by Anita Higman
“I have a surprise for you. I’ve saved the best for last.”
“It’s hard to envision anything more wonderful than what you’ve already shown me.”
Charlie stood facing her in front of two French doors, and then with his hands behind him he opened the doors, not wanting to miss a second of Franny’s reaction. He flipped some switches and the room came to life with all its usual dazzling beauty and elegance. Ever since he was a kid he’d thought the room looked magical with its black-andwhite marble floor and glass atrium ceiling. But even as an adult he still thought the room special. Not just because it held his music but because it was a safe haven, a sanctuary away from his father’s world.
“Oh, my, my, my.” Franny gasped at the sight. “Look at it all. It couldn’t be more perfect.” She strolled to the middle of the room, looking at the tropical plants and flowers and at the large Christmas tree in the center of it all. “This is by far the most beautiful room in the house.”
“I’m glad you think so. I do too.” Charlie took one of the pink roses from one of the many flower arrangements in the room, handed it to her, and bowed like a butler.
“Why, thank you, Charles.” Franny accepted the rose with a curtsy.
“Oh, please.” He grimaced. “That’s what Father calls me.”
“It does sound a little less endearing than Charlie. You know, I see some of the things in your father’s personality that you mentioned, but are you sure he’s truly an ogre?”
“Uh-oh. This could be a dangerous turn of events.” Charlie grinned.
“How so?”
“He’s getting to you.” His grin paled.
“What do you mean?”
“Let’s just say that my father and the word Machiavellian have a lot in common.”
“I believe everything you’ve told me.” Franny twirled the rose under her nose. “But I would like to think better of him.”
“So would I.” Charlie scrubbed his finger along his chin. “We can talk about happier topics, if you’d like.”
Franny sat down at the grand piano and ran her hands along the keys. “How long did you take lessons?”
“Until I was twelve.” Charlie sat down next to her on the piano bench. “But as an adult I’ve taken it up again. I just never bothered mentioning it to my father.”
“I’m sorry you can’t tell him about it…share it with him.”
Franny had such a wistfully sad look, he wanted to kiss it away, but instead he turned to the ivories and began to play “The Holly and the Ivy.”
Franny swayed to the music, and each time she came near him she brushed his arm. “People don’t play that tune much at Christmas. It has such a forlorn sound to it, but it’s comforting too. Kind of like a warm coat on a cold day.”
After a moment he stopped playing, but he left his hands on the keys.
Franny touched his hands. “Why did you stop playing?”
“Well, there is this distraction.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” Charlie smiled. “It’s such a lovely distraction.”
“You play with such emotion. I can tell that you love music like I do. But why did you stop taking lessons when you were twelve? Because of your father?”
“Yes.” Charlie heard the earnestness in her question, so he answered, “You heard what he said. Music is a pretty thing, but not a necessary thing. And so when he saw that my lessons were becoming too important to me, that there might be a chance I’d want to make it my life’s work, he stopped them. He discouraged me from playing and instead took me to work with him as often as he could. His enterprises were paramount in our family. Business fed us all, not music, he would remind me. Art was the dessert you enjoyed if you cleared your plate first. But my father always made sure I never cleared my plate.”
Franny rested her hands in her lap. “I’m so sorry. That’s not good. Not at all.”
“My father has just become an easy excuse, I think.”
“But why do you continue to work within your father’s parameters, then? I mean, if you succeed at farming, then your reward isn’t music, it’s more business…his business. Isn’t that what you told me once upon a time?”
Charlie looked at his hands. They had a slight tremor. “That craving for our parents’ approval is like a steel cable, even if what the cable holds is something that was never intended for us.” Charlie started playing again, only this time “What Child Is This?” was the tune. “Sometimes I wonder if my father hasn’t extinguished all the passion in me. Out at the farm I felt like such a pile of, well, wet ash might be an apt description.”
“I don’t see you that way at all.” Franny placed her hand on his arm.
Charlie’s pulse beat faster at her touch.
“I mean, if you didn’t feel obligated to prove yourself to your father and eventually help run his enterprises, what would you do? If you could choose anything at all. Music?”
