Illusions of Love
by
Cynthia Freeman


A World Full of Strangers Fairy Tales The Days of Winter Portraits Come
Pour the Wine No Time for Tears

Illusions of Love

CYNTHIA FREEMAN

Pan Books in association with Collins First published 1984 by William
Collins Sons & Co.  Ltd This edition published 1985 by Pan Books Ltd,
Cavaye Place, London SW10 9PG in association with William Collins Sons
& Co.  Ltd 98765432 Cynthia Freeman 1984 ISBN 0 330 28820 2 Printed and
bound in Great Britain by Richard Clay Ltd, Bungay, Suffolk This book
is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or
otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without
the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other
than that in which it is published and without a similar condition
including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser
Book One

Chapter One

San Francisco was thronged with shoppers in those last days before
Christmas.  They darted in and out of Macy's and I. Magnin's and
Neiman-Marcus with gifts that would undoubtedly be returned in the New
Year.  But for the moment no one was thinking beyond the holiday.  On
the corner of Stockton and Geary, Santa Claus tinkled his bell as coins
dropped into his small pail, and the smell of roasting chestnuts from a
sidewalk vendor filled the air.  In spite of the soft winter rain, a
children's choir filled Union Square singing '0 Come All Ye Faithful'.
People were exceedingly polite as they collided with one another trying
to catch the cable car on Powell and Market.  Next week would be a
different story, but today they apologized, remembering the holy
season.

At 6. 30 in the afternoon, the office buildings in the financial
district were all but deserted.  The lights in the Hill Towers Building
were being turned off as cleaning ladies closed the doors behind them
so that they too could get home and enjoy a mug of hot buttered rum.

Alone in a penthouse office on the forty-first floor, one man sat
pensively staring out the window.  If there was joy in the world,
Martin Roth was unaware of it.  He sat in his large swivel chair,
consumed with a feeling of loneliness as he watched the early darkness
settle over the city.  Martin suddenly saw his life in terms as
fleeting as the brief twilight.  He sighed deeply and continued to
stare over the magnificent structure of steel that spread its wings
like a giant eagle, connecting Oakland to San Francisco.  Although he'd
seen it a million times, tonight the size and strength of the mighty
bridge left him with a feeling of his own insignificance instead of
the opposite, as was usually the case.

No matter how omnipotent we think we are, we have damn little power to
control our destinies, he thought.  Only that morning he had looked at
his life with placid contentment If his days lacked a certain
excitement, they were full, satisfying.  Then in a moment everything
had changed.

He had bumped into Jenny McCoy, quite by accident, and all the longing
and passion of his youth had been reawakened.  He realized how terribly
much he had missed her, that he had never stopped loving her.  Until
that moment, he had believed that after twenty-five years he had all
but forgotten her.  God knows he had tried hard enough.  And, in recent
years, he'd almost been able to pretend that she had only been a dream.
Almost .  that is, until today.

He suddenly stood up, walked across the deep pile carpet, pressed a
button, and watched as the doors to a mirrored bar slid back, revealing
his white and strained face.  Martin stared.  At fifty-three, he'd
considered himself still young.  His belly was flat and firm, and until
now he had accepted his thick grey hair as a mark of distinction.  Now
for the first time he saw himself as middle-aged a man with the best
already behind him.

From the moment he'd given up Jenny he had devoted himself to building
the right kind of life.  He had taken over his father's brokerage
house, married the right woman, a girl he had been friends with since
childhood, tried his best to bring up his two children with the right
values.  Yet two minutes after seeing Jenny again none of it made
sense.

The fluorescent lights hardened the planes of his face, leaving dark
hollows beneath his deep blue eyes.  He wondered what Jenny had thought
when she saw him today.  The years had been so kind to her.  She was
still slender, with those incredible Irish amber eyes and hair the
colour of warm molasses.  She was more beautiful at forty-eight, if
that was possible, than when he had first met her.

He dropped the ice cubes into the glass, filled it half full of
scotch, then added soda.  He took a long swallow, then walked back to
the desk and sat down.  Where the hell had the years gone?  More
important, how had he spent them?

"In a strange kind of capitulation, that's how," he said aloud.

"An acceptance of the very privilege most people spend a lifetime
trying to achieve."

He had been born into one of San Francisco's wealthiest Jewish
families.  His wife, Sylvia, came from the same background.  As far as
marriages went, he had no reason to complain.  Had there been
compromises?  Of course.  But Sylvia had been a good wife, and he was
more than aware of her virtues, even if he tended to handle his
marriage by trying not to scrutinize it too closely.  Today he knew
that for all these years he'd been fooling himself.  He had never
forgotten Jenny.

Even this morning, driving to work.  Jenny buried safely twenty-five
years into his past, the memory of their affair had been lurking in the
back of his mind, waiting to throw his life into turmoil once again.

Thursdays were Sylvia's days in town.  She would leave the house in
Woodside in time to meet Martin for lunch at the St.  Francis Hotel.

Afterwards, she would spend the rest of the day shopping, often staying
over at the apartment either to have dinner with friends or attend the
theatre or opera.

As usual, Martin had met her at precisely noon for a light lunch;

neither wanted a heavy midday meal.  After all these years they could
talk in an easy shorthand: about their house, the apartment they kept
on Nob Hill, the children.  At 1:30 they descended the broad stone
steps of the St.  Francis, crossed Powell Street and walked past Union
Square, where the children were assembling to sing Christmas carols.

They stopped in front of I. Magnin's.  Before hurrying in, Sylvia
kissed him gently on the lips, then stepped back and said, "Now, be
nice to the Grants tonight, Martin."

"I'm always nice."

"No, you're not.  I know you think Craig is a bore, but you have to do
this for my sake.  Laura's indispensable to me.  I need her for the
upcoming Spring Ball ... I really do.  So be a darling and don't argue
politics, for heaven's sake" "I'll try my best."

She smiled and said, "Thanks.  You know, Martin, you can be a complete
charmer when you put your mind to it."

He looked at her and smiled.

"Well, that's comforting to know.  I'll see you back at the
apartment."

It was while he was waiting for the light to change that he saw Jenny
walking past Gump's.  For a moment he thought he was dreaming.  His
pulse raced and he stood frozen.  Then, barely waiting for the traffic
to stop, he ran across the street shouting her name.

She turned slowly, uncertain whether someone was really calling her.

Then, all at once, they were face to face as the crowd flowed around
them.  Finally Jenny found her voice.

1 simply can't believe this.  "

Martin shook his head yes.

"In one split second I might have missed you."

"How d'd you know it was me with my back towards you?"

"" I'd recognize that walk anywhere.  "

"Even after all this time?"

"Yes, even after all this time.  You haven't changed at all."

She laughed.

"Of course I have.  We've all changed.  You look wonderful, Martin."

"Really?  Thank you ... But life seems to have stood still for you."

"Hardly.  Are you happy, Martin?"

"Yes, I suppose.  And what about you?"

"I'm just trying to keep adrift these days."

"What are you doing in the city?"

Jenny hesitated a moment.  " " I'm on my way to the Orient.  The firm
I'm with has a number of Japanese accounts.  "

"Where are you staying?"

"At the Fairmont."

"For how long?"

"Only until tomorrow.  My plane leaves at seven in the evening."

"Oh well ... maybe we could have a drink in the after noon sometime."

"Are you sure that's a good idea?"

"I'm not sure if it's good or bad.  I'd just like to see you."

"That seems harmless enough."

"What name shall I ask for?"

"McCoy, Jennifer McCoy.  Same as when we met.  It's been extraordinary,
Martin, meeting so unexpectedly."

He wanted to take her in his arms, hold her close, and this time never
let her go.  Instead he said, "I'll call."

Then she disappeared inside Shreve's.  Martin didn't know how he made
it back to his office.  Yet suddenly he found himself standing in front
of the massive oak doors, looking at the names of Roth, Seifer, Roth,
Stem & Hines.  He remembered how unsure of himself he'd felt that day
his father had added the second Roth to the prestigious roster.  He
hadn't believed he was worthy of mention in the famous brokerage firm
his great-grandfather had founded ninety years before.

It was strange about the accident of birth.  If he had not been heir to
the Roth firm, or if Jenny McCoy were not an Irish Catholic, how
different their lives might have been.  Seeing Jenny had threatened his
resolve to carry on the traditions of his family.  A small voice within
him wanted to cry out: You must forgive me, Papa.  I know I
disappointed you in many ways, but when it came to Jenny I did as you
wished.  I gave her up once but I can't do it again.  Please forgive me
but I feel I have a right now to reach out for the thing I need so much
in my life.  I don't want to hurt any body, but something inside me can
no longer be deprived.

Abruptly shaking off the ghost of the past, Martin turned the knob on
the door and walked down the hall towards his office.  He was almost
there when Charles Hines called to him through his open door, "Come on
in, Martin."

Obediently he stood framed in the doorway.

"Jesus, Martin, I'm glad you got back, I need your advice on what to
do with this order of Normal Bells."  He waved a yellow memo in the
air.

"It's imperative that we get into the market on Monday morning because
Martin knew he would never be able to muster a logical reply; he was
too distracted.  Cutting off Charles's explanation, he said, " Okay,
hand it to me and I'll take a look.  "

Without glancing at the page he backed out of the office and continued
on down to his own where his secretary, Nancy, was waiting.  Nancy
occupied a position of some importance since she had been with the firm
even longer than Martin and knew his moods even better than Sylvia. The
moment she saw his face she said, "Is everything all right, Martin?"

But he just mumbled that he didn't wish to be disturbed and closed the
door to his private office.  He tried going over the portfolio on his
desk but he could only think of Jenny.  If he had been one minute
earlier or later crossing Stockton Street, he would never have spotted
her.  It was as though fate wanted them to have a second chance.

He sat lost in the past, unaware of the passage of time.  He was
shocked when Nancy knocked on the door and he looked up to see that the
desk clock said six.

"Is there anything I can do for you before I leave?"  She stood in
front of the desk and seemed reluctant to go, but it was Christmas Eve
and she wanted to get home.

"Why are you still here?"  he asked.

She smiled.

"Because I'm an old campaigner.  And I had to finish up some loose
ends.  Merry Christmas."

He got up and embraced her.

"You too, Nancy."

After closing the door behind her Martin knew he should go, but he'd
remained, sipping his drink.  Now it was fully dark outside and he knew
he'd be late.  In a flurry of guilt, he got up, grabbed his raincoat,
and walked out of the office.

It was 7. 30 when he reached the apartment and walked to the bedroom,
where Sylvia was applying makeup.

"For heaven's sake, Martin, you're late."

"I know I'm sorry."

"Well, for heaven's sake, you could have called."

"You're absolutely right.  I'm so sorry."

"Well, don't just stand there.  You've got exactly twenty minutes to
shave and dress.  I've got your clothes laid out on the bed."

Watching Martin sitting on the edge of the bed, her annoyance faded.

He looked so tired.  In a conciliatory voice she said, "I'm going to
fix a drink.  Do you want one while you're dressing?"

"Please."  He needed a moment to pull himself together.  To remind
himself that this was Sylvia, whom he loved, and that Jenny was a dream
he hadn't enjoyed for nearly a quarter of a century.  He was finished
in the bathroom and nearly dressed when Sylvia came back with his
scotch.

"Here, darling," she said, kissing him on the cheek.

"Some times I sound just like a nagging wife."

"No, you don't.  I was late and I'm sorry."

"Well, now that makes two of us.  I wasn't exactly charming Okay,
finish up and I'll call down for the car."

Martin wasn't listening.  He despised cocktail parties and tonight he
sure as hell wasn't up to one, but he couldn't think of an excuse not
to go, especially when he noticed that Sylvia was looking particularly
radiant.

By the time they arrived at the penthouse atop Nob Hill, the party was
in full swing.  A number of guests were sitting on the stairs as Sylvia
and Martin made their way to the second floor.  The living room had
been transformed into a winter wonderland.  Trees in huge tubs from the
Podesta Baldocchi florist were decorated with tiny Christmas lights.

The room smelled of pine and expensive perfume.  Martin found he could
barely breathe.

"Darling," said Laura, em bracing Sylvia.

"I'm so glad you came!  I was beginning to wonder ... you're so
late."

Sylvia laughed.

"How could you have possibly missed us with this galaxy?"

"I'm terribly good at keeping track.  And how are you, Martin?"

"Good.  You look lovely," Martin said, trying to escape the cloud of
gin and Joy.

"So nice of you to notice.  Now go and have fun, both of you!"

Sylvia began to circulate, and Martin wandered about the room, idly
listening to fragments of conversation.

"I think she looked perfectly dreadful.  She has no right to wear a
dress that tight ... Martin moved on.

"You know they're having an affair ... He plucked a scotch and soda off
a waiter's tray, wandered over to a quiet corner.

He was startled when Sylvia materialized at his elbow and said, "A
penny for your thoughts, Martin."

"You'd get robbed, they weren't worth that."

That strange feeling she'd had earlier persisted.

"Well, what are you doing here, standing by yourself?"

"Trying to avoid the stampede."

Looking at her husband, Sylvia felt guilty.  She knew that he hated big
parties, but all her friends gave and went to them.  She and Martin
were like the couple in which the wife loved the seashore and he loved
the mountains.  Well, she wasn't going to think about that now.

"Maybe a little food will soothe whatever it is that ails you," she
said.

A wave of guilt washed over him, as though he'd already called Jenny.

How did Sylvia know that anything ailed him?

Taking him by the hand, Sylvia led him to the buffet table.

It was overwhelming: a whole salmon glazed with mayonnaise and
truffles; pate in an aspic glaze; caviar and cucumber aspic; lobster
cooked in brandy with toasted almonds.  And at the other end of the
table stood a ham en croute and a chafing dish filled with beef
bourgignon.

"Isn't this the most sumptuous thing?"  Sylvia said.

He looked at the enormous buffet.  It was indeed incredible, but he
seemed to have lost his appetite.

Sylvia handed him a plate and took one for herself.  Tasting the
lobster, she said, "This is simply marvelous."  He remained silent.

She watched as he stared blankly at the food.

"Aren't you going to eat, dear?"

She was suddenly afraid.  Martin liked good food, and even though he
was careful about his weight he never skipped a meal.  Sensing her
worry, Martin seemed to pull himself together.  He ate a few bites and
began moving through the crowd, saying hello to their friends.  He even
went over to Laura and Craig and smiled while Sylvia made plans for the
Spring Ball.

It was after eleven when they finally got away and almost midnight
before Martin turned off the bedroom light in their apartment.  But
even in the dark he could not escape his wife's growing concern.

Sylvia knew Martin hated being fussed over, but he had been acting
oddly ever since he came home from work.  Suddenly her pulse raced.

Martin had been to the doctor a few days ago for his annual checkup,
and maybe .  maybe .  God, she wasn't going to look for trouble.

Yet three of their best friends had dropped dead from heart attacks in
the last year or so.  That's enough, Sylvia.  The only way she'd find
out would be to ask.

"Darling, are you feeling all right?"

"Yes, of course.  Why do you ask?"

She shrugged.

"I don't know, Martin ... She hesitated.

They lay silently for a few moments in their separate beds.  Sylvia had
never felt so lonely.  Finally she said, "You were so dreadfully quiet
tonight, Martin.  Are you worried about something?"

Martin's heart beat a little too rapidly.  It was as though she were
clairvoyant.  He was worried, worried about hurting her.

"I wish you would talk to me, darling," Sylvia persisted.

"I have the strangest feeling that you are facing some crisis."

"No, of course not," he answered quickly.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes ... I'm sure."

"Are you?  Darling, if there is anything wrong, you know how much I
care."

"I know that, Sylvia," he said contritely.

Again the thought struck her that Martin might be ill.  She sighed and
turned off the light.

"Well, sleep tight, Martin.  I love you."

Staring up at the ceiling with his hands behind his head, he thought.

Goddamn it- is a trick of timing, an accident, going to destroy our
peace?

"I love you too, Sylvia," he said.  And he did, but not quite in the
way he would have wished.

Chapter Two

Sleep was impossible for Martin that night; he could not stop thinking
about Jenny.  Their affair had been doomed from the very beginning. She
was a devout Roman Catholic; he was a Jew, and right after World War II
that was not an easy bridge to cross.  He had not been able to renounce
his faith, even for her, for the bonds of family were too strong within
him.  And Hitler had made Judaism far more than a religion.  According
to the Nazis no Jew could escape his or her history.

Martin's great-grandfather had been among the multitude swept out of
France in the early nineteenth century by a wave of anti-Semitism.

Freed from the ghetto by Napoleon after the French Revolution, the Jews
soon discovered that by the time of the Second Empire all they had won
was a ghetto without walls; a Diaspora without dignity.  They had hoped
the Revolution had ensured their status as Frenchmen, but they were
forbidden to own land, were barred from the universities, and were
subjected to even more rigid regulations than before.

So the Jews of France joined that network of humanity pouring out of
Russia, Poland, Germany and Hungary.  And among the human tide was
Ephraim Rothenberger.

America was the hope, the dream, the salvation they thirsted for.

America was a word called freedom.  But the price Ephraim paid to
achieve that goal was years of pain and untold loneliness.  As the
oldest he was the son chosen to leave, and at twenty he said goodbye to
everyone and everything that he loved and joined the legions who were
making their way to the Promised Land.

The story of Ephraim's journey to America was never formally
chronicled.  Had he realized that his destiny would be to spawn a
dynasty, he surely would have kept some form of journal.  As it was, he
tried to forget the terrible hardships and left much of the trip to his
descendants' imaginations.  But not even the most gifted imagination
could evoke its real horrors.

When Ephraim left Paris, it was with the clothes on his back and a sack
containing a few utensils, bread, potatoes, some cheese, and a small
salami.  Once outside of Paris, he took to the country roads, heading
southward to Marseilles.  The distance seemed so great that he refused
to even contemplate it.  Instead, he accepted each day as it came,
trying only to survive.  He rested only when he was too exhausted to go
on and slept for a few hours each night in a hayloft, a meadow, in a
grove of trees, wherever he happened to be.  He kept alive by stealing
a few eggs, which he cracked and swallowed whole.  At first he almost
gagged, but he forced himself to hold them down until the rumbling of
his empty stomach subsided.  When he came to a stream, he would bend
down, cup his hand in the cold water, and drink until his stomach had
the illusion of being full.  Once he was lucky enough to spear a trout
with his knife, though he had to eat it raw.

His source of strength was his belief that God was watching over him,
for the destiny of his family had been vouchsafed into his keeping.

Each day when he put on his phylacteries and chanted the ancient
prayers, his faith was renewed.  When he had the good fortune to ride
on the back of a farmer's cart or get a lift down river on a barge, he
knew that it was because of God's blessing.

Two months later, he arrived in Marseilles.  The soles of his shoes
had worn out long ago, and he had wrapped his bleeding feet with pieces
of thin, dirty blanket which he had torn in strips.  He had earned and
saved a few francs from jobs he'd done for farmers along the way, and
with that he bought a pair of secondhand shoes and paid for a night's
lodging.  The luxury of sleeping on a straw mat, even in the company of
ten others, was a joy he'd almost forgotten existed.  That night he
washed his clothes and laid them on the floor next to his mat to dry.

Then he enjoyed his first bath in longer than he could remember.

When morning came, he went into the shipping office and waited his turn
to be hired to work on one of the boats headed for the New World.

His apprehensions grew when he saw the great number of men already in
line.  But Ephraim soon had more reason to believe he still enjoyed
God's blessing: he was the last to be hired that day, and the next ship
would not sail for over three weeks.

After the shoes were bought and the lodgings paid for, he had no more
money, but he had a place on the ship and the opportunity to work
during the crossing.

The worst was behind him, and he could almost taste the word freedom.

The word seemed to trip from his tongue like honey.  That afternoon,
the freighter La Liberte lifted anchor and sailed.

Deep in the bowels of the ship, Ephraim shovelled coal into the
furnace, whose appetite seemed insatiable.  As soon as the monster was
fed, he slammed the heavy iron door shut, but barely had time to wipe
the sweat and soot from his forehead with his blackened arm before the
fire again demanded his attention.  Trembling with fatigue and holding
on to the rail with his raw, blistered hands, he ascended the
catwalk.

Then, unsteadily, he inched his way along the narrow corridor until he
reached his quarters.  Too exhausted to wash or eat, he collapsed in
his hammock and fell into a deep sleep.

For several days Ephraim did not see daylight.  After passing the
Straits of Gibraltar, the ship was gripped by a terrible storm.  Even
when it lessened and Ephraim could go on deck and breathe the crisp
salt air, he had little time or inclination to do so, for the old
vessel still turned and twisted like a toy in the mighty Atlantic.  To
Ephraim, who had never been to sea, the ocean seemed angry and hostile
even on fine days, when giant waves shot up like white fangs, then
cascaded down in an icy torrent across the bow.

Belowdecks, hordes of immigrants were being tossed about in their
cramped and fetid quarters.  Some writhed in pain from hunger, holding
their swollen bellies.  Others, too weak even to cry out, lay oblivious
to the misery around them.  A few simply wished that death would
overtake them, as was occasionally the case.

As happens with all things in life, there are beginnings and there are
endings.  Nearly six weeks after leaving Marseilles, La Liberte weighed
anchor in New York harbour, where, as if to prolong the immigrants'
misery, a torrential rain pounded against the portholes and the wind
howled mournfully.

Weak and bedraggled women, men and children, families who until now had
been faceless, began to emerge from belowdecks.  Many wept with relief
at their first sight of the New York skyline.  Some, bewildered by the
mere fact that they had survived, seemed unaware of the downpour.
Others, too ill or weak to stand alone, clung to one another for
support.

For a brief moment Ephraim looked at the crowd and was filled with
compassion.  Then he picked up his bag, swung it over his shoulder, and
walked down the gangplank.

He went to the shipping office and waited in line for his pay, then
watched grimly as a bursar counted out a dollar for each day they had
been at sea.  As he moved out of the line, he smiled sardonically;

forty dollars for the agony he'd suffered.  But then he thought to
himself: It took Moses forty years to get to the Promised Land, and I
came in just forty days.  Not that I'm comparing myself with Moses, God
forbid.  With that happy reflection, he stuffed the money

into his pocket and walked out of the shipping office.

He was in New York.  Even under the heavy clouds the city seemed to
shimmer with promise.  Ignoring the rain, he began to walk, trying to
follow the directions one of the crew members had given him to the
Lower East Side.  An hour later he found a flophouse on the Bowery for
twenty- five cents a night.  Shedding his wet clothes, he collapsed
onto an iron cot.

In the morning, when he opened his eyes to the bleak winter day, he
felt exhausted.  But at least his bed wasn't being tossed up and down
by the storm.  Maybe he should just rest .  Then he looked around at
the other men who filled the shabby, stifling room.  For many, he
suspected, that was how they spent their days.  That depressing thought
suddenly gave him the strength to get on with his new life.  He rose, a
little shakily, swung his bag over his shoulder, and looked around the
dormitory.  Although he had little in the way of worldly goods, Ephraim
was a man who understood his own dignity and he had not come this far
to fail.  Quickly he turned and ran down the steep flight of stairs to
the street.

Shivering with cold, he stood huddled in the doorway, trying to get his
bearings.  Then, still uncertain of what direction he should take, he
began to walk.

How far he had gone, he wasn't quite sure.  He stopped to rest,
watching his breath against the cold, sharp air.  Until now he had been
oblivious to his surroundings, but suddenly he saw the sign: cohen's
kosher restaurant.

A bell rang as he opened the door and rang again as he closed it.  He
stood alone among the vacant tables and chairs.  There were no other
customers.

Soon, a woman emerged from the back.  Wiping her hands on her white
apron, she told him to take any table.  When their eyes met, he felt a
lump in his throat; she looked like his mother.

"Now.  So what can I get you?"  she asked in Yiddish.

Ephraim smiled back.

"A cup of coffee and a roll, please," he said, a little embarrassed by
his accent.

"That's all you want?"  she asked, looking at the handsome young
stranger.  A thousand young boys like this she had befriended
throughout the years.  It wasn't necessary to know from where they had
come or how long they were staying.  They were friendless and
bewildered and Leah Cohen's heart went out to them.  After all, she and
Yankel knew what it was to be greenhorns.

She sighed as she went to get the order.  Along with the coffee and
roll, she brought him a piece of herring.

"I won't charge you," she said quickly, forestalling his protest.

"Not this time.  Eat and enjoy."

Ephraim felt the tears sting his eyes.  She did look like his mother.

"Thank you you're very kind.  But please, I want to pay."

"Next time," she answered as she sat down across from him at the table
with a glass of tea.  She placed a cube of sugar between her teeth in
the Russian style and took a sip of the strong brew.

She watched him curiously.  He had something that set him apart from
the other immigrants she'd befriended over the years, a sense of
purpose, destiny.

"Where did you come from?"  she asked.

"From France.  Paris."

She shook her head in awe.  Paris: the name had a magical ring here in
the squalor of the Lower East Side.  This young boychik was
different.

She and Yankel had fled the shtetl near Riga.  She sighed, remembering
how they had been spat upon, beaten, their synagogues and cemeteries
desecrated.  Even after all these years she could still hear the shouts
of the drunken Cossacks.  She was only thirteen when her family was
annihilated.  But Yankel had saved her.  At sixteen he had become her
protector, had rescued her from the ravaged shtetl, had buoyed her
spirits through the long journey to the New World.  How well she knew
what this boy must be feeling; felt.

"So you're from Paris.  And what is your name?"

"Ephraim Rothenberger."

"Rothenberger?"  she asked quizzically.

"You were born in France?"

"Yes all of us.  My mother and father, too."

"But how is it you have a German name?"

"My grandfather left Bavaria and went to France, hoping that life would
be better there.  But he was wrong."

"For us Jews, it's not really good anywhere."

"You're right.  But here I know we're going to survive, because America
has a Constitution that says everybody is equal and has the right to
life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness."

"Ho, ho, ho!"  she said.

"We have a professor here!  How do you know?"

"Because I found a book and I read about it.  I love the history of
this country.  They had a real revolution to free the people.  There
are no Pales, no pogroms, nobody knocks down your door in the middle of
the night.  I can go anywhere I want because I'm free."  And Ephraim
truly believed that.

"Yes," Leah said.

"This is a great country of freedom.  But now you must consider the
present.  Where are you living?"

He told her about the Bowery: the squalor and how it had sickened
him.

"Now I have to find a room and a job.  Do you know of any place?"

"You came to the right person.  Here, I'll write down the address of my
husband's cousin.  Her name is Malka Green- berg.  Here, let me give
you more coffee and I'll write down the street where she lives."

After she handed him the slip of paper, he stood up and looked at
her.

He'd always remember today.

"Thank you, Mrs.  Cohen, for all your kindness.  God is really so good
to me."

"What's to thank?  Listen, when I came, it wouldn't have been so easy
if it hadn't been for our people.  The blessing is that we all stick
together.  Now, good luck!  And you'll come back and see me, yes?"

Ephraim swallowed hard and nodded.

"Thank you," he said once again and heard the little bell ring twice
as he opened the door, then closed it behind him.

He made his way carefully toward Canal Street with the aid of Leah's
instructions.

Malka Greenberg had only one room in the attic.  It was cold and rain
came in between the eaves, but after the muddy roads of France and the
ship, it seemed like a palace.  At least he was alone.

As he stood warming his hands, he asked, "If you have some newspaper, I
can put it up to keep the wet out."

"Of course."  Ephraim followed her down three flights of stairs and
watched as she handed him copies of the Yiddish newspaper and an orange
crate to stand on.  That night the temperature dropped and the rain
changed to snow.  In the morning, Ephraim woke to find that the paper
had fallen to the floor and was lying under a pile of dirty melting
snow.  He looked out the dormer window to the grey dawn, feeling the
chill in the marrow of his bones.

"This, too, will pass," he promised himself.  He was in America now,
and today would be the beginning of the rest of his life.  He was going
to find a job.

During the next few weeks, the verve and resoluteness that had fed him
began to dissolve.  He found only menial labour that paid almost
nothing, and there was very little of that.  How would he save
sufficient money to bring his family to America?

As winter faded and spring came, the city slowly lost the glamour that
had first impressed him.  What he now saw was ugliness, squalor and
decaying buildings.  The streets were overcrowded; the people wan,
harassed-looking and badly dressed.

Then, in the midst of the bleakness, an extraordinary thing happened.

Above the usual tumult and shouting on Hester Street a new word rang
out: Gold!  Gold!  Gold!  In Yiddish newspapers, Ephraim read the
accounts of the fantastic discoveries made in a distant place called
California.  He found himself being caught up in the fever.  He had
truly believed that all he had come to this new world for

was religious freedom and the right for his family to live in
dignity.

Any thought of riches had been far from his mind.  Now he questioned
his goals.  Even in America could the poor live with dignity?  Was
there real freedom without wealth?  Would a full stomach mean a
shrivelled soul?  For the first time Ephraim realized that it might be
easier to achieve a great dream rather than a more modest one.

Once again he was confronted with a three-thousand- mile journey, and
the fact that it was by land rather than sea made it no less dangerous.
Those who returned from the West spoke about the terrible trip over the
mountains, through the desert, and, worst of all, through the Indian
territory.  The reports came back that men, women and children had been
scalped and tortured to death.

Still, Ephraim reasoned that if he had been able to reach New York
alive, he could survive the journey to California.  After considering
the several routes to the gold fields, he chose to go by way of the
Isthmus of Panama this in spite of the warnings of those who said the
heat, insects, diseases and incessant rains were beyond endurance.

But he had a skill to sell he could stoke coal and this route seemed
the fastest.

He found a job on the barque John Benson, headed for New Orleans, and
as the weather warmed with each day's journey south, Ephraim's spirits
rose.

Even though most of the crew drank, gambled and caroused as much as the
passengers, and Ephraim frequently had to work double shifts, he never
lost sight of his dream.  The food was greasy and often included pork,
which despite his hunger he would not eat.  Instead, he filled up on
lentils and beans and on his few hours off duty stood on deck trying to
catch a glimpse of the changing shoreline.

New Orleans was colourful and exciting and Ephraim, enjoying the
familiar French accents, would have liked to linger, but he was afraid
to waste his carefully hoarded money, so he quickly found another
steamer headed for the Isthmus.

This time the voyage was a nightmare: an endless pitching hell with
giant waves crashing over the bow.  One night a careless sailor was
washed overboard to his death.  Even if there had been palatable meals,
Ephraim would have been unable to eat.  As it was, he forced himself to
chew just enough dry bread and heavily salted fish to keep himself
alive.  When he landed in the malarial Panamanian port called Chagres,
he was a good fifteen pounds thinner and his clothes hung on him like a
scarecrow.  Yet when he stood on dry land again he thanked God with
real gratitude for having let him survive and lost no time getting on
with his journey to Panama City.

In Chagres, after waiting a week, he was able to hire a canoe from a
local entrepreneur for $100 to take him partway up the Chagres River,
where a riverboat would complete the journey to Panama City.

There was barely enough room in the canoe for Ephraim and the two
native paddlers, so at his first stop he slept on shore, where
mosquitoes ravished his flesh.  A brief but fierce tropical rain fell
during the night, soaking him through the thin blanket that covered
him.  The next morning he could barely stand up, and he had to force
his exhausted body back to the canoe.  The shallow river wound its way
between muddy banks crawling with alligators.  During the day, swarms
of flies added to his misery, and at night he slept in the open,
praying not to get sick.

When he reached the collection of huts where the river deepened and the
riverboat waited, he heaved a sigh of relief.  But the three-day trip,
even with a hammock to sleep in, was far from pleasant.  Fever swept
the tiny craft, and Ephraim spent his days tending the sick and looking
away when the stoker pitched the dead overboard.  As they neared the
Pacific the terrible heat diminished, and Ephraim, knowing he would
have to work hard as soon as they landed, was able to save his strength
for a short time.  It had taken him a week and three times the amount
of money he had anticipated spending to cover the sixty-odd miles
between Chagres and Panama City.

Panama City, which pretty much resembled Chagres, was teeming with
adventurers on their way to the gold fields.  The overpriced food
available in the marketplace was covered with flies or maggots;

cholera and dysentery were rampant; and an epidemic of yellow fever had
just broken out.  The death wagons rattled back and forth along the
garbage-strewn streets day and night.

The second night in the city Ephraim fell ill.  He lay moaning and
semiconscious on a sweat-soaked cot in one corner of a communal room he
had rented for four dollars a night.  Every breath he fought for burned
his lungs.  For nearly a week he was consumed with fever, deliriously
imagining himself in that distant land which he once called home.  At
times he was certain he was back with his family, being called for by
his mother and sister.  Then one morning he opened his eyes and stared
into the face of a total stranger.

"What place is this?"  Ephraim whispered.  And the man replied, "This
is Panama City, the hell of all hells, but you are alive."

Ephraim stared at the man, finally found his voice, and asked, "Who are
you?"

"Patrick O'Shea.  I'm from the old sod and probably as greedy as
you."

His brogue was so thick Ephraim was barely able to understand him.  But
he did know Patrick was a friend.

"Why did you help me?  I'm a Jew."

"Because in Panama City there are no Jews, no Catholics only mosquitoes
who don't give a damn about faith.  They would just as soon eat you as
me."

"How can I thank you for helping me?"

Patrick laughed.

"Maybe I'll convert you.  Now, enough of all this nonsense."

When Ephraim was finally able to get up, he and Patrick walked short
distances each day.  One of their walks took them to the far end of the
burial grounds.  New graves were everywhere one looked, raw mounds of
earth unmarked by stone or statue.  Patrick was right-death was no
respecter of religion.

After another week passed, Ephraim felt well enough to look for a ship
to San Francisco.  There were eight steamers making the trip back and
forth, but the hordes of gold seekers were so plentiful it was over ten
days before he could find a spot.  This time, knowing he was too weak
to work, Ephraim paid out almost the remainder of his money to go as a
passenger.  When he said goodbye to Patrick, who had found a job at one
of the hotels and wanted to save more money before heading for
California, Ephraim felt he was leaving the first real friend he'd made
since France.

On November 26, 1849, after an uneventful passage, the brig Golden Gate
dropped anchor in the San Francisco Bay.  Standing on deck, Ephraim
looked out into a dense, choking fog.  After assembling his belongings,
he walked gingerly down the rickety gangplank and stepped onto the
shore of the promised Eldorado, only to sink to his knees in the icy
mud.  It had been raining for three weeks; today was the first day it
had stopped.  That's a good omen, he thought as he ploughed through the
mire.  He finally reached the top of a sand dune, from which he could
see part of the city, though much of it was covered with mist.  The
docks that stretched from "Montgomery Street' (a cow path) to the Bay
were swarming with sailors and every sort of riffraff.  Tents, shanties
and corrugated-iron shacks were crowded together just beyond the
wharfs.  The beach was strewn with boxes, bales of cotton, barrels of
sugar, and sacks of flour and corn meal

When Ephraim tried to make his way to Stockton Street to find a place
to sleep, he had to remove his shoes more than once in order to pour
out the sand.

The energy of the city amazed him.  Thousands of newcomers had arrived
in recent months to seek their fortunes.  San Francisco was a melting
pot where the hardworking and the pious rubbed shoulders with
prostitutes, cheap adventurers and criminals.  Wherever he looked he
saw hastily flung-up saloons, warehouses, hotels and stores,

The brothels and gambling dens seemed to be the most flourishing
businesses.  For a moment he stood listening to the ringing of
carpenters' hammers to which the sound of tinny bar-room pianos seemed
to provide an accompaniment.  San Francisco was a city obsessed with
quick wealth, with a morality that placed gold before God.  But for
Ephraim America's promise of freedom and opportunity had been kept.

The first thing he did was find a room, not much better than the garret
he had left in New York.  But here he could briefly savour the promise
of the future.  It was just a stopping-off place.  He had barely enough
money left to buy a grubstake, but he was willing to starve if it meant
a chance to bring his family to the New World.

Three days later he joined the ragged, hopeful army of miners that left
San Francisco and made its way to the rivers and fields where the first
discovery of the golden metal had been made.

It was a time of frenzy, passion and intrigue.  By day the miners
panned for gold in the riverbeds and hacked away at the reluctant
earth.  At night they gambled, fought, and tried to cheat one
another.

It was a strange environment for a Jew from a shtetl.  No one saw as he
faithfully bound on his phylacteries each morning and each night.  No
one cared that he kept so much to himself.  And then, one day, amidst
shouts and jubiliation, he struck gold.

He rushed back to San Francisco, registered the claim before it could
be stolen from him, then stood in the assayer's office and watched as
the precious metal was weighed.  When the scales tipped, Ephraim was
the possessor of one thousand dollars.

Sitting on the edge of his cot that night, Ephraim narrowed his eyes as
he contemplated the coins in the palms of his calloused hands.

There was money in gold, but the big claims had already been staked
out.  He had reached California late in the gold rush and he knew the
earth would yield just so much.  But perhaps the timing could be made
to work to his advantage.  Maybe success lay not in digging, but in
lending.  After all, many of the great French Jewish fortunes had been
made in banking.  Setting aside a small amount for himself, Ephraim
financed two miners to a grubstake.  He also had a document prepared
which stipulated that, if there were any profits, he would receive
half.

Ephraim's belief in himself was finally rewarded.  The miners struck it
rich and Ephraim doubled his money.  The next time he financed four
miners instead of two, and, within a year, Ephraim was an established
banker.  Small to be sure, but he had no doubts about the eventual
growth of his establishment.  After all, he was one of God's blessed.

Sitting behind his desk, dressed in a high, white, starched collar, a
frock coat and fashionable curls, he looked every inch a Rothschild.

Incongruous though he may have seemed in that primitive city of miners
and pioneers, it was no less incongruous than the way he viewed
himself.  He enjoyed remembering the penniless boy who stood shivering
on the Marseilles docks, his feet wrapped in rags.  He could almost
feel the wind pressing against his clothes, which were still damp from
his attempts to wash them the previous night.

Now he had several suits and a woman to wash and iron them.  But he
never forgot who he was.  Every morning and every night he went through
the ritual of putting on his skullcap, tall is and phylacteries.  As a
mark of reverence, he placed one diminutive black box on the inner side
of his left arm, just about the elbow, then coiled the thin leather
strap around his forearm exactly seven times.  It had been written that
God made the world in seven days.  Another black box was placed high up
in the middle of his forehead, then he looped the thin strap around his
head and knotted it.  The two ends of the strap were joined over his
shoulder and brought forward.  Then he wound the strap from the arm
band three times around his little finger, which signified the Hebrew
letter of shin.  When all of this was done, Ephraim intoned the
passages which were written on tiny parchments and placed inside the
small boxes: And thou shall bind them for a sign upon thine hand, and
they shall be for

front lets between thine eyes.  And thou shah write them upon the
doorposts of thy house and upon thy gates.  He swayed back and forth,
chanting the singsong phrases as had his father before him.  When he
finished he was overcome with a feeling of peace and purpose.  He had
held fast to the beliefs to which he had been born.  They were
sustained all these years.

In that extraordinary moment of communion he found an added solace
which nourished his soul.  Soon he would be reunited with his family.

His arms ached to embrace them and his heart overflowed with love.

Nothing he had acquired would be meaningful until he was with them
again.

But Ephraim's dreams were not to be fulfilled.  After almost one year
of waiting, Ephraim received a letter from his oldest sister, Hannah.

Tears rolled down his cheeks as he read .  My dearest brother
Ephraim,

Knowing the great hardships you have had to endure makes this letter so
very difficult for me to write.  I wish I could have spared you this
pain, but Momma and Poppa died this winter, less than one month
apart.

It was as if once she died he had no will to go on.  Now they lie side
by side buried in the French dirt.  I weep because of that.  Momma and
Papa wanted to be buried in Palestine, high on the hills of Mount
Olive, but God must have decided otherwise.

Now, dearest Ephraim, I beg you to try to understand and forgive us.

The family that is left has no wish to go to America.  Instead, it has
been decided that we want to live out our lives in Jerusalem.  In their
last days on earth, this, not America, was your parents' dream.

Please, dearest Ephraim, know how much we love and miss you, but this
is the way our lives were fated.  Remember the love we share with you
even at opposite ends of the world.

Take care, dear brother .  Ephraim could read no more.  He wailed as he
tore the lapel of his jacket, rending it in

the traditional gesture of mourning.  He then sat shiva for seven
days, ignoring all his friends' and acquaintances' attempts to cheer
him.  In his bereavement, he was concerned that without his family, his
accomplishments were meaningless.  He had not left home and come to
this alien place to become rich for his own sake.  He had sustained the
loneliness for only one reason: that one day he would be able to
support his family in comfort and freedom.  Well, now they had found
their own freedom in the Holy Land and all his worldly success seemed
futile.

With little but his business to occupy him, he worked tirelessly and
his bank grew to be a serious force in the California financial
world.

But despite his increased success, Ephraim's spirits remained low until
one summer day fate intervened in the person of Sarah Baum.

Sarah had journeyed West with her mother and father, three sisters and
two brothers.  Hearing that one of the San Francisco banks was run by a
Jew, her father came in to apply for a loan.  As soon as this
transaction was concluded, Samuel Baum urged the young financier to
visit their home for dinner.  Ephraim, happy for some Jewish company in
a city which contained few of his faith, accepted for the next day.

And the minute he walked into their small boardinghouse, his life
changed forever.  Sarah was a beautiful, blue-eyed blonde of sixteen,
and as soon as Ephraim saw her he knew he had to have her for his wife.
The years of loneliness seemed to disappear, and for the next few
months he haunted the Baums' house until she said yes.

Their wedding day was an especially auspicious one.  Ephraim had helped
found the synagogue, and his was to be the first wedding since the
modest building on Stockton Street had opened for services.  The entire
Jewish population of San Francisco seemed to have turned out for the
ceremony.

As Ephraim waited under the chuppa for his bride, whatever loneliness
he had endured was now forgotten as he saw Sarah walk slowly down the
aisle with her parents on either side.  When the tapered candles were
lit, the Rabbi began

the sacred ritual in Hebrew.  Standing under the blue velvet canopy,
they pledged their troth for everlasting devotion.  The goblet was
handed to the bride as she lifted her veil for the first time and drank
from the cup offered by her husband-to-be.  The goblet was handed back
to Ephraim, whose hand shook as he too drank.  The Rabbi pronounced
them man and wife amidst happy shouts of mazel tov.  After Ephraim had
stomped on the wine goblet, he picked up Sarah's veil again.  As tears
gathered in the corners of his eyes, he kissed her with all the love he
had stored up since his arrival in America.  That was the beginning of
their life together.

The years passed in peace and contentment.  The Jewish community was a
tightly knit one and marriage among these pioneers produced a
staggering network of family connections.  Although not restricted by
the European boundaries of ghetto, they felt no need to go beyond the
large family circle.  They fraternized within the other communities by
day, but their home lives remained aloof.  At long last Jews had come
into their own.  In fact, they were usually welcomed by the rather
snobbish pioneers of California society as highly valued citizens, and
except for a few isolated cases, anti-Semitism was non-existent.

The Jews were respected as a religious group who maintained their
separate traditions.

As the gold rush died down in the 1850s, the European- bred Jews of San
Francisco were particularly adept at making the transition from boom
town to sophisticated metropolis.  In the years that followed, they
elevated them selves from petty shopkeepers to department store
magnates, from smalltime lenders to international bankers, from tent
makers to real estate developers and shipping tycoons.

The second generation moved into mansions on Pacific Heights and Nob
Hill, and built summer estates in San Rafael, Woodside and Atherton.

Wives and daughters were transformed into elegant ladies.  Society
gathered in their magnificent salons.  Their generation established
itself as standard-bearers for the city's cultural growth.  The
contributions they made to the arts were so enormous that San Francisco
came to be considered a cultural rival of the great European
capitals.

Chapter Three

Now the tyranny and injustices of Europe seemed very far away.  Ephraim
had become a part of the privileged upper class.  His bank had expanded
to such proportions that he controlled great parcels of land and
underwrote much of the West Coast shipping industry.  But the greatest
reward of all had been watching his four sons and two daughters grow
into fine adults.

He indulged his daughters shamefully.  When they married, each was
given a large house as a wedding gift.  He endowed his younger sons
with companies of their own and eventually gave control of his banking
empire to his oldest, Simon.  But though he counted his blessings,
Ephraim knew that nothing in life was perfect.  Somehow, with the ebb
and flow of time, the family's structure seemed to have changed.

There was a watering-down of religious attitudes in the third
generation and this pained Ephraim.  Although they remained fervently
Jewish, they tended to ignore the Sabbath and skip schul.  Although
they were among Temple Emanu-El's founding fathers, some families never
went, even on the high holy days.  And this pained Ephraim.  Yet they
supported the Temple and paid their dues.  Birth, marriage and death
required a rabbi.

In the twilight of his life, Ephraim thought about all he had gained
and what he had really been able to give his

children.  He was a man of great self-introspection whc tried never to
hide from the truth, even when it was painful.  How honest had he been
when he questioned himself that day so long ago?  He had been sure that
it was possible to be both spiritual and rich.  For him, that had been
true.  But he had been motivated by different dreams from his grand
children.  He had burned with a desire to provide for his mother and
father, to free his sisters and brothers.  And even though he had
failed in that he rejoiced in the fact that he had been able to give
his children an easier life.  Yet now he wondered if its very ease had
not diluted the religious tradition.  It seemed that Jews clung
tenaciously to their faith only when they were confined to the
ghetto.

It was there that they reached the zenith of learning, but once the
yoke was broken, and Jews were permitted to live in peace and freedom,
they soon became spiritually careless.  Some times when he watched
Simon's two children, a girl and a boy Simon had insisted on naming
Ephraim despite the Jewish tradition against naming after the living,
the old man wondered: would the new century mean an end to all the old
values?

Then a miracle occurred.  Simon's wife, already in her late thirties,
unexpectedly became pregnant.  Just before the turn of the century she
had a little boy she insisted on naming Julian, after a hero she
admired in a novel.  The old Ephraim, now in his seventies, was
fascinated with this child and Julian displayed an affection for
Ephraim the other grandchildren had not.  As the toddler grew into a
solemn-eyed little boy, he would sit for hours listening to tales not
just of the old man's adventures coming to San Francisco, but to the
stories of the Old Testament as well.  Sitting in the sun, on the porch
of the grand estate, Ephraim would close his eyes and pray that Julian
would remember these times and that unlike his older brother and sister
would not forget the old ways.  It was late on a long summer evening
that he had a thought which comforted him during his final years.

Why did the Bible read, "The God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob'?  Why
did it not simply say, 'the God of Abraham'?  The more he reflected
upon it, the more he felt it was so stated because God must have meant
something different to each one of those generations.

Abraham's struggle was not quite the same as his son Isaac's, nor was
Jacob's quite the same as his father's.  One's spiritual needs
depended, it seemed, upon circumstances.  And there was something else
in which Ephraim could take great pride.  He was giving his descendants
more than riches.  He was leaving them a legacy of freedom: freedom
from fear, freedom from discrimination, freedom from tyranny.  They
could stand with their heads held high, and he thanked God for the
great gift that was America.

Chapter Four

It was a time to remember: the year 1936, when three hundred guests had
gathered to attend a yearly picnic at the Hillsborough estate of
Ephraim's grandson, another Ephraim.  The opulent surroundings were a
far cry from the tent city where it had all begun.  It was a day to
rekindle old memories.  Three generations were present, and the guests
numbered the oldest and most distinguished of California's Jewish
pioneers.  Although the party was limited to direct descendants, and
was an annual event, some were meeting for the first time.

The older guests spoke of the dreams that had motivated men like
Ephraim; of the cherished legacies that had been handed down to them.

They showed their children the daguerrotypes which were on display in
the pavilion at the far end of the garden: dark, grainy images of
unsmiling men and women in formal poses.

Among that assembly were Martin's mother and father.  Julian Roth (the
-en berger having been dropped by Julian's parents) had married Bess
Unger, a cousin three times removed.  They stood facing the image of
Ephraim with a heavy heart.  What would he have thought today had he
known that his great-grandson, Martin, had been rejected by Yale?  It
was painful to contemplate in view of the fact that Ephraim thought
that he had left discrimination behind in the old World.  He had
forgotten that much of the East struggled to duplicate European society
right down to its faults.  It was quite clear to Julian that Martin had
been turned away only because Yale's 10 per cent Jewish quota had been
filled.

For the first time the Roths realized that San Francisco was freer of
prejudice than the rest of the country.  Like many Western Jews, they
had a very secular outlook.  They gave large sums of money to
non-Jewish causes, not because they felt Jewish ones were less worthy
than others, but because they considered themselves part of a larger
world where the needs of the underprivileged should not be categorized
according to religion.  For this very reason they were particularly
shocked that Martin, a straight-A student, should be rejected.  Martin
had been in a state of shock when he handed the letter to his father.

' .  It is with regret that, by the time your application was
processed, our Freshman class had been filled.  "

The next morning Julian was on the telephone with his attorney.

"Martin's going to Yale.  Do you hear what I say?"

"You do remember, Julian?  I told you about the quota."

"I would have certainly not believed that it would apply to Martin.

Not with his grades.  "

"I don't want you to think that I'm underestimating Martin's abilities
or his qualifications, but all students, Jew or gentile, have got to be
damn good."

"Well, I don't give a damn about that.  Martin's going to Yale."

Later, in then" bedroom, Bess said to Julian, " I still don't
understand any of this, Julian.  I find it impossible to believe that
Yale could be anti-Semitic.  "

"Not overtly.  But they are all the same."

"I had no idea that anything like this went on."

"Oh, my dear- there is much worse than this happening.  There are
hotels in America with signs that say: no jews, NO DOGS.  There are
business concerns that make no apologies for not hiring Jews."

Bess shook her head.

"I just can't believe this.  My God where have we been?"

"Cloistered and insulated.  Now, however, we have a choice.  We can
either fight or turn aside and have Martin apply to a school with lower
standards or fewer Jewish applicants.  I say we have to fight it."

"I don't like the sound of that."  Bess had tears in her eyes.

"Maybe he'd be happier with his own kind.  Maybe pushing in where we're
not wanted is dangerous.  Maybe it's even more dangerous if he is
eventually accepted.  I mean, we wouldn't want him to give up his
Judaism."  She felt a cold premonition of disaster.

"You may be right," Julian said.

"But with the slogans currently being shouted by the Nazis maybe we
have to fight.  We haven't seen that kind of anti-Semitism since the
dark ages.  Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to speak to Martin."

Julian found his son in his room, lying on the bed and staring up at
the ceiling.

"I think we should talk."

"There really isn't anything to talk about.  Dad.  They've turned me
down."

"We'll fight their decision!"  Julian answered, smashing his fist into
his palm.

"We have to stand up to tyranny no matter how subtle.  If the world had
done that when Hitler marched into the Rhineland, the Jews might be
free in Germany today."

But Martin was besieged with conflicting emotions.  He'd never thought
much about being a Jew; yet he'd never considered hiding his Jewishness
either.  But suddenly, for the first time, he was overcome with guilt.
He really didn't want to spend four years in a place where he would at
best

be tolerated.  He saw no reason to apologize for being Jewish; if
anything, he'd grown up proud of the fact.  But he'd also grown up with
a strong sense of justice.  He believed in fighting for the underdog.

It was just that he'd never seen himself in that role.

With a stiffening of resolve, he swung his legs off the bed and stood
up to face his father.

"Okay, we'll fight," he said.

"But it's a little like shadowboxing.

It's hard to know who's the enemy.  "

"I'm sure he'll come forward," said Julian with a dour smile.

"In any case we have until September several months in our favour."

But it didn't take that long.  As in the great European universities
that Yale emulated, money, big money, spoke in a loud, clear voice.

Soon after Julian arranged to donate, anonymously, a new reading room
in Sterling Memorial Library, Martin received a letter informing him of
an unexpected vacancy and congratulating him on his acceptance.

