Chapter 1

"Oh, what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive." - Sir Walter Scott

Yes, that's right: Sir Walter Scott, from his epic poem 'Marmion.' He published it in 1808 some two hundred years after Shakespeare lived. [I had to look up the date. I don't keep that kind of trivia in my head.] Not everything said in the English language that is beautiful and true was penned by the Bard.

I am now in the middle of such a tangled web that ... well, it's very tangled, okay? Nobody lied. But deceive? Boy, oh boy, did we deceive. I'm just starting to pull at a thin strand on the edge of that web; maybe it'll unravel. Where to start ... I'll start when I met Katherine.

Have you ever been in Manhattan on the first beautiful Spring day of the year? It's stupendous. All the girls – excuse me for not being totally PC and saying 'women' – have shed their winter boots and calf length skirts and bulky warm coats, and shaken the dust off short skirts and tight tops, and they have that 'look at me' makeup on. For a 28 year old guy, it's like breathing in clean, fresh air after an angel has fluttered by.

I was 6'2" tall and in pretty good shape, had short sandy hair and wasn't horribly bad looking. I got my share of attention from the ladies. I wasn't exactly a player, but ... well I looked and they looked back, okay?

Or ... you could say I got hard every other block just looking.

I met her near Central Park, in New York City – more precisely, I was on the way to Central Park. I was staying at The Plaza – at 59^th St. and 5^th Ave. in Manhattan. Officially it's on 59^th and Grand Army Plaza, but that's a dinky little street, as streets go in NYC, and The Plaza occupies the whole block – 59^th to 58^th. It was an early Sunday evening in late April, five years ago, and all the girls in Manhattan were strutting their stuff in short skirts, because the weather was really nice.

It was a pleasure to be 'out and about' in Manhattan, especially when the hemlines were up and the necklines were down! I could almost hear Frank singing 'Younger than Springtime.' That's almost a melancholy song about love, but I was singing it in my head in an uptempo beat and was ready to look at the girls today. By the way, that's something I got from my mother: a love for old crooners and their songs.

I was 28 years old, a lucky owner of a software company now worth too many billions to count. That was the good news. The bad news was it was located in Silicon Valley. That's in California. What can I say? You go where the talent is. I founded and owned the company, but I didn't run it anymore. We – is it immodest to say I? – wrote the program that has become an industry standard in the tracking and scheduling of railroad tank cars. Oil tank cars. That's a boom industry nowadays. I know, I know: what a mundane way to make a billion. If I weren't so busy counting money, I'd agree with you. When we got to the point of being more than a mom and pop kind of setup, I moved the company to SilValley, and I got a real manager to run the company. That's all 'by the way' information. It has no real impact on the story, except to explain why I could justify the expense of staying at The Plaza. It is, after all, one of the more expensive hotels in the city / the nation / the world.

I was a New York kid, growing up. My family lived in Brooklyn (No! I don't have a 'dese', 'dem' and 'dose' accent, thank you.) and the first place I hacked into was the NY Public Library to get rid of some overdue fines. I was here, now, to visit my mother, who was staying at an 'Assisted Memory facility' in Connecticut. She wouldn't remember me at all, but I kind of felt obligated, you know? We'd listen to some Frank Sinatra and Tony Bennett and Rosemary Clooney. She'd be happy for a day, and I'd be satisfied that I'd done what I could for a woman who'd been my whole life growing up. Dad disappeared into the ether a long time ago. There was no love lost for good ol' dad. That son of a bitch ran off with Miss Titty Bar of 1980 leaving my mom and me in the lurch.

Anyway, I was staying at The Plaza and going out, toward Central Park. Kate was coming in. She had two large Bergdorf's shopping bags – one in each hand – and entered the revolving door to come in just as I entered from the other side, going out. I noticed her through the glass of the revolving doors, of course. How could I not? She was wearing a mid-thigh skirt in 'please notice me' yellow, a scooped-neck top that almost touched the skirt around the midriff in cyan and yellow, and a turquoise necklace that appeared to be in an Aztec design. She had good legs and appeared to be about my age. She was wearing strappy heels that said 'I don't walk in Manhattan; I take taxis.'

It was my fault, really. My jacket got pinched in the revolving door as I hurried into the opening. Hurrying in New York City is an acquired disease, one that I kind of enjoyed. Back in SilValley we didn't even have revolving doors; everything was electronic and self-opening, and everyone had a more leisurely pace. If you don't know about revolving doors, imagine four doors, making a big X. The doors revolved around a central post and they were encased in a tight fitting metal sleeve on two sides. The front and the back were open, to allow entry and exit, in the Lobby and on the street side.

Anyway, my jacket caught in the door, which made it stop. I freed the jacket and pushed on the door to get it going. It stopped again with a jerk. One of her Bergdorf's shopping bags was now on the outside side of the door, the handle of the bag was in her hand, and she was trapped in the middle, as I was.

