Fine things

CRITICAL RAVES FOR

DANIELLE STEEL“STEEL IS ONE OF THE BEST”—Los Angeles Times“THE PLOTS OF DANIELLE STEEL'S NOVELS

TWIST AND WEAVE AS INCREDIBLE STORIES

UNFOLD TO THE THRILL AND DELIGHT OF

HER ENORMOUS READING PUBLIC.”—United Press International“A LITERARY PHENOMENON … ambitious …

prolific … and not to be pigeonholed as one who

produces a predictable kind of book.”—The Detroit News“There is a smooth reading style to her writings which

makes it easy to forget the time and to keep flipping the

pages.”—The Pittsburgh Press“Ms. Steel excels at pacing her narrative, which races

forward, mirroring the frenetic lives chronicled here;

men and women swept up in bewildering change,

seeking solutions to problems never before faced.”—Nashville Banner

Also by Danielle Steel

To my sweet love, John

and our children

Beatrix, Trevor, Todd, Nicholas, Samantha,

Victoria, Vanessa, and Maxx

with all my heart,

and love

for all that you are

and do

and mean to me

And in memory of a special lady

and her family, Carola Haller

d.s.

a cognizant original v5 release october 14 2010

Chapter 1

It was almost impossible to get to Lexington and Sixty-third Street. The wind was howling, and the snow drifts had devoured all but the largest cars. The buses had given up somewhere around Twenty-third Street, where they sat huddled like frozen dinosaurs, as one left the flock only very rarely to venture uptown, lumbering down the paths the snowplows left, to pick up a few brave travelers who would rush from doorways frantically waving their arms, sliding wildly to the curb, hurling themselves over the packed snowbanks, to mount the buses with damp eyes and red faces, and in Bernie's case, icicles on his beard.

It had been absolutely impossible to get a taxi. He had given up after fifteen minutes of waiting and started walking south from Seventy-ninth Street. He often walked to work. It was only eighteen blocks from door to door. But today as he walked from Madison to Park and then turned right on Lexington Avenue, he realized that the biting wind was brutal, and he had only gone four more blocks when he gave up. A friendly doorman allowed him to wait in the lobby, as only a few determined souls waited for a bus that had taken hours to come north on Madison Avenue, turned around, and was now heading south on Lexington to carry them to work. The other, more sensible souls had given up when they caught their first glimpse of the blizzard that morning, and had decided not to go to work at all. Bernie was sure the store would be half empty. But he wasn't the type to sit at home twiddling his thumbs or watching the soaps.

And it wasn't that he went to work because he was so compulsive. The truth was that Bernie went to work six days a week, and often when he didn't have to, like today, because he loved the store. He ate, slept, dreamed, and breathed everything that happened from the first to eighth floor of Wolffs. And this year was particularly important. They were introducing seven new lines, four of them by major European designers, and the whole look of American fashion was going to change in men's and women's ready-to-wear markets. He thought about it as he stared into the snowdrifts they passed as they lumbered downtown, but he was no longer seeing the snow, or the stumbling people lurching toward the bus, or even what they wore. In his mind's eye he was seeing the new spring collections just as he had seen them in November, in Paris, Rome, Milan, with gorgeous women wearing the clothes, rolling down the runway like exquisite dolls, showing them to perfection, and suddenly he was glad he had come to work today. He wanted another look at the models they were using the following week for their big fashion show. Having selected and approved the clothing, he wanted to make sure the models chosen were right too. Bernard Fine liked to keep a hand in everything, from department figures to the buying of the clothes, even to the selection of the models, and the design of the invitations that went out to their most exclusive customers. It was all part of the package to him. Everything mattered. It was no different from U.S. Steel as far as he was concerned, or Kodak. They were dealing in a product, in fact a number of them. And the impression that product made rested in his hands.

The crazy thing was that if someone had told him fifteen years before when he was playing football at the University of Michigan that he would be worried about what kind of underwear the models had on, and if the evening gowns would show well, he would have laughed at them … or maybe even have busted their jaw. Actually, it struck him funny now, and sometimes he sat in his huge office on the eighth floor, smiling to himself, remembering back then. He had been an all-around jock when he was at Michigan, for the first two years anyway, and after that he had found his niche in Russian literature. Dostoevski had been his hero for the first half of junior year, matched only by Tolstoi, followed almost immediately by Sheila Borden, of slightly less stellar fame. He had met her in Russian I, having decided that he couldn't do the Russian classics justice if he had to read them in translation, so he took a crash course at Berlitz, which taught him to ask for the post office and the rest rooms and find the train in an accent which impressed his teacher enormously. But Russian I had warmed his soul. And so had Sheila Borden. She had sat in the front row, with long straight black hair hanging to her waist romantically, or so he thought, her body very lithe and tight. What had brought her to the Russian class was her fascination with ballet. She had been dancing since she was five, she had explained to him the first time they talked, and you don't understand ballet until you understand the Russians. She had been nervous and intense and wide-eyed, and her body was a poem of symmetry and grace which held him spellbound when he went to watch her dance the next day.

She had been born in Hartford, Connecticut, and her father worked for a bank, which seemed much too plebeian to her. She longed for a history that included greater poignancy, a mother in a wheelchair … a father with TB who would have died shortly after she was born…. Bernie would have laughed at her the year before, but not in his junior year. At twenty he took her very, very seriously, and she was a fabulous dancer, he explained to his mother when he went home for the holidays.

“Is she Jewish?” his mother asked when she heard her name. Sheila always sounded Irish to her, and Borden was truly frightening. But it could have been Boardman once, or Berkowitz or a lot of other things, which made them cowardly, but at least acceptable. Bernie had been desperately annoyed at her for asking him the question she had plagued him with for most of his life, even before he cared about girls. His mother asked him that about everyone. “Is he Jewish … is she …what was his mother's maiden name? …was he bar mitzvahed last year? …what did you say his father did? She is Jewish, isn't she?” Wasn't everyone? Everyone the Fines knew anyway. His parents wanted him to go to Columbia, or even New York University. He could commute, they said. In fact, his mother tried to insist on it. But he had only been accepted at the University of Michigan, which made the decision easy for him. He was saved! And off to Freedomland he went, to date hundreds of blond blue-eyed girls who had never heard of gefilte fish or kreplach or knishes, and had no idea when Passover was. It was a blissful change for him, and by then he had dated all the girls in Scarsdale that his mother was crazy about and he was tired of them. He wanted something new, different, and a trifle forbidden perhaps. And Sheila was all of those. Besides she was so incredibly beautiful with huge black eyes, and shafts of ebony hair. She introduced him to Russian authors he had never heard of before, and they read them all—in translation of course. He tried to discuss the books with his parents over the holidays, to no avail.

“Your grandmother was Russian. You wanted to learn Russian, you could have learned Russian from her.” That wasn't the same thing. Besides, she spoke Yiddish all the time …” His voice had trailed off. He hated arguing with them. His mother loved to argue about everything. It was the mainstay of her life, her greatest joy, her favorite sport. She argued with everyone, and especially with him.

“Don't speak with disrespect about the dead!”

“I wasn't speaking with disrespect. I said that Grandma spoke Yiddish all the time …”

“She spoke beautiful Russian too. And what good is that going to do you now? You should be taking science classes, that's what men need in this country today …economics …” She wanted him to be a doctor like his father, or a lawyer at the very least. His father was a throat surgeon and considered one of the most important men in his field. But it had never appealed to Bernie to follow in his father's footsteps, even as a child. He admired him a great deal. But he would have hated being a doctor. He wanted to do other things, in spite of his mother's dreams.

“Russian? Who talks Russian except Communists?” Sheila Borden …that was who…. Bernie looked at his mother in despair. She was attractive, she always had been. He had never been embarrassed about the way his mother looked, or his father for that matter. His father was a tall, spare man with dark eyes and gray hair, and a frequently distracted look. He loved what he did, and he was always thinking of his patients. But Bernie always knew he was there, if he needed him. And his mother had been dying her hair blond for years, “Autumn Sun” the color was called, and it looked well on her. She had green eyes, which Bernie had inherited from her, and she had kept her figure well. She wore expensive clothes that one never really noticed. They were navy suits and black dresses and had cost an arm and a leg at Lord and Taylor or Saks. Somehow she just looked like a mother to him. “Why does that girl study Russian anyway? Where are her parents from?”

“Connecticut.”

“Where in Connecticut?” He wanted to ask her if she was planning to visit them.

“Hartford. What difference does it make?” “Don't be rude, Bernard.” She looked prim and he folded his napkin and pushed back his chair. Eating dinner with her always gave him stomach pains. “Where are you going? You haven't been excused.” As though he were still five years old. He hated coming home sometimes. And then he felt guilty for hating it. And then he got mad at her for making him feel guilty for hating it….

“I have some studying to do before I go back.” “Thank God you're not playing football anymore.” She always said things like that that made him want to rebel. It made him want to turn around and tell her he'd gone back on the team … or that he was studying the ballet with Sheila now just to shake her up a little bit….

“The decision isn't necessarily permanent, Mom.” Ruth Fine glared at him. “Talk to your father about it.” Lou knew what he had to do. She had already talked to him at length. If Bernie ever wanted to play football again, you offer him a new car…. If Bernie had known, he would have gone through the roof, and not only refused the car, but gone back to playing football immediately. He hated being bribed. Hated the way she thought sometimes, and the over-protective way she treated him, in spite of his father's more sensible attitudes. It was difficult being an only child, and when he got back to Ann Arbor and saw Sheila she agreed with him. The holidays hadn't been easy for her either. And they hadn't been able to get together at all, even though Hartford was certainly not the end of the world, but it might as well have been. Her parents had had her late in life, and now they treated her like a piece of glass, terrified each time she left the house, frightened that she would get hurt or mugged or raped, or fall on the ice, or meet the wrong men, or go to the wrong school. They hadn't been thrilled at the prospect of the University of Michigan either, but she had insisted on it. She knew just how to get what she wanted from them. But it was exhausting having them hang all over her. She knew just what Bernie meant, and after their Easter holidays they devised a plan. They were going to meet in Europe the following summer, and travel for at least a month, without telling anyone. And they had.

It had been blissful seeing Venice and Paris and Rome for the first time together. Sheila had been madly in love, and as they lay naked on a deserted beach in Ischia, with her raven black hair falling over her shoulders, he had known that he had never seen anyone as beautiful. So much so that he was secretly thinking of asking her to marry him. But he kept it to himself. He dreamt of getting engaged to her over the Christmas holidays, and married after they graduated the following June…. They went to England and Ireland too, and flew home from London on the same plane.

As usual, his father was in surgery. His mother picked him up, despite his cable not to. Eagerly waving to him, she looked younger than her years in her new beige Ben Zuckerman suit with her hair done just for him. But whatever good feelings he had for her disappeared as she spotted his traveling companion immediately. “Who is that?”

“This is Sheila Borden, Mom.” Mrs. Fine looked as though she might faint.

“You've been traveling together all this time?” They had given him enough money for six weeks. It had been his twenty-first birthday present from them. “You've been traveling together so …so …shamelessly …?” He wanted to die as he listened to her, and Sheila was smiling at him as though she didn't give a damn.

“It's okay …don't worry, Bernie … I have to get the shuttle bus to Hartford anyway …” She gave him a private smile, grabbed her duffel bag, and literally disappeared without saying goodbye, as his mother began to dab at her eyes.

“Mom …please …”

“How could you lie to us like that?”

“I didn't lie to you. I told you I was meeting friends.” His face was red and he wanted the floor to open up and swallow him. He wanted never to see his mother again.

“You call that a friend?”

He thought instantly of all the times they had made love … on beaches, in parks, next to rivers, in tiny hotels…. Nothing she ever said could take away that memory and he stared at his mother belligerently.

“She's the best friend I have!” He grabbed his bag and started out of the airport alone, leaving her standing there, but he had made the mistake of turning back to look at her once, and she had been standing there crying openly. He couldn't do it to her. He went back and apologized and hated himself for it afterwards.

Back at school in the fall, the romance had flourished anyway, and this time when they came back for Thanksgiving, he drove up to Hartford to meet her family. They had been cool but polite, obviously surprised by something Sheila hadn't said, and when they flew back to school, Bernie questioned her.

“Were they upset that I'm Jewish?” He was curious. He wondered if her parents were as intense as his own, although that hardly seemed possible. Nobody could be as intense as Ruth Fine, not in his eyes anyway.

“No.” Sheila smiled absentmindedly, lighting a joint in the back row of the plane on the way back to Michigan. “Just surprised, I guess. I never thought it was such a big deal I had to mention it.” He liked that about her. She took everything in stride. Nothing was ever a big deal, and he took a quick hit with her before they carefully put out the joint and she put the roach in an envelope in her purse. “They thought you were nice.”

“I thought they were nice too.” He lied. Actually he had thought them boring in the extreme, and was surprised that her mother had so little style. They talked about the weather and world news, and absolutely nothing else. It was like living in a vacuum, or enduring a perennial live commentary of the news. She seemed so unlike them, but then again she said the same thing about him She had called his mother hysterical after the only time they met, and he hadn't disagreed with her. “Are they coming to graduation?”

“Are you kidding?” She laughed. “My mother already cries talking about it.” He was still thinking of marrying her, but he hadn't said anything to her. He surprised her on Valentine's Day with a beautiful little diamond ring he had bought for her, with money his grandparents had left him when they died. It was a small, neat emerald-cut solitaire, it was only two carats but the stone was impeccable. The day he bought it his chest felt tight he was so excited all the way home. He had swept her off her feet, kissed her hard on the mouth, and thrown the red-wrapped box in her lap with a careless toss.

“Try that on for size, kid.”

She had thought it was a joke, and laughed until she opened it. And then her mouth fell open and she burst into tears. She had thrown the box back at him and left without a word, as he stood with his mouth open, staring after her. Nothing made any sense to him, until she came back to talk about it late that night. They both had rooms, but more often than not, they both stayed in his. It was larger and more comfortable and he had two desks, and she stared at the ring in the open box on his. “How could you do a thing like that?” He didn't understand. Maybe she thought the ring was too big.

“A thing like what? I want to marry you.” His eyes had been gentle as he reached out to her, but she turned away and walked across the room.

“I thought you understood … all this time I thought everything was cool.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means I thought we had an equal relationship.”

“Of course we do. What does that have to do with anything?”

“We don't need marriage … we don't need all that traditional garbage.” She looked at him disgustedly and he was shocked. “All we need is what we have right now, for as long as it lasts.” It was the first time he had heard her talk like that and he was wondering what had happened to her.

“And how long is that?”

“Today …next week …” She shrugged. “Who cares? What difference does it make? But you can't nail it down with a diamond ring.”

“Well, pardon me.” But he was suddenly furious. He grabbed the box, snapped it shut, and threw it into one of his desk drawers. “I apologize for doing something so innately bourgeois. I guess my Scarsdale was showing again.”

She looked at him as though with brand-new eyes. “I had no idea you were making so much of this.” She looked puzzled by him, as though she suddenly couldn't remember his name. “I thought you understood everything …” She sat down on the couch and stared at him as he strode to the window, and then turned to look back at her.

“No. You know something? I don't understand anything. We've been sleeping with each other for over a year. We basically live together, we went to Europe together last year. What did you think this was? A casual affair?” Not for him. He wasn't that kind of man, even at twenty-one.

“Don't use such old-fashioned words.” She stood up and stretched, as though she were bored, and he noticed she wasn't wearing a bra, which only made things worse. He could suddenly feel his desire mounting for her.

“Maybe it's just too soon.” He looked at her hopefully, led by what he felt between his legs as much as what he felt in his heart, and hating himself for it. “Maybe we just need more time.”

But she was shaking her head. And she didn't kiss him good night as she walked to the door. “I don't ever want to get married, Bern. It's not my bag. I want to go to California when we graduate and just hang out for a while.” He could suddenly just imagine her there … in a commune.

“What kind of life is 'hanging out'? It's a dead end!”

She shrugged with a smile. “That's all I want right now, Bern.” Their eyes held for a long time. “Thanks anyway for the ring.” She closed the door softly as she left, and he sat alone in the dark for a long, long time, thinking about her. He loved her so much, or at least he thought he did. But he had never seen this side of her, this casual indifference to what someone else felt, and then suddenly he remembered how she had treated her parents when he had visited them. She didn't really seem to care a whole lot about what they felt, and she always thought he was crazy when he called his folks, or bought his mother a gift before he went home. He had sent her flowers on her birthday and Sheila had made fun of him, and now it all came rushing back to him. Maybe she didn't give a damn about anyone, not even him. She was just having a good time, and doing what felt good at the time. And up until then he had been what had felt good to her, but the engagement ring did not. He put it back in the drawer when he went to bed, and his heart felt like a rock as he lay in the dark thinking of her.

And things hadn't improved much after that. She had joined a consciousness-raising group, and one of the subjects they seemed to love to discuss most was her relationship with Bernie. She came home and attacked him almost constantly about his values, his goals, his way of talking to her.

“Don't talk to me like a child. I'm a woman, goddammit, and don't you forget that those balls of yours are only decorative, and not too much so at that. I'm just as smart as you are, I've got just as much guts …my grades are just as good …the only thing I don't have is that piece of skin hanging between your legs and who gives a damn anyway?” He was horrified, and even more so when she gave up ballet. She kept up with the Russian, but she talked a lot about Che Guevara now, and she had taken to wearing combat boots, and accessories she bought at the army surplus store. She was particularly fond of men's undershirts, worn without a bra, with her dark nipples showing through easily. He was beginning to be embarrassed to walk down the street with her.

“You're not serious?” she asked when they talked a lot about the senior prom, and they both agreed that it was corny as hell, but he had admitted to her that he wanted to go anyway. It was a memory to save for another time, and finally she had agreed with him. But she had shown up at his apartment wearing army fatigues open to her waist and a torn red T-shirt underneath. And her boots weren't genuine military but they might as well have been. They were perfect replicas sprayed with gold paint, and she laughingly called them her “new party shoes” as he stared at her. He was wearing the white dinner jacket he had worn to a wedding the year before. His father had gotten it at Brooks Brothers for him and it fit him perfectly, and with his auburn hair and green eyes and the beginnings of a summer tan, he looked very handsome standing there. But she looked ridiculous and he told her so. “That's a rude thing to do to the kids who take it seriously. If we do go, we owe it to them to dress with respect.”

“Oh for chrissake.” She threw herself on his couch with a look of total disdain. “You look like Lord Fauntleroy Christ, wait till I tell my group about this.”

“I don't give a damn about your group!” It was the first time he had lost his temper with her over that and she looked surprised as he advanced on her and stood towering over her as she lay on the couch, swinging her long graceful legs in the fatigues and gold combat boots. “Now get off your ass and go back to your room and change.”

“Screw you.” She smiled up at him.

“I'm serious, Sheila. You're not going in that outfit.”

“Yes, I am.”

“No, you're not.”

“Then we won't go.”

He hesitated for a fraction of an instant and strode to the door of his room. “You. Not me. You won't go. I'm going by myself.”

