Pictures of the Past (10 page)
“Oh really…and what did he say to this proposal?”
“He was open to it…”
“But I think you insult my father with these words.”
Taylor was puzzled; he bent his arms at the elbows with his palms open and angling outward. His head went side to side in the recognized pose of confusion. “Insult him. I think you misunderstand. He seemed pleased…maybe flattered that I was so intrigued by his factories.”
“Insult his intelligence.” She was smiling and laughing slightly. “You think that you are not transparent to him, that he is unaware of your true motivation.”
“Oh, and now I ask you what you think that motivation is.”
“I think that you are not yet ready to put an ocean between us.”
T
his time love came to her in quite a different manner. There was no immediacy of love at first sight. She would never allow herself to fall into that trap again. Well, that was not totally true—she had fallen for love at first sight just once more—about two and a half years before—the moment that Jason was born.
Following the Jewish tradition, she was thrilled to honor Ida’s wish and she chose a name for her son with the same first initial of the brother that Ida had lost. After Jason Gold’s birth, Rachel—just like Ida so many years ago—was not eager to leave New York. She had become comfortable sharing a household with her aunt, had made many wonderful friends, and was extremely vested in her educational path at New York University. And that was where the love, that wasn’t at first sight, was slowly and carefully nurtured.
It was her last semester of college. It was his last class to teach as a graduate student, prior to receiving his MBA. Sometimes he found it exasperating. “Accounting for Non-Business Majors.” Yes, he was teaching bright students, but they were generally in the literary and fine arts sectors. This class was for the layperson— regarding how to really exist financially. In other words, if you finally landed a role in a Broadway play, wrote a screenplay, or sold a painting, how should you successfully handle that first windfall, in case there were bleak times ahead? He always thought he should walk in the classroom the first day and simply say, “I have three words for you—hire an accountant,” and then not show until the final exam where he would hand out papers that ask—"what are the three words that sum up the class?” You would get an A if you wrote “hire an accountant.” But, of course, he couldn’t do that. That would be condescending, and even a little mean, two qualities that did not define Richard Stone.
And since he was teaching this course almost by rote after having taught two classes for each of the previous three semesters, Richard was quite caught off guard by this young woman in the front seat, right aisle. Oh, he was familiar with beauties. NYU was, after all, a premier school for the budding actors and actresses of the time. But most of the girls, especially, were thin little waifs who acted like they wanted to be anywhere else but in his class. And he was used to rejection by beauties. In fact, he was recovering from a major setback in the romance department. A girl, Sharon Lee Stein, who he had dated for two years, who seemed to like his quirky humor, his just-above-nerdy looks, his Wall Street potential, left him (with a ring in his pocket) for another man.
So now he was completely surprised by this enchanting young woman in the front row, staring at him with eager eyes (for his knowledge). For Richard Stone, the feeling was as if he had been hit by a car. It was that rush of anxiety that overpowers you when you see it coming, the deep thud inside upon impact, and then the relief that you have survived, and that you will be OK. But in cases of love, there is the potential that you might even be better than ever.
Later, as his mesmerized state abated, he began to analyze her powerful attraction. She was beautiful, young, and radiant looking, yet it was evident she had a certain maturity to her. And he kept feeling he might have recognized a slight vulnerability behind that self-assured façade. Whatever her story was, he knew he wanted to be part of it. He set his goal to attain Rachel and he knew he would structure a plan as he would any project for his graduate degree. Soon Richard would have his MBA from the university and he had already accepted an offer from the financial analysis department of the Goldman Brown Trust.
In class, he tried to be professional, tried not to look at her too much. But it was almost impossible. The thick waves of her hair, her large, inquisitive brown eyes, the way her sweaters clung to the beautiful curve of her breasts, made it a challenge to concentrate. Eventually, he tried to think of teaching just for her (without looking at her), as the eccentric student mix went in many distracted directions and only Rachel seemed to be responsive and to soak in his lesson. In a sense, the class reminded him of the years he spent teaching junior high math, while awaiting his draft status. They were not the preteen gum chewers and letter passers, but the actors were “acting out,” whispering about tryouts and rehearsals, the dancers were stretching legs and pointing toes, and the artists were doodling or sketching instead of taking notes.
