in every possible way. “I wanted to do that myself, and I'll be happy to share all of our information with you.” He was a partner in one of New York's most important law firms on Wall Street, and she guessed that he was about ten years older than she was herself, but the way his eyes danced when he laughed made him look younger. In fact, he was fifty-three, and he looked it. They talked for a little while, and regretfully he stood up. “Shall we meet next week in Simon's office on Seventh Avenue, or would you like me to bring as much as I can here to your office?”
“I'll meet you there. I want them to know they're being watched … by both of us,” she smiled and shook his hand, and then she spoke softly again, “Thank you, Mr. Kelly. Thank you for coming here.”
He smiled again, his Irish charm evident in his eyes. “I'm looking forward to working with you.” She thanked him again and he left, as she sat at her desk and stared. The numbers he had quoted to her from the war contracts were staggering For the son of a tailor from the Lower East Side, he had done a hell of a job. He had built an empire. She smiled at the photograph of Simon again, and quietly left her office, looking like herself again for the first time since he'd died. The saleswomen noticed it too as they scurried past her to wait on their customers, and Zoya took the elevator that afternoon and stopped on each floor to look around at what they were doing. It was time they saw her again. Time for Countess Zoya to go on … with the memory of him close to her heart, as it always would be … like all the people she'd loved. But she couldn't think of them now. There was so much work left to do. For Simon.
CHAPTER
46
By the end of 1942, Zoya was spending one full day a week in Simon's offices on Seventh Avenue, and Paul Kelly was usually there with her. They had begun very formally, as Mr. Kelly and Mrs. Hirsch. She had worn simple black suits, and he had worn pinstripes or dark blue. But after several months, a touch of humor had crept in. He told her terrible jokes and she made him laugh with stories from Countess Zoya. She wore easier clothes to work in after that, and he took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. He was deeply impressed by her business acumen, Simon had been right to respect her as he had. At first Paul had thought he was crazy to make her a director, but he was crazy like a fox, and she was even smarter than that. And at the same time, she managed to remain feminine, and she never raised her voice, but it was clear to everyone that she would tolerate no nonsense from anyone. And she kept a sharp eye on the books. Always.
“How did you ever come to all this?” he asked her one day over lunch at Simon's desk. They ordered in sandwiches and were taking a welcome break. Atherton, Kelly, and Schwartz had replaced one of Simon's two top managers the previous day, and there was a lot of cleaning up to do now.
“By mistake,” she laughed, she told him about her days in burlesque, and her job at Axelle's, and long before that dancing with the Ballet Russe. The success of her remarkable store was known to everyone by then. He himself had gone to Yale, and he had married a Boston debutante named Allison O'Keefe. They had had three children in four years, and he spoke of her with respect, but there was no spark in his eyes when he said her name, none of the laughter Zoya had so often shared with him. It came as no surprise to her when he admitted to her late one afternoon after a grueling day that he hated to go home.
“Allison and I have been strangers for years.” She didn't envy him that. She and Simon had been best friends, aside from the physical passion they had shared, which she still remembered with longing.
“Why do you stay married to her?” The whole world seemed to be getting divorced, and then she remembered before he even answered her, with a look of regret.
“We're both Catholic, Zoya. She'd never agree to it.