Between Here and Gone Page 7

  “Really?” I studied Greg Barnes as he smoothly drew Mrs. Mercier into one of the several small clusters of guests scattered throughout the room, the volume rising with a chorus of “hello darlings” and “you look smashing,” followed by a burst of laughter at some quip or another.

  “Oh yes.” She smiled as her gaze followed him to the long marble-topped credenza that was serving as the evening’s bar. “I was a junior counselor at the same summer camp where he was a dashing senior counselor, flirting madly with each other, when that blasted virus decided to take a crack at me. Once I was no longer contagious, he visited every single day despite the fact that his mother was vehemently opposed. My mother-in-law never quite forgave me for that,” she added with a wicked grin. Settling herself in a chair she gestured I should take the one opposite. “For nearly a year, Greg would come by, rucksack stuffed full of books that he’d nicked from the library at the publishing house and we’d talk for hours about what I’d read, what he’d read, what we liked or disliked, the why of it. Even during physical therapy, there he was, walking alongside, pushing me to move and think at the same time. He’d even argue with me—can you imagine?” she said with another laugh and glance at her approaching husband. “The utter crust of the man. But he refused to allow either brain or body to atrophy.”

  “Telling tales out of school again, Connie?” he asked as he offered her a martini.

  “Just that while you may be a brilliant publisher, you still can’t pick a tie to save your life and you leave your socks on the floor,” she teased.

  “Well, there go my chances at making a favorable impression on a guest—however, it doesn’t mean I won’t try.” He handed me a Waterford goblet, the pale gold wine making the sharp-edged crystal facets shoot off brilliant, rainbow-hued sparks. And I knew, even before I took a sip—

  “Pinot gris?”

  “You never did have enough to fully appreciate it that day.” He lifted his own cut-crystal tumbler of Scotch. “Cheers, ladies, and happy holidays.”

  As Constance and Greg touched glasses, I murmured “Salut,” my throat clenching tight on the end of the word, making it come out far more clipped than it should. Oh God. Oh no. Oh no. Granted, it was only one word, an innocuous word among this cosmopolitan crowd, but still—

  Much as I might wish it weren’t so, I couldn’t prevent the occasional thought that flitted through my mind in my native language. The dreams—those perhaps were a given. And foolishly, I continued to read in it, unwilling to give up that connection, but speaking it? Not so much as a word had passed my lips in more than three years. Not since I left Miami. I’d had to. Imposing that sort of discipline had been a necessity. As a manner of not only burying my background but also declaring my independence, I wanted nothing more than to become just another American girl, speaking nothing but English, all traces of an accent eradicated thanks to sheer will and repeated viewings of films starring the likes of Katharine Hepburn and Elizabeth Taylor.

  But the honest truth of the matter was not speaking Spanish kept the demons at bay. Actually tasting the words on my lips and tongue, feeling the gentle vibrations of the rolling Rs and the soft, sensuality of the speech cadences was simply too much to bear. Too many memories echoing in the sound of my own voice. Better still to not allow it at all. Ever.

  Luckily, however, my faux pas seemed to have passed unnoticed, lost amidst the clink of glasses, Bing Crosby’s soothing croon, and wisps of cigarette smoke. Constance, as Greg had predicted, asked what I was currently reading and we set off on a compare and contrast of Wharton and Fitzgerald that continued on throughout the lavish dinner.

  “You see, what I find most remarkable, Natalie, is how each of them became renowned for exemplifying a distinct era of Old New York.”

  “Yes, but as distinct as each of those eras was, as marked by the accepted behaviors, what I find fascinating are the commonalities. How in both, there was this contradiction of the rigidness of social mores and castes versus the excesses of the times.”

  “Very true.” A delighted grin revealed two tiny crescent-shaped dimples in Constance’s otherwise smooth skin. “So either Scott was a bit more Victorian than he might have wanted to admit or Edith’s High Victorian New York a bit more licentious.”

