Brass Ring

by Diane Chamberlain

  Jon set down his fork. He wheeled his chair over to the door and shut it, then reached toward her. “Come here,” he said.

  She stood up and let him pull her onto his lap. Silently, he buried his head against her shoulder, and she felt his relief and his love. She held him close, struggling to share those emotions with him, but a numbness quickly settled over her.

  Finally, he spoke. “How can I help you?” he asked.

  “Be patient with me,” she said. “I’m hoping the crazy little flashbacks will go away when Randy goes away, like you said.”

  “And if they don’t, Claire, you could see a therapist.”

  “Maybe.” She supposed that would be the next logical step, but she couldn’t imagine trying to sift through those images with anyone other than Randy.

  Jon rested his hand on her knee above the wool of her skirt. “You know,” he said slowly, “you’re supposed to be a professional counselor, but I don’t think you’ve ever really looked at yourself.”

  His words made her prickly. She got off his lap and took her seat by his desk again. “I’ve been in therapy before,” she said.

  “Yes, I know. But that was to learn how to deal with a disabled husband or cope with an adolescent daughter. You’ve never really looked at Claire.”

  She replaced the lid on her uneaten salad as he spoke, and by the time he was finished, she’d stood up. “I don’t think I want to look at Claire right now.” The angry tone in her voice startled her. Jon shouldn’t want her to look at Claire, either. She might just discover that Claire was a little resentful, that she felt coerced into giving up something she wanted because Jon couldn’t handle it. “I’m going to put on my happy face again—I’ve always been great at that, right? And then we can both pretend that none of this ever happened.”

  There was a red blotch on Jon’s neck, and his hands were tight, white-knuckled, on the wheels of his chair. Claire slipped past him and pulled open the door. She walked through the maze of hallways, quickly, so that no one would think she had time to talk.

  In her own office, she sat down and rested her head and arms on her desk. Well, that hadn’t gone quite the way she’d planned. Jon was right. The times she’d been in therapy, she’d made sure to let the therapist know that she was all right—it was the people around her who merited her concern. I am very happy. I have a wonderful, perfect marriage. My husband is sweet and generous and loving; my child is bright and beautiful. A little on the feisty side, but I’m glad she has that spirit. My childhood? I was surrounded by love and laughter. Two different therapists had bought it. That’s how convincing she had been, how deeply she’d believed the words herself at the time. She didn’t believe them any longer.

  She had plenty of work to do, but she left the foundation without finishing her lunch and drove to the Fishmonger in Arlington.

  The small parking lot was full, and she had to leave her car two blocks away. She unbuttoned her coat as she walked toward the restaurant, trying not to think too much about what she would say when she got there. She would let her words come out unrehearsed. Inside the crowded restaurant, she was greeted by the smell of fresh fish and lemon and mesquite. Knowing Randy and his taste for antiques and order, she was surprised by the rustic trappings of his restaurant. The wood ceiling was crossed with thick beams, and the tables were made of heavy rough-hewn wood. She couldn’t picture him selecting the colorful paintings of tropical fish that hung on the walls.

  The hostess, an attractive, dark-haired woman in her thirties, greeted Claire with a smile. “One?” she asked.

  “I’m not here to eat,” Claire said. “I’m looking for Randy Donovan.”

  “He’s in his office. Who shall I say is looking for him?”

  “Claire Harte-Mathias.”

  “Oh, you’re Claire.” The hostess set down the menus and shook Claire’s hand with a grin. “We owe you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  With her hand on Claire’s arm, the hostess gently guided her away from the door, out of hearing range of other customers.

  “Randy’s been depressed ever since his marriage broke up. He’d come into work and mope around and not talk to anyone,” she said. “He was so miserable that we all worried about him. Since he’s been seeing you, he’s been a different guy. He actually seems happier than he did when his marriage was okay. He’s a lot more fun to work with now.”

  Claire forced a smile, taken aback by the phrase “since he’s been seeing you,” as though they were dating. “Could you tell him I’m here, please?”

