Star Flight

by Phyllis A. Whitney

  He pushed his chair out and stood up. For an instant, his look turned—not to me but to the silver bracelet that lay in puddle of light on the turquoise cloth. Then he was gone.

  Natalie sat down at his place. “No use wasting good food,” she said, picking up a fork. As she ate his untouched portion of cake, she watched me, bright-eyed, with a malice I’d not seen in her before.

  “I must say you’re rather a nasty surprise, Lauren! If you really are Victoria’s granddaughter. What does that make us, exactly?”

  I had nothing to say to that.

  I really didn’t care to discuss any of this with Natalie right now. “What happened—I mean when Betsey phoned?”

  “Grandmother, who is a very strong lady, simply fell apart. It was a good thing my dad was home. He’s closer to her than anyone else. She forgives him a lot.”

  “What is there to forgive?”

  “The crime of being dull and unimaginative in this family. But it’s what Gran said that upset me. She was crying—actually crying!—and she said, ‘It’s happening all over again, and I can’t bear it!’”

  “What is happening all over again? Even if I am Victoria and Roger’s granddaughter, why should she be expecting something bad out of this?”

  Natalie’s fork pursued a crumb of carrot cake around her plate. “Who knows? I love my grandparents, but I can’t deny their eccentricities. So now you are part of the legend, Lauren,” she added. “How does that feel?”

  I hated her cynical tone. “Don’t you care about what’s happening?”

  She regarded me coolly, with no more liking for me than I had for her at that moment. “Perhaps a second spaceship has just crashed and there’s nothing I can do except try to save my own sanity.”

  I said nothing to that. In a way, I had more sympathy and admiration for Camilla Brandt than for anyone else who carried the Brandt name. The more I saw of the Brandts individually, the less I liked any of them. Where was Victoria in all this?

  “You’re really stirring things up, aren’t you, Lauren? Better watch your step.”

  She sounded more entertained than alarmed, as though she was a spectator observing from a distance.

  “Don’t you care?” I asked her again. “Don’t you care about your grandfather and your grandmother?”

  “Of course I do. I love them both, and I’m proud of them. I’m sorry that my grandfather had to suffer the loss of his career because of your grandmother.”

  “So now we are supposed to feud? Is that it?”

  She laughed, as though my words entertained her further. “Don’t be foolish. I like you, Lauren. But that doesn’t keep me from feeling that when the curtain comes down on this play, the ending won’t matter to me. I’m not really involved, except at second hand.”

  I wished only that I was not involved. I wasn’t able to reject the sense that I was in the middle of some terrible turmoil, whether I wanted to be or not. The knowledge that the scar on Camilla’s cheek had been caused by Victoria still shocked and disturbed me.

  “I’d like to go back to the lodge, if you’ll take me,” I said. “And I’m sure you’d like to get back to your grandparents.”

  “Of course, Lauren,” she said, but then wandered off down what seemed to be a side road. “I do hope all that’s happened won’t interfere with the big party Camilla has been planning.”

  “Party?” I’d heard something mentioned, but it hadn’t really registered. This seemed frivolous to me now.

  “She’s been working on this for months. It’s to be a big fund-raiser for the Lake Lure area. Lake Lure Inn is going to provide the place, since they have a big barn out back that can be used. It’s overgrown with kudzu, but Camilla has persuaded the management to clean it up inside and do some renovations. Nobody refuses her when she goes after something. There’s already a good dance floor.”

  I still felt lost, since partying hardly seemed important in the face of her grandmother’s collapse. “Is this to be a square dance?”

  Natalie smiled. “Can you see Camilla Brandt doing a do-si-do? It will be a ball—a costume ball. Very posh and socially important. The money raised will go to the fire department, the emergency ambulance service, and all the other things that Lake Lure needs to take care of. Gran has been giving herself to this for months, and it’s no little thing if she’s suddenly not up to it. The Asheville elite will come, all dressed in expensive costumes. Camilla is paying to bring in a band that will play old dance tunes. This won’t be popular with the young crowd, but that’s not where the money is. Of course Grandfather will do whatever Gran wants, as usual. If she’s up to this now.”

