A Song Across the Sea

by Shana McGuinn

GENERAL DAMON SATISFIED WITH PROGRESS. STOP. SAYS I’LL BE HOME IN SIX WEEKS. STOP. CAN’T WAIT TO START OUR NEW LIFE TOGETHER. STOP. LOVE YOU AND MISS YOU, REECE. STOP.

  • • •

  Kathleen and James came to see the show. So did some of the people she’d worked with at the Millinder mansion, including Cook, George, Francine and Inga.

  “The place hasn’t been the same since you and Mary left,” said Francine, after congratulations were out of the way. “Do you have this whole dressing room to yourself? It sure is something. Who are all these flowers from? I bet you get to meet famous people all the time. Have you met Mr. Lionel Barrymore? I’ve seen his picture. He’s so handsome.”

  “Francine,” Cook reprimanded her gently, with a slight smile. “Maybe you could stop chattering long enough to let Inga tell Tara her news.”

  “What is it, Tara?”

  “I’m leaving for Boston tomorrow,” Inga said shyly, her eyes downcast. She appeared terribly nervous at suddenly being the center of attention.

  “She’s getting married!” Francine blurted out.

  “Let her tell it, Francine.” Even here, away from the mansion, Cook was the one who kept order.

  “His name is Frank and he delivers ice to the Millinders every day. That is how I met him.”

  “Congratulations!” Tara said warmly. “But Boston! I’ll miss you, Inga. You must be excited.”

  “Yes. Excited and nervous too. Frank is going to be in the produce business with his father.”

  When they were ready to leave, Inga asked: “Could the rest of you go on without me? I will catch up. I must speak to Tara about something.”

  Cook sniffed disapprovingly. “Secrets? Very well.”

  When they were alone in the dressing room, Inga turned serious.

  “Tara, before you came to work with us, I did something bad. Mr. Millinder made me do it and I was afraid to say no. He told me not to tell anyone. Said he would dismiss me and see that I did not find another job if I ever said anything, but now that I’m moving away… It has been on my conscience for so long.”

  Tara was perplexed. “Why tell me?”

  “I thought you would know what to do. You do not work for him anymore. Even when you were at the Millinders’ you were not afraid of him like I am. I heard the way you spoke up to him!” She swallowed hard. “You see, he made me practice her handwriting. Then he told me what to put down on the paper.”

  “Whose handwriting?”

  “Mrs. Millinder’s. He said he needed it to look like a woman’s hand. I felt so awful about it, but he threatened me. I needed my job. Tara, I wrote a letter to her son and signed her name to it.”

  • • •

  Francine was surprised when she opened the front door to the Millinder mansion the next day and found Tara standing there.

  “Is he home?”

  Francine shook her head.

  “Good. I need to see Mrs. Millinder. Don’t announce me. No need for you to get involved, or you may get into trouble. Pretend that you didn’t even see me, Francine. I’ll be after findin’ her meself.”

  Francine stepped aside and inclined her head with a subtle angle in the direction of the upper floor.

  Adrienne Millinder looked up from the needlepoint she was working on when Tara came upon her in the sitting room. Before she could say anything, Tara blurted out: “I’m Tara Waldron, Mrs. Millinder. I’m married to your son Reece, and I must speak with you…”

  • • •

  Dear Reece,

  I hardly know how to begin this letter. I pray that it reaches you safely. Tara gave me your address but she warned me that the war has made mail delivery uncertain in much of Europe these days. Oh, yes. I’ve met Tara. You can imagine my surprise when she paid me a visit and announced that she was your wife. Of course I’d seen her before, when she worked here as a maid. Tara told me about the dreadful thing Emory did to you, sending you a forged letter. It explained so much—your silence, your absence, your seeming coldness. It grieves me to realize that all this time you thought I’d turned against you, my own son. I now understand why you stayed away for so long.Nothing you could do could ever alienate you from my affections.

  Tara also told me about Emory’s attempts to blackmail you into marrying Miriam Sedgewell for his own purposes.