Charlie didn’t even have to think about the question. “I’d run a small music store. Sell instruments and hire a couple of teachers to give lessons. Teach some myself. It would be pretty simple, but it would be wonderful. Wouldn’t it?”
“Yes. It would be wonderful.”
He covered her hand with his. “In fact, I need to ask you something. If I hadn’t begged you to come back, would you have stayed in the city and continued pursuing your dream? Have I interfered with your life like my father has meddled with mine?”
“No.” Franny paused for a moment. “But if you hadn’t asked me to come back, I would have stayed here in the city. I would have continued to be a waitress. And I would have kept trying to break into radio. But…well, let’s just say that I’ve been confused.”
Charlie removed her hand from his arm but held onto it. “It’s my fault, this bewilderment you feel.”
“Yes, it’s all your fault, Charlie.” Franny had the cutest glimmer in her eyes.
He grinned. “But something’s happened between us.”
“Yes. It’s like in a movie when the music builds, and…”
Charlie lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her palm. “Go on.”
“And you get swept away in this Never Never Land of the heart.”
“Yes, I’ve gotten quite swept away too.” She was so close to him then. So very close. Perfect timing. Charlie leaned down and kissed her. He’d never known that lips could fit so perfectly together—like moist petals clinging to each other. He’d kissed dozens of women over the years, too many women, and none of them were as inspiring as Franny.
When he finally released her from the kiss, instead of looking dreamy-eyed like most women, Franny tugged on his skinny tie and asked, “Why, Charlie Landau, didn’t you do that the day I left the farm?”
“Because I was a fool?”
“Correct answer. I suffered without that kiss.” Franny looked a bit exasperated but grinned anyway.
“Hey, I suffered too.” He tried to gain her sympathy with his most doleful expression.
“Well, maybe we could do with a little less suffering around here.”
Charlie leaned down to her lips again, so they could both be put out of their misery.
Then, like the annoying tinkling of a bell, Charlie heard his named yoo-hooed in the form of a familiar and nagging voice. “Charlieee?”
Franny broke off the kiss, and they both looked toward the door.
Charlie disengaged from his embrace and groaned inwardly when he saw his old girlfriend. “Sylvie? What a surprise. What are you doing here?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“Just watching,” Sylvie said with a wink.
Charlie tried not to frown, but his brows might have puckered a bit.
“Sorry.” Sylvie held up her hands in mock surrender. “I came in for the view and got lost in another one.” She meandered into the room in spite of Charlie’s lack of enthusiasm. “You two make a darling couple, by the way.” She took off her cat-eye glasses and gave him a good stare. Th
e kind of gaze you give someone when you think no one is looking. Yes, Sylvie was an odd egg all right—and a bit scrambled.
“Thank you.” Charlie rose and introduced the two women.
Franny was cordial.
Sylvie came off as cryptic as always.
After the two women shook hands, Sylvie turned to Charlie and mimicked a kiss in midair. He’d never liked that gesture. Too socialelitist for his taste. It had always been a token that promised warmth but left one cold.
Charlie tried to absorb the lingering pain in his leg and not limp in front of Sylvie. He was in no mood for her lectures. Or her coddling.
“It’s no secret that Charlie and I used to go out,” Sylvie said to Franny as she whirled about the room lighting the tips of her fingers on all the fineries, “but please don’t worry. I assure you I’m not a threat, Francine. I was never meant for the institution of marriage. I never was, nor shall I ever be.”
Charlie was beginning to think he must have been a pretty one-dimensional person to have ever been charmed by Sylvie. When had he seen the light? He already knew the answer before he’d even finished the thought.
Franny rose from the piano, smiling at Sylvie. “I wasn’t worried.”
“Glad that’s all clear.” Sylvie struck a few random piano keys, making a discordant sound. “Love is like this piano. It’s grand until it goes out of tune, which happens even to the finest instruments.” She gave Charlie a sad look as she smoothed the thing sitting on top of her head. He guessed it was called a wiglet, but to him the thing was as attractive as a dead squirrel.