  “Why does he give in to her? I should think he’d hate being in the center of things in this way.”

  “Because he loves her,” Natalie said simply. “Nothing’s ever changed that, and she knows it. Even if her Spanish blood does get riled up over Victoria and the past.”

  “I wonder where that leaves my grandmother?” I said.

  She regarded me speculatively. “A suicide, of course. Because she couldn’t live without Roger.”

  I didn’t believe that, and I didn’t think Natalie did, either.

  “When is this affair to be held?” I asked.

  “On Saturday night. Camilla has a gorgeous Spanish dress that she used to wear in California—mantilla, comb and all. It belonged to her mother, through whom she gets her Spanish blood. She still has the figure for it, but I haven’t convinced her to put a rose in her teeth. And guess who Roger will be?”

  I didn’t need to guess. Who else would he be but the cowboy actor Roger Brandt? Though I hoped without his horse this time.

  “Even if he loves her,” she chattered on, “I wonder sometimes why he is still so anxious to please her.” Natalie seemed honestly puzzled.

  “His infidelity with Victoria, perhaps?”

  “It’s hard to believe that could still matter after all these years. Though of course because Victoria’s body was never found, questions surrounding her death were never really answered.”

  Natalie spoke lightly, but I shivered, and she gave me a quick look.

  “You’ll come, won’t you, Lauren? Gordon can bring you.”

  I had no interest in partying and I shook my head, surprised that she was so intent on having me come. “I don’t think so. Let’s get out of here, Natalie.”

  But something had caught her eye. She reached to the center of the table and picked up the silver bracelet. “What is this?”

  I gave her a bare account. “In the film your grandfather made with Victoria Frazer, there’s a scene where he gives her that bracelet. While we were watching the movie, he whispered that he’d actually given it to her then.”

  “I remember the scene,” Natalie said. “It was all very sentimental and pretty.”

  “You’ve seen the movie?”

  “Oh, yes, but he doesn’t know that. Blue Ridge Cowboy has always been forbidden territory. Gran doesn’t even know that he has a print. Which is funny, because there isn’t much she doesn’t know. But since it was off-limits, of course I had to see it. When I was about fourteen, I got hold of the right key and ran it when they were away.”

  I took the bracelet from her and returned it to my purse. It belonged to me now—no matter what reverberations these little bells were ringing down the years.

  “Where did you get it?” Natalie asked.

  “From Gretchen’s brother, Ty. He sent it to me by a small boy who turned up on the balcony outside my room at the lodge. Though I still don’t know why.”

  “That’s interesting. Of course the real question is where he got it.”

  “I asked him this afternoon, but he wouldn’t tell me.”

  “If anybody can keep his mouth shut, it’s Ty. It’s funny to think that he and my grandfather used to be good friends when Roger first came here—before everything went wrong. Ty never forgave Grandfather for what happened to Victoria. But enough of all that.”

  She signaled the
waitress and asked for the check, but we were told Mr. Brandt had signed for it. As we left the Esmeralda, I experienced a strange sense of nostalgia for a time I’d never known. Of course, Victoria Frazer had stayed here, and it was as though she descended the steps with me, still happy, still innocent of what lay in the future. A pretty picture, if it hadn’t all ended so tragically.

  We walked out to Natalie’s station wagon and I got in beside her. As we drove away, I looked back at the Esmeralda set high among the pines.

  But no nostalgia filled Natalie. “I have a wonderful idea,” she told me as we went down into light evening traffic. “You can come to Camilla’s ball dressed as Victoria Frazer! Think what a stir that would cause. Betsey Harlan can probably help. Of course, Victoria was a famous blonde, so you’d have to wear a wig. I’m sure we can get one in Asheville.”

  She was warming to her foolish idea, and I put a stop to it.

  “Of course I won’t do any such thing. I wonder if all the Brandts are crazy?”