  I have no excuse for allowing him to come between us. I’m afraid I allowed Emory to take advantage of my loneliness. He showed me great solicitude, which I mistook for genuine affection. It was not the kind of love your father and I shared, but then I never expected to encounter that again. Once in a lifetime is as much as anyone can hope for. In his own way, Emory was kind to me, at least during the first few years.

  Any feeling that may once have existed between Emory and myself has long since passed into indifference. I allowed the marriage to continue, as so many do, because it was a tolerable, convenient arrangement between two civil people—or so I thought.

  Tara is a beautiful, remarkable young woman, Reece, and clearly very much in love with you. I once would have scoffed at such a union (I also thought that your father lacked a sufficient pedigree!), but fortunately, I have learned a thing or two over the years.

  I intend to have done with Emory as quickly as possible. A fair sum of money will have to be settled on him, but I believe he’ll go quietly enough. After all, he’ll have gotten what he wanted from this marriage: money and prestige.

  Please hurry home, son. I shall be counting the days until we can put this terrible misunderstanding behind us. Know that I am proud of you and of what you’re doing. Your father would be proud, too.

  Love,

  Mother

  SOCIETY NEWS

  Fifth Avenue hostess Mrs. Adrienne Millinder announced last week that her son, Reece Benjamin Waldron, was married in a private ceremony to Broadway sensation Miss Tara McLaughlin last year, shortly before his departure for Europe, where he is engaged in aeronautical work for the United States Army. Mr. Waldron is expected to return stateside soon. A gala hosted by Mrs. Millinder in honor of her daughter-in-law was well attended by members of the business and theatrical communities. Mr. Emory Millinder was unable to be present. Upon his doctor’s orders, he has retired to a chateau in the south of France for an indefinite period of time.

  • • •

  “What’s that you’re reading there, Mrs. Flanagan? The society news, is it? Seein’ what the rich swells are up to?”

  Mrs. Flanagan jumped up from the crumbling stoop as if someone had caught her committing a crime. She tucked the newspaper under her arm and hurried up the stairs and into the tenement house.

  Her neighbor watched her go, shaking his head sadly.

  Mrs. Flanagan knew what he thought of her. What they all thought of her. That she wasn’t right in the head. That she wasn’t a good mother. She saw their pitying glances when they looked at Padraig: twelve years old now, undersized and scrawny for his age, looking half-starved and dirty most of the time. He worked so hard to take care of the two of them, instead of the other way around, as it should be. She should be looking after him.

  Mrs. Flanagan sat down at the wobbly table in her apartment and started to read the story again. It was difficult to concentrate. She was interrupted several times by a moist, racking cough that rolled through her in waves and left her weak.

  She’d managed to convince herself over the years that Tara McLaughlin must be dead, even though she had glimpsed her on that rescue ship after the Titanic sank. It was so long ago. Real memories and imagined terrors swam together in the murky pool of her mind, confusing and frightening her. She could hardly remember her girlhood long ago in Ireland, her husband, her son, Danny. She’d knew she’d done something very, very bad.

  But now, with this newspaper story, she felt hope. Tara McLaughlin was still alive. Maybe it wasn’t too late for redemption.

  • • •

  Conrad recovered to the point where he was out of immediate danger. His left arm had been amputated, and Lot
te hinted at damage to his face that would leave him disfigured. She hoped his spirit remained intact, although it would be sorely tested by the long convalescence he had ahead of him.

  “He wrote and told us how thin he is. He says my mother better have good things cooked for him when he comes home, because he hasn’t tasted good food in a long time.”

  The girls, with Mary, were going to visit Adrienne. The rich friendship that flourished between Tara and her mother-in-law after Emory’s departure became a source of strength to both women. Isolated from Reece and the world around her for so long, Adrienne found a lifeline in Tara. The girl was a breath of fresh air in a stale old house, as was Mary. Once Adrienne laid eyes on the baby she fell in love with her, and Tara didn’t dare show up without her.

  “She went out shopping yesterday!” Francine informed Tara. “Called for George to bring the sedan around as if it were something she did every day. Took me and Lynn with her, too, to carry little Mary and all the things she bought for that baby, who is well on her way to being spoiled rotten, I can tell you, with all the new toys and clothes she’s gettin’. I can’t believe Mrs. Millinder left the house. Whenever she needed something before, she always had it delivered.”

