DECEMBER 1939

Christmas Eve day, Paul and I made it over to the Fifth Avenue Skating Pond in Central Park. I loved to skate, having learned on Bird Pond near our house in Connecticut, but rarely practiced, since I avoided most activities that made me look taller than necessary. Plus, I’d never had anyone to skate with before. Betty would have rather swallowed live bees than be seen on skates. I vowed to take full advantage of Paul’s time in New York.

It was perfect skating weather that day, clear and sharp with a stiff wind, which overnight had made the ice smooth as the finish on a billiard ball. As a result, the flag atop Belvedere Castle was up, the red sphere on a white field every skater coveted. Word that the ice was ready passed from doorman to doorman along Fifth Avenue, and the pond became thick with skaters as a result.

The first tier of skaters was already there when Paul and I arrived. The men, near professionals, performed their genuflections and whirligig spins, icicles on their beards and noses. Then the ladies arrived, two or three at a time, their heavy coats like sails blowing them across the ice. With a little practice, Paul proved to be a serviceable skater, and arms linked, we glided throughout the network of adjoining ponds. My old self never would have skated in such a public place, but I tackled the ice with vigor, and we soon found a nice rhythm together. Suddenly I felt like trying every sort of new thing.

We sailed under arched bridges to Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata and Waldteufel’s The Skaters’ Waltz, which couldn’t have sounded lovelier, even transmitted through the skate shack’s tinny speakers.

The ice grew more crowded, so we skated back toward the shack, the scent of warm chestnuts in the air. We were about to sit and change out of our skates when I heard my name.

“Caroline. Over here.”

It was David Stockwell. He skated to us and stopped with a sharp edge and a smile, posing like something out of a Brooks Brothers advertisement, drawing his jacket back with one gloved fist. How could David act as if nothing had ever happened between us, as if up and marrying an acquaintance after stringing me along for ten years was completely natural?

“Hey, who’s this guy, Caroline?” David said.

Was that a flash of jealousy? David did seem small by comparison. Would he think Paul and I were romantically engaged? Slim chance of that. Paul was keeping his distance and gave off only friend signals, not even standing close to me. What if he did show David I was his? Thinking about that made me wish it were true.

Paul extended his hand. “Paul Rodierre.”

David shook it. “David Stockwell. I’ve known Caroline since—”

“We really must be going,” I said.

“Sally is over there lacing up. She’d hate to miss you.”

I’d had advance warning about Sally from Betty, of course. Her new sister-in-law was a petite girl whom Mrs. Stockwell had showered with a haute couture wedding trousseau the cost of which could have fed half of New York for a year. I gave David my best “we really can’t stay” look.

He turned to Paul. “I’m with the State Department. Working to keep us out of the war. Heard about your speech at the gala. Seems you’re working to get us into it.”

“Just telling the truth,” Paul said.

“It was our most successful event ever,” I said.

Paul skated closer to me and linked my arm in his. “Yes, darling, overwhelming, wasn’t it?”

Darling?

David blinked, taken aback.

I moved closer to Paul. “Deafening applause. And the donations. Everyone’s behind France now.”

Sally Stockwell skated toward us through the crowd. It was hard to ignore the smallness of her, maybe five feet two inches tall. She was done up in full skating costume, boiled wool A-line skating skirt, a snug little quilted Tyrolean jacket, and white fur of some kind at the top of her skates. The yarn tassle on the knitted cap she wore, tied under her pretty chin, swayed as she neared.

“You must be Caroline,” Sally said. She stretched a white angora-mittened hand out to me, and I shook it.

Sally was more Olivia de Havilland than Bette Davis and impossible to dislike, with a disarming honesty that made even the most trivial conversation awkward.

“David’s told me everything about you. ‘Caroline helps French babies. Caroline and I starred in our first play together—’ ”

“I was Caroline’s first leading man,” David said. “Played Sebastian to her Olivia.”

Paul smiled. “They share a kiss, don’t they? How were the reviews?”

