Second Star to the Right

by Mary Alice Monroe

  “Pirates, wild Indians, who knows?” interjected Farnesworthy, wagging his brows.

  The children smirked but kept mum.

  A gentle knocking sounded at the door, and, on answering, Jack found Mrs. Lloyd waiting. He ushered her into the room and on seeing her, Faye hurried to her feet and took Jane’s hands in her own. Jane Lloyd appeared changed somehow, as though her sorrow had rounded all the sharp edges from her voice and her expressions.

  “We’re all so sorry that Wendy is gone,” Faye said. “We shall all miss her terribly.”

  “Thank you,” Jane replied sincerely. “I will too. I suspect a great many folks will. But I believe she is happy now. At last.”

  She began digging in her enormous, deep purse saying, “I came to give you something. If I can only find it. Just a moment, I know it’s here. Oh yes, here it is.”

  She pulled out her hand and opened her palm. In it lay a small gold thimble.

  Maddie spotted it and leaped from her chair and ran with coltish speed to their side. “That’s Peter’s thimble! Wendy gave it to him. He called it a kiss, and he always wore it around his neck on a chain. Close to his heart.” Her face was flushed and her words danced from her mouth.

  “Yes,” Jane surprised everyone by replying. “I recognized it, too.”

  “Where did you get it?” Tom wanted to know.

  Jane smiled wistfully. “I found it on the windowsill this morning in my mother’s room. I think...” She paused. “I think they left it for us. To tell us that all was well and that Wendy was with him now.”

  “He wouldn’t need it anymore.” Maddie sighed.

  “No, I didn’t think so." She turned to Maddie. "And neither do I. Perhaps you would like it?” Jane handed the thimble to Maddie, whose eyes were as round as teacups. She took the thimble in her hand and gazed at it with all the awe and wonder in her soul.

  “May I take a look at that?” Jack asked.

  Maddie handed the thimble to him with reverence and supervised his handling of the treasure.

  “I guess this proves the existence of Peter Pan.” He looked at Faye. “I win the bet.”

  She met his gaze squarely. “We all win. And I freely admit that I believe.”

  Jack’s chest swelled. He squinted and stared down at the thimble in his palm with great thought. After a moment he raised his eyes, pursed his lips, then asked, “Tell me, Mrs. Lloyd. Are you still planning to sell this place?”

  Faye gasped, stunned by the suddenness of the question. She supposed she always knew, somewhere in the back of her mind, that No. 14 would be sold after Wendy’s death. Jane Lloyd had made no secret of her intentions. Yet, she hoped it wouldn’t be soon.

  She allowed her gaze to roam the great warm kitchen of the old house that she’d come to love over the past months, hungrily taking in the charming nooks and bric-a-brac as though seeing them for the last time. She looked at the mullioned windows and smelled the scent of wood burning in the delft tiled fireplace. She brought to mind the blue-hydrangea wallpaper, the plump cushioned sofa, the Staffordshire china, the lemony smell of the foyer and, of course, the magic of Wendy’s marvelous nursery. Finally, she let her eyes take in the sight of the wonderful garden, where her children’s hearts and imagination took root and blossomed and now were as brilliant and ripe as the autumn flowers.

  Faye had learned that a house was not the glue that bound a family together. As beautiful as a castle, a mansion, a house or a small flat may be, as rich in family heritage, as full of memories as it can hold, no house was a home. Maddie and Tom—and now Jack—they were the mortars of her home. Love was the foundation. Wherever they went in their lifetimes they would furnish their home with treasured memories, old and new. They would plant new seeds in a well-tilled soil.

  Still, she thought wistfully, her gaze lingering on the sight of Maddie and Tom rolling and laughing with Nana with all the exuberance of youth, she had been happy here. She would miss No. 14.

  Jane Lloyd’s eyes widened with surprise at hearing Jack’s question. “Well, I don’t know. I haven’t thought...” she stammered.

  “You are selling it?” he persisted.

  “Yes, of course."

  "Soon?"

  "As soon as possible, I should imagine.”

