Second Star to the Right

by Mary Alice Monroe

  “Thank you for remembering.”

  “You know how absentminded I am about such things. Colin’s the one to thank. He’s still out back. Shall I tell him you’re here? He’s been pacing about like a young buck. He’s even brought champagne!” His tone implied he couldn’t imagine why.

  “Of course," she replied. "But before we celebrate, I’ve bad news, I'm afraid."

  Her father went still.

  "I’ve finished the series of slides.” She looked away. “The results were negative.”

  She cast a quick glance at her father. His face had fallen in disappointment and she wished, with all her heart, she could do something to change it.

  "Negative results are results," he said with a forced smile.

  “Why don’t you get Colin and the champagne?" she said. "I’m just going to finish going through my mail first, if you don’t mind. There are a few birthday cards I'd like to open.”

  “Right. I’ll just go tell Colin you’re home. Don't be long."

  Leaning against the smooth wood of the bench, Laurel returned to the stack of mail. The first card opened was a graduation card, the next a birthday card, then another. Each card was merely signed, void of a personal message. The next letter, however, gave her pause. It was different that the others in that the large, irregular-size envelope was made of a heavy parchment and the elegant script was penned with an artistic flourish. The return address read only: Fallingstar, Vermont.

  “I don’t know anyone in Vermont,” she muttered to herself. She lifted the envelope to her nose and sniffed. Heavenly, she thought and, her curiosity piqued, she pried open the envelope, hating to crack the lovely, thick red wax seal stamped with the design of a star. A sudden breeze rose up to kiss her cheeks as she opened the letter, warm and scented, much like the breeze she'd felt in the park. Laurel attributed the scented breeze to the open window in the foyer.

  The stationary was of the same thick, roughened parchment and, bringing it to her nose, she caught the distinct scent of mountain laurel. More curious than ever, she smoothed the paper and began to read.

  My dear Laurel, (May I call you Laurel?)

  Warmest wishes from me to you. I sincerely hope this letter arrives to find you well. You may be curious as to why I, a stranger, am writing to you. But I am not such a stranger.

  I saw your paintings when you exhibited at the Delaware Art Fair some years back and they left an indelible impression upon me. On seeing them I thought, “Such talent, such potential for one so young!" Sadly, I have not seen other exhibits of yours since that occasion, although I’ve tried to keep abreast. You see what an admirer I am of your painting?

  Laurel looked up and blinked in a stunned manner after reading the first page. She tried to recall when she’d exhibited those early landscapes. Why, it must’ve been five or six years ago, back when she was sixteen and still harbored dreams of being a painter. That was her one and only show, but it was memorable. She’d sold every painting, a remarkable feat for any artist. She could still remember vividly the flush of excitement and accomplishment she’d felt at this triumph.

  Even so, her father had discouraged her from continuing her art, claiming that it was a nice hobby but should not take her away from her more serious pursuits in science. Immediately after the show he’d offered her a job as an illustrator for his books and for the Longfield catalogues. The painstakingly detailed drawings required for these projects left little time for her oil paints. In time, her desire to become an artist was tucked away with so many of her other childish inclinations.

  But this woman claimed to have seen her work—and admired it! Who was this woman? Laurel flipped to the third page. The letter was signed in a large, elaborate script: Maybelle Starr.

  Laurel’s breath hitched as her hands stilled in disbelief. The Maybelle Starr? It seemed impossible that the world-renowned artist would be writing to her, much less complimenting her art. Why would the famous recluse take notice of her? Laurel dove back into the letter, her hands trembling slightly.

  I have reached a point of decision in my life, as I believe you have as well. Sadly, my eyesight is failing and I find I can no longer paint as I once could. I’ve been searching for an artist willing to serve as my apprentice and, hopefully, train to be my eventual successor. Please believe me when I say that not just any talented painter can elicit the magic necessary to create a painting about the world of fae. It requires imagination, a unique sense of color, and a certain something I cannot put to words. I saw that something in your work. Now I am left to wonder, to hope, that you might consider visiting me at my home and studio—as my guest—to discuss the possibilities?

