He looked stunned. “I thought your parents wanted you to come home.”

She smiled and tossed a handful of socks into her duffel bag. “I guess they do.” She shrugged again and he suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to slap her. He had been genuinely in love with her …had wanted to marry her …and all she cared about was what she wanted. She was the most egocentric human being he had ever met. “I'm flying standby to Los Angeles. And I guess I'll hitch a ride to San Francisco from there.”

“And then?”

“Who knows?” She held out her hands, looking at him as though they had just met, not like the friends and lovers they had been. She had been the most important part of his life during his last two years at the University of Michigan, and now he felt like a damn fool. Two years wasted with her.

“Why don't you come to San Francisco after you get back from Europe? I wouldn't mind seeing you there.” Wouldn't mind? After two years?

“I don't think so.” He smiled for the first time in hours, but his eyes were still sad. “I have to look for a job.” He knew she wasn't burdened with that. Her parents had given her twenty thousand dollars when she graduated, and he noticed that she hadn't torn that up. She had enough money to live in California for several years. And he hadn't done enough about finding work because he wasn't sure what she would do. He felt like an even bigger fool. And what he wanted most was to find a job in a small New England school, teaching Russian literature. He had applied and was waiting for answers.

“Isn't it kind of stupid to get suckered in by the establishment, Bern, to work at a job you hate, for money you don't need?”

“Speak for yourself. My parents aren't planning to support me for the rest of my life.”

“Neither are mine.” She spat the words at him.

“Planning to look for a job on the West Coast?”

“Eventually.”

“Doing what? Modeling those?” He pointed at her cutoffs and boots and she looked annoyed.

“You'll be just like your parents one day.” It was the worst thing she could say as she zipped up her duffel bag and then stuck a hand out at him. “So long, Bernie.”

It was ridiculous, he thought to himself as he stared at her. “That's it? After almost two years, 'so long'?” There were tears in his eyes and he didn't care what she thought now. “That's hard to believe … we were going to get married …have kids.”

She didn't look amused. “That wasn't what we set out to do.”

“What did we set out to do, Sheila? Just screw each other for two years? I was in love with you, difficult to believe as that may seem now.” He suddenly couldn't imagine what he saw in her, and hated to admit that his mother was right. But she had been. This time.

“I guess I loved you too …” Her lip trembled in spite of her efforts at control, and suddenly she went to him and he clung to her in the barren little room that had once been home to them. “I'm sorry, Bernie … I guess everything changed …” They were both crying and he nodded his head.

“I know …it's not your fault…” His voice was hoarse as he wondered whose fault it was then. He kissed her, and she looked up at him.

“Come to San Francisco if you can.”

“I'll try.” But he never did.

Sheila spent the next three years in a commune near Stinson Beach, and he completely lost track of her, until he got a Christmas card finally with a picture of her. He would never have recognized her. She lived in an old school bus, parked near the coast, with nine other people and six little kids. She had two of her own, both girls apparently, and by the time he heard from her, he didn't care anymore, although he had for a long time, and he had been grateful that his parents hadn't made too much of it. He was just relieved when his mother didn't mention her for a while, and she was relieved that Sheila had disappeared.

She was the first girl he had loved, and the dreams had died hard. But Europe had been good for him. There had been dozens of girls he had met in Paris, London, the south of France, Switzerland, Italy, and he was surprised that traveling with his parents could be so much fun, and eventually they went on to meet friends, and so did he.

He met three guys from school in Berlin and they had a ball, before they all went back to real life again. Two of them were going to law school, and one was getting married in the fall and having a last fling, but he was in great part doing it to avoid the draft, which was something Bernie didn't have to worry about, much to his embarrassment. He had had asthma as a child, and his father had documented it carefully. He had been classified 4-F when he registered for the draft at eighteen, although he hadn't admitted it to any of his friends for two years. But in some ways it was convenient now. He didn't have that to worry about. Unfortunately he was turned down at the schools he applied to, because he didn't have a master's yet. So he applied to Columbia and planned to start taking courses there. All the prep schools had told him to come back again in a year, when he had his degree. But it still seemed a lifetime away, and the general courses he'd signed up for at Columbia didn't fascinate him.

He was living at home and his mother was driving him nuts, and everyone he knew was away. Either in the army or in school, or they had gotten jobs somewhere else. He felt like the only one left at home, and in desperation he applied for a job at Wolffs in the Christmas rush, and didn't even mind when they assigned him to the men's department and had him selling shoes. Anything would have been better than sitting home by then, and he had always liked the store. It was one of those large elegant halls that smelled good and where the people were well dressed, even the sales personnel had a certain amount of style, and the Christmas rush was a hair more polite than it was everywhere else. Wolffs had once been a store which set the styles for everyone, and to some extent it still did, although it lacked the pizzazz of a store like Bloomingdale's, only three blocks away.

But Bernie was fascinated by that, and he kept telling the buyer what he thought they could do to compete with Bloomingdale's, and the buyer only smiled. Wolffs didn't compete with anyone. At least that was what he thought. But Paul Berman, the head of the store, was intrigued when he read a memo from Bernard. The buyer apologized profusely to him when he heard about it, he promised that Bernie would be fired at once, but that wasn't what Berman wanted at all. He wanted to meet the kid with the interesting ideas, so they met, and Paul Berman saw the promise in him. He took him to lunch more than once, and he was amused at how brazen he was, but he was smart too, and Berman laughed when Bernie told him he wanted to teach Russian literature, and was going to night school at Columbia toward that end.