As Julian swallowed the somewhat hollow victory, he tried to reassure
himself that Ephraim would have been pleased.  Yale was, after all, a
long way from the Paris ghetto.

The first of August found Bess in a frenzy of excitement trying to get
Martin ready for school.  She sewed name tags just as she had when he
had gone to summer camp.  There was mending and sorting, and of course,
shopping for a proper Yale wardrobe.  She decided that they could buy
rain gear and a heavy wool overcoat when they got to New Haven.  In
addition, there was the purchase of Martin's car.  He absolutely
refused to take his yellow Buick convertible.  He said he didn't think
he'd need a car anyway, but if he was going to take one he insisted on
trading in the Buick for a Ford.  Bess was not entirely pleased with
his demand, but still .  The day after Labour Day the three of them
took the train to New York, where Julian picked out Martin's Ford.
They spent a few days in the city shopping and seeing shows, then they
drove up to New Haven to get Martin settled.  It was the first time
Bess had visited an Ivy League school and she was suitably impressed.
With its Gothic buildings and landscaping, it seemed more like Oxford
than an American college.

Martin went to the Bursar and was quickly assigned to a room on Old
Campus, the freshman quad at the heart of Yale's campus.  Bess was
happy he was the first to arrive in his suite, which consisted of three
bedrooms, one of which was a single, a bathroom, and a cosy living or
study area.  Bess insisted Martin take the single.

"You'll have lots of work.  It will be quieter she insisted.

"You don't know the other boys.  They may not be so interested in
studying."

Martin, who by now had done a little investigating of his own into Ivy
League anti-Semitism, didn't argue.  He might have suite mates who
would not care to room with a Jew.  But suspecting this and
experiencing it were very different, Martin was to discover.

He helped his mother unpack and tried to reassure her he'd be fine.

"After all," he said, "I've been away to school.  You'll see.  This
won't be very different.  I'll bet you won't even miss me.  You and Dad
can plan a second honeymoon."

Bess smiled, but once settled on the train back West she allowed
herself to cry a little.  She knew Yale would not be the same as high
school.  Memo School for Boys had hardly required cutting the umbilical
cord.  It was thirty minutes away from Hillsborough, and Martin was
home almost every weekend.  But Yale was what Martin and Julian wanted,
so she resolved to make the best of it.  If she had had any idea of
what Martin's first few days in that respected situation were to be,
she might have jumped right out of the train and gone back to New Haven
to protect him.

Martin's first suite mate a tall, myopic blond, dressed in tweeds,
whose bags contained enough booze for the whole dorm, glanced briefly
at Martin's wavy black hair and olive

skin and merely asked him if he'd like a drink.

"Not just yet," Martin said.  Although his parents served hard liquor
at their parties, his family rarely drank more than a little wine.

"Right," drawled the blond, who finally introduced himself as Lawrence
Perry.

"Your kind frowns on the indulgence.  Well, Yale should loosen you up,"
he added tolerantly.

Martin retreated to his room.  Lawrence was unlikely to become a
friend, but he seemed harmless.  His other suite- mates were less
innocuous.  They arrived together with a welter of athletic equipment
which amazed Martin, used though he was to team sports.  Two were
twins, Tim and Chris Sanders.  The third, Mike, had roomed with them at
Groton.  The twins were from Newton, Massachusetts;

Mike from Philadelphia's Main Line.  They accepted Lawrence's offer of
vodka and orange juice with alacrity, and once they saw Martin's
awkward withdrawal, paid little attention.  Only Chris asked as he
mixed the drinks, "Roth ... Roth.  That name German?  We wouldn't want
to room with a Nazi."

"Hardly," said Martin.  Then, turning to face them all, he said
bluntly, "I'm Jewish."  No one answered and for a while Martin thought
things must be okay.  It was only when it was time for dinner that he
knew that the Yale he had imagined existed only in his dreams.

Lawrence pointed out that since classes hadn't begun, they didn't have
to appear in the dining hall.

"Let's hit the Tail for steak and a beer."

Martin started up to go with them when Tim said sharply, "I doubt their
beefs kosher.  Isn't that the word?  Anyway, I can't stop Yale from
letting down their standards, but I can keep up my own."

Lawrence started to protest, but three strong drinks did little to
stiffen his backbone and he finally followed the three of them out of
the room with an apologetic wave.

Martin sat stunned.  He had always considered himself one of the
privileged and not just because his family had money.  The Roths could
hardly be called nouveau riche Martin's roots went back three
generations.  They were as much a part of San Francisco society as the
Cabots were of Boston.  This was his first encounter with outright
antiSemitism.

He made his way uneasily down to the dining hall, deciding he just must
have been exceedingly unlucky in his suite mates But even though over
the next week he ran into no other incidents outside his own rooms, he,
found he wasn't making friends.  He wondered if he could be at fault.
Perhaps his first experience in the dorm had made him too wary.  But
Martin had always been surrounded by friends Jewish and gentile.  He'd
never thought about religion before.  His father had told him he had to
stand up for the Jews who were being persecuted in Germany, but Martin
wasn't so happy to be fighting his own war during what should have been
the happiest days of his life.

It didn't take long for him to realize that his suite mates were not so
different from the rest of the men in his class.  Over those first
weeks, going to classes, the library, meals, he learned how small a 10
per cent quota really was.  He noticed that many of the Jews hung out
together they were twice as smart as most of their classmates, but
singularly aloof and hardworking.

It wasn't easy for Martin to find out who he was, not after believing
for so long that he knew.  But what hurt the most was the enormous
endowment that his father had given to the university in order for him
to be accepted.

Now that Martin had been made more aware of his Jewishness, he
developed a devotion which drew him towards it.  In the face of his
roommates' rejection he felt a compulsion to proclaim his identity.

He began to understand the studious habits of his fellow Jews, and
found himself spending longer and longer hours in the library.  He
tried to keep his parents from knowing he was unhappy, but from the
noncommittal tone of his letters to Julian and his reluctance to
discuss his life at Yale over the phone with Bess, he suspected they
guessed.

The first break in his loneliness was none of his own doing. Suffering
through a calculus class taught by a crusty old professor who seemed to
delight in his students' misery, Martin caught sight of an animated
young man two seats away who actually seemed to be enjoying the course.
This bright-eyed enthusiast filed out of class with Martin.  At the
doorway the student turned to him, stuck out his hand, and said, "Hi. 
I'm Dominic Gatti."

After weeks of unabated solitude, this introduction seemed like a real
gesture of friendship.  Dominic was a far cry from the snobbish Mikes,
Tims and Chrises who cold- shouldered him at every opportunity.

"I'm Martin Roth," he replied eagerly, accepting Dominic's hand.

"So what do you think about this Professor Wheeler?  Is he always that
sarcastic?  I live in fear and trembling he'll call on me."

"Save fear and trembling for Lyons' Intro Philosophy," Dominic said
with a sly smile.

"But Wheeler is tough.  He's a piranha.  He'll gobble you up in one
semester.  If you don't make it, he doesn't fool around, I
understand."

"What do you mean, you understand?"

"Because Wheeler is notorious for extracting his pound of flesh."

Never had a more astute statement been made, Martin found out in the
weeks to come.  For some reason, Professor Wheeler had singled him out
among that vast ocean of faces, just why, Martin didn't know.  Each
time Martin raised his hand to a question he was sure he knew, the
answer was barely out of his mouth before Wheeler had poked holes
through every one of his arguments.  Martin couldn't dismiss the
thought that Wheeler's badgering was more personal than academic.

Goddamn/he thought.  Am I becoming paranoid about my Jewishness?  As he
and Dominic walked across campus, he tried to figure out a way to ask
his friend what he thought without appearing ridiculous.  It took him a
week, but when he finally mentioned to Dominic that Wheeler might be
anti-Semitic, the Italian just laughed and said, "Don't take it
personally.  Wheeler's anti-everything.  But especially
anti-freshmen."

As the days passed, Martin had to admit that Wheeler wasn't happy
unless he flunked over half his class.  Martin spent his nights
cramming his head full of calculus, but the harder he tried the less he
found he could concentrate.  As midterms drew close, he became certain
he was going to fail.  He could barely listen to Wheeler's lecture.

"Now there are two fundamentals with which we must concern ourselves .
' That was the last of the lecture Martin heard.  His mind drifted
off.

He was wondering why the hell he had wanted to come to Yale in the
first place.  He daydreamed about transferring to Stanford.  He was
happily imagining long, lazy days at the beach at Carmel when Dominic
tapped him on the shoulder.

"Wrong class to sleep through," he said.

"And anyway, it's over."

Martin struggled to his feet.

"You may be right about his hating all freshmen, but I still feel as if
there is a personal vendetta between the two of us, as if he's taking
his own frustrations out on me."

"I know what you mean," Dominic said.

"He really does come down hard on you.  But you have to understand that
professors are not gods.  Some are carried away with their own
importance.  Some bring their own paranoia to class.  And some feed off
the fears of their students.  I don't know which category Wheeler falls
into, but if you survive his class you'll have a great grounding in
calculus because he really is a great teacher."

Martin thought for a long moment.

"Maybe you're right, though I still get the feeling that Wheeler
doesn't like me.  Maybe if I could lick these damn differentials I
wouldn't have to worry.  But I just know I'm going to fail."

Dominic saw the fear in Martin's eyes.

"You know what's happening to you, Martin?  You have a malady common to
almost all freshmen.  It's the first time you've been pushed into a
cold, hard world, where you don't get everything you want just by
asking.  You've allowed Wheeler to intimidate

you so that you can't even think.  "

"You're absolutely right," Martin said.

"I'm trying so hard to prove that I can make it that I can't
concentrate.  Math was always my easiest subject, but this damn thing
has got me licked."

"It's rough.  But look, let's take this page.  There's a formula to
it.

Here, let me show you.  " Dominic proceeded to show Martin how to work
out the equations.  It was all so basic that Martin almost laughed.

"Boy, it's so simple when you do it."

"That's just my point," Dominic said.

"Get Wheeler out of your head and you'll sail right through.  Now let
me show you again."  Dominic began with another problem.

It was beginning to sink in.

"You know, I think I'm beginning to get it," Martin said.

"Great.  Look, if you get into any trouble I'll be glad to help."

"Gee, thanks a lot.  I just might take you up on that offer.  Can I
have your phone number?"

Dominic was a local scholarship boy who lived off campus with his
parents.  He'd invited Martin over several times, but to date Martin
hadn't come.  Now he wrote Dominic's number carefully in his
notebook.

"I'll try working some problems on my own, but if I get stuck I really
will give you a call."

Martin went back to his room.  The suite was empty.  He wondered if his
roommates ever studied.  He opened the math book and tried again.  For
a while he was able to answer some problems, but then he got stuck and
his fear returned.  It was relieved a little by a call from his
parents, who were looking forward to the holidays and his visit home.

They would never believe their brilliant son was in danger of
failing.

Skipping dinner, he worked until seven-thirty, at which time he wanted
to tear the book to pieces.  Finally he picked it up and threw it
against the wall.  There was no doubt about it he was going to flunk.

He flung himself on the bed for a while and stared disconsolately at
the ceiling.  Then he remembered he had Dominic's number and decided
to call.

"Hello?"  the voice at the other end said.

"Is this the Gatti residence?"

"Yes."

"I wonder if I could speak to Dominic, please."

"I'll call him to the phone."

Martin waited.

"Hello?"

For a moment Martin felt embarrassed.  He wasn't used to asking for
help.

"This is Martin Roth," he said awkwardly.

"Yeah?  What can I do for you?"

"Listen you could do me a big favour.  Could you explain once more how
to do these equations?  Wait a minute, I have the book right here."

Before Martin turned the page, Dominic said, "Look, why don't you come
over?"

"You mean it?"

"Sure.  If you feel like it.  It's a lot easier if we can sit down
together."

"I wouldn't be interrupting, would I?"

"No, not at all.  Besides, it won't take more than half an hour.  It's
pretty simple when you catch on."

Again, Martin had the feeling that he was imposing, but he was
desperate.

"When can I come?"

"If you leave now you'll get here by eight-thirty."

"You bet ... and, Dominic, thanks a lot."

"Nothing to it, friend."  Dominic gave him the address.

The Gattis lived in nearby Hamden in a two-storey brick house, one of
many such dwellings along a narrow street.  At one time the
neighbourhood had been upper-middle class, but the population had
shifted and Martin guessed that it was undoubtedly lower-middle income.
It occurred to him that he'd never been in such a neighbourhood and he
realized that in many ways he was as narrow and provincial as his
roommates.

Finally he got out of the car, walked up the short flight of stairs,
rang the bell and waited.

"Hi," Dominic said as he stood framed in the doorway.

"Did you have a rough time finding the place?"

"No, it was much nearer than I realized."

Dominic held open the door a little wider.

"Come on in."

Standing in the dark hall, Martin observed the small living room with
the overstuffed couch and two matching chairs.  The rug was faded and
worn.  A grand piano took up most of one corner.

"My folks are in the sun room," Dominic said, drawing Martin inside.

"Come on, I want you to meet them."

Mr.  Gatti was stocky, of medium height, with a shock of white hair. He
wore very thick lenses which somehow did not detract from his
appearance.  Mrs.  Gatti was a woman of almost her husband's size.

Nonetheless, she appeared almost delicate.  Her hands and feet were
small and her fingers were elegantly tapered.  Her violet-blue eyes
seemed to look beyond Martin, giving the impression of studied
aloofness.

"This is my mother," Dominic said, interrupting Martin's thoughts.

"And this is Martin Roth, Mother."

"It's a pleasure, Mrs.  Gatti," Martin answered.

She merely nodded.

"And my father."

Mr.  Gatti extended his hand.

"I'm glad to meet you," he said and went back to reading his paper.

With those casual amenities out of the way, Dominic said, "I think we
ought to get cracking on the books."

Martin followed Dominic up the dimly lit stairs to his room.  It was
sparsely furnished with a bed, dresser, and a long folding table which
Dominic used as a desk.  There was a wooden chair near the door,
another by Dominic's bed, and a faded green mohair upholstered chair
with a matching ottoman.  On the wall was a picture of Jesus.  The
table was strewn with an assortment of books economics, engineering
literature, and an assortment of other subjects.

"All right, let's get down to cases.  Pull up a chair."

After two hours, Martin began to see the clearing in the wilderness.

He laughed.

"You thought it was going to take a half hour ... I never thought I'd
get it through my skull.

My God, Dominic, I don't know how I'm going to thank you.  "

"Forget the thanks.  Let me know if you have any more trouble."

That night, for the first time in weeks, Martin's sleep was
uninterrupted by nightmares of flunking.  He was always going to hate
calculus, but at least he understood enough now to feel that he had a
reasonable chance of getting through.  And Dominic's companionship made
the prospect of four long years at Yale more endurable.

In the next weeks, Martin and Dominic saw each other in and out of
class.  Martin was developing an enormous affection for his newfound
friend.  His fascination with Dominic lay in the fact that their
personalities were as different as their backgrounds.

Dominic was tough, proud, tenaciously independent, with a kind of
street smartness that he had needed to survive.  Under the facade of
his wit was a cynicism born of the Depression.

He was nine the year his father lost his job.  Dominic never forgot
coming home from school and finding his father seated at the kitchen
table, crying like a baby.  It would have been better if he had
screamed, or gotten drunk; but he was too broken.  Later, Mr.  Gatti
cursed the fates that had denied him an education.

Dominic never viewed his father as being uneducated.  Quite the
opposite.  Antonio Gatti was a natural intellectual.  Yet all his
self-acquired knowledge was not enough to get him beyond being a
shipping clerk.  If life had been more equitable, there was no telling
what Antonio Gatti might have achieved, but though in the years to come
he was able to get jobs here and there, they never amounted to much.

Maria Gatti slowly sold her jewellery and the few other possessions she
had brought to her marriage.  As the Depression worsened and her
husband remained unemployed, the tension in the house increased until
she wished she could get a divorce.  But that was impossible, since
she

was a devout Catholic.  Working ten hours a day in a factory making
shoes for other women, she had plenty of time to think back over the
past.

She'd married outside of her class.  Because of that, she'd been
ostracized by her family.  Her mother had said that she would live to
regret it, and she had.  Now, looking back over the years, she wondered
what the attraction had been.  She had sacrificed herself, and in doing
so, she destroyed her dreams of becoming a concert pianist.  There was
a strange irony to their lives.  They were two very extraordinarily
gifted people who were unable to exercise their talents.

It was Maria who had made Dominic realize that, with out a college
degree, he could never amount to anything.  If his father had had that
parchment, she said, he would never have been fired.  If her bitterness
blinded her to the fact that there were college professors standing in
the breadlines, she had nonetheless imbued Dominic with an indomitable
need to succeed.  He vowed that what had happened to his father would
never happen to him.

He was going to go to college and get a degree no matter what it
took.

When he was eleven, he worked for a bookie, mowed lawns, and delivered
bootleg liquor to a whore house.  Later, he drove a truck and worked on
the docks.  He had hoarded everything he made.  When he'd won a partial
scholarship to Yale, he knew he had the world by a string.  He tried to
explain his confidence to Martin.

"I didn't have a doubt in the world that I was going to be able to
compete Don't look at me like that, Martin."  Dominic smiled and lit up
a cigarette.

"Look like what?"

"Like you think I'm a cocky bastard."

"If I gave you that impression, it was wrong.  I think the look was one
of admiration.  You're just so sure of yourself.  I wish that I
were."

"That's really funny, Martin.  We always wish that we were someone else
or somewhere else.  Okay, Martin, you ready for this?  The first day we
really talked I was green with envy.  You'd been to private school.
You could afford to live in the dorms.  Your parents were obviously
well off.  Well, now that we're friends I'm not so envious.  I guess we
all have our problems."

"I guess that's right," Martin said, thinking that one confidence
inspired another.  Hesitating a little, Martin described how he'd been
affected by the 10 per cent quota.

Dominic laughed.

"Well, old buddy, you grew up believing that the world was round and
then suddenly you discovered it was crooked.  I don't know who's more
privileged, you or me.  At least I grew up knowing what it was all
about; there were no surprises."

Martin started to answer, then thought better of it.

As if reading his thoughts, Dominic asked, "Do you think that sounds
bitter?"

Martin shrugged.

"Well, maybe.  But on the other hand, it's that bitterness that goads
me on.  Now to more frivolous things.  I'd like to go to New York this
weekend.  Rubinstein's at Carnegie Hall Saturday.  I've got a little
dough stashed away-do you feel like going?"

Martin agreed.  It would be good to get away from the pressures of
school for a couple of days, and he knew his parents would be pleased
if he heard the famous pianist.  It was odd, Martin thought.  He had
always had every opportunity to attend concerts, opera and the theatre
in California, but he and his friends had preferred just riding around,
dancing, or simply hanging out with the gang.  For Dominic, who had to
scrimp to buy his tickets, a piano concert was a prize event.

On Saturday morning the boys got up at six and drove to New York in
Martin's Ford coupe.

No sooner had they checked in to the YMCA than Dominie was ready for
action.  It was as though he were determined to conquer the city in
twenty-four hours.

Martin found himself caught up in the excitement.  They bought hot dogs
from a street vendor on 49th and Madison, then hopped on a bus that
dropped them near the Metropolitan Museum.

Martin followed Dominic up the wide staircase to the first landing.

He'd visited the museum when he was thirteen, and his parents had taken
him to New York for his bar mitzvah, but today with Dominic it was as
though he were seeing everything for the first time.  Until now he
considered most art an excuse for his parents and their friends to get
together and give parties.  Now he saw that paintings themselves could
inspire a real joy.

Later, as they walked downtown to the Automat, Martin was silent.

Landscapes and portraits were unrolling again before his mind's eye.

It was only when Dominic began showing him how to feed in nickels for
their supper that he shook off his reverie and began laughing and
joking again.

But if Rembrandt and Rubens had stimulated his senses, Rubinstein took
away his breath.  As they walked back to the Y, Martin said, "Did you
ever hear anything so great?  Imagine Rubinstein being able to evoke
all those feelings.  Isn't it incredible what those ten fingers can
do?"

Dominic thought of the piano in their dingy living room.  He'd cut his
eye teeth on Chopin.  Dammit, his mother really could have become a
concert pianist if life had been a little more charitable.  He shoved
the painful thought aside.

"I'm really glad you enjoyed it.  Now I've got to get to bed if I want
to make six o'clock mass."

The next morning Dominic's alarm clock went off at 5. 30.  Watching him
dress, Martin asked, "How long does mass take?"

"An hour," Dominic said, tying his shoes.

"Oh, then should I meet you here?"

"Anything you like.  But it's a heck of a morning for walking.  In
fact, if you want, you can walk to St.  Patrick's Cathedral with me.
But move it, move it!"

By the time they reached the magnificent church, they were winded.

"Okay," Dominic said.

"How about meeting me here at seven-thirty?"

"It's a deal."  Martin watched as Dominic disappeared inside, then
walked down Fifth Avenue and turned east on 42nd until he came to a
coffee shop.  As he sat at the counter he felt strangely envious of
Dominic's easy relationship with his God.

With all the Roths' insistence on tradition, religion seemed to be a
very distant part of their lives.  And suddenly Martin was consumed
with curiosity about Catholicism.  Judaism didn't exercise the same
magnetic pull; at least not on the Jews Martin knew; and he experienced
a peculiar sense of deprivation.

Quickly he paid for his coffee and left.  When he got to the corner of
42nd and Fifth Avenue, he wondered what the hell he was going to do
now.  Without much thought he got on the bus which had stopped at the
corner.  It didn't really matter where it was going.

When Martin got off he found himself on the Lower East Side.  In a
state of shock he realized that the hordes of people crowding the
streets were Jews, immigrants like his great-grandfather, Ephraim,
whose birthday they celebrated each summer.  As he walked past the
dirty tenements, was jostled by the crowds around the pushcarts, and
saw the pale-faced children, many of whom seemed like stunted adults,
he felt a surge first of pity, then shame.  An elevated train roared
overhead and the very buildings appeared to sway.  For a minute, Martin
determined to catch the next bus uptown.  Then something in the
enthusiasm with which the women were outbidding each other for the
vendors' goods, and the quick laughs of the children as they played
around overflowing garbage cans, caught his attention.  Although he was
appalled by their living conditions, the inhabitants of Orchard Street
did not seem defeated.  Suddenly Martin understood the force which had
sustained Ephraim on his journey West.  Martin listened to the old men
in skullcaps discussing the testaments, each one arguing the fine
points of the Talmud and each thinking the other an idiot.  They too
seemed completely oblivious of their ugly surroundings.  They were
absorbed by their discussion, and more intensely alive than any of the
rich old men who attended his temple in San Francisco.  Martin was
suddenly jealous of a heritage he felt he'd been denied.  These were
his people, and for all their poverty they

seemed to embody the persistent strength that had ensured Jewish
survival through centuries of persecution.  These were the chosen
people.

Suddenly, being Jewish without that spiritual force left Martin with a
sense of being suspended in limbo.  He again envied Dominic his simple
faith.

Martin couldn't handle this new flood of emotion.  He had to get
away.

As he hurried towards the bus, he almost stumbled over a little boy
sitting on the kerb crying.  The child looked so frail that Martin's
heart went out to him.  He sat down on the kerb alongside the child.

"What's wrong?"

The child looked wide-eyed at the stranger.

"I lost my ball."

Taking out his handkerchief, Martin handed it to the child.

"Where did you lose it?"

"In the street.  A guy picked it up and won't give it back."

"How old are you?"

"Five."

"Five?  I thought you were at least six."

"No, my brother Benny is six."

"And what's your name?"

Jeremy Cohen

"That's a nice name.  How about an ice cream, Jeremy?"

The little boy shrugged his shoulders, "Okay," he answered, although he
would have been happier to have been offered a new ball.

Martin took him by the hand and bought him a cone.  Forgetting his loss
for the moment, Jeremy smiled.  Martin observed the child's tattered
clothes and the hole in his left tennis shoe where his large toe stuck
out.  It was all an accident of birth, wasn't it?  Like being born a
Rockefeller, the Queen of England .  or himself.  Martin took a five
dollar bill from his wallet.  As he handed it to the child he wondered
if his gesture was born out of charity or guilt.  Perhaps it was one
and the same.  He wasn't sure.

"I want you to buy a ball, Jeremy, and a pair of shoes.  But put the
money away until you get home to your mama."

Jeremy was so intent on the five-dollar bill he didn't notice when
Martin got up and walked to the bus.

Chapter Five

Martin's experience on the Lower East Side stayed with him for a long
time.  It left him with a greater drive to succeed.  Professor Wheeler
and his likes could no longer terrorize him.  He had been born into
privilege and given opportunities, and by God he was going to take
advantage of them.  There was no way he could fail.  Perhaps a bit of
Dominic's determination had rubbed off.  But more important than his
academic commitment was his decision to devote his free time to the
Jewish Home for Children.  Originally it was an orphanage, but now it
had become a haven for the poor.  The Home offered after-school
classes, Hebrew instruction, and other activities for children whose
mothers worked and who had nowhere to go except roam wild.

In the beginning the kids' resentment made it almost impossible for
Martin to reach them.  But his persistence won over first the teachers
and then the children themselves.  Their eventual admiration brought a
joy to his life no monetary achievement could ever equal.  The sound of
their laughter as he coached their baseball team and their cheers the
day he brought over the 'anonymously' donated uniforms he had purchased
himself completely overshadowed any lingering loneliness Martin felt at
the dorm or in some of his classes.

Life had become a constantly changing kaleidoscope.  Martin's
experience working at the Home had been only one of the many things
that had caused his transformation.  Dominic had taught him a great
deal about himself.  He

realized he'd been overprotected and overindulged.  Perhaps it had not
been a deliberate attempt on Dominic's part to open Martin's eyes to
the real world, but deliberate or not, Dominic had.  And in return he
earned Martin's unconditional friendship.  The confusion and
uncertainty which Martin had brought to Yale seemed to have
disappeared.

By the time Martin went home in June, he felt confident of who he was
and what goals he wished to pursue.  The problem was that his parents
had sent away a boy and were not prepared to have him return a man.

Bess in particular was upset by the change.  She couldn't lay a finger
on it except to note that Martin was no longer amenable to her various
social suggestions.  If she had been willing to probe deeper, she might
have recognized and even admired the extent of her son's maturity, but
as it was she only saw that he rebelled against her arrangements for
his summer, particularly as they involved Sylvia Lowenthal, the
daughter of their long-time family friends.

Almost the moment Martin arrived home Bess began, "Oh, Martin, darling,
Mrs.  Lowenthal and I have so many wonderful plans for you this
summer."

"I'm not going to have much time.  Mother.  I want to spend the next
few months working on my sociology project for next year.  That's my
only priority."

"Well, dear, you can't just bury your head in books.  Besides, you've
done so well this year, why should you spend your summer " Because I
have a lot of catching up to do.  I really wish you would check with me
before you make any plans.  "

Bess looked puzzled.

"Martin, dear, I have the distinct feeling we're arguing."

"Look, I'm sorry if I gave you that impression.  The point is I've
already made other arrangements.  I mean this weekend ..."

"Well, that puts me in a bit of an awkward position, Martin."

"Really?  Why?"

"I asked Sylvia to keep Saturday night free so that you could escort
her to the country club dance.  I was sure you'd be delighted."

He looked at his mother not knowing whether to laugh or scream.  She
knew that he'd be delighted?  Imagine.

"Mother, I really just don't feel like going."

Bess looked wounded.

"What am I going to say to the Lowenthals?  This is just dreadful.  I'm
sure that Sylvia could have made other plans.

Now you're standing her up.  "

This time he did laugh.  The whole thing was ridiculous.

"Since I didn't ask her, I can't stand her up.  It's you who have the
problem."

She smiled.

"I suppose you're right.  I guess I should have asked you first.  But,
darling, I truly thought you would want to take Sylvia.

It's been three years since you've seen each other, with her being away
at school in Switzerland.  She's really grown quite lovely.  " She
paused for a long moment, giving Martin time to dwell upon that, then
added, " Do this for me, Martin.  "

He looked at his mother and hesitated.  She really looked so vulnerable
and he did love her.  Besides, it was such a small request.

"All right.

But please do me a favour.  "

"Of course, dear, anything."

"From now on let me do the asking."

"Yes, dear, of course."

The country club hadn't changed in fifty years.  Same red damask sofas
and chairs.  Maybe the draperies were more faded.  Going away seemed to
have made him notice all sorts of things he had previously ignored.

Begrudgingly, though, he had to admit that, by God, Sylvia had changed.
Without the braces, the horned-rimmed glasses, and the smell of horses
which, he remembered, was an ever-present aroma since so much of her
time had been spent riding, she was indeed lovely.  And he might have
been completely bowled over if she hadn't kept saying, "You're stepping
on my toes.  Your feet were always much too big for you, Martin."

At least she didn't say it was his head.

"I'm sorry.  I'm really sorry, Sylvia."

"And for heaven's sake, don't keep saying you're sorry.  It's so
irritating."

"I'm sorry ... I mean I'm sorry I said I was sorry.  Would you rather
not dance?"

"I think that's a very good idea."

As they left the floor, he said, "Can I get you something to drink?"

"Maybe a glass of champagne."

On the fringes of the dance floor he stood and looked at her.

"Why are you so angry with me, Sylvia?"

"Well, I'm not going to tell you here with the whole club staring.  The
whole thing is just so irritating."

"What are you talking about?"

"I just told you, Martin.  I'm not going to discuss it now, here."

"All right.  Let me get the champagne and we'll take it out on the
terrace."

As they sat on a stone bench sipping champagne in the moonlight, Martin
watched Sylvia out of the corners of his eyes.  Putting down the glass
he said, "All right, Sylvia, what's the problem?"

"The problem, Martin, is that our mothers have combined forces and
decided you and I should be thrown together this summer.  I resent
it.

I don't like feeling like a business merger.  "

"I know, Sylvia, and I apologize."

"Well, thank you.  That's very comforting.  But I have a more serious
problem."

"Anything I can help you with?"  Martin asked, ready now to acknowledge
her as the close friend she'd been before going to Switzerland.

"I don't know."

"It sounds serious."

"It is.  I'm in love."

Martin wasn't sure why he minded.  But he did.  He had a sudden memory
of the day his mother caught them playing doctor.

"Why should being in love present a problem?"

"Because he comes from a long line of middle-class dentists.  Need I
say more?  My father hit the ceiling when he found out his name was
Maury Orloff.  That was when the inquisition started."

"Where did you meet him?"

"At the Rosen Delicatessen on Third Avenue."

Even for somebody as emancipated as Martin, he was rather taken
aback.

"Really?  That's a strange place to meet."

"Now don't be stuffy, Martin.  People meet all sorts of ways.  They
don't all grow up sharing the same treehouse."

"I'm sorry if I sounded stuffy."

She smiled.

"There you go again.  Anyway, when I tell you about Maury it won't
sound all that dreadful.  When Karen and I came back from Switzerland,
we stayed at my Aunt Blanche's apartment in New York .. can I have a
cigarette?"

Martin reached for one inside the pocket of his dinner jacket, lit
hers, then one for himself.  Sylvia inhaled and then continued.

"Well, Karen and I decided to shop by ourselves one day.  And here we
were laden with a bunch of goodies from Bloomingdale's when we realized
we hadn't eaten lunch.  We stopped at Rosen's and were going to our
table when all of a sudden a package fell out of my hand and landed on
his head."

Martin laughed.

"His head?  That's quite a feat."

"Well, the tables were so damned close I had to raise my arms to
slither through.  I'm not apologizing, Martin, but I did say I was
sorry."

He laughed.

"You better watch out or you'll get into the habit."

She wrinkled her nose at him.

"Well, he stood up abruptly, but then when he looked at me he didn't
seem one bit angry."

"Well, I can understand that.  You've really changed."

To what?  "

"From a gangling, argumentative brat to a beautiful woman."

She laughed.

"Gee, that's the nicest thing you've ever said to me, Martin.  Well,
anyway, I kept apologizing.  He insisted it wasn't necessary and if I
wanted to redeem myself, I'd join him for lunch."

"Oh, I see.  Well, obviously you did, but after all he was a
stranger."

"I know.  But what else could I do?  Well, anyway, while I was munching
my corned beef sandwich I decided he was damned attractive.  And then I
said to myself, this has to be more than a coincidence.  Why else would
I have dropped that box at that particular moment on the head of
someone who was both Jewish and handsome.  Do you believe in fate?"

Martin thought about it for a long moment.

"I'm not really sure.  Do you?"

"I don't have a doubt.  By the time we finished, I was terribly smitten
with him and when he asked me if he could see me again I didn't
hesitate, though my hand shook as I wrote my name and number on a
matchbox cover.  Are you sure I'm not boring you?"

"I'm sure.  Goon."

"Well, when I got back to Aunt Blanche's, I found he'd called.  I
called back and made a date for dinner that night.  We went to a
marvelous little Italian restaurant in the Fifties and, well, Martin,
what can I say?"

"What did your aunt say about all this?"

"I didn't tell her about it ... I mean, about how we'd met.  She'd have
been appalled.  After one phone call to California I would have been
shipped out on the first train.  Oh, what else could I do, Martin?  I
lied and said he was from Princeton."

"Well, you're resourceful, Sylvia.  I'll say that."

She looked at him strangely.

"What kind of thing is that to say to me?"

"No, I really meant it in the most complimentary way."

She hesitated for a moment.

"Thank you ... I think.  Well, anyway, after the pasta and that first
glass of red wine, I knew Maury Orloffwas for me."

While Sylvia took a sip of champagne, Martin asked, "Do people fall in
love just like that?"

"That's what the songs say."

"Maybe, but don't two people have to get to know one another better?"

"Not when the chemistry is right, Martin.  People can know one another
all their lives and never fall in love.  Look at you and me."

"Well, that's a little different.  It would be like incest."

Sylvia took another sip of champagne.

"If I tell you a secret, promise not to laugh?"

"Scout's honour."

"I was wildly, madly in love with you."

"You were?"  he answered, secretly pleased.

"I didn't know."

"Of course you didn't.  When you're thirteen and terrified that the
object of your affection is going to find out, you act in a lot of
strange ways."

"I would have never guessed you felt that way about me."

"Well, I did.  But that was ages ago."

Martin wasn't all that pleased at the way she relegated her affection
for him to the past, but he smiled and asked, "Where do you go from
here?"

"Either the family accepts him or else."

"You mean it's that serious?"

"It's that serious," she said, suddenly on the verge of tears.

If there was one thing that Martin couldn't abide, it was a woman
crying.  For an unfathomable reason he felt responsible no matter what
the cause of her tears.  Worse than responsible, he felt guilty.

Handing her his handkerchief, he said, "Please don't cry, Sylvia.  I
hate to see you unhappy."

She looked up as a tear spilled down her cheek.

"Do you really?"

"Well, of course I do, for God's sake!"

She blew her nose and said, "I suppose I'm just sort of confused.  It
seems so difficult to break Mother out of her mould.  Our parents are
so rigid.  My God, their ideas are almost archaic about our marrying
our own kind.  You know, Martin, we're not exactly the Rothschilds."

"Still, even though we don't always agree with them, we have to try to
look at it from their point of view."

Sylvia looked irritated.

"Gosh, I thought you were on my side, Martin."

"I am."

"Then why are you taking their side?"

"I'm not.  I just think it's important to see their point of view to
try and understand them."

Sylvia laughed, not happily.

"You sound like a parent yourself.

They're the ones who should be understanding.  This is not the dark
ages.  "

"You still have to listen.  Families are terribly important.  They may
be a little out of touch, but the point is that they're trying to
perpetuate a tradition ... Sylvia, promise you won't be upset at
this."

"I can't promise ... but at least I'll listen."

He smiled.

"Good.  Now let's take it from your point of view.  I suppose it's
possible to fall in love with someone the first time you meet.  But
it's also possible that his attraction is simply because he is
different."

"Now wait a minute, Martin, Don't you think I know when I'm in love?"

"Well, you just said you were a little confused."

"Not about him, about them, their attitudes, their intolerance.  They
haven't even met him, Martin, and they already assume that he's not
good enough for me.  I'm not a child.  I'm eighteen and I haven't been
as sheltered as you think.  What I mean is, going to girls' school you
learn a lot.  Now don't get the wrong idea; I'm still a virgin.  But
don't tell me I don't know my own mind."  Once again she was on the
verge of tears.

"All right, I'm sorry I upset you.  I guess I just didn't put it
right.  What I'm trying to say is, before you start knocking down
walls, be sure, absolutely sure, that he's the man you want to marry.

I think you have to get to know him better.  "

Sylvia sighed.

"Gee, we seem to be saying " sorry" a lot tonight.  But I am.  I didn't
mean to fly off the handle."

He smiled at her.

After a long silence, Sylvia said, "Maybe you're right.  You know what
I'm going to do, Martin?  I've decided I'm going to live with Aunt
Blanche for a while.  Really get to know Maury better.  And if I find
that he's right for me, I'll fight like hell."

"That's fair.  But while you're fighting, Sylvia, keep the door open so
that you can always come home with or without your dentist."

She shook her head.

"You know, I really love you, Martin.  You're such a good friend."

"That's what it's all about."

A week later, Martin was with Sylvia's parents, seeing her off at the
train station.  They looked at each other as two friends do who share a
very important secret.  Then she mounted the steps to her
compartment.

Inside, she pulled up the shade and waved until the train pulled out of
sight.

For all the sage advice he had given Sylvia, Martin found it difficult
maintaining good relations with his own parents.  As the three of them
sat having dinner that evening, Martin tried to be tolerant of his
father's attitudes, but found he couldn't as his father began
complaining about some of the new members being admitted to the country
club.

"Today it seems it's only money that counts," Julian was saying.

"There's an entirely new element taking over.  They've got this Harry
Shorn on the Greens Committee who wants to straighten out the
eighteenth hole."

"Why would he want to do that?"

"It's probably a little too complicated for him.  It's the prettiest
and most challenging drive of any course in the country and he can't
seem to leave it alone.  In my day he would have never gotten through
the front door.  Well, I

guess everything is changing.  " Julian was warming to his theme.

"The whole country's going to hell.  I never thought I'd live to see
the day when the government could pry into my private business
affairs.

Roosevelt won't be happy until he sees the country go communist.  And
God knows he's not doing anything to help the Jews.  I tell you, Bess,
it's as though the old order of things is dying.  Nobody gives a damn
about perpetuating tradition any more.  "

The conversation had gotten far afield from Harry Shorn.  In Julian's
mind Harry Shorn and Roosevelt became synonymous.  Both represented a
threat to the world as he knew it.

Martin thought for a moment before saying anything.  He'd met Shorn at
the country club and to all outward appearances he seemed a suitable
member.

"Don't you think that changes are good sometimes, Dad?  I talked to
Harry the other night and he seemed like he'd fit any where."

"Strip Harry Shorn of the tailor made suit and you have a man with no
breeding.  He's ostentatious and obnoxious."

"I didn't get that feeling.  Dad."

"Well, you haven't had to put up with some of the obscene jokes he
tells at lunch.  He simply doesn't belong."

Martin was convinced that his father was more upset about Harry Shorn
breaking down the barriers of their closed society than the fact that
he wanted the eighteenth hole changed.

"Dad, I hope you'll forgive me, but I think you're confusing the
issues.  I don't know how the government got involved with Harry Shorn,
but the truth is the world can't stand still.  And I think that
progress is good."

Julian exploded.

"Progress you call it?  Well, you can't have a future unless you
preserve the past."

Watching his father's hand tremble with anger as he picked up his
wineglass, Martin was afraid it was bad for Julian's health to get so
worked up.  Martin's point no longer seemed so important.

"I suppose you're right.  Dad."

Ignoring his son, Julian said, "What do you think about it all, Bess?
You haven't said much."

His mother looked at Martin angrily, as though she had not heard his
capitulation.  She'd never heard him stand up to his father before and
it troubled her.  Maybe it was called growing up, but she didn't much
care for it.  Turning to Julian, she said, "You can learn a great deal
from listening, but you're absolutely right, my dear.  I believe the
world is moving in the wrong direction."

That night was only the first of many such conversations.  Although
Martin tried not to argue, he found it impossible to remain silent when
Bess or particularly Julian voiced their frequently reactionary
opinions.  As the summer drew to a close, Martin found himself
unexpectedly eager to go back to school.  Dominic's scholarship had
been expanded to cover living expenses and he and Martin were sharing a
room in Martin's college, Jonathan Edwards.  This fact had triggered a
particularly angry fight between Julian and Martin, who couldn't
understand why his father would rather he room with an anti-Semitic
Brahman than a studious Catholic.

Both parents and son stepped back a bit from their positions the week
before Martin left and all three tried to enjoy their last days
together.  They were careful to avoid politics or the approaching war
in Europe, though Hitler was one subject they were in agreement on.

When Martin finally boarded the train East, he looked with love at his
parents standing on the platform.  He wished he could in some way
protect them from a rapidly changing world.

It was well into the following spring that he received a letter which
made him decide maybe the older generation needed less protection than
he'd suspected.  One day in late May of his sophomore year, he returned
to class to find an envelope with Sylvia's San Francisco address on the
back.  He was surprised to see she'd left Aunt Blanche's and began
reading the letter as he walked up the stairs to his room.

Dear Martin:

Before I say anything I want to thank you for the profound pearls of
wisdom that you gave me eight months ago.  The echo of those words has
come back to haunt me, I must say.  I suppose because no one wants to
admit that they have made a great error in judgement.  Yet my
impetuosity almost resulted in total disaster.  I don't quite know how
I can tell you all the things that have happened in one letter, so
please bear with me.

I did believe in the beginning that I was madly in love with Maury.  He
was so terribly exciting, like forbidden fruit.  I confess, the first
night I went out with him I fantasized about becoming his wife.  Maybe
I'd been seeing too many movies, but I really did believe Maury looked
like Robert Taylor.

Well, we saw each other secretly for the first few months and both
Maury and I agreed that we'd say nothing to our parents until we found
we couldn't live without each other.  It wasn't long before I began to
feel that way.  I was really in love.  That was when I told Aunt
Blanche that the family would either accept Maury or else.  They knew
if they persisted in rejecting him, it would only result in my wanting
to marry him more.  They were a lot smarter than I gave them credit
for.

Now that we were no longer two against the world, we discovered we had
vast differences of opinion.  Till then I knew nothing about his
family.  We were no sooner engaged than his mother insisted I keep a
kosher house.  Need I say more?  I would never marry outside our faith,
but how would I ever be able to adjust to orthodoxy?  Good Lord, I
don't know anything about Judaism.  Well, one word led to another and
we began finding fault with one another.  I with his religious fervour
and he with my lack of it.  At first there were mild spats, but then he
began to criticize me calling me a Jewish princess.  He said I gave the
impression that I was above his family.  The truth, I realize now, was
that we came from two different worlds.  I could no more fit into his
than he could mine.

Anyway, Martin, I've come home a little wiser than I was before.  I've
grown up a lot since then and I know one thing.  Breaking off a love
affair whether it's good or bad is always painful.  I'm not going to
say forever, but it will be a long time before I fall in love again.

Martin, darling, this letter is so long I will sign off here.

Please write and let me know how you are, though I admit your mother
keeps us informed.  Well, dear friend, I'm sure that we will look back
upon our callow youth and reflect upon it in years to come.

With deep affection, Sylvia

Chapter Six

Two years had passed since Sylvia had exhorted Martin to reflect upon
his callow youth, and now he was graduating from Yale.  Martin's
parents had driven up from New York, bringing Sylvia, who had come East
on a shopping trip.  Martin found himself less angry with his father in
recent months.  The deteriorating situation in Europe gave them a
broader base on which to agree.  And since Sylvia's confession about
Maury, she and Martin had seemed to pick up the carefree friendship
they had enjoyed as kids.

After the ceremony Martin began pushing through the crowds.  Parents
were taking pictures, sweethearts were kissing, and kids were running
around trying to attract their older brothers' attention.  Finally he
saw Sylvia waving.

He ran to meet her and took her in his arms.

"Martin ... Oh, Martin," she said breathlessly.

"I'm so proud of you!"  Kissing her, he was unaware that his family was
watching with approval.  Martin, still carried away by the excitement
of the day, hugged his mother, also unaware that she had laid a much
more serious interpretation to Sylvia's kiss.  She hoped that, in
Sylvia, Martin had found a woman who cherished him as much as she
did.

Bess's eyes filled.  This was her son, her only child, in cap

and gown.

"Oh, darling," she said, 'you've made us so very proud.  "

Something in his mother's voice made Martin remember all the years of
devotion she had lavished upon him as a child.  Today all the
resentments of his youth had abated.  They had been growing pains at
worst, and now he could say with a grateful heart, "Thank you, Mom.  I
hope I'll always justify that feeling."

Julian put an arm around his son's shoulders.

"I doubt if there is a father here today who is more proud and happy
than 1.1 thank God you're my son.  Congratulations."

"Thank you, Dad," Martin answered softly.

As his father turned away, Martin felt enormous guilt for all the hard
words he had exchanged with Julian over the past four years.  He vowed
to be more understanding in the future.

Dominic and his family came over, and the Roths went out of their way
to be pleasant.  It was as if they too were trying to turn over a new
leaf.  Dominic had taken a job with an advertising agency on Madison
Avenue, and Martin's desk waited for him at his father's brokerage
firm.  An additional Roth had been added that week to Roth and Seifer,
Brokers.

The two friends said goodbye and the next morning Martin was on his way
back West.  He had some doubts about joining the family business, but
this time he decided to at least give his parents' way a fair trial. He
was deter mined, however, to succeed in his own right.  The first day
he'd gone to the office, his father's partner had said, "You have a
brilliant future ahead of you, Martin.  Welcome aboard."

In the first six months Martin justified their confidence^ He had
acquired McMillian Steel Company as an account.  Even more impressive
was the fact that Martin had taken them away from the prestigious
brokerage firm of Townsend Wittier.  As of that moment Martin began to
feel his potential impact on the business world.

It was ojily a week later that he announced to his parents that he had
taken an apartment in San Francisco.

Martin was grown up now, but that seemed a difficult fact for Bess to
comprehend.  It certainly wasn't his desire to hurt her.  She would
just have to understand.  She would also have to stop deluding herself
that Martin was in love with Sylvia.  She had romanticized their
friendship to the brink of marriage.

Once faced with Martin's new apartment, she capitulated gracefully and
for a time seemed to divert her energies away from playing Cupid into
decorating the perfect bachelor abode.  When she'd finished, the
apartment was a showplace.  The walls of the living room were deep
blue.  An extraordinary array of modern art hung over the leather sofa,
and an enormous glass and brass coffee table sat on a plush carpet the
colour of autumn leaves.  There were two large chairs in plaid corduroy
on either side of the fireplace, and bookshelves with a built-in bar on
the remaining wall.  The dining room was as impeccably furnished as the
rest of the apartment, but the most splendid sight of all was beyond
the perimeters of the penthouse walls: the spectacular view of the
Golden Gate Bridge extending across the Bay.

Bess was more than rewarded by the look on Martin's face.

"It's simply beautiful, Mother.  You're an artistic genius," he said,
smiling.  How could he ever be upset with her?

"I'd rather be a magician," she said.

"If I were, then you'd be getting' " Don't say it, Mother.  What is
your obsession anyway?  I'm only twenty-two.  Give me a chance to enjoy
myself.  "

"I understand.  But you must admit that Sylvia is so right for you,
Martin.  You have so much in common and I know you care a great deal
about her.  And she about you."

"Yes I do, but I don't want to think about anybody right now."

"Well, you can't blame me for hoping.  What are your plans for
tonight?"

Martin smiled.

"I have a date."

"Really?  Is she anybody we know?"

"No.  As a matter of fact.  Mother, she's a voluptuous blonde
model."

"A what?"

"A model."

"Oh, dear me!  Well, don't get too involved, Martin."

Again he smiled.

"I'll try not to."

Since it was Carey's sensuality he was taken with rather than her
intellect, it was easy for Martin not to become involved.  She was a
purring kitten who generally fled his thoughts the moment she was out
of sight.  But this Sunday morning when he woke up and smelled her
lingering scent he could not help remembering the night before.  He
could almost hear the echo of his voice.

"Champagne?"

"Love it."

He had poured the champagne into the glass, watched as the bubbles
danced, then walked out onto the balcony.  For a while they watched the
moon.  Then, after taking the glass from her hand and placing it on the
wrought-iron table, he had taken her in his arms, kissing her gently at
first, then with more urgency.  Once he sensed her response, he picked
her up in his arms and carried her to the bedroom.  He set her down in
the darkened room and stood for a moment with his hands cupping her
face.  She was incredibly beautiful.  His desire for her heightened as
he traced the outline of her nose, eyes, forehead, until his fingers
found the first button of the chiffon bodice.  He kissed her while his
hands slowly inched downward until the front of her dress was open.  He
slid it from her shoulders until it fell to the floor.  He unfastened
the lace bra and slipped it off.  He stroked her rounded breasts and
brushed her nipples first with his fingers and then with his lips and
tongue.  She gasped at the sensation and from there it was like a
kaleidoscope of motion.

When he had finished undressing her he lay facing her, caressing every
contour of her body.  Without words he guided her hand down to his
groin and placed his hand over hers for a moment, moving it slowly up
and down until she felt him harden.  His tongue played over her lips,
probed to meet hers.

The taste of her was like honey.  He heard the sigh of her breathing,
the soft moan as his fingers teased down the front of her body and
between her legs.  Then he moved on top of her and slowly began to put
himself inside, pushing deeper and deeper still.  She arched her back
to receive him as he thrust faster and faster until the explosion
inside him erupted.

When it was over, he lay quiet still on top of her.  His breathing
still heavy, he whispered, "Sweet Carey.  Lovely, sweet Carey ... He
rolled over onto his back.  For some reason Carey realized that the
magic had gone.  Martin dozed off and was in a deep slumber in less
than five minutes.  An annoyed Carey got out of bed and went to the
bathroom feeling more than disgruntled.  Martin had surely given her
the impression that he was really interested in her.  After she
dressed, she appraised herself.  She was every inch a lady, and no one
was going to demean her.  Taking out her lipstick, she Scribbled on the
bathroom mirror, " Thanks for nothing.  " For a moment Carey stood
there, wanting to say something more vicious, but she couldn't think of
anything.  On her way out she slammed the door but Martin just rolled
over in his sleep.

The next morning it wasn't difficult to understand why she had left.

Falling asleep the way he had must have made her feel used.  But
dammit, she didn't realize how exhausting she was.  Well, he'd call and
apologize later.  He got out of bed and went to the bathroom.  The
first thing he saw was what she'd written on the mirror.  It made him
think of the first girl he'd ever slept with.

It had been at a Vassar sorority party.  He'd danced with this one
girl, lithe and intense, for most of the evening.  And when they
weren't together, wherever he looked she was there staring at him.

Later she took him by the hand and led him to her parked car.

"Let's get away from this, it's so boring ... '

He couldn't remember what he'd said probabh nothing.  They had driven
to a quiet street off-campus.  stopped the car, and switched off the
lights.  Before Martir knew it his zipper was down, he was pulled on
top of her.  and she was kissing his penis.  Within seconds he had come
and the girl was furious.

"Get out of my car, you yid.  You little pipsqueak.  Giving me the idea
you knew what it was all about ... Get out!"  She opened the door,
pushed him out, and drove away, leaving him standing in the street.

He'd come a long way since then as a Casanova.  Girls adored him, and
he knew that even though Carey had been angry all he had to do was call
to get her back.  Still, his mother was right about one thing.

Perhaps Sylvia wasn't the girl, but he would like to be in love with
someone about whom he really cared.

Martin showered and went into the kitchen.  He opened the refrigerator,
took out the orange juice, poured himself a glass, and while he drank
it, popped the bread into the toaster, then went to the front door and
retrieved the Sunday Examiner.  He poured himself a cup of coffee, went
back into the living room, and settled himself on the couch, but the
toast remained uneaten, the coffee untouched once he saw the headlines:
pearl harbor bombed!

