Ginna couldn’t know what an uncanny resemblance she held to Miss Virginia Swan. Both women had the same smoky-gold hair, the same slight figure, and those startling eyes which were of no earthly color. Instead, they gleamed with shades of heaven. Once, long ago, while painting a portrait of Virginia, an artist from England had described their hue as “celestial hazel”—shifting tints of sky-blue, storm-gray, moon-silver, and sun-gold.
Now Ginna’s eyes of that same heavenly hue focused on three figures in the distance. They were waiting for her, probably wondering why she was late for their weekly teatime visit.
She lingered beyond the swan pond, hidden by the gilded Virginia woods that smelled of sun-warmed holly and pine. A breeze stirred the branches of the huge tulip poplar, making them whisper secrets of long ago days and dreams gone awry. She felt herself drawn to the path that led to the house and to her friends. Something sharp and bittersweet beckoned to her soul, something not to be denied.
In some odd way, it seemed she remembered this feeling from the distant past, yet she could not interpret its meaning. Tears blurred her vision suddenly. Her heart raced. Was it the wind whispering, or did she hear a voice? It seemed to say, “He has come home. Home, at last!”
A shiver ran through her. A warm shiver, like the feel of spring rain on bare flesh. She stared again at the three women in the distance, nodding and whispering over the old silver teapot. She felt a tug at her heart.
Could it really be? Was he home, after all these years?
The strange thought puzzled her. Who had come home? And why would his return fill her with such keen anticipation and joy? Dismissing the questions, which obviously had no answers, she headed up the hill, almost running.
“Look!” Sister cried, pointing toward the woods.
The other two women turned to see the great tulip poplar shimmering ghostlike in the golden afternoon light. A moment later, they caught sight of a slight figure clad all in scarlet and white, gliding along the path past the pond. The pair of swans poised motionless on the mirror surface, their graceful necks bowed together to form a heart.
“It’s Ginna,” Pansy said, with a sigh of relief and satisfaction. “She’s come. I knew she would.”
“At last!” Sister added.
Elspeth said nothing. She got a queer feeling in the pit of her stomach at the first glimpse of Ginna, the same kind of flesh-creeping, hair-raising sensation she got when she looked out her window on moonlit nights and saw the shimmering blue and gray ghosts of soldiers moving silently about in the woods. There was a change in the air, as always, when their young friend appeared. But this time, something was different. She sensed sorrow ahead. It took all her willpower to keep from shouting, “Go back—back wherever you come from!” Only her eagerness to tell Ginna their news stayed the impulse.
“You’re late, dear!” Sister scolded gently, as Ginna, glowing like fresh morning dew, took her seat at the table.
“Something kept me away.” Ginna wasn’t sure why she had hesitated so long at the edge of the woods. She still sensed a strangeness all about her.
“You young people lead such busy lives,” Pansy said, brightly. “We’re just thankful you can make time to visit us on Mondays.”
Elspeth poured a fourth cup of tea and handed it to Ginna. Pansy and Sister remained silent. Now that their guest had finally arrived, they could savor the anticipation a moment longer. How sweet it was to have real news to tell for a change!
Usually, the minute that Ginna arrived, all three women began talking at once. Unnerved by their extended silence, she urged, “Tell me everything that’s happened this week. I see you’ve all had your hair done. Have you had any visitors? Did the handsome young pastor from Front Royal come yesterday to preach and lead the singing?”
The three of them sat staring at her, smiling like cats that had just polished off the last of the cream.
“Well, tell me!” Ginna said, laughing at their pleased-as-punch expressions.
Pansy and Sister both turned to Elspeth, offering her the chance to be the first to break the news. After another pregnant pause, she said, “A young man’s come to Swan’s Quarter.”
“A mysterious young man,” Pansy put in.
“A handsome man,” Sister added. “And he’s very young.”
