The Fifth Avenue Story Society

by Rachel Hauck

  “Chuck, well, you don’t say. Did you do that on purpose?”

  “Couldn’t if I wanted to, Ed. Luck of the draw. Maybe we should buy a lotto ticket.”

  Ed chuckled but not with a hearty vibration. Having Chuck drive him was not the plan. He’d ask questions Ed would rather not answer.

  Maybe he should change his mind, get out and take a cab.

  This night was too personal. Even to share with Chuck of the story society. In many ways, Ed considered this anniversary too personal for him.

  “I hardly ever have fares uptown. But I just brought someone over from the airport.” He stretched his hand over the back seat. “Good to see you, my friend.”

  “You as well.” Ed clapped his hand into Chuck’s. He should have told him Central Park. Or Harlem. Not the bridge. “Are you looking forward to this weekend? Your kids’ birthdays plus the lovely Coral going along?”

  “Tell you the truth, I’m a bit nervous. But seeing you has given me a bit of courage. Makes me feel lucky, as if good things can happen to guys like me.”

  “You’re a good man, Chuck.” Ed clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t let one dark night haunt you.”

  Ed knew well the haunt of darkness.

  “I’m just an old sinner.” Chuck pulled into traffic. “Did you say the GW?”

  Ed ran his hand over his jaw. If he said any place but the GW, he’d be untrue and abandon his Esmerelda. He’d promised he never would. And tonight was her night, and oh, she always loved her night.

  “Yes, the George Washington.”

  Chuck glanced back. “You mean the park, right?” A horn blasted behind them and Chuck hit the gas. “You meeting someone?”

  “In a roundabout way, yes. Esmerelda and I got engaged on the bridge fifty-two years ago.”

  Chuck’s wide grin appeared in the mirror. “That’s nice. No wonder you’re wearing the fancy suit and carrying flowers.”

  Chuck maneuvered through traffic with stops and starts, horn songs, and curse words.

  “I’m not in a hurry, Chuck.”

  “Fine, but there’s no excuse for these blockheads.” Chuck told off the next driver with a series of honks.

  Somewhere in the noise, his phone rang, and Ed listened for a moment, then tuned it out. He preferred to be alone on this ride so he could walk through his memories.

  Beyond the window, his city, their city, flashed by. Born and raised here, he missed some of the Gotham feel of the old days, the grit and grind of the city where every man scrambled for a leg up.

  He missed all the mom-and-pop joints. Like Brunelli’s on the corner of Seventy-Fifth and Broadway. Or the drugstore on Amsterdam.

  Back then, seemed like everyone in his Upper West Side community was his neighbor. They were family. But they all had secrets.

  While Ed lingered in the past, Chuck sped toward the future, making quick time on the Henry Hudson.

  As they neared the bridge, he asked, “So who is she? Is she waiting for you at the park?”

  “’Tis for me to know and you to find out, my good man. Leave me at the pedestrian walkway, if you don’t mind.”

  Just nearing the bridge made him nostalgic. Tripped him back to his days of wine and roses, of love, desire, and youthful zeal.

  He’d proposed to Esmerelda at the highest point of the bridge under the spring stars, the city twinkling at their feet.

  The proposal was spontaneous. She giggled and blushed, not quite ready to give an answer.

  “Oh, Eddie, you don’t even have a ring.”

  But he bought one in short order—with a promise to buy her an even bigger jewel when he came into his riches—and proposed to her a second time in her father’s living room.

  She said yes with an approving nod from her father. Later, she let him have his way with her in the dark corners of the terrace garden.

  Didn’t seem right, taking his woman like that the first time, not even properly undressed, then pulling themselves together in the reflective light of the living room as her mother called them to dessert and coffee.

  He waited until their wedding night for the next time. Esmie accused him of being prudish, but he preferred to think he showed her respect. But oh what a honeyed temptress she was, teasing and flirting, yanking at his trousers.

  “The old hags are watching TV. They won’t know. Let’s go hide in Dad’s closet.”

  She never cared much for her old man. But she was a spark of life for Ed.

  In the midsixties, he was still fifties straitlaced and square, liked doing things the proper way.

