Second Star to the Right

by Mary Alice Monroe

  “No, that won’t be necessary. This won’t take long.” That sounded rather abrupt, she knew, and she watched something akin to amusement ripple across his face, but he smoothly adjusted the expression to reflect utmost seriousness. He crossed his arms and leaned against the doorframe, his attention riveted.

  “Dr. Graham,” she began slowly, feeling the power of this man’s focus and choosing her words carefully.

  “Jack.”

  She hesitated and frowned. “You see,” she said with exasperation, “that’s exactly what I want to talk about. My children have been raised to be cautious with strangers. Not to be too friendly. There are reasons for this I don’t wish to go into, but suffice to say I prefer that they remain on their guard.”

  She looked at him, hoping that he would catch her drift, but he only raised one eyebrow, indicating she should continue.

  “It’s not that I don’t appreciate your neighborliness, but frankly, well, you come on rather strong. Within one day’s meeting the children call you by your first name, they’re asking if they can come down to your flat for a visit, and, worst of all, all they can talk about is poor old Mrs. Forrester and whether or not she’s Peter Pan’s Wendy and how they might see Peter themselves! You see how it is!” She spread her palms out as if to say, “Aren’t children unbelievable?”

  Instead of a nod of understanding, to her dismay Jack Graham’s face broke into a triumphant grin.

  “Great!” he said with enthusiasm. “God, I love kids.”

  She stared at him. The man was incorrigible. “Dr. Graham, I really must insist that you don’t encourage them in this fantasy about old Mrs. Forrester and Peter Pan. It isn’t... Well...” She fumbled for the word.

  “It isn’t grown-up?”

  She looked up, nettled. “It isn’t realistic.”

  “How old are the children, may I ask?”

  “Maddie is eight and Tom is six.”

  “What do they do for fun? I mean, they’re new to the area, to the country. They can’t have many friends. I see them in the garden quite a bit, but I doubt pulling weeds will hold them for the summer. What do they do all day?”

  Faye had worried about that herself, but she didn’t think that it was Dr. Jack Graham’s concern.

  “I’m still working on that. It’s not your worry, I assure you. Why? Are they bothering you?”

  “Not at all,” he answered easily. “I was just wondering. They must be lonely, and there aren’t many children in this neighborhood. It’s no wonder that they’ve latched on to the idea of Wendy. She’s a mystery. A great big question mark that lives on the third floor. For kids, that’s a powerful magnet.” He chuckled and shook his head. “Their imaginations must be going wild.”

  Faye felt her anger fizzle and couldn’t help but chuckle herself. “They are. Full blast. I can hear them whispering in their beds when the lights are off.” She raked her hand through her hair and sighed. Looking up, she noticed that Jack was watching her. She could feel his gaze roam her hair, her face, then settle on her eyes with new interest.

  “Are you sure you won’t come in for a drink?” he asked.

  “No, sorry, I can’t. The children are waiting for me. I just came to ask...” Her voice trailed away. In light of what Jack had just said, it suddenly seemed cruel of her to take away her children’s game of fascination with Crazy Wendy. She shook her head in defeat. “I don’t know what I came to ask anymore.”

  “Faye,” he said straightening, tucking his fingertips into his rear pockets. She felt him loom over her. “Tell you what. I won’t encourage their interest in Wendy, but I won’t discourage it either. Because you asked it of me. In exchange, I’d like to ask something of you.”

  This caught her by surprise. What could he possibly want from her?

  “Summer is looming large on my horizon, too. And it looks pretty bleak. I’ve worked pretty much around the clock since I arrived last fall, and, frankly, I hate to leave this city without exploring it a bit. And”—he shrugged— “I’m kinda lonely, too. How about we join forces and have some fun? We can take the children to the parks, museums, see Big Ben and Buckingham Palace. Real tourist stuff.”

  She pursed her lips, considering. She was sure the children would love the excursions and he was amiable and it certainly would be easier to tour with a companion.

  “I don’t know much about you,” she said, hedging.

  “Nor I about you. Let’s have a drink in the garden this week, and I’ll tell you more than you’ll ever want to know.”

