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To the memory of my grandmother Florence Ferster Berger, 1918–2017
Prologue: January 20, 1939
Steam heat fogged the tall windows as Albert and I joined the crowd assembled in the lawyer’s office. A clerk with a clipboard ran around, establishing that everyone listed in the will was in attendance. “Helen Winthrope?” he asked. I nodded. It felt strange to see him check off my name. I hadn’t expected Jake to leave me anything, not after all he’d done for me while he was alive.
Chairs had been arranged as in a small classroom. Albert and I exchanged somber nods of recognition with the members of Jake’s household staff as we found seats in the back row. Ahead of us sat managers from the brewery and the realty company and the baseball team. Representatives from Lenox Hill Hospital and the Metropolitan Museum, anticipating major gifts, tried not to look too eager. Up front, Jake’s brother, George, sat with his sons and nephews, black bands fitted around the sleeves of their jackets. I assumed the women, swathed in black crepe with starling feathers bristling from their hats, were Jake’s sister and his nieces. I’d never been in the same room with them before.
It took a while for the lawyer to read through all the small bequests, gifts of five hundred or a thousand dollars to the many people who’d served Colonel Jacob Ruppert so well. Besides his chauffeur, he’d made provision for his laundress and his cook, for the brewmaster who was his oldest employee, and for the zookeeper who’d cared for his many animals. Jake had disbanded his kennel of Saint Bernards years ago, selling off the breeding stock and retaining only a few aging show dogs as pets. The peacocks would be left to wander Eagle’s Rest, I supposed, the next owners of the estate forced to take them on. The monkeys would be going to the Bronx Zoo, I learned. Thinking of them reminded me of when my little dog Pip died. I’d wrapped his body in a blanket and rushed up the Hudson to Eagle’s Rest to show his corpse to the rhesus female who loved him so. I knew she’d never stop pestering me if she didn’t understand in her own way that he was dead. She’d reached through the bars of her cage and taken my limp Pip in her arms, mourning him like a lost infant.
I returned my attention to the proceedings at the lawyer’s office. Jake left his collection of Chinese vases and jade carvings to the Metropolitan Museum, as expected. The bequest of one hundred thousand dollars to Lenox Hill Hospital seemed unaccountably large, I thought, given their failure to cure the phlebitis that killed him. Mr. Nakamura was recognized with a bequest of five thousand dollars, a handsome sum for a butler. When the lawyer announced that Albert had been left ten thousand dollars I took his hand, delighted that his years of loyal service as Jake’s personal secretary had been so generously acknowledged. A man could buy a comfortable house on Long Island for less than that. My mind wandered as I pictured myself helping Albert pick out curtains and carpets. Perhaps we could plant a garden. I imagined a patch of grass bordered with tiger lilies and black-eyed Susans, an apple tree that would flower in spring and fruit in the fall.
“To Miss Helen Winthrope—” The sound of my name pulled me back to the present. “I bequeath my estate known as Eagle’s Rest, along with all associated properties and contents.”
My fantasy about a brick bungalow on Long Island evaporated as I tried to absorb the idea that Eagle’s Rest was mine. I couldn’t understand why Jake had picked me for such an extravagant inheritance. I thought back to that day we’d first seen the property, Jake telling me how he wanted a house of his own where he could be himself with his family and friends. A lifelong bachelor who’d outlived three of his siblings, he didn’t have much family, but Albert and I had tried to make up for it. I remembered standing beside Jake on the widow’s walk of the old Victorian he’d torn down to make way for his new mansion. That’s where we saw that eagle carry off its prey. We’d been speaking of my father’s death—it was coming back to me now—and I’d been so relieved to learn he hadn’t died alone. I supposed that was what Jake wanted me to think of, because it could only be symbolic, this gift. How could a single woman possibly fill fifteen bedrooms? Besides, there was no way I could afford the upkeep. I supposed I’d have to sell it, peacocks and all, though who’d buy an estate like that in this Depression I had no idea. Since the Crash, the market was glutted with the abandoned mansions of impoverished millionaires. In the end, my inheritance might not amount to much more than Albert’s.
