Second Star to the Right

by Mary Alice Monroe

  The family waved, and he turned to go. Stopping at the door, he couldn’t resist turning his head, raising his brows, and throwing in a final shot.

  “Oh by the way. Just for the record, I believe in Santa Claus and UFOs. And I’m open to the possibility of Peter Pan.”

  Then he offered the children a quick wink. It was the It’s up to you—if you dare kind of wink that kids made to each other. Maddie’s eyes widened; Tom’s narrowed. Looking up, Jack caught Faye’s eye as well. She stood erect, with her arms crossed across her chest and a finely arched brow raised as disapprovingly as any schoolteacher about to give a demerit. He couldn’t resist—never could. In his mind’s ear he could hear his mother say, “Naughty!”

  With a one-sided smile, Jack met Faye’s gaze with a challenge sparkling in his eye— then winked at her. When he saw her shocked expression, he turned and walked away whistling, sure that he’d just won round one.

  Chapter 3

  After a few long, hard days, Jack felt that he’d at last brought his team and his research project back on schedule. All was in full working order. He’d managed to get home at a decent hour and was just about to sit down to his first hot takeout meal in days when the front doorbell rang. Dropping his tableware with a frustrated clatter, he hurried to open the front door. A short, portly, clever-eyed, middle-aged man in a green raincoat stood at the entry, politely holding his hat in his hands.

  “Dr. Graham, I presume?” The man’s articulation was a study of precision.

  Jack leaned against the doorframe and tried to figure out who the man might be. “If you’re selling something, I’m not interested,” he replied.

  The man twitched his mustache. “If you’re Dr. Graham, I believe we have an appointment. I’m Detective Ian Farnesworthy. You did say seven o’clock, didn’t you?”

  Jack’s face scrunched while he mentally kicked himself. He’d been so busy he’d completely forgotten about the appointment he’d hastily set up with the detective. In his gut he felt a tightening. Did he really want to hire a detective? After all these years? For a fraction of a second he regretted having made that late-night call and beginning the search at all. He was happy enough being the Jack Graham he knew. A sworn bachelor. A loner with no strings attached. Long ago he'd accepted that he didn’t need to know his past to build his future. Not that he felt sorry for himself. Far from it. He had built his own family. His friends were his brothers and sisters, and he had friends from all walks of life.

  “Oh yeah, sorry. Of course. My mistake. Come in,” replied Jack, opening wide the door to whatever came next.

  Ian Farnesworthy removed his overcoat and stood at the flat’s threshold surveying the clutter with more confusion than disdain. He could date the building’s conversion to the 1970s by the well-worn Bauhaus-type furniture in the small front room, what was probably the servants’ living quarters once upon a time. The shabby brown-and-gold window treatments and the bold geometric pattern in the carpet brought forth a wince. The carpet was covered with stacks of books, piles of papers, a few empty cups, and assorted bottles of ale. Farnesworthy rocked on his heels, coat in hand.

  “Oh, sit here,” Jack said easily, grabbing the detective’s coat with one hand and scooping up a pile of papers from a chair with the other. He slipped the coat across the back of a nearby chair, then, not finding another clean surface, carelessly set the papers on the floor. He didn’t apologize for the mess of his surroundings because he simply didn’t notice it. Jack leaned his weight against the curled arm of the sofa and casually observed the detective.

  Farnesworthy was surprisingly agile and maneuvered his way over and around the tilting stacks of clutter on the floor as gracefully as any ballerina. Jack watched the performance with awe, for Farnesworthy was a bulky man. His rear split the vent of his cheap navy wool jacket in two and it was anyone’s guess whether the detective wore a belt under that belly.

  “So you’re the man who’s going to uncover my past, are you,” Jack asked, rubbing his hands together. “I’ve never done anything like this before. The closest I’ve come to cloak-and-dagger is games. You know, Miss Scarlet did it with Professor Plum in the library.”

  Farnesworthy looked up, perplexed.

  “Never mind. Where do we start?”

