and their mothers. After he passed, he could hear one group stop and discuss him, making no effort to keep their voices discreet. “He’s soooo cute,” he heard them say before he was out of range, and when he turned slightly back toward them with a smile, they quickly spun around, covering their giggles with gloved hands. Once, a pair of sisters, probably no older than fourteen and fifteen, followed him down a long corridor until they finally had the nerve to address him. “My sister says that you are an American, but I think you are French,” the braver one said. And when he answered them smartly with “Je ne comprehends pas,” the one phrase he used most often on his past trips to the Cote d’Azur, they stood dumbfounded and then, laughing, mimicked the swoons of actresses.
It was no wonder that Taylor Woodmere inspired such reactions from impressionable young ladies, for at twenty-two years of age he was a perfect specimen of a young man of good breeding. He was six feet tall and his physique was athletic, but not overly so. His full, medium brown hair was highlighted by blond strands left over from his summer sailing on Lake Michigan. Sometimes he slicked it down with tonic and combed it to the side to present himself formally, but just as often he left it natural and casual. He had the habit of running his fingers through his hair when in conversation and more than one young woman wished her hands could follow that path.
He was unusually handsome, his eyes the startling sapphire blue of his mother’s side, the pupils edged by a light brown. Back in Chicago, he had frequently been sketched or photographed for the society pages, his likeness often featured in reports on theater or charity events. Since his college years, he had become a favorite of the Chicago gossip columnists. But Taylor Woodmere’s true gifts were less superficial and these he assiduously cultivated—his intellect, his strong sense of responsibility, his sincerity. He had the gift of truly listening to others, not with that appeasing quality that many have when they are waiting for their turn to interject a thought, but with a truly interested and empathetic ear.
Few people would have believed that as an adolescent Taylor was prey to all of the emotional insecurities typical of that age. By the time he was a junior at University Preparatory, his boarding school in New Haven, Connecticut, the students and faculty alike had identified him as a leader—bright, confident, ambitious, and popular. They had no idea, however, that the young man behind that façade, the young man who saw in the mirror the same exterior that others perceived, when lying alone in his bed at night, conjured fantasies of mediocrity. He longed to be able to blend rather than excel, to receive less than perfect grades and be praised for “good tries,” not only for successes. He longed to escape from the demands for perfection and the burden of being an only child.
Only his mother could read the fear behind his eyes. “Taylor, you do not have to be perfect to be fine—even to be great,” she would assure him. She would sit on the edge of his bed when he returned home during school vacations, and affectionately stroke the side of his face even though the softness of his childhood cheeks now was roughened by the bristles of puberty. She would push the thick strands of hair from his forehead and massage his temples as he pretended not to be listening, as he stared out the window. But they both knew that he drank in her words—"Don’t judge yourself so harshly, so strictly,” she would say. Eventually he would turn his head back toward her and she would love capturing the smile that would emerge. “Don’t be afraid to make a mistake—it’s not the end of the world—just smile when you do and the world will smile back at you. My darling—people will be more attracted to you if you are more approachable and more like them—human—with all that it
It was no wonder that Taylor Woodmere inspired such reactions from impressionable young ladies, for at twenty-two years of age he was a perfect specimen of a young man of good breeding. He was six feet tall and his physique was athletic, but not overly so. His full, medium brown hair was highlighted by blond strands left over from his summer sailing on Lake Michigan. Sometimes he slicked it down with tonic and combed it to the side to present himself formally, but just as often he left it natural and casual. He had the habit of running his fingers through his hair when in conversation and more than one young woman wished her hands could follow that path.
He was unusually handsome, his eyes the startling sapphire blue of his mother’s side, the pupils edged by a light brown. Back in Chicago, he had frequently been sketched or photographed for the society pages, his likeness often featured in reports on theater or charity events. Since his college years, he had become a favorite of the Chicago gossip columnists. But Taylor Woodmere’s true gifts were less superficial and these he assiduously cultivated—his intellect, his strong sense of responsibility, his sincerity. He had the gift of truly listening to others, not with that appeasing quality that many have when they are waiting for their turn to interject a thought, but with a truly interested and empathetic ear.
Few people would have believed that as an adolescent Taylor was prey to all of the emotional insecurities typical of that age. By the time he was a junior at University Preparatory, his boarding school in New Haven, Connecticut, the students and faculty alike had identified him as a leader—bright, confident, ambitious, and popular. They had no idea, however, that the young man behind that façade, the young man who saw in the mirror the same exterior that others perceived, when lying alone in his bed at night, conjured fantasies of mediocrity. He longed to be able to blend rather than excel, to receive less than perfect grades and be praised for “good tries,” not only for successes. He longed to escape from the demands for perfection and the burden of being an only child.
Only his mother could read the fear behind his eyes. “Taylor, you do not have to be perfect to be fine—even to be great,” she would assure him. She would sit on the edge of his bed when he returned home during school vacations, and affectionately stroke the side of his face even though the softness of his childhood cheeks now was roughened by the bristles of puberty. She would push the thick strands of hair from his forehead and massage his temples as he pretended not to be listening, as he stared out the window. But they both knew that he drank in her words—"Don’t judge yourself so harshly, so strictly,” she would say. Eventually he would turn his head back toward her and she would love capturing the smile that would emerge. “Don’t be afraid to make a mistake—it’s not the end of the world—just smile when you do and the world will smile back at you. My darling—people will be more attracted to you if you are more approachable and more like them—human—with all that it
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