If Owen persisted in boasting about Megan, she played down everything about herself, always saying she was “just a little girl from the Welsh valleys who was lucky to be born with something of a voice.”
Amazingly, their grandmother was still alive, a sprightly ninety-two-year-old, going on ninety-three, remarkably clear-headed and healthy, who still went out and about socially in Manhattan, as well groomed and as chicly dressed as ever. Owen had died in 1989, at the age of eighty-nine, but Megan was still going strong, defying the years, much to the joy of her family.
Their grandparents had been dominant forces in their lives, involved and caring and exercising enormous influence over them. But it was their father who had always been there for them until the day he died in 1994, aged sixty-four. Unexpectedly stricken by a fatal heart attack— and he a man with no previous heart troubles—he had been far too young to die.
12
It was cold outside, a very cold night, and windy, she could tell that from the frost coating the edge of her windows, and the look of the East River—turbulent, choppy with waves. Above the ink-dark river the sky was black, without cloud. Stars shone brightly; there was a full moon. It was one of those sharp, clear winter nights when everything appeared pristine, the kind of January night she had always loved.
Her eyes, once a vivid cornflower blue but faded now to a softer, paler hue, settled on the helicopter zooming closer. It looked like a flying saucer, and it was coming toward her unerringly, as if this old landmark building where she lived were its target.
At the last moment, or so it seemed to her, the helicopter veered away, no doubt heading for the heliport, a few blocks up the river in the east sixties.
The sky was suddenly empty again except for the cold white stars and the Pepsi-Cola sign rising up like a bright red neon sentinel at the edge of Queens. The sign had been part of her life for so many years, she knew she would miss it if it were suddenly no longer there. My bit of pop art, she called it.
Megan Morgan Valiant turned away from the bay window of her library and walked toward the fireplace at the other end of the room. She was a tall, slender woman, regal in bearing; her dark brown hair, lightly streaked with silver, was fashionably styled, and the great beauty of her youth still lingered in her face.
She could not help thinking how good it was to be alive. So many people she had known were dead now. She was ninety-two and defying time and the odds. She was luckier than most and in so many ways, well off enough to live as she’d always lived, to do what she wanted. She was also fortunate in that there was nothing much wrong with her other than a few aches and pains, a bit of arthritis in her feet, and a slight deafness in one ear. Nonetheless, she could still hear very well when she wanted to, even when people whispered. There was no sign of osteoporosis, the curse of so many older women, no senility, no Alzheimer’s. She was lucky indeed.
She had outlived her beloved husband Owen, dead almost eight years, and her two eldest children, her sons Richard and Emlyn. Only her daughters left, Rhianon and Cara, and her grandchildren, the children of Richard and Maggie. Richard. Her favorite. You shouldn’t have favorites, but you always did. It was human nature to favor one above all the others, but you must never let them know. No reason to hurt any of them. Her special child had been her second son. It was curious, she often thought, that his brother, Emlyn, and sister, Rhianon, had never had any children. Cara had had two, Mervyn and Lydia, but Mervyn had died in a drowning accident in the lake in Connecticut, Lake Waramaug it was called, and he only twelve. A tragedy. It had haunted the family for years. The loss of a child was always hard to bear. His sister, Lydia, had never seemed to recover. She had married young and gone to live in Australia, as if she wanted to put great distance between herself and her family, and the memories.
Megan paused at the console table filled with silver-framed photographs of her family. The Valiants … Owen and her, Rhianon and Cara, Richard and Emlyn, so many pictures taken at different ages … their children. The children when they were small, in their teens and grown. Funny, she thought, how you could identify each one from the baby pictures. None of them had changed much. The faces were the same in adulthood.
Reaching for a photograph of herself when she was twenty-two, she studied it carefully for a moment. It had been taken the year she had become a star overnight. And thankfully she still had that same face—underneath the wrinkles. Not that many wrinkles though. She had worn well, even if she said so herself. It was easy to see they were all from the same family. Black hair, blue or green eyes, dark Celtic Welsh, the Valiants, yes, the lot of them.
