Four Seasons of Romance (7 page)

“What?” her mother said. “Catherine, let’s talk about this…”

“No,” she replied. “I’ve already decided. I’m going to
college to get an education. That’s all that’s left now.”

Her mother cried, but her father was stoic. In truth, he was
delighted she’d no longer be serving ice cream at the Woodsville Drugstore as
he’d wanted her to pursue a college degree before marrying a proper man all
along.

Catherine enrolled at Keene State College that September;
she took mathematics and bookkeeping courses, hoping to secure a job as an
accountant after graduation in the goal of freeing herself from depending on
any man, her father included.

Leo, alive and well in France, assumed Catherine had found
someone else as he hadn’t received word in many months. The military was rife
with sob stories of stateside girlfriends who met someone else and abandoned
the soldiers they had claimed to love. Leo didn’t want to believe this of
Catherine—surely, she would remain true, but with his letters unanswered, Leo
didn’t know what else to think.

Fortunately or unfortunately, he was forced to hold his
heartbreak at bay; in wartime, there’s little time for the kind of lover’s
malaise that can eat whole months during times of peace. Leo’s life was
consumed by the daily struggle of training, fighting, and keeping out of harm’s
way.

As the war came to a close in 1945, Leo found himself
stationed in Paris, part of the troops overseeing the reconstruction efforts.
Although war-torn, Paris was salve to his soul as he loved the sidewalk art,
the street cafés, and the painters and sculptors who made art in the open. But
he was in despair with not a word from Catherine, often thinking his army
friends were right: Catherine found someone else and forgot him.

Nevertheless, he fell in love with France and Paris in
particular.
and
one day, as he strolled through the
airy Parisian streets, he met a French girl named Nicole.

She, too, was an artist. Their courtship began when she took
a piece of sidewalk chalk and sketched a rough portrait of Leo in his uniform;
she offered to buy him a cup of coffee, and they saw each other daily from then
on.

Nicole was beautiful and talented, but she was not
Catherine. That knowledge hung like a weight against Leo’s chest, much like the
silver locket around his neck.

In the spring of 1946, Leo was released from his military
assignment. Paris was in full bloom—astir with new life after the war. Nicole’s
feelings were in full bloom also—she fell for Leo head over heels.

“Stay with me,” she begged, as they lay entangled on the bed
in her sunny, one-room apartment above an art store a few streets south of the
Pigalle
district. It was Leo’s last night in Paris… or
rather, his last morning.

“You love it here, so stay in Paris,” Nicole whispered. “We
can get married.”

Leo couldn’t deny that she was right. He loved Paris, but
someone else was on his mind.

“I’ll come back,” he said. “But I need to take care of some
things in the States first.” The lie tasted sour in his mouth. His aim was to
comfort Nicole, but his plan was to go back to the U.S. and find Catherine—if
she’d still have him.

Nicole wept, standing at Paris-
Orly
airport terminal and bid him good-bye. As he boarded his plane, he could see
her, bathed in a pool of sunlight behind him. Her dark eyes and flaxen hair
reminded him of the black-eyed
Susans
he used to
collect in Woodsville—which made him think of Catherine. These days, nearly
everything did.

He flew to Boston for a brief stay with his mother who had
married a few years earlier. Deborah had two kids, a brownstone full of
squawking, crying children, and even less time for Leo than usual. He was happy
to make his stay short. The next day, he hefted his bag to the station, bought
himself a ticket, and headed to Woodsville on the eight o’clock train.

There was no one Leo wanted to see in Woodsville—nay, in the
entire world—save Catherine herself, and he went straight to her house. As Leo
strode up the porch, it struck him that, in all the years of their
acquaintance, this was the first time he had gone to the front door of the
Woods mansion and knocked. He chuckled, perhaps to stem the tide of butterflies
in his stomach.

The butterflies
vanished
the
instant Judge Woods appeared behind the screen door. “You,” Josiah said.
“Didn’t expect to see you here.”
        