  No matter how much he wanted to take his bride-to-be in his arms and ravish her, he held off. For the life of him, he never understood why she chose him. She had Columbia, NYU, and Princeton men seeking her company.

  When it came down to it, Esmerelda was a beatnik, a rebel, who wanted nothing more than to sneak away from her family’s rich Upper East Side apartment along the East River to the jazz clubs of Harlem. She defined counterculture.

  After they married, Ed grew out his hair and bought a pair of bell bottoms. She cut her hair short like Mia Farrow and exchanged her skirts and dresses for body suits and hip huggers. With a figure like Marilyn Monroe’s, she made the men lust and the women envious.

  But she was his. All his.

  “Ed, we’re here. Did you fall asleep?” Chuck circled the park road and stopped at the head of the bridge. “Do you want me to wait?”

  “That won’t be necessary. I’m staying awhile.” Ed passed a neatly folded hundred-dollar bill to his friend. He did that every year. Gave his driver a nice tip.

  “What’s this?”

  “A little something for your trouble.”

  “Ed, you’ve already paid me. Through the app.”

  “Buy something for your kids’ birthday.” He stepped out of the car. “See you Monday, my friend.”

  “How about I text you in an hour, see if you’re ready. I’ll be in the city all night unless I catch a fare over to Newark. I’ll come get you.” Chuck bent over the steering wheel to see the bridge. “You’re not going to jump, are you?” He opened his car door. “You know every week someone throws themselves off the GW. Or makes an attempt.”

  “If I were going to off myself, I’d choose a more civilized way than jumping.” From the height of the GW, jumping would shatter every bone in his body. Make mush of his brains and organs. “Besides, I can’t ruin my best suit. Holly tells me it’s vintage, all the rage now. I’m just going up to remember my love.”

  “You wouldn’t lie to me.”

  “I believe it’s an unspoken rule that society members cannot lie to one another.”

  “But it’s okay not to tell the whole truth too.”

  Ed tapped his nose, then pointed at Chuck. “Good night, young man.” He straightened his coat and tie, turned toward the famous bridge, and started the long walk to the apex.

  With a final glance over his shoulder, he saw Chuck watching, leaning against his car, legs and arms crossed.

  Don’t mind him. Go on about your business. With one foot in front of the other, Ed made his annual pilgrimage. The climb got steeper and longer every year.

  About a quarter of the way up, he paused to catch his breath, fingers gripped around the quivering bouquet of flowers.

  “I’m coming, Esmie.”

  When he arrived at their spot, the steely waters of the wide, cold Hudson flowing beneath him, the bottom dropped out of his soul. The height frightened him, still, after all these years. Even when he had proposed, his legs shivered and buckled.

  But he was with her. And she made him strong.

  “I’m here, Esmerelda. Are you?” He raised his gaze toward the slate-gray sky, waiting, yearning for a break in the bleakness.

  Somewhere over the billowing clouds, the sun moved west with a tail of fire. But no golden glow appeared.

  “I reckon you’re busy.” Parting the flower arrangement, Ed chose the roses first. Esmerelda’s favorite. “Holly fus
ses over me. But you know that, I imagine. She and Brant want me to move in with them. But I’m rather fond of our place. You’d be proud of our girl, Esmie. Do I say that every year? I suppose I do.

  “Hard to believe she was the little peanut I held in my arms and told bedtime stories to. I must’ve spent ten years at the dining room table helping her with homework.”

  He chuckled, seeing the golden-haired Holly bent over her math book, chewing on her pencil.

  “Seems like another life when I combed and curled her hair, washed her clothes. Learned to iron.” A chuckle rose from his chest. “The pleats on those school uniforms were a pain, you know. I burned my fingers every time. But then there were the boyfriend troubles and fights with her girlfriends.” The recount was familiar and flowed easy. It comforted him to speak of Holly’s youth. And how proud he was of her. “That’s where you excelled, my love, listening, with your kind ear and gentle wisdom. Then I walked her down the aisle and gave her to another man. Now she hints at me living under her roof so she can wash my clothes, fix my hair, and listen to my complaints. The cycle of life.”