“—the sum of three hundred thousand dollars.”
A collective gasp sucked the air out of the room. I leaned over to Albert, my voice a whisper. “What did he say?”
“Three hundred thousand dollars.”
“Oh, who was that for?” I’d thought the museum and the hospital had been the biggest legacies.
Albert searched my face as if some secret message were written on my skin. “You, Helen. It’s for you.”
All the heads of all the people in all the chairs turned toward me. The room began to blur. I shut my eyes tight and yanked them open again, testing to see if I were in a dream.
The lawyer cleared his throat, his mouth giving voice to Jake’s words. “As to the remainder of my holdings, including all my various enterprises, as detailed below”—his eyes swept down the document until they landed again on solid ground—“and in particular the New York Yankees baseball team, of which I have been sole owner since 1923, I direct it be divided between my nieces—” He paused to indicate two women, both married now and known only by their husband’s names. I shifted in my seat, assuming we’d reached the end of the will. But he had one more name to read. “—and Miss Helen Winthrope, in three equal shares.” He lifted his head and scanned the room. “Thus concludes the reading of Jacob Ruppert’s will. Bequests shall be distributed once the will has been accepted by the probate court. If you would be so good as to make sure my clerk has your correct address on your way out?”
I would have fled the room right then but Albert pulled down on my arm. I hadn’t realized I was still holding his hand, squeezing it, really. I was afraid his knuckles might have cracked. I stretched open my fingers and saw that they were shaking.
“If the principal beneficiaries could remain.” The lawyer raised his voice over the hum of conversation. “There are some matters to discuss.”
Jake’s black-clad relatives huddled around the lawyer’s desk. They must have thought I was a gold-digging hussy, this unrelated woman who’d usurped their inheritance. Who would believe, now, that I was simply Jake’s friend? My stomach churned. “Albert, I don’t think I can spend another second in this room.” I asked him to stay for me and find out what they wanted; people were so used to seeing the two of us together, I figured we were interchangeable.
I must have gone white as marble to have inspired his look of panic. “Of course, Helen, let’s get you home. I’ll come by after it’s all settled.”
I didn’t even notice Albert putting my coat over my shoulders or leading me out to the sidewalk. The next thing I knew, I was dropping into the backseat of a cab, my knees watery. I grabbed his lapel before he could close the door. “Did you know?”
“No, Helen. I promise, I had no idea.”
“Come over as soon as you can.” I lifted my chin for a kiss, his lips quick on my mouth. I was halfway across Manhattan before it occurred to me I couldn’t fee
l my toes. Looking down at my feet, I saw from the state of my shoes that I must have carelessly stood in a puddle of slush, though I had no memory of even stepping off the curb. By the time I got home, the cold had risen up my legs until even my neck was stiff.
I hoped Clarence would be in the lobby, but he was nowhere in sight. I went up to the apartment I still shared with my mother, even after all these years. She was waiting in the doorway. At the sight of my shocked face, she asked, “What is it, Helen? Didn’t he leave you anything?”
I hugged my mother tight, bracing her for the astonishing news that her spinster daughter had been transformed into an heiress.
1918
Chapter 1
I was in my bedroom getting dressed when I heard the telephone ring. Disinterested, I finished hooking the buttons on my shoes. Let my mother get it, I thought. No one had called for me in ages, the drama agency that used to book me having apparently forgotten I existed in the months I’d been off the stage. It rang again. Realizing my mother must not be home, I went to answer it, my heel catching on the sports pages of the newspaper my little brother, Rex, had left strewn across the living room floor. I’d always wondered at the extravagance of having our own telephone when my mother was otherwise so careful to budget within the limits of the life insurance checks. Most of our neighbors in the building made do with the shared telephone in the lobby, where one of the custodian’s children was always alert for its ring. Tenants tipped a penny to have their messages delivered, the child’s pink palm eager for the bright coin, while my mother was billed five cents for every call.
