Four Seasons of Romance

by Rachel Remington

  Leo ran a trade selling small pieces to tourists, and he had a wealthy patron or two, usually an older woman bored with her stale marriage and drowning in ennui. Leo lived the wild and chaotic life of an artist—an artist with a latent dream of becoming a racecar driver. Eventually, he had established a good enough reputation in Paris to make a living from his art.

  But he also struggled with long, dark spells of depression, his growing drug use and insatiable sexual appetite limiting his creativity. Leo spent long hours staring at the blank walls of his bedroom, waiting for inspiration to come, and, had it failed to do so, searching for it at the bottom of a bottle. The green absinthe fairy, who had been his muse in the early days of his Parisian love affair, visited him less and less.

  By 1950, Leo rarely left his bas-de-Montmartre apartment but to go to the Moulin Rouge. Most days, he puttered around in a burgundy robe, smoking hash and sketching plans for sculptures he never made, his savings spent, his only income an occasional welding job from a wealthy Frenchman he met at the track.

  One morning, one of the coquettish tarts he brought home shook her head. “Tu es ignoble,” she said, getting dressed. Ignoble. Without honor. A disgrace.

  “In English, please,” he said, knowing exactly what she meant.

  “You are a hazard to yourself.” She grabbed her purse and looked around the room, disgusted at the filth. “You won’t be seeing me again. Au revoir.”

  Leo was unperturbed—she was just one in a long line of one-night stands with women he quickly forgot, but after checking the jar under his mattress where he stowed his dwindling cash, he realized she was right—for the first time, he didn’t have enough francs to cover his rent.

  Fortunate for Leo, providence again played a hand in his fate, which came from the wealthy Frenchman for whom Leo had been working from time to time. “I’ve decided to purchase half interest in a Talbot-Lago racing team,” the Frenchman said, rubbing his hands together, face radiant with boyish glee. “You said you wanted to be a racecar driver? Well, now’s your chance. I want you to head my team.”

  While Catherine was living life in the fast lane with Michael Snell in Philadelphia, Leo was literally living life in the fast lane, honing his skills as a racecar driver in France. In weeks, Leo overcame his spiraling addiction to drugs and alcohol, though, he’d only switched to a more powerful drug; the speed and danger of racing was the quintessential jolt of adrenaline he’d been looking for.

  He won several circuit races in France, distinguishing himself as the hot-blooded American driver for whom no turn was too fast, and went on to compete in the 24 Hours of Le Mans, just as he always dreamed. Although he never won, he participated in the contest for four consecutive years, placing fourth in 1951.

  The highlight of his career came in 1952 when he raced in the French-run Méditerranée-le Cap, a 10,000-mile road rally from the Mediterranean to South Africa. The team placed second, but Leo drove the final leg, rallying his team from sixth place to earn more money than he earned in his whole life, which he, of course, spent in just weeks.

  At twenty-eight, Leo triumphed over his addictions, living the romantic life of an artist and surviving many thrilling moments on Europe’s finest racetracks; yet, a void remained in his life.

  Then, on a warm and quiet Sunday, he received a letter telling him that his mother had passed away. Didn’t such news deserve a more personal delivery than a letter already a week late?

  Only then, did he realize that no one at home had his number; he hadn’t spoken to either of his parents in years. In light of his itinerant, untraceable lifestyle, it was a wonder they could track him down at all.

  Deborah had suddenly died of influenza. The letter came from her second husband, and he told Leo that he need not come to the funeral. “She hoped you were happy,” he said. “That’s all she wanted.”

  Leo received the letter on July 19, 1953. It was Catherine’s twenty-eighth birthday, a symbolic coincidence the way Leo saw it—a signal he should return home. France had been good to him; he pursued his dreams and committed every sin in his quest to move on. He’d succeeded in all but one—he could never forget Catherine. So once again, he’d disobey her father and venture to discover just how happy she was with someone else.

