Julia

by Marty Sorensen

  Chapter 4 - 1980

  The twin towers of the World Trade Center dominated the lower Manhattan skyline outside Carolyn Stuart’s window as the DC-10 circled and then floated down to Idyllwild airport. She told the cab driver to take her to Park Avenue and 85th Street in Manhattan, but then said to go slow along Bushwick and then across the Williamsburg Bridge. The views of Brooklyn and the first streets of lower Manhattan excited her. As the driver expressed his frustration at the slow mid-town traffic, Carolyn enjoyed the beautiful shop windows and the old buildings. The more cars, the more people, the more buildings, the happier she became.

  On Park and 85th she looked up at the red brick building with its high Dutch-looking windows and roof, and wondered why all the many times she had come to New York in the past she had never been here.

  Then she thought, that wasn’t really what she meant. She knew why-she hadn’t known her aunt lived there. What she really wondered was why she didn’t know that.

  And there was one other place in New York she remembered she would also have to visit this time: her grandmother’s grave in the New York City Marble Cemetery on 2nd Street.

  It was the one personal thing her mother had asked her to do. It was the one personal thing she had between her mother and herself.

  But for now, she gazed up at the tall house, standing alone on the corner. The windows facing the street were blocked by drapes. Carolyn had hoped to see Beatrice’s face peering out, welcoming her. She walked up to the door and put her hand up to knock and the door opened. A smiling face beneath soft, straight, salt and pepper hair greeted her.

  Beatrice Corbeil held her arms out and embraced Carolyn, then kissed her on both cheeks. “Hello, it has been an impossibly long time.” Beatrice was small, her hair pulled tight behind her head, but her eyes were lustrous, and her skin smooth and with barely noticeable wrinkles behind the eyes. A charcoal sweater and a green and brown tartan skirt fit will on her athletically thin body. She stepped back for a moment, smiling. “You are Carolyn, right?”

  Carolyn felt emotions pouring over her that she was unprepared for. She wasn’t going to cry, but warmth flushed through her body. “Of course,” she said. “Aunt Beatrice, it’s so nice to see you. I feel like I’ve waited forever.”

  “You and me both.” Beatrice reached out and took one of Carolyn ‘s suitcases. “Oh, here, let me take that for you.”

  “Oh, no, I can do it-“ My mother would never had done this.

  “I’m stronger than you think, young lady. I get my exercise. We New Yorkers have to walk a lot.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Come on, let’s use the elevator.”

  Carolyn smirked. “Oh, I thought we were going to get our exercise.”

  Beatrice laughed as she closed the elevator door. “Yeah, well, that’s for outside. In here, it’s the quickest way. Hugh put it in for Mother after her heart attack. I only use it when I get lazy. ” She laughed. “Or when I need to haul something upstairs.”

  Beatrice dragged the suitcase out the elevator door and let it stand in the hallway. “Let’s leave them here for now and go into the library. When you called from the airport, I ran out to the deli and got a whole bunch of stuff. Can’t have you going hungry on your first day in New York.”

  “That’s very nice of you.”

  “Oh, no, I’m so excited. Let me see you again. You are so beautiful.” Beatrice then suddenly changed. “I don’t want to stay here. Let’s go out to eat.”

  “But, you said you ran out to the deli already.”

  “I know, I did, but now that you’re here, standing right before me, I’d rather go out with you. La donna e mobile. We’ll have so much more fun, and the food will keep.”

  Carolyn smiled at the reference to opera. “It’s fine with me. Either way, I don’t want to put you out.”

  Beatrice put her hands on Carolyn’s shoulders and stared into her eyes. “I’m thrilled you’re here. I’m happy to have someone to eat out with as much as I want. So no party pooping from you, okay?”

  Carolyn nodded. She looked around the hallway as if she expected someone new to come out from a door. “You live here alone?”

  “Yes. It’s just fine with me. For now. I’ll probably sell it at some point and make a killing, but for now, especially with you here, I’m happy where I am. Maybe it’s a big house, but it was my father’s house, and my grandfather’s house. So it has a lot of ghosts. Maybe you will get to know them, too.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  Beatrice laughed and looked at Carolyn with mock intensity. “Kidding? Did your mother say I was eccentric or something?”

  “No.” Carolyn understood the error of her statement. “But then, maybe there are noises at night.”

  Beatrice shook her head. “My grandmother saw ghosts, but then nobody took her seriously. I merely meant that it’s a house with history. I think you’re mother’s still here and-“ Beatrice hesitated and became serious. “Her mother, too, but that’s a whole other story. We can talk about that sometime, but right now, I don’t know about you, but my stomach’s growling. I haven’t time for ghosts. And I have so much to talk to you about. There’s a great delicatessen just over a couple blocks. Vamoose.”

  After a short walk to Madison Avenue, they sat next to the window with an outsized pastrami sandwich to share.

  “I’ve never been to San Francisco. I’m sure they have good delicatessens.” Beatrice took a large bite and wiped her mouth with her napkin, bending over to keep the crumbs on her plate.

  “They’re like a sampling of New York delicatessens. David’s on Geary is about a quarter of the size of this.” Carolyn looked at the wall of menu items and the salamis hanging below. “But we have Chicago delicatessens, too, so perhaps more variety.”

  “I know this one well, being so close to home, but I don’t eat much of this stuff, good as it is.” She took another bite, then continued, “So, tell me, do you know the city?”

  Carolyn sat back and looked out the window. An indistinct combination of their images puzzled her, but then a young man with tight jeans and a red tie walked past, and Carolyn saw him as a friendly neighborhood guy. A New Yorker like herself. At least that’s what she wanted. And hoped she could soon become. She turned back to face Beatrice across the table. “No. I don’t. Just the museums and the theaters. I guess I’m just a West Coast person. I know LA better.”

  Beatrice smiled to herself, then said, “That’s good, actually. For me. I haven’t been here long, really, but I’ve learned to love this city.”

  “You grew up here, didn’t you? And you came back.”

  Beatrice reached out and touched the top of Carolyn’s hand. “Yes, I did. From Montreal. And there’s so much to tell you. But I’m just happy to finally meet you. I have no children of my own. Anything you want to know. Just ask.”

  Carolyn turned her hand up and wrapped her fingers around her aunt’s hand. “I suppose the number one thing is why you and Mother haven’t kept in contact.”

  Beatrice put her head down and moved her napkin around before she replied. “You’re asking a very hard question. Oh, it’s not hard in itself, it’s just that-its-well, there’s so much to go over. You know what, you’re done, right? It’s not a very nice place to talk. Let’s go find a nice quiet bar where we can have a little drink and start our long, long conversation.”

  “Yes, that sounds nice. Thank you for the sandwich.”

  “Sure. I think we both ate rather fast.”

  A short cab ride later they sat in a booth in the Carnegie Bistro, surrounded by leather and dark wood. Mercifully, two large-screen sports TVs over the wall of liquor bottles were quiet. When the waiter came, Beatrice ordered single-malt Scotch whiskey for both of them. She noticed a slight frown on Carolyn’s forehead. “What?”

  “It’s nothing. My mother likes to drink that.”

  “Is it a problem?”

  “Not really, but-I’m starting a new life in New Y
ork. How about something more-,” she looked at the waiter. “Do you have a house specialty?”

  He smiled. “Too many to count. May I suggest a quintessential Upper East Side drink? The Manhattan.”

  “Hmm.” Carolyn pursed her lips, but looked at Beatrice, realizing her aunt was at a level of sophistication higher. “Yes, that’s about as local as you can get. That would be fine.”

  “Wait,” Beatrice said. “Not just any old Manhattan. What do you use?”

  “That depends on the customer. I suggest McKenzie Rye. It’s from New York, the Finger Lakes region. But you could request Old Overholt, or even Jim Beam rye. If you want a real Manhattan. None of that Canadian stuff.”

  Beatrice stiffened and feigned annoyance.

  The bartender smiled at her. “No offense. Canadian whiskey just isn’t rye. You can have whatever you want.”

  Beatrice waited for Carolyn, then said, “It’s your decision.”

  “McKenzie, that sounds just right.”

  The waiter nodded and left the table.

  “Well,” Carolyn continued, “that was more complicated that I expected.”

  Beatrice nodded. “Yes, but you’ve now become a New Yorker. Everything’s more complicated here. And now it’s your drink.”

  Carolyn moved her head from side to side. “I don’t think I want to have my own drink. Although it is nice to be able to order something my friends back home never drink.” Back home. Wish I hadn’t said that.

  “No, you don’t have to have your own drink. But you can have one if you want. You know what’s nice?” She didn’t wait for Carolyn to answer. “It makes you local already.”

  The waiter brought their drinks and they each took a sip. Carolyn liked that. Beatrice was treating her like an independent adult. The first person ever to do that. She settled back against the leather and savored the rye whiskey and sweet vermouth. Yes, she thought, as she watched Beatrice take a drink, a local. East Coast, not West. That’s what I want.

  “I asked Mother why she never talked to you. She didn’t have an answer.”

  Beatrice looked at Carolyn with sympathetic eyes. “I don’t think either of us has an answer. For me, you know I lived in Montreal for twenty years, and stayed there even after my husband died five years ago. Then Hugh died and left me the house.”

  “Mother won’t talk to me about it, ” Carolyn said. She looked once again at the bar, the low amber lights, the mirror, the quietness of it all. As if they were in a protective cocoon. A flush began in her checks from the Manhattan and she felt snug and far away from home.

  “I understand.” Beatrice looked down and twisted her glass, stared into the dark liquid and spoke without looking up. “Her father disowned her.”

  “Do you know why?” Carolyn saw the bartender walk under a bright light. His face reminded her of Damian and she felt a small jab of anger.

  Beatrice now looked at Carolyn and paused a moment, clearly to bring her back to the conversation. “Do you really not know why?”

  Carolyn felt a brief sense of embarrassment. At being absent for a second, but there was something else in the question. That her mother had not told her the truth. Or, maybe, that she, Carolyn didn’t care enough. When she replied, her voice was defensive.

  “Well, yeah, I know she was pregnant with me. Girls get pregnant, but they don’t get thrown out. That’s kind of old country isn’t it? Especially when she’s a financial wizard like him. Did you ever ask him why?”

  Beatrice heard Carolyn’s voice as pain and she lowered her own voice and sighed before speaking. “I started to, once. But as soon as I said ‘Elizabeth’ he became angry and told me never to mention that name again. I did talk to Mrs. Willow, the cook. She said he had never gotten over his wife’s-your grandmother’s-infidelity. So he took it out on his daughter. Elizabeth’s pregnancy, to him it was a bastard child. He despised her for that. To him, Elizabeth did the same thing as Julia.”

  Carolyn nodded sadly. The word that stood out for her was ‘infidelity’, but she didn’t feel she could ask about it. It would have been too direct. So she changed the subject from Elizabeth to Beatrice. She leaned forward to emphasize her intimacy with her newly found aunt.

  “But-you-weren’t you friends with her? My grandmother, I mean.” Carolyn found herself drawn in to this web of relations. Friends. Mother. Grandmother. New York aunt. She instinctively moved her hand toward Beatrice.

  Beatrice looked at Carolyn and shrugged, but her voice softened more. She was also clearly learning to adapt to a new relationship. For a second time she touched Carolyn’s hand. “I hardly knew her. I had left for Montreal before Hugh married her.”

  “Hugh-my grandfather?”

  Beatrice frowned. “Yes, Hugh. Did you not know much about him? Apart from finance, I mean.”

  “No, of course, yes, I was just sort of repeating after you. That’s really all I know. I don’t really know anything personal about him.”

  Beatrice widened her eyes and cocked her head. “I was beginning to wonder how much Elizabeth has told you. You can learn about your family from me. I’m sorry it has to be this way, sorry for you, but it’ll help you and me become closer. So, for now, it’s good.”

  “See, I’m asking about my mother and her father, and a minute ago you were talking about my grandmother. She’s just-to me-a blank. My mother was only three or four when her mother died. She didn’t know her at all.” Carolyn shrunk back against the booth and inside herself.

  “What is it?” Beatrice said.

