“Perhaps another night. I’ll explain later.” Wallace followed the women into the waiting cab. “The Waldorf-Astoria, please.”
Winnie chattered about the marvelous, amazing, unforgettable show all the way back to the hotel. Mary Anne didn’t interrupt her, her pensive expression suggesting she was deeply troubled.
When they entered the hotel, Wallace stopped by the front desk. He returned a few minutes later, rubbing his hands together. “That settles it. The Waldorf-Astoria has started something new, called room service. I’ve asked them to deliver a coffee and dessert tray to our suite.”
Back in their rooms, Winnie squealed with delight when she saw the square of chocolate laid on her pillow case and the thick pink robe laid across the quilt. “Since we’re not going out, I think I’ll take a long bubble bath and put on this warm robe.”
“An excellent idea.” Wallace waited until she disappeared into the bath before he turned to Mary Anne. “Perhaps we can have a moment of private conversation out on the balcony?”
* * *
Mary Anne slipped a shawl over her shoulders and followed him out the doors. The city of New York, her home for most of her life, spread out before them. She loved and feared it in equal measure. Wallace joined her at the railing, seemingly as entranced with the view as she was.
“Who was she?” Wallace asked.
The serenity of the panorama vanished. “Someone I used to know.” Mary Anne shrugged.
Wallace drew in a deep breath. He must have a thousand questions. It would almost be easier if he demanded answers. Instead, he turned his back to the city view and placed his hand over hers. “Tomorrow is a free day. It might be a good time to visit your father’s grave.”
Wallace gently squeezed Mary Anne’s fingers, before holding them in a loose grip. She welcomed their soft touch, his implied support.
Daddy. Even a visit to her pastor, to learn where her father was buried, involved risk. But she owed that much to her father—she owed it to herself—to see his grave and say a final goodbye.
“That’s a good idea.”
Wallace lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her fingers.
“But there’s something I have to do first.” The whole truth teetered on the tip of Mary Anne’s tongue, but she struggled to find the words to explain. Someone rapped on the door, carrying the room service tray, and the opportunity was lost.
They ate everything on the dessert tray, so much food that Mary Anne’s dress size would surely increase if they ate so many sweets every night during their stay.
“Tomorrow I want to go to Central Park.” Winnie wanted to pack as much as possible into every day of their trip.
Mary Anne looked at Wallace, waiting for him to offer an explanation. He said, “Mary Anne has something else in mind. Tell us about it.”
His gray eyes gently twinkled. He was forcing her into an explanation, even more, into a commitment.
“I want to visit my father’s grave. But the truth is I’m not sure where he’s buried.”
Wallace settled his back against his chair when she said that.
“I had to leave home in a hurry. I asked our pastor to take care of Daddy’s burial. So before we go to his grave, I need to speak with the pastor.” Even as she said the words, Mary Anne knew she wanted to see the man who had counseled her, prayed for her and led her to the Lord. “There’s a phone in the parsonage, so we can call and set up an appointment to see him.”
The safest plan might be to ask her question over the phone. But Mary Anne was tired of playing it safe. The time had come for her to reassure her spiritual mentor that his prayers had been answered. She had returned to the Lord, and God had placed a godly man in her path.
She didn’t say any more. Wallace brought his hands together. “So that’s what we’ll do tomorrow. And on the way Mary Anne can point out birds that live here in New York that we don’t have in Vermont.”
“Birds.” Winnie huffed, but at least Wallace’s comment had taken her mind off her disappointment. “I’m sorry about your father, though. I know what it’s like to lose your parents.”
Mama and Daddy. Lord willing, tomorrow Mary Anne would enjoy a return to her roots and not worry about the mess she had made for herself.
* * *
Wallace took in the rows of houses that lined the streets as the cab drove into Brooklyn. They probably were nice enough inside, but he couldn’t imagine growing up so close to his neighbors. If these people opened their windows during the summer, they’d smell the bacon cooking next door, hear crying infants.
