The Swan House (66 page)

Robbie made sure everyone was involved in some activity. He attracted the kids to him like a magnet and was never too busy to stop and answer a question or cheer a child on in a three-legged race or a game of Red Rover.

Just before dinner he found Mike and James admiring his convertible and told them, “We'll go for a spin around the block in a little while, guys, if you'd like.”

“We shore would!” James exclaimed. “And kin we bring some friends along? They's been hearing 'bout yore fancy red car for a long time now.”

“You bet!” Robbie chuckled.

As soon as dinnertime rolled around, Daddy was kept busy flipping hamburgers and hot dogs on an old grill with some of the other fathers. The adults sat at a few picnic tables, and the kids sat on blankets that we had spread on the ground. We passed around bags of potato chips and served coleslaw and brownies. While we munched on the food, Miss Abigail told the children a Bible story.

Later Robbie suggested, “Anyone for a game of touch football?”

Soon he was explaining the rules to a dozen eager boys. Daddy and Jimmy even joined in the fun. I think my favorite moment of the whole day was when little James tackled Robbie too hard and they both went sprawling on the lawn. They started laughing really loudly, and then Robbie pulled himself off the ground and, huffing and puffing with his hair falling in his face, he helped James up and gave him a big hug.

“It's been a lovely day,” Miss Abigail said as we walked back to the church. “Thanks to everyone's hard work, several families have more comfortable homes.” And turning to Robbie she added, “Including my-self. Thank you, Robbie. I really appreciate it.”

Robbie grinned. “Don't thank me. It was Mr. Murphy and his team who worked on your house.”

Mr. Murphy's dark face turned a shade darker, and he said, “Aw, shucks. Wadn't nothin'.”

Daddy kept stride with Miss Abigail, and I think they were discussing the different projects she hoped to start up in the future. “We'll talk again soon,” Daddy told her enthusiastically before he and Jimmy and Trixie got into his car. “We've all had a wonderful day.” Then he added with emotion, “And thank you—thank you for all you've done for Mary Swan.”

“It's been my pleasure, Mr. Middleton.”

I followed Miss Abigail into the fellowship hall and said, “I think I understand now.”

“Understand?”

“I think I see what you've been trying to tell me. This is what I'm supposed to do—share what I've got with others. Be thankful for all I've been given and trust God to show me what's next. Something like that.”

Miss Abigail's eyes were definitely sparkling as she said, “Exactly. And don't worry about what others are or aren't doing. That's really none of your business. Remember, God has a special plan for each of us. The Bible says, ‘Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might.'”

“My hand has found painting.”

“Yes, a wonderful gift to have.”

“And serving spaghetti!”

“That too.”

“And you know what else, Miss Abigail?”

“What?”

“I love Buckhead!”

That made her laugh out loud. “Good-bye, Mary Swan. See you soon. The Lord bless you. “

We walked to the convertible, Robbie's arm draped around my left shoulder and Rachel's arm linked through my right arm. Then we climbed into the convertible. As we drove away, I glanced back and saw Puddin' standing in the middle of the road, waving at us and grinning from ear to ear.

When we arrived back at my house, we all congregated in the carport.

“I'm exhausted,” said Trixie, and she did look tired. But even with ketchup on her shirt and her hair a little wilted, she still looked fantastic.

“Well, that was a fine day!” Daddy sounded tired but happy. Really happy. “Robbie, thanks for all your hard work.” He shook Robbie's hand forcefully.

“I'm beat!” Rachel said. “I haven't played that many rounds of freeze tag before in my life! I'm going straight home to take a bath!”

“You could use one,” I teased, scrunching up my nose.

“Well, look who's talking, you silly, scatterbrained girl!” And she started chasing me around the yard.

“Who needs a bath when you've got a pool?” Robbie said, and before I knew it, he'd picked me up and tossed me over his shoulder. With everyone else following behind, he marched me through the backyard past the big hickory tree and threw me, clothes and all, into the pool.

It was almost dusk when I, still damp, walked Robbie over to his car. “Thanks for making this day happen, Robbie. It was great! It was . . . it was, I don't know. . .”