Fey, mystical, sometimes otherworldly, and touched by the magic—that was what Merlin of Camelot had said about the Welsh, whom some others called the lost tribe of Israel. Part of that magic was in the throat, in the tongue, in the love of song, the love of language, both the spoken and the written word. Actors and writers and singers, the Welsh were. Special, Owen had said.
Her voice had been her magic. A gift from God was the way she thought of it. She had always played down her success, but it was her voice that had given them their fortune—and seen to their future. In a sense, every Valiant owed almost everything they had to her gift, and to Owen’s brilliance as a manager and to his business acumen. He had spun gold for them.
She missed Owen. She would miss him until the day she shed this mortal coil and went to join him.
But not just yet, she added under her breath. Too much still to do here on earth. She knew he’d understand.
Megan placed the photograph on the console, leaned forward, peered at her grandson, Dylan. A little sigh escaped her. Dylan had been spoiled by Richard and Margaret, and by Owen and even by Laura, sometimes. But not by me. I’ve never spoiled him, and I never will.
Next to Dylan stood the picture of Laura, taken when she was just twenty-two. A smile touched Megan’s mouth, lit up her eyes, brought a sudden radiance to her face. She’s the one, she’s the best. Strong, reliable, loyal, and steady as a rock. She’s the racehorse with the breeding and the stamina. I’ll put my money on her any day. Megan drew closer to the picture, loving Laura so much, and then glanced at the one of herself taken in 1925. Spitting image, she murmured, Laura looks just like me when I was that age.
Straightening, Megan moved to the fireplace, warming her hands against the flames. Lily, her housekeeper, had kept the fire going since teatime, knowing how much she liked a fire, especially in winter. It cheered up a room. Sitting down, leaning her head against the blue silk brocade of the chair, her eyes focused on the painting on the opposite wall.
It was a springtime scene of a New York square painted by Childe Hassam in 1896, and it was one of her better paintings. I’ll give it to Laura for her birthday in May, or perhaps she would prefer to choose one for herself. I’ll let her decide. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. That was the best thing.
Now Megan’s eyes shifted to the portrait hanging above the fireplace … she had been thirty-one when it was painted. In her prime. The same age as Laura was now.
Closing her eyes, Megan let herself sink down into herself. Remembering, remembering … so much to remember, so many memories. They filled her heart. It was still young. Sometimes she thought she was only eighteen in her heart. It was her mind that was old and wise, full of knowledge, too much knowledge, she often thought, of people and their strange ways, of human nature with all its frailties and weaknesses, as well as its strengths…. She drifted with her thoughts and her memories … and she dozed.
“Hello, Gran,” Laura said, gliding into the library.
Megan sat up with a little start and blinked, then she smiled when she saw her granddaughter.
Vivid eyes, vivid hair, vivid personality. Full of vivid life. Her favorite grandchild. Laura bent over, kissed her on the cheek, squeezed her shoulder. She loved her grandmother very much; after all, they had been extremely close ever since she was a child. She had always felt closer to her grandmother than she had to her mother, or an
yone else.
“I can smell the cold on you, Laura,” Megan said, “I hope you didn’t walk here.”
Laura laughed, touching her grandmother’s cheek gently with one finger. “All that way, Gran, from Sixty-eighth and Madison to Fifty-second and First, and on an icy night like this. You must be joking. I took a cab.”
“Good. Much warmer. Much safer too. The sherry decanter’s over there, darling, in its usual place. Pour for us and let us get cozy for a while. You know how much I enjoy our chats.”
“Sherry coming up, Gran,” Laura murmured over her shoulder as she walked to the round table standing in a corner of the room.
A moment later she came hurrying back, carrying two glasses. After giving one to Megan, she sat down in the chair opposite, reached forward to clink her glass against her grandmother’s, and said, “Here’s to you, Grandma Megan, and another new year. May there be many more.”