“Have a good time.” She waved, and he walked outside fuming silently. And he had gone to the dance alone and had a lousy time. He didn't dance with anyone, but he stayed there purposely to prove a point. But she had ruined the evening for him. And she ruined graduation with the same kind of stunt, only worse, because his mother was in the audience. When she came up on the stage, and once she had the diploma in her hand, Sheila turned and made a little speech about how meaningless the token gestures of the establishment were, that there were oppressed women everywhere in the world. And on their behalf, and her own, she was rejecting the chauvinism of the University of Michigan. She then proceeded to tear the diploma in half while the entire audience gasped, and Bernie wanted to cry. There was absolutely nothing he could say to his mother after that. And even less he could say to Sheila that night, before they both began packing up their things. He didn't even tell her how he felt about what she had done. He didn't trust himself to say anything. They said very little, in fact, as she got her things out of his drawers. His parents were having dinner with friends at the hotel, and he was joining them the next day for a luncheon to celebrate his graduation before they all went back to New York. But he looked at Sheila now with an air of despair. The last year and a half seemed about to go down the drain. They had stayed together the last few weeks out of convenience and habit. But he still couldn't accept their separation. Although he had made plans to go to Europe with his parents, he couldn't believe they were through. It was odd how passionate she could be in bed, and how cool everywhere else. It had confused him since the first day they met. But he found himself completely unable to be objective about her. She broke the silence first. “I'm leaving tomorrow night for California.”

He looked stunned. “I thought your parents wanted you to come home.”

She smiled and tossed a handful of socks into her duffel bag. “I guess they do.” She shrugged again and he suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to slap her. He had been genuinely in love with her …had wanted to marry her …and all she cared about was what she wanted. She was the most egocentric human being he had ever met. “I'm flying standby to Los Angeles. And I guess I'll hitch a ride to San Francisco from there.”

“And then?”

“Who knows?” She held out her hands, looking at him as though they had just met, not like the friends and lovers they had been. She had been the most important part of his life during his last two years at the University of Michigan, and now he felt like a damn fool. Two years wasted with her.

“Why don't you come to San Francisco after you get back from Europe? I wouldn't mind seeing you there.” Wouldn't mind? After two years?

“I don't think so.” He smiled for the first time in hours, but his eyes were still sad. “I have to look for a job.” He knew she wasn't burdened with that. Her parents had given her twenty thousand dollars when she graduated, and he noticed that she hadn't torn that up. She had enough money to live in California for several years. And he hadn't done enough about finding work because he wasn't sure what she would do. He felt like an even bigger fool. And what he wanted most was to find a job in a small New England school, teaching Russian literature. He had applied and was waiting for answers.

“Isn't it kind of stupid to get suckered in by the establishment, Bern, to work at a job you hate, for money you don't need?”

“Speak for yourself. My parents aren't planning to support me for the rest of my life.”

“Neither are mine.” She spat the words at him.

“Planning to look for a job on the West Coast?”

“Eventually.”

“Doing what? Modeling those?” He pointed at her cutoffs and boots and she looked annoyed.

“You'll be just like your parents one day.” It was the worst thing she could say as she zipped up her duffel bag and then stuck a hand out at him. “So long, Bernie.”

It was ridiculous, he thought to himself as he stared at her. “That's it? After almost two years, 'so long'?” There were tears in his eyes and he didn't care what she thought now. “That's hard to believe … we were going to get married …have kids.”

She didn't look amused. “That wasn't what we set out to do.”

“What did we set out to do, Sheila? Just screw each other for two years? I was in love with you, difficult to believe as that may seem now.” He suddenly couldn't imagine what he saw in her, and hated to admit that his mother was right. But she had been. This time.

“I guess I loved you too …” Her lip trembled in spite of her efforts at control, and suddenly she went to him and he clung to her in the barren little room that had once been home to them. “I'm sorry, Bernie … I guess everything changed …” They were both crying and he nodded his head.

“I know …it's not your fault…” His voice was hoarse as he wondered whose fault it was then. He kissed her, and she looked up at him.

“Come to San Francisco if you can.”

“I'll try.” But he never did.

Sheila spent the next three years in a commune near Stinson Beach, and he completely lost track of her, until he got a Christmas card finally with a picture of her. He would never have recognized her. She lived in an old school bus, parked near the coast, with nine other people and six little kids. She had two of her own, both girls apparently, and by the time he heard from her, he didn't care anymore, although he had for a long time, and he had been grateful that his parents hadn't made too much of it. He was just relieved when his mother didn't mention her for a while, and she was relieved that Sheila had disappeared.

She was the first girl he had loved, and the dreams had died hard. But Europe had been good for him. There had been dozens of girls he had met in Paris, London, the south of France, Switzerland, Italy, and he was surprised that traveling with his parents could be so much fun, and eventually they went on to meet friends, and so did he.

He met three guys from school in Berlin and they had a ball, before they all went back to real life again. Two of them were going to law school, and one was getting married in the fall and having a last fling, but he was in great part doing it to avoid the draft, which was something Bernie didn't have to worry about, much to his embarrassment. He had had asthma as a child, and his father had documented it carefully. He had been classified 4-F when he registered for the draft at eighteen, although he hadn't admitted it to any of his friends for two years. But in some ways it was convenient now. He didn't have that to worry about. Unfortunately he was turned down at the schools he applied to, because he didn't have a master's yet. So he applied to Columbia and planned to start taking courses there. All the prep schools had told him to come back again in a year, when he had his degree. But it still seemed a lifetime away, and the general courses he'd signed up for at Columbia didn't fascinate him.

He was living at home and his mother was driving him nuts, and everyone he knew was away. Either in the army or in school, or they had gotten jobs somewhere else. He felt like the only one left at home, and in desperation he applied for a job at Wolffs in the Christmas rush, and didn't even mind when they assigned him to the men's department and had him selling shoes. Anything would have been better than sitting home by then, and he had always liked the store. It was one of those large elegant halls that smelled good and where the people were well dressed, even the sales personnel had a certain amount of style, and the Christmas rush was a hair more polite than it was everywhere else. Wolffs had once been a store which set the styles for everyone, and to some extent it still did, although it lacked the pizzazz of a store like Bloomingdale's, only three blocks away.

But Bernie was fascinated by that, and he kept telling the buyer what he thought they could do to compete with Bloomingdale's, and the buyer only smiled. Wolffs didn't compete with anyone. At least that was what he thought. But Paul Berman, the head of the store, was intrigued when he read a memo from Bernard. The buyer apologized profusely to him when he heard about it, he promised that Bernie would be fired at once, but that wasn't what Berman wanted at all. He wanted to meet the kid with the interesting ideas, so they met, and Paul Berman saw the promise in him. He took him to lunch more than once, and he was amused at how brazen he was, but he was smart too, and Berman laughed when Bernie told him he wanted to teach Russian literature, and was going to night school at Columbia toward that end.

“That's a hell of a waste of time.”

Bernie was shocked, although he liked the man. He was quiet, elegant, a sharp businessman, and he was interested in what everyone said. He was the grandson of the original Mr. Wolff.

“Russian literature was my major, sir,” he said respectfully.

“You should have gone to business school.”

Bernie smiled. “You sound like my mother.”

“What does your father do?”

“He's a doctor. A throat surgeon, but I've always hated medicine. The thought of some of that stuff makes me sick.”

Berman nodded. He understood perfectly. “My brother-in-law was a doctor. I couldn't stand the thought of it either.” He frowned as he looked at Bernard Fine. “What about you? What are you really going to do with yourself?”

Bernie was honest with the man. He felt he owed him that, and he cared enough about the store to have written the memo that had brought him here. He liked Wolffs. He thought it was a terrific place. But it wasn't for him. Not permanently anyway. “I'll get my master's, apply for the same jobs again next year, and with luck, the year after that I'll be teaching at some boarding school.” He smiled hopefully and looked terribly young. His innocence was touching in a way, and Paul Berman liked him a great deal.

“What if the army grabs you first?” Bernie told him about being 4-F “You're damn lucky, young man. That little unpleasantness in Vietnam could get damn serious one of these days. Look what happened to the French over there. Lost their shirts. It'll happen to us if we don't watch out.” Bernie agreed with him. “Why don't you drop out of night school?”

“And do what?”

“I have a proposal for you. You stay with the store for the next year, and we'll train you in different areas, give you a taste of what's here, and if you want to stay with us, and if you can get in, we'll send you to business school. And in the meantime, you can do a sort of training on the job. How does that sound?” They had never offered anything like it to anyone, but he liked this kid with the wide honest green eyes, and the intelligent face. He wasn't a handsome boy, but he was a nice-looking man, and there was something bright and kind and decent in his face which Paul Berman liked a great deal and he said as much to Bernie before he left his office that day. Bernie had asked to think about his proposal for a day or two, but admitted to being very flattered and very touched. It was just a big decision to make. He wasn't sure he wanted to go to business school, and he hated to give up the dream of the country school in the sleepy little town, teaching eager ears about Dostoevski and Tolstoi. But maybe that was only a dream. Even now, it was growing dim.

He spoke to his parents that night, and even his father had been impressed. It was a marvelous opportunity, if that was what he wanted to do. And the year of training at the store beforehand would give him plenty of time to see if he liked Wolffs. It sounded as though he couldn't lose, and his father congratulated him, as his mother inquired how many children Berman had …how many sons …how much competition there was in other words … or daughters …imagine if he married one of them!

“Leave him alone, Ruth!” Lou had been firm when they were alone that night, and with great effort she had restrained herself, and Bernie had given Mr. Berman his answer the following day. He was delighted to accept, and Berman recommended that he apply to several business schools at once. He chose Columbia and New York University because they were in town, and Wharton and Harvard because of who they were. It would be a long time before he heard if he was accepted or not, but in the meantime he had lots to do.

And the year of training flew. He was accepted at three of the business schools where he had applied. Only Wharton turned him down, but said they might have room for him the following year, if he wished to wait, which he did not. And he chose Columbia, and began there while still working at the store a few hours a week. He wanted to keep his hand in, and he found he was particularly interested in the designer aspects of men's wear. He did a study on it for his first paper, and not only got high grades, but made some suggestions which actually worked in the store, when Berman let him try them on a small scale. His business school career was a considerable success, and when he finished, he wound up working for Berman for six months, and then moving back to men's wear after that, and then women's wear. He began to make changes which could be felt throughout the store, and within five years to the day he began at Wolffs, he was their rising star. So it came as a blow when Paul Berman announced on a sunny spring afternoon that they were moving him to the Chicago store for two years.

“But why?” It sounded like Siberia to him. He didn't want to go anywhere. He loved New York, and he was doing splendidly at the store.

“For one thing, you know most of the Midwest. For another”—Berman sighed and lit a cigar—“we need you out there. The store isn't doing as well as we'd like. It needs a shot in the arm, and you're it.” He smiled at his young friend. They shared enormous respect, but Bernie wanted to fight him on this. But he didn't win. Berman wouldn't relent, and two months later Bernie flew to Chicago and a year later he was made manager, which kept him there for another two years, even though he hated it. Chicago seemed like a depressing town to him, and the weather really got to him.

His parents came to visit him frequently, and it was obvious that his position carried with it considerable prestige. To be manager of Wolffs Chicago at thirty years of age was no small thing, but nonetheless he was dying to get back to New York, and his mother threw a huge party for him when he told her the good news. He was thirty-one years old when he came home, and Berman let him write his own ticket when he came back. Nonetheless when Bernie thought of upgrading the level of women's wear, Berman was not convinced. He wanted to introduce a dozen big couture lines, and put Wolffs back on the map as trendsetters for the whole United States.

“Do you realize how much those dresses sell for?” Berman looked genuinely distressed, as Bernie smiled at him.

“Yes. But they can pare them down a little for us. It won't actually be couture after all.”

“Damn close. Or the prices will be anyway. Who's going to buy those goods here?” It sounded too extreme to him, but at the same time he was intrigued.

“I think our customers will leap at what we'll offer them, Paul. Especially in cities like Chicago and Boston and Washington and even Los Angeles, where they don't have every store in New York spread out at their feet. We're going to bring Paris and Milan to them.”

“Or ourselves to the poorhouse trying, is that it?” But Berman didn't disagree. He looked at Paul thoughtfully. It was an interesting idea. He wanted to leap right into the highest-priced merchandise, selling dresses for as much as five or six or seven thousand dollars, which were after all only ready-to-wear technically, but the designs would be couture.

“We don't even have to buy the stock. We don't have to overload the inventory. We can have each designer put together a show, and the women can order directly through us, which makes even more sense economically.” Berman was thrilled with that idea. It took all the danger out of it for him.

“Now you've got it, Bernard.”

“I think we need to do some reconstruction first though. Our designer department isn't European enough.” They had gone on talking for hours as the idea was born, and when they had roughed out what they were going to do, Berman shook his hand. Bernard had grown up a lot in recent years. He was mature and self-confident, and his business decisions were sound. He even looked grown-up now, Berman teased, pointing at the beard he had grown before returning to New York. He was thirty-one years old and a very nice-looking man.

“I think you've done a fine job thinking this out.” The two men exchanged a smile. They were both pleased. It was going to be a very exciting time for Wolffs. “What are you going to do first?”

“I want to speak to some architects this week, and I'll have them do some plans up to show you, and then I want to leave for Paris. We have to see what the designers think about the idea.”

“Think they'll balk?”

He frowned pensively but shook his head. “They shouldn't. There's big money in it for them.”

And Bernie had been right. They hadn't balked. They had leapt at the idea, and he had signed contracts with twenty of them. He had gone to Paris fully prepared to close the deal, and he returned to New York three weeks later, victorious. The new program was to be launched in nine months, with a fabulous series of fashion shows in June, where the ladies could order their wardrobes for the fall. It was not unlike going to Paris and ordering from the couture lines. And Bernie was going to kick it all off with a party and one fabulous black-tie show which would combine a few pieces from each designer they would be working with. None of it could be bought, it would only be a teaser for the shows that would come next, and all of the models were coming from Paris, along with the designers. And three American designers had been added since the project began. It gave Bernie a huge amount of work to do in the next several months, but it also made him a senior vice president at thirty-two.

The opening-night fashion show was the most beautiful thing anyone had ever seen. The clothes were absolutely staggering and the audience oohed and aahed and applauded constantly. It was absolutely fabulous and one sensed easily that fashion history was being made. It was extraordinary the way he combined good business principles with strong merchandising, and somehow he had an innate sense for fashion. And it all combined to make Wolffs stronger than any other store in New York, or the country for that matter. And Bernie was on top of the world when he sat in the back row watching the first full designer show, as the women watched it avidly. He had seen Paul Berman pass by a short while before. Everyone was happy these days, and Bernie began to relax a little bit as he watched the models coming down the runway in evening gowns, and he particularly noticed one slender blonde, a beautiful catlike creature with chiseled features and enormous blue eyes. She almost seemed to glide above the ground, and he found himself waiting for her as each new series of gowns came out, and he was disappointed when the show finally came to an end and he knew he wouldn't see her again.

And instead of hurrying back to his office, as he had meant to do, he lingered for a moment, and then slipped backstage to congratulate the department manager, a Frenchwoman they had hired, who had worked for years for Dior.

“You did a great job, Marianne.” He smiled at her and she eyed him hungrily. She was in her late forties, impeccably turned out and tremendously chic, and she had had her eye on him since she'd come to the store.

“The clothes showed well, don't you think, Bernard?” She said it like a French name, and she was enormously cool and yet sexy at the same time. Like fire and ice. And he found himself looking over her shoulder as girls rushed past in blue jeans and their own simple street clothes with the fabulous gowns over their arms. Salesladies were dashing back and forth, grabbing armfuls of the exquisite clothes to take them to their customers to try on so they could order them. And it was all going extremely well, and then Bernard saw her, with the wedding dress from the finale over her arm.

“Who's that girl, Marianne? Is she one of ours, or did we hire her for the show?” Marianne followed his eyes, and was not taken in by the casual tone of his voice. She felt her heart sink as she looked at her. She couldn't have been a day over twenty-one and she was a beautiful girl.

“She free-lances for us from time to time. She's French.” But she didn't need to say more. The girl wandered right over to them, and held up the wedding dress as she glanced first at Bernard, and then at Marianne. She asked her in French what to do with it, as she was afraid to set it down, and Marianne told her who to give it to, as Bernie stood almost gaping at her. And then the department manager knew what her duty was.

She introduced Bernie to her, title and all, and even explained that the new concept was all his plan. She hated to put them together like that but she had no choice. She watched Bernie's eyes as he looked at the girl. It amused her somehow, he was always so aloof. It was obvious that he liked girls, but he never got deeply involved with anyone, from what people said. And unlike the merchandise he selected for Wolffs, in women he preferred quantity to quality every time …“volume” as they said in the trade …but maybe not this time….

Her name was Isabelle Martin and she was twenty-four years old. She had grown up in the south of France and gone to Paris at eighteen to work for Saint Laurent and then Givenchy She was absolutely tops, and she had been a huge success in Paris. It was no surprise when she had been asked to come to the States and had done extremely well in New York for the past four years. He couldn't imagine why they hadn't met before.

“Usually I do only photography, Monsieur Fine.” She had an accent that enchanted him. “But for your show …” She smiled in a way that melted the seat of his pants and he would have done anything for her. And suddenly he remembered her. He had seen her on the cover of Vogue more than once, and Bazaar and Women's Wear …she just looked very different in real life, more beautiful actually. It was rare for models to cross over between runway modeling and photography, but she was skilled at both, and she had done beautifully in their show and he congratulated her lavishly.

“You were marvelous, Miss …uh …” His mind suddenly went blank and she smiled at him again.

“Isabelle.” He thought he would die just looking at her, and he took her to dinner that night at La Caravelle. Everyone in the room turned to look at her. And they went dancing afterwards at “Raffles” and Bernie never wanted to go home again. He never wanted to give her up, to let her out of his arms. He had never met anyone like her before, he had never been as swept off his feet by anyone. And the armor he had built after Sheila walked out of his life melted at her hands. Her hair was so blond it was almost white, and more extraordinary, it was natural. He thought her the most beautiful creature on earth, and it would have been difficult for anyone to disagree with him.

They had an enchanted summer in East Hampton that year. He had rented a small house, and she spent every weekend with him. When she had arrived in the U.S. she had immediately become involved with a well-known fashion photographer and after two years she had left him for a real-estate mogul. But all men seemed to fade from her life when Bernie appeared. It seemed like a magical time to him as he took her with him everywhere, showing her off, being photographed, dancing till dawn. It all seemed very jet set, and he laughed when he took his mother to lunch, and she leveled her most motherly gaze at him.

“Don't you think she's a little rich for your blood?”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“It means that she reeks of 'jet set,' and when all is said and done, how do you fit in, Bernie?”

“You're never a hero in your own home town, isn't that what they say? I can't say it's very flattering though.” He was admiring his mother's navy blue Dior suit. He had bought it for her the last time he was abroad and it looked lovely on her. But he didn't particularly want to discuss Isabelle with her. He hadn't taken her home to meet his parents, and he wasn't planning to. The two worlds would never have met successfully, although he knew that his father would have loved seeing her. Any man would have. She was spectacular.

