It was muggy and hot that September day. I couldn’t get over the traffic. There were more cars on one block of Fifth Avenue that afternoon than in the entire city of Lost Nation. Dozens of taxi cabs drove past us. I saw my first delicatessen and tasted my first bagel. The looming spire of the Empire State Building glinted gold in the late-afternoon sun.
I pointed to it and asked, “Isn’t that the tallest building in the world?”
Francesca nodded her head. “It would be quite a feat to climb to the top by stairs. Ninety-some stories, I hear.”
Matt closed one eye and began to run his finger up the expanse of the building.
“What on earth are you doing, Matt?” Francesca asked.
“Why, counting the stories, Fran. A lot easier from here than inside the building,” he drawled with a grin.
She kissed him full on the mouth then, right there in front of the whole of downtown Manhattan. There were hundreds of people hurrying past us, but no one stopped to gawk. I doubt if anyone even noticed.
New Yorkers are a whole different breed of people than those from Lost Nation.
That night, we ordered up room service.
“What a civilized invention,” I observed grandly. This made Matt and Francesca laugh.
And think … you could have just about anything your little heart desired: lobster, steak, lamb, Dover sole, wine, spirits, creamed spinach, spaghetti, baked potatoes, French fries, chocolate éclairs.
“Chocolate éclairs,” I said. “What are chocolate éclairs?”
“Order some,” said Matt.
In fact, we ordered twice. And the waiter brought a full cart both times. Babe particularly liked the steak tartare.
By bedtime, my eyelids were hanging heavy. Babe and I had a double bed all to ourselves. The spread was raw silk, and the pillows were heavenly soft. Just before I fell asleep, I got up and went over to the window. I sat on the window seat and looked out at the lights of the city for a moment, musing about the summer that was behind me and the rest of my life ahead.
Babe jumped down off the bed and padded over to me. She rested her head in my lap. We’d come a long way together, that was sure. I scratched her head for a moment.
“I love you, Babe,” I whispered.
I reached out and opened the window. Then, I got back into bed and slept soundly, with the night sounds of that great city, the Lullaby of Broadway, washing gently over me.
Chapter 36
Reunion
T
he next morning dawned sullen and wet. Up to then, our adventure to New York City had been one lark after another, so it shouldn’t have been surprising that events began to run amok.
Daddyboys and Rachael were scheduled to arrive at LaGuardia in the early evening. That should have given us an entire day to lose ourselves among the noted focal points of the city and still have plenty of time to change clothes and meet their plane.
“Lose ourselves” was the operative phrase.
Our exploration started out innocently enough, shepherded by a driver named Clarence and a limousine provided by Mr. Toynbee. We hit Macy’s and Gimbels. We gasped at the sheer size and ornate architecture of St. Paul’s Cathedral and were delighted by tiny Trinity Church, the oldest place of worship still extant on Manhattan Island. A heavenly oasis amongst the skyscrapers, the graceful edifice nestles in the middle of a miniscule graveyard. We took turns reading the aged and often irreverent gravestone inscriptions. And, of course, we took a tour to the top of the Empire State Building — elevator, not stairs!
We were dutifully thankful to Mr. Toynbee, who met us at Rockefeller Center at 11:30 for a quick bite. After all, our meanderings had been very civilized, although frankly a Cadillac limousine is no Duisenberg.
“How do you like our fair city, then?” Mr. Toynbee beamed. He was a beamer by nature. He beamed about our trip, about Daddyboys’ articles, about his Monte Cristo sandwich. “I can’t tell you how proud we at World Travel are of Clay Morgan. We feel he has a great future as a writer.”
Matt said, “Everything’s been swell, Mr. Toynbee. Clarence is a pip — very knowledgeable about the city … and so forth. Except …”
“Yes?” Mr. Toynbee beamed.
Matt looked at Francesca and me. Francesca jumped in, beaming every bit as broadly as Mr. Toynbee.
“You see,” she began, “we’ve seen the city, all right … but we haven’t really seen the city.”
Mr. Toynbee’s beam narrowed slightly just for a moment. “Oh, I see,” he said in a way that made me feel he didn’t.
