Pictures of the Past (18 page)
T
aylor Woodmere had been enjoying the customary Saturday morning time in his library he reserved for interactions with Sylvie, his precocious four-year-old granddaughter. Although he was extremely busy at his company, often traveling for weeks at a time, he knew the importance of bonding with Sylvie, knew he was her strongest father figure. He had been showing Sylvie something on the globe, pointing out to her his latest international destination, when the lyrical doorbell rang. But he did not move to answer it, as those in his position have been conditioned to let others respond to such tasks.
It was then that he had heard the lovely, almost timid, voice of a young woman explaining that she was trying to locate Court Woodmere. And Taylor had actually left his cushioned leather desk chair when he heard surprise in her tone when she continued, “Oh, he is home here—well, that is good—very good. May I see him?”
The houseman, Reed, knowing that Court was, as usual, just milling around on the upper lounge and pleased to send him any interesting visitor, directed her to the second floor, indicating he was to the left of the reception hall. He had only meant to tell her that he would get Court—but she was following his gesture quickly up the stairs, as if, with a moment’s hesitation, she might change her mind.
“Now Rusty, you wait here, please,” she admonished the little boy who accompanied her to the home and who remained in the foyer as she made her way. And she nodded to the butler so that he might watch that the child stayed put.
It was actually Sylvie, emerging from her grandfather’s library shyly at first, who spotted the little boy and then with a burst of energy darted to this stranger. “Hi, I’m Sylvie,” she said, grabbing his hand.
Taylor’s immediate reaction was that it was gratifying to watch Sylvie happy and playing with another child. Her personality, already so engaging with adults, seemed a magnet to the young boy. Taylor had glimpsed him just briefly as the two ran up to the playroom, the boy ignoring his young mother’s words to wait at the door. Something had compelled Taylor to watch the jubilant bobbing of their heads on the steps, and he noticed that this little boy had the same dark auburn hair reminiscent of Sylvie’s locks, and of Court’s.
As the pair ascended, Taylor witnessed the boy stopping at his own favorite painting, pointing to Sylvie and saying something. Apparently the little boy had asked Sylvie if it was her in the painting.
“I don’t know. I never looked at it,” was her answer. Watching closely over them, his houseman, Reed, responded laughing. “No, young man, that is a significant Impressionist work painted in Europe by a famous artist, Henri Lebasque, generations before little Sylvie. I am not totally sure of its provenance.” The young children looked at each other quizzically, not really understanding what Reed had said, and, giggling, continued on their way up the stairs.
The grand scale of this child’s playroom was not lost on young Rusty. A native New Yorker, he had spent more than one Saturday afternoon as a wide-eyed, enthusiastic shopper at a dazzling FAO Schwartz store, and so he half expected a ringing cash register to be situated somewhere near the double door entry. He imagined Sylvie oftentimes cuddling herself within the paws and claws and hoofs of the menagerie of giant stuffed animals that greeted him to the right, or literally straddling the backs of the life-sized ponies or the four-foot-tall elephant and companion zebra. He thought she must have a great many siblings of all ages and both sexes to warrant the purchase of this assemblage of toys. Rusty was a bright child with an intense eye for details, and though perhaps he could not properly articulate this concept at his young age, he easily summed up his intuitive assessment by simply asking Sylvie where her brothers were.
“No one else, just me…” she said quite easily, as if this was not the first time this question was posed by a visitor to this fantasy domain. “And now you,” she continued. “What’s your name?”
“Rusty. I’m five, almost six,” he said without looking at her, darting a quick path to a train station table that miniaturized an entire Midwest village from the 1950s, full of “miles” of train tracks, every imaginable train car from a pricey HO set, and a collection of bridges and turntables, built-to-scale stores, a post office, school, and hospital. Eagerly, he ran his fingers over the fake green grass, easing himself to the prize of the control mechanisms, but found them to be just out of his reach. And then, once again, Sylvie led him by the hand, but this time to the area where an appropriately preschool-sized kitchen revealed itself. “You sit there,” she insisted, directing him to the blue chair at the little table. “Today we are serving tea and cakes and I will be cooking. Do you want sugar and milk in your tea?”