  Carolyn spoke as if only to herself. Or to someone far away. “Oh, it’s just that I’m supposed to see my grandmother’s grave while I’m here. My mother says it’s the only thing she has left in New York.”

  Beatrice smiled and raised her voice to get Carolyn’s attention. “Hey, not any more. Now she’s got two of us.”

  Carolyn raised her hand to stifle a yawn, but felt guilty interrupting the conversation.

  “Mon dieu,” Beatrice said. “Come on. I’m keeping you up.”

  “No, it’s okay, I’m on West Coast time.”

  “Maybe, but you’ve had a long day.” Beatrice widened her eyes. “Obviously. You need a rest. Let’s get you home.”

  Home. The word bypassed Carolyn’s brain and went straight to her heart. She looked at Beatrice as she said in a quiet voice, “Home. Wow.”

  When they arrived back, Beatrice opened the door and let Carolyn inside. “Come on, it’s getting chilly out there.”

  “Aren’t you kind of lonely here? This whole house all by yourself?”

  Beatrice looked around the foyer, turned her mouth down and shook her head a little in thought before she smiled at Carolyn. “Oh, no. I like being by myself at night. I have a lady, Anna, who is here every other day. And I pay the doorman at the building next door to watch this house. Fred. A big bruiser. He’ll stroll down the street every once in a while.” She put her arm around Carolyn. “Let’s go up and I’ll show you to your room. I’ll show you the whole house tomorrow, after you’ve had a good night’s rest.”

  They walked up the stairs to the hallway. Beatrice showed Carolyn her room and said good night. “This was my mother’s room.”

  “Grace?”

  “Yes. Hugh didn’t change anything, and I’ve left it that way, too.” She sat on the bed. “I don’t want to keep you up. We have so much time to talk about all this. But I’ve left the house the way I found it.” She stood up and put both hands on her cheeks. “Oh, you know what, you should phone your mother and let her know you got in all right.”

  Carolyn waved it off. “She’s fine. I’ll call her sometime tomorrow. There’s no rush.”

  Beatrice opened her eyes wide. “You sure? It’s just a phone call.”

  “No, thank you, it can wait.” My mother can wait a long time.

  “All right, well, I’m just next door if you need anything.”

  “I’ll just ask any passing ghost.”

  Beatrice laughed. “There are n
o noises in this house. You’ll sleep like a baby.” She stood and put her arms around Carolyn, pulled her in tight, and hugged her for several seconds. Then she stepped back and touched her on the cheek. “Welcome to New York. Welcome to your home.”

  “Thank you,” Carolyn called out as Beatrice walked out the door.

  Beatrice stopped and turned back. “Your mother loves you deeply, you know.”

  Carolyn hesitated and put her arms across her chest. “I appreciate what you say, Aunt Beatrice. But sometimes you have to show your love.” She went to her aunt and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Maybe like you are.”

  “We have a lot to talk about, Young Lady. Good night. And skip the aunt stuff. I’ve always been Beatrice, never Bea or Trish, but, you know, it suits me. Maybe because in Montréal it was always Béatrice,” she said, emphasizing the French accent.

  Carolyn emptied her suitcases and sat down on the bed. She eyed the elegant white French-looking telephone on the ornate desk and felt a pull to call her mother. But she resisted. Not yet, she thought. When I’m settled in. When I know a bit more about this house. When I’m more in control. When I’m-but she let it go and went to bed and imagined the deli and the bistro until she fell asleep.

  The next morning Carolyn awoke to a quiet house. She got out of bed, put on a beautiful white terrycloth bathrobe she found in the closet, and went out to the hallway. Beatrice hadn’t shown her the house last night, so she only knew her own room and the stairway down to the front door. In contrast to the evening before, the doors on this floor were open, inviting her to explore. She turned left and looked in the first door.

  A library with light wood paneling and a grand fireplace invited her in. A man who might have been J.P. Morgan or Andrew Carnegie hung majestically over the mantelpiece. Carolyn stepped in to look at the painting to see the name, assuming it was one of the Stuart ancestors. She studied the face, wanting to find herself, but couldn’t see a resemblance. A sense of being lost came over her. A new consciousness that she had never felt before. As if she were entering a maze with no hope of finding a way to get out the other side. Or of finding her way back. For moment, lost in this room in her new home.

  The background of the portrait didn’t tell her if it might be her grandfather or great-grandfather. The look wasn’t of something older than that. Her mother’s father? The one who threw her out of this house?

  The walls of the room were lined with books. Some had gilt lettering and designs, and might be first editions. She decided to leave them for later inspection. Large empty spaces glared. A small blond Baldwin grand piano stood in the corner.

  “Good morning.” Beatrice’s voice came from behind. “I hope you slept well. “

  “Yes, I did, thank you, Aunt-“ Carolyn stopped when Beatrice cocked her head and raised her finger, although she kept smiling. “Sorry-Beatrice-I’ll get the hang of it.”

  Beatrice carried a tray of coffee with small pastries on it. “Here’s something to wake you up. Then we’ll get dressed and go downtown. I have two treats for you. We’ll have lunch at Windows on the World at the top of the World Trade Center, and then we’ll go down to the 4th basement of the Empire State Building for a choir rehearsal.”

  “Oh, that sounds marvelous. You’re going all out for me.”

  “Absolutely. Because you’re going all out for me. You, Carolyn, you’ve travelled across the country. Sit down and have some coffee. You do drink coffee, don’t you? I never asked whether you’re one of those, ah, natural type of people.”

  “Oh, no, not me. I have my own drink, remember.”

  Beatrice laughed. “That’s right. With New York rye. That’s not quite vegan.”

  Carolyn gestured to the painting. “Who is that?”

  Beatrice put the tray down and handed Carolyn a cup of coffee. She pointed to the pastries. “If you’re hungry. Myself, I’ll wait for lunch.” Then she looked up at the painting. “That is my father, and Hugh’s, of course, George Randolph Stuart.” Turning to Carolyn, she continued, “This is your great-grandfather. He started the family fortune back at the turn of the century. Some kind of commodities baron. I guess. I never cared to know. He was never home. Not for me. Not even for a birthday.”

  Carolyn felt the pain in Beatrice’s voice. “I’m sorry.”

  “Well, actually, he was home every day, in the morning, at the table, reading the paper, not even noticing me, and then he’d come back long after I’d been shuffled off to bed.” Beatrice waved her thoughts away. “But that’s all in the past. Life goes on. What’s important is that we don’t know what the future holds.”

  “I’m sorry you had a childhood like that. But also, I’m sorry I never met your husband,” Carolyn said. “I know that’s in the past, too, but I wish I could have known him.”

  “Thank you. I’m grateful for what we had. I have known true love in this life, and that’s all I ask for. It more than makes up for my father.”

  “Will you tell me about him? Your husband, I mean.”

  “Pierre was so handsome. And fun. We did everything together. A man who will go shopping with you, that’s a treasure. He worked for the CBC.”

  “The CBC?”

  “Oh, my dear, you are from the West Coast. Canadian Broadcasting Company. He was a producer.”

  “Can I ask you what happened.”

  “Yes. But I don’t want to go into it. It was quick. He went to the doctor and three months later he was gone.”

  “I’m so sorry. So fast. But you had forty years with him.”

  “Nearly. Carolyn, I’m grateful for all the years we had. That’s all anyone can ever ask. I mourned for him. Actually, I will always mourn for him. I think he will always be with me. And I’m so grateful now that I have you. And Elizabeth. You know, my husband died five years ago. I probably would have stayed in Montreal if my brother hadn’t left me this house. I rent out our place up there.”

  “You still have a home in Montreal?”

  “An apartment, not a house. On the Ile des Soeurs. It’s on the St. Lawrence River-“ Beatrice paused in reverie, then came back. “And I used to go for wonderful long walks. I sold our home on the Plateau. It was just too big for me alone.”

  “You must’ve had a lot of friends up there. It must be lonely coming here.”

  “Yes, you’re right. But I had to come here. To live in this house and remember everything. To kind of relive everything. Even the ghosts. I’ve lived in two worlds.”

  “Beatrice, this house, it must be bigger than the one you had in Montreal.”

  Beatrice laughed. “That’s true, yes. And I won’t stay here. Eventually, I will sell it and find someplace-I was going to say smaller, but I don’t care about that. Maybe a neighborhood that has less money and more character. That’s my project for the next few months. To explore this city and find my neighborhood. Maybe you could help me.”

  Carolyn nodded in agreement, but not with enthusiasm.

  Beatrice waved her hand. “Oh, I didn’t mean to drag you wholesale into my world.”

  “No, I didn’t mean to sound like-I mean I just don’t know the city so I wouldn’t be any help to you.”

  “And you have your own agenda.” Beatrice stood. “Why don’t we talk about that downtown.” She picked up her dishes and said, “Have you called your mother?”

  Carolyn looked up at her but remained quiet.

  “Oh, okay, I’ll let it go.”

  They put the dishes away and left for the World Trade Center.

  On the 106th floor, the young waiter with black hair combed back on his head seated them in the small table next to the huge window.

  “Have you been here before?” Beatrice asked as she unfolded her napkin.

  “No, I haven’t. It’s a real thrill for me. We did, a bunch of us from school, go up to the observation platform. But to sit down to lunch with a view of the two bridges-that’s Williamsburg and the Brooklyn Bridge, right?”

  Beatrice scanned the world below. “
Uh-huh. Another view of your new world.”

  “My new world.” Carolyn looked down and wondered where exactly her new world would be. “I don’t even know where I will live.”

  “Oh, no, you will live with me. The longer you stay with me, the longer I delay selling it.” Beatrice hesitated, to get Carolyn’s attention. “The real question is what are you going to do now.”

  “Now.”

  “Yes, of course. Your next move in New York. Your first move. I understand you’re here to interview at NYU. That’s what your mother told me. Is that what you have in mind?”

  The question forced Carolyn to look out the window once more, as if that would anchor her response in the real world. But nothing down there told her what to say. “My mother. Yes. I have the name of someone at the NYU school of business.”

  “Graduate school, I presume. You already have a BFA, don’t you?”

  The waiter came by to deliver water and bread and take their orders. They hadn’t thought about it. “Is this your first time here?”

  Beatrice answered for them. “No.”

  “May I suggest the World View of Seafood? Oysters, lobster, periwinkles?”

  “Oysters-from where?” Beatrice said.

  “Any coast you like. Chesapeake, Long Island, Puget Sound.”

  “Chesapeake,” she said.

  “What are periwinkles?” Carolyn said.

  “They are sea snails. Very delicious. I recommend them.”

  Carolyn and Beatrice looked at each other and agreed.

  “Sounds great”, Beatrice said.

  “Very well. And wine?”

  “We’ll take your suggestion,” said.

  “I can call the sommelier if you like.”

  “Oh no,” she said, “no need to get complicated. “Why don’t you bring us a couple of glasses of good white wine?”

  “Certainly. Chenin blanc or pinot grigio?”

  Beatrice deferred to Carolyn, who said, “I’d like the pinot.” She looked at Beatrice, who nodded. “Two glasses of that.”

  “I’ll be right back.”

  Beatrice continued their conversation. “So, where were we before we were so deliciously interrupted? Ah-NYU.”

  “NYU. My mother knows someone there. I have to set up a meeting. I have a name, but as you can tell, I’m not in a big hurry.”

  Beatrice smiled. “It’s not me that needs you to be in a hurry. A meeting. With whom?”

  Carolyn sat, quiet, not knowing what to say. “To be honest, I don’t know. Somebody. Somebody in their admissions office, or-I don’t know exactly.”

  “You must have some sort of expectation.”

  “That’s just it. I know I can’t just breeze into an MBA program. God, that would be awful anyway. So, I guess they’ve worked out something. Mother’s been a big enough contributor, or at least she is now, that they’ll find a spot for me. Some special program. Whether I like it or not.”

  “It sounds as if you don’t like it.”

  The words struck home. “Yes, that’s it in a nutshell.” She didn’t say that it’s been a long time since she’d given it any thought at all.

  The wine arrived. Beatrice held up her glass for a toast. “No matter what, here’s to you being in New York.”

