Santa knew it also. Lancaster was a wonderful mentor to her. For the past two years, he had taught her how an idea makes it from a designer’s head to a woman’s back. He showed her the processes, the upstream and downstream parts of Seventh Ave, from the buyers who bought wonderful fabrics in from Egypt to the wholesalers who helped you break even, even when one of your creations failed.
All the angels and saints are well represented on the streets of Paris, and on their final night together in the City of Light, Paulo Cartino hosted a wonderful dinner for the three at Café Bolivia on Rue St Martin, a right angle between Rues St Germain and St Andre de Arts. At 10 p.m. Paulo paid the check, which was engorged by the two bottles of champagne and three bottles of wine consumed over three hours of gastronomic delights. “You two are on your own,” Cartino said. “I’ve got a 6 a.m. flight back. Simon, you’re taking a 10 o’clock flight?”
“Yes, ten, Paulo. So, see you back home,” and he rose to hug the boss.
“And Santa, I’m glad you were able to change reservations.”
And she also rose, raising her arms with a wide smile, “Paris, three more days in glorious Paris. Thank you, Paulo.” And she kissed him on the cheek, as she caught herself, a bit tipsier than she realized.
“OK then, see you. You two behave yourselves,” he smiled.
“We’ll be along shortly,” Lancaster added, “We can’t let this good wine go to waste.”
“And it is wasting,” Santa held her glass out. Lancaster poured, “But not for long.”
Paulo left, Lancaster plotted. He had admired this wonderfully bodied beauty for well on the two years they worked together. Her style of dress was always in high fashion but always revealed just a little too much thigh or a little too much breast. It was one element of style he constantly fought over with both Paulo and Santa. The Latins liked the flash of flesh, and while he agreed, there was a line you did not cross. Ladies, especially ladies in the city, trusted their designers to keep them in check. You wanted style, not sex. There was a difference.
But when it came to her personal style of dress, the young beauty did cross the line, and it was sex that persisted. Lancaster had had the thought a hundred times. And while he was older, he knew Santa was intrigued. He was after all, six foot three inches tall, with a perennial tan, perfectly put together both physically and sartorially. He had a Halston formality about him that attracted women.
They left the restaurant arm in arm, strolling the streets of Paris in the evening, eventually back toward the Hotel St Andre de Arts. At a corner, as the street darkened, Simon Lancaster stopped and put his arm around Santa Alba’s shoulder. She reached up and kissed him. Their hands began roaming over each other, groping, searching. Lancaster grew frantic, he thought, right here? Alba was hungry, almost growling.
A small, older couple, he with beret, she with a rectangular boxy purse, walked by and seeing the lust before them said something in French.
Pausing, Lancaster looked at the old man and asked the Latin linguist, “What did he say?”
Santa smiled a sweet, slightly drunk smile and said, “He said ‘Pigs.’ He called us pigs.” She started laughing and said something in French to the old man.
“What did you say?” Lancaster laughed.
“Never mind, it wasn’t nice,” she said.
And now the spell was broken. Lancaster came at Alba, and she put her arms up. “No, Simon. That was fun. But it would be trouble for both of us.”
Lancaster, still in heat, said, “Santa,” and moved toward her again; this time pinning her against the grey stucco building.
“Simon,” a transformed Alba said firmly, “No, I like you, but we’re going no further.”
Frustrated, hot, in a bad way, he relented.
“Come on,” she said taking his hand, “Let’s go to bed.” Then realizing what she said, added, “Separately!”
“OK, I get it,” he smiled, painfully.
The truth was she could not believe she had let herself get to that position. She had maintained absolute professional relationships with everyone along the design process—in and out of Cartino Fashions, no matter who tried coming on. And they did. Designers, buyers, distributors, retailers, presidents, and delivery boys. Men and women. They all tried with zero success. Santa Alba was not easy. Only a man she was willing to marry would she sleep with. And that had happened on two occasions with young men she dated over the past three years. And each time she hoped he was the one, especially the beautiful Irish actor from Atlantic Theater Company. But he was only here for six months with a visiting production from the Irish Repertory Company.
Upon waking to begin her mini-vacation in Paris, she felt a bit of a headache. She would be in this city for three more days all by herself. Never had she thought of such solitude. A city of six million people, and she didn’t know a soul but for a few brief introductions at Fashion Week.
She had a list of what to do. It included all the normal sites: Notre Dame, the Pantheon and Victor Hugo’s burial place, the Eiffel Tower, the museums, Montmartre and Sacre-Coeur. But first, a run along the Seine would clear her head.
Along this run on a bright, brisk spring day she passed by vendors on the bridges across the Seine. On the side of one artist’s stand was a flier for “Carmina Burana” at St. Chappelle. Louis XIV’s own chapel, she had read about it on the flight over. Since it was close to Notre Dame, she added it to her list. The flier noted that musicians from the Sorbonne would be performing. She noted the time was 8 p.m. Perfect after a long day, although she did not know the music of “Carmina Burana,” she thought it would be exciting nevertheless.