“So, Sylvie, are you here for the dinner party?” Charlie’s greatest hope was that his old girlfriend would go find a different part of the house to haunt. He felt eager to get right back to what he was doing on the piano bench. Which had nothing to do with music.
“Yes. Your father invited me.” She let her mink stole drop off one shoulder as she pursed her lips. Sylvie was forever posing even though there were no cameras. “And as usual, I brought along Barkley Irons. You remember him, I’m sure.”
“Vaguely.” Wasn’t he the one with the big ears and small IQ? Or was he the one with the satin jackets and bow ties who thought he was Frank Sinatra? Charlie felt bad for his sudden nasty mood, but nothing ever went right when he was at home. He rubbed the back of his neck, hoping he wasn’t getting a headache. Yes, he was hoping for so many things, the least of which was a conversation with Sylvie—especially when he could see that the wolf had on sheep’s clothing tonight while Franny was looking too much like a lamb. “Where is old Barkley anyway?” And shouldn’t you be with him about now?
“Barkley? I think he found your father in his office and they’re arguing about a doomsday market crash or some such twaddle.” Sylvie pulled out a pack of cigarettes from her purse, lifted one from the container, and didn’t bother lighting it. “Barkley, dear old Barkley. Yes, he’s like my pet poodle…follows me everywhere. Imagine that.” She chortled. “Most of the Landau dinner parties are full of people who are as tiresome as a drippy faucet.”
“Sounds about right.” Charlie offered her a mollifying chuckle.
“Except for Charles here. He’s our exception.” Sylvie pointed at him with her cigarette.
Hmm. He was kind of curious how Sylvie had shown up out of the blue. What his dear Franny didn’t know was that Sylvie lived two houses down the street and there would have been just enough time for his father to add her to the dinner list. Perhaps his father welcomed Franny on the outside but was plotting against her on the inside. It would be typical of the way the Landau household worked.
“However, I just heard from your father that Francine is anything but tedious, so I’m looking forward to some lively conversation.”
“I hope I can live up to it,” Franny said. “So, what do you do, Sylvie?”
“Do? I don’t do anything. I guess I’m as boring as the rest of them. My father has a trust fund for me, and I live off that. Oh, and I dabble in writing. I have two publishers asking me to write something for them. They love my voice. In fact, I’ve been told…and I hesitate boasting about myself…but they say I’m a female Hemingway. Imagine that. It’s just…well, I can’t think of a subject worthy enough for my attention.”
Franny laid her rose on the table. “You must enjoy reading too.”
“Oh, I do. Fitzgerald takes my breath away.” Sylvie gave Franny her full attention. “Who’s your favorite?”
“Harper Lee,” Franny said.
Charlie smiled. He hadn’t discovered that fact about Franny, but he could have guessed it.
“Good choice. Lee’s a brilliant writer, and her Atticus Finch is one of the most memorable and heroic characters of all time.” Sylvie offered Franny one of the black cigarettes from her pack. “They’re Russian.”
“Sorry, I don’t smoke.”
“Oh, no need to apologize. I’ve been trying to quit ever since I developed a cough.” Sylvie slipped the cigarette pack back into her purse. “Why is it we always love what isn’t good for us?”
Charlie studied her, hoping she wasn’t about to open old boxes from the attic—ones they’d both put away long ago.
Sylvie caressed the shiny gold tip of her cigarette. “I don’t smoke them very often…I just like to keep them around to play with. One of my older physicians still assures me they’re good for my lungs. Imagine that. But then they used to promote bloodletting too. So what we think is good for us turns out to be bad and vice versa.” She gave her wrist a flip in the air. “C’est la vie.”
Franny started to speak, paused for a moment as if changing her mind, and then said, “You said you were looking for something to write about. Have you considered the civil rights movement?”
“No, I haven’t. Tell me more, Francine.”
“I believe…well, I hope there’s a tidal wave of change coming to this country.” Franny crossed her arms. “And I also believe that words can change the world. Think of it—you’d have a chance to be a part of the change.”