  Carolyn clinked her glass against Beatrice’s. “Thank you. Here’s to meeting you. And here’s to the future.”

  They drank their first sips of wine in silence.

  “To the future,” Beatrice said. “Especially to yours. You’re very young, Carolyn. You don’t know what life is about. You don’t know what you want.”

  That stung. Carolyn put her glass down. It sounded too much like words she’d heard from her mother. “I do know what I want.”

  “Well, yes, you wanted to get an MFA at Berkeley, I know that much. But that path isn’t open to you now.”

  Carolyn couldn’t believe-or wouldn’t accept-what she heard. She had an instantaneous desire to stand and leave, but she caught herself and took a deep breath.

  Beatrice held her hands up. “Sorry, you’re pretty sensitive about it. I don’t want to butt in where I’m not wanted.”

  Carolyn sighed. “No, I don’t-“

  The waiter appeared with a plate of shellfish and salad, red, green, yellow pieces. He cleared a place and put it down between them and gave them each a plate. Then he quickly disappeared when he saw their serious faces.

  Beatrice picked up a small oyster fork and made a delicate stab at one of the oysters. “Umm, look, it’s very fresh.” She picked up an oyster, opened her mouth and let it slide down her throat. “Delicious. Come on, dive in.”

  Carolyn, grateful for the interruption, took a piece of lobster and dipped it in clarified butter, then ate it.

  “I think we’ll just eat off the big place,” Beatrice said, speaking in a low voice inviting Carolyn to be conspiratorial.

  “Suits me. I agree it’s delicious. I think I’m brave enough to eat a periwinkle.” She picked one of the small snails and used her oyster fork to pick it out of the shell. “More butter.” She dipped the snail in the butter and put it in her mouth, then closed her eyes and chewed and swallowed in a hurry. “Okay,” she said. “Not bad. Better than escargot, I think.”

  They finished their lunch with more comments about the quality of the seafood, paid, and left for their next appointment.

  Carolyn marveled at the huge aluminum and gold mural in the lobby of the Empire State Building. Beatrice arranged for their passes and they took the elevator four floors down.

  Outside the elevator Carolyn laughed and pointed to the exposed pipes and wiring of the hallway ceiling. “Oh, that doesn’t give me a comfortable feeling.”

  They stood before doors labeled “King’s College.”

  “It’s in here,” Beatrice said. She opened the door and ushered Carolyn inside a large musical practice space with a dozen folding chairs. A low stage with two narrow elevated platforms stood empty with several music stands haphazardly strewn about.

  They sat in chairs in the middle of the room and waited.

  Carolyn frowned at Beatrice, who leaned over and whispered, “Just be patient.”

  Carolyn was patient and her reward was a full hour of rehearsal for an American folk song recital later in the month. No one else came in to hear the choir. After hearing Shenandoah, Deep River, and John Corigliano’s Dylan Thomas Trilogy, they applauded, sounding foolish with their meager sound.

  The conductor turned around. “Thank you,” he said. “And you are-“

  “My friends,” came a woman’s voice from the back of the choir.

  “So, Jenny, why don’t you introduce them.”

  Jenny came forward. She had a huge head of light brown hair. “This is my friend Beatrice, from Montreal, on the right. The other person is-“

  Beatrice stood. “My niece, Carolyn, from San Francisco.”

  A whoop came from somewhere else in the choir.

  The conductor laughed. “They’re coming out of the woodwork.”

  Jenny came down and shook Beatrice’s hand, then turned to Carolyn. “It’s nice to meet you. Maybe we’ll get together again. But right now, I’ve got to get back to work.”

  “Oh, sure,” Carolyn said.

  “We’re off,” Beatrice said. “And thanks for the invitation.”

  “Sorry I have to leave,” Jenny said.

  Beatrice and Carolyn went up to the lobby.

  “Thank you so much,” Carolyn said. “Two treats in a row. You sure know how to show a girl a good time.”

  “We’re not done yet,” Beatrice said as she hailed a cab. “We’re off again to uptown.”

  “The Metropolitan Museum,” she said to the cab driver.

  As they inched their way up 5th Avenue, Carolyn turned to Beatrice. “You don’t have to do all this for me, you know.”

  “Do you object to me doing it?”

  “No, it’s wonderful. I’m having a great time. It’s all a whirlwind on my second day in Ne
w York.”

  “That’s right. For me, too. Because you are my family, now, Carolyn.” Beatrice put her hand on Carolyn’s forearm, held it there for a second as she said, “Do you know how amazing that is?”

  Carolyn nodded. “Yes, I do. It’s a total surprise for me. A month ago I was-. It’s just that-at this rate-we’ll have done all of New York in a week.”

  “No, I’m just starting you off. We have one more thing to do today.”

  “What’s that?”

  “We’re going to The Cloisters. To see a marvelous tapestry, The Hunt of the Unicorn.”

  “Oh, I’ve never been there. How did you know that?”

  “Maybe your mother knows a bit more about you than you think.”

  Mother. Carolyn pulled her arms in tight.

  “Oh-oh, there I go again,” Beatrice said. “I suppose you haven’t called her yet, either?”

  Carolyn laughed. “And when did I have time to do that?”

  “I thought you might have done it before you came in for breakfast this morning.”

  “No. And she hasn’t called yet, either. It suits me just fine.” Carolyn turned away from Beatrice to stare out the window at the gray waters of the Hudson River.

  “Gee, I keep getting on your wrong side.”

  Carolyn looked back at Beatrice with a serious face. “It’s not my wrong side.” She kept to herself for a moment, then said, “Yeah, it is. But it’s because I haven’t figured out my right side yet.” She raised her eyebrows. “Maybe you’ll help me do that.”

  Beatrice’s eyes sparkled at the last few words, and her mouth widened just a little. “Help you? Do you mean that?”

  “I certainly do.”

  Beatrice turned to face Carolyn directly and put her hand back on her arm. “Okay, I think we’re on our way.”

  At the Cloisters a young man met them as they put their coats away and introduced himself with a Scottish accent as Gillian Macdonald, a graduate student working on The Hunt of the Unicorn. He spent an hour with them, explaining the heritage of the tapestries, the intricacies of the weaving, the connections with Stirling Castle in Scotland and The Lady and the Unicorn at the Cluny Museum in Paris. At the end he presented each of them a foot high porcelain unicorn made by Royal Doulton.

  When they arrived home, exhausted, they put both their unicorns on the mantelpiece in the library and stood impressed with their good fortune.

  Carolyn plopped down on the brown leather sofa in an exaggerated display of exhaustion. “I can’t thank you enough. You are amazing, Beatrice.”

  “Let’s not take this too far. I haven’t enjoyed myself this much since-“ she looked up toward the ceiling- “you know, since I left Montreal. How about a drink before dinner?” Beatrice said as she walked over to the corner cabinet. “Can’t make your very own Manhattan, but practically anything else I’ve got.” She pulled panel door open and flicked a switch to reveal backlit cabinet shelves with bottles of red, green, yellow, amber, and dark amber liquid.

  “You know what, maybe something pretty light. I’m really hungry right now.”

  “Yeah,” Beatrice said. “How about we just bring up yesterday’s deli stuff and chow down on it?”

  “Sounds great to me.”

  They went downstairs, heated the platters of paninis and vegetables and brought them up for the library table. “Why don’t you look in the small refrigerator,” Beatrice said as she walked toward the door. “Find some good beer. I’ll get plates.”

  “Terrific,” Carolyn said, jumping up with renewed energy. She opened the door of the refrigerator and found several bottles of Belgian ale. She took two and opened them.

  When Beatrice came back with plates, they both sat on the sofa and ate their dinner.

  “This is good,” Carolyn said. “Especially for leftovers.”

  “More like day old donuts, but it’s still good.”

  “Oh no, not like day old donuts at all. It’s too high class for that. It’s more like the day after Thanksgiving to me.”

  Beatrice nodded as she chewed, quickly, then said, “Still good, I agree. Makes me think of the delis in Montreal.”

  “Montreal, that doesn’t seem like a deli kind of city.”

  “Oh, but it is, because it’s a mix of Quebec and Ontario, French and English, and a great Jewish population.”

  “Yeah, like New York,” Carolyn said. “Speaking of which, I think this has been the most cultured day of my life.”

  Beatrice sat back and sighed, wiped food particles off her hands, and took a sip if beer. “Probably for me, too. I wanted you to see what I like about New York, Carolyn. It’s the city that never sleeps, as Frank Sinatra said. I think. It’s the city that never stops. I miss Montreal, but there just isn’t the music, the art, the films-the everything. Not like New York. You couldn’t have chosen a better place to land and try your luck.”

  Carolyn sighed. “My luck. I’m not in a big hurry to try for it. Not yet.” She stood and walked around the room. “Not to change the subject, but it kind of looks like there are places on the wall for paintings. But there aren’t any.”

  Beatrice’s voice carried a strong note of sadness. “I remember paintings. Here, and in father’s office. And in Elizabeth’s room down the hall.”

  Carolyn turned her head when she heard her mother’s name. “Elizabeth? My mother?”

  Beatrice stood. “Come with me,” she said as she walked out to the hallway. “I promised to give you and tour and I forgot. Too busy seeing the sights, I guess.”

  Carolyn followed her to the next door and walked in when Beatrice opened the door. The paneled room was dark, the curtains closed. Beatrice turned on the light and the rich dark wood of the walls, the chairs and the desk blended into a wave of browns as the room came into focus.

  “See,” Beatrice said, there were paintings here, too. But, in the last days, they were all gone. Sold. He had cash flow problems. I think it’s what killed him.” She ran her hand over the desk. “Mother said he put all his and her money into gold, then had real estate problems, then he couldn’t sell the gold fast enough. Because of the war. It was in Switzerland.”

  “But that was long before he disowned my mother because of me.”

  Beatrice turned sharply to Carolyn. “He didn’t disown your mother because of you. It was because of your grandmother. To him, Elizabeth betrayed him just as her mother had.”

  Carolyn’s voice became sheepish. “I know what you’re saying, but still-“

  “You’re changing the subject. We were talking about money.”

  “Sorry.”

  “That’s okay, we need to talk more about that, too. I think I’m going to be your family historian. Anyway, it’s true, his financial problems started way before you came along. It meant he didn’t have enough to fall back on. He lost the real estate and began speculating in the stock market.” Beatrice stopped for a moment, put her arms across her chest, and looked down, absorbed. When she spoke again, her eyes were wet with tears. “He did well for a long time, but he lost so much in the downturn of 1960. That’s when he began selling the paintings.”

  “He had valuable paintings?”

  “Oh yes. How about Degas. Toulouse-Lautrec. Ostade.”

  Carolyn remembered back to her last art history class at Mills. “Ostade? That wouldn’t be so valuable, would it?”

  “Please, don’t get all art-dealer on me. Whatever they were, they lasted a year maybe, and then they were all gone, sold. My point is, the empty spaces on the wall show you where they were, his last chance, and then, shortly after your mother went back to California, he just kind of gave up. Mother had died a year before, and then Elizabeth broke his heart.”

  “Broke his heart?”

  Beatrice sat in the chair behind the desk. “I see I’m going to have a hard time with you. When he talked to me, yes, his heart was broken.”

  Carolyn sat in one of the ornate chairs in front of the desk. “A broken heart. I never heard that from
Mother.”

  “Look,” Beatrice said, leaning forward and putting her arms on the desk, “your mother, as far as I know, went back to Stanford and made her own way in the world. She is very, very successful. She did it on her own. And you’re right, it wasn’t she who broke my brother’s heart. It was her mother. But Elizabeth broke it again.”

  Carolyn stood, put her hands behind her back, and turned to look around the room. “You’re saying my grandmother, Julia, broke his heart.”

  “Oh, Carolyn, I’m saying that when he talked to me, after Elizabeth left, his heart was broken. Do we care to try and think through all the details? I don’t want to. Sure, I want to help you understand, but I don’t want to relive all that heartbreak. It was terrible talking to my mother and brother all those years. Pierre used to tell me I was fortunate to be living in Canada, away from all this.”