The women’s eyes danced with excitement, as they all stared at Ginna, eager to see her reaction to their news. It wasn’t often that anyone under the age of sixty came to Swan’s Quarter, and most of the sanatorium’s inmates were closer to ninety. Ginna knew that her three friends fretted constantly, because she had no man in her life. The trio were eternally trying to make matches for her with the male doctors and nurses about the place. Once they had even tried to fix her up with old Marcellus Lynch, the institution’s self-appointed Lothario in his mid-seventies. “Why, he’s only a youngster,” the ninety-two-year-old Sister had proclaimed, shocked when Ginna pointed out the difference in their ages.
“Did you hear that, Ginna? He’s young!” Elspeth emphasized.
“How young?” Ginna asked suspiciously.
“His chart says thirty-two,” Pansy whispered.
Ginna gave the woman a mock-stern look, then laughed. “You’ve been sneaking into Dr. Kirkwood’s office again and rifling through his files?”
“I’d never!” Pansy blushed. She knew that everyone at Swan’s Quarter called her a busybody and a snoop. “It wasn’t my fault this time. The doctor had the chart on his desk when I went in for my last appointment. When he stepped out for a moment, I just thought I’d tidy up for him a bit. I couldn’t help it if the chart fell open when I dropped it.”
“And does this handsome thirty-two-year-old have a name?”
“Neal Frazier,” they all chorused.
Then the chatter began in earnest, like hens clucking at feeding time.
“He’s from Richmond, but lives in Washington.”
“He’s single.”
“A widower, Sister,” Pansy corrected.
“Single just the same.”
“Very tall.”
“Very sad.”
“I’d say more angry than sad,” Elspeth pointed out, with authority.
“Angry about what?” Ginna asked.
All three shook their heads. “We thought you might find out for us, Ginna,” Pansy pleaded.
“What did his chart say?”
Pansy shrugged. “I didn’t have time to read all of it, Ginna. The doctor came back in and took it away from me.”
“You’re losing your touch, Pansy,” Elspeth said. “You’ve never been caught red-handed before. At least not by Dr. Kirkwood himself.”
“My hearing’s not what it used to be. He sneaked up on me,” Pansy explained. “However, I did get a chance to read the diagnosis.” She frowned and looked to heaven, trying to recall the exact words. “Survivor’s Syndrome,” she said emphatically. Then she glanced about the circle of faces all staring at her. “But what in heaven’s name does that mean?”
“It means there was some kind of accident and someone was killed, but he survived, and now he’s feeling guilty about it and needs help to get over it,” Ginna explained.
“I wonder what happened,” Sister said.
“There’s no telling,” Elspeth answered. “Not unless he’ll talk to us. He’s not real friendly.”
“I bet he’ll tell Ginna,” Sister said.
“Oh, yes!” Pansy cried. “That’s a fine idea.”
All three women turned pleading gazes on their young guest.
He’s come home! The eerie voice spoke again to Ginna, and in that instant she knew that she would make it a point to do her friends’ bidding. She had a feeling that Mr. Neal Frazier was the cause of her excitement today, even though she had yet to meet him. She meant to make his acquaintance the first chance she got. Finding out everything about him seemed a most intriguing way to spend her time.
“I’d like very much to m
eet your Mr. Frazier. It sounds like he needs a friend to talk to.”
Elspeth, Pansy, and Sister beamed as one. They could almost hear the wedding bells ringing already.
Chapter Two
“It was not your fault, Neal.”
Dr. Leonard Kirkwood’s voice sounded amiable, but unconvincing to his patient. This was the same clinical tone he had used in his sessions for the four days that Neal Frazier had been at the Virginia sanatorium poetically named “Swan’s Quarter.” So far, the therapy had been less than successful. Neal still felt eaten alive with guilt.
“If you mean I didn’t cause the wind shear that made flight 1862 fall out of the sky, you’re right,” Neal answered grimly. “Still, it was my fault some of those people died. Maybe all of them.”
“You saved little Christine.”
“Only because her mother was sitting next to me and shoved her into my arms. My only thought was getting out of there. I could have gone back for Christine’s mother. I might have been able to save her too. I should have, dammit!”
“How do you figure?” the bearded, middle-aged psychiatrist asked.