  “Good,” he replied with finality.

  Faye looked up sharply, stunned by his sudden closure.

  Jack looked her way with significance, then, turning back to Mrs. Lloyd, he said in a casual manner, “You can save yourself the real-estate commission. I’ll buy the house.” Looking at Faye’s astonished face, he added, “What? You don’t think I’m going to live in this big old place alone do you? This is a package deal. You and the kids are included. Oh, and Nana, too.” He paused and all bravado fled, leaving his face as open and hopeful as a boy’s. “That is, if you’ll say yes.”

  Faye couldn’t speak. This was so unexpected, so spontaneous. So Jack. Her joy welled up in her throat, and she had to keep swallowing or else embarrass herself by crying and muttering all sorts of insane things and oh, she couldn’t help herself. The tears began to overflow down her cheeks as she nodded acceptance.

  Jack stepped forward to take her hand. A gaping Mrs. Lloyd, the back-stepping Inspectors, even the children jumping and clapping their hands all faded from her view as she took in Jack's smiling face. It was only the two of them once again, a united force in the cosmos.

  Jack placed the thimble on her finger. “There,” he said with a wry grin. “That seals the deal.”

  A flurry of action swirled around her as she stood in a daze. The Inspectors gathered their reports and made a hasty exit along with a delighted Mrs. Lloyd, who was muttering something about how Mother would be so pleased. When all was quiet again Jack took Faye’s hand and led her out to the garden. Maddie and Tom charged ahead, arguing hotly over which of them would sleep in the nursery while Nana nipped excitedly at their heels.

  Autumn was everywhere but Faye felt in her heart that it was spring all over again and the fireflies would just be lighting their courtship lanterns and the children would be planting new seeds. Spring, and she would leave the windows wide-open to allow all that was fresh and wonderful and magical into their home and into their lives. She would keep the windows open, she vowed, every day of her life.

  “Look, Mom! Jack, hurry look!” cried Maddie, her voice ringing. “The fountain!”

  Faye and Jack joined Maddie and Tom at the temperamental fountain. It rumbled and groaned, clanked and whined. Then, with a great whoosh of air came a spray of water gushing through the boy’s pipes. While the children laughed and danced, and Jack hooted with triumph, Faye quietly wrapped her arms around herself and smiled knowingly up at the cocky boy’s face. As always, she could have sworn he smiled back at her.

  And as always, she heard the music.

  Author’s Note

  Dear Readers,

  I’ve taken liberties with the timing of events in the life of J.M. Barrie, but I trust he would forgive me. Throughout the story many readers may readily pick up nuances and references to the text, Peter and Wendy. Weaving them into the story was part of my pleasure in writing this novel. In particular, Mrs. Darling’s kiss and the way she rummaged through her children’s minds, the Lost Boys—Slightly, Curly, Nibs, and Tootles—Tinker Bell, Hook and, of course, the thimble. My hope was to add authenticity to the story and to perhaps bring a smile of memory to your faces. Where I quoted directly in the text, I used italics. I was also inspired by the writings of those who dared to stretch the boundaries of their imaginations--Albert Einstein, Richard Feynman, Lee Smolin, Carl Sagan, Joseph Campbell.

  In this story I've created dual worlds: real and fantasy. Science and magic. The key to them all is the power of belief.

  Happy reading,

  Mary Alice Monroe

  One Summer’s Night

  Mary Alice Monroe

  © Excerpt 2013

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  Prologue

&nbs
p; It was a night for magic and miracles.

  The soft, bluish light of the moon lingered on the purple mountain peaks. Above, stars flickered and filmy clouds drifted along the Milky Way like sailing vessels at full mast.

  A woman sat at her wooden desk and stared out her open window. It was a crisp night, and in the distance where the woods met the open fields she could see the twinkling of countless tiny, brilliant lights. They were dancing. As she watched them a wistful expression flitted across her face and unbidden memories waltzed in her mind.

  A great white owl hooted in the distance, breaking her reverie.

