Kitabı oku: «If Tomorrow Comes»

Chapter Two

PhiladelphiaFriday, 21 February – 8:00 A.M.

Tracy Whitney stepped out of the lobby of her block of flats into a grey, sleety rain that fell impartially on sleek limousines driven down Market Street by uniformed chauffeurs, and on the abandoned and boarded-up houses huddled together in the slums of North Philadelphia. The rain washed the limousines clean and made sodden messes of the rubbish piled high in front of the neglected row of houses. Tracy Whitney was on her way to work. Her pace was brisk as she walked east on Chestnut Street towards the bank, and it was all she could do to keep from singing aloud. She wore a bright-yellow raincoat, boots, and a yellow rain hat that barely contained a mass of shining chestnut hair. She was in her mid-twenties, with a lively, intelligent face, a full, sensuous mouth, sparkling eyes that could change from a soft moss green to a dark jade in moments, and a trim, athletic figure. Her skin ran the gamut from a translucent white to a deep rose, depending on whether she was angry, tired, or excited. Her mother had once told her, ‘Honestly, child, sometimes I don’t recognize you. You’ve got all the colours of the wind in you.’

Now, as Tracy walked down the street, people turned to smile, envying the happiness that shone on her face. She smiled back at them.

It’s indecent for anyone to be this happy, Tracy Whitney thought. I’m marrying the man I love, and I’m going to have his baby. What more could anyone ask?

As Tracy approached the bank, she glanced at her watch. Eight-twenty. The doors of the Philadelphia Trust and Fidelity Bank would not be open to employees for another ten minutes, but Clarence Desmond, the bank’s senior vice-president in charge of the international department, was already turning off the outside alarm and opening the door. Tracy enjoyed watching the morning ritual. She stood in the rain, waiting, as Desmond entered the bank and locked the door behind him.

Banks the world over have arcane safety procedures, and the Philadelphia Trust and Fidelity Bank was no exception. The routine never varied, except for the security signal, which was changed every week. The signal that week was a half-lowered venetian blind, indicating to the employees waiting outside that a search was in progress to make certain that no intruders were concealed on the premises, waiting to hold the employees hostage. Clarence Desmond was checking the lavatories, storeroom, vault and safe-deposit area. Only when he was fully satisfied that he was alone would the venetian blind be raised as a sign that all was well.

The senior bookkeeper was always the first of the employees to be admitted. He would take his place next to the emergency alarm until the other employees were inside, then lock the door behind them.

Promptly at 8:30, Tracy Whitney entered the ornate lobby with her fellow workers, took off her raincoat, hat and boots, and listened with secret amusement to the others complaining about the rainy weather.

‘The damned wind carried away my umbrella,’ a teller complained. ‘I’m soaked.’

‘I passed two ducks swimming down Market Street,’ the head cashier joked.

‘The weatherman says we can expect another week of this. I wish I was in Florida.’

Tracy smiled and went to work. She was in charge of the cable-transfer department. Until recently, the transfer of money from one bank to another and from one country to another had been a slow, laborious process, requiring multiple forms to be filled out and dependent on national and international postal services. With the advent of computers, the situation had changed dramatically, and enormous amounts of money could be transferred instantaneously. It was Tracy’s job to extract overnight transfers from the computer and to make computer transfers to other banks. All transactions were in code, changed regularly to prevent unauthorized access. Each day, millions of electronic dollars passed through Tracy’s hands. It was fascinating work, the life-blood that fed the arteries of business all over the globe, and until Charles Stanhope III had come into Tracy’s life, banking had been the most exciting thing in the world for her. The Philadelphia Trust and Fidelity Bank had a large international division, and at lunch Tracy and her fellow workers would discuss each morning’s activities. It was heady conversation.

Deborah, the head bookkeeper, announced, ‘We just closed the hundred-million-dollar syndicated loan to Turkey …’

Mae Trenton, secretary to the vice-president of the bank, said in a confidential tone, ‘At the board meeting this morning they decided to join the new money facility to Peru. The up-front fee is over five million dollars …’

Jon Creighton, the bank bigot, added, ‘I understand we’re going in on the Mexican rescue package for fifty million. Those wetbacks don’t deserve a damned cent …’

‘It’s interesting,’ Tracy said thoughtfully, ‘that the countries that attack America for being too money-oriented are always the first to beg us for loans.’

It was the subject on which she and Charles had had their first argument.