  I know this must appear as a sudden invitation, but I have been considering this for a very, very long time. Unfortunately, my eyesight worsens at an alarming rate and suddenly, time is of the essence. Thus, I would very much appreciate a timely reply.

  My dear Laurel I realize that this is an important decision. Do what your heart—and your instincts—command and you will not be disappointed!

  I eagerly await your reply,

  Maybelle Starr

  Laurel’s breath stilled on her lips and the letter lay in her limp hands as she tried to make sense of the letter. With swirls and loops scribbled in ink, Maybelle Starr had taken her solid, well organized world and turned it upside down.

  She still remembered the thrill she and all her girlfriends felt as young girls reading Maybelle Starr’s tender books and poring over her glorious drawings of fairies. Maybelle Starr took the sweet paintings of Cicely Mary Barker and Tasha Tudor to a new level, hinting at a mysticism, even a sensuality that went way beyond a young girl’s imagination. When looking at an enchanting fairy painting by Maybelle Starr, Laurel could almost believe that fairies existed.

  Almost.

  Laurel leaned her head back. To entertain such an invitation would be senseless, frivolous, even ridiculous. It would be something her mother might’ve done, and Lord knew she’d spent a lifetime endeavoring never to be like the awful, nameless woman who had abandoned her after her birth.

  And yet, now it felt to her that this letter had whisked away her father’s warnings against sentimentality as the sweet breeze had swept away her sadness moments ago. In these few words this woman, this Maybelle Starr, had given voice to her most secret dream: to paint in vivid colors and broad strokes, not in the tight, orderly black lines of her illustrations.

  It was too much to deal with all at once. She had to take deep breaths to calm her racing heart.

  “Look who’s finally decided to come home,” Colin called out as he entered the front hall.

  “At last,” she replied, lifting her face to receive his quick kiss. She quickly folded the letter and tucked it into her pocket.

  “Happy birthday, love,” he said near her ear. Then turning to face her father, he said more loudly, “You certainly have a beautiful daughter.”

  “As she’s been beautiful for each of her twenty-one years. Let’s move into the other room, where I can open this fine bottle of champagne and offer a proper toast. It’s legal now,” he said with a wink to Colin. ‘Time marches on and we’re none of us getting any younger.”

  Laurel narrowed her eyes. There was the sparkle of a secret in their eyes and a little too much animation in their tone. Those two were up to something. She patted the parchment envelope in her pocket, then followed them into the library. On entering, Colin put his arm around her shoulders.

  Her father beamed as he saw them standing together, then clasping his hands he said, “Before we open this excellent bottle of wine, why don’t I leave the two of you alone for a few moments. I have a few things I must tend to and...” He cleared his throat as that light twinkled again in his eyes. “Who knows? We might have something else to celebrate tonight.”

  Laurel watched the door close behind her father than turned to face Colin with a sense of dread. In his eyes she saw a pompous certainty rather than what she’d always imagined would be
a suitor’s nervous anxiety. When he took her hands, his own hands did not tremble as hers did.

  “I think you know what I want to ask you,” he began. “We’ve dated for three years. And during those years I’ve made no secret of how much I admire you, and how much our relationship has meant to me. We are compatible, we share the same interests. You are the perfect choice to share my life. I’ve been waiting for this moment, for this day, for a long time.” He straightened his shoulders and said with the solemnity, “Laurel, I want you to be my wife.”

  Laurel opened her mouth but no words came out. Her mind was whirling with indecision. There were a number of strong reasons why she should accept his proposal, and she analyzed them as she would any data.

  He was a handsome enough man, elegant in style and manner like her father. He was extremely bright, thus increasing the likelihood that they would have intelligent offspring. And he was a rising star in his field. His future was assured. And finally, she was fond of him. Certainly, her father was as well. Perhaps this was all there was to love? It was logical that she'd marry Colin.

