got to make them like me. I don’t care whom they chose for him, Tracy thought. No one can make Charles as happy as I will.
At 1:00, as Tracy was getting into her raincoat, Clarence Desmond summoned her to his office. Desmond was the image of an important executive. If the bank had used television commercials, he would have been the perfect spokesman. Dressed conservatively, with an air of solid, old-fashioned authority about him, he looked like a person one could trust.
‘Sit down, Tracy,’ he said. He prided himself on knowing every employee’s first name. ‘Nasty outside, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Ah, well. People still have to do their banking.’ Desmond had used up his small talk. He leaned across his desk. ‘I understand that you and Charles Stanhope are engaged to be married.’
Tracy was surprised. ‘We haven’t even announced it yet. How –?’
Desmond smiled. ‘Anything the Stanhopes do is news. I’m very happy for you. I assume you’ll be returning here to work with us. After the honeymoon, of course. We wouldn’t want to lose you. You’re one of our most valuable employees.’
‘Charles and I talked it over, and we agreed I’d be happier if I worked.’
Desmond smiled, satisfied. Stanhope and Sons was one of the most important investment houses in the financial community, and it would be a nice plum if he could get their exclusive account for his branch. He leaned back in his chair. ‘When you return from your honeymoon, Tracy, there’s going to be a nice promotion for you, along with a substantial rise.’
‘Oh, thank you! That’s wonderful.’ She knew she had earned it, she felt a thrill of pride. She could hardly wait to tell Charles. It seemed to Tracy that the gods were conspiring to do everything they could to overwhelm her with happiness.
The Charles Stanhope Seniors lived in an impressive old mansion in Rittenhouse Square. It was a city landmark that Tracy had passed often. And now, she thought, it’s going to be a part of my life.
She was nervous. Her beautiful hairdo had succumbed to the dampness of the air. She had changed dresses four times. Should she dress simply? Formally? She had one Yves Saint Laurent she had scrimped to buy at Wanamaker’s. If I wear it, they’ll think I’m extravagant. On the other hand, if I dress in one of my sale things from Post Horn, they’ll think their son is marrying beneath him. Oh, hell, they’re going to think that anyway, Tracy decided. She finally settled on a simple grey wool skirt and a white silk blouse and fastened around her neck the slender gold chain her mother had sent her for Christmas.
The door to the mansion was opened by a liveried butler. ‘Good evening, Miss Whitney.’ The butler knows my name. Is that a good sign? A bad sign? ‘May I take your coat?’ She was dripping on their expensive Persian rug.
He led her through a marble hallway that seemed twice as large as the bank. Tracy thought, panicky, Oh, my God. I’m dressed all wrong! I should have worn the Yves Saint Laurent. As she turned into the library, she felt a ladder start at the ankle of her pantyhose, and she was face-to-face with Charles’s parents.
Charles Stanhope, Sr., was a stern-looking man in his middle sixties. He looked a successful man; he was the projection of what his son would be like in thirty years. He had brown eyes, like Charles’s, a firm chin, a fringe of white hair, and Tracy loved him instantly. He was the perfect grandfather for their child.
Charles’s mother was impressive looking. She was rather short and heavy-set, but despite that, there was a regal air about her. She looks solid and dependable, Tracy thought. She’ll make a wonderful grandmother.
Mrs Stanhope held out her hand. ‘My dear, so good of you to join us. We’ve asked Charles to give us a few minutes alone with you. You don’t mind?’
‘Of course she doesn’t mind,’ Charles’s father declared. ‘Sit down … Tracy, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, sir.’
The two of them seated themselves on a couch facing her. Why do I feel as though I’m about to undergo an inquisition? Tracy could hear her mother’s voice: Baby, God will never throw anything at you that you can’t handle. Just take it one step at a time.
Tracy’s first step was a weak smile that came out all wrong, because at that instant she could feel the ladder in her hose slither up to her knee. She tried to conceal it with her hands.
‘So!’ Mr Stanhope’s voice was hearty. ‘You and Charles want to get married.’
The word want disturbed Tracy. Surely Charles had told them they were going to be married.
‘Yes,’ Tracy said.
‘You and Charles really haven’t known each other long, have you?’ Mrs Stanhope asked.
Tracy fought back her resentment. I was right. It is going to be an inquisition.
‘Long enough to know that we love each other, Mrs Stanhope.’
‘Love?’ Mr Stanhope murmured.
Mrs Stanhope said, ‘To be quite blunt, Miss Whitney, Charles’s news came as something of a shock to his father and me.’ She smiled forbearingly. ‘Of course, Charles has told you about Charlotte?’ She saw the expression on Tracy’s face. ‘I see. Well, he and Charlotte grew up together. They were always very close, and – well, frankly, everyone expected them to announce their engagement this year.’
It was not necessary for her to describe Charlotte. Tracy could have drawn a picture of her. Lived next door. Rich, with the same social background as Charles. All the best schools. Loved horses and won cups.
‘Tell us about your family,’ Mr Stanhope suggested.
My God, this is a scene from a late-night movie, Tracy thought wildly. I’m the Rita Hayworth character, meeting Cary Grant’s parents for the first time. I need a drink. In the old movies the butler always came to the rescue with a tray of drinks.
‘Where were you born, my dear?’ Mrs Stanhope asked.
‘In Louisiana. My father was a mechanic.’ There had been no need to add that, but Tracy was unable to resist. To hell with them. She was proud of her father.
‘A mechanic?’
‘Yes. He started a small manufacturing plant in New Orleans and built it up into a fairly large company in its field. When father died five years ago, my mother took over the business.’
‘What does this – er – company manufacture?’
‘Exhaust pipes and other automotive parts.’
Mr and Mrs Stanhope exchanged a look and said in unison, ‘I see.’
Their tone made Tracy tense up. I wonder how long it’s going to take me to love them? she asked herself. She looked into the two unsympathetic faces across from her, and to her horror began babbling inanely. ‘You’ll really like my mother. She’s beautiful, and intelligent, and charming. She’s from the South. She’s very small, of course, about your height, Mrs Stanhope –’ Tracy’s words trailed off, weighed down by the oppressive silence. She gave a silly little laugh that died away under Mrs Stanhope’s stare.
It was Mr Stanhope who said without expression, ‘Charles informs us you’re pregnant.’
Oh, how Tracy wished he had not! Their attitude was so nakedly disapproving. It was as though their son had had nothing to do with what had happened. They made her feel it was a stigma. Now I know what I should have worn, Tracy thought. A scarlet letter.
‘I don’t understand how in this day and –’ Mrs Stanhope began, but she never finished the sentence, because at that moment Charles came into the room. Tracy had never been so glad to see anyone in her entire life.
‘Well,’ Charles beamed.