  "Well, sir, this is what I like to call a preliminary visit. A sort of starting point for both of us. Perhaps if you could tell me what precisely you want me to uncover, I could ask the old who, what, when, where and how.”

  Jack folded his arms. “Got it. It’s simple really. I want to know who I am.”

  “Oh, is that all?” Farnesworthy held back a smile, but his eyes were filled with mirth. Jack liked a man with a sense of humor.

  “I’m speaking biologically of course. But any help on the other is always welcome, too.”

  Both men chuckled, knowing it was man’s fate to go through life wondering who he was.

  “Well, sir, perhaps you could tell me what you do know.”

  “Very little. I was born in England, but I have no birth certificate. I also have no memories of the first six years of my life. It's a blank slate. All I know is that I was brought to some orphanage in London at age six. Spent two years there, though my memories are pretty hazy. Then I was adopted by an ex-British family who’d emigrated to America. Warner and Anne Graham. Spent the rest of my life in the States.” Jack spread out his palms and shrugged. “That’s it. No siblings. No relatives. Not much to go on, is it?”

  “It is a start.”

  “Mr. Farnesworthy...” Jack paused to rub his palms on his thighs. He didn’t realize until this very moment how much this search meant to him. The answer seemed within his grasp; it made his palms tingle. He lowered his voice as all humor fled. “What I really want to know is...Who is my mother? Who is my father?”

  He looked up to see Farnesworthy watching him with sympathetic eyes. Embarrassed, Jack stood up and put his hands on his hips and shrugged with feigned nonchalance. “Not too tough a case, right?”

  Farnesworthy flipped his notebook closed and cleared his throat. Then, standing, he put out his hand, his face serious. He was not the kind of man who would be frivolous with his employer or his time.

  “I’ll do my best, sir.”

  Jack took the detective’s hand and shook it hard, feeling for the first time in his life that this time he might just get his answer.

  * * *

  That same evening, in another section of the city, across a long expanse of mahogany, Jane Lloyd stared at her husband as he stabbed at a tough chicken breast. They were the only two people in the spacious, well-appointed dining room, though the table could readily accommodate another ten. Jane had always insisted that all of the table’s leaves remain in, even after the children moved out. Most of her friends had moved to the breakfast room for most of their meals, or had sold off their family homes in favor of a more intimate, “easier to care for” flat with nearby medical facilities.

  Jane and Hugh Lloyd would never even consider such a move, despite the enormous expense of their lifestyle. The formalities of a world gone by suited them, and they were far too stuck in their ways to change. Jane had read fairy tales as a child and Regency romances as an adult, so moving into this charming, historical Georgian home in Regent’s Park as a young bride was a dream come true. Even if the dream weathered a bit as she, and the house, grew older, Jane still tried to maintain what she considered proper standards.

  Also, she did not find it a bother to be seated a distance from her husband during mealtimes. He rarely spoke to her anyway, and when he did, he spoke with a condescension that upset her digestive system. Staring now at her husband, her appetite was put off by how cadaverous he’d become since his last heart attack, a state that his horrid low-fat diet did nothing to improve. Looking at him as he hunched over his plate, she couldn’t help but think of a large, mangy bird pecking at seed.

  “I’ve let the first-floor flat in Number 14,” she began, picking up her napkin an
d smoothing the linen upon her lap. When there was no response, she continued. “To an American woman and her two children. I do hope it wasn’t a mistake to let children into the flat. Mother has some nice pieces in there that I would hate to see marred. So much as a scratch can bring down the value, you know. Hugh, did you hear me?”

  After a pause to swallow and dab at his mouth with his napkin, he nodded with a bored expression on his face.

  “Much of the furniture was removed when the house was converted to a three flat, if I recall.” He sniffed. “What’s left isn’t good. I shouldn’t get worked up about it if I were you.”

  Jane bristled. Not good indeed. Did he realize how much relatively modern turn-of- the-century antiques were worth these days? Perhaps they weren’t as good as the centuries-old pieces that he’d inherited from his family.