“We’re close.” Mary Anne leaned forward in the backseat, more excited than he’d ever seen her. “There’s the church.” She announced it in such a way that he might have expected the splendor of the New Amsterdam or perhaps Saint Patrick’s Cathedral.
Instead it was a brick church, in a traditional style, with a steeple at the front and a sloping slate roof. A small plate at the front announced it as Good Shepherd Church, Pastor: Charles Asher.
“The parsonage is right next door.” Mary Anne climbed out of the car as soon as the driver parked.
Wallace didn’t know what to expect of the people who had known Mary Anne in her previous life. Was Mrs. Asher interested in fashion, wearing the modern clothing favored by young women nowadays? Or was she more like Aunt Flo, given to a timeless fashion that stamped dignity on its wearer?
A pleasant, round-faced woman with puffs of gray-blond hair framing her face opened the door as soon as they stepped on the porch. “Mary Anne Lamont, as I live and breathe!”
That answered one question. Mary Anne Lamont was her real name, as she had confessed.
“Mrs. Asher!” Mary Anne threw herself into the older woman’s arms but quickly withdrew. “I’ll finish introductions as soon as we get inside.”
Mrs. Asher led them into a cozy sitting room that looked like a page out of an old issue of Godey’s Lady’s Book. The furniture looked as if it had withstood more than one generation of children—good, solid pieces that suggested permanence. “My husband will be home soon. One of our parishioners—Mr. Garrett, Mary Anne, you remember him, I’m sure—passed away last night.”
Nodding, Mary Anne took her seat. “Mrs. Asher, I’d like you to meet my friends, Wallace and Winnie Tuttle. Their family has been kind enough to give me a home the last few months.”
“Mr. Tuttle, Miss Tuttle, glad to meet you. Thank you for taking care of our treasure here.” Mrs. Asher patted Mary Anne on the shoulder. “Would you care for some refreshments? I have some fruit ready.”
Mary Anne shook her head—she hadn’t wanted much breakfast either—but Winnie nodded. Their hostess disappeared in the direction of the kitchen.
A few books lay on top of the lamp table, and Mary Anne picked them up. She read the first book’s title with pride. “Pilgrim’s Progress. He’s not talking about the Pilgrims who landed at Plymouth Rock, is he?”
“No. It’s a classic allegory of the Christian life,” Wallace said. “You might enjoy reading it. I’m sure Aunt Flo has a copy.”
Mrs. Asher returned to the sitting room as he said that. Her eyes widened as she saw the book in Mary Anne’s hands. “You’re looking at a book.” The way she said it betrayed her knowledge of Mary Anne’s secret.
“Yes.” Mary Anne’s answer held laughter. “A lot has changed since I left.”
A smile hinted at Mrs. Asher’s mouth. “Well, if you want to read it you can take that with you when you leave.”
“Thank you. I’d like that.” Mary Anne handled the book like a prize at the county fair before tucking it into her purse.
“Mary Anne, look at you.” A warm, gruff voice called from the back room, and the man who must be the pastor folded her in a crushing hug.
Wallace contented himself with listening to the f
low of conversation. Winnie told of Mary Anne’s wins in the scripture memory and reading competition, and Mrs. Asher clapped in delight. After they finished the fruit, Mrs. Asher brought out sandwiches and cookies. Mary Anne’s appetite returned, and she helped demolish the food.
“I am so glad to see you so well settled.” Pastor Asher clasped Mary Anne’s hands in his. “You mentioned your father’s grave when you called. Your father had purchased a double plot when your mother passed, and so they are buried together. Do you know the cemetery?”
Mary Anne nodded. “Thank you so much. And now, we really shouldn’t keep you any longer. I’ll help clean up, and we’ll be on our way.”
Pastor Asher took Wallace aside while the ladies disappeared into the kitchen. He looked the way Wallace’s father had reacted when Howard first came calling on Clarinda. “I’ve known Mary Anne all her life.”
Wallace had noticed that the Ashers called her Mary Anne, not Marabelle. Maybe her fancy name was a passing phase.