  I smiled as I took another sip of the excellent red Constance had had served with the main course. She was truly a formidable woman, overseeing the dinner from her place at the head of the table while she maintained our conversation and made sure that everyone seated near her was comfortable and had everything they wanted. The warmth of familiarity blended with the warmth from the wine to run through my veins in a heady cocktail.

  “Well, I think perhaps the more fair assessment is that Fitzgerald wrote of his time, whereas Wharton wrote of a time past, viewing it through the scrim of her experiences. The elapsed years had to have colored her memories and views to a certain degree and allowed her to see a licentiousness she might not have recognized as a sheltered young woman, don’t you think?”

  “Another astute observation.” With a subtle gesture, Constance indicated to a nearby maid that she should check the water glasses as conversation continued to ebb and flow, topics ranging from the most difficult tickets to get on Broadway to the recent presidential elections to which matron had worn the most appalling gown to the opening gala for the New York City Ballet’s Nutcracker at the new State Theater at Lincoln Center, and what seemed to be every parent’s current complaint: those long-haired boys from Liverpool and the disturbing influence they were having on their daughters.

  So different—yet so similar.

  “It really was the most astounding thing.” The voice rang out, not so much strident as commanding; enough that the rest of the conversations gradually fell silent, all attention focused on the far end of the table.

  “What was?” Greg leaned back in his chair, not at the head of the table, opposite Constance, as one might have expected, but rather, dead center on one of the long sides.

  “You would know, Gregory, if you bothered to go to church.”

  “I go, Aunt Agatha. Easter and Christmas—the rest is between the gentleman and myself.” Greg lifted his wine glass toward the older woman occupying the traditional seat of honor and took a drink as he cast a quick glance and wry smile heavenward.

  “Nothing shy of blasphemy, my boy. It’s a wonder you haven’t been excommunicated.”

  “Well, it’s not for lack of trying.”

  “Insolent.” Punctuated with an impatient shake that threatened her towering silver bouffant. “No doubt then, you’ll find nothing wrong.”

  “With what?” Greg’s voice remained infinitely patient, yet from my vantage point, I could see the corner of his mouth twitching, ever so slightly.

  “With the utter downfall of the Church as we know it. Advent indeed,” the older woman sniffed, pulling a large lace-trimmed square from the depths of a black velvet sleeve. “It’s a sign, I tell you,” she continued, pointing with the hand holding the handkerchief. “That they chose that day.”

  “I know I’m going to be sorry I asked, but what are you talking about Ag?”

  “At Mass—on the First Sunday of Advent, the priest, he … he faced us. And recited parts of the liturgy in English!” The older woman’s face suffused with color as her voice rose in outrage with each word. “And do not call me Ag, Gregory.”

  As Greg murmured a decidedly not contrite, “Sorry, Aunt Agatha,” another man chimed in from the far end of the table.

  “I was reading about it in the Times. One of the first results of the Vatican Council—a move to make the Church more of the people.”

  “It’s a disgrace, I tell you.” Aunt Agatha again sniffed into her handkerchief as she took a sip of water, her color restored to something much closer to normal. While she seemed to be a bit of a dramatic sort, she at least didn’t appear to be of the ilk to stage a theatrical faint, sliding boneless from chair to floor in hopes of precipitating a family panic. I knew
the type all too well.

  “Making the church of the people is peanuts, all things considered. From what I understand, one of the most highly charged topics is the proposed commission to consider birth control as part of the council.”

  “Gregory Barnes, we’re at the dinner table and you knew exactly what I was talking about all along, didn’t you?”

  The subtle quirk played about his mouth again, the cat, toying with its prey. “Actually, Aunt Agatha, I didn’t know precisely what you were talking about, with respect to Mass, but I’m not a complete Luddite. I do keep up. In the interests of intellectual curiosity, of course.”

  Poor Aunt Agatha was liable to have a stroke right there if Greg didn’t let up on his teasing. However, it appeared the lady had more backbone than the fragile façade might indicate.

  “It is not intellectual curiosity, it’s the Church. It doesn’t need to be of the people—it just needs to be. And it most certainly does not have to change. Not like this.”

