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nothing. Her father lost everything in the crash of '29, which basically had killed him. He'd been too old to survive the strain, to start over again. In the end, his heart had given out, but before it, his spirit. And there was nothing left but a few hundred dollars when his wife died six months later. Marielle had still been in Europe then, and Charles had arranged for their house to be sold in order to pay their debts. She'd been too ill to take care of it herself, and when she went back to New York eventually, she was left with nothing and had no home to go to. She stayed in a hotel on the East Side, and started looking for a job the week she'd arrived. She had two thousand dollars she'd borrowed from Charles. It was all she'd let him give her. She was totally alone. And in many ways, Malcolm had saved her. She was grateful to him for that still, and she always would be.
    She had appeared in his office on a wintry February day, and the face that smiled at her across the desk was like a ray of sunshine. She had gone to him because she knew he was one of her father's friends, and she hoped that somehow he might know of a job, or someone who needed a companion who spoke French. It was all she knew other than her graceful drawings, but she hadn't drawn now in years. She had no secretarial skills at all, but after speaking to her for an hour, he hired her, and until she found a place of her own, he even paid for her hotel bill. She had tried to repay him afterward, but he wouldn't hear of it. He knew what dire straits she was in, and he was happy to help her.
    She learned quickly and she worked well, as an assistant to his senior secretary, an Englishwoman who clearly did not approve of Marielle, but was al ways civil. And it came as no surprise to anyone when Malcolm started inviting her, first to quiet lunches, and then to romantic dinners. Eventually, he started taking her to important social events with him, always discreetly suggesting that she buy a new dress for the occasion, at a store where they knew him. It troubled her at first. She didn't want to take advantage of him, didn't want to put herself in an awkward position. Yet, he was always so kind to her, so intelligent, so amusing, so understanding. He never pressed her about what her previous life had been, why she had lived in Europe for six years, or why she had finally returned. They kept their conversations strictly to the present. She was surprised that she was always comfortable with him. He was so polite, and so kind, and so easy to be with. All her earlier resistance to him disappeared, and she was particularly surprised that he never made improper advances. He just seemed to like her company, being seen with a beautiful young woman in the expensive clothes he paid for. She was painfully shy then, and sometimes she still felt a little shaky. But he never seemed to notice it, and when she was with him, she always felt more confident, and surprisingly stronger than she had in a long time. She wasn't her old self anymore, but at least she was a new one she could live with.
    With Malcolm, no one asked her anything. People wanted to know who she was, of course, but beyond her name, they never wanted to know where she'd been or why she wore such a serious expression. They were impressed with her because of whom she was with, and how she looked, and sometimes she even found it amusing. She felt so safe with him, he protected her from everything, and that was precisely what he offered her, when he asked her to marry him at Thanksgiving. He offered to protect and take care of her for as long as he lived, which wouldn't be as long as she lived, because he was so much older. He made no pretense of loving her, and yet in some ways, she felt that he did, because he was always so considerate and kind, so thoughtful, and so decent. In fact, she wanted nothing more from him. She couldn't have taken the risk, or been able to stand the pain, if anything went wrong, or