Hearts Unfold

by Karen Welch

  Penny also understood about family. She was just as fiercely loyal to hers and just as determined to live up to their expectations of her. The middle child of three, and the only girl, she was bent on making her parents proud. She and her brothers were all in college, and their parents were looking forward to the day each graduated and made a success of their lives. While Penny dreamed of being a public defender, she was well aware that a better paying job would put her noble ambitions on hold. She owed it to her family to make money, she said, but someday maybe she could follow her dream of helping those most in need.

  While Penny possessed a wickedly humorous outlook on her fellow students, and could impersonate faculty members with such sarcastic accuracy that Emily shed tears of laughter at her antics, she was serious about the things that mattered; her family, her faith and most of all her boyfriend, Frankie.

  Penny met Frankie no long after she and Emily had become roommates. He was in the Army, stationed at a nearby base, and had come into the diner where Penny waited tables on weekends. A native of the Midwest, he was a big, handsome boy, but painfully shy. Penny had invited him to a movie, and they had been a couple ever since. Now Frankie was somewhere in Southeast Asia, and Penny, a devout Catholic, went to Mass at seven each morning to pray for his safe return. She had accepted an engagement ring from him just before he had shipped out last summer—a tiny diamond set in gold which she wore on a chain around her neck. She hadn't told her parents yet that she was engaged for fear they would worry about her even more than they normally did. Emily was sure that Penny would also understand about wanting to keep private things private.

  It was late when Emily got back to the dorm, and she was disappointed to find that Penny had not yet returned. Unpacking her car, she sorted her things back into place in the room. She took the letter from Milo Scheider out of her purse and tucked it in the drawer of her desk. There had been no more news of Stani's condition as far as she knew. When she had told Jack about the contents of the letter, he had urged her to think it over before she destroyed the check. One day she might feel differently about it. As for Stani Moss, Jack again advised her to give herself time. Saving a life was bound to make a powerful impression. She had wanted to respond that if he only knew how powerful, he'd understand why she didn't need to be paid for what she'd done.

  While she prepared for bed, she listened to the arts programming on the radio, just in case Stani’s name was mentioned. She had just switched off the set when the door burst open and Penny swept in, dropping her bags in a heap on the floor.

  “You're back! Did you have fun?” Giving Emily a big hug, she stood on tiptoe to press her cold nose against her cheek. “And no broken bones?”

  Emily hesitated for a moment. It was late and she wasn't sure she wanted to start what could be a long conversation now. But one look and she knew Penny had already seen the changes that had taken place since they parted two weeks earlier. “I didn't go skiing, Pen. I went home.”

  “Home as in the hills?” Penny was shrugging out of her coat, her eyes never leaving Emily's face.

  “The same. And I've been there the whole time. In fact, I'm going for good at the end of the year if my plan works out.” She saw the shadow that momentarily crossed Penny's face. “It's what I need to do, for me, Penny. I'm so much happier there.”

  “I can see that. You're glowing. You didn't fall in love while you were there, did you?” She was grinning, but her question was dead serious.

  “No, of course not!” Without warning, Emily's face crumbled and she dissolved into tears. Dropping down beside her, Penny pulled her into her arms, rocking gently back and forth on the bed until Emily managed to choke back her sobs. “I'm sorry. I don't know where that came from.” Straightening, she wiped at her face, forcing a smile.

  “Well, something must have happened. That's the first time I've ever seen you really cry. Want to tell me?” Propping herself against her headboard, Penny waited as if prepared to stay there for a good long time.

  Despite her efforts to edit the story, in the end Emily told her almost everything that happened during those eighteen hours, omitting only the few moments when Stani had opened his eyes and she had wept on his chest. Penny listened without interruption until she heard about the letter from New York.

  “I guess I can see why you'd be insulted; but honestly, Em, you should put that check in the bank. What if your father got suddenly worse, or your car broke down, or you got sick yourself? That money could mean a lot to you. It's not as if you asked for it.” Ever practical, Penny was thinking of the things she worried about herself, never having any extra cash for emergencies.

  “It just seems dirty somehow, like I took care of him expecting to get something in return. But you're right. It wouldn't hurt to put it in the bank. At least I could buy a really nice wedding present for my best friend someday.”

  “Shh! That's bad luck, to talk about things like that.” Penny slipped under the covers, taking her rosary off the bedpost.

  “Have you heard from Frankie?” Settling in her bed, Emily turned on her side, watching her friend begin to slide the beads through her fingers.

  “I had a nice letter for Christmas. He doesn't say much, but I think things are pretty bad over there. He sounds sad, like he's seen things that hurt him. I'll just be so glad when he gets back. The hardest part of this is not being able to see for myself that he's okay.”

