All She Ever Wanted (24 page)

We can find an apartment down there, and—”

“You can be a secretary if you want to. It’s not for me.”

Cynthia paused, bracing for all the usual arguments. “All right, then.

You used to talk about going to college, remember? Isn’t that what you’ve been saving your money for?”

“No,” Eleanor said angrily. “I’ve been saving so Rick and I could start a new life together.”

Cynthia sighed. “I know I’ve said this before, too, but Rick wouldn’t want you to mourn like this. He’d want you to get on with your life. You used to want a career, remember?”

“Well, I don’t feel like it anymore.” Eleanor climbed out of bed and began changing out of her clothes.

Cynthia groped for words. She had rehearsed a much longer speech, but she was too discouraged to remember it all. She was getting nowhere. She watched as Eleanor combed her hair, then put on her hat with the black mesh veil—and suddenly she realized what Eleanor was doing. She was dressing in black to go to the funeral home again. Tears of anger and frustration filled Cynthia’s eyes.

“What are you doing, Ellie? Come on—please! No more! It’s morbid to keep going to funerals of people you don’t even know. You’ve got to stop.”

“I need to go to funerals,” Eleanor said in a hollow voice. “I need to try to grasp the fact that he’s really gone.”

“But it isn’t helping. Can’t you see that? It’s been months and months, you’ve gone to dozens of funerals, and you still haven’t grasped it. You’re still in mourning.”

“That’s because I know it isn’t really him in the casket.” She gave a strangled sob and sank down on the bed, weeping. Cynthia sat beside her, rocking her in her arms.

“You’re too young to stop living, Ellie. You’ve got to figure out what it will take to get over this and do it.”

“Maybe if I saw Rick’s grave…”

“Then, do it, Ellie. For heaven’s sake, go to Albany or wherever he’s buried and put flowers on his grave. Then maybe you can get on with your life. You’re only twenty-one years old.”

“Will you come with me, Cynthia? Please?”

Cynthia remembered the confident, poised woman she’d met on their first day at the electronics plant—shaking hands with their new boss and telling him not to call them girls—and she wondered what had happened to that woman. Eleanor was begging for help like an insecure child. If this is what happened to a person when her heart was broken, then Cynthia didn’t ever want to fall in love.

“Of course, Ellie. Of course I’ll go with you. I’ll pick up a bus schedule, we’ll go to Albany next weekend, and we’ll put flowers on Rick’s grave.”

Chapter
18

A
LBANY
, N
EW
Y
ORK—
1945

B
y the time they reached Albany the following Saturday, Cynthia was sorry she had agreed to come. Riding the bus had exhausted her. It had stopped in every little town between Bensenville and Albany, crowding dozens more people onboard, it seemed, than the bus could hold. Albany was a good-sized city, and Cynthia didn’t know how they would ever find Rick’s grave—or if he even had one here. It had occurred to her after promising to come that thousands of servicemen had been buried overseas near the battlefields where they had died. The task of finding Rick’s grave seemed insurmountable. But she would sail to Europe with Eleanor to see it if it would help her get on with her life.

As she stood in the noisy bus station feeling hot and dazed, Cynthia wondered where to begin. Eleanor clung to her arm, looking sad and lost. The old Eleanor would have taken control, recruiting every porter, ticket clerk, and security guard in sight to help her. They would be turning the town upside down by now, as they helped her search for Rick’s grave. But that charming, confident woman had died along with Rick, leaving behind a bewildered girl who gazed around the bustling station as if she’d just awakened from a nightmare and didn’t know what to do. Cynthia knew she would have to take the lead.

“There’s a phone booth over there,” she said, as if spotting a lifeboat.

“Come on, we’ll look up his father’s name and see if there’s a listing. Rick was Richard Trent, Jr., wasn’t he?” She saw Eleanor wince and realized she had referred to Rick in the past tense.

“Actually, he’s ‘the third,’” Eleanor said. “Richard Trent III. I used to tell him he sounded like an English monarch.”

They crowded into the phone booth, their breath fogging the glass as Cynthia dug in her purse for loose change. She could hardly believe their luck when the information operator gave her Mr. Trent’s phone number and address. She scribbled down the information on a napkin. “Do you want to call him or should I?” she asked Eleanor.