“I was sitting by the emergency door. It was my responsibility to open it and help the others escape. Instead, the minute we crashed, I opened that door and got the hell out!” Neal’s voice rose angrily, his rage all self-directed. “I should have gone back in there. Christine has two sisters and a brother. Now they’re all motherless, and it’s my fault. I never even tried to help that woman or any of the others.”
“But the plane was on fire, Neal. You might have lost your own life.”
“Yeah, well maybe that would have been all for the better. Maybe I could sleep nights, if I’d died with everybody else. Maybe I wouldn’t have these dreams all the time.”
“Nightmares about the crash?”
“No. Crazy stuff! Has nothing to do with the crash—nothing to do with anything I can think of.”
“And these dreams began right after the accident?”
Neal’s dark scowl turned to a thoughtful look, before he answered. “No. As a matter of fact, they didn’t start until I got here, to this place.” He turned an accusing glare on Dr. Kirkwood. “Are you guys giving me some kind of weird drug that causes hallucinations?”
The doctor shook his head. “You’re receiving only a very mild sedative at night. Something to help you sleep, not give you nightmares.”
“Well, they’re not exactly what you’d call nightmares. Some of the stuff isn’t so bad, actually.”
“Tell me about your dreams.”
“I’m not sure I can. I mean, you know how it is. You have these dreams and they seem so real and so vivid at the time, but then you wake up and they fade. About all I can remember is that I’m fighting in the Civil War. And the war’s hell, of course, but that’s not what’s bugging me. I keep thinking all the time about this woman. And sometimes she’ll be right there with me and seem so real that having her there kills all the pain. But then when I try to reach out and touch her, she just melts away into the smoke of the battle, and I wake up crying like a baby and calling to her.”
“Do you know this woman’s name?”
Feeling sheepish, Neal looked down and shook his head. “She’s just part of the dream. If I knew her name, that faded too.” Neal looked up suddenly and said, “She’s Christine’s mother, isn’t she, Doc?”
Dr. Kirkwood thought for a moment. “I don’t believe so. This doesn’t sound like it’s connected to the plane crash. More likely it’s something else that you’ve been suppressing for a long time. But if we can work through your problems with the crash, I imagine the dreams will stop.”
Neal slumped down in his chair and gripped the upholstered arms, the same way he had clung to the armrests, as flight 1862 had started its long, fatal spiral toward the earth, only minutes short of its final approach to Dulles airport in Washington.
After a moment of silence between the two men, Neal turned glaring dark eyes on the doctor. “Why me? I’m nothing special. What have I ever done with my life that I should be the only one left?”
Kirkwood smoothed one side of his narrow, blond mustache. “You might look at this philosophically. Maybe it’s not what you’ve done, but what you’ve been saved to do. Or maybe little Christine is meant for greatness and your task was accomplished when you saved her life. Maybe your life is your reward.”
“Don’t get religious on me, Doc. You could be right about the kid, but I’m the same person now as I was before I boarded that flight to D.C. No near-death experience. No tunnel of light or angels singing to me. It was more hell than heaven—smoke, flames, people screaming and dying. But here I sit, same old me. Tell me, what great purpose could there be for a soldier without a war to fight? I’m a fish out of water, now that I’m out of uniform. I’ve just been bumming around for the past couple of years since the Army cut me loose, after Desert Storm. There’s not a soul in the world who would feel the loss if I’d died in that crash. But it would have been different for the woman beside me—a wife, a mother, a teacher. The guy in the seat ahead of me was a heart surgeon. Think of all the people he’ll never get a chance to save now.” His head drooped and his angry voice dropped to a whisper. “And all those kids—the plane was full of them—college kids with their whole lives ahead of them, on their way back to school. Gone! All gone! And here I sit, not a scratch on me and no one to care, one way or the other.” He glared at the doctor. “Where’s the justice in that? Where’s the sense in it? Damn!”
“I don’t like sounding judgmental, but it seems to me you should be thanking your lucky stars, instead of feeling sorry for yourself, Neal. There are no guarantees that life will make sense all the time.”
