Grace deliberately took a seat up front, behind the first row of mourners, where she could observe the scene clearly. The coffin was open, with only the upper part of the body exposed for viewing. The synagogue was packed, and judging by outward appearances, everything about this funeral said money and upper class. It fit in very well with Grace's fantasy.
The organ music boomed out its solemn dirge. She was sitting a few feet away from the grieving Sam. Sam! She only thought of him as "Sam" now, having fantasized about their future. Occasionally he looked back at the assemblage and smiled thinly at various people. On either side of him were his children.
The music trailed off and a man in a black robe and yarmulke—by then she had learned the names of the various ritual trappings of the Jewish people—entered. Grace knew the man was Rabbi Seltzer, and he made the usual remarks about the late Anne Goodwin. Anne, Grace thought. A classy name.
Apparently Anne Goodwin had been very charitable, loving, and compassionate. This was not just lip service. The rabbi, Rabbi Seltzer, was specific about the organizations she had supported; Grace made a mental note of their names. His eulogy was appropriate in length and to the point. Then he said a prayer in Hebrew. Some of the words she had come to recognize.
At the end of the prayer, Rabbi Seltzer announced that there would be one speaker, and he introduced Sam Goodwin, who rose solemnly. He patted the yarmulke on his head. Sam pulled himself up to his full height and smoothed the creases from his jacket, which fell beautifully on his slim frame. His children touched him as he moved past them, walking ramrod straight to the lectern. He stood behind it, scanning the room, gathering the strength to speak.
"Friends," he began, his voice deep, mellow, wonderfully resonant. Grace felt thrilled by its sound. Her heart fluttered in her chest.
"Anne would have been delighted by your presence." He stopped abruptly, and Grace knew he was reaching for control with all his might. "She had this uncanny ability to relate to people. It was a phenomenon I observed from the moment I met her at a sorority dance at Wellesley College. She was a magnet for people. They clustered around her, sought her out, just like me. I remember how I, too, sought her out. I basked in the light of her lovely face, her beautiful eyes that radiated wonder—they beckoned me, a rather shy, stumbling and bumbling young man. I was captivated by her, charmed, and passionately committed to this rare human being for forty years of sheer joy and happiness. We enjoyed every moment we were together. She was my pillar of strength, my best friend, my confidant, my lover. She was beautiful, vivacious, giving."
He paused and studied the assemblage. Grace could not hold back her tears. Sobs echoed through the auditorium, and she suspected that there wasn't a dry eye in the house. It was not just the words he spoke. It was the way he said them, the wonderful baritone of his voice, its somber lilt, the sincerity of his meaning.
"Good-bye, sweet Anne, my love. You are too soon gone. I should have preceded you."
The sounds of crying continued as Sam left the lectern and returned slowly to his seat. Grace felt the urge to embrace him.
After the ceremony, she asked one of the men organizing the ride to the cemetery if he might find her room in one of the cars in the procession. The man arranged for her to ride with two couples in a Lincoln Town Car. In the front seat were Sally and Mike McDermott—they were in their sixties—and in the rear were Bob and Clara Hale. They were slightly younger.
"Did you know Anne long?" Clara Hale asked as the car fell in line with the procession. She had thin papery skin and the pale, mottled look of a woman who received most of her calories from alcohol. Bob Hale had a complementary appearance, and Grace had the impression that drinking was their principal common bond and had become the basis of their marriage.
"About five years. I was involved with one of her charities."
"She was a helluva lady," Mike McDermott said as he drove.
"A little imperious," Sally McDermott said. She realized that the remark seemed inappropriate under the circumstances. "But giving. Very giving."
"How did you know her?" Grace asked.
"Mike was the contractor for their house," Bob said. "Have you seen it?"
"Yes," Grace said.
"She was one tough lady, that Anne. Jewed us down to rock bottom."
"Be careful about your remarks, Mike," Sally said, looking around reflexively.
"I'm among friends, aren't I?"
Grace felt him eyeing her through the rearview mirror.
"She ran the roost," Sally said. "Never met a man so pussy-whipped in my life."
"Except me," Mike chuckled.
"Not me," Bob Hale interjected. "I'm the master of my home and hearth."
"Bullshit," Clara Hale said, poking Grace in the ribs.
"I would think," Grace said, "from the way he spoke about her… it was so beautiful how he must have adored her."
"Yes, he did," Sally said. "He gave her anything she wanted."
"He was scared shitless of her," Mike said.
"Scared," Sally said. "No way. Sam Goodwin is not afraid of anything. People who are scared don't get that rich."
"He respected her," Clara said. "That's a lot more than I can say for the way you two treat us. Right, Sally?"
"I'll take this bastard. Warts and all, although these bozos could sure learn a lot from Sam about how to treat a wife," Sally said. "Say what you want, but I don't think he ever fooled around."
"How the hell would you know?" Mike asked.
"Women know," Sally said, as if she was determined for her own reasons to have the last word. There was a sudden tension between husband and wife.
"If he did," Clara said, "Anne never knew about it. But then again, you never know what goes on behind the bedroom door."