  “Nonetheless, the furniture in the O’Neill flat is worth thousands of pounds. I shouldn’t care to see it ruined by careless children.”

  “If that is the case, why did you let to them in the first place?” he asked laconically.

  “It isn’t easy to find short-term tenants, you know. We’ve been lucky with Americans. They only want to let for a year or so. Of course, it would be different if we let the flat long-term, but”—she sighed—“one never knows how long Mother will remain at Number 14.”

  Hugh merely grunted in reply and returned to his unembellished dinner.

  Jane frowned. He was never much interested in discussing her mother. Or even his own children for that matter. All he seemed interested in were those silly stamps he was so mad about. Still, his brain was as cagey as ever, and though he’d retired from the bank years ago, he still kept up-to-date on market trends and real estate. It was the latter that took precedence in her thoughts tonight.

  “I don’t know how much longer I can allow Mother to stay in that flat. She’s positively ancient now. It simply isn’t decent for her to be living alone.”

  “It isn’t a question of what you will allow, is it, my dear? It never is with your mother.”

  Jane shifted in her seat as though she were sitting on a tack. “She must see reason. For once in her life.”

  “Ha! That will be the day, when Wendy Forrester sees reason.”

  Jane frowned, thinking that her mother’s infatuation with fairy tales had been a source of embarrassment to her all of her life. Well, perhaps not all of her life. She did recall with great fondness her early years in the nursery, her mother sitting on her bed, telling her wonderful stories of the Neverland. She’d even dreamed she’d traveled to that magic island with Peter. The difference between herself and her mother, however, was that as Jane grew up, she realized that the dreams and stories were simply fantasy. As her mother grew older, she lapsed into a second childhood and, sadly, couldn’t separate the stories from what was real.

  “I don’t know what to do, Hugh,” she fretted. “I really don’t. She is getting so frail. I worry about her.”

  ‘‘She still has that nurse come round? That horsy-looking character?”

  “Jerkins. Yes, she comes every day. Quite reliable, I’m glad to say, though private nursing is frightfully costly. And I don’t like leaving Mother alone at night.”

  “She’ll never go for anyone staying with her at night,” Hugh pointed out.

  “That’s just the problem, isn’t it?” She sighed and, giving up on dinner, reached for her wineglass. “It’s all this Peter Pan nonsense. And with those children moving in, I’m worried that she’ll get carried away again. You remember the Macmillan incident?”

  His face clouded and he, too, reached for the one glass of wine he was allowed each evening. The Macmillan incident involved two neighboring children who came to No. 14 to listen to Wendy’s stories. Mrs. Macmillan claimed, though there were no witnesses, that she’d arrived just in time to avert disaster. Wendy was about to allow the children to leap from high atop the mantel in an attempt to fly. It took all of Jane’s persuasive ability to convince the woman not to consult her solicitor.

  “Must keep an eye on the situation, eh what?” Hugh said.

  “But I cannot be there to mind Mother all day and night,” she whined. “She needs proper care. Professional care.” She paused. “Full-time care.”

  Hugh swirled the wine in his glass a moment. “Nursing homes are expensive... How much has she left from your father?”

  “Enough. Barely.” No one could miss the bitterness in her voice. “Every time I think of how well-off she could be now, my blood boils.”

  “Don’t beat that old horse again.”

  “But it’s to the point. If she hadn’t wasted away my father’s fortune on that ridiculous London Home for Boys that she founded, there wouldn’t be any concerns at all as to whether she could afford full-time care or a nursing home. As it is, she lives like a pauper. She doesn’t spend a farthing on herself.”

  “No, she doesn’t. The woman is an enigma. Your mother could very well afford a nursing home—if she would consent to go to one. Which, of course, she won’t. So this entire labored discussion is moot.”

  “You’re missing the point entirely,” she said, arching in her chair.

  “I doubt it. It’s always the same point, isn’t it? Your mother’s money...or lack of it.” Jane’s temper was warmed by the wine. “The point is that my mother hasn’t made very sound decisions in the past, and her stubbornness persists in her refusal to leave Number 14 for a nursing home. At her advanced age, you have to admit it’s crazy.”

