ON SATURDAY MORNING HARRY called the Long Island number. He wanted to make sure not only that Lily was home, but that Roger Humphreys was absent.
When the butler answered the phone, he said briskly, “I’m calling for Roger Humphreys. May I speak to him, please?”
“He is not here, sir. I understand he is on Cape Cod. Would you like me to ask Miss Goodhue for the number?”
“That won’t be necessary, thank you. I believe I have it.”
Harry put down the phone, exultant. Lily was at home, and Roger was safely absent. Seizing a topcoat, he left the apartment, ran down the three flights of stairs, and jumped into his Stutz Bearcat. An hour and a half later, he drove up the long cobblestoned driveway, parked the car, and ran up the steps. He rang the bell without stopping to think what he would say to her. When the butler answered he could only stammer, “I’m … here to see Miss Goodhue. The name is Harry Kohle.”
Taking Harry’s hat, the butler left him in the foyer and disappeared.
Lily had just come in from playing tennis when the butler found her. “Miss Goodhue, you have a visitor. A Mr. Harry Kohle.”
Good God, what was he doing here? she wondered, waving the butler away. “I’ll be down directly.”
After he had left, she gripped the bannister tightly to keep from falling. During the last week, she had thought about Harry constantly. Why hadn’t she just told Graves to say she was out?
But deep down, she knew. She had to see him once more. She had to know. She had begun to think her feelings were more than just the product of the champagne and music.
Taking a deep breath, she walked slowly down the stairs to the foyer. “What are you doing here?” she asked, trying to control her quivering voice.
“I had to see you. I’m in love with you.”
Lily was staggered. This was far different from her fantasy. It was frightening—threatening…. My God, he was real. She found herself trembling again as she had the first night she’d seen him. She prayed it didn’t show. In that instant, she wanted to cry out, “Why are you doing this to me? Why can’t you leave me in peace?” But instead, she asked bitingly, “What are you doing here?”
“I had to see you.”
“Why?”
Harry wasted no time in pretense. “Because I’m in love with you.”
Lily could not believe the simple declaration.
“I told you I’m engaged. To Roger Humphreys.”
“But you’re not in love with him,” he said, challenging her.
“Of course I am!”
“If that’s true, then why did you only mention your fiancé at the end of the evening?”
She lowered her eyes.
“And why didn’t you wear the ring I see you have on your finger now?”
Lily finally found her voice. “I don’t owe you any explanations, Mr. Kohle. And I don’t want you to ever try to see me again. Not ever!”
Harry’s voice was very calm as he replied. “I don’t give up that easily.”
“If you have any decency, you will leave now.” She went to the door, held it open, and waited. She refused to look up. All she remembered was that as the door closed behind him, she leaned against it and sobbed.
Harry gunned the motor as he drove away. He hadn’t expected Lily to greet him with open arms, but neither had he expected total rejection. He decided he would test the strength of his own feelings by seeing if he could forget her. For the next few weeks, he did everything in his power to erase her image. He spent his evenings carousing, starting in the fanciest restaurants or hottest new Broadway shows and ending at the speakeasies up in Harlem, drinking more than was good for him. He was the life of every party—and only the most perceptive observer would have noted that his eyes were curiously lifeless, his smiles forced and mechanical.
If only he had known Lily’s own troubled thoughts stirred by his unexpected visit. Little could he suspect how greatly his very presence had affected her.
Lily’s cold reception had been the result of an intense battle between her heart and her head. She must at all costs protect the bulwark which blinded her to all the things that were wrong in her impending marriage—and Harry Kohle threatened to breach that defense. The ironic result of his visit was to intensify her determination to reaffirm her relationship with Roger. So while Harry painted the town, Lily clung to Roger’s arm, gave him loving smiles, and laughed at his jokes.
The weekend they were houseguests at Jill Robinson’s country estate Lily determined to force Roger to try to make love to her. On Saturday night, Lily floated downstairs in white chiffon and sparkled like the ring on her finger. She drank a good deal of wine at dinner and was gay and talkative. Later, when Roger was dancing with Jill, as befitted his obligation to his hostess, Lily cut in and led him into the library. Turning down the lights, Lily caught her breath, overcome with a sense of her own sexuality. Whether it was stimulated by Roger or her own sense of need, Lily knew only that she wanted Roger to sweep her off her feet. Deliberately, she lifted her lips to his, winding her arms around his neck.
“I love you, Roger. I love you,” she whispered fervently.
“I love you, too,” he said, and in that moment he almost believed it.
Slowly they sank onto the brown velvet sofa, intertwined….
But then suddenly there was a knock on the door. Roger leapt up, looking disheveled and feeling ridiculous.
“Oh, my God,” he muttered. “What are we doing?”
“Out the French doors,” she said, trying not to giggle. “I don’t want you compromised.”
As he stepped into the garden, Lily opened the door.
“I hope I haven’t disturbed you,” said Bert Hamilton. “I just wanted something to read before I go to bed.” He walked over to the first case, took down a book at random, and fled with an apologetic smile.
Lily checked her hair in the mirror, then went back out to the drawing room.
“What have you been up to?” asked Jill. “You and Roger were certainly gone a long time together.”
Lily flushed guiltily. “What do you mean?”
“Oh Lily, don’t pretend! You two are engaged, after all.”
“Nothing happened,” Lily said. She saw the look of pity in her friend’s eyes. Oblivious to the fact that most of her crowd considered Roger a cold fish, Lily felt the moment in the study confirmed his passion. Her doubts had been quieted and she could look forward to her wedding day with no further qualms.
In Manhattan, Harry Kohle had also made up his mind. His attempts to drown Lily’s image in an orgy of other beds had failed dismally. As he walked down Madison Avenue all he saw in the huge plate-glass windows was Lily’s face—that magnificent, beautiful face. In that moment, he made up his mind. She was mistaken if she thought he was going to give up this easily.
Impulsively, he stopped in front of Ratto’s Florist and went inside.