Manhunt. Volume 3, Number 2, February, 1955

Amabelle had always wanted to go to New York. But she had a special reason for wanting to go there alone...

1

Arthur and Annabelle had gone to college together. They had been good friends in college, nothing more. Arthur, as a student, had been lacking in self-confidence, and had not been at all aware of the attraction of his personality, the power of his mind, and the appeal he had to others, especially to girls. Annabelle had seemed to him to be both a beautiful and an intelligent girl. At times, when they were both at dances or parties, he would feel a desire for her, but he never knew how to act upon it. He was checked by his own timidity. He was afraid to make his desire known to Annabelle, afraid of rejection. So they had been merely friends in college.

Annabelle was tall, dark and stately. She was both handsome and healthy-looking. She had a frank face and manner, dark eyes which shone and sparkled, a well-formed face, and a shapely, if rather large, figure. She was very popular, well-liked and gay in the company of others. Her parents had both died, and she had been raised by an uncle. She was deeply attached to the memory of her father, spoke of him often, and believed that, had he lived, he would have been a great man. He had been a very successful lawyer and, also, he had been cultivated. He had read much, gone to plays, enjoyed music and painting. He had been extremely fond of his daughter, had played with her when she was a tot, had often taken her out on walks, to the zoo, on expeditions about Chicago. His death, which came suddenly as a result of a heart attack, had almost shattered her. For over a year, she had been a meek little girl, secretly believing that she had, in some way, been responsible for his death.

She couldn’t remember her mother well. Her mother had died when she was five. Annabelle recalled her as a tall and rather nervous woman who had sometimes fondled her, and sometimes ignored her. Annabelle had actually been raised by a kindly old lady, hired as a housekeeper by her father. This old lady, Mrs. Norman, was a widow, and had raised a family and buried three husbands. She was big and firm and superstitious and authoritative, but Annabelle had loved her. Then, upon the death of her father, she had gone to live with her Uncle Allan, a kindly, but meek, rich business man. She grew up in a kindness of neglect. She had great freedom, and was allowed out on dates when she was fifteen. She had had several experiences with boys, and one with a business associate of her uncle, all by the time that she was eighteen.

In college, she had two boy friends, one a young fellow who smoked a pipe, wore tweeds, sported a slouch hat, and was heralded as a promising young writer. The other was a basketball player, a tall, fine-looking blondish lad who was kindly, gentle and unsophisticated. Many others tried to attract her, but she was always able to take care of herself. She was somewhat brisk in manner, a fair student, and had literary tastes that ran towards newer and modern writers. She refused to join a club, and was inclined to associate with the more bohemian students. She tried acting in the campus theatrical group and, while she was told that she was very promising, she didn’t believe this, and abandoned any hopes or dreams of a career as an actress. She wrote a few mediocre poems, one of which was published in a local magazine. Then, she realized that she was not a poet. By the time she was graduated, she had decided that she was not the type to have a career, and thought that marriage, on comfortable terms, would be the most satisfying way in which she could spend her life. But at that time, she did not want to have children. She wanted a gay and sophisticated married life, crowded with affairs, with parties, bridge, dances, trips, teas and the like.

Annabelle married Benny Hedges, a famous football player from a Big Ten university, a youth whose exploits had been heralded nationally in the press, and who had been responsible for his school winning the Big Ten Conference title. He seemed to be not only a great athlete, but also intelligent. He had made Phi Beta Kappa, read literature, and was, or seemed to be, more than an athlete. When they married, their friends commented on the appearance of the bride and groom, both tall, handsome and looking so healthy. But the marriage had been a miserable failure. Annabelle’s husband was shallow, and had been spoiled by his fame and his college success. He coached for a year, but was let out. He drifted about from job to job, working as a salesman, as an advertising copywriter and as a high-school gridiron official. He took to drinking rather heavily, became fat and bloated, and at home he constantly demanded attention. He liked to stand before her and elicit admiration.

She had decided to leave him before he was killed in an accident after he had gotten drunk at an old grad meeting. Driving recklessly, he had smashed into a truck, and his body had been mangled. Annabelle wasted no tears on her dead husband. She had come to feel that he was no good. She had already made up her mind to leave him.

Soon afterward, she had married an ambitious young lawyer named Harry Torenson. She seemed happy with him. He was struggling to get ahead on his own, but his family had money and their life was comfortable and easy. Of the plodding type, he was considerate, honest, fair in his dealings, and devoted to Annabelle. He never mentioned her first marriage, and showed no jealousy of the famous Benny Hedges. They went out a great deal, and spent weekends in the country near Chicago. In winter, they liked to go up to a cabin owned by Harry’s brother, to walk in the snow, drink, or sit watching the log fire. They seemed to be a happy couple.

