Hearts That Survive

by Yvonne Lehman

  She didn't intend to file for divorce and be put into a position to answer why.

  So, what was he going to do? was far from a trite question.

  He called four days later and said he would be home for dinner at seven o'clock. Please inform the cook to prepare his favorite meal. Please have Beau spend the night with a friend.

  Could he not even bear to look at Beau?

  Lydia tried to prepare herself for the inevitable, but she had no idea what it would be. She took a long, relaxing bubble bath; washed her hair and let the curls do as they pleased styling her hair the way he liked it; and wore a blue—his favorite color—cocktail dress he'd picked out for her at a fashion show. If he'd taken a mistress, he could see what he would be losing.

  When he came home around six, he went straight upstairs, not even looking toward the library, where she sat with a book on her lap.

  Was he packing?

  Thirty minutes later, he came down the stairs and headed toward the kitchen. She went out the French side doors and walked around looking at, but not really seeing, the blooms in the flowerbeds.

  What was he doing in the kitchen? Maybe he was putting poison in the food and would declare he wasn't hungry.

  She walked along the path to the back of the house. How anyone knew where she was, she didn't know, but the cook came to the door and said dinner was ready.

  For the end to an eighteen-year journey they would dine in the formal dining room.

  Normally, she would not sit at the far end. Tonight she opted for that. Why not do it the way it was done in the movies Beau watched? Neither of them spoke, but he pulled out the chair for her. She sat, and he strolled to the opposite end of the long table.

  The cook brought coffee.

  Coffee?

  Wine was a staple at dinner, whether or not anyone wanted it. He would have requested coffee.

  Tonight wasn't even worth a glass of wine?

  Might they not toast the demise of their marriage?

  Perhaps the poison was in her coffee.

  That's what she was thinking when the cook said, "Ma'am," and set her plate in front of her.

  Perfect. Delectable. He could eat? Well, she could eat.

  The longer they sat there, eating as if nothing was wrong, the more heated she became and partly because he looked so cool.

  What did he think? Go away for four days and come home as though nothing had happened?

  Then it occurred to her. He might have manipulated things and placed everything in his name and would leave her with nothing. He knew how to get things done.

  She would not live in silence, pretending. This could have been talked over days ago.

  She looked over at him, distinguished, calm, as if all were well with the world.

  She made sure her voice sounded bland. "What are you . . . we . . . going to do?"

  Without a moment's hesitation he said, "What husbands and wives do."

  He was cutting his meat with a sharp knife. Was he thinking of her throat?

  She wondered what that meant.

  Perhaps just live together, go through the motions. She knew many who did, in spite of affairs, family problems, incompatibility.

  Did he for a moment think they'd live in the same house but not share the same bedroom? Go through the motions of marriage, pretend for the world?

  If so, he could think again.

  Champagne was brought in and poured into flutes, reminding her of Long Island and the night he proposed and gave her the engagement ring. So they would toast to the farewell, as they had toasted to their beginning.

  He lifted his glass.

  She did not, but said, "No dessert?"

  Expressionless, his long-lashed, steely gray eyes bore into hers.

  Oh.

  She drank her champagne.

  67

  All the way upstairs, she told herself she would endure whatever. She deserved some kind of punishment for taking away his pride, his son. But he'd punish her with his own body? How could any man use his body as a weapon?

  But if that was his intention, she would endure it.

  He removed her clothing, one piece at a time, slowly, not even touching her skin. What kind of preliminary to punishment was this? To humiliate her? Her body did not humiliate her. And he was well aware of how she looked.

  He led her to the bed, and she lay as if out by the pool, lazing on a summer's day. Forced herself to think. She would endure.

  She was a survivor.

  Even if it were some brutal attack, she would live through it. He was not a stranger. He was her husband of eighteen years.

  She closed her eyes and heard the music in the background. They'd had champagne. They must have music. Wasn't that the way to celebrate any event, beginnings and endings?

  So, he would not apply for divorce but give her a reason to do so.

  Force.

  And what court would ever believe that a husband of eighteen years had forced his wife? Even servants could testify they'd had a lovely dinner together with champagne and music.

  And she could never live with a man who forced her.

  Was this just his way of saying a final farewell?

  Yes, she would endure.

  And she would survive.

  And she would divorce him.

  First thing in the morning she would contact an attorney. Not his. Not theirs. She would find her own. In the meantime . . .

  She . . . endured.

  The following morning she felt him slip out of bed. She waited, still, until a light tap sounded on the door. She drew in a breath but didn't answer.

  "Ma'am," Myrna said tentatively, and she turned in bed, expelling a breath of relief. She did not want to face Craven.

  "Sorry if I woke you."

  "No, no. That's fine." It really was. She propped herself up in bed.

  "Mr. Dowd had to leave early. He said you might like juice and coffee before you came down for breakfast."

  Yes, she did.

  What was he up to? Seeing the attorney already? Having had his goodbye celebration with a satisfying of his culinary and physical appetites, he would leave her with her thoughts.