No sooner had she sat down and the seats began to fill up across the aisle and behind her. Mainly couples. The single seat next to her sat empty, and she placed her coat on the chair.
A man appeared, and said, “Bon nuit,” in an American accent.
“Good evening,” Santa replied to the tall, well-dressed man.
“Is this seat taken?” he asked.
“No, please,” and she pulled her coat off the seat.
“You’re from the US?” he asked.
“Yes, Santa Alba,” she said smiling, reaching up to shake hands.
“Hi, Edward Wheelwright,” he said taking her hand, adding, “Have you heard Carmina Burana before?”
“No, I really came to see the Chapel. Is it good?” she asked.
Confidently, and noting the beauty of the young woman next to him, he straightened and said, “It’s music from God.”
“That good. I can’t wait,” Alba said, noting for the first time how handsome Mr. Wheelwright was and how impeccably dressed he was. “I guess that’s why everyone is coming in so quickly. “Doesn’t look like there are enough seats,” she said as people had started to stand along the rear of the Chapel walls.
“I don’t know, but I think this is going to be tight. In fact,” he said looking across the width of the chapel at about thirty feet and the depth of the altar at about forty feet, “I don’t know what to expect.”
“I guess we’ll find out in a few minutes.”
And now leaning toward Santa Alba and smelling the sweetness on the person next to him he said, “No, what I mean is, I was in San Francisco in February. Carmina Burana was at the symphony, and I was alone that night also, so I went to see it. There was a full orchestra of about one hundred and a chorale of about one hundred and seventy. There wasn’t an inch of space.”
Santa looked at him and said, “I read the flier; it said ‘presented by the
Sorbonne.’ I didn’t see much other information. Maybe the price of the ticket should tell us something,” she smiled.
“I’m an idiot. I should have thought of that. For twenty-five francs, what can we expect?”
And at that moment they found out just what they could get for twenty-five francs as four individuals walked out of the side sacristy to applause. There were two middle aged men with beards, a young man of about twenty-five, and a young woman about the same age. With them they had two instruments each.
Fear ran through Wheelwright, amazement through Alba.
The beard with the glasses began a dialogue for the two hundred or so gathered.
“Can you understand what he is saying?” Wheelwright asked.
“Yes, he says they’re going to play Carmina Burana on baroque instruments.”
And then the other beard began with a series of guttural tones. Wheelwright recognized the tune but not much else.
After forty minutes there was an intermission.
Wheelwright and Alba moved together to the back of the chapel. “This is not at all what I expected,” he said.
“It is rather terrible,” Alba added.
“Thank you,” he smiled. “Would you like to get out of here? I mean, are you with anyone or meeting someone?”
“Yes and no. Yes, I would like to get out of here. And no, I’m not with anyone,” she answered with a smile.
As they walked out of the Sun King’s chapel into the Parisian spring night, Santa Alba thought Edward Wheelwright could be one of those boys a girl takes home to her mother.
They went for a late evening bite to eat at a café filled with young couples on Rue St. Germain. Paris was the ultimate people-watching city; all of the couples were facing the street, making note of who was passing by. A couple of young men poked each other as Santa Alba entered. Alba and Wheelwright soon joined the gawkers, doing less gawking and more sharing of their lives. She lived in New York; he worked in New York but lived in Greenwich. She worked in New York but came from Coamo, Puerto Rico. Many of the young couples seemed to be just passing time together, but apart, as they faced the street, having separate thoughts on who passed by. Santa and Edward faced the street; neither noticing who passed by, who came to the dimly lit café, or who left. Each element of personal history became important, a revelation. Santa awaited every new detail of this young stranger’s life; Edward longed to learn more about this beautiful creature beside him. As they faced the street from the café, they sat next to each other. With each intimacy shared, Edward and Santa leaned a little closer to one another until their shoulders, arms, hips, and thighs were touching. She felt fused to Edward; he wanted to kiss her more than he had ever wanted to kiss another woman. He was so close it was searing; she was near enough to inhale. They talked till two in the morning.
After the café owner flashed the lights and several couples rose to leave, Edward asked Santa, “How long are you here.”
“Another two days. During the fashion shows, we only got to see models and clingy dresses. So I took another three days.”
“Brave girl, staying by yourself. This isn’t the safest city,” he said, now protectively, “I’m here for four more days. I only have one meeting in the morning, perhaps I could join you on some of your visits tomorrow afternoon?”
“I’d like that very much,” Santa said.
Edward Wheelwright walked Santa Alba back to the Hotel St Andre de Arts and as they stood looking, beholding each other, he said, “I really enjoyed meeting you tonight.”
“Me too, Edward,” Santa replied, hoping he would try to kiss her. She told herself this time she would not protest.
“Should we meet here, right on this spot, at twelve thirty?” he asked.
“We should.”
He hesitated, looked at her and smiled, “Good night, Santa.” He took her hands in his, raised her right hand and bent his six-foot-two-inch frame to kiss her right hand. Not a long kiss, rather quickly, but she liked it. She liked him.