Harry slowly developed his own practice. He became a moderately successful but unspectacular lawyer. As the years passed, and they both grew into their thirties, he became dull and predictable. He was always sweet, always considerate. Although he seemed to want children, he deferred to Annabelle’s wishes, and they had no children. Annabelle became bored and restless. She went away on several vacations to New York, to California, and to Florida. Each time, she went, hoping to have some romantic love affair, but she had none. She was afraid. On each of these vacations, she danced with men and allowed them to kiss her, but at the final moment, she would evade them, slip out of their arms, refuse them.

She returned from each vacation, looking wonderful in a physical sense, seeming young and healthy and as full of energy as ever. But inwardly, she was growing more and more dissatisfied with herself, and she was secretly beginning to resent her husband. She resented him doubly because she believed that he had trapped her with his sweetness and fairness, his trust and loyalty. He was just too goddamned good. And she decided that she wasn’t good.

Her marriage had become empty. She could not face the decision of telling Harry. She began to feel guilty towards him, as though she had betrayed him. And she developed a sense of insincere responsibility towards him. She believed that he depended on her, totally, and that if she were to be unfaithful to him, and worse, to leave him, he would be crushed. He might even never get over it.

She had a maid, and they had a big apartment. She had little to do. Sometimes, she cooked, and as often as they stayed home for dinner, they went out. She didn’t particularly like movies, but she saw many of them in the afternoons, just because she couldn’t think of any way to occupy her time. And she was given more and more to dreaming of illicit love affairs. How convenient it would be. She could have her lover come to her in the afternoons. There was no danger. Harry was always at the office. She felt that she needed an experience such as this in order to restore to her sense of life. She felt chained. She didn’t love Harry, but she respected him. He was kind and simple, trusting, and he was able to provide her with an easy life.

She didn’t know what to do. It was depressing to think not only of spending the rest of her life with him, but also of being loveless, and of never being held in the arms of any other man.

She had opportunities, but she was always frightened off. She always drew back when it came for her to say yes or no. And because she did, she began to look down on many men. Why did they take no for an answer? Why didn’t they demand yes? Why didn’t they keep insisting and persisting until she was overpowered, until she lost all reason and swooned into their arms? Men were a bad breed. They were not really lovers. And she wanted a lover.

2

Often, she would think of Arthur. Some time or other, she knew that she would meet him again. She was convinced of that. He would come to Chicago, or she would manage a trip to New York, and he would be there, and they would meet, and perhaps then, then she would be held by him and kissed by him. She had always been attracted to him. But he had been shy. He had not seemed to realize that she had liked him, had felt drawn to him. Of all the boys she had known back in her ’teens, she was inclined to believe that she respected him the most. On a number of occasions, they had sat together in the Coffee Shop, had walked on the campus or sat on the Midway, talking, but he had never made a move. They had treated each other as good friends, and as nothing else. Maybe if she had known how to give him encouragement, something might have happened. But perhaps it was all for the best, because if it had happened then, it might be washed out now. As it was she could dream and hope and imagine a meeting, a rendezvous.

She often thought of him. He had become a successful newspaperman with a by-line for a New York paper. What had that done to him? She often speculated on this question. He must be different, she reasoned. He must now be experienced in every possible way, and sophisticated. He must have had many women. He was married and had a family. So she had heard. Was he happy? Did he ever think of her? What was he like?

One day, bored, frustrated by her own daydreams and reveries, glumly looking forward to spending the long evening with Harry, she dropped Arthur a note. She then pretended that he would not answer it. But she believed that he would. In the note, she said that she might be coming to New York, and that if she did, and for the sake of auld lang syne, she had thought she might look him up. In a few days, she received a brief but friendly answer, asking her by all means to look him up if she came to New York.

The first idea she had had of making such a trip had come to her as she had dashed off the note. But now, she decided that she would make the trip. She was certain that Harry would be agreeable. Yet she became diffident and fearful. She did not want him to suspect anything, though she knew’ that there was nothing to suspect, nothing but her intentions. She became fearful that she might give herself away, and she tried to seem more ardent than ever, and she was otherwise attentive to him. Especially when they were in public together, or when they had friends at their home, she put on the act of being a loving and happy wife. Still she delayed suggesting that she take the trip.

