Hearts That Survive

by Yvonne Lehman

  "What did you think you saw?"

  "A vulnerability."

  "Like inside him is an insecure little boy? Wanting his daddy's love? Wanting to be something, somebody, and beginning to think money could buy it?"

  "Exactly what I was thinking." She laughed lightly. "At least, something like that. He's become a different person."

  "You're right. He is a different person. You expect humility?"

  His question held the answer to that. They walked beside drystone walls lined with trees standing like gray sentinels.

  "So. He changed from a fantasy to a real person. Tell me, if you had to choose, what would it be, Alan or the movie?"

  She turned quickly. "You wouldn't take the movie from him, would you?"

  "I could. He'd keep the advance, but there'd be no movie, no fame, and he'd become his old, charming self. Is that what you want?"

  She felt foolish. "I want it all."

  "And what is 'all'?"

  She scoffed. "Why didn't you become a psychiatrist instead of a movie guru?"

  He shrugged. "I seem to be doing all right." He laughed lightly, then grew serious again. "Alan's bright. Maybe he'll have a quick recovery. When he learns he's a boat adrift, he'll come around. You and I have been blessed by people around us who have learned the difference between illusion and the real thing."

  "You like him." Oh, she hoped he did.

  "Yes. I see his potential. I see his need. His grandfather and my dad became friends on that boat, not because they were first-class, but because they had two things in common. Their creativity and their faith."

  She nodded. "When you asked what I wanted most for him, I almost said 'me.' But 'me' is not enough."

  "And he's not enough for you."

  "I know. I've already pulled away. Just not in my heart." "You know how Caroline says people react differently. Some come around quickly, some slowly. Maybe I can speed things up a little. Trust me."

  She had no idea what he meant, but as they walked back toward the house, over the open fields spread out before them, the mist had risen.

  79

  Alan thought Beau might give him some advice. "I've messed up with Joanna. We were doing fine. She was delighted about the movie. Now it seems everything connected with it puts distance between us."

  "Would you give up the movie to get back your relationship with her?"

  "You're not serious?"

  "If Joanna wants you and you want her and you'd be happier without the movie deal and all that's going on with it, I'll tear up the contract. You get to keep the advance."

  Beau turned and left the room.

  Would I really? Alan wondered.

  Beau returned with the contract, which represented fame and fortune. Which was more important? That or Joanna?

  Could he give up . . . his dream?

  Not a chance. He said with confidence, "Tear it up."

  Beau tore, saying, "This is the original. And I will throw it in the trash. You want to see?"

  Alan didn't need to. Beau wouldn't mess around with him. The whole clan was probably fed up, and Beau wouldn't want the likes of him on a movie set. These were open, honest people. He might try it. "I've been a jerk most of my life. I don't deserve her." He shrugged, talking to himself really. "Now what do I do?"

  "I can't tell you that. Have you read Once Upon?"

  Alan shook his head. He was supposed to consult on a book, and he hadn't even read it. He'd been thinking fame and fortune.

  "Try it," Beau said. "Your Grandfather might have words of wisdom for you."

  That night, Alan propped himself up in bed. Great job! He'd just given up the chance of his life with no greater chance of renewing the relationship with Joanna.

  But he started reading. Once Upon an English Country Garden—a love story.

  A romance?

  Henry George Stanton-Jones II wrote a romance?

  The book became a best-seller in all Europe. All right. So his famous grandfather wrote a romance. He began to read.

  Sensing my presence, she turned, the breeze teasing the bottom of her skirt, swirling it lightly around her ankles. Her gloved hand reached up to steady the straw hat on her black hair. I could feel her gaze but couldn't make out the eye color. She was all in white, standing with a background of the English Country Garden where colorful flowers swayed and danced and were as high and higher than she. She was so fair, and seemed to be a wisp of a girl. The white against the color made her all the more outstanding.

  I had felt every emotion I'd ever heard of. But I never before felt what I did that day and knew it must be love.

  I knew it was that indescribable word love so lightly tossed about.

  I loved her.

  She smiled faintly. And I knew she loved me too.

  I couldn't speak. Could only offer my arm. She took it and we strolled along the garden path. Enjoying the beauty. Not the scenery so much as the knowing, the feeling, the absorbing the power of love.

  Alan sighed. Well, his grandfather had known how to write a sweet little love story that appealed to the general population. Alan figured he could do better. Not on a love story, but something with action and drama. His life certainly had drama.

  Then his eyes fell on the next line.

  I should have known anything so beautiful, so perfect, so overwhelming, all-enveloping was simply too good to last.

  That line kept him reading. Yes, it was the story of romance and love, but its being too good to last haunted every line after that.

  Alan became engrossed with the character, and analyzed what he felt. The character hated God for letting her suffer. But he stifled his anger and hurt because her faith in God gave her strength, peace, a greater love of life, and an acceptance of leaving them all.

  It was not until after her death that he called on that God in earnest. He'd felt her bearing children had weakened her further, but she left him with parts of herself. That faith, that knowledge gave him the will to live, to eventually write again.