“Lukewarm,” I said.

Sally skated closer. “Sometimes I think you and David should have married.”

“So good to see you both,” I said. “Sorry to run off, but we have to be going.”

“Yes, spending the whole day together, aren’t we, sweetheart?” Paul said.

He was laying it on thick. That would activate the gossip mill, but I didn’t care. It felt good to be loved, if only for show.

We said our goodbyes and waved to Sally and David as they merged into the flow of skating couples. How lovely it was of Paul to pretend to be my beau. He was not mine to flaunt, of course, but it was still nice to have someone in my life to show off, especially to David Stockwell, who’d so thoroughly trampled my ego.

After skating, Paul went back to the Waldorf to change, and I decorated the fat blue spruce Mother’s bosom friend Mr. Gardener had brought down from the country and made coq au vin. Serge had sent down a winter vegetable soup from Connecticut, loaded with sugar parsnips, fat carrots, and gorgeous sweet fennel, for our first course.

That night the snow, which had hit Connecticut earlier, made it to Manhattan with a vengeance, leaving Mother stranded with Serge up at our country house. Paul arrived at my door with snowflakes in his hair and on the shoulders of his overcoat. His face was cold against mine as he leaned in to kiss me on each cheek. He’d gone heavy on the Sumare, once one of my father’s favorite scents. I’d peeked in Paul’s medicine cabinet at the Waldorf when I used his bathroom and seen the bottle there beside the blue jar of Noxzema.

Paul held a bottle of Burgundy and a nosegay of crimson glory roses wrapped in white paper. I would need to keep my wits about me and watch my wine intake. I was relieved he’d dressed up, in his aubergine jacket, for I was wearing a dress and silk stockings.

He slid the bottle, heavy and cold, into my hands.

“Joyeux Noël. It’s the last of the case my cousin sent from his vineyard. Hope you don’t mind, but I left your number with the Waldorf operator in case I need to be reached.”

“Of course not. Worried about Rena?”

“Always, but it’s just a precaution. I spoke with her this morning and gave her the visa update. Roger says he’ll know in a few days.”

Rena. It was as if she stood there with us.

Paul stepped into the living room. “You could land an airplane in here. Just us tonight?”

“They can’t get out of the driveway up in Connecticut.”

“So I’m your only amusement? Such pressure.”

After dinner, I left the dishes in the sink and sat on the lumpy horsehair sofa, sharing a bottle of Father’s cognac with Paul. That sofa had belonged to Mother’s mother, whom we called Mother Woolsey. She’d gotten it to deter Mother’s beaux from lingering.

It grew chilly once the fire reduced to embers, for we kept the heat low in the apartment. Paul heaved a birch log onto the grate, and the blaze went full tilt, licking the firebox, so hot I could feel it on my face.

I kicked off my shoes and tucked my legs up under me.

“Someone’s been drinking the cognac,” I said, holding the bottle to the firelight.

“Maybe it is just the angel’s share,” Paul said. “That’s what they call the part that evaporates from the cognac cellars.”

He stabbed at the log with the iron poker, face somber in the firelight. Why were men so serious about fires?

Paul came back to the sofa. “I feel like everything’s ahead of me when I’m here like this. Like a child.”

“Somewhere in a corner of our hearts, we are always twenty,” I said. How many times had Mother said that?

Paul tipped a slosh of cognac into his glass. “Your old boyfriend is a beautiful man.”

“He’d agree, no doubt.” I held my glass out for more cognac.

Paul hesitated.

“Man, being reasonable, must get drunk,” I said. Why was I quoting Byron? It made me sound two million years old.

“The best of life is but intoxication,” Paul said, as he poured cognac into my glass.

He knew Byron?

“How come you never ask me about Rena?” Paul said.

“Why would I?” That was the last thing I wanted to talk about.

“Oh, I don’t know. Thought you might be curious how I can stay away so long.”

“The show, of course,” I said. The amber in my glass glowed in the firelight.