  Her thoughts were jumbled. She reached for the glass and drank. The fresh orange juice felt good and cool and refreshing in her mouth and sliding down her throat. She leaned back and closed her eyes, savoring the feeling.

  She might have even slept longer were it not for having to make such vital decisions.

  Sipping the coffee, she thought of what he'd done and not done.

  She had no grounds for divorce. He had not forced her. He had no intention of getting a divorce. Why should he? He had his young wife and he had the Beaumont fortune. So what if he didn't have a son? He had never really liked him very well anyway.

  And she?

  Why put herself through such a thing? Or Beau? Dear Beau. Yes, Craven knew that too. If Beau were to ask Craven why they were divorcing, Craven only had to say, "Ask your mother. I don't want a divorce."

  And what could she say? We're getting a divorce because he didn't force me?

  If there were to be a villain in this, it would be she.

  She showered away the remains of last evening. Craven's scent. The perfume she wore. Even, as she washed her hair, the feel of fingers in her tangled curls.

  Mid-morning had come by the time she dressed in slacks and a short-sleeved top and went down for breakfast. Her eyes moved to the telephone. While possibilities and questions continued to muddle her mind, the telephone rang.

  The maid answered and brought it to the table.

  What now?

  Lydia sounded a tentative, "Hello."

  "Caroline?" Oh, there was no voice she'd rather hear at this time. She had a friend who would listen, advise, just be there for her and not condemn.

  Before she could say anything, however, Caroline said, "I've so looked forward to this. Craven said I could break the news. He said you'd never believe it if he told you." She laughed deli
ghtedly.

  "I have no idea what you're talking about."

  "Well, you know Craven came to visit with Armand. And you'll never guess what your husband bought for you."

  No, she couldn't. Maybe a house so she would move to Nova Scotia and he would keep the Upper East Side one?

  "Prepare yourself."

  She'd heard that before.

  "A yacht."

  "A what?"

  "Yes. A yacht."

  As Caroline talked, Lydia realized Craven had taken the private plane and flown to Halifax. He'd spent time with Armand. "Even becoming quite a fisherman," Caroline said.

  "When did he leave there?"

  "After lunch yesterday. Now you'll have to come and spend time with us."

  "Yes, yes, we will."

  Reality was pressing hard on her mind, but it wasn't easy to grasp.

  Was he planning to drown her?

  She had taken away Craven's heir. She had lied to him from the beginning.

  He had reciprocated by buying her a yacht.

  Of course.

  He had proof there was no affair. No mistress. Armand and Caroline could witness to that.

  Even when she was enduring, they simply did what husbands and wives do.

  And afterward, like he'd done on their wedding night, he'd held her gently while she softly cried.

  There would be no divorce. Craven didn't want one. It would be much too messy for her and would affect her dear son. She couldn't have that.

  Beau was home for dinner that night. Craven sat at the end. Lydia and Beau sat opposite each other, next to him.

  A very nice evening. Just a family night. In her lovely home. Amid her lovely life.

  She could endure this.

  And later Craven said, "Have you nothing to say about the yacht?"

  "No."

  His nostrils flared ever so slightly.

  She gave a little shrug. "I don't know what to say. I haven't seen it yet."

  As if a grin were inclined to show itself, a minute tug appeared at the corner of his mouth.

  68

  Craven remained quiet while three families quarreled about what to name the yacht, since Lydia didn't want it named for her. The frustrated crowd gave up.

  Craven said, "Bravo!"

  While Lydia looked at everything but him, they all agreed he was so thoughtful to think of Caroline and Armand's departed beagle, who had given many hours of joy, particularly to the children.

  No surprise to her. Craven had a way of doing everything well.

  They christened the yacht, a perfect size for a few intimate friends, and sailed farther out on the water than they'd gone in Armand's dory.

  Craven, Armand, and Willard competed fiercely for fish on one side of the boat while the teenagers, Beau, David, and Joy, rejoiced and cooperated on the other. Lydia, Caroline, and Bess lolled in their shorts, rolled their eyes, and discussed their banes and blessings.

  They returned to New York for Beau's graduation and the celebration after. Before the guests arrived, Craven invited them into the library. Lydia and Beau sat across from Craven.

  He began with what sounded like another lecture on responsibility. "You'll soon be eighteen and off to college. Do you have any idea what you want to do with your life?"

  Lydia closed her eyes, wanting to object. They opened wide when Beau said, "Make movies."

  "All right. You have my blessing and support for what this entails."

  She heard Beau's intake of breath.

  "We'll search this out together."

  Beau was on the edge of the seat. Craven held up his hand. "This does not mean I'm buying you some company so you can play around. I can put you into this. And I can take you out."

  Beau would believe that.

  "Remember who you are. You have a name and reputation," Craven said. "You will not be allowed to dishonor that."

  "I won't, sir."

  That was a big order for a seventeen-year-old. And yet, glancing at him and seeing the jubilation on his face, Lydia remembered that anyone that young believed he could conquer the world.

  Beau was overwhelmed. "Dad. This is unbelievable."

  "Believe it. All of it."

