Second Star To The Right
Mary Alice Monroe
This book is dedicated to my children:
Claire, Margaretta and Zachary
and to the young at heart everywhere.
"Second Star to the Right is a charmer – a beguiling tale with a story as original as the Pan himself.” - Ann McGuire , The Romance Reader
"For all those who love Sir James Barrie's classic tale, Ms. Monroe provides a sparkling new twist that is guaranteed to delight and charm." Jill M. Smith RT Book Reviews
MARY ALICE MONROE
“An author of power and depth.”
—RT Book Reviews
"Readers who enjoy such fine Southern voices as Pat Conroy will add the talented Monroe to their list of favorites." -- Booklist
"Monroe's latest is an exceptional and heartwarming work of fiction that is bound to please fans of women's fiction and romances alike." -- Publisher's Weekly starred review on The Beach House
“Monroe invigorates her characters with a spiritual energy that effectively drives the inspiring novel.” —Booklist on The Butterfly’s Daughter
“An exquisite, many-layered novel of an unsolved mystery, an obsession, a reconciliation, and a little romance.” —Booklist on Time is a River
“In the bestselling tradition of Kathryn Stockett’s The Help, Mary Alice Monroe skillfully weaves together issues of class, women’s rights, and domestic abuse set in the tumultuous South during the 1970s. . . . Beautifully wrought, and rich with keen insight . . . an unforgettable tale of marriage, resilience, and one woman’s private strength.” —Bookreporter on Beach House Memories
"LAST LIGHT OVER CAROLINA is Monroe's best book yet and one you will want to read over and over again. It takes you home to those places in your heart you love the most." --Jackie K. Cooper Reviews
“This book contains drama, humor, and romance which any good summer read does. Plus it has the message about the care and treatment of dolphins. Monroe is an expert at making this blend and The Summer Girls is one of her most successful efforts.” —Huffington Post on The Summer Girls
"Every book Mary Alice Monroe has written feels like homecoming to me." ---Pat Conroy
A fairy on my shoulder...
"Whatever it was inside of me, whatever kernel deep within that enabled me to believe in fairies, in Peter, in the Neverland itself, this was my source of strength. No one could ever take that away from me. As long as I believed, no matter where I was or with whom, I'd always belong. Because I was at home in my own heart."
Wendy reached out to cup Faye's cheek in her palm. "Knowing that I have a fairy on my shoulder, I have nothing to fear."
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Author’s Note
One Summer’s Night
Books By Mary Alice Monroe
About Mary Alice Monroe
Prologue
Jack awoke when the light crossed his eyes. It was a quick flash—brilliant and piercing. Then it was gone. He bolted upright in his bed, rubbing his eyes as the tinkling sound of chimes rang in his ears. The pewter-colored darkness was pierced by a pale yellow stream of light flowing in through the open window. An ordinary London streetlamp, he realized, as he blinked away the sleepy stupor. He surveyed the familiar pieces of furniture in the shadows: a three-drawer bureau spilling out socks, a hard- backed chair burdened with tossed clothes, a floor lamp with a tilted shade. All was quiet. All was undisturbed. He rubbed his neck, then the stubble along his jaw, waking slowly.
There it was again! A small ball of light, no bigger than his fist, burst from the closet and darted across the floor and walls in quick, erratic spurts before disappearing out the door. Now Jack was wide-awake, and his heart was pounding. The chase was on! Whipping back his covers, Jack leaped from his bed and hurried across the creaking floorboards to peer out the door and listen.
Down the hall, the ball of light waltzed in dizzy circles across the walls, bouncing from the floor, then jumped around the corner into the kitchen.
He stealthily reached toward the umbrella stand, his fingers grazing over the umbrella and reaching for a large butterfly net. This time he was going to catch that ball of light, he vowed as he followed the bouncing light to the kitchen.
The large old kitchen with its gleaming AGA stove and delft blue tile was still and silent, cloaked in eerie moonlight. Brandishing his net, Jack scanned the floor, the walls, the counters. Not a single beam of light pierced the darkness. Nary a shadow.
“Okay—who’s here?” he called out, his voice gruff.
Only a flapping of the curtains sounded in the evening breeze. Jack went to the slightly opened window and squinted against the glass, but all he could see was the clutter of an old garden gone to seed. The back door was closed, and, on checking it, he found it locked as well. Outside, a swell of wind rattled the garden gate, and from somewhere came a sharp clatter, like a tile tumbling from the roof to the ground. Grabbing a flashlight from the cabinet, he swung open the back door and followed the sound to the rear garden.
His beam slunk like a snake along the surrounding stone wall, weaving in and out of the cracks. He moved it along the crooked flagstone of the terrace that held as its centerpiece a small fountain graced with a bronze boy playing his pipes. A fine coating of dust from the decaying walls covered the boy like pale, aging skin, giving him a ghostly aura. When Jack’s beam shone on the bronze boy’s face he discovered, beneath the disguise of dust, a cocky smile and teasing, taunting eyes.
