“Good idea. I’ll make the coffee. What about dessert?”
“How would you like a blueberry pie with vanilla ice cream?”
“I would love it. I’ll be in the garage. I like to sit on the lawn mower and think. This is a sit-on-the-lawn-mower moment. Kind of like a Kodak moment. Did I ever tell you I used to mow lawns? So did Philly. He saved his money, and I spent mine.”
Roxy nodded. “Big surprise.” She gave him a half smile, then said, “You know, one of us should call Camellia Island and find out how things are going. I know Tyler is there, but I’d like to know how much progress they’ve made. We need to tell him to make sure the sprinkling system runs day and night, or the sod will turn brown.”
“I’ll do it. Go on, call your daughter. Don’t be shy about telling her how much you love her either.”
Roxy turned on her heel. “When did you get so…parental?”
Ricky shrugged. “If I had to pick an exact time and place, I guess I would have to say it was the moment I met Gracie Lick. I know that doesn’t make sense, so let’s just forget it. Maybe I’ll figure it out one of these days.”
Ricky stared off into space, his thoughts going every which way. Just to have something to do to take his mind off things, he reached for the envelope from Tim Andreadis and opened it. A short note from the attorney said the enclosure had been left with him by Philip, who’d told him he would know when to send it on. Ricky gasped. His brother had written him a letter? A voice from the grave. He started to shake and couldn’t stop. He dreaded opening it, but he knew he had to do it. He offered up a prayer that he remembered from childhood that there would be nothing in the letter he should have taken care of in the last six months.
“I could burn this,” he muttered as he made his way to the garage. He climbed up on the John Deere mower and sat. He stared down at the envelope. Maybe he needed to go back to the house and get a knife to slit the envelope. If he tried to open it, he might rip it apart. Maybe he could rip off the end, and the letter would slide out. He held it up to the light. The paper inside went all the way to both edges. If he opened it that way, he’d rip the letter. If he was lucky, the glue would have long since dried, and the envelope would just pop open. He tested his theory. The flap moved easily.
All he had to do was take out the letter and read it. “Damn, Philly, why did you write me a letter? Why couldn’t you have just called me up the way you always did to chew my ass out? I hate letters from people who are dead.”
Ricky removed the letter. His hands trembled so badly, he had to use both hands to hold it. One sheet of paper. Small, cramped writing. He squeezed his eyes shut and took a great, gulping breath.
Dear Ricky,
If you’re reading this letter it has to mean I’ve gone on to another place.
I suppose you have many questions. I guess I would, too, if I walked in your shoes. For so long, I wanted to be you because I didn’t know who I was. I know you aren’t going to understand that. Maybe, by some stroke of genius, you’ve ferreted out the truth. If not, let me give you the highlights. I was adopted. I didn’t find out until I was around ten. I asked Mom, and she denied it, but I knew she was lying. To protect me, I’m sure. She admitted it before she passed away. It devastated me. There were no early pictures of Mom being pregnant like there were with you. There was no hospital picture of me. I didn’t look like you or our parents. Sometimes I’d catch them whispering, a word here or there. They told me they didn’t know who my parents were. I don’t know if that was the truth or not.
I went to the orphanage to try and find out. They told me the records were sealed and had been moved. I did everything I could, but I couldn’t find out. I hired detectives, tried to bribe the personnel, all to no avail. That’s part of my story.
The other part is, I married early on. I have three daughters. I really wanted a son to pass on my name, but then that wouldn’t have been fair to the child since I don’t know who I really am. I don’t think it matters so much with girls as it does with boys. I think I did it just to father children so they would have a name. I was a terrible husband and a worse father. That’s the main reason I didn’t want you to take your own sons. My head isn’t clear right now, Ricky, so this may or not make sense. I’m on some heavy-duty medications. I knew your boys would be better off without you in their lives, especially in their formative years because you were such a wild card and so damn unpredictable. I guess I was better off in the home I grew up in, too. But I didn’t know that for a lot of years. I wasted so much of my life wishing and dreaming.