“What's she like?” His mother wouldn't let go, as usual.

“She's a nice girl, Mom.”

His mother smiled at him. “Somehow that doesn't seem the right description for her. She's certainly beautiful.” She saw her photographs everywhere, and she told all her friends. At the hairdresser she showed everyone “that girl …no, the one on the cover …she goes out with my son …” “Are you in love with her?” She was never afraid to ask what she wanted to know, but Bernie quailed when he heard the words. He wasn't ready for that, although he was crazy about her, but he still remembered all too well his foolishness when he was in Michigan …the engagement ring he had given Sheila on Valentine's Day, that she had thrown back at him …the wedding plans he had made …the day she walked out of his life, carrying her duffel bag and his heart. He never wanted to be in the same position again, and he had guarded himself carefully. But not from Isabelle Martin.

“We're good friends.” It was all he could think of to say, and his mother stared at him.

“I hope it's more than that.” She looked horrified, as though she suddenly suspected him of being a homosexual, and all he could do was laugh at her.

“It is, okay? It's more than that…but nobody is getting married. All right? Satisfied? Now, what do you want for lunch?” He ordered steak and she ordered filet of sole and she pressed him about everything he was doing for the store. They were almost friends now, and he saw his parents less than he had when he first came back to New York. He didn't have much time, particularly with the arrival of Isabelle in his life.

He took her to Europe with him when he went on business that fall and they made a sensation everywhere they went. They were inseparable, and just before Christmas she moved in with him, and Bernie finally had to give in and take her to Scarsdale, much as he dreaded it. She was perfectly pleasant to his parents, although she didn't gush over them, and she made it clear to him that she wasn't interested in seeing a lot of them.

“We have so little time alone …” She pouted so perfectly, and he loved making love to her. She was the most exquisite woman he had ever seen, and sometimes he just stood staring at her as she put her makeup on or dried her hair or got out of the shower, or walked in the door carrying her portfolio. Somehow she made one want to freeze-frame and just stand there gazing at her.

His mother had even been subdued when they met. Isabelle had a way of making one feel very small, standing next to her, except Bernie, who had never felt more of a man with anyone. Her sexual prowess was remarkable, and their relationship was based on passion more than love. They made love almost everywhere, the bathtub, the shower, the floor, the back of his car one Sunday afternoon when they took a drive to Connecticut. They almost did it in the elevator once, and then came to their senses as they approached their floor and knew the doors were about to open. It was as though they couldn't stop, and he could never get quite enough of her. For that reason, he took her to France again in the spring, and then back out to East Hampton again, but this time they saw more people than they had before, and there was a movie producer who snagged her eye one night at a party on the beach at Quogue, and the next day Bernie couldn't find her anywhere. He found her on a yacht, moored nearby, making love to the producer from Hollywood on the deck, as Bernie stood for an instant staring at them, and then hurried away with tears in his eyes, realizing something he had hidden from for a long time. She wasn't just a great lay and a beautiful girl, she was the woman he loved, and losing her was going to hurt him.

She apologized when she got back to their house, but it wasn't for several hours. She and the producer had talked for a long time afterwards, about her goals, what she wanted out of her life, and what her relationship with Bernie meant, what he offered her. The producer had been fascinated by her and had told her as much. And when she got back, she tried to tell Bernie what she felt, much to his dismay.

“I can't live in a cage for the rest of my life, Bernard … I must be free to fly where I need to be.” He had heard it all before, in another life, with combat boots and a duffel bag, instead of a Pucci dress and Chanel shoes, and a Louis Vuitton suitcase standing open in the next room.

“I take it I represent a cage to you?” His eyes were cold as he looked at her. He wasn't going to tolerate her sleeping with someone else. It was as simple as that, and he wondered if she had done it before, and with whom.

“You are not a cage, rnon amour, but a very fine man. But this life of pretending to be married …one can only do this for so long …” For them it had been eight months since she had moved in with him, hardly an eternity.

“I think I've misunderstood our relationship, Isabelle.”

She nodded at him, looking even more beautiful, and for an instant he hated her. “I think you have, Bernard.” And then, the knife to his heart. “I want to go to California for a while.” She was totally candid with him. “Dick says he can arrange a screen test at a studio”—she spoke with an accent that melted his heart—“and I would like very much to do a film there with him.”

“I see.” He lit a cigarette although he seldom smoked. “You've never mentioned that before.” But it made sense. It was a shame not to put that face on film. Magazine covers weren't enough for her.

“I didn't think it was important to tell you that.”

“Or was it that you wanted what you could get out of Wolffs first?” It was the nastiest thing he had said and he was ashamed of himself. She didn't need him, and actually he was sorry about that. “I'm sorry, Isabelle …” He walked across the room and stood looking at her through the smoke. “Don't do anything hasty yet.” He wanted to beg but she was tougher than that. She had already made up her mind.

“I'm going to Los Angeles next week.”

He nodded and strode back across the room, looking out at the sea, and then he turned to smile at her bitterly. “There must be something magical about the place. They all seem to head west eventually.” He was thinking of Sheila again. He had told Isabelle about her a long time before. “Maybe I should go out there too sometime.”

Isabelle smiled. “You belong in New York, Bernard. You are everything vital and exciting and alive that is happening here.”

His voice was sad when he answered her. “But that doesn't seem to be enough for you.”

Her eyes met his with regret. “It is not that… it is not you … if I wanted someone serious … if I wanted to be married … I would want you very much.”

“I never suggested that.” But they both knew he would have in time. He was that kind of man, and he was almost sorry he was as he looked at her. He wanted to be racier, more decadent… to be able to put her in films himself.

“I just don't see myself staying here, Bernard.” She saw herself as a movie star and she left with the producer she had met exactly when she said she would. She left with him three days after she came home from East Hampton with Bernard. She packed all her things, more neatly than Sheila had, and she took all the gorgeous clothes Bernie had given her. She packed them in her Louis Vuitton bags and left him a note that afternoon. She even packed the four thousand dollars in cash he kept hidden in his desk drawer. She called it a “little loan,” and was sure he would “understand.” She had her screen test, and exactly a year later she appeared in a film. And by then, Bernie didn't give a damn. He was a hardened case. There were models and secretaries and executives. He met women in Rome, there was a very pretty stewardess in Milan, an artist, a socialite …but there was no one he gave a damn about, and he wondered if it would ever happen to him again. He still felt like a damn fool when someone mentioned her. She never sent the money back, of course, or the Piaget watch he'd discovered was gone long afterwards. She never even sent a Christmas card. She had used him and moved on to someone else, just as there had been others before him. And in Hollywood she did exactly the same, disposing of the producer who had gotten her her first film and turning him in for a bigger one, and a better part. Isabelle Martin would go far, there was no doubt of that, and his parents knew the subject was taboo with him. They never mentioned her to him again, after one inappropriate remark that sent him out of the house in Scarsdale in blind fury. He didn't come back for two months and his mother was frightened by what she had seen in him. The subject was closed permanently after that.

And a year and a half after she left, he was back in control of his life again. There were more women on his calendar than he could handle almost, business was booming, the store was in fine shape, and when he had woken up to see the blizzard that morning, he had decided to go in anyway. He had a lot of work to do, and he wanted to talk to Paul Berman about the store's summer plans. He had some exciting things in mind, and as he stepped off the bus at Lexington and Sixty-third, wearing a heavy English overcoat and a Russian fur cap, he walked into the store with his head bent against the wind, and then looked up at the store with pride. He was married to Wolffs, and he didn't mind a bit. She was a great old broad, and he was a success in every way. He had a lot to be thankful for, as he pressed the button for the eighth floor and shook the snow off his coat.

“Morning, Mr. Fine,” a voice said as the door closed, and he smiled. He closed his eyes for an instant before the doors opened again, thinking of all the work he had to do that day, and what he wanted to say to Paul. But he was in no way prepared for what Paul Berman was going to say to him later that morning.

Chapter 2

“Hell of a day.” Paul Berman glanced out his window at the snow still swirling outside, and knew he'd have to spend another night in town. There was no way he'd get back to Connecticut. He had spent the night before at the Pierre, and had promised his wife he wouldn't even attempt to come home in the snow. “Is there anyone in the store?” He was always amazed at the volume of their business in horrendous weather conditions. People always found a way to spend money.

Bernie nodded at him.

“Surprisingly, quite a few. And we set up two stations serving mugs of tea, coffee, and hot chocolate. It's a nice touch, whoever thought that one up. They deserve a reward for coming out in weather like this.”

“Actually, they're smart. It's a nice way to shop, with hardly anyone in the store. I prefer it myself.” The two men exchanged a smile. They had been friends for twelve years, and Bernard never lost sight of the fact that Paul had really given him his career. He had encouraged him to go to business school, and opened countless doors at Wolffs to him. More than that, he had trusted him, and given him a vote of confidence at times when no one else would have dared attempt some of Bernie's schemes, and it was no secret that, with no sons of his own, he had been grooming Bernie to be number one for years. He offered Bernie a cigar as the younger man waited to hear what he had to say. “How do you feel about the store these days?”

It was a good day for one of their talks, and Bernie smiled at him. They chatted informally like this from time to time, and their impromptu talks never failed to give birth to some marvelous ideas for Wolffs. The decision to hire a new fashion director for the store had come from their last session like this, and she was doing a fabulous job for them. They had stolen her from Saks. “I think everything is pretty much in control. Don't you, Paul?”

The older man nodded his head, not quite sure how to begin, but he had to start somewhere, he told himself. “I do. Which is why the board and I feel we can afford a somewhat unusual move.”

“Oh?” Had someone taken Bernie's pulse just then, they would have felt it escalate. Paul Berman never mentioned the board unless something pretty serious was going on.

“You know we'll be opening the San Francisco store in June.” It was still five months away and construction was in full swing. Paul and Bernie had already gone out several times and everything seemed to be moving on schedule, for the moment at least. “And we just haven't been able to come up with anyone to head the store.”

Bernie heaved a silent sigh of relief. For a moment he had thought something was going to happen to him. But he knew how important Paul felt the San Francisco market was. There was a lot of money there, and women bought high fashion as though it were pretzels being sold on the street. It was definitely time for Wolffs to get a share of that. They were well entrenched in Los Angeles, and they all agreed it was time to move north. “I keep thinking that Jane Wilson would be fabulous, but I don't think she'd leave New York.”

Paul Berman frowned. This was going to be even harder than he thought. “I don't think she'd be right. She's not strong enough. And a new store needs someone powerful, someone in control, someone who thinks on their feet and has innovative ideas. She's better suited to what's happening here.”

“Which leaves us back where we started again. What about hiring someone from outside the store? Maybe even someone from another store?”

It was time to move in for the kill. There was no avoiding it. Paul looked him squarely in the eye. “We want you, Bernard.” Their eyes met and Bernie blanched. He couldn't be serious. But the look on his face …my God … he was. But he had done his time. Three years in Chicago was enough. Wasn't it?

“Paul, I can't… I couldn't…San Francisco?” He looked genuinely shocked. “Why me?”

“Because you have all of the qualities I just described, and we need you out there. No matter how hard we look, we'll never find anyone as good as you are, and that store is important to us. You know it yourself. There's a tremendous market out there, but a touchy one, high class, high fashion, high style, and if we open our doors wrong, we'll never recover from it. Bernie”—Paul looked at him pleadingly— “you've got to help us out.” He looked at him piercingly and Bernie sank back in his chair.

“But, Paul …San Francisco? …What about my job here?” He hated to leave New York again, he was so happy where he was, doing what he did. It was really a hardship leaving now, although he didn't want to let Paul down.

“You can fly back and forth. And I can pitch in for you here. Where we need you is there.”

“For how long?”

“A year. Maybe two.” Maybe more.

Bernie was afraid of that. “That's what you said when I went to Chicago, Paul. Only I was younger then …I've earned my stripes now. I don't want to live in the boondocks again. I've been out there. I know what it's like. It's a pretty town, but it's provincial as hell.”

“So go to Los Angeles to play. Do whatever you have to do to survive out there. But please … I wouldn't ask you to do it if we had any other choice, but we just don't have anyone else. And I've got to get someone out there fast, before things start going wrong for us. Someone has got to supervise the last of the construction, make sure everything is running smoothly for the opening, set the tone of the advertising, check the promotion …” He waved an impatient hand. “I don't need to tell you what needs to be done. It's an enormous responsibility, Bernard. It's a brand-new store, and the finest one we have, aside from New York.” In a way, it was a feather in his cap, but it was one he didn't want. Not at all.

He stood up with a quiet sigh. It hadn't been such a great morning after all, and he was almost sorry he had come in now, even though it would have been handed to him eventually anyway. There was no avoiding it once Paul made up his mind, and it wouldn't be easy talking him out of it now. “I'll have to give it some thought.”

“Do that.” Their eyes met and held again. And Paul was afraid of what he saw this time.

“Maybe if I had a firm commitment that it wouldn't be for more than a year, I could live with it.” He smiled ruefully, but Paul couldn't promise him that. If the store wasn't ready to be handed over yet, then Bernard couldn't leave that soon, and it was unlikely he could, they both knew. It would take two to three years of tender loving care to get a new store settled anywhere, and Bernie just wasn't willing to commit to that long. And San Francisco didn't look all that great to him.

Paul Berman stood up and looked at him. “You give it some thought. But I want you to know my bottom line.” He wasn't going to jeopardize losing Bernie, no matter what the board said. “I don't want to lose you, Bernard.” And it was obvious that he meant every word as Bernie smiled fondly at him.

“And my bottom line is that I don't want to let you down.”

“Then we'll both make the right decision, whatever it is.” Paul Berman stretched a hand out to Bernard and they shook hands. “Give it some very serious thought.”

“You know I will.” And he sat alone in his office after that, with the door closed, staring out at the snow, feeling as though he had been hit by a truck. He couldn't even imagine living in San Francisco now. He loved his life in New York. It would be like starting all over again, and he didn't look forward to the prospect of opening a new branch store, no matter how elite and elaborate it was. It still wasn't New York. Even with the blizzards and the filth and the intolerable heat of July, he loved it here, and the pretty little postcard town by the bay had no lure for him. It never had. He thought of Sheila with a grim smile. It was more her style than his, and he wondered if he would have to buy his own combat boots to move out there. The whole thought of it depressed him horribly, and he sounded it when his mother called.

“What's wrong, Bernard?”

“Nothing, Mom. It's just been a long day.”

“Are you sick?”

He closed his eyes, trying to sound cheerful for her. “No. I'm fine. How are you and Dad?”

“Depressed. Mrs. Goodman died. Remember her? She used to bake cookies for you when you were a little boy.” She had already been ancient then, and that was thirty years ago. It was hardly surprising that she had finally died, but his mother loved reporting things like that. And now she moved back onto him. “So what's wrong?”

“Nothing's wrong, Mom. I told you. I'm fine.”

“You don't sound fine. You sound tired and depressed.”

“I had a long day.” He said it through clenched teeth …and they're moving me to Siberia again…. “Never mind. Are we still on for dinner for your anniversary next week? Where do you want to go?”

“I don't know. Your father thought you should come here.” He knew that was a lie. His father loved to go out. He found it refreshing after the intensity of the work he did. It was his mother who always thought he should come home, as though to prove something to him.

“How about '21'? Would you like that? Or something French? Cote Basque …Grenouille? …”

“All right.” She sounded resigned. “‘21.’”

“Great. Why don't you come to my place first for a drink, at seven o'clock? And then we'll have dinner at eight.”

“Are you bringing a girl?” She sounded pained, as though it were something he did all the time, although the truth was they had met none of his lady friends since Isabelle. None of them had lasted long enough to bother with.

“Why should I bring a girl?”

“Why wouldn't you? You never introduce us to your friends. Are you ashamed of us?”

He almost groaned into the phone. “Of course not, Mom. Look, I've got to go. I'll see you next week. Seven o'clock, my place.” But he knew that repeating it wouldn't keep her from calling four more times just to make sure they were still on, that he hadn't changed the plans, that the reservation had been made, that he didn't want to bring a girl. “Give Dad my love.”

“Call him sometime …You never call anymore …” She sounded like one of those jokes, and he smiled to himself as he hung up, wondering if he would be like her one day if he ever had kids, not that there seemed to be a danger of that anyway. There had been a girl the year before who had thought she was pregnant for several days, and for a moment he had considered letting her have the child, just so that he'd have a baby after all. But it turned out she'd been wrong anyway, and they were both relieved. But it had been an interesting thought for a day or two. He didn't want children desperately anyway. He was too involved in his career, and it always seemed a shame to him not to have a baby born of love. He was still idealistic about that, and there was certainly no likely candidate at the moment to fill that bill. He sat staring at the snow, thinking of what it would be like to give up his entire social life, to stop seeing all his favorite girls. It almost made him want to cry as he left the office that night, on a night that was as cold and clear as an icy crystal bell. He didn't try to catch a bus this time, and the wind had finally died down. He walked straight to Madison Avenue, and then walked uptown, glancing at the shops as he strode past rapidly. It wasn't snowing anymore, and it looked like a fairyland, as a few people skied past, and children threw snowballs. There hadn't even been any rush hour traffic to mess it all up, and he felt better as he walked into his house and rode the elevator upstairs. It was a hideous thought leaving New York now. He couldn't even imagine it. But he couldn't think of a way out. Unless he quit, and he didn't want to do that. There was no way out for him, he realized, as his heart seemed to fall against his ribs. No way out at all for him.

Chapter 3

“You're going where?” His mother stared at him over her vi-chyssoise, and she seemed not to understand, as though he had said something truly ridiculous. Like he was joining a nudist colony, or having a sex change. “Are they firing you, or just demoting you?”

He appreciated the vote of confidence, but that was typical. “Neither one, Mom. They're asking me to manage the new San Francisco store. It's the most important store we have, aside from New York.” He wondered why he was trying to sell it to her, except that he was still trying to sell it to himself. He had told Paul after two days, and he had been depressed about it ever since. They had given him a phenomenal raise, and Berman had reminded him that he would be running Wolffs himself one day. Perhaps not long after he returned to New York. And more important, he knew that Paul Berman was grateful to him, but still it was hard to take, and he wasn't looking forward to it. He had decided to keep his apartment anyway and sublet it for a year or two and just take something temporary in San Francisco. He had already told Paul that he wanted to try to be back in New York in a year. And they hadn't promised him anything, but he knew they would try. And even if it was eighteen months, he'd survive. Anything more than that was questionable, but he didn't say that to his mother now.

“But San Francisco? They're all hippies out there. Do they even wear clothes?”

He smiled. “They do. Very expensive ones in fact. You'll have to come and see for yourself.” He smiled at both of them. “Do you want to come to the opening?”

She looked as though he had invited her to a funeral. “We might. When is it?”

“In June.” He knew they had nothing to do then. They were going to Europe in July, but they had plenty of time to come out before that.

“I don't know. We'll have to see. Your father's schedule …” He was always the fall guy for her moods, but he never seemed to mind, although he looked at his son with concern as they sat at “21.” It was one of the rare moments his father seemed relaxed and not preoccupied by his work.

