I walked for a few hundred yards down one of the sidewalks into the park and found a large pond with benches set around the perimeter. It was a Saturday and families were gathered to sail small model boats and feed the ducks. I sat down and looked across the scene before me, certainly a far less grand body of water than the Gulf of Mexico. Taking a deep breath, I allowed myself to put the newspaper and book business aside for a moment and I thought back on other events that had seemed to pass in a disturbing blur these past years.
My father never recovered from the stroke he suffered during that summer of 1926, and in fact, six months later died from another. He had improved enough to be sent home, but my mother found him collapsed over the desk in his den one morning and he was gone. The funeral was a grand event in Atlanta that spring, attended by his many business and social connections. My mother was in her element, attending the many related gatherings and services; managing the role of grieving widow with incredible aplomb and dignity. My sister, Maggie, later told me all of our mother’s friends were quite impressed with the entire production, particularly the food and flowers.
Maggie had finalized her divorce from Desmond Raye, who by the way, never returned to Atlanta. Our last report at the time had him working for a gem importer in Miami and living with a Cuban woman. Maggie found a new boyfriend and they were engaged a few months later. Much to my mother’s disappointment he was a Catholic from Boston who had come south to work in the railroad business with a family friend. He and his family had considerable wealth, but existed far below the social strata my mother and her friends would have preferred for the daughter of the Coulters from Atlanta.
Willie Palumbo attended my father’s funeral service and I spoke with him just briefly afterward. He stayed in the background throughout the day’s events, trying to be discreet. He and Louise had bought a house just north of downtown Atlanta and he was still spending much of his time in the South. Apparently, it was still a little too uncertain with the law in New Jersey. He had asked me about the people back in Grayton Beach, but I’d had very little contact since leaving and was unable to provide much of an update. I did tell him I had given his club away to Eleanor Whitlock on the same day he had given it to me. He just laughed a big belly-shaking laugh and said it was certainly a grand gesture considering what had happened. His payments to my mother and sister had continued on the schedule agreed to and there was very little reason to discuss anything else about the business that was no longer part of our lives.
A few months after leaving Grayton Beach I received a letter from Sara Dalton she sent to my sister to be forwarded to me at my current address. In her note, I learned the hotel had been finished and was open for business again. She said they had adjusted well to the demands of running the place and Melanee was enjoying singing and playing for guests on the new piano I had given them. When I left, I also arranged for a special tutor from Birmingham to come down and stay to help Melanee with her schooling. Sara seemed quite grateful in her letter and said the teacher was working out very well. She provided no news of Melanee’s father, Bobby Sanborn.
In the occasional letter and phone call from my friend, Jimmy Headley, I kept up to date on the progress of his love affair with the beautiful young Rebecca Bidwell. Her parents had finally allowed her to travel to Atlanta to visit the Headley family. According to Jimmy, she handled herself quite well in the social pressure cooker his parents thrived in. They were still very much in love and he was considering asking for her hand. His last letter had been some time ago and I was waiting for the latest.
When I arrived in New York I secured a small apartment where I could walk to work at the paper. There were many good clubs and restaurants in the area. I made a few friends, mostly from work, and I had enjoyed the pace of the city again after my brief respite from civilization down in Grayton Beach. I had taken a few women out to dinner or a show, but nothing serious had developed and I, quite honestly, just wasn’t finding myself interested in getting attached. My experience with women the past years had been far from encouraging.
In general, I saw very little to be gained by revisiting paths previously traveled and I tried not to let myself dwell much on the past. There was enough work and distraction here in New York to keep me focused on the future. There were times however, usually late at night lying awake, when thoughts of past women in my life came back to me in, unfortunately, vivid detail. Even after all this time away I still found myself wondering how I could have been so trusting and naïve. Certainly, it had hardened my heart since arriving in New York and most women I met were immediately scrutinized in my mind for the slightest traces of insincerity. It was terribly unhealthy and quite off-putting for the unfortunate woman sitting across from me in whatever restaurant or club I had chosen to escort her to.
Sara Dalton also found a way back into my thoughts from time to time. I worried she and Melanee would face some new challenge in their lives and Sara would not have the emotional strength to endure it. Hopefully now that she had to take care of herself and her daughter without her mother to fall back on she would be able to find some level of confidence and self-reliance.
The interview with the actress was uneventful, except she was two hours late, not one. She was an up-and-coming star from one of the big studios out in Los Angeles and her new film would be debuting in New York later in the week. She was distant and ditsy and I had to wonder how she could ever possibly create a likable image on the screen.