  Her laughter carried an exultant ring. “Of course we are! Just as the Frazers are, Lauren. Only my father is sane, so he’s the dull one nobody ever worries about.”

  As we drove past the lake, the water was only dark glass, with a few ripples of light cast from some boat-house or dwelling.

  When Natalie dropped me off and I stopped at the desk for my key, a note waited for me. Gordon’s handwriting was as strong as I remembered. I carried it up to my room to read.

  There were only a few words:

  Remember, Lauren. I’ll come for you before sunrise. Wear jeans and a warm jacket. Good shoes too for climbing. I promise an interesting experience.

  Sleep well,

  Gordon

  This sounded more like the man I remembered, and I couldn’t help the sense of anticipation that rose in me. But I must count on nothing, expect nothing. There’d been only that brief time when Gordon and I had existed for each other. I was the one who had gambled away our happiness by betting on Jim. I’d thought that he could make me feel “safe”—as my mother’s fears and attitude toward life never had. In his way, Jim had been good to me and I had let him down, as well. So I still carried a burden of guilt that I resented and didn’t know how to be rid of. Gordon had never forgiven me for that choice, and I couldn’t blame him.

  Now his note sounded a little softer than his manner had been, and I fell asleep climbing the hills of San Francisco. We’d gone at dawn that time, too, and we’d watched as first daylight touched the ruler-straight line of Market Street far below.

  Somehow I must learn how to forgive myself.

  10

  The next morning when I went out the door of the lodge, Gordon’s car was already parked across the drive. When I saw him, I again felt an emotional jolt, an almost uncontrollable desire to run to him. But I was no longer a young woman of nineteen, even though my heart played tricks at the sight of this particular man and left me in a state of self-conscious confusion.

  He got out to open the door for me. I pulled up the hood of my jacket against the cool early-morning air and as an excuse to hide anything he might see in my face.

  “The hood’s a good idea,” he said, his manner friendly but impersonal. “It will be windy and cold where we’re going.”

  “Where are we going?” I asked as we drove along the main road beside the lake.

  “Let’s just say the top of the world.”

  By now I knew the road we followed and I guessed where we were heading. “Chimney Rock? Will it be open this early?”

  “That’s why I picked this time—no visitors. We’ll have the sunrise to ourselves. I have keys since I work for the park.”

  As I listened, I tried to gauge his mood. Did he remember San Francisco and another sunrise? I wondered.

  The little shops and restaurants along the road through the gorge were dark at this hour and there were few cars. The Rocky Broad tumbled over great black rocks below the highway, rushing toward the lake, white foam catching our lights as we went past.

  The entrance to the park consisted of two great wings built of fieldstone, with gates in the center. Gordon got out, opened the gates, drove through, and closed them again. Ahead lay a bridge over the river; we crossed to drive up a well-engineered road that wound toward the base of Chimney Rock.

  “There are several hiking trails for those who want to make the climb on foot,” he told me. “But we’ll take the easier way.”

  The light was still gray when we passed a small visitors’ building and continued in hairpin turns until our headlights picked out a wide, cleared area for parking, rimmed around the edge by a low stone wall. Here, in the protection of the cliff above, we were sheltered from the wind. I knew that a tremendous view must lie out there, but in this predawn hour I could see only scattered lights.

  We left the car near the wall and Gordon took my arm, guiding me through darkness.

  “Chimney Rock goes straight up from here,” he told me. “When it’s light, you can look up and see the whole column standing above us.”

  A door had been cut into the base of the cliff and Gordon unlocked it. Dead, cold air from inside the mountain rushed out to us, and I could see nothing but blackness until Gordon reached for switches and turned on lights and the ventilating system.

  Dynamite had blasted out this nearly two-hundred-foot tunnel into the mountain. It stretched straight ahead through granite, a low ceiling arching in rough stone overhead. On my right, rock had been cut away to form a low ledge, a foot or two high, into which lights had been set at intervals all down the tunnel. Each sunken lamp threw its reflection upward on the irregular wall, forming an eerie pattern of light and shadow that was rather spooky.

