Second Star to the Right

by Mary Alice Monroe

  “Indeed,” she replied, bringing her finger to her cheek. “I’ve often thought that.”

  “I don’t remember anything about my early years, or who my parents were. I was rather hoping you might remember. And help me. It means a great deal to me, Wendy. This boy,” he said, pointing again to the mural. “I know this sounds impossible, but this particular boy looks just like I did at that age. It could be me.”

  Wendy looked at him, and a soft affection flitted across her face. “It could indeed.” Then with a change of expression, she added, “What does it matter? Dear boy, we’re all lost at some point in our lives, aren’t we?” She paused to pat his cheek with her palm. “In the end, we must all find our own way.”

  “Wendy...”

  “I’m sorry, Jack,” she said with finality in her tone and shaking her head. “I can’t help you. I wish I could.” The tall clock chimed, and a sudden breeze wafted through the room.

  “Goodness, it’s half past!” she exclaimed, clasping her hands together. “And I smell a summer storm moving in. Come along, let’s shut the window and cozy up around the table. We’ll see if a good cup of tea can’t bring the sunshine back. The table is drawn and ready, and the water is at a mad boil.”

  Jack took a final thoughtful look at the mural and traced the boy’s face with his fingertip.

  “I’m sorry, Jack. I had no idea,” Faye whispered, moving close to him. “Don’t be upset if she can’t help you. She’s not all together.”

  “I’m not so sure,” he replied at length, eyes narrowing. “I think Wendy is as sharp as a tack.”

  “Come along, children!” Wendy called, waving them toward a small round table covered with snowy white linen and a gleaming silver tray filled with an elaborate teapot and serving vessels. Maddie and Tom were already seated on the quaint cushioned chairs, anticipation etched on their smiling faces.

  “I don’t have servants any longer, but Mrs. Jerkins was helpful in setting up,” she said, pouring the aromatic black tea into a porcelain cup. “She doesn’t have much style, poor dear, but she does try hard. She’s rather like the tea she drinks, unsweetened and stringent. It’s all in the preparation. I’ll bet you like yours with lots of milk and sugar, eh what, children?”

  “Yes, please,” Maddie replied taking her cup, but her eyes looked longingly at the small side table overflowing with tiny trimmed sandwiches, flaky scones, jam tarts, and assorted creamed pastries.

  Faye arched her brow in surprise at Maddie’s good manners. Tom, as earlier, only had eyes for Wendy. He sat quietly in his seat looking up at Wendy with moon eyes while she popped several lumps of sugar into his cup. “Perhaps a bit more water for you, Tootles? Won’t be so strong. I do like a dainty table, don’t you, Faye?” she asked, pouring out.

  “Uh, yes,” she replied truthfully as she accepted the thin porcelain cup decorated with gold trim and tiny sprigs of lilac. “I... I do indeed like a dainty table.” This was exactly the kind of tea setting that she’d told Bernard American women wouldn’t want any part of. Yet here she was, thoroughly bedazzled by the entire fete.

  “Sugar, one lump or two?”

  Faye smiled slyly. “Love and scandal are the best sweeteners of tea.”

  Wendy stopped pouring and looked up astonished. “Henry Fielding. How clever of you, dear girl! I’ve always enjoyed that quote.”

  Faye bent her head and sipped her tea, thinking that Jack might very well be right.

  Wendy was definitely thinking clearly. Then how could she reconcile Wendy’s obvious belief in the reality of Peter Pan?

  Common sense told her this simply wasn’t possible or normal or even sane, yet, there was something magical about the nursery that made time and problems meaningless. Outside the storm gathered force. Thunder rumbled in the distance and lightning heralded the oncoming rain. Yet inside it was warm and cheery; no one was afraid. She looked around the linen-draped table at the cozy group. Her little Tom, usually so afraid of thunder, chortled easily, slurping his tea with his fingers held wide over his cup. Jack was leaning back, laughing at something Maddie had told him, while Wendy looked on properly amused. Even the tea tasted pretty good.

  They chatted about all sorts of things, mermaids and pirates to be sure, but mostly about the history of the house and all the funny incidents associated with the many years Wendy had lived in it. When a loud clap of thunder rudely interrupted their party, Wendy set down her cup and exclaimed, “Time for a story!”