“We don’t have much of a marriage now.”

“Paul. Such a cliché.” Why could I not stop talking to men like a schoolmarm? I deserved to end up alone, sent out on an ice floe as the Eskimos do with their elders.

“Rena’s so young. A lot of fun—you’d like her, I’m sure—but we could never sit here like this and talk about life.”

“What does she like to do?” I said.

The fire popped and whined as it consumed a drop of pitch.

“Dancing, parties. She’s a child in many ways. We got married very soon after we met. It was great fun at first, and the bedroom time was incredible, but soon she grew restless. I’ve heard she’s had some attractive boyfriends.”

Incredible bedroom time? Heavenly, no doubt. I flicked a bit of lint off my sleeve.

“By the way, in this country, men don’t talk about their bedroom exploits.”

“In this country, men have none to speak of,” Paul said. “They get married, and their exploits shrivel up and fall off. Rena is a wonderful girl, but according to her, we are just incompatible. Believe me, I’ve tried.”

He fiddled with the fire some more and came back, this time sitting closer to me on the sofa. For such a virile man, he had a lovely mouth.

“Is anyone compatible anymore?” I said. “My parents are the only couple I’ve ever thought were truly in sync.”

“How did your father die?”

“I’ve never talked about it before. I was eleven, and back then one didn’t discuss such things.”

“Was he a good father?”

“On weekends he came up from the city to Connecticut. He exchanged his starched collar and waistcoat for khakis and pitched to us, endlessly, at the baseball field Mother had made at the far end of our property.”

“Was he often sick?”

“Never. But the spring of 1914, one day he was sequestered in his bedroom here, out of the blue. Only Dr. Forbes and Mother were allowed in. By the time I was sent to relatives with my valise packed, I knew something was terribly wrong. The maids stopped talking when I came into the room, and Mother’s face had a hunted look I’d never seen on her before.”

“I’m so sorry, Caroline.” Paul held my hand in his warm and soft one and then released it.

“Five days later I was allowed to come home, but no one would look me in the eye. As always, I got my best information hiding in the dumbwaiter just off the kitchen, peeking through a crack. We had four Irish maids living in at the time. The eldest, Julia Smith, filled her coworkers in on the big event as she shelled peas at the kitchen table. I still remember every word. Julia said, ‘I knew Mr. Ferriday wouldn’t go down without a fight.’

“Mary Moran, a skinny new girl, was pushing a dirty gray squid of a mop back and forth across the black and white tiles. She said, ‘Pneumonia’s the most wretched way to die. Like drowning, only slower. Were you in the room? Better not have touched him.’

“Then Julia said, ‘One minute he was laughing like a lunatic, and the next he was clawing at his chest saying it was too hot and crying for Dr. Forbes to “Open a window, for God’s sake.” Then he started asking for his daughter, Caroline, and it just about broke my heart. Mrs. Ferriday kept saying, “Henry, darling, don’t leave me,” but he must have already died, because Dr. Forbes stuck his head out the door and told me, “Run get the undertaker.” ’

“Lily Clifford, the youngest of the four, chimed in: ‘Just caught a glimpse of Mrs. Ferriday, arms around him there on the bed, saying, “I can’t live without you, Henry,” sounding so sad and lonely I wanted to cry myself.’

“That evening, Mother told me the news. I just stared at Father’s humidor, wondering what would happen to his cigars now that he was gone. Mother and I never spoke much of Father’s death and she never cried in front of me or anyone else after that day.”

“What a terrible thing, Caroline,” Paul said. “You were so young.”

“I’m sorry to ruin our festive mood.”

“That’s a heavy burden for a child.”

“Let’s talk about happier things.”

“You have a kind heart, Caroline,” Paul said, as he reached over and tucked a lock of hair behind my ear. I almost jumped, his touch a jolt of warmth.

“Enough death and dying,” I said. “What else can we talk about?”

We both stared into the fire for a while, listening to the logs crack and pop.