I left the interview and walked down the street to a small restaurant I frequented on occasion and went in to get some lunch. When my eyes adjusted to the dark interior I asked for a table by the window and a waitress brought a menu over for me. After ordering, I was reading the morning edition of the Times I brought with me when I noticed someone standing by my table. I looked up thinking it was the waitress and was shocked to see a face I never expected to encounter again.
Eleanor Whitlock stood there looking down at me with a beautiful smile filled with even white teeth. Her hair had been trimmed short in the current style and she was dressed very professionally in a gray tweed suit, smartly tailored. I couldn’t even start to come up with anything appropriate to say and I sat there staring with my mouth hanging open. She sat down across from me and then reached her hand across the table and took mine. “How are you, Mathew?” she said.
“Eleanor?” was all I could manage to say.
“It’s Ellen White now,” she said. “My new stage name.”
“Ellen?”
“Yes, do you like it?” she asked. “My agent, Rick, feels it’s more of a show business name.”
“It’s fine,” I said. “So, you’re in show business?”
She smiled again and squirmed with excitement. “I’ve got a great new part in a show down on Broadway. Can you believe it?”
“That’s wonderful, Eleanor… I mean Ellen,” I said. “When did you come to New York?”
“Oh, it’s been almost six months now. I sold the club and thank you again for that,” she said, and then looked down, a little embarrassed.
“So, you’re really working in a Broadway play?” I asked.
“Isn’t it just grand?” she said. “I’ve been working steady since I got here and connected with Rick. He’s really helped me meet the right people.”
Then I looked down at her hand on mine and saw a ring with a big diamond. “And who’s the lucky fellow?” I asked.
“Well Rick,” she said. “I’m sorry I forgot to mention it. We were married last month.”
I congratulated her on her work and new marriage. She asked me why I was in New York and I brought her up to date on my job at the paper and told her my book would soon be published. As I looked at her face and into those incredible eyes, I couldn’t help myself from thinking back to the times we had spent together and the intimacies we had shared. I remembered the feelings I held for this woman during those months down on the Gulf Coast and how, once again, I had been misled and
betrayed. Remarkably, I found I wasn’t angry with her anymore. I was actually pleased she had changed her life and found a new start and I took some pleasure in knowing I helped her in that direction. The fact she was married didn’t bother me and when her husband walked over from across the restaurant, I greeted him cordially and wished them both well as Eleanor, or Ellen, got up to leave. Rick was already out the door when she ran back over and quickly kissed me on the cheek and then traced her fingers along the side of my face before she left again. Through the window, I watched them walk down the street, their arms entwined and away through the crowd. I couldn’t help feel just a small tinge of regret that things hadn’t taken another turn or somehow worked out differently.
Chapter Thirty-four
My novel was indeed published in February of the next year. I had been in New York long enough to have made a few of the right contacts and my publisher hosted a nice reception to introduce the book at the Waldorf to help broaden that circle. In addition to meeting all the appropriate people to help launch the book, I also met a woman that night who caught me completely by surprise.
I first saw her across the room speaking with a group of other young women, laughing and looking out over the crowd of notable New York literary and entertainment people. She seemed terribly confident in her manner, but stood out as so different from the rest. My first impression was she was so clearly out of place. There was a certain look that women seemed to migrate to in New York City and particularly in the publishing business. There was a hard line to the cut of their clothes and the style of their hair, the heavy make-up, affected mannerisms and speech. To the opposite extreme, this woman was all smooth edges and flowing curves. Her light brown hair bounced around her face in soft natural curls and her clothes were functional, not necessarily fashionable and yet she cast a compelling presence across the crowded room.
I watched as my editor, Sam Keller, walked up to her and interrupted their conversation. He took the woman’s arm and whispered something in her ear. Then in surprise, I watched as he led her over in my direction. As they came up, Sam flashed that big smile I had become accustomed to over the past months, working closely with him on the final drafts of my book.
“Mathew Coulter,” he said, “I want you to meet Annie Martin.” Then to my surprise he went on to say, “Annie is a publishing assistant at the firm and I’ve asked her to work with you on the book introduction.”
“Hello Mr. Coulter,” she said, and shook my hand.
“Please, it’s Mathew,” I answered, and up close I could see the shine of her marvelous brown eyes.
“Annie has been with us for a few years now,” Keller said. “She has a great future in the business. You’re in very good hands.”
“I loved your story, Mathew,” she said.
“Thank you. And what do publishing assistants do?” I asked, hoping she would say we would be working endless hours together.
“Annie will be handling all of the details,” Keller said. “Anything you need.”
“I was so excited when Sam asked me to work on the book,” she said. “I think it’s going to do quite well.” She smiled with an easy confidence and took a sip from the glass of punch in her hand.
“I’ll leave you two to get acquainted,” Keller said, and then he was off across the room.
“I understand you’re from Atlanta,” Annie said.