“That's a hell of a waste of time.”

Bernie was shocked, although he liked the man. He was quiet, elegant, a sharp businessman, and he was interested in what everyone said. He was the grandson of the original Mr. Wolff.

“Russian literature was my major, sir,” he said respectfully.

“You should have gone to business school.”

Bernie smiled. “You sound like my mother.”

“What does your father do?”

“He's a doctor. A throat surgeon, but I've always hated medicine. The thought of some of that stuff makes me sick.”

Berman nodded. He understood perfectly. “My brother-in-law was a doctor. I couldn't stand the thought of it either.” He frowned as he looked at Bernard Fine. “What about you? What are you really going to do with yourself?”

Bernie was honest with the man. He felt he owed him that, and he cared enough about the store to have written the memo that had brought him here. He liked Wolffs. He thought it was a terrific place. But it wasn't for him. Not permanently anyway. “I'll get my master's, apply for the same jobs again next year, and with luck, the year after that I'll be teaching at some boarding school.” He smiled hopefully and looked terribly young. His innocence was touching in a way, and Paul Berman liked him a great deal.

“What if the army grabs you first?” Bernie told him about being 4-F “You're damn lucky, young man. That little unpleasantness in Vietnam could get damn serious one of these days. Look what happened to the French over there. Lost their shirts. It'll happen to us if we don't watch out.” Bernie agreed with him. “Why don't you drop out of night school?”

“And do what?”

“I have a proposal for you. You stay with the store for the next year, and we'll train you in different areas, give you a taste of what's here, and if you want to stay with us, and if you can get in, we'll send you to business school. And in the meantime, you can do a sort of training on the job. How does that sound?” They had never offered anything like it to anyone, but he liked this kid with the wide honest green eyes, and the intelligent face. He wasn't a handsome boy, but he was a nice-looking man, and there was something bright and kind and decent in his face which Paul Berman liked a great deal and he said as much to Bernie before he left his office that day. Bernie had asked to think about his proposal for a day or two, but admitted to being very flattered and very touched. It was just a big decision to make. He wasn't sure he wanted to go to business school, and he hated to give up the dream of the country school in the sleepy little town, teaching eager ears about Dostoevski and Tolstoi. But maybe that was only a dream. Even now, it was growing dim.

He spoke to his parents that night, and even his father had been impressed. It was a marvelous opportunity, if that was what he wanted to do. And the year of training at the store beforehand would give him plenty of time to see if he liked Wolffs. It sounded as though he couldn't lose, and his father congratulated him, as his mother inquired how many children Berman had …how many sons …how much competition there was in other words … or daughters …imagine if he married one of them!

“Leave him alone, Ruth!” Lou had been firm when they were alone that night, and with great effort she had restrained herself, and Bernie had given Mr. Berman his answer the following day. He was delighted to accept, and Berman recommended that he apply to several business schools at once. He chose Columbia and New York University because they were in town, and Wharton and Harvard because of who they were. It would be a long time before he heard if he was accepted or not, but in the meantime he had lots to do.

And the year of training flew. He was accepted at three of the business schools where he had applied. Only Wharton turned him down, but said they might have room for him the following year, if he wished to wait, which he did not. And he chose Columbia, and began there while still working at the store a few hours a week. He wanted to keep his hand in, and he found he was particularly interested in the designer aspects of men's wear. He did a study on it for his first paper, and not only got high grades, but made some suggestions which actually worked in the store, when Berman let him try them on a small scale. His business school career was a considerable success, and when he finished, he wound up working for Berman for six months, and then moving back to men's wear after that, and then women's wear. He began to make changes which could be felt throughout the store, and within five years to the day he began at Wolffs, he was their rising star. So it came as a blow when Paul Berman announced on a sunny spring afternoon that they were moving him to the Chicago store for two years.

“But why?” It sounded like Siberia to him. He didn't want to go anywhere. He loved New York, and he was doing splendidly at the store.

“For one thing, you know most of the Midwest. For another”—Berman sighed and lit a cigar—“we need you out there. The store isn't doing as well as we'd like. It needs a shot in the arm, and you're it.” He smiled at his young friend. They shared enormous respect, but Bernie wanted to fight him on this. But he didn't win. Berman wouldn't relent, and two months later Bernie flew to Chicago and a year later he was made manager, which kept him there for another two years, even though he hated it. Chicago seemed like a depressing town to him, and the weather really got to him.

His parents came to visit him frequently, and it was obvious that his position carried with it considerable prestige. To be manager of Wolffs Chicago at thirty years of age was no small thing, but nonetheless he was dying to get back to New York, and his mother threw a huge party for him when he told her the good news. He was thirty-one years old when he came home, and Berman let him write his own ticket when he came back. Nonetheless when Bernie thought of upgrading the level of women's wear, Berman was not convinced. He wanted to introduce a dozen big couture lines, and put Wolffs back on the map as trendsetters for the whole United States.