  So, he packed what few belongings he cared about and used the remains of the Méditerranée-le Cap winnings to buy a one-way ticket to Boston, sensing that this time, he would not return. Leo bid good-bye to Paris, the liberated city that had welcomed him with open arms and a kiss.

  In Massachusetts, he visited his mother’s grave at the Mount Hope Cemetery and paid his final respects, staying with Deborah’s widower and their children for a few days, plotting his next steps; but he knew exactly what he wanted—to return to Woodsville and find the love of his life.

  He knew Catherine had children and did not intend to divert her life path. The judge’s harsh words still rang in his ears, years later: If you ever loved my daughter, stay out of her life forever. Do not destroy the joy she has found.

  Leo was certain he loved Catherine, did not intend to destroy her future, yet wanted to confirm she was happy. And that would give him closure he had been denied.

  What he didn’t know, of course, was that he’d find something entirely different by seeing Catherine again.

  Part Two: Summer

  It was August 1953 in Woodsville, and the peach trees lining Main Street were in full bloom, the fruit so plump and pink they bent the branches. The pear trees were equally fecund and much loved by those who preferred the taut white pears to the pulpy peaches that inevitably oozed delicious nectar down one’s chin.

  The summer was hot that year in New Hampshire, with only the rivers’ cool water providing a temporary relief. Salmon and cod filled the Ammonoosuc, sating themselves on the succulent insects that dropped on the water’s surface. The air stayed sticky with nectar, and the heat drew all creatures, animal and human alike, out into the fields. There was no better time to return to Woodsville and no better time for truth to emerge.

  Leo arrived in Woodsville in midafternoon and headed toward Catherine’s house, hoping to find Mrs. Woods at home and avoid the judge altogether. Unfortunately, instead of Mrs. Woods, he found the judge sitting on the front porch with a pipe.

  “You again? Are you deaf?” he spat. “I thought I told you to stay away from my daughter. She doesn’t want to see you.”

  “I just want to wish her well,” Leo said. “If you’d just tell me where she’s living…”

  “West of the Mississippi,” the judge answered. “Far from here and far from you. Her husband’s a successful attorney out West. They have four children now. I’m warning you, Leo; stay away from her.”

  Leo left the house with nothing. But this time, unlike his visit in 1946, he didn’t head straight back to the train station and ventured into town instead.

  He looked up a few people from the lumber mill—the guys he’d lived with briefly before being drafted. One had been killed in the war; another had moved to California without leaving a forwarding address; and others vanished without notice.

  No one left? He shook his head. I really am getting old.

  For old time’s sake, he went to the Woodsville Drugstore where Catherine used to work and noticed Samantha Fletcher standing at the counter with a baby on her hip. Though she had rounded out considerably and looked more matronly now, he immediately recognized his former classmate. When he approached her, her jaw dropped. “Oh, my,” she said, switching her baby to the other hip. “I don’t believe this. Leo Taylor? It can’t be.”

  “It’s me,” he said. “How are you, Samantha?”

  “In a state of shock, that’s what I am.” She gave him a one-armed hug. “You’re alive!”

  “It looks that way, doesn’t it?” he said.

  Samantha kept staring at him. “Catherine said you were killed in Normandy.”

  Leo didn’t know what to say. Was this Catherine’s way of moving on? Perhaps it was eas
ier to tell her friends he’d died than that her love for him had faded, and she planned to marry another man. If true, he couldn’t blame her—all anger he felt had faded many years before, leaving nothing but his earnest hope for her well-being.

  “I fought in Normandy,” he said, “but I’m alive.”

  Then, a more sinister thought seeded in his consciousness. What if Catherine’s father had had something to do with this? “I’d love to see Catherine,” he told Samantha.

  “She’ll be delighted to see you!” Samantha said. “I’d go with you on a road trip, but as you can see, I’m a little tied down.” She nodded toward the gurgling baby on her hip. “Last I heard, she was working at an insurance company in Philadelphia. I have her home address. Here, let me write it for you.” And suddenly, she was writing the address of Leo’s beloved, the set of numbers and letters he had ached for, daily and nightly, for nearly ten years.