“Neither one of us.” Eleanor took the receiver from Cynthia’s hand and hung it back in its cradle. “From the way Rick described his parents, they’ll probably hang up on me. Let’s just go over there. We’ll ask one of his servants.”

Cynthia went to the information booth and got directions. They had to take a city bus across town, then walk several blocks through an upperclass neighborhood until they found the right street. Cynthia’s steps slowed as she counted off the house numbers. The sheer size of the homes shocked her. She walked slower and slower then halted at the end of a tree-lined driveway.

“That’s Rick’s house,” Cynthia said in a hushed voice. She saw tears in Eleanor’s eyes and wondered if maybe this hadn’t been such a good idea.

“We should have called first, Ellie. You don’t go barging up to ‘old-money’houses like these and pound on the door asking questions.” She was about to suggest that they walk back to a drugstore and find a telephone when Eleanor gripped her arm.

“This is where Rick grew up. He was going to leave all of this for me.”

Cynthia swallowed the lump in her throat and squeezed Eleanor’s hand. “He loved you, Ellie. He really, truly loved you.”

As she stood on the sidewalk, trying to decide what to do next, Cyn-thia heard a car engine start up somewhere behind the house. The motor revved a few times; then the car came into sight, backing slowly down the long drive. It was an older model sedan—new cars hadn’t been made since the war began—and Cynthia suddenly decided to flag down the driver and ask if he could direct them. She had her arm raised halfway when she suddenly froze. The driver looked exactly like Rick!

Cynthia blinked, certain that she was imagining things. It must be Rick’s brother—but Rick didn’t have a brother! She couldn’t believe her eyes. Then Eleanor saw him, too.

“
Rick
…” she whispered. Eleanor’s knees buckled as if she’d seen a ghost, and she collapsed in a faint on the sidewalk. Cynthia bent to help her, then looked up again in time to see the driver clearly.

It was Rick Trent. He was alive! And he was a dirty, rotten liar.

“Rick!” Cynthia shouted. He hadn’t noticed them as he’d backed into the street, and he was starting to drive away. “Rick, help me!” she shouted.

His eyes went wide when he saw who it was. The car screeched to a halt, then backed up.

Cynthia crouched down to cradle Eleanor’s head, lifting it off the pavement. Rick got out of the car and came toward them, walking as if in slow motion. His face was as white as Eleanor’s.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“What are
you
doing here, you monster? You’re supposed to be dead! We came to find your grave!” She reached out with her free hand and started punching his legs. “How could you do this to her? How could you?” Rick backed away. Eleanor moaned as she started coming around.

“Is she okay?” Rick asked.

“Of course she’s not okay! She thinks she saw a ghost. You’re supposed to be dead!”

Eleanor’s eyes fluttered open. She looked up and her eyes met his. “Is it really you?” she murmured. Rick nodded and squatted beside her. In the next instant Eleanor sat up and threw her arms around his neck, nearly knocking him backward with the force of her embrace. “Oh, Rick, you’re alive! You’re alive! I must be dreaming!”

“You’re not. I—”

“The army made a terrible mistake! They told me you were dead!

That’s why I stopped writing to you. Rick! Oh, Rick!” She buried her face in his chest, hugging him, weeping.

Rick’s eyes remained dry. Cynthia could tell by the look on his face that the army hadn’t made a mistake. Rick had deliberately let Eleanor believe that he was dead. He’d deceived her. They were man and wife, and he’d taken the coward’s way out and ditched her. Cynthia was angry enough to kill him.

“How could you do such a terrible thing?” she raged. “Eleanor is your
wife
! I watched you marry her! I heard you vow to spend the rest of your life with her!”

Rick glanced around nervously as a car drove past. “Shh… Not out here, Cynthia. Let’s go inside.”

They helped Eleanor to her feet, but she was so badly shaken she could barely walk. It took both of them to help her up the driveway to the front door of Rick’s house. “Wait out here, Cynthia,” he ordered. “Give us some time alone.” His manner was as cocky and self-assured as on the night Cynthia first met him.

“Nothing doing, you creep! I’m not leaving Eleanor. You have no idea what she’s been through since she learned you were dead. She nearly died of grief!”

“I’m sorry.” He didn’t sound sorry, he sounded angry. The apology wasn’t for all the pain he’d caused Eleanor; he was sorry he’d gotten caught.