  Carolyn pursed her lips and thought for a moment. “You and I have different views on all this. I was always on the outside and far away. But you, you were here.”

  Beatrice shook her head. “No, you’re wrong there. I wasn’t here. I was in Montreal, married, living a different life. For me, everything happened on the phone. After the fact.” She stood. “Come on, let me show you Elizabeth’s room.”

  They went down the hall. When they entered, Carolyn was disappointed. There was a simple bed and a nightstand with an plain lamp on it, a small desk with a chair and another plain lamp.

  “What’s wrong?” Beatrice asked.

  “Oh, I don’t know. Funny, I was expecting a little girls’ room, but that’s not what it is at all. It’s just a-a-a college girl, maybe a high school girl’s room. You know, not even a girl’s room particularly.” She opened the drawer in the desk, and found a cup with a Trinity School logo. She picked it up and turned it around.

  Beatrice smiled. “Ah, Trinity School. We all went there, Hugh, myself, Elizabeth.”

  “Where is it?”

  “Upper West Side.”

  “It’s still here?”

  Beatrice laughed. “What do you mean? Of course it’s still here. Why would you ever ask that?”

  Carolyn laughed, too. “Sorry. It’s just that I automatically think that about my mother-that there’s nothing to relate to. You know, like Gertrude Stein, there’s no there there.”

  “Yeah, I understand, more than you know. You know what I think? When Elizabeth left, she probably took anything that made it personal to her, and the room hasn’t been used since. Nobody has paid any attention to it.”

  Carolyn thought to herself for half a minute as she surveyed the room. She went to the window and pulled back the dark red drapes. “A nice view of Park Avenue,” she said.

  “Yes. This was my room before it was Elizabeth’s. I remember waiting endlessly, looking out this window, waiting for ticker tape parade. But it never came. It was over on Fifth Avenue.” She chuckled to herself.

  “Beatrice-,” Carolyn stopped for a moment, then said, “Do you think he kept it this way for my mother, for Elizabeth his daughter?” Clearly that’s what Carolyn wanted to believe. Something that made her mother and grandfather closer together.

  “To be honest, I don’t really know. If you want to think of it that way, that’s fine with me.”

  “But you don’t think so.”

  “I would say I never thought about it. It’s pure speculation.”

  “Thank you, Beatrice, anyway, for showing me this. Remember, yesterday, you spoke of this being my home. Now I’m beginning to feel a little bit like it’s-um-like I’m at home.” She put her arms around Beatrice and held her tight. “I -thank you for welcoming me.”

  Beatrice’s eyes gleamed. “I’m so happy you came. I think we both are going to gain from this. And speaking of your mother-“ She raised her eyebrows.

  Carolyn frowned. “No. Not yet.”

  “You’re so conflicted. You seem to want to know all about your mother-and the rest of your family-but you don’t want to call home. She’s the only other family you’ve got.”

  “I know, but, I’m not ready to call her yet. This is my new home.”

  “You know what I mean, Carolyn. You have to call her up at some point. Don’t you think she’s worried about you?”

  “Worried? No, I don’t. She’s worried about Lehman Brother and Goldman Sachs.”

  “Oh, come on, that can’t be true. The only reason you’re here is because she sent you. That makes her pretty wonderful in my estimation.”

  “All right, yes, I see that side of it. And I haven’t forgotten it, either. But I’m just not ready. I don’t want to talk to her when all I’ve learned is that there’s a cup in a drawer from high school.”

  Beatrice sighed. “Hey, it’s just your second day in town. I don’t mean to rush you.”

  “Thank you.” Carolyn yawned.

  “Know what,” Beatrice said, “I kind of assumed you’d have something lined up like your mother spoke of, some interview at NYU or-but you don’t seem in a hurry. Which is fine with me, and I won’t push the point. Why don’t you settle down for the night, and I’ll put the dishes away.”

  Carolyn stood. “Thank you again. But I’ll help you with the dishes. I’d rather, if you don’t mind.”

  “Good.”

  The next morning Carolyn awoke, took a shower, and went downstairs when she heard the familiar sounds coming from a room she’d seen when she entered the house. Beatrice was finishing a table setting for the two of them.

  Beatrice smiled when she saw Carolyn turn the corner around the banister and come toward the room. “Good Morning! I thought we’d just have a couple of croissants and then be off.”

  “Be off? Again? Really?”

  “Yeah, can’t stay home when I’ve got a traveling companion with me. I had a friend sneak us a couple of free tickets to a rehearsal at the Met. Lulu. I could have told you all this in advance, but it’s more fun this way.”

  “Lulu?”

  “You don’t know it? Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to talk that way. You’re into art, not music. I’ve only heard it once. But I don’t want to pass up a chance. Not when it’s for free, and just fits for our time together, you and me. It’s Alban Berg. Pretty modern, I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Mind? Of course I don’t mind. But you’re right. I don’t know opera very well. And certainly not modern pieces. I get the feeling you’re not going to quit until I’m educated.”

  “Oh, don’t look at it that way. It’s not education, it’s you and me in New York. Anybody can go see Puccini, but this is really challenging.”

  “I’m up for it. I think.”

  “It’s very modern music, not that saccharin Italian stuff.”

  “You don’t like Italian opera? How can that be?”

  Beatrice rolled her eyes. “I can see, it’s really good you left the small town and came to metropolis. You need to hone your satirical skills. Of course I love Puccini, Rossini, Donizetti. I cry every time I hear the fat girl dying in La Bohème, or that poor Japanese girl having the lieutenant’s baby. I’m surprised you’ve never heard of Lulu, though.”

  “No, I did, I’ve heard of it. I’m sure in one of my But I haven’t gone much to the opera. I did see La Bohème with some friends at the Orpheum in San Francisco. And, yeah, we went to Madame Butterfly at the San Francisco opera. That’s about it. I’m not the crying kind, I think. Probably got that from my mother. The problem is you have to wait too long between arias. ”

  “Right. But this is different. Lulu, wow! It’s degenerate. It’s like punk rock for opera. You may not like it, but it’ll up your sophistication for sure.”

  Four hours later, Beatrice and Carolyn left Lincoln Center and arrived home.

  Sitting on the sofa in the library with a Coke, Carolyn waved her head back and forth. “Amazing. What an opera! Death at the hand of Jack the Ripper. That’s better than the devil.”

  “I see you liked it.” Beatrice was clearly happy.

  “I’m not sure ye
t I like the music.” She focused her eyes on nowhere in front of her with a puzzled look. “That may take some time. But the story, it’s just-it’s-more than amazing. It’s a movie. A gangster movie. I never thought that music-an opera-could-convey the same thing. I think it showed her feeling more than any classical opera could.” She wrinkled up her face in a sneer. ”It kind of makes me sick.” Carolyn sat back as if exhausted.

  Beatrice sat and stared at this transformation. She let her hands fall loosely on her lap.

  Carolyn looked over to Beatrice with a smile. “I think I can’t thank you enough. This has been a learning experience I didn’t think I would ever have.”

  “I’m not sure what you mean.” Her eyes squinted, with an impish gleam.

  Carolyn stood and moved with the drink in one hand and gestured with the other, as if she were lecturing. “What I mean is-“ She stopped moving “-That-I didn’t expect-“She turned to Beatrice and caught her attention. “-to learn so much from music.” She sat down in an easy chair and placed her hands on the arms of the chair. “This was a really nasty story, you know.”

  Beatrice nodded and smiled knowingly. “Uh-huh.”

  “Well, it meant I paid more attention. I’ve seen bloody Shakespeare, but I’ve always avoided chainsaw massacre movies. This was so different. The high art kind of sucked up the blood and guts and made them-I don’t know what. I’m not sure what I know any more.”

  Carolyn’s eyes became heavy. She put the drink down on the table and sank back in the chair, felt comfortable, and warm, and let herself fall into an easy blank state.

  When she opened her eyes, she was covered by a green and brown afghan, the room was bathed in amber light, and everything was quiet. Through the open door she could see it was late afternoon or early evening. She remained in the moment of the silence and the stillness and the drifted off again into sleep.

  A nudge on her shoulder wakened her, still in the chair, still warm.

  Beatrice’s face hovered over her. “How’re you doing, Sweetheart?”

  Sweetheart? Carolyn stared sleepily at Beatrice.

  “Oh, sorry, didn’t mean to get sentimental. That just came out.” Beatrice smiled. “But you looked so peaceful. Beautiful, actually. Like a little girl.”

  Carolyn pushed the afghan off and rubbed her eyes. “No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to doze off.”

  “Do you want to sleep some more?”

  Carolyn looked around the room, trying to figure out what she felt like. “No. Not at all. That was-just what I needed-I think.”

  “Good. Then go freshen up. We’re going to Madison Square Garden?”

  Carolyn sat up, then stood. “What? Tonight?”

  “We don’t have to, if you don’t want to.”

  “Are you kidding? I’m up for anything. I just meant-oh, I don’t know what I meant. Still sleepy. It won’t take long. Just let me get ready.”

  “Good. We’ll eat there. You’ll like it. I hope.”

  “Oh-yes- anything, you’ve been marvelous-Aunt-oops, sorry. Beatrice. I’m still in a daze, I think. I’ve only been here one day, and already I feel like a New Yorker. And I didn’t think there was anything more to see in the city. But I trust you. It’ll be fun.”

  An hour later, Carolyn stepped out of the cab in front of the Garden and saw the marquee and laughed. “Oh my god. Hockey? I’ve never seen a hockey game. This is a surprise. Very unexpected.”

  “Yeah, I know. I’m not a great hockey fan, but-my husband was-so I kind of like to go when the Canadiens are here. And I pay for good seats, I can’t stand sitting way up high.”

  They muscled their way into the arena and down to their seats in front of the glass. Carolyn found herself facing huge men in front of the glass and people surrounding her speaking French. “Wow!” she said, laughing, to Beatrice. “Big guys. And we need that glass?” She could hardly hear her own voice.

  Beatrice leaned over. “Yeah,” she said, cupping her hands over Carolyn’s ears. “Hockey players have to be brutal. The puck would kill you if it hit you in the head.”

  “Oh my gosh!”

  “Don’t worry, we’re safe.”

  A large man with a full day’s beard touched Beatrice on the shoulder. “’Allo, ma Cherie. C’est longtemps.”

  Beatrice stood and hugged the man. They carried on a long animated conversation in French, then Beatrice introduced Carolyn.

  “This is my niece from San Francisco.”

  “Okay, mes amis,” he said, “why don’t you join us after the game. We’re going to go to Frontenac, down in the Village. It’s been a long time, Beatrice. I didn’t know you were in New York. Did you come down just for the game? We could have come together, you know.”

  “No, I live here now, Alain.”

  “Well, I see they are getting ready to play. Will you come down to the Village with us.”

  “I know the Frontenac. We’ll be there.”

  “Bien alors. Au revoir.”

  “Au revoir,” said Carolyn.

  When he left, Beatrice turned to Carolyn. “How’s your French?”

  “Not bad. I did spend half a year in Paris in school. But it’s been a while and I haven’t had a chance to speak it.”

  “Not to worry, these guys all half speak English anyway. Montreal is not like Quebec. Oh!”

  The crowd roared as the puck nearly missed the goal. Two players grappled with each other just inside the window and cries erupted around them of “Allez! Frappez!”

  One of the Montreal players slammed into the window in front of them and Carolyn held on tight to Beatrice. “My god, they’re killing him.”

  Beatrice laughed. “Exciting, no?”

  “Do you go often?”

  “No, only when the Canadiens are in town and I’m not busy. It keeps Pierre close to me. We had season tickets in Montreal. I suppose you like football?”

  “Me? No. Nothing, actually. Mills didn’t do much. Tennis and swimming, but I’m just not athletic. So this is my first professional game and it’s-well, it’s-gruesome.”

  “Yeah, hockey is an acquired taste.”

  Two hours later they got out of a taxi in the West Village and entered Chateau Frontenac. An oversized black and white photo of the chateau overlooking Quebec City dominated the room. An animated conversation in French came from one corner of the room. Carolyn recognized Alain from the game.

