Genre: Literary Fiction
Publisher: Lynn Steward Publishing
As
a fashion buyer at one of New York’s most glamorous department stores, Dana
McGarry is a tastemaker, her keen instinct for fashion trends and innovative
ideas coupled with a razor sharp business sense. But like the elegant and
conservative store that employs her, Dana is caught between two eras—between
being liked and standing her ground, between playing by the rules and being a
maverick. Dana is sensitive and beautiful, but what you see is not what you
get. Behind the cool and attractive facade, Dana
is both driven by her need to control yet impeded by her expectation of
perfectionism. As she competes to replace women
at the top of their game, she is challenged by jealous colleagues. And when a
wealthy love interest wants to open doors and support her ambition, she
embraces Coco Chanel’s mantra of “never wanting to weigh more heavily on a man
than a bird.” As the women’s movement paves the way, Dana finds a path to the
career she wants at the expense of happiness that was not meant to be.
Steward
captures the nuances of 70s life in New York City and provides the perfect
backdrop for an independent woman determined to make her mark. What Might Have Been is a story that
transcends any period.
What
Might Have Been
By Lynn Steward
Chapter One
Dana McGarry, on vacation for the first
time as a single woman, arrived at the Lansdowne Club at 9 Fitzmaurice Place,
just steps from Berkeley Square, in London’s fashionable Mayfair on the morning
of April 8, 1975. Her lawyer had filed
papers for a legal separation from her husband Brett in January, and after four
months of being under the watchful eyes of well-meaning family and friends, Dana
was savoring every moment of her solo trip across the pond. She and Brett had always stayed at the nearby
Chesterfield Hotel, but her beloved Colony Club in New York City enjoyed
reciprocity with the Lansdowne Club, where she’d previously attended lunches
and lectures while her husband met with clients for
his Wall Street law firm. Undeterred by
the steady English rain and dark clouds hanging over the slick gray streets,
she stepped from one of London’s fabled black taxis with renewed spirit,
excited to think that the distinguished house in Berkeley Square would be her
home for the next five days. After Dana
checked in, the hall porter asked her if she would like tea brought to her room
and then discreetly disappeared with her luggage, a small, welcoming gesture
that stood in contrast to an impersonal hotel.
Rather than immediately taking the lift to her room on the fifth floor,
Dana stepped into the entrance hall and surveyed the club’s interior, intending
to explore Scottish architect Robert Adam’s stately masterpiece commissioned in
1761 for King George III’s prime minister, the Earl of Bute. Previously, she had limited herself to the
dining room, never taking time to appreciate the club’s historic beauty. Although rich with finely-crafted
embellishments and Neoclassical splendor, the house was clearly showing signs
of fatigue, and its understated elegance made the environment that much more
comfortable. Dana knew she’d made the
right choice. The club was an oasis of tradition and tranquility affording her
the peace and privacy she needed.
When
Dana arrived in her junior suite, she noticed a bouquet of flowers sitting on a
table in the sitting area. Thinking they were compliments of the club, Dana
opened the attached note and laughed out loud.
The flowers had been sent by her childhood friend, Johnny Cirone. The message read, “Take Phoebe shopping and
buy up the town. Whatever you do, enjoy
yourself. Love, Johnny.”
Dr.
Phoebe Cirone, who was in London attending a cardiology convention, was
Johnny’s sister. Their father, John
Cirone, known affectionately to Dana and her brother Matthew as Uncle John, was
the head of the House of Cirone, a manufacturer of ladies eveningwear. Having a passion for medicine from an early
age, Phoebe had never expressed interest in clothes or haute couture, leaving
Johnny to reluctantly carry on family tradition by working for his father. Dana’s parents, Phil and Virginia
Martignetti, had been friends with the Cirones since before her birth.
Dana,
pleased to see a porcelain tea service had already arrived, took her cup to the
window and sipped the Darjeeling as she observed the new plantings in the
courtyard garden. The peace she’d felt a
few minutes ago was gone, however. Something
about Johnny’s note, as thoughtful as it was, unnerved her. Johnny and her mother called daily to see how
she was doing. Dana sensed their concern,
although she felt it was unwarranted. What did they think—that she was going to kill
herself because the divorce would soon be final? They obviously didn’t recognize her personal
strength and resolve. Dana worked at New
York City’s B. Altman, and the previous December she’d formed
the department store’s first Teen Advisory Board. She had also succeeded in getting Ira
Neimark, the store’s executive vice president, to sign off on installing a teen
makeup counter on the main selling floor over the objections of Helen Kavanagh,
junior buyer, who thought youth-oriented strategies like those at London’s
Biba, were a waste of time and money. Despite these personal triumphs, she’d taken aggressive
steps to further advance her career, leaving her comfortable job in the
marketing department for the position of junior accessories buyer. She had requested time off for this visit to
London immediately after settling into the new assignment, and that alone was
proof that she knew how to take care of herself.
