She apologized when she got back to their house, but it wasn't for several hours. She and the producer had talked for a long time afterwards, about her goals, what she wanted out of her life, and what her relationship with Bernie meant, what he offered her. The producer had been fascinated by her and had told her as much. And when she got back, she tried to tell Bernie what she felt, much to his dismay.

“I can't live in a cage for the rest of my life, Bernard … I must be free to fly where I need to be.” He had heard it all before, in another life, with combat boots and a duffel bag, instead of a Pucci dress and Chanel shoes, and a Louis Vuitton suitcase standing open in the next room.

“I take it I represent a cage to you?” His eyes were cold as he looked at her. He wasn't going to tolerate her sleeping with someone else. It was as simple as that, and he wondered if she had done it before, and with whom.

“You are not a cage, rnon amour, but a very fine man. But this life of pretending to be married …one can only do this for so long …” For them it had been eight months since she had moved in with him, hardly an eternity.

“I think I've misunderstood our relationship, Isabelle.”

She nodded at him, looking even more beautiful, and for an instant he hated her. “I think you have, Bernard.” And then, the knife to his heart. “I want to go to California for a while.” She was totally candid with him. “Dick says he can arrange a screen test at a studio”—she spoke with an accent that melted his heart—“and I would like very much to do a film there with him.”

“I see.” He lit a cigarette although he seldom smoked. “You've never mentioned that before.” But it made sense. It was a shame not to put that face on film. Magazine covers weren't enough for her.

“I didn't think it was important to tell you that.”

“Or was it that you wanted what you could get out of Wolffs first?” It was the nastiest thing he had said and he was ashamed of himself. She didn't need him, and actually he was sorry about that. “I'm sorry, Isabelle …” He walked across the room and stood looking at her through the smoke. “Don't do anything hasty yet.” He wanted to beg but she was tougher than that. She had already made up her mind.

“I'm going to Los Angeles next week.”

He nodded and strode back across the room, looking out at the sea, and then he turned to smile at her bitterly. “There must be something magical about the place. They all seem to head west eventually.” He was thinking of Sheila again. He had told Isabelle about her a long time before. “Maybe I should go out there too sometime.”

Isabelle smiled. “You belong in New York, Bernard. You are everything vital and exciting and alive that is happening here.”

His voice was sad when he answered her. “But that doesn't seem to be enough for you.”

Her eyes met his with regret. “It is not that… it is not you … if I wanted someone serious … if I wanted to be married … I would want you very much.”

“I never suggested that.” But they both knew he would have in time. He was that kind of man, and he was almost sorry he was as he looked at her. He wanted to be racier, more decadent… to be able to put her in films himself.

“I just don't see myself staying here, Bernard.” She saw herself as a movie star and she left with the producer she had met exactly when she said she would. She left with him three days after she came home from East Hampton with Bernard. She packed all her things, more neatly than Sheila had, and she took all the gorgeous clothes Bernie had given her. She packed them in her Louis Vuitton bags and left him a note that afternoon. She even packed the four thousand dollars in cash he kept hidden in his desk drawer. She called it a “little loan,” and was sure he would “understand.” She had her screen test, and exactly a year later she appeared in a film. And by then, Bernie didn't give a damn. He was a hardened case. There were models and secretaries and executives. He met women in Rome, there was a very pretty stewardess in Milan, an artist, a socialite …but there was no one he gave a damn about, and he wondered if it would ever happen to him again. He still felt like a damn fool when someone mentioned her. She never sent the money back, of course, or the Piaget watch he'd discovered was gone long afterwards. She never even sent a Christmas card. She had used him and moved on to someone else, just as there had been others before him. And in Hollywood she did exactly the same, disposing of the producer who had gotten her her first film and turning him in for a bigger one, and a better part. Isabelle Martin would go far, there was no doubt of that, and his parents knew the subject was taboo with him. They never mentioned her to him again, after one inappropriate remark that sent him out of the house in Scarsdale in blind fury. He didn't come back for two months and his mother was frightened by what she had seen in him. The subject was closed permanently after that.

And a year and a half after she left, he was back in control of his life again. There were more women on his calendar than he could handle almost, business was booming, the store was in fine shape, and when he had woken up to see the blizzard that morning, he had decided to go in anyway. He had a lot of work to do, and he wanted to talk to Paul Berman about the store's summer plans. He had some exciting things in mind, and as he stepped off the bus at Lexington and Sixty-third, wearing a heavy English overcoat and a Russian fur cap, he walked into the store with his head bent against the wind, and then looked up at the store with pride. He was married to Wolffs, and he didn't mind a bit. She was a great old broad, and he was a success in every way. He had a lot to be thankful for, as he pressed the button for the eighth floor and shook the snow off his coat.

“Morning, Mr. Fine,” a voice said as the door closed, and he smiled. He closed his eyes for an instant before the doors opened again, thinking of all the work he had to do that day, and what he wanted to say to Paul. But he was in no way prepared for what Paul Berman was going to say to him later that morning.





Chapter 2

“Hell of a day.” Paul Berman glanced out his window at the snow still swirling outside, and knew he'd have to spend another night in town. There was no way he'd get back to Connecticut. He had spent the night before at the Pierre, and had promised his wife he wouldn't even attempt to come home in the snow. “Is there anyone in the store?” He was always amazed at the volume of their business in horrendous weather conditions. People always found a way to spend money.