“You’ve got that right!” Neal growled. He wasn’t thinking about the plane crash now; he was remembering his wife. It had been a lousy marriage from the start. They had been too young, too naive, too swept away with emotion to realize that they were not really in love—more “in lust”—when they dashed off to a justice of the peace to tie the knot. Still, Nancy had done her best to make it work. It might have, eventually.
Who knows? Neal thought. Who would ever know now?
Nancy hadn’t deserved her fate. She had given the guy in the ski mask her money. Why had he also demanded her life? And even then, Neal hadn’t been on the scene to ease her last hours. He had been off in the desert, fighting the good fight, living the soldier’s life that he loved above all else.
Watching Neal’s expression turn from distress to despair, Dr. Kirkwood asked quietly, “Do you want to tell me about it?”
“What?”
“Whatever you’re thinking about right now. It might help to talk about it.”
Neal uttered a pained laugh. “Not likely!”
Kirkwood shrugged. “Suit yourself. I don’t want to rush you.”
Neal glanced around the room, trying to get his mind off the past. He noted the antique furnishings, the tarnished trappings of a former age. Beyond the heavily draped windows, he spied a giant tulip poplar shimmering against the wooded backdrop. Funny, he hadn’t noticed that big tree by the pond before.
“What kind of place is this anyway? I thought I was coming to a hospital. I thought there would be other vets here, guys I could relate to. So far, except for the staff, I haven’t seen anyone younger than the pyramids.”
“Swan’s Quarter is basically a retirement home.”
“You mean a nursing home, don’t you, Doc? A place where families dump their old people when they don’t want them around any longer?”
Leonard Kirkwood shook his head, patiently. “We don’t like to think of Swan’s Quarter that way. We do have a lot of elderly people here, but we do everything in our power to make their final years as full and happy as we can. That was the purpose that Mrs. Swan had in mind when she donated the house and the land. This was a fine plantation in the last century. The Swan family were early settlers here in Virgi
nia. Five members of the family—the father and all four of his sons—rode off to the Civil War together. Only two of them returned. At the close of the war, the remaining family member, Mrs. Melora Swan, donated her home to be used as a retreat for aging Confederate veterans. And so it was, until the last one died at an advanced age. At that time, this became a private sanatorium, a rest home, if you will. A place for people like you to come and sort out their problems, or simply a home where those without places of their own could live and feel they belong. As for our golden-agers, we like to think they stay because they are happy here. Our younger patients tend to come, then leave to return to normal, productive lives, as I’m sure you will one of these days, Neal.”
Neal wasn’t listening. Distracted by some movement out beyond the tulip poplar, he kept his gaze trained on a figure dressed in red and white, as she glided up the path toward the main house.
“Who’s that?” he asked, pointing toward the window.
Kirkwood swung his chair around to look. His solemn countenance broke into a wide smile. “Her name is Ginna,” he said quietly.
“Is she a patient here?”
“No. She comes every week to visit.”
“Some of her folks here?”
The doctor shook his head. “No. As far as I know, she has no family. Several years ago, before I came here, she started coming to Swan’s Quarter to visit an elderly patient. I believe she had been Ginna’s foster mother, when she was young. After the woman passed on, Ginna continued her visits. I think of her almost as a member of my staff. She’s made many friends here and does a lot for morale. Her visits give our people something to look forward to. They can count on Ginna. She never disappoints them.”
“I guess she must live nearby? One of those do-gooders, compulsive volunteers?”
“I don’t know where she lives. Actually, I don’t know much of anything about her. But I do know that everyone here looks forward to Mondays because of Ginna. I wouldn’t call her a do-gooder, though. That kind usually wants something in return for their good deeds. Ginna seems to come only for the enjoyment she derives from being with the people here at Swan’s Quarter. She’s certainly a ray of light to a lot of our older patients, especially the ones who don’t have any other visitors. I’m glad she’s arrived. I was getting worried.”
Swan's Way Page 3
