What the Heart Wants

by Cynthia Reese

  And Kyle hadn’t left a single solitary message.

  Oh, she’d heard through the grapevine that he called Gran every day, but never when she was around. And Allison’s phone had rung, all right. Right off the wall. Apparently Gran had called Greg Draper from the hospital and told him the sale was off.

  Apart from that, Gran wouldn’t even talk about the house.

  Still, Gran was doing better in body, if not in spirit, and responding to the antibiotics. This was the first night that Allison had dared spend the night at home in bed.

  Home. She looked around the bright, cheery kitchen with the Chambers stove that Kyle loved so much. Belle Paix wouldn’t be home for much longer.

  The old house was silent. The absence of sound smothered Allison. She’d gotten used to Gran’s thumping and banging, and now the place seemed even larger and emptier than it ever had.

  She wandered from room to room, finally ending up in the living room by the turntable. The 45s that Kyle had played were still on the machine. She picked up one in the stack that he hadn’t played, read the title. It was Frank Sinatra’s “High Hopes,” way too cheerful for her current mood. She flipped it over, saw that the B-side was “All My Tomorrows,” but she couldn’t remember how it went. She shrugged and put it on the turntable.

  Sinatra’s doleful voice about luck passing him by moved her to tears—but it was more than that. This person Frank Sinatra was singing about had stuck by him.

  No, what made her cry was the thought of Kyle giving up on her. And he had. Because she wasn’t a fighter.

  Okay. So she’d give him that. And she’d give him the fact that she didn’t always treasure “history” as he did.

  But he’d made history come alive for her. No, he’d made her come alive.

  And she’d called it leftovers.

  The record came to a halt. She considered replaying it. Changed her mind. No point in wallowing in self-pity.

  The stairs sparked another battle within her. She found herself loathing them for the near disaster they’d brought on Gran. But at the same time, Kyle’s words came to her.

  “How sick would you feel if you sold the house out from under your grandmother and then found that vase was worth more than enough to pay for the repairs?”

  It wasn’t. She knew in her heart that it couldn’t be that easy. Surely if it was as valuable as Gran thought it might be, the family would have sold it during one of the many times they’d needed money in the past.

  But it certainly couldn’t hurt to look.

  Besides, it might show Kyle that she had a little bit of fight left in her.

  Upstairs on the cluttered third floor, the jumble of possessions pressed in on her. These bits and pieces were all that was left from someone’s life, a person’s treasures—her family’s treasures. She found herself totally understanding how someone could turn into a hoarder. Letting these go—even the silliest oldest trinkets—would hurt, mainly because she didn’t know the stories that were attached to them.

  She’d never wanted to live in the past, because it was too painful. It was where her parents had died, where life as she knew it had suddenly been wrenched away from her. The future, now, that she could control. The future was safer, less likely to hurt her, if she just didn’t take too many gambles.

  Right. And that had worked out so well with Kyle.

  She headed for the shelves of books and porcelains. Davinia’s journals tempted her at first. Had Ambrose ever wanted to give up on his Davinia? Had they managed to make a real go of it, despite how different they were? Oh, yeah, they’d stayed married, but that’s what people did back then.

  The real question was had they been happy?

  Allison forced her eyes away from the journals and scanned the shelves. At first she saw nothing but one ugly little shepherd boy after another—someone had really been into shepherds.

  Then she spotted it. High up on the far shelf, dully gleaming despite a layer of dust, it was just as Kyle had described it: black with gold stripes arranged into overlapping triangles, looking straight out of the 1920s.

  Allison dragged a stool over to the shelf and clambered up to retrieve the vase. When she lifted it, she found it was at once lighter and heavier than she’d anticipated. The vase would have virtually no weight at all if it wasn’t for the heavy base. And the finish! Silky and mesmerizing, it was nothing like any porcelain or ceramic vase she’d ever seen or felt. She flipped it over to find a manufacturer’s mark. A piece of paper fluttered out and landed on the floor. She ignored it for the time being and squinted to read what was on the base.

  Inscribed into the bottom was a scrawled signature: Jean Dunand. And a date: 1928.

  Incredible.

  Gran had been right. It was made at the height of the Roaring Twenties, before the crash that had changed their family fortunes.

  Allison stepped off the stool, carefully holding the vase. The scrap of paper caught her eye and she stooped to pick it up.

  It was a receipt, a bill of sale from an art gallery in Paris, with a description in French of the vase in her hand, along with the astounding price paid for it.

  No wonder her great-grandmother had been furious. And no wonder the vase had been banished to the third floor. After the crash, there’d probably been no way to convert such a piece of art into cash for anywhere close to the amount her great-grandfather had paid for it.

  Allison’s heart began to race. Hope surged through her. What if Kyle had been right? What if this vase could help her grandmother keep Belle Paix?

  She fished out her cell phone from her back pocket and did an internet image search of Jean Dunand vases.

  An eBay listing of a squatter, uglier vase filled the tiny screen. She drew in a breath at the price: $25,000.

  Allison stared at the object in her hand. Would such a vase be worth that much? The finish was still shiny and lacquered, but the detail of the stripes in their triangle pattern had a spiderweb of light lines in the glaze.

