Our Wedding

Perhaps it seems frivolous, but of all the terrible things that have happened to Tom, myself, our shattered hopes and dreams, and the father who let his son down in so many ways, nevertheless, one of the most painful to me is knowing that the romance died out of our marriage once Tom started playing around. I know that sounds silly, but romance is the poetry of domestic life. It’s all the shared moments and the little intimate joys.

Tom abandoned romantic love, which is a union of body and soul, for his angry secret self; promiscuity, depression, and self-destruction were the inevitable results of that choice. Where love and romance could have created a garden, Tom was stuck in a dark, cold well which he called his depression.

He couldn’t fall in love with me. Falling in love requires giving up control of your emotions and becoming vulnerable. Tom was terrified of being vulnerable, and he never let go of his emotions, because he was frozen with fear.

The power of romance is so transformative that life without it is a very skimpy emotional diet. For instance, I have a wonderful memory from when Tom had been on the soap for a couple of years, and I was still modelling and doing TV commercials. We were having the most prosperous and hopeful Christmas either of us had ever had.

It was snowy night as we met after work at Rockefeller Center to see the huge Christmas tree and skaters. Tom suggested a walk up Fifth Avenue to take in the dressed-up Christmas windows in the fancy stores. Then, he wanted to go to the Oak Bar at the Plaza, because he’d heard from other members of The Guiding Light cast that it was a great place for a martini. In those days, the Oak Bar was a dimly lit, dark oak paneled room, full of chattering New Yorkers.

As we were shown to a cozy booth, outside our window was a nighttime view of Central Park with big, soft snowflakes flickering in the glow of the streetlights, a real live snow globe scene. Our chilled martinis arrived, sparkling quicksilver to lazily sip and unwind. It was an evening comprised of all the unforgettable romance of New York City at Christmas. Who wouldn’t have been carried away by the romance of such a setting?

But, as I have now surmised, he had come to the Plaza to chase the woman from The Guiding Light. I know, because I remember he went over to say hi to one of the directors, who was also there having a martini. Tom had previously mentioned to me, by way of job gossip, that the woman, who I now believe was the alleged object of secret Tom’s desire, had a crush on this director. He was there, probably waiting for her. And Tom went over to make his presence known.

Once he got the soap opera, and for the rest of our life together, all our happy, little romantic moments seemed to fall flat. They didn’t resonate and never led to a happy ending; we just seemed to stumble along from one disaster to the next, and now I know why.

For me that is the cruelest part of my love story. All my fond memories are meaningless, now. I was never privy to Tom’s mind and heart. I spent thirty-five-years with an interesting, intelligent, warm body at my side.

This may sound selfish, school girlish, and foolish, but so many people dream of love and romance; I don’t know how you have a happy marriage without it. That snowy night at the Plaza, I was so grateful to be with the man of my dreams, who I thought was as crazy about me as I was about him. But Tom was a captive of his secret fantasies, the ones that didn’t include me.