For one moment only he sat as commanded, facing the colorful metal set of a refrigerator and matching stove. But after Sylvie opened the doors of the appliances and he saw the model foods within, the wooden milk and juice cartons, the plastic ketchup and mustard bottles, the lifelike eggs, he immediately raced for a scaled-down shopping cart and was briskly filling it with the inventory and then racing around with it in a most disruptive manner. Instead of being dismayed by his disobedience, as might have been expected by this seemingly prim little girl who at that time was distracted as she donned her Betty Crocker apron, Sylvie reached for a second cart nearby and yelled “race you.” Quickly, she caught up to him with a crash by the building block, Lego, and puzzle area, and shouted, “Hide-and-seek, this room only, you count to ten.” And it actually took him another two minutes to find her hiding in an enormous wooden playhouse structure near the rear wall of the room. She was sitting camouflaged behind a shelving unit hosting a collection of thirty or so exquisite dolls, representing countries around the globe, and when he found her they both screamed, leaving the highest tones of childhood delight to shake up the solid, formidable bones of the mansion.
Initially, Taylor had been intrigued watching his granddaughter and this little boy, first tracing their climb up the stairs, and then briefly spying on their nursery play, but once on the upper landing, he was drawn instead to the dialogue of the young adults. He heard his son, Court, who had been resting in the game room (resting from what he was used to thinking) and responding to his visitor.
“Yeah,” Court said, eyeing Rachel approvingly, yet cautiously. “I—remember you—great summer of fun—I was still in school then—as brief as that was. Name? Place?—It’s not coming to me.”
She was shocked at his appearance; it was as if he was in a time warp. What in the year 1968 was the accepted mode of dress for a college student, now had deteriorated into the appearance of a disheveled miscreant.
She almost whispered her name, “Rachel.”
“Yeah, that’s right,” he returned with the constantly nodding head of a person with a slow pattern of word retrieval.
In a sense, his disappointing demeanor and attitude actually made it easier for her. If he seemed receptive, she was going to tell him the truth about Rusty, tell him that she knew he would be proud once he met his little boy…tell him that she actually bore no grudge because her little boy was a blessing to her.
She had come prepared to tell him that she had not taken his money for an abortion, but used it to travel to New York to stay with her Aunt Ida during her pregnancy. That she knew he had been unprepared for fatherhood at the time and she grew to understand that his harsh words were just immaturity speaking. That how could she have hated him if she nicknamed her son “Rusty,” as a term of endearment, reminding her of the rusty-colored hair of him, her first love?
She had planned to make sure he understood that she wanted nothing from him. Her life had taken an unexpected turn—but as it turned out—not an unwelcomed one. She just felt she owed it to herself and to Rusty to call on Court and have some sort of closure with the past before she ventured any further into the future, before she accepted Richard Stone’s proposal.
But now, seeing Court again, she felt sickened. He did not know that she had his baby—and now he never would. She simply shook her head while looking at him, her mouth forming the involuntary downturn of a frown acknowledging his pathetic deportment, and only his words brought her back to reality.
“So what’s the story? How come you looked me up?” Court spoke finally and approached her, as she was actually backing up toward the door.
“Well, to be honest…no reason, a mistake. Sorry, I have to go.” She had made a split-second decision, but immediately felt it an empowering and easy choice. And then as quickly as she entered the room, she exited. She looked down the stairs and did not see her young son in the foyer, but before she could become frantic, she heard his voice in the playroom on the same level.
“Rusty—we’re leaving
—
now,”
she said. And as her son peeked out from the room, she grasped his hand firmly, and quickly, but carefully, retraced her steps down the stairs and out the door.
Taylor Woodmere and his houseman Reed were as intrigued by these events as was Court, who actually emerged from his lounge and looked over the railing after she had disappeared. “Hey, did she really leave already?” he called down to Reed.
But his father answered him, “Yes, they went. (Court never picked up on the ‘they’). Who was she?”
“Oh just some girl I knew some summers ago. Rachel, I think it was Rachel Gold. She was pretty, but, well…never mind, it ended badly.”
The story of his life, thought Taylor about his son. And then it was as if a light went on in his head. The conversation he had overheard the summer before Court left school and eventually married the pregnant Lilly. Way before Sylvie, before the accident. Taylor had once again overheard Court—but this time he was asking his mother Emily for money—"a problem with a girl—-Jewish.” That was all he heard. And now this little boy in his home. It was not hard to figure out this scenario. Taylor would make it his business to understand what had happened.
Occasionally in the past, Taylor had used the services of a private detective agency. Business investigative needs, especially when dealing with large government contracts, usually entailed guarding against industrial espionage. They most often involved installing security devices, which was much less dramatic than catching masterminds. And more and more he was finding the need to facilitate background checks on employees, as there had been a disturbing surge in false representations of educational records and work experience due to the competitiveness of the marketplace.
