Three Words for Goodbye

by Hazel Gaynor

  Clara

  Vienna’s sharp edges and political tensions were a stark contrast to the soft spring light of Paris and the glistening waters of Venice, but perhaps my reluctance to embrace Vienna in the same way as the other cities was more to do with what I’d left behind than what I found when I arrived. The long train journey had given me time to think about Edward—too much time, perhaps. The way we’d parted was the only possible resolution to our feelings, and yet there was a yearning in my heart, a longing for things to be different. It tainted everything with a sense of regret and left me restless.

  Our encounter with the Nazi Party before we’d even arrived at our hotel hadn’t helped. I felt hesitant and uncertain as I looked out of the window of our pretty room in Gasthaus Helene the following morning. Beyond the window, charming confectioners’ shops and bakeries made for a pleasant scene, and yet I had no enthusiasm for capturing it on the page. Vienna didn’t tug on my heart the way Paris and Venice had. It nagged, like an uncomfortable itch I couldn’t scratch.

  As our journey neared its end, it felt as if there was far more at stake than there had been when we’d boarded the Queen Mary in New York, with Violet’s letters in our luggage and enough friction between me and Madeleine to light a match. Everything was reaching its culmination: the imminent meeting with Margaret and the looming confrontation with Charles.

  Madeleine was at the desk, scribbling furiously in her notebook. It had felt good to tell her how I felt about Charles, to confide in her the way we used to confide in each other as teenage girls, and yet it still saddened me that things had come to this; that Charles wasn’t the man I’d wanted to believe he was. I felt sick to my stomach when I imagined the look on his face as I returned his ring. People didn’t turn Charles Hancock down, women especially.

  “We should probably get going,” I said, checking myself in the mirror. I’d chosen a blue skirt and jacket, and a red pillbox hat with navy ribbon. “Is this too much?” I asked, as much to my reflection as to Madeleine. “Is it a bit formal?”

  What did one wear to meet a reclusive great-aunt?

  “It’s perfectly fine. How do you always look so pretty, and I, well, don’t?”

  Madeleine was wearing one of her curious slacks-blouse-and-oxfords ensembles again.

  “You have your own . . . style,” I said. “You shouldn’t apologize for it.”

  We both responded to my remark with stunned silence, knowing that a month ago I would have found her appearance embarrassing. “Although,” I added, “I think your black slacks would go better with those shoes.”

  Sometimes it struck me how far we’d come together, and not just in miles traveled. I thought back to the January morning when Violet had announced her plan to send us to Europe, how I’d bristled at the sound of Madeleine’s voice. I’d been reluctant to embark on this trip with her, but I now found myself reluctant for it to end. We’d traveled so far from home, and yet the distance between us had narrowed so that we were now able to forgive, even if we weren’t always prepared to forget.

  “Are you nervous?” I asked. “About meeting Margaret?”

  “A little? You?”

  I nodded. “It feels like there’s so much riding on this last meeting.”

  We exchanged an uneasy glance as I picked up Violet’s letter from the table. Margaret was written on the front. I wondered what Violet had felt as she’d sealed the envelope, and sealed her last chance of reconciliation with it.

  We took a tram across the city and walked the last block to Margaret’s home, a neat town house at the end of a crescent of a dozen houses. Each had pretty flower boxes adorning the front windows, white façades with brown shutters, and blue trim.

  We walked up the steps and I rapped the knocker.

  After a moment or two, the sound of footsteps inside confirmed someone was home. A thin woman with brown hair and large brown eyes opened the door. She studied us as she wiped her hands on her apron.

  “Guten Morgen.”

  “Good morning,” I replied. “Margaret?”

  The woman shook her head and said something else in German.

  “Do you speak English?” I asked.

  “Ja, a little. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m Clara Sommers,” I said, “and this is my sister, Madeleine. We’re here to see Margaret. Margaret Lawson? She’s our grandmother’s sister.”

  The woman flinched a little, surprise etched across her face. “Your grandmother’s sister?”