"Nothing goes on behind ours," Mike said, lifting his hands in mock self-protection.
"Your definition of nothing is misguided," Sally said. She turned to those in the backseat. "To him, 'nothing' means 'never enough.'"
They were all silent for a long time while. Grace assumed that each couple was contemplating their own relationship. She wished she had one to contemplate.
"Poor Anne," Bob said to Grace. "I'll say this for Sam: He stood by her to the end. She suffered like hell."
Mike nodded his head. "Once I got past my anger, I liked her. I think she knew just how far she could go. Sam was a good soldier."
"He seems to have a lot of class," Grace interjected. "And he's quite distinguished-looking."
"And available. Are you married, Grace?" Sally asked.
"Divorced."
"Well, there's your big chance," Mike chuckled.
When they arrived at the cemetery, the mourners gathered under a green-and-white-striped tent in front of a freshly dug gravesite. Off to the side was Anne Goodwin's coffin, on a casket lowering device. Grace took a seat next to the couples who had brought her.
There were about a hundred seats, all of which were quickly filled. The overflowing crowd clustered in a semicircle around the seats. The coffin was lowered into the grave as the rabbi read from a Hebrew prayer book. Grace never took her eyes off Sam Goodwin, all her thoughts concentrated on how she could possibly begin a dialogue with him.
She watched Sam stand up, then reach down into the mound of earth. He picked up a handful of dirt and threw it on top of the coffin. It made a hollow sound as it landed on the wood, triggering in Sam an uncontrollable sobbing. Grace could feel his pain, and she also began to sob. Again, she wished she could take him in her arms and comfort him.
Sam recovered and returned to the tent. At one point he looked up, and his eyes seemed to meet hers and lock onto them for a brief moment. She wondered if it had been her imagination or merely an unconscious response to her own intense staring. She could not deny the thrill it had given her.
"I'm starving," Sally said.
"I could use a drink," Bob said.
"Likewise," Clara said. "These events tend to make one thirsty." She turned to Grace. "What about you, Grace?"
"Maybe a drink would do me good," she said, surprised at her candor. To approach Sam she would need a drink, maybe more than one. She felt this moment of opportunity swiftly approaching, and it inspired fear. She had problems thinking of an opening line.
"You suppose he'll keep the house?" Sally asked.
"No way of knowing," Mike said. "He certainly doesn't need it. One person thrashing around in all that space."
"He won't be one person for long," Clara said.
"Were the two people beside him his children?" Grace asked, attempting to glean more personal information.
"The son is a fancy lawyer in San Francisco, a real tight-ass. The daughter lives in New York with some weirdo. Sam has been very good to his kids."
"Lucky bastards," Clara said.
"Chose the right pop," Mike chuckled.
"I need a drink," Clara said.
They had to park a good distance from the Goodwin residence. It looked like the entire funeral procession had arrived.
The house was large but deceptively cozy. It was as if one entered a colonial home in Virginia. The walls were rich, dark, polished panels, the floors heavy oak. American antiques were everywhere, accentuated by oil paintings depicting early Americana. There were a few oil paintings of Anne at various ages, one in the den showing Anne as a young woman beside a horse; a smaller one in the dining room showing her as a younger woman, pensive and serene against a woodsy background; and one large vertical in the living room above the fireplace, Anne as a middle-aged woman of means, her demeanor regal and elegant, dressed in a gorgeous blue gown, wearing a magnificent diamond necklace. Grace was stunned by the beauty of her.
Crowds clustered around the dining-room table, which was burdened with food. A bartender dispensed drinks behind a dark-paneled bar. It seemed more like a cocktail party than anything.
Sam Goodwin sat on a straight-backed chair in the living room, receiving the condolences of his company. He wore slippers and had removed his jacket and tie. She watched him greet his guests, chat briefly, thank them for their condolences, and urge them to partake in the food and drink.
Grace hung back, not knowing what to say. She was too nervous to eat. When she wasn't stealing glances at Sam, she observed the house, its richness of detail and the scale of its rooms. She roamed into the kitchen, with its gleaming center island and ultramodern appliances. She had never been in a kitchen so beautiful.
She went through the bathrooms, each one different, wallpapered with varied colonial scenes. Other guests were touring the house as if they were inspecting it prior to a purchase. She went up the back stairs to the bedrooms, which looked eerily similar to the way she had pictured them in her fantasy, including the master bedroom with its canopied king-size bed and high mattress, which was accessed with a wooden step sitting beside the bed. The bedroom was huge, taking up the entire rear of the house.
Across from the bed was a nest of photographs in silver frames, depicting past generations, and Anne: Anne with two children, Anne in a tennis outfit, Anne and Sam in Venice, Anne with the Pyramids in the background, Anne at the railing of a ship, Anne everywhere.
Grace was struck by the images of Anne throughout the house, as if it were a kind of shrine to the woman. It filled her with envy to contemplate someone so worshipped and adored by her husband, and emphasized the daunting task ahead for anyone who would attempt to fill the void in Sam's life.