Dana had been equally
aggressive in terminating her marriage to Brett. Papers for a legal separation had been filed
in January by Dana’s lawyer when she discovered that Brett was having an affair
with fellow litigator Janice Conlon, a saucy and impertinent young woman from
California. Negotiations for a final
settlement were proceeding smoothly, with no protests originating from either
Brett or his lawyer lest the firm be apprised of his misconduct with the
audacious Conlon. In the four months
since their separation, Dana had realized that Brett’s dalliance with the
abrasive Conlon had merely been a catalyst for the end of their relationship
since there had been something far deeper and more troubling in their marriage:
Brett’s growing neglect of Dana as he vigorously pursued partnership with the
firm. His work always served as a convenient
excuse to pick and choose his time with Dana and in the long run, that grim
reality had proven intolerable. Within
days of learning of Brett’s infidelity, Dana contacted an attorney and moved
from her Murray Hill apartment to a carriage house a few blocks away in Sniffen
Court.
Given the
decisive actions in her personal and professional life, Dana therefore felt
smothered at times by the daily concerns of others. As for her traveling abroad alone, she felt
more than competent to take care of herself. When Brett had been with her in London, they
were rarely together. He usually spent
days working, and evenings meeting with clients, joining Dana for late dinners,
if at all. He was up and out by 7:00 a.m. She’d always hoped that the next trip would
be better, but this was never the case.
Traveling alone? It was all she
knew.
Yes, it had all
happened just
four months ago, illustrating how the course of a life can change so radically
and quickly. But was she ecstatically
happy now that a new phase of her life and career had begun, with Brett being
almost surgically excised from the picture?
No, she wasn’t jubilant about anything at present, but she was content,
at peace with the decisions she had made to take care of herself and her
future. In
the words of her father, she had discovered that she had “a very good life”
despite longstanding marital woes and formidable professional challenges. Many of her friends had urged her to re-enter
the dating scene since she was almost thirty and the clock was ticking, but Dana didn’t miss married life in the least
and had no interest whatsoever in dating, especially guys described as the
perfect match: upwardly mobile professionals, or “Brett clones,” the apt
description provided by Andrew Ricci, Dana’s good friend and display director
at the store. Besides, marriage was not
the only path to a fulfilled life. In
Dana’s estimation, happiness also resulted from pursuing a creative dream,
enjoying good friendships and the myriad interests that gave her immense
pleasure, such as travel, literature, films, and lectures on a wide variety of
topics. Being suddenly single was not a
condition to be cured but rather an opportunity to be savored.
A
line from Dickens came to mind as she thought of events that had altered her
life: “It was the best of times, it was
the worst of times.” Dana had survived
the tumultuous weeks of the previous December, when she realized her
marriage was over, but surely this was now the best of times, was it not? She smiled as she contemplated her walk
tomorrow morning to Piccadilly for breakfast at Fortnum & Mason, followed by
a long and leisurely visit to Hatchards, London’s oldest bookshop. The thought of Dickens reminded her of the
delight she took in finding rare editions of the classics, or even first
editions of lesser-known authors. Today,
however, she was going to enjoy Richoux’s delicious risotto when she lunched with Phoebe, who was staying within walking
distance at
the Grosvenor House on Park Lane. Filled
with a new surge of energy, the blue-eyed Dana freshened up, brushed her short
blond hair, and grabbed a shawl and a pair of unlined leather gloves. The
clouds were beginning to part, and the steady English drizzle had let up, but
it was still a nippy fifty-four degrees—a perfect spring day in London.
Rays
of sunshine were reflected by leaded windows in the rows of eighteenth century townhomes
Dana passed as she strolled leisurely through Berkeley Square. It was only eleven thirty and she had an hour
before meeting Phoebe at her hotel, enough time for a short detour across Hill
Street and Hays Mews to the Farm Street Church, also known as the Jesuit Church
of the Immaculate Conception. Years
earlier, she’d been sitting on a bench in Mount Street Gardens when she looked
up and beheld one of the church’s open gothic portals that seemed so inviting,
beckoning her to enter and pray. Then as
now, it had been a glorious April day, the kind celebrated by Chaucer in the
opening lines of the Canterbury Tales,
when spring rains provide rich “liquor” for flowers suffering winter’s drought.