  He must have seen the hesitation in her face because he pushed on.

  “We’re neighbors. Countrymen. Come on, Mrs. Faye O’Neill of flat 1A.” He lifted his right hand from his pocket and extended it out toward her in an age-old gesture of peace. “Let’s be friends, too.”

  Faye worried her lower lip. He seemed so sincere, and his brown eyes were the very picture of trustworthiness. A friend in London would be a nice thing to have, she thought with yearning, acknowledging her own loneliness.

  “Friends,” she replied, deciding.

  She took his extended hand, felt his long fingers dwarf her own, felt her nerve endings tingle as palm met palm. She cursed the heat of a blush she felt scorching her cheeks, a blush that no doubt was giving her feelings away. To counteract, she gave his hand a firm shake—strictly neighborly—then slipped her hand free.

  “Got to run,” she called, and turned away to hasten up the stairs. She knew without looking that his eyes were on her, and, turning the corner, she felt as though she’d just made good her escape.

  * * *

  The rain came down in torrents all the following day, trapping the children in the house. They stared out the window like mice at a peephole. By bedtime, they’d already played with all their toys, watched television till they saw spots before their eyes, and exhausted their mother’s voice reading stories. So when Faye turned off the lights and closed the door softly behind her, the children perched on their elbows and began chattering in heated whispers, bubbling with mischievous energy.

  “Okay now,” said Maddie, giving Tom her most serious look. “Remember what we planned. We’re just going to sneak up the stairs, right? Just to see what’s up there. We aren’t really disobeying. We just want to see, right? Right,” she replied, answering her own question aloud while Tom nodded across the room.

  The two children slipped out from their beds and, after checking to make sure the coast was clear, tiptoed past their mother’s bedroom, where Faye was working at her desk with her back to them, down the stairs, through the living room, and out the front door, careful to leave the door wide-open for a hasty retreat. Just in case.

  Only a small, single-bulb lamp on the Hepplewhite table lit the foyer, and it seemed to the children a mighty long way up to the next landing where a wall sconce dimly lit the steps. In the quiet darkness their shadows stretched long and eerily upon the hall walls.

  “Okay, you go first,” Maddie ordered Tom with a small shove toward the staircase.

  Tom backpedaled against her.

  “Aw go on, don’t be a wuss.”

  Tom’s face was mutinous but he straightened his narrow shoulders till they stood like sharp arrow points through his thin cotton T-shirt and with his chin stuck out and his arms spread-eagled, ready for a quick flight from danger, he began his slow trek up the stairs to the first landing.

  Maddie’s heart pounded in her chest as her gaze followed her brother’s trek up one creaky step after the other. When he reached the landing he turned and offered her a tremulous smile. Maddie quickly followed him up to the landing and patted his shoulder like a good general.

  “That was great, Tom. Real great. You’re so brave. Now, go on up to the next landing.”

  Tom’s smile slipped as he focused on the next long stretch of stairs to the third-floor landing. This was no man’s-land. The haven of Crazy Wendy. At the top was the dim, dismal cave of uncertainty. Once again, Tom balked, shaking his head and mov
ing into the corner.

  “Oh, okay. We’ll go together,” Maddie conceded, her own knees knocking. They’d had plenty of conversations about the mysterious Crazy Wendy. Was she really Peter Pan’s Wendy, or was she some ugly, wart-nosed, bad-breathed, haggard old witch who ate small children, or at the very least, captured them if they were skinny like they were and put them in a cage till they fattened up and then ate them. They’d heard a great many stories of witches and had many conversations at night after the lights were turned off and the door was closed about the mysterious Crazy Wendy who was only seen at night. And all of these conversations were flitting through both of their minds as they took step after step to the third-floor landing. By the time they reached the top they were crouched and panting, partly from fear, partly from excitement.

  “We’ve done it!” Maddie whispered, standing straight with feverish color flooding her cheeks.