  “Hooray!” called out the children, scooting from the table.

  Wendy dabbed at her mouth with her napkin. “I promised the children we’d begin the book today.”

  “And what book is that?” Faye asked.

  “Why, Peter Pan, of course. I simply could not believe my ears when they told me they’d never read it. Imagine, missing out on such adventures.”

  “Imagine,” Jack said, popping a candy mint into his mouth and raising his brows at Faye. She felt like sticking her tongue out at him but only glared.

  “Are you sure it won’t tire you out, Wendy?” She thought of Mrs. Lloyd and Mrs. Jerkins and how this afternoon’s pleasure might be getting out of hand.

  “I’m sure these darlings could never wear me out. Come, little man.”

  Jack sat up, but Wendy reached for Tom’s hand. “We shall begin the adventure today. Right this very minute. Well, perhaps after a quick wipe of the hands, eh? Teatime does make things sticky.”

  “Do you mind if I listen in, Wendy?” asked Jack. “I confess I’ve never read the original, and somehow I think I’d like to hear it read by you.”

  Wendy’s eyes moistened, and she reached out to tamp down Jack’s curls. “Of course, dear boy,” she replied kindly. “It is never too late. His stories have nothing at all to do with age. They’re for the young at heart. Come. You must sit in my best chair.”

  Faye stood by the table, hands tightly clenched, and watched them gather around Wendy as she settled in her plump, doily-laden wing chair. “The original title was Peter and Wendy,” she said, opening up a thick, green-and-gold trimmed edition, the leather of which was dried and peeling at the bindings. Tom dragged a small tufted footstool beside her and leaned against her knee. Jack sat in the cushioned armchair with Maddie curled up like a cat on his lap. Faye could almost hear her purr. In the corner, the yellow canary ceased its incessant chirp-chirping and settled on its perch, one leg tucked in. All was ready.

  Except for Faye. She stood alone, isolated and out of place. She was tom between wanting to cuddle up and listen to the story, and going back downstairs to dutifully begin the mountain of work that lay on her desk.

  Wendy took a breath and began to read. “All children, except one, grow up.”

  Faye looked at her wristwatch anxiously.

  Wendy stopped, looked up, and tilting her head, asked, “Faye, dear. Aren’t you going to listen, too?’’

  With an act of disciplined will, Faye shook her head. “I can’t, Wendy. I’ve much too much work to do. Can’t wait. Thank you for a wonderful tea. Maddie, bring your brother back down immediately after the reading. I’ll be waiting for you. Now, please, don’t let me disturb you. I’ll just slip away.”

  Wendy nodded, but her eyes reflected not so much disappointment as sadness. It made Faye feel that Wendy somehow pitied her. It was ridiculous, of course. Maddie ignored her, but Tom eyed her with worry. Even Jack studied her with deep concern.

  “I’ll walk you down,” he said.

  “Don’t be silly. It isn’t necessary.”

  “Maybe not, but I want to.” Turning to Wendy, he said, “Go on, I’ll catch up with you later. Scoot up, princess,” he said, lifting Maddie. “Keep the chair warm.”

  Wendy smiled approvingly and returned to her book.

  “Really, Jack,” Faye whispered, as they closed the door behind them. “I hardly think I’ll be mugged going down a flight of stairs in our own house.”

  “I hardly think so either. Especially since I noticed you�
��ve added another padlock to the front entry. Maybe I just wanted to walk with you.”

  “As you wish.”

  Climbing down the grand staircase, Faye felt the lingering effects of the cozy tea and marveled at the craftsmanship and style of the old house. Pale gold-and-cream-striped wallpaper, faded but still elegant, and shiny brass wall sconces hinted at the sumptuous lifestyle this old house must have enjoyed during another era in England’s rich history. Over tea Wendy had told them that she grew up in this house. She explained how she’d inherited the house from her father. He had claimed he was too old to want to fuss any longer with multiple rooms and flights of stairs, but Wendy believed he simply couldn’t live in the house after her mother died.

