And so she would read on.
Regretting Belle
（pgs. 14–29）
4 September 1941
New York, New York
A week after our first meeting, I find myself at a dinner given by Violet Whittier and her husband, an intimate affair held in honor of your betrothal to the illustrious Teddy. The evening was Goldie’s idea, though I’m not sure how she arranged it. Perhaps it had to do with some former indebtedness, a willingness from time to time to kill a less-than-flattering story, though I have no proof of that.
You tense for an instant when you spot me among the other guests, not so much that others would notice, but I notice and find myself smiling as you resume your tour of the room, a cool flame in pewter-grey silk, flitting amongst all the pretty people, pausing now and then, leaving a trail of coolness in your wake as you move on.
People use the word breathtaking—no doubt I’ve used it myself—but it dawns on me as I watch you from behind my watered-down gin and tonic that I’ve never truly grasped the meaning of the word. Until now, that is, when I suddenly find all the air has gone out of the room.
There’s a subtle shimmer about you, a play of light that seems to cling to your skin, and for a moment I fancy I can see the cold rising from you in silvery little waves, the way the heat rises from the pavement in summer. I feel an utter fool, a boy smitten. Preposterous, since I’m not a boy. Still, I can’t look away. You’re ice and steel, insulated by your coolness, but your frosty exterior has the opposite effect on me, the pull of it—of you—so strong, it feels like a threat.
Being near you is necessary, I remind myself. A means to an end. But it shouldn’t bring me such pleasure. Or such discomposure. My work demands a certain level of aloofness, the ability to hold myself apart, to observe from a distance. Clear-eyed, steady, always, always maintaining the illusion. It’s a calling for which I’m particularly well suited. And yet, as I stand in your wake, staring after you, I’m anything but clear-eyed.
You muddle me, madam, turning all my intentions to dust until I almost forget I’ve been invited for a reason and that were this not the case, our paths would never have crossed. The thought hits hard, an awareness that I might have been spared from what I’m suddenly certain is to come. I’m a moth in thrall to a chilly flame, lost before the game has even begun.
I must be more guarded, I remind myself, but I’m too intrigued to be guarded, too . . . yes, I’ll say it . . . too smitten with you. Our hostess, in the manner of all good hostesses—or perhaps as part of some earlier plan—takes me by one arm and Goldie by the other, steering us about the room like a pair of human bookends, dropping our names over and over until we’re at last face-to-face with the guests of honor.
Your Teddy is all politeness, smiling and nodding like the great handsome clod he is. You wind your arm through his, but there’s a kind of show to the gesture, a display of solidarity rather than affection. Or is it an instinctive need to protect yourself, an uncomfortable awareness of the invisible current arcing between us? Perhaps it’s only what I want to see. Perhaps you two are actually mad for each other and you’re not nearly as bored with him as I imagined that first night.
You manage a smile when we’re introduced—that counterfeit smile again—but even that falters when our hostess introduces Goldie, then immediately slips away, leaving the four of us uncomfortably on our own. Your eyes linger on the heavily jeweled hand resting on my sleeve, then slide to the rather ample bosom pressed against my arm. It’s all you can do not to curl your lip in disgust.
You catch my eye, one dark brow slightly raised. I assume the look is meant to shame me. It doesn’t. I nod stiffly before excusing myself. Your eyes drill my back as Goldie and I drift away, and I feel a small lick of annoyance aimed between my shoulder blades. You’re relieved to be free of me but miffed, too, at having been dismissed so publicly. A novelty, I’m quite sure.
Later, I manage to get some time alone with the golden-haired Teddy. I’ve done my homework and know his particulars. Theodore. Teddy for short. Middle name Lawrence, like his father and grandfather before him. Born April 14, 1917. Attended The Browning School through the first half of eleventh grade, where he managed to letter in three sports before his abrupt and carefully hushed-up departure. Last year and a half of grade school served with the priests at Iona Prep before eventually moving on to Princeton, where he distinguished himself as captain of the polo team, solidified his reputation as a prolific lout and lush, and was voted least likely to be sober for graduation. Horses weren’t the only things Teddy liked to ride in those days, and I can’t help wondering how much you know—and if he’s mended his ways.
He’s cupping a drink as I approach. Whiskey, I’m guessing. And judging by the glassy sheen of his silver-green eyes, not his first. He flashes his teeth as I hold out a hand, pretending to remember me. I congratulate him on his good fortune and his soon-to-be bride, just to break the ice, then steer the conversation to the news of the day. What he thinks about the US joining the war effort in Europe. How he feels about Roosevelt dragging his feet, despite Churchill’s repeated pleas for help. How he feels about the Vichy handing over Paris to the Germans.
He frowns into his nearly empty glass a moment before looking up again. He blinks those too-wet, too-wide eyes at me and wags his great brick of a jaw, as if searching for the appropriate response. The silence is beginning to grow awkward when he finally finds his tongue. “I’d say the Frenchies should fight their own battles this time around and leave us the hell out of their wars. If you ask me, Americans should be more concerned with what’s going on right here under their noses than with what’s happening across the Atlantic.”
And here it is—the stuff I came for. I keep my face bland. “Such as?”
“The money, of course. And who’s got control of it. If we’re not careful, we’ll soon find ourselves at the complete mercy of the bastards—if we’re not there already.”
“And which bastards would they be?”
“The Steins. The Bergs. The Rosens. Take your pick.”
He means the Jews, of course. “All of them?”
He blinks, slow and heavy, impervious to my sarcasm. “Well, the rich ones, anyway. Which is most of them. Making money off everyone else instead of doing an honest day’s work. Buying up every goddamn thing they can get their hands on.”
The irony of the moment is almost more than I can stomach. I have to grit my teeth to keep from pointing out that he’s never done a day’s work in his life and his family owns stock in half the railroads, oil companies, and shipyards in the United States, not to mention miles of real estate on both the East and West Coasts.
He’s gotten up a head of steam now, his face flushed with the effort of stringing so many sentences together. But he’s proud, too, to have been able to pull out his little speech at the proper moment, as if he’s been waiting for an opportunity to express his opinion—even if it isn’t wholly his own.
I nod somberly behind my gin and tonic. “Sounds like you’ve given this a good deal of thought—about who’s to blame for your country’s current plight, I mean. The Rosens and their lot.”