Francesca reached across the table and touched Mr. Toynbee gently on the arm. Her tone was conspiratorial. “We’d like to get out on our own this afternoon.”
Mr. Toynbee’s face fell a quarter inch.
“You mustn’t think we don’t appreciate all your generous hospitality, Mr. Toynbee,” she purred. “But, let’s face it, we’re simple farm folk. We like the rain.” Francesca looked at me for punctuation, and I nodded. “We’d adore to wander a little, for the fun of it. What could possibly happen?”
Mr. Toynbee recovered his beam, though it seemed less beacon-like than before. “Yes, for the fun of it. Hmmm … Fine. I see … Well then, why don’t I meet you with the car at five thirty? And you can all just go and have fun … and wander …” his voice trailed off.
Francesca patted his arm again and turned the conversation around a corner.
Mike, the oldest bellboy of them all, had agreed to walk Babe and make sure she had water. He’d also taken to sneaking steak bones up to her each day after the luncheon rush, and we knew she was in good hands. So we were free to lose ourselves in New York, which is exactly what happened all too literally.
It all came a cropper somewhere around three. We’d found our way on the subway to Battery Park. We took the Staten Island Ferry and glimpsed the Statue of Liberty through the rain from across an increasingly rocky sea. By the time we’d redocked and finished looking around the park, the crowds on the subway had increased exponentially. It was harder to get on and harder to get off. You could feel the mighty swell of humanity pushing you from ahead and behind. We lost both umbrellas but still wore all-encompassing rain slicks.
We missed the express back to mid-town. Then, a man with a French accent gave us expert directions on how to catch the next one at a different station.
Somehow, by five o’clock, we found ourselves back at Battery Park. Francesca and Matt were arguing.
“I knew this was the wrong way,” she cried. “Now, we’ll never make it back in time.”
“Maybe we could catch a cab and go straight to the airport,” said Matt with a grump in his voice.
Of course, we had never attempted to hail a taxi at the middle of Manhattan’s rush hour in the middle of a thunder and lightening storm. Matt whistled and waved his arm off. Francesca yelled and jumped up and down. We actually got one to stop for us, but a well-schooled taxi thief pulled the old block-and-tackle routine and wrestled it right out from under our noses.
All the rain slicks in the world can not protect a body from rooster tails of water churned up by thousands of automobiles!
By the time we got back to the Waldorf, we closely resembled three drowned rats. I was exhausted. Matt and Francesca were still snapping at each other. As we made our way through the lobby, I noticed a beautifully dressed couple standing with Mr. Petrie and Mr. Toynbee at the registration desk. It took me a moment to recognize them.
“Oh, my,” I shouted. “It’s them! It’s them!”
I ran over and threw my arms around Mommy, who seemed startled. “Sarah, what on earth has happened to you?”
Mr. Toynbee beamed. “I told you there was nothing to worry about.”
I turned to Daddyboys, who lofted me into the air.
“We were expecting you two at La Guardia,” he said. “Thank God you’re here.”
Francesca and Mommy embraced with real warmth. Francesca exclaimed over Mommy’s outfit. Mommy exclaimed over Fran
cesca’s bedraggled state. Daddyboys hugged Francesca with his left arm while still holding me tight with his right arm.
Through it all, Matt stood apart, watching the reunion. He must have been feeling … what? Like an outsider? Nervous? Downright scared?
Francesca turned to Matt and took his arm. “Rachael? Clay? I’d like to introduce Matthew Mosley. I believe … you’ve read about him?”
There was an angular awkwardness about this moment, which made me wonder how much Daddyboys and Mommy really knew about Francesca and Matt. My parents behaved charmingly but were also suddenly on alert.
“Mosley?” asked Daddyboys. “Dan’s older brother, right?”
“Yep,” answered Matt, almost bashfully. “You’re one helluva letter-writer.”
They shook hands gingerly, and Clay said, “Oh, thanks.”
Matt turned to Rachael and said, “Your little girl is one in a million.” Then, he put his arm possessively around Francesca and added, “I know where she gets it.”
