• • •

All the local papers and a good many magazines ran news of the upcoming marriage in flashy feature stories, gossipy tidbit columns or as straightforward society dish. They talked about the breakup of Charles’ first marriage and speculated on its relationship to the “tragedy the couple had endured in the loss of their beautiful and promising daughter.” They talked about our twenty-year age difference and our relatively recent acquaintance. They compared me with the first Mrs. Charles Acheson, complimenting my “beauty and unassuming charm,” and only occasionally pointed out my resemblance to Charles’ late daughter.
Thankfully, the press showed little interest in the details of my past. They were satisfied to parrot the official word Charles’ staff had put out at my direction: that I was a poet, that I had grown up as an only child in the New Jersey suburbs and that my parents had both died years before. Period. I found writing my own biography, exactly as I wanted it, to be an exhilarating exercise. I was beginning to appreciate what money could buy.

• • •

I chose a long, clingy, cream silk wedding dress of utterly plain lines and devoid of surface decoration. No lace, no beads, no fake pearls, no embroidery. None of the things, in short, I would have looked for in a wedding dress had I been on my own. The choice was actually Mitzi’s.
“You don’t think it’s too plain for a wedding gown?” I had asked.
“Not at all,” she said. “The image you want to achieve is sophistication. You’re young, and you’re marrying an older man. You don’t want to look like a baby doll; you want to look as if you’ve been around. And you want your sense of style to come from within, not from a gaudy exterior.”
“Of course,” I responded.

• • •

The wedding went exactly according to plan.
The presiding judge, who was a friend of Charles’, offered up a ceremony that was brief, secular and to-the-point; total elapsed time was six minutes. I had no religious convictions that needed to be respected, nor did Charles insist on any of his own. After the groom kissed the bride, we all adjourned to an adjacent room in the hotel for cocktails and dinner.
Everyone told me how beautiful I was, including members of the society press who snapped photos in the hallway before and after the ceremony. When Mitzi overheard one photographer’s gushing compliment, she shot me a thumbs-up sign as if to acknowledge the success of our joint effort. But the sweetest praise of all came from Charles himself as he offered a toast.
“This beautiful and talented woman has made me the happiest man alive.” A cliché, to be sure, but one so transparently sincere no one could object. “Lauren brought a brilliant spark into my life just when I needed it. A few months ago, the ‘rest of my life’ seemed like an unendurably long time; today, it’s far too short. I want centuries, rather than decades, to spend with you, my wife.” He smiled and raised a glass in my direction.
Mitzi grinned and raised her glass as well; Annette sobbed. Paul said, “Hear, hear!” Freddie Spitzer shouted, “That’s our gal!”
Which made me cringe, but I did what I knew Mitzi would have done. I simply raised my glass, looked Charles straight in the eye and mouthed “Thank you,” with the smallest of smiles on my lips.

• • •

We honeymooned at the Hotel Excelsior in Florence in an endless, airy suite overlooking the Arno. We wandered cobblestone streets, visited churches and museums, admired medieval architecture and Renaissance art, sipped steamy cappuccino at piazza cafes and peered into storefront workshops where furniture and frames were handcrafted just as they had been centuries before. We did all these things that Charles loved.
But mostly we shopped.
At first, Charles had to encourage me in this endeavor. “If you love that so much, why don’t you buy it?” he asked one day as I stared at a red fox coat in a furrier’s window on the Lungarno.
“I could never afford anything like that,” I said, unable to take my eyes off it.
“Yes, you can,” he said simply.
It took me a moment to understand what he was saying, but as his words made their way slowly through my skull and into my brain, as I began to absorb their meaning, I smiled broadly. So I could. It was a life-changing moment.
“Why not try it on?” he said.
So, we marched into the shop as if we had a right to be there. I wrapped myself in the satin-lined fur coat and found that it fit perfectly. As if custom-made. As if intended just for me. As if fate were once again intervening on my behalf, which was all the encouragement I needed.
“I’ll take it.”
And thus it began. Once I broke through the thin shell of insecurity with that red fox coat, shopping became easy, natural, even necessary. I shopped at Gucci, Pucci and Ferragamo; I bought Valentino, Adolfo and Armani. Thanks to Charles’ generosity and my own newly adopted but quickly honed free-spending ways, I became friends with all the shopkeepers on the via Tornabuoni. At least it felt like friendship.