“Is it really a step up for you, son?”

“It is, Dad.” He answered him honestly. “It's a very prestigious job and Paul Berman and the board asked me to do it personally. But I have to admit”—he smiled ruefully—“I'd rather be in New York.”

“Are you involved with someone?” His mother leaned across the table, as though asking him something intensely personal, and Bernie laughed.

“No, Mom. I'm not. I just like New York. I love it in fact. But I'm hoping to get back in less than eighteen months. I can live with that. And there are worse cities than San Francisco, I guess.” Although, at the moment, he couldn't think of one. He finished his drink and decided to be philosophical. “Hell, it could be Cleveland for chrissake, or Miami, or Detroit …not that there's anything wrong with them, but they ain't New York.” He smiled at them ruefully.

“They say San Francisco is crawling with homosexuals.” The Voice of Doom spoke up with an anguished look at her only son.

“I think I can take care of myself, Mom.” And then he looked at both of them. “I'm going to miss you both.”

“Won't you come back here at all?” There were tears in her eyes and he almost felt sorry for her, except that she cried so much when it was useful to her that he was less moved than he might have been otherwise.

He patted her hand. “I'll be back and forth a lot. But the fact is I'll be living there. You'll just have to come out. And I really want you to come to the opening. It's going to be a beautiful store.”

He kept telling himself that as he packed his things in early February, and said goodbye to his friends, and had a last dinner with Paul in New York. And on Valentine's Day, only three weeks after they'd offered him the job, he was on a plane flying to San Francisco, wondering what he had done to himself, and thinking that maybe he should have quit after all. But as they left New York, a fresh blizzard began, and as they landed in San Francisco at two in the afternoon, the sun was shining, the air was warm, and the breezes were gentle. There were flowers in bloom, and it felt like New York in May or June. And he was suddenly glad he'd come, for a while anyway. At least the weather was nice, that was something to be pleased about. And his room at the Huntington was extremely pleasant too.

But more important than that, even in its unfinished state, the store was fabulous. And when he called Paul the next day, Paul sounded relieved just knowing he was there. And everything was moving on schedule. The construction was going well, the decoration was all lined up and ready to be installed as soon as construction would allow. He met with the ad agency, talked to the public relations people about how they were starting to warm up, and had an interview with the Chronicle. Everything was exactly the way they had hoped it would be. And Bernie was in charge.

All that remained to do was to open the store, and find an apartment for himself, hardly two minor tasks, and he was far more concerned about the store. He rapidly rented a furnished apartment in a modern high-rise on Nob Hill; it had none of the charm of the houses he saw everywhere, but it was convenient for him, and it was close to the store.

The opening was fabulous. It was everything they had all wanted it to be. The press had been favorable beforehand. There had been a beautiful party at the store, with models wearing spectacular clothes, while impeccably dressed waiters served caviar, hors d'oeuvres, and champagne. There was dancing, entertainment, and the freedom to roam around the store with no one else there. And Bernie was proud of it. It was really beautiful, with a light airy feeling combined with enormous style. It had all the chic of New York, with the ease of the West Coast. And Paul Berman was thrilled, too, when he flew out.

The crowds that came the day of the opening required police cordons and hordes of smiling PR people just to hold them back. But it was all worth it when they saw the record sales for the first week, and even his mother had been proud of him. She had said it was the most beautiful store she'd ever seen, and she had told every salesgirl who helped her for the next five days of shopping there that the manager was her son, and one day, when he went back to New York, he would run the entire chain. She was sure of it.

When they finally left San Francisco, they went to Los Angeles, and Bernie was surprised to realize how lonely he felt once they were gone, as well as the rest of the contingent from New York. All the board members went back the day after the opening, and Paul had flown on to Detroit that night. And suddenly he was all alone, in the town he had been transplanted in, without a single friend, and an apartment that looked sterile and ugly to him. It was all done in brown and beige, and seemed much too dreary for the gentle northern California sun. He was sorry he hadn't rented a pretty little Victorian flat. But it didn't matter too much anyway. He was always at the store, seven days a week now, since in California they were open every day. He didn't have to come in on weekends at all, but he had nothing else to do anyway, so he did, and everyone noticed it. Bernie Fine worked like a dog, they said, and they all agreed that he was a nice man. He expected a lot of them, but he expected more of himself, and it was difficult to argue with someone like that. He also seemed to have an infallible sense of what was right for the store, and what merchandise they should have, and no one dared quibble with him about that. He was definite, and from what they could see, most of the time, he was right. He had an innate sense of what worked and what didn't, even in this town he barely knew, and he was constantly shifting things, and adjusting to the new information he found out. He kept things moving constantly, shipping things to other branches when they were wrong for San Francisco after all, moving things in, having buyers reorder constantly. But it worked. It was extraordinary, and they all liked him in the store. They didn't even mind the habit he had of roaming the store every day for several hours. He wanted to see what people wore, what they did, how they shopped, what they liked. He would talk to housewives and young girls and single men, he even took a personal interest in their children's wear. He wanted to know everything, and the only way to do that, he said, was to be in the front lines.

He was frequently being handed things to ring up and items to return, and he did what he could, and found a salesperson as quickly as possible, but he was happy to meet the customer every time, and the store personnel were getting used to him. They were used to seeing him everywhere, with his auburn hair, the well-trimmed beard, warm green eyes, and well-tailored English suits. He never said an unkind word, and when he wanted things done differently, he spoke calmly and quietly, explaining what he wanted done so that the employee understood. And as a result, they all had enormous respect for him. In New York, just looking at the sales figures, Paul Berman knew they had done the right thing, and he wasn't surprised at all. Bernie was going to turn Wolffs San Francisco into the finest store in the chain. He was their man all right, and one day he would step into Berman's shoes very successfully. Paul was sure of it.

Chapter 4

The first month was hectic for all of them, but by July they had things fairly well in control, and the autumn merchandise coming in. Bernie had several fashion shows scheduled the following month, and the big event in July was the opera show, which meant a great deal. The opening of the opera was the hottest event of the San Francisco social season, and women were going to be spending five and seven and ten thousand dollars on a single dress.

The racks of exquisite opera gowns were already hanging in a locked room downstairs with a security guard outside at all times, to be sure that no one pirated what they had, took unauthorized photographs, or worse yet, stole the merchandise, which was worth a small fortune. And it was the opera collection he was thinking about in mid-July as he made his way upstairs. He got off the escalator at the children's floor, just to make sure that all was well there. He knew they had had a problem getting some of their back-to-school merchandise the week before and he wanted to be sure that everything was in order again. He met the buyer behind the cash register, instructing some of the saleswomen, who all smiled at him, and he glanced around casually at the racks, and then ventured further into the department on his own, until he found himself facing a rack of bright-colored bathing suits that would be going on sale the following week, and looking into the big blue eyes of a very little girl. She seemed to look at him for a long time, neither smiling nor afraid of him, just watching, as though to see what he would do next, and he smiled down at her.

“Hi. How are you?” It seemed an odd line for a child who couldn't have been more than five years old, but he never had any idea what to say to children like that. And his best line—”How do you like school?”—seemed hopelessly out of date, particularly at this time of year. “Do you like the store?”

“It's okay.” She shrugged. She was clearly more interested in him. “I hate beards.”

“I'm sorry to hear that.” She was the cutest thing he had ever seen, and someone had braided her hair into two long blond braids, and she had pink hair ribbons on, and a little pink dress, with a doll she dragged along in one hand. The doll looked well loved and was obviously a serious favorite of hers.

“Beards scratch.” She said it matter-of-factly as though it were something he should know, and he nodded seriously, stroking it. It seemed reasonably soft to him, but he was used to it, and he hadn't been testing it on five-year-olds. In fact, since coming to San Francisco, he hadn't tested it on anyone at all. And she was the best-looking girl he had seen since he'd arrived. So far the women of San Francisco weren't his type. They wore their hair long and loose, their feet bare in ugly sandals which were obviously comfortable, and they all seemed to favor T-shirts and jeans. He missed the pulled-together look of New York …the high heels …the hats …the accessories, the perfectly groomed hair, the earrings that seemed to frame a face …the furs …They were frivolous details but they made a difference to him and one saw none of it here.

“My name is Bernie, by the way.” He was enjoying his conversation with her and he held out a hand to her, which she shook soberly as she stared at him.

“My name is Jane. Do you work here?”

“I do.”

“Are they nice?”

“Very nice.” He couldn't possibly tell her that “they” in this case was he.

“That's good. They're not always nice to my mom where she works. Sometimes they're really mean to her.” She was extremely serious with him, and he had to fight not to smile at her, while wondering increasingly where her mother was. He wondered if the child was lost but didn't know it yet, which seemed like an excellent possibility. But he didn't want to frighten her by mentioning it. “Sometimes they won't even let her stay home from work when I'm sick.” She went on, obviously shocked by the callousness of her mother's employers, as she looked up at him. But the comment brought her mother to mind. And suddenly her eyes grew very wide. “Where is my Mom?”

“I don't know, Jane.” He smiled very gently at her, glancing around. There was no one else in sight, except the saleswomen who had been talking to the buyer a few moments before. They were still standing near the cash register, but there was no one else there. Jane's mother was clearly nowhere around. “Do you remember where you saw her last?”

She squinted at him, thinking back. “She was buying pink pantyhose downstairs …” She looked up at him a little sheepishly. “I wanted to see the bathing suits.” She glanced around where they stood. They were everywhere, and she had obviously come upstairs by herself, to look at them. “We're going to the beach next week …” Her voice trailed off and she looked at him. “The bathing suits are very nice.” She had been standing next to a rack of tiny little bikinis when he first noticed her. But now he saw her lower lip trembling and he reached a hand out to her.

“Why don't we see if we can find your Mom.” But she shook her head and took a step back from him.

“I'm not supposed to go with anyone.” He gestured to one of the women, who approached cautiously as Bernie saw tears bulging in the child's eyes, but she was still fighting them, which he thought valiant of her.

“What about if we go to the restaurant and have an ice cream or something, while this lady looks for your Mom?” Jane looked at them both cautiously as the woman smiled. Bernie explained that her mother had been buying pantyhose on the main floor when Jane came upstairs, and then he turned to the woman quietly. “Why don't you activate the P. A. system in this case?” They had it for use in case of fire, or bomb threats, or some other emergency, but it would be simple to use it now to page Jane's mother for her. “Call my office and they'll take care of it.” He looked down at Jane again as she used the dolly to wipe her eyes. “What's your Mom's name? Her last name I mean.” He smiled and she looked up at him trustingly, despite her unwillingness to go anywhere with him. Her mother had drummed that into her well and he respected that.

“Same as mine.” Jane almost smiled again.

“And what's that?”

“O'Reilly.” This time she grinned. “It's Irish. And I'm Catholic. Are you?” She seemed fascinated by him, and he was equally so with her. He smiled to himself, thinking that this may have been the woman he had been waiting for, for thirty-four years. She was certainly the best one he had met in a very long time.

“I'm Jewish,” he explained as the woman went off to put the message on the hidden loudspeakers.

“What's that?” She looked intrigued.

“It means we have Chanukah instead of Christmas.”

“Does Santa Claus come to your house?” She looked concerned and that was a difficult one.

“We exchange gifts for eight days.” He avoided her question with an explanation of his own, and she looked impressed.

“Eight days? That's pretty good.” And then suddenly, she grew more serious, forgetting her mother again. “Do you believe in God?”

He nodded, surprised at the depth of her thought. He himself hadn't thought of God in a long time, and he was ashamed to admit it to her. She had obviously been put in his path to straighten up his act. “Yes, I do.”

“Me too.” She nodded and then looked at him searchingly again. “Do you think my Mommy will come back soon?” The tears were threatening again, but she was in better shape now.

“I'm sure of it. Can I interest you in that ice cream now? The restaurant is right over there.” He pointed to it, and she looked in the direction of his hand, greatly intrigued. The ice cream sounded good to her, and she quietly slid her hand into his, and her braids bobbed as they walked along, holding hands.

He helped her up onto a stool at the bar and asked for a banana split, which was not on their menu but he felt certain they could come up with one, and for him, they did. Jane dove into it with a blissful smile and worried eyes. She hadn't forgotten her mother totally, but she was well occupied as she chatted with Bernie about their apartment, the beach, and school. She wanted a dog, but their landlord wouldn't let her have one.

“He's real mean,” she said with chocolate and marshmal-low all over her face and her mouth full. “So's his wife …and she's real fat too.” She shoved in a mouthful of nuts, banana, and whipped cream as Bernie nodded seriously, wondering how he had lived without her for this long. “Your bathing suits are very good.” She dabbed at her mouth and dove in again as he smiled.

“Which ones do you like best?”

“The little ones with the bottom and the top. My Mom says I don't have to wear a top if I don't want…but I always do.” She looked prim as the chocolate enveloped her nose as well. “I like the blue and the pink and the red …and the orange …” The last of the banana disappeared, followed by the cherry and more whipped cream, and suddenly there was a flurry in the door and a woman appeared with a long shaft of golden hair that looked like a sheet of gold as she flew across the room.

“Jane!” She was a very pretty girl, not unlike Jane. There were tearstains on her face and her eyes were wild as she juggled her handbag and three packages and what was obviously Jane's jacket and another doll. “Where did you go?” Jane blushed as she looked at her sheepishly.

“I just wanted to see …”

“Don't you ever do that again!” Her mother cut her off and grabbed her arm, shaking her a little bit, and then she quickly took the child in her arms and held her close as she fought back tears of her own. She had obviously been terrified. And it took her a long time to notice Bernard standing by, admiring them both. “I'm so sorry.” She looked at him and he liked the way she looked. She was wearing sandals, a T-shirt, and jeans. But she was prettier than most, more delicate, and terribly frail and blond with the same huge blue eyes as Jane. “I apologize for all the trouble we've caused.” The whole store had been looking for mother and child, and the entire main floor was in an uproar by then. Jane's mother had been afraid that she had been kidnapped, and she'd been desperate as she asked a salesperson to help, and then an assistant manager, and a buyer who happened by. Everyone did all they could, and finally the announcement that she was in the restaurant was made on the P.A.

“It's quite all right. We can use a little excitement around here. We had a very good time.” He and Jane exchanged a knowing look and Jane suddenly piped up, grinning at him.

“You know, you'd really be a mess if you ate a banana split…see! That's why I don't like beards!” They both laughed and her mother looked horrified.

“Jane!”

“Well he would!”

“She's right,” he admitted happily. He had enjoyed her so much, and hated to see her leave. He smiled and the pretty young woman blushed.

“I really apologize.” And then suddenly she remembered that she hadn't introduced herself. “I'm sorry, I'm Elizabeth O'Reilly.”

“And you're Catholic.” He was remembering Jane's remark and her mother looked stunned, and then he attempted to explain. “I'm sorry …Jane and I had a very serious conversation about that.”

Jane nodded sagely and popped another maraschino cherry into her mouth as she watched them talk. “And he's something else …” She squinted as she looked up at him again. “What was it again?”

“Jewish,” he supplied, as Elizabeth O'Reilly grinned. She was used to Jane, but there were times …

“And he has eight Christmases …” She looked enormously impressed and the two adults laughed. “Honest, he does. That's what he said. Right?” She looked to Bernie for confirmation and he grinned and nodded at her.

“Chanukah. Actually, she even makes it sound good to me.” He hadn't been in temple in years. His parents were Reformed and he didn't practice at all. But he was thinking of someone else. He was wondering just how Catholic Mrs. O'Reilly was, if there was a Mr. O'Reilly around, or not. He hadn't thought to ask Jane, and she hadn't mentioned it.

“I can't thank you enough.” Elizabeth pretended to glare at Jane, who looked much happier now. She wasn't clutching her doll quite as hard, and she seemed to be enjoying the last of the ice cream.

“They have good bathing suits too.”

Elizabeth shook her head and held out her hand to Bernie again. “Thank you again for rescuing her. Come on, old girl, let's go home. We have some other things to do.”

“Can't we just look at the bathing suits before we go?”

“No.” Her mother was firm, and she thanked Bernie profusely as they left. Jane shook his hand and thanked him very formally and then looked up at him with a sunny smile.

“You were nice, and the ice cream was very good. Thank you very much.” She had obviously had a lovely time, and Bernie was actually sorry to see her go. He stood at the top of the escalator, watching the hair ribbons disappear, and feeling as though he had lost his only friend in California.

He went back to the cash register to thank the employees for their help, and as he left again, the little bikinis caught his eye, and he pulled out three in a size six. The orange, the pink, and the blue—the red one was sold out in her size— and he even picked out two hats to match and a little terry beach robe for her. It all looked perfect for her and he dumped it at the cash register.

“Have we got an Elizabeth O'Reilly on the computer here? I don't know if she's a charge customer or not, or what her husband's name is.” He was suddenly hoping that she didn't have one, and the verdict was good when they checked. Two minutes later they confirmed that she had a new account and lived on Vallejo Street in Pacific Heights. “Great.” He jotted down the phone number and address and tried to make it look as though he needed it for his files …instead of his empty little address book…. And he told them to send the stack of beachwear to “Miss Jane …” and charge it to his account. He wrote out a card that said only, “Thank you for a very nice time. Hope to see you again soon. Your friend, Bernie Fine,” and handed that to the woman as well. And then with a lighter step he went back to his office with a mysterious little smile, convinced that there was a blessing in everything.

Chapter 5

The bathing suits arrived on Wednesday afternoon, and Liz called him the next day to thank him for his generosity to her daughter.

“You really shouldn't have. She's still talking about the banana split, and what a good time she had.” Elizabeth O'Reilly had a young voice and he could see her shining blond hair in his mind's eye as he talked to her on the phone.

“I thought she was very brave actually. When she realized she was lost, she was terrified, but she kept her composure the entire time. That's quite something for a five-year-old.”

Elizabeth smiled. “She's a pretty good kid.”

He was dying to say “So's her mom,” but he didn't. “Did the bathing suits fit?”

“Every one of them. She paraded around in them all last night, and she's wearing one under her dress now …she's at the park with some friends. I had a lot to do today …someone lent us a house in Stinson Beach, so Jane has her whole wardrobe set now.” Liz laughed. “Thank you so much She didn't know what else to say, and he was groping for words too. Suddenly it all seemed new to him, as though they spoke a different language here. It was like starting all over again.

“Could I…could I see you again?” He felt like a complete fool as he said the words into the phone …like a heavy breather on an anonymous call, but he was amazed when she said yes.

“I'd like that very much.”

“You would?” He sounded stunned and she laughed.

“Yes, I would. Would you like to come to Stinson Beach for an afternoon?” She sounded so easy and natural that he was grateful to her. She didn't make it sound as though he had his tongue hanging out and was annoying her. It sounded as though she wasn't surprised at all, and would enjoy seeing him.

“I'd love it. How long will you be there?”

“Two weeks.”

He made a rapid calculation in his head. There was no reason why he couldn't take Saturday off for once. There was no rule that said he had to be there. He just had nothing else to do. “How about this Saturday?” It was only two days away and his palms grew damp thinking of it.

