Star went and stood by the first bookcase because it was tucked in a little bend in the room. Here, at eye level, were the Bs. Balzac, Browning, Byron . . . Had McKay actually read these authors? They were probably for show, but he’d be the first to admit it. She could take out a book as a prop and read it. That way she’d be doing something when McKay brought him over. Oh! Was this the one? He was tall and vaguely familiar. She’d seen that face before. But where? It was a strong face . . . already tan so early in the year . . . a shy smile . . . how handsome men were in tuxedos.
The moment he saw her his muscular legs—they had been gripping horses’ flanks for thirty years—felt less sturdy. He wanted to bolt across the room and tell her how much she meant to him. She was wearing a dress instead of the dungarees she had worn to the track, but the face was exactly as he had remembered it. God, why did he feel so weak? He should have felt strong. Elated. She was smiling at him.
Perhaps he looked familiar because he reminded her—vaguely, of course—of her father. “Hello,” she said. “I’m Star Halaby, your dinner partner.”
Across the room Larraine felt her eyes fill. She had seen Star’s face look so anxious and now relieved. Wasn’t she due for something good? Maybe this was it . . .
The letter from her grandmother came a few days after she met Andrew Larabee. It was a valiant effort written in a spidery hand, the H formed with such care but still so wobbly it broke her heart.
Promise me something,
it began without any salutation.
Don’t believe that you have bad luck or that bad things happen to you. I’ve been around a long time and this is how life continues. I’ve had many blows—one still cuts and breaks me. My baby boy died a terrible death. He had the kind of illness that made him lose all his fluids. I couldn’t comfort him or even touch him. His skin would have cracked and burst. Right now, when I think about it, I feel like weeping. He was a little boy and he looked like an old man. I can’t account for such cruelty from God, but there it is.
We must take things hard that are hard but also go forward and not ask too many questions. Your mother’s gone but I’m still here. Why? Perhaps for you. I’m left to tell you what a strong good girl you were to your parents and how happy you made your mother. I want to say that I love you all the way from here. How strange. I have never in my life told anyone I loved them, so you see, miracles happen. One will come to you.
Your Teta now and for always.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Consuelo Saah Baehr is herself of French/Palestinian Christian descent. Ms. Baehr lives in East Hampton, New York. Visit her blog, The Repurposed Writer, at consuelosaahbaehr.com
Three Daughters: A Novel Page 67