“Since her father has gone home to be with the Lord, I feel it’s my duty to inquire. How are things between the two of you? I can’t say how relieved I am to discover the Lord brought her to your home, but what about the future?”
Here, in this place, with a man who cared so much about Mary Anne, Wallace could speak the truth. “I’d give my life to protect her. I’d like to marry her, if she’ll have me.”
The pastor smiled. “I am glad to hear it, although we will be sorry to lose her. My prayers go with you for your safety. She never told me exactly what happened, but as far as I know, her father’s murderer was never caught.”
Chapter 22
In preparation for going to the cemetery, Mary Anne wore the darkest skirt she had brought with her and the dullest blouse, covered with a black cardigan. She’d even found a black scarf to drape across her head. The autumn sunshine mocked her mood as they approached the graveyard, a wrought iron gate all that stood between her and her parents’ graves. Not much had changed since Daddy brought her to visit on Decoration Day last year.
Wallace and Winnie walked on either side of her. She caught Wallace looking at her a few times, and she wondered if Pastor Asher had said something to arouse his curiosity further.
The graves lay straight ahead ten rows, and five to the right. This was her past; and God willing, Winnie and Wallace represented her future. Mary Anne wanted to be alone when she said goodbye. “I’ll go on by myself, if you don’t mind.”
Without waiting for an answer, she lifted the latch on the gate and entered. Someone maintained the area with care. In spite of the leaves dropping from the trees with every brush of wind, the grounds were immaculate. Oak and elm trees had lost half of their leaves, somewhat like her feelings on this day, half lost, half hopeful.
Five plots in, she came upon her father’s gravestone: Jack Raymond Lamont. Oh, Daddy. For the first time, she could read the words on her mother’s grave marker: Anna Maria Lamont. Mama, I hope you’re proud of me. She sat on the ground between the graves, heedless of the tears.
She heard feet rustling through the grass but ignored them. Let each person mourn in peace. “Mama, Daddy, it’s been hard, but I’m going to be okay. I might not get to come back again, but don’t worry about me. I’ve met a good man. Maybe the man.”
“Well, that’s good to hear, Marabelle. Or should I call you Mary Anne Laurents?”
That voice. Mary Anne’s back stiffened. Pretending a case of mistaken identity wouldn’t work this time, with her sitting in front of her parents’ graves, evidence of fresh tears on her face.
Wallace. She had to find him. She grabbed her purse, jumped to her feet, and starting running. But Wallace had disappeared with Winnie.
The man—she had never learned his name—caught her within two strides. “You aren’t getting away this time. We have some business to settle.”
All of her strength was as helpless against her captor as someone trying to break concrete by throwing pebbles at it. Yanking her arms, he dragged her across the grass while her shoes dug into the sod. The man shoved her into a waiting car.
“Wallace!” She flung his name into the wind.
The man climbed in after her, a gun pointed at her head. “Say another word, lady, and you’ll end up like your father.” He pulled a burlap sack over her head.
Oh, God, help me now.
* * *
After Mary Anne left them at the gate, Wallace and Winnie stared at each other. “What can we do while we wait?” Winnie was as restless as a first-grader at recess, a bundle of energy ready to explode across the schoolyard.
Wallace didn’t want to stray far from Mary Anne. They could wander among the gravestones, as long as they left Mary Anne alone. “What do you think about visiting the cemetery?”
Winnie laughed. “Did Aunt Flo suggest that? She said I could learn about the people who made up New York by visiting a cemetery. Things like names and dates and even the language on the gravestones. But I don’t have a notebook.”
“It’s a good thing I’m prepared.” Wallace pulled his sketchbook from his pocket. If he could find a quiet spot, he’d sketch Mary Anne’s picture. But she wouldn’t want her grief captured on paper. Who would?
Winnie grabbed the sketchbook and pencil and capered down the path to the left, away from Mary Anne. “It looks like there are older markers over this way.”
That was as good a reason as any to see that section. Wallace put his hands in his pockets and followed at a slower pace. Names here ranged from familiar British names to more foreign surnames: Novak, Ivanov, Salo. Ivanov sounded Russian, but he didn’t have a clue about the other names.
