The Brontë Plot (12 page)

So, wide awake, she had read. And rather than turning to her present favorites, she opened the pages of stories from her childhood:
The Tale of Ginger and Pickles
,
The Tale of Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle
, and, of course,
The Tale of Peter Rabbit
among other Potter stories; poetry by Wordsworth and Coleridge; and Ransome's
Swallows and Amazons
. All Lake District writers. She felt them drawing her closer and closer to her father and the latest Birthday Book buried in her suitcase.

She hadn't read it; she hadn't opened it. Part of her hated each book that arrived, with no note or message and probably sent book rate to save money, while another part, equally powerful, cherished each and eagerly awaited its arrival. That part she hated more. She climbed out of bed and slid the book
free, rubbing her fingers across the envelope's postmark.
Bowness-on-Windermere.

At six o'clock in the morning Lucy found herself dressed and stiff and nervous, standing in Helen's lobby. The bellman helped pull her rollerboard through the revolving door.

“Mrs. Carmichael's grandson is collecting her. He's taking you both to the airport.” The doorman laid down the phone.

“Thank you.” Lucy paced the small room, her feet wearing out the rug beneath her. She couldn't decide if it was anticipation over the trip or the certainty of seeing James that sent her pulse racing.

“You'll get dizzy.”

She stilled at James's voice. He stood inches from her, looking down. She stepped back and caught her heel on the edge of the rug.

“Whoa.” He steadied her by the elbow then dropped his hand again.

“I'm nervous.” She captured his eyes then decided it was easier not to look there. “What are you doing here?” She tried to stop, but couldn't help herself and escalated the hurt swirling between them. “Still trying to convince her not to go?”

“Nothing I said had any effect.” He looked down at her, no smile—no expression at all. “You could've helped.”

Lucy felt her eyes flash in search of an answer or a retort, but she then noticed Helen exit the elevator, and relented.

Helen turned from the doorman and faced her. She stilled, her eyes flickering between Lucy and James. She crossed the lobby. “Are you two still at odds? Really, James.”

James opened his mouth to speak, but Helen cut him off. “I
said I'm not getting involved and I'm sorry I commented.” She pressed her lips together to prove her point then parted them again. “Ask Ted for your car, dear, and we'll be on our way.”

Once settled in James's car, Lucy found herself sitting directly behind him and able to catch glimpses of his eyes in the rearview mirror. Rather than give in to the temptation to keep looking at him, she studiously observed Chicago slip by as they headed west. She also labored to block out the conversation in the front seat.

Yet as they approached the terminal, she couldn't avoid it. Helen reached over and squeezed James's hand. “I love you.” The words came out low and soft. Lucy couldn't identify the layers beneath them, but they existed.

“I love you too, Grams.”

“People aren't always what they appear, James. The gift is accepting them as who they are, not who we want them to be.”

“Grams?”

Is she talking about me?
Lucy missed Helen's reply as she shifted in her seat. The conversation ended as James pulled up to the terminal, and Lucy got out of the car, eager to create distance. But as she opened the trunk for the bags, she found herself lightly pushed aside.

James reached in. “You don't need to haul these.”

“Thank you.”

He didn't reply. Instead he set down the bags and then pulled his grandmother in for a last hug. He said softly to her, “Call me if you need anything.”

“Don't fret. I wouldn't dream of bothering you at work.”

“All the partners are in Hawaii. Disturb me all you want.”

Lucy moved forward, but James avoided her, climbed back in his car, and drove away.

Lucy peeked at Helen. Her head listed to the side and her eyes were closed. The flight attendant removed the china bowl of warm nuts and pulled out Lucy's table. She then laid a dinner tray in front of her, complete with salad, bread, Chicken Piccata, and real silverware. Lucy stared at it until the flight attendant tapped her shoulder.

“Should we let her sleep?” She gestured to Helen.

“I'm not sure. She did order, so she must expect to eat.” Lucy lightly laid her hand on Helen's arm.

Helen whispered, “I'm awake.”

“Dinner's here if you're ready.”

The attendant leaned over Lucy to help pull out Helen's lap table and lay down her tray.

“It smells wonderful.” Lucy leaned over the steam. “I never imagined planes were like this.”

“Is this your first flight?”

“Yes. When I was a kid, we took road trips. My dad loved driving and my mom doesn't take many vacations. She works in real estate and says it never sleeps.”

Helen repositioned her silverware, straightening each piece. “Not now perhaps, but a few years ago I'll wager she thought it only slept.”

“True. All the hard work in the world couldn't move houses for a while.” Lucy took a bite. “James didn't win the trip, did he?”

Helen shook her head as if replaying the moment he'd told
her. It was a slow, sad motion. “He has the dubious honor, I gather, of being the number two associate.”

“Is he okay?”

“I'm not sure. James has little tolerance for gray and there's been a lot of that in his life lately.”

“You're talking about me.”

“Not exclusively. I think there's a lot of gray at top law firms, and James wants everything to be clear and plain—transparent. He's like his father, most comfortable there. I think he's struggling with the complexity of reality.”

Helen pushed her salad around the small plate. “I'm struggling with that myself. I should never have kept that watch, Lucy. Not because it belonged to someone else, but because of what it meant, deep inside me, for Charles, for us.” She threw Lucy a sideways glance. “Can you tell I've been dwelling on this?”

“Did you tell James about it?”

“Goodness, no. He's struggling enough.” Helen peeked over. “I know I told you this, but you really do have your grandfather's eyes. I find it strange to see him in you so strongly. I remember him now, far more powerfully than I've allowed myself in years. Only he had brown hair.”