Dana
arrived at the church and chose to enter from Mount Street Gardens rather than
Farm Street, as she’d done on her original visit. In the transept to the right of Our Lady of
Farm Street statue was the Sacred Heart Chapel, and this is where Dana chose to
pray in deference to the Sisters of the Sacred Heart, who’d taught her for
twelve years in her youth. She knelt in
the third pew, said a decade of the rosary, and then sat, looking up to
admire, as she always did, the glorious painting of the Sacred Heart flanked by
four saints above an inlaid marble altar with three brass reliefs. But instead of finding peace in this pious
setting, the silence suddenly became deafening, and the alabaster walls of the
chapel began to feel close, confining. A
wave of emotion engulfed her, and she cried uncontrollably, questioning her
impulsive decision to end her eight-year marriage—and without considering her
vows taken before God, family, and friends. What a hypocrite she felt herself
to be—a selfish hypocrite who had turned her back on the faith that was such an
integral part of her life.
Glancing at her
watch, Dana saw that it was almost noon. She
needed to pull herself together and be on her way to meet Phoebe. She took a deep breath, wiped away her tears,
and walked outside to a bench in Mount Street Gardens, where she would spend a
few moments composing herself.
In
the sacristy, a priest was marking the readings for the twelve-thirty mass in
the gilt-edged lectionary when he heard anguished sobs emanating from the
Sacred Heart Chapel. Curious, he stepped
into the sanctuary in time to see a young woman exiting the side door leading
to the gardens. He followed her and
observed her sitting on a bench fifteen yards away. He folded his arms, closed his eyes, and said
a brief prayer.
* * *
Looking in her compact mirror, Dana wiped away
the mascara beneath her eyes and reapplied a bit of powder to her cheeks. She didn’t want Phoebe to see that she’d been
crying. What could she possibly say in
answer to any questions her friend might have?
That she was upset over the abrupt manner in which she’d dissolved an eight-year
marriage to an inattentive man who’d cheated on her? No, the emotions that had spilled forth in
the chapel had taken Dana by surprise, and they needed to be processed in
private moments of reflection.
Dana had been
resting her eyes when she looked up and saw a priest approaching the bench. The Jesuit, a tall man in his early fifties,
walked with a confident gait, and the smile on his face was evident when he was
still several feet away.
“Good morning,” he said. “Lovely day.”
He could tell the young woman was upset and, in point of fact, she wasn’t the
only one he’d encountered on the grounds who needed consolation or, at the very
least, a friendly smile.
“Yes, Father, it is,” Dana
replied. “A splendid day.”
“Are you on holiday, or are we
blessed to have you as a new parishioner?” he asked.
Dana examined the priest’s face more
carefully. He wore rimless glasses, and
pale blue eyes regarded her kindly beneath close-cut salt and pepper hair. He was dressed in a black clerical suit and
looked to be strong and vigorous despite his gentle manner.
“On holiday, Father,” Dana replied.
“I come here whenever I’m in London and wanted to stop in and . . . visit. I was taught by the Sacred Heart sisters back
in New York.”
“A New Yorker!” Father Macaulay
said. “And a member of the family, so to speak.
May I sit?” he asked, motioning to the bench.
A
member of the family, Dana thought, again fighting back tears. Not
anymore.
“I’m sorry,
Father,” Dana mumbled, rising to leave. “I’m
meeting someone and I’m late.”
Father Macaulay nodded. “I hope you’ll visit again. I’m here in the church or the gardens every
morning from nine until I say mass. If
you can’t find me, just tell the sacristan that you’re looking for Father
Charles Macaulay.”
“Thank you, Father. Have a good day.”
Biting her lip to fight back fresh
tears, Dana and Macaulay shook hands. The priest watched Dana walk out of the
gardens, sensing that she was in distress.
He was a good judge of people, and he thought that Dana would surely
return to the church before she boarded a plane for New York City. Somewhere in her soul, he thought, there was
unfinished business.
* * *
Wearing sunglasses, Dana walked for
five minutes along Mount Street until she reached the Grosvenor House. Phoebe was waiting in the lounge, and after
they exchanged warm greetings, they left the hotel for Richoux, which was two
blocks away on South Audley Street.