  A stiff breeze lifted his carefully groomed yet thinning hair and at last, Esmerelda broke through the clouds with a crack of light.

  There you are.

  Rain or shine, she always let him know she saw him. Heard him.

  A few feet away, another man gazed out over the water, his arms resting on the railing.

  “Pretty high up, isn’t it?” Ed said. The man didn’t look distraught. Or as if he’d hike a leg and send himself over the railing.

  “I’ve been on higher.” The man offered his hand. “Justin Rizzo.”

  “Ed Marshall. Is this your first time to the city?”

  “I’m from South Dakota. So yeah.”

  “Enjoy. There’s no place like it.”

  The man nodded, took another view of the skyline, and started down.

  Thank you kindly, sir. “Now I have the bridge to myself, Essie. Just like the night I proposed.”

  He released the first rose. “Here’s to you, Mrs. Marshall.”

  The flower released into the wind, twisting and turning, jerking down, down, down. Far, so very, very far.

  One by one, the roses, the lilies, and daisies took flight, catching the current for a moment or two, then making their way to the water’s surface, dotting and drifting across the watery grave of his beloved Esmerelda.

  Chapter 26

  Lexa

  “Here you are.” She found Jett in the barn standing on the makeshift stage where a bluegrass band had just serenaded sixty guests to a banjo version of Pachelbel’s Canon.

  “What’s going on out there?”

  “Your mom and Oz are about to cut the cake, and the wedding coordinator announced thirty minutes to the memorial.”

  He scoffed. “Only Miranda Wilder—”

  “Griffin.”

  “Right, Griffin, would host a wedding and a memorial at the same time. It’ll be Oz next, the one devastated in her wake.”

  “Cynical much?” Lexa sat on a bale of hay, the drop hem of her dress draping over the golden straw. “How did you like the banjo version of Pachelbel’s?”

  “Made me think of our wedding song.”

  “Unchained Melody.”

  Jett nodded. “Your dress is nice. I don’t think I said earlier.”

  She’d chosen a fitted bronze-lace Melinda House gown with a flared skirt from Coral’s vast closet of designer gowns. And it fit with no alterations.

  “I could play princess every day for a month and not repeat a single dress.”

  “I’m in. When do we play next?”

  They’d laughed and talked about everything and nothing as Lexa tried on gown after gown, Coral giving her a story about each dress.

  “I wore that one to the Oscars when CCW provided all the makeup for the stars.”

  “That one, oh, that one . . .” She misted. “My first royal ball with Gus.”

  With each laugh, each story, each ticking minute, something in Lexa healed. She felt it.

  “I should’ve worn cowboy boots.” She kicked out her legs, displaying a pair of suede heels on loan from Coral. “These are gorgeous but kill my feet.”

  “I don’t know about your feet, but you look beautiful.” He glanced over at her from where he stood among the candles and flowers, hands in his tux pockets.

  “So how are you? You’ve been quiet all weekend.” She moved closer, to a first-row seat. “What’s going on?”

  It was a futile question, but she had to ask. Jett wore his emotions tonight. Between the wedding, Storm’s memorial, and the truth he had discovered about GPR, he was decked out.

  “I spent a lot of time in here as a kid.” He stepped off the low platform, his feet skipping over the clean layer of hay scattered over the wide board floor. He scanned the ceiling and the center poles, trimmed with a million twinkle lights. “Not used to it looking like a fairyland.”

  “You have to admit the wedding was lovely. Oz couldn’t stop smiling.”

  “I say good luck to him.” Jett stopped at one of the stalls. “Did I ever tell you we had a horse for a while? Midas. A former thoroughbred racer. Dad brought him home after Mom left. Thought it’d be a good distraction.”

  “You did, yes. But he died two years later.”

  “I curled up in his stall and cried.”

  “How sad.” On the drive up from the city, she sank deeper into the comfortable familiarity that was Jett. When he was her husband. “You never talked much about your parents’ divorce.”

  He pointed to the loft behind her, the one jutting out over the open barn doors. Music from the reception slipped inside and danced with the glowing lights. “I used to hide from the nanny up there and read.”

