Almost Paradise

by Susan Isaacs

  And James Cobleigh caught her in his arms and said, “Gotcha!”

  It was as if the night were a wonderful movie, a sparkling romantic comedy, and, by magic, she had been given the starring role. And what made the magic even more wondrous was that her leading man was the handsomest man in the world and so nice and so—he was taken with her. And he wasn’t putting on. Everyone around them could see that. All her friends from her earliest days at Miss Chapin’s were giving them the Look; they knew something important was taking place.

  James Cobleigh had magnificent eyes and they were probing her as though she were the most desirable woman in the world. But the most desirable woman in the world wouldn’t blush bright red when she gazed back into glorious blue eyes. Win swallowed and lowered her head.

  At one in the morning the footmen had opened the doors to the dining room and Win and James, followed by five hundred formally clad guests, trooped in for the traditional scrambled eggs and champagne supper. “My sister-in-law did all this,” Win mumbled, as she pushed away the long-stemmed white rose that dipped into her eggs. She was trying to sound casual, but she could feel James’s breath on her bare shoulder. “The flowers, I mean. She insisted, so my mother let her.”

  For reasons known best to herself, Polly had decided the theme for the ball would be “A Springtime Country Garden” and had—in September—managed to unearth enough apple blossoms and Canterbury bells and roses and candytuft to make Breezy Point a vernal paradise. Her centerpieces were so lavish, however, that a guest could barely lift a knife to butter a roll without knocking a freesia blossom or snapdragon leaf onto the plate. “She wanted me to wear a wreath of sweetheart roses—like a tiara. But my mother said that would be gilding the lily. Or gilding the petunia, or some such thing.” Win felt the warmth of James’s leg beside hers. It wasn’t pressing hers in any sort of obvious way, but his easy masculinity made her simultaneously tense and limpid. Her mouth went dry. Again, she tried to make conversation. She glanced toward the man-sized Chinese urns, overflowing with ostrich fern and rose and white larkspur, that stood before the tapestried walls of the dining room. “I didn’t think there would be quite so many flowers. I’ve been worried all evening that someone who’s got bad hay fever would start choking, and no one would notice because the orchestra was playing away. Dear, that sounds dreadful, as though I’m not grateful to my brother and sister-in-law and Mama and Papa for—” James took the fork from Win’s hand and placed it on her plate. Then he brought her hand to his lips and kissed the tips of her fingers and licked her thumb. “Oh, Lord,” she whispered.

  They found out about him fast. Maisie said he hadn’t a soul and Polly said his mother was a rotten apple from a good tree—a drunk—and Samuel said his father was a lawyer with a filthy reputation. And Jeremiah said James was ambitious. Win said James had told her all that the second time he saw her, the morning after her debut, and so what?

  And furthermore, she wasn’t going to spend the rest of the season going to balls in New York and then sail off to France and England for months and months. She wanted to enroll immediately at Wheelock or whatever college in Boston would accept her, and she was going to see James whenever she could and that was that.

  Maisie said she was behaving like a lunatic and Samuel said he was shocked—shocked—at her willful behavior, and Polly said James was a Svengali, and Jeremiah said men like James Cobleigh were interested in one thing only. Win wasn’t sure if he meant her money or her virginity, and it made her cry. But it did not make her relent.

  “Please, James.”

  “No, Win.”

  “Oh, God. Please.”

  “No.”

  A year after they met, they lay hidden in the unmown grass a hundred feet behind Court Six of the Boston Racquet Club, where she had just beaten him in two out of three sets. “James, I love you so much and it will be all right, really it will, and we’ll be married a year from August and no one will ever know and I want to so much.” James trailed a long blade of grass along Win’s thighs and over her stomach. “Please.” Her shorts and underpants had been thrown aside. A sneaker, laces open, tongue askew, lay on top of her racquet. James pushed her blouse and brassiere up until they formed a tangled rope around her throat. He caressed her breasts with the blade of grass. His other hand clamped over her mouth to muffle her groans.

  “Soon, Win,” he murmured. “Just as soon as we’re married.”