For a moment Martin thought it had to be a hoax, some stupid, asinine
joke.  Quickly he got up and turned on the radio.

"Pearl Harbor was bombed this morning in a sneak attack by the
Japanese.  It occurred while all of He quickly switched to another
station: ... there's much confusion here in Hawaii that something the
magnitude Martin sat in a state of shock.  He shook his head, unable to
comprehend it all.  Hawaii belonged to the United States, and that
meant they were at war.  At least it meant that Roosevelt would have to
go to the aid of the European Jews.  He and his father had remained in
agreement on that one issue.  America could not turn her back forever
on the rumours coming out of Poland and Germany.  Now they would have
no choice.

The ringing phone startled him.  Picking it up, he heard his father's
voice.

"I don't believe this, Martin!  Those damn Japs were in Washington only
this week talking peace."

Martin found his voice.

"Well, at least it looks as if we're going to get a chance to lick the
Nazis."

Julian swallowed.  At twenty-two, Martin would be one of the first to
be drafted; or, knowing Martin, be one of the first to enlist.

"I

think you'd better come home, Martin.  Your mother's quite distraught.
"

"Of course, Dad."

That night Martin couldn't sleep.  Every district in the city was
setting up a draft board, and Martin watched as an enlistment office
prepared to open across the street.  By early morning dozens of
volunteers were lined up before its doors.  Martin knew before the day
was out he would join their numbers.  His parents would have to
understand.  In any case it would only be a matter of months before he
was called up.  He had joined ROTC his last two years of college and
would be going in as an officer, a fact he hoped would prove some
consolation to his mother.

Martin shivered as he crossed the street to the draft office.  He
wouldn't be human if he didn't have fears of dying, fears he could not
even articulate.  Yet when he stood outside the draft office after
having been inducted, he felt a strange sense of relief.

The next few days passed in a state of unreality: it was business as
usual.  Martin went to the office every morning until the time came for
him to be inducted as a first lieutenant.  It was time to tell his
parents.

He would never forget the look of anguish in his mother's eyes as he
stood before her dressed in his uniform.  She could not control her
emotions.  She cursed the war and finally burst into tears saying, "You
needn't have volunteered.  Couldn't you have waited to be called? Maybe
your father could have arranged something."

Martin paused, hearing the echoes from his childhood about honour.

Without it a man had nothing.  But he realized that he was her son and
honour had nothing to do with it.

"I don't think you would have really wanted me to

do that.  Mother.  I did what I had to do.  "

As the tears rolled down her cheeks she said, "You're right, Martin.

You're right.  I apologize.  It's just that' But she couldn't finish.

The days flowed on with fearful anticipation while Martin waited for
his orders.  Finally the waiting ended as Martin read: "Assigned to
report to Fort Ord on December 27, 1941."  There'd be six weeks of
basic training; beyond that he didn't know exactly where he would be
shipped.

One of the most heavenly spots on earth is the Monterey Peninsula, but
Martin was oblivious to the scenery as the army bus sped along the
highway towards Fort Ord.  He saw neither the windswept pines nor the
formidable sea crashing against the enormous boulders.  He could not
erase the picture of his mother's anguished face, his father's look of
despair.  The only bright spot in the party was Sylvia's cheerful smile
and her promise to look after his parents.

When Martin lay on his bunk bed that night he thought about Sylvia.

She'd been so comforting these past weeks and he felt closer to her
than at any other time in his life.  Maybe he should marry her after
all.  She belonged to his world.  That is, if there was a world to come
back to.

The thought of having a child suddenly became very important to him.

To think of dying without leaving a part of himself behind seemed more
than Martin could face.  But then, just as quickly, he realized how
selfish the thought had been.  He didn't love Sylvia, not in the way
she deserved.  If he married her, it would be for all the wrong
reasons.

As -the days passed the gruelling pace of basic gave him little time to
think.  At night when he fell into his bunk he was asleep the second
his head touched the pillow.  In any case, he reasoned, thoughts of
Sylvia were academic.  In a few short weeks he'd be heading overseas.

But fate had a different plan.  When the six weeks were over, Martin
was informed that he was being held at Ord to train new recruits.  He
was frustrated, but Like a good lieutenant he kept his objections to
himself.

For three months he commuted to San Francisco each weekend.  But as the
weeks passed, the partings became so painful to his parents, he almost
hesitated to go home.  Finally Martin got his wish.  One Wednesday
morning he received orders for Fort Dix.  From there he would be
assigned to somewhere in England or Scotland, probably to prepare for
the invasion of Europe.

Wanting to make his last weekend as happy as she could, Bess tried to
set aside her own grief.  There wasn't a favourite dish of Martin's
that she didn't prepare.  There wasn't a friend he enjoyed whom she
didn't invite over.  Much as she tried not to, she couldn't keep from
following him from room to room, hovering over him as though he were a
small boy.

Another time Martin would have resented her, but her attempted valour
was too touching.  It left him with an emotion so strong it was almost
physical.  If Martin had had any questions about his life, they had
never concerned his having been loved.  Until he was five his mother
had been his whole world.  He remembered when she'd come to his bedroom
to say goodnight, dressed for the opera or a party.  He knew he'd carry
that picture with him always.

Bess tried hard to let Martin enjoy the weekend.  The night before his
departure she invited only Sylvia and her parents for dinner.  Everyone
did their best to be cheerful, but it was with a sense of relief that
after coffee Martin was able to draw Sylvia out on the terrace.

In their absence, Mr.  Lowenthal said softly, "I guess we're in for a
long siege.  Terrible, simply terrible ... it's worse than the one we
fought in."

Julian got up, took a cigar from the humidor, clipped off the end, and
lit it.  Watching the thick smoke spiral up, he said, "Dear God, I beg
you.  Please bring Martin back to us whole."

At that moment Bess looked across the room and saw Julian standing
there with his eyes closed.  She got up slowly and went to his side.

"Martin is going to be all right.  So are we, dear," she said, though
she herself wasn't sure she believed it.

Still, if they were going to survive they had to support each other.

Julian took Bess's hand in his and whispered, "Oh, my dear, whatever
would I do without you?"

"I'm not going to let you find out."

Standing on the terrace overlooking the rose garden, Sylvia said,
"Thank God some things never change.  It's so beautiful here even
during the winter."

"I never appreciated it as much as I have in the last few days."

"Would you like to take a stroll?"  she said, taking his arm.

They walked up the slight incline to where the cypress trees circled
the lush green lawn.  He could almost hear the sounds of his
childhood.

He remembered the day his Aunt Matty had been married on this spot.

How old was he then?  About eight maybe.  He'd dropped the rings.

Smiling, he led Sylvia on past the greenhouse, across the broad stone
patio and into the pavilion.  It was filled with the fragrance of
gardenias.

He remembered playing here with Sylvia.  Suddenly he heard her soft
weeping and took her in his arms.

"You mustn't do that, Sylvia, dear.

I can't stand hearing you cry.  "

"I love you, Martin," she sobbed.

"I can't help it but I do.  I always have and I would never have told
you if it weren't for you going away.

I have never loved anybody but you, Martin, never.  "

Holding her close to him, he said, "You mustn't say these things,
Sylvia.  It's just the war.  You don't really mean them."

"No, you're wrong.  It's the war that's made it possible for me to tell
you how I feel."

She kissed him with all her pent-up passion.

"Sylvia, please, you mustn't do this.  It's wrong."

"Wrong?  Can't you love me just a little, Martin?"

"But I do, Sylvia.  I do love you."

"Then why don't you make love to me, Martin?"

"Because ... But before he could finish she kissed him with such
passion that he found himself drowning in desire.  He could not stop
himself as she sank to the floor, pulling him down to her.  It was like
falling through a bottomless sea.  Wave upon wave of passion consumed
him.  But when it was over and they began straightening their clothes
he was consumed with guilt.

"I shouldn't have let myself get that carried away," he said, trying to
avoid her eyes.

"Please don't say that, Martin.  Please.  I love you I want you to
carry the memory of this night with you.  But I want you to remember it
with joy."

"I will, Sylvia.  Forever.  But, dear, I don't want you to be hurt
because of this."

"You could never hurt me, Martin.  Never."

Chapter Seven

Monday morning arrived with relentless punctuality.  This time Bess and
Julian accompanied Martin.  At the last minute Sylvia drove up in her
convertible and was welcomed into the Roths' limousine.  When they
reached the station she stood back a little so as not to intrude on
Martin's goodbye to his parents.  Bess was oblivious to everything but
her son's face.  She didn't see the other soldiers, the other agonized
families who, like herself, felt a sense of privacy as they said those
painful last goodbyes.

Martin looked at his watch.  It was time to board.  Suddenly he felt
his mother in his arms; she seemed so frail and vulnerable.  He'd never
remembered her as being this small.  He knew how much she was
suffering.  Then Julian embraced him, wanting to protect him yet
knowing that the

boy's assured safety was the one thing he could not buy.

Finally, Sylvia stood before Martin.  It was time for their goodbye.

"Take care of yourself, Martin," she said.

He nodded.

"I will.  Thank you for helping my parents."

She nodded.  He kissed her with affection and boarded the train, where
he found a seat by the window.  He saw Sylvia and his parents trying to
wave bravely.  Then the train moved out.

The Roths stood for a long moment amidst the swirling crowds, staring
into the distance as they watched the train disappear.  They seemed old
today as they clung to each other in their grief.  Sylvia hoped she
could help fill the void Martin's going had created, but she doubted
it.  He was, after all, flesh of their flesh; their only son.  She
wiped her own tears away and gently said, "I think it's time to go home
now."

During the drive back to Woodside, Sylvia sat lost in thought.  The
events of the past week had been more than sobering and Sylvia decided
she had to be honest, at least with herself.  She had daydreamed about
Martin for years, but now she had to face the truth: she'd never had
the slightest intention of marrying Maury.  She understood that now.

"Be sure, Sylvia," Martin had cautioned.

"Go slowly, maybe this is only a rebellion."

Wise Martin, that's really what it had been.  Not only against her own
narrow little world, but against Martin.  She thought that she could
make him jealous, perhaps force him to rescue her.  But that had been
foolish.  She knew Martin didn't love her.  Of his deep affection she
was more than certain, remembering how gently he had taken her last
night.  Perhaps in a relationship one person always loved more than the
other.  If there was a commitment to be made, she made it to herself.

Martin was going to love her.  They were right for each other, meant
for each other.  When he came home, she'd make him realize that.  They
were both cut from the same piece of cloth, understood each other's
worlds, spoke the same language as she and Maury never had.  She
trembled at the thought that to spite Martin she could have destroyed
her life.  She'd been tempted to explore her sexuality, but even at the
height of her desire for Maury, she had held back.  Martin had stood in
the way even then.

It had taken something as catastrophic as the war for her to throw
herself at Martin's feet.  But pride be damned.  At least Martin knew
how she felt.  Sylvia was so lost in thought that she didn't notice the
car had stopped until Edward, the chauffeur, reached in to help her
out.

As soon as they reached the house Julian said, "My dear, if you don't
mind, I'll skip lunch.  I have a headache and I think I'll lie down."

"Of course," Bess said.

"I'll have a tray sent up to you, darling."

The women watched as he slowly ascended the stairs.  When they heard
the door shut behind him, Bess sighed and said, "Dear me.  You must be
famished."

"Not especially.  But I think you should have something, Aunt Bess."

Bess looked at the girl she had known since birth, wishing that Sylvia
were the daughter that she had never had.  But then Sylvia had never
been all that close to her own mother.  Whenever she had a problem, it
was Bess to whom she turned.  Perhaps the tie between them was stronger
even than blood.

Sylvia settled herself into the down pillows of the chair and looked
about the familiar room.  Thank God nothing seemed to have changed. She
remembered the time Martin was twelve and had fallen off the library
stairs reaching for a book.  She had run to him and tried to help him
up, but he couldn't move.

"Gosh, Sylvia, wait a minute.  I think I broke my ankle."

"Oh, you couldn't have."

"Don't argue with me, Sylvia.  I think it's broken."

"How can you tell?"  "Cause it throbs like hell."

"You better not let your mother hear you say hell."

"Sylvia, do me a favour.  Go home."

"After I've helped you up."

Between Sylvia and the arm of the chair, Martin got up, hobbled out of
the room and up the stairs.  He sat gingerly on the bed, swung his leg
over and then lay down.  The pain was excruciating and his ankle was
the size of a grapefruit.

"Holy cow.  I really think I've broken it, Sylvia."

"Okay, don't move.  I'll go down and get Anna."

She slid down the banister and ran to the kitchen to tell Anna, the
Roths' housekeeper.

"Anna, Martin broke his leg," she said breathlessly.

"Now where does it hurt?"  Anna said when she reached his bedroom.

"It's my ankle.  I think it's broken."

"I'm sure it's no such thing," she said, much like Sylvia.

"Because it hurts like hell."

Anna's eyebrows knitted together.

"What did you say, young man?"

"I said it hurts so much."

"Well, I hope that's what you said."  But Anna was concerned
particularly since the Roths were away.

"Now don't move, Martin.  This may hurt for a moment, but let me put
one of these pillows under your leg."

He let out a yell as she lifted his foot.

"Now, Sylvia.  You'll have to step out for a while," Anna said.

"Why?"  Sylvia asked in mild defiance.

"I'm going to try and get off Martin's pants and make him
comfortable."

"But why can't I stay?  I've seen him lots without his pants."

"Have you really, young lady?  Well, there's much to tell when Mr.  and
Mrs.  Roth come home.  Now leave the room immediately."

Sylvia glared at Anna and reluctantly obeyed.  For the next week she
sat in Martin's room, since he was confined to bed with a compound
fracture.

Her memory of those innocent days was interrupted by Bess asking,
"Would you like a little sherry?"

"That would be nice."

They sipped in silence.  After awhile Bess said, "Remarkable how
resilient we are.  I never would have thought I'd be this calm.  The
one I'm worried about is Julian.

"There's a strange thing about marriage, Sylvia.  Even after all these
years there are moments that cannot be shared.  I suppose they belong
between man and his God."  Bess looked at Sylvia's concerned face and
added, "My dear, you will never know how grateful I am to you for being
here at this moment.  You are such a comfort."

"This is where I want to be, where I'm happiest.  If you don't mind,
I've decided I'm going to be your houseguest for a while."

"Mind?  Oh, my dearest girl, I'm overjoyed.  But as close as your
mother and I are, I wouldn't want your mother to feel that I was
alienating you."

Sylvia smiled.

"She already knows that and she won't feel jealous."

That night Sylvia sat down at the desk and wrote Martin a letter.  Not
a love letter, really, but one of nostalgia in the hope that memories
of their happy childhood would give him something to hold on to, to
support him during the terrible weeks and months ahead.

Chapter Eight

Long before Martin received the letter he was on ship bound for
Italy.

Nothing in his life had prepared him for the horrors of years to
come.

Nothing would ever erase the sounds and sights of the brutality and
carnage.  He saw the unburied dead rotting by the roadside, old people
and

children starving, girls barely in their teens who knew just enough
English to say, "Okay, GI Joe.  You give me chocolate, I give you good
time."

In a back street of Palermo, after the Italian army had retreated,
Martin watched as a drunken paratrooper and an emaciated
thirteen-year-old girl climbed the rickety stairs to her bedroom while
her little brothers fought each other for scraps of food in the garbage
cans outside.

But nothing he saw in defeated Italy equalled Germany after WE Day.

Hitler had told the world exactly what he intended to do when he'd
written Mein Kampf, but no one had believed he would carry out his
final solution.  Even the first stories that filtered back after the
destruction of the Third Reich seemed too terrible to be true.

For centuries European governments had stood by while Jews were
persecuted, but never had the civilized world been faced by murder on
such a scale.  Six million Jews.  Six million innocent lives.  The
Allies rushed in to cover the shame of the denial.  And no one felt
more outrage than Martin Roth.  Captain Martin Roth, assigned to locate
and reunite survivors of Dachau, Auschwitz, Bergen-Belsen names that
would make their instigators pariahs until the end of time.

Sitting in his makeshift office amidst the bomb craters of Berlin,
trying to pair off names and sort the legacy of the dead, Martin
thought at moments that he would die of grief and shame.  How could he
not have known as early as 1940?  Every Jew in the world should have
made it his or her business to have realized what was going on.  Every
family smugly writing checks to Zionist groups, to their local temple,
should have raised a cry to heaven.  But they had sat back and allowed
genocide to be perpetrated on a scale never before seen.

Never again would Martin take his Judaism for granted.  The lessons he
had learned were bitter, but at last he knew who he was, what he was.

And for the first time in his entire life he felt like a Jew.

When he was finally ordered back to the States, he wasn't sure he
wanted to go.  His work was not finished and he tried to extend his
tour to help the refugees.  But his commanding officer took one look at
Martin's ravaged face and sent him home.  As his troop ship pulled into
New York harbour, he took out his mother's last letter.

"Thank God you're whole and will be coming home to us soon ... But that
wasn't quite what was going to happen.  Martin wasn't going home right
away.  And although it might not have shown, he wasn't exactly whole.
If there were lines on his face, they were a mere reflection of the
scars on his soul.

As soon as he finished the paperwork at Fort Dix and was once again a
civilian, he decided to take a room at the Gotham Hotel in Manhattan
while he tried to sort out his life.

After the bellboy put his gear in the closet, Martin sat on the edge of
the bed, staring at the silent black phone on the nightstand.  He had
gone over the dialogue many times.  How best to tell his parents he
wasn't coming home for a while?  It was going to be difficult, but the
war had taught him the importance of living his own life.  His parents
would have to manage a little longer, without him.  But when he had
placed the call and heard his mother's voice, he was tempted to take
the first train West.

He heard himself saying, "Yes.  Well, Mother, I'm going to stay in New
York for just a little while and " And what, Martin?  I mean for how
long?  " she said, unable to disguise the painful disappointment in her
voice.

He swallowed hard and heard the echo of his deception as he said,
"Maybe a week or so.  I really hadn't thought about it, Mother.  Since
I'm here in New York, I'd like to see Dominic."

The tears rolled down her cheeks.  She would never have believed that
Martin could be so insensitive.  Home should have been the only place
on earth where he wanted to be.  But it seemed he preferred to reach
out to Dominic instead of to them, and that was something she could not
understand.  Drying her tears, she steadied her voice and said,

"I'm sure you know what is best for you, Martin.  And I think you
should do what pleases you, I'm disappointed, of course."

"I'm terribly sorry about all of this, but please try to understand1
need this time alone."

She didn't understand at all.  He wasn't going to be alone, he was
going to be with Dominic.

"Of course I understand.  Take care, Martin .  and, dear, we love
you."

"And I love you.  May I speak to Dad?"

"He's not here at the moment."

"Oh?  Well, give him my love.  I'll call you tomorrow, I'm staying at
the Gotham."  He gave her the number, hung up, and placed two other
calls: one to the bell captain to have a bottle of scotch and a bucket
of ice sent up to his room, the other to Dominic.

The next day at'll.  30 Martin joined the throngs of pedestrians on the
streets as he made his way uptown to Dominic's office.  The crowds and
the heavy flow of traffic overwhelmed him.  He wasn't used to such
enormous structures of concrete, steel and glass that jutted upward,
like modern towers of Babel obliterating the sky.

In spite of the crush he managed to find Dominic's office.  When he
entered the building, he stopped at the cigarette counter to buy a
package of Camels, and saw that his hand was trembling ever so
slightly.  He wasn't sure why.  Maybe it had something to do with the
guilt he felt about not going home.  Maybe it was because he was having
a tough time getting back into the world.  Maybe it was because he had
just passed a soldier who had lost both legs.  For one terrible moment
he was back in Europe, bending over some poor German bastard in a
burned-over field outside of Rome.  The kid must have been all of
sixteen.  A typical Aryan, hair the colour of corn, eyes blue and open
in death.  Martin had stood in horrified fascination as blood spewed
out of the boy's mouth.  For that moment Martin saw not a Nazi, but a
human being lying on that blood-soaked earth.

The memory dissipated once the match burned down to Martin's fingers.

He cursed under his breath and walked over to the elevator.  He
watched the dial as it paused at each floor coming down.  Then the
doors opened and he walked in.  Suddenly all he saw was hands reaching
out to push the buttons for the floors they desired.  He started to
reach for number 36, but it was already red.  As he waited among the
press of bodies, he felt a rush of claustrophobia.

Since he had seen the pictures of the Jews they had packed, without
food or water, into cattle cars, small spaces made him anxious.  He was
relieved when they reached his floor.

As he walked over to the receptionist he experienced a moment of panic.
Dominic had been 4F.  He hadn't experienced the war.  Dominic .  Jesus
Christ, what the hell were they going to talk about?  It was a million
years since they'd said goodbye on graduation day.

Dominic had written to Martin about his experience with the draft
board.  After going through all the indignities of his physical,
standing nude, legs spread, while being none- too-gently examined for
haemorrhoids, the doctor found he had a heart murmur.  Once he stopped
reeling with happy delirium, he rushed to his own doctor, only to be
told that the murmur was purely functional.  He had every expectation
of a long and healthy life.  He had used the war years to build the
successful advertising agency that Martin was now visiting.

"Martin," said Dominic when his secretary brought Martin into his
office.

"It's so Goddamn great to see you."

They went out for a quick lunch, but neither man was able to say much
about what he was thinking.  That would have to wait for later.  As
they finished coffee Dominic said, "We haven't even scratched the
surface.

Four years is a lot to catch up on.  What are your plans for tonight?
"

"I don't have any."

"You do now.  I'm taking you to dinner."

They went to the Yale Club on Vanderbilt Avenue, just across from Grand
Central.  As Martin sipped the chablis, his mind kept drifting in a
dozen different directions.  He thought of college, of home, of Sylvia.
He wondered how he would deal with her when he saw her.  He was
grateful

when Dominic called his attention to the menu.

"Well, what do you feel like ordering?"

"I don't know.  Why don't you choose.  It all looks good."

While Dominic placed the order, Martin glanced from table to table.  He
heard snips and bits of conversation.  It all seemed like business as
usual.  Dammit, why couldn't he feel at ease?  He wasn't the only one
here tonight who had returned from the war.

"Like old times, huh, Martin?"

He looked at Dominic blankly.

"Sorry, Dominic.  What were you saying?"

"You're really out of it tonight, old buddy.  I was saying it was a
little like being back at Yale.  Like old times."

"Nothing will ever be like old times.  We were so naive.  We really
thought we had the world by a string."

"Boy, it really got to you, didn't it?  I've felt it since we met."

"Well, dammit, Dominic.  You can't go through four years of hell and
act like it was a John Wayne movie."

Dominic picked up his wineglass.

"It really must have been tough," he said with an unprecedented amount
of guilt.

Martin nodded.

"You might say that."

Dominic lit a cigarette, looked at Martin, and said, "You know, old
buddy, you're evoking all kinds of memories tonight."

"Really?  Such as ... ?"

"Such as I used to walk down Madison Avenue during the war and see
everyone in uniform.  They looked handsome with those shiny brass
buttons.  But I've got to tell you, old pal, I was damned happy that I
was in civvies.  You can call me anything you damned well please, but I
celebrated the night I learned I was 4F.  You know what I did?  I
called a model, who unlike most is really stacked, brought five bottles
of the best champagne I could buy, went to her apartment, got
plastered, and screwed her until dawn's early light.  You have no idea
how patriotic I felt the next day."

Martin felt a flash of anger remembering the landing in Sicily, the
fear that made his stomach hurt as he splashed from the landing craft
to the beach, the icy water soaking him to the armpits.  He had fallen
on a boulder as he scrambled across the exposed sand and nearly knocked
himself out.  Somehow the pain had distracted him momentarily from the
thought of mutilation or death .  "So you really had a ball during the
war?"  Martin said with ill-concealed bitterness.

Dominic knew he had sounded more glib than he felt.  Much of the time
he'd been embarrassed not to be in uniform, but he didn't know how to
admit this to Martin.  Instead he just said, "It wasn't all that great,
and I missed my friends.  I thought about you a lot, buddy."

Dominic began to cut his steak.  They ate in silence for a few
minutes.

Then Dominic seemed to shrug off the feelings of discomfort that the
talk of the war engendered.

"Look, Martin, I didn't plan to stay at home.  But since the Lord saw
fit to spare me, I made the best of the time that I had.  I've
established a thriving agency and it's only the beginning.  What I'd
really like is to have you join me.  I know you were never that happy
at your father's brokerage firm.  But all that financial savvy would
come in handy at the agency.  I need you, Martin.

You have an incredible understanding of business.  And an ability to
make things work.  I'm good with the ideas, and the clients love me,
but I'd make a lot more money if the agency were properly run.  Give it
a try, Martin.  Come in with me.  "

Martin played with the crumbs on the table.  Finally he said, "Thanks
for the offer.  Let me think it over."

"You can't say yes because you're worried about upsetting your parents.
You've slogged your way across Europe, but you never cut the umbilical
cord.  You've got to try making it on your own sometime, old buddy."

Martin remembered his earlier debate with himself, his obligation to
his parents and his desire to stay East and choose his own career.  The
more he thought about it, the more he saw that his whole life had been
spent fulfilling

obligations to his family, his religion, his country.  But then he
thought of the future.  If he had sons wouldn't he want them to carry
on the legacy Ephraim had fought so valiantly to bequeath?

Martin looked across the table at his friend.

"Most of what you say is right, Dom.  But I think it's more involved.
My great-grandfather fled the ghettos of Europe so his descendants
could live in freedom.  If he had stayed in France my parents and I
might well have been shipped to one of the camps.  I saw some of the
survivors.  Their faces will haunt me till I die.  It's not just my
parents I feel I can't let down.  It's all those tortured men and
women.  Butchered by the Nazis.  Right now it would be very hard for me
to turn my back on my great-grandfather's legacy.  Can you understand
that?"

Remembering his own parents' tales of hardships suffered during the
First World War, and the economic break down that followed, and their
hopes for a better life in America, Dominic could not brush Martin's
argument aside.

"Well, sure I can understand," he said.

"I'm not going to say that what the Italians endured was as horrendous
as the Holocaust, but dead is dead, and Italian mothers shed their
tears."

They both were silent.  Finally Dominic said, "I suppose this means
you're going home."

Martin nodded.

"Yes.  I really don't have any choice.  We owe them something, Dominic.
We really do."  He paused for a long moment and thought about the house
and the gardens bathing in the golden summer light.  He could see
himself silhouetted against the sky, that blue, languid California sky,
as he dived off the board.

"And," he added with a laugh born out of love and nostalgia, "I can
think of worse fates."

In spite of his disappointment at not having persuaded his friend to
stay, Dominic nodded.

"Touche."

Chapter Nine

The first face Martin saw as he walked across the airfield was
Sylvia's.  She ran to him, her hair flying in the wind as she threw
herself into his arms.  She'd waited for this moment for so long.  The
pain of those four years was erased as she felt his arms around her.

"Oh, darling, Martin," she said, kissing him.

"Dearest Martin.  Thank God you're home."

He was too filled with emotion to speak.  Instead he took her hand and
silently let her walk him back to Bess and Julian.  As he held his
mother close, he knew how hard the years had been on her and that he
had done the right thing coming home.

"God must have heard my prayers," she said.

"You're home.  I can't believe it, but you're home."  She took his face
in her hands and kissed him tenderly.  Then she held him at arms'
length.  Smiling through her tears she said, "I'm afraid you've lost
weight."

"Oh, stop fussing over him," Julian said.

"Welcome home, dear boy."

Martin embraced his father, saying, "This is the only place in the
world I want to be.  I know that now."

They walked out of the airport into the warm September afternoon.

Martin looked up into the California sun and thanked God that he had
had the sense to recognize his birthright.  When he looked down he saw
Edward bringing the silver-grey Rolls-Royce to a halt in front of them.
The chauffeur got out and opened the back door.

"We've missed you, Martin.  Welcome home."  Edward had been with the
family since Martin had been very young.  He remembered it was Edward
who had taken him to the circus every year.

When they reached the Woodside Estate, Martin could scarcely believe
he was there.  He went from room to room with a strange sense of
disbelief.  It was as though he was seeing the house for the first
time.  The paintings seemed more brilliant, the flowers more
beautiful.

Martin walked upstairs to his room and closed the door.  He looked at
the snapshots still pinned to the bulletin board, the pictures of
himself as a small boy.  There was one of him standing at the rail of
the Matsonia with his mother and father in the background.  He
remembered that day so well.  It was the ship's maiden voyage to
Honolulu.  As he reached the edge of the bay that opened into the
Pacific, Martin saw the horizon.  He felt as if they were going to fall
off the edge.  He had been frightened until his mother spotted his pale
face and reassured him that the world was round.  His eyes wandered to
the other pictures of happy events, picnics, tennis games, shots of
himself and Sylvia.  Suddenly he experienced a moment of fear.  That
Martin no longer existed.  He had endured too much; the scars of his
experience were deep.

He went to the bathroom, turned on the shower as hot as he could stand,
and let the water pelt his body.  Then he turned on the cold until he
shivered.  Getting out, he stared at the full-length mirror as he
towelled himself vigorously.  My God, it's like looking into the eyes
of a stranger, he thought.  Perhaps it was the surroundings of home
that made him realize how much he had changed.  He dressed hurriedly
and made his way back downstairs to dinner.

He was glad that his mother had not made his homecoming a gala affair,
inviting only Sylvia and her mother and father.  As he looked around
the table in the oak- panelled dining room, he realized that here
nothing had changed.  Conversation still revolved around politics would
Eisenhower try for the Republican ticket?  -and the usual local gossip.
Dinner, too, was the same formal affair.  As he sat observing, Martin
felt strangely alien.

As he lifted his napkin from his lap, Martin felt Sylvia's hand on his.
He was chilled with guilt at her touch.  He didn't love her in that
way and he had no idea how he was going to be able to break away from
her without hurting her.  How could he do that to someone as tender and
decent as Sylvia?  And how could he not if only for her own sake?  If
only he hadn't gotten carried away that last night home.

If Sylvia was disappointed in his reaction to seeing her, she kept her
thoughts to herself.  She knew she had been too demonstrative when
she'd welcomed him today.  But how else could she have acted?  She'd
lived for that moment for four years.

When dinner was over, Martin and Sylvia walked out to the terrace and
stood looking out at the gardens.  Silently she turned and regarded his
face.  She was troubled by the haunted look in his eyes.  She knew that
he'd been through hell.  If only he would allow her to reach out to
him, to hold him.  Finally she asked, "What are you thinking about?"

Martin sighed.

"The past.  We've changed, haven't we?"

"Yes."

"Sylvia, I don't want to hurt you and yet I don't know how else to say
this " Just be honest, Martin.  "

"Yes, but the truth can be cruel."

"So can deception.  Martin, I'm going to make this easy for you.  I
know you love me, but you're not in love with me, and that makes the
difference between friends and lovers.  I have no regrets about that
night.  Please believe me.  If I had it to do over again, I would."

During the past four years she'd scarcely thought about anything except
how she would make Martin fall in love with her.  She had spent her
days and nights fantasizing, but tonight she realized that to have
Martin without his love was not worth it.

She knew Martin's vulnerability: his sense of loyalty and honour.  She
knew that if she pursued him now she could goad him into marriage.  But
she also knew that if she did she would ultimately lose even his
friendship and she'd be left with nothing.

"Do you have a cigarette?"

she said at last, deciding to let go gracefully.

He lit one for her, then one for himself.

"My parents didn't mention it at dinner, but I'll be going abroad. I'm
tired of filling my time with silly charity work.  There's a Jewish
orphanage in London where they have brought many of the camp survivors.
I've taken a job there."

Martin knew he was responsible for this choice of selfimposed exile,
yet he felt helpless to do anything about it.  If he asked her to stay,
what could he give her?

"When did you make up your mind about this, Sylvia?"

"Some time ago when I was waiting for the war to be over," she listened
to herself lie.  She'd only made up her mind that moment, although she
had known about the organization for several months.

The look in her eyes touched him so deeply that all the logic was
replaced with pity.  He reached out to her.

"Stay, Sylvia.  Don't go."

"For what?"

"I've just come home, Sylvia.  Maybe after I've had a chance to
reorganize my life, you and I can ... " Work something out?  Don't be
silly, Martin.  "

"Well, what you're doing may not work either ... because it's for all
the wrong reasons."

"And you, dear Martin, want me to stay for all the wrong reasons.  You
think that maybe if you feel guilty enough it'll give you the courage
to ask me to marry you.  Well, that would be terrible, Martin.  I love
you too much for that."

Martin took her hand and said, "You're too special not to find someone
who will really adore you."

Tears flooded her eyes.

"Thank you very much for being that concerned about my future."  She
turned, but Martin grabbed her arm.

"Sylvia, don't be upset.  It's just such a difficult time ... please,
let's try."

Her first impulse was to run, but she wanted Martin so badly, wanted to
believe he needed her.  Softly, she said, "Are you sure, Martin?"

"I'm sure."

She looked at him and then ever so slowly reached up, put her arms
around him, and kissed him.

Martin responded.  He hadn't kissed a woman in a long time.

"I want you, Martin," she whispered.

"Please ... let's wait."

Bess looked up as they entered the drawing room.

"Did you have a nice walk?"

"Lovely, simply lovely," Sylvia answered.

Then Bess turned to Martin.

"You looked tired."

"I am.  I hope you'll forgive me if I go to bed."

"Of course, darling."

That night neither Martin nor Sylvia slept much.  Lying in his old
room, Martin tossed and turned until almost dawn.  He simply couldn't
make sense of his life.  He wondered what had forced him to ask Sylvia
to stay.  Why did he feel such great guilt where she was concerned?

Forget that he had slept with her once.  This was the twentieth
century.  Lots of girls had lost their virginity during the war.  No,
the real guilt, the real feelings he sustained for Sylvia stemmed from
a much earlier time, from their shared childhood.  It was as if she too
were part of Ephraim's legacy.  He asked her to stay, quite simply,
because he felt an obligation to protect her.  He suddenly realized
that Sylvia mattered to him more than anyone else.  He began to wonder
where affection for her ended and love began.  Entwined with those
thoughts was the love he felt for his mother.  If he married Sylvia,
his mother's joy would be supreme.  Sylvia's devotion to her during his
absence had been stressed by both his parents.  Of course, he felt
grateful, but gratitude after all wasn't love .  or was it?  Too weary
to sort out these thoughts, he finally fell asleep.

Sylvia lay in her bed with thoughts much the same as Martin's.  Martin
could have let her go without so much as a word, but he had asked her
to stay.  Wasn't that a commitment?  She knew that he loved her in his
fashion, and suddenly the realization came to her that if she loved
him, she had to make him aware that she was a grown woman and not the
frenzied girl he'd left four years before.

Trembling, she slipped out of bed and put on her peignoir.  Quietly
opening her door, she padded softly down the hall to Martin's room.

She opened his door and locked it behind her.

Martin bolted up in bed and called out, "Who is it " Shhh .  it's only
me, darling.  "Quickly she was in his arms, holding him, caressing him,
pouring out her need and love for him.

But something in her ardour overwhelmed him.  Without thinking he got
out of bed, went into the bathroom, and looked at himself in the
mirror.  The man who stared back might have been a hundred years old.

He knew that he had to go back to her.  That he had wounded her
cruelly.

Summoning the courage, he walked back and sat on the edge of the bed.

Taking her hand, he said gently, "I'm sorry.  This has nothing to do
with you.  Coming home today was more than I was prepared for."

The anger Sylvia felt was for herself.  She had pushed Martin when he
asked her to wait.  Why hadn't she listened?

"I understand, Martin.

Believe me, I understand.  Can you forgive me?  "

He was grateful the room was in darkness so she couldn't see his
face.

"I'm not good for you, Sylvia.  Something terrible happened to me in
Germany and I haven't been able to come to terms with it."

She started to cry.

"And I caused you to be more unsure of yourself than you were before. I
really understand, Martin, and I'm sorry."

"I'm not deserving of anyone like you."

Sylvia got up, kissed him tenderly and, without a word, left the
room.

In the morning, Bess was bewildered.

"I can't make any sense out of this at all," she said as they sat at
the breakfast table.

"Here, Martin, read Sylvia's note."

He knew what was in it before she even handed it to him.  Sylvia was
leaving.  It was her only salvation and Martin had never felt more
self-hatred than he did at that moment.

Over the next few months Martin tried his best to readjust to civilian
life.  He went back to work at the brokerage firm and put in long
hours, frequently coming home well after dinner.  He found it too
painful to face his mother across the table.  She couldn't understand
why he had let Sylvia leave after she had waited for him so patiently
through the long war years.  Martin couldn't explain any more than he
could explain his occasional need for a night with one of the newly
liberated girls he met.  They had jobs, they had apartments, and many
were happy to invite Martin to stay over.  Good God, he deserved a
little fun.  But his mother's reproachful face tortured him.

Finally he decided that even though it would hurt his parents he had to
get his own place in the city.  He was right to have returned to San
Francisco, to his family, and family business, but he never should have
returned to the family home.  He had made the break once and now would
have to do it again.  As gently as he could he told his mother he'd
taken a furnished apartment at the end of Lombard Street on Russian
Hill.  It was in the Italian neighbourhood called North Beach, and Bess
most vehemently disapproved, not because of the ethnic mix the area
bordered on Chinatown but because it was incomprehensible that Martin
could settle for something so outlandishly Bohemian.

As far as she was concerned, it made no sense even though Martin hadn't
lived at home before Pearl Harbor.  It was as though his years away had
made his mother's possessiveness wax instead of wane; she almost cried
when she saw 'that dreadful little cell' he had taken while they still
owned the palatial apartment on Nob Hill.

"It's yours, Martin.  Why don't you use that?"  she said.

"Because it's not mine."

"What do you mean by that?  Of course it's yours."

"Not really, Mother.

It belongs to you and Dad.  " Bess was dumbfounded.

"You must forgive me, Martin, but whatever your father and I have is
yours.  Can't you understand that?  I wouldn't think I'd have to
explain.  This

whole thing is ludicrous.  "

But it wasn't ludicrous from Martin's point of view.  His parents'
wealth made him uncomfortable.  He could not forget the thousands of
homeless still roaming Europe or forced to live in displaced persons
camps.  He couldn't reconcile their meagre circumstances with his own
lavish ones.  It was impossible for Martin to explain to his parents,
but their lifestyle was too much for him.  Martin could only say he
needed his own place and Bess stopped arguing after he moved the last
of his things from Woodside.

Martin hoped moving would help him pick up the pieces of his life, but
he discovered that all he had changed was his address.  He still worked
for his father and in his mind was accepted by Julian only because he
was his father's son.  He had not earned his place in the world.  He
was a parasite, really.  Everything had been handed to him on a silver
platter.  Unlike Dominic, he had never had a chance to find out what he
could do on his own.

He lost the ability to evaluate his contributions realistically

Anyone else would have had to put in twenty years to achieve his
salary.  As the weeks passed, Martin became obsessed with his own
unworthiness.  The pressures became so great that he simply had to
reach out.

Impulsively, he picked up the phone one day and called Dominic.

"What did I do to deserve this call?"  Dominic asked.

"Well, I'm having some problems."

"Really?  I'd never have guessed from your letters."

"I suppose I was trying to convince myself all I needed was time.

That's why I didn't mention anything.  "

"Okay.  Well, what is wrong?"

Martin lit a cigarette.

"I don't know where to begin, so much has happened."

"The beginning's always a good place."

"This could take a long time ... Martin said, trying to figure out
exactly when things had started to go wrong.

"It's your dime.  I've got all afternoon."

"Thanks.  Remember the night we sat at the Yale Club?"

"Right."

"Well, I'm more confused about things now than I was then."

"In what way?"

"Well, I feel like an automaton."

"That doesn't tell me much.  Is it possible you're fooling yourself,
refusing to look at the problem and face it?"

There was a long silence.

"You're right.  But I can't seem to articulate it.  I keep swaying back
and forth between obligations, love and loyalty.  That's what makes all
this so tough.  I just can't seem to find the answers."

"Okay, sort out the pieces.  I mean, what's happened since?"

"Well, I think when I first got home I just needed to crawl back into
the womb.  I was glad to be living with my parents, working for my
father.  But for the last few months I seem to be getting more and more
depressed."

"I can hear that ... go on."

"Well, I sit in my huge plush office going through the motions, but
nothing makes any sense.  What I'm saying is, I never built any of
it.

It's all been handed to me.  Do you see what I mean?  "

"Up to a point, yes.  Except, when Papa's a great success, he usually
wants to pass that success on to his son."

"I know.  That's exactly the point.  I don't feel comfortable with the
idea.  I don't really know what the hell I'm trying to say.  Jesus,
maybe I need a psychiatrist."

"No, you don't, old buddy.  Your feelings are understandable after what
you've been through."

"But for Christ's sake, I'm not the only one who went through it!"

"Well, in a sense everyone went through the war alone.  Maybe I can
verbalize it for you, Martin."

"I wish to God someone could."

"You're a man in search of his soul.  You feel guilty because of all
those starving kids you saw and their memory

makes you ashamed you were privileged.  "

"You're absolutely right.  That's what I can't come to terms with."

"Well, take my word for it.  There are always going to be those who
have and those who don't, and you're not responsible for the whole
world.  Everyone has to find their own salvation, and so do you."

"And how do I do that?"

"You're not going to come to terms with your life in San Francisco,
that's for sure."

"Well, I know.  But it gets down to owing once again, doesn't it?"

"I'm not insensitive to that, Martin, and I admire your loyalty.  But
you owe yourself too.  Why don't you come to New York?"

Martin knew that he wanted to say yes, but how could he tell his father
he was leaving?  Everything Dominie said was right.

"I'll have to think about it," Martin said at last.

"Don't take too long, old buddy.  Those who procrastinate very often
wake up in the morning to find themselves sullen old men.

Disillusioned and disenchanted.  Give your self a break.  "

"Yeah ... well ... how do I tell my father?"

"Just tell him, Martin.  Nobody owns you.  Just don't get bogged down
with a lot of Jewish guilt.  I was impressed with what you told me
about your great-grandfather, but you have to remember that he went out
on his own.  Maybe that's what he was fighting for, to give you that
right."

Martin knew the rationale was not quite accurate.  Ephraim's father had
not built a dynasty for him to inherit.  Still, it was nice of Dominic
to try to give Martin the courage he needed to confront his father.

"Look, Dom," he said, 'you're a good friend.  I'll call you back in a
couple of days.  And thanks .  "Don't mention it, old buddy.  Now, are
there any other problems we can solve tonight?"

There was a long pause.  Then Martin told Dominic about Sylvia.  He had
never meant to hurt her, but now he felt he could never make up for
the pain he'd caused her.

"Yes, but you didn't do anything," Dominic said.

"It was unfortunate, the whole set of circumstances, but so far as
you're concerned, Sylvia was hurt as much by the war as by you.  Keep
remembering that and one of these days you'll find a girl to really
love.  Now, don't forget, my offer still holds.  I really need you in
my business, Martin.  And remember, people are more resilient than you
think.  Your father will get over it."

Martin wasn't quite so sure as he held the silent receiver in his
sweating palm.  Finally, he replaced it on the cradle, got up and
poured himself a stiff drink.  Cutting the cord was never easy, but
Jesus, he had to straighten out his life.  He tried remembering that
the next day when he drove down to Woodside to see his father.

Julian sat in the large wing chair, watching the flames dance in the
fireplace, trying to understand what Martin was saying.  He'd been
unaware that his son was so unhappy.  He had thought that Martin's
adjustment after coming home had been more than admirable.  Now he was
upset he had been so insensitive to his son's needs.  He got up and
walked to the French doors and looked out on the garden.

"Life is really very confusing," he said, his back towards Martin.

"It never works out the way one expects.  You think you're building
something you can hand down to your children and then you realize the
things you built mean nothing to them."  Julian turned around and
looked at his son.

"I suppose this is what they're calling the generation gap."  He sighed
deeply.

"So be it.  Your mother will be very disappointed about this, just as I
am, but if this is what you think will fulfill your life, I'll not
stand in the way."

For a moment Martin almost gave in.  He wanted to say, Forgive me.  I'm
sorry I've hurt you and I'm not leaving.  But a voice within him
warned, You'll regret this for the rest of your life if you don't make
the choice now.

"Dad, I know how hurt you are and there's nothing I can say that will
make you feel different.  But I wish you'd understand.  What you've
built means a lot to me more

than you know.  But I've got to build something myself.  And I need
time to find out who I am, not just what I've inherited.  "

Julian sighed.

"I hope you find out, Martin, for your sake."

Julian drew Martin to him, wishing he could turn back the clock to a
time when Martin was a small child.  He took the handkerchief from his
back pocket and blew his nose.

"Well, I think we should go in and join your mother for dinner."

This parting was almost more difficult than when he'd gone to war.

Bess and Julian were unprepared for this, and Martin still felt as
though he was abandoning them.  He begged them not to come to the
airport and, picking up his suitcases, followed Edward out to the
car.

Looking back, seeing them standing forlornly on the front steps, he
could only say, "I'll call as soon as I get to New York."

Chapter Ten

Martin soon settled into his life in New York.  He found a small
apartment and was fast absorbed in the hectic pace at the agency.  He
forgot much of the guilt he felt leaving his parents.  He called them
every week, but his thoughts and energy were caught up in the
challenges of his new position.

Dominic had given Martin a free rein, and within a month he had secured
the Aqua Baby Soap account, a subsidiary of Acme Chemical Company.  It
was a bonanza for a small agency and the coup gave Martin far more
satisfaction than when he had brought McMillian Steel Company into the
brokerage.

That evening Dominic and Martin celebrated.  After popping a bottle of
champagne, Dominic said, "Cheers to you, old buddy.  With my creativity
and your business ability, we'll give the big boys on Madison Avenue a
run for their money."

Within six months, Martin's contributions were more than gratifying.

He felt he was at last carrying his own weight and, better yet, he was
beginning to like himself again.  By the end of each day he found he
was too tired to dwell upon the fact that his parents considered him a
prodigal son.

In the evenings, when he returned to his apartment, he could relax in
peace.  There were no questions and no friends or relations on
weekends; no one to make demands.  He was his own man, independent to
come and go as he pleased.

As his eyes wandered about the shabby little place, he thought of his
mother.  If she had disapproved of the apartment in San Francisco, she
would have been horrified by this.  But he didn't have to explain his
choice of residence to anybody.  Actually that wasn't quite true.

Lately Dominic had begun to organize Martin's life outside office
hours.

Dominic loved to have a good time.  There wasn't an invitation he
didn't accept.  He had a bevy of girlfriends, but Martin's desire for
women was much the same as when he returned from the war.  A quick
night out from time to time was all he wanted.

From Dominic's point of view, that wasn't enough for his friend.  He
believed Martin's spartan life was unhealthy.

"I'm going to a party Saturday night," he said to Martin one Friday.

"You're invited, too, and this time your answer's going to be yes."

"I really don't feel like it, Dom."

"Did you ever think of going into a monastery?"  Dominic laughed.

"What kind of a crack is that?"

"No booze.  No broads.  It's not normal."

"Look, back off, Dominic.  I have my share of broads."

"When?"

"We don't live together.  I don't tell you everything.  I got out of my
playpen when I left home."

Dominic laughed and continued badgering.

"Listen, this is me you're talking to, old buddy.  Remember when we
used to go on the town in New Haven?  Well, I haven't seen that glint
in your eye for a long time."

"Lay off, will you?  I don't feel like lusting any more.  I also
gotridofmyacne."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"I haven't met anybody I want to have an affair with."

"Who's talking about an affair?  Now, about Saturday night?"

"Okay, in self-defence, I'll go."

"Great.  You've got a date, Marty, old boy."

Dominic knew from the smile on Martin's face that he had shaken him up.
Well, a little baiting goes a long way.

When Martin walked into the party, it seemed as if half of Manhattan
was gathered in the apartment.  He looked around for Dominic, but there
was no sign of him.  People stood in small groups talking.  He wandered
through the rooms with a glass of champagne, hearing bits of
conversation.

' .  The best buy on the market is American .  Did you hear the one
about .  And Becky said to Able, besides, every time I do it, I get a
headache.  " Martin was bored.  Who cared whether Becky had a headache
before, during or after?

If Martin had found Dom he would have given him a piece of his mind.

Here he was standing alone, not knowing a soul.  He was ready to leave
when Dominic finally made his way over to him.  He was about to say,
Next time, don't do me any favours, butt out of my social life, when he
got a good look at the girl Dom had in tow.  She was a knockout.

Damned if she wasn't the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen.  Dom had
good taste, Martin grudgingly conceded, as Dominic said, "Martin, I
want you to meet Jennifer McCoy.

Jenny, this is Martin Roth.  Now may you live happily ever after.  "

Martin knew Dom had set him up.  Jennifer McCoy was supposed to rescue
Martin from a life of celibacy.  How dare his old buddy think he
couldn't get someone on his own?  But with a girl who looked like
Jenny, who would object?  He was struck with an overwhelming desire.

His sudden physical reaction to her was shocking, and a little
frightening.  His feelings intensified as he observed her more
closely.

Her hair was a rich, deep brown with golden glints, like sun on autumn
leaves.  She wore it brushed back like a lion's wild mane, unlike the
sleek pageboys.  Her wide-set eyes were amber with green flecks that
sparkled like the facets of a gem.  The delicate peach tones of her
skin gave her face a subtle glow.  She was dressed in a creamy beige
two-piece silk dress, with a small turquoise-and-diamond brooch pinned
near her shoulder.  Her perfume was so discreet he could not identify
it, but it conjured up delicious images.  Her rouged lips parted as she
smiled and said, "Dominic likes to own his friends' lives."

Martin smiled back, "Yes, but that's part of his charm."

Jenny's laugh was low and sensuous.

"I hope you won't think I'm too bold," he found himself saying, 'but if
you're free for the rest of the evening, how would you like to go
someplace a little quieter?  "

"I will think you're bold, but I am free."

Any resentment he might have felt towards Dominic was overcome by
fascination for Jenny.

"I'd love to be able to have a conversation with you without having to
shout."

"What?"  she laughed.

"I can't hear you."

"I said ... how would you like to leave?"

"You don't waste any time, do you, Mr.  Roth?"

She wove through the crowd to retrieve her coat.  Martin looked around,
but couldn't find Dominic.  Giving up the idea of saying goodnight, he
led Jenny downstairs to the street.

"Why do people give parties like that?"  Martin said as they stood on
the kerb waiting for a taxi.

"Loneliness, I suppose."

Martin looked at her from the corner of his eye.  He knew Jenny McCoy
was bright, but the depth of that simple statement impressed him.

"Now, where would you like to go?"

"If you're concerned about loss of hearing, there's a place on
Fifty-sixth off Third that has candlelight, wine and soft music."

Martin smiled.

"You're on."

Sophie's Place was exactly what Jenny had promised.  She looked
enchanting in the candlelight as he observed her from across the table.
The wine was mellow and the music soft.

As they danced to the sounds of "Tenderly', he remembered when he had
asked Sylvia, " Does love really happen that quickly?  " He knew he
wasn't in love with Jenny yet, but the way he felt for her, so
strangely and suddenly, was something he had never felt for any other
woman.

When the music stopped, he led her back to the table, wondering why
Dominic had been so generous, "How long have you known Dom?"

"Well ... she began.  Jenny had graduated from Hunter College during
the war.  She had submitted her resume to most of the advertising firms
on Madison Avenue.  What impressed her about the Dominic Gatti Agency
was its energy and swift growth.  It seemed a woman might actually make
a career there.  She had done very well and was happy, but when the
Elmo Cosmetic Company offered her a top PR post, she couldn't resist
the opportunity or the money.  Dominic had been sorry to lose her but
had not tried to stand in her way.  The cosmetics industry was a place
women could flourish.  She hadn't heard from Dom, she told Martin,
until last week.

"I don't know whether to tell you this or not," she said.

"You can tell me anything."

"I almost didn't go to the party tonight."

