by Lynn Steward
“But you always put yourself back together,” Johnny said, “and you don’t need all the king’s horses and all the king’s men to do it.”
“Just between you and me, I have a friend in London who gives me some spiritual Band Aids from time to time.”
“You’ve lost me.”
“Just a priest I met when I was in Europe at the beginning of April. We’ve kept in touch, and he’s given me some advice that’s helped keep me together lately.”
Johnny nodded. “I think we all need somebody like that.” He turned and looked into Dana’s eyes. “You called it off with Mark because of Marsha, didn’t you?”
Dana swallowed hard. “Yes, I did. Once he moved home, regardless of the reason, which was indeed to help Amanda, I couldn’t deny that he was still a married man. Adjusting to this single life is difficult enough, but there are some boundaries I’m not crossing.”
Johnny faced forward again. “You know,” he said, “I think people get what they deserve in life.”
“What are you getting at?” Dana asked puzzled.
“In spite of the heartache you knew would come, you made for a principled decision, and you did the right thing for you, Mark, and Amanda. You deserve the very best, and one day you’ll get just that: the best.”
Dana showed the hint of a smile. “I hope so, but I’m not interested in meeting anyone right now. Mark will be a hard act to follow. I’m just going to enjoy work and take care of myself.”
“Nothing wrong with that,” Johnny said.
“If I get really stressed, of course, I might start singing Cole Porter songs in an English pub.”
“Huh?”
Dana waved off the reference and took a sip of her wine.
“Advice from the priest?” Johnny said.
“In a manner of speaking.”
• • •
The dinner was delicious as always and seemed to go on forever. The Martignettis and Cirones were in good spirits, and Dana realized just how much enjoyment, not to mention comfort, she derived from family get-togethers.
When it was time to leave, Phil hugged his daughter and gave her a kiss on the cheek.
“You haven’t had much to say in the past several weeks,” Dana commented.
“Because I trust your judgment,” he said.
“That seems to be the theme of the afternoon,” Dana said, “but there are times when not everybody believes in me.”
“But I always have,” Phil said with a wink. “And always will.”
And Dana knew what her father said was right. She did indeed get drive from her mother, but her father’s lifelong trust in his daughter’s decisions had given her something equally important: confidence. It was because of Phil Martignetti that Dana always found the kind of inner balance—and moral compass—that Father Macaulay wrote of frequently.
She had two great parents.
Back at Sniffen Court, Dana took Wills for a late-evening walk and then looked at her book on portrait miniatures. She could hardly wait until the following Saturday, when Abby would deliver her lecture on Goya’s miniatures. She picked up the phone and called the number that Abby had given her, but she reached Abby’s answering machine. She left the time that Abby should arrive at the Colony Club so that she could set up her slides and then hung up.
Later that evening, Dana was about to go to bed when she reread Father Macaulay’s last letter. She was struck by one line in particular: Once we have let things go and put them in God’s hands, our job is to move forward …
That’s exactly what Dana was doing: making healthy choices and getting on with her life. If there was another way to live wisely, she didn’t know what it might be.
Chapter Fifty-Three
Under a tight deadline for holiday selling in The British Shop, Dana worked with Irwin for much of the next week planning production for the new line of clothing. As before, Dana, Irwin, and Steve put their own mark on existing designs and new patterns, and Dana had never felt more energized in her whole career since she was helping to launch, not just new merchandise, but an exclusive label for B. Altman. At the store, she passed Helen several times each day, but the junior buyer uttered not a single word to Dana. She suspected that Helen’s chilly demeanor would change over the weeks and months ahead, but if not, Dana had more than proved herself to the store’s management.
Dana called Abby’s number several more times during the week to make sure that she’d received her initial message, but Dana always got the answering machine. Dana had also wanted to ask Abby to lunch just to chat and to see if she needed any help for the coming weekend. Perhaps Abby was busy preparing for her trip to Florence, but why hadn’t she bothered to return Dana’s call? It was likely, Dana thought, that Abby was spending time with her family in Bernardsville. Whatever the case, the lecture promised to be a fascinating look at a period of Goya’s career that not everyone was acquainted with. Dana was sure that Abby’s passion for miniatures would resonate with the members.
• • •
Dana arrived at the Colony Club on Park Avenue early in order to help Abby set up. In the last message she’d left on the answering machine, Dana had asked Abby to be at the club by eleven o’clock so that she could not only make any last minute preparations but also meet some of its members. Abby, however, was nowhere to be seen. The lecture was scheduled for after the luncheon, which was to be held at one o’clock, and Dana reasoned that Abby was merely running late or caught in traffic. Still, Dana was nervous since the seat of honor for the guest lecturer—someone whom Dana had recommended—remained empty as the luncheon began.
“I hope nothing’s happened to Abby,” Dana remarked to those seated at her table.
“When was the last time you spoke with her?” asked Grace Stanford, a member seated next to Dana.
“Over a week ago,” Dana said. “We met at the Goya exhibit at The Frick. I had just heard that Carla Bertolli couldn’t speak today, and when I learned that Abby had prepared a lecture on Goya miniatures for The Frick, I asked her if she would mind helping us out at the last minute.”
