I gazed admiringly at the hand-carved marble fireplace at one end of the room. The gold leaf in this room was lovely. “That was applied by the Dukes. We used masking tape to protect it while we were repainting,” my hostess commented. A round oak table looked almost lost in the oversize kitchen, and along one side wall was an immense, hooded gas range that had been used by the servants of former families.
There were beautiful classical mantles, marble hearths, and tiles around the fireplaces. Bathroom fixtures were early ceramic castings, and there were elaborately detailed brass fixtures. Some of the lighting resembled Colonial candles or oil lamps. In the dining room was one of the most magnificent crystal chandeliers I had ever seen.
My hostess suddenly turned and asked, “Have you and Jon Avery known each other long?”
“I met him tonight. Why do you ask?”
“It’s just that he is married. His wife has been in a sanatorium for the last three years.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, but, really, that is the first conversation I have ever had with him, and probably the last.” As if to make me out a liar, there was a masculine voice at my elbow, and it was Jon’s.
“I’ve brought you some champagne, caviar, and a sandwich. I hope this will lure you into talking with me, Karen.”
“How can I resist such thoughtfulness?” I asked, genuinely hungry. What possible harm could there be in spending a few minutes with this man?
For the first time I noticed that he had a slight limp. Someone nearby was talking about track, I believe. At any rate, we both heard the conversation, and he turned to me, saying, “I’m sure you’ve noticed my limp. It’s the result of polio when I was a child. I used to resent the fact that I came along before Dr. Salk and his sugar cubes with vaccine in them.”
“You met me at the door and escorted me in, and I certainly wasn’t aware of it then,” I said, which was true.
This seemed to please him greatly, and he went on to tell me that, through hours of exercise, he had become able to play volleyball in college and since then had walked at least three miles a day. We went on to talk of current events and his hobby of photography.
Thinking it over later, I could not deny that I found this man attractive. He had a charming smile. I had enjoyed our talk very much, but figured that was where it ended.
The next day was Friday, and I picked up the phone at my office to hear Jon Avery’s voice asking if I would join him for dinner. I had plans for the evening with a new executive who had come to the paper from another city. We had lunched together several times, and it was just a friendship. I could have changed our dinner to another night, but I could not forget my hostess’s warning. I was polite, but my voice held Jon at arm’s length as I told him I had other plans. That should be it.
Less than a week had passed when I was surprised by a call from White Oaks with an invitation to return. My hostess was having a few people over for drinks, and among them were a couple who had once lived in the house. If I had not finished my story, she wondered, would I care to talk to them? Of course, I accepted.
We had been seated on the brick terrace at White Oaks for less than an hour when the doorbell rang. In a few minutes I heard the faint sound on the terrace of someone walking with a limp. For some insane reason, I could feel my heart thud. Of course, it was Jon, and I felt that he was as surprised to see me as I was to see him.
How beautiful it was that afternoon, with the blooms of dogwoods, cherry trees, and azaleas. The other guests went off to tour the house, and Jon suggested that I might like to go out and look at the gardens and fountains. “Buck” Duke had done everything well, and there was nothing like it anywhere else in Charlotte. How long we stood talking at the edge of a circular garden near the fountains, I have no idea. But I know that when we rejoined the others and my hostess looked at me, I felt some guilt and embarrassment.
Something had happened that evening between Jon and me, and during the coming months, it seemed to block my fear of consequences and normal feelings of guilt. When I did consider the future, it was with all sorts of romantic imaginings. His wife would probably not live long, and he was aware of it; or he would divorce her, and we would move to another city after setting up a generous trust for her lifetime care. All obstacles would somehow miraculously disappear, melted by the fervency of our love for each other.
But in August I began to realize that Jon’s sense of responsibility would never allow him to divorce his wife, and anything other than marriage would be impossible for me. More and more I began to feel sorry for this woman I had never met.
What was the answer to this painful situation? The only right decision was to end my doomed romance.
One night, as I left Queens Road and turned down Ardsley, I knew I must not weaken. Jon had arrived first. There was a large party going on at White Oaks, and just as we had on that fateful evening in the early spring, we walked again in the gardens. Everything about Jon’s manner—the tension, the pleading expression in his eyes—told me he sensed what I planned to tell him.
Afterward, we were both in agony and stood silently together near a fountain. What could be said to assuage such hurt?
“I must go now. I really must.” I looked at my watch;