"That's funny, neither did I."

"Really, how did Dom coerce you?  " He thought I was leading a
monastic life.  "

"Were you?"

"Well, according to Dom's standards, if you don't go to four parties a
night, you're not having any fun."

"That's our friend.  He just told me I had to meet you.  Need I say
more?"

"No, but I'm certainly grateful for his concern."

"Maybe you won't be so grateful after you get to know me."

"I'll take that chance.  How about tomorrow night?"

"I'm sorry, but I have to be in Chicago on business."

He was disappointed.

"When will you be back?"

"Not till next Friday."

"Does your firm send you away often?"

"When they're promoting a new line, yes."

"Well, I guess I'll have to settle for that.  Do you feel like
dancing?"

Once again he was holding her in his arms, and they danced until the
piano player went home.

When he brought her to the door of her apartment, they looked at each
other for a long moment.  He wondered if he should kiss her.  She
handed him the key and he opened the door.

"It's been a lovely evening, Martin," she said.

"For me, too."

As he started to walk towards the elevator she called out, "Martin, I
believe you have my key."

He looked down at his palm, then burst out laughing as he handed it
back to her.

"I don't know if this is according to Hoyle, but would it be rushing
things.  Miss McCoy, if I kissed you goodnight?"

"Yes, yes, it would be.  Why not give it a whirl anyway."

He took her in his arms and kissed her gently.

"Jenny," he said, 'don't go to Chicago tomorrow.  "

"You're not only rushing things, you're interfering with my livelihood.
I have to be at Marshall Fields at eight o'clock Monday morning, but
I'll be back Friday."

He looked at her, then brushed the curls back off her face.

"Call me, will you?"

"I can't promise ... If I have time, I will."

"Make time.  In fact, I'll pick you up at La Guardia."

"Well, that's a deal.  I'll call."

After he had gone, she shut the door and leaned against it.  / think I
like you a whole lot, Martin Roth.  And I'd like to know more about
what goes on inside your head.  The fascination for Jenny was not only
that she'd found Martin very attractive, but that he was a Jew.  He
represented something forbidden.  Growing up in Biloxi, Louisiana, she
hadn't seen a Jew until she went to Hunter.  Then she found them exotic
and exciting.  Until now she hadn't dated one, but Martin Roth
heightened her senses.  She went to bed wondering what it would be like
to make love to him.

Monday morning Dominic stopped by Martin's office.

"Well, how did it go, old buddy?"  Dominic said.

"What go?"

"Your date with the Queen of Sheba with Jenny, of course."

"Just as you planned.  You're always on target, Dominic."

"I take it you like her."

Martin nodded.

"She's a very nice girl."

"That's the best you can say?  She's fabulous and you know it."

"If you think she's that great, how come you were so generous?"

"Well, truth to tell, old buddy, I tried.  But I couldn't score with
that lady.  How'd you make out?"

"Let me tell you something, Dom you're beginning to sound like a
yenta."

"Sticks and stones ... what did you think of her?"

"I'll let you know if I see her again."

"I'm really shocked.  I thought by now I would have heard the sound of
the mating call.  Okay, old buddy, you don't want to talk about it, we
won't.  Just tell me one thing.  Did she turn you on?"

Martin stood for a long moment looking at Dominic and then smiled.

"Jenny McCoy would turn on the Sphinx."

"Well, thank God.  There's still hope for you, Martin, boy.  I was
beginning to worry."

In the week to come, Martin found his thoughts kept turning to Jenny.

Like a schoolboy with his first crush, he lay in bed at night
fantasizing what she would feel like.  The days dragged interminably
and it was sheer agony when Friday came and she hadn't called.  Every
time the phone rang he lunged for it.  By four o'clock he'd almost
given up hope.  Then, finally, the phone rang.  It was Jenny.

Controlling a sudden inclination to stammer, he said, "How did your
promotion go?"

"Wonderful."

"That's good.  What time does your plane arrive?"

"Well, my flight's been grounded.  I should be in, give or take a few
minutes, around seven-thirty."

"I'll be there."

Envisioning those long legs and the perfect body, he felt a stirring in
his groin and realized it would be a while before he could get up.

That hadn't happened to him since high school, but damn, it was a great
feeling.

He arrived at the airport half an hour early and was frantic with
expectation when he saw her coming down the ramp with her long elegant
stride.  His eyes took in the tawny mane of hair, the deep amber
eyes.

Composing himself as best he could, he said casually, "Welcome home.

Where would you like to go to dinner?  "

"Surprise me."

But she wasn't at all surprised when they went back to the same little
restaurant they'd gone to the night of the party.

As she sat across the table looking at Martin over the rim of her
wineglass, she admitted to herself how much she had missed him.  Martin
had not been the only one plagued by fantasies.  Jenny had fallen
asleep and woken up each day she was in Chicago thinking about him.

She knew she was going to have an affair with him.  Had he pressed,
she'd have let him carry her off to her bedroom that first night;

nothing would have prevented her from losing her virginity Yet, till
now, her discipline had less to do with her strict Catholic upbringing
than the fact that she hadn't met anybody who had aroused her to the
point where she felt it was worth risking purgatory.  Now, dammit, the
one man she wanted to give herself to had to be a Jew.  Mother Superior
obviously would have instructed Jenny McCoy to exorcise Martin Roth
from her thoughts.  And even Jenny was afraid Martin was wrong for her,
but looking at him, she suddenly didn't care.

Jenny felt a sense of unreality.  His nearness, the sound of his husky
voice, sent soft flutters through her.

"What would you like to eat?"  Martin asked, bringing her back down to
earth.

"What?  Oh ... I ... why don't you order for both of us."

He gave the order to the Italian waiter in what was apparently flawless
Italian.

She was impressed.

"I didn't understand a word, but I know your Italian must be
impeccable.  How did you learn that?"

"A little something I picked up when I was touring the war zones of
Palermo."  Martin laughed.

"The army paid for that vacation as well as the lessons in Italian."

There was something sobering in his voice that made Jenny
uncomfortable.

Then he smiled and they both began talking at once.  Jenny knew she was
acting like a sixteen-year-old on her first date.  She kept picturing
him in her arms, in her bed.  His Italian had impressed her.  It had
taken four years after leaving Biloxi for her to learn to speak English
correctly.  Now she felt intimidated by his sophistication.  She sat
with a fixed smile, answering his questions about Chicago with one-word
answers.  What a departure from the self-assured Jenny of a week ago.
Tonight she was subdued, and just seeing Martin made her feel unsure.
She was going to try like hell not to let him know it, but she knew she
wasn't in his league.  He had class written all over him and she still
thought of herself as poor white trash.  But she'd made a life, she
reminded herself.  Working since she was twelve at the local soda
fountain, ushering at the Bijou Theatre, and at fourteen moving into
Cora Belle Collingworth's anteroom so she could be at her beck and call
and wash her fanny during all those years of her supposed illness.
Illness- she was a drunk, that's all, and Jenny thought back to the
times Cora Belle had the screaming meemees and slapped her around until
she was black and blue.  She'd come a long way since then, but that's
what she'd had to go through to earn the money that got her through
Hunter College.  Well, Jenny said to herself, she might not have been
so classy then, but no one would know it now.

Remembering her long struggle restored her self-esteem, and by the time
the waiter brought dinner, she had recovered her spirits and her
voice.

"Has New York always been home for you?"  she asked.

"No.  San Francisco.  And you?"

That was always a delicate question for Jenny.

"Biloxi Louisiana as opposed to Mississippi."

"Oh?  For some reason you don't seem like someone from the South.  You
have no accent for one thing.  But even aside from that, I don't see
you as a Southern belle."

"Really?  And what is a Southern belle supposed to be like?"

"I don't know.  Pampered, spoiled?"

"You think that's only a Southern trait?  Truth is, Mr.  Roth, there's
a little Scarlett in every lady."  Jenny laughed, but Martin realized
that there was a great deal more to Jenny than appeared on the
surface.

To break the mood he asked her to dance.  After they sat down again,
Martin kept staring at her.  In spite of her sophisticated manner,
there was an air of vulnerability about Jenny.  And although nothing
about her seemed contrived, Martin sensed something studied about her
poise.

"Jenny, tell me about yourself," he asked.

"What would you like to hear?"  she said, looking totally enchanting in
the candlelight.

"I'd like to know about your childhood."

She looked at him for a long moment.

"Well," Jenny said, starting slowly, 'it's not a very original or very
pretty story.  "

"I'd still like to know, that is if you want " To tell?  I suppose I
don't mind.  Well, talk about living on the other side of the tracks,
the McCoys certainly did.  When I was a little girl, I used to sit on
the park bench in the town square and watch the elegant ladies coming
out of the Bonton Department Store.  Well, I thought they were elegant
at the time.  Anyway, they used to carry all kinds of packages out to
the black chauffeurs, and at Christmas, I used to dream about all the
things I wanted.  I'm sure it was then that I made up my mind that I
was going to be rich and I was going to be a lady.  You sure you want
to hear all this, Martin?  "

"Please, I want to know more."

"All right.  Maybe my ambition was greater than that of most kids my
age.  Even then I knew that life was what you made of it.  No matter
what the cost, you had to salvage yourself.  I suppose that's what I
did."  Suddenly she stopped.

"Why am I telling you all this?"

"Because you know I'm interested in you.  Please go on."

"Okay.  Well, my mother drank too much because she couldn't accept
herself or life.  She died five years ago, not from cirrhosis of the
liver as the death certificate stated, but by committing suicide day by
day until she finally drowned herself in the bottle."  Jenny
hesitated.

"Do you have a cigarette?"

He lit one for her.

"My father ran away from my mother when I was five.  Strange thing is,
I never really hated him.  Don't ask me why.  I just felt that he was
going to come back.  I dreamed about it, really.  Well, anyway, I saved
money from the time I was able to earn.  I'd always known that I was
going to New York, and I had a teacher in the eighth grade who became
my mentor.  She told me I could do anything I wanted with an
education.

She was the one who really inspired me.  Well, when my mother died, the
bank sold the small house we lived in and put the money in trust.  Then
took it out and went to college in New York.  So now you know the
happy saga of Jenny McCoy.  " She looked at Martin as though studying
him.

It was the honesty in her eyes that impressed him most.  It took real
courage to talk about her past, and what he felt now for Jenny was more
than just physical attraction.  He wanted to protect her, to make up
for her past.

"Well, you know about Jenny McCoy.  What about Martin Roth?"  she
said.

Since he didn't want to discuss the war, his relationship with Sylvia,
the areas of disagreement with his mother and father, it left him with
little to talk about except his happy days at Yale with Dominic.

When he'd finished, Jenny suspected there was much he was leaving
out.

"So why did you leave your father's firm?"  she said.

"I wanted to make it on my own.  Find out who I was."

"And what have you found so far?"

"That I'm happy to be here at this moment with you ... Now how would
you like to take a walk?"

"I'd like that."

The night was clear and cool and they walked without speaking.  It
seemed to Jenny that more words would be superfluous after all they'd
said tonight.  It wasn't until they reached 73rd and Lexington that
Martin broke the silence.

"I live in that building," he said.

She made no comment and they kept walking.  From time to time they
stopped to look at the displays in store windows, but much too soon she
found herself in front of her own building.

For an awkward moment she stood silently looking at him.  She wanted
Martin and knew she was going to have an affair with him, but she
wasn't ready quite yet.  She was saved from finding an excuse not to
invite him up when he asked, "Are you busy tomorrow night?"

Knowing that magic moment was yet to come, she answered with a strange
sense of relief, "No, I'm not busy."  Then she found herself being
drawn into his arms and

gently kissed.

"This has been the best evening I've had in a long time."

"Thank you, Martin, it was for me too."

"Sleep tight," he said.  Then he kissed her again and walked off.

Upstairs, she closed the door to her apartment and, with out turning on
the lights, walked into her bedroom and inexplicably began to cry.

She knew she wouldn't be able to hold out much longer, but the thought
of the confessional on Sunday terrified her.

After an almost sleepless night, Jenny was awakened from a light doze
by the phone.  As soon as she heard Martin's voice, her fears fled.

"I just wanted to say hello," he said.

"Hello."

"What would you like to do tonight?"

Go to the moon with you, she thought, but said only, "Whatever you feel
like."

I'd like to take you to bed.

"Do you like Mamma Leone's?"

/ could skip dinner.

"That sounds wonderful."

"Great.  I'll pick you up at eight."

By eight o'clock, Jenny was a nervous wreck.  In the last hour she had
changed five times and was still not sure she was wearing the right
thing, because she wasn't entirely sure what Martin liked, what kind of
woman pleased him.  For some reason she could not fathom, she settled
for a demure lilac chiffon that enhanced the delicate colouring of her
skin and made her amber eyes glow.  She was studying herself in the
mirror when the bell rang.

Afraid to ask him in, she grabbed her purse and wrap, opened the door,
stepped into the hall.  He kissed her without restraint.

"You look enchanting," Martin said.

Jenny smiled.

"You certainly know the right thing to say to a lady."

He took her by the arm and before she knew it they were sitting side by
side in the taxi.

At Mamma Leone's the maitre d' showed them to a quiet table.  Their
enormous meal went almost untouched.  Course after course went back
after just a few bites.  Jenny knew Martin was as impatient as she was
for them to be alone.  Neither of them ordered dessert.  Jenny felt as
if she were poised at the top of a roller coaster.

Outside in the cab Martin said, "There's a place on Ninety-fourth that
plays marvelous music.  Would you like to go?"

"If you like," Jenny said, looking down.

Martin hesitated.

"Well, actually I'd prefer my place."

"So would I," Jenny said honestly.  She was happy that Martin hadn't
suggested her apartment, since her landlady acted like a warden: no
men, no booze, no loud noises, no animals, no fun.

As they entered Martin's building, Jenny was conscious only of the
pressure of his warm hand on hers.  She didn't notice the doorman or
the click of their footsteps across the marble hall.  She moved as if
in a dream.

When they got upstairs she snapped back to reality and looked around
her.  Martin's apartment surprised her.  The room was in total
disarray.

There were newspapers strewn around the floor, a stale cup of coffee
and a bagel sitting on the coffee table, ashtrays full of butts.

Living with a drunken mother who had no sense of order, Jenny had grown
up with an abhorrence of clutter.  For a swift moment she was annoyed
that he hadn't bothered to tidy up, knowing he was going to bring her
home, but then she decided he was just hopelessly messy.

Martin went to the refrigerator, took out a bottle of champagne, and
brought it back with two glasses.  He pried the cork off gently, but
the fluid still spurted up like a geyser.  Quickly he filled her
glass.

She watched as the bubbles danced, then looked up at him.  Taking the
glass from her, he placed it on the table and took her in his arms.  He
kissed her gently, then with more urgency.  She thought that if this
was a dream, she didn't want to wake up.  When he sensed her response,
he leaned over and turned off the

lamp and in the darkened room he stood for a moment with his hands
cupping her face.  Then he took her into his arms and kissed her
passionately.

Without speaking he unbuttoned the back of her dress and slowly removed
her clothing.  Jenny heard herself gasp as he picked her up and laid
her on the couch.  Soon he was beside her, holding her, caressing her,
exploring her body as gently as possible.  Lying beneath him, feeling
him inside her, the pain soon became a joy.  And for him, it was a
moment of surprising sweetness, different from any other he'd known .

For a long time afterwards he continued to hold her.  No one had ever
evoked the passion and the fire that Jenny ignited.  For the first time
since the war he felt whole again.

"Oh, Jenny," he whispered, 'you're simply wonderful.  "

And she felt wonderful.  But she knew the next day was Sunday and she
would have to face her priest.  Without a word she slipped out of bed
and started to dress.

Martin was totally taken off balance.

"Hey, what do you think you're doing?"

Without looking at him she answered, "My landlady will notice if I
don't go home."

"Please don't go."  Even as he spoke, he was surprised by his words.

He'd never asked a girl to stay.  But then he'd never met anyone who
affected him like Jenny McCoy.  He only knew that he wanted her to be
with him in a way he had never wanted another human being.

"Please stay, Jenny."

She picked up her satin slip and put it on.  Martin watched her in the
light from the table lamp.  She seemed so small and fragile.

"I can't stay, Martin."

Martin got out of bed, walked over to her, and tried to take her in his
arms, but Jenny backed away.

"What's wrong' Jenny

"I feel terrible.  I guess I'm ashamed.  I must have made a fool out of
myself."

He took her gently by the arms.

"You have nothing to be ashamed of."

"Yes, I do.  A lady doesn't act the way I have tonight.

Where I come from, they'd call me a bitch in heat.  "

"For God's sake, don't say that, Jenny!  Don't do this to yourself.

Wanting to share with someone isn't wrong.  It's the most natural thing
in the world.  Don't cheapen what happened between us.  "

Jenny's problem was that she didn't see the act of love as a beautiful
and wonderful thing.  She had been conditioned to think that any woman
who gave herself to a man outside of marriage was a slut.  For the
moment she couldn't face her sense of guilt, and Martin's very presence
deepened her remorse.  With no further explanation, she finished
dressing.

"I wish you wouldn't feel this way.  I wish there was something I could
say that would tell you how wonderful I think you are."

Jenny scarcely heard as she watched Martin dress.

It was three in the morning when Martin told the cab to pull up in
front of the brownstone where she lived.  When she saw that Martin was
about to get out with her she said, "Thank you, Martin, but I prefer to
go in alone."

"Of course.  I understand," he said, kissing her.

"I'll call tomorrow."

She merely nodded and ran inside.  She felt a wave of loneliness sweep
over her as she started up the stairs.  To her horror she met her
neighbour, who was taking his dog out for a walk.  He looked at her as
though he could see the colour of her underwear.  Her face turned
crimson when he said, "Hello there.  How did Cinderella make out at the
ball tonight?"

She mumbled something under her breath and fumbled for her keys in her
purse.  Once inside she leaned against the door and angrily wiped away
her tears.  She ripped off her dress and sat on the edge of the bed,
blowing her nose and wiping her eyes.  Oh God, how can I go to mass
this morning-] She went to the bathroom and let the water run in the
tub.  She lathered herself with a lavender-scented soap, then lay back
and thought back over the evening.  A million

contradicting emotions cluttered her mind.  In spite of her self, she
was suddenly frightened Martin wouldn't call her again, especially
after the way she'd acted.

Jenny got out of the tub and dried.  herself with a towel.  Then she
put on her nightgown and got into bed.  Soon her eyes closed and she
fell asleep.  Two hours later she woke with a start, terrified she
might have slept through early mass.

Quickly, she jumped out of bed, ran to the bathroom, brushed her teeth,
slipped into a sweater and a wool skirt, and hurried down the hall.

She was breathless by the time she ran up the steps of St.  Patrick's
Cathedral.  She went through agony realizing she couldn't stand in the
line waiting for communion.  Even if she had gone to confession, she
wouldn't have been able to participate; her sin had occurred after
twelve that night.  Kneeling, she watched the priest as he took the
wafer and placed it on the tongue of the first parishioner.  She was
filled with her own need for redemption.

Stealthily she walked down the aisle and out of the cathedral.

Sighing, she walked along the street until she found a coffee shop a
few blocks away where she ordered tea and toast.  She tried reading the
Sunday paper but found that she could not concentrate.  Martin Roth
filled her thoughts.  Purgatory and salvation seemed to weigh in the
balance as she visualized him lying in his bed, his thick black hair in
disarray, his blue eyes shut in sleep.  In her fantasy she saw him
getting out of bed, showering, having coffee.  She pictured him
deciding to go out, leaving the apartment.  Leaving the bed unmade,
coffee cup un washed.

Why couldn't she stop thinking about him?  There would be another
penance to pay at confession when she would have to admit that she was
still filled with lust and passion.

She got up, leaving much of the toast and tea untouched, paid the
check, and walked for hours before returning to her apartment.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, she stared out the window.

God, how lonely Sundays were, particularly this Sunday.  Martin had
aroused feelings that she had never known.  If this wasn't love, she
wondered what the pain of the real thing would be like.  How could
anyone stand it?  Damn him.  He had penetrated all the protective walls
she'd erected since coming to New York.

Desperate to speak to someone, she tried several of her girlfriends,
but they were out.  She even called Dominic but again there was no
answer.  Close to tears, she realized that Martin hadn't even tried to
call.  Except for the morning she had been home all day.  Jenny felt
abandoned, used.  How was she going to face the rest of this evening
alone?  She sighed deeply and decided that even sitting in a darkened
movie theatre would be better.  Slowly, she got up, took her purse, and
locked the door behind her.

The moment Martin got to his apartment he put down his golf clubs and
phoned Jenny.  The line was busy.  He kept trying every few minutes,
but whoever she was talking to was certainly long-winded.  When he
finally rang through, Jenny was only a few feet down the hall, but by
the time she reached her apartment and grabbed up the receiver, the
caller had hung up.  had to be Martin, it simply had to be.  Sitting on
the edge of the bed, she debated whether or not to call him.  At the
very same moment, Martin was thinking: Damn, first it's busy, then no
answer.

She must have gone out for the evening.  Well, he was going to do the
same thing.

By the time Jenny summoned up the courage to call his number, he was in
the elevator.  It must nofhave been him after all, she decided.

Monday night Martin worked in his office until eleven o'clock, sending
out for sandwiches and coffee.  By the time he came up for air, he
realized it was too late to call Jenny.

On Tuesday he called Elmo Cosmetics only to be told that she had gone
to upstate New York and that they didn't think she'd be back until
late.  Martin called her every half

hour from six to nine-thirty, but got no answer.  Dammit, she must
have gone out on the town again, he thought sullenly.  She seems to
live a very social life.

Jenny arrived home at nine-forty just ten minutes after Martin had hung
up for the last time.

That night she slept badly.  Why hadn't he called?  Face it, Jenny, you
were a one-night stand.  She was hurt, but she vowed not to call him
under any circumstances.  She'd made a fool of herself once, that was
enough.  More than enough.  Oh, if only she had clung to the teachings
of the Church, she would still have her virginity and her pride.  Well,
if she ever went beyond a casual date with another man, she would make
him suffer as she was doing now.

On Wednesday Martin was out of town negotiating a new account, and he
became so involved with the client, he didn't get home till midnight.

Dammit, too late.  He set his alarm for six.  He was going to reach
Jenny if it killed him.  At six-fifteen, Jenny picked up the ringing
phone.

"Hello?"

Trying to keep his voice even, he said, "Hello is right ... do you know
I've been trying to get you since Sunday night?"

Jenny's hand began to shake.  All those dreadful things she had
thought.

"I'm so sorry but did you call my office?"

"Yes, I did."

"I didn't get any messages."

"I didn't leave any since every time I called you at home you never
answered.  I just thought maybe you'd be too busy to return my
calls."

"Oh, Martin, I wasn't all that busy.  In fact, I wasn't busy at all. If
only you had left a message."

Martin was about to tell her how jealous he'd been.

"I guess it was pretty foolish not to leave a message," he said.

"Are we still friends?"

She laughed nervously.

"Still friends."

"In that case, I'd like to take you to dinner tonight."

"I'd love that, too, but it will have to be a short evening."

"Why?"

"I have to go to Albany to work with a department store buyer."

"I'll pick you up at seven-thirty."

"Can we make it six?"

"Sure."

Jenny smiled as she hung up the phone.

At dinner they talked about the office, the weather, the food.  It was
as if they each felt too vulnerable to explore their real feelings.

When they finished coffee Jenny looked at her watch and said
apologetically, "I hate to end the evening, but it's almost nine."

"Can't we even go out for a walk?"  he said, annoyed.

"Well, I did say it was going to be an early evening.  I really have to
work on my presentation."

"Oh, sure.  Well, what are you doing Saturday night?"

She hesitated.

"I'll be in Bar Harbor this weekend."

"Bar Harbor!  That's a summer resort.  What would they do with make-up
there?"

She smiled.

"Buy it.  That's just the market we want to go after."

He couldn't believe what she was saying.  Maybe God was punishing him
for having lied to his mother when she asked if he was involved with
anyone.  Or maybe he was taking too much for granted, expecting her to
be at his beck and call.

"Do you really have to go?  I mean, this weekend?"  he asked, trying to
keep the hurt out of his voice.

"Of course I do, Martin.  It's my job.  And my career is as important
to me as yours is to you."

"So when did you say you were leaving?"

"I'm taking the six-thirty flight tomorrow."

He sighed.

"Oh ... well, I'll drive you to the airport."

"You're very sweet."

"That's me.  Used to be an Eagle Scout, youngest in the troop, and if
you ever stay around long enough I'll show you my good-conduct
medals."

Jenny heard the pique in his voice, but she didn't know what to do.

The next day she worked longer than expected

with a cosmetic buyer from Macy's, and by the time the session was
over she was a complete wreck.  When she looked at her watch she was
terrified that Martin would have gotten impatient and given up waiting
for her.

She got to the street just in time to see Martin driving off.  He must
have been around the block a dozen times, since it was the height of
the rush hour and no parking was permitted Anxiously glancing at her
watch, she prayed that he hadn't given up and gone home.  After what
seemed an eternity she recognized his car inching back down the
block.

When he reached the kerb in front of her she hastily opened the door
and slid in.

"Now you know why I take taxis instead of my car," he said, impatiently
grabbing the suitcase and throwing it on the back seat.

"I'm awfully sorry, Martin, but I couldn't get away from the buyer.

And I couldn't get a message to you.  "

"It's okay," he said, but his tone implied it was not and they fell
into an uncomfortable silence.

The traffic going out of Manhattan moved at a crawl and as Jenny looked
at the clock on the dashboard she asked, "Do you think we'll make
it?"

"Who knows?"  he said tightly.

"It probably takes less time to fly to Bar Harbor than to get to the
airport this time of day."

Jenny was getting more nervous in silent frustration at the slow-moving
cars and trucks.  When at last they arrived at La Guardia they drove
around and around the parking lots until they finally found a spot.
Carrying Jenny's suit case, Martin took her by the arm and the two ran
through the crowded terminal, arriving at United's waiting area just in
time to watch Jenny's plane taking off.

She looked at Martin on the verge of tears.  Martin had never been able
to stand seeing a woman cry.  He felt so sorry for her.  She seemed
incapable of using tears as a ploy;

she was exactly what she appeared to be: a lovely young woman whose
tough childhood had tended to harden her.

"Let's see if we can get a later flight," he said.

"This is the last one."

"We'll try another airline."

"Same thing.  Bar Harbor, Maine, isn't the crossroads of the world.  I
don't know what to do," she said, almost beside herself.

"My job is so important to me, Martin."

"Look, you can make a phone call tomorrow morning and explain.  This is
an act of God, Jenny."  He spoke with quiet concern, but in truth he
was not disappointed by the turn of events.

"Well, Martin, maybe I can get a flight for tomorrow morning."

"Okay, Jenny.  Let's try."  But once again his spirits were lifted.  He
knew the gods were on his side when the airline clerk said, "There are
no flights to Bar Harbor till Monday."

On the way back to Manhattan, Martin had one hand on the steering wheel
and the other on Jenny's knee.  He drove into his garage and asked, "Do
you feel hungry?"

"Not really."

"Well, what do you feel like?"

Confused, she said to herself.  As if events were conspiring to send me
back into Martin's bed.

"What do you feel like doing?"  Martin asked again.

"Well, I think I'd like to go back to my place, get rid of my suitcase,
and freshen up a bit."

"Why bother?  My apartment is across the street.  You can wash up there
and then we can decide."

He took her hand and guided her across the street and up to his
apartment.  She sat on the couch exhausted, and let her eyes wander
around the room.  She looked at the pictures of Martin's mother and
father in their large silver frames.  Jenny wondered what it must have
been like to be born into a family like that to have lived in the
apparent style that they did.  She glanced at the picture of Martin as
a little boy standing with his parents in the gardens of a luxurious
Riviera hotel.  Then she took in the disordered apartment.  Well, it
was understandable.  He must have been used to maids picking up after
him.

"What would you like?"  Martin asked, interrupting her thoughts.

"I

have champagne on ice.  "

To get me high enough to go to bed with you, she thought cynically.

"I

think I'd like sherry if you have it.  "

He poured a sherry for her and a scotch and soda for himself.

As she sat listening to the soft music on his phonograph she began to
relax.  Martin handed her the sherry, then sat down next to her and
raised his drink in a silent toast.  She sipped slowly and sighed.

"You know, the nicest thing about this place is your view."

"I know.  I love it this time of day," he said looking out at the
fading sunset.

As though speaking to herself, she said, "When I lived at home I never
ever noticed a sunset ... She took a sip of sherry.

"But this really is beautiful."

"So are you."

"Am I really?"

"Why, do you have any doubts?"

Jenny reddened and turned away.

"I don't think of myself that way.  I don't think I'm pretty at all,
despite what people tell me.  It's all very confusing."

"In what way?"

"Well, sometimes I feel like a store mannequin, not a person."

He never would have guessed the insecurity that lay behind Jenny's
charm and beauty.  Under her sophisticated facade lay the Jenny who had
arrived in New York from a broken home in Biloxi.  Poor Jenny.  He
hoped he would always be able to protect her.  Then he caught himself.
He could never have a permanent relationship.  She was Catholic.  She
came from a different world and anyway, he had just met her.

He got up abruptly and switched the soft music to some thing more
discordant.  As he sat down again he said, "You must be starving."

"I'm not, but I'm sure you are."

"A little.  Where would you like to go?"

"You decide.  But if you don't mind, I'd like to wash up first."

"Sure."  Martin sat in the living room.  The light was fading and
Martin watched, tired of the view.  He felt comfortable here.  In fact.
Jenny was shaking up his very orderly life.  He shrugged off an uneasy
premonition and reached in the closet for a clean shirt, tossed it on
the chair, and stripped off the old one.  The door to the bathroom was
open and he could see Jenny combing her magnificent head of hair.

Overwhelmed with desire, he took her in his arms.  They emerged from
the bathroom and he kissed her without restraint.  Their lips and
tongues met in breathless longing.  He undressed her quickly with an
impatient eagerness.  Then they were lying together, their bodies
clinging, and suddenly everything was forgotten except for the building
hunger of their lovemaking.  The climax left them mutually breathless.
Martin had never been caught up so completely in the act of love.  And
the difference was Jenny.  Reluctantly he rolled onto his back, then
drew her to him and put his arms around her.

"I know it's selfish of me," he said, 'but I'm happy, damned happy,
that you missed the plane.  "

"I'm not not about that.  I'll die if they don't put in that line."

They lay in silence.  Martin trailed his hand along the curves of her
body.

"How would you like Chinese food?"

She smiled.

"That would be marvelous."

"There's a terrific Chinese restaurant that delivers."  He reached
over, took the phone book.

"Here it is," he said.

"Do you like almond duck?"

"Yes, sure, but order what you like.  I'm no expert."

"You trust me?"  he asked.  They both knew he was speaking about more
than Chinese food.

"Well, I trust you, Martin, but I'm not sure I trust myself.  You know
what I'm doing is terribly wrong, don't you?"

"No, I don't know anything of the kind.  Jenny."  He hadn't spent four
years with Dominic not to understand Catholic guilt.

"Would you feel quite this wicked and guilty

if I weren't a Jew?  "

"Yes, yes, of course I would.  " But Jenny knew she wasn't telling the
whole truth.  If Martin had been Catholic they could at least be
planning marriage.  As it was, she would probably never be able to
expiate her sin.

She turned to Martin, whose words seemed to confirm her fears.

"I

don't want to feel guilty.  "

"Look, Jenny, we're just two human beings who love each other.  But
we've both been through a lot and we've each just begun to find
ourselves.  I don't know what the future will bring.  I can't make
promises, but if every time you see me I make you feel as if you're
headed straight for hell, maybe we should break this off now."  Martin
walked stiffly to the window and stood with his back to Jenny, who was
overcome with tears.

Suddenly her love for him became so all-encompassing that she didn't
care about anything else.  Not the priests, not her mother's warnings,
not even the Church itself.

"Martin, would you like me to stay?"  she asked.

He thought for a long moment, then turned and looked at her.  Of course
he wanted her to stay.  He didn't quite know what he felt for her, but
he wanted her to stay.

"Only if you want to.  Jenny," he said.

"Yes, I want to."

"You're sure?"

"I'm sure.  But may I ask you one question, Martin?  How do you feel
about my being a Catholic?"

"I feel that you're a desirable woman," he said.  He had told her she
could walk away, but he hadn't told her that if she stayed he would
marry her.

"If you feel, in all honesty, that we can be friends as well as lovers,
and just try to take what the other has to give, I think we could make
it.  Jenny.  Is that possible for you?"

The more she thought about it the more she believed that Martin's
feelings were deeper for her than he realized.  It wasn't the things
he'd said, but the things he had left unsaid.  If he had wanted to, he
could have sent her away.  Maybe if she stayed he would accept her
beliefs.  Certainly he seemed less of a Jew than she was a Catholic.
She was the one who felt the conflict.  Like most women.  Jenny was
convinced love could conquer all.

She looked across the room at Martin and said, "Do you think you could
get my suitcase?"

He hesitated only for a moment.

"Sure.  I'll have one of the doormen come up and get the car keys."

While they waited, Martin put on his robe.  When he heard the doorbell
ring, he opened and handed the doorman his keys with the
instructions.

Then he went into the kitchen for the champagne.

"What shall we drink to, beautiful Jenny?"

"To friends?"

"Yes, and lovers too."

The next two days were filled with small pleasures.  Jenny and Martin
did all the ordinary things people do on weekends in the city, but just
being together made everything exciting.  They bicycled through Central
Park, stopping for hot dogs and ice cream cones.  They rolled on the
grass like two silly children.  They strolled through the Museum of
Modern Art, wandered down Fifth Avenue to the Public Library, and raced
each other up the steps, collapsing at the top, arms around each other,
laughing and kissing at the same time.  They walked down the crooked
streets of Greenwich Village.  The whole city seemed to take on a new
dimension.

On Saturday evening they shopped at an Italian grocery and Jenny
cooked.  Then they went to bed and Jenny shut out all thoughts of
confession and sin.  On Sunday she fixed breakfast while Martin
showered.  Setting the breakfast tray on the coffee table, she called
to him, "Come and get it while it's hot."

He poked his head out of the bathroom and grinned through the lather on
his face.

"It will always be hot," he assured her.

She laughed.

"The scrambled eggs, you idiot."

When he returned from the bathroom, he slid into the

bed, pulling the sheet up to his naked waist, and Jenny placed the
tray over his knees.  Patting her side of the bed, he said, "Boy, to
look at you one wouldn't believe you could boil water."

"It just goes to show you can never judge a cook by its cover."

"Well, you're a genius.  That pasta last night was fantastic No
kidding, a work of art."

"I have many hidden talents."

"It's okay to keep them hidden, but not from me."  He reached over to
draw off her robe and she settled next to him, knowing that when it was
over it would be too late for her to go to mass.  Afterwards he put the
tray on the floor and they read the Sunday Times.  It seems so natural,
as if we were married.  Jenny thought, and suddenly she wanted to marry
Martin more than anything in the world.  She knew the relationship was
getting stronger, and she knew instinctively that he was more involved
than he had planned.  The physical part was fantastic feeling his lean,
taut body next to hers was ecstasy, but there was so much more to the
relationship than that.

Even now, as they lay in each other's arms with the Times strewn on the
floor and the sheets rumpled at the bottom of the bed, she wanted to
know more about his childhood.  She listened as he told her about
growing up with a wonderful but overly protective mother.  She thought
about the irony of it all.  Martin's mother being overly protective and
hers not giving a damn.

"Martin," she said, 'remember the first night we met?  I would never
have thought then that I would have fallen in love with you.  But I
have.  "

She waited for his answer.  As he looked at her and brushed her hair
back against the pillow, fanning it about her head, he smiled with
pleasure at the sight of her.  That was his answer, and right now it
was enough for her.

After Martin drove her back to her apartment that evening, she stood in
the centre of her room, feeling suddenly sad and alone.  Lovers, she
reminded herself, didn't live together like married people.  But,
dammit, it wasn't going to be this way forever.  Martin was going to
marry her.  She knew it.  He simply had to.  She took her mauve silk
robe out of her suitcase and hung it in the closet.  She wondered what
Martin was doing at that moment.  It was only nine-thirty.  Impulsively
she picked up the phone but immediately put it down again.  Instead,
she got into the shower and washed her hair, scrubbing her scalp until
it hurt.

Chapter Eleven

On Monday night Martin called, asked her how her day had gone.  He
didn't mention the weekend.  It was almost as though he'd forgotten
those two wonderful days.  If he'd just said, "I haven't been able to
get you out of my mind."  But he didn't.  Take what you can, Jenny, she
reminded herself.  You've been doing that all your life.

Tuesday she had dinner with him, and lunch on Wednesday and-dinner at
his apartment on Thursday.  Then Friday Martin drove her to the airport
for her rescheduled meeting in Bar Harbor.

As the plane taxied down the runway for takeoff Jenny wondered how
Martin would spend his time without her.  Would he miss her?  Would he
take anyone else out?  If Jenny could have read Martin's thoughts, she
wpuld have laughed at her own anxious ones.

Martin watched as Jenny boarded the plane and then waited for the
takeoff.  Only when the plane had streaked into the sky did he turn and
slowly walk to his car.  He missed her already, more than he wanted
to.

In fact, more than he'd ever missed anyone.  Back in his apartment,
he

sat staring out into the dark.

You can't pretend any longer, he thought.  Face it.  Jenny's gotten
under your skin and you know now it's much more than infatuation.

You've fallen in love with her.  Now where do you go from here?  You
can't possibly take her home to meet your family.  Nothing makes one
goddamn bit of sense, because you can't have her and have your family
too.

He reached for the phone and called Dominic.

"It's me, Dom.  Jesus, I'm glad you're home."

"What's up, old buddy?"

"Are you doing anything now?"

"What did you have in mind?  A gin game, billiards, a broad?"

"I've really got to talk to you, Dom."

"Okay, give me an hour.  Meet me at eight-thirty at Harry's Bar."

By the time Dominic arrived, around nine-thirty, Martin had already
gotten down to some very serious drinking.

"What the hell took you so long?"  he asked as Dominic slid into the
booth.

"Well, I had a few little loose ends to tidy up.  Don't get nervous,
everything will be all right.  Okay, old buddy, I'm buying."  Looking
at the waiter he said; "Irish whiskey and a scotch and soda."

As the two men picked up their glasses, Dominic asked, "Okay?"

"I've got a problem."

In spite of the pain in Martin's eyes, Dominic tried to keep it
light.

"If it's about Jenny, she's only going to be gone for the weekend."

Martin took a long swallow of scotch.

"That's not my problem."

"What then?"

"I'm in love with Jenny."

Dominic nodded.

"That is a problem."

"I don't know what to do about it, Dom.  When I thought it was only
physical, it was okay, but I know it's much more than that.  And the
trouble is she loves me too.  I don't want to hurt her and yet I can't
ever marry her.  What should I do, Dominic?"

This time Dominic looked upset.  He felt responsible for having brought
them together.

"It's never easy when you love someone, but it's just as easy to drown
in three feet of water as it is in ten.  Break it off now.  Jesus, I'm
really sorry about this, Martin."

"So am I, because, dammit, I can't tell you how much knowing her has
meant to me.  I just don't know how to tell her."

It was after one when Martin got home.  He woke the next morning with a
hangover, but spent the day visiting the places they had seen the
weekend before.  Finally he gave up and went home.  He picked up
Chinese food on the way, but remembering the dinner he and Jenny had
shared, found he had no appetite.  He took the cartons out to the
incinerator and threw them down the chute, went back into the living
room, and poured himself a stiff drink.  Goddammit, it was going to be
tough to let Jenny go.  He tossed back the drink and poured another.
Well, booze helped.  Didn't have to think, didn't have to feel.  With a
half-empty bottle at his side, he passed out on the living room sofa.

He didn't awaken until early Sunday afternoon.  His head felt like a
balloon, and every muscle in his body ached.  He'd never really gotten
drunk before.

When he looked at himself in the bathroom mirror, he saw he looked as
bad as he felt.  I'd better pull myself together, he thought, opening
the medicine chest and reaching for a bottle ofeyedrops.  He had to
drive out to the airport and pick Jenny up at six-thirty.

He made himself a mug of coffee, brought it into the living room, and
sat down.  The room was a mess.  There was a large, wet stain on the
rug where his glass had fallen.  It must have dropped out of his hand
when he passed out.  The ashtray was overflowing with cigarette butts.
A wonder he hadn't set the place on fire.  Well, one shouldn't smoke
when one's drunk and one mustn't fall in love with a girl who isn't the
right religion.

As he drove to the airport he rehearsed ways of telling her they
should break up.  But the very thought almost destroyed him.  Maybe
they could stay together for a while.  He would take care of her, give
her everything she needed, look after her in every way but one.
According to her religion he would endanger her immortal soul, because
he could not offer her marriage.  No, it was impossible.  Better that
they end it before they were more deeply hurt.  One day he would
eventually marry and have children and so would Jenny.  Yet, when he
saw her walking down the steps from the plane, he wondered how he would
summon the courage to tell her.  Losing Jenny would break his heart.

As they drove into the city, Jenny sensed something was wrong, terribly
wrong, but she was afraid to ask questions.  As soon as they reached
his apartment Martin went to the refrigerator and took out a bottle of
champagne.  When he came back to the living room, he found Jenny
emptying the ashtrays.  She smiled at him.

"The one virtue you don't have, Martin, is neatness."

He looked at her.

"I know.  But it's only one of my minor vices."

The sound of his voice was strangely foreboding.  Picking up the
newspapers, she said quietly, I think I will have some champagne.  " He
handed her the glass and sat across from her.

"Did you miss me, Martin?"  she asked.

"Terribly.  I never felt anything like it before."

For a moment she was confused.

"And yet you didn't seem very happy to see me.  What's bothering you,
Martin?"

He looked at her, hating himself for what he was about to say.

"Jenny, I don't quite know how to put this, and God only knows I don't
want to hurt you.  I was wrong when I said I thought things would work
out.

I've fallen in love with you and that's what makes the difference.  I
want to marry you and I can't.  The end of our story was written three
thousand years ago in Jerusalem.  I'm a Jew and nothing will ever
change that.  I can't change my religion or give up my family.  If we
stay together you'll learn to hate me.  "

Jenny sat in a state of shock.  When she left on Friday, Martin had
given no indication that he was going to break off with her.

"I don't understand any of this," Jenny just "What happened between the
time I left and now?"

"I found myself missing you far too much.  I realize how involved we we
Become.  Believe me, this may seem cruel, but one day you'll " Thank
you?  " she cried.

"You're a hypocrite, Martin.  It was fine when I told you I loved you
even though it was a sin according to my God.

But when you realized you had the same feelings for me, you weren't so
eager to have that loving relationship.  What you're really saying is
that as long as you didn't love me, you didn't mind sleeping with me.

I hate you!  " she screamed.  Jenny grabbed her coat and ran out of the
apartment.

Her words left Martin frozen.  By the time he pulled himself together
and went to the elevator.  Jenny was gone.  He hoped he'd find her
waiting for a taxi, but when he opened the door, she was nowhere in
sight.  He ran a few blocks and then hailed a cab.  It was almost ten
o'clock by the time he arrived at Jenny's apartment.  He ran up the
stairs and rang the bell.  When there was no answer, he knocked and
spoke through the closed door.

"Jenny, please open up.  Please, I have to talk to you."  She didn't
answer, but after he shouted a few more times the landlady came out of
her apartment and protested.

"You can't come barging in here banging on doors.  Who do you think you
are?"

Martin interrupted her.

"I don't think Miss McCoy's well.  Would you be kind enough to open the
door?"  The landlady refused until Martin took ten dollars from his
wallet.  Then she reconsidered.  She went in with Martin and waited,
but it took very little time to realize Jenny hadn't been home.  Beside
himself with worry, he went home and began telephoning her apartment
every ten minutes.  By

three o'clock in the morning, still with no answer, he was frantic.

She probably wanted to avoid him, knowing he might follow her home.

But where else could she have gone?  If she had called Dominic she
would have discovered that he was away until the next day.  Could she
have gone to a hotel?  Fearfully he looked through the directory and
called the most likely possibilities.  The answers at the Plaza, the
St.  Regis and the Waldorf were all the same.  No Jennifer McCoy
registered.

He could have tried more, but what was the use?  New York had a million
hotels.  He sat on the bed and dropped his head into his hands.  Why
had he ever thought it would be easier breaking up with Jenny now than
later?  He couldn't stop worrying.  It was freezing cold outside. Maybe
she was hurt.

There were only two places left to call: the police or the hospitals.

When he was told no Jenny McCoy had been found, he became even more
frightened.  Savagely, he grabbed the phone and called Jenny's
landlady.  When she told him Jenny still hadn't returned, he grabbed
his coat and ran from the room.

After leaving Martin, Jenny had run for blocks on the icy pavement,
oblivious to the blinding tears and the cold that penetrated her coat
and her thin pumps.  The night air was bitterly cold, but she hardly
noticed.  She only wanted to run away from the apartment, Martin, and
her emotions.  Finally, exhausted, she huddled in a doorway, leaning
against the wall, fighting for breath.  Then she slid down and sat on
the damp concrete.

Now there were no more tears, only the numbing realization that it was
over.  She had blinded herself with the hope that one day he would want
her so badly that he would give up his religion, a faith that seemed to
serve no spiritual purpose in his life.  He said he rarely went to
temple and was surprised when she said she attended church every
week.

Yet she was prepared to risk excommunication to be with Martin.  Her
religion meant so much to her, but she was willing to leave the Church
if only they could marry.  It was, she felt, the only way she could
justify her affair with Martin.  But in her heart hadn't she always
known it would end this way?  In fact, she was more to blame than he.
Wanting him so much, she had refused to face reality.

Closing her eyes, she tried to shut out the world.  The cold had made
her drowsy.  Sleep.  Maybe she could sleep forever.

She had no idea how much time had passed when she was wakened by a pair
of hungry dogs trying to nuzzle past her to some garbage cans.

Unsteadily, she got up and walked along the empty streets, barely able
to lift her arm to flag a taxi.  She remembered little of the ride home
or how she got up to her room.

She crawled under the covers, shivering with cold.  She could not get
warm.  In a little while she lost consciousness.

Hours later, when Jenny opened her eyes, everything was white was she
still indoors?  She had no idea where she was, and didn't care.  All
she wanted to do was go back to sleep.

She heard a voice her father's, no, her father had abandoned her .  as
Martin had.  The voice persisted; it couldn't be Martin.  He existed
now only in her memory.  She closed out his image and fell into deep
sleep.

Martin walked back to the hospital waiting room where he and Dominic
had spent most of the last two days.  Looking at his ravaged face,
Dominic wished he knew how to help his friend.  But he hadn't been able
to reach Martin, not since Martin had burst into his apartment early
Monday morning, beside himself with fear and grief.

For the first time since their days at Yale, Dominic's sense of
protectiveness was aroused as his friend described his wretched quarrel
with Jenny.  Despite all the material things Martin's parents had
showered on him, they had left him singularly ill-equipped to handle
the ugliness of everyday living.

"Let me fix you some hot coffee," was all Dominic said.

As Martin accepted the cup his hand shook.

"What do

you think happened to her?  "

"I wish to God I knew.  I feel so damn helpless," Martin said.

"I

walked the streets knowing I'd never find her.  Finally I called the
Police.  I don't know what to do now.  "

"Well, we'll keep trying.  We'll call Mrs.  Bloomer every hour."

Martin wasn't listening.  He stared up at the ceiling.

"I'm a fool.

She's the best thing that's ever happened to me and I sent her away.
"

"Well, at least now you recognize the depth of your feelings.  That
should mean something."

"How can it when for all I know I may never see her again?"

They sat in silence.  Dominic occasionally tried to get his friend to
eat, but without success.  Every hour one of them would dial Jenny's
landlady but there was no answer.

Dominic took the day off from work and told Martin to do the same.

Finally, at four-thirty in the afternoon, Mrs.  Bloomer said she'd
heard Jenny come in.

When they reached her room they found her un conscious.  Martin sat on
the edge of the bed and held her cold hands while Dominic called an
ambulance.

In the two days that followed, Martin had refused to leave the
hospital.  Jenny didn't regain consciousness until Wednesday.  She was
out of the oxygen tent and her vital signs had improved.

When a nurse came to the waiting room to tell Martin the good news, he
insisted Dominic be the first to see her.

"Tell her I'm sorry.  Beg her to see me," Martin said, urging his
friend out the door.

"Thank you for coming.  How did you know where I was?"  Jenny asked
when she saw Dominic's face.

"Because I'm a super sleuth.  Why are you thanking me?  That's what
friends are for."

With tears in her eyes, she said, "I love you, Dominic."

"And I love you, baby.  The doctor says you're coming along great.  Be
as good as new in a few days," Dominic hoped he sounded more
convincing than he felt.

"How long have I been here?"

"Three days."

"I guess I just fell apart.  When Martin ... when Martin said ... Oh,
Dominic, I guess I'm not very good at facing life.  Do you think I'll
ever grow up?"

"Of course you will.  But now let me do the talking.  You haven't lost
Martin.  He was the one who found you.  He rode in the ambulance with
you and hasn't left the hospital since.  Look, you know I'm the world's
greatest cynic, but Martin is head over heels in love with you."

She looked at him for a long moment.

"When you love someone, you don't try and send them away.  Even for
their own good."

"Jenny, if you could have seen him Monday morning when he came to my
apartment.  He was out of his mind with grief.  He knows he's hurt
you.

But he's desperate to see you.  Can I tell him to come in?  "

Jenny wondered if she should risk it.  In his fashion maybe Martin did
love her.  Maybe she had expected too much.

"Jenny, he's waiting outside," Dominic continued.

"What should I tell him?"

"Before I answer that, let me ask you something.  Do you think he will
ever be able to give up his religion and marry me?"

Dominic thought carefully.

"Time is a wonderful thing.  Maybe if you both just let things evolve
there will be a happy ending.  Take that chance.  Jenny.  Martin loves
you.  Now what shall I tell him?"

"To come in."

When Martin sat by her bed, she was as shocked by his appearance as he
had been by hers.  There was no question about his suffering.  He was
gaunt and haggard.

Looking at her, Martin blamed himself.  / brought her to this, he
thought.  There were dark circles under her eyes, and her once shiny
hair hung dull and limp.  For a few minutes he was unable to speak.

Finally, he said huskily, "I love you, Jenny.  I'm sorry it took this
to make me realize, but I do love you.  Do you think we could " Start
again?  I don't think so, Martin.  Because there just isn't any place
for our love to go.  I can't just move in with you.  It's a sin .  Her
voice trailed off.

"God, Jenny.  I know I've hurt you, but just give me the chance to show
you."

She was so tired, so weary.

"We'll talk about it when I'm well.  When we both feel less emotional.
It's been a bad time."

He got up and kissed her.

"I love you.  Jenny.  I've never said that to anyone before except you.
At least know that.  I love you.  Just give me some hope that you'll "
Not today.  "

He walked out of the room to find Dominic.

"I don't think she's ever going to forgive me."

"Did she say so?"

"No, but she didn't say she would."

"Look Jenny's been hurt and she's very frightened.  If you really want
her, you're going to have to fight for her."

"How do I do that?"

"By making up your mind that you can't have the best of all possible
worlds.  You're going to have to make compromises, old buddy.  That's
what life's all about.  You can't please her and your parents."

"You mean I should just go ahead and marry her?"

"That's right.  It's the only fair thing to do."

Martin swallowed hard.

"Jesus, there has never been any intermarriage in my family.  This
would kill my folks."

"Don't be silly, Martin.  I doubt if your mother or father would be
that affected.  They'd be unhappy for a while they were unhappy you
came to New York, but they got over it and knowing that you love Jenny,
they would accept her in time.  Martin, we talked about this once
before.  The decision is yours."

"You're right," Martin said.

"And I wouldn't have to convert just promise that if we have kids,
they'd be raised Catholic."