  Adrienne also came to the see Tara in “Rain or Shine,” about which she’d heard so much.

  “My son is a lucky man. I knew that before I saw you on stage, but now I’m even more certain.”

  Tara didn’t know how to respond. She was the lucky one, after all.

  She wished her parents could see her now. How they’d struggled to keep paying for her singing lessons!

  She’d written to her Aunt Bridey and Uncle Kevin about events in her life. They did not blame her for Sheila’s mistakes. Tara was still sad about her cousin’s death but felt that by raising Mary, she was doing right by Sheila.

  She still thought of Paddy. Try as she might, Tara could not lay down the burden of guilt she felt over her brother’s death. He’d been so young, trusting that his big sister would take care of him. She’d failed miserably. Because of Tara’s poor decisions, he’d never had a chance at life. Paddy’s death was her eternal sadness, the wound that would not heal.

  She shared a little of this with Adrienne. Reece’s mother did, indeed, feel like a “kindred spirit.” Although their experiences had been vastly different, they both knew something about loss.

  One night Tara talked Adrienne into going out with some of the cast for a celebration.

  “They’re so wantin’ to meet me mother-in-law, a real society lady. You wouldn’t be after disappointin’ them, would you?”

  In spite of her protestations of fatigue, Adrienne turned out to be the life of the party. Tara felt a flush of pride as she watched her mother-in-law talk animatedly with the others at the table, her eyes bright with excitement. Adrienne was charming and witty, opinionated and well-read. In spite of her long, self-imposed seclusion, she could clearly converse with anyone about anything. Tara finally saw the woman that Reece had described: passionate, strong-willed, beguiling.

  Someone laughed at a humorous remark Adrienne made and she looked across the table and caught Tara’s eye as if to say: “I’m alive again.”

  • • •

  On Reece’s patrol from St. Mihiel to Verdun, he saw no evidence of the rumored German troop or tank movements.

  Relieved, he turned back in the direction of his base. Flying reconnaissance behind enemy lines was not the most pleasant way to spend one’s morning.

  He heard the machine gun before he saw the German Gotha that had him in its sights. Explosive bursts ripped into the right wing of his plane. The Gotha had stayed cannily above and behind him, out of sight, until he turned. He fought to stabilize the plane and pull out of range but moments later, the gunner found his mark again. Blasts tore through Reece’s chest, right shoulder and arm. The pain struck a second later, shocking him in waves. He shook uncontrollably but tried to stay focused, determined to survive though he knew he was badly wounded. With his good hand he yanked open his leather flight jacket. A deep crimson stain bubbled out from his shirt. The agony was paralyzing. He managed to bank the plane sharply to the left, fighting to stay conscious long enough to outmaneuver the Gotha and fire his own machine gun.

  His plane was spinning downward out of control. He checked the altimeter. Only 6,000 feet… His arm, his entire right side, was now useless. He jammed his feet against the rudder bar, trying to level the plane, trying not to look at the field of blood growing at the lower edge of his peripheral vision. As long as he was still alive he had a chance.

  With a shudder that mimicked his own spasms, the plane finally straightened itself, although the damaged wing made the ride a volatile one. Reece pressed a switch, willing the stalled motor back to life. It sputtered helplessly. Were the fuel lines riddled with holes, too? Miraculously, the engine caught, coughed a few times and finally churned into a reassuringly regular pattern. He had a chance.

  At that moment, a dark, winged form passed between himself and the sun like a predator hawk bearing down on a small, helpless sparrow. It was the Gotha. He heard a fresh burst of machine gun fire and thought fleetingly of Tara.

  The treetops rushed up to meet him.

  • • •

  It was something of a surprise to find Adrienne waiting in her dressing room for her when the curtain fell on the final act.

  “I didn’t know you were comin’ to the show tonight.”

