Second Star to the Right

by Mary Alice Monroe

  “Well, why not?” she said aloud, brimming with a confidence that tingled brand-new. For some inexplicable reason, the approval of Jack Graham meant a lot to her.

  She poured herself a short sherry, a bracer as the British liked to say, nipped it back, then marched out her front door before her courage failed her. With a shaky hand, she tapped three times on Jack’s door. A moment later, she heard approaching footfall. Faye’s hand darted up to smooth her hair, then, fixing a smile on her face, she held her breath.

  The door swung open, but it wasn’t Jack that stared down at her. A young and exceptionally pretty brunette in dove gray silk stared back at her with the fierce gaze of a predatory eagle. She made Faye feel like a dowdy mouse about to be devoured.

  “Halloo,” she said in her university accent. “Can I help you?”

  Faye’s smile faltered. Idiot! Why didn’t she think that Jack might be entertaining? She never thought of Jack in that way—with another woman. She blinked as the concept solidified in her mind. Jack with another woman? Suddenly she was stabbed with an emotion she refused to acknowledge.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt. Excuse me. No, no message.” She backed away.

  “Faye? Is that you?” It was Jack’s voice.

  “Never mind,” she called, retreating back up the stairs as fast as she could.

  “Faye!” Jack called after her. “Wait a minute.” He bounded up the stairs after her, catching her elbow as she reached the street. “Why are you running off?”

  She couldn’t meet his gaze for fear that he’d see her embarrassment and read too much into it. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. Go on back to your guest. I’ll see you later. Maybe.”

  “I’m almost done.”

  Now she did raise her eyes and her gaze was filled with scorn. “Really, Jack. That isn’t very nice to the young lady.”

  “To the...” He raised his brows. “Ahh...now I understand. You mean the young lady in my flat?” He rubbed his jaw and rocked back on his heels. “Well, you know how it is with us visiting professors. We’re just like traveling salesman. We have notches on our calculators. I’ve only got a few weeks left. Miles to go before I sleep, if you know what I mean.”

  She blushed and looked at her feet. “I didn’t mean...”

  “Sure you did. I should be complimented, but the truth is, Mrs. O’Neill, I happen to be very fussy about whom I get involved with. The nice young lady, as you called Miss Fowler, happens to be my graduate assistant, and we are working out the final exam.”

  “Jack, either you’re lying, or you haven’t a clue what that lady has in mind for your final exam. From the way she was eyeing me when she opened the door, I’d say she was going to offer you a multiple choice.”

  Jack seemed dumbstruck but from the sloping half grin on his face, he didn’t appear displeased with the notion.

  “Really?”

  Faye felt stung again by the sharp prick of jealousy and was mad at Jack for causing it. She told herself that she had no time or patience for this kind of nonsense.

  “I really must be going. Have fun with Little Miss College.”

  “Little Miss College happens to be a brilliant rocket scientist.”

  For some reason, that really irked her. “I’ll just bet she specializes in heat-seeking missiles.” When Jack barked out a laugh, her blush deepened and she quickly turned away. “God, did I say that? I can’t believe I just said that. It’s no concern of mine, I’m sure.”

  Jack was grinning openly and moved to block her path. “Faye, what was it you came to see me about?”

  “It was nothing.”

  “For Faye O’Neill to stop working long enough to come knocking on my door can only mean one of two things. Either the sky is falling, or... well, give me a minute. I can’t think of anything else yet, but it’ll come to me.”

  “Very funny.” She meant to turn away but the words spilled out. “It was Mrs. Lloyd. She came by to give me the third degree about allowing Maddie and Tom to visit Wendy. I just wanted to talk.” She lifted one shoulder casually. “Never mind. It’s nothing I can’t handle.”

  “Wait, Faye.” He gently took her arm again to delay her departure, then bent at the waist to peer into her face.

  “You look tired. Again.” Shaking his head, he said gently, “What am I going to do with you?” He slipped his arm around her shoulder. “No, don’t get your back up. I’m not planning on scratching another notch on my calculator. I’m your friend, and it looks like you could use one.”