• • •

We spent our Florentine evenings at sparklingly chic restaurants, trendy new bistros and modest, local trattorie. Charles’ knowledge of the latter, I quickly realized, put him in a select class of tourists who moved in circles beyond those defined by the guidebooks. Thus, I learned to approach these casual eateries that appeared to have come right out of the Italian equivalent of Bayonne as discoveries or adventures rather than disappointments.
Late at night, we opened our bedroom windows, let in the soft, humid breeze and musky scent of the river and made love. These nights reminded me of that sultry summer in Paris with Larry.
“I think Florence is the most romantic city in the world,” Charles said one night as he held me.
“It’s lovely,” I murmured, feeling warm and safe nestled in that sumptuous bed and in Charles’ embrace. It was a sensation that had to do with security, confidence and a version of serenity. Different from passion, other than ardor, it was really very pleasant in its way.
“I haven’t seen you write a word in those beautiful leather books you bought,” Charles said. “I should think this town would be a poet’s dream.” He untangled his body from mine, propped himself up on an elbow and looked at me. “Am I monopolizing you? Would you like me to give you some time to write?”
I shook my head. “I like being monopolized by you.”
I smiled as the line tripped off my tongue. I didn’t know if it was true, but I was proud of myself for coming up with it. In fact, my interest in writing had been displaced by the consuming project of learning to live this new life. I had only bought the leather books because they were pretty and because Charles had pressed me to. He said he liked to think they were the kind of books Dante might have written in, or even Boccaccio. But I had no desire to put pen to paper. I now had better things to do.
“Speaking of poetry,” Charles said, “would you like to go see my favorite statue of Dante, outside Santa Croce, tomorrow morning?”
“I’d love to,” I said, “but I have to go to Gucci for some alterations.”
Charles nodded, rolled onto his back and studied the ceiling.
We never made it to Santa Croce.

• • •

1967-1989: A Marriage in a Nutshell
I returned from the honeymoon confident of my status (a testament to the power of shopping) and eager to take my place alongside my distinguished husband on Manhattan’s social A-List. I was pretty, young and fresh, or so they said, and he was Charles Acheson; nothing more was required.
While I adored the whirl of parties and thrived on my new position in the Upper East Side ecosystem, I could see that Charles was a little dubious about our social schedule. He and the first Mrs. Charles Acheson had lent their presence only as necessary to please friends or aid in favorite causes; they had not engaged in anything remotely resembling the frenetic schedule of engagements I arranged for us.
“I have to get to know your friends,” I told Charles when he timidly mentioned this might all be a little too much. “I need to become part of the group.”
“If that’s what you want, I’m happy to do it,” he replied, sounding weary. “But I’d honestly be just as happy to stay home or go out once in a while with your friends. I don’t want you to feel cut off from your old life.”
“That’s no problem,” I said in a grand example of understatement, since I had no old life worth mentioning. “I want to be part of your life. That’s what makes me happy.”
Charles would smile when I said things like that, but just once he added, “I’d like to be part of your life, as well.”

• • •

“Why don’t you write poetry anymore?”
We had been married two years when Charles asked the question.
“I’m too busy,” I said lightly, not wanting to get into a discussion of the matter.
“But it used to mean so much to you.”
“It’s not important to me anymore. What I’m doing now has more meaning: my charity work, my friends, collecting art with you, going to the theater and the opera. That poetry nonsense was just a phase. Everyone writes poetry when they’re young. It embarrasses me now.”
“I thought I married a poet,” Charles said wistfully.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I snapped.
“Nothing,” he replied. “I just don’t want my lifestyle to keep you from doing what’s important to you.”
“Don’t ever worry about that,” I said, gracing him with a brilliant smile. “I love our life.”

• • •

Nearly all the women in our social circle had children, of course, and I quickly learned that their very existence in one’s life bound one, in some mysterious way, to other mothers. It mattered not whether the offspring were tiny or fully grown, mothers had a common set of interests, conversational topics and points of reference. Mitzi and I, the outsiders in this sense, were ourselves bound together by our exclusion from this aspect of society, and rather proudly so.
That’s why I received the news of Mitzi’s pregnancy with, as they say, mixed feelings.
“I’m so happy,” she told me. “We’ve been trying for so long.”
This was the first I had heard of these so-called attempts, and I was a little hurt by the revelation. But I simply responded, “That’s wonderful!” and threw my arms around her. I pulled back from our embrace and looked her in the eye. “I’m just thrilled for you.”
The truth of the matter was, of course, quite the opposite. I knew some women became so involved with their children they had no time for their friends, and I couldn’t imagine life without Mitzi. No matter what I told Charles about ‘my friends,’ I really had only one worth the title, and I was terrified of losing my only ally in this child-obsessed world. While it had been fine being one of two childless women, I knew it would be less than fine to be one of one. Is something wrong with her? people would wonder. Surely she wants children, doesn’t she? Is there some...problem?
Now I alone would be excluded from the privileged, coded conversations about the inner workings of infants, the best pediatricians, the top schools, good and bad nannies, FAO Schwarz, spit-up, drool and diapers. I would be the only one not shopping at the baby boutiques lining Madison Avenue. I would be needlepointing pillows while everyone else stitched primary-colored wall samplers.

• • •

The subject of children had arisen only once between Charles and me; it was shortly after we were married.
“If you want children, Lauren, I’ll be happy to consider fatherhood again,” he had said one day as we were walking together in Central Park.
“Is that what you want?” I said.
“Lauren, this one’s up to you.” He stopped walking, turned to me and put his hands on my shoulders. “I’m almost fifty years old; I’m well past the point of needing this. But I love children and would be happy to raise them with you if that’s what you want.”
“I don’t think I do. Not right now.”
Ever since my miscarriage, I had harbored dark feelings about pregnancy. While I had tried to overcome my concerns by smiling at cuddly babies and thinking about all the frilly, soft things I could buy, I simply could not imagine pregnancy or motherhood as something with a happy ending. It had certainly not done much for me or my mother.
Besides, I liked things as they were and feared the intervention of any force that might provoke change. I often felt as if I were walking on eggshells, harboring a vague anxiety that the whole house of cards could tumble down and I would find myself back in Bayonne. And when I tried to imagine a small, helpless being lying in Charles’ arms, eating up his supply of affection, time and attention, feelings akin to jealousy crept over me. I was the only small, helpless being I wanted to see in his arms.
Until Mitzi became pregnant.