A shadow fluttered in the sky to his left. Jack swiveled on his heel and flashed the light up to the rooftop. On the third floor there was a large French window with a small ledge bordered by a wrought-iron railing. Very feminine. Very unreachable, he decided, checking out the thirty-foot drop. There was no one there, and, as far as he could tell, there was no way to climb up. Not even scale down from the roof. No point in alarming Crazy Wendy who lived upstairs. She was ninety-something, and the poor old dear needed her sleep.
And so, apparently, did he. He dropped his arm and shook his head, chuckling at his imagination. There was nothing here at all. No intruder, no ball of light—just some grown man in his shorts with a dumb look on his face and a tilting butterfly net in his hand. Whatever woke him up was gone now. Crazy Wendy wasn’t the only one seeing things fly around at night, he thought.
Flicking off the flashlight, Jack leaned against the cool stone outside his door, yawning. Feeling more relaxed, he tilted his head back and stared out at the stars he’d loved since he was a boy in Nebraska, lying in a cornfield, sipping a grape NeHi. He readily spotted the bright pulse of the North Star, the Big Dipper. Then his gaze wandered toward the Corona Borealis.
Not that he wouldn’t have enjoyed finding a UFO or some such. He was forever scanning the skies for the unexplained, looking under rocks for the creepy-crawlies never before seen. Isn’t that what he did all day? As a thirty-six-year-old physicist, Jack Graham was forever the curious boy delighting in the discovery.
But not tonight, he thought to himself, running his hand through hi
s curly hair. He released a wry smile. Nope, tonight the mysterious light was most likely explained by a bit of spoiled beef. The Brits might think a sip of peppermint tea would do him good— they thought a pot of tea solved everything. Tonight, however, he could use a belt of scotch. Jack pushed himself from the wall and headed back indoors, leaving his trusty net beside the door.
Before closing up, he felt a soft breath of air by his ear that whistled a high, tingling hum. His heart skipped and he swung his head around to take one last, curious scan of the night sky.
Just in case he got lucky.
Chapter 1
A spring breeze fluttered the paper in Faye O’Neill’s hand as she stood at the curbside staring up at an imposing London town house. On her left lay a pile of bulging luggage. On her right, her two young children slouched, road-weary and cranky. She checked the address, then squared her shoulders. Number 14 was a three-story, narrow, redbrick Georgian house in a line of similar buildings well situated on the lane. A neat and tidy building, old yet gracious, with a broad front stoop that held cheery red potted geraniums. With its high-arched windows and broad granite stoop, it seemed that the building was somehow smiling, perhaps even welcoming, her. Faye smiled back and squeezed Maddie’s and Tom’s shoulders encouragingly.
“There’s something about it... I think we’ll be happy here. What do you think?”
“It’s old and dumpy,” Maddie said, scrunching her face in disapproval. “I liked our house in Chicago better.”
Faye closed her eyes and stilled her tongue. Her eight-year-old daughter had been oppositional the entire flight across the Atlantic Ocean and wasn’t letting up on shore. Faye saw Maddie push out her thin lips in a pout, saw the sharp line of her narrow, straight-backed shoulders, and recognized the defiance in the pale blue eyes behind shaggy blond bangs. Faye exhaled slowly, knowing in her heart that her daughter wasn’t going to make this easy for her.
“It’s not so bad,” she replied with forced cheer, spotting the chipping paint on the window trim and the patches of rust on the black-iron fencing. The building did look a little tired. “Nothing that a little spit and polish couldn’t fix. What do you think, Tom?”
Her six-year-old son buried his face in her skirt for a reply. Faye sighed wearily.
Standing near the door on the high front stoop was a distinguished-looking older woman who also bore a broad front stoop, but instead of a potted geranium she wore a huge, peach-colored silk hat. In one hand she pressed a large black clutch purse to her breast: in her other she held a clipboard. Nudging the children forward, Faye firmly placed a smile on her face.
“Mrs. Lloyd?” she called out.
“Hello there,” crooned the older woman, waving. She clumped down the flight of stairs and advanced on them, all broad smiles. “You must be Mrs. O’Neill. How do you do?” she exclaimed, extending her hand with vigor.
“We’re tired but well,” Faye replied taking the hand. “We’ve only just arrived in London.”
“And these are your darling children?” Mrs. Lloyd peered down over a short, bobbed nose, sizing the two up as to the potential damage they could render one apartment. She attempted to disguise her obvious dislike of children with high-pitched, sugar-coated words.
Maddie and Tom immediately tried to duck behind their mother, each clutching Faye’s skirt. Faye offered a tentative smile while tugging at her waistband, wishing that just once her two children would shake someone’s hand and smile rather than slink and mumble.
“Say ‘hello,’ children,” Faye said through a strained smile. “Maddie?” An appeal to her eldest.
Faye didn’t have to see them to know her little darlings were glaring back at the stocky old woman with the funny, tilting hat and pale, critical eyes. Children had a second sense about people that she’d learned to respect.
“They’re shy,” she muttered, catching herself from falling over as the two butted against her. “And it’s been a long trip. I’m sure they’ll feel better once we’re in the apartment.”
“You mean the flat,” corrected Mrs. Lloyd with an arched brow. “You’ll have to get accustomed to the Queen’s English now.”
