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  “It’s not that easy. I mean, it’s easy enough to fall in love with you, Jesus, Catherine, that’s pretty obvious. But this thing with Haley goes back a long way. It’s what our parents want.”

  “What your parents want? But what do you want, Kit?”

  “Catherine, that hardly matters—I’m an only child. My mother almost died giving birth to me. I owe my parents a lot.” He paused. “I want to be honest. I chose Haley, too. I thought I loved her. Until I met you.” He smiled ruefully. “Catherine, what you and I had together in Paris was so—extreme. I’m not sure it would make a good marriage.”

  “I think it’s exactly what marriage is all about,” Catherine said quietly.

  “Believe me, Catherine, I’ve agonized over this.”

  Catherine reached out her hand to take Kit’s. When their palms touched, warm, naked, solid, she knew he felt the electricity between them—as strong as a shock.

  Kit pulled his hand away. Glaring, he said, “It wasn’t just that between us, Catherine. I don’t want you to think it was. I like you. You made me laugh. I felt at home with you. If I could, I’d marry you, but I can’t. That’s what I came to say.” He rose, tossed some money on the table, and turned to leave.

  “Kit,” Catherine said, rising, grabbing his arm. “Don’t leave!”

  “I shouldn’t have come in the first place. I should have phoned.” Kit looked at her. “Catherine, I’ve got to leave. Let go.”

  Catherine took her hand away and let him walk out the door. If she’d had any doubts about how they belonged together, how they were meant for each other, all those doubts had faded now. Kit loved her. It was plain on his face, in his voice, in his touch. “It will come to you,” Kathryn had said three years ago, and Catherine repeated those words to herself now. Kit had come to her; he would come back. In spite of what he had just told her, she knew he would come back.

  She waited at the table for half an hour. When he hadn’t returned, she went back to the shop and worked furiously, ignoring Mrs. V’s questioning looks. She was glad to work. It made time blur.

  That night she waited by the phone. All the next week she waited for his call. She checked her mailbox as soon as she got home from work.

  The shop was busy. She worked hard, doggedly. The end of June passed. July came. Slowly the days crawled by.

  One night in the middle of July Catherine began to cry. She forced herself to face reality. Kit had told her he had to leave her, and he had. He had told her he was marrying a woman named Haley Hilton, and he would. And now her world of work, which once had been all-consuming, appeared drab, leached of color, and of life.

  Chapter 4

  New York and England

  August 1964

  August was Vanderveld Flowers’ slowest month. The normal business and restaurant orders still came in, but society was out of town. People had escaped from the city’s heat to Long Island or Maine or the Cape. The Vandervelds knew it happened every year, but they were short-tempered and grumbly anyway.

  Catherine was miserable. She hadn’t heard from Kit, and now she was trying to give up the hope that she ever would. She hated him for not wanting her, but she hated herself more for loving him so much, so easily. She had known he was the one for her, the love of her life. And she had been wrong. The realization that she’d erred instinctively about love made her doubt every decision she’d ever made and every new one she faced.

  She was making the last delivery of the day, one only a few blocks from the shop. She climbed the steps of the gracious old building on Sixty-second Street, took the elevator to the third floor, knocked listlessly on the door.

  “Oh, it’s you, honey, hi, come on in,” Helen Norton said.

  Catherine had no choice but to obey, since Helen had turned to walk back into her living room, leaving the door wide open. Catherine wasn’t in the mood to socialize. Still, she knew she couldn’t afford to insult Helen, whose “friend” was one of the shop’s most regular and best-paying customers.

  Catherine crossed the room behind Helen and set the long narrow box filled with a dozen red roses down on the coffee table.

  Helen snatched the lid off.

  “Any extra little goodies today?” she said. She shuffled through the flowers, then dropped the lid back in disappointment.

  Sometimes Helen’s admirer brought in a bauble from Tiffany’s or Cartier’s for Mrs. Vanderveld to arrange artistically in the sheaf of flowers, but today he had sent only the usual dozen luscious, fragrant, exquisitely tapered long-stems, which Helen treated like a snarl of poison ivy. This drove Catherine crazy.

  “Shall I put these in water for you?” Catherine asked.