  “I didn’t watch it.” Adrienne sat in her wheelchair, having been brought to the theater by George, who hovered in the hallway. She seemed to have trouble finding the words she was looking for. “I thought I should come. To…to bring you this in person. It’s from General Damon.”

  Tara’s heart gave a fearful lurch. She suddenly felt as if she might fall down. Trembling, she took the telegram Adrienne held out to her, her hands shaking so hard she could barely read it.

  REGRET TO INFORM YOU THAT YOUR SON’S PLANE CRASHED BEHIND ENEMY LINES. STOP. HE IS MISSING AND PRESUMED DEAD. STOP. MY SINCEREST CONDOLENCES. STOP. REECE RENDERED A GREAT SERVICE TO HIS COUNTRY. STOP. I HOPE THAT WILL BE A COMFORT TO…

  “No! Tara wailed. “No…”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Frustration ate at Muldoon like a cancer. Since Rafferty had brought him the news, he could think of nothing else. Tara McLaughlin was livin’ the easy life of a spoiled, cosseted Broadway star. The satisfaction he’d savored when the flames he lit ravaged her theater and destroyed her vaudeville dreams was gone. The bitch was inexplicably victorious. He couldn’t imagine how she’d done it, but she’d resurrected her career in spite of him. What good was his punishment when in the end, she suffered not at all from it?

  She still had to pay for what she’d done to him. Treating him with disdain, as if he were no better than a clod of dirt on the bottom of her shoe.

  Muldoon would make her suffer more than she could imagine. This time there would be no happy ending for Tara McLaughlin.

  • • •

  “Tara, there was no need for you to come in. Johanna will go on for you tonight.”

  “I don’t need an understudy.”

  “It’s all right. Really it is. Take some time off. No one expects you to perform tonight.” Like everyone else, Lattimer assumed the worst.

  “I’m going on.” Tara meant it. She was not simply following the show business tradition of not allowing personal misfortune to interfere with a performance. She would don her opening act costume and take her place behind the heavy velvet curtain that night because to do otherwise would be the same as admitting that Reece was dead. She would not play the part of the grieving widow, because she wasn’t one.

  “Tara, I don’t want you to go on tonight.”

  So that was it. Lattimer thought she would lose her composure on stage. Even now he was watching her closely, no doubt noticing her swollen eyelids and listless expression. Let him look. She’d cried half the night through, and it had been an effort to dress herse
lf and come to the theater, but she was here. And she was determined to go on.

  “He’s alive, Ted, so I’ve no need of your pity. I don’t care what the newspapers say. He’s alive because I’d feel it in me heart if he were dead. He’s alive. I gave in to fear and doubt at first and, yes, I cried—as you can see. But I was mistaken. He’s alive. If I don’t go on stage tonight, it’ll be like I’m givin’ up on him.”

  With reluctance, Lattimer relented. “I’ll send someone out for ice. Maybe you’d like to put some on your eyes? And Lotte, would you get Tara a cup of tea?”

  Lotte nodded eagerly. “Right away.”

  Tara tried to smile. “A cup of tea is just what I need.”

  Tara wondered if she’d really be able to pull it off. She felt fragile, patched together. She sipped the tea Lotte brought her, holding a chunk of ice wrapped in a handkerchief up to her eyes to bring down the swelling.

  Lotte helped her change into her costume, murmuring encouragement while fastening her dress and securing her hat to her hair with hairpins. Lotte, Tara realized, was more nervous than she herself was. Her friend knew how difficult this was for her.

  Waiting in the wings just before her entrance, Tara tried to quell the sick nervousness that rose up unbidden in her stomach. She suddenly thought back to her vaudeville audition, when she’d been paralyzed by stage fright. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

  She heard her cue and stepped out onto the stage.

  “Has anyone seen Uncle Billy?” she asked. “He said he was…” Her voice faltered then failed her altogether. She swayed slightly, trying to collect her thoughts and focus. It was no good. She’d never felt so alone in all the world. The magic of the stage abandoned her. She felt frozen in place. Reece was gone. Reece was gone. Reece…couldn’t be gone.

  How much time had passed? Seconds? Minutes? She yearned to escape this tortuous spotlight.