Finally after the first month, Rachel, to his amazement, actually stopped Richard on the street to talk to him. “I don’t know how you do it—I mean teach seriously while everything is going on.”
“Oh, you noticed that too. Well here’s my trick, Rachel.” He was caught off guard hearing her voice, feeling the touch of her hand on his shoulder to gain his attention. He only willed his mind to function to prepare logical words for a response. “I realized from the first time I taught this type of class for non-finance majors that most of the class were taking the course Pass/Fail. This is not the student population that I am used to. In my sections for finance majors, the kids are quiet, unless they are obsessively asking questions, and they’re serious about learning the material and getting a good grade.
“So when I get a class like yours, I just block out the shenanigans of the ‘artistically gifted’ of NYU and try to teach to whoever is listening—which, in this case, happens to be you—and maybe only you.”
“Oh,” she returned softly, obviously taken aback. She was surprised that he had even noticed her, since he barely looked her way even when she asked questions.
He tried to keep his cool; he was so practiced in looking away from her in class that he didn’t know how to handle himself now. “So I guess I need to know if you’ve learned anything, to assess if my system is working,” he finally said.
Rachel’s relationship with Richard stayed at a controlled distance until the end of the term. Their feelings were never verbalized those first months, and they interacted in an acceptable student-teacher manner, although he did invite her to his office two or three times for tutorial sessions and another two or three times she sought his help before a test. But both of them were aware that there was no need for tutoring, no test anxiety; Rachel could have excelled even in the class for finance majors.
By their first real date after the course ended, they knew only the most elemental things about each other— that they were both Jewish, both bright and directed, both valued a sense of humor. And they knew the most important part of each other’s history.
From the beginning she didn’t want to mislead him or take him by surprise. So very soon after their initial connection, the week after they spoke on the street, she knocked on his office door.
“I won’t be in class on Thursday; I just wanted you to know.”
At first he didn’t understand; he thought she meant not ever after Thursday. She could tell that from the reaction on his face. “Just that day—you see—it is Parents’ Day at Rusty’s school. I have a son Rusty, Jason really. He’s two and a half, and he is the light of my life. I have no husband.”
There, it was out. In the past two years she had not been truly interested enough in anyone to even reveal this much. Solitary dates had occasionally been entertaining—that was all. But she wanted Richard to know who she was from the start. As she spoke, she pulled out a preschool picture of an adorable rusty-haired boy and placed it in front of Richard.
“Well,” Richard said almost choked up that this catharsis on her part indicated that she too thought they might have a future. “You’re ahead of me—I’ve been rejected by love and I have no wonderful picture to show for it.”
It was then that he told her about Sharon Lee Stein. “Since you have been so honest with me—I will tell you about my experiences with Sharon Lee Stein.” He sat back in his chair, twirling his pencil in his hand and focusing intently on the act without looking up at her. “Obviously, you see me as a handsome, charismatic lady’s man, but it was not always so.”
She smiled broadly; did he truly not know how attractive he was? His allure was not because of his face or body, but his general bearing, his wit, and the charm of his personality.
Lifting only his eyes to assess her expression, he felt assured enough to continue. “Now, as I was saying…in high school I was a big team player, but we’re talking the Debate Team and, oh yes, the local Math Olympics team. The ladies were not truly falling all over me.
“So when Sharon Lee started paying attention to me at the beginning of my junior year of college, I was an easy mark. It started slowly—peaked grandly—and ended badly. When I was little, they called me four eyes. Truth be told, I
was
blind—blinded by her.”