  “Sure will.” The hostess walked to the rear of the restaurant and disappeared through a doorway. In a moment, she stepped back into the room, waving for Claire to join her. “Right through there.” She pointed down the short hall.

  Randy appeared at a door on the left, wearing a surprised smile. “Come in,” he said.

  Claire walked into a small cubicle and was suddenly surrounded by the dark antiques and paintings Randy loved. An enormous mahogany desk dominated the little office. Bookshelves lined two of the walls, and three Windsor chairs filled the remaining space. A thin spiral of steam rose from the cup of beige coffee on his desk. His unlit pipe rested next to the cup, and the soft, sweet smell of his tobacco enveloped her. She felt quick tears form in her eyes. It had been a mistake to come here. She should have told him by phone.

  Randy shut the door and sat down behind the broad, gleaming desk, gesturing toward one of the chairs opposite him. She sat down herself, and he gave her a grin. “What a nice surprise,” he said.

  She drew in a breath. “I had to talk to you and didn’t want to do it over the phone.” She clutched her purse on her lap. “I can’t see you anymore, Randy.”

  His smile faded, and he leaned toward her. “Why? Was it the kiss? I knew that was a mistake the minute I—”

  She shook her head to stop him. “That’s not it,” she said. “It’s Jon. And it’s me. You were right to be upset that I lied to him. And I would have to keep lying to him to see you, because he feels threatened by you.” She grimaced, lowering her eyes. She didn’t want to make Jon look small or petty.

  “Oh.” Randy pressed his lips together. Then suddenly, he leaned forward in his chair, speaking quickly. “Well, first, let me say that you’re right. I mean, you’re making the right decision here. I admire you for it. But I sure as hell don’t like it. And I…” He gave his coffee cup a little shove with the tips of his fingers, shaking his head. “I was getting in a little too deep, I think. Christ, I told you something I’ve never told anyone, something horrible, and…That’s not it, is it?” He interrupted himself. “Is that why you don’t want to see me? Because of what I did on the bridge?”

  “Oh, no.” She felt a wave of guilt. He had taken a risk by telling her his secret, and now she was discarding him. “I was happy you could tell me what really happened.”

  Randy ran the tips of his fingers up the side of the cup. “For the last few days or so, I knew that what I was feeling for you wasn’t what I should be feeling.” There was color in his cheeks above his beard, as if he’d just stepped in from the cold, and he seemed unable to look at her directly. “When LuAnne ran off with…her boyfriend, I made a deal with myself that I’d never get into that position,” he said. “I’d never do to some other guy what that bastard was doing to me. And as I started…caring about you, I tried not to think about Jon. Or maybe I did think about him—about what I could give you that he couldn’t.”

  Yes, she thought, remembering Randy’s patient questioning about her memories. But Randy was probably referring to activities of a more physical nature. Like dancing. Or sex.

  “You’re right,” she said. “And I’d be doing to Jon what LuAnne did to you.”

  He shook his head again. “I hadn’t reached out to anyone in so long,” he said. “You made it so easy. And you’re right to pull back, because the truth is, it doesn’t feel like a simple friendship to me anymore. When I kissed you last night…Well, that
was an accident. But if we’re together, it would happen again, or at least I would want it to. I don’t think I could be with you and not touch you, Claire. All I could think about after I left you last night was having you in my bed, making love to you.”

  His words took her by surprise. She knotted her hands together above her purse, pressing her fingers against one another until they hurt. She could feel the keen edge of her own need, although it was not the sort of physical desire he was referring to. Her need went deeper than that. She wanted to hold him, to be held, safe and warm and shielded from the rest of the world while she talked about the things that haunted her.

  “I think I was falling in love with you,” he said.

  She studied his handsome face, the color still mottling his cheeks. “Well,” she said softly, “I think our relationship was very important to both of us, but for different reasons. I loved you practically from the moment I met you. I don’t mean a romantic sort of love. But you felt so comfortable and…somehow familiar to me. It was as though I’d discovered a brother I’d never known I had.”