  “But—that’s not right either.”

  The room grew silent as all eyes turned … toward me. The sudden shock of recognition had my fingers curling around the stem of my wineglass tightening, then relaxing as Constance’s hand brushed over mine. “What do you mean, Natalie?”

  "I—"

  Just in time, I caught myself and started to change whatever inanity I’d been about to blurt out to a polite, innocuous, “—nothing.” But that long-denied part of me—the same part that had compelled me to buy the wholly impractical dress and wear my hair down—made me pause and reconsider.

  Yes, “nothing” was my standard reply—the mantra which ruled my existence. Nothing … it’s nothing. Blend in, say no more than necessary, do as little as possible to distinguish myself, give no hint as to who I’d been. However, in this warm room, glowing with the light from dozens of tall tapers set in silver candelabras soft with the patina of time—buzzing with the conversation and intellectual stimulation I’d lacked for so long—I wanted so badly to speak.

  Another part of me, slipping free of its restrictions.

  Taking a deep breath I began slowly, measuring each word carefully. “It’s just that with … theology. Or any ideology, really, shouldn’t it be somewhat subject to the times? To allow for personal interpretation? Otherwise, how can it evolve in a manner that’s congruent with not only its time, but its people?”

  “One might argue that the Church is there to guide—Natalie, is it? Not to be subject to our whims and fancies.” The statement, issued more as a gentle challenge rather than as a rebuke came from the man who’d first mentioned the Vatican council.

  “Yes, but—” I pushed my plate to the side, leaning forward on the table to better face my challenger. “To force any group to subject themselves so wholly to a single, unwavering belief with no room for interpretation or challenge, it … it—” I faltered, searching for the right words.

  “Would invite totalitarian rule.”

  “Yes.” Relieved, I nodded at Greg. “Exactly.” Because really, “allows a madman freedom to take everything you hold dear,” was most assuredly not the right choice for this particular discussion, making little sense to these people.

  “Nonsense.” Aunt Agatha bit the word off as if was a sour wedge of lemon. “That’s not the Church—that’s Communism.”

  “Yes,” I breathed far more quietly, looking away from the table at large and down into my wine glass. “Exactly.”

  “You argue like a Jesuit, Natalie.”

  My gaze rose to meet Greg’s. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” Nico had been taught by the Jesuits at Belén. Could carry an argument for days.

  “It’s meant as one.” With a wink, he turned to placate Aunt Agatha who was still spluttering about Communists and what did that have to do with birth control and really, Gregory, it was rather in poor taste and quite possibly heresy, to be discussing such things at the dinner table. As various other conversations resumed, I toyed once again with the stem of my wine glass, more than content for the moment to sit quietly, both exhilarated and exhausted from my rare moment in the spotlight.

  “No, he’s got a new tutor, and I tell you, it’s working miracles. The changes in him in this last term alone, are nothing short of remarkable. It’s as if he’s gone from boy to man, almost overnight.”

  “Natalie? You’ve gone absolutely white as a sheet, dear. Are you all right?”

  Once again, the table gradually grew silent as my worst nightmares came true, the insistent drum at the back of my mind now berating me, steadily and with increasing fervor, what a tremendous error of judgment this whole night had been. What a fool I had been, to think I could recapture a hint of my past without my present intruding and making itself shockingly, painfully known.

  But how known? No one had given any indication that they recognized me or my name, other than Constance.

  “I-I’m … fine.” Just trying to remember how to breathe. Reaching for reserves of discipline and calm much in the same way I reached for my water goblet and took a careful sip, trying desperately to steady the nerves that had my pulse beating wildly at the base of my throat, making it difficult to swallow. Dios mío, what if this woman’s son was—what if he—

  “So, Farraday’s proven to be more of a challenge than Ryan expected then, Faye?” Greg’s voice, light, conversational, immediately drew attention away from me.

  Farraday.