“It was just what I get for following you around!” And he kissed me on the mouth right in front of Daddy and Trixie and Jimmy and Lucy and Rachel. Then he hopped into his car and took off down the driveway.

“Fine boy, that Robbie Bartholomew,” Daddy commented, his arm around Trixie's shoulder. Jimmy made a grimace, definitely disapproving of the kiss. Lucy hugged her mother around the waist and seemed perfectly content to be sharing Trixie with Daddy.

“Smitten,” Rachel whispered as I walked her down the driveway. “You'd better keep him, Swan.”

“I'm planning on it, Rach. Now go take your bath!”

She rolled her eyes at me and said, “You go change into some dry clothes! See ya tomorrow.”

Every muscle in my body was aching, but instead of going inside and flopping on my bed, I walked through the familiar woods to the Swan House and sat at the bottom of the hill just staring up at the mansion. A dozen different memories flashed before me: running through the house, counting swans; clinging to Mama's skirt while she painted, swatting at the gnats when I was a little older; holding my new sketchpad at twelve, trying to draw the mansion; bawling my eyes out on the day after the crash; finding that I still could sketch even with a black eye; and finally setting my easel in the snow in this very spot and painting.

Mrs. Inman had said I was trying to find myself in this house. And I had. I had found my inspiration in the Swan House. But my real Swan's House was something a whole lot bigger.
In my Father's house
are many mansions
. That was what I had found this year—an answer to the longing in my soul. A swan and a raven, a little of each. In this year of contrast, stark, heartbreaking contrast—life and death—God had brought color too. He had brought me a palette full of color to last my whole life long.

Epilogue

Atlanta, Georgia
October 2000

We're standing in the sanctuary of Mt. Carmel, Abbie and I, where we've been bawling like babies. And we're looking at the painting of Oakland Cemetery. I smile to myself. Oakland Cemetery now has a board of directors and is a very popular historical site in Atlanta.

“I really love that painting, Mom. Almost as much as the one of the Swan House in snow.”

“I was so very young and inexperienced back then. I'm amazed they still have it here.”

“I imagine they consider it a privilege, considering that it's the first painting you ever painted and who you've become.”

“Now, don't start going on about that.”

“Well, even if I've never painted anything but the walls in my house, I'm very proud to have a famous mother and grandmother.”

“All right. Enough. Come on downstairs where the other painting is.” I want to hurry her along so I won't start crying again.

We are walking down the stairs to the fellowship hall now. Abbie has her four-month-old son, Bobby, on her hip.

“Thanks for telling me the whole story, Mom. It is absolutely the saddest thing I've ever heard. I can't believe it's all true and that it happened to you.”

“Every bit of it, baby.” I can't bear for her to see how much the telling of it cost me, how vivid it seems even now. I can still see the sparkle in Miss Abigail's eyes and hear Rachel calling me a “silly, scatterbrained girl.” I can almost feel Puddin' pulling on my hair, forcing it into braids. And I can picture myself bending over Ella Mae's hospital bed again, kissing her cheek

“I feel like I really know my namesake now. Miss Abigail was certainly a remarkable woman.”

“Miss Abigail brought faith into my life . . .”

“. . . And you wanted it to be a family legacy forever,” Abbie chimes in with the familiar words I have often repeated to her. “I've gotten to know and love all the people in your story. Keep telling me about them, Mom—until I can remember for myself.”

“Some other time, Abbie. Maybe when the next baby is due.” We both smile at that.

I close my eyes and think of Robbie and Jimmy and Carl and Daddy and Trixie and the paintings. Because more than anything else, that has been my life. The paintings. And it seems perfectly fitting that I put my arm around Abbie's waist and we stand silently in front of Mama's portrait of beautiful Ella Mae cradling a little white baby girl in her arms.

“I'll tell you the story soon,” I promise. “But for now let's just look at the painting.”

And so, with Abbie's infant son asleep on her shoulder, that is what we do.

Author's Note

The Orly plane crash in June 1962 was a true and terribly tragic event that affected the lives of many, many Atlantans.