  “Oh.” Randy’s smile was rueful. “I guess it’s best we part ways then, Claire, ‘cause I sure wasn’t thinking of you as a sister.”

  She looked down at her purse, played with the clasp.

  “What about the flashbacks you’ve been having?” Randy asked. “The memories?”

  “I’m going to try to put them behind me,” she said. “Go back to being the person I used to be.”

  “Ah, right.” He suddenly broke into song. “Life is a carousel, old chum,” he sang, his deep voice filling the room with the altered lyrics.

  “Oh, Randy.” Claire leaned on his desk, frustrated. “I felt like I was getting close to something important. It scared the shit out of me, but I think I was really gaining on it.”

  “I think you were, too. And maybe someday you’ll be ready to meet it head-on and kick it in the teeth.”

  There was a knock on his door. The hostess opened it enough to peek inside.

  “Sorry to interrupt, Randy,” she said, “but you’re needed in the kitchen.”

  Randy nodded, and Claire stood up reluctantly as the hostess closed the door again.

  Randy stood too but remained behind his desk. “I’ll miss you,” he said.

  “And I’ll miss you.” She reached for the doorknob.

  “Jon is a lucky son of a bitch.”

  She gave him a lifeless smile. “Thanks,” she said, then turned to leave the office.

  Outside the restaurant, she walked toward her car, the cool air nipping at her face.

  Mrs. Rustadt.

  She stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. The image was startlingly vivid. The woman was bending over a desk, helping a child with his work. Her fifth-grade teacher. Gray hair. Thick glasses. She’d wear the same dress for five days in a row. And she’d gotten angry—furious at Claire once for sharpening her pencils during quiet time.

  Claire wanted to run back to the restaurant to tell Randy she’d remembered one of her teachers. He would be pleased, ask her questions, draw her out. But it wouldn’t be fair to him—not fair to either of them—and so she forced the memory to the back of her mind and continued walking toward her car.

  26

  JEREMY TO SEATTLE

  1962

  THOSE FIRST FEW DAYS in the car traveling across the country with her father, Vanessa couldn’t stop crying. Even in the small hotel rooms in the strange towns that quickly began to blur together, she clung to her edge of the bed and wept until sleep freed her from pain. The pain, both physical and emotional, was raw and tender and new to her. Nothing in her life had prepared her for it. Len, preoccupied with his own suffering, couldn’t even guess at the depth of his daughter’s anguish. If he’d known, he would have cared. He was not an unkind man. He was simply caught in the circle of his own dreams and disappointments.

  When they were on the road, Vanessa waited for the police to stop them. Surely Mellie had alerted them to the fact that she was missing. But police cars passed them by as if her father were simply another parent out with his child. In the hotels at night, she waited for Mellie herself to show up and reclaim her daughter. No one came, though, and Vanessa struggled with the hurt and confusion. A good mother would try to find her daughter if she cared enough about her.

  Len talked almost nonstop during those early days on the road, mainly about his fury toward Mellie. He said things about Mellie that Vanessa didn’t understand or believe or want to hear. He smoked cigarette after cigarette and punched the buttons on the radio, crying at times himself, almost like a child. And he was as helpless as a newborn on those nights when Vanessa awakened from sleep in their hotel room, wild-eyed and screaming in the throes of a nightmare. He would try to hold her, to talk her through it, but she would throw off his arms, leap from the bed, and race into the bathroom, where she would remain for the rest of the night. It might have been a mistake to bring her with him. He adored this little girl, but his decision to take her had been rooted more in revenge than in love.

  They both grew calmer as the days and the miles put Jeremy far behind them. Vanessa gradually stopped crying. She tried not to think about Mellie, and she tried to forget what Claire had done. A few times she even sang along with the music on the radio, and Len talked about how he was going to “make a killing” on the West Coast. He talked about “investments” and meeting up with friends who had “big ideas.” He and she would have money, he told his daughter. Toys and clothes for her, cars and women for him. When he said the word “women,” he wore a smile Vanessa had never seen on his face before.