  “Oh, would you do that for me, honey? You know where the vases are,” Helen said. “And when you come back, I’ve got a treat for you.”

  Helen, wearing a skimpy fluttering ruffled robe, was preoccupied with about eighteen evening gowns draped over the backs of the chairs, the sofas, every piece of furniture in the room. Catherine carried the roses into the tiny kitchen, filled a glass vase with water, cut the stems, and arranged the flowers. It always surprised her how little Helen cared about the flowers she received. But then many things were surprising about Helen.

  One day about four months ago, an elegant older man had entered the flower shop, requested that a dozen roses be sent to Mrs. Helen Norton, with a card enclosed, and insisted on paying in cash. Catherine had carried out his instructions with the bored face she had learned to wear while serving the upper-crust patrons of Vanderveld Flowers.

  But as soon as the man walked out the door, Catherine had grabbed Mrs. V.

  “I know who that is! That’s P. J. Willington! I’ve seen him at my parents’ parties! He’s married. And his wife is certainly not named Helen Norton.”

  “Now, dear, why get so excited? You’re old enough to understand this sort of thing,” Mrs. Vanderveld had said. “This isn’t the first time it’s happened, and it won’t be the last, and if you want us to keep the gentleman’s business, you’ll continue to act with the discretion I just saw. You were very good, Catherine.”

  But even Mrs. Vanderveld smiled when they found out that “Mrs. Helen Norton,” who lived in an elegant apartment house off Park Avenue, a bastion of respectability, had only months before been “the Exotic Eleena Mourzekian, Belly Dancer to Kings.”

  Catherine and Piet had been at the back of the shop one morning, unpacking a box of glads from Long Island. The long-stalked blooms were packed with newspapers to absorb the melting ice, and smiling up at her from a crumpled page of an old Daily News was the woman P. J. Willington sent flowers to, dressed in a belly-dancing costume that showed off her considerable charms. The advertisement said that she was appearing nightly at the Sheiks’ Club, off Eighth Avenue between Twenty-seventh and Twenty-eighth streets. The newspaper was several months old. When Catherine checked the day’s paper, she found the Exotic Eleena had been replaced by the Magnificent Mona. It was obvious to Catherine that P. J. Willington, scion of one of New York’s finest families, had relocated the Exotic Eleena to a location more suited to one of his station.

  Catherine liked Helen, who was not only about ten years older than she was, but much wiser in the ways of the world. Helen seemed tough and vulnerable at once and was always so solicitous of Catherine’s attentions that it would have been rude for Catherine not to come into the apartment now and then.

  In fact, the first time that Catherine knocked on the door with a narrow box of roses in her arms, Helen had opened the door, reached out, and actually pulled Catherine into the apartment.

  “Thank God you’re a girl, honey. Put that thing down and zip me up, would you?” Helen had said.

  That day, Helen was wearing a silver lamé sheath, clearly an off-the-rack garment that hadn’t been cut for true hourglass proportions like Helen’s. Catherine came in, set the flowers on the coffee table, then struggled with the zipper. When she finally succeeded, Helen’s full white breasts bulged over the top of
the low-cut silver dress like meringues. She gave Catherine a huge tip and offered her some coffee, which Catherine refused.

  As the months passed and Catherine continued to deliver the flowers, she grew fond of this enterprising young woman who had enough brains to realize she didn’t have enough brains to get very far without using the gifts of the extraordinary body she’d been given. Helen’s plans were to keep any of the jewelry and money P. J. Willington gave her until she had enough to go back to New Jersey and start her own beauty shop. Until then, she said, the old man was nice enough, even kind of touching in a way.

  “Let me tell ya, honey, nobody likes to get old, not the poor, not the rich, not the powerful; nothing helps when you’re getting old and facing the big blackout.”

  Today, when Catherine came out of the kitchenette carrying the vase of ruby-red roses, Helen pointed at the gowns tossed around the room and said, “Take one. Find one you think you could use, and keep it. I’ve gotta make some room in my closets.”

  “Oh,” Catherine said, “I don’t think”—she stopped to think of how to phrase it politely—“um, that I’ll ever have anyplace to go in a gown like those.”