  He gave her a little shake, and, without looking up, she knew he was smiling that crooked grin of his that melted her resistance.

  “Come on. How about I take you to my favorite pub for a couple of beers?”

  She wanted to go, oh so very much. But in her life, there was always some little nail that held her foot down to the ground, some detail that snagged her sweater as she was going out the door.

  “I can’t. The children will be home soon.”

  “Wendy will keep them for another few minutes. It’s just down the block.”

  “What about your rocket scientist?”

  “I’ll blast her off,” he said with a lack of concern that shot a rocket of satisfaction through her. “Come on, you’re always stalling.”

  Her lip projected forward as her trigger clicked. “I am not stalling. I can be just as free and decisive as you.”

  “Can you, now?”

  “I can.” Then, despite her words, she cast a worried glance at the upstairs window. “But I think I’ll run upstairs and check on the children first, just to be sure.”

  * * *

  When they walked into the cozy pub with its wood-paneled walls burnished in the glow of old-fashioned lamps that swung from the ceiling, she felt her heart patter with pleasure. She’d not yet been to an English pub, and this one was just like those she’d seen in a hundred movies. Men and women clustered like happy sardines in the small booths, chatting companionably. Jack was greeted as hale and heartily as an old friend. Young and old alike exchanged greetings with him, patted his back, and fondly called him The Professor. It didn’t surprise her. Though he’d only been in London a year, Jack’s clever wit, friendly swagger, and handsome good looks would easily win the hearts of the locals, men and women alike.

  As they made their way through the haze of cigarette smoke in search of an empty spot, she wasn’t meant to notice the sly winks or raised brows when a fellow spotted the petite blond at Jack’s elbow. Only the tall, lean waitress with the flaming red curls seemed put out to find Faye seated in the booth with him. She offered Jack a saucy smile with the menu and a suggestive remark with the ale. To Faye she served up a glance that could cut steel.

  “Another notch?” Faye asked him when the woman stopped hovering over Jack and returned to the other customers.

  This time Jack didn’t reply but took a gulp of ale instead.

  She sipped likewise, surprised that the ale was room temperature. Over the rim of her glass, she watched him exchange jokes with the man at the next table, his eyes dancing and his mouth twitching till the punch line was told and he broke into a loud laugh that made her laugh just to hear it. The force of his personality was palpable, even from across the table. Friends, and even strangers, gravitated toward him, hovering, like planets around the warm sun. She could only wonder why such a man hadn’t yet married.

  Jack turned toward her, caught her perusal, and arched a brow in good humor. He had the eyes of a microscope, and she knew he’d be able to read her thoughts if she let him. She turned her head and introduced herself to the assembled group as Jack’s new neighbor. Instantly, a buzz circulated around the bar, and she was met with a new wave of curious looks and comments.

  “So you’re the American that’s moved into Number 14,” the old man at the next table asked with a smile that would have reached his pointed ears were it not for the long, curved pipe that weighed one corner down. He was a caricature of what she’d imagined an Engli
sh gent from a Wodehouse novel would look like, complete with a rumpled Harris tweed jacket, the long, poet’s face, and Barrymore-like hair that curled around the ears. Except the hair was the worst toupee she’d ever seen. It took the willpower of Jeeves not to chuckle, reach out, and kindly straighten the piece.

  “I am that same Yank,” she replied as soberly as possible.

  “It would take a Yank to move into that place.” He puffed the pipe and a wispy trail of smoke rose straight into the air, filling the room with the scent of cherries. “It’s a queer place. Some say it’s haunted.”

  “In a pig’s eye,” piped in a plump, sixtyish woman in the booth behind him with gray hair and a gray cardigan, the buttons of which strained at the task. She turned her head and smiled at Faye. “Mary Croft,” she offered in way of introduction. “Lived here all my life. Played with Jane Lloyd as a girl, before she got all hoity-toity. Never saw a ghost once, and I’ve lived right across the street at Number 17 for all of my life.” She narrowed her eyes behind thick black glasses. “But there’s something queer about the place, no doubt about it. Strange blinking lights at all hours of the night.”