“Well, I hope so, Laura dear, I don’t want to leave this earth just yet. I’ve more damage to do, you know. Much more,” she laughed.
Laura laughed with her.
After taking a sip of sherry, Megan continued. “Is your mother feeling better? I thought she seemed a bit glum at times over Christmas.”
“Yes, I agree, she was in a strange state of mind, but she’s all right now. I think she cheered up once she got down to Florida, and she’s apparently felt much better, is in good spirits.”
“How is that little cottage of mine?”
“As charming as ever, Gran.”
“Your grandfather and I bought it over thirty-five years ago, before you were born, and it was always a pretty place, my beach cottage, where I could potter around and relax, be myself.”
“Whv don’t vou go down there for a week or two. Gran? The weather’s warm, much warmer than New York. It would do you good. And Mom would love your company. Please think about going; I’ll take you there if you want.”
“I can take myself, thank you very much, my dear girl! But I don’t want to go, I don’t want to be there, Laura, not without your grandfather. It was always our place, a very special place, and it brings back too many memories, makes me feel sad.”
Laura stared at her in surprise. “But Grandpa Owen lived here, in this apartment with you as well, and surely—”
“The cottage was our very special place, our holiday home. We loved to escape there, it was always just the two of us….” Megan lifted her shoulders in a tiny shrug. “I don’t know how to explain it, darling, but I have no desire to go there anymore. As much as I loved it then, now I don’t care about it at all. And it’ll be yours one day, yours and your brother’s, after I’m gone.”
“I hate it when you talk that way, Gran.”
“I know. But we must face reality. I will die.”
“Yes, I know,” Laura mumbled.
Megan glanced into the fire reflectively, and after a moment of silence she remarked, “Your father’s been dead three years now. Don’t you think your mother ought to start a new life? She’s only sixty, after all.”
“She’s trying hard, Grandma. She’s gone out and gotten herself a lot of work.”
“She ought to go out and find herself a new man.”
“Grandma, you’re something else!” Laura exclaimed.
“But it’s the truth, and sixty is young. It certainly looks awfully good to me from where I’m sitting, and considering my age. Anyway, what about this fellow in the Bahamas? The one whose ceiling she’s gone to paint.”
“Forget about him, Gran, he’s too old. He’s eighty-two.”
“The father is, yes. I mean Harry Lightfoot, the son. I’ve met him, and he’s very nice. Your mother could do worse.”
“And how old is he?”
“Oh, about fifty-five, fifty-six, something like that. Just right for Margaret.”
“Mom’ll say he’s too young.”
Megan shook her head, took a swallow of sherry, pondered for a second, then announced, “A younger man keeps a woman young.”
Laura’s brow lifted quizzically. “Speaking from experience, Grandmother?”
Megan had the good grace to laugh. “No, but I can imagine. Anyway, I’m quite serious, I think your mother should have another man in her life—boyfriend, husband, it doesn’t really matter.” Megan leaned forward slightly, pinning her wise old eyes on Laura. “Margaret’s healthy, vital, full of energy, a good-looking woman. Fun too. Any man would be lucky to have her on his arm and in his life.”
“I agree, Gran, but try telling that to Mom.” Laura paused, then nodded her head, said with sudden enthusiasm, “I’m going to encourage her.”
“Good girl,” Megan said.
Laura nodded, sipped her sherry, said nothing.
After a moment Megan remarked, “But your mother is not the reason I asked you to come to see me, darling girl. I want to talk to you again about the art collection, such as it is. I’ve been wondering if we should put it up for auction.”
Laura frowned, and her vivid blue eyes filled with sudden alarm. “Do you need money, Grandma? Do you have problems? I thought the trusts Grandpa set up were—”
“No, no, there’s not a problem about money!” Megan cried, interrupting her granddaughter. “I just thought it might be more practical to sell the art now. I’ve been reading about auctions lately. Paintings seem to be fetching good prices. The economy’s good. If you think we should do it, why not?”
“I don’t want to make a snap decision, Gran, not just like that. I think I ought to evaluate every painting you have and then talk to Jason. You remember him, he gave us evaluations on the small Cézanne and the Sisley.”