In the movies, there would always be the weathered-looking, gray-suited, gun-toting detective nosing around for the task. And his experiences had borne out the stereotype, although if there was gun toting, it was well hidden.
So now, as he overheard this unsettling interaction between Court and the young woman, as he saw her almost run from the house with this precious auburn-haired boy who reminded him of a young Court, he was thinking to call upon the services of Metropolitan Security once again.
It was more than a desire to protect his family or to skirt trouble. It was, surprisingly, that when he saw the little boy, he had that renewed feeling of optimism and joy for the future that he held when Court was small and innocent like him.
Three weeks later, retired police lieutenant Phil Roberts, now with Metropolitan Security, reported his finding.
Rachel Gold, originally from Chicago, left the University of Illinois after her first year. She moved to New York City where she lives with Ida Lieber, a relative or family friend, a Jewish immigrant following World War II. Rachel, a single woman, had a child, a boy, in 1969. She completed her education at NYU, funded partially by scholarship, and she graduated with honors. She works at
Young Miss Magazine.
She appears to be in a serious relationship with a man, Richard Stone, also Jewish and an MBA graduate from NYU, now with the Goldman Brown Trust firm. There is no confirmation of an engagement at this point.
S
unday evening Rachel returned to New York with Jason, consciously deciding that she would no longer enable his nickname “Rusty” to surface. She was actually as eager to see Richard as he was to meet with her. But with a late arrival and a potentially sleeping boy to contend with, she knew it was only prudent to postpone the reunion until dinner the next day.
She phoned Richard from Chicago’s O’Hare Airport before her plane took off—and his heart raced and stomach tossed with anxiety when he heard her voice.
“No, don’t meet me at the gate,” she said, “I can’t really talk in the car. Tomorrow evening. Alone, without Jason.”
Everything he feared was materializing. He was thinking that no one needs to sit down for good news. And he was further confused by her use of the name Jason, instead of Rusty.
“I know what I want to do for the rest of my life,” she was saying, “and I found it from visiting the Woodmere home. But I will tell you everything tomorrow.”
Now he was sure he could not continue breathing. He was not sure that he wished to live until tomorrow.
When he met her at Mario’s Little Italy, one of their favorite intimate eateries, not pricey, but with a chic candlelit look, he seemed as white as the tablecloth, like he hadn’t slept and barely shaved.
“Richard, what is wrong with you? You’re scaring me.”
He looked at her eyes across the table and gently took her hands, fearful that she might pull away. “It’s because you’re scaring me. I couldn’t sleep. Just say quickly what you have to say. And if my heart stops suddenly after you dump me—please respect my Do Not Resuscitate order.”
“Richard, you are so overly dramatic. I only wanted to tell you that I know what I want to do with the rest of my life.”
“Oh, just that, you’re right—no big deal—doesn’t affect me.”
“Richard, please,” she said, becoming exasperated by him. “Not my love life—my professional life—well, in a way, my love life. I am going to combine my two
professional
loves—writing and interior design—and try to write for interior design magazines. I want to gain access to the most beautiful homes of the world. And I want to share their grandeur and excitement with middle-class America.”
“I don’t understand,” answered Richard. “You said you came to a decision after visiting the Woodmeres; I thought you were returning to Court Woodmere, father of your child. Are you telling me you’re not? Are you telling me that my last will and testament will not be read by week’s end?”
“Richard, my God, I had no idea you were even thinking something like that. I told you I went to see Court to decide if I would tell him about Jason. This didn’t have to do with you and me—I love you—you nut.
“It’s just that when we do marry, I want to be a real family, and I know you do too. I wanted one chance to see if Court had changed, had matured, had become someone Jason could identify with for a dad and be proud of.”
“And what did you find? I bet he went insane when he saw how beautiful you were and you told him the truth.”
She took time to consider her response. “Let’s just say he seemed insane and he will never know the truth.” She began the sentence with a disgusted, annoyed tone and ended with a slight laugh and satisfied smile. And then she sat back in her chair, finally realizing that she was not disappointed, but thoroughly relieved to have that chapter closed. She knew she would no longer look back at Court, and so with her full attention, she looked directly at Richard. “I know now for sure—I can totally move on from that part of my life now. I hope one day you will want to adopt Jason as you have intimated.”
