Page 1 of Smuggler's Cove
PART I
Chapter One
Gwendolyn
Gwendolyn Wainwright was born into a middle-class family in a small town in Connecticut. She was one of the millions to become the baby boomer generation. Her father was a World War II veteran; her mother, a homemaker. Like most American families, at the time people were readjusting to a postwar culture and society. Hollywood was launching movies by the hundreds, with blockbusters likeAround the World in Eighty Days,Singin’ in the Rain, andBen-Hur.And television was becoming a common source of entertainment, bringing shows likeI Love Lucy, The Honeymooners,andLeave It to Beaverinto households across the country, while Frank Sinatra, Sam Cooke, and a gyrating young man from Memphis named Elvis Presley filled the airwaves.
Gwendolyn’s childhood was well-adjusted, and everything seemed alright in the world. Even as the ’50s turned into the turbulent 1960s, Gwen remained sheltered in the suburbs of Connecticut. Despite protests over U.S. involvement in Vietnam, civil rights, and women’s rights going on in the country, she preferred not to engage in politics. Instead, she was interested in books—literary fiction and poetry.
In 1968, Gwendolyn turned eighteen years old and headed off to college to major in English at Western Connecticut State University. It was far enough away from home for her to feel independent, but close enough to get back in under two hours. The school was small enough so she wouldn’t get lost in a huge student body, but large enough to feel that she really left home and was out of high school.
Gwen was good-natured, and a good student. The combination gave her a measure of popularity, and she would often take day trips into New York City with some of her female classmates. Regardless of what the plans for the day entailed, Gwen would insist they stop at Rizzoli Bookstore on Fifth Avenue.
After several treks into the posh bookstore, she began to imagine herself working under the chandeliers among the beautifully illustrated books and gliding across the marble floors as she ran her hand along the polished oak paneling, or gazing down from the second-floor balcony that flanked the sides of the store, while customers perused the vast collection of titles.
Gwen had no solid plans for what she would do after she graduated. She thought maybe she’d pursue a career in publishing, but mainly she assumed her life would go on as most others: she would meet someone, get married, have a kid, and then figure it out. Although many of her contemporaries had bigger visions for themselves, Gwen willingly went with the flow. There was enough turmoil brewing around the world. She didn’t need to feed her head with more by worrying about the future.
In a snap of a finger, before she knew it, four years were behind her, and she was about to graduate. But there was no future husband in sight. Not yet. She weighed her options. She could move back in with her parents. And do what? No. Gwen knew there was more, and like many young women of the early 1970s, she wanted to see the world. Experience life. And what better place than New York City? It wasn’t the brightest time for the Big Apple. Cities were in decline, and New York was not immune. But Gwen couldn’t let that deter her. Things wouldhaveto improve at some point. Didn’t they always?
Two months before graduation, Gwen made a list of employment agencies in Manhattan and lined up as many appointments she could cover in one day. She was determined to accomplish her goal of finding a job and a place to live. She wasn’t sure which would be more difficult, but she wasn’t going to stop. It took several interviews until she finally landed a job as a receptionist at a small bank near Wall Street. It was a few miles from Rizzoli, and a twenty-minute subway ride could get her there. In the meantime, she would gain some experience and eventually find an entry-level job in the book business.
But first she had to find a place to live. Her new job started in six weeks, after the current receptionist was due to retire.
She combedBackstagenewspaper every week. She wasn’t interested in show business, but the classified section was a good place to look for roommates. She found a three-month sublet by a dancer who was going on tour. It was temporary, but it bought her a little time, and she could live there while she looked for something permanent. She had enough money to cover the rent, pizza, and Chinese takeout until she started her job. If she got hungry, she could hop on a train and visit her parents before they turned her bedroom into a home gym.
Gwen was new to the city, single, and scraping by with her receptionist position. But there she was. Living in New York. With a grown-up job.
She was very efficient and was constantly asking if there was something she could do for the loan managers. She wasn’t deliberately sucking up. She was bored and she knew she had to make the most of her situation. She could learn a new skill.