  He saw them and motioned them over, then introduced them to the small group.

  Carolyn stood next to a young man who didn’t look very much older than her. She was impressed with how well her French held up, how easy it became.

  “You are all from Quebec?” she said to the man who had introduced himself as Robert.

  Robert had a dazzling smile underneath his unruly black hair that covered his ears. His eyes were a clear hazel. “Quebec is a big place. I don’t know everyone. I just know Alain. He works for a Canadian film company.”

  “Are you in-films-I almost said ‘the movies’ in English.”

  “Sort of. I am a filmmaker, yes. But I am making my own small film here in New York. Robert is helping me with production ideas. He invited me here tonight, and then he shows up with all these hockey fans, so I haven’t had a chance to talk to him.”

  “You weren’t at the game?”

  “Me? Hockey? I’m not into blood sports. Are you?”

  “No, I’ve never been to a game. My aunt invited me. It is exciting, for sure. But to be honest, I don’t really mind the violence. It’s just hard to follow the action, it all happens so fast.”

  “I agree with you.” He picked up his drink and motioned her to follow him to a table away from the group.

  Carolyn followed him and sat down, taking her coat off.

  “What kind of film are you making?”

  “Do you know the film The Last Metro? It’s the latest film by François Truffaut?”

  “No, I don’t. But I know Truffaut. Maybe that’s too strong. Day For Night, I’ve see
n. We studied it in film class. And Jules and Jim, that’s pretty famous. And don’t forget Fahrenheit 451.”

  “Of course, but there you see, Fahrenheit 451 is a screenplay from a famous writer, Ray Bradbury, and Truffaut didn’t write the book, and so he’s not a creative writer here.”

  “You are going way over my head, Robert. I see your point about creating everything from scratch-”

  “No, really, I don’t think so. I mean, not over your head. I’m impressed. You had a film class? Where?”

  “At school. Mills College. It wasn’t a whole course, just part of the French classes. A week on French cinema. So your film is-what?”

  Robert pursed his lips. “It is set in New York, but I’m filming in Montreal. I’m just here setting up the exteriors.”

  “That I don’t get.” Carolyn frowned.

  “It’s too expensive to film here. The actors, the crew, the permissions. Do you know how much they charge in New York to block off a street for a couple of hours? It’s astronomical. In Montreal they do it for nothing.”

  “I see, that certainly makes sense. But what is your film about?”

  “It’s about two people searching for each other in the subways.”

  “Doesn’t Montreal have subways?”

  “Yes, of course, but it only has 3 lines, and New York, I think it’s infinite. So I found it easier to imagine complications for my story. And you, Carolyn, what do you do in New York?”

  “Now that’s a very good question. I’ve only been here two days.”

  He laughed. “Oh, now I see. Where did you come from?”

  “San Francisco. The famous Golden Gate bridge. “

  “Unfortunately, I’ve never been there. But, of course, the famous Vertigo, Hitchcock, that was filmed there, am I not correct?”

  “Yes, that’s true.”

  “A great film. Ah, but nothing like The Conversation, Gene Hackman, that’s almost French. It’s damn good.”

  “You are up on your films.”

  “You are right, Carolyn. It’s my life, you see. We in Quebec are sort of caught between America and France. But you can look at it in another way. We are the convergence of two great filmmaking worlds. Steve McQueen and Alain Delon. It’s a great time and a great place. But I don’t mean to bore you with movie details. You didn’t really tell me what you are doing here.”

  Carolyn was at a loss. She didn’t know what to say. Because she didn’t know herself what she was doing here. Not that she could tell someone who has in total command of his life and his plans.

  Robert’s face showed that he had asked the wrong question. “You don’t have to tell me what you are doing here. I didn’t mean to pry.”

  Carolyn nodded. “No, you aren’t prying. I didn’t reply because I’m not sure what I’m doing here.”

  “Okay, you are mysterious. But you speak excellent French, and you’re accent, it’s very good. Where did that come from?”

  “Thank you, you’re very nice to say so. From school. I spent a semester in Paris. At the Louvre, actually. I remember, there were many students in Paris from the University of Montreal.”

  “And what did you study there?”

  “Art history. But really it was just studying the paintings in the Louvre. An infinite resource. We got to study with the people who work in the Louvre. We even got to work alongside them.”

  “What,” he laughed, “you restored the Mona Lisa?”

  Now Carolyn, for the first time, laughed comfortably with Robert. “Oh no, can you tell? Is it that obvious? I tried to sign my name alongside Da Vinci’s but they wouldn’t let me.” She noticed him staring intently. “I’m kidding, you know that, huh?”

  “Maybe I’m just noticing that you have a nice Mona Lisa smile.”

  She waved him off. “We did get to catalog recent research. But now I’m thinking the whole thing was a mistake.”

  “A mistake? How? This is interesting?”

  “They don’t do modern art.”

  “No, you’re right. For that there’s Musée d’Orsay and le Pompidou. But still, why is it a mistake?”

  “Because my art is more modern.”

  Robert widened his eyes in surprise. “Ah. Now there’s the first really interesting thing you’ve said all evening. Your art. Tell me about your art.”

  Carolyn felt pressure for the first time in New York. She hadn’t given any thought to what had happened to her art career. Images flashed in her mind of the rejection at the Art Institute, of Damian in bed with the woman, of the restless sea below Sea Cliff. She felt a hand on her shoulder and looked up at Robert, who looked at her with sympathetic but intense eyes.

  She sighed. “My art is in a shambles right now. No, the Louvre was wonderful, educational, very interesting. But it was the Northern Renaissance, van Eyck, Memling, Weyden.”

  He nodded thoughtfully. “And your art is-.“ He waited for her with his eyes wide open.

  The pressure to respond unsettled her. “My art is nothing.” She took a long drink of light creamy wine.

  “Nothing. That’s not believable. You sound like you can’t take what someone’s said about your art. I hope it wasn’t you yourself. Tell me what you really mean.”

  “I mean, I’m disappointed.”

  “With your work? Tell me-, tell me what is your work.”

  Carolyn looked over to Beatrice, who was laughing in response to something Alain had just told her. “That’s just it. I don’t know what my work is.”

  “You mean, you don’t know the medium, or you don’t know the style?”

  “Or, I don’t know what it’s all about. Medium. Style. Content.”

  “That all sounds very academic. Painting isn’t a theory, painting is action.”

  “Oh yes, I can pick up a brush and put some color on a canvas. I-“

  He didn’t let her finish. “Right, it’s an image, something to see. Same as in filmmaking. The problem is you don’t like what you see.”

  She shook her head. “No, sadly the problem is not me. Others don’t like what I paint.”

  “Who, please, tell me.”

  She didn’t want to tell him that a major school had dismissed her work. That her mentor had given her a mediocre review.

  “Okay,” he said. “I can see you want to keep that to yourself. But you must remember, you yourself are the only important art critic.”

  The wine started to work on her. “Ah, there you go. You’re more academic than I am. What kind of movies do you make? Are they cartoons?”

  He drew his lips in a tight line and spilled a little drop of whiskey on the table. “No. You have a thin skin, mademoiselle.” He stood and walked to the bar and motioned for more whiskey.

  Carolyn turned and saw Beatrice looking at her with some concern. Now I have another minder.

  Beatrice excused herself to her table with a gesture and came over to Carolyn. She glanced quickly to the bar and then back. “I don’t mean to intrude. I just hope you’re having a good time. We can go whenever you like. I don’t know the guy you’re with.”

  Carolyn smiled patiently at Beatrice. “No, don’t worry. I can take care of myself. I’m having a good time, I promise you.”

  Beatrice nodded with the same exaggerated impatience. “That’s great. But, if you find out he’s-“

  “I’m okay, thanks.” This time patience was replaced with irritation.

  Beatrice patted Carolyn on the shoulder and went back to her table.

  Robert returned with his whiskey. And one for Carolyn. His was dark amber. Hers was dark red.

  “What’s this?” she asked, not impressed with his attempt to decide what she would drink.

  “It’s your favorite. A Manhattan.”

  “What’s it made with?”

  He frowned and cocked his head. “What?”

  “My drink. The Manhattan. What’s in it?”

  “I don’t know. Whiskey and-some other stuff.”

  “I don’t want it.” Carolyn pushed t
he drink away, spilling some.

  “Oh. And why not?”

  “Let me tell you, Robert. I didn’t ask for it and I don’t want it. Is that hard for you to understand?”

  “Well, now you are not being very polite.”

  Carolyn pinched her lips tight and held them for a second, then said, “Who are you to tell me what to drink? Is that some kind of French-Canadian macho crap?”

  He smiled to himself, then looked at her. “You know what this is? It’s some kind of American spoiled child crap. You don’t know what your art is so you reject my friendly offer of a drink.”

  She contemplated picking the whisky glass up and throwing it in his face, but didn’t want to do it in front of Beatrice. “Why did you get me a Manhattan anyway? I’m just curious.”

  “Okay, so I asked Beatrice if there was something special you like to drink. What’s wrong with that?”

  She laughed dismissively. “If you don’t mind, next time, just ask me if I want something to drink. I don’t need my aunt to do it for me.”

  Robert held up both hands in defense. “All right, Carolyn, I get the picture. You’re a big girl in a big city with a big problem. Sorry. I did not mean to offend you.” He looked to his right.

  Beatrice, Alain, and the others had stopped talking and were watching them.

  Carolyn looked at her aunt, hesitated, then walked over to her. She smiled and said, “What do you think? I’d like to go back. Could you give me a key to the house? I think travel fatigue has finally set in. If it’s all right.”

  Alain looked at Beatrice and nodded, saying, “Beatrice, I think you should take her home. You and I can catch up some other time.”

  Carolyn felt a sudden hot rush of embarrassment. “No,” she said in a loud voice that startled even herself. “Just let me have the key. As Robert said, I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself. You should stay here and continue your conversation.” She stopped, almost out of breath and waited for Beatrice.

  Beatrice took a quick sip of her drink and took her coat and said good-bye to them all. She led Carolyn out the door.

  Carolyn breathed in and then let it out with an exaggerated sigh. She felt pressure behind her eyes as she spoke to her aunt. “You could have given me the key.”

  Beatrice stopped and made Carolyn look at her. She spoke with a soft voice. “I should have given you a key, sure. Sorry I didn’t think of it. But I couldn’t stay very long anyway. It wouldn’t be fair to wake you up.”

  “Oh, I would have let you in.”

  “Yes, I know, you and I are good friends. We should have worked this out before. But we didn’t. I didn’t want to have to go to the doorman next door and ask for the spare key.”

  Carolyn looked down at the sidewalk.

  “So,” Beatrice said, “you should show a little patience.”

  Carolyn looked back up and nodded. “Yeah, I’m sorry, I just was so irritated by that jerk, and I really didn’t want to bother you.”

  Beatrice started walking. “Let’s take the subway home. It’ll be fun. It’s just on up to 96th and a short walk.”

  Carolyn felt sheepish. “I’m really sorry, Beatrice. I didn’t mean to take you away from your friends.”

  “I know you are. It was really nice to connect with Alain again, but at the moment I’m kind of like you. I’m not interested in men from Quebec. Alain is married, and he’s just a little too friendly to me right now. He thinks maybe he’s the grieving widow’s answer. So you gave me the perfect excuse.”

  “But Alain said you should take me home.”

  “He did. But he wasn’t sincere. He expected me to give you the key.”

  “Anyway, thank you once more.”

  Inside the subway, Beatrice motioned Carolyn inside the #4. “We’ll get off at 86th and take the 6. This is the express, but it doesn’t stop at 96th.” At the top of the stairway to the street they walked in silence two blocks over to Park and down to the house.

  Once inside, and upstairs, Beatrice took her coat off and said, “Now, it’s late and we’re both tired and we’ve gone nonstop for a couple of days. Tomorrow is R&R for us. Just taking it easy.”

  “You know what I’d like to do, is go see grandmother’s grave. I promised Mother I would do it. It’s not hard to get to, is it?”

