Four Seasons of Romance (15 page)

“We eloped,” she said, trying not to look at Leo’s stricken
expression. “And it wasn’t his idea, but mine. It was the only way I thought I could
end things between you and me.” She set the flowers down carefully on the
ground. “Please, Leo, try to understand. I had to end our affair once and for
all, I couldn’t deal with...”

Catherine couldn’t speak. All the strength she’d tried to
muster over the last few days, all the times she’d tried to tell herself she
didn’t love Leo
anymore, that
it was a foolish,
unhealthy love... all that dissolved in the tears that rushed down her cheeks
and pooled on her chin.

“I cried at the wedding too,” she sobbed. “Not with
happiness, but because I realized I’d lost you forever. But I went through with
it; I had to.”

“Why
did
you go through with it?”
Leo
asked, his voice choked.
“Why?”

Catherine blinked through her tears as Leo stared in her
eyes, seeing that she was broken, that she was desperate, that even though she
married another man, she still loved him and only him like no one else. In that
moment, they understood each other; Leo knew Catherine chose security over
passion, however much she loved him. The bets were made, and Leo did not draw
the winning ticket.

She watched Leo transform before her eyes as his face
twisted in agony, the rage coursing through him. In one swoop, he picked up the
vase of flowers from the floor and hurled it down the steps of her building,
smashing it, the steps covered in gnarled green stems, torn petals, and jagged
shards of glass.

As he turned to go, she wanted to reach out for him, to hold
him one last time, comfort him,
speak
to him—anything.
But what could she say? The choice was made; lives were changed and hearts
broken.

Leo stormed down the front steps without looking back; as he
vanished from view, she sank to the floor, hugged her knees to her chest, and
wept.

A few hours later, Catherine had recovered enough to have a
reserved lunch with Walter, managing to carry on small talk as her heart
writhed beneath the surface. Meanwhile, Leo packed his belongings, hailed a cab
to the train station, and left Philadelphia for good.

The train sent him hurtling down one path, and Catherine’s
marriage kept her rooted in another. The future had been carved in stone—Leo
and Catherine would be apart forever.

Or so, they thought.

A matter of more pressing urgency soon replaced the pain
that threatened to swallow Catherine whole. It wasn’t that she ceased to grieve
Leo—far from it. Someone new demanded her time and attention, however,—a baby.

Weeks after Leo’s departure, Catherine discovered she was
pregnant. Walter’s mother was ailing rapidly, and they began to make plans to
move into the Liverpool Mansion. As Catherine nursed her broken heart, she felt
comforted by the baby growing in her womb.

But when it came time to decide on a name, she and Walter
were at odds. If the baby was a girl, there was no question; they would name
her Lily after Mrs. Murray, whom the doctor predicted would not live long after
her first grandchild was born. But if the baby was a boy, there was only one
name Catherine would consider.

“Leo,” she said simply. “I want to name him Leo.”

Walter objected, as one might expect, but she shook her
head.

“It’s not what you think. I know I’ll never see him
again—this isn’t about him. My grandfather’s name was Leonard, Leo for short. I
want to name the baby in his honor.”

Suspicious of the story, Walter did a little digging at the
library where he found the U.S. Census supported Catherine’s claims. She had
indeed had a grandfather named Leo Woods who’d been an Air Force major in World
War I.

That night, when Walter came to bed, he kissed her cheek, then
laid his hands on her belly and kissed the baby too. “I’m sorry I doubted you,”
he whispered to his wife. “If we have a son, I’d be honored to name him Leo,
after your grandfather who bravely served his country.”

It was indeed a son, as fate would have it. Shortly after
Leo’s birth, Mrs. Murray died, and they moved into Fox Chase. It was the life
Catherine had always wanted—babies, a beautiful home, and a faithful husband.

Her love for Leo was ever in her heart, but now there were
enough distractions to keep her busy as babies quickly consumed Catherine’s
waking hours (and too many of her sleeping ones too). Two years after little
Leo was born, she gave birth to a daughter, whom they named Lily, and a second
daughter named Sarah was born in another two years.

