by Ellen Crosby
She took a deep breath, steadying herself. “Whew, sorry. I still get worked up about it.”
“It’s okay.”
Her smile twisted. “Could you hold these flowers while I get my postcards? Then we can go.”
“Get them where?”
“Gift shop.”
She hooked a thumb at a nearly invisible doorway tucked into an interior wall facing the Mall. I took the roses as she disappeared through the door like Alice down the rabbit hole.
The translucent marble ceiling with its bronzed crossbeams and a few dim spotlights gave the light inside the cavernous memorial a viscous timeworn patina. Laughter and the chatter of tourists and visitors reverberated off the walls, an unintelligible din of white noise. I went and stood in front of Lincoln, reading the words carved above his head.
IN THIS TEMPLE
AS IN THE HEARTS OF THE PEOPLE
FOR WHOM HE SAVED THE UNION
THE MEMORY OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN
IS ENSHRINED FOREVER
Somber faced with one fist clenched and hair slightly disheveled, Lincoln stared into the distance as though he’d just come back from a walk and needed to put his thoughts in order. A group of teenagers wearing red sweatshirts stenciled with the logo of their Kansas high school band swarmed around me, shrill and excited. I moved away and shifted Rebecca’s roses in my arms. The card, attached with ribbon-covered florist’s wire, poked me. I turned it over and read the message.
For Richard Boyle IV: Never find fault with the absent.
How funny. Hadn’t she just asked me to do the same for her? I wondered who Richard Boyle IV was and whether I was going to meet him.
“Okay, all set.”
She reappeared holding an identical set of postcards of the memorial at night, glowing like a lit jewel.
“Did you know the Lincoln Memorial was modeled after the Temple of Zeus at Olympia?” she asked.
“Does it say that on the back of those postcards?”
She grinned. “Nope. I learned it from the Asher Collection. Tommy hired a curator from the historical society to put together a display in the lobby of our building in Manhattan. Usually featuring his latest treasure—a map or painting or some architectural drawing. That collection is his pride and joy. I’m going to miss seeing it now that it will be in D.C.” She shrugged. “Though it’s probably the end of the lectures and quizzes.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, he’d bring some scholar by the office to discuss history or cartography or something to do with whatever he’d just acquired. Gave him a chance to prove he could hold his own with the experts in front of his employees.” She rolled her eyes. “Especially when he gave his little quizzes afterward to see who’d been paying attention.”
“He tested you on this stuff?”
She nodded.
“I read what a control freak he is. And about his ego,” I said. “How do you put up with it?”
Rebecca pursed her lips. “Tommy is … complex. He’s used to getting what he wants, so it can come off as arrogance. He can also be incredibly charming … you have no idea. I guess you have to know him to understand him, why he does what he does.”
“It doesn’t bother you?”
“Like I said, he’s complex.”
“Including treating his employees like a bunch of schoolkids.”
“That’s different. He’s appalled at how little Americans know about their own history and that there are people who think ‘When was the War of 1812 fought?’ is a trick question.”
“I think you’re exaggerating.”
“Okay, how much do you know about it?”
“I minored in European history, remember? It was a trade war between the Americans and the British. They were impressing our sailors and we were mad that they still controlled Canada, plus they helped arm the Indians against us in the West.”
“Oh, all right, so you’re the exception to the rule. Most people don’t have a clue what it was about,” she said. “Or that the British burned Washington nearly to the ground. That’s what got Tommy interested in putting together the collection to begin with—he was fascinated by the plans and backroom politics that went on to rebuild the city after the fire. He just kept expanding and acquiring items until he owned almost everything out there that the Library of Congress didn’t already have.”
“Kind of an unusual avocation for someone who’s British.”
Rebecca gave me an odd look. “Tommy’s not British anymore. He’s a U.S. citizen. To be honest, I think he did it more to get even. For years it’s bugged him that an American rebuilt Shakespeare’s old Globe theater in London. He thought it should have been a hundred-percent British project.”