  Samuel Tuttle’s study was the only plain room in the house. He had resisted all Maisie’s attempts to panel it in mahogany or drape it in brocade or stuff it with leather. She had sniffed that his need for a monastery was so strong it was a shame he hadn’t been born a Roman, and far be it from her to interfere with his monkish tastes, and added that if he insisted upon a crucifix for the bare wall she’d be happy to find one for him. But after that discussion, she had never entered the room, claiming its lingering odor of cigars gave her a headache. Perhaps she took her husband’s insistence on simplicity as a rebuke: he, a Tuttle by birth, needed no external ornamentation to remind him of his status.

  James, too, seated in a chair opposite the desk, felt uneasy in the study. Its white-painted walls and unembellished oak desk and straight-backed chairs would please only austere spirits. That Samuel Tuttle came to this room to relax was intimidating. “Well, Mr. Tuttle,” James began. Samuel laid his cigar on a glass ashtray, met James’s glance, and held it. Suddenly, James realized Samuel knew precisely the effect this spare, drafty room would have. He had chosen it over the opulent library, the warm, inviting music room. He had chosen it to put James at a disadvantage. James sat as far back as he could in the stiff chair, crossed his legs, and smiled. “Mr. Tuttle, you know why I am here. I want to marry Winifred. I would like your blessing.” He peered into Samuel’s pale, watery eyes. “Or at least your consent.”

  “You have that.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Thank Winifred. Her protests exhausted her mother last Christmas. It took several months longer, but finally I had to admit that I was too weary to fight. If I live long enough I shall doubtless regret my weakness. You will not be a good husband to her.”

  “I will be, Mr. Tuttle. I am not an opportunist. I love Winifred very much. And I’ll be able to take care of her without…I neither expect nor seek your help.”

  “That is fortunate, Mr. Cobleigh, because you will not get it. Winifred has some money from her grandparents and an aunt—as I expect you know—and I have no control over that. But she will get no more from me. Nor will you.” James had observed Winifred long enough to recognize the Tuttle flush, the scarlet blush of passionate feeling.

  “I don’t expect anything, Mr. Tuttle.”

  “No gifts, Mr. Cobleigh. No assistance. No letters of introduction to New York law firms.”

  “That won’t be necessary. I have a position already.”

  “Oh.” The “May I ask with whom?” remained unspoken, but James heard it.

  “I will be an associate with Ivers and Hood.”

  “Ivers and Hood.”

  “Yes.”

  Samuel lifted his cigar, then put it down again. “When were you offered this position, if I may ask?”

  “In February. Two of their partners had been interviewing third-year students up at Harvard in January. A few weeks later they asked me to come down and speak with some of the others.”

  “In February. I see. Four months ago. Winifred must have forgotten to mention it to me. Perhaps she has been preoccupied. By the way, did Ivers and Hood happen to know of your connection with my daughter? Did they, Mr. Cobleigh?”

  “No. They did not, Mr. Tuttle.”

  “I see.” He lifted his cigar and relit it. “Ivers and Hood represents some of my interests. Did you know that?”

  “No, sir.”

  “They’re a very respectable law firm, Mr. Cobleigh.”

  “I’m a respectable lawyer, Mr. Tuttle. I think I have a chance of doing well there. However, if you would
feel more comfortable, I suppose—well, I’ve had other offers.”

  “Here in New York?”

  “Here in New York. And also in Boston.”

  “Winifred’s mother would like her to live in New York.”

  “Then we shall, Mr. Tuttle.”

  “You may as well stay with Ivers and Hood. They’re solid.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Samuel exhaled a small cloud of smoke. “Do you prefer brandy or port, Mr. Cobleigh?”

  In September 1938, Winifred Tuttle answered truly “I will” when asked, “Wilt thou obey him and serve him, love, honor, and keep him, in sickness and in health?” A few moments later, as Mrs. James Cobleigh, floating in a sweet cloud of white tulle, lilies of the valley, and orchids, she walked up the aisle of the Park Avenue Congregational Church on her husband’s arm, gazing into his soft blue eyes, not even seeing the three hundred beaming faces in the pews.