  Beatrice hugged Carolyn. “You know, I haven’t ever been there. Julia, you know, died in Europe, during the war. I didn’t even know it until it was all over. Mom wrote to me that Hugh heard from some commission over there, and he had her body brought back and interred here. I don’t know the name of the place. And I’ve never been there. You must know where it is, if you have plans to go there.”

  Carolyn’s face brightened. “I do. Did you know Mother goes there when she comes to New York?”

  Beatrice winced. “I do now. But all these years I didn’t. There’s so much that’s going to change. So, that’s settled for tomorrow. We’ll go there and it will be a joyful discovery for both of us.” She put her hands up to her face. “I’m sorry. It’s not joy.”

  Carolyn came to Beatrice and pulled her close, then held her at arms length and said, “It is joy. I think you’re right. I have to learn to trust your instincts. I haven’t learned yet to trust my own, but you, my Aunt Beatrice, you are someone I can trust.”

  She pulled away and said, “Until tomorrow,” and walked to her room.

  “Good night.” Beatrice said, smiling.

  The phone rang in the room as Carolyn was undressing. She waited for Beatrice to answer it somewhere else in the house, but it just kept on ringing. A knock on the door indicated clearly that wasn’t going to happen.

  “Come in,” she said, putting on her bathrobe. The phone rang.

  Beatrice’s head appeared inside the door. “Mom had her own phone line in here. I think this call is for you.”

  The phone rang.

  “I am very sure it’s for you. And you know who’s calling.”

  Carolyn sighed and nodded in defeat. “I see. She’s going to let it ring all night. I wonder how she found out I have this phone number in my room?”

  Beatrice smiled and raised her eyebrows. “How hard could it be?” She pulled her head back and closed the door.

  The phone rang louder.

  Carolyn went to the ornate desk and looked at the phone, a beautiful ivory-and-silver replica of something 19th century. She picked it up and cupped the earpiece while her subconscious mind made its decision. When she spoke, she had no thought of how she wanted the conversation to go, then, as soon as she said, “Mother?” she knew she would talk about their plans for tomorrow.

  “Carolyn? Is that really you? I thought maybe Beatrice was making you up.”

  That cool monotone voice. With its sarcastic tone. At this distance across the country Carolyn thought of the woman on the phone as Elizabeth, not as Mother.

  “Yes, it’s really me. Who did you think it was?”

  Silence on the other end, broken by, “I know you’re avoiding me, but I don’t really think I should have to hear all the news secondhand.”

  Carolyn wondered about “news”. “What news? I’ve only been here two days. There is no news.”

  Elizabeth’s voice came back with a sharpened tone. “Then that is the news, isn’t it. Have you forgotten why you went to New York?”

  Carolyn put one leg on top of another. “No, Mother. I have not forgotten why I came here. As I just said, it’s just two days. Why are you so impatient with me? Should I run down to Goldman Sachs and apply tonight?” Carolyn bounced her leg up and down in frustration.

  “Carolyn, can you please be serious with me.”

  “Serious? Serious about what? Why do I have to be in such a hurry? Beatrice has been wonderful to me. I’ve been to the Metropolitan museum and opera. I’ve been to a hockey game, for god’s sake. And I met a French-Canadian filmmaker.”

  Elizabeth sighed on the other end of the line. “You met whom? You think what you need right now is another boyfriend? D
idn’t you learn anything in Berkeley?”

  Carolyn held the phone in her hand. She looked around the room as if something would suddenly jump out at her to respond to her mother.

  Her mother’s voice came from the phone. “Carolyn?-“

  Silence. Carolyn waited, unable to reply.

  “Are you there?”

  She bit her lip, then put the phone back up to her head. “Yes, I’m still here.”

  “Then why won’t you answer me?”

  “Mother, I didn’t say a word about a boyfriend. Why do you have to misinterpret what I say?”

  “I don’t think it’s a misinterpretation at all. It’s too soon for you to start up with someone else. It takes time to get over these things. You should only be thinking of your career.”

  “For the last time, I don’t have a boyfriend.”

  “Then who were you meeting in a bar?”

  “God. This is unbelievable. I didn’t meet anybody in a bar. I went with Beatrice and some friends of her.”

  “One of whom makes films and is going to make you a star.”

  Carolyn could not stand this line of conversation. She wanted to slam the receiver down. She decided to make her voice low and calm. “Mother-we’re going to do something entirely different tomorrow. We’re going to grandmother’s grave.”

  Elizabeth remained silent for a time on the other end of the line. “Where are you going?”

  What is this, a test? “What do you mean? It’s where you told me. The New York City Marble Cemetery on 2nd Avenue.”

  “Who is the we?”

  Carolyn’s voice rose and became sharp. “Who? Your sister-in-law and me. Mother!”

  “Well, thank you, Carolyn. Just be sure you don’t mix it up with the other one.”

  A line formed between Carolyn’s brows. “What other one?”

  “The one on 2nd Street. It’s around the corner. You want the one that has a long iron fence on the street. And has “City” in its name. And Carolyn-.”

  Carolyn waited for her mother to continue, curious.

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “And Carolyn, for me, will you just kneel down on the ground and touch the stone. I know, you’re a modern child. It’s not fair of me to ask.”

  Carolyn sighed. “Sure, Mother. Of course I will.”

  Carolyn hung up the phone and went to her bed, took off the robe, and lay back, exhausted. She lay still and felt her chest go up and down in slow rhythm. Images of New York floated through her consciousness until she fell asleep.

  The next morning Carolyn and Beatrice walked up out of the Bleecker Street station, headed across Bowery and along 2nd Street. When they reached 2nd Avenue, Carolyn stopped, confused.

  “I think it’s here. 2nd Street. Or avenue. I’m not sure which. Let’s go up here.” She turned left on 2nd Avenue and walked along, looking for anything that she could recognize as a cemetery. “These are just apartments,” she said, frustrated. “And that’s an Italian restaurant. You would think we could see headstones. Mother said there was an iron fence, but I don’t see anything like that-wait, that plaque, there-well, that’s a gate, not a fence.” She walked up to the gate and read “New York Marble Cemetery.”

  Beatrice came up behind her. “You said the name had “City” in it.”

  “I know, but this gate could be a fence.”

  “This isn’t it, Carolyn. Let’s go back down to 2nd Street and go down at least a block, and if there’s nothing there, we’ll go in here.” Beatrice scanned the street, but said nothing.

  Carolyn followed her look and said, “Wait, let me go in here, first. Maybe somebody can help us. Look, there are flowers on the gate.”

  She read the brass plaque. “It says the names are on the walls. It’s funny, that’s not what Mother said.” She entered the gate and followed the narrow alleyway along the old brick walls. At the end was a large green expanse with trees and bushes, the whole thing surrounded by modern New York apartment buildings.

  An old woman sat on a green lawn chair in the middle, knitting something in the early stages. Carolyn approached her.

  “Hello.”

  The woman patiently put her knitting needle and red yarn down. She shaded her face with her eyes and said, “Yes, can I help you?”

  “I thought this was the New York City Marble Cemetery, but it is something different out front.”

  The woman laughed. “Yes,” she said, with half a sigh. “A common mistake. The other one is what you want. Across the street on 2nd Street.”

  “There are two of them?”

  “Yes. Just like twins, but not identical.”

  “I’m looking for my grandmother, but my mother said the gravestone is on the ground.”

  “Oh, then you mean the other one.”

  “Do you have someone buried here?”

  “Oh no,” the woman said, smiling. “It’s just a lovely park to me. No one’s ever in here. It’s been so long since anyone has been buried here.”

  Carolyn and Beatrice left the cemetery and walked across 2nd Avenue and went a few feet to 2nd Street.

  “This has to be it,” Beatrice said.

  They walked along 2nd past nondescript buildings and a fat couple walking their little lap dogs, until halfway down the tree-lined street they saw the iron fence with a cemetery behind it.

  “Must be somewhere here,” Carolyn said. “Let’s just keep going.” Inside the fence a few gravestones were scattered on the lawn, along with several obelisks, some looking like they were twelve feet high. “I can see why the old lady liked the other one. This one is much more public.”

  In the middle of the block, opposite a gray-stone church, they found the entrance.

  “New York City Marble Cemetery.” This has got to be it,” Beatrice said.

  She pushed open the gates. “Did Elizabeth say where the gravestone was?”

  “Yes. She said it was on the left as you go in, toward the end, under a tree.”

  They walked slowly along the grass between gravestones and obelisks.

  “Not very old for around here,” Beatrice said. “1888, 1854. That’s almost modern. Maybe another section is older. Oh, look, here’s 1958.”

  Carolyn walked ahead of her, not listening. She neared a tree made up of several trunks grown together. On the ground ten feet in front of this tree she saw the gravestone. “Julia Marie Stuart.”

  She turned and called, “Beatrice,” but found her aunt only a few feet away.

  “Is that it?”

  “Yes.” Carolyn read it out loud. “Julia Marie Stuart. May 23, 1920, Lewiston, Maine-September 4, 1943, Versailles, France. Wow. That’s amazing. Mother didn’t say she died in France.”

  Beatrice looked at Carolyn, but didn’t say anything, obviously waiting for more reaction from her niece.

  “France? How did she get to France? Why did she go there?” Questions swirled around in Carolyn’s mind. They tugged at her, but she didn’t know which way they led. She turned to look directly at Beatrice, then back at the gravestone. "Did you know she died in France?"

  Beatrice shook her head slowly. "I'm not the one you should ask."

  Carolyn felt a sudden distance from her aunt. "But you were here, she was your brother's wife, you must have known something." There was a sudden sense of urgency in Carolyn's voice. It shocked her.

  "No, remember, I wasn't here. I was in Canada. And I wasn't close to my brother, or, to tell the truth, really, not with my mother either."

  Carolyn moved back from the gravestone and took her aunt's arm. Together they walked to the exit of the New York City Marble Cemetery. Carolyn turned back and felt the gravestone receding and drawing her back at the same time. As they closed the gate behind them, Carolyn stood for a moment and put her hand on the iron grill. Then they walked toward Second Avenue. When they arrived at the end of the cemetery fence, Carolyn stopped again and looked inside, focusing on the grave a few feet inside next to the tre
e. She felt it pulling on her from the past. She looked at Beatrice in silence and then continued walking.

  Her voice had a quality of pleading to it which surprised her. "Beatrice, tell me what you did know."

  Beatrice looked at Carolyn with intense sympathy in her eyes. "I knew that Julia had left Hugh and her daughter and went off on her own. She disappeared. My mother told me that she believed that Julia ran off with an Italian man. You have to remember something else, my dear. There was a war on and Canadians were in the war before the Americans were. This was 1940 and Canada was in the war alongside the British and the French from September of 1939. There was a mobilization and my husband was called up and sent overseas. That was uppermost in my mind. Not what happened to my brother and his failed marriage."

  Carolyn touched Beatrice on the shoulder. "I do understand. I don't mean to be unsympathetic to what happened to you during the war. There is so much more I want to learn about it, about you, about Pierre. See, this is something you didn't tell me before. Now I have learned about your suffering, and it helps me to feel closer to you. I came here to get away from my mother, but now I'm finding there is more here for me than I ever thought possible."

  They crossed Second Avenue on their way to the Bleecker Street subway station. Carolyn said, "look there," pointing down the street. "There's another Marble Cemetery. We almost lost our way." She looked down and spoke is if she were speaking only to herself. "I almost lost my way."

  They continued walking in silence but Carolyn held on tighter to Beatrice's arm as they continued on to this subway and back home.

  Once in the house, they went into the library together and sat on the arm chairs facing the cold fireplace.

  A long minute of silence hung between them and then Carolyn said, "Your husband was in the war in Europe?" She felt now the closeness to Beatrice deeper than before. She knew something of how her aunt had suffered. She realized that it seemed as if her mother Elizabeth had never suffered. She had never talked of suffering. Because she had always just been too tough for that.

  "Yes," Beatrice said, placing her arms on her knee and folding her hands. She looked down at them for a moment of thought and then said, "He was gone for five long years. I went to England to visit him and spent a year there, and wanted to volunteer for the ambulance corps, but he objected. He said it made it tougher on him if I was also in the war. I believed him. When he went to the continent I came back home." She stood and walked around the room. "You know, everything of his and mine is still back up in Montréal. That tells you something doesn't it. I haven't made up my mind where I'm going to live."