Tracy had met Charles Stanhope III at a financial symposium where Charles was the guest speaker. He ran the investment house founded by his greatgrandfather, and his company did a good deal of business with the bank Tracy worked for. After Charles’s lecture, Tracy had gone up to disagree with his analysis of the ability of third-world nations to repay the staggering sums of money they had borrowed from commercial banks worldwide and western governments. Charles at first had been amused, then intrigued by the impassioned arguments of the beautiful young woman before him. Their discussion had continued through dinner at the old Bookbinder’s restaurant.

In the beginning, Tracy had not been impressed with Charles Stanhope III, even though she was aware that he was considered Philadelphia’s prize catch. Charles was thirty-five and a rich and successful member of one of the oldest families in Philadelphia. Five feet ten inches, with thinning sandy hair, brown eyes, and an earnest, pedantic manner, he was, Tracy thought, one of the boring rich.

As though reading her mind, Charles had leaned across the table and said, ‘My father is convinced they gave him the wrong baby at the hospital.’

‘What?’

‘I’m a throwback. I don’t happen to think money is the end-all and be-all of life. But please don’t ever tell my father I said so.’

There was such a charming unpretentiousness about him that Tracy found herself warming to him. I wonder what it would be like to be married to someone like him – one of the establishment.

It had taken Tracy’s father most of his life to build up a business that the Stanhopes would have sneered at as insignificant. The Stanhopes and the Whitneys would never mix, Tracy thought. Oil and water. And the Stanhopes are the oil. And what am I going on about like an idiot? Talk about ego. A man asks me out to dinner and I’m deciding whether I want to marry him. We’ll probably never even see each other again.

Charles was saying, ‘I hope you’re free for dinner tomorrow …?’

Philadelphia was a dazzling cornucopia of things to see and do. On Saturday nights Tracy and Charles went to the ballet or watched Riccardo Muti conduct the Philadelphia Orchestra. During the week they explored New Market and the unique collection of shops in Society Hill. They ate cheese steaks at a pavement table at Geno’s and dined at the Café Royal, one of the most exclusive restaurants in Philadelphia. They shopped at Head House Square and wandered through the Philadelphia Museum of Art and the Rodin Museum.

Tracy paused in front of the statue of The Thinker. She glanced at Charles and grinned. ‘It’s you!’

Charles was not interested in exercise, but Tracy enjoyed it, so on Sunday mornings she jogged along the West River Drive or on the promenade skirting the Schuylkill River. She joined a Saturday afternoon t’ai chi ch’uan class, and after an hour’s workout, exhausted but exhilarated, she would meet Charles at his apartment. He was a gourmet cook, and he liked preparing esoteric dishes such as Moroccan bistilla and guo bu li, the dumplings of northern China, and tahine de poulet au citron for Tracy and himself.

Charles was the most punctilious person Tracy had ever known. She had once been fifteen minutes late for a dinner appointment with him, and his displeasure had spoiled the evening for her. After that, she had vowed to be on time for him.

Tracy had had little sexual experience, but it seemed to her that Charles made love the same way he lived his life: meticulously and very properly. Once, Tracy had decided to be daring and unconventional in bed, and had so shocked Charles that she began secretly to wonder if she were some kind of sex maniac.

The pregnancy had been unexpected, and when it happened, Tracy was filled with uncertainty. Charles had not brought up the subject of marriage, and she did not want him to feel he had to marry her because of the baby. She was not certain whether she could go through with an abortion, but the alternative was an equally painful choice. Could she raise a child without the help of its father, and would it be fair to the baby?

She decided to break the news to Charles after dinner one evening. She had prepared a cassoulet for him in her apartment, and in her nervousness she had burned it. As she set the scorched meat and beans in front of him, she forgot her carefully rehearsed speech and wildly blurted out, ‘I’m so sorry, Charles. I’m – pregnant.’

There was an unbearably long silence, and as Tracy was about to break it, Charles said, ‘We’ll get married, of course.’

Tracy was filled with a sense of enormous relief. ‘I don’t want you to think I – You don’t have to marry me, you know.’

He raised a hand to stop her. ‘I want to marry you, Tracy. You’ll make a wonderful wife.’ He added, slowly, ‘Of course, my mother and father will be a bit surprised.’ And he smiled and kissed her.

Tracy quietly asked, ‘Why will they be surprised?’

Charles sighed. ‘Darling, I’m afraid you don’t quite realize what you’re letting yourself in for. The Stanhopes always marry – mind you, I’m using quotation marks – “their own kind”. Mainline Philadelphia.’

‘And they’ve already selected your wife,’ Tracy guessed.

Charles took her in his arms. ‘That doesn’t matter a damn. It’s whom I’ve selected that counts. We’ll have dinner with Mother and Father next Friday. It’s time you met them.’