  Her pragmatism fought back. A collectible was worth something only if someone else wanted it. And likely as not it might bring only a few hundred bucks.

  Allison returned to the internet images. A famous auction house listing popped up now—and when she saw the amount paid for it, her knees went weak. She collapsed onto the stool.

  Nearly a million dollars.

  For a vase?

  It might not even be the vase Gran had been talking about.

  But there was only one way to find out.

  * * *

  GRAN HELD THE vase in her hands in the dim light of the hospital room.

  “Well, now. That’s it. That’s the vase that nearly got my parents divorced.”

  “Gran! You never told me that. You said your parents lived to see their fiftieth wedding anniversary and then some.”

  “Ah, but they nearly didn’t. And it was all because of this.” Gran tapped the black vase. “Came from Paris, it did.”

  “I know. I found the bill of sale.”

  “Yep. Mama stuffed it in there when she took the thing upstairs, and told my father in no uncertain terms that she never wanted to see it again. I’d forgotten about it until I started thinking about what all was upstairs. All those stories, Allison... Every piece up there has a story to go with it, you know.”

  Allison rolled her eyes. “You sound like Kyle.”

  “I do. Because it’s the truth.”

  Her grandmother went back to staring at the vase, and Allison could tell she was a million miles away—no, eighty-five years away.

  “I don’t really remember it,” Gran said. “I was only, hmm, three or four at the most when the crash came. I only heard about it later. Whenever money would get tight, and it was always tight back then, my mother would bring that vase up. My father...my father wa
s never the same after the crash. He’d lost it all, you see, and hadn’t even seen it coming. He went to Paris for some business deal in the summer of ’29, and my mother had wanted to go.”

  “But she didn’t go with him?”

  “No...she hated to leave me. I’d been sick with—oh, I forget what, but some childhood disease, chickenpox maybe, or measles. And so she stayed.”

  “And your father bought the vase while he was there?”

  Gran chuckled. “He called it an investment. My mother called it expensive junk. She didn’t like it the minute she laid eyes on it.” Gran’s smile faded. “And then, of course, the fall came, and the crash, and all the fights about money. So one day she marched it up to the third floor and told him she didn’t want to see it ever again. My father didn’t argue. I guess he didn’t want to think about all the money he’d wasted on that vase, either.” Gran waved away the memory. “Do you think it’s worth anything?”

  Allison hedged. True, someone somewhere had thought a Jean Dunand vase was pretty valuable, but she didn’t want to get Gran’s hopes up.

  “Maybe, Gran. But I don’t have a clue about how to find out.” She leaned forward in her chair. “Besides, just because this vase might sell for enough to paint Belle Paix doesn’t mean it’s a good idea for you to keep living there.”

  Gran narrowed her eyes and clutched the vase all the more tightly. “Now why do you say that? I’ve told you. It was my stubbornness, not anything else, that caused that accident. Belle Paix was where I was born and where I want to die. Spending nearly three months away from it in that rehab facility convinced me of that.”

  “But, Gran...you should have someplace safe and new and easier for you to get around in,” she protested.

  “Allison...come here. Sit.” Gran patted the bed.

  She heaved a sigh and obeyed. Gran reached up and traced her cheek, and it instantly brought Allison back through the years to when Gran would tuck her in bed. She swallowed past the lump in her throat.

  “Gran...I know you love that old house,” she murmured, before her grandmother could speak. “But I’m just...not good at it. I’m not patient enough with it. I get frustrated too easily. I’m made for new houses that aren’t falling apart around me.”

  Gran squeezed her hand and nodded. “I thought it was more about you than me,” she said. “Do you remember when you went off to college?”

  Allison blinked, failing to find any connection between Belle Paix and college. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You came back at Christmas, remember? And swore you weren’t going back?”

  Allison pressed her fingers to her forehead and cringed at the memory of the fight she’d had with Gran. She’d made C’s on all her final exams and nearly died of mortification in the process.

  “I remember. But I went back.”

  “You weren’t going to. You told me then that you just weren’t cut out to be a nurse. And what did I tell you?”

  “That if it wasn’t hard, I wasn’t working at something worth having.”

  Gran beamed at her. “Now look at what a good nurse you are! And you almost weren’t, because you nearly gave up on yourself. Don’t do it again, Allison. Don’t give up on anything that you really, really want, just because it’s hard at first.”

  It wasn’t Belle Paix that filled Allison’s mind at those words.

  It was Kyle.

  What had he wanted?

  A fighter. Someone ready to fight.

  He hadn’t just meant for Belle Paix. He’d meant for each other.

  Allison put her fingers to her mouth. “Oh, Gran. I think it’s too late.”

  She pressed the vase into Allison’s hands. “Child, you take this vase and give it to Kyle. And tell him that you’re not ready to quit. Not on Belle Paix. Not on me. And not on the two of you. Because if you don’t, if you let him get away...why, who knows what tomorrows you’ll be giving up?”

  * * *

  KYLE BALLED UP yet another piece of paper and threw it in the trash can. It bounced off the metal rim and landed on the floor. The hour was late. He should give up and call it a night.

