Lightning Strikes

by Virginia Andrews

  “You must not be angry, chérie,” Leslie said. “I am here only to cheer him up. He’s been so sad because of you,” she said, making a pouting, despondent face. “I felt pity for him.”

  “I see,” I said. I glared at Randall. “Did she cheer you up, chérie?”

  “Rain, you wouldn’t talk to me all week and. . .”

  “Looks like my instincts were right. Don’t let me stop you, Leslie. Keep cheering him up. You can cheer him up to hell for all I care,” I added, spun around and left, slamming the door behind me. The sound was like a bullet bouncing off the walls. I hurried down the steps before Randall or Leslie could follow. In seconds, I burst out of the dormitory and practically ran all the way to the park, nearly getting hit by a car twice on street corners. Even after all this time here, I still occasionally forgot on which side of the road they drove their cars.

  I wasn’t crying about Randall so much as I was crying about myself, about my innocence and faith, about my gullibility and my foolish blind hope. How many lessons in human nature did I need before I learned that trust was as rare as an unflawed diamond? Maybe that was why they named one of the biggest and best the Hope Diamond. From now on, I would confide in someone only as a last resort. Never again would I open my heart to anyone.

  The tears that streaked my face were bitter tasting. I whipped them off my cheeks with flicks of my hands and dropped myself onto a park bench, folding my arms under my bosom and glaring ahead.

  Who did I have here? A great-uncle and great-aunt who didn’t even know I was related to them and who might pass out from the shock of it if they were ever told? Fellow servants in a house run by Frankenstein? Some nice teachers at the school who nevertheless maintained their professional aloofness, gazing down at me with judgmental eyes? And yes, of course, a father who learned practically yesterday that I existed and nearly turned inside out with the revelation.

  Go home, Rain, I told myself. Get on the first plane you can and go home. If you’re going to be a servant, be one for Grandmother Hudson. All of a sudden, I burst into hot tears, tears spilled for her and for Jake and for the memory of Mama.

  “Are you all right, dear?” a small, elderly lady with a rather ridiculously wide brimmed hat asked. She had a pearl-handled cane.

  “What? Oh. Yes,” I said slapping my palms to my cheeks to smother the tears. “Thank you.”

  “How can anyone be sad on such a beautiful day?” she asked with a smile. “And someone so young, too? Whatever it is, my dear, it will pass. You know what time is? It’s a big eraser on the end of a pencil. It will clear away your sadness. You’ll see,” she predicted.

  I smiled at her.

  “Thank you.”

  “Oh, see, when you smile, your face lights up. Such a beautiful face, too. I’m on my daily stroll,” she continued. “I’m ninety years old and I have promised my children that when I can no longer walk in the park by myself, I’ll let them put me in some old-age residency so they don’t have to worry. Funny, isn’t it? We spend all our lives trying to make our children happy and even at the end, that’s what drives us to do things.

  “But,” she said, “it’s hard to be selfish, even now, even when I should be.

  “Yes,” she said, nodding and starting away, “whatever is troubling you will pass. Someday, you won’t even remember why you were crying.” She paused and looked back. “Forgetting can be a blessing.”

  I watched her go on and then I sucked in my breath and stood up just as a solitary sparrow flew by desperately looking for its flock.

  On Sunday I awoke trembling. Would I have the courage to go to my father’s home to meet his family? Now that the day was here, I was sorry I had called to say I would come. We were still little more than strangers. How could I even begin to hope it would give me any pleasure or answer any questions?

  I was nervous about leaving the house. I had anticipated Grandmother Hudson’s receiving my letter on Friday or Saturday and assumed, or rather hoped, she would call over the weekend. She hadn’t called yet, as far as I knew. Maybe she was waiting until today. If she had received the letter and was going to call, she would do so in the morning her time and even with the five-hour time difference, I would be speaking to her before I left for my father’s home.