“I was looking forward to seeing Abby today, too,” Grace whispered to Dana. “I went to Sarah Lawrence with her, and we were together for a year in Florence. The better I knew her, however, the more aloof she became. She was unpredictable and extremely undependable.”
“That’s clearly the case today,” Dana said with a sigh. “I’m so disappointed and embarrassed. She had such an impressive resume, so I naturally didn’t anticipate that something like this would ever happen. We first met at a lecture in London and had a lovely lunch afterward. I do know what you mean, however. She suddenly became aloof and distant as we were saying goodbye, but I’m still concerned, Grace. I’ll let you know if I hear from her. “
Dana went to the podium in the corner of the room, apologized for Abby’s absence, and said that she looked forward to seeing the ladies at the private Goya showing the following Thursday.
Dana went home and called Abby’s number yet again. She didn’t anticipate anyone answering, but it was the most logical thing to do.
“Abby,” Dana said after the answering machine beeped, “this is Dana. I’m very worried since you didn’t show up at the Colony Club and haven’t returned any of my calls this week.”
Grace had said that Abby was unpredictable. Dana began to wonder if Abby was ever going to return her calls.
• • •
The mystery was solved the following Wednesday. Dana had just returned to her desk after lunch when she received a call from Joseph Cunningham, the manager of the Colony Club, informing her that a letter had been hand delivered for her and that he would keep it in his office.
“Is there a return address?” Dana asked.
“I’m afraid not, Mrs. McGarry,” the manager replied. “Just your name on the envelope.”
“Thank you, Mr. Cunningham,” Dana said. “I’ll pick it up before five today.”
Dana had an appointment at Pringl
e of Scotland on Seventh Avenue at three o’clock and decided that she would go to the club immediately afterwards as the suspense was more than she could tolerate. Did the letter have something to do with Abby’s failure to deliver the lecture?
Mr. Cunningham was speaking with the doorman at the entrance to the Colony Club when Dana arrived, and together they went to his office on the fifth floor. He handed her the white linen envelope, and Dana, after thanking him, went to the drawing room on the second floor. Relieved to find it empty, she poured a cup of tea and sat in one of the wing chairs, staring at her name in distinct script before finally opening the letter.
Neatly inscribed, the letter read:
Dear Ms. McGarry,
I would like to introduce myself. My name is Peter Sitwell, the husband of Abby Kempf.
Sadly, Abby died in an automobile accident ten days ago while visiting her family in Bernardsville. I was at our home in London when I learned the devastating news and went straightaway to Bernardsville for the funeral. I returned to our New York apartment yesterday, which is when I retrieved your messages.
On behalf of Abby, I apologize for your embarrassment on the day of the lecture. I am sure that you went from being distraught with concern to feeling confused and perhaps even angry. Rightly so, but now you understand.
I don’t know of your connection to Abby other than your shared fondness for portrait miniatures, and under the circumstances, I would like to give you Abby’s collection. The three fine pieces were wedding gifts from my mother. I know that Abby would want you to have them.
I am returning to London this afternoon, and I’m not sure when I will again be in New York. However, the miniatures are in England, either at my mother’s home in Wiltshire or somewhere safe in London. Forgive me if I’m in a bit of fog about all this, but people will help me sort it out when I’m back home. In the meantime, please consider accepting the miniatures as a fond remembrance of Abby. You may write me of your decision or telephone at 9a Hays Mews, London, W1J 5PY, telephone 020-7298-3321
Yours sincerely,
Peter Sitwell
Dana read the letter twice more, each time finding it harder to hide her tears. Not wanting to cry in the drawing room, she put the letter back in the envelope and left the club. It was five o’clock, and she was oblivious to the crowded sidewalks, with pedestrians pushing one another and rushing to make trains and buses. In a daze, she slowly made her way down Park Avenue to her neighborhood church at Park and Thirty-seventh Street, where she stopped in to light a candle and pray for Abby and her husband. More than anything at that moment, she needed to get home and write to Father Macaulay.
• • •
Dana sat at her secretary and began a letter to Father Macaulay, expressing her sympathy on the loss of his mother and that he would remain in her thoughts and prayers. She then shared everything about her decision to terminate her relationship with Mark, as well as the details related to the approval of the boutique by Bob. She ended the letter with a long description of Abby Kempf’s tragic death and the totally unexpected letter from Peter Sitwell and his offer of Abby’s miniatures. Father, she wrote, I can tell that Mr. Sitwell is sincere in his wish for me to have the miniatures, and I will accept them. I don’t know when that will be as Mr. Sitwell doesn’t know when he will return to New York, but that doesn’t matter. I will write him a letter to express my sympathy and to accept his kind offer. I must tell you, however, that I feel that you and I have a connection to Mr. Sitwell aside from the fact that we are each suffering a loss. He’s a neighbor of yours at 9a Hays Mews, a home on my path to Farm Street Church. I don’t think he’s one of your parishioners, but you would probably recognize him from the neighborhood. I hope that, in time, the three of us will meet. By then, we all may be ready to enjoy a Cole Porter tune.