She couldn’t understand herself why she did. She woke up several mornings in succession, planning to broach the subject to Harry, but each time she failed, losing her nerve and just not doing it. Then, she began to tell him that she was getting bored and restless and becoming nervous. He suggested that she find tilings to do, join a club, read more, and she agreed to do this, but didn’t. She was maneuvering Harry into agreeing that she take a trip alone to New York. Her dreams, her fantasies, her desires, which she couldn’t fulfill, troubled her, perhaps even more than they might have if she had actually had any affairs.

Then, suddenly, one morning at breakfast, she told Harry that she thought a trip to New York and a chance to see the new shows and to buy a few things would be good for her. Harry agreed.

3

Annabelle took the Twentieth Century to New York to stay for one week. Passionately kissing Harry goodbye at the La Salle Street Station, she kept hoping that something would happen to her, that she would have the romantic experience which she believed that she needed. And, since she had written to Arthur, she looked forward to seeing him. On the train, she imagined, also, that she might meet someone, perhaps a movie actor. But then, she guessed that movie actors now took planes. She would have gone by plane had she not been afraid to.

The train ride was disappointing. She met no romantic males. She had brought along three contemporary novels which her friends were talking about, but she was too restless to read. She sat in the club car, hoping that someone would talk to her, but nothing happened. And then, she sat in her roomette, moodily looking out of the window at the night outside. She slept badly. She was glad to get off the train and, in great excitement, she took a cab to the hotel at which she was staying.

But, once in her hotel room, she became lost and lonely, and felt fatigued. She was now on her trip, the trip on which she had worked for some weeks. Now she was in a position to have the experiences she craved. She was afraid. She had a whole week in which to do only what she wanted. This, also, frightened her. And maybe, she thought, looking at herself in the mirror and imagining that she looked tired, maybe she would just seem like one more provincial in sophisticated New York. And if she did have the experiences she wanted, maybe it would break up her marriage with Harry, and Harry would be crushed. Maybe this would all end in tragedy.

She didn’t want to have a tragedy or a mess on her hands. She didn’t want to hurt Harry. But she was free for one week.

Annabelle decided to take a bath and a rest and, then, she would be in better shape and could plan what she would do.

4

Arthur was pleased when Annabelle phoned him. He remembered her rather warmly. He had always liked her and, on and off through the years, he had sometimes reflected on how he might have made love to her if he had tried. He had been shy in those days, and a girl like Anna-belle had seemed to him to be too sophisticated, too smart for him. He wouldn’t have dared to make a pass at her. He wouldn’t have known how. Since then, he had learned.

But he had no great regrets because of his past shyness. He was contented with his life, and more or less satisfied with what he was doing. If he and Annabelle had married, his life would have been different. His wife, Helene, was a quiet and easy-going woman, a good wife and mother. She didn’t ask him too many questions, didn’t suspect his occasional philanderings and affairs, affairs which he saw as practically inevitable in the kind of work he did. And she was the mother of his two girls. He was fond of the girls, and if he had married any one other than Helene, he would not have been the father of these two fine and beautiful kids.

He had worked hard, had gotten good breaks, and had had an interesting and comfortable life. At thirty-seven, he was confident of himself, and ambitious. He had a future. He was too old for the draft and, if worst came to worst, he would always be able to angle himself a war correspondent’s job. This would give him greater opportunity, and it might set him off to writing a book. He had always wanted to write a book, but had never gotten around to doing it. Someday, he would. He was-reasonably confident of that.

He was tallish, youthful-looking, dark-haired and clean-cut. He dressed neatly, walked with a brisk and confident air, was well-liked, got on easily with people, was respected by his colleagues and superiors, and took great pride in seeing his name as a by-line name, day after day in the newspapers. He considered himself to be a first-rate newspaperman, and was proud of himself and of his profession.

He had gotten that note from Annabelle, and it had pleased him. He recalled that he had dashed off an answer, and once or twice had imagined her coming to New York, and then it had dropped out of his mind. Her phone call had also pleased him.

Her voice on the phone sounded young and friendly. He was glad she had called. She got him at a time when he was free for lunch. He liked to lunch with someone, and this would be pleasant. Always in his college days, he had found her friendly. They would talk about the old days, he would impress her with the way that he had developed, and he would learn about what had happened to old friends. Also, he would learn about what had happened to Annabelle. And who knew, perhaps... He was not amiss to a little adventure. In fact, it would be charming, and novel, and he would like it. Such adventures were like renewals of life and youth to him. In odd moments, he would occupy himself in remembering them with pleasure. He drew confidence in himself from these memories. Adventures like this went with the idea he had of his personality, and they proved to him that he led an interesting life.

