Across the armrest, I reached for her hand and held it in mine. I intertwined our fingers and held the position, letting her know that it would be there for the duration of her story.
“How precious and ironic your concern for me,” I said softly.
“How so?”
I thought for a moment, weighing how much should be said.
“I have ridden through these skies and witnessed a full spectrum of humanity, and I cannot remember the last time someone was concerned for my innocence,” I replied holding her hand a touch more firmly.
“Now finish your story,” I said, assuring her with my eyes that she could find the courage to translate the difficult memories into words.
Voron continued to go about his business, leaving home for a few days at a time, tending to business in London or elsewhere. He also involved himself in town affairs, showing up like the town lord at community meetings in his fine city clothes, making donations and buying top shelf brandy at the hamlet’s only pub. In return, the townspeople welcomed him like a long-lost benefactor from a more civilized time.
His attention to Lillian began to wane, however, and his business trips grew more frequent. Without the restoration to occupy her, Lillian wandered the halls of another home prepared to host a love that never arrived. Voron’s adoration that had only years before liberated her from her sorrow had evaporated like the mist on a sunny country morning, yielding similar miles of clarity.
Lillian decided it was time to reconnect, to drive to London and visit friends for a few days. Voron resisted the idea. In the past, he had passively but effectively discouraged such outings, always offering good reason. This time he gave no explanation. For the first time in their marriage, an argument ensued, ending with a strike to Lillian’s face that left her dazed, bruised and embarrassed. She canceled the trip and was left tending to her wounds and self-esteem, too embarrassed to be seen.
She tried to put it from her mind, blame it on the brandy that Voron had consumed, anything she could do to avoid facing the horrible possibility of the mistake she had made. It happened again only weeks later, when she approached Voron about her funds. It was then she learned of the changes that had been made, that she had lost control; that she was completely at his mercy. As the words came from Voron’s mouth, Lillian’s mind began to spin and nausea overtook her. She ran into a bathroom where she was violently ill. Voron came in behind her and she tried to push him away, leaving a long fingernail scratch on his fair-skinned cheek. Restraining her with a powerful grip wound in the locks of her hair, he slammed her face into the toilet seat, cracking her lip and left her in a mess of vomit, blood and tears.
Early the next morning, she attempted to leave, but Voron was waiting for her. He beat her again and locked her in a guest room. In that room she stayed for three weeks. The very home she had so meticulously restored to beauty had become her prison. In it she was captive, humiliated and taken for all she had by a very patient con man. In those three weeks, her mind burned while her body deteriorated. She sobbed uncontrollably and was crippled by the thought of William’s disappointment in her. She thought back to how blind despair had made her. There was a time she would have seen Voron coming 1.6 kilometers away, with his fine clothes and gentle words. He had read her sadness like a book and set his trap.
A month after the second beating, Voron permitted Lillian to leave. Without a word, he went off on business for a few days, leaving her alone and free to roam the manor house. Her jewelry was gone, as were her credit cards and identification. Her Land Rover was missing from the garage and the phones were out of order. All Lillian could find was a neat pile of cash on the bureau in her dressing room, conveniently sufficient to pay train passage back to London. She gathered a few of her items into a carrying bag, clothes, toiletries and an extra pair of shoes, and walked the three kilometers to the town’s train station. She was offered no help along the way, and she spoke to no one. She simply waited alone on the station’s single wooden bench, boarded the train and escaped to the home of William’s sister in London. Over the month that followed, she regained her health. She filed for new certificates of identification as well as divorce. Fortunately, part of William’s estate had been maintained in trust, and from it Lillian was able to receive adequate income off of which to live. It did not seem likely, however, that there would be any more manor homes in her future. At the divorce hearing, English law not particularly sympathetic to beaten wives, and countryside judges even less so, Voron prevailed. Lillian was positioned to have abandoned the marriage. Several people from the town spoke to Voron’s fine character and generosity as a finishing touch. In the end, she lost the manor home, its contents and the rest of her possessions.
I listened as tears welled in her blue eyes, running down her cheeks from time to time. Still she smiled through it; smiles of embarrassment for her being so naïve, smiles at me for listening and never letting go of her hand.
“Quite the fool, I think,” she said, referring to herself.
“Just confused,” I replied.
“Not much to be confused about other than the fact that I was an idiot,” she said, letting go of my hand to reach across and open the window shade.