As Mr. Petrie led us up to the suite, we all decoated and de-gloved. Francesca managed to keep her left hand, sporting its tell-tale ring, out of sight.
“If there is anything, anything at all I can do for you, don’t hesitate to contact me,” said Petrie with a bow.
Toynbee took a look at the tension in our party and practically leaped back down the hallway.
“We’ll meet at 10 a.m. tomorrow!” he called over his shoulder and never slowed down for an answer.
As we entered the suite, Babe greeted us with her usual brand of enthusiasm.
“Who’s this?” Mommy asked, taken aback.
“Babe. Isn’t she swell? She can do all kinds of tricks.” I flopped down on an ottoman, and Babe jumped up beside me and laid her head on my knees.
“You brought her to New York?” she asked.
“Obviously. She enjoyed the plane ride, and she adores it here. Mike brings her these huge bones.”
“Mike? Oh. That’s nice,” said Mommy. “I don’t remember your mentioning a dog in any of your letters.”
Francesca nimbly rerouted the conversation. “Let’s open this lovely champagne, shall we? Matt, would you?”
After toweling off and settling into the suite’s living room, complete with fireplace, we voted unanimously to dine in.
The champagne began to work its magic and set a more congenial mood. Daddyboys, warmed by our presence and relaxed by two glasses of the lovely golden stuff, regaled us with the details of the last leg of their trip.
“Paris is a beautiful city. You can’t imagine its grace. But London, it’s a powerhouse. The war damage is extensive, of course. But the rebuilding has started and continues round the clock.”
“Did you see Buckingham Palace?” I asked.
“Oh, how handsome those guards are,” Mommy said, sneaking another look at Babe, who had plopped down by my mother’s wing chair. “They dress all in red and wear outrageously high hats with plumes,” Mommy continued, moving her feet away from Babe’s tongue. “The food is odd, too. They like to cover their meat in pastry shells. And their puddings are a strange texture. Although,” she laughed and patted Daddyboys’ stomach, “… that didn’t stop us from expanding our horizons.”
“The Tower is quite a sight,” said Daddyboys. “The crown jewels are magnificent and displayed there for everyone to see. But its aspect is still forbidding. I can’t imagine the terror Elizabeth the First must have felt on being imprisoned there.”
Although Matt was mute during this entire conversation, I could see him getting antsy. He kept shifting his position on the sofa, as though he had a burr in his side. Occasionally, Francesca would casually put her right hand on top of his. This seemed to soothe him.
Mommy and Daddyboys noticed this display of affection. I watched them watch Francesca and Matt, who were also watchful.
Finally, Daddyboys couldn’t stand it any longer.
“But enough about us; it would seem there were some hair-raising doings in Lost Nation. Elaborate!”
Francesca and I commenced the story of the arsonist. I started with the fire at the Teems’ farm while she filled in the part about Babe’s run-in with Eisenstaedt and her subsequent wound.
Mommy looked down at Babe, who was now dozing peacefully, her head resting on Mommy’s feet.
“How terrible,” she said with real feeling.
I took a deep breath. This dog thing was going to be all right.
Then Francesca and I updated my parents on the rest of our summer escapades: Matt’s arrival at Home Farm, the storm and finally, the capture of the escaped convict.
Let’s just say it was a prudently edited version of the events.
Matt stood up then and began to pace.
Mommy and Daddyboys looked at Francesca.
“Is there … anything else?” asked Mommy, fearing there was a great deal more.
Francesca walked over to Matt, who was standing by the door of the suite, looking like he was preparing to bolt.
She took his arm with her left hand. The gemstone glowed purple in the soft lamplight. Mommy’s eyes popped out of her head. Daddyboys loosened his tie, as though needing more air.
Matt straightened up and took a deep breath. “Actually,” he said, “there is one more thing.” He took Francesca in his arms. “We’d like to invite you to our wedding. Two weeks from today at Kitty Hawk, North Carolina.”
Chapter 37
That Blessed Union
I
t was a magnificent day for a wedding. Puffy white clouds lazed across the scraping-blue sky. North Carolina was green that September, as green as the forests and fields of Ireland. Fall was looming but not in evidence, and the humidity had fallen away completely.