  It wasn’t until they reached Seattle that he finally apologized to her. Seattle was in the midst of the World’s Fair, and Len took her up in the new revolving tower that stood high above the city. From there they could look down at the world below and practically map out their new life.

  “I needed some of my family with me,” he said. “I would have taken both you and Claire, but the truth is, your sister—” he shook his head. “She’s too much like your mother. You got your mother’s looks, but Claire got her…” He threw up his hands, as though he could think of no words to describe what Claire had inherited from Mellie. “You’ve always been easier for me to get along with,” he continued. “I feel bad, though, that I pulled you and Claire apart.”

  Far in the distance, Vanessa could see the hazy shape of mountains. “That’s all right, Daddy,” she said. She kept her eyes on the peaks so she wouldn’t see her father’s look of surprise. He thought he had stolen her from her family and the farm. He didn’t know that he had rescued her. And she would never tell him.

  27

  CHARLOTTESVILLE, VIRGINIA

  JON TURNED OFF THE highway onto the road leading to Monticello. Beside him, Claire was singing along with the tape player. “Mr. Tambourine Man.”

  She was singing loudly, badly. It was hard to say who had the worse voice—Claire or Dylan. Didn’t matter. She drowned Dylan out, reciting every obscure verse, and Jon reveled in the unbridled happiness in her voice.

  Monticello was on Claire’s list of things to do. They’d been alternating between his list and hers during the past week and a half, starting with a weekend in Ocean City, where they’d encountered a hailstorm on the boardwalk and spent most of their time in their hotel room eating and making love. Next, they visited the aquarium in Baltimore, then attended a play at the Kennedy Center. He had to admit that some of their fun had a forced air about it. Their relationship had taken a hit in the past couple of months, and it was bound to be a while before they settled back into their old, comfortable ease with one another. Almost two weeks had passed since she’d announced she would no longer see Randy, and they had packed those weeks so full of activity that there was little time left over to wallow in sadness or regret. They’d even taken a couple of days off from work, which, whenever he stopped to think about it, would throw him into a panic. There was so much to be done before the retreat. />
  Claire was really trying. A casual observer would probably think she was back to her old self. Touched by her resolve, Jon tried to ignore the heaviness in her gait and her lackluster appetite. He didn’t comment on her uncharacteristic teariness after they made love or the fact that major portions of the play they’d seen had gone over her head. She was not carrying her share of the work at the foundation, either. He hadn’t said anything to her about it, but he knew that she was far behind schedule on her retreat responsibilities.

  Sometimes, lately, she’d get up in the middle of the night. She never used to do that—she’d always been a sound sleeper. He would ask her if she was okay. She would say she was fine, and he would accept her answer. Should he challenge her on it? Good old Randy would have. Screw Randy. Jon blamed him for this whole mess. That was easiest. Neatest. As far as he knew, none of the people who were truly responsible were still alive to blame.

  But Claire was better in other ways. A bit better every day. He didn’t know if she was still experiencing the odd visual images she’d discussed with Randy, and he was not about to ask her. If she was no longer having those intrusive flashbacks and he mentioned them, they might start up again.

  She was still singing “Mr. Tambourine Man” as she held his chair steady for him while he transferred into it from the car. She was even dancing a little, and she bent down to hug him from behind, kissing the top of his head.

  They joined a small tour group inside the foyer of Thomas Jefferson’s home. Their guide was a graceful woman with a wealth of knowledge, and Jon was quickly absorbed by tales of Jefferson’s intellect, wide-ranging interests, and a genius that bordered on the eccentric. They passed through his library and parlor and dining room, finally reaching his peculiar bedroom. The room was divided in two by a bed squeezed between two walls. An intriguing clock hung on the wall at the foot of the bed. Jon started to point it out to Claire, but she was staring at something, her chin tilted upward, her hand pressed to her mouth. He followed her gaze to the high wall above the bed, where three glassless oval windows opened into darkness. A storage closet was behind the windows, the guide was saying, looking up at the odd openings herself. Jefferson had stored his out-of-season clothing there.