  Imagine, living an entire lifetime in one house, Faye thought. It was unheard of in these modern times of corporate moves, changing neighborhoods, globe-trotting, and folks retiring to warmer climates. But back then, the home was a person’s world. Within these walls Wendy’s history was forged, her special occasions were celebrated, her milestones were marked.

  Faye imagined Wendy when she was Maddie’s age, cheeks flushed and curls flying as she rushed up these very stairs with her long skirt and petticoat clutched in her tiny hands, late for afternoon tea in the nursery. Or when she was older, a young lady in her first evening gown, perhaps a bit of ankle showing, perhaps a wisp of feather in her hair, certainly her mother’s pearls around her neck. She must have glided down the stairs with one hand daintily skimming the railing toward the young man who would escort her to the dance.

  Wendy as a young mother would have carried her sleeping child up these stairs. The middle-aged mother would have stood at the foot of these stairs and watched, eyes glistening, as her only daughter, Jane, a vision of white lace and tulle, walked down the stairs for the last time as a Forrester on her way to becoming a Lloyd.

  Happy days, and sad ones, too. Wendy would have dashed downstairs with Jane to find shelter during the bombings of World War II. Or paused, frozen with foreboding, at the foot of the stairs when a British military messenger entered with a telegram in his hand. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Forrester. Your husband...” Wendy would have slowly made her way up these stairs after closing the doors of the London Home for Boys for the last time, counting with each step the number of boys she’d placed in homes for nearly half a century.

  A lifetime on these stairs.

  “You’re so quiet,” Jack said.

  “I was just thinking what these stairs have seen. What it must’ve been like living in one place for all those years. I never lived in one place for more than three or four years. I never had a nursery. My father was a troubleshooter for Sears and moved the family to a new city, a new state, every time he was needed. Our houses were nothing like this. They were all suburban modern. Now tell me if you can why it is that every rental house in the nation has ugly brown carpeting and off-white walls?” She shrugged lightly. “Not that it mattered; we never stayed in one place long enough to care.”

  “You did care. Obviously.”

  Faye felt a quick pang, remembering how she carefully packed her collection of Pez candy dispensers herself for each move. She wouldn’t let anyone else do it for her. The little brightly colored Warner Brothers cartoon characters, the Santa, the Easter Bunny, all were part of her first “collection” and were her only constant from house to house.

  “I can remember going home with friends from college and being amazed to see all their old stuff still crammed in their bedroom closets. Yearbooks of friends, some of whom still lived in the old neighborhood. Trophies of sports I never even played, sweaters, old dried-up corsages, and loads of pictures everywhere. I guess I was kind of jealous of all that. You know, security.” She shrugged again. “Silly of course. A house isn’t security.”

  “No, it isn’t,” he replied, leaning against the doorframe and studying her face.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, glancing up quickly. “Here I am moaning about not having a nursery, and you didn’t even have a family. You were at Wendy’s orphanage?”

  “So it appears. I was adopted from there at age eight. Can’t remember a damn thing before six. I did have a family though. My adopted parents took me to their farm in Nebraska, where I grew up. Lived in a small town until I was old enough to leave it, and when my folks died several years ago, I sold the farm and never went back. I never really fit in there, but I still remember waking up to the smell of my mother’s cinnamon buns coming out of her old Viking oven, the lazy ripples on the pond as I fished on a hot summer day, and the sound of cows mooing as my father brought them in from the pasture. I don’t think it’s the house that makes the home, Faye. Whether it’s large or small, fancy or poor, city or country. It’s what goes on inside the house that creates the memories.”

  Faye cast a last lingering glance around the delicate bric-a-brac that bordered the entrance to the third-floor landing. She had never lived in a house with any charm of structure—or spirit. In her heart, Faye coveted that bric-a-brac.

  “But I’ll bet it’d be a lot easier to create those memories in a house like this.”

  “And I’ll bet it was Wendy Forrester herself who made this a happy home.”

  Her lips tightened, and she stared him down. Why was he always so contrary? And it was especially annoying when he was right to boot.

  “How sad then that once Wendy became old she was abandoned as senile and useless. Now this old place is more like a tomb than a treasure.” She shook her head free of all her nonsensical wanderings. “No way I want that to happen to me. I say to heck with the nostalgia. That and a dollar will get you a cup of coffee. Or should I say tea? We’ve got to take care of ourselves.”