  Not Concord. Farraday. Tony prep school in rural Massachusetts. Not the Upper East Side. Stepping stone for privileged young men—those future doctors and politicians and captains of industry. A school much like Concord. Too much. But not. As the realizations tumbled one, after the other, fighting to be heard over the roaring of blood in my ears, I stole a glance at Greg, ostensibly absorbed in the woman’s accounts of her son’s exploits, yet for just a split second, our gazes met and I experienced the most uncanny sensation of having been rescued. Again. Which, in this case, was absurd.

  “Are you certain you’re all right, dear?”

  “Y-yes, Truly.” Never mind that my heart was continuing to beat a rapid, painful tattoo against my ribcage. “I-I think I just overindulged a bit in the wine.” I laughed, mildly surprised at how carefree it came out sounding. “I’d best stop before it leads to my embarrassing myself further. Or a hangover.” Using a corner of my napkin, I dabbed at my upper lip, the gentle rasp of the linen against the sensitive skin serving as an anchor, centering my focus. Loosely fold the cloth into a long triangle, set it alongside my plate—little rituals, learned a lifetime ago, helping to keep me grounded and not from dissolving into a mass of hysteria.

  “Perhaps splashing some cool water on your face?”

  I stared at Constance, her face wavering gently in my field of vision, the words seeming to come from a distance.

  “I think … yes, that might be a good idea.” My words sounded even more distant and hollow than Constance’s.

  “Or would you prefer to lie down? You’re certainly welcome to use the study or perhaps one of the boys’ rooms—”

  “No—” I took a deep breath, marveled at how cold my fingertips felt against my cheeks. “Honestly, Constance—it’s nothing a splash of water won’t fix.”

  “If you’re sure,” she conceded, her fine, light brows not relaxing from the frown into which they’d drawn. “Florence—” She gestured to one of the nearby maids. “Please show Miss Martin to the restroom attached to Greg Junior’s bedroom,” she instructed quietly, her gaze shifting to meet mine as I stood and moved to follow the patiently waiting maid. “In case you change your mind and want to lie down for a moment.”

  What I wanted was to disappear. Right then and there. I wanted nothing more than to have a hole open up and swallow me and these ridiculous delusions that I could recapture a moment of my past. Better still, that some time warp would magically appear to transport me back, oh … a week or so, before my carefully ordered world had begun tilting sideways.

  “But you can�
��t. And the sooner you accept that, the better off we’ll all be, Natalia.”

  Wonderful. I was now reduced to scolding myself in a mirror. And referring to myself in the plural. Turning the elegant brass handle with a vicious twist, I sent water cascading into the bathroom sink. Without hesitation, I plunged my hands and wrists beneath the icy stream, shivering as the tingling sensations traveled across my palms and up my arms. Mesmerized, I watched the patterns the water made as it streamed over my hands, their skin gradually turning pink, pinker still, then finally a bright, vibrant red, a color of feeling. Which made the fact that my hands were now completely numb, oddly amusing. Removing them from the water, I flexed the fingers a few times, prompting the blood to begin flowing again, then adjusted the water to a gentler stream. Cupping my hands, I splashed my cheeks, once, twice—again and again until the feverish, overheated feeling was gone. Yet, when I lifted my face to stare into the mirror I noted how my cheeks remained flushed, my pupils glittering and enlarged to where nothing but a slight trace of dark green iris was visible.

  With a sigh, I turned the water off and reached for one of the neatly folded hand towels left beside the sink by the helpful Florence, as she’d asked once again if there was anything she could get me, a “bicarb or maybe some hot ginger water.” Cures she said her mama had sworn were the only remedy for her daddy’s hangovers. I’d had to summon every ounce of autocratic insistence that just a few splashes of water and I’d be perfectly all right, before she would leave, skepticism still clearly written across her features.

  Right as rain, chère. I could hear Remy’s voice echoing as I shook the towel open and held it against my face. Moments passed, my fingertips pressing the plush terrycloth harder and harder into my eyelids until miniscule red dots danced and chased each other across the blackness.

  No, Remy. Not right as rain. There simply wasn’t enough water in the world.