  He stared at the silent phone on his desk and willed it to ring.

  He would not call Allison. Not until he could offer a solution to help her save her grandmother’s house.

  The mound of crumpled paper balls attested to how far he was from that goal.

  He’d been working on a number of different ideas—a hardship exemption for people over sixty-five, a revolving loan fund that residents could pool their money in. As of yet, nothing had gelled enough to take to the board.

  But something would, eventually.

  If he couldn’t have Allison, then at least he could make sure that she didn’t lose Belle Paix to a man who’d gut its soul to make way for a soup of the day.

  Kyle picked up all the crumpled paper and put it the trash, then realized the can was overflowing with bad ideas. Blowing out a dispirited breath, he toted it to the kitchen.

  The memory of very nearly kissing Allison here came back to him. Had he really passed up that opportunity? He wished like mad that he hadn’t. He wished he had more memories of kissing her, holding her.

  Face it, buddy. You were smart to end it. She’s just like the others. You saw how that wound up every time. You and Allison would never make it, not without her realizing how important history is to you.

  Another voice whispered back, And not without you being able to give in a little. She was right. You could have argued for that hardship waiver. Isn’t that what you’re doing now?

  It was. Because it just hurt too much to have her gone.

  The doorbell rang, a timid half ring that made him think it was probably the Turner boys down the street up to their double-dog-dares again. An irritated glance at the clock told him it was almost 10:30 p.m.—they’d sneaked out their bedroom window yet again.

  He crossed through the dining room and into the hall and flung open the door. “Boys! You should—”

  It wasn’t the Turner boys.

  In the pool of illumination from the front stoop’s light, Allison sat on the bench by the front door, a black lacquered vase in her arms. She stared up at him. “I know it’s late,” she began. “But is it too late?”

  Kyle’s throat went dry as the Sahara. He had so much he’d wanted to say to her, and now he couldn’t utter a single syllable.

  “I mean...” Allison stood up and scooted backward. “If it’s too late—”

  “No,” he rasped. “No. It’s never too late for you. Why don’t you...er, why don’t you come in?”

  He watched as she walked from the front door to the dining room to the butler’s pantry. It was only when she stopped at the green baize and asked, “Aren’t you coming?” that he was convinced she wasn’t an apparition of wishful thinking.

  In the kitchen, she carefully set the vase on the worktable. “It’s a Jean Dunand,” she said simply.

  Kyle didn’t care. More precious to him than any old vase was having Allison here, in his kitchen, when he’d wanted her so.

  When he’d believed she would never darken his door again.

  “Kyle...”

  “I’m sorry,” he blurted out. “I’m so sorry, Allison. I get it. I’m trying to draft a proposal so that your grandmother can have more time to paint the house—or that we can create a loan fund. I think that’s got a shot, actually. That maybe the downtown business owners would chip in, as well. It wouldn’t be cheap interest, but it would be—”

  Allison came around the worktable and took his hands in hers. “Kyle. You didn’t hear me. The vase. It’s a Jean Dunand.”

  Now her words sunk into his brain. “What?” He stared first at her, then at the vase, then back at her.

  “A 1928 Jean Dunand, with the original
sales bill,” she said. She pulled a slip of paper from her pocket.

  “You didn’t crease it, did you? Because even that bill of sale might be valuable if it’s actually signed by him...”

  Allison laughed. It was a beautiful sound that filled the room with music, and Kyle realized it was just that sound that his perfect house had been missing.

  “I did, actually. Will you forgive me?”

  Kyle breathed out a long exhalation. “Oh, Allison, will you forgive me?”

  “Done. So done.” Her throat moved as she swallowed. She ran the tip of her tongue over her lips. “Kyle, I...this vase...it might be worth fifty cents or fifty thousand dollars or even a million bucks. I don’t know. But I’m ready.”

  “Ready?” His heart seized in his chest. Ready for what? To move? To leave? To sell Belle Paix?

  “To fight. For...” Allison dropped her gaze. “For Belle Paix. And...and us, if you think there’s still a chance. I can’t...I can’t promise that I will always get how important history is to you. I can’t promise that I won’t secretly long for drywall and modern plumbing and a house that isn’t falling apart around us. But...I can’t see my tomorrows without you. Or without Belle Paix.”

  She dug into her pocket again, pulled out five little pieces of cardboard and dropped them into his hand. Hunter green and pale butter yellow, autumn gold, a deep burgundy and a black as dark as the Jean Dunand vase on the table beside them.

  “Paint swatches?” He squinted at her, bewildered.

  “Maybe this vase will sell for enough. Maybe it will take everything on that third floor. Maybe it will even mean I have to sell my car and walk to work. But whatever it takes, you’re right. The old girl deserves new clothes. And I...I want to do it right.”

  With a hand that trembled, he set the paint swatches beside the vase.

  “You. You are more important than things. Or paint. Or even history. History is about yesterday, and I know what yesterday was like, Allison, because you weren’t in it. And...” He stroked a finger along her cheek, marveling that she was back, marveling that she was saying all the words he’d longed to hear. “I can’t face tomorrow or the day after that—or the day after that without you in it.”