  Tom wasn’t paying attention to her. He was still crouched with a look of deep concentration. He cocked his head to listen. Maddie immediately did the same. After a moment she heard what Tom had heard: a faint tinkling sound of bells. They stepped closer to the door of the third-floor flat, ears almost wagging, they were listening so hard. Again, they heard the tinkling of bells.

  Suddenly, they saw a flicker of light shine from underneath the door, perhaps the beam of a flashlight passing the threshold. There it was again, fast. And again!

  Maddie took a step back. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Tom, however, was curious and bent at the waist to peer under the door. Suddenly a ball of light shot from under the door. Maddie gasped and fell back against the wall as the ball of light bounced from the banister to the ceiling then around Tom’s head. His eyes crossed as he followed it, and he smiled brightly. Then the crazy ball of light went straight toward her. Maddie yelped when she felt a sharp pinch on her cheek.

  That was enough for Maddie. With a spin on her heels she pounded down the stairs, Tom right behind her, while a bright ball of light chased after them, swirling around their heads like an angry bee. Maddie and Tom ran through the front door, slamming it behind them, tore up the stairs straight into their bedroom, slamming that door shut as well, then dived into their beds, pulling the blankets over their heads.

  “What’s going on here!” Faye demanded, stepping into the room and turning on the overhead light.

  “Nothing.” Maddie kept her head under the blankets. “We were just playing.”

  “Well, enough playing,” Faye snapped. “Go to sleep. I mean business now.” With that, Faye turned the light back off and closed the door with a firm swing.

  Maddie remained shuddering under the blankets. Tom, however, peeped out from under, crawled to his knees on the mattress, and stared out the bedroom window, craning his neck to get a good view of the third-floor window. He touched his cheek, remembered the kiss, and smiled.

  Chapter 4

  Before the sun even rose Faye was already leaning far forward in front of her vanity mirror applying a dark line of gray eyeliner to her lid. Despite her resolve, her hand would not stop quivering. When she sat back to view her work, the line looked more like a series of dots and slashes.

  Cursing under her breath she pulled out a tissue and began wiping away the evidence of her nervousness. Heavens, why was she spooked? Yes, it was her first day at her new job, but she knew how to handle this, right? Her hand stilled as her expression altered to reflect her despair. Wrong. She was terrified she'd blow it. She needed two hands to count the number of years since she’d left the ad agency.

  “My God,” she whispered, reaching up to gently smooth the ragged line of makeup. “Nine years... Where did the time go?” Her fingertips moved from her lid to smooth other lines etched by nature at the corners of her eyes. Leaning back, she focused on her reflection. Who was this woman who stared back at her? She barely knew her. The difference was in the eyes. She had aged, not so much in years, but in experience. Hard won. By that count she was very old indeed.

  Would Bernard Robbins notice the change, she wondered? Bernard had been her former boss at Leo Burnett in Chicago. Applying foundation, she thought back on how, as a fresh sprout out of college, she had been given her first chance at pitching a big account by Bernard. She’d nearly killed herself in gratitude, not only proving him correct in his faith by landing a hot client, but earning herself a promotion to account executive after only two years at the firm. Faye had a reputation as a sharp, productive worker. She pushed her team hard, too, but never harder than she pushed herself. In the end, the whole team reaped the rewards of her productivity, several rising in the ranks alongside her.

  One had been her ex-husband, Rob O’Neill. He was a handsome, sharp-witted copywriter marked for stardom in his field. He had more than talent. He had style. He knew it, she knew it, everyone knew it. When he turned his formidable charm on her she was as completely bowled over as any client when targeted by one of his campaigns.

  Young, foolish, and in love, she childishly gave everything up for Rob, including her common sense. She winced at the memory of how she’d practically forced Rob to marry her. He didn’t want to be tied down. Yet when determined, Faye could be a formidable force herself. She’d pushed. She’d persevered and, in rapid-fire order, they married, Faye quit her job at Leo Burnett, and Maddie was born. At first, Rob got caught up in the whole idea of having babies. It was novel, as exciting and emotional as any ad campaign. Babies were cute, they smelled good, and with Faye home to take care of them, they were fun. He joked that at last he understood why so many advertisers wanted babies in their ads.