“Yes, originally, though I’ve been in the city now for long enough I’m beginning to lose the accent. What do you think?” I asked.
“Oh, I can definitely hear a touch of Old South there,” she said, “but I’m used to all of these heavy New York dialects. I’m still trying to sort through Brooklyn and Long Island.”
“And where are you from?” I asked.
“From Michigan,” she said. “Have you ever heard of a little town called Charlevoix?”
“No, I don’t believe I have.”
She held her right hand up to illustrate the mitten shape of the state and pointed with her other hand to a location that would be in the far northwest of the Lower Peninsula.
“Charlevoix,” I repeated. “What an interesting name. How did you ever find your way to New York?”
“When I finished school at Michigan State, I wanted to work in the publishing business. I love books and writing,” she said. “There’s not a lot of that work in Michigan,” she said with a smile. “Particularly up in the cold North. I had a friend who moved here a year earlier after school and she invited me out. I was lucky to be introduced to Sam at a party and got the job.”
“You seem very excited about your work,” I said.
“It’s a tough pace, but I love it.”
“So what is your job here tonight,” I asked.
“To introduce you to all the right people.”
“And who would that be?”
She looked across the room and started to point out some of the more powerful people in the business and their background to prepare me for later introductions. She was marvelously engaging and fun. We laughed as she told me inside stories about the business and some of the more prominent people in the room. She had been to many of these events during her tenure and helped me through all of the protocols and introductions.
She was someone out of the ordinary; someone who when you first meet you sense you’ve happened across something special you had misplaced years ago and then suddenly found right where you should have looked all along. As the night progressed there were two voices in my head; the one that was following the conscious conversation with Annie Martin and all of the people she was introducing me to and the other that was whispering this was a remarkable person who, seemingly out of nowhere, had so fortunately crossed my path.
Later, I invited her to join me for a celebration drink and we went to a nearby club. We talked that night about the business, but more about ourselves; how we found our way to New York and where we thought our lives were headed.
“So, you must tell me about your family,” she said after a second round of drinks were delivered to our table. “Sam tells me the Coulters are high on the social register in Atlanta.”
I shook my head and laughed. “Oh, you have no idea,” I said. “It’s just my mother and sister now and they are still quite involved in all the society nonsense.”
“Nonsense?” she repeated. “So, it’s not for you? I thought you handled yourself quite well tonight with all these New Yorkers.”
“Oh, I’m used to the scene,” I said. “I just don’t really care for all the pretense and bother.”
“I can imagine you’ll become a reclusive writer, hidden away on some remote island?” she said and laughed.
“Actually, that would be perfect,” I said. “I’ll have to show you Grayton Beach someday.”
We sat there sipping on our drinks, captured by the incredible good fortune I sensed we both felt in our new relationship. We made quite a late night of it and I escorted her home, both of us dreading the early start to another day in the office. She shook my hand on the steps of her apartment building. It was all I could do to keep from taking her in my arms and kissing her goodnight, but we both kept up our professional façade. She went inside after agreeing to meet me for dinner the next night… to discuss the book business, of course.
During that first dinner with Annie Martin the night after the preview party, I felt an almost electric connection, as if we were wired together and completed a circuit. The conversation flowed like we had known each other for years and I found myself astounded I had happened to meet this woman. After an hour of talk about the book and what lie ahead with the work she would be doing, ultimately the conversation approached the topic of relationships and why neither of us was married. I was the first to broach the subject.
“And how have you managed to stay single in this town with so many eligible young men?” I asked, and then immediately felt foolish for doing so.
She didn’t seem embarrassed or put off. �
�I have so little time. I don’t even remember the last date I’ve been on,” she said.
“Forgive me, but I would think you’d have offers every night,” I said.
“Oh, I suppose there have been a few interested suitors,” she answered and smiled. She took a bite from the remnants of the dessert in front of her. “And I’ve heard nothing from you about the girl back home,” she said.
I thought for a moment about the women who had crossed my path, even the surprise in seeing Eleanor in New York. “No,” I finally said, “there’s no one.”
After I left her at her apartment that night, I laid awake almost until morning thinking about this person named Annie Martin and frankly, overwhelmed in the fact we had chanced to meet in this vast city.
The book editor at the Times was a friend and fortunately he felt my book held some promise. He personally reviewed it for the Sunday section. He also allowed the publicity department at the publisher to send his endorsement and review out to editors he knew around the country at other major newspapers and magazines, encouraging them to read and review the book. It seemed the story held some interest for readers. Within several months it had achieved a reasonable measure of success for a first novel from an unknown writer and continued to gain momentum. My publisher was very excited and paid a fair advance for me to begin work on a second book which I had yet to start, being incredibly busy with the work at the paper.
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