She paused, trying to remember who she'd invited when. Stinson Beach always gave her a chance to see all her friends, and invite everyone out for a day. But Saturday was still free. “That sounds fine …great, in fact …” She smiled, thinking of him. He was a nice-looking man, and he had been nice to Jane, and he didn't appear to be gay, and he didn't wear a wedding band…. “By the way, you're not married, are you?” It never hurt to ask. It would have been a bit of a shock to find out afterwards. But it had happened before. Not this time though.

“Good God no! What a thought!”

Aha. One of those. “Allergic to marriage, are you?”

“No. I just work very hard.”

“What does that have to do with it?” She was open and direct and suddenly curious about him. She had her own reasons for not getting married again. Once burned, twice smart, but at least she'd tried it once. But then again maybe he had too. “Are you divorced?”

He smiled to himself at his end, wondering why she asked. “No, I'm not divorced. And yes, I like girls. And I have lived with two women in my life, and I'm very comfortable the way things are. I haven't had a lot of time to give to anyone. I've spent the last ten years concentrating on my career.”

“That can be empty sometimes.” She sounded as though she knew and he wondered what she did. “I'm lucky I've got Jane.”

“Yes, you are.” He fell silent as he thought of the little girl, and decided to save the rest of his questions for Stinson Beach when he could see her face and her eyes and her hands. He had never been crazy about getting to know someone over the telephone. “I'll see you both on Saturday then. Anything I can bring? A picnic? Wine? Anything from the store?”

“Sure. A mink coat would be nice.”

He laughed and they hung up and for a whole hour afterwards he felt good. She had that kind of voice, easy and warm, and she didn't seem to have an ax to grind. She wasn't one of those women who hated men, or at least she didn't seem to be, and she didn't seem out to prove anything. He was really looking forward to their afternoon in Stinson Beach, and on Friday night before he went home, he went to their gourmet shop and bought two shopping bags of goodies to take to her. A chocolate teddy bear for Jane, and a box of chocolate truffles for Liz, two kinds of Brie, a baguette bread they flew in from France, a tiny tin of caviar, and another of pate, two bottles of wine, one red and one white, and another tin of marrons glaces.

He put the bags in his car and drove home, and the next morning at ten o'clock he showered and shaved and put on blue jeans and an old blue shirt, slipped his feet into a beaten-up pair of sneakers, and grabbed a warm jacket from the closet in the hall. He had brought comfortable old clothes with him from New York for when the construction was going on, and now they were useful for the beach, and just as he picked up the two shopping bags, the phone rang. He wasn't going to answer it and then wondered if it was Elizabeth, changing their plans, or asking him to pick something up on the way, so he picked it up, still juggling his jacket and the bags.

“Yeah?”

“That's no way to answer the phone, Bernard.”

“Hi, Mom. I'm just on my way out.”

“To the store?” The interrogation began.

“No … to the beach. I'm visiting some friends today.”

“Anyone I know?” Which, roughly translated, meant: Would I approve of them?

“I don't think so, Mom. Is everything okay?”

“Fine.”

“Good. Then I'll call you tonight, or tomorrow from the store. I've got to run.”

“Must be someone important if you can't talk to your mother for five minutes. Is it a girl?” No. A woman. And then of course there was Jane.

“No, just some friends.”

“You're not hanging out with those boys out there, are you, Bernard?”

Oh for chrissake. He was dying to say he was, just to irritate her. “No, I'm not. Look, I'll talk to you soon.”

“All right, all right…don't forget to wear a hat in the sun.”

“Give my love to Dad.”

He hung up and hurried out of his apartment before she could call back to warn him to be careful of sharks. And her favorite was warning him about hot items she saw in the Daily News. She was always warning him not to use some product that had gone bad and killed two people in Des Moines …botulism …Legionnaire's disease …heart attack …hemorrhoids …toxic shock. The possibilities were unlimited. It was nice having someone to worry about your health, but not with the passion of his mother.

He put the two shopping bags in the back of his car and got in, and ten minutes later he was on the Golden Gate Bridge, heading north. He had never been to Stinson Beach before, and he loved the intricate, winding road which rode the crest of the hills, looking down on the cliffs that jutted out over the sea. It was a miniature Big Sur, and he enjoyed the ride. He drove through the tiny town, and went to the address she had given him. She was in a private community called Seadrift, and he had to give the guard at the tollgate his name. But other than the security, it didn't look like a fancy place. The houses were on a very human scale, and the people who wandered by were bare-foot and in shorts. It looked like the kind of place where families went, like Long Island or Cape Cod, and it looked wholesome and nice, as he pulled into the driveway of the house number she had given him. There was a tricycle outside, and a washed-out rocking horse who looked as though he had been out in the elements for years, and Bernard clanked an old school bell at the front gate, and then opened it. And then suddenly there was Jane, wearing one of the bikinis he had sent, and the little terry cloth robe he had picked out to go with it.

“Hi, Bernie.” She beamed up at him, as they both remembered the banana split and their conversation about Christmas and God. “I love my new bathing suit.”

“It looks great on you.” He walked over to her, and she smiled up at him. “We could use you as a model at the store. Where's your mom? Don't tell me she's lost again.” He put on a disapproving frown and Jane laughed a deep belly laugh that touched his heart. “Does she do that a lot?”

Jane shook her head. “Only in stores …sometimes …”

“What do I do in stores?” Elizabeth stuck her head out the door and smiled at Bernard. “Hello there. How was the drive?”

“Beautiful.” He looked as though he had really enjoyed the trip as they exchanged a warm, expressive glance.

“Not everyone says that when they arrive. It's an awfully winding road.”

“I always throw up,” Jane supplied with a grin. “But I like it once we're here.”

“Do you sit in the front seat with the windows down?” He looked concerned.

“Yup.”

“Do you eat saltines before you go? …Nah …I'll bet you eat banana splits all the time.” And then he remembered the chocolate teddy bear, and pulled it out of the bag for her before handing the rest to Liz. “For both of you, a few goodies from the store.”

Elizabeth looked surprised and touched and Jane let out a squeal of delight as she held the chocolate teddy bear. It was even bigger than her doll, and she almost drooled looking at it. “Can I eat it now, Mommy? …Please? …” She turned pleading eyes to Liz, who gave a small groan of defeat. “Please, Mommy? …Please? …Just an ear?”

“All right, all right. I give up. But don't eat too much. Lunch will be ready pretty soon.”

“Okay.” She scampered off, holding the bear, like a puppy with a bone, and Bernard smiled at Liz.

“She's the greatest little kid.” Someone like Jane reminded him that there were empty spots in his life, and children were one of them.

“She's crazy about you.” Liz smiled.

“Banana splits and chocolate bears always help. For all she knows I'm the Boston Strangler with a great source for chocolate teddy bears.” As he said it, he followed Elizabeth into the kitchen, where she unpacked the bags he had brought, and she gasped when she saw the caviar and the pate and all the expensive goodies.

“Bernie, you shouldn't have done all that! My God …look at that…” She looked at the box of chocolate truffles in her hand, and then with a guilty look, she did exactly what Jane would have done. She offered them to him and then popped one in her mouth, closing her eyes with the ecstasy of it. “Hmm …oh …sooo good …” She made it sound like a sexual experience, and it gave him a chance to admire her again. She was delicate and graceful and really beautiful in a clean-cut American way. She was wearing her long blond hair in one long braid today, and her eyes were as blue as the faded denim shirt she wore and the white shorts showed off her shapely legs. And he noticed that she wore carefully applied red polish on her toenails, which showed a little vanity at least. But she wore nothing on her eyes, and no lipstick at all, and the nails on her hands were cut short. She was a pretty girl, more than that in fact, but she wasn't frivolous, and he liked that about her. She didn't take your breath away, but she warmed your heart… in fact, she warmed more than that as she bent over to put the two bottles of wine away, and then turned to him with a smile much like Jane's. “You've spoiled us terribly, Bernard … I don't know what to say.”

“Listen …it's nice to make new friends … I don't have very many out here.”

“How long have you been out here?”

“Five months.”

“From New York?”

He nodded. “I've lived in New York all my life, except three years in Chicago a long time ago.”

She looked intrigued as she got two beers out of the fridge and offered him one. “That's where I'm from. Why did you go out there?”

“My trial by fire. I went out there to run the store His voice trailed off, thinking of it. “And now I'm here.” It still felt like a punishment to him, although slightly less so as he looked at her, and then followed her into the comfortable living room. The house was small, and the floor was covered with straw mats. The furniture was covered in faded denim and there was driftwood and shells everywhere. The house could have been anywhere, East Hampton, Fire Island, Malibu … it had a nondescript quality, but outside the picture window was the view, a spectacular beach, a vast expanse of sea, and off to one side San Francisco, clustered on the hills sparkling in the sun. It was a beautiful view …and more than that, she was a beautiful girl. She waved him to a comfortable chair, and sat down on the couch herself, pretzeling her legs under her.

“Do you like it out here? In San Francisco, I mean.”

“Sometimes.” He was honest with her. “I haven't seen much of it, I must admit. I've been busy with the store. I like the climate. When I left New York, it was snowing, and when I got here five hours later, it was spring. There's something to be said for that.”

“But?” She smiled invitingly at him. She had a nice way about her, a way that made one want to talk to her endlessly, and share one's private thoughts. He had a sudden insight that she must be a nice woman to have as a friend, and he wasn't sure if that was all he wanted from her or not. There was something about her which appealed to him a lot, something subtly sexy he couldn't define, like the curve of her breast in the old blue shirt she wore, and the way she bent her head …and the way little wisps of her hair curled softly around her face. He wanted to touch her, to hold her hand … to kiss the full lips as she smiled … it was difficult even concentrating on what she said. “It must be lonely for you here without friends. I hated it here for the first year.”

“But you stayed anyway?” He looked intrigued. He wanted to hear about her, wanted to know everything she had to say.

“Yes. For a while I didn't have any choice. I didn't have any folks to go home to by then. My parents died in a car accident during my sophomore year at Northwestern.” Her eyes clouded thinking about it, and he winced on her behalf. “I think that made me a lot more vulnerable, and I fell madly in love with the star of the play I was in, in junior year.”

Her eyes were sad as she thought back. It was funny, she didn't usually tell people about that, but it was easy to talk to him. And they were watching Jane through the picture window as she played in the sand outside, her doll sitting next to her as she waved at them from time to time. And something about Bernie made her want to be honest with him right from the beginning. She figured she had nothing to lose. If he didn't like what he heard, he wouldn't call again, but at least everything would be straight between them if he did. There was something to be said for that. She was tired of the games people played, and the pretense between people from the moment they met. It wasn't her style. And she looked at him with wide, honest blue eyes. “I was at Northwestern …studying drama of course.” She smiled at him, thinking back. “And we'd been in summer stock together the summer right after my parents died. I felt like a zombie I was so numb, and I didn't have anyone in the world anymore. I fell head over heels in love with him. He was a gorgeous man and a nice guy, I thought, and I got pregnant just before we graduated. He said he wanted to get married out here. Someone had offered him a part in a movie in Hollywood. So he came out here first, and I followed him. I had nowhere else to go anymore, and I couldn't accept having an abortion. So I followed Chandler out here, even though things were a little less rosy by then. He wasn't too thrilled about the pregnancy, to say the least. But I was still desperately in love with him, and I thought things would work out.” She glanced out the window at Jane, as though to reassure herself that they had.

“So I hitchhiked to Los Angeles, and met up with Chandler again. Chandler Scott …turned out later his name was really Charlie Schiavo, but he had changed his name …anyway, the part had fallen through for him …and he was busy chasing starlets and jobs while I worked as a waitress and got bigger every day. And we finally did get married, three days before Jane was born. I thought the justice of the peace was going to faint…and then Chandler disappeared. He called to say he had gotten a job doing repertory in Oregon when she was five months old, and afterwards I found out he'd been in jail. It was as if just the act of getting married scared him so much, he had to disappear. Although actually I figured out later that he must have been doing all kinds of strange stuff all along. He got busted for passing stolen goods, then he got arrested again for burglary. Anyway, he came back when Jane was nine months old and lived with us for a few months, and when she was a year old, he disappeared again, and when I found out he was in jail that time, I filed for divorce and that was it. I moved to San Francisco, and I've never heard from him again. He was a con man from beginning to end, and you've never met anyone so convincing in your life. If I met him today, I don't think I'd fall for it all again, but you know, he was so damn smooth, I don't know…. Isn't that depressing to realize? Anyway, I took back my maiden name when I got divorced and here we are.” She looked matter-of-fact about her history, and he was amazed, anyone else would have been wringing their hankie just thinking about it. But she had survived and survived well. She looked wholesome and happy and she had a wonderful little girl. “And Jane is my family now. I think I got lucky in the end.” His heart went out to her at the words.

“What does Jane think of all that?” He was curious about what Liz would have told the child.

“Nothing. She thinks he's dead. I told her he was a beautiful actor and we got married after school and came out here, and then she came along and he died when she was a year old. She doesn't know the rest, and we'll never see him again, so what difference does it make? God only knows where he is. He'll probably wind up in jail for the rest of his life, and he's not interested in either of us. He never was. I'd rather she have a few illusions about how she came to be at least until later.”

“I guess you're right.” He admired her. He admired her a great deal. She was a brave girl and she'd made the best of it, and the child seemed to have suffered not at all, thanks to her mother loving her so much. And there was nothing tragic about this girl, she was all guts and heart and beautiful silky blond hair. And she had made a new life for herself.

California was a good place for that. It was a good place to start a new life. And she had.

“I teach school here now. I used my parents' insurance money and went to school at night for a year and got the credits I needed for a teaching credential out here, and I love my job. I teach second grade, and my kids are just great!” She grinned happily. “Jane goes to my school too, and the tuition is less that way. That was one of the reasons I decided to teach. I wanted her to go to a decent school, and I knew I'd have a hell of a time paying for private school, so everything worked out.” She made it sound like a success story instead of an agony, and it was. It was remarkable. She had snatched victory from the jaws of defeat and he could easily understand how it had happened. “Chandler Scott,” or whatever his real name was, sounded like a male version of Isabelle, although he was certainly less of a pro than she, and she had never wound up in jail.

“I got myself involved with someone like that a few years ago.” Her honesty deserved his. “A beautiful French girl, a model I met at the store. She had me in the palm of her hand for over a year, and I didn't get a wonderful little girl out of it.” He smiled at Jane, playing outside, and then Liz, sitting across from him. “I wound up feeling used, and minus several thousand dollars and a watch my parents had given me. She was very slick. Someone offered her a movie career, and I found them making love on the deck of his yacht. I guess they come in all sexes and nationalities, that breed. But it kind of makes you cautious about who you get involved with after that, doesn't it? I've never been that close to anyone again, and that was three years ago.” He paused. “People like that make you question your own judgment afterwards. You find yourself wondering how you could have been such a fool.”

She laughed at him. “You can say that again! I didn't have a date for two years …and even now, I'm cautious … I love my work, my friends. The rest”—she shrugged and threw up both hands—“I can do without.” He smiled at her. He was sorry to hear that.

“Should I leave now?”

They both laughed and she got up to check on the quiche she had made, and when she opened the oven door, the aroma of it wafted into the room.

“Boy, that smells good.”

“Thank you. I love to cook.” She whipped up a Caesar salad for both of them, handling the dressing as expertly as his favorite waiter at “21” in New York, and she poured out a Bloody Mary for him. Then she went to knock on the picture window and signaled to Jane to come in. She had a peanut butter and bacon sandwich for her, and she arrived at the lunch table carrying the chocolate teddy bear, minus one ear.

“Can he still hear you, Jane?”

“What?” She looked confused when Bernie asked.

“The bear …without his ear …”

“Oh.” She grinned. “Yes. Next I'm going to eat his nose.”

“Poor thing. He's going to be in terrible shape by tonight. I'll have to get you another one.”

“You will?” Jane looked thrilled, and Liz served lunch. There were straw mats on the table and a vase filled with bright orange flowers, bright orange napkins, and pretty china and silverware.

“We love being here,” Liz explained. “It's such a nice holiday for us. This belongs to one of the teachers at the school where I teach. Her husband is an architect and they built it years ago. And they go east to Martha's Vineyard to visit her parents every year, so they lend it to us, and it's the best part of our year, isn't it, Jane?” The child nodded and smiled up at Bernie.

“Do you like it here too?” Jane questioned him.

“Very much.”

“Did you throw up on the way?” She seemed fascinated and he laughed at her choice of lunch conversation. But he loved her ingenuousness and her honesty. She was a lot like Liz, and she even looked like her. She was a miniature version of her mother.

“No, I didn't throw up. But it helps when you drive.”

“That's what Mom says. She never throws up.”

“Jane …” Liz warned her with her eyes, and Bernie watched them happily. It was an easy, comfortable afternoon, and he and Liz went for a walk on the beach afterwards, as Jane scampered ahead, looking for shells. He suspected that it wasn't always easy for them. It was difficult to be alone with a small child, but Liz didn't complain about it. She seemed to love it.

He told her what his job was like, and how much he loved Wolffs, how he had wanted to teach himself, but for him the dream had become something else. He even told her about Sheila and how heartbroken he had been over her, and as they walked back to the house, he looked down at her. She was considerably smaller than he and he liked that too. “You know, I feel as though I've known you for years. It's funny, isn't it?” He had never felt that way about anyone before.

She smiled up at him. “You're a nice man. I knew it the minute I met you at the store.”

“That's a nice thing to say.” He was pleased. He cared about what she thought.

“I could see it in the way you talked to Jane, and she talked about you all the way home. It sounded like you were one of her best friends.”

“I'd like to be.” He looked into Liz' eyes and she smiled at him.

“Look what I found!” Jane came bounding up to them, hurtling herself between them as she spoke. “It's a perfect silver dollar! It's not broken or anything!”

“Let me see that.” He bent down to her and held out a flat hand and she placed the perfectly round white shell on his palm carefully as they inspected it. “By George, you're right!”

“Who's George?”

Bernie laughed. “That's just a dumb expression grownups use.”

“Oh.” She seemed satisfied.

“Your silver dollar is beautiful.” He handed it back to her as carefully as she had given it to him, and as he stood up, he met her mother's eyes again. “I guess I should be getting back.” Not that he wanted to.

“Would you like to stay for potluck tonight? We're having hamburgers.” She had to watch their budget carefully, but they always did all right. It had been rough in the beginning, but she was good at juggling things now. She made a lot of Jane's clothes, had learned to cook everything herself, she even baked bread, and with friends like the ones who lent them the house in Stinson Beach, they had everything they needed …even Bernie and his bathing suits…. She had been planning to buy Jane one, or maybe two. And instead she had a whole stack of them, thanks to him.

“I have a better idea.” He had seen the restaurant as he drove through town on the way. “What if I take you ladies out tonight?” And then suddenly he remembered what he had worn. “Will the Sand Dollar let me in like this?” He extended his arms as the ladies inspected him and Liz laughed.

“You look fine to me.”

“Then what about it?”