  Soon after Tom was born, however, Rob got bored. Two babies were a lot of work, and he felt trapped. Then, like any cornered animal, he began to snarl and fight.

  Faye leaned toward the mirror and, bringing up her hand, gently moved her fingertip along the delicate skin surrounding her eye. How many times had she applied makeup here to try and hide the swelling and bruising? Her first mistake was not to leave him after that first, resounding hit. Her second mistake was to let him hit her again.

  In the well-appointed living room of the charming North Shore home that she’d moved into as a young, dewy bride, he’d shouted foul obscenities at her, screamed how he was sorry that he’d married her. How she’d trapped him. That he’d never wanted to be saddled with a wife and kids. Plagued with guilt, she tried all the harder not to make him angry, to do things the way he liked. To keep the peace. She even turned a deaf ear to the gossips who told her she had a right to know about that attractive account exec he met with so often.

  Yet no matter how hard she’d tried to please him, he was never satisfied. He sought ways to berate her: snide remarks about her appearance, mockery of her opinions, a cold shoulder in bed, a smack with the back of his hand. In time, she grew too numb to care one way or the other. Like gold under the pounding mallet, her softness was compressed into a tight, hard ball.

  Faye sighed and stared at the tight and drawn face in the mirror. What had happened to the enthusiastic, eager-eyed girl who had once entered the doors of Leo Burnett with such confidence? What a sobering experience it was, getting back into the job market. She was a has-been at thirty-five. No one was hiring an account exec who’d been out of the business for a decade. No one was hiring, period. Just when she was desperate enough to plead for the receptionist job at the agency, Bernard Robbins called her from London. He’d recently been appointed agency president of Leo Burnett’s London office. This was a big move for Bernard. He was a man on the way up and wanted people loyal to him at his side. When he offered Faye a job on his London team they both knew this was more than a job offer. It was her opportunity to reenter the game as a key player. If she won the new account he was bringing her in for, the job was hers. If she lost it, he couldn’t promise her she could stay. It was the best he could do.

  Now it was her turn to do her best. For Bernard, for herself, for Maddie and Tom. The stakes were never so high. Her hand tightened around
the small tube of lipstick in her palm. The Faye O’Neill that Bernard Robbins remembered was a flash of red in a world of gray print. Nothing would get in her way.

  With determination shining in her blue eyes, Faye applied a coat of bright red upon her lips, a steady line of liner to her lids, and smoothed out the muted colors of her eye shadow and blush. Last, she pulled her hair back into a severe chignon at the nape of her neck. Surveying herself in the mirror, she was satisfied with the immaculately groomed, sensibly dressed, no-nonsense woman she saw reflected. Perhaps not so young and enthusiastic, but also not as naive. She would wear this mask of confidence, she swore, even if it was only painted on. In time, success would breed confidence inside as well. She would make this work. Whatever it took.

  * * *

  Faye stepped out into a glorious London morning. Looking over her shoulder to make certain the front door clicked tight, she collided with Jack Graham as he stepped from his garden flat stairwell. They both shuffled back muttering apologies, but it was Jack who recovered first.

  “Mrs. O’Neill, I presume?” he said, mimicking the upper-crust British accent. “I hardly recognized you without a sponge in your hand.”

  Faye twisted her lips to hide her smile and smoothed her skirt. She allowed her gaze to travel lazily over Jack’s gray flannel suit, the starched white shirt, and black-and-red tie.

  “Surely this gentleman before me can’t be my neighbor, Dr. Jack Graham? Where are the jeans, the sweatshirt? My goodness, he’s not only wearing shoes, he’s wearing wing tips!”

  “Uniform,” Jack quipped, eyes lively. “Required for all lectures, meetings with VIPs, and whenever I need to impress my new neighbors. So, how am I doing?”

  She tapped her lips teasingly, but inside, she approved. His long, lean body fit his business suit with the sleek, sexy polish of a Fleet Street model. Even his dark curls, which up till then she’d only seen in a lazy mass about the head, were slicked back from his forehead with obvious care.