Dana placed the letter in an envelope and sealed it. For the rest of the evening, she tried to read, but she couldn’t stop thinking about Abby’s sudden death, the first of someone so close to Dana’s age. It was impossible in this melancholy mood not to remember her last evening with Mark and his words emphasizing that they had to learn to live each day to the fullest. In the brief encounters she had with Abby, Dana realized that Abby did just that. Although married, she clearly had the freedom to travel around the world as an independent woman, pursuing her love of art and the joy of lecturing. And yet, while Dana wanted to believe that Abby had lived a happy life, her erratic behavior and mood swings were indications of something more troubling. Perhaps she would indeed meet with Mr. Sitwell at some point in the future and learn more about Abby, putting her mind at ease. Until then, she would have to be content to continue living with the mystery of Abby Kempf.
Chapter Fifty-Four
Dana received a letter from Father Macaulay the following week. She hadn’t expected a reply yet since the priest was surely grieving for his deceased mother, but she found a letter in her afternoon mail the following Thursday when she returned home from work.
Dear Dana,
Thank you for your last letter and your condolences. While it is still strange, indeed almost beyond belief, to realize that my mother is no longer with me, life goes on. I sometimes find myself stopping in the course of a day, reflecting on her death but feeling that it must have been a bad dream. Only a few weeks ago I could call her on the phone and chat about the weather. I then recall my vocation and remember that we are all on a journey that extends far beyond the life we live here on earth.
I am sorry that your relationship with Mark ended so abruptly, but I believe that you have chosen the correct path. If you were not true to yourself and your core beliefs, you would not have been happy for long. As difficult as it was, you parted with feelings and respect for one another, and if your paths cross again, that’s a nice place to begin. There is, of course, your very exciting news about the boutique. You have what we English call an indomitable spirit. You worked very hard to make the shop at B. Altman a reality, and I’m sure it will keep you quite busy, which is the best thing perhaps in the face of loss.
I am not familiar with Mr. Sitwell, but you are quite correct. His flat is a stone’s throw from Farm Street Church and I’m sure we’ve passed each other many times in Mount Street Gardens and Berkeley Square. I will keep alert should I hear or see the name anywhere since the area is not so big that people can go unnoticed for very long. But Abby’s death is a tragedy, another loss at a time when loss has been too much a part of your life.
I will leave you for now with two brief lines from one of the psalms, lines that I find comforting in the wake of my mother’s passing. They say that “With the evening there comes weeping, but with the dawn there is rejoicing.” I believe that is very true, for regardless of the harsh realities that life sometimes forces us to endure, there is always another chance, another day, another opportunity to find happiness. I am convinced that no mystery or loss can deprive us of that joy. In fact, it is sometimes through our very losses that we discover a new path to our destiny.
Be well!
Sincerely,
Father Charles Macaulay
Dana folded the letter and put it with the others she’d received from Father Macaulay over the weeks. They were treasures that she would always keep, and she had no doubt that she would return to them when necessary and read them in order to absorb their simple wisdom.
With the lengthening days of summer, Dana went for what was becoming her daily jog in Central Park. She was enjoying the workout when she suddenly crossed the bridle path where she and Mark had walked after her lesson at Claremont. She was unexpectedly overwhelmed with sadness and cut short her jog to return home. Her heart was still healing, and for the first time in several days, she experienced a renewed sense of loss that caused her to briefly shed tears for a relationship that had been so promising despite its brevity. Yes, in the evening, there were still tears to be shed, as Father Macaulay had sagely pointed out.
She woke the next morning to the ringing of the telephone
. It was seven o’clock, and Dana usually didn’t get such early calls.
“You’ve got to get here right away!” Andrew said excitedly.
“What’s going on?” Dana asked, not fully awake.
“Mark’s team has just finished putting the name on the boutique. Your boutique! They were here during the night to finish the installation before the store opens. I thought you should be here when we start setting up the display cases. It’s a winner, kiddo!”
“Thank you, Andrew!” Dana said. “I’m on my way.”
Dana quickly showered and dressed, walked Wills, and left for B. Altman without having breakfast. Thirty minutes later, she was striding across the main selling floor, headed for the boutique.
“Dana!” called Helen. “Do you have a moment?”
“Gee, Helen, can it wait until I get upstairs? I was told that—”
“It will only take a minute,” Helen said, taking Dana by the arm, pulling her to the side, and handing her a book of tartan silk swatches. “I found these in the market yesterday—my favorites are marked—and I thought they’d make gorgeous holiday shirts for The British Shop. I included the name of a vendor you might want to call.” Helen patted Dana on the shoulder and turned away quickly. “Keep the swatches,” she said. “I’m late for a meeting.”
Dana laughed as she tucked the book under her arm and rode up the escalator. There it was, just as Andrew had described it. Above the entrance to the boutique, which had been constructed with brown, rustic, wooden shingles on its exterior, was the name that Dana had carried with her for so long: The British Shop. The letters, written in gold, were stylized and looked exactly like signs she’d seen on Regent Street shops in London.