  We walked between solid granite walls—the entire creation a remarkable engineering job.

  “There’s an elevator at the end,” Gordon said, his voice rousing echoes down the empty passageway.

  When we reached the far door and stepped into the waiting car, he activated the machinery and we moved slowly upward. For a few moments, I had a feeling of the mountain closing around me.

  “How high is the shaft?” I asked.

  “It’s twenty-four floors up. We’re still inside the mountain, of course, not in Chimney Rock itself.”

  When the door opened at the top, Gordon turned on more lights and we stepped into a gift-shop area, bright with counter displays, racks of clothes, and souvenirs.

  “Come along,” Gordon said, as though I might dawdle. “There’s still a climb to the top of the chimney, and we don’t want to miss the rising curtain.”

  We went through doors to an open terrace where a few tables had been placed—for those who might bring lunches or purchase food at the shop’s lunch counter. The air felt wonderful after being shut in by all that granite. The sky was just beginning to brighten, so it looked as though we would make it in time.

  The steps to the top were wide, with sturdy railings, so I had no sense of vertigo, though they spanned a chasm below. Halfway up, a landing offered a breather, and then we climbed the last flight to the top. Some forty-seven steps. I counted them.

  The top of the chimney was formed by a level cap of granite that overhung the column below and was spotted with low out-croppings of rock. Cement paths offered smooth footing among the protrusions. Ahead, at the highest point, stood a flagpole, and I watched as Gordon went over to raise the flag. In this high, windy space, its folds flew out, cracking and whipping in the wind, the colors challenging the slowly spreading dawn.

  The outer rim of this wide space was well protected by a decorative iron fence. Inside, two small pine trees seemed to grow out of solid rock—rather scraggly trees that had withstood the storms that would savage this high, exposed place.

  Slowly, the sky brightened in the east as a pink blush turned into widespread golden flames that burnished the world. We watched together and I found myself even more aware of the man beside me than I’d been in those long-ago days in San Francisco.

&nb
sp; “Thank you for bringing me here,” I said softly, savoring the ever-changing colors and the sweet, cool air.

  Gordon seemed to have lost the hostility I’d felt in him since our meeting in the Indian village. “Look out there, Lauren.” He pointed toward the long, narrow stretch of Lake Lure, where it opened from the gorge. Now I could see the arms of the cross formed by two coves. Rumbling Bald was clearly visible, reflected in water that shimmered with pink and gold, the colors fading as the sun rose. Overhead, the sky changed even as I watched, turning into a shining blue.

  Something made me speak as I’d not have dared to under other circumstances. “Do you remember the sunrise we watched together in San Francisco, Gordon? Up near Tamalpais?”

  “Why else would I want to show you another sunrise?”

  Tears burned behind my eyes, but before I could say anything more, he stood up. “Come over to the other side, Lauren. I want you to see something.”

  The mountain across from us rose higher than our column of rock, dwarfing it. Its granite face made a sheer cliff, against which I caught fluttering movement. Scores of butterflies fluttered against the rock, and I stared in wonder.

  “They migrate at this time of year,” Gordon said, watching me.

  They looked almost like tiny birds hovering against the cliff. “What a beautiful sight!”

  “Let’s go down and find a place to have breakfast and warm up,” Gordon suggested, breaking the spell.

  He had changed the subject quickly from the personal, but I didn’t want to leave yet.

  “Could we sit down for a few moments? I’d like to tell you what happened after I saw you yesterday.”

  “Natalie phoned me last night. She seemed upset about your dinner with Roger Brandt.”

  I told Gordon about it—from watching Blue Ridge Cowboy in Roger’s company and seeing Victoria onscreen for the first time to the dinner at the Esmeralda, where I’d dropped the silver bracelet on the table between us and Roger had told me he knew I was his granddaughter. I mentioned the book that had been written about Victoria Frazer—The Firefly—and said I wished I might find a copy to read.