  I sifted through my clothing to find the nicest outfit to wear. I had checked the weather report and there was no chance of rain, so I chose a light-blue cotton dress and my blue cardigan sweater. It would grow cooler later so I needed a jacket as well. After that I spent hours trying to decide if I should wear some lipstick and eye shadow or not. I couldn’t decide about my hair either. Finally, I settled on tying it back with a ribbon to keep it neatly behind my neck. I put on some lipstick, but no eye shadow.

  Endfield Place was quiet. My great-aunt and great-uncle had gone to the country and it was Mary Margaret’s and Mrs. Chester’s day off as well. Boggs had driven the Endfields so I had time to be by myself in the great house without feeling I was under constant observation.

  I made myself some breakfast and sat eating in the kitchen. Even with no one here, I couldn’t get myself to eat in their dining room. If I left a crumb, Boggs would find it and chastise me for daring to eat there.

  I read for a while, pausing now and then to wonder about Grandmother Hudson calling. By now, I knew she was up and about back in Virginia. After having read my letter, she would surely call, I thought.

  To pass the time, I thought about the house and my great-aunt and great-uncle. I recalled the time I had gone upstairs with a tray of breakfast for my aunt. That was the morning she told me about their daughter. On the way out of the room, I saw what looked like the arm of a large doll sticking out from under a blanket on her rocking chair. It was the only thing I saw that suggested a child had once lived in this house, that and what I had seen in the cottage, of course.

  Curiosity grew stronger and stronger and finally beckoned me to the stairs. I looked up at the shadowy second floor and then I slowly ascended. The door to my great-aunt’s bedroom was closed. I hesitated. I didn’t like being a little snoop, but I couldn’t help but open the door to peer in at that rocking chair. There it was, a nearly life-size doll, staring at me. It was so lifelike in fact that my heart skipped a beat. For a split second, I thought it was a real little girl. My great-aunt had dressed it in what looked like real clothes, too.

  I continued to gaze around the bedroom. Everything was in place, the bed perfectly made. I glanced once more at the doll and then I closed the door and stood there for a moment thinking. Maybe the doll had been their daughter’s. Maybe it was something Great-aunt Leonora couldn’t put away or maybe she kept it there to remind her of her daughter. But why would a mother, any mother, need a reminder?

  Yours would, I told myself.

  I turned and looked at the door across the way. Great-aunt Leonora had shown me only her bedroom. Was that room once their daughter’s? I went to the door and tried it, but it was locked. There was one more room down the hall. This door was not locked. When I peered in, I saw another bedroom, not quite as luxurious. Perhaps it was their guest bedroom, I thought, but it did have a lived-in look. I went into it farther and saw a man’s clothing in the closet. There was a jacket on a hanger on the inside of the door, too. These were Great-uncle Richard’s clothes. I recognized them. I never knew they slept in separate bedrooms.

  The bathroom looked recently used, too. A tube of toothpaste was still open and on the tile counter by the sink. Next to it was a hairbrush and a razor.

  Did they always sleep in separate bedrooms? There wasn’t even an adjoining door. Was this common in English households? I wondered.

  I heard a door close downstairs and froze for a moment. What if Boggs had returned and found me up here? It must be Leo, I thought. I hoped. I practically tiptoed my way out and down the stairs. Just as I reached the bottom, Leo appeared, his head down, crossing from the living room toward the den. I stood so still he didn’t notice me. When he was gone, I walked out of t
he house and released my hot, stifled breath.

  Grandmother Hudson hadn’t called, but I couldn’t wait any longer. A moment later, I was hurrying down the street, fleeing from one house of strangers and heading for another.

  12

  A Father’s Hope

  “I’m so happy you could come,” my father declared rather loudly when he opened the door. “Please.” He stepped aside and I entered. Behind him, my half sister and half brother stood waiting politely to be introduced.

  “This is Alexandra,” he said. “Alexandra, this is Rain Arnold.”

  She extended her hand.

  “Pleased to meet you,” she said.

  “And this is William,” my father said.

  He did the same. “Pleased to meet you.”