“So it’s payback?”
“I guess you could say that. I want you to meet him. The gala tonight is going to be a mob scene, but I’ve put you on the guest list for the opening of the collection next week at the library. There’s a dinner afterward in one of the private rooms that are never open to the public. Only about a hundred people are invited. You’ll get to know him then. Promise me you’ll go.”
“I can’t remember if we have something going on at the vineyard—”
“This is important. Promise me.”
Why was she pushing so hard?
“Okay, okay. I promise.”
“Good.” She shoved the postcards in her oversized Coach handbag. “Next stop the Wall. You mind?”
The Wall. That explained the flowers. I gave them back to her. She meant the Vietnam Veterans Memorial just across the plaza, hidden by a scrim of shrubbery.
Vietnam belonged to our parents’ generation. Maybe Rebecca was paying tribute to a family friend, someone her mother, who’d grown up in Saigon during the war, or her father, who’d fought there, had known.
“No,” I said. “I don’t mind at all.”
Gusts of wind rippled the blue gray Reflecting Pool, distorting the mirrored image of the Washington Monument and rustling the bare branches of the elms that lined the paths like sentries. As we made our way down the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, the Capitol dome, which had been obscured by the Washington Monument, now appeared toy-sized on the horizon. We crossed the open plaza. The traffic on Constitution Avenue sounded muffled, the noise deadened by the seventy black granite tablets that formed a gentle V along the downsloping path.
“Who was Richard Boyle the Fourth?” I asked.
She gave me a knowing smile as though she’d expected me to peek at the card attached to the bouquet.
“My father.”
I stopped walking. “Johnny Natale’s your father.”
I’d met her parents at her graduation. That year it fell on Mother’s Day weekend, rough for me. Her parents had been wonderful, especially her beautiful, vibrant mother, Linh, who treated me like another daughter, inviting me to their dinners and celebrations, including me in everything.
“Johnny Natale is my real father as far as I’m concerned. Richard Boyle died before I was born.”
“How come you never mentioned him?”
“Because I just found out about him.”
Rebecca did not sound like a daughter anguished by the loss of a father she never knew. Instead she sounded calm and matter-of-fact.
We resumed walking, pausing in front of mementos left as tributes. A combat boot, American flags, more flowers, photos encased in plastic, letters commemorating birthdays and events that would never be celebrated with a loved one, handmade cards tucked into the cracks between tablets.
“Why did you write, ‘Never find fault with the absent’?” I asked.
Again that fleeting glance and an apologetic smile. “He and my mom never got married. Don’t ever mention this to anyone, okay?”
I wondered whom she thought I’d tell.
“Sure,” I said again. “I promise.”
We reached the apex of the memorial commemorating the first and last American deaths in 1959 and 1975 where two tablets intersected like an ope
n book. Next to me a woman laid a piece of notebook paper on the black stone and began rubbing the paper with the lead side of a pencil. I watched names appear on the page like ghost images. A packet of letters tied with a yellow ribbon lay at her feet.
“I’m glad you came,” Rebecca was saying. “I knew you’d understand.”
“Pardon?” I dragged my attention from the woman. “Understand what?”
“Why I’m doing this.” She knelt and leaned the roses against the wall.
“Richard Boyle died at the end of the war?” I asked.
“Yes.” For a second she looked flustered. “I’m not quite sure of the exact date.”
“We should find his name,” I said.
It was the one thing she hadn’t done.
She pulled her oversized sunglasses down and I could no longer see her eyes, only my own reflection in the dark glass. “I can’t. I’m late. All I wanted to do was leave the flowers. Can I get you a cab back to the hotel?”
Suddenly she was brisk and businesslike and I got a glimpse of the person she’d become.
“Aren’t you going to the hotel, too?” I asked.
“I’ve got to go to Georgetown to pick up something for Tommy.”