“I do remember him. Very well. He was a nice young man. So, you make the decision, and do what you have to do.”
“All right, I will.”
Megan smiled at her granddaughter, loving her so much, full of pride in her. “In the meantime, let’s have another sherry, darling,” she said.
Laura did as she was asked, went and poured more sherry for them both and carried the glasses back to the fireside. After handing one to her grandmother, she returned to her seat and said, “Claire’s very excited about coming to spend August in Connecticut, Gran, and naturally she’s thrilled that you’ve agreed to visit for a few days.”
“It’ll be nice to be there with you. And Claire and Natasha. I was so very sorry when they didn’t come for Christmas. I’d sort of set my heart on it, and when she canceled I felt sad, quite sad indeed, Laura. After all, I might not be here next Christmas.”
“Don’t say things like that, Gran!”
“But it’s true, darling, we must face the inevitable.”
“Dylan didn’t come either. He’s a stinker at times.”
“Oh, pooh. Dylan’s just a silly boy. He’s never grown up. Your parents’ fault too. They spoiled him, especially your mother. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again … the breeding’s there, but no stamina. No backbone.”
“Perhaps if he got married and settled down, he’d grow up a bit,” Laura muttered, eyeing her grandmother over the rim of her sherry glass. “What I mean is, I think he needs a bit of responsibility to make him pull his socks up.”
“Bah! Don’t be a foolish girl, Laura. Responsibility won’t change your brother. He’d probably run away from it the first chance he got. As for getting married, I pity the poor girl who takes such a foolhardy step.”
“You sound cross with him.”
“I am in certain ways. But I still love him. He’s one of mine, even though he is very silly at times. I haven’t quite recovered from his recent venture into real estate. Fancy buying that old farm in Wales.” Megan shook her head and grimaced. “He needs his brains washed.”
“I know. He should have put the money in the bank, as you said at Christmas. But that’s Dylan—going back to his roots, he calls it. Mythical Wales and the world of legend, Grandmother. He always talked about having a home in Wales.”
“I know, I know, you blame me for filli
ng his head full of fanciful stories and ideas, and your grandfather did it too….” Megan looked into the fire for a moment, then lifted her faded blue eyes to Laura’s and added, “But you heard the same stories, and you’re as sane and practical as I am. I think it’s something to do with character, darling girl. And talking of marriage, I’m surprised Claire is still single after all these years. I suppose she hasn’t met anyone?”
“She doesn’t give herself a chance,” Laura said, and stopped. She shook her head. “That sounds a bit mean, which is the last thing I’d be about Claire.”
“I know how much you care for her. So she’s still bitter, is she?”
Laura looked at Megan in surprise. “How did you know? You haven’t seen her for a couple of years.”
“She was bitter then and I merely assumed she still was, if she hasn’t given herself a chance, as you put it. What a pity really, such a loving girl at heart. And Philippe and she were so very much in love. I thought it would last forever.”
“Didn’t we all.”
“I wonder how his mother, Rosa, is doing these days?”
“Goodness, Gran, imagine you remembering her name.”
“I’ve always had a good memory. How do you think I learned all my lines when I was an actress, for heaven’s sake, child? And I still have a good memory, I want you to know, better than most people half my age. I’m not senile yet, Laura.”
“I know, Gran, I know. Don’t get excited.”
“I’m not excited,” Megan said, lowering her voice; she took a sip of sherry and settled back in her chair.
Laura said, “It’s odd you should ask about Rosa Lavillard, because I ran into her when I was in Paris.”
“Oh. Was she visiting Claire?”
Laura shook her head. “Oh, no, that would never happen. Claire doesn’t like her much.”
“Why not?”
“Claire thinks she’s …” Laura sought around in her mind for the right word, then said, “Peculiar. Yes, that’s it. Claire thinks Rosa is odd, weird.”
A Sudden Change of Heart a Sudden Change of Heart Page 13