  “Yes, Violet. Violet Bell. Lawson, before she was married.”

  At this, the woman’s face changed from surprise to something of a frown. “I see. Is Margaret expecting you?”

  I shook my head. “We don’t think so. But we have something very important to pass on to her. From Violet.”

  “You had better come inside. I’ll let Margaret know you are here. I am Fräulein Meyer. Helga.”

  We were shown to a neat little parlor, decorated with floral sofas and wooden cabinets displaying glassware and china. The room smelled strongly of pine and lemon. We waited in silence as an ornate cuckoo clock ticked ominously above the fireplace.

  “Do you think she’ll see us?” Madeleine whispered.

  I shrugged. “Let’s hope so.”

  After a short while, the woman returned.

  “Follow me,” she said. “Margaret is in the back room. She is very busy, so you cannot stay long. She has her final performance tomorrow.”

  It certainly wasn’t a warm welcome, but then we hadn’t really expected one.

  We were shown into a smaller room. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dim light and then I saw her, our great-aunt Margaret. She was busy at a desk, sheets of music strewn around her. She sipped a cup of coffee as she hummed to herself.

  Helga—a maid, perhaps—moved behind the chair in a protective manner, and said something to her.

  Margaret looked up at us and nodded tersely. “Please, sit down.”

  She didn’t offer even the faintest of smiles.

  We perched awkwardly on the sofa, inches apart.

  I cleared my throat. “I’m Clara Sommers and this is my sister, Madeleine. We’ve come on behalf of your sister, Violet. She is our grandmother.”

  “Yes, so I hear,” Margaret said.

  Madeleine and I exchanged looks. She was not pleased to meet us.

  Madeleine rushed to fill the silence.

  “Violet sent us on a trip to Europe. Sisters on the road together, just like the two of you all those years ago, when you won Nellie Bly’s guessing contest.”

  “Young women, discovering the world on their own,” I added.

  When Margaret didn’t reply, my eyes darted over the decorative touches in her sitting room. I noticed several photographs of a woman with a violin, and others of a large orchestra. There was one image, older than the rest, that I recognized instantly. Three women caught in a moment of laughter: Nellie Bly, Violet, and Margaret. So she hadn’t banished Violet from her life entirely, and it appeared she hadn’t forgotten Nellie, either.

  “There’s another reason we are here,” I added, eager to explain everything fully. “Violet wanted us to deliver a message to you. A letter.” I held the letter in my hand. “If you could read it I’m sure . . .”

  “I see the two of you looking at me with hope in your eyes,” Margaret said. “Violet nearly ruined my career, all because of a man she hardly knew.”

  I was taken aback by the tone of her voice, the resentment and anger still there after all these years. With the slightest movement, I nudged Madeleine.

  “Madam,” Madeleine began. “Great-aunt Margaret . . .” At the name, the old woman’s eyes flickered. “We aren’t here to counsel you. We’re here to explain that Violet is—well, she is . . .”

  “Dying,” I interjected. My voice cracked as I spoke. “Your sister is dying.”

  Margaret looked directly at me for the first time. She resembled Violet with her gray eyes and the determined set of h
er jaw, but that was where the similarities ended. Where Violet was all warmth and vivacity, Margaret was as brittle as glass. I studied the rigid set of her shoulders, her hands curled with arthritis. Time hadn’t been kind to her.

  “Dying?” she repeated as her eyes fluttered closed a moment before she opened them and returned her gaze to us. “And she sent you all the way to Vienna to tell me this?”

  “She sent us here to say goodbye,” I explained. “It would mean so much to her if you would read her letter.”

  “Have you been to see him as well?” Margaret asked at last. “Matthias?”

  “We have, yes,” I said. “He asked after you. He wished you well.”

  “Is that so?”

  Madeleine and I exchanged another glance. Clearly, she still held bad feelings toward him, too.

  “So you are Celestine’s daughters.” She studied us a moment. “You don’t look like sisters. So different.”

  I smiled. “We are different in every possible way.”