“I haven’t got any plans. Why don’t I come with you?”
“Uh … no. You can’t.”
My face felt hot. “Sorry. I should have realized it’s business.”
“It’s just that it’s sort of delicate … I mean, Tommy trusted me with this errand. I shouldn’t even have mentioned it.”
“Sure. I didn’t mean to pry.” I knew the sound of a door slamming shut, especially coming from her.
“Oh, what the hell.” Rebecca fished in her purse and took out her cell phone, tapping the screen a few times. “Take a look at this.”
I squinted at the display. “It’s a silver wine cooler. Looks like an antique.”
“Right, but not just any silver wine cooler. It belonged to James Madison. One of Tommy’s ancestors stole it.”
“Are you serious?”
She nodded. “He was a soldier who fought the Americans during the War of 1812. Apparently he took it when his regiment looted the White House just before the Brits burned it. Madison had left the city to join his troops, and Dolley Madison ended up fleeing by herself with whatever she could take just before the soldiers arrived,” Rebecca said. “That wine cooler has been in the Asher family all this time and Tommy had no idea until recently. He and Mandy are going to return it to the president and first lady.”
“Tonight at the gala?”
“God, no.” She looked aghast. “He’d never do that. Besides, the Japanese prime minister is in town. There’s a reception this evening, so the White House called and sent regrets. Tommy and Mandy are handing it over at a private meeting in the Oval Office on Monday. He doesn’t want to admit in public that a family member was a thief and a plunderer, even if it did happen nearly two centuries ago during a war.”
“So where’s this wine cooler now?”
“Being cleaned by some professor at Georgetown. Ed Shelby. A colleague of the historian who helped put together the Asher Collection.”
“Dr. Alison Jennings.”
“You know her?” Rebecca seemed surprised.
“Of course I do. She’s married to Harlan Jennings. He grew up in Middleburg, a few miles from where I live. I’ve known him since we were kids,” I said, “although I was still in elementary school when he went off to Harvard. I had such a puppy-love crush on him. Worked for his campaign when he ran for the Senate.”
Rebecca smiled an enigmatic smile. “What a funny coincidence. I know Harlan, too. He does business with Tommy.”
“So I guess we’ll meet back at the hotel later? What time are we leaving?”
“The gala starts at seven. Cocktails for an hour, then dinner and dancing after that.” She rearranged her windblown shawl. “What are you going to do now?”
“Walk around for a while, I guess.”
“Thanks for coming, Little. You have no idea how much I appreciate it.”
She hugged me, another swift embrace. Before I could reply, she turned and ran toward the Lincoln Memorial, long legged and graceful as a gazelle, head held high, the wind still tugging at her shawl.
It was the last time I would ever see her.
Chapter 2
I spent an hour walking the paths of the Reflecting Pool before I went back to the Vietnam Veterans Memorial. The reunion with Rebecca had been odd, almost as though she had staged it with me as her spectator. She’d changed since I knew her at school; there was a harder edge to her now.
A flock of geese honked noisily overhead as they flew in an untidy V. I stopped in front of Rebecca’s roses and did some math. Richard Boyle would have been among the last to die—in 1975—based on Rebecca’s age. I put my hand on the Wall and stared at my reflection in the polished stone, letting the heat from the hot granite warm me. Why didn’t she want to find him? Being late to pick up a package in Georgetown sounded like a made-up excuse.
I scanned the names of the dead and missing from 1975 and 1974. Any earlier and the numbers really didn’t add up. More than fifty-eight thousand names were engraved here, commemorating decades of sorrow and loss for an unpopular war. Wherever Richard Boyle IV was, I didn’t find him. Maybe Rebecca knew more than she told me and that’s why she asked me to say nothing about our visit here.