Leo’s years of physical training in the military were
evident; if the judge had thought of grappling with him before, he certainly
didn’t seem eager to do it now.

“I know there’s been bad blood between us,” Leo began. How
many times he had practiced this speech on the plane. “But that’s water under
the bridge now. I’ve seen some terrible things the last few years, and all I
want right now is to see the one person who’s made it worthwhile.” He took a
deep breath. “I’d like to see your daughter.”

The judge opened the screen door, took a step onto the
porch, and closed the door behind him. “You haven’t heard?” he said. “She’s
married, you know.”

Leo felt as if Josiah had dealt him another blow to the face
but a much harder one. He had prepared himself for this possibility, fearing that
he would discover that Catherine forgot him. Wasn’t this why she had stopped
writing? Still, hearing it confirmed was more horrible than he could have ever
imagined.

“I hadn’t heard,” Leo said, struggling to remain calm. 

“I suppose you hadn’t, seeing as you’ve been abroad.” Josiah
folded his arms across his chest. “She fell in love with an established
attorney.
A well-to-do, older man.
Treated her like a
queen. He came to town…
  oh
, I don’t know.
Shortly after you went to war, I suppose.”

Leo swallowed. “Does he make her happy?”

“Of course, he does,” the judge said. “They left town to
start a new life in another state.
Wanted to start a family.
They’ve been busy on that count.” Josiah seized the opportunity to embellish
the lie even further. “Catherine’s got a little boy already, and she’s pregnant
with my second grandchild.”

Leo gripped the porch railing, lest he topple, the news
washing over him like a wave of nausea. “Where is she?” he asked.

Josiah laughed. “Now, why would I tell you that? She’s happy
in her new life. If you track her down, you would fill her with doubt. Is that
any way to treat someone you claimed you adored?” He took a step closer. “Stay
away from her, Leo.
If you ever loved my
daughter, stay out of her life forever. Do not destroy the joy she has found.
”           

Leo didn’t spend a single night in Woodsville. What few
friends he had were gone, anyway—lost in the war. After speaking to the judge,
he couldn’t stand to be in Woodsville one more moment; every tree, corner, and
house held memories that caused nothing but pain. So, he trudged back to the
station and took the train back.

He spent a few painful days with his mother in Boston, boxed
in by screaming babies and Deborah’s insufferable husband. “I’ll be out of your
hair in a few days,” he told her and meant it. Leo bought a one-way flight to
Paris and returned to Nicole, who welcomed him with open arms.

For years, he’d held to a certain idea of the future, seeing
himself with Catherine—happy, working as a sculptor, in love with her for the
rest of his life. This hope had fueled him through the war years, these dreams
sustaining him as he stormed the battlefields of Normandy, seeing his friends
shot and killed.

Now, that future had turned to dust, much like the lives of friends
he had lost. So, he re-created himself: he took a cue from Nicole and decided
to hone his artistic craft, spending long hours in her apartment, drinking
strong coffee and sculpting. First, remembering the figurines he had shaped for
Catherine years ago, he had used clay, and, after a year or so, he began to
experiment with plaster.

And the experiments didn’t stop there. Leo felt restless so
he learned to drive racecars, something he mastered fast because of his intense
personality. Eventually, he gained enough confidence to aspire competing at Le
Mans with encouragement from his driver friends.

Leo assumed his feelings for Catherine would fade with time,
but he was wrong; instead, they only grew deeper, clearer, and more intense. He
removed the locket from around his neck after Nicole questioned him about it,
but he kept it still, true to his promise: the locket lived safely in the
pocket of his paint-splattered jeans for the next seven years.

*

The
Monadnock
Region of New
Hampshire, where Keene State College was located, enjoyed a warm settled
summer. Students often lingered well after finishing their coursework to revel
in the picturesque countryside. New couples journeyed into the surrounding
hamlets, tentatively holding hands in the pews of clapboard churches and taking
pleasant dips in the White Mountains’ icy streams. Many a young woman has met
her mate at Keene State in much this way.