Reaching for the telephone, I wondered if it might be Harrison calling. My heart jumped at the thought. I hadn’t heard his voice since he’d found me burning with fever on the floor of my dressing room at the Olde Playhouse. The last thing I remembered from that night was Harrison cradling my neck in his huge hand as he shouted for someone to call an ambulance. My next memory was opening my eyes to see my mother’s face hovering over the hospital bed. I was stunned when she told me that between those two moments more than a month had passed, the Christmas tree my brother and I had draped with tinsel long since tossed to the curb.
I didn’t blame Harrison for not visiting me in the hospital. With me so suddenly out of the lead, he had his hands full directing the play. He did send cards—for the first few weeks, at least. I’d hoped he’d come see me once I was back home, but then the pneumonia developed, plunging me into a fight for my life. Every inhalation was a skirmish in a battle that raged through the winter and into the spring. Even if my mother had allowed me visitors, I wouldn’t have had the breath to speak to them. Yet here I was, recovered at last, about to answer Harrison’s call in my own clear voice. My hand shook as I lifted the earpiece and said hello.
“Hello, Teresa?”
I dropped into the seat beside the telephone, disappointment taking me out at the knees. “I’m sorry, my mother’s not home.”
There was a pause so long I wondered if we were still connected. “This must be Helen.” The man pronounced it “zeese” so it rhymed with “geese,” and I wondered what accent it was. “I’m glad to know you’re up and out of bed, Helen. Are you feeling that much better?”
“Yes, I am better, thank you.” I thought he might be a tradesman—my mother had been keeping everyone in the neighborhood apprised of my progress—but I didn’t have a chance to ask to whom I was speaking before he started up again.
“You gave us a scare. Appendicitis is a serious thing. My dear sister Cornelia died of it. You shouldn’t have ignored the pain, no matter how much you wanted to play that part.”
German, I decided (“zee pain,” “zat part”), though I had to listen carefully to pick it up. Perhaps the butcher on Ninth Avenue where we got our pork chops? He always had been a busybody. “Don’t blame my appendix. If it had just been the surgery, I would’ve been better months ago.”
“Yes, of course, the pneumonia was an awful blow. Such a terrible time for your mother.”
“It was a terrible time for me.” I blurted out the petulant words before I could stop myself.
“Of course it was, Helen. You’ve come through quite an ordeal.”
I had, but I didn’t want to talk to the butcher about it. “Shall I take a message?”
“Don’t bother, I will call again.” The warm hum in the line disappeared as the connection ended.
I hung up with a shrug and glanced around the room, wondering what to do with myself. Though the doctor had declared me cured, my mother didn’t want me so much as taking the elevator to the lobby without the hired nurse holding my arm. I’d needed her help on those first forays outside, my limbs weak from disuse. As I’d gotten stronger, though, the constant fussing began to fray my nerves. It had been only a week since I’d convinced the nurse to stop coming by every day. And now my mother was out, too. Harrison may not have called me, but my heart sped back up at the realization there was no one to stop me from going to see him.
I regretted my outfit, an old shirtwaist tucked into a gray skirt, but I didn’t want to risk taking the time to change into something more flattering. Heading for the door, I glanced at the mirror in the hallway. What I saw was a far cry from the glamorous portrait I’d had done a year ago for the drama agency. The photographer had emphasized my eyes with mascara to balance my thin mouth and heavy chin. The result had been compelling, if not exactly beautiful. But so what if I didn’t have the face of a Gibson girl? I didn’t aspire to be a nameless beauty in some chorus line. Fascinating and full of character, like Sarah Bernhardt or Charlotte Cushman: that was the kind of actress I’d wanted to be. Still did, if I could find a way to get back on the stage. Grabbing my jacket and pinning on a hat, I let myself out of the apartment.
