by Carolyn Hart
Jimmy said nothing. Nor did I. Between us and Sophia there was the gulf that she couldn’t bridge. We’d had children. We’d made mistakes, many mistakes, some grievous, some that could never be remedied, but neither of us would have blithely sent bereaved children away from their home.
“The school assured us Vic would be fine, that they’d work especially hard with her.” Sophia’s tone was beseeching.
Jimmy reached out, took her hand. “Let it go, Sophia. You can’t change the past. What you need to do now is think of the future.”
“They hate me…” She was wounded, struggling to understand.
I doubted there were magic words to help Sophia, but perhaps any words were better than none. I said gently, “They’re struggling with grief.”
“But it was so many years ago.” Sophia looked bewildered.
Once again Jimmy and I were silent. He and I have both had losses in our lives. It doesn’t matter how many years ago a death occurred, the pain remains forever. There can be peace, but there can never be forgetfulness. I looked at Sophia with pity. She’d never cared for anyone enough to mourn. That might be the saddest judgment that could be made about another human being.
Sophia lifted her chin. She spoke with a flash of defiance. “I certainly wish I’d remembered, but surely they understand I didn’t deliberately ignore the date. Why, if I’d thought, we could have had a memorial dinner for Vic. I wonder if I should plan something special?”
I could hear Rosie’s bitter words: …Come, sisters and brothers, stand up and talk about Vic…
This wasn’t any of my business, but I hoped to prevent an offer that would simply make matters worse. “Sometimes it’s better to let sleeping dogs lie.”
“I’d say the dogs are howling.” Her tone was caustic, her eyes hurt. “I always meant well for them. I don’t know what Frank would want me to do.”
Jimmy looked at her gravely. “Don’t think about it tonight. Tomorrow will be a new day. You can get off to a fresh start with them.”
“And they”—Sophia was unsmiling—“with me.”
12
I greeted the morning on my balcony, grateful for the end of restless sleep threaded with unpleasant images. I shaded my eyes from brilliant sunshine. The ship was docked and I looked out on a medieval town with shining steeples and spires and red-roofed houses guarded by massive gray stone walls. The modern city to my left was a fascinating contrast.
Even though I knew Tallinn was one of the most extraordinary medieval quarters in Europe, I wasn’t expecting this glorious scene. Five hundred years ago, an observer might have studied the town from the deck of a wooden sailing ship and seen very much what I was seeing now.
I refused to burden the sparkling day with recollections of last night’s aborted celebration. I didn’t plan to make any effort to connect with Jimmy or Sophia or the Riordans. There was nothing I could do to assuage the pain of the Riordan family. This morning I intended to be a traveler and experience the magic of the past.
I held to that resolve through breakfast, still fascinated by the old town awash in sunlight, and through the short drive on the tour bus to the thick walls and immense High Hermann Tower. The tower was a survivor of many turbulent lifetimes and military occupations. This morning the Estonian flag fluttered at the top of High Hermann as it had daily since 1989, several years before the last Russian troops withdrew.
We entered Upper Town and I admired the ornate exterior of Alexander Nevski Cathedral, still a bastion of Russian pride. Tourists thronged the cobbled streets. Walls of narrow old townhouses glowed pink and gray and gold in the sunlight. We climbed up and down stairways and curved through narrow passageways in a sprawling castle, a reminder of the inconveniences of regal living in medieval times: steep steps. It was a relief to return to the sunny outdoors. On an August morning, the ancient walls and streets were cheerful and welcoming. Most magnificent of all was the view from the square on Citadel Hill. A hundred feet below stretched Lower Town, the shops and homes of long-ago well-to-do merchants. A steep staircase led down but I declined to continue with the group, settling instead on a stone bench to look out over Lower Town. Behind me shops and cafés bordered the square. I had an hour before our bus departed for the ship. I might stroll down the steps. I might in a moment get a cup of coffee at one of the cafés. Or I might simply savor the sun and the peace.
“Henrie O.”
I came back from long ago, from imagining a world I’d never known—Teutonic knights, canny burghers, ladies in fine lace, bone-chattering winters, smoky interiors, and the desperate struggle to live another year—to look up into Evelyn’s eager face. She pointed at the space beside me. “May I join you?”