But as he walked down the hospital corridor with Dominic he had an
uneasy sense that nothing would be as easy as it sounded.

Chapter Twelve

Each day found Jenny just a little stronger.  Martin visited her
frequently, often twice a day.  He filled her room with flowers and had
special food sent.  Every day he bought her little presents and silly
toys to make her laugh.

When she was able to get out of bed, she walked down the hall on his
arm.  She was finally beginning to look a little more like herself, and
Martin felt it was safe to start making plans.

"Jenny, I know you haven't said a word about us, but that's all I've
thought about.  I want to live with you.  I want us to plan on getting
married."

She hesitated, then said, "How would that work for us, Martin?  We
haven't solved anything.  Have you spoken to your family about this?"

His silence gave her the answer.

"You see, that's just the problem, Martin.  Being sick has given me a
lot of time to think.  Unless your family can accept me, Jenny McCoy,
Catholic, I could never marry you."

"My God, don't say that!  I know they will accept you.  They'll have
to.

But it may take time.  Believe me.  Jenny, everything will work out.
"

"I really don't know, Martin," Jenny said.

"I'm not sure."

"Well, I am if you're willing to give it a chance."  He took her hand
and held it gently.

"I leased an apartment in a

building on Central Park West with a marvelous view.  I bought
furniture, and when I told them my bride had been ill, they promised
immediate delivery.  The super even arranged to have it painted in two
days.  I know you're going to love it.  " He smiled.

"Incidentally, I hired a housekeeper so you won't have to pick up after
me."

When Jenny was released from the hospital, she agreed to move in with
Martin at least until she felt stronger.  She really had no one else to
look after her and she was still too weak to resist.  Besides, she knew
she loved him.

She was very quiet on the ride home.  Martin's apartment turned out to
be everything he promised.  The view was lovely and the rooms large,
but she was startled to see how masculine the furnishings appeared.

The walls of the living room were a deep blue.  A wild piece of
sculpture a sunburst of jagged metal strips fused together at different
points hung over the leather sofa that flanked one wall, and an
enormous glass coffee table sat on a thick copper carpet.  Two large
chairs in plaid corduroy sat like bookends on either side of the
fireplace.

Martin walked out onto the balcony with two glasses of champagne and
said, "Here's to us and to a new beginning."

Jenny accepted the glass but she couldn't meet Martin's eyes.

As she lay next to him that first night, she did feel that she had come
home.  He did not press her to make love, indicating that he would wait
until she felt stronger.  For the next two weeks he cared for her
patiently.  Then one Friday she dismissed the housekeeper early,
deciding to make dinner to surprise him.  The following week she
intended to go back to work and would have less time.

She laughed as she "planned the menu.  She was going to have Louisiana
food: seafood gumbo, stuffed artichoke with crab, scalloped potatoes,
green beans with slivered almonds, pecan pie.  If she had anything to
thank Cora Belle Collingsworth for, it was the times she had spent
learning to cook in her kitchen.  Jenny remembered the red bandanna
that Willie May wore around her head and the white starched apron that
she tied around her plump body.

Martin Had called several times to tell her not to overdo it, but her
efforts had left her feeling more energetic and optimistic than she had
for a very long time.  By the end of the day, when she heard Martin's
key in the latch and ran to greet him, she didn't feel the least bit
tired.

"God, you smell delicious," he said as he kissed her.

She took him by the hand and led him to his favourite chair.

"Let's have a drink."

"Great."

"Let me fix it this time, okay?"

"Fine."  She looked radiant tonight, he thought.

As she handed him his drink and seated herself on the ottoman by his
chair, he glanced into the dining room, where the table was set with
crystal candle holders and a centrepiece of pink roses.

"I hope you haven't tired yourself."

"You know I'm almost happiest when I'm cooking," Jenny said.

"Sometimes I think I should have gone into haute cuisine instead of
cosmetics."

"Is the kitchen the only room where you can be happy?"

"Don't be devious."

But he was pleased to note that she was smiling.

After dinner Jenny sat gazing at Martin across the table.  She had
never loved him so much.  Then, with a shadow of uncertainty in her
voice she said, "Martin, I want so much to marry you.  You're the only
man I'll ever love.  Now and for always."

Martin took her in his arms.

"Oh my dear, sweet Jenny.  It's been such a tough road for us."  And
will continue to be, he couldn't help thinking.  There was still the
ordeal of confronting his parents, but he shoved the thought aside, not
wanting to spoil the moment.

There was an extra tenderness in their lovemaking that night as if all
they had suffered had only brought them

closer.  With each kiss, each caress, Martin found himself knowing
that Jenny was the most important person in his life.

The next morning at breakfast Martin watched as Jenny broke his
soft-boiled egg in the cup, buttered his toast, and poured his
coffee.

She looked irresistible in her violet taffeta dressing gown.  He knew
the moment had come; he would have to go West and see his parents.  The
thought of that painful meeting must have showed in his face, for Jenny
looked up from her plate and said, "What's wrong, Martin?"

"Not a thing."

But she persisted.

"I know you.  Something's bothering you."

"Well," he sighed, "I've thought about this very carefully.  I'm going
to San Francisco as soon as I can make a reservation."

Jenny caught her breath.  She had no doubt that Martin's decision was
anything but an act of commitment, but still the idea terrified her.

He was so close to his family.  What if once he left her, they forced
him to change his mind?  What if he never came back to her?  Yet she
knew he had to go.  It was the only way.

"How long do you think you'll be gone?"

"About a week.  I haven't seen them since I came to New York.  But
you're not to worry.  You must believe me.  Everything will work
out."

"I do believe you," she said.  That much was true, but when she heard
Martin make his reservation with United Airlines for a five o'clock
flight that afternoon her heart sank.  As she packed Martin's suitcase,
she wondered if she should go with him.  Not to see his parents, but to
give him, perhaps, the moral support he needed.  Then she realized that
if she did go, it would be more to quiet her own fears than to give
Martin support.

As they stood at the airport terminal, Martin said, "I'll call you
every night, darling, and don't forget if you need anything, call
Dominic.  I wish you would have allowed him to come to the airport
with us.  I hate the idea of you going back alone."

With all the courage she could summon, she said, "I didn't want anyone
to share this moment with us.  Martin, you will take care of
yourself."

"Yes, darling, and you too.  I'll think about you every second I'm
gone."

Finally, in spite of herself, she felt the tears filling her eyes.

"It will be all right, won't it, Martin?"

He nodded.

"Yes, darling.  You must believe that.  Just trust me."

"Ido ... I do ... " She wanted so badly to believe that.

When the boarding call came she looked at Martin, wanting to memorize
his features.  She had the feeling that this was as bad as seeing
someone off to war: she might never see him again.

Sitting in the first-class cabin miles above the earth, Martin
considered the different ways he could approach his parents.  The task
would be harder than Jenny's worst fears.  He had already disappointed
his family once: he had left his father's firm, choosing to live three
thousand miles away.  Every phone call filled him with guilt when his
mother would conclude their talk with, "Martin, when are you coming
home?  We miss you so ... You should have come to your cousin Ronald'^
wedding.  Sylvia was there ... She's back from London.  She's quite
beautiful ... Martin's answers were always apologetic, and when he hung
up it was hours before the thought of his mother's reproachful gaze
stopped haunting him.

It was ten hours before Martin's plane touched down in San Francisco.

He hoped that because of the late arrival time his parents would not
come to the airport, but they were waiting as he cleared the ramp.  As
he hugged them both he knew he would have to save his news for the next
day.

A radiant Bess took his arm as they walked to the car.

"Oh, Martin, we're so grateful you're home."

The next morning Martin slept late.  He spent the afternoon trying to
find a chance to catch his father alone, but events or his own faint
heart intervened.  In the evening, in addition to his uncles and aunts,
Bess had invited Sylvia and her parents.  Sylvia had, if possible,
grown even more lovely, but Martin had trouble concentrating on what
she was saying.  A look in her eyes told him she knew he was suffering,
and she made every attempt to steer the conversation away from him
since he so obviously wished to be silent.

Soon after they left the table for the living room, Martin glanced at
his watch and said, "I'm really sorry to be so tired, but that flight
was exhausting.  If everyone would just excuse me ... They all assured
him it was fine that he go to bed.

"Of course we understand ... " Those flights are amazing, no wonder you
need to get some sleep .  "Imagine crossing the country in ten hours
Martin hastened upstairs followed by those murmurs of concern for his
fatigue.  Once in his room he sat down at the desk and picked up the
phone.

His heart leaped when he heard Jenny's voice but the conversation was
stilted.  Each was afraid to reveal their fears, which left them saying
things they thought would please each other .  "I know everything is
fine, dear ... " Oh yes, Martin, I had a wonderful evening with
Dominic.  "

"The flight?  Wonderful ... Of course I miss you terribly, but I'll be
back before you know it."  Just bits of truths and half-truths.

When Jenny hung up it was with the same fears that she had experienced
when she returned from the airport.  Too depressed to eat, she had
poured herself a drink and let herself give in to tears.  She had not
actually called Dominic.  Instead she had just sipped several drinks
until she had been able to fall asleep.

It was three days before Martin could mention the real 136 reason for
his visit to his father, and in the end it was his father who created
the opening.  Martin had spent the day alone driving down the coast,
and when he came home Williams, the butler, stopped him on the
stairs.

"Your father has asked to see you in his study."

Martin turned.

"Thank you, Williams."

Julian was seated in his favourite leather chair to one side of the
Georgian fireplace.

"Sit down, Martin," he said, shocked anew by his son's drawn
appearance.

Martin seated himself across from his father and gazed into the fire.

Julian got up and poured two brandies, handing one to Martin.

"Son, we have to talk.  Something's obviously disturbing you.  You must
tell me what it is."

Martin remained silent.

"Whatever it is, Martin, I'll try and understand.  I have before."

But Martin couldn't find the courage to speak.

"I'm going to be perfectly frank with you," Julian said.

"Even though I was hurt when you left the firm and went to New York, I
realized that the war had changed you, that you needed time to find
yourself.

But I thought it would be a good experience for you and instead you
come home looking worse than when you returned from Germany.  Your
mother is beside herself.  We will do anything you wish.  Surely you
can confide in us.  "

Running his hands through his thick black hair, Martin finally blurted
out the truth.

"I've fallen in love, but there are problems."

Julian hesitated.

"Is she going to have your child?"

"I wish she were; it might be simpler."

"Is she in love with you?"

"Yes."

"But you haven't known one another, I would imagine, for very long."

"Is time the barometer?  I've known Sylvia all my life."

"Forgive me, Martin, but I thought love was something that grew.  Of
course, I come from a different generation."

"I don't think love has changed so much."

"I suppose you're right, Martin.  But the point is, what do you plan
to do about this woman?"

The lump in Martin's throat was almost too painful to swallow when he
said, "Marry her."

"Then why have you kept it a secret?"

"Because she's Catholic."

Julian slumped down in his chair.

"You're right.  That is a problem.

But you were also right when you said love has not changed so much from
my generation to yours .  And then he astonished his son by explaining
that when he was Martin's age he too had fallen in love with the wrong
girl.

"I too was completely in love ... ludicrous when I think back upon it
now.  But at the time, I was inconsolable.

Marriage was out of the question.  She would never be accepted.  Ah,
Martin, we have so much, but we can't always have what we want.

"I have my father to thank.  God rest his soul, for setting me
straight.  Of course, I married your mother, and thank God I did.  She
belonged, she was right, and she fitted into my world.  I knew she was
the perfect woman to become the mother of my children."  Julian got up
and poured another brandy.

"Martin, would you believe it, I can scarcely remember the girl's face.
Quite accidentally I ran into this woman a few years ago and I would
have passed her by had she not called out my name.  We spoke, but it
was like talking to a stranger.  So I know what you're going through,
Martin.  I also know that it will pass.  Can't you please believe that
Sylvia is so right for you?  If you were to marry, your affection for
her could turn into love.  The kind that I feel for your mother.  There
will be children, and before you know it, this other woman will fade
from your memory."

"You're wrong.  Father.  Our stories are not parallel.  I can't marry
Sylvia just because she comes from the right background.  And I will
not forget Jenny's face.  That's her name.  Jenny.  I won't ever stop
loving her.  Father, you must believe me.  I love this girl more than
anything in the world."

"Well," Julian sighed, putting down his drink, 'what is it you want me
to do?  "

"Give me your blessing."

He looked at Martin, filled with pain.  He would do almost anything in
the world for his son.  Almost.

"You know what this will do to your mother, don't you?"

Struggling with his feelings, Martin answered, "I know she'll be
disappointed, but what should I do?  Somebody's happiness has to be
sacrificed, sad as that may be.  In all honesty, Dad, should it be
mine?  The worst thing that I'm doing is marrying a girl that I love.

It isn't her fault that she's not Jewish.  I'm only asking you to
please accept her.  "

"That's asking a lot, Martin.  I think we should go upstairs and see
your mother.  She isn't feeling well herself, you know.  I don't mind
telling you that these last few days have been a strain for her, not
knowing what was wrong with you."

If Martin could find anything to console himself it was that he no
longer had to go on keeping Jenny a secret.  Upstairs his father
hesitated a moment, gathering his courage before knocking on Bess's
door.

"Is that you, Julian?  Come in."

When they entered, Bess was lying on a chaise longue with a cold cloth
on her forehead.

"I'm sorry you're not feeling well.  Mother," Martin said.

"It's just a headache, darling.  I'm fine.  In fact, I was about to get
up for dinner."  Then she looked at Julian's white face and guessed
they had come to tell her bad news.

"You've wanted to tell me something, haven't you, Martin?"

Slowly he answered.

"Yes, and I hope and pray that you will understand."  Then he told his
mother what he'd just told Julian about Jenny.

Her cry seared him like a knife.

"How could you have deceived us so?

Kept this .  this woman a secret.  Good God, Martin, have you no
respect?  And you want me to give you my blessings?  Never!  " she
screamed.

"I will never accept her.  This is the first time in our family that
anyone

has intermarried, and for you of all people to bring this disgrace
upon us.  "

"Mother," Martin pleaded.

"You don't know what you're saying.  You haven't even met her.  She
can't help being " I don't care what she is.  You can stop this before
you break all our hearts.  She's bewitched you.  " Tears ran down
Bess's cheeks.

"Why couldn't you love Sylvia?  Why?  She's worth " I know what she's
worth.  Mother, but so is Jenny.  Please meet her.

Please.  "

"Never, Martin."  She slumped back down on her pillows.

Julian looked at Martin and whispered, "Let me speak to your mother."

Feeling like a pariah, Martin walked out of the room and closed the
door behind him.

Julian sat beside Bess, wiped her tears, and took her hand.

"Don't cry, darling.  And listen to me, Bess.  Even if Martin is a man
possessed and sometimes love can do that to you he is still our son. Be
wise, my dear.  If we reject Martin now we will end up pushing him
closer to this woman.  He hasn't married her yet, so let us pray that
he comes to his senses.  But if he does marry her and we do not accept
her, we will lose him.

Through her swollen lids, she looked at Julian.

"Do you really expect me to play along like that?  I can't do it,
Julian not even for Martin."

Julian's feelings were the same as Bess's, but he pushed them aside.

"You do not have to love her, Bess, but you must learn to tolerate her
if she becomes Martin's wife.  Do it now so that he can never hate you
for standing in his way.  I will support your decision, but I think my
advice is correct."

Bess wept softly.

"And what if Martin has children?  They will be Catholic.  How can I
bear that?"

"Yes.  But no matter what happens, we must not lose our only child.

He's all we have.  "

Bess lay silent for what seemed an eternity, then said quietly, "All
right, Julian.  Have Martin come in."

"Your mother and I give you our blessings," Julian Aa!  ^ when he
found Martin standing in the hall.

"Go in, sV6 ^ like to see you."

Filled with contrition, Martin said, "Thank you, Mott^' Is it all right
for me to have Jenny come out?  I want yo*1 get to know her."

Julian knew Bess was not ready for such a meeting, v01 yet, Martin," he
said.

Martin was prepared for that answer.  It was asking ^ of at one time.

At that moment it was enough just to have^ is parents accept the
concept of Jenny.

Chapter Thirteen

Martin flew back to New York, pleased with his pa^19!  victory and
hoping that Jenny would understand that^.  is parents had done the best
they could for the time be "^ Later when they met and came to know
Jenny he knew f ^ could not help but love her.  His heart leaped when
the plane landed and he saw Jenny running towards him.

Kissing him over and over again, she said, "Do you k^0^ what an
eternity is?"

"Yes, a minute away from you."

When they reached the apartment, he realized that's e had done
everything to make his homecoming beaut1"11 The vases were filled with
white roses, stock and lilies.  the candles on the table made the
crystal glasses gleam.  the champagne hissed as Jenny poured the
bubbling liquid He decided that he would not tell her the details of
his talk /vlt11 his parents until they'd finished eating.  He lifted
his gr^5 " To you, my love.  May this be the beginning of a wond^-1
long life together.  "

has intermarried, and for you of all people to bring this disgrace
upon us.  "

"Mother," Martin pleaded.

"You don't know what you're saying.  You haven't even met her.  She
can't help being " I don't care what she is.  You can stop this before
you break all our hearts.  She's bewitched you.  " Tears ran down
Bess's cheeks.

"Why couldn't you love Sylvia?  Why?  She's worth " I know what she's
worth, Mother, but so is Jenny.  Please meet her.

Please.  "

"Never, Martin."  She slumped back down on her pillows.

Julian looked at Martin and whispered, "Let me speak to your mother."

Feeling like a pariah, Martin walked out of the room and closed the
door behind him.

Julian sat beside Bess, wiped her tears, and took her hand.

"Don't cry, darling.  And listen to me, Bess.  Even if Martin is a man
possessed and sometimes love can do that to you he is still our son. Be
wise, my dear.  If we reject Martin now we will end up pushing him
closer to this woman.  He hasn't married her yet, so let us pray that
he comes to his senses.  But if he does marry her and we do not accept
her, we will lose him.

Through her swollen lids, she looked at Julian.

"Do you really expect me to play along like that?  I can't do it,
Julian not even for Martin."

Julian's feelings were the same as Bess's, but he pushed them aside.

"You do not have to love her, Bess, but you must learn to tolerate her
if she becomes Martin's wife.  Do it now so that he can never hate you
for standing in his way.  I will support your decision, but I think my
advice is correct."

Bess wept softly.

"And what if Martin has children?  They will be Catholic.  How can I
bear that?"

"Yes.  But no matter what happens, we must not lose our only child.

He's all we have.  "

Bess lay silent for what seemed an eternity, then said quietly, "All
right, Julian.  Have Martin come in."

"Your mother and I give you our blessings," Julian said when he found
Martin standing in the hall.

"Go in, she'd like to see you."

Filled with contrition, Martin said, "Thank you.  Mother.  Is it all
right for me to have Jenny come out?  I want you to get to know her."

Julian knew Bess was not ready for such a meeting.

"Not yet, Martin," he said.

Martin was prepared for that answer.  It was asking a lot at one
time.

At that moment it was enough just to have his parents accept the
concept of Jenny.

Chapter Thirteen

Martin flew back to New York, pleased with his partial victory and
hoping that Jenny would understand that his parents had done the best
they could for the time being.  Later when they met and came to know
Jenny he knew they could not help but love her.  His heart leaped when
the plane landed and he saw Jenny running towards him.

Kissing him over and over again, she said, "Do you know what an
eternity is?"

"Yes, a minute away from you."

When they reached the apartment, he realized that she had done
everything to make his homecoming beautiful.  The vases were filled
with white roses, stock and lilies.  The candles on the table made the
crystal glasses gleam.  The champagne hissed as Jenny poured the
bubbling liquid.  He decided that he would not tell her the details of
his talk with his parents until they'd finished eating.  He lifted his
glass.

"To you, my love.  May this be the beginning of a wonderful long life
together."

"I hope so.  But, oh God, Martin, just love me."

He took her in his arms and, in that extraordinary moment of reunion,
they gave themselves to each other with an unbearable need for
reaffirmation.

Afterwards came the time for questions.  Jenny simply had to know where
she stood.

"Martin," she said, 'you've said very little to me except that your
parents gave you their blessings.  "

"Well, darling, that's what we wanted."

"Of course," Jenny said slowly.

"But you said nothing about their wanting to meet me.  When I asked if
it was all right for me to fly out, you were so evasive."

"No, not at all.  My mother just hasn't been feeling too well."

"You mean she really wasn't up to meeting me.  You don't have to
answer, Martin.  I knew that, but they're going to have to meet me
eventually and, Martin, I'm not going to marry you until they do."

"But they have accepted you, dear," Martin said.

"They gave us their blessings."

"Not us, you.  You're their son and they'd do anything for you.  But,
Martin1 won't be patronized."

Martin got out of bed and paced the floor.

"Goddamn, Jenny, what do you want?  They've done everything they could
for me."

"Yes, but not for me," Jenny persisted, knowing she was being
unreasonable.

"Until they meet me I'm not going to go on living this way.  It's a
sin, Martin.  Don't you under stand that?  We have to get married."

"Well, I'm not quite ready for that!"  Martin shouted, exhausted by the
storm of emotion he'd experienced in the last few days.

"You never were!"  Jenny jumped out of bed, ran to the bathroom, and
slammed the door.  Sitting on the edge of the tub, she wondered how the
fight had gotten so out of hand.  He had just come home.  This was not
the way she had planned it.  She dried her tears.  She would apologize
to Martin.  But when she opened the door she saw his robe on the floor
and her heart began to pound when she realized he'd left.

Throwing herself on the bed, she burst into tears again.  She'd lost
Martin; she knew she had lost him.

When Jenny had run into the bathroom, Martin, exasperated, decided he
simply wasn't up to coping with her tantrums that night.  He threw on
his clothes and went down the elevator and outside, where he walked
until he found a quiet bar.

Sliding into a booth, he ordered a scotch and soda.  When it came he
sat thinking about Jenny's reaction, deciding that she had been
unreasonable.  He had done everything he could, but he wasn't going to
abandon his parents, not even for Jenny.  They needed time to adjust to
the situation.  He had all but destroyed them by not confiding in them
sooner.  He'd never forgive himself for that.

But as his anger ebbed he began to understand Jenny's feelings.  Until
they were married she felt as though she were committing a mortal
sin.

She needed his parents' acceptance.

He got up, hailed a cab, and went back to the apartment.  When Jenny
heard his key in the latch she rushed out of the bedroom into his arms,
kissing him over and over saying, "I'm sorry, Martin.  Please forgive
me.  I behaved like a stupid child.  Of course this was hard for your
parents.  Oh, Martin darling, please love me."

He placed his finger against her lips.

"Don't say any more, there's no need.  This has been impossible for you
and I know it.  But if we're going to have a happy life together, it's
important that my parents be happy also.  You and I have to be a little
patient about this, Jenny."

"Oh, I will, Martin."

"Thank you, darling.  Forgive me for losing my temper.  As soon as I
get caught up in the office we'll go away for a long weekend."

That night, Martin lay awake in the dark, staring up at the ceiling.

He had missed Jenny so, and yet lying beside her he could find no
peace.  It wasn't just his parents that troubled his thoughts.  For the
first time in months the faces

of the wretched Jews who had been liberated from the camps in Germany
and Poland came back to haunt him.  He too was a Jew but he knew so
little of Judaism.

Early the next morning, before going to work, he visited the shabby
little synagogue on Hester Street.  He wasn't sure why, but the Lower
East Side seemed to hold out the promise of some answers to the truths
for which he searched.  He wanted Jenny, but he did not wish to abandon
his heritage.  He hoped that in this small schul, where the old men
spent their mornings and their evenings, his past would reach out to
him and provide some solutions.

Hearing the ancient prayers, Martin felt soothed even though he did not
understand their meaning.  He prayed for forgiveness from his parents,
from Jenny, from his great grandfather Ephraim, who had left everyone
he loved so his offspring could grow up in freedom.  But as Martin left
the schul and took a cab uptown to the office, he wondered if Ephraim
had envisioned a freedom which allowed his great-grandchildren to marry
Catholics.

After three weeks of long hours at the office, Martin felt he had
caught up enough to take a long weekend with Jenny in Vermont.  Dominic
cheerfully lent them the Vermont farmhouse he had bought at a bargain
price during the war.

When Jenny and Martin brought their bags inside, they found that Ned,
who took care of the house during the winter, had left an ample supply
of logs for the fireplace.  His wife, Lucy, had carefully dusted every
surface, stocked the larder, and filled the house with pots of
chrysanthemums and huge vases of pine branches and juniper berries.
When he had left, she gave a last glance around, thinking that it was a
perfect setting for newlyweds.  Dominic had told her Martin was coming
on his honey moon to ensure their privacy and because he really hadn't
known what other explanation to make.

After dinner on Friday evening, Jenny lay in Martin's arms, gazing into
the roaring fire.  Martin felt more peaceful than he had in months.
Getting away was just what they needed.  They made love over and over
that night, wishing that these moments would last forever.

The next morning, after a breakfast of country fresh eggs and biscuits,
they dressed and went outside.  The earth was blanketed with new-fallen
snow.  The pines and firs sparkled under a cloudless blue sky.

Martin found an old toboggan in the barn, and they trudged up a hill
behind the house, startling a deer into flight with their voices.  As
they careened down the hill, the snow stung their faces, and they only
burst out laughing when the sled came to a halt and tipped them over.

Martin thought Jenny looked adorable, her cheeks glowing in the cold
crisp air.

"This is the best fun I have ever had in my life," he whispered, 'and
it's because of you.  I can't imagine what life would be like without
you.  Jenny.  "

"You were so right about our getting away," Jenny said.

"It's as though a whole new world has opened up for us."

For a moment they were silent.  Then he helped her to her feet and
righted the sled.

"Game for another try?"

"Naturally, since I'm carrying the sled."  He made a snowball and
tossed it lightly at her chest.

She laughed, packed snow in her mitten, and aimed at his face.  It
landed on his chin.

"You want to play rough, huh," he said, ducking her next snowball and
scooping up his own ammunition.

They raced to the top of the hill, Martin still dragging the sled.  She
reached the top, breathless, and called out, "See, I told you I could
beat you."

"That was dirty pool."

He reached out and wrestled her to the ground, and together they rolled
down the hill.  When they reached the bottom, he was on top of her,
pinning back her shoulders.  Their laughter echoed in the silence.

"See, I told you you couldn't beat me," he said, his breath steaming
against the cold air.

"Okay, you win."

He gave her a kiss and pulled her to her feet.

After lunch, Martin got Ned's permission to harness his chestnut
gelding to the old sleigh.  Martin held the reins as the trotted
through the countryside.  Jenny was delighted until they passed a
Catholic church and she remembered how long it had been since she had
gone to confession.  A shadow crossed her face, but fortunately Martin
was too busy handling the horse to notice.

When they reached the general store, Martin hitched the gelding to the
iron post and helped Jenny out.  He saw her excitement as she looked
about at the old village.

When they entered the store, there was a group of men chatting around
the potbelly stove.  The proprietor got up and walked behind the
counter.

"Afternoon.  You're not from around these parts, are you?"  he said in
his clipped Yankee accent.

"No, but we're staying at my friend's house."

"And who would that be?"

"Dominic Gatti."

"The fella who bought the Calvin Walsh place a few years back.  And
this is the missus?"  Mr.  Swanson added.

"Lucy told me that you were up on the honeymoon.  She's a mighty
fine-looking woman."

Martin looked at Jenny and smiled.

"I think so too."

"Now what can I do for you?"

"We're going to look around, if you don't mind."

"You do that," Mr.  Swanson said, going back to the game of checkers.

Jenny was delighted.  Even though it was only make- believe, this was
the first time anyone had acknowledged her as Martin's wife.  It did a
lot to salve the hurt she had felt when Martin had told her he would
have to go home without her this year for the holidays.  To take her
with him would be ill-timed, he'd said.  But next year she was certain
she would go as his wife.

The night before leaving to go back to New York, she prepared a special
dinner for the two of them.  Later, as they sat in front of the fire,
he gave Jenny a gold and diamond bracelet.  Her present to him was a
pair of gold cuff links made in the form of a calendar.  A small ruby
marked November the fifth, the day he had asked her to marry him.

Putting them back in their box, he drew her to him saying, "You're the
love of my life, darling, and right after I come back from California,
we will set our wedding date."

"What about meeting your family, Martin?"

"I think it best for them to come to New York to meet you.  It will be
easier that way, without the rest of the family around."

Jenny was hurt for a moment, but she brushed the thought away.

"I'm going to try and make them love me, Martin."

"I know you will, darling.  And it won't be that hard; I'm not the only
one in the family with good taste in women.  Now let me get you some
mulled wine."

Jenny looked up at him.  There was more than courage in her smile,
there was peace.

Marriage.

"After the first of the year," Martin had said.

Chapter Fourteen

It was as if the gods were jealous of their happiness.  No sooner had
they gotten back to New York than the phone rang.  Martin started when
he heard the sound of his mother's voice.

"Darling, thank God you're home at last," she sobbed.

"What's wrong.  Mother?"  he asked.

"I don't know how to tell you, but your father has had a heart
attack.

A very severe one.  "

Martin couldn't believe it.  He had spoken to his mother this
afternoon, just before leaving Vermont, and every147

thing was fine.  And his father had seemed so healthy when he'd been
out there last.  If anything, it was his mother's health that had
concerned him.

"I don't understand.  When did this happen?"

"About two hours ago.  Sylvia and I have been calling you ever
since."

Groping for words, Martin sputtered, "Where ... I mean what hospital .
" He's at home.  "

"At home?  Why isn't he in the hospital?"

"Because he refused to go," she sobbed.

"Why didn't Dr.  Silverman insist?"

"Because he understood your father's fear.  He's afraid that if he goes
to the hospital, he might never come home."

"I'll get a flight as quickly as possible," Martin said.

"I'm so terribly sorry I wasn't there with you."

"Oh, darling boy, just come home as quickly as you can."

"I will.  I love you," he added.  He hung up, wondering if he would
ever again be able to tell his father he loved him.

Jenny felt as if her whole world were crashing down around her.  Just a
few hours ago it had seemed as if their future was assured.  And now
the Fates had intervened.  Jenny had a terrible premonition that the
moment Martin reached San Francisco his parents would keep him from
returning to her.  And she couldn't let that happen.

"Martin, would you like me to go to California with you?  I don't mean
to meet your parents.  I'd just like to be there in case you needed
me."

But Martin was so upset about his father that he scarcely heard her.

Sensing her hurt, he said, "Darling, I would love to have you with me,
but under the circumstances I don't feel that it would be fair to
you."

Jenny wanted to cry, but she controlled herself.  This was not the time
to dissolve.  When Martin was gone there would be time for that.

"Call the airlines," she said, 'and I'll go fix us some coffee.  "

When it was time for Martin to leave for the airport, she clung to
him.  He had insisted it was too late for her to drive him there.

"I'll be here if you need me," she said, holding him to her.

"I'll be back as soon as I can," Martin promised.

"And then I'll never leave you again."

From the moment he entered the Woodside house, Martin was filled with a
sense of foreboding.  The heavy drapes in the living room windows were
pulled shut; it was as though the house itself were in mourning.

When he held his mother in his arms, he knew that things were very
bad.

"Oh, dearest boy, I'm so grateful that you're here.  " Then, before
Martin could say anything, she added, "Dr.  Silver- man just left.  He
thinks your father is a little better today."

Martin nodded.

"I want to see him."

"He's been waiting ... I told him you were coming."

Martin walked up the wide stairs to the second floor, pausing at his
father's bedroom door.  Then he turned the knob and quietly entered.

Everything Julian loved was there, photographs in silver frames, pipes
and trophies, the collection of a lifetime.  But his father now
shrunken and still in the big bed was no longer the same man.  The
heavy oxygen cylinders stood by the bed in obscene warning.

Martin felt his eyes fill with tears.  How could his father be dying?

He should have had years ahead of him.  Time to see his grandchildren
born, to play with them.  Pulling up a chair, Martin suddenly wondered
if Julian would have ever dangled Jenny's child on his knee.  Then
concern for his father blotted out all other thought.

After a few minutes, Julian's eyes fluttered open.

"Have you been here long?"  he asked, his voice little more than a
whisper.

"Not long, Father.  Just a moment or two."

Julian sighed.

"My dear Martin, these months must have been so painful for you,
feeling we had not really accepted your choice.  I was not there to
comfort you as I should have been.  But here you are at my side when I
need you.  Help

me sit up, so I can see you better.  Ah .  that's good.  Martin, I
feel I must say this.  If anything happens to me .  Martin tried to
still him but Julian continued.

"You mustn't be foolish, Martin.  I won't leave before it's my time,
but I know that when I go, it will be very hard for your mother and for
you since you will have to take on certain responsibilities.  What I'm
saying is don't allow this to become an obligation that will stand in
the way of your own life.  Do you understand what I mean, Martin?"

Martin would never forget his father's words.  He was giving him more
than his blessing.  His father was leaving him a legacy of love.

"We will talk more in the morning," Julian said haltingly.

"Help me to lie back."

Martin sat for a while listening to his father's shallow breathing.

Then Julian began to gasp and the colour left his face.  Martin rushed
out for the nurse, but by the time they returned Julian was gone.

Martin stood for a moment, tears streaming down his face.

"I loved you, Father, even though I disappointed you.  I just wish I
had been able to tell you how much I cared."

He went to find his mother.  She was sitting in the library with
Sylvia.  The moment Bess looked at him, she knew.

"He's gone."

Martin nodded.  Without a word, she left the room and walked upstairs
to sit by Julian's bedside.  For over an hour she wept there, but as
the family began to gather she pulled herself together, drawing on some
secret well of strength.  She made all the arrangements and would not
accept a word of consolation.  What were words in view of a loss like
hers?

According to Jewish law, Julian was buried at the earliest possible
date, laid to rest next to his parents, next to Ephraim himself.

Standing in the crypt, Martin had a sudden vision of himself lying in
alien earth, next to a Catholic wife.  Then he brought his thoughts
back to his mother, who stood rigidly erect, listening to the Rabbi.

When he had finished kaddish, Martin touched Bess's arm.

She seemed lost in a reverie.

"Mother, I think it's time to go."

They left the small chapel, going out into the dismal December
afternoon.  Bess lingered briefly, watching the heavy bronze doors
being closed.

"Sleep well," she whispered, "my love ... my life, until God wills that
I join you."

That night, Martin called Jenny.  He was grateful she didn't press for
details of the funeral.  She just told him she loved him and asked
hesitantly when he might be coming home.

"I can't really say, dear.  It's a difficult time for my mother, as you
can imagine."

Yes, Jenny knew.  She had gone through it when her mother died, but in
a very different way.  Alone.  She still felt alone and needed Martin
terribly, but all she said was, "Whatever you feel is right, Martin.  I
love you, please remember that."

"I will, darling, I will."

Chapter Fifteen

At first, Martin imagined that once the household calmed down and the
details were worked out with the attorneys he would be able to go back
to New York.  But he soon realized that there would be no chance of
that.  It would be much longer before he could get away.  Martin had
been named executor of Julian's will, and there were endless details to
be handled.

He called Dominic and arranged a leave of absence, apologizing for all
the time he had taken off.  Dominic said to relax.  Martin's
acquisition of the soup account had put

the Gatti agency in the big league.  Even if Martin stayed away for a
year, he still would have earned his keep.  Martin wished that his
conversations with Jenny could go as smoothly, but meantime he turned
to the problems at hand.

The bulk of Julian's estate had been left to Bess for her lifetime, but
Martin was made trustee.  That was in itself an awesome responsibility
and Martin found the time passing with no sign of his business
obligations relenting.  It seemed his father had accomplished in death
what he could not in life: Martin was fast taking over the family
business.  Through this time his mother depended on him more and more.
Although she seemed unable to share her grief or express her feelings,
she was increasingly unable to let Martin out of her sight.

The one bright note in the oppressive atmosphere was Sylvia.  She was
almost able to make Bess laugh.  When she spoke about the past, she
made Bess recall only the happy times.  As far as her attitude to
Martin was concerned, she seemed to have fallen back into the easy
relationship they had enjoyed in their teens.

When she joined him in the study one night after dinner- she had moved
in with Bess again as she had during the war Martin's guard was down.
He needed to talk.  Sensing this, Sylvia fixed him a scotch and soda.

"You know, Martin," she said handing it to him, 'silence is not golden,
it's destructive.  You're living with all kinds of ghosts.  Certainly
you should be able to share your thoughts with me.  "

Martin sighed.

"It's tough, Sylvia."

"Revealing one's self always is.  But you know, Martin, I would never
judge you."

Martin got up and replenished his drink.

"I feel so guilty about my father, Sylvia.  I can't come to terms with
it," he said, going back to the couch.

"Now wait a minute, Martin.  You're not responsible for your father's
death."

"I know that.  But I neglected him over the last year.  He was really
hurt when I went to work in New York.  And you know how he must have
felt about Jenny."

"Martin, you're being very hard on yourself.  Don't you understand that
your father really wanted you to be happy?  He may have been upset that
Jenny was Catholic, but he certainly understood.  Now may I make a
suggestion.  I really think it's time for you to get on with your own
life."

"When my father was alive, I would have been able to," Martin said.

"But now I can't bring myself to leave my mother here, alone."

Sylvia took a large swallow of her drink, wondering why she was trying
to send Martin back into another woman's arms.  She knew she didn't
want him to stay if he would be unhappy.  Taking a deep breath, she
said, "Stop trying to fill your father's shoes.  Marry Jenny.  If you
feel you must stay with your mother, bring Jenny out here to live."

"But you and I both know that my mother hasn't accepted her, and in her
present condition, I doubt whether she is well enough to cope with that
situation."

"So what do you intend to do?  Is it fair to Jenny to keep postponing
her?"

"I don't quite like the way you phrased that.  My intention was to
marry after the first of the year, but certainly she can understand
that under the circumstances I can't put my own wishes first.  Dammit,
Sylvia, my mother is my responsibility and I simply can't abandon her."
Martin got up and began pacing the floor.

"I'm so confused, Sylvia, I don't know what to do.  I want to do what's
right for both Jenny and my mother.  I feel as if I'm being pulled
apart.  Please, Sylvia, what do you think I should do?"

"If you really love this girl, then your place is with her," Sylvia
said, her voice a knife in her own heart.

"Your mother will survive.

We all are left with scars, but time heals many of the wounds.  And
your Jenny isn't going to be content much longer with phone calls.  A
month is a long time to wait, and even "I love you" can start to sound
hollow if always over the phone.  "

Martin knew Sylvia was right.  He decided he would face his mother the
next day.

Back in New York Jenny was even more impatient than Sylvia
suspected.

With every passing day she became more uncertain of Martin's
commitment.  She was so afraid that he would sense her annoyance that
she had taken to writing him letters.  That way she could tear up
complaints she would have regretted later.

In the letters she mailed, she expressed only her fondest thoughts:

My dearest, she would write, I've been thinking of you all day.

Darling Martin, I keep remembering the little things that I could do
for you Honey, New York is covered with snow.  Yesterday we had the
worst blizzard in thirty years .  Darling, the promotion at Macy's was
simply wonderful fire engine red lipstick is going to be the rage come
spring.  Dearest Martin, it's so terribly lonely without you.  When
will you be back?  I love you.

Martin's response was always a telephone call promising to call again
the next day, to return as soon as he could.

But as the days moved on slowly, phone calls no longer sustained her.

Her loneliness overwhelmed her and she became increasingly depressed.

Her anxieties finally forced her to a decision.  It was nearly dawn
when she finished the last draft of her letter.

Dearest Martin,

I know it's been a terrible time for you, but it has been equally
difficult for me.  I have sat here, night after night, drowning in my
loneliness, wondering where our life is going.  Today has been the most
devastating of all, since I have thought of nothing else but you, and
where I fit into your life.  I have reached a crossroads.  You belong
to a totally different world, one in which I would never fit.

If you truly loved me, you would have allowed me to share your grief
but you have shut me out.  If you love someone, and are unable to help
them in their sorrow, you feel useless.  You and I both know that we
are lost to each other.  I'm going away because I love you, Martin. It
is the only way.  I hope and pray you do not lose yourself.

With all my love, Jenny

Martin read the letter in a state of shock.  Frantic, he picked up the
phone and called the apartment, but Jenny was not there.  Suddenly the
words .  I'm going away because I love you, Martin, stung him with such
force he thought he might pass out, as though he'd been punched in the
gut.  In a state of panic, he called Dominic to see if he could reach
Jenny, but Dominic said she'd quit her job and given up her lease on
the little apartment she had insisted on keeping until their
marriage.

Martin read Jenny's letter over and over until he'd all but memorized
it.  Could it have been over a month since he had seen her?  What a
fool he'd been.  Even Sylvia had warned him to return to New York.  Now
he'd lost Jenny.  He picked up the phone and called Dominic again.

"Call the best detective agency in the city.  I don't give a damn what
it costs.  " I'm going to find her.  "

But as the weeks passed with no trace of Jenny, his hopes of success
faded.  He flew back East to search himself, but with no better
results. While there he spent a long time talking with Dominic.  In the
end, both friends agreed it would be best for Martin to quit the
business. He could not ignore the debt he owed his father.  The time
had come for him to assume his rightful place as a partner in Roth,
Seifer, Roth, Steam & Hines.

Even as Martin closed his apartment and handed over his agency accounts
to Dominic, his mind was filled with memories of Jenny.

Everywhere he walked in the city images of her laughing face rose to
haunt him.  How could he have let her get away?

His last night in New York, when no trace of her had been found, he
went out with Dominic and got very drunk.  Oh God, he thought as he
threw himself across his hotel

bed, / loved her so much.  Why couldn't she have been patient?  Didn't
she understand that while I owed her my heart I still owed my parents
my heritage and loyalty too?

When he woke to catch his plane, his face was wet with tears.

bed, / loved her so much.  Why couldn't she have been patient?  Didn't
she understand that while I owed her my heart I still owed my parents
my heritage and loyalty too?

When he woke to catch his plane, his face was wet with tears.

Chapter Sixteen

All through the spring back in California, Martin could not stop
thinking of Jenny.  He was glad that picking up his father's clients
kept him so busy.  His mother fretted as he left the house at six, only
to return after dinner.  Many times he would come home to see Sylvia
and Bess playing cards.  Though Sylvia was always around, she never
foisted herself on him and he was grateful for the attention she paid
his mother, attention that he could find neither the time nor the
emotional strength to offer.  The only antidote to the pain of Jenny's
leaving was work, and his goal each day was to exhaust himself so that
when he finally went to bed he fell asleep instantly.

As spring blossomed into summer, Martin found himself besieged with
social demands.  He received numerous wedding invitations and rather
than argue with Bess found it easier to call Sylvia and go.  Sylvia
never made any demands and seemed to respect Martin's grief.  If either
Bess or Sylvia's mother got their hopes up, they were wise enough to
keep their thoughts to themselves.

Martin was aware that he and Sylvia were regarded as a couple by their
friends.  They were usually seated together at dinner parties and often
asked out as a pair.  Martin became increasingly comfortable in
Sylvia's presence.

For a long time he prayed that Jenny would call or write, but he
realized he could not live out the rest of his life with mere hope.  He
wanted a home and children.  He wanted the stability his parents had
enjoyed.  He knew he would never feel for anyone the unreserved passion
he had experienced with Jenny, but maybe, as his father had said, there
were other kinds of love equally satisfying.

It was at about this time that he began to see Sylvia in a different
light.  She was right for him in a way Jenny never could have been.  He
began arranging to go for walks with her in Muir Woods, sail on the
Bay, picnic on the board walk in Sausalito.  By the end of the summer
everyone seemed to take it for granted that they would marry, and
Martin found himself sharing the assumption.

One night when they were finishing dinner at Trader Vie's, Martin
reached across the table and took Sylvia's hand.

"I love you, Sylvia."

She looked away and fumbled with the sugar.

"Do you really, Martin?  I mean really?  I have the feeling that you're
still as much in love with Jenny as ever."

Don't lie, he told himself.

"Sylvia, I can't deny that Jenny was important to me.  Maybe she will
always be part of my youth, but I'm ready to grow up now and I want the
kind of life you and I can build together."

"But losing her still hurts, doesn't it?"

"I can't ^ay it doesn't but it's gotten to the point that I can look at
our affair objectively.  I suppose there's not a lot of logic about
love, but at least now I can see that if we had married we probably
wouldn't have been very happy.  Believe me, I want to live with you.  I
need you."

She didn't answer.

"Of course," he said.

"I haven't even asked if you'd have me.  I'm not much of a bargain, I
grant you, but for what ever it's worth, I want to marry you and spend
the rest of my life trying to make you the happiest lady in the
world."

She started to cry.  Leaning over the table, he lifted her face and
kissed her.

"Please marry me, Sylvia."

This was a moment she had dreamed about for so many years.  Marrying
Martin was something she wanted more than anything in the world.  And,
if he had asked her before Jenny, she would have been filled with
joy.

Now her happiness was shadowed.  She wanted Martin to be so very, very
sure.  What if Jenny turned up sometime in the future and he left
her?

She looked at him for a long, contemplative moment.

"I will marry you," she said.

"But let's keep our engagement a secret for a while.  I mean from
everyone, even your mother and my parents.  I think we should be
together for a while to make sure it's what we both really want."

Martin felt strangely rejected.

"If that's what you want.  I would have thought that we could have
gotten married in a couple of months.  After all, we're not exactly
strangers."

"In a sense, we are," Sylvia said.

"This will be a very different relationship.  We still have loads to
learn about each other."

"I guess you're right," Martin grudgingly admitted.

"How long do you want to wait before telling people?"

"Until next spring," Sylvia said firmly.

And that was the way they left it.  People could talk all they wanted,
but Sylvia and Martin would not confirm the gossip for another six
months.

In the end, Martin was glad they waited.  The secret gave them time
alone together time to forge a romantic bond in addition to their
friendship.

As Sylvia said, "Once we are formally engaged we'll never have a minute
to ourselves."

Martin used the time to good advantage, learning to appreciate Sylvia
for who she truly was.  The best thing he discovered was that they were
so much alike.  They had the same tastes and enjoyed the same ways of
spending then free time.  Even in little things like taking long walks
or eating strawberries and cream for breakfast, their likes meshed.

Martin was aware that he and Jenny would never have been so conjugal.

Their future would always have been filled with uncertainties.  He
wondered why it had taken him so long to realize how right Sylvia was
for him, with her quiet logic, her attention to detail, her sense of
humour that could lift him out of a dark mood.  He discovered
dimensions in her that he more than admired.

Their only point of disagreement was where they should live.  Martin
asked if she'd like to rent an apartment or buy a house right away.

"I

don't really want a house of my own," she surprised him by saying.

"I've decided the most

wonderful thing we could do is live with your mother.  "

"Darling, you can't be serious.  There's no house in the world big
enough for two mistresses."

"Well, your mother and I are the exception to the rule.  Of course I
haven't mentioned anything to her, but it would be best for all of
us.

Think about it, Martin.  "

There wasn't really any need to think about it.  Martin knew in the
long run Sylvia and Bess would win.

The minute the wedding was announced, Bess felt a sense of purpose
enter her life.  She had suffered terribly when Martin had announced he
was marrying Jenny McCoy.  Now Bess's only sorrow was that she could
not share the triumph with Julian.  It seemed that God took but He also
gave.

She blessed Sylvia's mother for letting her give the wed ding at the
Woodside house.

"I don't mind it a bit, Bess, since she's always been more your
daughter than mine.  Just don't come crying to me later about how tired
you are!"

And suddenly it was as if their period of mourning had ended.  There
were so many parties given for them that Sylvia and Martin were kept in
a constant whirl.  Sylvia was involved in long days of trousseau
shopping, bridal fittings, and decisions about the wedding.  She and
Bess had to select the menu, choose the photographers, pick the
flowers, and buy the gifts for the wedding party.

They decided to have the wedding itself in the large salon.  The
furniture would be taken out and the two him dred and fifty guests
would be seated in rows of gilt chairs set up on either side of an
aisle.  Bess also insisted that the chuppa, the traditional wedding
canopy, would be magnificently adorned with roses, lilies of the
valley, carnations, and white satin streamers.  Gold candelabra would
be placed on either side, and two giant flower-filled urns would adorn
the altar.

Even though it would be June, Bess was afraid to set up an outdoor
tent.  She decided to have the reception in the white and gold
ballroom, since the Woodside house was old enough to have one built
with magnificent proportions.

As the elaborate preparations continued, Martin felt more and more in
the way.  Finally, he said to Sylvia, "Darling, you are so involved
with all this, would you mind terribly if I flew to New York to see
Dominic?  I have felt so guilty about the way I left the agency.  There
may still be some loose ends he'd like to go over."

For a moment, Sylvia thought her knees would buckle.  Had he heard from
Jenny?  Was this trip a pretext?  Then, with gentle wisdom, she said,
"Of course not, darling."

As Martin rode into Manhattan from La Guardia he couldn't help thinking
of Jenny.  Although he reminded himself that his only motive for coming
to New York was to see Dominic, he kept remembering the times he had
picked Jenny up at the airport.  He could almost see her now running
across the tarmac, her hair blowing in the wind.  He could almost feel
her in his arms.  Guiltily he reminded himself he was engaged to
Sylvia, but the images continued to torment him.

He was grateful when the cab stopped in front of the Waldorf.

"Will that be all, sir?"  asked the bellhop when he'd shown Martin his
room.

"Yes, thanks," Martin said, giving him a dollar.  After the door had
closed, Martin looked around the room, remembering the hotel he had
stayed in when he first moved to New York.  This time his mother would
have approved.

After washing up he went downstairs to the bar.  He'd told Dominic he
would be in too late to have dinner, but the truth was Martin wanted
some time alone in New York to think.  As he sipped his scotch, he
wondered why he had given himself a free evening, why he had really
made the trip to New York.  One reason he hadn't admitted to Sylvia was
to finally sublease his apartment on Central Park West.  All these
months he'd been paying rent, but it was only now he could admit to
himself he'd been hoping Jenny would return.  Well, such dreams would
have to end.  He'd call the

renting agent in the morning and make arrangements.

He finished the last of his drink and went out the lobby to Park
Avenue.  He started to walk, deciding he'd stop to eat when he came to
a restaurant that appealed to him, but in every window he passed he
seemed to see Jenny's face.  Unable to bear it any longer, he hailed a
cab and gave the Central Park West address.  Tonight he would give in
to his memories.  Then tomorrow he'd sign the sublease the realtor was
holding, visit Dominic, and spend the next few days buying a wedding
gift for Sylvia and concentrating on his future.

But would he be able to forget?  he wondered as the cab came to a halt
before his old building.  Riding the elevator, he felt Jenny's ghostly
presence at his side, and once inside the apartment he pictured her
everywhere he turned, smiling at him when he walked in the door,
struggling over a new recipe, and with him in bed.  They had been so
happy.  They had never even said goodbye properly.  And now he
remembered all the words he'd left unsaid.

He didn't know how long he sat in the empty bedroom which had held so
many of his dreams.  It was after nine when he finally went back to the
street and found a cab.  Too emotionally exhausted to think of eating,
he went straight back to his hotel and went to bed.

Before he fell asleep, he remembered his father's kindness, his
mother's joy in his wedding next month, and Sylvia, who had waited so
patiently for him to sort out his life.  He promised himself he would
spend the rest of his life making her happy.  He would be the most
devoted of husbands.  He would never cause her a moment's grief.  He
appreciated all her virtues, and together they would build a life that
would be a proud testament to his parents, Ephraim, and all the Jewish
men and women who had struggled to live in freedom.  He would live
happily with wife and children who believed in his God and his past.

Even with this resolve firmly in his mind it took Martin several hours
to fall asleep.

The next morning, though, he felt better.  He visited the realtor and
spent the afternoon in Dominic's office outlining some of the accounts
he had in mind for the company to chase and certain plans the agency
might adopt for expansion.