This time he was not afraid to look at Rachel’s eyes, and he was pleased to see her sympathetic expression. “Have you ever been with a date in a room, sitting on a couch at a party, sitting at an intimate dining table, and the person you are with isn’t looking at you when you talk? He is looking past you—seeing who is better behind you—over your shoulder.
“Actually she wasn’t even that great looking—nothing like you. But I was a late bloomer, over-ready for love, and an easy target.” She nodded with understanding and pondered silently her own past.
“My parents who are kind of ‘old country’ saw it easily,” he continued. “’She’s too made up…too much bust showing…her language is not refined,’ they said. And this from two people who, although successful in business with a good place in Jewish society, still spoke with the accents of immigrants.
“But they only voiced their feelings once—my parents are good, supportive people—they’ve always let me find my own way,” he said.
She was struck, again, by similarities in their lives.
By the last weeks of class, all Richard could think about was kissing her. He longed to envelop her sweet full lips with his own, to touch the cashmere of her sweater, to outline the curve of her breasts with his hands. He was counting down the days until school was over like a fifth grader awaiting the vacation bell.
Finally, on the last day of the term, after grades were distributed so that there would be no hint of impropriety, Richard asked her out. Just a few months later, they were an established “item.” By that time, Ida insisted that he call her “aunt,” and he was gaining weight from her noodle kugels, and bonding with Rusty while playing with presents of trucks and coloring books.
Soon Rachel began spending evenings with Richard’s parents and small extended family. His parents recognized a new positive energy in him as he emerged from his depression following his last romantic relationship. And Rachel knew to be grateful to his “rejection by Sharon” for helping her, an unwed mother, young son in tow, to be easily embraced by them. Rachel was especially drawn to Richard’s uncle Charles, who they called Chal, a sweet, charming man who had lost a young wife and child in the Holocaust. A diamond cutter in the New York industry that was becoming dominated by Jews, he lived alone and had never remarried and frequently was a dinner guest at the Stones’ home. There was something tender about this thin man, whose sadness was reflected only remotely behind his bespectacled eyes, but not worn outwardly as a heavy coat. He had a broad knowledge of European history, although he skirted any references to his own plight. He loved following the newspapers with a diligence that titillated and educated everyone around him, and he extended their exposure to the fascinating culture of New York City, often inviting them to join him in prime seats for the symphony or ballet.
Her acquaintance with Chal soon led her to devise a plan. She had long been trying to think of something special she could do for Aunt Ida to make her understand not just how much she appreciated her, but how much she and Rusty really loved her. Rachel still felt extremely close to her parents, and they had continued to contribute to her living and tuition expenses through college, just as they would have if she had remained at the University of Illinois, but Aunt Ida had certainly become her closest source of emotional support and help with her son. After so many years working in the garment industry, Ida had moved from seamstress to supervisor to part-time bookkeeper for a midsized operation, and was so invaluable an employee that her boss accepted her request for an even more flexible work week once Rusty was born. Through his early years, she was always available when needed. After a long day away at class, and then at the library studying, Rachel would come home to see Ida sitting on the sofa listening to a very soft television with the toddler asleep on her lap. Rachel would come up behind her and envelop her shoulders and neck in an embrace. And Ida would apologize to her—"Oh, I am sorry. He fell asleep while I read him a story—in the middle of a sentence—he was listening and even asking questions and then he just closed his eyes. My fault—I wore him out at the park after dinner.”
“You wore him out? I would think he would wear you out.”
“Just the opposite, darling. He energizes me. Please don’t be upset. He was too precious to put back to bed,” she would say. “I just couldn’t part with the feel of his soft cheeks on my arm.”
“Aunt Ida, what would I do without you? You are an angel. I have imposed on you constantly, and yet you never complain.”
“Complain? I should complain to the person who has saved me by bringing the joy of life back to me? I should complain because now I have people to cook for? Was I happy with wonderful recipes in my memory and no one to join me at the table?”