  “Is her husband good to her?” he asked. “That’s all I hoped for—that she’s happy with him.”

  Samantha shifted in her seat. “Her husband?”

  “The attorney, right? And four kids…” Leo’s voice trailed off. “It’s difficult to imagine Catherine with four kids.”

  Samantha laughed aloud. “It sure is! Especially because it’s pure fiction. She’s still single, as far as I know.” The feeling that struck Leo was relief mixed with rage and effusive, intense, unbridled joy.

  He spent the evening in The White Mountains Tavern, the story now as clear to him as the crystal shot glass he was drinking from. Catherine’s fictional family had been a fabrication that cost him many wasted years without her. How many years of her life had she wasted? But he still didn’t understand why she stopped writing.

  Leo thought about confronting the judge at the Woods home but, despite the liquor, which usually made him volatile, decided against it. Last thing he wanted to do was to get in another physical confrontation with Catherine’s father. Besides, Josiah’s daughter was a grown woman living an independent life; it didn’t matter what her father thought of him anymore.

  Leo knew where Catherine lived, her address tucked away in his pocket with a ticket for the early-morning bus. Soon, the deception would fade. Soon, Josiah’s hopes would be ruined. Soon, they’d be united—and, this time, never part again.

  *

  Leo arrived in Philadelphia the following afternoon. The city was abuzz with activity—street vendors hawking wares, cars tooting horns, and children marching home from school by their mothers. After receiving directions from a newspaper seller, Leo took the city bus to Catherine’s address. Once outside her front door, he took a deep breath, straightened his jacket, and knocked, his knock echoing through emptiness.

  “She moved out nearly a year ago,” the superintendent told Leo.

  “Did she leave a forwarding address?”

  The super shrugged. “I’m afraid she didn’t. Lovely girl, though.” Leo couldn’t agree more.

  After a tasty cheese steak at a nearby café, Leo mulled over his options. He was determined to find her, but couldn’t think of anything better than hiring a cab and driving around town, looking for Catherine on every street.

  On every corner, his heart nearly leaped out of his chest when he saw someone that reminded him of her. After realizing it would take more than just enthusiasm to find her in Philadelphia, he had the cabbie drive him to the nearest library.

  For hours, he scoured the telephone book's pages for a sign of Catherine to no avail. Of course, she no longer went by the name Woods; after her father disowned her, she’d begun to use her middle name, Delaney, as her surname.

  That night, Leo headed to the Old City and courted his old friend, Johnnie Walker, well into the night. He had come so far and gotten so close… only to be thwarted now? Drunk and brooding, he headed to a motel room, deciding to stay in Philly for however long it took to find the one woman he cared about.

  The next morning, he remembered something else Samantha had said—Catherine's work had to do with insurance, the only other clue he had.

  Going through the business pages at the library an hour later, he called every insurance company, a daunting task because Philadelphia had no shortage of insurance, from automotive to life. If only Samantha could have told him more…

  But with intensity and determination, Leo showed more organization than he ever had in school, drawing charts and making careful notations of the numbers he had called. Leo introduced himself to the receptionist and asked to speak to Catherine, mentioning her last name. If that did not succeed, he’d ask if there was a Catherine—any Catherine—working there that matched his description. Leo’s natural charm made the female receptionists a little more eager to help than would normally be the case.

  At times, the receptionist refused to help; other times, he talked to a Catherine who had nothing to do with his Catherine. Once, he was transferred to an office in New Jersey, then an office in St. Louis where Catherine had supposedly been transferred. Leo’s heart was in his mouth when he was put on hold, only to plummet when a woman with the voice of a crone picked up the other end of the line. Unless Catherine had aged forty years over a decade, this was not the woman he was searching for.