Paul turned to me. “Well, I do have a confession to make.”

“Don’t good Catholics do that with a priest?”

He ran one finger down my stockinged foot. “It’s just that, well, I can’t be trusted around silk stockings.”

Did he understand the power he had in his fingertip?

“I’m afraid I was scarred for life by a school friend.”

I sat up straighter. “Maybe I’d better not know.”

“He had boxes of old photos under his bed.”

“Nature shots?”

“Well, in a way, yes. Mostly of women in silk stockings. Little else.” Paul swirled the amber in his snifter. “I’ve never been the same. It’s something about the seams. After I saw Marlene Dietrich in The Blue Angel sing ‘Naughty Lola,’ I had to wait until everyone else left the theater before I could stand up.”

“Marlene wore sheer black stockings in that.”

“Can we not talk about it? It still gets me a bit, well, overstimulated.”

“You brought it up.”

“Guess I’ve always been drawn to strong women,” Paul said.

“Have Mother introduce you to Eleanor Roosevelt.”

Paul smiled and placed his snifter on the floor. “You’re unique, you know, Caroline. Something about you makes me want to bare my soul.” He looked at me, silent for a moment. “I get attached, you know. You may not be able to get rid of me.”

“Like a barnacle,” I said.

He smiled and leaned closer to me. “Yes, whatever that is.”

I stood, smoothing my dress. We needed to change gears before things became complicated.

“Wait here,” I said. “I have something for you. Nothing elaborate.”

“So mysterious, Caroline. Much like Marlene.”

I went to my bedroom. Was this a mistake? Did male and female friends give each other gifts? He had nothing for me, after all. I brought out the silver-papered package I’d wrapped and rewrapped to give it a casual appearance and handed it to Paul.

“What is this?” he said. Was the pink in his cheeks from embarrassment or the cognac?

“It’s nothing,” I said and sat down next to him.

He slid his hand under the paper to break the cellophane tape.

“Really, it’s just a friend gift,” I said. “Betty and I give each other gifts all the time. Just casual.”

He pulled back the folded ends and sat with the paper open on his lap, staring down at the folded rectangle, the color of aged claret, apparently struck mute.

“It was Father’s,” I said. “He had dozens of them. Never wore them, of course. Maybe if he had—”

Paul lifted the scarf, merino wool backed in silk, and held it, working the fabric with his fingers.

“I don’t know what to say,” he said.

My mouth went dry. Had I been too forward with such a personal gift?

“Won’t your mother object?”

“She would have dispensed with all Father’s things by now if I’d let her.”

“Maybe it is hard for her to see them now, with him gone.”

“She almost gave his vicuña coat to an underdressed delivery boy.”

He lifted one end of the scarf and slowly wound it around his neck, head bent. “This is too beautiful, Caroline.” He finished and opened his hands, palms up. “Well?”

He looked like one of the boys about to go out sledding on Bird Pond up in Bethlehem, high color in his cheeks. What would it be like to kiss him? Would we both regret it, seeing as he had a wife, incompatible or not, who would soon be waking up in France waiting for his call?

Of course.

I stood, a bit light-headed.

“Would you like to see them? Father’s clothes, I mean.”

I led Paul down the hallway to Father’s room. Mother and Father had kept separate bedrooms, as was the custom then. The desk lamp in the corner sent shadows up the wall. The maids still dusted the room, washed the organza curtains each spring, and laundered the Greek key linens, as if Father were expected back any day, ready to shout, “Hi-ho!” and throw his leather valise on the bed. A small sofa sat in the bay window alcove, slipcovered in relaxed, faded chintz that lost its waxy sheen long ago. I opened the door to Father’s closet, releasing a wave of Vicks VapoRub and tobacco-scented air, and clicked on the light.

“Oh, Caroline,” Paul said.