  She sat back down and leaned forward to look Carolyn directly in the eye. "That is, until now. You have helped me make up my mind. My future is here, whether in this house or not."

  Carolyn shifted uncomfortably in her chair. She had found a new interest in learning about her grandmother and why she went to France, but now that led to learning about Beatrice's life. Her own loneliness merged with that of her aunt. "Tell me about Pierre. What did he do in the war?"

  "He was in the infantry for the invasion of Sicily and he fought through to the capture of Rome. He was lucky, or at least I felt he was, because he worked for division headquarters doing reporting back to the war office. He himself was disappointed, and he volunteered for patrols, but they wouldn't let him go. That's what he said in his letters."

  The idea of the letters hit home with Carolyn. Something tangible, to hold in your hands. To read and understand. "You have those letters?"

  Beatrice thought for a moment. "Somewhere, I'm sure. Back home. In the attic." She looked up as if she had made a discovery, and her eyes brightened.

  "What is it?" Carolyn felt her own spirits lift in response to Beatrice's eyes.

  "The attic. I've never been in the attic."

  "But you said that's where your letters are."

  Beatrice shook her head and looked down at the floor, and nowhere in particular. "I’m confusing you about New York and Montreal. No, I mean I've never looked up in the attic here, in New York. Who knows what's up there. I've no idea. When I got here this place was full of furniture, but all the personal things were gone, all the clothes, the paintings on the wall, the paperwork. For the most part. I have never wanted to really explore the house."

  Carolyn stood, pushed her hair back, and looked at Beatrice, biting her lip, waiting, her heart suddenly beating a little faster.

  Beatrice, seeing Carolyn ready and excited, stood. “What are we waiting for.”

  “Will we need a key?”

  Beatrice said, “Oh-oh. I don’t know. Let’s find out. I doubt it.” She started to walk, then stopped. “You know, honestly, I’ve never gone through all the drawers in here or in Hugh’s office.” He put her head in her hands and said, “My god, I’ve not moved in at all. It’s like it’s just been a hotel for me.” She went out the door.

  Carolyn followed her to the end of the hall. They passed Hugh’s office on the right, and just before they arrived at Elizabeth’s room at the end, Beatrice turned left into a small alcove and opened a door.

  “Here we go,” Beatrice said as she placed one foot on the stairway, which led up to a small landing and door at the top. “We’ll see. I’ve never been up there. Alice, my cleaning lady, said she went up there once and didn’t think it was out of the ordinary. I think she was hoping the paintings were all stored there.” She looked up and grasped the handrail as she went up the steps.

  At the top, Beatrice opened the door. “Oh, see, not to worry. Now I feel stupid. Alice would have told me if it was locked.” She went in.

  Carolyn followed behind her. “Oh, my,” she said. “This isn’t an attic, it’s just the top floor.”

  “Yes,” Beatrice said. “Alice has kept this perfectly clean. I must thank her for that. It’s a room.” She turned left and looked, then pointed. “And there’s another hallway with a couple of doors. Well, this is a surprise. I’m sorry I didn’t come up here sooner.”

  Carolyn looked left where Beatrice pointed, then back to the room they had just entered. The room seemed long, the empty walls a faded white, almost becoming gray. No signs of anything ever hanging there. Two large quarter-circle windows at the end of the house looked out across Park Avenue. “I remember those, when I arrived. I thought they were beautiful. I feel like you can see the world from here.” On their right were two dormer windows. Carolyn walked over to them and opened one up. It slid easily. She peeked out to the street. “A nice view.” She closed the window and stepped back to take in the whole room. “But the room is empty. What was it when you were a child?”

  “Oh, we weren’t allowed up here. It was always Grandfather’s room, and then Dad’s room, and I did come up here a couple of times, there were bookshelves, and a table and chairs. I remember at the time I thought it was kind of like a dining room, but it would have just been a place for them to be alone.”

  Carolyn inhaled. “It smells like disinfectant. Your housekeeper does a thorough job.”

  “Yeah, I kind of wished she hadn’t. It’s my fault for telling her to come up here. But it takes away-I don’t know-,” Beatrice put her fingers up to her lips-“I wish I could have smelled it, the history, whatever it was like up here.”

  “It would be a great place for kids up here. So high, they could put a train up here, or have a room full of doll furniture.” Carolyn laughed. “Or ghosts. Lots of room for them.” She stood quiet. “Listen. The wind. You can hear it up here. It’s like you’re closer to nature up here at the top of the house than you are near the ground. I love it.”

  Beatrice walked to the other half of the room, to the hallway. There were doors on either side. She opened the door on the right. Carolyn followed her, putting her hand on the knob on the left.

  “Well,” Beatrice said, “nothing in here. Wait, a trunk, kind of hidden behind the door.”

  Carolyn, here interest heightened, followed Beatrice into the room. Beatrice lifted the lid of th
e trunk.

  “Women’s clothes,” she said.

  “Let me see,” Carolyn said, her eyes widening. “Oh, there’s that mothball smell. At least something up here has a smell to it.”

  Beatrice lifted clothes out of the box. “All dresses. All very nice, really.” She held one up to herself. A black velvet and lace dress. “About my size.” Let me see you. She held it up against Carolyn. “Yes, would work for you, too. And the label is-Anna Miller. Don’t know that. But this is really nice. I’m impressed. See if you can find one.” Beatrice twirled herself around the room near the windows to let the light show off the dress.

  Carolyn picked up several dresses, then took one out. “Oh, my, this is absolutely beautiful.” It was a black dress with bright red ribbon designs accented with red and white stylized chrysanthemums. “Look, the shoulders, so 1930s, the three-quarter arms. I’ve got to try it on.” She put the dress back on top of the trunk, took her sweater and jeans off, and put the dress on. “Look at me, I’m Debbie Harry before she was rich. The original Blondie. I’ll have to get cowboy boots to go along with it.” She laughed. “Just kidding. What a treasure this all is.”

  Beatrice said, “Well, I’m not going to go that far.” She held up the black dress again. “Oh, how beautiful. It’s a sweetheart bodice. Amazing. And look-,” she took a lace train out of the trunk, -this lace, and the velvet.” She held the dress against her body as she ran her hand over her thigh, luxuriating in the material.

  Carolyn shook her head and smiled. “This gives a whole different view of Julia. If it’s Julia’s clothes.”

  “Oh, it must be. Mother would not have worn these things. I wonder who kept these? We’ll have to go through the whole trunk and pick out a couple of things to keep. Well, leave them all here for now. These are so marvelous. I never thought I could feel like a runway model, but I do today. I think I’ll have Alice, my cleaning lady, put them all on hangers to all air out. I bet a vintage clothing store somewhere in the Village would love to have these.”

  “Oh, great idea.” Carolyn studied the dress, feeling herself in it, moving around, noticing the way the skirt of the dress moved with her. “This is the lady that went to France. I feel like I’m her. So somebody kept all this, just the beautiful dresses. Somebody who cared about her. Do you have any idea?”

  Beatrice thought for a moment. “No. There were only Mrs. Willow, and then Mary, the girl who watched after Elizabeth. Hugh had left Mrs. Willow some money. After his funeral, she went away. We never corresponded. There was something, later on, a few months after Hugh died, a letter to her, and returned no forwarding address, so I never pursued it. And, Carolyn-don’t get your hopes up about Julia. I mean, we don’t know the whole story-but-maybe she’s an angel-and maybe she’s not. We may never know.”

  Carolyn looked around the room, as if searching for an answer. “No, I know, I’m looking for something-someone- who’s probably not there. But-do you understand-until now, I had only my mother, and we didn’t get along at all, and now I have you-and so I want Julia, too, even if it’s just fantasy for now.”

  Beatrice put the black velvet dress back in the trunk and closed the lid.

  Carolyn felt sheepish still wearing her floral dress, so she took it off and put it back in the trunk.

  “You don’t have to do that,” Beatrice said.

  “It’s okay, maybe later. Let’s wait until they’re all hanging up, then look at them again.”

  “Right. Well, we will have another room left. Still a chance for the ghosts to show up.”

  “I think we found a pretty nice ghost right in this room. We should stay up here some night and see if the trunk lid opens and they float around the room.”

  Beatrice laughed. They went out and across the hall.

  “Oh. Wow.” Beatrice said as she looked into the room.

  “What?” Carolyn said, touching her on the shoulder as she came up close to look in the room.

  “Look at this.”

  The room was flooded with light from a huge skylight in the roof.

  “Yeah,” Carolyn said, “you can’t even see this from the street. And look at that.” She felt a strange flush through her body. She put her hands up on her cheeks.

  In the corner, opposite the two dormer windows that looked at the row of windows in the building across the street, was a painting, half finished. It was a man, the head and shoulders, with a background of paintings on a wall which were undefined. The man looked out at the viewer with sympathetic eyes.

  “Oh my god!” Beatrice gasped. “I don’t believe it. It’s Hugh.”

  Carolyn stood silent, shocked. “Hugh. My grandfather? Him? This is a painting by my grandmother? Unbelievable.” She examined the painting closely. “And it’s oil, too.” She stood back and stared at it for a moment. “Nice brushwork. I’m impressed. With her work, not just the subject.”

  Beatrice nodded slowly, keeping her eyes on the painting. “Yes. Him. What a surprise. I’m afraid I don’t know much about the details of painting.”

  “This is amazing,” Carolyn said. “You said all the paintings had been sold, but this one. Who did it?”

  “This-yes-this is Julia. I’m sure of it. Well, not absolutely, but I think so. I’ll bet you Hugh didn’t even know this was up here. Of course not, or he would have had it destroyed.”

  “I must ask Mother if she knew about this.”

  “That’s a very interesting question. Your mother was in this house for twenty years before-,” Beatrice slumped into herself-, “before she went away.”

  “You mean when my grandfather threw her out.”

  Beatrice looked at Carolyn, her eyes misting up. “Yes. That.”

  “But surely, Mother would have come up here and seen this. All those years, her whole childhood.”

  “I presume she didn’t mention it to you-or you’d know.”

  Carolyn shook her head. “All she ever had from here was the picture of herself as a child with her parents. She certainly never mentioned anything at all about this house. Of course, she wouldn’t talk about anything at all. She wouldn’t even tell me where this house was.”

  Carolyn scanned the small room. It was empty except, behind the easel was a wooden box on the floor. “Oh, look, it’s-a box of paints, I think.” She went around the easel and picked the box up. “It’s heavy enough, I think the paints must still be in it. All dried up, I’m sure.” She held the box in one arm and opened it. “Oh-oh-yes, the paints are-but look, there are some letters or something.”

  She turned and showed Beatrice the box. Beatrice lifted the letters out of the box. Carolyn glanced at the rest of the contents in the box and then put it down. There were several light blue Aerogramme letters, wrinkled and folded, a telegram yellow with age, and a ragged piece of notepaper with gray lines that looked as if it had been torn off in haste.

  “Letters? Whose letters would they be?”

  “Let’s see,” Beatrice said. “There’s a note. From Mrs. Willow.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “It says-she was the housekeeper, remember, the one who I last saw at the funeral-it says, ‘I wanted to save these. I took them from the trash bin.’ It’s signed ‘Margaret Willow’. Funny, I never knew what her first name was, until Hugh’s death, I saw it on a few documents.”

  She sorted through the letters. “Look, there are four of them. One’s a telegram, from the SS Washington, and three letters, see, aerogrammes. All addressed to Hugh. Come on, let’s go down to the library and see what we have here.”

  When they were in the library, they sat at the table. Beatrice put the four envelopes down and sorted through them by postmark.

  Carolyn couldn’t wait. “The telegram, what does it say?”

  Beatrice looked at her in excitement and turned to the yellow piece of paper and showed it to Carolyn:

  SS WASHINGTON URGENT=

  HUGH STUART 40 E 85th ST NY NY

  Hugh I’m sorry I’ve made a huge mistake will r />
  return as soon as possible

  cable me on board ship

  love julia

  The two women stared at the telegram.