  By the end of his second week, he was three-quarters of the way through his list and still no Catherine. Then, one sunny summer afternoon at the end of August, he called a large insurance company with an office downtown. “May I speak to Catherine, please?” he asked.

  “Catherine Delaney?” the receptionist chirped. “Let me see whether she’s here.”

  The click of the receptionist putting Leo on hold might as well have been the sound of his destiny clicking into place. Catherine is using her middle name instead of Woods? She must have had a falling out with her father. Leo felt optimistic, seeing that Josiah’s version of Catherine’s life seemed like an utter lie.

  So, she was just a few miles away, Catherine Delaney Woods. His Catherine.

  Too elated to wait, Leo hung up and then burst through his hotel room into the crisp summer air. Twenty minutes later, he darted inside the office building with the bravado of a racecar driver—which he had been—and the fervor of a schoolboy in love, which he also had been, just a few years ago.

  “I’m Catherine Delaney’s boyfriend, and I’m here to see her,” he told the receptionist talking to a man in a gray suit.

  She raised one eyebrow in response. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Catherine’s not here.”

  “Catherine’s on a little vacation this week,” the man in the gray suit said, eyeing Leo up and down. “She’ll be back next Monday.”

  “Thanks,” Leo answered and left without leaving his name.

  “What was that about?” the man in a gray suit asked the receptionist. “Did I hear him say he was her boyfriend?”

  “That’s what he said, all right,” the receptionist said, relishing the opportunity for gossip. “If he hadn’t left so fast, we could have told him, of course, that Catherine’s off on vacation… with her fiancé!”

  The man let out a low whistle. “Oh, boy,” he said, “could be trouble.”

  “Guess we’ll have to wait and see.”

  Back in the street, Leo kicked a mailbox. Again, he was so agonizingly close, yet would have to wait another week to see her.

  A week is worth the rest of your life, he reminded himself. And suddenly, the anger gave way to bliss as reality sunk in—soon they would reunite, Judge Josiah Woods be damned.

  *

  The following Monday, Leo woke early and borrowed an iron from the motel clerk to press his pants and steam his shirt until he looked crisp and fresh, just as they taught in the military. He headed outside for a walk and plodded down the cobblestones of narrow Quince Street, savoring the morning air.

  Philadelphia was different from eclectic, free-spirited Paris—more Puritan in its structure and mood—but he liked the buildings and the sculptures he discovered on his walks. Unwillingly, he’d done a bit of sightseeing, and
was particularly smitten with the Liberty Bell in Independence Hall, which seemed appropriate because soon both Catherine and he would have their liberty in love as well as their independence.

  About noon, he stopped at a corner flower shop outside Catherine’s building and bought a bouquet of her favorite flowers—wild lilies and black-eyed Susans picked fresh from the summer fields. Leo stood quietly in the foyer, cradling the bouquet in his arms and waiting for Catherine’s return from lunch hour.

  She was running late, hurrying to make it back in time for a one o’clock meeting after lunch with Walter when she waltzed into the office… and saw her Leo, very much alive.

  Catherine stopped where she stood, unable to move or feel anything but the frenzied beat of her heart, her business papers, along with her composure, fluttering to the floor.

  “Leo,” she said, the only sound she could make, and that barely, the name slipping from her lips like an incantation. “Leo,” she said again.

  “Catherine,” he said, but his voice choked, preventing him from saying anything more.

  To his surprise, Catherine stepped back, her head shaking, lips trembling. “Is this s-s-some kind of j-joke?” she stuttered. This man looked like Leo¬—her Leo—but she hadn’t seen him in nearly ten years. The Leo she remembered was lithe and boyish; here standing before her was a muscular, handsome man.

  “It’s not a joke,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s me.”

  She glimpsed the old Leo in his fine hazel eyes, but how could it be? Hadn’t he died in Normandy? “They told me you were dead…” She couldn’t finish, her face ashen with shock. “I thought you…”

  “I know,” Leo said, “but I’m here. Right here, standing in front of you, despite their lies.”