“My mom's a redhead.” Lucy reached up and patted her hair as if reassuring herself of the color. “We . . . We haven't had a chance to talk about all this.”

“I'm sure you have a million questions.”

“That's on the low side.”

“Go slow.” Helen laughed. “I'm not as quick as I used to be.”

“Why did you keep it? You let Ollie go. You married Charles. Why wasn't the story done?”

“That would have been smart and healthy.” Helen chewed
as if processing her food and thoughts at an equal pace. “I took it as a carrot, a dare. I kept it as part-revenge, part-talisman. And for years, if we're going to be completely honest, part-hope. But the day I married Charles, the story should have ended. It wasn't fair to us. But I couldn't let go; I couldn't let go of Ollie.”

Helen laid down her fork and dabbed her lips with the white cloth napkin. She held it inches from her lips. “I loved him with a crazy passion, Lucy, and it scared me. That was my ultimatum the night we fought. He needed a legitimate job—for us.”

“And then
you
stole the watch?”

“When you say it like that it makes no sense at all,” Helen agreed. “But it did at the time. I ran out of that garage with the watch clutched in my fist, feeling so powerful. It felt like I held Ollie's quintessence in my hands. He'd have to come for it, and for me.”

Helen turned to the window. “You see, we . . .” She told of drinking gimlets while listening to Dizzy Gillespie at the Sutherland Show Lounge, dancing until dawn at a new club each night, and sneaking past her apartment building's doorman early each morning. She described her heightened state of anxiety, fearing Ollie's next crazy idea and fretting he'd become bored and not show up at all.

Food forgotten, her stories tripped into fall at school, when her red nail polish couldn't last more than a day or two because she chewed each nail to the quick waiting for him to come for her. Finally, she grew quiet as she relayed once again the desolation of the empty garage, her acquiescence to her father's plans, and the moment she met Charles Carmichael at a neighbor's New Year's Eve ball.

“There was nothing left to hope for. So after that Christmas, I did as told—stayed on the North Shore and married. I tucked the watch and that wild, carefree girl away . . . Until you . . . I'd forgotten about her—and she was bold and fun, and I miss her.”

Helen continued, but as her stories drifted toward Charles, her eyes grew soft. They'd been electric blue, fierce and icy, flashing with mixed emotions and charged memories while she recalled Ollie. But talking about Charles softened those colors, deepened them, and soon Helen's blue eyes closed altogether.

Lucy's did not. The hope Helen had offered,
go back to go forward,
slipped away as the sun set and the plane charged east into darkness.

The new beginning, seeing her dad and setting everything right within her, suddenly felt too heavy and impossible. To go back a couple years and correct her muddled lies?
Maybe.
To go back a generation and find her father redeemed and restored?
Doubtful, but perhaps
. . . But to break from what Ollie had started—three generations of clearly wayward choices, manipulation, and hurt?
Not a chance
. Lucy lifted her arms in supplication and let them flop into her lap.

“I give up. I give up,” she whispered and reached for
Villette
.

Chapter 12

A
s the plane touched down, Lucy reached across Helen to open the shade. The cabin slowly came to life with the soft rustle of blankets and pillows, pushed aside to stow books and organize bags. The flight attendants fluttered like hens, readying their chicks to leave the nest by delivering coats and hand wipes.

Helen touched Lucy's arm. “Did you rest at all?”

“No,” Lucy huffed.

“Is your mind spinning?”

“There's no end to it.”

“I can only imagine.” Helen reached for her handbag at her feet. “Keep asking all the questions you want. Revisiting that time is good, like sweeping away cobwebs.” She offered a soft smile. “I need them gone. They're so very old.”

Lucy smiled back and tugged her bag from the overhead bin. As Helen touched up her lipstick and combed her hair and instantly appeared fresh and ready, Lucy sank farther into her seat. She dug around for a brush. She didn't have one. She
searched for lipstick; she found Chapstick. She reached for the airline's small toiletry bag and squeezed a drop of toothpaste on her finger and slipped it into her mouth, hoping Helen wouldn't notice. She did.

“We'll check into the hotel and you can freshen up there. It's best to stay awake as long as possible to overcome jet lag, but I'm sure I'll need a nap. It's the only benefit to old age that I can find. You can sleep almost anywhere at any time.”

The flight attendant brought their coats, and Lucy held Helen's for her then pushed her arms into her own sleeves.

Helen gently stretched her back. “Shall we?”

The pair made their way through Heathrow airport. It was darker than O'Hare. The signs no longer bright blue and white, but yellow and black; the terminal hallway not opening to the sky and decked with bright flags, but closed in and tunnel-like. It looked older, faster, more grounded, and frenetic.

“Where do we meet our driver?” Lucy asked.

“We collect our bags and go through there.” Helen pointed to sliding doors, guards, and the long lines of Customs. “Can you grab them, dear?”

“Of course.” Lucy moved to the conveyor belt and waited. Once they arrived, she pulled her black canvas bag alongside Helen's brown leather one and followed the crowd into line.

Passports stamped and questions answered, they passed the guards and spilled into the chaos. It felt as if thousands of people pressed into her outside the double doors of the International Hallway. They stood in rows, like people watching a sporting match, waving signs and calling to friends and family members in a cacophony of languages. Lucy paused to absorb it.

Helen stopped. “It's different, isn't it?”

“It's wonderful.”

“Welcome to London.” Helen waggled a finger to a black-clad young man standing a few feet away and walked toward him. His placard read “Mrs. Carmichael.”

Lucy trailed, trying to pick out various languages and failing. She smiled ruefully; Sid would fare better.