I expected to see Clarence downstairs, but he wasn’t on the stool by the door where he usually perched, ready to welcome a tenant or receive a package. When we were both kids, our routines used to match so perfectly that any hour we weren’t in a classroom I could find him in the lobby, but his schedule had become unpredictable now that he was in college. It was just as well he wasn’t around. Clarence had been so worried about me these past few months, I knew he wouldn’t approve of me going out on my own.
Anxious to avoid running into my mother, I took fast steps up the block, stopping at the corner of Broadway to catch my breath. After the isolation of my sickbed, it felt good to be soaking in the life of the city again. The subway rumbled beneath my feet as I navigated the tide of people rushing along the sidewalk. A blinkered dray horse harnessed to a milk cart whinnied and stomped while the traffic cop’s whistle tried to control the chaos of streetcars and automobiles in the road. On every corner, newsies shouted out the day’s headlines: Germany Bombards Paris! American Troops Arrive on British Front! Liberty Bond Campaign Raises Millions! But I didn’t want to think about the war or gas attacks or ship sinkings. Avoiding the newsstand, I turned down one of the streets off Times Square.
I walked the long blocks until I crossed Tenth Avenue and there it was, the Olde Playhouse. I’d read in the paper that Harrison had a new play opening in a couple of weeks, but the last show hadn’t closed yet, which meant they’d still be in morning rehearsals. I anticipated the look of delight and surprise on his face as I appeared backstage. Maybe seeing me again would make him realize what a mistake it had been to end things between us. I’d be less shy this time around, I told myself, and more careful, too, if only he’d give me a second chance.
The marquee lights were off and the main entrance closed, but the side door was usually left unlocked during rehearsals. I tugged on the handle and it swung open with a familiar groan. In daylight, the lobby looked shabby, the Italian marble dull from decades of scrubbing, the flocked wallpaper worn thin, the velvet curtains threadbare. Come evening, though, when the lighting was right, it would glow with the promise of sophisticated entertainment. I’d been impressed when I came here last fall to audition, hoping to land a small part in Joseph Harri
son’s latest play. I was crestfallen when the great director assessed my performance as too subtle for the role of the sister and too restrained for the maid. Harrison chewed on an unlit pipe and considered my fate while I stood stranded at center stage. When he proclaimed he’d found his leading lady, I’d nearly fainted with elation. I couldn’t believe it had finally paid off—the years of living at home to economize, the dead-end jobs after high school to pay for acting classes, the endless auditions, the inevitable rejections. I had no idea, that day, how fleeting it all would be.
Richard Martin, the Olde Playhouse’s venerable owner, was behind the ticket window sifting through a pile of paperwork. He spotted me and stuck his head out, his reading glasses sliding off the end of his nose and swinging from the chain around his neck. “Helen Winthrope, what a sight for sore eyes! I thought you were in a sanatorium out in New Mexico.”
I’d wondered what people were saying about me; the rumors had obviously taken on a life of their own. “No, I was right here in Manhattan. How’s everything with you?”
“Oh, the usual, on the brink of disaster, but that’s the theater for you. I should have sold out decades ago.” Sighing heavily, he wiped his forehead with a crumpled handkerchief.
Having been an invalid so recently myself, I recognized his exhaustion. “Aren’t you well, Richard?”
“I haven’t been exactly well for years, but what can I do? This place would fall apart without me.”
I told him he was the heart and soul of the Playhouse, but that he really should take care of himself. He waved away my concern as we fell into gossip about the closing of the current play and the opening of the next. I said I was surprised that he’d brought Harrison back to direct again.
Richard rolled his eyes. “He’s a brute, of course, but the man’s a genius. It wasn’t his fault his last production ended its run in the red. Jessica couldn’t carry the part the way you would have.” A painful expression clouded his face. “You do know his new play’s been cast already?”
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