? Taking his leisurely time on the grounds of their short acquaintance? The way other men, even his own friends, glanced at her—how long would she wait for him? He looked at the clock and at the telephone. It was early afternoon at home, so she would be at the office.

“You frightened me!” she cried. “Are you all right?”

At the sound of her voice, a feeling somewhere between relief and laughter choked his own voice. “Listen to me. It's important. You've been away, now I'm away and it doesn't make any sense.”

“What doesn't make any sense? What are you talking about?”

“That we aren't together, don't you see? We need to be together, we're perfectly matched. Dammit! I'm not coming up with the right words. Oh, Lillian, I miss you! Make believe I'm on my knees before you right now and I'm handing you a box with a ring in it and I'm asking you to set the date. And make it soon. I mean soon, thirty days and not a minute longer. Will you?”

“Oh, darling, I'm crying. I'm sitting here in the office crying. I can hardly talk. But I don't need thirty days.”

He flew home with a ring from one of London's best jewelers in his pocket. Every so often when he touched the small velvet box, he felt a surge of pride, and more than that, of gratitude, as he saw himself again departing from his hometown, boarding the plane to New York, and buying the leather-bound
Jefferson
on Fifth Avenue. Now he was climbing up in the world, traveling all over it, and soon would be coming back every night to the most marvelous wife in the prettiest little home anybody could desire. And he thought humbly, I hope I deserve it all.

   

Lillian's plans were short and simple. She suggested that they be married in a clergyman's study and leave at once for a honeymoon in any place that Donald should choose.

He, on the other hand, while agreeing about the ceremony, did suggest that they make more of a celebration out of their wedding day by giving a gala dinner to their friends in some gala place.

“But I don't know any of your friends except Cindy and a couple of people from your office,” he added.

“That's because I don't have many friends. You know I live quietly. I'm as much of a stranger in this city as you were when you first arrived here.”

“But you have relatives on Long Island. You said you had a lot of them.”

“Did I? Then I was exaggerating. Anyway, I never see any of them.”

He was curious. “You never said why you don't.”

“They're not my kind.” Lillian shrugged. “We're entirely different. We have nothing in common.”

“But you do have one thing in common. You have some of the same ancestors, blood ties.”

They were both reading in the room that Donald liked to call “the library.” From where he sat he caught in the lamplight a small, ironical twist on Lillian's lips, and it made him feel stubborn.