The two women were shown to a small
table in the dimly-lit restaurant owing to the dark wood paneling in the main
dining room. When Dana removed her
sunglasses, Phoebe immediately saw that Dana was upset. Her eyes were puffy and her smile was
forced. Phoebe cocked her head and
raised her eyebrows, as if to say, Do you
feel like talking about it?
“I’m fine,” Dana said, brushing
aside the concern. “Nothing worth
discussing. Now tell me about you, how’s
the convention?”
The two women chatted over lunch,
Phoebe speaking of the lectures she’d attended on anticoagulation therapy,
angioplasty, and catheterization for the diagnosis of coronary artery
disease. In turn, Dana described her new
duties at B. Altman. They laughed at
Johnny Cirone’s daily calls and continued concern for Dana since her separation,
although Dana was reminded yet again of the excessive attention she was
receiving.
“We have to get him married off,”
Phoebe said, “or at least find him a serious girlfriend. He’s becoming a mother hen.” She paused, knowing that Dana was
holding back something painful, but decided not to press the matter. “By the way, my dad has an offer on his
house, and he’s in contract to purchase the estate sale on East 79th
Street. It’s a big renovation, so he’s hoping to get approved by the co-op
board quickly and start the demo. Johnny is already interviewing
contractors.”
John Cirone was moving to Manhattan
since his Long Island home seemed far too large since the death of his wife two
years earlier. He’d accepted a seat on
the board of the Metropolitan Opera, and Johnny was helping his dad make the
long-overdue transition to the city—and to the present, away from thoughts of
his deceased wife, Lena.
“It sounds like the convention is
keeping you pretty busy,” Dana said.
“Would you like me to pick up Uncle John’s cigars at Sautter’s? It’s a few blocks from the Lansdowne.”
“That would be a lifesaver,” Phoebe said. “I have two days of seminars on using
something called a stent to open up clogged arteries instead of always
resorting to bypass surgery. It would be
a non-invasive procedure, but most cardiologists think it’s still years
away.” Phoebe suddenly burst out
laughing. “And here I am, bringing my
father cigars, which is the last thing a cardiologist should do.”
The two women
finished lunch, Phoebe heading to the convention for afternoon lectures,
and
Dana returning to the Lansdowne Club, where she finished unpacking.
Dana sipped afternoon tea while
paging through a book of poems she’d found lying on the end table by the sofa,
her thoughts returning to her display of emotion that morning. Brett had indeed been quickly and surgically
excised from her life, perhaps too quickly, and yet she had received no
judgments about the decision to do so from her parents. She was aware, of course, that Virginia had
always been a bit leery of Brett, even at the very beginning of their
courtship. As for her father, he was
quite unflappable and had reminded Dana that things always work out in the end,
which was a part of his lifelong, homespun philosophy that she found so
comforting. And yet Dana couldn’t shake
the realization that Brett, despite all of his shortcomings, was a man she’d
loved for over eight years. Should she
have given him another chance? After
all, the marriage hadn’t been all
bad. The visit to the chapel, she
concluded, had reminded her of Catholic dogma regarding marriage: it was
indissoluble. Mount Street Gardens, the
chapel, the brass panels—they’d brought to mind her many years with the Sisters
of the Sacred Heart, causing her to second guess her decision.
Leafing through the slightly-worn
pages—she thought that older books had such character—she saw Wordsworth’s “Ode
on Intimations of Immortality.” It was
one of her favorite poems. She
especially liked the lines towards the end.
Though
nothing can bring back the hour
Of
splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
We
will grieve not, rather find
Strength
in what remains behind;
In
the primal sympathy
Which
having been must ever be;
In
the soothing thoughts that spring
Out
of human suffering;
In
the faith that looks through death,
In
years that bring the philosophic mind.
The
sentiment was essentially that of her father, who had a “philosophic mind” when
it came to handling disappointment.
There had been good times in the marriage, but some things were beyond
repair, and Dana had indeed retained strength in what remained behind, which
was a full life that included friendships and opportunity. Dana realized how important this trip was—far
more than a break from her daily routine or an enjoyable shopping spree. On her own, she could privately mourn her
marriage and process her emotions, opening her mind and heart for whatever lay
ahead. She was at peace again, ready for the
rest of her stay in London. Still, she
wondered if Father Macaulay would share her perspective. The priest had emanated kindness and
understanding in the brief minutes she’d been in his presence, and now, feeling
stronger,
she decided to visit him again before she left London. He’d demonstrated genuine concern, and she
wanted to hear his soothing voice one more time.
