'Good.' Elizabeth-Anne sat back, her lips a grim line. She had never discussed her cancer with the nurse, but knew the medication, the furtive visits to the hospital, and the recent bouts of surgery all spoke for themselves. After all, Miss Bunt was a trained nurse. Elizabeth-Anne was grateful for her silence and discretion, her respect for her employer's obvious desire not to let her condition become known, it was a relief not to have to explain - even to Miss Bunt - how completely the cancer had spread. The surgery had never cut it all out. It had been impossible to do that, and now it was everywhere, gripping her vital organs in a tight, unyielding vice.
'The terrace, Miss Bunt,' Elizabeth-Anne said softly.
Miss Bunt nodded and took Elizabeth-Anne out through the French doors. She set the hand-brake, then gently tucked a plaid lap blanket around her.
Elizabeth-Anne chuckled, then snapped with good humor, 'No leave me alone, for God's sake. I'm not a child.'
Miss Bunt hesitated. 'Do you . . . would you like me to stay out here with you?'
'No, I'd really rather be alone.' Elizabeth-Anne reached for her nurse's hand and held it, smiling faintly. 'Faithful Miss Bunt,' she said softly. 'What would I have done without you?'
The nurse shook her head. She appeared to be on the verge of tears.
'No, don't cry,' Elizabeth-Anne whispered sternly. 'Tears are for those with regrets. I have none. None at all. I've lived my life to the fullest.' She paused. 'I've left you well provided for. You can finally retire. You've been good to me, and I thank you.'
Miss Bunt nodded silently, beyond words, and turned to leave.
'I have one last favor to ask you.'
'Yes?' Miss Bunt's voice was shaky.
'Do not come out here to check on me. Leave me here until morning. Don't call anyone. Is that a promise?'
Miss Bunt couldn't turn to face Elizabeth-Anne and only whispered, 'Yes.'
'There's no use ruining everyone's party. They'll find out soon enough. Let them enjoy themselves tonight.' Her voice rose. 'Now leave me be.'
Miss Bunt hurried inside, not quite shutting the tall French windows.
Elizabeth-Anne sat motionless in the wheelchair, her clear, aquamarine eyes scanning the city which for almost sixty years she had called home. The clear August night was humid, but the breeze which rippled past was delightfully cool against her face. All around her, the monoliths of Manhattan glittered with jewel-like sparkles. Peering above them, she could see out to the floodlit towers of the Hale Castle.
She took a deep, satisfied breath. The roses in the redwood planters perfumed the air, and the breeze rustled through the birch trees. It was a velvety night, a perfect night, and far below on Madison Avenue, through the iron railing of the terrace wall, the dark asphalt was ruby with the tail lights of traffic.
How good it felt to be alive! How fabulous this city was, this pulsating behemoth which had the power to create or destroy with equal swiftness, the power that had granted her the greatest opportunity under the sun.
Hearing the drone of an overhead jet, she watched its flashing lights float past overhead.
She smiled to herself. How this terrace had changed in the decades since she had first moved to the Madison Squire penthouse, before there had even been jet planes. How the trees had grown, the trunks thickening with every passing year, and how the wisteria and ivy which she had planted so long, long ago now crept up the brick walls, cloaking them completely with heavy green. She had watched the seasons change from here, many, many times. How often she had smiled at the gray, thin winter sun, the spectacular spring sunsets over New Jersey to the west, the bright lemon mornings of summer. And how often the terrace plants had shed their leaves, only to renew themselves the following spring.
She had traveled so far and wide in her long life, seeing to her far-flung empire, but had always been overjoyed to return here, to her beloved sanctuary. How long now had she lived and fought, built and traveled, watched her children being born and die? And how short the span of years had seemed at times. How much pain, and joy, and bitter sweetness she had encountered. How good it was to be alive! And oh, how good, too, it would finally be to rest. To shut her eyes a final time.
It was time to stop fighting, and bow to the inevitable. She had lived long and full and well. Her empire was in order, and so were her personal effects. Her last will and testament had long since been prepared, signed, and witnessed. It was safely locked away in her lawyer's vault. How lucky she had been to have had the time - and forewarning - to put everything in order. To provide for her descendants. To install Dorothy-Anne at the head of the empire.