He glared at Cynthia, then reluctantly led them into the living room.

“It’s okay, Rick,” Eleanor murmured as she leaned against him. “We’ve found each other again and that’s all that matters.”

He helped Eleanor sit down on the couch, then hurried away saying, “I’ll get you some water.”

Cynthia was only dimly aware of the magnificent room, decorated with antiques and fine oil paintings and oriental rugs. Classical music played softly in the background. The anger that pounded through her made the room seem unusually bright.

“Rick’s alive. …” Eleanor whispered. “Oh, thank God! Thank God!”

He returned with a glass of water—and with a man who was an older version of himself, equally handsome, equally arrogant. Rick handed Eleanor the glass, and she took a tiny sip before setting it down. Her hands shook so badly she nearly dropped it.

“Eleanor, this is my father,” Rick said.

She looked up at Rick and smiled. “Good. We’ll tell him together, darling.”

Cynthia’s stomach made a sickening turn. Eleanor was in too much shock to read the cold, hard expression on Rick’s face. She was imagining that they would confront his father with the truth about their marriage then walk out, arm in arm, to live the rest of their life together. But Cynthia knew that wasn’t going to happen.

“You filthy, lying coward,” she breathed.

“Stay out of this, Cynthia.”

“You expect me to sit here and watch you kill her a second time? Never!”

“What’s going on, Richard?” his father asked. “Who are these people?”

Eleanor had recovered enough to extend her hand to him, the confident, poised Eleanor that Cynthia remembered from their first day at the factory. “Hello, Mr. Trent. I’m glad we finally get to meet. I’m Rick’s wife, Eleanor.” Her pale face looked radiant, triumphant. Mr. Trent glared at Rick, then at Eleanor. Cynthia felt as if she might vomit, certain of what was to come.

“I know all about you, Miss Bartlett,” Mr. Trent said. “What are you doing here?”

“The army made a terrible mistake. I was told that Rick had died during the war. I came to Albany to see his grave, and instead… I’ve found my husband again!” Tears filled her eyes as she smiled up at Rick. “It’s like a dream or… or a miracle. Tell him, Rick. Tell him how we were married two years ago, before you were shipped overseas.”

“I know all about your so-called marriage. My son is the one who made a mistake, Miss Bartlett, in the heat of the moment. Youthful passions often fly out of control in wartime when life seems uncertain. But the war is over now, and it’s time for cooler heads to prevail. A lifetime decision such as a marriage should be made using logic and reason.”

Cynthia’s vision blurred as she saw where this conversation was leading. “You horrible, monstrous man!” she spat.

Eleanor seemed unruffled by his words. “You’re wrong, Mr. Trent. Rick and I love each other. Our marriage vows were for a lifetime.” She reached to take his limp hand as he stood over her. She seemed blind to the coldness in Rick’s eyes, but Cynthia saw it. His allegiance was to his father, not Eleanor.

“Richard had the marriage annulled several months ago,” Mr. Trent continued. “We tried to send you a copy, but it was returned without a forwarding address.”

Eleanor shook her head. “Why would he have it annulled? We’re man and wife. Don’t let him do this to us, Rick. You were going to stand up to him, remember? Tell him the truth. Tell him that we love each other, that we’re man and wife.”

Rick said nothing. Cynthia hated him for the coward that he was.

“My son had the marriage annulled, Miss Bartlett, because you married him under false pretenses. You knew all about him and what he stood to inherit, but you lied to him about yourself. Had he known the truth about your family background, he never would have made such a foolish decision. Fortunately, our lawyer has convinced a judge that you are an unscrupulous woman who tricked Richard into a hasty marriage for his money.”

“That’s a lie!” Cynthia shouted.

Eleanor’s face went from shock to disbelief as she turned to Rick. “Is that what you think, Rick?”

He didn’t reply. He kept his gaze fixed on his father, allowing him to speak for him. The older man’s voice raised in volume as he spoke each word with cold, bitter anger.

“We looked into your background—and your mother’s—Miss Bartlett.

The judge and the church authorities agreed that, since there was no child involved, the three-day marriage could be annulled.”

Eleanor looked up at Rick. “You said you loved me,” she said quietly. Her calm control frightened Cynthia more than tears or anger would have. “You told me you hated your father, hated the way he always manipulated you, like he’s doing right now. Say something, Rick.”