  Emily nodded, aware that Penny had touched the very heart of her own dilemma. Try as she might, it was the not knowing that made her think of Stani Moss, no matter how much she wanted to forget him. “I know, Pen. But that's where faith is supposed to come in, right?” Emily switched off the light, and they both lay awake for a time, Penny praying that Frankie was sleeping peacefully somewhere safe tonight, and Emily staring at the shadows on the ceiling, weary and drained after telling her story. She tried to pray, asking that soon the vivid memory of a pale face beneath red curls would begin to fade. But part of her wanted to hold on to that image, no matter how painful. Letting him go was proving to be much more difficult than she had ever expected.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Stani dreamed almost constantly during those first few days. Variations on the same dream, really. He was floating, surrounded by the blackest darkness or the most brilliant light. Gliding through silent, deadening chill, he was powerless to stop his gentle descent to some unseen place far below. A face floated along with him, a girl's face, with soft gray eyes and a sweet, serious smile. From somewhere nearby, he could hear the girl's voice, pleading gently, calling his name. It was her voice that anchored him. Her voice, soft and encouraging, called him back when he threatened to drift too far away. All the while, as he dreamed, he thought he was playing his violin. He could feel it in his hands, tucked against his shoulder, sense the vibration of the strings. Music, familiar but unidentifiable, filled some distant space, never quite reaching his ears.

  Stani wasn't frightened by the dreams, but they confused him; and he wondered what they had to do with the days he'd lost. He was especially bewildered by the girl, who seemed so familiar yet surely was no one he'd ever known. When he told Jana about the girl in his dream, she asked if the girl might be Betsy. He had no idea why she would ask about Betsy, but he told her no, this was someone he was certain he'd never met before she appeared in his dream. He found that just before he fell asleep, which seemed to be frequently, he hoped that the girl would be there, floating beside him while he slept.

  When he was stronger and could sit in a chair by the bed and stay awake for a few hours at a time, he began to have other memories, waking memories. He knew he had gone to Washington, rehearsed and checked into a hotel. He asked Jana how they had learned about his accident and come back from Aspen. He thought the accident must have happened in Washington, but he could recall Robert's dropping him safely at the hotel. When he began to ask more questions, a doctor came to talk with him, a psychiatrist, who explained that in time he might remember all or
part of the days he’d lost. Meanwhile, it was best not to try too hard, just let the memories return naturally. Stani was pretty sure that meant the memories would be bad. He decided he was in no hurry to find out what had happened after Robert left him at the hotel that afternoon.

  When Stani woke at last and Milo was able to tell him just enough of his condition and the events buried somewhere in his memory, he felt he was prepared for the weeks and months to come. He knew that Stani had trusted him from that first handshake so many years before, and he intended to play on that trust now. The psychiatrist had advised them to use caution, not provide too much information at once, so that Stani's memory might return slowly. Milo once again put John Kimble in charge of protecting the boy. No one, with the exception of the four, Milo and Jana, Peg Shannon and John, would be left alone with Stani. He was not to watch television or listen to the radio without one of them at his side. The therapists assigned to his case were cautioned with regard to his memory loss. Even Mamie and Robert were instructed on acceptable topics of conversation in Stani’s presence.

  The day Stani was released to return to their apartment Robert brought the car to the loading dock at the rear of the hospital. Milo was certain he did not want photographs of Stani, his arm bound to his side, his head still bandaged, plastered on the pages of the tabloids.

  At Jana's insistence, Milo had telephoned Stani's mother in London, explaining the seriousness of his injuries and the expected lengthy recovery. He had offered to fly her to New York and put her up in a hotel, thinking it was only right that she would want to see him for herself. But she had declined, using the excuse that at this point in time Stani would most likely prefer for them, Milo and Jana, and his other friends to see him through his recovery.

  Milo never mentioned to Stani that he had talked with his mother. Why risk opening a subject that might disturb him further, when he was already so pensive? Once at home, Stani settled into a sort of routine. Therapists came daily to work with him, Jana and Peg fussed over him, and John Kimble played endless games of chess and cards with him. But Stani remained withdrawn, responding politely to the attention, but spending hours in silent contemplation. He never once asked for his violin or mentioned music. They should wait for his cue, they agreed, allow him to resume his life at his own pace. But the waiting became more anxious with every passing day.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Peg Shannon was not the kind of woman who willingly sat and waited. As she watched Stani in the days after his release from the hospital, she believed she could see where her talents might be most beneficial. Not so different really from that first time, when she had seen that she could do more for Stani than just give a few dinner parties to raise money for his tour.

  When she had offered her services to Milo Scheider, agreeing to spearhead the effort to raise the necessary funds for Stani's first major tour, she had added one condition. She asked to be given free rein with the boy, to give him some style and stage presence. It wasn't enough, she told Milo, for Stani's musical genius to amaze concertgoers. He had the potential to be a real star, to capture the imagination and admiration of his audiences as well. Milo was more than a little skeptical; but if that was all it took to convince this woman, known for her skill at raising large sums of money for those artists in whom she took an interest, he was certainly willing to let her try to put a little polish on the boy.

  Peg Shannon, at nearly thirty, was a recognized force among arts patrons. For more than ten years, first at her father's side and then on her own, she had worked in the family's philanthropic trust. The son of an Irish immigrant banker, Peg's father Michael had made his fortune in the world of finance. In his declining years, he had dedicated his life to dispersing his wealth, and that of his friends, in support of worthy causes. He had a talent for setting one would-be donor against another so that by the time they were done outdoing one another the donations were far more generous than he had initially requested. Likewise, Peg had achieved the same end hostessing small dinner parties, where two or three potential patrons might find themselves writing checks at the end of the evening, the sums dictated more by their egos than their interest in the cause of the moment.