The High Museum of Art is part of what was long called the Atlanta Memorial Arts Building (in commemoration of the Orly tragedy) and is now known as the Woodruff Center—home to not only the High Museum but also to the Atlanta Symphony Orchestra, the Alliance Theatre, and the Atlanta College of Art.

The Swan House is indeed a well-known historic site in Buckhead and is now owned by the Atlanta Historical Society. It is open to tourists throughout the year.

Oakland Cemetery is likewise open to the public, and the Historic Oakland Foundation is dedicated to the restoration and preservation of this historic cemetery.

The immensely popular Varsity still sits across the expressway from the Georgia Institute of Technology, its menu virtually unchanged.

In the Grant Park section of Atlanta, a small church provides spaghetti meals for the needy each week, as it has done for several decades. Many homes in this area have been remodeled in the past years and the residents reflect great racial and social diversity.

The Middleton family and all other characters, except those of known historical importance, are fictitious, and any resemblance to real persons alive or dead is purely coincidental.

Acknowledgments

As a young girl, I remember standing in the lobby of the Atlanta Memorial Arts building and staring up at a stone-engraved list of names of Atlantans who perished in a plane crash. That stone marker with its long list broke my heart, for it represented great human suffering. Over the years, the tragedy continued to haunt and inspire me. This story begins with that tragic event, but it is also about where I grew up and about so many things that have made me who I am—things I have loved and things I have learned. I am deeply grateful to my heavenly Father who has used all of my life's experiences to shape and change me and has allowed me to write stories from the heart.
“Delight yourself in the Lord and He will give you the desires of your
heart.”

I also wish to express my sincerest thanks to:

Atlantans:

My grandmother, Allene Massey Goldsmith, one of Atlanta's
premières dames
, in my humble opinion, still inspiring and encouraging me along the way. Thanks for lending me the newspapers from those fateful days in June 1962.

My parents, Jere and Barbara Goldsmith, who raised me to share the same love for Atlanta that they have, and who have modeled to me generosity and love among Atlanta's richest and poorest. Thanks for all your help with research and publicity.

My brothers and sisters-in-law, Jere and Mary Goldsmith and Glenn and Kim Goldsmith, who encourage me from across the ocean. Many thanks, Jere and Glenn, for all the help with computer complexities.

Louise Adamson, whose real life stories and sacrificial love in the inner city inspired parts of this novel. You are an amazing woman of God.

Laura McDaniel, Kim Huhman, Margaret DeBorde, Valerie Andrews and Heather Myers, for helping me remember the past. We grew up together, we laughed and cried and prayed and dreamed together, and we still do. Lifelong friends—I am richly blessed!

Jill Steenhuis, fellow Atlantan living in southern France and gifted artist. Thanks for your thoughtful insights and advice about art.

The Girls' Class of '78 from The Westminster Schools, for so many crazy, wonderful memories that live on . . .

Other Atlantans who helped me with research: my aunt, Jay Goldsmith; Coobie DeBorde; Bill Crawford; Doris Lockerman; Thom Shelton; Pam Meister; Rebecca Moore; Molly Lawson; Frances Francis; Mary Rose Taylor; Ivan Allen Jr.; Michael Rose; Camille McDuffie; Julia Shivers; plus many others who whispered words of encouragement along the way.

The High Museum of Art; the Atlanta History Center; the Swan House; the Martin Luther King, Jr. Center, the Historic Oakland Foundation.

Others around the world:

Dr. Michel Cannat and Dr. Daniel Shoultz for helpful advice in psychiatry.

Marcia Smartt, precious friend, mentor, artist, counselor. God has used your wise words to speak to my heart hundreds of times throughout the years. Thanks for your insights on art and mental illness.

Todd Burkes, fellow missionary and friend who helped me get into Carl's skin.
Merci beaucoup
.

Trudy Owens, soul mate, teammate, encourager, editor, fellow mom, and missionary, with whom I've shared these past twelve years. My love and prayers go with you as your family steps out into a new adventure.

Odette Beauregard, teammate and precious friend for almost twenty years, you are truly part of our family.
Merci pour tout!