And what an empire it was. The hotels and motels, the investments and the treasures. And most of all, Dorothy-Anne, pregnant with child.
The greatest gift of all.
She sighed happily, wondering why now, of all times, as she felt her strength sapping slowly from her, she should feel such contentedness. She would never for the life of her understand why people were afraid to live, and afraid to die. Life and death had to be experienced to the fullest.
She leaned her head back and stared up into the star filled sky, imagining that each winking light in the firmament was a living soul. Up there were her parents, her aunt, Zaccheus and Janet, Rebecca and Charlotte-Anne, her beloved Larry, her much-mourned Zaccheus, and Anna, the unexpected treasure. They all seemed to beckon to her, calling her silently to join them.
She closed her eyes, savoring the imagined music of their voices as she felt the strength slowly ebbing from her body. She knew the pain was rising, but somehow didn't feel it. Instead, she leaned her head back and the faint, enigmatic smile was frozen on her lips as she lost consciousness. In the morning, she would not wake. It would be frozen there forever.
8
Lightning flashed, followed by the peal of thunder and then the eerie silence, filled only with the machine-gun staccato of the rain. The rich smell of burning wax from the candles filled the room.
The contractions were close together now, racking her body with bursts of pain, squeezing her into white-hot flashes, billowing outward, radiating to her extremities. Through her closed eyes, she saw fire-like patterns, showers of sparks.
Pain.
And regrets. So many regrets. They circled in a frenzy through her mind. Regrets for a thousand things she could have done for Great-Granny and didn't. Things she had always wanted to tell her and hadn't. Regrets for not staying home and waiting until the baby was born before coming here. But how could she have known? How could she have held back with Great-Granny waiting, with the vision of her anxious, tired eyes before Dorothy-Anne's own fogged, exhausted mind.
Regrets. For foolishness and selfishness. But how could she know?
She hadn't this morning, when they had boarded the Hale Hotels Boeing 727-100. Twenty-thousand feet over the Gulf of Mexico, the jet engines had changed pitch as it had swung around in a miles-wide semi-circle and slipped into its landing pattern. Even then, there had been time to change her mind, but she had never even considered it.
The plane's interior had been constructed to look like a living room with oversized, plush beige couches and bolted- down easy chairs. She and Freddie had sat side by side in intense silence. He was holding her hand, but he did not speak. He knew that physically she was beside him, but mentally she was not. Her mind was wandering elsewhere, besieged by the tide gate of memories which had been opened when Great-Granny Hale had died.
He squeezed her hand to reassure her that she was not alone. She turned to him, nodding gratefully, her lips smiling a sad, tired smile; then her eyes filled with tears. They took on that distant look as wave after wave of remembrance washed over her. There were so many of them. And they were all good.
She closed her eyes as she heard distinct voices, both recent and from the past. . .
Great-Granny, on her ninth birthday: 'The Hale Palace is yours, and yours alone. . . '
Mr. Morris, the ancient, gray-haired senior partner of the law firm, rea
ding from Elizabeth-Anne Hale's Last Will and Testament: 'The remaining bulk of my estate, which includes all property, both real and personal, the entire chain of hotels and motels I bequeath to my beloved great-granddaughter Dorothy-Anne. . . '
Freddie, gazing at her with shining eyes during the cremation: 'She'll never be dead, Dorothy-Anne, not really. Not as long as we keep her memory alive. Not as long as a single Hale Hotel remains standing. . . '
Dr. Danvers, every inch the well-meaning pediatrician: 'Dorothy-Anne, I have known you since you yourself were a child, and you've always listened to my advice. Please do so now. Wait to travel. Your time is too near. . . '
And Great-Granny's last wish, spoken through the brittle, impersonal voice of Mr. Norris: 'I wish to be returned to Texas, my ashes scattered where those of my first husband, Zaccheus Hale, were scattered so long, long ago. . .' Her eyes were sparkling with tears. Elizabeth-Anne Hale was returning home at last.