“Come on, Mommy, please …can we go? …please!” she clamored instantly, and the idea appealed to Liz too. She accepted happily and sent Jane to her room to change, while she offered Bernie a beer in the living room. But he declined.

“I'm not much of a drinker,” he admitted to her.

Elizabeth looked relieved. She hated going out with men who expected her to drink a lot. Chandler had always drunk too much, and that had made her nervous about him, but she hadn't been as brave about speaking up about it then. Now she was. “It's funny how annoyed some people get when you don't drink.”

“I guess it threatens them, particularly if they drink too much.”

It was so easy being with him, she couldn't get over it. And they had a marvelous time that night. The Sand Dollar had the aura of an old saloon, as people poured through the swinging doors all night long, to stand at the bar, or eat the enormous steak and lobster dinners they served. It was the only show in town, Liz explained, but fortunately the food was very good, and even Jane dove into her plate and attacked a small steak with glee. It wasn't often they ate so extravagantly. And she fell asleep in the car on the way back, and Bernie carried her inside and laid her gently on her bed. She was sleeping in the house's tiny guest room, right next to the room where Liz slept, and they tiptoed back to the living room.

“I think I'm falling in love with her.” His eyes met Liz', and she smiled.

“It's entirely mutual. We had a wonderful time.”

“So did I.” He walked slowly to the door, wanting to kiss her, but afraid it was too soon. He didn't want to scare her away, he liked her too much. It was like being in high school again. “When will you be back in town?”

“Two weeks from today. But why don't you come back next week? It's an easy drive from town. You can do it in forty minutes or so, if you can stand the winding road. We'll have an early dinner and you can go back afterwards. Or you can even stay here if you want. You can have Jane's room, and she can sleep with me.” He would have preferred to sleep with her himself, but he didn't dare say it to her, even jokingly. It was much too soon to suggest anything like that, and he didn't want to jeopardize anything. It was also going to be delicate with Jane so much a part of her mother's life. She was always there with them, and he had to consider that. He didn't want to do anything to harm her.

“I'd love to come out, if I can get out of the store at a decent hour.”

“What time do you usually leave work?” They were whispering in the living room so as not to wake Jane, and he laughed.

“Between nine and ten o'clock at night, but that's just the way I am. That's no one's fault. I work seven days a week,” he confessed, and she looked shocked.

“That's no way to live.”

“I have nothing better to do.” It was a terrible admission, and even to him it sounded awful. And now maybe he would have something better to do …with them …“I'll try to reform by next week. I'll give you a call.” She nodded, hoping he would. The beginning was always so difficult, establishing the contact, laying out one's hopes and dreams. But it had been easier with him. He was the nicest man she had met in a long, long time. And she followed him outside to his car.

She thought she had never seen as many stars as hung over them that night, and she looked up at them and then at him as he stood looking at her for a long time. “Today was wonderful, Liz.” She had been so honest with him, and so warm. She had even told him the truth about how she had had Jane, and her disastrous marriage to Chandler Scott. It was nice to know those things right from the first sometimes. “I'll look forward to seeing you again.” He reached out and touched her hand, and she held his for a moment before he slipped into his car.

“So will I. Drive home carefully.”

He grinned at her, peering out from the open window as he laughed. “I'll try not to throw up on the way back.”

They both laughed, and he waved as he backed down the driveway and then drove off, thinking of her, and Jane, talking and laughing over dinner.

Chapter 6

Bernie made it back to Stinson Beach to dinner twice the following week. Once Liz cooked for him, and the second time he took them out to the Sand Dollar again, and then he came back on Saturday again too. And this time he brought a new beach ball for Jane, and several games, including a ring toss they played on the beach, and all kinds of sand equipment Jane loved. And he even brought a new bathing suit for Liz. It was a pale blue, almost the color of her eyes, and she looked spectacular in it.

“Good Lord, Bernie …this has to stop.”

“Why? That bathing suit was just sitting there on a mannequin this week, and it looked so much like you, I had to bring it out.” He was pleased. He loved spoiling her, and he knew no one ever had before, which made it even more fun to do.

“You can't spoil us like this!”

“Why not?”

“Oh”—she looked sad for a minute and then smiled again—“we might get used to it, and then what would we do? We'd be banging on your door at the store every day, begging for bathing suits and chocolate teddy bears and caviar and pate …” He grinned at the image she conjured up.

“I'll just have to see to it that you keep supplied then, won't I?” But he understood what she meant. It would be difficult if he faded from their lives, but he couldn't envision that yet. On the contrary he couldn't envision it at all.

He came back two more times the following week, and this time on the second night Liz got a teenager from another house to babysit for Jane and they went out alone, to the Sand Dollar again, of course—there was nowhere else to go—but they both liked the food and the atmosphere there.

“You've been an awfully good sport about taking both of us out.” Liz smiled across the table at him.

“I haven't figured out which of you I like best actually. So it works out pretty well for now.”

She laughed. He always made her feel so good. He was such a nice easygoing happy man. And she told him so.

“God only knows why.” He smiled. “With a mother like mine I should have grown up with a twitch and several tics, at least.”

“She can't be that bad.” Liz smiled and he groaned.

“You have no idea. Just wait… if she ever comes out here again, which I doubt. She hated it in June. At least she liked the store. You have no idea of how difficult she is though.” He had been avoiding her calls for the last two weeks. He didn't want to have to explain to her where he had been spending his time, and if she'd been calling him, she would know that he'd been out a lot. “Just cruising the bars, Mom.” He could just imagine what she would have to say to that. Of course going out with a girl called “O'Reilly” would take the cake. But he couldn't tell Liz that yet. He didn't want to scare her off.

“How long have they been married?”

“Thirty-eight years. My father is up for a Purple Heart.”She laughed at the thought. “I'm serious. You don't know what she's like.”

“I'd like to meet her sometime.”

“Oh my God! Shhh …” He looked over his shoulder, as though expecting to see his mother standing there, with an ax in her hand. “Don't say a thing like that, Liz! It could be dangerous!” He teased and she laughed and they talked halfway through the night. He had kissed her the second time he had come to the beach, and Jane had even caught them at it once or twice, but the romance had gone no further than that. He was nervous about Jane, and it was more comfortable courting Liz in an old-fashioned way for now. There would be plenty of time for other things when they moved back to town, and Jane wasn't asleep in the next room, with only a paper-thin wall between them.

He came back that Sunday to help Liz pack up. Her friends had told her she could stay one extra day, and she and Jane were obviously unhappy to go home. It was the end of the vacation for them, and they wouldn't be going anywhere else that year. Liz couldn't afford to take any trips, with or without Jane, and their mood was so gloomy on the way home that Bernie felt sorry for them.

“Listen, you two, why don't we go somewhere else sometime soon? Maybe Carmel …Lake Tahoe? How does that sound? I haven't been anywhere yet, and you ladies could show me around. In fact, we could do both!” Liz and Jane let out a whoop of glee and the next day he told his secretary to make reservations for them somewhere. She got a condominium in Lake Tahoe for the three of them, he had specified three bedrooms to her, and she was able to get it for the following weekend, as well as Labor Day, and when he told them that night they were thrilled. Jane blew him a kiss as Liz tucked her into bed, but Liz looked concerned as she came out to sit in her tiny living room with him. She had a one-bedroom flat, and Jane slept in the single bedroom, while Liz slept in the living room on a convertible couch. It became rapidly obvious to him that their love life would not improve here.

She looked worried as she looked up at him apologetically. “Bernie … I don't want you to misunderstand …but I don't think we should go to Lake Tahoe with you.”

He looked like a disappointed child as he stared at her unhappily. “Why not?”

“Because this is all so wonderful …and I'm sure it sounds crazy to you …but I can't do these things with Jane. And if I let you do them for us, what are we going to do afterwards?”

“After what?” But he knew what she meant. He didn't want to, but he did.

“After you go back to New York.” Her voice was as soft as silk, and she held his hand as they sat on the couch and talked. “Or after you get tired of me. We're grown-ups, and it all feels wonderful to us now …but who knows what will happen next month, or next week or next year …”

“I want you to marry me.” His voice was small and hard and she stared at him. But she wasn't nearly as surprised as he. The words had just come to his lips of their own, but now that they were there, he knew that they were right as he looked at her.

“You what? You're not serious.” She leapt to her feet and paced the small room nervously. “You don't even know me yet.”

“Yes, I do. All my life I've been going out with women whom I knew on the first date I never wanted to see again, but I figured what the hell, give it a try, you never know …and two months later, or three or six, I threw in the towel and never called them again. Now I find you, and I knew the first time I laid eyes on you that I was in love with you, and the second time I saw you I knew you were right for me and that you were the best woman I'd ever meet, and if I was very, very lucky, you'd let me shine your shoes for the rest of my life … so what am I supposed to do now? Play games for six months and pretend that I need to figure it out? I don't need to figure out anything. I love you. I want to marry you.” He was beaming at her, and he suddenly knew that the best thing possible had just happened to him. “Will you marry me, Liz?”

She was grinning at him and she looked even younger than her twenty-seven years. “You're nuts. Do you know that? You're crazy.” But she knew the same things. She was wild about him. “I can't marry you after three weeks. What are people going to say? What will your mother say?” She said the magic words and he groaned, but he still looked happier than he ever had in his life.

“Listen, as long as your name is not Rachel Nussbaum and your mother's maiden name wasn't Greenberg or Schwartz, she's going to have a nervous breakdown anyway, so what difference does it make?”

“It'll make a big difference to her if you tell her you met me three weeks ago.”

She walked back to where he stood, and he pulled her back down on the couch next to him and took her hands in his. “I'm in love with you, Elizabeth O'Reilly, and I don't care if you're related to the Pope and I met you yesterday. Life is too short to waste time playing games. I never have and I never will. Let's not waste what we've got.” And then he had an idea. “Tell you what. We'll do this properly. We'll get engaged. Today is August first, we'll get married at Christmastime, that's almost five months away. If you can tell me by then that that isn't what you want to do, we'll cancel everything. How does that sound?” He was already thinking of the ring he would buy …five carats …seven …eight…ten …anything she wanted. He put an arm around her shoulders and she was laughing with tears in her eyes.

“Do you realize you haven't even slept with me yet?”

“An oversight on my part.” He looked unimpressed, and then looked at her thoughtfully. “As a matter of fact, I meant to discuss that with you. Do you suppose you could find a babysitter one of these days? It's not that I don't love our little girl”—she was already his, too—“I do, but I have this wicked, lewd, lecherous idea that involves your coming up to my place for a few hours …”

“I'll see what I can arrange.” She was still laughing at him. It was the craziest thing that had ever happened to her. But he was such a good man, and she knew he would be wonderful to her and Jane for the rest of their lives, but much more important, she knew she was in love with him. It was just so damn difficult to explain that she had fallen in love with him and knew it was right in just three weeks. She couldn't wait to tell Tracy, her best friend at school, a substitute teacher, who was due back from a cruise. She left Liz a lonely woman and when she came back she would find Liz engaged to the general manager of Wolffs. It was absolutely nuts. “All right, all right, I'll get a baby-sitter.” He was pressing her.

“Does this mean we're engaged?” He was beaming and so was she.

“I guess it does.” She still couldn't believe what they'd done, and he was squinting now, trying to figure something out.

“How about having the wedding on December twenty-ninth? That's a Saturday.” He already knew that from plans they'd made at the store. “That way we'll have Christmas with Jane, and we can go to Hawaii or something for our honeymoon.” Liz was completely bowled over by him and as she laughed he leaned over and kissed her and suddenly it all made sense to both of them. It was a dream come true, a perfect match … a match made over a banana split with Jane watching over them, like a guardian angel.

Bernie leaned over and kissed Liz, and she could feel his heart pounding as he held her close to him. And they both knew with absolute certainty, this was forever.

Chapter 7

It took her two days to find a babysitter, and she announced it to Bernie over the phone that afternoon, and blushed when she mentioned it. She knew exactly what he had in mind, and it was embarrassing to be so unspontaneous about it. But with Jane in the only bedroom she had, there wasn't much else they could do. The woman was coming at seven o'clock and was willing to stay until one.

“It's a bit like Cinderella, but it'll do,” she said with a smile.

“That's all right. Don't worry about it.” He had a fifty-dollar bill just begging to fall into the woman's hands when Liz went to kiss Jane good night. “Wear something a little dressy tonight.”

“Like a garter belt?” She was as nervous as a bride, and he laughed at what she said.

“Sounds great. But wear a dress over it. Let's have dinner out.”

She was surprised. She had visions of going to his apartment straight from hers, and getting the “first time” over with. It seemed almost like a surgical procedure to her. First times were so awkward anyway, and the idea of going to dinner instead appealed to her enormously.

And when he picked her up that night, they went to L'Etoile, where he had reserved a table for two, and she began to relax as they talked the way they always did. He told her what was happening in the store, about the plans they'd made for the fall, the promotions, the fashion shows. The opera show had come and gone and been a great success and the others were under way now. She was fascinated by what he did, and even more so because he was so much a businessman. He simply applied the principles of good economics to whatever he touched in the store, that and his extraordinary sense for upcoming trends, and everything he touched turned to gold, as Paul Berman said. And lately, Bernie didn't even mind having been sent to San Francisco to open the store. The way he figured it, he had one more year in California at best, and that would give them time to get married and spend a few months alone, before they went back to New York and Liz would have to deal with his mother at close range. They might even have a baby on the way by then …and he had to think of schools for Jane …but he didn't tell all that to Liz. He had warned her that they were going back to New York eventually, but he didn't want to worry her with the details of the move yet. It was a year away after all, and they had their wedding to think of first.

“Are you going to wear a real wedding dress?” He loved the thought of it, and had seen one in a show at the store only two days before that would have been fabulous on her, but she blushed at the thought as she smiled at him.

“You really mean it, don't you?”

He nodded, holding her hand under the table as they sat side by side on the banquette. He loved the feel of her leg next to his, and she had worn a pretty white silk dress that showed off her tan, and her hair was swept up in a bun high on her head. He noticed that she had worn nail polish, which was unusual for her, and he was glad, but he didn't tell her why as he leaned over and kissed her gently on the neck. “Yes, I do mean it. I don't know …somehow one knows when one is doing the right thing, and when one isn't. I've always known, and the only mistakes I've made have been when I didn't trust my instincts. I've never gone wrong when I have.” She understood him perfectly, but it seemed amazing to move into marriage so quickly, and yet she knew they weren't wrong, and she suspected that she'd never regret it. “I hope one day you feel as sure as I do right now, Liz.” His eyes were gentle on hers, and her heart went out to him as they sat side by side. He loved the feel of her thigh next to his, and it thrilled him to his very core as he thought of lying next to her, but it was too soon to think about that now. He had the whole evening planned to perfection.

“You know, the crazy thing is that I do feel sure. … I just don't know yet how I'll explain it to anyone.”

“I think real life happens this way, Liz. You always hear about people who live together for ten years, and then one of them meets someone else and they get married in five days …because the first relationship was never really right, but in the twinkling of an eye that person knew the second relationship was.”

“I know, I've often thought of things like that. I just never thought it would happen to me.” She smiled at him, and they ate duck and salad and souffle, and then they moved into the bar, where he ordered champagne, and they sat listening to the piano and chatting as they had for weeks now, sharing opinions and ideas and hopes and dreams. It was the most beautiful evening she had had in a long, long time, and being with him made up for everything bad that had ever happened to her, her parents' death, the nightmare with Chandler Scott, and the long lonely years alone since Jane's birth, with no one to help her out or be there for her. And suddenly none of it mattered now that she was with him. It was as though all her life had been in preparation for this man who was so good to her now, and absolutely nothing else mattered.

After their champagne, when he had paid the check, they walked slowly upstairs hand in hand, and she was about to stroll outside when he directed her through the hotel instead, guiding her gently by the arm, but she didn't think anything of it, until he walked her to the elevators and looked down at her with a small, boyish smile, barely concealed by his beard.

“Want to come upstairs for a drink?” She knew what he was up to, and that he didn't live there, but it seemed romantic somehow, and a little mischievous at the same time. He had whispered the words to her and she answered him with a smile.

“As long as you promise not to tell my mother.” It was only ten o'clock and she knew they still had three hours.

The elevator rose to the top floor, and Liz followed him to a door directly across the hall without saying a word. He took a key from his pocket and let her inside. It was the most beautiful suite she had ever seen, in a movie or real life, or ever even dreamed of. Everything was white and gold, and done in delicate silks, with fine antiques everywhere, and a chandelier which sparkled over them. The lights were dim, and there were candles burning on a table with a platter of cheese and fruit, and a bottle of champagne chilling in a silver bucket.

Liz looked over at him with a smile, bereft of words at first. He did everything with such style, and he was always so thoughtful. “You're amazing, Mr. Fine … do you know that?”

“I thought if this was going to be our honeymoon, we ought to do it right.” And he had. One couldn't possibly have done it better. The lights were dim in the other room as well. He had rented the suite himself at lunchtime, and he had come upstairs before picking her up to make sure that everything looked right. He had the maid open the bed for them, and there was a beautiful pink peignoir laid out, trimmed in marabou with pink satin slippers to match, and a pink satin nightgown. She discovered it as she walked into the other room, and she gave a little gasp as she saw the beautiful things laid out on the bed, as though they were waiting for a movie star, and not just little old Liz O'Reilly from Chicago.

She said as much to him and he took her in his arms. “Is that who you are? Little old Liz O'Reilly from Chicago? Well, what do you know …and pretty soon you'll be little old Liz Fine from San Francisco.” He kissed her hungrily, and his kisses were answered as he laid her gently on the bed and pushed the peignoir aside. It was the first chance they had had to sate their hunger for each other, and three weeks of desire swept over them like a tidal wave as their clothes melted into a heap on the floor, covered by the pink satin peignoir trimmed in marabou, as their bodies intertwined and her mouth covered every inch of his body. She made every dream he'd ever had come true, and he dazzled her with the heights of passion they reached as they gasped for each other, wanting more and more and more until they lay spent at last, sleepy-eyed, in the dim room, her head on his shoulder, as he played with the long blond hair that hung over her like a satin curtain.

“You are the most beautiful woman I've ever seen … do you know that?”

“You're a beautiful man, Bernie Fine …inside and out.” Her voice was suddenly husky, and she looked into his eyes lovingly and then suddenly burst out laughing when she saw what he had left under her pillow. It was a black lace garter belt with a red rosette and she held it aloft now like a trophy, and then kissed him and they began all over again once she put it on for him. It was the most beautiful night either of them had ever spent, and it was long after one o'clock when they sat in the bathtub in the hotel, and he played with her nipples amidst the soap suds.

“We're never going to get out of here if you start that again.” She smiled sleepily, leaning her head against the luxurious pink marble. She had wanted to call the sitter to tell her they would be late, but Bernie had finally told her he had taken care of it, and Liz had actually blushed when he told her. “You paid her off?” She giggled at the thought.

“I did.” He looked pleased and Liz kissed him.

“I love you so much, Bernie Fine.” He smiled and more than ever he wanted to spend the night with her, but he knew they couldn't, and he was already sorry that he had suggested they get married after Christmas. He couldn't imagine waiting that long, but thinking of it reminded him of the one thing he had forgotten.