  But suddenly reason and logic were choking her. Perhaps Maybelle Starr’s letter prompted this surge, but in a rush she saw her life as neatly organized as the grid of her father’s gardens-- and she wasn’t ready yet to fall into line.

  She dropped his hands and slipped them in her pocket. She felt the heavy parchment letter against her fingertips. Maybelle's words came back to her: Do what your heart— and your instincts—command and you will not be disappointed.

  “Well, Laurel?” Colin asked with a tinge of impatience.

  Her rambling reasoning quieted and, acting on instinct, one word slipped out.

  “No.”

  “What?”

  Something in his tone roused her ire. Maybe the hint of superiority, or the implication that he expected her to meekly say yes. “I’m sorry, Colin, but the answer is no.”

  “But Laurel, I’ve always assumed... You’ve given every indication that...”

  "I am not saying no. I'm just not ready to say yes."

  "Not ready? You’re twenty-one and you’ve graduated from college."

  "Yes, but I'm still not ready. There's graduate school, and..."

  His face mottled and he blurted out, “Your father expects that we marry!”

  Lauren began pacing the floor.

  “You and my father are ready for me to marry, but I’m not ready for me to marry!” Stopping, she swung around to face him. “You say you care about me? You find me the perfect choice for a life’s partner? For heaven’s sake, Colin, you talk about me as though I were one of your genetic specimens! What about love? Passion? Don’t you feel these things for me as well?” Colin seemed thunderstruck. “But... of course I do,” he stammered. “That goes without saying.”

  “It shouldn’t! I want to hear the words. You never speak those words to me. You never make me feel those words. Every girl wants to hear that when a man proposes marriage.”

  “I didn’t think you were the sentimental type.”

  That hurt, especially today. “Well, I am! Maybe I didn’t know just how much I was until this very moment. But I know now. And I also know, Colin, that I cannot marry a man who doesn’t love me.”

  “I can’t help but notice there’s no talk of love on your side either!”

  It was true. Looking into his gray eyes, she thought they looked like maelstroms of fury and hurt. She couldn't respond.

  Colin drew himself up and, looking at his hands, took a deep breath. When he looked at her again his eyes looked like calm seas. “I’m sorry for raising my voice, Laurel. I don’t think you know how deeply you’ve hurt me.”

  “Oh Colin,” she said. “I’m very fond of you. I may even love you. I... I don’t know. I just need some more time. I’m not saying I’ll never marry you. I’m just saying not now.”

  “Are you sure? You could be overreacting to certain developments. Disappointment. Feeling lost."

  Her father must have told him how she'd not been accepted into graduate school. Her cheeks flamed but before she could reply there was a brisk knock on the door and her father entered.

  “I’m not disturbing anything?” he asked, his brows rose in expectation.

  Colin squared his shoulders and his lips pinched. “Nothing at all. I’m sorry, but I’ve got to be going. I’ll see you at the graduation, that is...” He turned stiffly to face Laurel. “If you still want me there?”

  “Of course I do, Colin.”

  She expected a smile, or at the least a softening of his rigid expression, but she’d underestimated the depth of his hurt. He only nodded, blank faced, then turned to walk briskly from the room.

  “Will someone explain to me what’s going on?” her father asked, his brows raised and eyes wide.

  “Don’t you think I should be asking you that question?”

  His expression altered. “Colin asked me for your hand in marriage. It was the proper thing to do and I respect him for it. And I gave my blessing. You know how I feel about the young man.”

  “But do you know how I feel about him, Father?”

  He appeared stunned. “Why, yes, I thought I did.”

  “How could you know? We never discussed it. We rarely discuss anything of importance to me. I suddenly realize, Father, that you know very little about me. And what’s even more amazing is that I know as little about myself. Isn’t that a heck of a thing to discover at twenty- one years of age?”

  “What did you tell Colin?”

  “I told him I couldn’t marry him.”