She tugged on the handle. Naturally it didn't come through. It was like putting your hand in a small mayonnaise jar and making a fist and trying to pull it out. No go. Then she tried pushing it backwards. Revolving doors don't 'revolve' backwards. She looked up at me in frustration. I rapped on the glass to get the attention of the doorman. He'd obviously dealt with this kind of thing before. He got in the open space of the door, grabbed the bag and yanked it free of the door. He then pushed slowly on the door; it revolved -- depositing Kate in the lobby, and me outside, quickly followed by the doorman with the bag in the lobby.

I took the opportunity to push again on the door, and 180 degrees later, I was in the Lobby as well. "I'm terribly sorry," I said. "It was all my fault. Are you okay?"

I knew perfectly well that she was okay. She was much better than merely okay, as a matter of fact, but ... no shot is a sure miss, right? She was about my height – maybe an inch or two shorter – in heels, so that would make her about 5'9" or 10" tall. She was model gorgeous. The legs I've already commented on. She was slender, medium busted and had long auburn locks that were fashioned in a loose twisted affair that either took her zero time to arrange or over an hour to get the semi-disheveled look just perfect.

"Nay, 'tis my fault entire," she said, with an obvious Irish lilt to her voice. "You'll be forgivin' me, now, won'tcha?"

"Well, that will depend," I said. I wasn't exactly on the prowl, but she was awfully attractive – at least to this member of the male species. "If you'll have dinner with me, I'll forgive all past indiscretions." Like I said, no shot is a sure miss.

"Oh, but I can't. I've got tickets to the Lincoln Center. 'Tis the last concert of the season for the Philharmonic, and a friend of me Da' has taken the train down from Boston. So, I've got a date, ya see." That Irish lilt was going to be the end of me. Not to mention the sparkle in her green eyes.

"I am crushed," I said, feigning crushedness. "Now I won't be able to forgive you till ... lunch tomorrow?"

"Well now ... that'll be nice." She smiled. What a smile! Her face lit up and I was enslaved.

"I'm staying here. Just ask for me at the desk." I handed her a card. One of my New York cards: just my name, John MacKutchen. In my other pocket were business cards with the company's name in big letters and my name and contact information below. This was definitely not a business meeting. The hotel would know me. I stayed in one of their Rose Suites for a week, every month, for the past two years.

"And I'll be Katherine ... Kate uh Flaherty. I'm stayin' here, too."

"Well, pleased to meet you, Katherine. And I've taken far too much of your time ... especially if you're meeting someone. I'll see you tomorrow."

We parted ways. I went on to stroll through Central Park and she went to heaven knows where, to do who knows what, and then presumably to have dinner and see the New York Philharmonic with a friend of her Da'.

I found myself at the zoo, in front of the lion's cage in the gathering dusk, wondering if they were jealous of the perfect color of Katherine's auburn hair. What's that expression the Brits have? I was gobsmacked. I was infatuated. Enslaved is more like it. Voluntary servitude. Whatever she wanted me to do, I'd do. Maybe I'd follow her back to Ireland and we'd buy a castle together – or something.

A change of scenery would do my heart good, not to mention what she'd do for it.

The next day dawned gloomy and rainy, as any proper Monday should. However, in my room, Room 1714, it was a cheerful and happy guy who got out of bed and hopped in the shower. I was going to have lunch with my new paramour: Katherine Flaherty. Not that she knew the situation. No longer was I relegated to the depressed masses of men who could only hope to achieve happiness with a woman. A special woman, in my case.

No longer would I be sad at my previous failures in love. Frustrated at finding one special woman and only later finding out that she cheated on me, and chose another – in my case, a well-hung man of mixed black and Asian descent. Discovering that, since before the marriage, she was getting her fancy tickled by a former lineman for the Oakland Raiders. That I was just a meal ticket to her. No, that pain was in my past and soon to be forgotten. I could hope.

To borrow the title of Hal Kemps hit song of the 30's: I got a date with an angel.

I was a little early for lunch: it was only 7:30. Well ... I chose a chocolate colored pair of slacks and a lighter brown-colored polo shirt. Checked myself in the mirror. Not bad. Made my sandy colored hair come out pretty well and favored my brown eyes. No – they were not 'limpid pools of mocha' or anything like that. This isn't a bodice ripper novel, after all. But I needed something else to complete my ensemble.

I went downstairs and hailed a cab to go to Barney's. By the time I got there, they were open. A few moments in the casual mens' wear department and I found what I needed. A neat, light tan, corduroy jacket – leather elbow patches included. Okay, so I looked a little like a foppy university professor. But I wanted to impress Miss Ireland without seeming to impress her. I got a dark brown pocket square and I looked pretty good, I thought.