  “Nonsense!” Helen said. “Don’t be so pessimistic, doll. You never know what will happen in life. You’re not a bad-looking girl, and you’re young, why, some nice young wealthy kid might come walking into your flower shop and see you and bam! True love, just like that! It happens every day. Then he’ll want to take you dancing at El Morocco and you’ll be all set. Go on, choose one!”

  It was clear that Catherine couldn’t leave without taking one of the flashy dresses unless she wanted to insult Helen. Privately Catherine thought Helen was a little bored with her life of clandestine luxury. Certainly she always welcomed the occasion to talk with Catherine, although she had never once spoken her friend’s name aloud. Catherine searched through the glamorous gowns, with Helen providing a running account of where she’d bought each one, how much it had cost, and where she’d worn it and how many times. Finally Catherine found a fairly conservative emerald satin she could actually imagine herself wearing, although it took a stretch of imagination to consider ever dancing again in her life.

  “I’d like this one,” Catherine said. “If you’re sure—”

  “Oh, doll, you’re doing me a favor, believe me. I’ve gotta get some new things, you know a man gets bored easily. Want some coffee?” She stuffed the shimmering gown into a Saks bag.

  “No, really, I can’t, I’ve got more deliveries to make,” Catherine lied.

  Back on the street, Catherine half wished she had stayed. She had no place else to go, no one to see. Helen would understand the furies that played beneath her skin, she thought. Helen would understand the grief that flashed high inside her whenever she thought of Kit Bemish.

  Catherine could imagine Helen saying, “Aw, kid, the old, old story. I could have told you, never trust a man.”

  It was after five now, but the August brightness made the day seem still young and full of promise. Catherine walked down Sixty-second and turned up Park Avenue in the direction of Leslie’s apartment, her shoulder bag on one arm and the rustling Saks bag with the gown on her other.

  “Catherine!”

  Catherine turned. Ann, fourteen beautiful years old, ran down the sidewalk to her sister, her blond ponytail bouncing from side to side. “I’ve been waiting outside your apartment for you and then I saw you coming down the street and I’ve been yelling your name for about two hours now, have you gone deaf?”

  “I’m sorry, Annie,” Catherine said, hugging her. “What in the world are you doing in New York?”

  “Oh, Cathy, I’m so miserable!” Ann’s enormous blue eyes filled with tears.

  Catherine put her arm around her sister and pulled her against her as they walked. “Come on. Let’s go get an ice cream. That will stop any misery for a while.”

  “Okay. I’m so glad to see you—I miss you so much! Mom and Dad are skunks. What’s in that bag?”

  “A used dress a friend gave me,” Catherine said.

  At an ice-cream parlor on Lexington they settled into a pink-and-white-striped booth and ordered hot-fudge sundaes.

  “Now. Why aren’t you on the Vineyard?” Catherine asked.

  “I came into New York with Dad. He’s got some appointments. I wanted to see you.” Ann paused until the waitress had gone away. “Cathy, I can’t stand it out there with Mom and Dad anymore. All they do is drink. And fight. They’re driving me crazy.”

  “Well, get out of the house. Where are all your friends?”

  “At camp. That’s another thing. Mother won’t send me to riding camp or tennis camp or anywhere this summer; she said they can’t afford it this year, if you can believe she said that. I can’t believe they expect me to just hang around the Vineyard the whole summer doing nothing.”

  “What’s Shelly doing?”

  “Drinking.” Ann spooned a giant glob of syrup into her mouth.

  “What?”

  “Drinking. I’m serious. He’s just like Mom and Dad, he goes out at night with his friends and comes home about dawn, puking all over the front porch and the bathroom floor. He sleeps all day. You really should come stay with us a few days, you wouldn’t believe it. It smells like biology lab.”

  “Where’s Genene?”

  “Oh, she’s still there. She’s as crazy as the rest of them. Every day she cooks up these meals, Catherine, roast beef and mashed potatoes for lunch, lobster for dinner, corn on the cob, and she sets the table like the queen’s coming, but no one ever eats the stuff. She’s got roast beef on the table at noon while everyone in the house is stumbling around in a robe clutching a glass of Alka-Seltzer or a cup of coffee. I don’t know why she does it, it’s like she’s been put on automatic and doesn’t want to admit she sees what’s going on.” Ann spooned some ice cream into her mouth. “But she’s so quiet, and she never talks to me, just ‘Yes, miss,’ ‘No, miss’—I really hate that crap, you know—”

  “It’s not Genene’s fault. Mother makes her say it.”