That evening he went back with Dominic to his apartment.  Martin
couldn't get over how successful his friend had become.  He had moved
to a large apartment on Riverside Drive, employed a Filipino houseboy,
and was currently living with a French model named Coco.

Dominic had come a long way from the poor Italian section of New Haven,
and he'd done it all on his own.  The thing that amazed Martin the most
was his friend's selfconfidence.  Dominic never seemed to question life
or where it was taking him.  He was obviously fond of Coco, but when
they broke up he'd cheerfully find a replacement who'd make him equally
happy.

"Drink up," Dominic urged.

"Coco's spending the night at her sister's.

We can really tie one on.  "

Martin laughed.

"You never change, do you.  Always ready for a good time."

"And why not, Martin?  Life's short.  You've always taken it too
seriously.  Come on, old buddy, this will be your last trip East as a
free man."

"Maybe that's what's bothering me.  Look, Dominic, the thing that
haunts me is the fact that Jenny just disappeared.  If I knew she was
all right, I think I could put her out of my mind."

"Well, that bothers me too.  But you have to remember Jenny grew up in
the school of hard knocks.  She's tough.  She was vulnerable where you
were concerned, because she loved you.  But I wouldn't worry too
much.

She's a survivor.  "

"God, I hope so.  I just wish I could have done something for her."

"Well, there wasn't a hell of a lot you could have done.  You never
could have married her."

Martin looked away.

"How can you be so sure?  You told me once that if I loved her, I
should fight for her."

"Well, did you?"

"What the hell do you mean by that?  Of course I did!"

"No, you didn't, old buddy.  Not really.  After your father died, she
felt abandoned."

"What the hell could I have done?"

"You could have sent for her.  Or come back here."

"You don't know what you're saying.  My mother was in such a state of
shock, she wasn't quite ready to cope with a gentile
daughter-in-law."

"And maybe you weren't ready for a gentile wife.  Now do yourself a
favour, Martin.  You can have a long, fruitful life with Sylvia.  She
comes from the same background, and from everything you've told me she
was made for you.  Opposites may attract, but I don't think they live
together happily.  Now go home, Martin.  Forget Jenny.  Otherwise
you'll just end up destroying your marriage."

Dominic's logic was so airtight Martin couldn't argue.  He relaxed and
allowed himself to enjoy the evening.

Two days later when Dominic saw Martin off on the plane a beautiful
emerald cocktail ring from Tiffany's in his pocket Dominic's last words
were, "Learn to enjoy life, Martin.  See ya at the wedding."

Chapter Seventeen

The day of the wedding had arrived at last.  Bess was almost as happy
as the bride.  Both women were about to see their dreams fulfilled.

Bess came into the bedroom as Sylvia was fussing over her hair.  The
maid had already zipped up the tight scalloped bodice and straightened
the full skirt over its petticoat.  The silk was trimmed all over with
circles of lace with small pearls sewn in the centre.

"I wanted to see you before you officially become my daughter, but
after all these years no words could make us any closer.  You've
brought me untold joy as I know you have to Martin."

Sylvia embraced Bess.

"I promise you I'll make Martin happy."

"I know you will, my dear," and she took the heavy strand of pearls
from a velvet jewel box and slipped them over Sylvia's head.

"These were given to me by Martin's grandmother on my wedding day.  I
pass them on to you with the same love.  Wear them in joy, my dear."

Bess stood back and watched as the maid lifted up the yards of
Valenciennes lace veiling.

In his old boyhood room Martin, fortified with brandy, was struggling
with his pearl studs.  When he finished getting the last one in, he
began to fuss with his white tie, nervously pulling it loose.

"Here, let me help you do that," Dominic said with a deft tug.

"All you have to do is relax, old buddy."

"Relax?  How can I?  I'm scared to death!"

"Well, you won't be for long.  Listen, you're one lucky man to have a
girl like Sylvia.  She's fabulous.  What the hell did she ever see in
you?"

"Thanks.  That really helps a lot, Dominic."

"Well, you needed a little pep talk.  It's time for the best man to
lead the groom to the altar."

The music had begun.  The two friends watched as the bridesmaids walked
slowly down the centre aisle and took their places.  Then the organist
paused and began the wedding march.

A regal Sylvia walked down the marble staircase, her long train held by
her thirteen-year-old niece, Linda.  The pearls around her throat
gleamed and her arms were filled with fragrant white roses and lilies
of the valley.

At the entrance to the salon she was met by her father.  Linda adjusted
the veil, then retreated down the aisle.

Sylvia took her father's arm and waited while two little flower girls
in long white organza dresses strewed the aisle with rose petals.  Then
the youngest cousin, Ephraim Roth, walked down the aisle, dressed in
short black velvet pants and a white silk blouse, nervously bearing the
rings on a white satin pillow.

Finally, Sylvia and her father started down the aisle between the two
rows of flower-filled standards towards the altar.  Sylvia was
oblivious to the admiring whispers.

"Isn't she beautiful ... " And people thought she'd end up an old maid.
"

"She certainly snagged the most eligible bachelor in San Francisco."

A hush fell as they reached the canopy.  Her father hugged her briefly
and whispered, "We love you," then handed her over to her
husband-to-be.  Sylvia and Martin stood side by side while the Rabbi
spoke the vows.  Martin promised to love, honour and cherish; Sylvia
promised to love, honour and obey.  Then Martin crushed the traditional
wineglass under his heel and the Rabbi pronounced them husband and
wife.

When Martin lifted her veil to kiss her he couldn't believe how
beautiful she looked.  In that moment he adored her without
reservation.

Bess had not cried during the ceremony, afraid if she allowed herself
to miss Julian for a moment she would never be able to stop sobbing,
but Sylvia's mother had wept joyously.

As the two families stood in the great hall greeting their guests, Bess
was again overcome with Sylvia's poise.  She began to enjoy herself,
although her eyes darted about making sure the champagne was correctly
served in the fluted glasses and the trays of canapes were circulated
quickly.

When everyone had toasted the newlyweds, Bess began urging people into
the ballroom.  The bride, groom, and members of their immediate
families were seated at a long table in the front while their other
guests were placed at round tables for ten.  Bess looked about her and
smiled.

The white damask cloths gleamed with silver and crystal.  Tall
epergnes filled with white gladioli, roses and stock filled the air
with a delicious scent.

Seeing the room in all its glory, Bess laughed, remembering her
sleepless nights and frantic debates with Mr.  Maiard, the caterer.
They had finally agreed to skip any shellfish even though none of the
guests were kosher and settled on a pate en croute, soupe aux cerises,
and pheasant with wild rice and artichoke hearts.

Just before the wedding cake was served, the waiters came out with a
parade of ices carved in the forms of hearts.  Then the six-layer cake
was wheeled out and Martin and Sylvia cut the first slice.  After
several more toasts the band struck up for the dancing.

When Sylvia and Martin walked onto the floor the guests began to
clap.

Few had seen a more handsome couple, nor one that seemed to have such a
bright future.  Later, Dominic claimed Sylvia, saying, "You could
almost talk me into marriage, Sylvia.  You're my idea of a perfect
lady, and I think that Martin is one lucky dog.  Would it be out of
order to give you a word of advice?"

"Please do," said Sylvia, hoping he wouldn't speak of Jenny McCoy.

"Be patient."

Sylvia wasn't quite sure what that meant, but she said, "I will ... and
thank you for being a good friend.  To both of us."

Suddenly it was midnight.  Sylvia and Martin were spending their
wedding night in the suite Bess had moved out of after Julian's death,
redecorating it for Martin and Sylvia as soon as her son had agreed to
live at the Woodside estate.

To avoid wedding night pranks Martin and Sylvia pretended they were
going East that night to start their month's honeymoon.  Instead, after
leaving under a shower of rice, they carefully circled the estate and
then, turning off the car's lights, came down the driveway leading to
the garages.  Giggling like mischievous conspirators, they tiptoed
through the servants' hall and up the back stairs.

Martin opened the door and carried Sylvia over the threshold.  When he
put her down, she looked at the old four-poster bed.  On either side
the burgundy draperies had been tied back with silken cords.  A small
fire glowed, warming the cool June night.  The maids had left a bucket
of champagne by the bed and turned down the spread, revealing the white
satin comforter.

For a moment each was haunted by unwanted memories.  Champagne had
always been Jenny's drink their drink and her face suddenly seemed to
float before Martin.  As if she could read his mind, Sylvia found
herself wishing that she had been her husband's first real love.

Martin popped the cork on the champagne and poured Sylvia a glass.

"To you, my dearest.  May our life together always be as happy as it is
for me tonight."  And as he spoke Martin honestly believed his words
were the truth.

"I hope so, Martin," she said, touching his glass with hers.

They sipped the wine in front of the fire in silence.  When they
finished, Martin went into the dressing room that had been his father's
while Sylvia put on her nightgown in Bess's old dressing room.

She was so nervous as she lay in the huge bed waiting that she felt as
if Martin were a stranger and she herself a virgin.  Perhaps it was
because she'd only had that one, brief encounter with him before the
war.  She started as Martin came towards her and turned off the
lights.

Only the fire illuminated his face as he bent over her and gently
kissed her lips.  She took his face in her hands and forgot her fear,
embracing him without restraint.  To his surprise he found himself
overwhelmed by her touch and soon all restraints vanished as the two of
them became one.  For the rest of the night their joy was un shadowed
either by memories of the past or fears for the future.

Martin awoke early the next morning and lay watching his bride sleep.

He saw her as if with fresh eyes.  She was, if possible, even more
beautiful asleep than awake.  God, how lucky I am, Martin thought.  How
lucky I am to have a wife such as this.

Sylvia stretched languidly and, opening her eyes to discover Martin,
smiled.

"Did you sleep well?"  he asked, taking her in his arms.

"Like a contented kitten."

Marriage is an extraordinary thing, Martin thought.  Knowing he
belonged to another human gave him a unique sense of peace.  Caring for
Sylvia, watching over her happiness, would give his life a new
purpose.

Tightening his arms around her, he kissed her urgently and her breath
quickened as she guided him again inside her.

"You've made me very happy, Sylvia," he said afterwards, and he prayed
that today would set the tone for the rest of their lives, while Sylvia
vowed to be a good wife who would never burden her husband with
self-doubts or silly jealousies.

At that moment the Sevres clock on the mantel chimed.

"Martin, darling, it's eleven o'clock.  Good grief there's so much to
do before we leave."

When he came back from his shower she was sitting brushing her hair,
which fell in loose waves over her blue satin gown.

"Let me look at you," he said, taking her hands and turning her towards
him.

"You're beautiful," he said, 'and I love you.  "

Sylvia wanted to believe that Martin had fallen in love with her at
last, but all she said was, "I hope it will get better and better and
better with time."

"I'll settle for the way I feel now.  In fact, if you don't watch out,
I'll carry you off to bed again right now."

Smiling, she said, "I'm afraid you'll have to use some restraint.

Here's the maid with breakfast.  "

As they sat waiting, Sylvia said, "I don't remember swallowing a thing
last night, but God, your mother outdid herself."

"I know.  Funny thing about human nature, nobody knows what they can
really do until the time comes.  After my father died, I thought she'd
never pull herself together,

and suddenly she has developed the strength of a lion.  Some of that
was your doing, Sylvia.  " He took her hand.

"You know Bess loves you better than she does me, don't you?"

"She has every reason to," Sylvia laughed.

"Now, darling, finish up and get ready."

Bess and Dominic were waiting when the newlyweds came down the
stairs.

Sylvia was wearing a mauve wool dress with matching shoes and bag.  The
sable coat, which had been a wedding present from Bess, was draped over
her arm.

The first person she embraced was Bess, thanking her for the lovely
wedding.  Then she stood in front of Dominic.  Her look said, "I will
always take your advice.  I've been patient."  Aloud she said, "Thank
you for coming, Dominic.  It certainly wouldn't have been the same
without you."

Bess stood on the cobbled drive for a long time after Edward drove them
out of sight.  Tears streamed down her face, but when she walked back
inside she was smiling.

The car took Martin and Sylvia to the airport where they were to catch
a plane East to board the Andrea Doria the following day.

This time, when Martin walked across La Guardia air field, he faced no
ghosts.  Grasping Sylvia's arm, he felt as if he were arriving in a
strange city.  The bridal suite at the Pierre was exquisite, and that
night, as they walked the streets of Manhattan, Martin saw no faces
from the past mournfully staring at him from the store windows.

They dined at Le Pavilion and later danced until three at the Starlight
Roof to Guy Lombardo's band and that night they made love with a wild
passion Martin hadn't suspected Sylvia possessed.  He knew in those
moments how much she loved him and vowed again never to hurt her.

In the morning she poked him awake, and getting out of bed without even
reaching for her nightgown laughed and said, "I'll race you to the
shower!"

They reached Pier 44 just in time to hear the call, "All 172 visitors
ashore."  Martin and Sylvia quickly found their assigned stateroom,
where their trunks already waited, then hurried on deck where they were
caught up in the excitement of departure.  The giant whistles shrilled
as clouds of confetti fell on the crowds from the dock.  Martin and
Sylvia began waving back, laughing.  It was a marvelous moment.

Back in their stateroom, Sylvia said, "Oh, Martin, I'm so happy we
came.  Sometimes I think I'm dreaming.  I adore you so ... " Well, I
should hope so.  Now you rest and I'll make arrangements for the late
dinner sitting.  Remember now I'm your husband and if you obey me," he
said joking, 'nothing will come between us."

Sylvia felt an unaccountable chill as she looked at him.

"I hope so, Martin," she said, but he was already out the door.

The first night out Sylvia dressed in white chiffon and wore Bess's
pearls and the emerald ring Martin had brought from New York.  Seated
at the Captain's table, Martin realized as if for the first time how
openly other men stared at her.  Suddenly he was filled with pride.

Sylvia was oblivious to the stir she caused.  She had eyes only for
Martin, her husband.  To her he was the handsomest man there.

Later that night, Sylvia said tentatively, "Martin?"

"Yes?"

"Can I talk to you about something?"

"Anything."

"Please come closer.  Yes, that's better ... I have a confession to
make."

He smiled in the dark.

"Wow that does sound serious.  I'll try to be generous."

"Martin, be serious, please."

"Sorry, darling.  Go ahead."

She took hold of his hand.

"When we got married I wasn't quite sure if you really loved me."

"Well, do you have any doubts about it now?"

"I guess what I'm really asking is, you really don't have

any regrets, do you, Martin?  "

He answered quickly.

"Good God, no, Sylvia!  How could you think that?

You're the best thing that has happened to me.  You must know that.

You've given me a whole new sense of purpose.  "

Purpose, she thought a little sadly.  What about the fire and passion
the sorts of feelings he evoked in her?  Then she remembered Dominic's
advice and was silent, letting Martin show in the best way he knew how
that he deserved her.

The five days on the Andrea Doria sped by and Sylvia could hardly
believe it was time to leave the ship when they docked in
Southampton.

She felt that she and Martin had been living in a dream, isolated and
protected from all intrusion, but Martin left her no time for
regrets.

A car picked them up and drove them straight to the Connaught, plunging
them into a pre-war opulence that fascinated Sylvia.  Dowagers sat in
the lobby chatting over tea and cucumber sandwiches.

Mustachioed, irritable ex- officers looking like Colonel Blimp filled
the salon, and everywhere she turned Sylvia found someone wanting to
know if there was anything Madame needed.

As they drove through the streets sightseeing, the war intruded.  Even
in exclusive Mayfair the perfect rows of Georgian houses were
interrupted by an occasional bombed-out lot, and the new American
Embassy towered over Grosvenor Square as if to shout the new balance of
world power.

They saw Westminster Abbey, visited Parliament, watched the changing of
the guard and marvelled over the Crown Jewels guarded by the Beefeaters
in the Tower of London.

Sylvia began to tire, but Martin insisted they spend a few days in
Paris before going on to Venice, where he promised they would rest.

"After all, it is a city made for romance," he said.

As it turned out, Martin was as pleased to leave Paris as Sylvia.  The
Champs-Elysees, the sidewalk cafes, the Louvre were all enchanting, but
the Parisians themselves seemed resentful of Americans and went out of
their way to pretend to ignore their requests or to not understand even
Martin's excellent French.

Venice, however, lived up to both their dreams.  It was, as Martin had
promised, a city made for lovers.  Sylvia felt as if she had been
transported to another century where her most extravagant fantasies
could come true.

The first night she stood on the balcony of their room and looked out
at the Grand Canal, watching the gondolas slip past in the moonlight.

She heard the sound of the boats sliding through the water and listened
as the gondolier began a song that must have been written hundreds of
years before.  Sylvia imagined the passengers were aristocratic
Venetian ladies from the distant past, escorted by their dashing lovers
to some secret rendezvous hidden in the maze of canals.

She could almost see them .  the embroidered silk gowns, the flowing
black or scarlet velvet cloaks the jewelled masks which stood between
them and the wrath of jealous husbands.

"Sylvia?"

Martin's voice called her back to the present.

"Yes, darling," she answered, turning around.

"Enjoying the view?"

"Oh, yes, I've never been so excited in my life.  I think this is going
to be the best place we've ever been.  The weather is so warm and it's
all so romantic."  She walked over and found him in the beautifully
carved rococo bed.  That night their passion seemed to reach new
heights.

Early the next morning, Sylvia quietly slipped out of bed, dressed, and
went down to breakfast alone.  It was only seven o'clock, but she
didn't want to miss a moment of bella Venezia .  There was no one in
the dining room except the maitre d' who was mildly startled that an
American lady would be up so early for breakfast.

Sylvia chose a table looking out at the Grand Canal.  A small
motorboat was tied up at the pier unloading produce.

How incredible, she thought.  Like a delivery truck!

After her breakfast of rolls, black coffee andformaggio, Sylvia went
for a walk.  The narrow streets were still deserted except for vendors
getting ready for the tourists.  Here and there shopkeepers were
washing down the sidewalks in front of their stores.

Cats rummaging through the garbage cans stopped to peer at her.  One
arched its back and snarled.

"Don't be so disagreeable.  It's too beautiful," she scolded them
aloud.  Sylvia felt as if she were in love with the world.  Laughing at
herself, she tossed her straw hat up in the air, shouting into the
empty street, "Oh, Venice, I'll always remember this time!"  Then
walking rapidly, she returned to the hotel.

As she entered their room, she found Martin had just finished
dressing.

"My God," he said, 'what time did you get up this morning?

From now on, Syliva, if you're going to disappear please leave me a
note.  "

"Were you worried, Martin?"  she asked, secretly pleased.

"Yes... a little."

"I think that's charming, but I'm a big girl now."

"Be that as it may, this is a foreign country, and young women can't be
too careful."

She smiled, thinking.  Oh, Martin, you should have known the perils I
survived all the years you were away, but all she said was, "I love it
when you're protective."

"Where were you, anyway?"

"Downstairs, having breakfast."

"So early?  I just called room service.  Now you're going to have to
sit and watch me eat.  Then maybe, if you're very good, I'll let you
out of this room long enough to see a little of the city."

She laughed as Martin took her in his arms.

At twelve o'clock they found themselves seated at a sidewalk cafe in
St.  Mark's Square.  The overfed pigeons strutted nonchalantly around
their table until as if stirred

by a single thought they took off into the air, almost blanketing the
sun.

Sylvia watched as they finally settled on the other side of the
Square.

"Oh, darling," she said, "I'll remember this all my life.  I'm so happy
that this is one city we're both seeing for the first time together."
She didn't add that in London she had occasionally found her pleasure
clouded by memories of that dreadful year of self-imposed exile.

Martin took her hand and said, "Yes, I know.  Now I'm going to take you
for a ride you'll never forget."  He led her back to the Grand Canal,
where he hired a gondola for the afternoon.

They lay back in each other's arms and watched while the pa lazzi and
churches slid by on either side of them.

That night in Harry's Bar, Sylvia said tearfully, "Darling, I just feel
so sad we're leaving tomorrow.  Do you think we'll ever come back?"

"Of course," Martin said.

"We can come back once each year on our anniversary."

She reached over, took his hand.

"God, I really hope so, Martin."

By noon the next day they were on a train bound for Rome.  After they
were settled at the Excelsior and began sight-seeing, Sylvia sensed
that Martin was no longer enjoying himself.  He seemed distant,
withdrawn, as he had been when Jenny first broke off their affair.

But Martin wasn't thinking about Jenny.  All he could remember were the
days right after the Italian surrender, the children rummaging in
garbage cans, and thirteen-year- old girls selling themselves for a
candy bar.

He tried to exorcize the images with a frantic schedule.  For the first
time since they left the Andrea Doria they stayed up late.  They danced
almost until dawn, and when Sylvia woke still tired at noon, Martin
presented her with a long list of places he'd arranged for them to
visit: the Forum, the Coliseum, the Pantheon, the Baths at Caracalla.

They even went across the Tiber to Vatican City to visit St.  Peter's
and the Vatican Museum.  They didn't get

back until after five.  Sylvia expected they would have an intimate
dinner in the hotel, but Martin announced they had reservations at a
well-known nightclub.  Sylvia was on the verge of protesting when she
noticed his tense expression.  Uncertain what was troubling him, she
decided to go along and hope the show would cheer him up.  Patience,
Dominic had recommended, and patient she would be.

For a while in the dark, smoke-filled nightclub, Martin seemed to
regain his spirits.  He laughed loudly at the Italian jokes Sylvia
could not follow, but she noticed that he was drinking more than usual,
and when he thought she wasn't looking, his face was drawn and blank.
Sylvia was almost asleep when Martin finally suggested they go.

All the way back to the hotel she tried to guess why Martin seemed so
depressed.  Her first thought was that something had reminded him of
Jenny, but then she decided that was foolish.

As soon as they reached the Excelsior, Martin stripped off his clothes
and flung himself on the bed.  Sylvia went into the bathroom, turned on
the taps, added bubble bath, and watched the tub fill.  After she
immersed herself in the soothing water, she lay back, looked up at the
ceiling, and tried to think.

If knowing someone for a very long time meant that they would achieve a
perfect union, then she and Martin should have had total compatibility.
But that wasn't true.  She had known Martin all her life, loved and
adored him, but there was a part of him she didn't understand at all.
Every time she had tried to break down that barrier and see what lay
inside, he had stopped her.  The fact that they were now married hadn't
changed a thing.

Lying among the bubbles, she forced herself to put her own fears aside,
reasoning that no matter what it was that bothered her husband, he
needed her.  She dried herself, walked into the bedroom, and snuggled
down beside him.  In spite of the fact that she felt him tense as she
moved closer, she kissed him passionately and whispered.

"My darling Martin, I do adore you so."

Sylvia had no way of knowing that the ghosts that had haunted him
since the war had left him impotent tonight.  She had probably thought
sex would cheer him up, but for the moment it reminded him of too many
sweating bodies and too much cheap perfume.

"I'm sorry, Sylvia, but I'm very tired."  He regretted the words of
rejection the moment they left his mouth.  But, as happens with people
who are unable to reveal their weaknesses, Martin found himself
imprisoned by them.

Sylvia suddenly remembered the night when he'd first come home from the
war, when she had stolen into his room and tried to make love to him.
He had said almost the same thing.

"I'm sorry, Sylvia."

She sat up slowly and took Martin's hand.

"Do you really love me?"

"Dammit, Sylvia, why do you ask me that?"

"Because I suppose I need reassurance."

"About what?"

"That you love me, Martin."

"Well, I wouldn't have married you if I hadn't."

Trying to keep from crying, Sylvia said, "You've become so remote in
the last few days.  Sometimes I do think you have regrets about
marrying me."

With more irritation than he meant, Martin snapped, "What are you
trying to say, Sylvia?"

"I think you're still in love with Jenny McCoy."

Martin sat bolt upright, angrier than she had ever seen him.

"Goddamn it, Sylvia, I'm not going to spend the rest of my life feeling
that every time I upset you, it's because of Jenny.  I never want you
to mention her name again.  I want to forget her."

Trying to maintain what little dignity she had left, Sylvia got up and
went to the bathroom.  She was certain now that Martin was in love with
Jenny.  The tears rolled down her cheeks, and for a long moment she
wanted to die.  Then she washed her face in cold water and sat on the
rim of the bathtub.  Be honest at least, she scolded herself.  He was
in love with her, and at times I'm sure he's torn between you

and her, but you're his wife.  You're here, she's not.  For God's sake
be smart and make the most of it.

Alone in the bedroom, Martin cursed his outburst.  He might just as
well have slapped her.  Contrite, he got out of bed and tried to open
the bathroom door, but it was locked.  He knocked.

No answer.

"Darling, I'm sorry."  He waited.

"Sylvia, please open the door."

No response.

He went back to bed, wishing he could undo the hurt he had caused
her.

Dammit, he was always wounding the people he loved best.  He was trying
to decide what to say to her when she opened the door and came back
into the bedroom.

He looked up as she seated herself on the edge of the bed.  Softly, she
said, "Please forgive me if I offended you."

He reached for her hand.

"It wasn't you, Sylvia."

"Do you want to talk about it, darling?"

He hesitated.  Could she really be made to understand what a strain it
had been on him being back in Europe.  Could she accept the fact that
even the pleasures of a honeymoon could not erase the terrible memories
of the war, which Italy in particular reawakened?  Or would she be
insulted or think him weak?  Everywhere they had gone, he had seen a
million ex-GIs, laughing, talking, drinking, holding hands with
dark-haired Italian beauties.  They had fought in the war, too, but
seemed to have made peace with the past.  Even the Italians seemed to
have picked up their lives with their usual zest.  What was wrong with
him that he alone could not shake off the sad recollections?

Staring at Martin's ravaged face, Sylvia suddenly glimpsed the truth.

She was able to put aside her own insecurities and think only of her
husband.  The problem wasn't her, it wasn't secret comparisons with
Jenny, it was simply that it was too soon for Martin to enjoy Europe
without feeling guilty.  She thought very carefully before speaking.

"Darling, you know how I have adored our honeymoon," she said.

"But you know, I think playing tourist is getting a little boring.  I
don't mean you, dearest, you'll never be boring.  But I think maybe
it's time to go home.  How would you feel about that?"

He put his arms around her and drew her close.

"I love you, Sylvia," he said huskily.

"I don't know what I've done to deserve you."

Once again Sylvia realized that her patience and her uncanny ability to
guess Martin's wishes had helped her choose the right course of action.
She hoped she would never lose that gift.

Chapter Eighteen

The trip home was an exhausting one and the pair spent only a night's
stopover in New York.  The flight from Europe was delayed and they were
able to snatch only a few hours' sleep before it was time to dress and
return to La Guardia to board their plane to San Francisco.

Sylvia in particular had a hard time shaking the effects of the trip.

Tired and listless, she barely had the energy to unpack and give Bess
and her parents their gifts before collapsing into bed.

On Friday, the fourth evening after their return, Bess gave a small
family dinner to celebrate their return.  Martin came home early from
the office to find Sylvia still undressed and resting on their bed.

"Are you all right?"  he asked, knowing she would normally be
downstairs helping Bess.

"Yes," she said, forcing herself to get up and start her bath.

"I

don't know what's wrong with me.  And here you

were the one who said Europe had been tiring.  "

Later, after a meal she barely touched, she looked around the living
room and asked if anyone minded if she excused herself.  Martin quickly
leaped to his feet.

"Are you sure you're feeling well?"  he asked, gazing at her drawn
face.

"I'm fine.  It's just the effects of the flight.  I still haven't
adjusted to the time change."

"Are you sure?"

"Of course.  Let me run on upstairs."  She cheerfully said goodnight to
the other guests, but once outside in the hall Sylvia thought she was
going to faint.  Beads of perspiration broke out on her forehead, and
she clung to the newel post, waiting for the sensation to subside.

Finally she felt a little better and continued on to her room, where
she got into bed and fell asleep almost immediately.

The next morning, when she came downstairs, Martin and Bess had already
finished their breakfast.

"My God," Sylvia said.

"I can't believe I slept this late!  Why didn't you wake me up,
Martin?"

"Because you seemed to need the sleep.  How do you feel this
morning?"

She was really still a little sick, but she answered, "Fine now."

Bess asked quickly, "What do you mean?  Were you ill?"

"No, not exactly.  I just felt rather strange ... " What do you mean,
"strange" What were the symptoms?  "

"Mother, I think you're making much too much of this."

"Be that as it may, you didn't answer the question.  I asked you for
the symptoms ... " Well, slightly nauseated.  "

Bess smiled.

"Oh, my dear.  Let me see if we can get an appointment with Dr.
Friedman."

Before Martin could object, Bess had dialled the doctor's number, which
she knew by heart.  He said he could fit Sylvia in at two o'clock.

All during the ride into the city Bess kept her happy suspicions to
herself, but once the nurse ushered Sylvia into the inner office, Bess
anxiously paced the waiting room.

After the examination, Dr.  Friedman asked Sylvia to dress and come
into his consulting room.

"Well, my dear," he said smiling as she sat down, "I do believe you are
going to be a mother."

"Are you sure?"

"Almost certain.  Of course, we will run a test to be sure."

Sylvia was so overcome with happiness that she scarcely paid attention
to Dr.  Friedman initial instructions.  She did hear him say, "A first
child at thirty requires a little more rest, a little more caution."

She looked at him with unspoken concern.

"Dr.  Friedman, I must have this child.  It must be healthy."

"Well, we really don't have anything much to concern us, but I would
suggest that you not exert yourself.  No strenuous exercise, a rest in
the afternoon, no cigarettes or alcohol.  And watch your diet.  It's
not so easy to lose weight after the baby at your age."

"That sounds easy," Sylvia said smiling.

"Now let's go outside and tell your mother-in-law," Dr.  Friedman
said.

"I know how excited she will be."  He put an arm around Sylvia's
shoulders and walked her back into the reception room.

"Well, my dear, it seems that you're going to be blessed with a
grandchild.  My congratulations to you and Martin.  I'm sure that
Sylvia is going to come through this splendidly."

Bess wanted to telephone Martin immediately but Sylvia insisted they
wait until he came home from work.  By six- thirty, though, when he
still hadn't returned, she was sorry she hadn't called the office.

When she heard his car in the drive she went out through the French
doors, ran down the path and threw herself into Martin's arms.

"Darling, guess ... " Oh my God, it's true!  Are you sure?  "

He held her as though she were extremely fragile.

"Sylvia, I didn't know I could feel so happy.  Having a child

means more to me than almost anything in the world.  "

"Oh, Martin, I just want to make you happy."

"You have already.  You've made me happier than I have a right to
be."

That night he held her in his arms with a mixture of tenderness and
desire that he had never felt for anyone before.  She was going to be
the mother of his child.  She was going to fulfill his destiny and in
doing so make him whole again.

Life over the next months settled into a quiet routine.  Both Martin
and Sylvia were early risers.  Most mornings, she put on a casual dress
and the two of them had breakfast alone, since it was Bess's habit to
sleep late and to have breakfast in bed.

Sylvia loved the morning room.  It was filled with plants and ferns of
all sizes.  The little table was lacquered green and the chair backs
painted with bright flowers so that even in winter it felt like
spring.

When they finished breakfast, Martin would drive into the city, leaving
Sylvia to a leisurely round of activities.  She would call her parents,
visit a while with Bess, and then often meet a friend for lunch.  It
was a lazy time, but she knew it was good for the baby and didn't feel
guilty even when a nap consumed most of the afternoon.

Martin watched happily as Sylvia moved from loose shifts to actual
maternity clothes.  Though both her mother and Bess encouraged her to
indulge herself, Sylvia watched her weight carefully.  She took her
vitamins obediently and, in addition to her calcium tablets, drank
three glasses of milk a day.  She was nervous about gaining more pounds
than she could easily lose after the baby was born.

Until her eighth month Sylvia was superstitious about letting Bess
furnish the nursery.  Dr.  Friedman kept assuring her they were fine,
and when Sylvia finally saw the oldfashioned bassinette Bess had chosen
tufted in white satin and trimmed with tiny blue bows she became as
excited as her mother-in-law.

When Martin saw the blue bows, he laughed, saying, "What if it's a
girl?"

"I don't think it will be," Sylvia said.

"I think you're going to have a son, Martin.  But if it isn't we'll
change the bows to pink."

Earlier Sylvia had been afraid something might happen to the baby.  Now
she relaxed.  She even let her mother send over her old brass crib,
still as bright as the day that Sylvia had first slept in it, and
enthusiastically joined both the older women in shopping for a layette.
Towards the end of her eighth month Sylvia began interviewing nurses.
She finally hired a widow in her middle forties who came with excellent
recommendations.

One morning, a couple of weeks later, going down to breakfast, Sylvia
tripped on the last step.  She managed to hold on to the banister as
she fell, and seemed more frightened than hurt, but everyone was
relieved when Dr.  Friedman arrived and confirmed that she was fine. At
one o'clock that night, however, her waters broke.  Not having the
slightest idea what to do, Martin called his mother, who came rushing
into the room.  In spite of her great anxiety, Bess managed to stay
calm as she called Dr.  Friedman and Sylvia's mother, and then arranged
to have the bedding changed.

Dr.  Friedman arrived in less than half an hour.  After a quick
examination he said he didn't think there was any need to rush to the
hospital.  Sylvia could rest a while until the contractions became more
regular.  He said he wasn't tired and he'd wait for Bess for a while
downstairs.

Martin pulled a chair over to the bed and took Sylvia's hand.

"Are you in much pain, dearest?"

"No, at least not too much.  The pains are still too far apart to be
severe."

But when Dr.  Friedman came upstairs an hour later, she gripped his
hand tightly, moaning as the contractions became sharper and more
frequent.

"Just relax, Sylvia," he said.

"And try to breathe naturally.  You're too tense ... Now that's a good
girl.

think for your comfort I'm going to take you to the hospital by
ambulance.  That way you won't have to get up.  "

Sylvia tried to follow the doctor's instructions, but the next pain was
so sharp that she screamed and clutched Martin's hand so tightly her
nails broke the skin.  She was desperately trying not to scream again
when two medics entered the room with a stretcher.

Sylvia felt herself being lifted, transferred to the stretcher, then
carried down the stairs, where the attendants slid her into the
ambulance.  Martin climbed in after her and they took off with sirens
wailing.  She was aware of Martin crouched over her in the ambulance.

The next thing she knew she was being shifted from the stretcher to a
narrow white bed, able to think only of the next shaft of pain awaiting
her.  This one was so sharp that she bit her lip until it bled.

"I'm here, darling," Martin said.

Then Sylvia heard the doctor suggest, "If you'd just wait outside,
Martin, until I've examined Sylvia."

As Martin bent down to kiss her, Sylvia whispered, "You will come back,
won't you?"

"Yes, as soon as the doctor allows it.  I'll be right outside your
door, darling."

Throughout the night her labour continued, and as the pain wore down
her resolve, she found herself screaming more and more often.  Now it
hurt not just during the contractions but consistently and without
relief.  Martin stayed with her in the labour room except for the brief
moments when she was being examined.

By two o'clock that afternoon, Martin was beside him self.

"You can't let her go on suffering like this," he said.

"I know you believe in natural childbirth, but nothing seems to be
happening.  I don't know how much longer she can stand the pain."

Dr.  Friedman said he would make one more examination.  When he came
out he asked Martin to come back into the room with him to speak to
Sylvia.

"I'm going to arrange for a caesarean," he said.

In spite of her pain, Sylvia cried out, "No, I can wait.  I can stand
it."

"Sylvia, you're in no condition to make that decision."

Grabbing his hand weakly, she whispered, "Please, please, doctor.  I'll
die if anything happens to this child."

"Nothing will happen.  Please believe me."

"I won't go," she gasped, perspiration running down her face.

"No one can make me go ... When he saw the look of determination in her
eyes, he agreed to wait just a little longer.  He was now sorry that he
had encouraged her so strongly to consider only natural childbirth.

Another hour passed and she became almost too tired to cry out.

Martin, frantic, sat with his head in his hands.  The few times he went
out to the waiting room his mother and Sylvia's parents tried to
reassure him, but it did little good.  He had stopped worrying about
the baby and just prayed that Sylvia would be all right.  At that point
she was his only concern.

By seven o'clock the baby's head was ready to emerge, but Sylvia was so
weak that Dr.  Friedman regretted having let her talk him out of the
caesarean.  Keeping his fears to himself, he arranged to have her taken
to the delivery room.  Martin went out to wait with the parents.

It was a breech birth and even the delivery itself took longer than
usual.  Finally, twenty hours after Sylvia's waters broke, the baby was
born.  At first the cessation of pain was all she cared about.  Then
she heard a small cry and a wave of pure joy washed over her.

"It's a boy, Sylvia," said Dr.  Friedman, placing the baby on her
stomach while he delivered the placenta.

Sylvia looked down at the tiny form.  Except for Martin she was never
to know a greater love.  This was truly the culmination of her
marriage: the flesh of their flesh.

They took the baby away to be weighed and washed.  Sylvia was moved to
a stretcher to be wheeled to her room while Dr.  Friedman went out to
tell Martin the good news.

Still in his surgical garb, he walked into the hall, took off

his glasses, and said, "Martin, you have a son."

Martin was transfixed.  Bess gripped his shoulders, saying "Oh, dear
God, Martin, I remember the day you were born.  And now you.  have a
son!"  Tears ran down her face.

"How is Sylvia?"  Martin asked.

"Fine.  The labour was too damn hard.  How she came through it, I
really don't know.  I'll tell you now, it was touch and go for a while.
But she'll be good as new in a few days.  Right now she's more tired
than anything else."

"Thank God!  When can I see her?"

"They're taking her to her room now.  Just give her a few minutes to
tidy up and you can go up.  But don't stay long.  She's exhausted."  He
turned to Bess and the Lowenthals.

"I think the rest of you should wait until tomorrow.  Sylvia really
needs to rest."

The Lowenthals nodded and began to gather their things in preparation
to going home.

"I'll wait here," Bess said to Martin.

"Then we can drive home together."

Martin went up to Sylvia's room and sat by the edge of her bed.  She
looked up at him, blinking away happy tears.  She felt that their son
was her final triumph over the phantom Jenny.

Martin too was overcome with emotion.  If he and Jenny had had a baby
his joy could never have been so complete.  Jenny's child would have
belonged to the Church.  This tiny boy was a true Roth and could carry
on his father's heritage.  Gently he leaned over and kissed Sylvia on
the lips.

As he straightened up, Dr.  Friedman came into the room, his coat over
his arm.

"I think you should leave now.  Sylvia is very tired.  And you, young
lady I'll see you and your son in the morning."

Although Sylvia was exhausted from her long ordeal, after Martin had
left, she asked if they would bring her baby from the nursery.  She
could not get over the miracle of him.

The nurse reassured Sylvia that the baby would be returned to her at
seven o'clock.  Reluctantly, Sylvia resigned herself to the long wait,
but before she knew it, it was morning and the whimpering child was
laid at her breast.  He sucked for a few minutes, but Sylvia knew that
he was just getting colostrum.  Her actual milk would not come in for
another day.

At twelve Bess arrived, followed soon after by Sylvia's parents, who
had brought with them flowers for their daughter and a silver rattle, a
Teddy bear and a football 'for when he's older' for their grandson.

After leaving the presents, Bess and the Lowenthals went down to the
nursery, where they were instantly convinced that their grandchild was
brighter, better looking, and more perfect than any of the other
babies.

"No doubt about it," Mr.  Lowenthal said, beaming.

When Martin arrived they were back in Sylvia's room discussing names.

"I really thought we'd call him Julian, after my father," Martin
said.

Bess's face lit up.

"Oh, I'd love that.  But would you mind?"  she said, turning to the
Lowenthals.

"Of course not, dear," Sylvia's mother said.

"It's what we expected if Sylvia had a boy."

Martin smiled again, happy that there was no conflict, that the
families were of one mind.  Sylvia leaned back on her pillows, almost
overcome with happiness.

It was not until some days later that she discovered a small cloud on
the horizon.  Although baby Julian had been nursing every four hours,
the fluid in Sylvia's breasts was steadily decreasing.  The nurse
attached a small breast pump, trying to start the flow, but little
came.  When she saw the baby was getting no milk, she left the room and
returned with a bottle.  Realizing that she would not be able to breast
feed, Sylvia burst into tears.  She was certain the problem resulted
from her strenuous dieting.  She continued to weep even when the nurse
settled the baby in her arms and showed Sylvia how to hold the bottle
so he didn't get any air.  Almost at once, the baby stopped fussing and
sucked contentedly.

When he had had his fill, the nurse took him in her arms

to return him to the nursery and said gently, "I think he'll have to
be bottle fed from now on."

Sylvia bit her lip.

"Maybe if I take a lot of nourishment I can do it .  " Dr.  Friedman
will know what to do.  " The nurse went out, leaving Sylvia regretting
every calorie she had denied her self during her pregnancy.

A baby should lie at his mother's breast, she thought, instead of
sucking on a rubber nipple.  Damn.  Damn that diet.  Damn my thirty
years.  I should have had my first baby at twenty.  She worked herself
up into a real stew by the time Dr.  Friedman arrived.

Concerned at her emotional state, he did his best to calm her down.

"Children do as well, and sometimes even better, on the bottle," he
said, but he only upset Sylvia more by confirming the nurse's
prognosis.

"I don't believe that," she sobbed.

"But it's true.  And besides, we really don't have any other choice."

"What would happen if I took more nourishment?  Isn't there anything I
could take to help me produce enough milk?"

"I'm afraid it wouldn't make any difference at this point."

Sylvia realized that Dr.  Friedman was unaware that, in a sense, he had
created her problem by recommending the diet.  But remembering his
kindness over the last eight months, she decided not to pursue the
matter.

"Well, she said, drying her eyes, 'if that's the case, at least I want
to give him his bottles."

"Only during the day.  The nurses will handle the night feedings."

"No," she insisted, "I want my son brought to me for all his bottles,
day or night."

Dr.  Friedman looked at her and laughed.

"You're incorrigible.  Now, Sylvia, let me examine you."

He wasn't at all pleased when he saw the toll the long labour had taken
on her uterus.  It had not tightened as fast as he had hoped.

When he was done he pulled out a chair and sat down.

"Sylvia, I have some instructions which must be carried out to the
letter.  You know, my dear, you can be very stubborn."  He smiled,
shaking his head.

"I want you to have very few visitors during the next week.  And I want
you to put on some weight ... " I promise," she said and smiled back.

"Fine.  Now get some rest and I'll see you tomorrow."

Soon after, Martin came in and kissed her softly on the lips.  She drew
him closer.

"Motherhood has not transformed me into a saint.  You can do better
than that."

"I can do much better than that ... He kissed her again a real kiss
this time, filled with the love he felt for his wife and sat down.

"How are you feeling this morning?"  she asked, seeing that he
obviously hadn't slept well.

"Fathers always survive."

She smiled, "Martin, isn't he beautiful?"

"Like his mother."

"You mean I look like a little red lobster?"

Martin laughed.  Then his face became serious.

"Look, darling," he said.

"I've spoken to Dr.  Friedman.  I really want you to rest."

She reached out and took his hand.

"Oh, Martin, I'm so full of love, how can I feel tired?  You've given
me so much."

"No, darling, it's the other way around.  You've given me a son, our
son.  Now rest."

"Will you be back soon?  Please?"

"If you promise to eat, and nap, and not talk too much.  Otherwise it's
solitary confinement."

For the next few days even her mother and father visited only
briefly.

Bess just stuck her head in from time to time announcing grandly, "I'm
going to see my grandson, Julian Roth the Second."  It was just a year
since her husband had died, and Bess found it especially significant
that the baby was born at this time.

At last the day came for Sylvia to go home.  Martin stayed home from
work and, when Sylvia was comfortably settled in their bedroom, he
spent the rest of the afternoon

watching his son.  He was enchanted by the little face that looked so
much like both himself and his father.

At dinner that night Bess's pleasure at having her grandson home was so
great that Martin silently congratulated Sylvia once again for having
persuaded him to live in Woodside rather than buying a house of their
own.

As the months passed, Julian grew into a chubby, happy baby.  Except
for a little colic and some hard times with his first teeth, he was an
easygoing, cheerful soul.  He smiled at Sylvia, Bess, his nurse, even
strangers, but his favourite person in his small universe was Martin.

His mother and grandmother and nurse were there all day.  Martin's
company was special.

On Sunday mornings, Martin would get up early and bring Julian into the
big four-poster to play.  The proud father would hold his baby boy up
in the air while little Julian kicked and laughed.  Then he would sit
him up and pretend to carry on a real conversation.  Julian would
gurgle and try to imitate his father's sounds.

Sylvia never tired of watching them together.  She was still crazy in
love with her husband and thought that his prematurely greying hair had
made him handsomer than ever.  And it seemed as if Martin loved her
more than ever, too.  The smallest holiday became an excuse for
indulgence as he brought her a new ring, a bracelet, earrings.  When
she protested, Martin just said that the mother of his son deserved the
best.

On Julian's first birthday, Sylvia had a small party for the family in
the garden.  Julian sat in his highchair, pounding on the attached tray
with his spoon while his two adoring grandmothers vied for his
attention.  At one point Bess pulled him up to give him an exuberant
hug, but when the baby caught sight of Martin at the head of the table
he stretched out his arms and screamed for his father.

"If ever there was a daddy's boy, he is," laughed Bess, placing the
baby in Martin's arms.

Sylvia observed the scene smiling.  Then she stood up and raised her
hands to get everyone's attention.

"I have an announcement to make," she said, turning to her husband and
son.

"I think you, dear Julian, are going to have a little competition in
the fall."  Martin looked at Sylvia for a long moment, then returned
Julian to Bess and walked over to his wife.

"Darling, how wonderful."  He looked around the flower-filled garden,
saw his proud relatives, heard Julian's happy laughter.  His heart
filled to overflowing and he vowed he would never let anything happen
to hurt his family or endanger their happiness.

Chapter Nineteen

On December the twenty-sixth, Sylvia delivered a baby girl, weighing
just under seven pounds.  After much persuading, she had agreed to a
caesarean, so the baby's time of arrival was known well in advance.

She was spared the long ordeal of labour, but she also missed the
excitement of hearing her daughter's first cry.  Sylvia was back in her
room before she regained consciousness, and she didn't see Martin until
the next day.  He seemed delighted to have a girl and handed out cigars
to all the doctors.  When Sylvia suggested naming the child after his
favourite grandmother, Amanda Roth, he seemed as pleased as he had when
she'd named Julian after his father.

Martin was pleased and as the babies grew he knew he had little cause
to complain about the pattern his life had taken.  The brokerage
prospered, the family was healthy, and Sylvia seemed to have accepted
the role of suburban mother.  If sometimes Martin felt life proceeded
on too even a keel, he kept such thoughts to himself.  Only
occasionally did he allow himself to question his life, and that

was when he felt the children were growing away from him.

Between the nurse, Sylvia and the maids, Martin felt as if he were
losing the special closeness he'd enjoyed with Julian.  He began
working longer hours the year Amy was born and sometimes days passed
when he wouldn't see his daughter.  He begged Sylvia to keep the
children up later, but she didn't like to upset their routine.

Goddammit, they're my children, Martin sometimes felt like saying, but
he didn't, although sometimes sitting at the table with Bess and Sylvia
he felt a surge of restlessness.  Was it less than two years since
Julian's first birthday, when Martin had felt he was the luckiest man
in the world?  Now sometimes he envied Sylvia's apparent contentment,
envied and resented it at the same time.

One night after the children were in bed, Martin and Sylvia settled
into their favourite chairs in the library.  Martin had taken out the
stock market report and barely heard Sylvia's rundown of the day's
activities until she said, "If you could have seen how excited Julian
was."

Martin poised his index finger on the quotation on US Steel and looked
up with sudden interest.

"Sorry, I'm afraid I missed that.  Who did you say was excited?"

"Julian."

"Oh?  About what?"

"Going to nursery school.  The one your cousin Jane is sending Mark and
Deborah to.  Of course they are in kindergarten but Julian will be in
the same group as Joel and Nicole and As though he had been struck,
Martin shouted, " You are sending Julian to school?  For God's sakes,
he is only three.  "

Sylvia was shocked by his outburst.  Suppressing her own anger, she
said quietly, "Jane sent the twins when they were only two."

"I don't give a damn what my cousin Jane did, she can do anything she
damn well pleases, but I don't believe in regimenting children that
young.  Let them grow up, for God's sake."

"But you don't understand Martin.  I feel Julian needs to play with
other children.  In fact, the other day when Jane stopped in after
school, Julian asked Mark if he wouldn't take him."

"Why in the hell didn't you discuss this with me before?"

"Well, darling, that's what I'm doing now."

Well, she was, but Martin sensed the decision had been made.  Knowing
he was being unfair, he said crossly, "All right, Sylvia, but the
answer is no.  Julian is entirely too young to be sent away to
school."

Sylvia bit her lower lip, trying not to smile.  She knew Martin was
having a hard time realizing that Julian was no longer a baby.  She
expected this was partly because he had never become as close to Amy.

Trying to keep her patience, Sylvia said, "He is not exactly being sent
away, Martin.  He will be in school from nine to eleven-thirty.  It
will be good for him.  He'll grow up being a very lonely little boy if
he is only surrounded by adults."

Martin felt as if he'd been pushed into a corner.  In her sweet,
compassionate way, Sylvia sounded as if the sacrifice were entirely for
Julian's sake.  Martin didn't believe it.  He felt that Sylvia followed
whatever his cousin Jane suggested.  As the mother of four, Jane's
advice was sacrosanct and for all he knew maybe she was right.

But the thought of Julian going off to school filled Martin with a
nameless sadness.  For the first time he wished they lived in San
Francisco so he could walk Julian to school in the morning before going
to the office.  Well, there was no use arguing.  He would look like a
heel if he tried to stop her, and he was damn well sure his mother's
allegiance would be with Sylvia.  His mother always sided with her.

"Well, where in the hell is this school?"  he asked sullenly and Sylvia
knew that was his way of giving his consent.

Martin insisted on driving Julian on the first day, but afterwards he
was sorry he had gone.  Something very precious died in Martin when
Julian let go of his hand and

ran off to play with the other kids.  He didn't even look up when
Martin pecked him on the cheek and said goodbye.  If Martin had ever
been asked to pick a time when the first blush of happiness left his
marriage, he would have siad the moment he left Julian at school.  But
he knew that was unfair.  It wasn't Sylvia's fault the boy was growing
up.

Over the next year Martin frequently went to work late, dropping Julian
off first, and he often called home at twelve to make sure the boy had
returned safely.  He saved all of Julian's crayoned pictures and had
them matted and framed as if they were Picassos.  He even hung some in
his office and would point them out to visitors saying, "By God, the
boy is really good, for a three-year-old."

No one was surprised that Martin's favourite was a scribbled figure
captioned "Daddy."

One night Julian sat on Martin's knee, describing a new picture,
showing off all the brilliance Martin insisted the boy possessed.

"Look, Daddy, the sky is blue and the tree is green, the moon is yellow
and the house is white.  And look, there's a daddy walking up the path
with his big boy," and he pointed to two figures who were almost the
same size.

"Do you like it, Daddy?"

"I love it, Julian, but don't you keep wishing to grow up.  Stay a
little boy just a while longer for my sake.  Okay, Julian?"

"Okay, Daddy."

Although Julian said he was willing, time was not.  Somehow, before
Martin knew it, Julian turned six and one morning he and Sylvia went to
enrol the boy in the Menio School, which was a day school through ninth
grade.  Instead of remembering his own happy days there, Martin felt
bereft.

Later that afternoon he sat in his office and couldn't concentrate on
anything.  He stared out the window at the bridge, but even that
elegant span of metal failed to raise his spirits.  His life felt so
empty.  The children seemed to have less time for him.  Both were busy
with their own playmates, and even Sylvia suddenly seemed involved
with a bunch of silly charities.  He felt as if he were living on the
edge of everyone else's lives, even his mother's.  Hell, no one was
paying him much attention.  He didn't want to feel sorry for himself,
but he did.