Sylvie stood silent for a moment, which Charlie was always happy to see, and then nodded. “What a fine idea, Francine.” She linked arms with Franny and began to lead her from the room. “I want to hear more, much more. Say, Cook has a pot of chocolate fondue bubbling in the kitchen, so why don’t we spoil our dinners while you tell me how I could change the world. Let’s…”
Charlie didn’t hear another word, since Sylvie had strolled out the door with Franny. The evening was deteriorating fast. He let out some steam and headed after them.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Later that evening, Franny stood in front of a full-length mirror, gazing at herself, turning this way and that, which was an activity she’d had little time for over the years. She’d never seen herself in a cocktail dress before. Hmm, not bad—black taffeta with a flared skirt, puffed sleeves, and a square neckline. The best part was, she didn’t look overly ridiculous in it. Was this what women were wearing to fancy dinner parties? She had no idea.
Franny did a little whirl in front of the mirror and then curtsied with her forefinger touching her chin. She let out a giggle. Funny sound, coming out of her mouth. She’d never been one for giggling, but the day was turning out like the show tune “Some Enchanted Evening.” It was a good thing she was alone, though, since her primping and gazing felt a little silly.
Franny slipped on black lace gloves as she glanced back at the bed, where she’d found the evening dress and accessories laid out for her. It had been an unexpected sight, especially since Mr. Landau had told her that she could choose any of the dresses in the closet. It mattered little to her, and yet it had been a curious thing to see. Charlie wouldn’t have chosen the outfit for her, she felt certain of that. But didn’t Mr. Landau have more important things to do than select a woman’s clothing for a dinner party?
Then she remembered Charlie’s warning about his father and his controlling ways. Perhaps there was much more to Mr. Landau, many more layers of his
personality yet to see. Maybe a maid had set out the clothes and her imagination was getting the better of her.
Franny sat down at the vanity table and smoothed her simple hairstyle, wishing it were in a bouffant, which looked more sophisticated and less matter-of-fact. She picked up a can of hairspray and used it liberally until she sputtered and coughed.
She picked up a bottle of perfume on the mirrored tray and took a whiff. The smell reminded her of the fragrance Sylvie was wearing. She gave the pump a squeeze, letting the spray mist her neck. Nice scent even on a farmer. Imagine that. Franny batted her eyelashes like she’d seen Sylvie do.
She fingered the bottle and then set it back down, wondering if Sylvie’s dressing table looked similar to this one. Charlie’s old girlfriend seemed accustomed to a luxurious lifestyle. Certainly her evening dress had been modish, a navy chiffon with an off-the-shoulder V-neckline. Striking, just like her personality.
Franny had to admit, Sylvie was attractive—the kind of woman men would want to take to the movies, but also the kind of woman who could be in the movies. And Sylvie was a mystery too. Her facial expressions and playful banter showed that she still cared for Charlie, but no matter how fascinating or trendy Sylvie came off, one thing was certain—she was not a good match for him. Let it go, Franny.
A tube of lipstick sat front and center on the vanity table as if it were for her particular use. Someone had thought of everything. She pulled off the gold cover and rolled up the stick of color, which turned out to be a rich ruby red. But wasn’t pink the latest? Hard to know, since she couldn’t afford fashion magazines.
Franny leaned toward the mirror and smeared the tint on her lips. Totally different effect with the black dress. She touched her mouth, recalling Charlie’s lips against her own. Perhaps before the evening was over, there would be time for making more of those good memories. Which were even better than chocolate fondue.
Franny glanced around the huge room that was probably bigger than her living room and kitchen combined. In spite of all the furnishings and elegantly decorated alcoves to explore, she headed to the closet, curious about what was inside. She expected to see a row of spectacular evening dresses. To her surprise the closet was empty except for one item. A porcelain clock sat on the wooden floor like an abandoned toy. A tiny painted violin adorned the top. It was so pretty and delicate. She wound it up, placed it next to her ear, and listened for the ticking sound. It still worked. She set the time and looked at it again, fingering the gilded instrument on top. In the midst of her wonderment, the tiny glass violin broke off into her hand.