  “I know. Still. She’s a spook. Catherine, I can’t stay there anymore. I’ll go crazy.”

  “What are you going to do, then?”

  “I want to live with you.”

  Catherine, who had been toying with her sundae, stopped and looked at her sister. “Annie, you can’t live with me. Mom and Dad wouldn’t let you. Besides, you’d hate New York in the summer. It gets so hot here, and it’s so boring. Where are Berry and Sandy? Aren’t they on the island this summer?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, can’t you enjoy being with them? You can swim and play tennis and go sailing. You’ll have more fun there than you possibly could here. Mother and Dad will come out of it, they always do. It’ll get better.”

  Ann put her spoon down next to the glass tulip sundae dish and bent her head. Tears shimmered in her eyes.

  “I have an idea,” Catherine said. “Tomorrow and Monday are my days off. Let’s go out to Everly and visit Grandmother.”

  “Whoopee.” Ann looked glum.

  “Oh, Annie, don’t be that way. At least it will be cooler out there.”

  * * *

  The first Sunday in August, Catherine sat with her grandmother by the lily pond at Everly. Ann was lying on her stomach by the pond, pulling a stick through the water, watching the ripples and curls. It was a perfectly beautiful day. Birds flitted in and out of the fruit trees, iridescent dragonflies and damselflies skimmed the blue water of the pond. If Catherine closed her eyes slightly, the bank of purple-flowered rhododendrons and fuchsia azaleas, blue delphinium and pink geraniums, blurred into an Impressionist painting. The sun beat warmly onto her skin.

  Kathryn was pouring tea. China cups, silver spoons, and the fat china pot were arranged on the white wicker table with plates of cake and cookies.

  “Would you like some tea, Catherine?” her grandmother asked.

  “Not now, thank you.”

  “It
might do you good. You’re looking peaked. So is Ann, for that matter.”

  Catherine was quiet. Always before, when she had tried to confide in her grandmother, Kathryn had reacted with boredom and even impatience. Finally she said, “Ann is having a hard time with Mother and Father. They’re drinking.”

  “Yes. I can sympathize. My brother drank. My husband drank. Poor Ann.”

  Warmed by her grandmother’s sympathy, Catherine felt bold enough to say, “And I’ve had a bad summer, too. I fell in love with someone. I thought it was serious. But he, ah, well, dumped me.” She tried to keep her words and her voice from being too maudlin. Grandmother bored quickly of self-pity.

  Kathryn didn’t respond. Catherine quickly looked at her grandmother. Kathryn was idly stirring her tea but looking off into the distance. Her marvelous blue eyes were untroubled, as if she were gazing at mountains. I’ve lost her, Catherine thought.

  “I think I should take you two to Everly,” Kathryn said. “I haven’t been back there for a long time. You girls have never seen it. It might be just the thing to cheer you up.”

  “Oh, Grandmother!” Catherine cried. “I’d love to go to Everly! I’d love to go to England! I know the Vandervelds will let me go if I don’t ask for pay! And Ann will love it!” She jumped from her chair and flew to hug her grandmother.

  “Careful, Catherine,” Kathryn said, shoulders stiff. “You’ll spill my tea.”

  * * *

  At first, to their surprise, Catherine and Ann hated the British Everly.

  It was so formal. Their first sight of the house was in a taxi from Heathrow through a curtain of rain that chilled the air and drained all color from the landscape. They were sleepy from the flight and dozed during the hour’s drive, to be awakened by Kathryn as they approached the estate.

  “Girls,” she said. The quality of reverence in her voice was enough to jolt them awake.

  There it stood, a stern stone-and-brick Georgian giant, rising up out of the fog. Its massive bland symmetry was in sharp contrast to the whimsical, rambling hodgepodge of Kathryn’s Victorian Everly. The taxi pulled to a stop on the circle drive, and the girls were hastened under umbrellas up the wide urn-bordered steps and into the main hall.