Winnie sat on a bench within sight of three or four graves, scribbling down information. In this peaceful place, people could visit their loved ones and perhaps consider their own mortality. How he wanted to offer Mary Anne comfort, but she had asked him to stay away.
“Wallace!”
He sprang to his feet and hurtled in the direction of her cry. On the street, a man in a black coat pushed her into a waiting car.
The car pulled away from the curb before he made it halfway down the lane. He reached the street in time to see the car, an ordinary Model T, turn at the corner.
Her father’s murderer was never caught.
Wallace had promised to protect Mary Anne, but he had failed at the first test. God, help her.
* * *
The burlap sack disoriented Mary Anne and the close smell of dust and grain made her stomach roll as she bounced up and down on the seat.
“I can’t believe you came back to New York. Teasing fate isn’t a good idea.” Smoke mixed with the air seeping through the burlap. “When the picture of Mary Anne Laurents showed up in that Vermont newspaper, I decided she couldn’t be you. I didn’t know whether to believe Eva when she said her good friend Marabelle Lamont had returned. Imagine my surprise when I discovered she was staying at the Waldorf-Astoria. You had left the hotel by the time I got the news, so I decided to keep my eye on your father’s grave.”
Mary Anne didn’t want to give the man the satisfaction of fainting. Instead, she breathed slowly and carefully as she pieced together what she had learned. Eva did know the man who had killed her father, probably through the social circles where bathtub gin was the beverage of choice.
The car stopped, and once again cold steel pressed against Mary Anne’s neck. “You’re going to have a little talk with my boss. You tell him what he wants, if you know what’s good for you.”
He prodded her forward, and she stumbled out of the car and up a couple of steps, into a room filled with smoke and the stench of sour liquor. The man pushed her into a chair and tied her hands behind her back. Nearby, someone scratched a match, and she smelled sulfur and fresh cigar smoke.
“Miss Lamont. I have been waiting to meet
you a long time.” A chair squeaked, and heavy steps crossed the room, stopping in front of her. “Rocco, leave us alone.”
Rocco. First name or last name?
The door opened and closed. The faceless voice spoke to her again. “You and your father led us on a merry chase, Miss Lamont. Your father took something that didn’t belong to him. You don’t steal from me and get away with it.”
Daddy hadn’t stolen the money. He won it in a lottery, but he wasn’t supposed to win. Rage and paralyzing fear stormed through Mary Anne’s veins. Rocco had shot her father as he sat in the same position Mary Anne was in now.
How cruel it would be to die this way, here and now. She’d never even told Wallace that she cared for him.
The account of Saint Stephen’s martyrdom ran through her mind. She didn’t have his faith or stoicism in facing her own imminent death.
“After all the trouble you’ve caused us, I should just shoot you now. But I don’t like losing money. Maybe you can still be of use to us. Now, this is what I want you to do....”
* * *
Wallace headed to the Waldorf-Astoria, kicking a few lampposts along the way. He felt like cursing, but he hadn’t done that since Mom had washed his mouth out with soap and Dad had reminded him why Christians didn’t cuss.
He was so angry, felt such a sense of futility, of helplessness. After he had left Winnie at the hotel, with strict orders not to open the door to anyone, he’d headed for the nearest police station. They didn’t understand the urgency of the situation, even when he offered the hypothesis that the man who had kidnapped Mary Anne might have been behind her father’s death.
No, they questioned him as if he were a suspect. What was her father’s name? Lamont, he didn’t know his first name. When did he die? Sometime before the first of April.
The officer scratched his head and said he couldn’t help without more specific information. Taking Wallace’s contact information, the officer promised to get in touch if he learned anything.
When traffic at the next intersection halted his progress, Wallace realized his folly. With the police refusing to help, he had cursed the only One who could protect Mary Anne. He glanced at the sky, what little of it could be seen above the skyscrapers. Forgive me, Lord, and don’t take out my sin on Mary Anne.
Hidden Dreams Page 14