So, he and Annabelle met for lunch. He took her to a restaurant downtown, near the office. He was known there. It was old, and had an air of the early 1900’s about it. He thought that this would impress her.

When they had met in front of the restaurant, they looked at one another curiously, and then they smiled. Each was satisfied with the looks of the other. The years had not, as yet, aged them, nor written any signs of damage on their faces. Then, smiling and shaking his hand, Annabelle said:

“The least you could do is to give an old friend a chaste kiss.”

“Of course, darling, but it must be chaste. I’m a married man, you know.”

He kissed the cheek she held up to him. They went inside. He was greeted as a regular customer by the head waiter. They were ushered to a chair in a corner.

“This is a rather pleasant place,” he said. “I like it and come here often.”

“Yes, it is. Is it a haunt of newspapermen?”

“Well, a few come here.” He looked around. “I don’t see any here today.”

She was smiling.

“Were you surprised when I wrote you that note?”

“Yes, but it was a happy surprise. And you’re a bigger surprise than your note was. You look so young and charming.”

“Thank you, Arthur, you always were a darling, even if you didn’t know it.”

“Now that we have, as old friends, exchanged compliments, let’s have a drink to celebrate. What’ll you have?”

She looked at the wine card which the waiter had set before them, couldn’t make up her mind, looked at it a second time and, after he had ordered a dry martini for himself, she also chose a dry martini.

“Now,” Arthur said, leaning across the table, “tell me, Annabelle, are you as happy as you look?”

She hesitated a moment. Then she said:

“Yes.”

However, her reply was not convincing, and Arthur mentally took note of this.

“I was saying, I was thinking of our college days, and naturally I remembered you.”

“How kind of you,” he said.

“Arthur, we were good friends, weren’t we?”

“Yes, we were. We liked one another, rather.”

“Arthur,” she said, smiling broadly, “you didn’t know then how attractive you were. Girls liked you much more than you thought. You were so studious and quiet.”

“I was shy.”

“That was what made you so attractive.”

“If I had only known,” he said with a mock sigh.

“What would you have done?”

“Taken advantage of my shyness.”

“You’ve changed. You’re sophisticated and successful now.”

“Well, I’ve lived so many years, and gotten on. I guess I can say that I haven’t done badly.”

“Done badly? How modest. Why, you’re an outstanding newspaperman, aren’t you?”

“I’m in a good spot.”

“It makes me feel proud, because I knew you when.”

The waiter brought them their drinks, and then they ordered. Arthur next lifted his glass, and said:

“What’ll I toast. You? To you, Annabelle, and may you go on looking as young and happy as you do.”

“Thank you, Arthur. Let’s drink to us... We’re old friends, aren’t we?”

“To us.”

They drank.

5

They enjoyed lunch, and talked easily. She didn’t know what had happened to a number of their old friends, but she told him all that she knew and he did the same. They reminisced about college, about classes, dances, dates, talks, humorous incidents they recalled. It was very pleasant. Annabelle had three more drinks, which, she told him several times, was more than her usual quota. She was doing this because after all, it was a vacation for her. Then, she smiled, and added that, when she thought about it, Arthur was one of her oldest friends.

Arthur had a few drinks. He was comfortable, content and flattered by Annabelle’s friendliness. He was thoroughly enjoying himself. Luncheons like this were one of the pleasures of life. And this one was a charming surprise. He and Annabelle slipped right into their old rapport.

They lunched and talked for two hours. But then Arthur had to leave. He promised to phone her at her hotel.

He phoned her a day later. He was free and alone for the evening. His wife was having a group of women friends over for bridge and he usually stayed out on such nights. He detested bridge.

They went to dinner, and walked about New York talking. At ten-thirty, she said that she was tired of walking, and they had a drink. They were some distance from her hotel, and took a cab. He put his arm around her. She turned her face up to him. He kissed her, and she was responsive. They hugged and kissed until they reached the front of her hotel. Then, she got panicky.

“I’ll come up with you,” he said.

“Please, no, not tonight, Arthur.”

“Why? It’s been so pleasant. I always liked you.”

“And I always liked you.”

“Well, dearest, why not...”

But he kissed her goodnight, and left disappointed.