Catherine Woods was not one of those. By June 1946,
Catherine had completed her two-year associate degree. But, to her parents’
disappointment, she had not met a man to marry.

Instead, she moved home to Woodsville. Her father obtained a
job for her in the local court system, but she never felt content—her
relationship with Josiah was tenuous, the men in town were not to her liking,
and everything in Woodsville brought back memories of Leo.

So, after nine months, she moved south to Philadelphia in
March 1947, taking a position as an accountant at Morton-Folsom Insurance
Company, the stable job she hoped would make her financially independent for
many years. Catherine loved Philadelphia—the music, the restaurants, the
nightlife—it was so different from life in New Hampshire. She enjoyed seeing
club bands and live theatre. She worked a full work week, but her nights and
weekends were full of smoky bars, elegant dinners, and the sensual strains of
jazz.

Catherine dated many men, recognizing a clear pattern in her
tastes after some time—she was drawn to rebels, artists, musicians, all those
who defied authority. In other words, she was searching for Leo all over again.
But every affair left her unsatisfied and every new candidate eventually fell
short.

Meanwhile, she turned her attention to politics. Back in New
Hampshire, she didn’t think she had a political bone in her body. But she soon
abandoned her conservative roots in favor of a more liberal social agenda. In
1948, she became involved in the presidential campaign of Progressive Party
candidate Henry A. Wallace, a man she came to admire.

During the campaign, she made new friends, including a
fellow accountant, Walter Murray. Walter was far from an ideologue or a
firebrand—he was simply a good American citizen who enjoyed being part of the
political process. But she liked the way he tipped his hat and smiled at her—always
a true gentleman—when she came by the campaign office. She wondered sometimes
why he didn’t ask her out for dinner or a movie. Whether it was the age
difference or his shyness, she didn’t know.

Beneath the glitz and glamour of her Philadelphia life, Catherine
was lonely. She had become quite the political progressive, but her view of
relationships always remained conservative. She couldn’t run fast and loose
with men—she’d dabbled in it, but it wasn’t her style; the short-lived flings
only made her feel empty inside. And her job, while lucrative, made her long
for something else. For the first time, she thought that what she wanted was
much simpler—to marry and raise a family. And that was the dilemma Catherine
struggled with the night she met Michael Snell.

It was January 1949. The Downbeat Club, one of Catherine’s
favorites, was hosting a jazz quartet that drew visitors from all over
town—they’d been written up in the
Philadelphia Inquirer
the day before
with a half-page spread. Catherine had never heard them play. So, she put on
her favorite taffeta gown and her checkered fleece coat—the one with the
deliciously deep pockets—and headed out for the night.

Michael Snell saw her the moment she came in. His saxophone
to his lips, he was playing a melancholy warm-up tune when a petite brunette
sauntered through the front door, motioned to the barman for a drink, then took
her checkered cape off with a flourish and sat at a table for one.

Even after the quartet began their first set, Michael
couldn’t take his eyes off her. There was something pure in her essence, so
different from the women he usually met in his line of work. Indeed, this woman
didn’t seem to belong under the dim lights of a jazz club at all.

She left while he was still onstage; there was no way he
could put down his sax and follow her, though he thought of it. At
intermission, he poked his head into the Philly street to see whether he could
spot her, wondering whether the cigar smoke had gotten to her or whether the
music was too loose and restless for her taste.

But Catherine was already gone and the reason why was
simpler—Catherine was sleepy. She had ordered a Stinger from the bar, and the
potent mixture of brandy and white crème de menthe had gone straight to her
head—she never held her liquor well. But Catherine had noticed the saxophonist
looking at her from the stage.

The next morning, she wondered whether she’d imagined it.
I’m
just flattering myself
, she thought. Her head pounded from the brandy, and
she tried to wipe the memory from her mind.

But it lingered, so persistent that she found herself
scouring the
Inquirer
for the jazz quartet’s next performance,
discovering to her delight, it was the following night.