  An attractive even striking woman, with fine intelligent blue eyes and the classic features of her Irish ancestors, Peg Shannon was known for her sense of style and her air of elegant confidence. She was private and discreet, with many admiring acquaintances and few intimate friends. Working so closely with her father, she rarely made decisions regarding her fund-raising efforts without first consulting him. In the case of Stani Moss, after she had heard him play at a private concert alongside other young musicians, she told her father that the little violinist might soon set the world of classical music on its ear.

  “But you'd never suspect it to look at him, Dad,” she commented over brandy after she'd returned home that evening. “He looks as if he might fall over with embarrassment, and then he plays like someone possessed. He's not a bad looking kid, although he has the most ridiculous haircut; and he certainly could do with a good tailor.”

  Her father laughed, sensing where this was likely headed. “I seem to hear a project coming on. Are you sure you want to take on an adolescent boy?”

  “That's the other thing. According to the program notes, he's seventeen. He's been performing since he was ten years old. It's not that he hasn't had the experience, he just seems to lack any sort of stage presence. I think it might be possible to turn him into something of a rock star. He's got the looks, if you can get past that hair. It might be fun to give him some style, spruce him up a little, bring his appearance up to par with that incredible talent.”

  “Sleep on it, Professor Higgins,” Michael teased. “You might be safer just raising money rather than taking a boy to raise.”

  But Peg had been intrigued by the possibilities and with Milo's blessing set out to transform Stani, first by becoming his friend. Although twelve years his senior, she was warm and open with him, asking his permission and clearly stating her plan. Doubtful but not unwilling, he agreed to let her try, warning her that he was not a quick study and tended to be easily distracted. What she soon discovered was just the opposite; he had a quick mind, though a limited education and even more limited experience outside his music. She also quickly discovered that he was motivated to please, willing to attempt anything she suggested, just to win her approval.

  Together they shopped for clothes, replacing his uniform of khakis and baggy cardigans with stylishly slim trousers, soft, clinging sweaters and close-fitting shirts. She encouraged him to take a page from her own book, avoiding colors, choosing black or gray to set off his vivid coloring to best advantage. She stood him before a dressing room mirror, pulling his shoulders back and tilting his chin up. She showed him that while his might not be the body of an athlete, he possessed the graceful form of a dancer. His shoulders were broad and his chest deep, tapering to a slim waist and narrow hips. Though not much over five foot seven, he was perfectly proportioned, giving the impression of greater height.

  “You could be quite elegant,” she assured him, “if you'd only stop walking around as if your stomach hurt.” Stani scoffed at the idea that she thought he could be anything other than his awkward self, but he made an obvious effort to improve his posture.

  When Peg suggested that they see her stylist to seek advice on a more mature hairstyle, Stani jumped at the chance. His hair, he told her, was the bane of his existence. Laughing, she agreed that it did seem to have a life of its own.

  The hairdresser saw immediate potential in the currently unmanageable mane. He first encouraged Stani to let it grow longer, to which he responded that he'd have to wear a bag over his head.

  “Maybe, but once it grows out, we will cut it into a style you like, so you can throw away the bag,” was the pragmatic reply. The stylist gave him a collection of hair care products, stating bluntly that such exotic hair could not be expected to respond well to cheap drugstore shampoo. If S
tani would follow his advice, he would see that in fact his hair was his finest feature.

  When they left the salon, Peg and Stani had laughed together; but Stani had faithfully followed the prescribed regimen. When they returned several weeks later, his hair was indeed softer, waving rather than curling wildly, and the color seemed deeper, closer to auburn than red. With the skill of a sculptor, the stylist had trimmed and textured the mop of hair into a style that reached his collar, parting on the left side so that it fell appealingly across his face when he assumed a performance pose. Peg was amazed at the effect of this single change. Stani now walked with head held high, even giving his hair the occasional toss, as if proud to show off his new-found crowning glory.

  They next visited a tailor Peg's father had used for years. Manny Weinberg was immediately taken with the boy, circling him appraisingly before taking out his tape measure. He pointed out to Peg the lines of the shoulders, chest, and hips and described the cut of the new tailcoat that would best be shown off by this boy's fine figure. Stani stood in the midst of this discussion, blushing furiously. When Manny asked if he had considered adding just a bit of height by adjusting the heel of his shoes, he turned his eyes to Peg, clearly pleading for mercy.

  “Not a bad idea, Stani. Men are wearing those elegant Spanish boots everywhere these days. Manny, can you recommend a boot maker for us?” She gave Stani's shoulder a comforting little pat, as Manny wrote down the name and address. “Don't worry, if you don't like them, you won't have to wear them. And you might as well get used to people talking about your looks, Stani. You can't hide anymore. You're gorgeous.” Putting a hand on his flaming cheek, she laughed softly.