  He furrowed his brow as he watched how she straightened her slim, narrow shoulders, physically adjusting her body to match her marshaled thoughts. She was such a delicate creature, small-boned and fair. But she had the spunk of a terrier. The type that would grab hold of a bone and never let it go. Not even for long enough to listen to a story. He could tell by the longing in her lovely eyes that she’d wanted to.

  The wind rose up, rattling the windows. Faye’s gaze sharpened, alert, as she swung her head around to check if the windows were closed and locked.

  Releasing the molding, Jack dropped his arms, gathering her up in them. Faye shrank back.

  “Shhh, Faye,” he said, lowering his head. “I won’t hurt you.”

  He lowered his head and gently kissed her forehead.

  She sighed and lowered her shoulders.

  Near, he smelled the scent of roses in her hair, and something else he couldn’t define. It was sweet, and sensual. It was intoxicating. His breath quickened.

  She swayed slightly. For a moment they stared at each other, each tugging against the force that pulled them together, like two helpless kissing dolls that when placed in close proximity are drawn together by magnets.

  Faye and Jack surrendered to the pull.

  He lowered his lips to hers, heard her sudden intake of breath, felt her lips soften against his, smelled again the faint scent of roses in her hair. He meant to offer a gentle peck, just one small kiss of friendship. Yet the kiss sparked as suddenly and violently as the lightning outdoors, sending a hum singing through his veins. His heart began pounding and rattling in his chest like thunder. It was happening to her, too, because he could feel her melt against him and heard the soft high whimper in her throat. He stepped closer and pressed his body against hers. She raised her willowy arms around his neck, holding tight as a leaf clinging to the quivering branch.

  Outdoors the storm was picking up. Thunder rolled and stirred the wind, slicking rain hard against the windows. Indoors, he felt the storm building between them. Suddenly thunder clapped violently overhead. The windows shook and the electric lights flickered. Faye jumped, jerking back from his embrace, her cheeks flushed and rosy. She brought her fingertips against them, as though to cool the flesh down. As they stared into each other’s eyes, measuring the tense silenc
e between them, he tried to gauge whether she was going to smile or slap him in the face. He hoped for the former, but felt he probably deserved the latter.

  “That shouldn’t have happened,” she said softly.

  “I couldn’t help it.” He raised his hand to loosen his tie and unbutton his shirt collar. Reaching for the molding over her head, he grinned his one-sided smile that carved a deep dimple all the way to his chin. “Lightning struck. It was spontaneous combustion.”

  “I’m not interested in this kind of thing.”

  “What kind of thing?”

  “A fling. It’s just not my style.” She cleared her throat. “This won’t happen again.”

  “As if we can control it.”

  “Of course I can control it.”

  He shook his head. “You’re fighting Mother Nature, Faye. Now, now, don’t go off in a huff. Let me explain. You see, there’s this phenomenon about electricity and magnetism.” He leaned closer, catching again the scent of roses in her hair.

  Faye closed her eyes, hit by the magnetism he’d just described.

  “Both of which I believe are flowing between us at this very moment,” he said in a husky voice by her ear.

  Her eyes snapped open, and she placed her palms on his chest and gently, firmly, pushed him away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I’m talking about natural forces, Faye.” He brushed a tendril from her face. When she responded by slapping his hand from her face, he tucked it in his pocket with a sigh of resignation.

  “I think,” she said, turning around and unlocking her door, “that you should direct your natural forces elsewhere, Dr. Graham.” The door opened and she slipped inside, careful to keep the door between them.

  “Faye,” Jack said, holding the door still. All teasing was gone from his eyes. “I didn’t mean for that to happen. It just... did. I’m as much surprised by it as you are. I’m sorry if I offended you. But I’m not sorry that it happened. It truly was spontaneous combustion. It was nature at its finest. You’re a wonderful kisser, Faye O’Neill. A natural. And I hope to have the chance to try it again sometime. But, I promise I’ll ask your permission first.” He released the door and stepped back. “I’ll leave you alone now, neighbor. Good-bye.”