6

That had been a Friday night. He didn’t see her again until lunch on Monday. In the meantime, he had determined that they would have an affair. His two meetings with Annabelle, and the kissing in the taxicab had brought to his mind that fact that he was more bored with his home life and his wife than he realized. And also, he began to think that he had always been much more fond of Annabelle than he had realized. He began even to imagine that, back in his college days, he had been in love with her, and that, if he had only known this and not been so shy, she might have been the girl he married.

He kept thinking of her. He had been disappointed when she had left him on Friday night and dashed into the hotel, and then he had been uncomfortable and had felt frustrated. He had immediately begun imagining what he would do the next time that he met her.

This had happened to him before. But it seemed that he was more stricken this time than on such other occasions. It might be, he reasoned with himself, that Annabelle represented to him something that he had not been able to fulfill and gratify in his youth, and that he needed now to make up for this lack. He was inclined to think that this was why he was so unexpectedly taken with her and why the time until he would next see her seemed to him to be so long and so empty.

All of the next day, he was restless. He couldn’t concentrate on the book he was reading. He was bored with his children. He half-listened to his wife. He wanted to see Annabelle. In the afternoon, he went out, phoned her hotel, and was disappointed to learn that she was out. He went to a movie so that he would not keep thinking of her.

He came out of the movie feeling foolish. Walking home, he told himself that he was a damned fool, and that this was merely a passing itch and infatuation. He was rather quiet during dinner, thinking of Annabelle. They had guests in after dinner, and it took him some time and three drinks to get warmed up and to forget Annabelle for a while.

When he got up on Sunday morning he told himself what the hell, if things were going to end in a general catastrophe, as the papers told him, he might as well see her again.

On Sunday morning, he always took his two girls out for a walk. He enjoyed it and, for them, it was a very big occasion.

Joan, the oldest, was eight, and Patsy was five. Joan was more outgoing, had dark hair, and a pretty little round face. Patsy was light-haired, thin, and somewhat tense. They clambered up on his lap, almost upsetting his coffee, and preventing him from reading his paper.

“Daddy, get ready,” Joan said in a commanding voice.

“Daddy, get ready,” Patsy said in imitation of her older sister.

“Let Daddy have his breakfast,” he said.

“No!” Joan said positively.

Her sister imitated Joan.

Arthur smiled. But he wished that, this morning, he didn’t have to take them out. And then, he wondered what Annabelle had been like when she had been five, and eight...

“All right. Let Daddy finish this cup of coffee. He’ll shave and take a bath and take you both out.”

“One cup of coffee,” Joan said.

Her sister repeated this.

He gulped down his coffee. He went to take his bath.

He heard his daughters outside the bathroom, gaily talking.

“Mommy,” Joan was saying, “Mommy, I want my pretty new blue ribbon for my walk with my Daddy.”

Arthur was both charmed and guilty. God, he told himself, he could never risk breaking up the family, not with two such girls as these. He asked himself whether Joan would understand it if he had affairs now and then. Would she be forgiving? He wished that he could tell her. He knew that he dared not. If he could, it would all be so simple.

7

It was such a joy, taking the girls out. Why should Helene now and then complain about taking care of them? But then, come to think of it, Helene didn’t complain very much. And yes, it was and would have to be different if you took them out, watched them and cared for them all of the time. But women got more out of motherhood than a man did out of fatherhood.

It was sunny out. It seemed as if the air was shining. And the Sunday morning spirit, pervading the street, the air, the walk and the appearance of people, relaxed him. Before the kids had come, he and Helene had used to lie in bed on Sunday mornings. It used to be one of their best times for love-making. It seemed, come to think of it, that love-making was not the same since the kids had come. Was this true, also, for Helene? Did she feel it?

The girls walked on either side of him, clinging to his hand, and when one of them talked, the other interrupted. He was faced with a barrage of questions and bids for attention from both of them.

There had been the dispute as to which side each of them would take, and he finally had settled it with Joan walking on the outside and Patsy on the inside. Then, they both talked at once. Joan was prim and well-behaved, and looked down on her sister. As she talked, she was trying to tell her Daddy that she was older than her sister, smarter, and that he should know this.

“Daddy, Daddy, talk to me. Talk to me,” Patsy said.

“I’ll talk to both of you,” he answered.

“Me, me,” Patsy said demandingly.

“She’s always that way, she’s selfish,” Joan said.

“That’s no way to speak of your younger sister, is it, Joan?”

“Yes,” Joan answered.

“Why is it?”

“Because it is. I don’t like her.”

“I don’t like her,” Patsy said.

“She plays with my dolls when I’m at school.” Joan said.

“I’m going to school too. I’m going to school,” Patsy said.