  “Lights?” Faye asked, eyes wide.

  Jack’s smile slipped from his face, and he sat up, alert. “What kind of lights?”

  “Hard to say from a distance. Little balls of light, no bigger than my fist. Jane used to tell me matter-of-factly that they were fairies. When we was little.” She chuckled in fond memory. “Used to say that when you believe, you can see the fairies.”

  “Here we go again,” Faye muttered under her breath. Jack raised his brows at Mary Croft. “Are you saying you saw fairies?”

  Mary’s face clouded, and her gaze darted to her beer. “Can’t tell you what I saw. It was all so long ago. Now that I’m grown-up, I’m guessing it’s UFOs of some sort.”

  “Now?” Faye asked. “You mean you still see the lights?”

  “Sure, from time to time.” She looked up, her face quizzical. “You mean you haven’t?”

  Faye took a quick swallow of her ale and shook her head. She darted a look at Jack, her brows up in query.

  “Do you really want me to tell you?” he replied, amused.

  “Oh no,” she groaned. “Wait, this is another one of your jokes, right?”

  “Oh, don’t let it worry you none, dear,” said Mary Croft, leaning far over the booth now to pat Faye’s hand.

  “Wendy Forrester has been living in that house for years and she’s never been bothered by them. Though I’d wager nothing much bothers our Wendy.”

  “Talking about Crazy Wendy are you?” asked a fellow whose eyes were a tad glazed in his puffy face. He was passing by with mugs of ale in hand. He leaned against the booth, resting the ale on the wood back.

  “I remember the old girl well. She used to read me stories up in that marvelous nursery of hers, back when I was a little tike. I’d just moved into the neighborhood, and she was my one true friend. I remember murals on the walls. Marvelous things. What was it? Pirates?”

  “Peter Pan,” replied Mary Croft with certainty.

  The man smiled and nodded, the spark of memory lighting up his eyes.

  “Everything was Peter Pan,” Mary continued, wagging her head sadly. “Still is. It’s a pity she’s gone on and on about that, isn’t it? I think it’s what drove Jane away in the end. It wasn’t so bad a thing to believe in when we was young. Such delightful days of tea and stories and make-believe. There was always a roomful of children in the Forrester nursery or gathered around that fountain in the garden. That was the way Wendy liked it. The more the merrier. Children were always on their best manners with Wendy. She wouldn’t tolerate any bad behavior or complaints. Not that she ever was cross. She simply had to give a child a look and”—Mary snapped her fingers—“that was that. No one wanted to displease dear Wendy. Or dared.”

  “I remember it well,” added the old man, nodding, misty-eyed.

  “Eventually,” Mary went on thoughtfully, “we grew up and Wendy...Well, she’s not daft, you know. Managed that boys’ home and fund-raising and so much more. Poor Jane, though. She just couldn’t cope. Status and the good opinion of strangers always meant so much to her.”

  “Spoiled she was, that’s what I always said,” the old man muttered.

  “She wasn’t a bad child,” Mary countered. “Just bossy. Once she stopped believing, she couldn’t abide the fact that her mother’s faith was unshaken. Wendy, of course, won’t have nobody tell her which way is up, will she now? They had terrible rows most of their lives. Now it’s about selling the house. Jane says that with all the rumors of ghosts and lights and craziness, no one wants to let a flat.” She winked and released an easy smile. “Except perhaps an American that don’t know better.”

  “That’s a description I hate to own up to.” Faye said good-naturedly to the chorus of chuckles.

  “It’s a beautiful house, anybody would want it, but Jane refuses to live there. The cost of the upkeep of so grand a place is steep, and Wendy, of course, won’t move out.

  Says she needs to stay in the nursery.” Mary lowered her voice and leaned forward. “For himself, you know.”

  Jack nodded his head as solemnly as Mary Croft. Catching Faye’s puzzled expression he mouthed, “Peter Pan.”

  Faye rolled her eyes and offered an exaggerated, “Ah.”