  Outside the white stone church, the society reporter from the Times, glimpsing Win’s dazzled face emerging into the gray late afternoon light, murmured “Love match” to the society reporter from the Herald Tribune, who replied, “You’re half correct.” The Times reporter shook her head. “No. He looks genuinely happy.” And the man from the Trib said, “Wouldn’t you be if you were marrying a Tuttle?” and she said, “I suppose, but I’d be happier if I were marrying him. He’s divine. Those shoulders and those eyes and”—she glanced at her notes—“magna cum laude from Brown and Law Review at Harvard, so at least he might have a thing or two to say at breakfast.”

  Her colleague clicked closed the cover of his fountain pen and said, “You are originally from Detroit, are you not?” She nodded. “Love matches may still occur in Michigan, and I am sure they are charming to behold. This, however, is New York. What Mr.—hmm—Cobleigh says or does not say at breakfast does not matter. His devastating shoulders do not matter. He does not matter. Only she, or should I say her Tuttlehood, is of consequence. That is what caught him and that is what may keep him.” The Times reporter said, “You’re awfully cynical.” The Tribune reporter responded, “My good girl, she looks like a hockey coach at a bad boarding school. She should lower those pale, skimpy lashes and give thanks for her manifold blessings.”

  The reporters watched the couple standing on the steps of the church, surrounded by bridesmaids in claret-colored gowns and leghorn hats with velvet ribbons, ushers in cutaways, striped trousers, and gray waistcoats. James lifted Win’s chin with his index finger and gave her a light but long kiss on the mouth. “Wow,” said the woman from the Times. “If your editor heard you say ‘wow,’” said her colleague, “he would beat you and chain you to a desk and force you to write about small, nasty weddings in Brooklyn where the bride’s name is never less than five syllables.” James ran a finger over and over Win’s lips, as though massaging in the kiss. The Times reporter closed her notebook.

  Occasionally they would go to the opera and sometimes James would work late, but usually he would arrive home from Ivers and Hood by eight, put his hat on the tiny Chinese table Win’s uncle had given them, toss his topcoat and jacket over a Queen Anne armchair Win’s godmother had given them, loosen his rep tie, grab Win, and carry her into the bedroom, where he’d throw her on the bed and make love to her for the remainder of the evening. The Victorian brass headboard, which James’s Aunt Violet had given them, would bang against the wall, sometimes laconically, sometimes with extraordinary force and speed. (Their neighbors in the apartment next door, a Mr. and Mrs. Bingham Van Pelt, hearing the banging and the love cries, first found them amusing, then awesome, and finally disgusting. “Really, Bingy, can’t you say something to him in the elevator? I mean, really!”)

  In their first year of marriage, Win lost seven pounds and James five because they so often skipped dinner—which was probably just as well, because in all her life Win had never even cooked a piece of toast and the only dish she seemed to be able to make was creamed chicken with peas, and it tasted tough and gelatinous at the same time. But they glowed with newlywed happiness. Even Samuel saw it, and by Christmas he had softened enough to allow Maisie to buy Win a seal coat and James a pair of gold oval cuff links with his initials engraved in rich, flowing script. On their first anniversary, Samuel offered to pay for a maid so Win could have her days free for her friends and charity work, and when James said no, Samuel insisted and even threw in the use of the Tuttle cook on nights when the young Cobleighs were entertaining lawyers from Ivers and Hood.

  “Tell me everything that happened to you today,” Win said. They had been married a little more than a year. She ran her fingers over the dark gold hair on James’s stomach.

  “Let’s do it again.”

  “Not now. Come on, take your hand from there. Really, we ought to start behaving like a mature married couple. I ought to tell you things so you’ll find me interesting. For instance, do you know what I did today?”

  “You had lunch with Jill McGrew and Prissy Ross.”