  “Yes, yes, Omni, I know,” Maybelle said with a shake of her silvery head. Tapping a quill pen against her lips, she shifted her gaze to the calendar on her desk and reached out to finger its dog-eared pages. She had long, graceful fingers with short, oval, unpolished nails, but her gaze caught the wrinkling of the pale skin against fragile bones and the faint brown freckles—age spots, humans called them.

  Twenty-one years she'd waited..., she thought with a sigh that spilled over with hope and expectations.

  Maybelle glanced again at the calendar. May 16th was circled in scarlet. Then she turned her gaze again to the full moon that hovered low—expectantly—over the mountain peaks.

  “It is time,” she said aloud to the owl, to the moon, to the stars, to the dancing white lights. "At long last."

  Taking a deep breath, she smoothed out the letter on the desk with determined strokes and signed her name with a flourish. Maybelle Starr.

  Folding the thick parchment paper into thirds, she tucked the letter into an envelope and affixed a stamp. Maybelle closed her eyes, whispered a fervent wish, and kissed the letter.

  One

  The moon was full and shone in the sky like a resplendent queen smiling upon her subjects below. A gentle breeze stirred the air, carrying with it the many sweet scents from the flowers that were blooming at Longfield Gardens. Laurel Carrington preferred to walk home from the university through the beautiful and extensive parks. Usually she took her time to linger with the flowers and plants she adored. But tonight she pushed on at a steady pace, conscious that a tight-lipped Colin was tapping his foot at the door. When she passed the rose garden, however, her steps slowed involuntarily. She couldn’t help herself. Her passion for roses was her one indulgence and after all, it was her birthday.

  Pausing at the black wrought iron fence that bordered the garden's hybrid tea roses, Laurel thought it wouldn’t be long now till the roses were in bloom and filling the air with their intoxicating scent. Ever since she could remember she was locked under the spell of roses. since birth, each time she saw one she felt a small, exquisite prick of awe. Only one person in the world loved roses more than she—her father.

  Yet why, whenever she caught the scent of a rose, did she think of her mother?

  Laurel leaned against the iron fence, feeling the weight of introspection. Another birthday and still her mother had not tried to reach her. Twenty-one birthdays of silence. Not even her father had wished her a happy birthday. Not that she’d expected it, but, like a silly child, she hoped. 'Foolish sentimentality' he called these emotions that lurked deep within her to spring out at such times as birthdays, Christmas, and other holidays. Her father said they stemmed from an inner weakness to be cast out. She’d tried, she really had. But she'd failed. Such romantic notions as remembered birthdays or gaily wrapped presents, or wishes upon a star still mattered to her.

  That’s why she hated birthdays. Every year they came around and every year the sentimental longing surfaced, reminding her of her character flaw.

  This year was a significant event--her twenty-first. She’d taken pride in the fact that she’d almost forgotten it entirely.

  She ran her hand through her head of cropped, blond curls. So she was twenty-one, she told herself. Big deal. Today she became an adult in the eyes of the world. Tomorrow she would graduate from college. She should be elated. Up to this point, her life had progressed in an orderly manner. Yet just when she should have been basking in her father’s praise, disaster had struck.

  She hadn’t been accepted into graduate school. It had been cocky to apply to only one, but she’d been so sure of her success. Now, all her carefully laid plans to become a biogenetic engineer had collapsed like a house of cards. Laurel felt lost. On her twenty-first birthday, she didn’t know what next steps to take. If only she had some sign, a signal of what she should do.

  A sudden breeze rose up, to swirl around her. Closing her eyes, the warm, scented air seemed to caress her face and from somewhere in the distance she heard the high, musical sound of bells, or perhaps wind chimes. She caught the sweet scent of mountain laurel and freshly mowed grass, and for a fleeting moment, she was transported to a familiar place in her heart where she felt young and carefree. A place visited only in her dreams.

  Opening her eyes again, she saw the familiar, orderly gardens of Longfield with their neatly trimmed roses, the spotless curved walkways, and the small wood signs directing a weary visitor which way to turn. In the distance, a church bell tolled the hour.