At five minutes to 9:00 Tracy became aware of a difference in the noise level in the bank. The employees were beginning to speak a little faster, move a little quicker. The bank doors would open in five minutes and everything had to be in readiness. Through the front window, Tracy could see customers lined up on the pavement outside, waiting in the cold rain.

Tracy watched as the bank guard finished distributing fresh blank deposit and withdrawal slips into the metal trays on the six tables lined up along the centre aisle of the bank. Regular customers were issued deposit slips with a personal magnetized code at the bottom so that each time a deposit was made, the computer automatically credited it to the proper account. But often customers came in without their deposit slips and would fill out blank ones.

The guard glanced up at the clock on the wall, and as the hour hand moved to 9:00, he walked over to the door and ceremoniously unlocked it.

The banking day had begun.

For the next few hours Tracy was too busy at the computer to think about anything else. Every wire transfer had to be double-checked to make sure it had the correct code. When an account was to be debited, she entered the account number, the amount, and the bank to which the money was to be transferred. Each bank had its own code number, the numbers listed in a confidential directory that contained the codes for every major bank in the world.

The morning flew by swiftly. Tracy was planning to use her lunchtime to have her hair done and had made an appointment with Larry Stella Botte. He was expensive, but it would be worth it, for she wanted Charles’s parents to see her at her best. I’ve 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. ‘How are you all getting along?’

Tracy rose and hurried into his arms. ‘Fine, darling.’ She held him close to her, thinking, Thank goodness Charles isn’t like his parents. He could never be like them. They’re narrowminded and snobbish and cold.

There was a discreet cough behind them, and the butler stood there with a tray of drinks. It’s going to be all right, Tracy told herself. This movie’s going to have a happy ending.

The dinner was excellent, but Tracy was too nervous to eat. They discussed banking and politics and the distressing state of the world, and it was all very impersonal and polite. No one actually said aloud, ‘You trapped our son into marriage.’ In all fairness, Tracy thought, they have every right to be concerned about the woman their son marries. One day Charles will own the firm, and it’s important that he have the right wife. And Tracy promised herself, He will have.

Charles gently took her hand which had been twisting the napkin under the table and smiled and gave a small wink. Tracy’s heart soared.

‘Tracy and I prefer a small wedding,’ Charles said, ‘and afterwards –’

‘Nonsense,’ Mrs Stanhope interrupted. ‘Our family does not have small weddings, Charles. There will be dozens of friends who will want to see you married.’ She looked over at Tracy, evaluating her figure. ‘Perhaps we should see that the wedding invitations are sent at once.’ And as an afterthought, ‘That is, if that’s acceptable to you?’

‘Yes. Yes, of course.’ There was going to be a wedding. Why did I even doubt it?

Mrs Stanhope said, ‘Some of the guests will be coming from abroad. I’ll make arrangements for them to stay here at the house.’

Mr Stanhope asked, ‘Have you decided where you’re going on your honeymoon?’

Charles smiled. ‘That’s privileged information, Father.’ He gave Tracy’s hand a squeeze.

‘How long a honeymoon are you planning?’ Mrs Stanhope enquired.

‘About fifty years,’ Charles replied. And Tracy adored him for it.

After dinner they moved into the library for brandy, and Tracy looked around at the lovely old oak-panelled room with its shelves of leather-bound volumes, the two Corots, a small Copley, and a Reynolds. It would not have mattered to her if Charles had no money at all, but she admitted to herself that this was going to be a very pleasant way to live.

It was almost midnight when Charles drove her back to her small flat off Fairmount Park.

‘I hope the evening wasn’t too difficult for you, Tracy. Mother and Father can be a bit stiff sometimes.’

‘Oh, no, they were lovely,’ Tracy lied.

She was exhausted from the tension of the evening, but when they reached the door of her flat, she asked, ‘Are you going to come in, Charles?’ She needed to have him hold her in his arms. She wanted him to say, ‘I love you, darling. No one in this world will ever keep us apart.’

He said, ‘Afraid not tonight. I’ve got a heavy morning.’

Tracy concealed her disappointment. ‘Of course. I understand, darling.’

‘I’ll talk to you tomorrow.’ He gave her a brief kiss, and she watched him disappear down the hallway.

The flat was ablaze and the insistent sound of loud fire bells crashed abruptly through the silence. Tracy jerked upright in her bed, groggy with sleep, sniffing for smoke in the darkened room The ringing continued, and she slowly became aware that it was the telephone. The bedside clock read 2:30 A.M. Her first panicky thought was that something had happened to Charles. She snatched up the phone. ‘Hello?’