Yet Martin didn't complain, which in many ways was unfair to Sylvia.

As far as she could see their marriage was as happy as ever.  They
never fought.  They rarely argued.  But Sylvia was aware that Martin
was less than content.  Of course she did not have much time to dwell
on the problem.  She had been raised to believe that children were the
most important thing in marriage and, after all, Martin said he was
happy.

Sylvia pushed the vague concern aside and continued to fill her days
taking the children to the orthodontist, to dancing lessons, tennis
lessons, horseback lessons, swimming lessons.  She was elected to the
school board to help supervise the curriculum and worked hard getting a
local Congressman who favoured safe streets and better schools elected.
All this would help her children's future.

She didn't neglect Martin, for no matter what she did during the day,
she was always home by five to shower and dress for his homecoming.

Their friends considered them the ideal couple.  They went to the
opera, the theatre and charity balls.  They supported several San
Francisco galleries and were active members of the country club.  If
Martin was bored by the conversation at the golf course or by the
inevitable game of gin after dinner at the club, he showed his feelings
only by an occasional prolonged silence.

He would sometimes watch Sylvia's placid acceptance of her own routine
with envy.  She didn't seem to mind the constant driving.  She said
that she'd resented being consigned to the family chauffeur when she
was a girl and was determined her children would not be similarly
neglected.

She was convinced that that was one of the reasons she did not feel
close to her own mother.  No, she told Martin when he questioned the
hours she spent in the car, she was happy

to drive.  It gave her a chance to talk with the kids.

"Don't you get bored?"  Martin once asked her.

"No."  She enjoyed her days.  She was content being the loving mother,
devoted wife, obedient daughter-in-law.  She planned their life
carefully.  That's why it was so perfect.  They were the lucky couple,
weren't they?  Ask anyone.

Anyone, that is, except Martin Roth.  He was jealous of Sylvia's
tranquillity, and decent enough to be angry with himself for begrudging
her her enjoyment of the small things which filled her life.

Reading the paper one Sunday in April when Julian was about nine,
Martin looked out through the French doors to the garden and was filled
with an indefinable yearning.  It was spring.  The flowers were
bursting into bloom, filling the air with a heady fragrance.  The
seasons were changing, life was racing by, and Martin felt as if he
were being left at the side of the road, a passive onlooker.  Stepping
outside, his feeling of frustration grew.  Why had he allowed himself
to be stifled?  Why did he let his wife and mother control his life?

The fact that the accusation was unfair just made him angrier.  He knew
in the beginning he'd encouraged Sylvia to run his home just as his
mother had run his father's.  He had believed that this was all he
wanted.  He had been certain that any other longings would be satisfied
by the children.  Well, they weren't, and he found himself furious at
Sylvia whether it was her fault or not.

Tossing down the paper, he walked upstairs, just past Julian and Amy's
rooms to the bedroom he shared with Sylvia^ He stood for a long moment
observing her.

"Hi, darling," she said when she realized he was there.

"What have you been " I want you to get the children ready to go to the
house in Tahoe," he said impulsively.  Maybe a change of routine would
put him in a better mood.

Sylvia, shocked by the anger underlying his request, wasn't sure how to
respond.

"Martin, darling," she said finally, 'it's too early for Tahoe and the
children are "I don't give a damn, Sylvia it won't hurt them if they
miss a few days of school."

"Darling, I really don't understand any of this."

"That's just the trouble," Martin said.

"Why do you need to understand?  Why can't we just once do something
because I feel like it?  And I feel like going to the Lake."

"Martin, I think you are being unreasonable.  I can't get the house
ready that quickly, and besides I want to find out why you are so
angry."

Martin clenched his fists before answering.  Good fathers and husbands
controlled their tempers, but suddenly he wasn't sure if he still
wanted those two roles.  Still he would try.  Taking a deep breath, he
tried to explain, praying that Sylvia would understand the need for
excitement and adventure that he couldn't express, that he was trying
to assuage with this small, unplanned family trip.

"Sylvia, I am not angry.  At least I'm trying not to be.  I just
thought it would be a good idea if we could get away.  What would be so
dreadful if you and I went up without the children and let Bess bring
them up in a few days?"

"Really, Martin, as much as I would love that, I think we should be
here when the children get out of school.  If you think about it,
darling, you'll see that's the right thing to do."

Martin didn't care about doing the right thing, but the idea of a
spontaneous little vacation had been ruined anyway, so he decided to
give in.

"You're right," he said.

"We'll go when we planned."

"I knew you would agree, Martin, darling."

Martin spent the next two hours hitting tennis balls as hard as he
could from the ejector.

On the fifteenth of April, precisely as planned, Martin checked twelve
pieces of luggage into the car to drive to the airport.  They always
flew to Tahoe because Amy got carsick on long trips.  They reached the
airport in plenty of time only to discover the plane had been delayed
by fog, which did little to improve Martin's spirits.  He snapped at
Sylvia when she suggested coffee and yelled at Julian when

he refused to play cards with his sister.  At Sylvia's urging, he
agreed to take Amy to explore the airport shops, but when they came
back with enough bubble gum, Hershey bars and comic books to last a
lifetime, Julian began asking, "When are we going to leave, Dad?"

until Martin blew up, shouting at his son to shut up until they were on
the plane.

"Martin, I don't think it at all necessary to speak to Julian that
way," said Bess, for once breaking her own rule about interfering.

Sylvia tried to stay out of the argument, but as Martin's voice rose
she tried to calm him, whispering that Julian was still a little boy
and they would be going soon anyway.  Martin realized that he was
acting childishly, but his bad mood didn't lift until they finally
landed in Reno.

Almost from the moment they arrived, Martin felt as if he had been let
out of jail.  As soon as the children had gone to bed he drove Sylvia
down to the Cal-Neva lodge, where she played roulette and Martin shot
craps.  Then they danced until one in the morning and caught the last
show of the Hawaiian revue.  By this time Martin was a little drunk.

Sylvia was still acting wary, uncertain of his temper, when he
announced she had never looked better and he couldn't wait to get her
home to bed.

The next morning he was up at eight, rested as if he'd had a full
night's sleep.  He left Sylvia in bed and went down to breakfast, where
he was thrilled to find he had the children to himself.

Boy, they are gorgeous kids, he thought as he looked at them over the
rim of his coffee cup.

"Dad, can we go on the higher slopes today?"

Julian asked, seeing Martin's good spirits.

He looked at them for a moment.  They were damn good skiers, better
than most kids their age, but he knew Sylvia didn't think they were
ready for the advanced trails.

"I don't think so, Julian, not this year," he said.

Why not.  Dad?  "

Amy chimed in, "Yes, why not, Dad?"

"Because I really don't think you're quite ready for it."

Upon which Julian protested, "I'm not a child any longer and I've been
skiing since I was four."

The, too, Daddy," Amy said.

What they said was true and like most indulgent fathers he found it
hard to say no.

"We'll just go up and tell your mother," he said, giving in.

Sylvia was yawning as they came into the room.

"How did you sleep, dear?"  Martin asked.

"Just great," she said.  Then, noticing the kids, she added, "Have you
all made plans for the day?"

"Well, the children are anxious to get in some skiing."

"Darling, would you forgive me if I didn't join you?  I'd like to be
lazy today and I think Mother wanted to go into the village a little
later."

"I wish you would," Martin said.  But before he could say more to
persuade her, Julian and Amy pulled him from the room.  Julian figured
the less time they spent around their mother the less likely she was to
find out they were planning to try the upper slopes.

It was only a short drive to the ski area, where they took a gondola to
the top of the mountain.  The kids were beside themselves with
excitement and Martin had to restrain them so that he could check their
bindings.

Finally they were ready for the descent.  Amy quickly manoeuvred her
way in front, shifting from side to side with neat parallel turns.  She
felt very grown up and hoped she could stay in front of her father and
brother for the whole run.  She concentrated on turning just at the top
of each mogul, trying to maintain her speed.  Then she looked back to
see how far behind her brother was.  The moment of curiosity proved
disastrous.  The edge of her ski caught on some ice and she lost her
balance, still going over thirty miles an hour.  She toppled over and
over until she hit a snow bank.

Martin saw her fall and his heart nearly stopped.  He skied up to her
and when he saw she was unconscious he yelled for Julian to get the ski
patrol.  Lifting her head

gently, he implored her to wake up, speak to him.

Slowly she opened her eyes, but there was no recognition in them.  He
wanted to die.  Martin had no idea how long they were there, but it
seemed like an eternity before the ski patrol arrived with the sled.

"She is going to be okay, Dad," Julian said as the medics lifted her.

Martin put his arms around his son, grateful for the boy's attempt to
comfort him.  They waited until Amy was bundled into the sled, then
followed the patrol down the mountain.

At the Squaw Valley emergency room Martin called Sylvia.  When she
heard Martin's voice on the phone, she knew something was wrong.

"Sylvia," Martin began, 'don't get upset.  Amy has had a little
accident.  "

Swallowing hard, she asked what had happened.

"Well, she hit her head.

But I'm sure she'll be all right.  "

"Where are you?"  Sylvia asked.

He told her and she said she'd be there immediately.

Martin and Julian were waiting in the hall when she and Bess arrived.

"Where is she?"  Sylvia asked, trying to hold back her tears.

"She's been taken upstairs."

"How badly is she hurt?"

"The doctor told me she has a slight concussion."

"Concussion?"  Bess and Sylvia said at the same time.

"Yes," Martin almost whispered.

"How did it happen?"  Sylvia asked.

"We were coming down from the Gun Barrell," Julian began.

"Gun Barrell?"  Sylvia gasped.

"I can't believe you took the children up there."

Bess, who rarely criticized her son, couldn't resist saying, "Martin,
that was totally irresponsible."

"Get off my back.  Mother!"  Martin snapped.

"I'm worried sick as it is.  I don't need your recriminations."  With
that he walked away, leaving Sylvia to find out where Amy's room was.
She started upstairs, still furious.  Skiing with the other families
wasn't enough for Martin.  He needed to show his children what a free
spirit he was.  Never mind if they were not ready for the upper trails.
When she reached Amy's door she braced herself for the sight of an
unconscious child, but when she went inside she found Amy propped up in
bed with a big bandage around her head.

"Hi, Mom," she said.

Sylvia almost fainted with relief.

"How are you, darling?"

"Great, Mom.  I just got a bump on my head."

"Are you sure?  You're not just saying that?"

"No, Mom, really."

The doctor confirmed that the Roths had a great deal for which to be
grateful.

After a few days of observation, Amy was sent home as good as new, but
the accident left Sylvia and Martin with scars that didn't heal so
quickly.  Though they didn't discuss it again, Sylvia felt he had
foolishly risked the children's lives.  For his part, Martin resented
her silent accusation.  Even Julian sensed the tension.  One night at
dinner he rose to his father's defence, answered the unspoken question
by saying, "You know, it wasn't Daddy's idea to come down Gun Barrell
and it wasn't his fault Amy had an accident.  She was doing great, in
fact she was in the lead."

Sylvia felt ashamed of her attitude, and when they flew back to San
Francisco she tried to leave the incident behind her, but she knew it
had made one more crack in the now battered facade of their marriage.

Chapter Twenty

As long as he lived Martin would always remember the day Julian
graduated from high school.  For the first time he realized how hard it
must have been for his own parents to see him grow up and go off to
college.  Sitting in the bright sun, Martin took Bess's hand and
squeezed it as he watched his son walk up and receive his diploma.

Seeing the gesture, Sylvia smiled.  Martin seemed happier these days,
less restless, or so she liked to believe.  But if she had been able to
read his thoughts this bright June day she might have felt less
serene.

As the headmaster began his speech, Martin could not believe that it
had been decades since he had sat on the same platform facing the
audience at his own graduation.  Where the hell had his life gone?  In
September it would be Julian's time to set off for Yale but Martin knew
he would have a much easier time.  With no quotas, and admissions based
mostly on grades and college boards, it was unlikely that Julian would
find himself in a suite filled with tweedy anti-Semites who thought
college was just a place to play sports and drink beer.  But even with
all of his problems at Yale, Martin would eagerly have relived those
years.  His mother stirred at his side and he glanced at her, shocked
to see how much she had aged in the last months.  She was approaching
seventy now, and that fact frightened him too.

In many ways Martin knew himself to be a lucky man, but he found
himself more and more often forgetting where he was and reliving the
past.  And the past meant Jenny.  Despite his best intentions he kept
remembering their year together in New York.  He saw her running across
the room to him, bending over the stove, throwing back her head in
uninhibited laughter.

As the band struck up Pomp and Circumstance', Martin dragged himself
back to the present, feeling as guilty as though he had actually been
with Jenny, kissing those red lips and brushing back her thick, wavy
hair.

As Julian started off the stage, Martin wanted to cry out to him, Enjoy
it, son, it goes so fast.  Was it really only eight years ago he had
been playing Little League, only five years ago they had gone trout
fishing without either Amy or Sylvia?  Martin blinked back tears as he
made his way through the crowd to congratulate his son.

Two years later, when Amy graduated, Martin found the memories even
more overwhelming.  Tuning out the headmaster's dull speech, he let a
kaleidoscope of pictures run through his mind: Amy at five, whizzing
past him on her new two-wheeler, "Look Dad, no hands'; at six, swimming
the length of the pool; at eight, going camping and falling in the
poison oak; at thirteen, winning the piano competition and coming home
on top of the world, convinced she could do anything.

That night when Amy came into his study to show off her long white prom
dress, Martin had trouble believing that this was the same little girl
he had watched grow up.  He kept remembering how he had walked the
floor with her when she had scarlet fever.  Could this be the same
child in floating chiffon with her hair twisted up on her head, soft
tendrils framing her face?

"How do I look.  Dad?"

Not Daddy any more.

"Like my beautiful princess.  Who gave you the orchids?"

"Mark Rosenthal.  He's taking me tonight."

Martin realized he should have known.  She and Mark seemed to have been
going steady since the cradle, but now they were no longer little.

"What time will you be home, darling?"

"I don't know.  Dad, about one, maybe."

"No " maybe", Amy.  I want you home on the dot or you'll turn into a
pumpkin courtesy of your old dad."

Later, playing bridge, Martin had trouble concentrating on the game.

When he did the unpardonable and trumped Sylvia's ace, his cousin Jane
said,"Martin ... are you with us tonight?"

Sylvia laughed.

"I'm not sure.  I think Amy's graduation really got to him.  He just
can't admit that Julian and Amy aren't children any more."

"You mean they've grown up and he has the growing pains?"  teased
Jane.

"Something like that."

"Well," said Jane, "I'm going to let my birds fly.  When they're all
gone, I'm not going to mind a bit.  Arthur and I will enjoy being a
couple again.  I think that's the best part of getting older."

That made a lot of sense to Sylvia, but seeing Martin's frown she
remained silent.

Two days later the Roths flew to Europe for their summer vacation,
where they were joined in London by Julian, who had left from New York
a week earlier.

As they toured all the famous spots in London and Paris, Sylvia was
eerily reminded of Martin's withdrawal on their honeymoon.  He said all
the right things, chose the best restaurants, tried to make sure the
children were enjoying themselves, but it was obvious his heart wasn't
in it.  On their honeymoon, Sylvia knew that it was the war which cast
a shadow on their trip.  This time she wasn't sure.  She only hoped and
prayed he would find words to tell her.

When they headed for Italy she knew the time had come to take action.

While everyone was out shopping one afternoon in Rome, she headed for
an exclusive lingerie shop on the Via del Angelo.  When she left with
the little gaily wrapped package in her hand, she could hardly wait for
the night to come.  Martin sensed her unusual excitement all through
dinner.

Finally the kids went to bed and Sylvia went to the bathroom to
undress.  She took a long time and Martin, hearing the water running,
realized she was taking a bath.

When she emerged she was wearing a short lace nighty which clearly
revealed her nip pies and the dark triangle between her thighs.

"Jesus Christ, you look like a whore," Martin shouted.  As she raced
back to the bathroom Martin lay back sullenly on the pillows.  Did she
think he needed that to get a hard-on?  Then his anger subsided and he
felt bad.  She had just been trying to cheer him up and he had made an
ass of himself.

"Sylvia," he called, "I'm sorry.  Come back to bed."

There was no answer.  Sylvia was staring at herself in the mirror.  She
did look like a prostitute.  No wonder Martin had been upset.  Sex
gimmicks, pornography-he had never been interested in any of that, and
certainly those things had never been necessary to initiate their
lovemaking.  His forty-fifth birthday had been especially traumatic,
and in his present state of mind her prank had probably made him think
she doubted her own appeal.

She knew some of the women at the club had made a play for him, showing
by a smile, a gesture, that they wouldn't at all mind being seduced. In
fact, a few had been more than obvious.  Maybe she was taking Martin
for granted, but she would have bet her last dollar that he had never
cheated on her.

She washed her face, took a deep breath, and came back into the room
dressed in a simple white nightgown.

"Darling, I want to apologize.  However, dear, I was just teasing
because I know how down you've been.  I wish you could tell me what's
bothering you."

He looked at her, wondering how the hell he could explain.  She
deserved the truth, except he wasn't certain what the truth was.  He
sighed.

"I don't know if I can."

"After all this time, Martin, don't you know you can tell me
anything?

Why should there be any secrets between us?  "

"It isn't a question of secrets.  It's that some things are tough to
admit, especially to ourselves."  Swallowing hard, he said, "OK, here's
a confession: I used to think that fear of ageing was only a female
trait.  The truth is, men are just as

frightened as women.  Not just for the wrinkles.  In fact, vanity has
nothing to do with it.  Nor does sex.  Crazy as this is, everything
seemed to hit me so suddenly.  Seeing the children all grown up made me
feel as though I had lost my usefulness .  my function as a father.

I know there's no logic in any of this, but our lives were so consumed
with them through the years that I feel as though I've come to a
crossroads.  "

It was strange, Sylvia thought.  She had known Martin all her life but
would never have guessed that he had such deep-seated fears of
ageing.

He was so extraordinarily handsome, more so now than ever.  He was
right, Sylvia thought:

logic had nothing to do with it.

"I can still hear the sound of her laughter," Martin continued, 'that
day I took her to the circus and she saw the clown.  Where the hell did
the years go?  Suddenly I turned around and she's all grown up.  It
seems a whole chapter of our lives has closed on us.  God, Sylvia, I
don't know how to say this, but I really feel over the hill.  "

Sylvia wasn't sure what to say.  She wanted to reassure Martin by
saying that the two of them could have fun alone, but she wasn't
certain he would agree.  After all these years, the old insecurities
came flooding back to haunt her.  Maybe Martin would not be happy
living with her now without the children.  She looked at his sad face
and forced herself to put her feelings aside.

"You know what your daughter said?"  Sylvia said, forcing a note of
gaiety into her voice.

"What?"

"That her father was the most handsome man she'd ever seen in her
life."

In spite of himself he smiled.

"Did she?"

"Yes.  Do you remember being eighteen?  You don't know if you really
want to finish growing up or slide back into childhood.  It's a funny
age."

"So is forty-seven."

"It shouldn't be.  Especially when a man looks like you,"

she said, tilting her head back.

"Do you know what I want right this minute?"

Suddenly he did.  Off came the white silk nightgown and he proceeded to
show her .  and especially himself.

Later, when he got up to turn off the light, Sylvia whispered, "You're
getting better with age, darling.  Keep it up."

At nine the next morning, Amy came into the living room of their suite
at the Excelsior Hotel.  She found Julian dressed and ready for the
day's excursion, but the door to her parents' room was closed.  That
was unusual, she thought, especially when they had planned the day for
sightseeing.

"Where are the folks?"

"Sleeping."

"How come?  We were supposed to go to the Catacombs early."

"The Catacombs have been here for thousands of years."

"But we won't.  I'm going to wake them up."

"I wouldn't do that, Amy."

"Why?  Everything closes down at two for their crazy siestas."

"I know ... that's why the Italians have so many children."

"You mean the folks ... Amy's sophistication dropped away.

"That's what I mean, baby sister.  Now let's go down to breakfast, hop
a bus, and strike out on our own."

"But they won't know where we've gone."

"I'll leave a note."

Sylvia blinked the sleep from her eyes, then looked at the clock.  It
was late, already eleven-thirty.  Hastily she put on her robe and went
into the sitting room, expecting to find the children and apologize for
spoiling their day, but the room was empty.  Then she saw the note
propped up against the lamp.

"Dear Mom and Dad, when in Rome do as the

Romans do.  Motto amore.  We'll be back at three.  Love, Julian.  "

Sylvia blushed.  She was the-one who had advocated sex education, but
when your children knew all about what their parents did behind closed
doors .  She showed the note to Martin, who just laughed.

For the rest of the trip he devoted himself to his family's pleasure.

They did everything tourists do: visited the Catacombs, the Coliseum,
the Vatican.  And Martin made certain that everywhere they went Sylvia
had an excellent time.

But when the time came to leave Amy at school, he was devastated.  He
felt all the weight of his almost fifty years.  The night in Rome had
cheered him for a time, but like most people, Martin was a victim of
his moods, and as they left Europe he felt heavy with depression.

All the way home on the plane to New York he chastised himself for
wallowing in senseless self-pity, but when he dropped Julian back at
Yale he felt as though someone had shot a cannon through him, leaving a
hole so big nothing would ever fill it up.  Once again he spoke to
himself like a Dutch uncle.  He had to stop all this nonsense about
disenchantment.  Who the hell did he think he was?  He had more than
any man had a right to.  And it was time to stop mooning over his
youth.

Everyone gets old, and he was not even fifty yet.  He was going to
enjoy the time he had, and by God, make sure Sylvia did too.

Martin was as good as his word.  Despite long hours at the office, he
improved his golf, spent more time with Sylvia at the opera and the
theatre, and insisted she drive into town once a week to meet him for
lunch.

The first time she came in he chose the St.  Francis, and that
afternoon instead of going back to work he took a room and they spent
the rest of the day in bed.  It was as good a way of recapturing lost
youth as any.

Sylvia was happier than she'd been in months.  She went on a diet, lost
the five pounds she'd put on in Europe, and carefully planned their
social life around the people Martin liked best.  Even Bess noticed a
lift in her son's mood, and if either of the two women closest to him
noticed an occasional artificial note to his gaiety, they both thought
it wiser to say nothing.

Growing up was different for everyone.  Particularly at forty-eight,
particularly for Martin Roth.

Chapter Twenty-One

Back in America with Julian at Yale and Amy now at school in
Switzerland, Sylvia hoped they could sustain some of the joy they had
experienced in Rome, but although Martin tried to fulfill her
expectations, life settled down to the old routine.  They went out,
they entertained, Martin worked even longer hours in the office.

Despite his best resolutions his fiftieth birthday when it came
depressed him greatly.  Sylvia gave him a party and he found himself
inexplicably angry with her.  How could she celebrate middle age?

But like it or not, time passed.  His mother was in her seventies, in
the best of health.  Amy came home from Davos with the profound
announcement that after graduation she was marrying the tennis pro she
had met in Monte Carlo.  For once Martin put his foot down.  No more
tennis pro, no more Switzerland, no more Europe.  That September Amy
was packed off to Wellesley, relieved if anything that the romance had
been ended, though she would not give her father the satisfaction of
saying so.

Martin himself was probably more upset than his daughter.  He
remembered the pain of his separation from Jenny, but consoled himself
by saying that eighteen wasn't twenty-eight and that a tennis pro was
hardly good husband material.

He was less lucky dealing with Julian's choice of mate, Julian had
been graduated from Yale with honours and been accepted by their law
school when he called home to say that he was engaged to Sarah
Storey.

He brought her home over the summer to visit.  She was very elegant,
very Vassar, very Episcopalian, and very Beacon Hill.  To Bess's dismay
she had made it clear that her parents had forgiven Julian for the bad
taste of being born a Jew and were very grateful that somewhere along
the line one of his ancestors had had the good sense to change the
family name of Rothenberger to Roth.

Bess moaned in private, but Martin and Sylvia consoled themselves that
under the Old Boston veneer the girl seemed smart and friendly and very
much in love with Julian, which in Sylvia's eyes made up for a
multitude of sins.

The wedding itself was an elaborate affair in the garden in the centre
of Louisburg Square.  It was a strain on all of the Roths.  The
minister, a thin, disagreeable young man, made no concessions for the
Jewish bridegroom, and Martin stood watching the pretty blonde
bridesmaids troop into the garden, wondering what his father would have
said if he were alive.  Was it worth it, Martin thought suddenly,
giving up Jenny, always doing the right thing?  His son had cast away
all traces of his religion to marry this pretty, slender gentile with
her New England ways.  For a moment the pain in his heart was more than
he could bear.  His eyes flickered to Amy, who was looking ravishing as
the maid of honour.  Who knew whom she would want to run off with
next?

They had saved her at eighteen, but would they be able to forestall a
misalliance at twenty?  Martin sighed.  What good had his toeing the
family line of tradition and heritage done?  For the first time he felt
old, without hope.

When the Roths returned home after that curious wedding it was with
heavy hearts.  Amy had cheerfully returned to college, and Bess
declared she needed a week's rest after all the travelling, leaving
Sylvia alone to face Martin's gloomy

looks across the breakfast table.  To see him so withdrawn was almost
more than she could bear.  It wasn't only the wedding, she knew that.

He seemed to be fighting the years, unwilling to sit back and enjoy
this time alone together.  The truth was they had a lot to be grateful
for.  Amy was doing well at Wellesley and Julian certainly worked hard
and seemed responsible.  If anything, his new in-laws had made him a
little stuffy.  Sylvia found herself annoyed with Martin.  There was no
reason for him to be so gloomy.

That night when Martin sat down to dinner she said, "I think it would
be so good to get away together.  Just the two of us.  No parents, no
friends.  Would you like that?"

Would he like that?  Well, after the tensions of the past weeks it
might help.

"Okay, let's go up to the Lake tomorrow."

Sylvia closed her eyes.  Everything was going to be all right.  Wasn't
it?

The drive up to the mountains was a silent one.  When they did talk all
they seemed able to discuss were the children.  It appeared they had
lost whatever mutual interests they had shared.  Well, this weekend
would be a new beginning, Sylvia resolved.

Moving closer to Martin, Sylvia took hold of his right hand.  This
holiday was what they needed.  Married people needed time alone.  She
hadn't understood that well enough over the years.  It had always
seemed so important to do things as a family.  But today she knew
better.  For all of her devotion, they essentially could only fix
themselves.  Children were selfish by definition.  That's what growing
up was about.  Learn to care for other people.  Well, soon Julian would
have children of his own.  The important thing now was to cheer Martin
up and save her own marriage.  Hopefully this weekend in Tahoe would be
a new beginning.

They did all the things they had done in the past: walked in the
mountains, had drinks before the fire, rode horses down into the
valley.  They were kind and polite to each

other, but nothing seemed to rekindle the old sense of romance.  Both
knew it and both were miserable.

It wasn't anybody's fault, Sylvia thought.  Something had happened to
their lives.  As she got ready for bed that night she decided that the
air was very chilly even for Lake Tahoe.

Chapter Twenty-Two

It was the month after the trip to Tahoe that Martin ran into Jenny.

It had been Sylvia's regular Wednesday in town.  As he left to meet
her, his age weighed heavily upon him.  On his way out of the office,
he realized that most of the brokers were in their twenties and early
thirties.  He had once been the youngest in the firm.  In fact, he had
been referred to as 'the kids'.  But the men of his father's time had
either died or retired.  The world belonged to the young.

Outside, the bustling Yuletide crowds made him feel lonelier than ever.
It had been the Christmas season when his father died; Christmas when
he had broken up with Jenny.  Frankly, he would be happy when the
holidays were over.

As he sat across the table from Sylvia at the St.  Francis he hoped the
glow provided by two double martinis would conceal his depression.  He
was relieved when she didn't seem to pick upon his mood and wasn't
aware that he was only half listening to what she was saying.

Something about the party that night and reminding him not to be
late.

Then he kissed her goodbye in front of I. Magnin's.

Two minutes later he had caught sight of Jenny and his life was turned
upside down.  All his feelings for her returned.  It was as though the
last twenty-five years had never existed.  She aroused sensations
within him he hadn't

experienced in that many years.  Nobody else had ever made him feel
that way.

The next day in the office when he picked up the phone in his sweating
palm to call Jenny, a wave of guilt swept over him.  Not once during
his marriage had he been unfaithful to Sylvia, unless one counted his
thoughts of Jenny.  But Martin knew that he was going to have an affair
with Jenny.  He knew that he couldn't help it.  He also knew that was a
lie.  Of course he could help it.  All he had to do was let her get on
her plane for Hong Kong without calling her, he thought as he finished
dialling.  Just hang up.  Martin was about to when he heard Jenny's
voice.

"Hello," she said in her lyrical voice.

"It's me, Jenny-Martin."

She laughed.

"I would have recognized the voice.  How are you, Martin?"

"Fine.  Can we meet?"

She paused.

"I asked you yesterday if you thought it was wise.  Have you thought
about it?"

"About nothing else.  Somehow I don't feel like being wise at this
point.  I want to see you, Jenny."

"All right.  Where shall we meet?"

"If it's all right with you, the Fairmont."

"That's fine."

When Martin saw her in the lobby waiting for him he knew how much he'd
missed her throughout the years.  She was still incredibly beautiful.

They went into the Cirque Room and ordered drinks.

"I still can't get over meeting you yesterday, Jenny."

"It was an extraordinary coincidence, wasn't it?"

"I often wonder about coincidences.  Is it fate or happenstance?"

Jenny laughed.

"Well, I wouldn't get that philosophical.  Now tell me about yourself,
Martin."

"What do you want me to tell you?"

"Well, there must be a few things that have happened over the last
twenty-five years.  Are you married?  Do you have children?  Most of
all, are you happy?"

"I am married and I do have children.  I'm not so sure though how to
answer your last question.  There have been times that I have been very
happy with Sylvia that's my wife but there have also been times when
all I could think of was how much I missed you."

Jenny looked at Martin over the rim of her glass.

"And I thought you'd forgotten me."

Martin motioned the waiter to bring fresh drinks.

"I've never stopped loving you.  Jenny," he said.

"I'm not sure if I believe that."

"It's the truth.  Whatever else you think, believe that."

Jenny smiled.

"You may think it's the truth, but when the time came to choose between
me and your family, your family won."

"I never really made a choice, Jenny, and I was still very young.  I
know I behaved badly after my father died and I've suffered because of
it."  He reached across the table and took her hand.

"You know, I never stopped wondering where you went.  For the longest
time I tried to find you.  What did you do, Jenny?"

Jenny twirled the olive in her glass and without raising her eyes said,
"I don't think I am going to tell you today."  Martin was silent and
for a few minutes they sat sipping their drinks and carefully avoiding
the other's gaze.  Finally, as if shaking herself out of some private
dream, Jenny looked up and smiled.

"Well, Martin, it has been great seeing you, but I have a million thing
to do between now and the time my plane leaves."

"Jenny, I can't let you go," Martin said, uncertain how to persuade her
to stay.

"Not this time."

"I'm afraid you can't stop me," she said, smiling gently.

"Jenny, I'm no longer a kid.  I love you and I don't believe fate let
us meet again just to say goodbye.  You can't walk out of my life
again."

"I think you're a little confused.  It was you who walked out of my
life.  Now really, I must dash."

"Don't punish me.  Jenny."

"You've already done that, Martin, to yourself."

"You really hate me, don't you?"

"No, strangely enough, I don't.  There were times that I did but not
any more."

"Please, Jenny, give me a chance to make up for the past."

Jenny smiled.  Years ago she would have thanked God on her knees to
have heard those words, but she was no longer naive enough to believe
him.  He was a married man with two children.  How could he possibly
erase the pain of the last twenty-five years?

"I don't think so," she said, getting up.

"But thanks for the thought."

Martin rose and helped her on with her coat.  When they reached the
lobby they stood facing each other for a long, awkward moment.

"How can I get in touch with you?"  he asked, wanting to take her in
his arms.

"That could be difficult since the job I have now involves so much
travel."

"You mean you're just going to vanish from my life?"

"I'm afraid so, Martin.  Stay well and happy New Year."

He watched as she walked towards the elevator that would take her to
her room.  He remained frozen for a long time after the doors closed,
the image of her face still before him.

How he walked to his car he couldn't remember.  The next thing he knew
he was behind the wheel, driving aimlessly, reluctant to return home.

When he finally stopped near the Coit Tower, he turned off the engine
and looked out at the dark, churning Bay.  The bleak, overcast day
reflected his mood.  What was there left for him to savour if Jenny
held no part of his future?  The children were gone, and he wasn't sure
what he felt for Sylvia at this moment except an enormous sense of
guilt.  He started the car and began driving back towards the
Fairmont.

This time he was not going to let Jenny run away without putting up a
fight.

In her hotel room.  Jenny was trying to pack.  She would take something
from the closet, fold it, then put it aside.  It

was impossible to concentrate.  After taking her evening dress out of
her suitcase for the third time she gave up and lay on the bed.

Meeting Martin had shaken her more than she had revealed.  Just seeing
him brought back not only the memories of their affair but of the
terrible time after he had left.  She had never been so miserable in
her life and she would never let herself be hurt in the same way
again.

Wiping her eyes, she got up, undressed, and turned on the shower.  She
first ran the water as hot as she could stand it, then turned on the
cold.  When she began to shiver, she got out and rubbed herself dry
with the big terrycloth towel.

Still too upset to pack, she put on a robe and poured herself some
vodka over ice.  Closing her eyes, she let the past wash over her.

She had never recovered from her affair with Martin.  She had gone
through all kinds of hell trying to put her life back together, but the
truth was she had never stopped loving him not when she wished to die,
not when she cursed him, not at any point in the lonely years since he
had gone back to San Francisco.  If only he had loved her enough to put
her above his family.  If only he had married her as he had promised
she would not have had so many incidents in her life to bitterly
regret.  She had changed after he abandoned her, hardened.  At times
over the years she had forced herself to remember what a nice girl, a
good person, she had been when she met him.  But that girl was dead.
Jenny had deliberately buried her, deciding that if it meant killing
off some of her better impulses, the loss was worth the protection this
new, cruel shell afforded her.

She remembered one night getting drunk in a bar and waking up the next
morning with a strange man next to her.  She could hardly believe this
was Jenny McCoy, the girl who was determined to leave Biloxi and make
herself a success.

When she'd fled New York, she'd also given up her job,.  and the one
she landed in Chicago meant taking a step backward.  She had been
crushed and bitter, no longer able to lose herself in the excitement of
work as she had before meeting Martin.

She wasn't making excuses.  She was just too unhappy to pull herself
together.  Her performance suffered and she failed to get the hoped-for
promotion.  Since her salary was so much less than the one she'd earned
in Manhattan, she ended up taking a room in a boardinghouse in the
wrong part of town quite a departure from the elegant Central Park West
apartment she had shared with Martin.

The morning she had woken up next to a stranger was when she hit
bottom.  Still half drunk, she staggered to the bathroom and looked at
herself.  Her make-up was smeared and her hair hung limply about her
puffy face.  Disgusted, she turned back to the young man who the night
before she thought had resembled Martin.  He was sprawled naked across
her bed.  In the harsh morning light she saw that the resemblance was
the product of too many martinis.  He was pale, probably from spending
so much of his time in sleazy bars, and flabby from too little
exercise.  The hair which had appeared thick and wavy was now plastered
down over a small bald spot.  God, she couldn't even remember his
name.

With a shudder she went to the window and looked down the eight floors
to the sidewalk.

If she'd had the courage, she would have jumped, but either fear or the
spectre of committing a mortal sin prevented her.  When she turned away
from the window, she discovered a core of strength she hadn't known she
still possessed.  She was going to survive.

She dressed and hurried out of the room.  Without stopping to analyse
her motives she went to the train station and bought a coach ticket to
Biloxi.  Then she went back to her room, where she was pleased to find
that the young man had gone, stealing only her radio.  She flung her
clothes into her suitcase and went back to catch her train.

Little Jenny McCoy had failed up North.  Maybe she never should have
tried, but now at least she was accepting her defeat and going back
where she belonged.

Biloxi scarcely gave Jenny a sense of homecoming.  She had been away
too long.  Her first summer back was almost more than she could bear.

She had never known such heat, such dust, or such discomfort.  She
would have left but, unable to find a job, had soon run out of money.

The morning she walked into the Biloxi commercial bank she had eaten
little for two days.  Standing before the manager's desk trying to fill
out a job application, she was overcome with dizziness.  She put a hand
to steady herself, but it was no use.  She fell to the floor in a dead
faint.

She came to on a couch in the bank president's office.  As her eyes
fluttered open she was aware of someone sitting at her side, holding
her hand.

"Are you feeling a little better?"

Jenny wasn't sure, but she nodded yes.

"My name is Cyrus Worthington, and I must say you caused us all a
fright."

"I'm sorry," Jenny said as she tried to sit up.

"I really think you should rest for just a bit," Cyrus said, gently
forcing her to lie back down.

Jenny focused on the man looking down at her with such concern.

Despite a thickset figure testifying to a fondness for good Southern
cooking and a face flushed by a steady diet of mint juleps, Mr.
Worthington presented a very distinguished appearance.  Thick grey hair
was neatly parted over a broad forehead, and his even features were set
off by a handsome smile.

Jenny was not aware that his concern was dictated by the throbbing
between his heavy thighs or that some of his sexual predilections had
made the most popular madam in town ban him from her parlour.  All
Jenny saw was that he seemed kind and that if she played her cards
right he might offer her a job.

Patting her hand in the most paternal way, he said, "I understand, my
dear, that you are looking for employment

"Yes.  I have excellent recommendations, Mr.  Worthington."

She told him that she had been born and raised in Biloxi, had left to
attend Hunter College, and then stayed on in New York to work first for
the Gatti agency and then Elmo Cosmetics.  Both companies would vouch
for her competence.

"Well, Jenny," he said, smiling, 'we'll check as a matter of form, but
I'll be very surprised if my manager doesn't call you tomorrow offering
you that job.  "

"Thank you," Jenny said.  The job would take care of the future, but
she still had to get through the next twenty-four hours.  Her rent was
paid until the end of the week, but how could she go another day
without food?  Gathering her courage, she said hesitantly, "Mr.
Worthington, I know this is an unusual request, but do you think that
you could make me a small loan?  I'm completely without funds and you
could wit hold the amount from my first pay cheque."

"I think that could be arranged," said Cyrus, pleased to learn the girl
was utterly penniless.

"How much do you need?"

Jenny wanted to ask for fifty dollars but she decided twenty-five
sounded more reasonable.  As long as she didn't have to wait two weeks
for her first cheque, she'd be fine.

Cyrus took out his wallet, thrust the bills into her hand, and then
insisted she have a cup of coffee before she left.

Back in her room, after enjoying the first satisfactory meal she'd
eaten in weeks.  Jenny decided that perhaps the worst was over.  She'd
been so frightened the last few months about securing the necessities
of life, she had hardly thought of Martin.  Now, as she drifted off to
sleep she wondered if he'd recognize the new Jenny.  The one who
worried about paying for her next meal, who had decided to survive no
matter what the cost, who took on the world armoured with a determined
selfishness and lack of concern for other people.

The first month she worked in the bank, Cyrus kept a respectful
distance.  She would see him welcoming visitors to his office, going
out to lunch, or occasionally staring at

her legs when he thought she wasn't looking.  Then one evening when
she was working late totalling up her deposit slips, he came over to
her teller's cage.

"When you're done, Jenny," he said, eyeing the manager, who was waiting
to close, 'stop by and see me.  "

Jenny finished up and went over to Cyrus's office, hoping that she was
not about to lose her job.

"Sit down, my dear," he said, motioning to a chair.  Jenny decided he
would not look so relaxed if he were about to fire her.

"I wanted to tell you what a fine job you're doing," he said.

"It was a lucky day for us when you fainted away here."

Jenny thought that perhaps this was the time to mention a raise.  Her
salary was almost a joke.

"Mr.  Worthington," she began softly, "I want you to know how grateful
I am to you.  I really love working here, but I am finding it difficult
to make ends meet.  Do you think in the next few months it would be
possible for me to get a raise?"

Cyrus smiled.  He liked the modest way she asked.

"I'll mention it to the manager.  I think you can count on an extra
twenty a week at the end of your third month."

Jenny was overcome with joy, though she was aware that even with the
increase she would be making less than half her salary at Elmo.

"I do want to thank you, Mr.  Worthington, so very much."

"Not at all, my dear.  Now I wonder if you might do me the honour of
having Sunday luncheon at my house."

Jenny wasn't quite sure she wanted any personal relationship with
Cyrus, but she wasn't about to jeopardize her job, so she smiled and
nodded.

"I'll have my car come around for you at noon."

On Sunday, Cyrus's driver picked her up promptly at noon and they rode
about twenty minutes out of town before turning into an overgrown drive
lined on either side with massive oaks that must have been over a
hundred years old.  Jenny felt an odd premonition of evil as she
entered the large, shabby hall.

A black houseboy guided her straight to the dining room, where she
found Cyrus standing before an enormous retracting table that would
easily have seated twenty.  The only other diner appeared to be an
overweight teenager whose blank stare and protruding tongue gave Jenny
the chills.  The young girl was clearly a mongoloid.

"We eat very promptly here," Cyrus said, apologizing for not serving
drinks.

"My daughter must keep a strict schedule.  She's diabetic."  He smiled
at the girl, who shrank back against her chair.

"Now, Linda Mae, say hello to our guest.  Jenny McCoy.  Jenny, this is
my daughter, Linda Mae."

At his insistent look, the girl put out her hand.  As Jenny leaned
forward to shake it she noticed a dull blue shadow running along the
girl's right cheek.  A bruise?  Following her gaze, Cyrus said, "Our
poor baby Linda Mae had a little mishap today.  She tripped on the
stair carpet.  Well, don't you fret baby.  Daddy's gonna have that tear
fixed."

Throughout the meal Jenny was touched by his tender concern for his
daughter.  He gently wiped her hand when she tried to eat her mashed
potatoes with her fingers and gently substituted a fork.  Jenny
wondered why he had not thought to mention that he had an obviously
retarded child, but decided it was probably too painful a subject for
him to mention.  Although gossip at the bank said his wife had had a
nervous breakdown before she died over ten years ago, no one had
mentioned the girl.  Looking up as the houseboy served a rich pecan
pie.  Jenny smiled across the table and was pleased when Linda Mae
smiled back.

Afterwards Linda Mae was taken upstairs and Cyrus and Jenny spent a
pleasant afternoon on the veranda.  Several times he looked as if he
wanted to ask her a question, but each time seemed to restrain himself,
creating an awkward pause in the conversation.

It wasn't until the next Sunday when Cyrus again invited her out to
dinner that he was able to muster his courage and mention what he had
in mind.

They were sitting over coffee in the drawing room when

he leaned forward and took her hand.

"Jenny," he said, "I have a favour to ask you.  But you must feel free
to say no.  I don't want to put you in an awkward position."

"Please, Cyrus.  I can't imagine your doing that."

He held her hand more tightly and for a moment Jenny felt uneasy.

"My dear," he said, 'it would make me so happy if you would be friends
with Linda Mae.  "

Jenny didn't answer immediately.  It was such an odd request.  Finally,
she found words.

"Of course I'd like to be of help," she began, 'but Linda Mae and I are
' "Worlds apart.  I know that.  But you are so kind, so sweet, you
would be so good for her.  She's never been close to anyone since her
mother took sick.  I think that's why she has made so little progress.
Do you think you could find it in your heart to befriend her?"

Jenny hesitated.  For the first time since Martin left her, she felt a
small crack in the ice that had closed around her heart.  Cyrus had
been so kind to her.  Maybe if she reciprocated, she would start
building a future instead of just living in the past.  Filled with
genuine compassion, she said, "I'll try."

As the weeks became months, Jenny did reach out to Linda Mae, who began
to flower under the attention.  Her table manners improved and she was
able to concentrate better on the simple tasks set by her tutor.  She
still remained clumsy and Jenny would frequently arrive to find her
nursing a new black and blue mark, but she seemed so much happier.
Jenny could not help being pleased and Cyrus was positively
delighted.

After three months, when Jenny's visits had increased to three or four
times a week, he asked her to give up her room and move in.

"You'll be well chaperoned," Cyrus said and Jenny smiled, wondering
what he'd say if he knew about her behaviour in Chicago.  All she said
was, "Well, Cyrus, I'd like that.  My little room is awfully depressing
and this way I'll have so much more time with Linda Mae."

One night after dinner, when she'd been living in the house for a
couple of weeks, Cyrus sought Jenny out in the library.

"My dear," he said, sitting in a chair across the room.

"I'm so glad this has worked out.  It seems to suit you too.  You look
so much better than when we met.  I hope that means you're happy
here."

"Oh, yes.  You must know that.  You've been so kind to me."

He moved his chair a little closer.

"Not as kind as I would like to be."

Jenny started and Cyrus realized he'd moved too quickly.  He got up and
went to the small bar near the fireplace where he poured them each a
brandy.

Jenny, who had drunk very little since leaving Chicago, felt the liquor
go right to her head.  It was as if from a distance she heard Cyrus
say, "Jenny, my dear, don't be offended.  What I was trying to say is
that this house has come to life again since your arrival.

Linda Mae is not the same girl and even the servants have responded to
your charm.  I don't quite know how to thank you.  "

Unsure how to respond, Jenny just smiled and sipped her brandy.

Cyrus continued almost as if to himself.

"Having you here has brought me the only happiness I've known in years.
What good is my money if I have no one to spend it on?  Linda Mae can't
be considered a real companion.  Look around me.  Everything is
meaningless without you here to enjoy it.  For the first time I realize
how shabby I've let things get.  A house like this needs an intelligent
woman to restore its grace, just as Linda Mae needs a loving companion
to help her fulfill even her limited potential.  Oh, Jenny, Linda Mae
and I would be destroyed if you left us."

Jenny remained silent.  She guessed where the conversation was leading,
but felt powerless to interrupt the man who had been so good to her.

"I know I'm old enough to be your father, but I love you

and want to take care of you.  Do you think in time you could return
my affection?  "

Jenny knew she should stop Cyrus before he committed himself further,
but he had been kinder to her than anybody in the world.  He had
showered her with gifts.  It was impossible not to like him, and more
than once she had pretended that he was the father who had abandoned
her.  If she rejected his proposal she would have to move out, and she
no longer believed she could survive alone.  She remembered looking
down from her eighth-floor room in Chicago, wanting to jump.

Forcing herself to look him in the eyes, she said, "I already do care
for you, Cyrus, but " You needn't finish.  I know what you're going to
say.  But, Jenny, one must be sensible.  You have no family, no one to
care for you.  I can provide for you for the rest of your life.
Sometimes security and peace of mind are more important than passion.
The fever of first love can burn out.  Respect and affection last.
Jenny, please say that you will marry me.  "

Jenny stood up.

"Can you give me some time?"

"Take all the time in the world, darling.  I'll wait.  Now you must be
tired.  Run on up to bed."

Jenny hurried from the room, anxious to be alone to think.  She ran
upstairs without a backward glance and did not see Cyrus looking at her
with barely disguised lust, or see his powerful hands balled into fists
against his sides.

In her room with the pretty canopied bed and the new wallpaper Cyrus
had insisted on hanging for her.  Jenny considered her situation
carefully.  What had life brought her up to now?  Her childhood had
been spent with crazy Cora Belle, who had all but beaten her to death.
She had built a career only to lose it by her impulsive move to
Chicago.

Her first real love affair with Martin had all but destroyed her.  The
more she thought about it, the more she realized that Cyrus was
offering her the greatest opportunity of her life.  Forget love.  Look
what it had brought her.  If she married Cyrus, she would be a
respected member of the community.  She would never again have to
cringe before the priest in the confessional.  She could live the rest
of her life in security and comfort with a man who had proven himself
nothing but kind.  What difference did it make if he wasn't tall and
handsome like Martin Roth?  She would be good to him, take care of his
house, look after his daughter.  Yes, she would marry Cyrus and she
would make sure he would never regret asking her.

The next night after dinner Cyrus and Jenny went into the garden,
leaving Linda Mae to watch television.  He took Jenny's hand and guided
her to the stone bench under the magnolia tree.  Sitting next to her he
said, "It's lovely out here, like the garden of Eden.  Whenever I feel
upset or down I sit on this bench for a while and my problems seem to
disappear.  You have that same effect.  When I'm with you the only
feeling I have is happiness.  I'm hoping that I will be able to enjoy
such contentment the rest of my life.  Have you thought further about
my offer.  Jenny?"

"Yes, Cyrus, lhave.  And I would be proud to marry you."

"Oh, Jenny."

He took her in his arms, but when he kissed her, his tongue urgently
parting her lips, she felt suddenly uneasy.  She reminded herself that
Cyrus was a good man and that physical passion had only brought her
grief.  Gently pulling away, she stood, saying, "Let's go in and tell
Linda Mae.  You know this will make her so happy."

Cyrus was determined to give Jenny the grandest wedding Biloxi had ever
seen.  The day after Jenny said yes he called Cartier and arranged to
have his mother's diamonds reset into a stunning engagement ring.

Then he insisted she order her wedding dress from the most expensive
store in New Orleans.  In the next six weeks painters and plasterers
swarmed over the house, restoring its Southern grandeur.  Cyrus planned
to have the ceremony in the house and the reception in a tent in the
garden.  He was a little taken aback when Jenny said she had no one she
wished to invite, but he didn't press and went cheerfully on with his
elaborate plans with the menu, imported wines, and a string quartet.

As the day grew closer, Jenny became increasingly nervous.  Some
nights she woke up shaking, having dreamed she was back with Martin.
Other nights she lay awake almost until dawn, trying to convince
herself that she had made the right the only decision.

Finally the day of the wedding came.  Jenny went through the ceremony
and mingled with the guests as if in a dream.  She made sure Linda Mae
behaved and had all she wanted to eat, but aside from caring for the
girl she left everything else to Cyrus.  It was only when the last
guest was ushered out and Linda Mae had gone up to bed that she felt a
shiver of real fear.

As it turned out the premonition was well founded.  Jenny's wedding
night was more horrible than her worst nightmares.  Either from too
much to drink or fear that he would not please Jenny, Cyrus was
initially impotent.  Jenny tried to tell him that it did not matter,
that they had all their lives ahead of them, but Cyrus became
increasingly violent.  She tried to get out of bed, but he forced her
down, and pinned her to the bed.  Bending back her wrists with his
powerful hands, he took her with such force that Jenny, eyes pressed
shut, prayed silently for it to end quickly.

At breakfast the next day he was calm, polite, and he acted as if
nothing unusual had happened.

The pattern for their marriage was set.  By day Cyrus remained the
Southern gentleman generous, charming and considerate- but by night he
was a changed man.  He would drink heavily, and when he didn't pass
out, he would search for a victim for his frustrations usually in the
bedroom.  Linda Mae was also subjected to his rages; it seemed Cyrus
was not nearly as patient with his poor, retarded daughter as he had at
first seemed.  One morning, examining the purple bruises that streaked
her own thighs, Jenny couldn't help but wonder if the mark on Linda
Mae's face that Jenny had seen on her first visit had resulted from the
girl's clumsiness or her father's fury.  A chill passed through Jenny
and she began to feel afraid.

Although she no longer believed things would get better, she continued
to play the part of the successful banker's wife.  She gave up her own
job since it would not be fitting for her to remain a teller, and
devoted herself to refurbishing the beautiful old house.  But try as
she might to keep up her side of the marriage, she found it
increasingly impossible to protect Linda Mae or herself from Cyrus's
violent temper.

After a month or more of nightly hell.  Jenny began to despair. Several
times, when Cyrus was at work, she packed her bags, only to unpack them
again before he returned from the office.  How could she desert Linda
Mae?  And besides, where could she go?  For Cyrus was careful not to
let her have more than a few dollars at a time for spending money.

So instead of trying to run away.  Jenny gave up on herself.  Her hair
often went uncombed for days, she stopped wearing makeup.