  His wife appeared in the entryway, wiping her hands on a lace apron and smiling at me.

  “This must be Rain,” she said softly. She did have beautiful eyes, I thought, so vibrant and intelligent.

  “Yes. Rain, my wife Leanna.”

  “How do you do,” she said. “Alexandra, would you show Rain to the sitting room. It’s such a nice day,” she told me, “I thought we’d have our tea in the garden.”

  “Yes, it is a nice day. I’ve learned to cherish them while in London,” I said and both she and my father laughed.

  “Getting used to English weather was the hardest thing for me, too,” he said. “Even harder than the driving, not that I do all mat much. We have a rather good public transportation system here, as I’m sure you’ve discovered. I’ll be right along,” he added. He looked to Alexandra who waited for me to follow her into the sitting room.

  It was a cozy, yet elegant room with a rustic cottage feel. Fresh flowers were in vases on every table. The walls around the fireplace were covered with books, mostly leather bound, on built-in polished paneled shelves. All of the walls were painted coral with a group of china plates displayed on the wall to my left. The furniture was done in a floral chintz with a large butler’s table in the center. There were two Oriental rugs adding a splash of color to the glossy wooden floor. A panel of lace curtains was drawn over the bay window which faced the street. I immediately thought to myself that this was where Leanna had spotted me watching the house.

  I smiled at William, who stared at me intensely.

  “Please, have a seat,” Alexandra said, indicating the settee.

  I did so and she sat in the chair across from me. William continued to stand and stare.

  “Sit, William,” Alexandra ordered. “And it’s not polite to stare,” she added.

  He looked away quickly and sat. He was dressed in a pair of slacks and a crisp white shirt. His hair was neatly brushed back with a prominent part on the right. I thought he was very cute and well on his way toward being a handsome young man.

  Alexandra took after her mother with the same small facial features, hair color and eye color. She wore a pink and white dress and had her hair woven in a tight French braid.

  “How long have you been in England?” she asked me.

  “A few months.”

  “I hope to go to America soon, especially New York City.”

  “You’re not going soon,” William corrected sharply.

  “I hope to,” she said. “Daddy says we will go before too much longer.”

  “He said in a few years.”

  “Well, that’s not too much longer, is it? Our father has relatives in New York. Once a cousin came here. He was much older.”

  “And fatter,” William added.

  “William,” she barked, glaring her chastisement at him. Then she turned to me and shook her head as if she was years and years older than he was. “My brother speaks before he thinks sometimes. Maybe, most of the time,” she added, glaring at him once more. She turned again, her posture remarkably perfect.

  “How old are you?” I asked her.

  “I’m twelve and William is eight, although he often behaves like a two-year-old,” she fired in his direction. He screwed the corners of his mouth in tightly. She turned back to me. “Daddy says you’re studying to be an actress.”

  “I’m in a school for the performing arts. I don’t know if I will ever really be an actress.”

  “Daddy says you have to want something with all your heart before you set out to do it or you’ll never succeed,” she replied.

  “He’s right about that.”

  “I’m going to be a big game hunter and live in Africa,” William declared. “With relatives.”

  “We don’t have relatives in Africa. I keep telling him that, but he insists that we do because some friend of his at school told him our daddy’s family comes from Africa. They did come from Africa, but that was very, very long ago, William.”

  “What do you think?” he asked me.

  “Well, there probably are relatives somewhere in Africa,” I said. William looked redeemed. “However, your sister is right. Finding them would be nearly impossible.”

  Alexandra gave him a stern, sharp nod.

  “Finding whom?” my father asked, entering.

  “Relatives in Africa,” Alexandra said.

  “Oh?” He smiled and shook his head. “Our William is talking about that again?”

  “Yes. He’s being ridiculous, I’m afraid,” Alexandra said. Maybe it was her beautiful speaking voice and accent, but she seemed so much older than a twelve-year-old.

  “Wanting to find your relatives is not silly, Alexandra,” my father said, glancing at me. “The problem would be not having much in common with them anymore, I’m afraid.”