In the next two days, they lived through the centuries of builders, of writers and of artists. They saw where they were born, they saw their work places, and they saw where they were buried. They visited more churches than must exist. Edward thought, Paris has more churches than New York has bars.
And on the eve of her departure, Santa Alba took Edward Wheelwright to her hotel room, and they made love until it was light. They collapsed in exhaustion.
Wheelwright returned to New York on the fourth day from when they met, and he called Santa Alba. And now over a year later they were inseparable.
She was in love, and her ambition in design had finally taken second place.
He was in love, and his desire to catch up in his financially driven world was in a tie with Santa Alba. She could win, but it was not yet determined. What was determined was his intention to make his fortune. The Brunswick Fund was that vehicle.
And now, after three months together, they decided the best way to handle the time constraints between his living in Greenwich was for them to move in together. They found a larger apartment on Central Park West. He left his home for the first time; she left the rental condo.
Work in the city, live in the city. Anything else fritted away precious moments that could never be recovered.
Chapter 19
They met with Sebastian Ball and Parker Barnes, after the play, at Dario’s, a bar on Christopher Street in New York.
“My father treated us to the show and dinner,” Edward March Wheelwright was telling Ball.
“You said that when we talked, where did you eat?” Sebastian asked.
“At AOC, on Bleeker,”added Santa Alba, Wheelwright’s lover, “Light French and very reasonable.”
“Yes, I’ve been there. I agree,” Sebastian added, “And you saw Our Town? How was that Edward, remind you of our days at Brunswick. “Is there much drinking in Grover’s Corners, the citizen asked the professor,” laughed Ball.
“There was much drinking in Grover’s Corners, as I remember our little play. This was actually quite good. Updated, the sentimentality gone. Really nicely contemporized,” Edward said.
“Over there at the Barrow Street Theater,” Ball pointed out the window to the sign on the corner of Barrow St.”
“Yes, but I didn’t get it,” Santa said.
“The play?” Edward asked.
“No, the rude guy.”
“Oh him, what a jerk!”
Here Santa reinforced Edward, “They said we could go to our seats. The crowd was funneling in through the door, and here was this guy standing in the middle of everyone and he’s facing us. He wouldn’t get out of the way. He was waiting for, looking for someone.”
Wheelwright laughed, “Don’t tell that!”
“What?” asked Ball.
Santa continued, “Well, Edward said, ‘Excuse me,’ and the guy never acknowledged it. Edward was right in his face, with people on both sides, sort of crushing in. So Edward got just slightly beside him, looked back to take my hand, and leaned into him, knocking him down. Edward gave him a hand up and the guy was sputtering, but he moved to the side of the crowd.”
Edward March Wheelwright stood up next to Santa Alba, excused himself, and went to the men’s room. As he smiled at Santa, the smile was higher on one side. He had brown wavy hair, brushed back, not a bed head that a lot of young men are fond of today. He had a long, angular jaw line. His charcoal suit was well tailored and showed a fit man with no bulges in the wrong places. The red pocket handkerchief matched his tie, and as he wove his way through tables, other men and women noticed him. In the men’s room, he glanced down. His black shoes had a bright shine to them, a trick his Navy Seal friend, Tray Johnson, taught him.
“You take a cotton ball, dip it in a little cold water, then get some black shoe polish on the cotton ball where it’s wet. Then you apply it to your shoe by spreading the polish in circles until it gleams. Then when you put your shoes on you walk tall and think of me out among
the hordes protecting you.” Wheelwright smiled at the memory of them laughing over Edward’s shoeshine lesson. He was glad his friend would soon be home from Afghanistan for their mutual friend Winston’s wedding.
Edward rejoined the table with a smile.
“What’s amusing?” Sebastian asked.
“The guy I bumped into at the play. He was pretty ugly and arrogant, but his girlfriend was even uglier. And as I looked around I noticed that most of the theater goers were not very pleasant looking.”
“That’s true,” Santa Alba chimed in.
As the waiter took an order of drinks, Edward continued. “I think the best looking guy in the place resembled the Senator, Harry Reid; that’s how bad it was.
At that moment, Gideon Bridge, looking rather dapper in his cream colored bow tie with blue shirt and plaid suit arrived. “Hey guys,” he greeted the three friends.
“Glad you could make it, Gid,” Sebastian smiled, rising to hug his lifelong friend.
“I’ll do anything for a ride home,” said the former editor of the Harvard Law Review and newest partner in the Bridge Law firm, started fifty-five years earlier by his grandfather.
“What’s been going on,” Edward asked Bridge as he also hugged him. Now they were partly complete. Four of seven lifelong friends, all still together, all still living in the area, ready to attend the wedding of the first of them to marry and partnering in business investments to build their own wealth, just as their parents had.
“Law’s not all it’s cracked up to be. The hours are pitiful. Occasionally, there are wonderful, interesting cases, but mostly it’s boring,” Bridge said, reaching up and signaling for the waiter as he sat down.
“Well you arrived just in time, “Sebastian said, “Edward is giving us a little insight into the ugly people at the theater tonight.”