I know I was hard on you. Partly because I didn’t want you to waste your life. The other part of me wanted to control you, to make you into what I would have liked to have been. I was so proud of you when you came out of rehab and didn’t relapse. I know I screwed you up in other ways, and I’m sorry. Just know that I loved you the way a brother is supposed to love a brother.
By the way, I never really married Roxy. The minister was an out-of-work actor, so don’t go thinking I’m a bigamist. I wanted to help her, but she turned on me, too, and I’m not blaming her. I gave her and her daughter a good life. They never wanted for anything.
I’m getting very tired right now. The main reason for this letter, Ricky, is this, I want you to find my parents and tell them I passed away. Tell them for me that had they kept me, I would have loved and honored them, just the way a son is supposed to love and honor his parents, until my dying day. Tell them how hard I tried to find them. If you find them, and you learn my father’s and mother’s names, please erect a gravestone with my real name on it. When I go to that place, I want to be able to introduce myself properly to the angels.
This is just a guess on my part, Ricky, but I think after my death, you contacted your sons. I hope you can be the father they deserve.
You were the one constant in my life, Ricky. For that, I thank you.
Be happy, Ricky, and enjoy your life.
I’ll sign off now. I love you, kid.
Philly
Ricky knuckled his eyes, hoping to stop the waterfall running down his cheeks. Then hard, racking sobs tore at his shoulders. He hugged his arms to his chest as his grief overtook him. He rocked back and forth on the seat of the John Deere lawn mower.
Roxy watched from the patio. She wanted to run to him, but knew it wouldn’t help. Instead, she sat down on one of the deck chairs and waited.
15
Roxy, wearing a wraparound apron, stood back from the grill and looked at Ricky, who was seated in a deck chair. He kept folding and refolding his brother’s letter. Clearly, he was agitated. His eyes were wet and sad. She wanted to comfort him, but he was in his own little world. She checked the salmon and walked into the house to make a garden salad. She flipped the television set on with one hand, opening the refrigerator door with the other. Vegetables in her hand, she walked over to the chopping block, where she had a clear view of the fifteen-inch screen. While she skinned a stalk of celery, she heard the Fox announcer say, “And this breaking news just in.” Breaking news usually meant something serious or momentous. Her eyes glued to the set, she peeled the outer leaves off a head of lettuce, and rinsed it.
“Wealthy venture capitalist and philanthropist Armand Farquar died late this afternoon. The eighty-seven-year-old Frenchman…”
“Rickyyyyy! Come in here right now!”
Ricky bounded off his chair, his heart pounding. He’d never heard that tone in Roxy’s voice before. He blew into the kitchen like a whirlwind. “What’s wrong? Did you hurt yourself? Did you burn yourself? What? Why are you shouting like that?”
“Ricky, look! Listen!” Roxy jabbed a stalk of celery in the direction of the television set.
Ricky turned in time to see the camera flash to the entrance of Cedars-Sinai Hospital and saw Lorraine Farquar leaning heavily on the arm of a tall man dressed in what looked like white scrubs. She appeared dazed as she was led away.
“Her husband just died. They interrupted to s
ay it was breaking news. That poor woman! What she must be going through right now,” Roxy said quietly.
Ricky’s foot snaked out to draw one of the kitchen stools closer to the oversize chopping block. He propped his elbows on the block to stare at the screen. “Where does that leave us?” he said morosely. “I’m not being insensitive here. That guy,” he said, pointing to the screen, “just said, eighty-seven-year-old Armand Farquar is survived by his wife Lorraine and a ninety-two-year-old brother who is in a nursing home in France. I’d go to her home in a heartbeat if I thought she needed us.”
“I’m sure there must be attorneys, ministers, friends who will help her at this time. My advice is to stay away until after the funeral. Even then, it might be too soon. We can’t impose on her grief. We waited this long, we can wait longer if we have to. I’m sure Philly would understand.”
