I spent the following week surrounded by my entire family at the beach house. I was crazy with grief and needed them around me. When Ware returned to the Vineyard, Bill took me to his island in Maine and I stayed there with him until the first cold winds of fall drove us down the Old Post Road to his home in New Canaan, Connecticut, the one I had shared with Timmy that past summer. It was there I realized how much Bill meant to me and when he said, “Teddy, I’m in love with you, marry me,” I couldn’t say no.
Timmy had loved Bill and Bill had helped me through those tragic months. Finally, I was offered a new life with a man I now loved. We had a child; a baby girl whom we called Gigi. I never dreamt I would have a child that late in life, but she came and filled a cradle Bill had bought for me with a note attached that read, Fill it!
When Gigi was born, Bill was there with me and he picked the baby up, kissed her, then looked at me with tears in his eyes. When a strong man is tender, it heals your heart. Gigi was beautiful and a gift from God.
I thought of Timmy and imagined him raising the flag at the beach house and yelling, “Bravo, Mom! We got a girl!”
I ALWAYS WONDERED why Paul had never come back to see Timmy. It had killed me inside, it was what made me divorce him. After Timmy’s death, Paul had said, “Don’t leave me, stay married to me, and you can be richer than the Queen of England.” I said no. I was too hurt. It was not until 2010 that I found an unopened letter from Paul saying,
Oct. 12, ’54
Dearest Teddy,
I wish I knew my plans. I want to return home to the U.S. I am very eager to see Timmy. I think of him every day and long to be with him. 3 years is a long time in a child’s life. I’ve developed an allergy to ships. I dread being on them and don’t care for the North Atlantic in winter. I may have to go Saudi Arabia again soon. If so, I don’t like the thought of crossing to N.Y. and Cal. then returning across the ocean in a few weeks.
I’m very weary of Europe. I doubt that I’ll want to revisit it again once I’m home. The U.S. looks good to me!
The Neutral Zone is different now since this is the first year of production and sales. There is much to do both here and in the Zone, but I dread the long 8 day rail trip there. Why don’t I fly? Why am I so childishly timid about flying?? Anyhow, I plan to be back in the U.S. within six months—and stay there. My dread of the ocean will keep me there. And, as you know, I used to like ocean travel. And, even went sailing with you at Martha’s Vineyard!
What had I better do? Let me know. And tell me all about Timmy—and what school does he go to? Ronny said that you and Timmy both looked fine. I’ve written to LA regarding the trade-in of Timmy’s car—but what good will it do until you return to Cal?
Love to you both.
Paul
He had reached out to me in this letter, wanting to come home to us, his family, and I had never opened it until 2010! I had never known. Would I have stayed with him if I had? I don’t know.
Years later, I did see Paul. It was 1975, and Gigi, my sister Nancy, her daughter Lisa, and I were in Europe. When Paul heard we were there, he asked us to visit him at Sutton Place, Guilford, England. Hearing his voice over the telephone, after all those years, I couldn’t say no. I felt I needed to see him again—he must have felt it, too.
Upon arriving at Sutton Place, Paul’s butler, Bulimore, opened the door, and there stood Paul. I walked right into his arms and he kissed me, then embraced Nancy and, smiling, took the hands of each girl as they curtsied, and said, “I’m so happy you are all here. Barbara will show you to your rooms. And now, if you’ll excuse us, Teddy, come with me.” And taking my hand, we walked up the staircase to the second floor, down the long hall to his suite, through his bedroom, into his bathroom and stopping before a marble washstand, where Paul surprised me by getting down on his knees.
“Paul, what are you doing?” I asked.
“I have a surprise for you.” And with that, he opened the drawer and pulled out a rather faded little Donald Duck. Yes, the Donald Duck—the one I’d given him in 1935, the year we met.
Handing him to me, he smiled and said, “Look, Teddy Boo, I’ve kept him all these years, but he now desperately needs your help.” It was then that I saw the red crayoned heart I’d drawn on Donald’s rear end had faded, he needed mending, and his shoelaces had come undone. It brought tears to my eyes. I looked at Paul deeply, and said, “I still have mine!”
“Well then, if you will, I’ll ask Mrs. Bannerman, our housekeeper, to lend you her sewing kit and you can sew up my Donald before you leave.” And that’s exactly what I did.
We sat out in the garden one afternoon. I repaired Donald, and Paul sat beside me, reminiscing about our life at the beach house. He spoke of the walks we’d take with Timmy and the dogs, Hildy and Jocko, up the beach to the pier and back—stopping to watch those mad little sandpipers as they raced one another in and out of the waves barely missing being swept out to sea; and just as the sun disappeared beyond the horizon leaving a red golden sky, flocks of seagulls could be seen heading for the hills to roost each night.
When Paul passed away the following year, on June 6, 1976, I received a small box from England with Donald Duck carefully wrapped up inside—and outside, there hung a name tag marked For Teddy.