  Beau went over to Craven. His voice shaky, he said, "You sure know how to surprise a fellow."

  "Runs in the family."

  Lydia knew what Craven meant. But she smiled. Her son was embracing Craven, saying, "Thank you. Thank you."

  Craven patted Beau's back. "You're welcome."

  Even if Craven was giving him up, her son would have what he wanted.

  Beau stepped back, his eyes tearful. "But I will work in the office this summer."

  "I know you will," Craven replied.

  Yes, that would be right and good. Craven couldn't exactly disown a boy who would someday own Beaumont Enterprises, and be Craven's boss, even if only on paper.

  They were a family. Beau had what he had always wanted from Craven, his blessing and support. Beau need never know about that past life.

  The secret was safe.

  Beau began discovering the world and its possibilities. When he came home from film school, and then his apprenticeship with a Hollywood production company who acknowledged his innovative ideas, the three of them had wonderful conversations.

  Now that Craven didn't have to accept Beau, they got along fine. Beau began making a name for himself. He planned a documentary about the Titanic.

  Now that Beau was an adult, Lydia and Craven had no reason to withhold information about the Titanic tragedy from him. "I wonder if the public has lost interest by now," Craven said. "There have been other tragedies, wars, and the stock market crash."

  However, she and Craven gave him every opportunity and the means to form his own company. While gathering material for his documentary, he made a couple of movies that gained recognition, but he said acceptance in Hollywood did not come easy. The documentary, primarily about the making of the ship and the mechanical reasons it sank, was a surprising success.

  Beau and his colleagues tested the public's continued interest by making another documentary, featuring survivors. He had ready-made material in her, Craven, Caroline, and Bess.

  They said nothing to imply Lydia had married on the ship. Anyway, Beau was seeking material about the sinking and how they survived, not who might have walked down a staircase in a wedding dress.

  Phoebe was not mentioned. The documentary featured mainly older people who had survived, including third-class passengers telling the horror of even women and children being trapped below. By the time some arrived topside, all the lifeboats, not even filled, were gone. He featured the terror, the horror, the injustice, the carelessness, the class distinctions as if he were not upper class, and Lydia was proud.

  The documentary's great success shocked even Beau, the dreamer-producer. He'd tested the waters, and now he had greater plans. He wanted to make a major motion picture but knew that could take years. There were sets to build, actors to acquire, and other movies to keep his company financially secure without his parents' handout.

  Somewhere along the line he found time to fall in love with an aspiring actress named Angelina who had trained in fashion design and worked in the costume department. Lydia had heard the remark that no girl was good enough for a mother's son. Whoever said it was right.

  There wasn't anything particularly wrong with her. Everything seemed to be in the right places, and she was pretty. More than pretty, to be honest. But they couldn't very well talk about design because Lydia's home was furnished with the best and the latest and it had come from many places in the world.

  The girl had traveled some with Beau's company, but she would have been on the set and not out touring the great palaces and learning about period furniture and such.

  Beau shortened Angelina's name to Angel, which irritated Lydia to no end. "That sounds a little too heavenly for a common girl," she said to Craven.

  But they had a lovely church wedding in California, f
ollowed by a reception, sponsored by the groom's parents, at the surprisingly acceptable place Angelina's parents had in Malibu. Craven had sent the private plane for the Bettencourts and the Oaks. David was a groomsman.

  Craven had stood as best man for John.

  He stood as best man for John's son.

  She remembered he'd said for her, he was the better man.

  Caroline said the unpardonable, "One of these days we'll be grandparents."

  Lydia gasped. "I will never be anything that sounds like a . . ." she cleared her throat, "granny." They laughed. "Nor a baby sitter."

  Caroline just smiled and said, "I've heard that before," as if this were a matter of a woman's prerogative to change her mind.

  After the couple left for their honeymoon on the islands of Hawaii, David had his own announcement. His dad had taught him to catch fish. God would teach him to be a fisher of men.

  In a private conversation Caroline told Lydia that David and Joy were together constantly when David came home from the university, and Joy had a break from her nursing studies. She believed they would marry.

  "Are you pleased?" Lydia asked.

  Caroline smiled. "That's what Bess asked me and I told her extremely so."

  Bess had become a welcome part of their lives, and Lydia understood Caroline's reasoning even better as she explained.

  "In addition to their being in love, Joy comes from a mom who knows how the upper class lives, and how to serve others with grace and humility. Willard is a conscientious, hard-working man. Joy has been influenced by those qualities," she said. "She's a bit sassy like her mom can be, but she's a sweet girl. A supportive type who will make a good pastor's wife."

  Lydia marveled at Caroline's attitude. Maybe she should try to see the good qualities in Angelina.

  Their children were making mature decisions, and there seemed nothing on the horizon to mar those ambitions of theirs. For the time being, all was smooth sailing.

  69

  The Second World War slowed Beau's dreams. He had White Star Line's list of Titanic survivors and had begun contacting more of them than he had when he'd made the documentaries. He'd sent out notices in the media for anyone with information or memorabilia to contact him or send items to the Beaumont office, where a room was set aside for such.