I smiled a welcome, patted the bench. “It’s a lovely view.”
She surveyed Lower Town with a cheerful smile and settled comfortably beside me. “It’s a wonderful day.” She sounded positively ebullient. “I’m glad I ran into you. I wanted to tell you how much I appreciate what Jimmy’s done.”
My surprise must have been evident.
“Oh”—she sounded faintly embarrassed—“I supposed you and he kept in close touch. That is”—she wriggled uncomfortably—“I know you are good friends and I’m sure you’ll have a chance to talk to him and I don’t usually see him except when Sophia’s around and I didn’t want to say anything in front of her so please tell him he’s made a world of difference.”
“Good.” I hadn’t the faintest idea what she was talking about.
“Of course, I’ve always liked Jimmy. I felt he was way too—” She broke off in confusion. “Anyway, he has the best interests of the children—”
It grated on me every time she called the Riordan siblings “children.” They were in their mid-to-late twenties. Young, yes. Children, no.
“—at heart. In fact, he’s worked a miracle.”
“Miracle?” I was startled.
Evelyn brushed back a straggling red curl. “He came around and talked to each one of us, except Val, of course. She isn’t feeling well.” Her eyes defied me to define Val’s malaise otherwise. “Jimmy’s so sensible.” Her tone was admiring. “If we’d been all together, I’m afraid it wouldn’t have worked out so well.” Her look was shadowed. “There’s too much sadness and anger. But Jimmy’s always calm and kind and he made it absolutely clear that Sophia is terribly sorry and truly wants to make amends. We all have to go on. That’s how life is. It will be so much better for the children if they can put bitterness behind them, start all over. Everyone knows Sophia has the best of intentions. It’s too bad she’s never felt closer to the children.” A quick sigh. “Well, it doesn’t help to dwell on these things.”
It was uncannily close to Sophia’s disclaimer at the dinner.
“But”—Evelyn brightened—“tomorrow in St. Petersburg after we visit the Hermitage, we’re going to Rossi’s Restaurant at the Grand Hotel Europe for dinner. It’s a famous place and very elegant. Tchaikovsky once stayed at the hotel.” She gave a little laugh. “And Elton John. That’s fun, isn’t it, to think about their music together? Sophia’s called ahead and made the reservation. Jimmy said you are invited, but I wanted to ask you specially just in case you might have felt awkward.”
“That’s lovely.” I smiled. “And very kind of you, Evelyn. I’ll look forward to seeing the hotel and enjoying dinner.”
She clapped her hands together and beamed at me. “That’s wonderful. We’ll all go together to the museum and on to the hotel.”
After our tour bus returned to the ship, I went to the pool deck and ordered a hot dog and french fries. I piled the hot dog high with relish and onions, added generous splashes of ketchup and mustard, and settled at a table in the open area near the pool. Most of the deck chairs were occupied by glistening, darkly tanned sun worshipers. The prevalence of skin the shade of mahogany made me wonder at the lack of awareness of skin cancer.
“This chair free?” Rosie Riordan nodded toward the opposite seat.
&
nbsp; First Evelyn. Now Rosie. “Yes. Please join me.”
Rosie unloaded her tray, a cheeseburger with everything and fries. She grinned. “Gotta eat American at least once a week. Actually, I’ve had a burger every day.”
We talked about the latest news—more bombs in the Middle East, a rock star dead of a drug overdose, the dip in the stock market—and all the while she watched me covertly.
We were sipping iced tea before she looked resolute, spoke briskly. “You made it clear at the outset that you are Jimmy’s friend.”
I nodded, my face studiously pleasant and uncommunicative.
“I’d like to ask a favor. Did you know he’s schmoozed Sophia, persuaded her to give us all another chance to show our party manners?” The words were light, but her gaze was bleak.
“Evelyn told me.” I was tempted to ask Rosie if she preferred that Jimmy leave them on the outside looking in. But it wasn’t up to me to destroy the détente. “I’m glad everyone is in accord.” That wasn’t true, of course. Sometimes there is no point in being absolutely accurate. At least for the moment, the Riordans were in a state of truce with Sophia.