They walked over to Fifth Avenue, and strolled along the sunny street. The girls talked, and looked in windows, giggled, ran ahead of him, came back and took his hands, walked lady-like at his side for a while, and then kept renewing their competition for their father’s attention.

And Arthur, while paying some attention to them, also kept thinking of Annabelle. He would like to meet her strolling along Fifth Avenue, so that she could see his two girls. But that would not be so good. Somehow he sensed, or believed that he sensed, that she would not care for children. And it was best not to have her thinking of him as a father.

“Daddy, why do people go to church?” one of the girls asked.

“Because they believe in God,” her father said, his oldest daughter’s question interrupting the train of his thoughts.

“Why don’t you go?”

“Because Mommy and I believe differently.”

They were passing by on the opposite side from St. Patrick’s and, as Arthur looked across the street, he saw a crowd emerging from it.

“I think it’s funny,” Joan said.

“What is it?”

“God is.”

“Why is God funny, Joan?”

“Because you’re funny.”

She giggled. Patsy giggled in imitation of her. The two girls broke away from his hands and giggled.

Arthur for a moment was troubled. He didn’t like his oldest daughter’s telling him that he was funny. He feared that if she thought he was funny, then perhaps he was. Children often saw with such wonderful clarity.

Then he dismissed the thought from his mind.

They walked on, until the girls got tired and, when they did, he took them home in a cab, and read them stories. The morning passed easily. Arthur, looking at the girls on the floor, and then at Helene, as she entered the room, asked himself why he couldn’t he happy with this. He was. But if he was why did he want more? And why would he think of doing things, having love affairs that would risk this?

He felt that he had better not have anything to do with Annabelle. His resolution seemed firm. But in five minutes, he found himself thinking of her, and getting impatient for tomorrow.

8

Arthur and Annabelle sat at the same table in the same restaurant. They were having a cocktail before lunch. But now, Annabelle looked different to him. She wasn’t saying much, and he found that he had little to say to her. As they drank, they fell into telling one another of how they had been friends in the old days.

“We’re still friends, aren’t we?” she asked him.

“Yes,” he said.

She had, by the way she had spoken, seemed to him to tell him that the time had come and that she was willing. But this caused him to become tense and fearful. He thought of his home. After all, wasn’t this philandering out of place? He was afraid of himself, afraid that he wouldn’t stop, and somehow, he now believed that he should.

“Did you have a good weekend?” she asked him.

“Yes. I spent it with my family. I took my two girls out for a walk. I do that every Sunday...”

As he spoke, he noticed her face. She wasn’t interested in what he was saying.

“And you?”

“What about me?” Annabelle asked.

“Did you have a good weekend?”

“Yes,” she said unconvincingly. “I went to see friends in Connecticut.”

“Did you meet any charming males?”

“None like you, darling.”

She had had another kissing scene, and she had refused at the last moment. She had come back to town early this morning, feeling guilty and somewhat disgusted with herself. She thought of Harry. He might be broken up, and might even leave her if he knew what she did, and what she wanted to do. And she had become convinced that she would not be such a howling success in New York. Still, if she attracted and was seduced by Arthur, after all, he was a person of importance and experience, here!

They were served their food.

As they ate, their conversation was lackadaisical. They didn’t have anything to talk about. Every so often, she gazed at him, invitingly, and he stared at her, uncertain.

After eating, they left. Standing outside of the restaurant, they shyly looked at one another.

“When can you come to my hotel?” she asked him.

He took her arm, and told her:

“Isn’t it better not to? We’re both married. Do you really want me to come to the hotel with you?”

She looked at him, angry for a moment. Her gaze of anger made him uneasy. But then she smiled.

“No, I don’t.”

“We’ll remain friends.”

“Thank you, Arthur.”

He kissed her goodbye, and they parted. He walked back to his office, proud of himself for having had self-control.

9

Annabelle gazed out of the window of the Twentieth Century. The Hudson was beautiful in the waning day. It seemed as romantic as anything might be in Europe. The sun was gleaming on the quiet water and, across the river, the scenery was hazy and hilly.

But the beauty of the Hudson only saddened her. In that beauty she would find nothing more than what she saw. She would not find the love she had dreamed of. That love didn’t exist and, chasing it, she had almost made herself into a traitor. She was ashamed of herself.

She gazed out of the window, admiring the beauty of river and sun and haze. She told herself that she was going back to her husband, and that she was going to have a baby even though she didn’t love him. She continued to gaze out of the window, a wan and wistful and dreamy look on her face.