• • •

It surely must have come as a surprise to Charles when I said casually to him at breakfast one morning, “I think I might like to rethink the baby thing.”
He looked at me over the top of The Wall Street Journal, which he slowly lowered to the table. “Is this because of Mitzi?”
“Of course not,” I said. “I would never make a decision like that just because someone else is doing it.” I bit into a piece of cracked wheat toast.
“Children are very consuming, you know. Your time won’t be your own anymore.”
“I know that.” I was annoyed that he gave me no credit for having thought through the implications of the idea. “I am capable of making a sacrifice, you know.”
“I know, darling. I just meant you should think about the...consequences.” He seemed to measure his words. “To be honest...I think...if you’re approaching it as a sacrifice, you might be unhappy going through with it.”
“What’s wrong with you? You’ve always said you’d do whatever I wanted on this.”
“I know I have, and I will,” he said. “I just want to be sure you know what you want.”
I took a drink of coffee and placed the cup back onto the saucer with deliberate calm. “Is there some reason you think I wouldn’t be a good mother? Have I changed so much since the last time we discussed this?”
The tiny pause before his response said more than his words. “You’d be a wonderful mother, Lauren.”

• • •

Mitzi’s baby, Alexandra, was born in June, a perfect time for strolling the neighborhood and showing her off. As the godmother, I sometimes strolled with them but always veered off when the screaming began.
Over time, I watched Mitzi scrape spit-up off her Ultrasuede suits and formula off her shoes. I heard her coo and sing tuneless ditties. I smelled nice things, like baby powder, on her cocktail dresses, along with disgusting things I didn’t even want to think about. I saw my friend’s formidable command of worlds of language and subject matter diminish to dissertations on cribs, pacifiers and poop.
I watched Mitzi’s universe contract into a tiny place with room to accommodate only herself and her baby. It was not that Mitzi was never out and about, for indeed she was; she handsomely upheld her end of the social contract. But she was preoccupied. No matter what she was doing, her mind was on Alexandra. This disappointed me, of course, but it also frightened me because I remembered how my mother’s focus had always been on her beautiful daughter, and I knew what had happened when that daughter was no longer there for her.
No, it was not healthy. It was, in fact, way too scary. Babies were entirely undependable that way. I knew I couldn’t do it.
And that was that. From then on, Charles and I just drifted along with our lives, not pausing to examine the whys or wherefores. Or at least I did. And as long as the house of cards remained standing, that was just fine.

• • •

Our life together began to fall into the unique rhythm to which it would henceforth beat. We developed the patterns, modes of operation, methods of coping and means of going about the business of living that couples do to ensure life is predictable, if not necessarily stimulating.
Summers were spent mostly in East Hampton and the rest of the year in Manhattan. I fell into a steady routine of shopping, lunching, decorating and planning or attending social events. Charles spent his days engaged in Foundation matters, admiring and buying art, auditing classes and closing himself up in his library with his books. We both traveled a bit, sometimes together, sometimes not.
We did, of course, continue to go out together nearly every evening, though we spent less and less time in each other’s company. I never viewed this as a problem since it was common for spouses to socialize independently at parties. Besides, we had less to talk about than we had in the early years, a phenomenon I assumed to be perfectly natural. Once you get to know the other person, how much is left to say?

• • •

Over time, Charles’ book obsession continued to grow. Each year, he would sink a little further into the abyss of literature. He didn’t just read his books, he consumed them. The floor-to-ceiling, wall-to-wall bookcases, which had been full enough from the day I moved in, became stuffed with volumes that ultimately spilled out onto the desk and tabletops.
During the early years of our marriage, Charles had talked to me about his books. He attempted to draw me into discussions of philosophy, literary deconstruction and poetic interpretation. I found it easy for a time to answer him as I had answered Larry about the Motherwell. “That’s lovely, Charles.” “That’s most interesting.”
While my responses rarely failed me, I grew weary of the charade and began to make my boredom known through a discreet yawn, a subtle roll of my shoulders or simply walking away. Reasoning that I was more productively engaged in the real world and that Charles was better off understanding that, I was able to ignore the sadness I saw in his eyes when I declined to participate in his flights of intellectual fancy.
After a certain number of years–it was hard to say just how many–he stopped trying to talk to me about anything other than the most mundane details of life. The deep chasm that separated my interests from his became part of the rhythm of our lives. I never considered this a particularly good or bad thing; it was just the way it was.

To be continued….

Judy Pomeranz, an Arlington-based freelance writer, critic and lecturer, is élan’s Contributing Editor for arts and books. In 2003, we published her novella, Lies Beneath the Surface, which can be read at www.elanmagazine.com.