  “But discovering our similarities,” Madeleine added.

  Margaret stared into the fire. “Yes, a long trip will show the best and the worst of people. You must have been on the road for quite some time.”

  I explained how we’d started our journey in Paris to find Grandpa Frank, and gave a short synopsis of our trip since. “You are our final destination. Next, we travel to Frankfurt to take the Hindenburg home.”

  She sat quietly as I spoke. Helga perched in a chair beside the fire, prodding it now and again with a poker.

  Eventually Margaret spoke again. “How long does she have?”

  I fiddled with my gloves on my lap. “Not long. Months, at best.”

  At this she flinched.

  “Helga, I’m suddenly very tired.” Margaret exchanged a knowing glance with the woman who had shown us inside.

  “We’ll let you rest,” I said, indicating to Madeleine that we should go. “Perhaps we could call on you again tomorrow? I’m afraid we’re only staying another two days.”

  “Such an unexpected intrusion isn’t good for an old woman’s nerves,” Margaret replied.

  “You’ve had a shock,” Madeleine agreed. “We’ll leave the letter for you.”

  I placed it on a mahogany table beside the sofa.

  “We are glad to have met you, Margaret,” I offered as Helga ushered us from the room, but Margaret kept her gaze fixed firmly on the fire and said nothing in reply, not even goodbye.

  Maddie

  Clara and I were so disappointed to discover that our long-lost great-aunt was a bitter old woman, so different from our vivacious, generous Violet. Her lingering resentment and cold reaction had surprised us both and left us feeling subdued.

  We walked for a while until we found a neighborhood garden several blocks away and sat together on a park bench to talk about what had just happened. We couldn’t believe how rude Margaret had been, even with Violet’s warning to us before we’d left. She’d anticipated the difficulty we would face with her estranged sister. She wasn’t wrong.

  “I knew it wasn’t going to be easy, but I’d hoped for a little more forgiveness on Margaret’s part,” Clara said. “Do you think she’ll even read the letter? I have a horrible feeling she’ll throw it in the fire.”

  “Me too,” I replied. “She still blames Violet for having ‘nearly ruined’ her career but did you see all the certificates on the wall? Margaret has been honored at least half a dozen times from various music halls,” I said, rolling my eyes.

  “It’s so disappointing,” Clara agreed. “This whole thing has gone on far too long. Violet is dying! What possible reason could Margaret have to still not want to forgive and forget?”

  I rubbed my hands together for warmth. It was cloudy, and much colder than it had been yesterday. I was glad Clara had insisted I wear my overcoat.

  “I think we should go back tomorrow,” I said. “Try again. We might get a better response after she’s had time to read Violet’s letter.”

  Clara shook her head. “It will probably be more of the same. Or worse. Maybe it’s just too late for her to change.”

  “But it may not be,” I pressed. “And I don’t want to go home to Violet without trying every last option. Even if it’s awkward and uncomfortable.”

  A crisp breeze stirred the tender new leaves on the trees around us.

  “Are you sure you’re warm enough?” Clara asked. “I don’t want you to get sick again.”

  “I’m fine!” I brushed off her concern but was secretly glad for it. It had been a long time since someone had fussed over me the way Clara did.

  “Alright,” Clara said at last. “Let’s try again tomorrow. Maybe once the shock of seeing us has passed, Margaret will be more open to talking with us.”

  “Exactly.” I stood up as a church bell across the park chimed noon. “For now, I’m going to meet Daniel for lunch. And I might pay Mr. Klein a visit after,” I added.

  Clara let out a long sigh. “I wish I could come with you, but I can’t put this off any longer, can I?”

  I shook my head. “No. You can’t.”

  Her rendezvous with Charles weighed as heavily on my mind as I knew it did on hers. I presumed someone in his office had told him about my article, even if he hadn’t seen it yet. He wouldn’t hold back his anger, and neither would Clara when she found out about it. I bit my lip. This was my last chance to tell her.

  “Clara, there’s something I need to say before you meet Charles.”