9
The rain slashed at Freddie's lace, stinging his skin with the force of needle-nosed bullets. He staggered ahead, his torso hunched forward as he kept his face down. A Hash of lightning crackled, illuminating the blackness all around with a silver strobe of pulsating light.
He took the opportunity to look around and get his bearings. He was in the midst of the orchard. Straight rows of citrus trees extended into the distance all around, each row looking just like the last. The leaves were being torn off the trees and the fruit rained down from the flailing, wind-whipped branches. Every direction he turned, he saw identical rows of trees.
He could only hope to God he didn't lose his sense of direction.
He stumbled on, keeping his face down. The wind shrieked with the high-pitched, agonizing screams of death. The wet ground sucked at his feet. Every step was an effort. In his mind, he repeated his words of determination like a litany: He couldn't fail. He couldn't lose his way. He had to get to town and find a doctor.
Thoughts of death bombarded his mind from all sides. Dorothy-Anne's pain-tensed face . . . the baby within her. . .
Death was primordial. It was everywhere. It had always been, and always would be.
It was up to him to keep the grim scythe-bearer at bay.
He fought on, his eyes closed against the wind until his feet caught on something. His arms shot out, he flailed the air as he fought to retain his balance. One foot met nothing; for a moment he seemed suspended in midair.
Then he crashed down into the water, chilled even though it was lukewarm.
He had fallen into an irrigation canal.
The water closed in over his head, and his feet touched the sludgy bottom. Sputtering, he surfaced, shook his head, and waded to the bank. He clutched at the mud and pulled himself out. Slowly he got to his feet. He stared all around, waiting for a flash of lightning to show him the way.
But when it came, he only stood in confusion, trying to remember which way he had come. Where was he headed? He couldn't even tell if he had crossed the canal, or had returned to the side he had fallen from. The rows of trees were so damned identical, everything the same in every direction, each tree seeming a carbon copy of another, and another, and another.
He had no idea of which way to turn.
He hesitated only a moment. There was no time to lose. If he was wandering off in the wrong direction, the sooner he found out about it, the better.
It was all up to him now. His wife needed a doctor. The unborn baby needed a doctor.
It was up to him. He alone could keep death from his family's door.
The wind shrieked its carnival barker's message.
Hurry! Hurry! Hurry!
Silently Mrs. Ramirez cursed the largeness of her hands. They were working hands, thick-lingered and thick- wristed. What she needed was tiny, delicate hands with narrow, tapered fingers and very thin, elegant wrists.
'I am no midwife,' she muttered, disgusted with herself.
Dorothy-Anne sucked in her breath, biting down against the pain for as long as she could. The scream, when it came, seemed to shatter the night. Her back arched as she tried to pull away from Mrs. Ramirez's probing touch. The fingers felt rough and foreign, alien protrusions inside the soft safety of her womb.
'Please, please,' Mrs. Ramirez gasped. Her dark skin gleamed with beads of sweat. She was unused to this position, half kneeling and half lying between the young woman's splayed legs in order to see inside her. She was much too old for these kinds of acrobatics. 'Your pains. They come every thirty seconds now. We must move the baby! You understand?' Her eyes glittered.
'But Freddie. He's going to bring help.'
'There is no time. By then it may be too late. Think of the baby! Please you must listen to me!'
Dorothy-Anne looked at her with fear widened eyes.
'I am not going to hurt you. You must believe that.'
Dorothy-Anne nodded as best she could.
'Is tiring, I know. But you must be brave. You must breathe deep, and push.' Mrs. Ramirez's huge breasts rose and fell as she demonstrated. 'You can do?' She narrowed her eyes.
Dorothy-Anne squeezed her eyes shut, imitating the short barks of rhythmic breathing.
'There. Is fine. Now let me try again,' Mrs. Ramirez said soothingly. As gently as she could, she once again began to poke the fingers of one hand up inside the moist warmth of Dorothy-Anne's vagina. With her other hand, she felt along the outside of the abdomen.
Defeated, Mrs. Ramirez withdrew her hand.
'Is it all right now?' Dorothy-Anne asked hopefully.