Father’s double-hung closet was almost as he’d left it, with rows of khaki, brown wool, and white flannel trousers folded over hangers; all manner of jackets, from belted Norfolks and worsted serge to a one-button cutaway. Legions of two-tone shoes and one pair of patent leather dress slippers, stuffed with tissue paper, lined up on the floor. Foulard ties shared rack space with belts, hung by their brass buckles. Mother’s black bunting from the funeral lay in a heap on the top shelf. Not that I’d been at Saint Thomas Church that day, being only eleven. The New York Times had said, The Woolsey women locked arms that day in the front pew. I pulled on one belt and slipped the suede-lined sealskin leather through my fingers.

“He was very neat,” Paul said.

“Not really. Mother kept him together.”

Paul lifted a gray fedora, stuffed tight with yellowed tissue paper, from the top shelf. He turned it in his hands, like a scientist examining a rare meteorite, and put it back. He seemed somber all at once. Why had I spoiled the mood?

“Father was color-blind, you see,” I said.

Paul just looked at me. If only I could stop blathering.

“And to make matters worse, he refused to be dressed by a valet.”

Paul made no attempt to stop me, just watched with a look I couldn’t place. Pity for a poor spinster who missed her dead father?

“Father insisted on dressing himself. So Mother bought him only basic colors. Browns and navys.” I clicked off the closet light. “Before that, you should have seen his outfits.”

As I closed the closet door, I felt tears coming but held them back.

“One morning at breakfast, he appeared in a yellow jacket, purple tie, burnt-orange trousers, and red socks. Mother almost choked, she laughed so hard.”

I turned my face to the closet door, forehead against the cool paint. “I’m sorry, Paul. I’ll get myself together.”

Paul took my shoulders and turned me to face him and then pulled me close. He smoothed back my hair, and his lips found my cheek. They lingered in the little dip there under my eye and then traveled across my face. He took the long way to my mouth, and once there, tasted of coq au vin and French cigarettes.

Paul unwound the scarf from his neck and released a wave of Sumare.

Pine. Leather. Musk.

We made our way to the sofa as icy snow pelted the windows above us like sand in a hurricane. My heart skipped a beat as his hand brushed the inside of my thigh on the way to release a stocking. He sent two fingers into the silk and drew it down. I unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. Then another. I slipped my hands inside his open shirt, down his sides, smooth as the inside of a conch shell.

“I think maybe you had more than the angel’s share of the cognac,” Paul said in my ear.

He unfastened the top button of my dress. In the low light, his face was especially beautiful, so serious. We were really doing this…I pushed away thoughts of him with Rena.

The second and third buttons went, so slowly.

He pulled my dress down off my shoulder and kissed my bare skin. “I can’t believe how beautiful you are,” he said, working his lips down to my chest, in no hurry at all.

“Perhaps a bed would be a good idea.”

I could only nod. My canopy bed with the pink satin bedspread? That bed had never seen anything like Paul Rodierre.

We zigzagged to my bedroom, leaving my underthings along the way.

“Arms up,” Paul said once we made it to the bed.

I raised my arms as if ready to dive, and he slipped my slip and dress up and off in one motion. He slid out of his jacket and brought me to him. My fingers shook as I felt for his belt. He kissed me as I pulled the end free from the buckle and slid the whole thing through the loops. The zipper purred down. He stepped out of his pants and brought us both to the bed. We fell onto smooth satin, the slats surprised by the sudden weight.

“Are you still wearing your socks?” I said.

He kissed the base of my throat.

“What is that sound?” Paul asked, working his way downward.

“What?” I propped myself up on one elbow. “Is someone here?”

He pulled me back down, lips close to my ear. “It’s nothing.” His sandpapery chin grazed my cheek in a good way. “Don’t worry about it.”

It was lovely having Paul in my bed, all to myself. I sank deeper into the pink satin as he rolled on top of me and kissed my mouth, now urgently.

I heard the sound this time. Someone knocking. How had someone gotten past the doorman? I froze, as Paul’s lips traveled downward.

“Someone’s here,” I said, shaking in the darkness.