  “You and Gordon Phipps Roth against the world?”

  “Pretty much.” Jett sat on a hay bale at the end of the row. “But now another one of my heroes has bitten the dust.”

  “But you chose not to expose him.”

  “Nope.” He shook his head. “But the bottom-line truth? I’m a coward. I didn’t want to let the college down. Or myself. If I even hinted at scandal, the college would lose the endowment.” He hung his head as he joined her on the hay bale. “I said nothing.”

  “Are you sure that’s not a good thing?”

  “Yes, I’m sure, Lex. The man was a lying, cheating rat trap. This week I took an afternoon to really study An October Wedding, Birdie’s book, and except for a few GPRisms, the voice in Wedding is the voice in every GPR book.”

  “You sound sure.”

  “Author voice is unique. You can imitate stories, but you cannot imitate voice. But did I ponder how to include that in my publication? No, I had a pity party about the quandary Gordon put me in. All the way from his grave.” His voice rose and fell as he swept his arm through the air. “I turned a blind eye to truth and went with what I wanted to be true.”

  “You said another one of your heroes bit the dust. What did you mean?”

  “Ah, Lex—”

  “Storm?”

  “Storm, my mother.”

  “Your mother?”

  “Yeah, I know you see her through my adult eyes—”

  “I see for myself.”

  “But when we were kids, she was really funny and warm. She was always challenging us to a game of horse or kickball. Storm Ball came out of a game she started. Mom was a force. I didn’t cross her, but I knew she loved us. That’s why when she left it was so very hard.”

  “Doesn’t mean she stopped loving you and Storm.” Lexa ran her hand over his shoulder and down his back.

  “This woman I believed held us all together left because she had to find herself. She wasn’t strong. She was weak. And she earthquaked our lives.”

  “Did you ever stop to think how it felt for her to leave? That it was hard for her?”

  “Then why did she?” Jett jumped up, hands on his belt, kicking the straw beneath his black polished shoes. �
�I’d never heard Storm cry like he did when she left. Not even when Dad got us for sneaking off one Easter and eating all the candy out of the hidden eggs in the churchyard.”

  “What?” She laughed. Sounded exactly like something young Storm and young Jett would’ve done. “All of them?”

  “All of them.” He glanced down at her. “But when Mom said she was going to California for a while, Storm lost it. Bawled. Fourteen years old, clinging to her, calling her Mommy, begging her to stay.”

  “Where was Bear?”

  “Off in the dark corner, arms folded, mad as a hornet. Probably hurting, but he never showed it. I remember thinking, ‘Do something. Make her stay. Make Storm stop crying.’”

  “Did you cry?”

  “Not then, no. I bucked up so hard the inside of my mouth started bleeding. I refused to cry in front of her. If she wanted to go, good riddance. We didn’t need her.”

  She felt the hitch in his voice, the conflict in his resolve. He did need her.

  “And I left you too.”

  “Yep.” He tugged a piece of hay from the tight bundle. “Little did we know we were the perfect storm. You didn’t want to stay where you felt unwanted—”

  “And you’d never ask someone to stay who wanted to leave.”

  “But your mom came back. Made peace with your dad.”

  “She never made peace with Storm and me.” He rubbed his thumb against his fingertips. “Money. That’s all she cares about.”

  “And you and I are making peace.”

  He regarded her for a lingering moment. “Thanks to a mysterious invitation.”

  “Who knew, right? So, Jett, have you talked to your mom about any of this?” Despite the revelation of their opposing wounds, Lexa understood the depth of Jett’s bitterness.

  “No.” He glanced back at her. “What would I say? Tell her how Storm cried every night? How I tried to sneak into his room, but he beat me up, told me to leave him alone. How his face was red and puffy at breakfast. How Dad, lost in his own pain, was no help. How we ate Pop-Tarts for breakfast every morning for a month? How he lost his life and work partner in one fell swoop?” Suddenly he jumped up. “There’s a plank in here somewhere . . .” Jett walked toward the barn wall in the back. “Yep, here it is. Can’t see it very well. Come here.”