Walter’s success as a Sun Oil accountant and his inherited
wealth allowed Catherine to stay home with her children. Her life became one of
a homemaker, filled with play dates, PTA meetings, ice-cream socials, and
afternoons in the park. It was the life she wanted; yet, it was staler than she
imagined.

For one thing, Walter was much less comfortable as a father
than Catherine thought. He did not like disciplining his children and went out
of his way to shirk his paternal responsibilities. Thus, the task of
disciplining Leo when he disobeyed or Lily when she told a lie fell squarely to
Catherine.

This was complicated by Walter not seeming to relate to his
children very well. The logistics of changing diapers and feeding them mashed
peas eluded him entirely, and because money was no object, Walter hired a
part-time nanny to absolve him of his duties as a parent.

He spent more and more time away from his family to hang out
with “the boys,” something he didn’t do during their courtship. Walter had
always had very few friends, as it happened, which seemed normal to Catherine,
as Leo was the same way. Still, if he wanted to spend time with the guys from
work, she supported him.

On weekends, Walter spent hours at The Old York Road Country
Club with his friends playing golf and tennis during the day and, sometimes,
cards at night; however, he didn’t neglect spending time with Catherine either.
They attended important social functions, played bridge with other couples, and
once in a blue Moon, they hired a babysitter and saw a movie together.
Nevertheless, Catherine felt alone in her marriage, her world revolving around
the children and a handful of women friends.

Then, there was Leo, not Leo Taylor, but little Leo—Leo
Murray, her firstborn son. As the boy grew up, his olive skin and dark, curly
hair reminded his mother more and more of her lost love. Leo had a quick wit
and a flair for artistic things; sometimes, he flashed a smile that cut
straight to Catherine’s core, and when he tugged on her skirt or misbehaved, it
was as if she had been transported back to her fourth-grade classroom in
Woodsville with young Leo straining to get her attention.

As baby Leo became a young man, Catherine admitted to
herself what she had always known deep down—Leo was not Walter’s son. She
feared that Walter would put two and two together. After all, Leo Murray was
the black sheep of the family, his hair and eyes so different from his sisters
and his temperament nothing like Walter’s or Catherine’s. Walter never played
catch with Leo or built a tree house in the backyard, although the boy would
have loved to. Walter preferred the company of his daughters, but despite that,
Catherine didn’t think he suspected Leo was someone else’s son.

As the children grew older, Catherine and Walter grew
further apart; Walter had his well-established circle of friends, and she had
hers. Their sex life was suffering—although to be fair, it had never been
particularly spry in the first place. She wondered whether Walter was having an
affair; after all her certainty that Walter would never stray, she was no
longer so sure.

By 1968, Catherine decided it was time to draw a line. One
Friday morning, after she’d fed a breakfast of eggs, pancakes, and orange juice
to her family, packed three sack lunches, and walked the children out to the
curb to wait for the school bus, she came back inside just as Walter was
snapping his briefcase shut.

“Can we talk for a minute?” she asked.

“I don’t want to be late for work.”

“It’ll only be a minute.”

Catherine noticed his golf clubs leaning against the wall
and put her hands on her hips.

“Golfing today?”

“I have a tee-time with the boys after work. What about it?”

She sighed. “Walter, I’m worried about us.”

He swung the clubs over his shoulder. “What’s to worry
about?”

“What’s
not
to worry about?” she asked. “We hardly
see each other anymore, much less talk. Our sex life is nonexistent. I’m
concerned about our marriage.”

He grudgingly set the clubs back down on the floor. “I don’t
know why you’re upset,” he said. “I work hard to make a living so you and the
kids can have food and clothes and nice things. Haven’t I earned myself some
time to relax and play golf?”

Catherine shook her head. “That’s not what I’m saying. Of
course, you should have some time off. I just feel so... alone.” She took a
deep breath. “I was talking to Harriet about a doctor she and Joe have been
seeing. I scheduled an appointment for us next week. I’m hoping you’ll go with
me.”

Walter looked skeptical. “What kind of doctor?”

“They call it ‘couples counseling.’”