  Carolyn felt a surge of pain run through her chest. “Can you imagine? Sending a telegram like that? How old was she?”

  “Well, let me think, I don’t know exactly, but she was very young when she married Hugh, around twenty, I remember Mother was dead set against it. She thought Julia was a gold digger. But then she didn’t like my husband, either.”

  “It says she made a huge mistake? What was that? It must mean going away, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, you’re probably right. Let’s look at the other letters.” Beatrice spread the three letters on the table. “They’re all in 1940. May, then June, then August.” She turned to Carolyn. “That’s all there were in the box?”

  “Yes, I’m sure, I looked very carefully.”

  “I’m almost afraid to look at them.”

  “I can’t wait, read the first one.”

  Beatrice unfolded the first aerogramme and read it out loud.

  My dear Hugh, during my time on the ship, I’ve come to see what a mistake I’ve made. I miss you and Lizzie so much. I was upset and not thinking straight. If I can I will take a plane home, from Lisbon, or a ship if I have to. You know I love you and Lizzie and I want us to be together as a family. She needs a mother and you need a wife. I will do anything to make that possible. I know what I did was wrong. I misunderstood and thought you were going to take Lizzie away from me, but I was terribly wrong to think that. I will be home as soon as I can, Darling. I’ll send you a cable when I’ve made arrangements. With all my love - your Julia

  “Such lovely handwriting,” Carolyn said. “How sad. And she called Mother ‘Lizzie’, isn’t that something. I bet mother never knew that. She said her mother was just someone in a picture that she’d rather forget.” Carolyn’s heart was beating fast and her eyes started to mist.

  Beatrice put her hand on Carolyn’s arm. “Ready for another one?”

  Dear Hugh, I’m so terrified. I beg of you to get me home. I had a ticket for Lisbon but on the way our train was bombed by German planes. I escaped, but some others didn’t. Now my exit visa is no good. Could you please send a letter, or better yet a telegram to the American Embassy in Paris so they will know who I am and can expedite my exit visa. I know, it seems crazy to get a visa to go home, but the Germans have taken over Paris and are making everything difficult. I can’t call or cable. I’m so scared, Hugh. Please do this right away. Here is a picture for Lizzie. Love, Julia

  “A picture? Oh no. There wasn’t a picture?” Carolyn’s voice rose.

  Beatrice looked through the papers. “No. Maybe in the box still?”

  Carolyn stood, saying, “I’m going to find out” and ran out the door to the hallway. In the attic room she picked up the box and went through it, picking up each tube of paint, disappointment making her hot. Then she saw it, wedged in the inside top of the box. She ran excitedly back down to Beatrice.

  “Look, I found it. Isn’t she beautiful? Yes, just like the picture Mother has of her and grandfather. There she is, in Paris. I wonder what street that is. You can’t make it out. But there’s a restaurant on the corner. It’s just so small. I wish I knew what restaurant that was. I mean, I wonder if it’s still there.”

  Beatrice looked at the picture, but then showed the third letter to Carolyn, who read the letter, but then stopped and wiped tears from her eyes.

  Dear Hugh, I can’t believe what has happened. I don’t understand why you haven’t contacted the embassy. They don’t believe me because I said you would write them and then you haven’t. Some Americans are being placed in a camp outside of Paris. Hugh, it’s a camp run by the Germans. They have interrogated me. They want to know who my parents are. Even my grandparents. I have nowhere to turn. You can’t forget how much I love you and Lizzie. Hugh, you are my only chance for survival. Please help me, if not for me, then for our poor daughter. With all my love -Please-Julia

  Carolyn looked at Beatrice in disbelief. “She died, in 1943, in France. Maybe it wasn’t France. Maybe it was actually in Germany. Maybe my grandmother died in a concentration camp. I saw documentary film about it at school. It was awful. It made me sick. But she is buried here. Hugh must have had the body brought back after the war. There would be records-“.

  Beatrice put her hands around Carolyn. “No, I can tell you that, whatever papers Hugh had, there weren’t many and I went through all of them. There was nothing about that.”

  “So we’re left with nothing?” Carolyn felt a world opening and closing at the same time. A flush permeated her whole body.

  “We have these letters, and the picture, and the painting and clothes upstairs.”

  Carolyn’s voice rose in panic. “Letters? Clothes? That’s not my grandmother!”

  “Carolyn, listen to me. This was during the war. Millions of people were killed. Millions of people don’t know what happened to their families.”

  Carolyn calmed down. “I know, I know, but this is all such a sudden shock.”

  “At least, now, maybe you have something to tell your mother. Something to help you understand her a little. Something to bring you closer together.”

  Carolyn stared at the picture, then stood. “I could go over there. Try and find out what happened. They have records.”

  Beatrice nodded. “Yes, they do. And perhaps you could find out. But perhaps not. My husband lost a cousin and they never knew. He was missing and there was never anything more after that. You don’t have to go over there right now. You can go anytime. You should finish what you came here to do.”

  “For now, I’m going to go upstairs. I want to see her paints, study the painting. That will make me feel close to her.”

  “All right, if that’s what you want to do.”

  “It is.” Carolyn left the room and went back up to the attic room. Standing inside, she noted the broad light from the ceiling skylights combined with the side lights from the dormer windows. Perfect, she thought. You can have as much or as little light as you want. And all alone up here on top of the world.

  She looked again at the half-finished painting. As she studied the colors, dominated by brown and blue, she thought immediately of the combinations of tube colors and whites that made these particular hues, and the composition, how the figure of the man stood out against the background, she felt almost faint. So close and yet so far. She became weak, she fell to the floor and sat there, her legs pulled up close and saw the light on the painting and now she smelt the familiar scent of oil paint from the box.

  She picked the box up and looked at the brushes and the tubes of paint. Some had never been opened, but the brown, blue, green, yellow, white and red, the colors used in the painting, these tubes were pressed inward by Julia Stuart’s hand. The same kind of impression that Carolyn’s hands had made on paint tubes.

  There were four brushes of varying width in the box. Someone had cleaned them nicely. They were still supple. She picked one up and moved her finger back and forth over the bristle and imagined it was Julia’s hand. Standing up, she took the brush in her hand and as if guided by an invisible hand she moved it over the painting, seeing the striations that told her trained eye how the brush had been originally moved on the canvas, and she re-painted the canvas, slowly, lovingly, seeing the hand of Julia in front of her creating the original painting.

  Why had Julia stopped? Was she interrupted suddenly? Did she have to drop everything and run away? Why did she think they would take her child away from her? Why did she have to go to such desperate lengths? And why wasn’t the child, Elizabeth, Carolyn’s mother, why wasn’t she with Julia? Is this the reason Elizabeth was never sympathetic, never really sympathetic to Carolyn’s art?

  Would the questions never end? Did her mother know more than she was letting on? Surely over those more than twenty years with her father, Hugh, Elizabeth would have asked many times
about her mother.

  What about Margaret Willow. She saved the letters, she saved the painting. She wanted someone to see them.

  Carolyn went back down to the library, where she found Beatrice sitting at the table, re-reading the letters.

  When Carolyn entered the room, Beatrice turned her head. “How did you feel up there?”

  “Different from down here. These letters, I know they have some amazing story contained in them. But it’s the paper, it’s so thin, it’s just like tissue paper. Upstairs, the paint, the painting, they’re all so substantial compared to paper. So I felt closer to her up there. I felt her presence with me, here. The letters, they’re just frightening. But they speak to me, too, Beatrice. They tell me something else. That the answer is somewhere in Europe.”

  “What could you possibly expect to find out? What? What she died of? Does that matter?” Beatrice’s voice showed exasperation. “She didn’t leave any legacy up there. Her legacy, what there is, is here, in this house, upstairs.”

  “I can find out what happened-“.

  She was interrupted by the phone. The sound of the ring pierced the air as an unwanted intruder. Beatrice and Carolyn looked at each other, but Beatrice answered the call.

  “Hello?” She listened a long time in silence.

  Carolyn shifted in her chair.

  Beatrice cupped her hand over the black phone’s receiver.

  Carolyn looked at her in anticipation.

  “Carolyn, it’s a Mrs. Devlin. She says she’s from the NYU business school. She wants to talk to you.” Beatrice held the phone out to Carolyn.

  Carolyn hesitated and frowned, startled to realize she had hoped it was Robert, but took the phone from Beatrice.

  “Hello?”

  “Carolyn Stuart?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Sharon Devlin from NYU. I’m calling to talk to you about your program here at NYU. Is this a convenient time?”

  Carolyn looked at Beatrice, her brows furrowed, not wanting to interrupt their conversation about Julia. “Not exactly. What is this about?”

  “I’ve been talking to your mother, Elizabeth. We have worked out a program for you. It’s a combination of art and business. If you could come down here, we’d like to discuss it with you.”

  “A program? What kind of program?”

  “We’ve been able to put together an individual study program for you between the Tisch art department and the business school. It would lead to a Professional Certificate in Art Dealership. It’s quite unique.”

  “My mother worked this out with you?”

  “Well, now, I wouldn’t put it that way. Your mother has been a generous supporter of NYU for many years. In essence, she has saved you a great deal of time by laying the groundwork, so to speak.”

  “But my mother made these arrangements with you, is that right?”

  “Are you not aware of this? We were explicitly informed that you would be calling us to work out details of your program. Since we have not heard from you, and since your mother is obviously interested in working this out, we decided to call you and get things moving. There’s a class starting, which would be a very good introduction for you-“

  Carolyn took the phone away from her ear and held it tight, as if the machine were the source of her frustration, then she sighed and put it back up to her ear. “I see. I’m afraid my mother and I have different expectations about the timeline for this. I wasn’t ready to start classes just now. I’ve only been in New York a few days.”

  “Certainly, Ms. Stuart, that’s up to you. It’s just that, it’s not a private study program, a tutorial or something. You have a large opportunity to design the program, but some classes would be required, minimal perhaps, but still it has to start sometime. And the professional certificate is a valuable educational achievement.:

  “A certificate? That’s what the achievement is?”

  “Well, yes. It’s not a degree program.”

  “No, I can see that. If you will excuse me, I appreciate your calling. I have some details to work out and then-then I will call you back. I might not be able to fit in with your class structure right now. I will have to think about it.”

  “Certainly. I just wanted to let you know that the University has requirements it must adhere to, and to help you fit within that structure.”

  Carolyn rolled her eyes. “I understand. Thank you very much for your call. Good-bye.” Carolyn put the phone down and looked at Beatrice.

  “So. Mother has worked it all out and given them a ton of money no doubt so I can go back to school and fit right in with their curriculum. And do you know what I get out of this?:”

  Beatrice waited patiently.

  “A certificate. A damn certificate. I have a BFA and now I’m going to get a certificate.”

  “It’s not for me to say, Carolyn, but it does look like your mother has gone to some trouble, and some expense, to try and help you out. Can’t you look at it that way?”

  Carolyn sat down. “Yes. I can. But I just discovered my family. I’m not interested in going to school.”

  “I honestly don’t see why the two are incompatible.”

  “But I want to go now. I want to find out about my grandmother now. Mother will just have to give me the money. I’ll do that first, and do my art later.”

  “That’s a funny way to talk.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Your mother giving you the money. Why don’t you use your own trust fund?”

  “Trust fund? What trust fund? What are you talking about?”

  “The trust fund that Hugh left for you.”

  “For me? My grandfather left me a trust fund?”

  “Why of course. Oh god, don’t you know about it? Didn’t Elizabeth ever-“

  “Tell me? Oh, hell, do you mean my mother didn’t tell me?” The indignation and disappointment in Carolyn’s voice came from deep within. “Considering she’s never told me much of anything, why should I be surprised? I just need to find out where my money is and I’m out of here.”

  One week later, Carolyn sat in the front row window seat of the Air France Concorde and watched the screen at the front of the airplane as the speed of the plane changed to Mach 2.0. The passengers applauded, but Carolyn did not join them. Her mind was filled of thoughts of landing in Paris and being free to find her own way in life without having to cater to anyone else’s wishes.