“You didn’t ask me what was in the letter, Roxy.”
“I figured if you wanted me to know, you’d tell me. Do you want to talk about it? Oh, my God! I forgot the salmon!” Roxy said, rushing outside to the grill. She looked down at the two charred filets. “How do you feel about bacon and eggs?”
“Sounds good to me. But not right now. Let’s go outside and sit on the deck. I want you to read Philly’s letter. I want you to know from the git-go that Philly is just as important to me as Armand Farquar is to his wife. Right now, since reading the letter, he’s even more important. So much for Tim Andreadis telling me my brother hated me.”
Lorraine Farquar sighed with relief when the chauffeur stopped the car under the portico. She felt dizzy and light-headed. She wished she had eaten something earlier. She reached for Henry’s arm and entered the house. Her housekeeper of many years held out her arms.
“There are some people waiting for you in the library, Miss Lorraine. Your attorney and Mr. Farquar’s physician to name a few. I can send them home if you don’t want to talk to them.”
Lorraine shook her head. “Were there any calls?” The housekeeper pointed to a stack of message slips. She rifled through them. No call from the vice president. Sooner or later the White House would call. She patted the housekeeper’s shoulder before she left the kitchen.
In the hallway leading to the library, Lorraine stopped, tilting her head to listen. The house was so quiet. Normally the house was quiet because there were no children, grandchildren, or pets romping about. It seemed to her, at that moment, to be unusually quiet, rather like a tomb. She shuddered at the thought.
Armand would never come here again. She was alone. And she was vulnerable. That would never do. Armand would expect her to carry on and grieve in private. Life, he’d always said, was for the living. With that thought in her mind, she squared her shoulders before she opened the door to the library. She allowed herself to be kissed on her cheeks, allowed those in the room to squeeze her hand in sympathy.
“We don’t want you to worry about anything, Lorraine. We’ll take care of all the arrangements. All you have to do is tell us what you want. A large funeral or a small private service,” Dr. Blair Unger said quietly.
“Armand wanted to be cremated. A small private service. As you know, there is no other family. It will be just me, the servants, Armand’s nurse, and any of you who care to attend. Tomorrow. I’d like the service to be at sunrise. Armand always loved watching the sun come up. The Tobias Mortuary will do nicely. I want my husband’s ashes in an urn. I would appreciate it if you’d deal with the press. I appreciate your coming here, but right now I need to be alone. I don’t need any medication. I’ll be fine. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
Upstairs in her room, Lorraine sat down on the edge of the bed. She cried for her loss. She felt so alone. The only other time in her life when she’d felt like this was the day she’d taken her son to the Oakhurst Orphanage.
What in the world was she going to do with herself. Armand had been her whole life. She couldn’t see herself selling real estate or making pottery. She’d read once that women newly divorced or widowed had two choices, sell real estate or make pottery. She thought about her vast inheritance and what she was going to do with it. While she wasn’t as old as her husband, she wasn’t a youngster either. She had enough money to last her a hundred lifetimes.
Maybe Armand’s passing was God’s way of giving her a second chance. She could do so much good with all his money. She could establish and fund organizations that dealt with children. And she could do it all in her son’s name. She knew she could never make right what happened years ago, but maybe she could help make the system better somehow, the system that had failed both her son and herself.
Lorraine slid off the bed and walked over to her walk-in closet, which was just as big as her bedroom. She looked around before she pressed a button on the wall. A conveyer belt purred to life. Shoes, handbags, boxes with hats and scarves moved slowly for her inspection. She laughed then when she remembered how excited Armand had been when he’d surprised her with the conveyor belt. He’d always loved gadgets or things that made life easier. She plucked a pair of straw-colored sling-backs from the belt and set them on the floor. She waited till the belt made its second go-round, so she could select the bag that matched the shoes. The third go-round yielded a wide-brimmed straw hat with bright orange and lime green streamers. Armand loved that hat. She turned off the switch and walked over to the racks and racks of clothing she rarely wore. It took her thirty minutes to choose a fully lined pumpkin-colored dress with long sleeves.