  “Yes. But that was after a dreadful, screamy morning with Lollie Kuhn, where she swore that if we insisted on Mr. Cropper catering the Infants’ Infirmary Ball, she would quit the committee or kill herself. And in the afternoon I found a lovely bit of old fabric for the footstool Aunt Bessie gave us.”

  “What color?”

  “See? Aren’t we being marvelously adult? It’s beigey-brown, but has a raised—sort of an embossed leaf pattern on it. I called Mr. Calussi and he swore he’d have it finished before the twenty-sixth, when we’re having the Blacks and the Ripleys to dinner. He’s such a sweet little man. I love Italians. They’re so full of life. It must have been such fun growing up in Cranston, with all of them running about. Did you ever have an Italian girl friend?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Mmmm. I’ll bet you did. Was she pretty? Was she?”

  James kissed her. He had a way of doing it, of pressing so hard her teeth hurt her lips, that inevitably brought tears to Win’s eyes. It moved her so deeply that for the duration of the kiss she was incapable of motion or thought. And by the time he moved and took his tongue on a leisurely journey down her body, he owned her. When she cried out, it seemed he had willed it, and when her tears began again and she pleaded for relief it was as if it were all part of some plan he had devised.

  “Now, James. Now.”

  On that night, the Cobleighs conceived their first child.

  Ivers and Hood stood close by the New York Stock Exchange, Trinity Church, and Federal Hall, and without making too much of the juxtaposition of commerce, God, and country, it may be said that most members of the firm believed it was their calling to serve all three. Obviously it was they—and not the men in beards and black coats a mile away on the Lower East Side—who were the Chosen People. The sense of specialness extended down to the firm’s associates. Gifted men in their twenties and early thirties, they realized that if fate was just and their genius recognized they would one day be made partners and, from there, ascend to heaven: they might rise to become Secretary of State, governor of the Federal Reserve Board, chairman of the Council of International Affairs. Presidents would seek their advice and their company at dinner. Charities would honor them. Beautiful women, trained from birth to sniff out the scent of power, would pursue them.

  Every other Thursday, the associates of Ivers and Hood reserved a table at an undistinguished seafood restaurant and, from twelve thirty to two, debated European military strategy, planned a Republican presidential victory, and got the economy moving again.

  “Mr. Gloom has spoken.” Matthew Whitley sighed out the smoke of his cigarette, flicked his ash, and shook his head. “Jim, you are a doomsayer. A Cassandra.”

  “Cassandra spoke the truth,” Dick Halloran interjected.

  “Obviously we can’t say the same for Brother Cobleigh. Any man who believes that Adolf Hitler is about to gobble up France and England in one bite and then come marching across the ocean, still hungry, and devour us—”

  �
�I didn’t say that,” James said quietly. “I merely said that the Maginot Line will not protect France.”

  “Well, I say nuts to that,” George Grunwald said.

  “George, how the hell are ground fortifications going to fend off the Luftwaffe? Answer me. Come on. I’m waiting.”

  “France isn’t England. And I don’t appreciate that condescending look in your eye, Cobleigh. You don’t have a monopoly on brains, you know. I mean, the best military minds agree that you can’t win a war from the air, so the Luftwaffe really isn’t a factor. The Germans would have to move troops, supplies across land. Ergo, my friend, the Maginot Line will afford just the sort of protection France needs.”

  “Look at the Great Wall of China, damn it.” James slammed the table with his hand for emphasis.

  “Our world geography lesson continues,” Peter Wooster remarked, his cool interruption a signal that the atmosphere was becoming too hot for an associates’ lunch. “Must we look at the Great Wall of China, Jim?”

  “Yes. Did it protect China from invasion after invasion from the north? Did it?”

  “I don’t know,” Peter said. “I suppose if you’re using it as an analogy, it must have been some half-assed excuse for a wall. But George isn’t talking about a bunch of half-baked Chinamen, Jim. He’s talking about the French. They’ll send the wicked Hun reeling back to where he belongs.”

  “Are you serious?” James demanded. “Good God, look what the Germans did to Poland four, five months ago. They crushed it. And if you think that can’t happen—”