New York - The Novel

to stop for a moment. She glanced up at him, and took his hand.
    “It isn’t a surprise, you know. I’ve been expecting it.”
    “You have?”
    “I guessed you were in trouble. So many people are.”
    “I don’t know what to say.”
    “What do you want to say?”
    “I’m … I’m just so sorry.” He almost broke down, but he held himself together. “What’ll you do?”
    “What’ll I do? Live with you, of course. However you like, wherever you like. That’s all I want.”
    “But after all this …”
    “We’ve had a wonderful life. Now we’ll have another wonderful life. Just different.”
    “What’ll Charlie do?”
    “Work,” she said, firmly.
    “I just—” he began, but she stopped him.
    “I want you to get into bed now,” she said.
    It was a minute or two before she came from her boudoir. To his surprise, she wasn’t wearing a nightdress. She was quite naked, except for the pearl choker he’d given her. She was a middle-aged woman, but she’d kept her figure. The effect was wonderfully erotic. He gave a little gasp.
    She stood by the bed, reached back and slowly unfastened the choker. Then she handed it to him.
    “This should fetch quite a bit.” She smiled.
    He took it unwillingly. “I never want you to part with this,” he muttered.
    “You’re all I need,” she said simply. “That’s what matters.” And as she got in beside him, she pulled him to her.
    “I don’t think I can,” he said sadly.
    “Shh,” she whispered, and pulled his head onto her breast. “I think you should weep, now. It’s time.”

    It was several hours later, long after they had made love and her husband had fallen asleep, that Rose Vandyck Master lay very still and stared at the ceiling.
    She was glad it was over, really. Eighteen months had passed since she’d first guessed her husband was in trouble, and it hadn’t been easy seeing him suffer. But there’d been nothing she could do except watch and wait.
    She’d remembered how it had been, back in 1907. He’d nearly gone under during the panic then, and hadn’t been able to tell her. So when things started to get bad in the markets this time, she’d reckoned it would be the same. Month after month she’d waited. It was so obvious he was distressed—she knew him so well—but he couldn’t bring himself to tell her.
    This time, anyway, she’d taken precautions. She couldn’t do much, but at least it was something. And he hadn’t suspected a thing.
    The only question was, when should she tell him?
    Not yet. Better wait until the dust had settled and the debts were paid. Strictly speaking, of course, if she concealed money from his creditors, it would be illegal. But she’d take that fence when she came to it. With luck he’d come out with something left. The main thing was, she’d been able to remove a chunk of money from him before he could lose it all in the brokerage.
    Six hundred thousand dollars, to be precise. She had it safely stashed away, in five different bank accounts, in her own name. Not a cent of it spent.
    It was fortunate really that he wasn’t that passionate about Newport. If he’d insisted on going up there, he’d have discovered at once that, apart from a few tarpaulins carefully pulled over bits of the house, there was nothing going on there at all. No architects, no builders, no marble.Nothing. She’d had workmen come from time to time, to give the appearance that something was going on, and the place was well screened by hedges. That, and a lot of talking, had been all that was needed.
    Six hundred thousand. They’d be able to rent quite a decent apartment on Park Avenue. They had some beautiful things. They had friends, social debts to call in. While plenty of people with huge losses were vanishing from the social scene entirely, their own case would be different.
    After all, they might be poor, but they were still old money.

Brooklyn
1953
    T HE FIRST THING one noticed about Sarah Adler was the pair of big tortoiseshell glasses on her narrow face. Charlie had also noticed, when she leaned forward, the little Jewish star pendant on a necklace that rested between the tops of her breasts. But now as he looked into those glasses, he saw that her eyes were not only intense, but a magical brown and flecked with wondrous lights.
    Sarah Adler was twenty-four. And right now, as those brown eyes stared at Charlie Master across the table in the elegant St. Regis, she was wondering: How old is he? Fifty maybe?