“Rachel, I would adopt Rusty…ah, Jason, tomorrow, even before you agree to marry me.” Richard was no longer sitting across the table from her, but had moved next to her on the booth bench seat to sit side by side and put his arm around her. He was starting to breathe normally and his appetite had returned. And now he was not just concentrating on the wondrous smell of her hair, but on the flavorful aromas of the Italian cuisine.
“I’m starved,” he said. “Ready to order?”
“You order for me,” she answered, because she knew he would get it just right.
Working at
Young Miss Magazine
had been an extraordinary experience. Any of her contemporaries would have considered it a dream job. But, of course, though the experience was great, the pay was low. And just looking around it was understood that just as with real dreams, eventually you wake up. Everyone in the office, except the small number of senior editors, was around her age. In other words, this type of job had a limited run; it could only be a resume builder for all but a few of the staff. You were not just marketing to the society of youth, but you were working in an environment that valued youth excessively.
Unlike most of her young colleagues at work who were eyeing future positions at
Vogue,
carrying around copies, like bibles, at lunch breaks, she set her sights on
Architecture Today.
She loved immersing herself in the glossy feel of its pages. And the ads were as attractive as the articles. She especially loved the fabric manufacturers’ spreads of prints and patterns in complementary shades. She had begun to envision a career shift— thought about being a decorator. She was drawn much more to the form and textures of furniture, than of fashion. It wasn’t that she felt fashion was just fluff, but the very essence of the fashion business was counterintuitive to her own values. The point of fashion, what made clothing designers continue to thrive and magazines to sell, was that each season brought new trends and discarded old ones. No—she loved the timelessness of decorating. Certainly, there were trends in the field, but they lasted years, even decades, even centuries.
At the Woodmere home, it was like everything came together for her. Realistically, she knew that she did not have the training or talent to create the vision of elegance and taste she had been briefly introduced to. But she did have the training and talent to describe what she had seen. She would feel so much more fulfilled writing about this exquisite eighteenth-century carpet or that marble fireplace imported from a chateau neighboring the Palace of Versailles. Of course, she was not naïve. She understood there would be a whole new field to learn about, knew that she would need some classes in the history of furniture, would need to spend time roaming antique shops instead of Bloomingdale’s or Macy’s. But now she would have direction.
Her high school district had many pockets of upscale neighborhoods, and she had grown up exposed to the plastic-covered sofas of the forbidden-from-use living rooms. Wealthy people that she knew were what “old money” would call “nouveau riche,” and their homes would have beautiful interiors from local furniture stores or Chicago’s Merchandise Mart. But even the most elegant homes that she had been to had what was referred to as “sofa art,” pictures that matched the décor, often very lovely and pricey originals, but not on the scale she glimpsed briefly in Kenilworth, not works of art that would weather the time test of fads and generations—museum-quality art.
Stepping inside the foyer only at the Woodmere Estate, she was struck that the decorating was like no house that she had ever visited, except on a tour. She remembered the summer homes, the “cottages” of Newport, Rhode Island, which had amazed her on a family trip years ago. These were the mansions of the Vanderbilts and their crowd during the Gilded Age, built in the late 1800s, when the scions of industry were true multimillionaires, before tax structures. And visiting them, no one would say they needed redecorating, that they were too traditional and old-fashioned.
Within weeks of her self-discovery, Rachel had approached a senior editor at her magazine for a letter of introduction to
Architecture Today.
Elliot Willis had taken an interest in Rachel from her first day on the job, and eventually Rachel understood that she reminded him of a daughter lost to the Hari Krishnas for the past few years. Elliot was always seeking her out, in a fatherly manner, to compliment her work, offer encouragement, and help to see that her editors were giving her prime assignments.
As he also served as a vice president of the publishing firm that held both magazines, he was in a position to authorize her freelancing for
Architecture Today.
And he had actually been conducting business in the staffing office the week following Rachel’s return to New York, when a representative of Taylor Woodmere called to make inquiries regarding the career of Rachel Gold.
This had set into motion what would appear to be just a series of coincidences and incredible good luck for Rachel, the true definition of “luck” being “when preparation meets opportunity.” Within weeks, Mrs. Regina Palmer, of the esteemed Chicago family, would call to tell
Architecture Today
that she would open her home for their cameras if they used a local Chicago-born writer, not a New Yorker. Her experience with Eastern writers was that they had appeared condescending to Midwesterners in the final copy. And this call occurred as the features editor of the design magazine had on his desk at that very time the resume of one, Rachel Gold, from Chicago.