  “Wendy Forrester may be a bit daft in her old age, but she’s as true as they come,” said the old man, defense flaring in his pale eyes as he sat upright. The sudden movement brought the toupee another quarter inch down the slippery slope. “When anyone needed a bit of cash to make it to next payday, especially after the war, Wendy Forrester was always there to help. Always had a smile on her face, and a kind word of cheer, she had. Never once pressed to have it paid back, neither.”

  “True, true. Wendy always had cash to lend. I’m not too proud to own it.” This came from another middle-aged man who sat in the booth opposite them. The conversation was drawing listeners from across the bar, many nodding their head in agreement, echoing, “Hear, hear.”

  “Till her daughter took over the finances,” piped in another. “It’s like water from a stone with that one.”

  “Has anyone ever seen fairies or Peter Pan?” Jack asked. “Besides Wendy, that is?”

  For a moment there was a stunned silence and a few furtive glances. Then everyone burst out laughing, pointing at each other and daring each other to admit to it. Another round of ale and lager was served, and they drank with relish. Both the drinks and the good humor loosened a few more tongues.

  “Some of us had dreams of seeing the Pan when we was children,” confided a woman with a gauzy green scarf tied in a triangle around her head. Drawing near, she reminisced, “Of course, we’d all sat at Wendy’s knee. Children have such lovely imaginations,” she added with a sentimental sigh. “They’re so quick to believe.”

  “It’s part of their charm,” commented another dreamily.

  Faye’s thoughts drifted to her own children. Did Maddie and Tom believe in anything anymore? The divorce had been so bitter, and the aftermath seemed to rob them of some of their innocence.

  “It’s time to go home,” she said, suddenly missing them and checking her watch.

  “You weren’t bothered by all that talk about ghosts and UFOs, were you?” Jack asked when they were walking together down the block, their shoulders nearly touching.

  “No,” she replied, tucking her hand under her arms. “I don’t believe in any of that nonsense. A few drinks and people just like to hear themselves talk.”

  “They didn’t mean to scare you. Everyone around here adores Wendy. She’s a favorite topic of conversation.”

  “It’s simply getting late. Maddie and Tom need to be tucked into their own beds and Wendy should be relieved of her charges.”

  “I’ve been thinking of Tom. I didn’t want to mention it in front of all those folks. Friendly as it is, anything said in there is like placing an ad i
n the paper.” He took a few more steps. “I’ve done some research on elective mutism for you.”

  “You did that?” She turned her head and looked up at him with surprise. She felt a sudden cocoon of warmth envelop her as she studied the man taking strides beside her, a man who took time out of his busy day to think of her and her children. “You did that for me?”

  “Faye, you know that there’s not much I wouldn’t do for you.” He cleared his throat and swung his head to look straight ahead. “And the kids. We’re pals.”

  “Yes,” she answered quickly, dousing the flame that shot through her. “I like to think so.”

  “I went to the medical library online and looked up elective mutism. I learned there are two types, both being rare. The main difference that I can tell is that if you had one kind you had all sorts of behavioral and psychological problems that went on for pages and pages and had a small chance of full recovery. The second type is called traumatic mutism. This one has a sudden onset following a psychological or physical shock. Clearly, that fits Tom’s case.”

  The image of Tom lying helpless on the floor seared her mind. She could shake off the specter, but never the guilt.

  “What about that one?” she asked. Is there a cure?” Or, she wondered privately, do they blame it all on bad genes and bad mothering?

  “There isn’t a cure exactly, but the outlook is good for cases like these. Tom needs to have some motivation to speak. What got me most excited was the point that play was important, and that make-believe play can be one of the best therapies he can have.”

  She stopped and turned to face him, astonished.

  “Wendy,” they both said in unison.

  She held her hands tightly together by her heart, breathless with awe. Then sticking out her chin, she said fiercely, “I defy Mrs. Lloyd to try and stop them from playing together.” They began walking again. Oh,” she exclaimed, stopping again and tugging at his sleeve. “That reminds me. Why I came to see you in the first place.” She quickly told him about her confrontation with Mrs. Lloyd.