  Nine o’clock! She really had to rout out these sentimental lapses, she scolded herself. Colin’s face flashed in her mind and she frowned, pushing away from the fence with a look of stubborn determination. With a firm tread, she proceeded once again along the familiar path.

  Within minutes she was on the block she had lived on for as long as she could remember. It was a stately, suburban block, lined with tall oaks, elms, and maples that had been planted generations earlier and lovingly tended. Wilmington, Delaware, was a town that prided itself on its historical homes and spectacular gardens. Great or small, each house was a gem. Her father had brought her here when he was recruited to work at the famous Longfield Gardens as a young man, and he had single-handedly raised her and his career over the past twenty-one years, becoming in that time a renowned curator.

  Coming up to their front door, she thought how their house was rather like her father, Arthur Carrington. It was a stuffy old Victorian solidly constructed of wood and stone yet with surprising with moments of grace. She opened the door to find the house shadowy with the heavy velvet drapes drawn. She’d expected Colin and her father to be hovering at the door.

  “Hello?” she called out loudly. When there was no answer she called again, “Hello, anybody home?”

  How odd the house was so quiet, she thought to herself. Then her heart began to flutter with excitement. From deep inside an old, childlike wonder escaped: Could her father at last be throwing her a party? It would explain Colin’s eagerness to get her home, and his worry that she was late. Twenty-one years was a long time to wait, but better late than never. With slow steps she moved from the foyer into the living room, her heart beating harder with each footfall. At any second she was expecting the lights to flash on and a dozen or so people to jump up from behind sofas and chairs and yell, “Surprise!”

  But no one did. She tried to ignore the ripple of disappointment as she searched the dining room, the kitchen, and the library, moving through the rooms slowly. God help her, but she really was hoping someone would jump out and wish her a happy birthday.

  A noise outside in the garden drew her through the kitchen, where no special dinner was simmering on the stove and no festively decorated cake was resting on the counter, to the porch where she saw her father and Colin bent over a rosebush engaged in a heated discussion.

  There they were, two peas in a pod, with their suit coats slung over their arms, their ties loosened at the collar and their short hair gleaming in the blue moonlight, Arthur’s with a silvery glint, Colin’s white blond. They were undoubtedly discussing some theory, oblivious to the world outside them or the people that inhabited it.

  Laurel laughed at her own disappointment, telling herself that she was being silly once again and how she didn’t really want a party anyway. She returned to the house without notice and went directly to the front hall table where the day’s
mail was stashed in a basket. She sifted through the stack, her fingers moving quickly. There were a number of white and pastel-colored envelopes, cards from friends and family sending best wishes, a few bills, a magazine...

  Nothing from Cornell University. Laurel slumped onto the hall bench and her hands rested dejectedly over the stack of letters. The one surprise she did hope for on her birthday was a long, white, hopefully thick envelope from Cornell’s graduate program--even notice of a being placed on a wait list-- so she could show her father that she'd succeeded.

  “Well, look who’s finally home!”

  She glanced up to see her father standing in the foyer, a cup and saucer held in his long, elegant fingers. British born, he had always appeared stiff and out of place when compared to the fathers of other local girls. When other children were tossing softballs in the yard or going on family picnics, she and her father were pruning rosebushes or hiking through prairies.

  “Hello, Dad,” she replied. Laurel saw her father’s eyes dart quickly to the stack of letters then rise again, question shining in the bright blue.

  Crimson scorched her cheeks. Laurel understood the question in that gaze. She lowered her eyes and shook her head no.

  “I see. Well…” He cleared his throat and looked discomfited. Laurel knew him too well for him to hide the disappointment in his eyes before he shook it away. “We shouldn’t let that get us down in the dumps,” he pushed on amiably. “It’s your birthday, after all. May it be a very happy one. Come here, and give your old dad a kiss.”

  He couldn’t know what those few words meant to her. She hurried to comply and when she squeezed tight, he muttered, “Good, good,” while patting her back stiffly with one hand and balancing his tea cup with the other. She stepped back quickly, knowing these physical shows of affection always made her father uncomfortable.