Rosie’s smile was rueful. “I wish. Anyway, Evelyn and I want to try and hold everything together until we get home, keep everything calm. It doesn’t matter about the money.”
I pictured a crashing boulder. The money didn’t matter?
“The problem is that it was a big deal to Jimmy to talk to each of us directly and privately. I told him Val was sick this morning—”
I wasn’t surprised. Val was likely struggling with a devastating hangover.
“—and I said I could speak for her.” A frown creased her face. “Jimmy made it clear he wants to talk to her, give her Sophia’s apology in person. That’s a bad idea. A really bad idea. Val’s shaky and upset and it took me and Evelyn both to persuade her to come along on Thursday. I’d talk to Jimmy about it, but Val would be furious if I did. Would you explain to Jimmy that the best thing he can do with Val is back off?” She looked at me hopefully.
“I’ll do what I can.” I smiled. “I think he’ll understand.” I hesitated, then spoke because I thought I should. “Is alcohol Val’s way of dealing with sorrow?”
Rosie’s face was wary though her answer was smooth and quick. “Oh no. That was my fault. Yesterday was a hard day. I thought a drink would make her relax. I didn’t think.” Too smooth. Too quick.
I saw the pain in her eyes and defensive, dogged desperation. No wonder she didn’t want Jimmy to talk to Val today, not while she was trembling and haggard and only too clearly recovering from a drunk. Rosie knew Jimmy was perceptive. She didn’t want Jimmy to talk to Sophia about Val and alcohol. What price, then, the dissolution of Val’s trust?
I found an envelope slipped beneath the door when I returned to my cabin and realized it was a reply to my e-mail from Margaret. There was no hurry about opening it. Last night Val had scraped away the dirt from those bones, revealing Sophia’s interference, however well meant, in Kent’s love affair.
The message light blinked on my telephone. I reached out a hand, let it fall. I wanted a moment more of peace before I responded, reluctant to be drawn deeper into the Riordan family distress.
I poured a tumbler of water, added ice from the bucket. I settled on the balcony, admired once again the brightness of the pitched red roofs in the medieval town, knew this was a sight to savor that I would never see again. A tender maneuvered alongside, bringing the pilot. The Clio sailed in less than an hour, en route to fabled St. Petersburg. For a short while we would be visitors there, transient beings in a transient world, but possibly there might be reconciliation for a struggling family at an old hotel that must have known dramas beyond measure.
For now, I basked in the sun and looked across the harbor at the graceful steeple of the Church of St. Olaf. I would long remember Tallinn. I smiled as I recalled the old building on the town square that has housed a pharmacy within its walls since 1422. Long-ago patients quaffed hot red wine and were prescribed lamb’s wool, fish eyes, and ground rubies. I wondered what effect a mixture of hot wine and ground rubies would have on the digestive system. Was it the ancient equivalent of bicarb of soda?
I wondered how Val was feeling. She was so young and, I feared, so lost.
I finished the water, was still reluctant to hear the waiting message. I wanted to distance myself from Sophia’s world even though I knew I could not. The Clio docked at noon tomorrow at St. Petersburg. I picked up the cruise booklet provided by the ship and read: “…Tsar Peter founded St. Petersburg in 1703 in an unappealing physical site, subject to floods and cursed by a humid, foggy, rainy climate and six months of winter. Despite its location, the efforts of Peter and his daughter Elizabeth and most particularly Catherine the Great created the loveliest neoclassical city in the world…”
I closed the booklet and dropped it on the small table. Drawn to duty, I stepped into the cabin and picked up the telephone. Yes, I wanted to distance myself from Sophia’s world, but I was caught up in the currents of her stepchildren’s lives and not quite able to swim free.
