own kind”. Mainline Philadelphia.’
‘And they’ve already selected your wife,’ Tracy guessed.
Charles took her in his arms. ‘That doesn’t matter a damn. It’s whom I’ve selected that counts. We’ll have dinner with Mother and Father next Friday. It’s time you met them.’
At five minutes to 9:00 Tracy became aware of a difference in the noise level in the bank. The employees were beginning to speak a little faster, move a little quicker. The bank doors would open in five minutes and everything had to be in readiness. Through the front window, Tracy could see customers lined up on the pavement outside, waiting in the cold rain.
Tracy watched as the bank guard finished distributing fresh blank deposit and withdrawal slips into the metal trays on the six tables lined up along the centre aisle of the bank. Regular customers were issued deposit slips with a personal magnetized code at the bottom so that each time a deposit was made, the computer automatically credited it to the proper account. But often customers came in without their deposit slips and would fill out blank ones.
The guard glanced up at the clock on the wall, and as the hour hand moved to 9:00, he walked over to the door and ceremoniously unlocked it.
The banking day had begun.
For the next few hours Tracy was too busy at the computer to think about anything else. Every wire transfer had to be double-checked to make sure it had the correct code. When an account was to be debited, she entered the account number, the amount, and the bank to which the money was to be transferred. Each bank had its own code number, the numbers listed in a confidential directory that contained the codes for every major bank in the world.
The morning flew by swiftly. Tracy was planning to use her lunchtime to have her hair done and had made an appointment with Larry Stella Botte. He was expensive, but it would be worth it, for she wanted Charles’s parents to see her at her best. I’ve got to make them like me. I don’t care whom they chose for him, Tracy thought. No one can make Charles as happy as I will.
At 1:00, as Tracy was getting into her raincoat, Clarence Desmond summoned her to his office. Desmond was the image of an important executive. If the bank had used television commercials, he would have been the perfect spokesman. Dressed conservatively, with an air of solid, old-fashioned authority about him, he looked like a person one could trust.
‘Sit down, Tracy,’ he said. He prided himself on knowing every employee’s first name. ‘Nasty outside, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Ah, well. People still have to do their banking.’ Desmond had used up his small talk. He leaned across his desk. ‘I understand that you and Charles Stanhope are engaged to be married.’
Tracy was surprised. ‘We haven’t even announced it yet. How –?’
Desmond smiled. ‘Anything the Stanhopes do is news. I’m very happy for you. I assume you’ll be returning here to work with us. After the honeymoon, of course. We wouldn’t want to lose you. You’re one of our most valuable employees.’
‘Charles and I talked it over, and we agreed I’d be happier if I worked.’
Desmond smiled, satisfied. Stanhope and Sons was one of the most important investment houses in the financial community, and it would be a nice plum if he could get their exclusive account for his branch. He leaned back in his chair. ‘When you return from your honeymoon, Tracy, there’s going to be a nice promotion for you, along with a substantial rise.’
‘Oh, thank you! That’s wonderful.’ She knew she had earned it, she felt a thrill of pride. She could hardly wait to tell Charles. It seemed to Tracy that the gods were conspiring to do everything they could to overwhelm her with happiness.
The Charles Stanhope Seniors lived in an impressive old mansion in Rittenhouse Square. It was a city landmark that Tracy had passed often. And now, she thought, it’s going to be a part of my life.
She was nervous. Her beautiful hairdo had succumbed to the dampness of the air. She had changed dresses four times. Should she dress simply? Formally? She had one Yves Saint Laurent she had scrimped to buy at Wanamaker’s. If I wear it, they’ll think I’m extravagant. On the other hand, if I dress in one of my sale things from Post Horn, they’ll think their son is marrying beneath him. Oh, hell, they’re going to think that anyway, Tracy decided. She finally settled on a simple grey wool skirt and a white silk blouse and fastened around her neck the slender gold chain her mother had sent her for Christmas.
The door to the mansion was opened by a liveried butler. ‘Good evening, Miss Whitney.’ The butler knows my name. Is that a good sign? A bad sign? ‘May I take your coat?’ She was dripping on their expensive Persian rug.
He led her through a marble hallway that seemed twice as large as the bank. Tracy thought, panicky, Oh, my God. I’m dressed all wrong! I should have worn the Yves Saint Laurent. As she turned into the library, she felt a ladder start at the ankle of her pantyhose, and she was face-to-face with Charles’s parents.
Charles Stanhope, Sr., was a stern-looking man in his middle sixties. He looked a successful man; he was the projection of what his son would be like in thirty years. He had brown eyes, like Charles’s, a firm chin, a fringe of white hair, and Tracy loved him instantly. He was the perfect grandfather for their child.
Charles’s mother was impressive looking. She was rather short and heavy-set, but despite that, there was a regal air about her. She looks solid and dependable, Tracy thought. She’ll make a wonderful grandmother.
Mrs Stanhope held out her hand. ‘My dear, so good of you to join us. We’ve asked Charles to give us a few minutes alone with you. You don’t mind?’
‘Of course she doesn’t mind,’ Charles’s father declared. ‘Sit down … Tracy, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, sir.’
The two of them seated themselves on a couch facing her. Why do I feel as though I’m about to undergo an inquisition? Tracy could hear her mother’s voice: Baby, God will never throw anything at you that you can’t handle. Just take it one step at a time.
Tracy’s first step was a weak smile that came out all wrong, because at that instant she could feel the ladder in her hose slither up to her knee. She tried to conceal it with her hands.
‘So!’ Mr Stanhope’s voice was hearty. ‘You and Charles want to get married.’
The word want disturbed Tracy. Surely Charles had told them they were going to be married.
‘Yes,’ Tracy said.
‘You and Charles really haven’t known each other long, have you?’ Mrs Stanhope asked.
Tracy fought back her resentment. I was right. It is going to be an inquisition.
‘Long enough to know that we love each other, Mrs Stanhope.’
‘Love?’ Mr Stanhope murmured.
Mrs Stanhope said, ‘To be quite blunt, Miss Whitney, Charles’s news came as something of a shock to his father and me.’ She smiled forbearingly. ‘Of course, Charles has told you about Charlotte?’ She saw the expression