There was a telescope facing out to sea, and beyond the picture windows, a terrace with a table shaded by a colorful umbrella. There were two chairs; this was the place in her fantasies where they had breakfast and nightcaps, just as she had pictured it. The accuracy was unnerving.
Along one wall of the bedroom was a closet with floor-to-ceiling sliding doors. Opening one door, she took a peek inside. It was a walk-in with racks of women's clothes, all products from famous designers. They hung in two rows circling around the carpeted space. Above them on a shelf were endless pairs of shoes. She had never seen or even imagined a closet this big. It looked like a dry-cleaning store.
Grace heard footsteps approaching, so she closed the door and passed into the upper hallway. Moving through guest rooms that opened off the corridor, she saw that each room and bath was individually designed. Wherever she looked, oil paintings hung on the walls and the furniture seemed to be genuine antiques. In her mind she chose one of the rooms for Jackie.
Yes, I can be the chatelaine of this house.
She moved quickly down the stairs and headed for the living room, where Sam Goodwin was sitting. She stopped only briefly to take a glass of champagne off a silver tray, which she swallowed in one gulp. Then she took another. Ready for action, she inspected the area. Men shook Sam's hand and women bent to kiss him on the cheek. His son and daughter sat on the other side of the room, guests around them in clusters.
Grace moved forward, and suddenly she was in front of him, her eyes gazing into his. Sam's were bright blue and teary. He smiled and took her hand and held it between both of his. His touch was electric.
"I haven't had the pleasure, Mr. Goodwin. I'm Grace Sorentino. I was a friend of Anne's. She was wonderful. A truly great woman."
"Thank you so much," Sam said, his voice slightly hoarse. "I'll miss her."
"We worked together… on various charities. The homeless especially."
"That was her mission," Sam Goodwin said, still holding her hand. "To help others."
"I don't know if this is the appropriate moment…," Grace began. She felt her voice waver, cleared her throat, then managed to speak again. He must have taken this action as the beginning of a good cry, because he patted her hand in a comforting gesture.
"I know how you feel, Grace."
He remembered my name, she thought joyfully.
"Everyone loved Anne," he said.
"She mentioned something, Mr. Goodwin."
"Please. Call me Sam."
"Sam."
"What did she mention?"
"It was about her clothes. Your wife said that she wanted to donate her clothes to charity. I don't know if she put it in writing, but…."
"Of course," he said. "What use do I have for her clothes? My children will go through them and take what they want. Frankly, Grace, I don't think I could bear to look at them ever again. Yes, by all means, keep her promise."
"I assure you that we'll take care of it with the least amount of pain to you."
"I suppose time will take care of the memories." Sam sighed. "We had great times together."
"She was the best there was," Grace said.
Sam finally released her hand. "You're so sweet to come," he said.
"Thank you so much, Sam. Anne would be overjoyed. I'll… I'll stop by in a few days."
"The sooner the better."
Grace immediately decided she would wait two days. Satisfied and elated, she roamed through the house again. A new sense of proprietary interest seemed to bring subtle changes in her attitude toward the house. It bothered her suddenly to see some of the guests being careless with Sam's possessions. Someone had knocked over a Waterford crystal glass, cracking it, while someone else had leaned against a framed Catlin print, moving it awry. She quickly straightened it. In the dining room, a slice of cake had fallen to the oak floor. There was red sauce on an Oriental rug.
Despite the solemnity of the occasion the din of conversation naturally reached a crescendo. She threaded her way through the crowd to the patio that led to the beachside pool. At the far end was an ornate fountain, which directed its waters into a spill that fed into the turquoise pool.
She surveyed the house from the rear, taking in the details of the stonework and how it complemented the dark timbers of the Tudor styling.
How could anyone want anything more than this? she thought. What an unfair stroke of fate for Anne to have left all this behind.
Grace moved back into the house, heading for the living room to steal another look at Sam Goodwin. Perhaps they would make eye contact. He might nod, mime her name from a distance.
She saw him sitting in the same chair as before, his legs crossed, his head tilted upward to meet the gaze of the people still coming forward to pay their condolences. She willed him to turn his eyes toward her.
Notice me! she cried silently. Notice me!
Then, miraculously, he did. She sensed a moment of connection, as if they were physically touching. Fate is doing its mysterious work, she told herself, feeling a trill of excitement jump up her spine.
"Grace," a voice said from behind her. It was Mike McDermott, holding a plate piled high with food in one hand and a beer in the other. "Thought we had lost you."
"Here I am," she answered lightly, almost gaily.
He bent over her and whispered in her ear. "Party like this makes you kind of wish for more dead Jews."
She felt the anger rise from the depths of her, as if the insulting remark was directed at her personally. "You are a bigot," she snapped, conscious of the heat of her response.
"Hey, calm down," Mike said, blushing scarlet. "It's a joke."
"Not to me." She felt an overwhelming sense of kinship with the occupant of this house.
Grace looked toward Sam again, and felt like she had passed some test and put herself squarely in a new and once-alien place.