Mrs. Ramirez stared at her, then shook her head. 'No,' she said softly. 'It is impossible.' She got up and moved over to the enamel basin on the nightstand and began wearily washing her hands. Suddenly, she froze and let out a sharp cry. 'Oh, now I remember!' She smiled broadly, then even laughed out loud.
'What is it?' Dorothy-Anne whispered.
Mrs. Ramirez's voice rose with excitement. 'There is a way! Now I remember.' Suddenly, the story she had been searching for came back to her, the one that had teased her memory all night. Jorge, her second oldest nephew, had also been in a difficult position. The doctor had insisted that her sister Mariana have a Caesarian section, but the local Mexican midwife had managed to shift the baby around without. All night she had tried to remember how. And now she had! It was so simple.
'Let's do it,' Dorothy-Anne gasped, struggling to sit up.
'Do not move.' Mrs. Ramirez paced the room, rubbing her hands. 'There is only one problem.' She bit down on her lower lip. 'I will need help.'
'Help?'
'I need someone else. Someone to help me with you . . . ' She lowered her voice, repeatedly shaking her head. 'Now why I not remember this before I let that poor man go off in to the orchard. Stupido!'
Freddie squinted through the silver sheets of rain and let out a strangled cry.
The pale lights in the windows had drawn him to this house, had given him a surge of renewed hope. He had run toward the lights, and in his haste collided with the metal hulk in front of him.
A car.
He stared at it, stunned. The big Lincoln Continental was all too familiar.
He shut his eyes, dropping to his knees beside it. He let out a keening moan of self-disgust. How stupid could he be? He had gone off and gotten lost and ended up right where he had started.
As if to reinforce this tragedy, a flash of lightning lit up the tourist court. The sloping, galvanized roofs and the sagging porches throbbed silver white, and then were once again lost in blackness.
Sighing, he staggered to his feet and leaned against the hood. His mind was in turmoil. He could either continue, trying once again to cross the orchard, or else he could waste precious moments by going inside and seeing Dorothy-Anne.
She was so close. Just across the road.
He hesitated only a moment more. Then he ran across the asphalt toward the tourist court.
The moment Felicia Ramirez heard heavy footsteps pounding on the porch boards her heart gave a
hopeful leap. So the Blessed Mother had heard her prayers, and had answered them. Just when she needed somebody, somebody had come.
She crossed herself thankfully and rushed toward the door. But when she flung it open and saw Freddie, her face fell. 'No doctor?' she asked.
'No. I got lost.' He took a deep breath and leaned wearily back against the wall.
She shook her head. 'Is all right. I need you. I remember something.'
He gripped her arm before she could rush off. 'How is she?' he asked, the fear obvious in his eyes.
'The same.' Mrs. Ramirez sighed softly. Then she smiled. 'But I think maybe we can do something. Come. We have no time to lose - ' She gestured impatiently.
He saw the hope shining in her dark eyes, and hurried after her.
'Freddie,' Dorothy-Anne moaned in an exhausted whisper as soon as he came in to the back room. She lay pale and drenched, barely able to move. 'You're back. I'm glad.'
'Hi honey.' He held her hand tightly in his, trying to give her a reassuring smile.
'I need your help to change her position,' Mrs. Ramirez said without further ado. 'We must get heron her knees.'
'I'm so tired,' Dorothy-Anne protested weakly.
'Later you can rest,' Mrs. Ramirez said harshly. 'Right now we have work to do.' She nodded once at Freddie. 'You stand on that side of the bed. I remain on this side.'
She flipped off the sheet, and Dorothy-Anne shivered in the sudden chill. Except for her magnificently swollen belly, she looked gaunt, bony, and haggard. Her teeth chattered. 'I'm cold,' she whispered.
Mrs. Ramirez ignored her. 'Now, when I say so, we move her over to her left side. Then we make her kneel.' She raised her eyebrows questioningly. Her expression made it clear that any argument was useless. 'You ready?'
Freddie nodded hesitantly.
'Good. Now we both hold her, and rock her gently.'
Slowly, they both pushed on Dorothy-Anne, rolling her over on her side. She let out a muffled scream. Freddie cringed and went pale.
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