Armand hated black. He’d made a point of telling her not to wear “widow’s weeds” after he was gone. He loved vibrant colors. Once she’d bought him a pair of bright red, plaid golfing trousers. He’d worn them until they were threadbare. She smiled. She had her memories of their life together. All of them good. It was the other memories, the dark ones, that she had to make right.
Lorraine suddenly had the urge to putter around the kitchen, something she rarely, if ever, did. She knew how to cook. She’d had to learn early on. She was by no means a gourmet chef, but she could put together a meal. At the moment she felt like having French toast and bacon. Some fresh coffee would go nicely with the meal.
Maybe when her life was settled, if that ever happened, she’d take a trip back to Dubois, Pennsylvania. It would be nice to do something for the town. Possibly fund the library or set up a fund for a summer camp for underprivileged children. Something.
She wondered who lived in the big white house she’d grown up in, with the green shutters and the huge front porch. Her bedroom had been in the front of the house. She’d spent hours sitting on the window seat, staring out at the old sycamores that lined the sidewalk in front of the house. She’d had a decent life growing up, but she’d wanted more. She’d wanted excitement and to see her name on a marquee. She laughed.
The chime of the grandfather clock, the one Armand had gotten in Bavaria, startled her. How could it possibly be eleven o’clock? In a little less than six hours she had to be at the mortuary.
Her French toast slid onto a dinner plate. She added butter and syrup. She knew she wasn’t going to eat it. She stared at it for a long time before her gaze shifted to the telephone on the wall behind her. Maybe this wasn’t the time to make the call. Then again, maybe this was the perfect time to make the call. Before she could change her mind, she reached into her pocket for Ricky Lam’s card. Without hesitation, she reached for the phone and dialed the number. She counted the rings. It was late, maybe he was sleeping. He picked up on the sixth ring.
“Mr. Lam, this is Lorraine Farquar. I apologize for the lateness of the call. I was wondering if you and your partner would…Would you care to attend my husband’s service tomorrow morning? In case you didn’t hear the news, Armand passed away this afternoon. It’s a private service at the Tobias Mortuary. At sunrise. We can…we can talk later…. Thank you for agreeing. I’ll see you in the morning. Good night, Mr. Lam. Sleep well.”
Lorraine wondered when she’d made the conscious decision to call Ricky Lam. Tr
ue, she’d just made the call, but sometime during the past hours she knew she wasn’t going to try and hide the truth any longer. A strange feeling of peace washed over her. A feeling she had never experienced in her entire life.
The bed beckoned. She was too tired to undress and brush her teeth. The world wouldn’t come to an end if she slept in her clothes or didn’t brush her teeth. She reached for a picture of herself and Armand taken in the south of France. They were both smiling into the camera. How happy they’d been. She clasped the picture to her chest before she curled into a ball on top of the comforter. She was asleep within minutes.
Ricky stared at the phone in his hand, then at Roxy. “You aren’t going to believe who that was,” he said, motioning to the phone.
“Mrs. Farquar?”
“Are you psychic?” Ricky asked in awe.
“No. I could tell by the look on your face. Did she invite you back to the house? How strange she would call you on the same day her husband died.”
“She invited us both to her husband’s sunrise service tomorrow morning. She said we would talk afterward. I’m thinking she feels safe talking now because her past won’t hurt her husband. I doubt if it would have anyway. It was so long ago. When you’re young, you do stupid things. I’m a prime example. People make bad decisions, decisions they later regret. Unfortunately, you can’t unring the bell. Talking to us is one thing, but to invite us to her husband’s service is something I don’t understand.”
“Maybe…this is just a thought, but maybe there really isn’t any family. On either her husband’s side or hers. Maybe she wants and needs a sense of family right now. It’s a stretch by my way of thinking, but you could almost fit into the category of family. I guess she’s going to own up to the truth. How did she sound, Ricky?”
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