“Where are you going?” She looked up in surprise as he climbed out of the tub with soap all over him.

“I'll be right back.” She watched him go. He had a powerful body with broad shoulders and long, graceful legs. It was a body that appealed to her, and she could feel desire gnawing at the pit of her stomach as she watched him, and she lay back in the tub with her eyes closed, waiting for him to return again. He was back only a moment later, and he slid a hand down low over her stomach as he slid back into the water, and before he had a chance to give her what he had brought from the other room, his fingers traveled to where her legs joined and he was exploring her again, his mouth hungry on her lips as, with his other hand, he touched her. They made love this time in the tub, and the sounds of their lovemaking echoed in the pink marble bathroom.

“Shh,” she whispered afterwards, giggling. “They're going to throw us out of here.”

“Either that or sell tickets.” He hadn't felt this good in years and he didn't want it to end. Ever. He had never known another woman like her. And neither of them had made love to anyone in a long, long time, so their hunger was well spent on each other. “By the way, I brought you something before you attacked me.”

“I attacked you …ha!” But she glanced over her shoulder in the direction he was looking. Being with him was like celebrating Christmas every day and she wondered what he was going to surprise her with now …peignoirs …and garter belts and …He had left a shoe box on the side of the tub, and when she opened it, there was a pair of gaudy gold slippers inside with large rhinestones all over them. She laughed, not sure if he was serious or not. “Are these hand-me-downs from Cinderella?” They were actually very tacky and she wasn't quite sure why he had given them to her, but he was looking amused as he watched her. They had huge cube-shaped hunks of glass glued on all over them, and one of them even had a huge rhinestone dangling from the gold bow. “My God!” she gasped, suddenly realizing what he had done. “My God!” She stood straight up in the tub and stared down at him. “Bernie …No! You can't do this!” But he had, and she had seen it. He had carefully pinned a huge diamond engagement ring to one of the gaudy gold bows, and at first it just appeared to be one more ghastly rhinestone like the others. But she had seen the ring, and she was crying as she held the slipper, and he stood up quietly and unpinned it for her. Her hands were shaking too badly, and there were tears pouring down her cheeks as he slipped it on her finger. It was more than eight carats, a simple emerald-cut stone, and the most beautiful ring he had ever seen when he bought it. “Oh, Bernie …” She clung to him as they stood in the bathroom, and he stroked her hair and kissed her, and after he had gently washed the soap off her, and himself, he carried her to the bed in the other room, and made love to her again …this time more gently …slowly … it was like singing in a whisper … or doing a slow delicate dance, moving gracefully together until they could no more, and then he held her close to him as she shuddered with delight and he rose to his own heights beside her.

It was five o'clock in the morning when she got home that night, looking neat and clean, and as though she had been at a teacher's meeting all night. It would have been difficult to believe what she'd been doing. And she apologized profusely to the babysitter for coming home so late, but the woman said she didn't mind, and they both knew why. She'd been asleep for hours anyway, and she closed the door quietly when she left, as Liz sat alone in her living room, looking out at the summer fog, thinking with infinite tenderness of the man she was going to marry, and of how lucky she was to have found him. The huge diamond sparkled on her hand, as tears shimmered in her eyes, and she called him as soon as she got into her bed and they spoke in hushed, romantic whispers for another hour. She couldn't bear to be without him.

Chapter 8

After the trip to Tahoe with Jane, where they all slept in separate bedrooms, and Liz had mentioned several times how great it would be if they could be together all the time, Bernie insisted that she pick out a dress from the store for the opening of the opera. They would be sitting in a box, and it was the most important event of the San Francisco social season. He knew she didn't have anything dressy enough of her own, and he wanted her to pick out something spectacular for the opening.

“You might as well start taking advantage of the store now, sweetheart. There have to be some advantages to working seven days a week.” Although nothing was free, he always enjoyed an enormous discount. And for the first time he enjoyed using it on her.

She went to the store, and after trying on dozens of dresses, she selected one from an Italian designer he loved, a dress which hung in rich velvet folds, in a cognac-colored velvet, encrusted with gold beads and little stones all of which appeared to be semiprecious. At first Liz thought it far too elaborate and wondered if it looked too much like the outlandish slippers he had given her with her engagement ring, but the moment she put it on she realized how magnificent it was. It was cut in a style reminiscent of the Renaissance, with a generous decollete and big full sleeves, and a long sweeping skirt with a small train she could hook to her finger. As she moved around the large fitting room in the designer salon, she felt like a queen, and she giggled as she preened, and then suddenly she was startled as she saw the fitting room door open and heard a familiar voice behind her.

“Find anything?” His eyes danced above the beard when he saw the gown she had on. He had seen it when it arrived from Italy, it had caused quite a stir in the designer salon and was one of the most expensive ones they had, but he didn't look disturbed about it as he watched her. He was mesmerized by how exquisite she looked in the dress, and with his discount it wouldn't be too painful for him. “Wow! The designer should see you in that dress, Liz!” The saleslady smiled at him as well, it was a pleasure seeing someone as pretty as Liz so perfectly molded into a dress which enhanced everything from her golden bronze skin to her eyes to her figure. Bernie strode to where she stood and kissed her as he felt the soft fabric beneath his hands, and the door to the dressing room closed discreetly behind the vendeuse as she left, murmuring something about “look for something else …perhaps some shoes to go with …” She knew her job well, and always performed it with skill and discretion.

“Do you really like it?” Liz' eyes sparkled like one of the gems on the dress as she twirled gracefully for him and her laughter rang out like silver bells in the dressing room. He could almost feel his heart expand with delight just looking at her, and he could hardly wait to show her off at the opera.

“I love it. It was made for you, Liz. Do you see anything else you like?”

She laughed and her tan heightened with a rosy blush. She didn't want to take advantage of him. “I should say not. They wouldn't let me see the price tag on this yet…but I don't think I should even buy this one.” She knew just from the feel of the fabric that she couldn't afford it, but it was fun to dress up, not unlike something Jane would have done in the same circumstances, and she knew Bernie would let her use his discount. But still …

He was smiling at her. She was an amazing girl, and he was suddenly reminded of Isabelle Martin of the distant past, and how different they were. The one who couldn't take enough, the other who wouldn't take at all. He was a lucky man. “You're not buying anything, Mrs. O'Reilly. The dress is a gift from your future husband, along with anything else you see here that you like.”

“Bernie …I …”

He sealed her lips with a kiss and then walked to the door of the dressing room with a last look over his shoulder. “Go look at some shoes to go with it, sweetheart. And come up to the office when you're all through. We'll go to lunch afterwards.” He smiled at her and then disappeared as the saleslady reappeared with an armload of other dresses she thought Liz might like, but Liz absolutely refused to try them. She consented only to try on a pair of shoes to go with the dress and found a beautiful brandy-colored pair of satin evening shoes encrusted with stones that were almost identical. They were the perfect match and Liz looked victorious when she picked Bernie up upstairs, and as they left the store she was chatting happily, telling him about the shoes, how much she loved the dress, and how overwhelmed she was by how much he spoiled her. They walked to Trader Vic's arm in arm, and had a long lazy lunch, teasing and laughing and enjoying the afternoon, and it was with regret that he left her at almost three o'clock. She had to pick up Jane at a friend's. They were both enjoying their liberty before they started school again. They only had a few days left before they went back to school the following Monday.

But the opera was foremost on Liz' mind, and on Friday afternoon she had her hair done and a manicure, and at six o'clock she slipped into the magical dress that he had bought her. She zipped it up carefully, and stood staring at herself for a moment in amazement. Her hair was swept up and caught in a thickly woven gold net she had found during another foray at Wolffs and the shoes peeked out from beneath the heavy velvet folds of her dress, and she heard the doorbell faintly in the distance, and then suddenly Bernie was standing in the doorway of her bedroom looking like a vision himself in white tie and tails and the starched bibfront of an impeccably made English shirt and the diamond studs that had been his grandfather's.

“My God, Liz …” He couldn't say more as he looked at her, and he kissed her carefully so as not to disturb her makeup. “You look so lovely,” he whispered, as Jane watched them from the doorway, forgotten for the moment. “Ready?”

She nodded and then spotted her daughter. Jane looked less than pleased as she watched them. In a way, it pleased her to see her mother looking so pretty, and in another, it troubled her to see them so close. It had been worrying her since Lake Tahoe, and Liz knew they had to say something to her soon about their plans, but in a way she was frightened to tell her. What if she objected to their getting married? Liz knew she liked Bernie, but liking him wasn't enough. And in some ways, Jane considered Bernie her friend, more than her mother's.

“Good night, sweetheart.” Liz stooped to kiss her, and Jane turned away, with angry eyes, and this time she said nothing to Bernie. And as they left the house, for a moment Liz looked worried, but she said nothing to Bernie. She didn't want anything to spoil their magical evening.

They went to the dinner at the Museum of Modern Art first, in the Rolls Bernie had rented for the occasion, and they were rapidly swept into the throng of women in dazzling gowns and ornate jewels, and photographers fighting to take their picture. But Liz felt perfectly at home in their midst and proud on Bernie's arm as she clung tightly to him and the flashbulbs went off all around them. She knew they had taken their photograph too, and Bernie was already becoming known around town as the manager of the city's most elegant store, and many of the expensively dressed women seemed to know him. The museum had been decorated by the local socialites, and was filled with silver and gold balloons and trees that had been sprayed gold. There were beautifully wrapped gifts at each seat, cologne for the men, and a handsome bottle of perfume for the ladies, from Wolffs, of course, and it was easy to recognize their distinctive wrapping on every table.

The crowd pressed them close as they walked into the huge hall where the tables were, and Liz looked up at Bernie with a smile as he squeezed her arm and another photographer took their picture.

“Having fun?” She nodded but it was difficult to call it that. It was a crush of bodies in exquisite evening gowns, and enough jewelry to fill several wheelbarrows had anyone wanted to try. But there was an aura of excitement too. Everyone knew that they were part of an important evening.

Bernie and Liz took their seats at the same table with a couple from Texas, the curator of the museum and his wife, an important customer of Wolffs and her fifth husband, and the mayor and her husband. It was an interesting table, and conversation was rapid and light as the dinner was served and the wines poured, and everyone chatted about their summer, their children, their most recent trips, and the last time they had seen Placido Domingo. He was flying to San Francisco especially to sing?ta??a?a this evening with Renata Scotto, and it would be a treat for the real opera lovers in the crowd, although there were few of those. Opera in San Francisco had more to do with social standing and fashion than it did with any real passion for music. Bernie had heard it said for months, but he didn't care. He was having a good time, and it was fun being out with Liz for such an elegant evening. And Domingo and Scotto were only additional treats as far as he was concerned. He knew very little about opera.

But as they walked across the horseshoe driveway a little later on, to the War Memorial Opera House, even Bernie felt the intensity of the moment. The photographers appeared en masse this time, to photograph everyone going into the opera house, and there was a crowd held back by cordons and police. They had come just to ogle the elegantly dressed crowd on opening night, and Bernie suddenly felt as though he were attending the Academy Awards, only the crowd was staring at him and not at Gregory Peck or Kirk Douglas. It was a heady feeling as he shielded Liz from the eddying movements of the crowd and ushered her into the building and up the stairs to where he knew their box was. They found their seats easily, and he recognized familiar faces all around him, the women anyway. They were all clients of Wolffs. In fact, he was pleased at how many of their gowns he had seen since the evening began. But Liz was by far the most beautiful in her magnificent Renaissance gown, with her hair caught up in the woven threads of gold. He found himself aching to kiss her as others looked at them admiringly, and he pressed her hand gently as the light dimmed, and they held hands through the whole first act. And Domingo and Scotto were extraordinary together. It was a breathtaking evening in every way, and they followed the others to the bar, where the champagne poured like water and the photographers were hard at work again. He knew they had taken Liz' photograph at least fifteen times since the evening began, but she didn't seem to mind it. She looked shy and demure and she felt safe at his side. Everything about her made him want to protect her.

He handed her a glass of champagne, and they stood sipping it and watching the crowd, and suddenly Liz giggled as she looked up at him. “It's funny, isn't it?”

He grinned. It was funny. It was so overwhelmingly elegant, and they all took themselves so seriously that it was difficult to believe that they hadn't been cast backwards into another time when moments like this were infinitely more important. “It's kind of a nice change from one's daily routine though, isn't it, Liz?”

She smiled again and nodded. The next morning she would be at Safeway buying groceries for herself and Jane for the week, and on Monday she would be writing simple additions on a chalkboard. “It makes everything else seem unreal.”

“That should be part of the magic of opera, I think.” He liked the importance of the event in San Francisco, and he liked being part of it. And most of all, he liked sharing it with her. It was a first time for both of them and he wanted to share a lifetime of firsts with her. The lights dimmed then before he could say anything, and then rose again, as a discreet bell sounded in the distance. “We have to go back.” He put down his glass, as did Liz, but he noticed rapidly that no one else did, and when they finally left the bar at the insistence of the bell, most of the crowd from the boxes remained at the bar, talking and laughing and drinking. That was part of the San Francisco tradition too. The bar and its intrigues being, in most instances, far more important than the music.

The boxes were half empty during the second act, theirs as well, but the bar was in full swing when they returned to it during the second intermission. Liz stifled a yawn, with a sheepish glance at Bernie.

“Tired, sweetheart?”

“A little …it's such a big evening.” And they both knew there was more. They were having supper at Trader Vic's afterwards, in the Captain's Cabin. Bernie was already a regular there, and after that they were going to make a quick stop at the opera ball at City Hall. He suspected they wouldn't get home until three or four in the morning, but it was the event that launched San Francisco's social season every year, and it stood out like the largest diamond in the tiara.

Their car was waiting for them in the driveway after the last act, and they climbed into it cozily, and then sped toward Trader Vic's. Even that seemed better than usual tonight as they drank champagne and ate caviar and Bongo Bongo soup and mushroom crepes. And Liz laughed with delight at the message in her fortune cookie. “He will always love you as much as you love him.”

“I like that one.” She beamed happily at him. It had been an incredible evening, and Domingo and Scotto and their entourage had just come in and been seated at a long table in the corner with a great flurry. Numerous people asked for autographs and both artists looked pleased. It had been a remarkable performance. “Thank you for a beautiful evening, sweetheart.”

“It's not over yet.” He patted her hand on the table, and poured her another glass of champagne as she giggled in protest.

“You'll have to carry me out if you give me much more of that.”

“I can manage that.” He put a gentle arm around her and toasted her with his eyes. It was after one when they left Trader Vic's and went on to the opera ball, which was almost anticlimactical after all the earlier events of the evening. Liz was beginning to recognize the faces she had seen earlier, at the museum, the opera, the bar, Trader Vic's, and everyone seemed to be having fun. Even the press had begun to relax and enjoy themselves. By then they had gotten most of the photographs they needed. Although they took another of Liz and Bernie as they circled the floor easily in a graceful waltz that made her dress look even more lovely.

And it was that photograph which ran the next morning. A large photograph of Liz in Bernie's arms, as they circled the floor at the opera ball at City Hall. You could see some of the detail of the dress, but more than that, you could see Liz beaming up into Bernie's face as he held her.

“You really like him, huh, Mom?” Jane had her chin propped up in both hands, and Liz had a terrific headache as they read the newspaper over breakfast the next morning. She had come home at four-thirty and had realized, as the room spun slowly around her as she tried to get to sleep, that they must have consumed at least four or five bottles of champagne that evening. It had been the most beautiful night of her life, but now just the thought of the sparkling wine made her nauseous. And she was in no shape whatsoever to spar with her daughter.

“He's a very nice man, and he likes you a lot, Jane.” It seemed the smartest thing to say and the only thing she could think of.

“I like him too.” But her eyes said she wasn't quite as sure as she had once been. Things had gotten complicated over the summer. And she instinctively sensed the seriousness of their involvement. “How come you go out with him so much?”

Liz' head pounded ominously as she stared at her daughter silently over her coffee. “I like him.” To hell with it. She decided to say it. “Actually I love him.” The woman and the girl stared at each other over the table. She wasn't telling Jane anything she didn't know, but it was the first time Jane had heard the words and she didn't think she liked them. “I love him.” Liz' voice wobbled on the last word and she hated herself for it.

“So? … So what?” Jane got up and flounced away from the table as her mother's eyes grabbed her back.

“What's wrong with that?”

“Who said there was something wrong?”

“You did, by the way you're acting. He loves you, too, you know.”

“Yeah? How do you know?” There were tears in Jane's eyes now, and Liz' head was throbbing.

“I know because he told me.” She stood up and walked slowly to her child, wondering just how much she should tell her and tempted to say it all. She had to tell her eventually, and maybe it was better sooner than later. She sat down on the couch and pulled Jane onto her lap. The little body was stiff, but she didn't fight her. “He wants to marry us.” Her mother's voice was soft in the quiet room, and Jane couldn't fight back the tears any longer. She buried her face as she sobbed and clung to her mother. There were tears in Liz' eyes, too, as she held the little girl that had once been her baby, and in some ways always would be. “I love him, sweetheart. …”

“Why? … I mean why do we have to marry him? We were okay just us.”

“Were we? Didn't you ever wish we had a daddy?”

The sobbing stopped, but only for a moment. “Sometimes. But we did okay without one.” And she still had the illusion of the father she had never known, the “handsome actor” who had died when she was a baby.

“Maybe we'd do better with a daddy. Did you ever think of that?”

Jane sniffed as Liz held her. “You'd have to sleep in his bed and I couldn't get into bed with you anymore on Saturday and Sunday mornings.”

“Sure you could.” But they both knew it would be different, and in some ways it was sad and in other ways it was happy. “Think of all the good stuff we could do with him … go to the beach, and go for drives, and go sailing, and …think of what a nice man he is, baby.”

Jane nodded. She couldn't deny that. She was too fair to ever try maligning him. “I guess I kind of like him …even with the beard …” She smiled up at her mother through her tears and then asked what she really wanted to know. “Will you still love me if you have him?”

“Always.” The tears spilled onto Liz' cheeks as she held her. “Always and always and always.”

Chapter 9

Jane and Liz started buying all the bride magazines, and when they finally went to Wolffs together to pick out their dresses for the wedding, Jane was not only resigned, she was beginning to enjoy it. They spent an hour in the children's department, looking for just the right dress for Jane and they finally found it. It was white velvet with a pink satin sash, and a tiny pink rosebud at the neck, and it was exactly what Jane wanted. And they were equally successful finding a dress for Liz. And afterwards Bernie took them to lunch at the Saint Francis.

And the following week in New York, Berman had already heard the news. News traveled fast in retail circles, and Bernie was an important man at Wolffs. Berman called him with curiosity and amusement.

“Holding out on me, are you?” There was a smile in Berman's voice and Bernie felt sheepish replying.

“Not really.”

“I hear Cupid has struck a blow on the West Coast. Is it rumor or truth?” He was pleased for his longtime friend and he wished him well. Whoever she was, he was sure Bernie had made a wise choice, and he hoped to meet her.