The sun slipped behind a wall of clouds and the breeze grew sharper. I turned up my jacket collar and decided to return to the Willard. On my way back to Ohio Drive, I passed others who, like me, knew Vietnam from history books. For us, this place was a tourist attraction the same as the eternal flame at Arlington or the other monuments scattered throughout the city honoring dead heroes. But for some, like the woman who’d left the letters, it had to be like visiting a grave at a cemetery.
On the cab ride to the hotel, I couldn’t get Rebecca’s face or the face of that woman out of my mind. Both left me unaccountably melancholy.
They were still serving lunch at the Occidental Grill when I got back from my trip downtown. Another Washington landmark, it was located next door to the Willard. A man in a dark suit seated me in a booth where I could study the rows of black-and-white head shots of unsmiling political celebrities from an earlier era that covered every wall. I ate a club sandwich and drank a glass of unsweetened ice tea before walking back to the hotel.
The lobby was noisier and more animated than when I had checked in. Underneath the sound of laughter, chatter, and the clink of glasses from the bar around the corner, a piano played “The Way You Look Tonight.” Most of the couches and chairs were now occupied. I wondered how many were hotel guests and how many were well-dressed people watchers. I walked down an opulent corridor called Peacock Alley, passing a few people taking tea and peeking into ballrooms and salons set up for some upcoming event. One of them looked like someone’s wedding reception. Finally I rode the elevator to the seventh floor.
More Beaux Arts elegance in our suite, which was decorated in regal shades of scarlet and gold. Someone had placed my suitcase on a small mahogany bench with a red-and-gold-striped satin cushion. Rebecca’s suitcase occupied the matching bench next to it. A floor-length, one-shoulder black evening gown hung in the closet next to my garment bag. In the bathroom her makeup—mostly Chanel and La Prairie—spilled out of a Vera Bradley cosmetic bag on the marble countertop. Among the blush, lip gloss, and eye shadow was a package of birth control pills.
She’d left her red leather planner, closed and bristling with papers, in the middle of the desk in the sitting room. Next to it, bound in green cloth with gilt-edged pages, was a very old copy of The Poetical Works of Alexander Pope. I opened the cover and saw that she had inscribed the flyleaf to me.
For Little.
May you come to know these poems and treasure them as much as I do. Big
I brought the book over to the gold damask sofa and sat down to look at it. The second dedicatio
n—to her—was on the title page and had been crossed out, though I could still read what had been written.
For my darling Rebecca,
“Where’er you walk, cool gales shall fan the glade / Trees, where you sit, shall crowd into a shade: / Where’er you tread, the blushing flow’rs shall rise, / And all things flourish where you turn your eyes.”
With all my love, Connor
Underneath, Rebecca had written her own message:
Our passions are like convulsion fits, which, though they make us stronger for a time, leave us the weaker ever after.
Presumably the words were originally written by Alexander Pope—Connor’s declaration of love and Rebecca’s bitter recrimination. But there, in a nutshell, was their affair and the breakup. I closed the book feeling like I’d violated her privacy, though obviously she meant for me to see it if she were giving it to me as a present. I put it back on the desk as someone knocked on the door to the suite.
A woman about my age wearing a businesslike white oxford blouse and a slim-fitting navy skirt stood there, long tapered fingers playing with her cell phone. Heart-shaped face, delicate winged eyebrows, English rose complexion, light brown hair pulled up into a chignon, she wore almost no makeup except for lipstick in Madonna red.
When she saw me, she frowned. “Ms. Montgomery?”
She had to be hotel staff since no one else knew I was here. Maybe they needed a credit card on file, after all.
“Yes. You’re with the Willard?”
She looked taken aback. “Good Lord, no. I’m Olivia Tarrant. Sir Thomas Asher’s personal assistant.”
Tommy Asher seemed to surround himself with beautiful young women. Somehow I expected that his personal assistant would be a man—someone older who’d been with him for years. A private secretary or a faithful butler.
“What can I do for you?” I asked.
“I’m looking for Rebecca.”
“She had an errand in George—”