Faye pressed her lips together. So, Mrs. Lloyd was one of those people who delighted in correcting others and always being in the right. “Yes, the flat,” she replied softly, her toes curling in her leather pumps.
Mrs. Lloyd dug into her vacuum of a purse and emerged in triumph with a tagged set of keys. “Here we are,” she exclaimed. “Shall we go in for a look-see? Your flat is on the first floor, and it is the nicest in the building, I believe. Careful with your luggage. It’s a bit of a hike. Here in London, the first-floor flat is over the garden flat, don’t you know.”
She led the ragtag group half-carrying, half-dragging luggage out of the hot sun, up the flight of stairs into the welcome coolness of a small, dark, exquisitely paneled foyer. Faye dropped her bags, closed her eyes, and smelled lemon wax on the wood and the sweet perfume of flowers. Cotton lace hung at the hall window, and beneath it stood a small Hepplewhite table covered by a crisp white doily and a vase of lilacs. Faye smiled, relieved. She’d always found that the foyer set the tone, and this one was secure and spotless. When she spied three brass mailboxes by the door, she envisioned her own name over one soon.
Tom tugged at her skirt and furtively pointed to three small, polished brass bells hanging one over each mailbox.
“The bells are quaint,” she said. Quaint, however, didn’t mean safe. “Is there a buzzer system as well? Keyed to the lock? One can’t be too careful.”
“This is a small building, Mrs. O’Neill. There are only three flats.” Mrs. Lloyd sniffed. “The bells do their job. Quite well.”
Silly little noisemakers hardly do the job, Faye thought, scanning the door and windows for locks. “Is there a security system for the building?”
Mrs. Lloyd raised her brows and appeared to have tasted a sour lemon. “This is a reputable area. And crime in England is not as rampant as it is in your country,” she added, her voice suddenly assuming a more aristocratic tone. “I’ve not seen the need.”
“And if I want one for my flat?” Faye persevered.
“You’re welcome to install a system for your flat, if you wish. It would be a personal expense, of course.” Her nostrils flared and she turned sharply to open the door of the flat. “Here we are...”
Faye’s anxiety fled the moment she entered the sunlit front room with its wide curved windows and fourteen-foot, molded ceilings. The smile she felt from the outside of the building overflowed inside with a sense of goodwill. Her heart skipped as she wandered through the airy, comfy rooms, grazing her fingertips along antique tables with scuffed legs and overstuffed chairs with deep depressions in the plump cushions. This was a lived-in house with a mind to comfort before style. This house invited you in to tea. This house welcomed children.
She felt the irresistible tugs of sentimentality she always experienced when reading favorite novels by Jane Austen, or smelling hothouse roses or looking at the smiling faces of loved ones in faded photographs. The dark wood floors were covered with the muted colors of well-worn oriental rugs. Across the room, a gold-filigree clock chimed the quarter hour over an elaborately carved wood mantel. Faye’s heart softened, thinking that this flat was a far cry from the square, unimaginative tract house in Illinois that she’d just left.
Rather, this flat looked exactly like she’d dared to dream it would, like any American would think a proper British middle-class house should look. She could show her children a different lifestyle here, she thought with hope. She prayed she could make them happy.
“It’s perfect,” said Faye.
Mrs. Lloyd smiled in satisfaction. “This house was my mother’s,” she explained, her voice softening. “These were her things. Are, rather. Mrs. Forrester lives upstairs still. This was a single-family home once upon a time, but like so many others in the neighborhood we converted it to what you Americans would call a triplex. G
oodness, what... it must have been twenty-five ... thirty years ago already. It was a grand place once upon a time, but now, well...” A hint of irritation crossed her face as she followed the sound of someone jumping on the sofa.
“No child! Mustn’t pounce on the sofa.”
“Tom...” Faye followed up. Tom scowled and hurried to her side and leaned against her thigh. “They’re tired,” she repeated through a tight smile.
“Of course,” replied Jane Lloyd, her gaze shifting to Maddie, who was fingering a collection of porcelain animal figurines on a shelf. “Careful, dear! Those are quite fragile.”
“Maddie...” Faye called out.
Maddie returned the whimsical unicorn and moved on to the books overflowing from the shelf.
“As I was saying,” continued Mrs. Lloyd. “This place was simply much too big for one elderly woman to live in alone. And, of course, the expense of upkeep and all. So I... we decided to convert the house to more manageable units. Mrs. Forrester is a widow, you see.”
“You call your mother, ‘Mrs.’?” asked Maddie, turning her head.
Mrs. Lloyd puffed up her chest. “It’s considered polite, my dear,” she replied, delivering a sidelong, assessing glance at Faye.
“Oh?” said Maddie, not the least bothered by the underlying criticism. “How come you don’t live here with her if she’s so old?”
“Me?” Mrs. Lloyd was taken aback. “Why,” she sputtered, “I must live with Mr. Lloyd now. In our own house. It’s not too terribly far away. I can hop over to check on Mother anytime. She has a visiting nurse, of course, but I manage all her affairs.”
Faye was amused to listen to Mrs. Lloyd’s flustered rationalizations to an eight-year- old child. Guilt, she knew, could wield incredible power.
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