  Arthur’s chin dropped. “How could you refuse him?”

  “Are you’re implying that it’s only logical that because we’ve dated for years I should spend the rest of my life with him?”

  “Yes, confound it!”

  “What about love, father? Doesn’t that enter the equation?”

  “Love alone won’t build a marriage. Too often passion and... lust cloud reason, and before you know it all you’ll have left is desolation and despair. I don’t want that, for you, Laurel. Mutual respect, compassion, concern—these are the building blocks of a solid marriage. Colin is a good man, with a bright future. He’ll take care of you.”

  “I don’t want anyone to take care of me! Not even you. Don’t you understand that?”

  “You’re being unrealistic!” he exploded.

  “Whenever I do something I want to do rather than what you want me to do you tell me I’m being unrealistic,” she fired back. "Or sentimental. Or emotional."

  He visibly pulled himself together, unaccustomed to her fighting back. “Let’s be sensible and talk this through,” he began again. “Sit down, please.”

  “I don’t want to sit down.”

  “Then if you’ll excuse me, I will. I’m not as young as you.” He made a show of settling into his favorite armchair, crossing his legs, and settling comfortably in the cushions. Laurel crossed her arms and readied herself.

  “You’re at a crossroads,” Arthur began, sounding every bit the patronizing parent. “You’re graduating from college tomorrow and your future looms large. The way I see it, you have three choices.” He held up his fingers. “One is to marry. Let’s just table that decision for now. Two is to go to graduate school to pursue your career in biogenetics. But we both know that option hasn’t panned out. Third is to come work full time at Longfield.”

  He cleared his throat. “I was going to discuss this tomorrow after your graduation, but I’m offering you a full-time position at Longfield. You can continue as my assistant and as an illustrator for the catalogues. The terms are fair, if not generous. And best of all, you and Colin can continue to work together.” His lips twitched with amusement and he added, “Which makes option one and three a combined deal, as it were. So. There you are!” He clasped his hands together on his folded knee, obviously pleased with his plan for her future.

  For a moment Laurel felt like an escaped bird that had just been put back into a cage.
Her heart began fluttering wildly, fearing the closing of the gate that would lock her in forever. Her hand fumbled by her side and felt the crinkled lump of Maybelle Starr’s letter. With a flash of inspiration, Laurel spied an escape. Her hand darted to her pocket and she pulled out the letter, brandishing it in the air with triumph.

  “I have another option!”

  Arthur raised his brows with suspicion and asked, “What option is that?’

  “I received a letter today from a well known artist,” she began, her voice ringing with excitement. She moved quickly forward, opening the letter. “It’s the most remarkable thing. She saw my art exhibit.” When he looked perplexed she added, “Remember when I showed my paintings at the Delaware Exhibit? You don ’t?” She frowned but pushed on. “Well, this woman remembered them. She’s invited me to come to her studio in Vermont to serve as her apprentice.”

  He rose from his chair. “You can’t be serious! What nonsense is this? An artist’s apprentice? You? Who is this woman, anyway?”

  “Maybelle Starr. She’s world renowned."

  "I never heard of her."

  "I'm not surprised. For all your expertise, you're not known for your knowledge of the art world. Ms. Starr illustrates books and has collections in galleries and museums around the world. She paints...” Laurel hesitated, knowing her father would scorn anything even remotely associated with fantasy.

  “Paints what? Abstracts? Landscapes?”

  “Fairies.”

  The color rose in his face as he stared in shock. Then he blurted out, “Ridiculous. Outrageous! This is no option, this is caprice!”

  “It is not! It’s real. And I want to do it.”

  He slammed his fists in his pockets and blurted, “You’re behaving just like your mother!” Laurel’s color paled. All her life, the worst thing that her father could say to her was that she was like her mother. To be compared to her-- the indulgent, heartless creature who abandoned father and child, never to be seen from again-- was cruel and painful. A slap to the face would have hurt less.