If Tomorrow Comes

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 on Tracy’s face. ‘I see. Well, he and Charlotte grew up together. They were always very close, and – well, frankly, everyone expected them to announce their engagement this year.’

It was not necessary for her to describe Charlotte. Tracy could have drawn a picture of her. Lived next door. Rich, with the same social background as Charles. All the best schools. Loved horses and won cups.

‘Tell us about your family,’ Mr Stanhope suggested.

My God, this is a scene from a late-night movie, Tracy thought wildly. I’m the Rita Hayworth character, meeting Cary Grant’s parents for the first time. I need a drink. In the old movies the butler always came to the rescue with a tray of drinks.

‘Where were you born, my dear?’ Mrs Stanhope asked.

‘In Louisiana. My father was a mechanic.’ There had been no need to add that, but Tracy was unable to resist. To hell with them. She was proud of her father.

‘A mechanic?’

‘Yes. He started a small manufacturing plant in New Orleans and built it up into a fairly large company in its field. When father died five years ago, my mother took over the business.’

‘What does this – er – company manufacture?’

‘Exhaust pipes and other automotive parts.’

Mr and Mrs Stanhope exchanged a look and said in unison, ‘I see.’

Their tone made Tracy tense up. I wonder how long it’s going to take me to love them? she asked herself. She looked into the two unsympathetic faces across from her, and to her horror began babbling inanely. ‘You’ll really like my mother. She’s beautiful, and intelligent, and charming. She’s from the South. She’s very small, of course, about your height, Mrs Stanhope –’ Tracy’s words trailed off, weighed down by the oppressive silence. She gave a silly little laugh that died away under Mrs Stanhope’s stare.

It was Mr Stanhope who said without expression, ‘Charles informs us you’re pregnant.’

Oh, how Tracy wished he had not! Their attitude was so nakedly disapproving. It was as though their son had had nothing to do with what had happened. They made her feel it was a stigma. Now I know what I should have worn, Tracy thought. A scarlet letter.

‘I don’t understand how in this day and –’ Mrs Stanhope began, but she never finished the sentence, because at that moment Charles came into the room. Tracy had never been so glad to see anyone in her entire life.

‘Well,’ Charles beamed. ‘How are you all getting along?’

Tracy rose and hurried into his arms. ‘Fine, darling.’ She held him close to her, thinking, Thank goodness Charles isn’t like his parents. He could never be like them. They’re narrowminded and snobbish and cold.

There was a discreet cough behind them, and the butler stood there with a tray of drinks. It’s going to be all right, Tracy told herself. This movie’s going to have a happy ending.

The dinner was excellent, but Tracy was too nervous to eat. They discussed banking and politics and the distressing state of the world, and it was all very impersonal and polite. No one actually said aloud, ‘You trapped our son into marriage.’ In all fairness, Tracy thought, they have every right to be concerned about the woman their son marries. One day Charles will own the firm, and it’s important that he have the right wife. And Tracy promised herself, He will have.

Charles gently took her hand which had been twisting the napkin under the table and smiled and gave a small wink. Tracy’s heart soared.

‘Tracy and I prefer a small wedding,’ Charles said, ‘and afterwards –’

‘Nonsense,’ Mrs Stanhope interrupted. ‘Our family does not have small weddings, Charles. There will be dozens of friends who will want to see you married.’ She looked over at Tracy, evaluating her figure. ‘Perhaps we should see that the wedding invitations are sent at once.’ And as an afterthought, ‘That is, if that’s acceptable to you?’

‘Yes. Yes, of course.’ There was going to be a wedding. Why did I even doubt it?

Mrs Stanhope said, ‘Some of the guests will be coming from abroad. I’ll make arrangements for them to stay here at the house.’

Mr Stanhope asked, ‘Have you decided where you’re going on your honeymoon?’

Charles smiled. ‘That’s privileged information, Father.’ He gave Tracy’s hand a squeeze.

‘How long a honeymoon are you planning?’ Mrs Stanhope enquired.

‘About fifty years,’ Charles replied. And Tracy adored him for it.

After dinner they moved into the library for brandy, and Tracy looked around at the lovely old oak-panelled room with its shelves of leather-bound volumes, the two Corots, a small Copley, and a Reynolds. It would not have mattered to her if Charles had no money at all, but she admitted to herself that this was going to be a very pleasant way to live.

It was almost midnight when Charles drove her back to her small flat off Fairmount Park.

‘I hope the evening wasn’t too difficult for you, Tracy. Mother and Father can be a bit stiff sometimes.’

‘Oh, no, they were lovely,’ Tracy lied.