A wave of distaste passed over Walter’s face, but he set his
mouth in a smile and nodded.
“If it’ll make you happy, then
yes, of course.”

He was reluctant but went out of courtesy to her. The
initial appointment turned into weekly sessions, and soon, Catherine and Walter
met regularly with the neighborhood therapist. In 1968, nobody wanted to talk
about going to therapy—especially not the men—but Catherine knew from her
friends that almost all the couples in their group had sat on the same couch at
one time.

A few months into therapy, Catherine felt certain that
Walter wasn’t cheating on her, as it was evident he still cared about her
deeply.

“This isn’t an issue of infidelity,” the therapist said.
“You simply have contrasting personalities.”

“Is that a bad thing?” Catherine wanted to know.

“It happens. In fact, I’d say it describes more than half
the couples I see. It also has a tendency to get worse with time. After a
certain point in your marriage, you just don’t have as much in common anymore.”

When Catherine thought about it, she had to admit they’d
never had much in common. Yes, Walter took her out to see art and theatre in
Philadelphia, but he’d never professed much interest in those things himself
and as far as the “missing passion” in their relationship... it had been
missing from the beginning.

“So what do we do, Doctor?” Catherine asked.

He shrugged. “What all married couples
do.
Talk about things rationally. Hang in there. And, most importantly, come to
therapy regularly.”

Their sessions petered out though, and neither she nor
Walter made a fuss about reinitiating them. Catherine had to face something she
had always known, but didn’t want to admit—Walter simply was not a passionate
man. He would never love her the way she wanted, not the way Leo had, and
perhaps it was time she accepted it.

After their last couples therapy session, she and Walter sat
side by side in the car in silence; Catherine reached out for his hand, and he
let her take it.

“I do love you, Walter,” she said quietly.

“And I you,” he replied.

True, there was no passion, no deep well of shared
interests, but Walter was a good man who had done what he promised—taken good
care of her and their children. You couldn’t ask for water from a desert and
perhaps it was her fault she couldn’t be content?

In that moment, it seemed her marriage with Walter was a
pendulum and could swing either way. They could decide to end things and go
their separate ways, but perhaps, if she accepted her husband for who he was,
she would get all she asked for. The key was to stop asking for too much.

As years went by, Walter and Catherine stayed together but
lived increasingly separate lives. He worked long hours and played sports and
cards with the boys. She focused on raising her children who were now
teenagers. It became the unspoken treatise between them, the bargain they had
made, but it’d been years since they’d as little as kissed in bed. But
Catherine was in her forties; she told herself it didn’t matter—that the last
thing she needed was some young stallion in bed.

But one day, she met Gregory, a widower who moved into the
neighborhood in the early 1970s. He was a few years older than Catherine was,
though he had dashing eyes and distinguished streaks of gray in his deep brown
hair. She always felt envious of how well men aged, as opposed to women, who
seemed to regress into a patchwork of wrinkles and sunspots.

When he moved into the house next door, she brought over a
pot roast to welcome him, as she often did with new neighbors. He thanked her
heartily for it, and when he moved to take the iron pot out of her hands, his
fingers brushed hers, and a fire went through her body that she hadn’t felt in
years.

As the months went on, she got to know Gregory better. He
was an architect who enjoyed traveling and fine wine, had no kids, and had been
widowed for years from his wife who died of ovarian cancer.

Meanwhile, Catherine was preparing to send her firstborn to
college, a sad but hopeful day when she and Walter filled the family car to the
brim and drove Leo through Cheltenham and Hunting Park to his college dorm. Leo
had enrolled at Temple University to study art, eliciting victorious pride from
Catherine and reserved admiration from Walter.

With Leo out of the house and the girls involved in their
teenage social activities, Catherine found herself with more spare time on her
hands, seeing Gregory out in his yard more often, reading a book or drawing
sketches on his ever-present notepad. Gregory, semiretired and working mostly
out of his home office, had done well in architecture, earning himself a
flexible schedule and ample time to pursue any hobby that interested him; the
hobby that captured his fancy these days just happened to be his married neighbor.