She gazed out with an expression that suggested she was envying the purity of the clouds. An understanding smile came to my lips and again I took her hand.
“Searching for happiness or hoping for love is never foolish,” I stated with a calm certainty.
She looked into my eyes searching for any hint of insincerity, and I looked back with all that I had learned from the individuals who had spoken to me. A tear fell from her eye and hung on her cheek long enough for me to catch it with the tip of my thumb and push her hair back away from her eyes in a single motion.
We sat quietly as the airplane landed a short while later. Outside the jetway, Eddie, the driver from my previous trip, was waiting. His six-foot-four-inch frame looked a full two inches taller in his black suit and mirrored sunglasses. He took my carry-on and together we walked Lillian to baggage claim. We waited for her to point out her suitcase, which the quiet driver quickly retrieved and carried to the exit. He walked ahead, leading us to a glossy black sedan that was waiting in the parking structure across from the terminal. For the length of the ride to Santa Monica, Lillian continued to hold my hand. A flamenco guitarist played his song softly through the radio as Eddie located the address that Lillian had handed him on a piece of rose-colored paper pulled from her straw tote bag. When we arrived, Lillian pulled me close and put her arms around me.
“Thank you,” she whispered in my ear, her warm soft lips touching my ear as she did so. The sweet smell of her hair sent a stirring to my fingertips. For that moment, she was as beautiful as any woman I had ever known. I responded with only a kiss to the side of her forehead. Eddie opened her door and followed behind as she made her way up the flower-lined walkway. The scent of jasmine filled the air and white ballet dahlias bowed inward, creating an ethereal passage to the mission-style door that centered the sand colored Mediterranean home. The large door opened before she arrived, and a woman of similar age and beauty in a white sundress emerged smiling. With her arms extended, she called Lillian’s name in delight. Lillian rushed to the arms of the woman and they held on like two friends finding each other after a long and difficult search. Eddie delivered the suitcase to her side and returned to the car. Lillian released her friend and turned back to the sedan, gave a last wave back at the tinted glass and then disappeared into the safety inside.
Epilogue
Annalisa had spent four of the last seven nights sleeping at my apartment. That morning I had taken her to brunch at Park Avalon to celebrate a small part in a big film that she had landed. I couldn’t remember the last time I was this hungry at 10:00am as I feasted on eggs scrambled with cream cheese and chives, fresh squeezed orange juice and hot coffee.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you eat this much,” she said from behind a croissant that she was t
earing apart and dipping into a small bowl of raspberry jam.
“I’m trying to make up for lost eggs,” I replied, taking the last of my bites and pushing the plate slightly forward.
“You’re full of surprises these days,” replied Annalisa, reaching across the table and placing her hand on top of mine.
“I’ve always been full of surprises. You just happen to like them lately.”
“Agreed.”
The sunshine was streaming between the buildings on Park Avenue, finding its way through the giant window that separated us from the Sunday morning foot traffic. I took her in, like I had so many times in the past few weeks. I had known her for years, wandered in an out of her life a handful of times and only now, unencumbered by altitude, had I really noticed her.
“You’re doing it again.”
“I’m sorry, but I would think you would be used to people staring at you by now.”
“It’s not the same.”
“No, it’s not,” I conceded, reaching for her croissant and moving it out of my line of sight.
“You can stop hiding.”
“What should we do today?” Annalisa asked.
“You decide. It’s your day.”
“Something New Yorkish.”
“As long as it’s outside.”
“How about a drive out east, maybe stay at one of those East Hampton inns tonight?”
“Fine by me. I’m enjoying this no work thing.”
I signaled for the check, rang my doorman on my cell phone and asked him to have my car brought up. We headed out into the sunshine, walked the six blocks to my building and went upstairs to piece together an overnight. When we came back down the car was waiting for us. With the top down and our sunglasses on, we held hands in between gearshifts, and raced minimal Sunday traffic over the 59th Street Bridge. The music in my head had been replaced by the radio version of Bruce Springsteen’s “Thunder Road” and Annalisa was singing along and looking out over the New York City skyline.
“I still can’t believe it,” she yelled across the automobile’s tiny cockpit.
“Believe what?”
“Everything. The city, the film, you and me. I would never have guessed.”
I smiled at her, lifted her hand and kissed the back to apologize for the day I had left her stranded at the restaurant on Ocean Avenue.
“Believe it angel. We’re a long way from Fred Segal.”
Airplane Rides Page 15