CATHERINE
Washington: 1941-1944
9
Catherine had quit her job with William Fraser the morning after she had married Larry.
Fraser asked her to have lunch with him the day she returned to Washington. He looked
drawn and haggard and suddenly older. Catherine had felt a pang of compassion for him,
but that was all. She was sitting opposite a tall, nice-looking stranger for whom she felt
affection, but it was impossible now to imagine that she had ever contemplated marrying
him. Fraser gave her a wan smile.
“So you’re a married lady,” he said.
“The most married lady in the world.”
“It must have happened rather suddenly. I—I wish I’d had a chance to compete.”
“I didn’t even have a chance,” Catherine said honestly. “It just—happened.”
“Larry’s quite a fellow.”
“Yes.”
“Catherine”—Fraser hesitated—“you don’t really know much about Larry, do you?”
Catherine felt her back stiffening.
“I know I love him, Bill,” she said evenly, “and I know that he loves me. That’s a
pretty good beginning, isn’t it?”
He sat there frowning, silent, debating with himself. “Catherine—”
“Yes?”
“Be careful.”
“Of what?” she asked.
Fraser spoke slowly, feeling his way carefully over a minefield of words. “Larry’s—
different.”
“How?” she asked, refusing to help him.
“I mean, he’s not like most men.” He saw the look on her face. “Oh, hell,” he said.
“Don’t pay any attention to me.” He managed a faint grin. “You’ve probably read the
biography Aesop did on me. The fox and the sour grapes.”
Catherine took his hand affectionately. “I’ll never forget you, Bill. I hope we can
remain friends.”