One afternoon, another young woman followed her into the women’s bathroom. She blocked the door, cornered Gwen, and sneered at her. “You’re making us look bad!”
“I disagree,” Gwen said as she turned to look at herself in the mirror, with the woman’s reflection staring back at her. “I’m making myself look good.”
Unruffled, Gwen pulled out two paper towels, dried her hands, and then turned around. She spoke calmly. “It’s a man’s world out there, regardless of how many bras we burned. Women must work harder to make the same amount of money, so might as well start now.” She shrugged, turned, walked past the woman, and out the door.
The young woman followed Gwen, and gently touched her arm. “Want to have lunch?” The woman’s name was Sandra, and the two became good friends. Gwen had a maturity about her approach to life, where Sandra easily let her emotions hang on her sleeve. They made a good pair.
One of Sandra’s roommates was getting married in September, and they needed a replacement if they hoped to keep splitting the 1600-dollars-a-month rent four ways. Again, timing was on Gwen’s side, and she moved from the sublet to her new, barely larger space.
It was an old prewar building with high ceilings. The four roommates occupied one of the few three-bedroom, two-bathroom apartments around. Sandra had one bedroom; Gwen had another. Fran and Paul inhabited the third bedroom with the adjoining bathroom.
The apartment had been in Paul’s family for two generations; therefore, he was the happy recipient of a rent-controlled dwelling. As long as a family member occupied the apartment, the landlord was limited as to the amount of rent he could charge and how much he could increase it. If Paul moved out, the rent could go up to three thousand a month.
Gwen considered herself lucky. She shared a bathroom, and all four had access to the kitchen. The apartment was conveniently located in Chelsea, a few blocks from the subway.
Within a couple of years, Gwen was promoted to a position assisting one of the managers. A woman. It was very unusual at the time for there to be a female manager, but again Gwen was lucky, because the manager took a liking to Gwen and became her mentor.
1974
One afternoon, her boss approached her. There was an event later that night for one of the symphony orchestras where one of the bank’s directors sat on the board. Her boss explained that her husband could not attend the gala and asked if Gwen would like to be her “plus-one.” It was an opportunity Gwen could not resist.
Gwen raced home at five p.m. to get ready for the evening. On her way, she stopped at a vintage clothing shop in Greenwich Village. It was known for carrying previously owned designer clothes. The rich did not typically wear the same thing twice, especially to a gala, and often donated the clothes after just one wear. Gwen found a little black dress by Halston, a pair of elbow-length gloves, and several strings of imitation pearls.
With her outfit secured, she hopped onto the subway and made her way to her apartment building. She didn’t have time to wait for the old, clunky elevator, so she took the stairs to the fifth floor. She also didn’t have time to shower and wash her hair, so she gave herself a good wipe down, freshened her makeup, pulled her shoulder-length dark blond hair into a chignon, tossed several long strings of fake pearls around her neck, and donned a pair of clip-on earrings. She easily looked the part of a young socialite blending in at the spectacular Cipriani Wall Street event. For that, she was going to splurge on a taxi.
Little did Gwen know that evening would change her life. It was at the gala that she met Jackson Taylor, and her life took a turn for the posh and privileged. Jackson was an up-and-coming hedge fund manager, a scrappy young man, determined to be rich. Wealthy. Powerful. He had jumped into the growing and mystifying segment of the “gunslinging” part of the market, where it was totally possible for someone who came from nothing to become something, especially on Wall Street. Your lineage wasn’t relevant, even though Jackson had a well-crafted revisionist history of himself; it was far more important to have a talent and a thirst for making money—and Jackson had both in abundance.
While Gwen stood alone with a glass of champagne in her hand, a rambunctious young man bumped into her, causing her to spill her bubbly. He apologized profusely and begged her to give him the opportunity to make it up to her with dinner. Gwen thought he was cocky by assuming she was available and could be interested. “That’s rather presumptuous of you, isn’t it?”