Bernie nodded at him.

“Surprisingly, quite a few. And we set up two stations serving mugs of tea, coffee, and hot chocolate. It's a nice touch, whoever thought that one up. They deserve a reward for coming out in weather like this.”

“Actually, they're smart. It's a nice way to shop, with hardly anyone in the store. I prefer it myself.” The two men exchanged a smile. They had been friends for twelve years, and Bernard never lost sight of the fact that Paul had really given him his career. He had encouraged him to go to business school, and opened countless doors at Wolffs to him. More than that, he had trusted him, and given him a vote of confidence at times when no one else would have dared attempt some of Bernie's schemes, and it was no secret that, with no sons of his own, he had been grooming Bernie to be number one for years. He offered Bernie a cigar as the younger man waited to hear what he had to say. “How do you feel about the store these days?”

It was a good day for one of their talks, and Bernie smiled at him. They chatted informally like this from time to time, and their impromptu talks never failed to give birth to some marvelous ideas for Wolffs. The decision to hire a new fashion director for the store had come from their last session like this, and she was doing a fabulous job for them. They had stolen her from Saks. “I think everything is pretty much in control. Don't you, Paul?”

The older man nodded his head, not quite sure how to begin, but he had to start somewhere, he told himself. “I do. Which is why the board and I feel we can afford a somewhat unusual move.”

“Oh?” Had someone taken Bernie's pulse just then, they would have felt it escalate. Paul Berman never mentioned the board unless something pretty serious was going on.

“You know we'll be opening the San Francisco store in June.” It was still five months away and construction was in full swing. Paul and Bernie had already gone out several times and everything seemed to be moving on schedule, for the moment at least. “And we just haven't been able to come up with anyone to head the store.”

Bernie heaved a silent sigh of relief. For a moment he had thought something was going to happen to him. But he knew how important Paul felt the San Francisco market was. There was a lot of money there, and women bought high fashion as though it were pretzels being sold on the street. It was definitely time for Wolffs to get a share of that. They were well entrenched in Los Angeles, and they all agreed it was time to move north. “I keep thinking that Jane Wilson would be fabulous, but I don't think she'd leave New York.”

Paul Berman frowned. This was going to be even harder than he thought. “I don't think she'd be right. She's not strong enough. And a new store needs someone powerful, someone in control, someone who thinks on their feet and has innovative ideas. She's better suited to what's happening here.”

“Which leaves us back where we started again. What about hiring someone from outside the store? Maybe even someone from another store?”

It was time to move in for the kill. There was no avoiding it. Paul looked him squarely in the eye. “We want you, Bernard.” Their eyes met and Bernie blanched. He couldn't be serious. But the look on his face …my God … he was. But he had done his time. Three years in Chicago was enough. Wasn't it?

“Paul, I can't… I couldn't…San Francisco?” He looked genuinely shocked. “Why me?”

“Because you have all of the qualities I just described, and we need you out there. No matter how hard we look, we'll never find anyone as good as you are, and that store is important to us. You know it yourself. There's a tremendous market out there, but a touchy one, high class, high fashion, high style, and if we open our doors wrong, we'll never recover from it. Bernie”—Paul looked at him pleadingly— “you've got to help us out.” He looked at him piercingly and Bernie sank back in his chair.

“But, Paul …San Francisco? …What about my job here?” He hated to leave New York again, he was so happy where he was, doing what he did. It was really a hardship leaving now, although he didn't want to let Paul down.

“You can fly back and forth. And I can pitch in for you here. Where we need you is there.”

“For how long?”

“A year. Maybe two.” Maybe more.

Bernie was afraid of that. “That's what you said when I went to Chicago, Paul. Only I was younger then …I've earned my stripes now. I don't want to live in the boondocks again. I've been out there. I know what it's like. It's a pretty town, but it's provincial as hell.”

“So go to Los Angeles to play. Do whatever you have to do to survive out there. But please … I wouldn't ask you to do it if we had any other choice, but we just don't have anyone else. And I've got to get someone out there fast, before things start going wrong for us. Someone has got to supervise the last of the construction, make sure everything is running smoothly for the opening, set the tone of the advertising, check the promotion …” He waved an impatient hand. “I don't need to tell you what needs to be done. It's an enormous responsibility, Bernard. It's a brand-new store, and the finest one we have, aside from New York.” In a way, it was a feather in his cap, but it was one he didn't want. Not at all.

He stood up with a quiet sigh. It hadn't been such a great morning after all, and he was almost sorry he had come in now, even though it would have been handed to him eventually anyway. There was no avoiding it once Paul made up his mind, and it wouldn't be easy talking him out of it now. “I'll have to give it some thought.”

“Do that.” Their eyes met and held again. And Paul was afraid of what he saw this time.

“Maybe if I had a firm commitment that it wouldn't be for more than a year, I could live with it.” He smiled ruefully, but Paul couldn't promise him that. If the store wasn't ready to be handed over yet, then Bernard couldn't leave that soon, and it was unlikely he could, they both knew. It would take two to three years of tender loving care to get a new store settled anywhere, and Bernie just wasn't willing to commit to that long. And San Francisco didn't look all that great to him.