Manhattan traffic was not kind, this weekday morn. One taxi ride later and I was back at The Plaza; it was 11:20. I stopped at the front desk and asked for Katherine Flaherty. I was surprised to learn that no such person was a guest here.

I was puzzled. She didn't seem to be brushing me off abruptly, last night. And yet ... she was not registered. I decided to wait in the Lobby.

It was a good thing that the Lobby personnel knew me at the Plaza, but I'd counted on that. Sometimes you do get what you paid for. Some twenty-five minutes later the concierge came over and said I had a phone call. It was Katherine! She had called the desk to get my room and they had found me sitting on an overstuffed armchair, reading an e-book on my Kindle.

"Hi, John. 'Tis I, Kate. Remember? We're to have lunch."

Remember? I was sitting here, drooling all over my corduroy sport coat, waiting. "Oh sure. Hi Kate. I'm down in the Lobby. Do you want to go out or The Palm Court is always nice for brunch." I was showing off, but The Palm Court was nice for brunch – if a bit pricey. Everything was pricey at The Plaza.

She was dressed simply, but on her it was lovely. I was struck stupid. She wore a plain navy dress, with cream piping. It had a modest neckline, pinched in at the waist to show her curves, and an above-the-knee hem. A double strand of pearls at her throat and matching ear studs. Stout two-inch heels that wouldn't be much trouble to walk the streets of Manhattan. The only thing racy at all was the dark tinted stockings with the heavy seam up the back of those beautiful legs. But it all hung together on her, accenting her curves nicely. Like I said, I was struck stupid. If she were wearing a potato sack, it would have been the best looking potato sack ever worn.

Over a champagne brunch we talked about each of us, individually: I liked 'classical American crooners' – like Como and Crosby – and she liked 'classical nouveau-romantic tunesmiths' – like Rachmaninov and Dvorak. I liked skiing – water – and she liked skiing – snow. I was about to spend several days in Kentucky buying the next Secretariat, hopefully. She preferred show jumping.

Somewhere along the line, I casually mentioned that I'd asked for her at the desk and had been told there was no Katherine Flaherty.

"Oh that. Well..." she paused some, and I think I could tell that she was deciding how much of the truth to tell me. "'Tiss because I'm registered under my official name. My married name: Baroness Katherine von Wurtenberg. I ... was married at a very young age to an elderly fellow, the Baron von Wurtenberg. Kinda nice guy, actually, who I grew to love, in my fashion. We're minor royalty only in Lichenstein ... He ... well, he died some time ago, but I'm allowed to use his title. There are no little Barons von Wurtenberg running around. The title will be allowed to go vacant when I'm done with it. But I prefer to be known as who I really am. Or was ... My family in Ireland was dirt poor. The Baron's wealth is ... was ... extensive. He needed someone who could care for him ... medically and ... well ... sexually. So I was sent off to get educated and be ... well ... I became the Baroness."

"Baroness?" I stood, click my heels together in my best imitation of Adolphe Monju playing a matre'd in some B grade movie and said, "But Baroness, I am so very pleased to make your acquaintance." Then I clicked my heels again and sat down.

"They really do that in Liechtenstein, you know," she said with a laugh.

The brunch went on. We laughed over some war stories I told of SilValley types. We shared sadness at her early marriage – at age 14! – to the 68 year old Baron.

"So why are you in New York?" she asked.

"Mostly to see my mother. She's an Alheizemer patient and in a home up in Connecticut. And you?"

"The usual." From my blank face, she could tell I had no idea what her 'usual' was. "Shopping, see some shows. I was hoping to see some Picasso prints at MOMA [Museum of Modern Art] later today."

Brunch was mostly over. I signed my room number on the bill and stood. "Baroness, if you will permit..." I was Adolphe Monju again. "I will be pleased to squire you around MOMA, this afternoon." I paused as she rose with a smile. "Or, if you prefer, I have some interesting etchings up in my suite."

I looked at her green eyes, with what I hoped was serious interest.

She picked up her purse and paused. "The etchings, I think for today. Do you think there's enough there to hold our interest 'til suppertime?"

"My dear Baroness ... I shall make it my business to see that you are entertained until well after supper."

Up in room 1714 we did indeed entertain ourselves for several hours. She wanted to see me naked at first. I wondered if I was being compared to a 68+ year old man. I would not allow her to proceed further than looking, however, 'til I had some candy for my eyes, too.

She turned and I unzipped the dress. She shrugged out of it, but then held it up like a shield when she turned around.

"What's wrong Kate?"

"Well, the Baron ... he didn't like me to be naked before nightfall. Always did the deed in a darkened room. I came to believe that I was disfigured in some way that he found unpleasant. I don't have any sexy underthings. And you – you fine specimen – you're the first man I've seen in the all together. So I guess I'm a bit of a virgin – at least mentally."