Just when she thought she could stand no more, Cyrus was the one who
collapsed.  He was brought home in an ambulance one morning, having
suffered a massive coronary at the bank.  For three days he lay in
then- big four-poster, surrounded by EKGs, oxygen tanks, and a battery
of attending physicians.  On the fourth day the medics removed the
elaborate life-support system; Cyrus died without ever regaining
consciousness.

All of Biloxi turned out for the funeral.  Jenny sat stone- faced in
the front pew, occasionally patting Linda Mae's hand.  Cyrus daughter
seemed to be the one person who was genuinely grieved by his passing.

Jenny was present because she had to be; the others were there for the
spectacle of a funeral as grand as the wedding had been some months
before.

A week after Cyrus was buried, his attorney visited Jenny to read the
will.  Cyrus's death had made her a very rich woman, but there was one
catch: if Jenny were to inherit Cyrus's millions, she had to agree to
two things.  The first was she must continue to look after Linda Mae.

Second, she had to keep the girl at home in Biloxi.  If she

failed to agree to either stipulation, she wouldn't inherit a dime.

The choice was hers.

Jenny weighed her options carefully.  Her dream had been to escape
Biloxi and all its terrible memories.  If she had guts, she knew, she'd
chuck it all: the money, the mansion, her role as the rich man's widow,
even Linda Mae.  She would make a new start for herself somewhere else.
She had done it before.  But the events of the past few years had
instilled a new timidity in Jenny McCoy.  She was cowed by fears and
anxieties that were unknown to the Jenny who had struck out on her own
to go North to Hunter College.  Given the prospect of another
experience like the months in Chicago, Jenny knew what her choice would
be even as she walked the grim-faced attorney to the door, saying,
"I'll have to let you know my decision in another day or two.  I need
some time to think."

She called his office to accept the terms of the will the very next
day.

Jenny tried to make the best of the new life Fate had brought her.  She
was good to Linda Mae and began to take better care of herself, but she
couldn't shake the gloomy listlessness that enveloped her in this tiny
Southern town.  Days mounted up to weeks, weeks to months, and Jenny
began to slip into a depression as severe as the one she'd suffered
under the worst of Cyrus's tyranny.  She began to regret having
mortgaged her soul for security.  And that was what she'd done.

She again began to think seriously of leaving.  The estate would hire a
nurse for Linda Mae.  But in the end, she couldn't give up the money.

So for the next twelve years she lived as Cyrus no doubt intended: a
demure widow, devoted mother to Linda Mae, chair woman of various
community charities.  Jenny was not happy, but she wasn't unhappy
either.  She simply ceased to feel and just went through the motions of
each passing day.  Then Linda Mae took ill.

At first it was just a fever.  The doctors were not concerned.  But
when it persisted for more than a day or two, she was moved to the
hospital.  Even round-the-clock care and the best specialists were not
enough.  Linda Mae died one April morning the day the crocuses bloomed.
It was the week before Jenny's birthday.

At her funeral.  Jenny and a few servants were the lone mourners.  As
the polished mahogany coffin was lowered into the ground.  Jenny wept,
the first emotion she'd let herself feel in years.  Although Linda Mae
had kept her in Biloxi all these years.  Jenny no longer resented
her.

In the end they had both been victims.

Chapter Twenty-Three

At last.  Jenny was free.  According to Cyrus's will, if his daughter
died Jenny could live anywhere she chose.  But suddenly, faced with
this longed-for freedom, Jenny was no longer sure what she wanted to
do.  Once she might have tried to reestablish her career.  But at
forty, with more money than she could possibly spend, she lacked the
motivation to go back and start at the bottom.  Too much time had
passed.  Her youth was gone and the long years in Biloxi had drained
her vitality.

She began to travel, diverting herself with long trips to Europe, the
Middle East, and the Orient.  It was as if she were trying to outrun a
past that persisted in following her.  But the past had a way of
catching up with her, often when she least expected it.  With the New
York of her youth miles and years away, she'd find herself reminiscing
about her brief affair with Martin and yearning for the innocent girl
she had been.  These days if she found a companion she never let her
get close.  The walls she erected when she fled New York had become
impenetrable.

Now as she stood on the balcony in San Francisco she was amazed that
she had allowed the chance meeting with

Martin to move her so deeply.  Their meeting made her realize how much
she still loved him, and she bitterly resented the effect he'd had on
her life even now.

She was brought out of her reverie by the telephone.  Without
answering, she knew who it was.  Let it ring, she almost screamed. Then
quickly she picked it up.  "Yes ... " Jenny, this is Martin.  I have to
see you.  "

"Why?"

"Because I can't let you leave this way."

"Where are you?"

"Downstairs in the lobby."

She hesitated, glancing around the tidy room.

"All right, come up."

Martin took the elevator to the tenth floor, where Jenny was waiting
for him.  When she opened the door, he hesitated, then said, "I had to
see you."

"Why, Martin?  When you went back to San Francisco you shut me out of
your life.  I remember your letters and our phone calls.  I felt as if
I were always being put on hold."

"I was wrong, Jenny, but I've grown up.  I have a great deal to say to
you now."

Jenny lowered her eyes, then looked straight at him, terrified of her
own feelings.  He still could get to her, after all these years.

Struggling to appear calm, she said, "I'm going to have a drink.  How
about you?"

"I don't think so."

"Oh, why not?"  she said cheerfully.

"You're among friends.  If I recall, you take scotch and soda."

Martin nodded.

"Do you know what I think?  I think you're still hoping for something
that will never work.  It didn't before, when my only competition was
your mother.  Now you have a wife and children.  Well, my friend, I've
grown up too.  I've learned to avoid situations where I can get
hurt."

Putting down his glass, he took her in his arms.

"Please listen to me," he begged.

She wrenched herself away.

"No.  I listened to you once and it nearly cost me my life.  Martin I
want you to go.  Now."

"But I love you.  You're the only woman I ever felt this way about."

"I'm sorry, but I'm not about to let you destroy me again.  I've played
the Phoenix once, and I don't think I can do it again.  You've got to
let me go."

"I can't, Jenny.  We have to talk."

"Do you think talking will help?  I want you to leave, Martin, before
we both get in so deep I won't let you go."

"What makes you think I'll want to?"

"History repeats itself.  I may be a slow learner, but that's one thing
I've come to know."

"I love you, Jenny, that's all I know."

"You don't know the first thing about me any more."

Then tell me.  "

"That would take a long time.  The last twenty-five years have been
hard on me, Martin.  I let myself become a victim.  I won't let it
happen again."

"My God, Jenny, can't you understand that I was victimized too?  Life
made the choice for me I never wanted to hurt you."

"But you did."

"I know and I've lived with all kinds of guilt.  But, darling, you've
got to give me the chance to make it up to you."

"How?  I'm not going to play the back street mistress, waiting for the
phone to ring.  I can't live that way.  I want to be seen with the
person I love, not have to steal away for a few hours or an occasional
weekend.  Martin, I will not get involved with you as long as you have
a wife."

Martin took her in his arms again.  This time she didn't twist away.

"When I left you today, I spent a long time thinking about my life.

And I came to the conclusion that I can't have it both ways.  I've had
a good life with Sylvia.  She deserved better than me.  But I could
never love her as she should have been loved.  The memory of you always
came

between us.  I know that now.  This afternoon, when I realized that to
have you would mean asking her for a divorce, it was tough.  And I
would be less than honest if I didn't tell you that I rejected the
thought at first.  Divorcing someone you've lived with for a very long
time is a brutal thing.  But the fact remains that I love you, Jenny.

And I can't give you up.  Not this time.  "

Releasing herself from his embrace, she went to the bar and poured
herself another drink.

"This is indeed a night of revelations, Martin.  I'm touched by your
wish to marry me.  But divorces can take a long time.  And I'm not
quite sure that I want to subject myself to another period of
uncertainty.

You see, Martin, I've changed, too.  Life does a great many things to
destroy patience.  And besides, in spite of what you say, I think you
love your wife more than you realize.  I really think I must go away as
I planned.  "

"Darling, how can you say that now?  I beg you to give me a little
time.  I promise I'll speak to Sylvia about a divorce."

"Speaking and doing are two different things.  Twenty- five years ago
you spoke to your parents.  Will it be any different today if you speak
to your wife?"

"I know Sylvia.  She's an extraordinary woman, with enormous
understanding."

"Oh, my God, Martin you are naive.  Women are never understanding when
their husbands want to leave them."

"I know Sylvia.  You must trust me."

"I don't trust anyone any more, Martin."

Martin winced.

"I guess I'm responsible for that.  Jenny I'm so sorry, but don't go
away.  Please stay."

Sadly she walked over to the window and gazed out at the clear December
night.  In the distance was the silhouette of the Bay Bridge.

Wherever she looked Christmas lights twinkled.  If only she could
believe Martin, she would be the happiest woman in the world.  But
trust was a word she'd erased from her vocabulary years ago.  She had
never wanted anything as much as she wanted Martin at this minute.  She
thought briefly of his wife, but realized there was no reason to worry
about her.  Sylvia had her family, the children, and she had been
Martin's wife during the long years when Jenny had been alone.  Sylvia
wasn't her responsibility.  And this meeting with Martin had been an
accident.  God would not have planned this just as a cruel joke.  Jenny
made up her mind: if Martin wanted her she would wait.  Only this time
she would stand firm and fight for him.  She deserved some happiness in
her life.  And now she wanted Martin at any cost.

She started as Martin touched her arm.  It reminded her of the time he
had left when his father died.  Yet in spite of all they had said to
each other, she still feared her vulnerability, and the past hurts
nudged her just a little.  Go slow, Jenny.  Be sure.  Jenny.

"Let me get you a drink, Martin."

He looked at her and smiled.

"Only if you tell me you're not leaving."

She looked at him, making up her mind.

"I'll just go away for the holidays.  It wouldn't be fair for you to
leave Sylvia alone this week.

Afterwards you can speak to her.  "

Holding her close to him, he whispered, "Oh, darling Jenny, I do love
you so."

Then, turning off the lamp, he kissed her passionately.  He wanted more
than anything in the world to feel her body yield to him as she had in
the past.  He wanted to touch her, excite her, rouse the passion that
he had never forgotten.  He pressed his lips against the sweet swell of
her breasts and when she sighed with pleasure as he lifted her in his
arms he forgot everything except his need for her.  When he entered her
he felt as if he had never known such exquisite joy.  He held her
tighter, feeling his excitement mount until together their passion was
spent and she lay beneath him, her body damp with perspiration, her
eyes glazed with satisfaction.

"Oh God, Jenny1 had almost forgotten what it could be like.  When you
come back we'll go away together."

"I would love that, Martin."

"I'm glad.  I'll make reservations at the Beverly Hills

Hotel, and I'll call you when you get to Hong Kong.  But promise me
you will come back.  "

"I promise.  This time I'm not going to lose you, Martin."

Christmas at the Roths' was a joyous occasion.  Even though they didn't
consider it a religious holiday and exchanged gifts on Chanukah, they
still decorated a tree and had a big family dinner.  This year Julian
came West with his wife, and even Amy, whose birthday fell on the next
day, seemed happy to be home for the week.  Only Martin had trouble
pretending to enjoy himself.  He kept thinking of Jenny alone in Hong
Kong, and Sylvia, whose life he was about to shatter.  He called Jenny
every morning on his private phone, and Christmas morning her sad words
haunted him the whole day.

"I have to keep telling myself that next year we'll be together.  We
will, Martin won't we?"

Her demand made him angry on some level.  He didn't want to hurt
Sylvia.  But Jenny had been the scapegoat once and she had no one
except him.  Sylvia had the children and her family.  Even his own
relatives would take care of her.  He was the one who would be scorned
by family and friends, and he knew he wouldn't be able to justify his
actions except that, for once, he was entitled to think of himself.

Time was running out.  If he didn't act now he would never have another
chance.

Still, Martin remained torn.  Finally, late one night, ravaged with
guilt, he decided to call Dominic, even though it had been several
years since the two men had exchanged more than casual hellos on
holidays.

"Dom," Martin said when his friend picked up the phone.

"I'm glad I caught you.  With the three-hour time difference, I was
afraid you might be out on the town."

"No," said Dominic, who had married for the second time.

"I've finally settled down.  Betty never liked my wild life-style and
I've come to agree with her.  Anyway, old buddy, how are things?  To
what do I owe the pleasure of this call?"

"Trouble as usual," Martin said without hesitation.

"You've always given me good advice and this time I need it more than
ever."  And he poured out the story of his chance meeting with Jenny
and the devastating but euphoric effect it had had on him.

"I never really stopped loving her," Martin concluded.

"When she comes back we're going away for a week to sort things out.
Then I guess I'll have to tell Sylvia ... His voice trailed off as he
waited for his friend to applaud his decision.  It was, Martin
suspected, the real reason for his call.

Dom's response came as a shock.

"I wouldn't be so fast to change my life just because of Jenny's
reappearance.  Sleep with her if you must, but remember even the first
time around she demanded more than you could give."

"Hey," Martin said.

"I thought you were her friend.  You once believed I should fight for
her.  I didn't, and she certainly hasn't had an easy life since I left
her."

"That may be true," Dominic said cautiously.

"But tough times don't always make people nicer.  You and Jenny were
frequently at odds twenty-five years ago.  Why do you think things will
be smoother this time?"

Martin started to interrupt, but Dominic cut him off.

"Listen Sylvia's quite a woman.  Just be sure you don't throw away a
great life for an infatuation which will leave you cold in a year.  It
may sound odd coming from me, but family means everything.  Even though
your kids are gone, your relationship with them will never be the same
if you leave Sylvia.  Take it from me.  I've had a rough time with my
own over the past few years, and Betty still has to put up with a lot.
My advice is: shack up with Jenny if you must, but don't bust up your
marriage."

"I hear you, Dom," Martin said.

"Believe me, none of this is easy.  It just seems this is my last
chance at happiness.  If I don't grab it now, that's it."

"Well, I'm with you whatever you decide.  Just be sure you know what
you really want," Dominic said, ringing off.

Martin hung up, shaken, and tiptoed back to ttu bedroom where Sylvia
slept undisturbed.

The next day Martin couldn't conceal the strain he was under.  Sylvia
tried her best to pretend things were as usual but she did not know how
to respond when Julian took her aside and asked, "What's wrong with
Dad, Mother?"

"I don't know what you mean, dear."

"Oh come on.  Mother, you can't be so blind.  Do yo think he's still so
angry about my marriage?"

"Julian, don't talk foolishly.  Whatever misgivings w< might have had
are long gone."

"Then what do you think is wrong?"  he insisted.

"I don't know.  He says he's under a great deal of pressure at work.

I'm sure that's all that's bothering him.  "

Sylvia was considerably more disturbed about Martin's mood than she let
on, but it wasn't the first time in then marriage that he'd been
depressed, and he always seemec to come out of it.  She decided the
best thing she could dc was wait for him to return to being the loving
husband he'c been in the past.  After twenty-five years of marriage,
she knew when to give her husband time to work things out or his own.

She managed to get through the week putting the best face possible on
things, but on New Year's Eve Martin was so withdrawn she could no
longer hide her concern.  H( stood in the corner, watching the guests
friends he hac known all of his life without even making a pretence
o:

joining in the festivities.  When the bells rang out at mid night,
Sylvia came over and kissed him, and though he responded she sensed he
was just going through the motions.  It was lucky she couldn't read his
mind, because his thoughts were all with Jenny McCoy.

On January 2 Martin was up at dawn.  Jenny was back in California and
they'd arranged to meet that night in lo!  Angeles.  Martitf had told
Sylvia he had a business conference, but when he boarded the plane he
was overwhelmed with guilt.  He still had not mentioned the possibility
of divorce, and he wondered how long he coulc go on pretending things
were all right.  In the plane, he decided he would have to tell Sylvia
the truth when he returned.  He tried to blot out the image of her
face. He knew he couldn't just erase a quarter of a century as though
it had never been.  Sylvia was part of his life.  If only he could find
a way to leave without hurting her.

"You know where I'll be," he had said, despising his words as he said
them.  Her trusting eyes would haunt him.

"Yes, darling," she had answered.

"If you decide that you'd like me to join you after all, you know I
will."

From the moment he landed in Los Angeles nothing went right.  When he
registered, the clerk handed him a note saying Jenny had missed
connections in Hawaii.  God only knew when she would arrive.  He signed
the hotel register Mr.  and Mrs.  and went up to his room.  The moment
the bellboy left, he called room service for a bottle of his favourite
wine and turned on the tub.  Half an hour later he was soaking in water
as hot as he could stand, a glass of chablis balanced in the soap dish.
As the tension drained from his body all he could think of was Jenny.
How tender, how understanding she had been.  He vowed to make up to her
for the years after he left her in New York.  Then he thought of Sylvia
and wondered how he could spare her.  She had been a good wife and
mother.  She had done nothing to deserve the pain he was about to cause
her.  He wondered what Bess would say.  She would probably never
forgive him.

He got out of the bath and put on his robe, still trying to sort out
his thoughts, when he heard the knock.  He assumed it was the waiter,
who had forgotten something, but when he opened the door, there was
Jenny smiling at him, her eyes shining.

"Oh, thank God!"  he said.

"You're here."

She laughed delightedly at the expression on his face.  Scooping her
up, he twirled her around until they fell on the bed, laughing as they
pulled off their clothes.

For a while Martin could think only about how much he loved her, how
beautiful she was.  Making love with Jenny

rejuvenated him.  It was as though he were in his twenties again and
his commitment to Sylvia had never existed.

Afterwards they slept, and when they woke he asked her what she would
like to do that evening.

"I don't know, Martin.  Stay here, go out whatever you want."

"I could spend the rest of the week in bed, but perhaps it would do us
good to get out for supper.  I hear Ma Maison is the new " in" place.

Maybe we should try it.  "

"Whatever you say, dearest.  I'm just so happy to be with you."

Although Ma Maison was filled with beautifully dressed starlets, Martin
noticed that most of the men looked up and smiled as he took Jenny to
her table.  Her beauty still caused quite a stir.  When they finished
eating, Martin insisted on dancing until Jenny was ready to collapse.

"Martin, I'm not going to be able to walk tomorrow," she laughed.

"In that case, I'm going to get myself another dancing partner."

"You won't be happy with another partner.  I've spoiled you for
everyone else," she whispered.

"And it looks like tomorrow we will just have to stay in bed all
day."

Martin grinned and went to get their coats.

Back in the hotel, they found the bed had been turned down, and
according to Martin's instructions a bucket of champagne was waiting in
the hall.

Jenny laughed as he popped the cork and the wine bubbled out.

"Darling, I love you so much.  I don't care about the past.  I just
want to be with you for the rest of my life."

Martin was happier than he had ever been.  It was as though he were
being given a second chance; as though nothing existed before she came
back into his life.  As he lay in bed waiting for her to come out of
the bathroom, even his guilt at deceiving Sylvia faded.  It was a
miracle that he had found Jenny again, that she was with him again.

When the bathroom door opened and she came out wearing a white
nightgown with blue satin slippers, Martin thought he had never seen
anything so beautiful.

"You're prettier than ever," he said.

"Thank you, Martin.  I've never felt quite like this before.  Promise
if I tell you something you won't laugh."

"I promise."

"When I bought this gown I told the saleslady I wanted something for a
bride.  That's the way I felt.  This is the most important day in my
life, even more important than our wedding day.  Promise you'll never
leave me."

"Never," Martin said, holding her close.  And at that moment he meant
it.

The next morning they had breakfast in their room.  As Martin sat
across from her, he realized that he had forgotten to call Sylvia.

"Jenny, I've got to call home," he said nervously.

"Go ahead," she said, discreetly going into the bathroom, "I
understand."

For a moment, when the operator asked for the number, Martin almost
forgot it.  Then the call went through and Sylvia picked up the
phone.

"Hello?"

It took him a long time to respond.

"Sylvia ... how are you?"

"Fine, Martin, darling.  How is the conference going?"

He swallowed hard.

"Fine."  What do you say to someone with whom you've lived for
twenty-five years?

"I want to apologize for not calling yesterday."

"Oh, don't be silly.  I know what those business meetings are like."

That was Sylvia always so damned understanding.  He tried to think of
something else to say.

"How are you?"

Sylvia laughed.

"You've already asked me that.  Listen, as long as you're going to be
gone until the weekend, Mother and I are going to drive to Pebble
Beach.  Jane asked us to visit."

It was impossible for Martin to keep up his side of the

conversation.  Hearing Sylvia's voice over the wire, realizing her
calm, confident trust in him, he was overwhelmed by guilt.

"Yes, dear," he said, recovering himself.

"I'll call you at Jane's."

"Great.  Now don't work too hard, don't skip lunch, and for heaven's
sake, cut down a bit on those cigarettes."

Dammit.  If she just weren't so good to me.

"Sylvia," Martin managed to say in parting, 'have a good time and enjoy
yourself.  "

"I will, dear.  I only wish you could come with us."

After he hung up, Martin had trouble regaining his carefree mood.

Jenny refrained from asking any questions, and by the time they went
out for lunch Martin felt better.  They went to Perino's and after a
couple of martinis Martin managed to forget Sylvia and Bess and
concentrate on enjoying himself.  Later they stopped by Giorgio's, and
Martin had a couple of glasses of white wine while Jenny modelled one
magnificent gown after another.  Finally she chose a two-piece velvet
dinner suit.  The short jacket had jewelled buttons down the front, and
it came with a cowl- necked burgundy blouse.  Jenny decided it would
look smashing with black silk pumps and sheer, black hose.

That night Martin couldn't take his eyes off her.  The black velvet
made her skin shine like porcelain.  He found himself forgetting
Sylvia, believing that he was a free man.

"I adore you.  Jenny," he said, taking her hand.

"When I am with you, I feel as if I'm back in my twenties."  He took a
small box from his pocket and held it out to her.

"Oh, Martin, what's this?"

She rumbled with the ribbon, tore the wrapping, and finally managed to
open the velvet box.  Inside was a ring set with a cabochon ruby.

"Martin, why ... ?"

"Because you make me so happy.  Besides, it's your birthstone."

"I love it, darling.  But you don't have to buy me gifts."

"It's to remind you how much I love you."

He reached over, took the ring out of the box, and slipped it onto the
fourth finger of her left hand.  She held his hand for a moment.

"Martin, I'm going to cry."

She took out a handkerchief and wiped her eyes.

"We're going to be very happy, Martin.  I know it.  Nothing is going to
come between us.  I won't let it."

"You're right, Jenny.  Things will work out.  It will just take a
little time."

"I know.  Oh, I can't wait for the whole world to see us together."

"They will.  In the meantime just love me a lot."

Martin signed the cheque and helped Jenny on with her jacket.

"You know you're the most beautiful woman here."

"You're prejudiced."

"You're right," he said.

"Now where to?"

"Anywhere."

"There's a new club on Sunset Boulevard with dancing.  Do you think you
can keep up with anyone as young as r's me."

She laughed.  It was as though she were twenty again, too.  They danced
well into the early hours of the morning.  Holding each other close as
they danced cheek to cheek, neither noticed that the music had changed
from slow to a fast swing beat.

"Hey, bud, get with it," said a drunken dancer nearby as he twirled his
partner.

Martin and Jenny only smiled sheepishly at each other.

Back in the hotel room he could barely wait for Jenny to undress.

Pulling her towards him, he said, "Do you know how you make me feel?"

"No," she whispered, biting his ear.

"As if I could make love to you all night."

He did make love to her for hours, and each time he climaxed he
shouted, "Jenny ... Jenny ... Jenny ... Later she lit two cigarettes
and handed him one.

"Oh, Martin, I do love you so."  She pulled him down to her and kissed
his mouth, eyes, neck.  She never wanted to let him

go.  Then, steeling herself, she asked, "Martin, when do you think
you'll ask Sylvia for a divorce?"

Martin wished she hadn't chosen that moment to ask.  He didn't want
anything to spoil this night together.

Jenny saw the stricken look cross his face.  She didn't want to hurt
him, but this time she wasn't going to let him vacillate either.  All
the way back from the Orient she had known she shouldn't have returned
to California.  Instead she should have insisted he make a clean break
and come East.  When Martin didn't answer, she said, "You're going to
have to speak to Sylvia sometime.  When do you think you'll do it?"

"After I get home, darling.  But let's not think about it now.  Let's
just enjoy what we have."

"Of course, darling but you will tell her you're leaving when you get
home."

Martin hesitated.  He didn't want to think of Sylvia or his mother
right at this moment; he just wanted to savour these few stolen days.

But despite himself, he remembered his conversation with Dominic . Just
be sure you know what you really want.  Well, much as he owed his wife,
he believed he did know.  He wanted Jenny and this time he would fight
for her.

The days sped by like seconds.  Before Martin could believe it they
were back at the San Francisco airport.  Afraid they might be seen, he
didn't kiss her, saying, "I love you.  Jenny.  Everything will be all
right."

"I know, Martin, but you must tell her.  Then we will really be
together."

He waited until she got a taxi, then walked through the long terminal
to the parking lot for his car.

As he drove out to Woodside he kept rehearsing what he would say to
Sylvia.  By the time he got home he was so distraught he didn't put the
car in the garage.  Instead, he turned off the engine and sat wondering
how he could possibly tell his wife he was leaving.  They had known
each other almost all their lives.  What had she ever done to deserve
such treatment?  As a girl she had waited patiently through the war,
Martin's year in New York, his affair with Jenny.  As a wife she had
been loyal and devoted.  Whatever problems they'd had with the kids
were no fault of hers.  What reason could he give for walking out? That
he felt their marriage had grown stale?  Well, if it had, wasn't he
really to blame?  Sylvia had become so involved with her charities and
volunteer work only when Martin had made it clear he would not fill the
hours left by the children's absence.  And Sylvia had obediently kept
herself busy.  In fact, when had she ever done anything without his
approval?

Or was that itself the problem?  Martin had married her because she was
the right girl, because his mother adored her, because they envisioned
a similar future.  He had never pretended he felt about her as he had
about Jenny.  The very reasons for their marriage had left him with an
unresolved longing for the irrational, the passionate, the forbidden.

And now he was about to wreck her life.

He got out of the car and walked up the front path to the door.  His
heart pounded as he put the key in the lock and entered the large hall.
He had a sudden image of himself as a child sliding down the banister
and his mother chastising him: "Little gentlemen don't do that,
Martin."  Well, after tonight she wouldn't have to worry about his
behaving like a gentleman.

Slowly he climbed the stairs and stood outside the door to their
bedroom, a room that he already no longer considered his.  In
abdicating from his marriage he felt he'd have to set aside all claim
to this house.  He turned the knob and opened the door.  Sylvia was in
bed, eating an apple.  Her face was sunburned from working in the
garden, and there was a transparent layer of vaseline on her nose.

Reading glasses perched somewhat unbecomingly on her nose.

"Oh, Martin darling," she said, holding out her arms.

"I didn't expect you until later."

"I decided to take an earlier plane," he said, busying himself with
some mail on the dresser to avoid her embrace.

She didn't sense anything wrong and said, "I'm so delighted you did;

how did your week go?  "

"Fine, fine.  Sylvia ... would you mind if I went down and fixed a
drink?"

"Not at all.  In fact, I'll join you in a minute."

Martin poured himself a scotch and went to stand by the French doors.

He peered into the night as though he could find the answers out there.
He still hadn't decided how to broach the subject of divorce when
Sylvia entered the room.  This time she did sense his tension.

"Martin, come and talk to me."

He turned around and looked at her.  Slowly he walked to a chair, sat
down, and took a sip of his drink.

"What's wrong, Martin?"

He shook his head.

"If something is bothering you, don't you think it would help to
discuss it?  We don't do much of that any more."

Martin remained silent.

"Please, Martin.  Don't keep shutting me out."

He simply couldn't tell her tonight.  He'd call Jenny and tell her, and
she'd have to understand.

"I'm going to bed.  I'm really awfully beat.  You'll have to excuse me,
it has been a difficult week."

"Darling, please give me a chance.  Give us a chance.  Talk to me about
what's troubling you."

He sank back into his chair.

"Sylvia, I love you.  I always will.

That's what makes all this so difficult.  "

Her heart suddenly began to pound.

"What's difficult, Martin?"

"Sylvia, I don't want to hurt you.  I don't know quite how to say
this."

"Say what?"

He began again.

"I have fought this believe me, I really have."

"Fought what?"  she said, but even as she asked she had a terrifying
flash of knowledge.

Martin still was unable to speak.  He went over to the bar and poured
himself a half glass of straight scotch.

"Sylvia, I don't want you to hate me ... She folded her hands to keep
them from shaking.

He paused, summoning courage, then almost inaudibly said, "I met Jenny
McCoy again, quite by accident.  Sylvia, I still love her.  All these
years I pretended she was no longer a part of my life, but it wasn't
true.  When I saw her I knew I couldn't leave her again any more than I
could tear my heart from my body.  My only regret is hurting you."

Sylvia thought she was going to faint.  He'd been away with Jenny for
the past ten days.  She knew that whatever she said at this moment
could affect the rest of their lives.  She mustn't overreact.  She was
too stunned to tell him what she really felt.

"Would you mind getting me a drink?"  she finally whispered.

When he brought it to her she took it with trembling hands and forced
herself to sip it quickly.

Waiting until she thought her voice would be steady, she said, "Well,
Martin, where does this leave us?"

"God, Sylvia, I don't know how to say it, but I guess it won't be any
easier tomorrow, or the next day.  I want you to divorce me."

Sylvia felt as if her world had collapsed.  She had hoped even through
her fear that Martin was just going to confess to a fling.  She would
have been upset, but she would have forgiven him.  Instead he was
telling her he was leaving.  Well, she wouldn't let him.  She just
wouldn't.  She could fight, too.  She had won twenty-five years ago.

Maybe she would again.  For all she knew it was a phase the male mid
life crisis they were writing all those books about.  Well, the trick
was to stay calm.

"Martin," she forced herself to say gently, 'give yourself some time to
think.  Don't act rashly.  I'll try not to pressure you, but don't do
anything impulsively.  "

"Sylvia, you don't seem to understand.  I'm not acting impulsively.  I
honestly need to be free.  I feel so bad worse than you'd know but this
really has nothing to do with you ... '

"Nothing to do with me?"  Despite her resolution not to lose her
temper, she heard her voice rising.

"Then who does it have to do with?

I'm your wife.  "

Damn, Martin thought.  I'm handling this so badly.

"What I mean is that it's nothing that you've done.  You've been a
wonderful wife ... " Martin, don't our years together mean anything?
You've always believed in family.  Look how upset you were about
Julian's marriage, yet you're ready to break up our home because you
spent ten days with a woman you haven't seen in a quarter of a century.
"

"Sylvia, I'm sorry."

"Sorry?  I've put my life into this marriage.  I'm not complaining it's
a fact.  My first priority was to make you happy."

"Please, Sylvia.  I guess I never stopped loving her."

"Oh God, Martin, are you telling me all these years in bed you were
thinking other?"

"No, no.  You must understand me, Sylvia.  I've loved you.  I still
love you."

"Martin, don't make things worse.  If you loved me you wouldn't be
talking of divorce."

He went to her and knelt by the couch.

"You're wrong.  I do love you, Sylvia.  If I could find a way to spare
you this I would."

She did not hear the rest of his words as she finally gave in to her
tears.  She didn't know how long she wept, but feeling Martin's arms
around her restored some of her strength.  She would not give him up
easily.  She would fight, but with the weapons that had served her in
the past: patience, understanding, and the force of her love itself.

She sat up and asked Martin to freshen her drink.  When he returned she
was sitting up drying her eyes.  With every ounce of courage she
possessed, she made herself say, "Sit down, Martin, and tell me what
happened.  I'm ready to listen."

Martin told her everything, from how he had spotted Jenny right before
Christmas after leaving Sylvia outside.

I.  Magnin's.  How he had fought with himself before calling her name,
to how he had finally met her in Los Angeles.

"You've never stopped loving her, have you, Martin?"

"I think I have been obsessed with her.  When she vanished I always
felt responsible.  There were times I was afraid she hadn't survived.

If I let her go a second time, Sylvia, I'll never get over it.  "

Sylvia swallowed hard before saying, "Maybe you can go on seeing her
for a while without leaving me.  I'll try to be sensible, Martin, if
you promise you won't act in haste.  Make sure you're doing the right
thing before you do anything that's irrevocable.  You once told me that
Jenny was a devout Catholic.  I'm sure she has a high regard for the
sanctity of marriage; it's not something she'd want you to toss aside
carelessly."

Sylvia wasn't really sure Jenny had any high regard for marriage, but
she felt it was to her own advantage to speak of her in the best terms
possible.  Sylvia knew her years with Martin had given her a certain
influence and she was determined to use it now.

Praying for strength, she said, "Why don't you give yourself a chance
to know her better.  After all these years, you're almost strangers.

Maybe you're just trying to recapture your youth.  I don't know.  I'm
no psychologist.  I'm just a woman desperately in love with her
husband.  "

Then, feeling as though she were plunging a knife into her heart, she
said, "Live with her for a little while.  See if what you feel is
really love.  Then in six months if you still want it I'll give you a
divorce."

Martin was stunned.  Sylvia was everything a woman should be, all the
things he had told Jenny she was.  And dear God, if he could have
willed it he would have loved her as she deserved.

"You could bear such an arrangement?"  he asked.

"If I have to," Sylvia told him, standing up.

"Look, Martin, I'm exhausted.  Call Jenny or go to her if you wish.  I
want some time alone anyway."  She walked out of the room with her head
high, but back in the bedroom she and

Martin had shared with so much pleasure she dissolved into tears.

Going into the bathroom, she caught sight of herself in the mirror.

"You fool," she said aloud.

"You stupid, stupid fool.  There isn't a woman in the world more stupid
than you.  You want him even though you know he married you on the
rebound, even though he's still in love with her.  But the small voice
of truth said: you have always loved him and always will.  Even being
second best was better than not having him at all.  You won out over
Jenny once, and with God's help you can do it again."  Then, putting
Jenny and Martin together in Los Angeles, she lashed out: "You bitch ..
you little Irish bitch.  I won't let you ruin my life."  Picking up a
bottle of bath salts, she threw it against the wall with all her might
and watched it shatter into a million pieces.  Then she slumped to the
floor, resting her head against the cold tub.

"I love you, Martin.  I love you.  Please come back ... please ... '

When Martin called and told Jenny he was on his way back to the city,
she rushed around to be ready.  After ordering up champagne she took a
quick bath and dressed in a bright red silk caftan.  She was sitting
waiting when she heard his knock.

She ran into his arms, but when she stepped back to look at him she saw
his face was drawn, his eyes filled with pain.  All her delicious sense
of anticipation faded.  She guided him over to the sofa.  To ease the
tension, she poured him a glass of scotch.  The moment didn't seem
right for champagne.  Poor Martin, she thought.  Sylvia must have given
him a dreadful time.  Apparently she wasn't quite as understanding as
he thought she'd be.  Well, the worse she behaved the easier it will be
for him to leave.  And leave he will.

Jenny had no intention of ever being deserted again.  This time she
would end up Mrs.  Martin Roth.

Martin sat staring at his drink, his face drained of colour.

Taking his hand gently, Jenny said, "It must have been terrible for
you.  I'm sure these things are never easy, but thank God it's over
with.  She knows."

For some reason Martin resented Jenny's assumption that Sylvia no
longer counted.

"Yes, she knows," was all he said.

His tone frightened her.  Trying to compose herself, she repeated, "It
must have been terrible for you, darling.  Was she very angry?"

"No, she was very patient."  He took a sip of his drink.

"Tell me, Martin," Jenny said, suddenly nervous.

"What happened?"

"Sylvia was very understanding.  I don't know any other woman who would
have acted so decently."

Jenny wanted to turn the conversation away from Sylvia, but she had to
know where she stood.

"Martin, it's very gallant of you to defend your wife, but you haven't
told me what you both decided."

"She thinks you and I should live together so that we are perfectly
sure of one another and then she will give me the divorce.

Jenny tried to control her anger.  No woman wanted another's permission
to sleep with the man she loved, but she realized Sylvia had acted very
wisely.  She would have to do the same.

"That is very decent," she said.

"In fact, her concern for you makes her sound a bit like a Jewish
mother."

Martin thought that was unfair, but he didn't say anything.  Jenny had
not had an easy life and it was understandable that she wanted
everything to go smoothly.

"Jenny, she was a good wife.  I don't want to hurt her more than I have
to."

"Martin, you have to be honest with me.  You don't still love her?"

"Not in the sense that you mean.  But you must understand, Jenny, that
Sylvia's played a major role in my life.  She's borne my children,
cared for my home, even been like a daughter to Bess.  I can't just
turn my back on her and walk away.  I still care for her as a
person."

Jenny knew she was being foolish, but she couldn't keep

herself from saying, "Maybe you should have searched your soul a
little more carefully before you begged me to go away with you.  You
can't have it both ways, Martin."

Martin sat stunned.

"You haven't listened to one thing I've said to you tonight.  Jenny ..
" Oh yes I have, Martin.  I've heard it all too well.  Suppose you try
to understand me.  This time I come first.  " Despite herself her voice
rose shrilly.

"If you don't understand that, you can walk out of that door and forget
me."

Jenny ran into the bedroom, threw herself onto the bed, and sobbed.

She still wasn't the victor.  Sylvia was.

Martin hurried after her and lifted her into his arms.  He sat rocking
her as though she were a little girl.

"Jenny, darling, please this is just very difficult for both of us. You
must know how much I love you.  Let's not do this to one another."

She took Martin's handkerchief out of his coat pocket and dried her
tears.

"Martin, you must forgive me, but I feel so frightened.  I wanted you
to ask for an immediate divorce.  She's playing for time.

She isn't going to let you go that easily, and I'm afraid she may not
let you go at all.  For all you know she has some plan to separate us.
"

Martin sighed.

"Darling, Sylvia is not like that.  She is not a calculating woman.
Surely you can understand how upset she must have been tonight."

Difficult as it was for Jenny, she had to admit that Sylvia had
probably behaved better than she would have.  No woman gives up her
husband without a fight, and Jenny knew that once she married Martin,
she'd never let him out of her sight.  Quietly, she said, "Of course
you're right.  I hope you will forgive me.  But insecurity makes us do
a lot of things we wish we hadn't.  How long do you think it will be
before we can make definite plans?"

"Just let her get used to my moving out.  In a few weeks I'll talk to
her again."

That night Martin fell asleep with Jenny in his arms, but he didn't try
to make love to her and she was too clever to insist.

Over the next weeks Martin packed most of his winter clothes and moved
them into a furnished apartment he and Jenny had rented on Russian
Hill.  He tried to avoid Sylvia's tearful gaze when he went downstairs
with two heavy suitcases and was gratified that she kept her reproaches
to herself.  His mother showed no such restraint.  She cried and
shouted that Martin was crazy leaving a woman like Sylvia for a
scheming shiksa.

"She was no good for you when you were in your twenties and she's no
good for you now only in your fifties you should know better."

Bess railed on and on until in the end Sylvia had to calm her down so
Martin could leave.  On the whole his wife behaved very well, sometimes
better than Jenny over the last few days.

Jenny was angry that Martin insisted their relationship remain a
secret.  Sylvia hadn't told the children yet and there would be time
enough for their neighbours and friends to gossip when she actually
filed for divorce.  Jenny also was upset that Martin had only rented a
comparatively small apartment.  It wasn't that the rooms were not
elegant, but thinking of Sylvia languishing in the opulence of Woodside
heightened her annoyance.  Nights when Martin came home she was often
fretful and demanding.  It was as though she wanted him to make up for
all she had suffered since he had left her in New York.

Where he had expected bliss he found tension.  When he thought he'd
regained his youth, he seemed to be overwhelmed with cares.  Sometimes
the only moments of peace he knew were when he drove out to Woodside to
talk things over with Sylvia.

Although they had not told anyone he had moved out, everyone in contact
with Martin sensed that he was under terrible stress.  He avoided lunch
with his partners and snapped at his secretary until she threatened to
quit.  She was so upset she nearly complained to Sylvia one morning
when Sylvia called to speak to Martin, but Mrs.  Roth sounded so sad,
she decided to keep her problems to

herself.

"Your wife is on the line," she told Martin.

"May I put her through?"

"Yes, of course."

He picked up the phone, wondering what she wanted.

"How are you, dear?"  she was asking, as if everything were still all
right.

"I'm fine," he said mechanically.

"How are you doing?"

The truth was she was living in limbo.  She had almost picked up the
receiver a million times to beg Martin to come back.  Each time she had
stopped herself, knowing there would be time for that later if he still
insisted on the divorce.  Bess couldn't understand her.

"Sylvia, you can't be foolish enough to give Martin up without a
struggle.  You are just handing him a free rein, giving Jenny McCoy
carte blanche so that she can become Mrs.  Martin Roth."

But Sylvia kept her own counsel and didn't pressure Martin at all.  Now
she said softly, "Under the circumstances, I'm doing much better than I
would have expected.  I called to ask if you were free for lunch
today."

"Yes, I'd like that."

"Where should we meet?"  There was no place Sylvia could think of that
was not filled with memories.  Certainly he wouldn't suggest the St.
Francis.

"Would Doro's be all right?"  Doro's had no special significance, in
spite of the fact they had been there from time to time.

"How's twelve-thirty?"

"Wonderful.  I'll see you then."

After hanging up, Martin sat staring at the silent phone for a long
time.  Then he buzzed the intercom and told his secretary to make the
reservation at Doro's.

At twelve-thirty-five, Sylvia walked into the restaurant looking like a
Vogue model.  She had spent three hours achieving that effect an hour
at the hairdresser, an hour for a facial, and the rest of the time
trying on almost every outfit in her closet.

"My dear Mrs.  Roth," said the maitre d', 'you look lovely.

I believe Mr.  Roth is waiting for you at the bar.  "

"Thank you, Alfred."

Martin was seated at a small table.  The dim lights only enhanced
Sylvia's looks.  Martin could not remember her ever looking more
beautiful, not even on their wedding day.  She seemed to have achieved
a new serenity.  He stood up and awkwardly brushed her cheek with his
lips, thinking: / can at least be civil after all, we've been married
for twenty-five years.

They sat barely speaking, ordering a second round of drinks before the
headwaiter came to escort them to a secluded banquette in the dining
room.  An enormous French menu was placed in front of them.  Martin
didn't bother to look at it because he always ordered a chef salad or
broiled chicken.  But Sylvia scanned the dishes carefully before
ordering oysters, rack of lamb, and a tossed green salad.  He was
surprised, as she usually ate a very light lunch.  He was still more
surprised when she ate all the courses, leaving only the most minute
portion on her plate.  Barely touching his own meal, he stared at her
out of the corners of his eyes.  She seemed to be wearing her hair
slightly differently and he detected a new perfume.  It was as though
she were subtly telling him that she was doing fine without him and he
wasn't at all happy at the news.

When the waiter brought the dessert cart she asked for an apple tarte
and a double espresso.  He watched as she took out a compact and
powdered her nose.  So far neither of them had said anything of
importance, but he sensed the moment had come.

Sylvia put down her cup, praying she could maintain her composure.  The
whole lunch had been a charade.  She just didn't want Martin to think
she was beaten.  The past two months had been a nightmare.  She had
decided she had lost, but when she told Martin she was giving up she
didn't want him to feel sorry for her.

"Martin, I guess you're wondering why I wanted to see you today.  I
wanted to tell you that I've decided to go to Reno now.  There seems no
point in dragging things out."

Martin looked down at his hands.

"What made you decide?"

"Martin, you and I have been much more than just husband and wife.  We
have known each other all of our lives.  You've been my best friend.

The two months you've been gone I've had lots of time to think.  I
could fight you on the divorce, but what would that accomplish?  I
don't want to force you to come back.  If Jenny was just a passing
fancy I could forgive that.  But it seems you love her and want to be
with her.  I'm not looking for revenge.  I want to do this quietly,
with as much dignity as we can manage.  The newspapers will have a
field day as it is, and I know that a lot of my friends will lunch out
on us for months.  Bess tells me that I am stupid to let you off the
hook this easily, but what's over is over.  I must say that I think we
had an awfully good marriage while it lasted.  We had our share of
problems and disagreements, of course.  Who goes through twenty-five
years of marriage without them?  And the truth is, I probably took you
too much for granted recently.  The night you came home from Los
Angeles you found me in bed with vaseline all over my face.  Would it
have made a difference if I tried to maintain a more glamorous image? I
doubt it.  "

She took a sip of the cold coffee and said, "The truth is, who knows
how to make a perfect marriage?  I certainly don't.  And I guess we
can't stay friends, but I do wish you the best of everything.  You have
waited a long time for Jenny McCoy."

When Sylvia finished, Martin was close to tears.  If she had fought he
would have defended himself.  If she had accused him he could have
tried to justify his actions.  As it was, he walked out into the cold
March sunlight wondering for the first time if Jenny would be able to
fill the terrible void that was left by the end of his marriage.

When Martin walked into the apartment that night he put his arms about
Jenny and hugged her without speaking.  He stood silently embracing her
until she moved over to the couch and sat looking up at him, aware that
something had

happened.  When he remained silent, she pulled him down beside her and
said, "Darling, do you have something to tell me?"

"I had lunch with Sylvia today," he said abruptly.

"She's going to Reno."

Jenny felt a surge of excitement: she was going to win.  But noting
Martin's serious expression, she concealed her joy and only asked,
"When?"

"Some time this week."

"Oh, Martin, darling, I just love you so.  And I hope you have no
regrets?"

"None."  He lied, just a little.

"There are no words to tell you how happy I am," Jenny said.

"Now we can stop sneaking around, take a nice apartment, go to the
theatre, the opera."

"Well," Martin said, "I've been thinking about that all afternoon.  It
would be very hard on Sylvia if we stayed in San Francisco.  She's
lived here all her life and is very active in the cultural community.

Almost all the people we know are really her friends.  Wherever we went
we'd be running into them.  "

Jenny could not believe what she was hearing.

"Are you ashamed of me?"

Martin winced.

"How can you ask me a question like that?  Of course not.  I just think
it would be easier on us and kinder to Sylvia if we considered moving.
My family and Sylvia's do occupy a certain position in this community.
I can't take my happiness and flaunt it at them.

Sylvia's going to live here.  I won't stay and be a constant
embarrassment to her.  "

"You mean me.  I would be the embarrassment."

"No for God's sakes, no.  This has nothing to do with you.  Jenny.  It
has to do with decency, dignity.  I thought it might be wonderful for
us to move to a villa in Rome, or on the Riviera, wherever you like,
until this simmers down."

As she stood listening to Martin, something within her snapped.  She
remembered all the agony she had endured in her life: her father's
abandonment, the abuse she suffered

at the hands of a drunken mother, the years working for a paranoid
woman who beat her, the months alone in Chicago, Cyrus's endless
brutality.  As though she were avenging her whole past, she screamed,
"No, Martin!  I won't be dragged off and hidden.  If you want me,
you'll marry me here and acknowledge me publicly.  I want everyone to
know that I am now your wife.  I want to shop where she shopped, get on
committees she used to chair, be welcomed everywhere she was."

"But, Jenny," Martin said sadly, "Sylvia was part of that society long
before I married her.  You must understand that her grandparents helped
build this city, were a part of its culture.  Do you see what I'm
saying, Jenny?  I don't want to be unkind, but your presence would
drive her away from the only ties she has left.  And besides, the women
would snub you."

"I don't care!"  Jenny shouted.

"I want her to suffer.  I want you to make up to me for all I missed
when you left me in New York.  You owe me."  Martin flushed angrily.

"I don't want to marry anyone because I owe.

Besides, Jenny, you and I are not the first couple in the world whose
love affair broke up.  What happened to you after that was not my
fault.  Look I'm sorry I left you alone when my father died.  The day I
met you in front of Shreve's I knew I wanted to make it up to you.

But I can't give you my soul.  I don't owe you that, Jenny.  "

She screamed as though she had gone mad.

"You do!  You owe me everything.  If you had married me as you
promised, I would never have gone through the hell I did when I lived
with Cyrus.  And in that thing you call a heart, you know you're
nothing but a lying Jew Oh, my God, she thought, the second the words
left her mouth.  / must be out of my mind.  How could I have said that
to him?  With tears streaming down her cheeks, she cried, " Martin,
darling, you must forgive me.  I'm so sorry .  You must believe me .
I'm so sorry.  "

Martin felt as though he had been struck between the eyes; as though
he were seeing Jenny for the first time.  Swallowing hard he said, "I'm
sorry too, Jenny for so, so many things."

"Martin, let me make it up to you."

"No, I don't think that's possible.  Jenny.  We've hurt each other
enough."

When he turned to leave, she stood in front of him and once again
pleaded, "Martin, I beg you forget what I said.  Forgive me.  I love
you."

The Jenny of his youth was still dear to him.  And it was for her that
he had compassion.  Taking out his handkerchief, he wiped her eyes.

"I'm afraid.  Jenny, it just won't work."

"If we try, Martin, it will."

"No, I don't think so.  Because a part of you hates me, Jenny.  And
that part has wanted to punish me ever since we broke up.  I see that
now.

But try to forgive me.  Jenny.  And more important, try to forgive
yourself.  "

He turned and walked down the hall as Jenny slumped to the floor,
sobbing.  When the doors of the elevator closed, Martin leaned against
the wall, trembling.

Without thinking, he found his car and began driving aimlessly around
the rain-swept streets.  After a while he found himself at the top of
Telegraph Hill.  He turned off the ignition and looked out over the
Bay.  The lights of the Golden Gate Bridge seemed to wink at him
through the mist as though they knew more about Martin Roth than he did
himself.  What had caused him to chase this image he had of Jenny, this
illusion of love, which had all but destroyed him?  Maybe in order to
understand he would have to go back to the beginning after the war,
when he was so uncertain about his life.  He had been unable to figure
out why he had survived the war, why he, a Jew, had been so privileged
while six million had suffered and died in:,:

the camps.

Whatever the reason, Jenny had come along at a til when he was
particularly vulnerable.  She had fired&i passion so that he felt he
couldn't live without her;';

today he knew that she excited him to a degree Sylvia never could. His
need for Jenny had been obsessive.  But somewhere down deep in his
soul, he knew that she had spoken the truth: he never really intended
to marry her.  He knew that all those years ago he hadn't asked Jenny
to meet his parents because she would never have fitted into his
life.

She was right he had lied to her, deliberately or not.  And when he had
seen her again last Christmas he had felt passion, but not love.

It had been the vision of lost youth that had kindled something within
him he'd thought was dead.  Finally, he realized that the Jenny who had
haunted him all those years was a figment of his imagination.  He
remembered Dominic's warning.  The Jenny he lived with secretly never
really existed.  He had made her up.  The only thing that had been real
in his life was Sylvia Sylvia, who'd always been there.  She had shared
the best and the worst of times.  She had been the greatest thing that
had ever happened to him and he had taken her for granted.  He shivered
at the thought that he had almost lost her.  Now he'd crawl if need be,
beg for forgiveness, and at long last, love her as she deserved.  He
turned on the ignition and drove down the hill, towards home.

Sylvia had finished packing.  She wiped her forehead and looked wearily
at the luggage, all neatly stacked and snapped shut, and realized that
all her hopes and dreams were buried within those small compartments.

She remembered that Martin had bought the suitcases for their
honeymoon, in Florence.  She sighed, walked to the French window, and
looked out at the moonlit garden.  It didn't look quite as enchanting
tonight.

Suddenly she felt her pulse race and her heart pound.  Martin's car was
skidding to a halt on the cobblestone driveway.  She hesitated, then
shouted with joy.  She had won.  He had come home to her.  She knew
it.

Sylvia ran down the stairs from her bedroom, across the vast hall, and
flung open the door.  She stood for a moment framed in the entrance.

Then their eyes met and she ran to Martin's waiting arms.  In that
extremely poignant moment of reunion no words were exchanged.  There
was no need for them, but their eyes were filled with tears of joy.