I punched up the message:
“Henrie O”—Jimmy’s voice was robust, upbeat—“good news. It looks like everything’s going to work out. I’ve persuaded Sophia to drop the idea of these breakfast meetings and instead we’ll have a bang-up dinner at one of the fine hotels in St. Petersburg. She’ll announce that the trusts will be dissolved. You know how Sophia is. She can never resist a dramatic flourish. She’s out on the balcony now, putting together a tribute to Frank. So”—his relief was palpable—“from now on, we can relax. I want you to have fun, forget about all of this. We hope you’ll have dinner with us. Sophia appreciates your efforts.” A pause. “Thanks, Henrie O, for coming. For being my friend. And Sophia’s.”
I replaced the receiver. I was Sophia’s acquaintance. Not her friend. But I wished her well. I felt an instant of sadness for brilliant, well-meaning, imperceptive Sophia. She would, perhaps not even realizing it herself, expect Frank’s children to shower her with gratitude and appreciation. I doubted the dinner could possibly rise to her expectations. I only hoped the Riordans would manage to tamp down their enmity for this very important—to them—gathering.
It was kind of Jimmy to thank me, although I hadn’t contributed to the rapprochement. Jimmy deserved that credit. I was delighted to resign from the Take-Care-of-Sophia Committee and devote myself to sightseeing. I was turning to step back onto the balcony when I saw the envelope with Margaret’s e-mail.
I scooped it up, took it with me, and settled again in the comfortable chair to soak up the afternoon sunshine. I slipped out the printed e-mail.
The message was pure Margaret.
You got any other easy jobs for me? Took a half day to run down any info, find out that Kent’s girlfriend was Heather Bennett. I won’t bore you with the travail required to discover her best friend Angela Rodriguez. Angela works in a travel agency. I got her on the phone and pitched a tale about being in the bar recently—Heather works at the Red Carousel—and I was worried about Heather, thought she looked so thin, and whatever had happened to her and was there anything I could do? It didn’t take much to get her started on the world’s biggest slimewad Kent Riordan.
If you’ve missed the soaps on your trip, I’ve got a dandy for you. How do you like this: rich young man dallies with girl from blue-collar background, swears undying fealty, then, apparently seeing the error of his ways—how will his preppy friends receive this charming but uneducated waif?—sends his stepmom with a check to spring him free. Brokenhearted orphan girl, holding down two jobs to keep food on the table for herself and younger brother, whom she rescued from their abusive uncle, accepts check because it is the wish of her beloved but donates money to local homeless mission. Spurned girl despondent. Still working, but shadow of former self, friends worry she will fall ill.
So is truth stranger than fiction? You betcha. Sad story, Henrie O. Next time you ask me to dig u
p the dirt, try for some happier circumstances. Riordan is a world-class jerk, according to Angela Rodriguez. Angela’s definitely Heather’s champion. They both have younger brothers in a neighborhood basketball league. Angela’s really bitter about Kent, says he told Heather he loved her, wanted to marry her, and Angela says Heather adored Kent but didn’t think she was good enough to marry him, and when the breakup came, blamed herself, said she wanted him to be happy. Heather’s twenty-two, mother died when she was eight, dad left the kids with his sister, her husband a drunk, Heather lit out with her little brother Buddy when she was sixteen and he was twelve, been working ever since, managed to keep them afloat without getting into drugs or prostitution, which means a gold-star effort. Here’s the stats, fyi…
Margaret included Heather’s address, cell number, apparently no landline phone, which wasn’t unusual for young people, as well as work, home, and cell numbers for Angela Rodriguez.
I heard the piercing whistle and the ship began to move, sliding away from the shore. I looked at the clock. Three o’clock in the afternoon. It was—I figured for a moment—in the middle of the night in California. I should wait until evening to place a call, hope to catch Angela Rodriguez before she left for work.
If I decided I should place that call.
I climbed to the sundeck to watch Tallinn recede in the distance, next stop St. Petersburg. The railings here and on the pool deck below were lined with passengers, some taking pictures, some waving farewell to the small boats following alongside. The pale blue sky was clear, the sunshine warm. I felt curiously separated from my fellow travelers. I wished my every thought could be focused on this lovely moment on a luxurious ship en route to one of the world’s greatest cities. Instead, I had to decide whether to try to find out the truth about Heather and Kent and Sophia.
Whatever I did, lives would be affected.