  Alan laid the book aside. No, the book wasn't about romance, but about the deepest emotions one can feel. About life, and love, and disappointment, and hating God, and learning to accept. His grandfather had learned hard lessons.

  Alan looked at the title Once Upon.

  It started as a fairy tale.

  Was the ending a fairy tale too?

  Could one really—really and truly—know God's presence like his grandfather claimed? Was there a greater love than what human beings could give each other?

  Alan read the author's note. Writing the story had given Stanton-Jones clarity. As he poured out his heart on paper, healing began. As he searched for God's answer when there seemed to be none, he began to experience that reaching for God, and putting the story down brought him relief.

  No human could heal Stanton-Jones. Not his mother. Not his children.

  But God's presence did.

  It did not take away his grief and longing for her.

  It gave him a reason to live, a reason beyond what anything on earth could give, beyond what any human could give.

  "I've been a jerk," Alan admitted again to Beau the next morning. "I've been overwhelmed, to say the least." He laughed at himself. "But I don't how to find what your family has. What my grandfather had."

  "Alan, they didn't come by it easily. You've heard their stories."

  "I guess that's it," Alan realized. "Their struggles sound like stories that can be put in a book. But they are content. I don't really know how to go about having that in my life."

  "Go fishing," Beau said. "With Armand and David."

  Alan didn't know if he'd ever be a fisherman, but Armand and David sure were. Alan knew he was in shallow water right now. Maybe someday he'd be able to go deeper. Now he needed to do what he feared, learning to be honest about who he was. He had no idea. He'd thought he was the son of an alcoholic. A soldier with a gun. A writer with no career. A descendant of royalty. None of that had brought him anything but gr
ief. The fishermen said God would show him what he had in mind. That was rather daunting.

  These people, who'd been through more trials than he could imagine, wanted to help. He thought about talking privately with Beau, but he knew that wouldn't work. These people were family. This wasn't about impressing Beau, or Joanna. And being honest would drive her further away, not endear him to her.

  Something deep inside stirred, as it had done in church when he was just a boy, as David said it had done for him. Instinct said this was not about getting a girl, or getting a movie.

  Joanna, Beau, Caroline, Armand, and he gathered around the kitchen table. Honesty would be accompanied by cookies and coffee.

  Alan opened his heart to them. Exposed his limitations, his doubts, his fears, his aspirations. "I'm not taking that advance for something I'm not doing. I'll find a job."

  "You have writing experience," Beau said. "Think you could evaluate and edit scripts, and read novels and review them for movies?"

  "I'd sure like to try."

  "Doesn't pay much."

  "Some is better than none. And I've supported myself." Be honest. "Barely."

  "Fine. We'll try it for a while and see how it works out."

  Armand spoke up, "And you're welcome to stay in the lake house during this trial period."

  Alan knew they were giving him the chance to prove himself. "I don't want—" His words stopped when he looked at Caroline, who had told her story about the need to, and joy of, helping others. He cleared his throat. "Thank you." He needed these people.

  "I'd like to know all you can tell me about—" He almost couldn't say it. "My relatives. And especially little Henry." He didn't mean their prestige or money.

  They seemed to like that.

  "And Alan," Beau said, "before you're too hard on yourself, know that my aspirations have always been fame and fortune. It's one reward of doing something well. We just need to get it in perspective."

  Alan was too tough to cry.

  So he didn't know why his face was wet.

  But so was Joanna's. And Beau seemed to have something in his eye.

  Joanna admitted to Beau she had some soul-searching to do too. "You know why he swept me off my feet?"

  Some of Craven's mannerisms must have been passed down to Beau, who could answer a question with a minute shift of his eyes. Beau did that, and then he grinned.

  She might as well admit it out loud. "It was part of the fantasy. And his relationship to Stanton-Jones and his love story and the English Country Garden. But I'll bet you knew that."

  "I've known how much you love that book since you were twelve."

  "And I'll bet you're trying to teach me a lesson too, by not making that movie."

  "You still have a few things to learn."

  Yes, she did. Like who and what Alan Morris was.

  "How do you feel about him now that he's not a concept?"

  "Well, he is gorgeous." She laughed at his warning look. "But there's nothing more appealing than a man who really wants to learn why God put him here. I mean, look at you, God's done a fair job with you."

  "Ah." He frowned. Then they hugged.

  After a few weeks, Beau said, "Alan is doing an excellent job. He has more creativity and expertise than this job requires."

  Joanna knew that meant career possibilities for Alan. If he didn't break the heart of Beau's niece.

  Joanna knew she had to learn who and what Alan was, the same as he did. They often sat in the kitchen and collaborated on some of the more difficult scripts or novels. They discussed, and talked, and walked, and sat on the patio and learned about each other.

  It didn't take long for her to realize Alan's wonderful qualities. Like her family and friends, he too was a survivor. He'd survived the loss of his mom, the tragedy of his dad's inability to cope, a war, and his own humiliation of false pride.

  One evening she walked down along the lake. He came out to join her. After one of their honest talks he said, "I would like to offer you the world, Joanna, but I have nothing to offer."

