Jack understood just how wrong he'd been.
BOOK TWO
Jack Keller was twenty years old when he first thought he might be falling in love. He'd been infatuated with Caroline Hale since he'd first seen her, sitting in a psych class, seven seats to the left and three rows behind him. Of course, in the late 1970s, just about every male on the Columbia University campus was in love with Caroline from afar. He was not the only one, by any stretch of the imagination, to keep turning and staring during that lecture. She was worth staring at.
And it wasn't just her physical beauty, although that was reason enough. It was certainly reason to crane his neck almost every day in class so he could glance furtively as often as he could. Her face was angular, yet soft and lovely. High cheekbones and lips were perfect, not too thin, not too full. Serious eyes that seemed to change with her surroundings, sometimes a piercing blue, then at times a melancholy gray, even a turbulent violet. Her hair was dark brown and straight, long enough to reach her shoulders, sometimes tied back in a ponytail that made her look seven years old. Her legs were long and muscular and tan and quite visible, usually extending from the bottom of a short black skirt, and she had a way of crossing them – particularly when she became absorbed in her extensive note taking – that was so casually provocative it made Jack's heart pound. Jack couldn't understand how her legs stayed so tan, even in the New York winters. Later, when he got to know her, found out that she came from money, it was the first thing he noted to himself about rich people: they seemed to always be tan, as if their money awarded them more sunlight than was allowed to shine down on poor people.
Jack was never tan. He was one of the poor people, there on scholarship, working at night to pay the rest of his way. He had never even thought much about having money. Not until he saw Caroline. And even then it wasn't the money he was thinking about. It was those legs that were always so brown and elegant. He wondered what he'd have to do to be allowed near them, to caress them with his rough and callused and very white hands.
He watched her for almost a whole year. Never following her, just noticing her when she was near. And not pining, either; she didn't dominate his thoughts – he had girlfriends, his life was busy and full – but never quite removing her from his consciousness. Whenever he'd see her, in a class, across a campus, at a bar or party, he'd study her, marveling at her ease. It was inconceivable to him how anyone could be so sure of herself, so relaxed and confident in any situation. Men and boys flocked to her adoringly. Women seemed not to mind, liking her despite her astonishing popularity, reveling in her friendship. Jack, from across rooms and from skewed angles, watched as she was able to let anything and anyone come to her and wash over her – and be gracious and respectful in return, all the while maintaining her distance.
The first time he heard her voice, it surprised him. It did not match up with the rest of her. He had not expected the Southern accent, which was not strong but still had a lilt that permeated every phrase. Her voice was playful rather than serious or elegant. It was ever-so-slightly hoarse, not smooth and perfect. And it was not soft and unobtrusive and gentle, as he'd imagined, but strong and commanding and barbed.
They were in a club on the Upper West Side, not far from Columbia, called Mikell's. A jazz joint, dark and not at all fancy, with good burgers and cheap beer. They weren't there together; as usual, they were on opposite ends of the room. Caroline was with a group of friends, all well dressed, all laughing and talking through the music, all egotistical enough to believe they were far more interesting than the sweet, doleful sounds emanating from the stage. Jack was alone, not particularly well dressed, and not laughing. He was a junior and in a constant state of shock at the way his horizons were expanding so rapidly. One of those expansions was his appreciation for music: rock and roll, sometimes classical, mostly jazz. In the right club on the right night with the right musicians and the right number of beers inside him, jazz could speak to him. Sweep him away into its sensual and mysterious world. This was one of those nights. He was lost in the music, which was why he didn't notice when someone sat down in the extra chair at his table. And why, when the set ended, he was stunned to discover that that someone was Caroline Hale.
'I know you,' she said.
He nodded, his tongue frozen.
'From Goldman's class.'
He nodded again. Since his voice had clearly deserted him, he hoped that his eyes showed pleasure.
'And from campus,' she added. 'I always see you looking at me.'
Another nod. This one embarrassed. He knew his eyes did not show pleasure now.
'You're usually behind a tree or a statue or something. Kind of lurking.'
A nod. Misery in his eyes, definitely misery.
'Can you speak?' she asked.
He nodded again and she laughed. 'Do all girls make you this nervous?'
This time he shook his head.
'Only me?'
Nod.
'Good,' she said, and smiled, and the smile practically knocked him backward it was so wonderful. 'Would you like to join me and my friends?'
He shook his head again. Just barely.
'It's hard to keep asking yes-or-no questions.' When he shrugged, she said, 'Because you're a snob and you think they're assholes? My friends, I mean. Is that why you don't want to sit with us?'
He nodded. The unhappiest nod of his life.
'Hmmm. Well, I kind of agree. So do you mind if I join you?'
He shook his head. The happiest shake of his life.
After she signaled the waiter for a drink, a dark beer, Caroline said, 'Don't you want to know why I'm sitting with you?
He nodded.
'Because I love this music. And my friends don't get it. And I could tell you do, just by watching you. So I wanted to sit with someone who got it. Do you believe that?'
Another nod.
'Good. As long as you know that's the only reason. Because otherwise I don't think you're at all interesting or different, you're clearly just like everyone else I know, and on top of that you're not at all handsome.'
'Do you like Italian food?' he asked. The first words he ever said to her.
She looked at him, as if surprised that he really could speak, then she nodded.
'You want to have dinner with me tomorrow night?'
She looked at him again, this time not surprised, but it was a long look, searching for something. And whatever it was she was searching for, she found, because she nodded again. A firm and decisive nod.
'What's the matter,' he said, 'can't you speak?'
This time she smiled another one of her smiles and shook her head, a long, slow, gentle, lovely, absolutely perfect shake.
They were together almost every minute after that. But it took four more months before he would know that he was truly in love with her, that he would have to marry her.
It was the day she met Dominick Bertolini.
– '-'-'AFTER JACK'S MOTHER died, Jack moved into Dom's two-bedroom Hell's Kitchen apartment. It was the most natural thing for both of them. They were good company for each other and they each provided a necessary and comforting tie to the past without ever having to talk about it.
In his early teens, Jack went to work in Dom's meatpacking plant on Gansevoort Street, spending most of his