  “They’re probably good hunters,” William insisted.

  “Yes,” my father said nodding. “I’m sure they are. Well now,” he said sitting beside me on the settee, “tell me about your school. It’s the one administered by Conor MacWaine, is it not?”

  “Yes. He’s a friend of my grandmother’s, who. . .” I paused as Leanna appeared in the doorway.

  “Oh, please, continue,” she said. “I don’t mean to interrupt.”

  “I was just saying Mr. MacWaine is a friend of my grandmother’s and talked her into sending me to his school after he saw me perform in a high-school play.”

  “What play was that?” my father asked.

  “Our Town,” I said.

  “And you were Emily Webb?”

  “Yes.”

  “Quite a part. How many plays were you in before that?”

  “None,” I said.

  “None? Well then, quite an accomplishment. No wonder Mr. MacWaine sought you for his school. He recognized natural talent.”

  “Your parents must be very proud,” Leanna said.

  “I’ve just my mother,” I replied. “But I don’t live with her. I live with my grandmother.”

  “Oh.” She looked awkward, her eyes quickly shifting toward my father.

  “Is it time for tea, dear?” my father quickly asked.

  “Yes. Yes, please. Let’s all go into the garden. Children,” she said and they rose obediently.

  “You have a very nice house,” I told my father.

  “It’s all Leanna’s doing. I’m afraid my head is in books and papers most of the time. As you will see, she is quite the gardener as well,” he added, leading me to the rear of the house and their garden.

  They had a patio with vines hanging through the latticed wooden overhang. Water trickled in a small, gray sculptured fountain and birdbath. The gardens themselves were impressive.

  “Leanna will have to describe it all,” my father explained.

  “After tea, Larry,” she said.

  Set out on the table was a variety of tea sandwiches, including salmon and cucumber, shrimp and cream cheese and roast beef with watercress and horseradish sauce. There was also a big assortment of pastries and cakes. I recognized lemon shortbread, linzer biscuits, jam and lemon curd tarts and chocolate chip shortbread hearts, all things Mrs. Chester prepared for the Endfields’ high teas.

  “This is very nice,” I said. Every
one sat and Leanna poured us each a cup of tea to start.

  “Please, take whatever you wish,” she said.

  I did so and began to eat, remarking on how good it all was.

  “My husband tells me you actually audited his classes to help give you insights into your acting. That’s very ambitious of you,” Leanna said.

  I glanced at my father who ate silently. William and Alexandra watched me eat and listened to my conversation as if they were just as interested in my replies.

  “My drama teacher always talks about knowing the character before you actually memorize lines. He believes in improvisation, too. I suppose you become the character more that way,” I said.

  “Exactly,” my father said. “That’s especially true for actors in a Shakespearean play because of all the nuances, subtleties of meaning, the imagery, poetry.”

  “What made you want to study Shakespeare more than anything else?” I asked him.

  How odd it felt to speak to my own father this way, to ask the most basic things, to watch every movement in his face, his eyes, the way he held his tea sandwich, sipped his tea, smiled and laughed. Some of it was a search for myself, to see resemblances, to feel some linkage and be more positive about our relationship. What gestures did we share? Could anyone look at the two of us and see that I was his daughter? Would Leanna soon realize it?

  If I had never known of him and Randall had never found him, would I have paused when passing him by in the street, or looked at him a second time somewhere, sometime? Was there something between a father and his daughter that couldn’t be denied?

  “I was always interested in that period, the Elizabethan Age, English history itself, I suppose. If I tried to analyze it deeply, I think I would conclude I was trying to escape from my own reality at the time. Being a lover of language and poetry, it was a natural marriage, Shakespeare and I,” he said with a smile.

  “My mother writes poetry,” Alexandra revealed.

  “Oh?”

  “I just dabble,” she said modestly.

  “Hardly,” my father said. “She’s been published often in a number of prestigious literary periodicals; just this past week, matter of fact.”