“It's true, but I wanted to tell you myself, Paul.”

“Then go ahead. Who is she? All I know is that she bought a wedding dress on the fourth floor.” He laughed. They lived in a tiny world run by rumors and gossip.

“Her name is Liz, and she's a second-grade teacher. She's originally from Chicago, went to Northwestern, is twenty-seven years old, and has a delicious little girl named Jane who is five years old. And we're getting married right after Christmas.”

“It all sounds very wholesome. What's her last name?”

“O'Reilly.”

Paul roared. He had met Mrs. Fine several times. “What did your mother say?”

Bernie smiled too. “I haven't told her yet.”

“Let us know when you do. We should be hearing the sonic boom over here, or has she mellowed in recent years?”

“Not exactly.”

Berman smiled again. “Well, I wish you the best of luck. Will I be seeing Liz with you when you come east next month?” Bernie had to go to New York, and then Europe, but Liz was not planning to go along. She had to work, and take care of Jane, and they were looking for a house to rent for the next year. There was no point buying if they were going back to New York so soon.

“I think she'll be busy here. But we'd love to see you at the wedding.” They had already ordered the invitations, at Wolffs, of course. But the wedding was going to be small. They didn't want more than fifty or sixty people. It was going to be a simple lunch somewhere, and then they were leaving for Hawaii. Tracy, Liz' friend from school, had already promised to stay with Jane at the new house while they were away, which was helpful.

“When is it?” Bernie told him. “I'll try to come And I imagine now you may not be in such a hurry to get back to New York.” Bernie's heart sank at the words.

“That's not necessarily true. I'm going to be looking for schools for Jane in New York when I'm there, and Liz will look at them with me next spring.” He wanted Berman to feel pressured to bring him home, but there was no sound at the other end as Bernie frowned. “We want to have her enrolled for next September.”

“Right…. Well, I'll see you in New York in a few weeks. And congratulations.” Bernie sat staring into space afterwards and that night he said something to Liz. He was worried.

“Christ, I'll be damned if I'll let them stick me here for three years like they did in Chicago.”

“Can you talk to him when you go east?”

“I intend to.”

But when he did, when he was in New York, Paul Berman wouldn't commit himself to a sure return date.

“You've only been there for a few months. You have to get the branch on its feet for us, Bernard. That was always our understanding.”

“It's doing beautifully, and I've been there for eight months.”

“But the store has only been open for less than five. Give it another year. You know how badly we need you. The tone of that store will be set for years by what you're doing there right now, and you're the best man we have.”

“Another year is an awfully long time.” To Bernie it felt like a lifetime.

“Let's talk about it in six months.” Paul was putting Bernie off, and he was depressed when he left the store that night. It was the wrong frame of mind to meet with his parents. He had made a date with them at La Cote Basque, because he explained that he didn't have time to go out to Scarsdale. And he knew how anxious his mother was to see him. He had bought her a beautiful handbag that afternoon, a beige lizard with a tiger's eye clasp that was the latest from Gucci. It was a work of art more than a handbag and he hoped she'd like it. But his heart was heavy as he walked from his hotel to the restaurant. It was one of those beautiful October nights, when the weather is perfect for exactly two minutes, and the way it is in San Francisco all year round. But because it's so rare, in New York, it always seems much more special.

But everything seemed alive as the taxis swirled past, and the horns honked, and even the sky looked clear as elegantly dressed women darted from cabs to restaurants, and in and out of limousines wearing fabulous suits and brilliantly hued coats, on their way to plays and concerts and dinner parties. And it suddenly reminded him of everything he had been missing for the past eight months, and he wished that Liz were there with him, and he promised himself that the next time he would bring her. With luck, he could plan his spring business trip while she had Easter vacation.

He went quickly through the revolving door at La Cote Basque and took a deep breath of the elite ambience of his favorite restaurant. The murals were even prettier than he remembered and the light was soft as beautifully bejeweled women in black dresses lined the banquettes watching passersby and chatting with dozens of men, all in gray suits, as though in uniform, but they all had the same air of money and power.

He looked around and said a word to the maitre d'hotel. His parents were already there, seated at a table for four in the rear, and when he reached them his mother reached out to him with a look of anguish and clung to his neck as though she were drowning.

It was a style of greeting which embarrassed him profoundly, and then made him hate himself for not being happier to see her.

“Hi, Mom.”

“That's all you have to say after eight months? 'Hi, Mom'?” She looked shocked, as she relegated her husband to a chair so she could sit next to Bernie on the banquette. He felt as though everyone in the room were staring at them as she scolded him for being so unfeeling.

“It's a restaurant, Mom. You can't make a scene here, that's all.”

“You call that a scene? You don't see your mother for eight months, and you barely say hello to her, and that's a scene?” He wanted to crawl under the table. Everyone within fifty feet could hear her talking.

“I saw you in June.” His voice was deliberately low, but he should have known better than to argue with her.

“That was in San Francisco.”

“That counts too.”

“Not when you're so busy you can't even see me.” It had been when the store opened, but he had still managed to spend time with them, not that she would admit it.

“You look great.” It was definitely time to change the subject. His father was ordering a bourbon on the rocks for himself and a Rob Roy for his mother, and Bernie ordered a kir.

“What kind of a drink is that?” His mother looked suspicious.

“I'll let you try it when it comes. It's very light. You look wonderful, Mom.” He tried again, sorry that the conversations were always between himself and his mother. He couldn't remember the last time he and his father had had a serious talk, and he was surprised he hadn't brought his medical journals to Cote Basque with him.

The drinks arrived and he took a sip of the kir, held it out to her, and she refused it. He was trying to decide if he should tell her about Liz before or after they ate. If he told her after, she would always accuse him of being dishonest with her all night by not telling her first. If he told her before, she might make a scene and embarrass him further. After was safer in some ways, before was more honest. He took a big swallow of the kir and decided on before. “I have some good news for you, Mom.” He could actually hear his voice tremble, and she looked at him with hawk-like eyes, sensing that this was important.

“You're moving back to New York?” Her words turned the knife in his heart.

“Not yet. But one of these days. No, better than that.”

“You got a promotion?”

He held his breath. He had to end the guessing game. “I'm getting married.” Everything stopped. It was as though someone had pulled her plug as she stared silently at him. It felt like a full five minutes before she spoke again, and as usual, his father said nothing.

“Would you care to explain that?”

He felt as though he had just told them he had been arrested for selling drugs and something way deep down inside him began to get angry. “She's a wonderful girl, Mom. You'll love her. She's twenty-seven years old, and the most beautiful girl you've ever seen. She teaches second grade,” which proved that she was wholesome at least. She was not a go-go dancer or a cocktail waitress or a stripper. “And she has a little girl named Jane.”

“She's divorced.”

“Yes, she is. Jane is five.”

His mother searched his eyes, wanting to know what the hitch was. “How long have you known her?”

“Since I moved to San Francisco,” he lied, feeling ten years old again, and fumbling for the photographs he had brought. They were pictures of Liz and Jane at Stinson Beach, and they were very endearing. He handed them to his mother, who passed them on to his father, who admired the pretty young woman and the little girl, as Ruth Fine stared at her son, wanting to know the truth.

“Why didn't you introduce her to us in June?” Obviously, that meant she had a limp, a cleft palate, or a husband she still lived with.

“I didn't know her then.”

“You mean you've only known her a few weeks, and you're getting married?” She made it impossible to explain anything to her and then she moved in for the coup de grace. She went straight to the heart of the matter. And maybe it was just as well. “Is she Jewish?”

“No, she's not.” He thought she was going to faint, and he couldn't suppress a smile at the look on her face. “Don't look like that for chrissake. Not everyone is, you know.”

“Enough people are so you could find one. What is she?” Not that it mattered. She was just torturing herself now, but he decided to get it all over with at once.

“She's Catholic. Her name is O'Reilly.”

“Oh my God.” She closed her eyes and slumped in her chair, and for a moment he thought she had really fainted. In sudden fright he turned to his father, who calmly waved a hand, indicating that it was nothing. She opened her eyes a moment later and looked at her husband. “Did you hear what he said? Do you know what he's doing? He's killing me. And does he care? No, he doesn't care.” She started to cry, and made a great show of opening her bag, taking out her handkerchief, and dabbing at her eyes, while the people at the next table watched and the waiter hovered, wondering if they were going to order dinner.

“I think we should order.” Bernie spoke in a calm voice and she snapped at him.

“You …you can eat. Me, I would have a heart attack at the table.”

“Order some soup,” her husband suggested.

“It would choke me.” Bernie would have liked to choke her himself.

“She is a wonderful girl, Mom. You're going to love her.”

“You've made up your mind?” He nodded. “When is the wedding?”

“December twenty-ninth.” He purposely didn't say the words “after Christmas.” But she began to cry again anyway.

“Everything is planned, everything is arranged …the date …the girl …nobody tells me anything. When did you decide all this? Is this why you went to California?” It was endless. It was going to be a very long evening.

“I met her once I moved out there.”

“How? Who introduced you? Who did this to me?” She was dabbing at her eyes again as the soup arrived.

“I met her through the store.”

“How? On the escalator?”

“For chrissake, Mom, stop it!” He pounded the table and his mother jumped, as did the people at the tables next to them. “I'm getting married. Period. I am thirty-five years old. I am marrying a lovely woman. And frankly, I don't give a damn if she's Buddhist. She's a good woman, a good person, and a good mother, and that is good enough for me.” He dug into his own soup with a vengeance as his mother stared at him.

“Is she pregnant?”

“No.”

“Then why do you have to get married so soon? Wait a while.”

“I've waited thirty-five years, that's long enough.”

She sighed, and looked at him mournfully. “Have you met her parents?”

“No. They're dead.” For a moment, Ruth almost looked sorry for her, but she would never have admitted it to Bernie. Instead, she sat and suffered in silence, and it was only when coffee was served that he remembered the gift he had brought her. He handed it across the table, and she shook her head and refused to take it.

“This is not a night I want to remember.”

“Take it anyway. You'll like it.” He felt like throwing it at her, and reluctantly she took the box and put it on the seat next to her, like a bomb rigged to go off within the hour.

“I don't understand how you can do this.”

“Because it's the best thing I've ever done.” It suddenly depressed him to think of how difficult his mother was. It would have been so much simpler if she could be happy for him, and congratulate him. He sighed and sat back against the banquette after he took a sip of coffee. “I take it you don't want to come to the wedding.”

She started to cry again, using her napkin to dab at her eyes instead of her hankie. She looked at her husband as though Bernie weren't there. “He doesn't even want us at his wedding.” She cried harder and louder and Bernie thought he had never been as exhausted.

“Mom, I didn't say that. I just assumed …”

“Don't assume anything!” she snapped at him, recovering momentarily and then lapsing back into playing Camille for her husband. “I just can't believe this has happened.” Lou patted her hand and looked at his son.

“It's difficult for her, but she'll get used to it eventually.”

“What about you, Dad?” Bernie looked at him directly. “Is it all right with you?” It was crazy, but in a way he wanted his father's blessing. “She's a wonderful girl.”

“I hope she makes you happy.” His father smiled at him, and patted Ruth's hand again. “I think I'll take your mother home now. She's had a hard night.” She glared at both of them, and began to open the package Bernie had brought her. She had the box open and the handbag out of the tissue paper a moment later.

“It's very nice.” Her lack of enthusiasm was easily discerned as she looked at her son, attempting to convey the extent of the emotional damage he had caused her. If she could have sued him, she would have. “I never wear beige.” Except every other day, but Bernie did not point that out to her. He knew that the next time he saw her she would be wearing the bag.

“I'm sorry. I thought you'd like it.”

She nodded, as though humoring him, and Bernie insisted on picking up the check, and as they all walked out of the restaurant, she grabbed his arm. “When are you coming back to New York?”

“Not until spring. I leave for Europe tomorrow, and I'm flying back to San Francisco from Paris.” He felt less than pleased with her after what she had just put him through, and he was not warm toward her.

“You can't stop in New York for one night?” She looked crushed.

“I don't have time. I have to be back at the store for an important meeting. I'll see you at the wedding, if you come.”

She didn't answer at first, and then she looked at him just before she entered the revolving door. “I want you to come home for Thanksgiving. This will be the last time.” And with those words, she passed through the revolving door and emerged again on the street, where she waited for Bernie.

“I'm not going to prison, Mother. I'm getting married, so this is not the last anything. And hopefully, next year, I'll be living in New York again, and we can all have Thanksgiving together.”

“You and that girl? What's her name again?” She looked at him mournfully, pretending to have a memory lapse, when he knew perfectly well that she could have recited every single detail she'd heard about “that girl,” and probably described the photographs in detail too.

“Her name is Liz. And she's going to be my wife. Try to remember that.” He kissed her and hailed a cab. He didn't want to delay their departure a moment longer. And they had to pick up their car, which they'd parked near his father's office.

“You won't come for Thanksgiving?” She hung out of the cab, crying at him again as he shook his head, and physically pushed her inside to her seat, in the guise of assistance.

“I can't. I'll talk to you when I get back from Paris.”

“I have to talk to you about the wedding.” She was hanging out the window and the driver was starting to snarl.

“There's nothing left to say. It's on December twenty-ninth, at Temple Emanuel, and the reception is at a little hotel she loves in Sausalito.” His mother would have asked him if she was a hippie but she didn't have time as Lou gave the driver the address of his office.

“I don't have anything to wear.”

“Go to the store and pick something you like. I'll take care of it for you.”

And then she suddenly realized what he had said. They were getting married at the temple. “She's willing to get married in temple?” She looked surprised. She didn't think Catholics did things like that, but she was divorced anyway. Maybe she'd been excommunicated or something like that.

“Yes. She's willing to get married in temple. You'll like her, Mom.” He touched his mother's hand, and she smiled at him, her eyes still damp.

“Mazel tov.” And with that, she pulled back into the cab, and they roared off thundering over the potholes, as he heaved a huge sigh of relief. He had done it.

Chapter 10

They spent Thanksgiving at Liz' apartment with Jane, and Liz' friend, Tracy. She was a pleasant woman in her early forties. Her children were grown and gone. One was at Yale and wasn't coming home for the holidays, the other, a daughter, was married and lived in Philadelphia. Her husband had died fourteen years before, and she was one of those cheerful, strong people whom misfortune had struck often and hard, and yet managed not to be a downer. She grew plants and loved to cook, she had cats, and a large Labrador, and she lived in a tiny apartment in Sausalito. She and Liz had become friends when Liz had first begun to teach, and she had helped her with Jane frequently during those first difficult years when Liz was saddled with a very young child and no money. Sometimes she babysat for her just so she could scrape a few dollars together and go to a movie. And there was nobody happier than Tracy over Liz' sudden good fortune. She had already agreed to be matron of honor at the wedding, and Bernie was surprised at how much he liked her.

She was tall and spare and wore Birkenstock shoes, and she came from Washington State, and had never been to New York. She was a warm earthy person, totally foreign to his more sophisticated ways, and she thought he was the best thing to have ever happened to Liz. And he was perfect for her. Perfect in the way her husband had been before he died. Like two people carved from the same piece of wood, made to fit, made to blend, made to be together. She had never found anyone like him again, and she had stopped trying a long time since. She was content with her simple life in Sausalito, a few good friends, and the children she taught. And she was saving money to go to Philadelphia to see her grandchild.

“Can't we help her, Liz?” Bernie asked her once. It embarrassed him to drive an expensive car, buy expensive clothes, give Liz an eight-carat diamond ring and Jane a four hundred dollar antique doll for her birthday when Tracy was literally saving pennies to see a grandchild she had never seen in Philadelphia. “It's just not right.”

“I don't think she'd take anything from us.” It still amazed her to no longer have to worry, although she was adamant with Bernie that she would take no money from him before the wedding. But he was burying her in extravagant presents.

“Won't she at least take a loan?” And finally, unable to stand it any longer, he had broached the subject with Tracy after they cleared the table on Thanksgiving. It was a quiet moment while Liz put Jane to bed, and he looked at her as they sat by the fire.

“I don't know how to ask you this, Tracy.” In some ways, it was worse than battling his mother, because he knew how proud Tracy was. But he liked her enough to at least try it.

“You want to go to bed with me, Bernie? I'd be delighted.” She had a wonderful sense of humor and her face was still that of a very young girl. She had one of those fresh, clear-skinned, blue-eyed faces that never grew old, like old nuns, and certain women in England. And like them, she always had dirt under her nails from her garden. She often brought them roses, and lettuce and carrots, and tomatoes.

“Actually, I was thinking of something else.” He took a deep breath and plunged in, and a moment later she was in tears and silently reached out to him and held his hand tight in her own. She had strong cool hands that had held two children and a husband she loved, and she was the kind of woman one wished had been one's mother.

“You know, if it were something else …like a dress, or a car, or a house, I'd turn you down flat…but I want to see that baby so much … I'd only take it as a loan.” And she insisted on traveling standby to save him money. And finally, unable to stand it any longer, he went to the airlines himself, bought her a business-class ticket on a flight to Philadelphia, and they saw her off the week before Christmas. It was their wedding gift to her, and it meant everything to her. And she promised to be home on the twenty-seventh, two days before the wedding.

Christmas was hectic for all of them. He managed to take Jane to see Santa Claus at the store, and they celebrated Chanukah too that year. But they were so busy moving into the new house that everything seemed doubly hectic. Bernie moved into it on the twenty-third, and Jane on the twenty-seventh. Tracy came back that night and they picked her up at the airport, and she just beamed, and cried as she hugged all three of them and told them about the baby.

“He's got two teeth! Can you beat that at five months!” She was so proud that they teased her all the way home, and took her to their new house to show her their progress It was a cute little Victorian on Buchanan, teetering on a hill, right near a park where Liz could take Jane after school. It was exactly what they wanted, and they had rented it for a year. Bernie was hoping they'd be gone before that, but the store could buy out his lease if they had to.

“When are your parents coming in, Bernie?”

“Tomorrow night.” He sighed. “It's like waiting for a visitation from Attila the Hun.” Tracy laughed. She would be grateful to him for a lifetime for the trip he had given her, and he had absolutely refused to make it a loan.

“Can I call her Grandma?” Jane asked with a yawn, as they sat in their new living room. It felt good to be living under one roof finally, and not running around between three places.

“Sure you can call her Grandma,” Bernie answered casually, silently praying that his mother would let her. And a little while later, Tracy took her car out of their garage and drove home to Sausalito, and Liz climbed into their new bed in their new house and put her arms around Bernie's neck. She was snuggling up next to him when they heard a small voice next to the bed and Bernie jumped a foot as Jane tapped him on the shoulder.

“I'm scared.”

“Of what?” He was attempting to look very proper as Liz lay under the covers and giggled.

“I think there's a monster under my bed.”

“No, there's not. I checked the whole house before we moved in. Honest.” He tried to look sincere, but he was still embarrassed to be caught in bed with her mother.

“Then it got in afterwards…. The moving men brought it.” She sounded genuinely upset and Liz emerged from the sheets to look at her daughter with a raised eyebrow.