  "What do you think I want?"

  He sighed. "I think we want the same thing, what Caroline and Armand have."

  She nodded.

  "But I can never live up to your standards," he said.

  "Neither can I," she replied softly.

  He knew what that meant. No one was strong enough, good enough. They needed the Lord's help. "Perhaps," he said, "we could learn together."

  They might start with a kiss, and she raised her face to his. The kiss began as the sun sank into the horizon. By the time they finished, the surroundings were dark, but she felt rather light-headed. His smile dimpled his gorgeous face. She had to warn herself about that broom sweeping.

  80

  Lydia came to the country house two weeks before the wedding date. They'd been friends for almost fifty years, but on this matter Caroline couldn't be sure of Lydia's reaction.

  "Let's have our tea outside," Caroline suggested that lovely spring afternoon. They picked up their cups.

  Lydia looked toward the hallway. "Aren't Bess and Joanna joining us?"

  "Oh, they'll be along." That's what concerned Caroline.

  They sat a small table near the flower bed next to the house. Caroline needed to get some unpleasant news out of the way. "Lydia," she said softly, "Armand's cancer has returned. He doesn't have much longer."

  "I'm so sorry."

  Caroline nodded. "We've had a good life. No," she corrected, "it's been exciting and fulfilling."

  "I know," Lydia said. Of course she did. "I will be here whenever you want me, need me."

  Now she would bring up a proposition she'd had in mind. "Why don't you move out here with me? Joanna will be gone, and you know we have plenty of room."

  "Be careful what you ask for. That has crossed my mind. Children and grandchildren are going their own ways. I'm just rambling around in that big place." She laughed. "You and me and Bess. Wouldn't we have a time?"

  "Haven't we already!"

  "We've survived . . . a lot."

  "And become the best of friends through it all."

  As if on cue, Bess came to the back door. "It's time."

  Yes, time to find out if their friendship would survive this. Would this devastate Lydia? There was only one way to find out.

  "What's going on?" Lydia demanded.

  "You'll see."

  They led her into the living room. Joanna, wearing Harriett Sylverson's unique creation, looked as skeptical as Caroline felt. When Lydia stepped into the room, a cry escaped her throat, and her hand covered her mouth. Tears streamed down her face. "How is this possible?"

  "In the Waldorf Astoria, you handed it to me in a paper bag and said do whatever I wanted with it."

  "And you kept it for almost fifty years?" she whispered.

  "Until the time seemed right to let you know. Is this right? Or wrong?"

  "It's . . . it's perfect. I've never seen anything so beautiful." She touched the wedding dress she'd worn when she married John and walked down that grand staircase. The past had come alive for her.

  "Are you going to be married in this?"

  "That's your decision," Joanna said.

  "I would love for you to wear it."

  Caroline wiped at her tears, seeing that the surprise had not brought a sense of devastation but lovely memories.

  Two weeks later Caroline's granddaughter and Henry George Stanton-Jones's grandson would take their vows. At another wedding Caroline had been matron-of-honor for a fairy-tale wedding on a ship of dreams. That's when she'd vowed to love William, though never got the chance.

  But she got a chance to love Armand. And now their granddaughter, the beautiful girl in her white gown, was escorted down the aisle by her father, who would also perform the ceremony. The handsome man at the front of the church watched her with love in his eyes and with a smile that dimpled his cheeks. When she came up to him, his hand reached for hers and they turned toward David and the cross. />
  As long as they kept facing the cross, they'd make it.

  They said their vows.

  Armand's voice wasn't as bold as it used to be, but the heartfelt words were touching, reverent.

  Our Father

  Who art in heaven

  Hallowed be thy name

  Quiet, beautiful.

  From the heart.

  Thine be the kingdom, and the power, and the glory

  Caroline felt a nudge and looked down, and Lydia handed her a tissue for her tears. She wiped her eyes as Armand held the note forever . . . forever.

  Lydia wasn't sure what emotions might well up inside her. Her friends knew that. Beau knew that, and he stayed beside her. They watched as the bride and groom danced the first dance in the fellowship hall while guests observed and applauded, and then joined them.

  "Amazing," Lydia said to Beau. "You and I were on that ship with your dad, Joanna's grandmother, and Alan's grandfather."

  He blew a quick breath. "Now that's movie material."

  "It's life," she said and he nodded.

  "Speaking of movie material," Beau said, "my wedding gift is a new contract for Alan to sign. No reason why we shouldn't begin filming Once Upon, even while they're on that honeymoon."

  Before the couple left for London, there was one more planned activity for the Titanic survivors and the descendants of victims.

  They went out in the yacht with carnations that they would toss into the water that would be taken out to sea. This was a symbol of what the ocean's depth took from them, and what it brought to them.

  Beau threw his. Lydia thought he threw it in memory of his dad who survived the Titanic's sinking, and the one who didn't.

  She thought of both. Craven had been best man at two weddings. Without him, life would have been . . . worse.

  At the end of John's poem, the last thing he'd written was Psalm 23.