I had already begun attending The Pritchard School in Manhattan, but there had been no question of my missing the marriage ceremony, especially since I was the maid of honor. Actually, this title had been bestowed on me as a kind of compromise. Francesca would otherwise have had to choose between Rachael and Maude as her matron-of-honor.
Even so, I was thrilled and scared to death.
Kitty Hawk was the site of the Wright Brothers’ first successful manned flight. I guess I was expecting an airdrome or a flight school, or at the very least some large bronze plaque marking the famous spot. But it was just a grassy sand field looking, no doubt, much as it had on the day Orville and Wilbur soared into history. Farmer McFadden, who owned the property, was much taken by the idea of the wedding and joined into the proceedings with gusto.
Maude and Rachael were more nervous than the bride, both acting flighty and chatting up a storm as they helped Francesca prepare. We’d spent Friday evening at a boarding house run by a solidly built woman named Myra, a woman in her seventies bursting with vim and vigor.
“Put down three husbands in my day. That’s enough for any woman,” she admitted with a wink and a hearty laugh. “But I’m glad to see that other folk haven’t given up on that blessed union. Fact is, I’d be tickled to see to the flowers and such. I’ve got some Queen Elizabeth roses, plenty for a bouquet or two. You just leave it to me.”
Francesca had decided to wear her driving ensemble minus her leather helmet. When she unpacked her jodhpurs, Mommy was obviously taken aback.
“Are you sure that’s quite … right?”
“Don’t be silly, Rachael,” said Maude. “It’s Francesca’s wedding. Oh, dear, I can hardly believe what I just said. Francesca’s wedding!” She fanned herself with her hat for the umpteenth time. “I must be having hot flashes. Sarah, dear, could you possibly find me some lemonade? Oh, my, we’ll have to brush those dog hairs off your Capris.”
Francesca never added one word to the conversation. She just kept methodically rearranging this and smoothing that. When I could take no more, Babe followed me out of the room, both of us heaving a sigh of relief. Downstairs in the kitchen, Myra was working with her flowers and literally whistling Dixie. Uncle Harry, Matt and Daddyboys were sitting around the
kitchen table, drinking coffee and exaggerating stories about contrary engines. It seemed to me they were carefully avoiding any talk of the coming nuptials.
Babe went straight over to Matt. She stood on her hind legs and put her paws in his lap, which prompted him to stroke her ears.
Matt had been found to be eminently acceptable by my family on a number of levels. He was a good and kind man, an intelligent man, a good story teller who obviously doted on my grandmother. As for being Francesca’s husband … well … I guess Francesca, Babe and I were the only ones totally at peace with that idea.
“You’re a good dog, Babe, said Matt. He looked up at me then. “Everything okay up there?” he asked, looking totally relaxed.
“Oh, Aunt Maude needs some lemonade. She keeps fanning herself.”
“Right there in the ice box, child,” said Myra, without looking up. “Glasses are in the cupboard to the right of the sink.”
“I believe I could use a glass myself,” said Uncle Harry, stroking his neck. “Throat seems awfully dry this morning.” He glanced at Matt, who pretended not to notice.
“My baby girl looks like a young lady today,” my father said, smiling and looking at me.
“Oh, Daddyboys, don’t be silly.”
“Come and give me some sugar,” said Daddyboys and touched his mouth with his finger.
I kissed him and hugged him then. My, it was wonderful having him around to kiss and hug whenever I felt like it.
“I better get back upstairs with this,” I said, motioning to the lemonade, “’cause the natives are getting restless.”
All three men laughed loudly.
As Babe and I walked back upstairs, I took a closer look at all the various emotions running through the boarding house that day. Uncle Harry was a little wistful, I thought. Did he feel regret, I wondered. Was he thinking about Grandpap, his beloved brother, and missing him in some way? I know I was. It was comforting to know that Grandpap would have been all for Francesca’s happiness.
And Maude, I mused, stopping halfway up the staircase. She seemed genuinely delighted. But I wondered if there was something about Matt’s and Francesca’s relationship that went missing in her feelings for Harry. Of course, they’d been married forever.
Francesca of Lost Nation Page 24