  Hugh offered a slight, sarcastic smile that caused Jane to gasp slightly at her unfortunate choice of words. Everyone was well aware of Wendy’s nickname.

  Jane sat in a tense silence while her husband lit up a cigar, one habit he was adamant about keeping. While allowing her temper to cool, she perused the dining room she adored for its lavish architectural features. Yet, like most old houses, it was chilly and damp. She shivered under her shawl when she saw the peeling paint in the corners, the worn edges of the Aubusson carpet and the thinning fibers of the Napoleon Bee silk fabric she had been so mad for when she covered the chairs thirty years earlier. There was no doubt that this was an expensive house to maintain. She supposed she could sell it or convert it to multiple flats, as her mother had done.

  But no, she loved this house too much. It meant everything to her. Her mother might not care about the loss of social standing, not the invincible Wendy Forrester. Everybody adored Wendy. Very well for her, indeed, Jane thought, feeling the age-old resentment flare up. They loved Wendy for giving away her father’s fortune to that boys’ home. Money that should have gone to Jane.

  Pouring herself another glass of wine, she thought again of how her mother was always dedicated to her boys. Working tirelessly on charity balls and fund-raising. Wendy had never cared that things such as public school, social registers, and important addresses, things that mattered to Jane—and to Jane’s children. Didn’t she know this bred resentment?

  Well, she thought, raising her glass to her lips, it’s up to me, as always, to find the practical solution. Thank God someone in this family was born with common sense.

  “Hugh,” she asked, diverting his wandering attention back from his cigar. “How much would you guess Number 14 would bring on today’s market?”

  There was a long pause as Hugh exhaled a long stream of smoke and considered. “The neighborhood is turning around, being gentrified again,” he began in a slow, deliberate voice.

  Jane leaned forward, the better to capture every word. “Yes, quite true. Young people with loads of money are paying outrageous sums for houses that can’t compare to Mother’s.”

  “It’s close to shops, to parks, to museums.”

  “The shops are becoming exclusive, which is always a good sign.”

  “Yes,” he murmured, watching the smoke from his cigar curl high into the air. “A lovely spot once, and on its way to being lovely once again.”

  Jane’s fingers danced upon her wineglass. Perhaps she
should raise the rent? As it was, the rent was reasonable, but with all that Hugh was saying, she was wondering if it wasn’t a bargain. Still, to sell would be the thing to do.

  He stroked his chin, calculating. “It's in dire condition. A total renovation would be needed. A shame, but even still it should fetch well upwards of a million…”

  Jane leaned back in her chair. “That much?” she said with astonishment.

  “Give or take a farthing. It doesn’t matter, you know. This is all speculative. Your mother will never sell.”

  She gazed at the peeling paint and the faded fabric on the chairs. “I’m just concerned about Mother, of course. She is much too old to be living alone with her childish fantasies. Someone must be responsible and see that the right thing is done.” She took a final sip of her wine, then licked her lips.

  “For her own good.”

  * * *

  The entrance to Jack’s garden flat was through a small, black, wrought-iron gate, then down a deep stairwell to below street level. It was a lovely entry, not at all the gloomy basement Faye had expected. Large terra-cotta pots overflowing with more red geraniums filled the corner, and the front door was painted an equally bright cherry red. She raised her hand and knocked on it three times.

  After a moment the door swung open, and Jack’s face reflected his surprise at finding her there.

  “Mrs. O’Neill,” he said with amusement sparkling in his eyes. “A bit late for borrowing a cup of sugar, isn’t it?”

  He filled the doorway and she realized he was much taller than she’d first perceived. His smile, however, was just as she’d remembered: deep-dimpled and slow to blossom. But once it did, it was an utterly charming one that made her feel he had all the time in the world for her.

  “I’ve come to borrow a bit of compassion, Dr. Graham.”

  His smile slipped from his face, replaced by curiosity and, she was relieved to see, concern.

  “I see. Well, won’t you come in?”