  She pulled her coat collar up as a light rain began to fall. “Well, hurry up and tell me then before we both get soaked—again!”

  She looked so pretty in her red hat, and so sure of herself, despite her nerves. If I told her now, she might not go through with her confrontation with Charles. I hesitated. Maybe now wasn’t the time.

  “I can go with you. If you need me to,” I offered, scrambling for something to say. “It might be easier if I’m there. Less . . . emotional?”

  It wasn’t the worst idea. If Charles did know about the article, I was more than ready to defend myself against him and to explain my reasons to Clara.

  She took a deep breath. “Thank you, but this is something I need to do on my own.”

  “If you’re sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  We parted with a hug for encouragement. I held on to her a moment longer than usual, wrapping a silent apology around her for what she was about to discover. We rushed off then in opposite directions as the rain began to fall in earnest.

  * * *

  WHEN I ARRIVED back at the hotel, somewhat worse for wear from the weather, and with damp feet, I found Daniel waiting for me in the lobby.

  “Is everything alright?” he asked, concern in his eyes. I was both comforted and a little alarmed at how well he was able to read my expressions. How well he already seemed to know me. “Did you meet Margaret?”

  “Oh, we met Margaret,” I said as I shook out my coat.

  He steered me to a chair beside a large open fireplace in the restaurant lobby and ordered a hot cup of tea. Somehow, he always knew what to do without asking.

  I recounted the way Margaret had behaved and how upsetting it would be to tell Violet we’d been unable to get through to her sister.

  “I feel like we’ve failed.” I sighed. “That we’re letting her down.”

  “She sounds like a bitter old woman. Perhaps it’s too late to change her mind about things.”

  “Apparently so,” I said, relaxing a little as the tea wound a warm path through my body. “At least we were able to find Grandpa Frank’s grave and deliver her message to Matthias, so it hasn’t all been a waste. And I have a dozen new ideas for articles. I’ll be busy when I go home.”

  He looked disappointed. “Yes, you’ll be busy.”

  I had the distinct feeling I’d said something wrong. I looked down as I moved the teacup around on its saucer.

  “Are you hungry?” I asked.

  “Starved.”
<
br />   “Me too.”

  We decided to dine at a cozy little tavern across from the hotel. Over a steaming plate of fried schnitzel covered in a thick, rich gravy, Daniel explained where he’d been all morning.

  “I met with Charles. He insisted on speaking in person after receiving my telegram. I thought it would be the professional thing to do, so I agreed.”

  I paused, setting my fork on the edge of the plate. The food had done me some good and I was able to put the events with Margaret out of my mind for the moment. “And?”

  “He did his best to talk me out of resigning.”

  “Of course he did. He’s persistent. Always seems to get what he wants.”

  Daniel nodded. “He threatened to withhold a letter of recommendation, but I called his bluff. At any rate, thanks to my experience before I joined his firm, I should be able to find another position, with or without his help.”

  “Well, anyone would be lucky to have you.”

  A smile crossed his face. “Even you?”

  I made an uncomfortable sound that was something between a cough and a laugh.

  He reached for my hand and covered it with his. “You’ve come to mean a great deal to me, Maddie. I hope you know that. When we return to New York, I’d like to see you. We could have dinner, or go to museums, see movies. I’ll meet you for lunch on Newspaper Row if you can fit me in between important meetings! What do you say?”

  My stomach churned at his directness, but I smiled and tapped the half-empty glass in front of me. “Oh come now, a lady never makes promises. Why don’t we wait and see.”

  He shrugged, as if my reply was fine, and ordered two more beers from a passing waiter, but I hadn’t missed his look of disappointment.

  Somewhere inside me, I knew that if I couldn’t allow myself to trust this thing developing between us I would regret it. And yet. I still couldn’t bring myself to say the words he wanted me to say. Not today, not now.

  “I have some other news,” he said, changing the subject, his tone becoming more serious. “I was waiting for the right time to tell you.”

  “Well, don’t keep me in suspense. What is it?”