by Cat Gardiner
It was still early morning, and he knew where his grandmother would be—in her secret tea garden. For as long as he could remember it was her particular escape every Sunday morning with the New York Times, Wall Street Journal and, since its first publication, the Weekly World News just for fun. If one thing could be said about Elizabeth Robertsen, it was that she dearly loved to laugh, and the Weekly World News was like the comics for her.
He followed a path leading to the back of the house where it wound through lush, green hedges and around a couple of small ponds until he reached the footbridge of a third pond surrounded by colorful ornamentals. On the far side towered a splendid, long arbor, vibrant with blooming yellow roses. As he crossed the bridge, he could see his grandmother in the distance sitting at her tea table in a clearing surrounded by a colorful spectrum of blooms. The morning sunlight streamed down upon her. She was a vision and he saw her fifty years younger at that moment. Her brown hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and she wore a teal, one-piece swimsuit from her daily swim. One to always take great care in keeping herself trim and in shape, Jack couldn’t help but to admire her long toned legs void of all the preconceived expected features of a seventy year old: no spider or varicose veins, no age spots nor any flab.
Her mischievous laugh rang out as she held onto the ridiculous, supermarket rag of tabloid reporting. “Good Lord! … Oh my … he’s … a bat boy!”
Jack couldn’t help laughing along with her. It was infectious, devious, and downright sinister at times—one of the happiest sounds in the world. At that moment, he realized that “Lizzy” was her essence. She was and always would be the pistol that William had fallen in love with. She could never change that part of herself, just hide it, but sometimes it showed itself. “Elizabeth” embodied the Robertsen she had to become and the woman she needed to be to manage the Phoenix Foundation with such diligence and grace.
When she heard his approach through the hedgerow, she peered up and lowered the tabloid. “Jackie! What a surprise!”
“Hi, Grandma.” He kissed her warm cheek. “You’re looking especially beautiful this morning.”
She furrowed her brow. “Am I? Go figure. And here I was just thinking how sometimes I must look like this bat boy.” She threw the paper on the table. “Such trash, but it’s funnier than the funnies, which aren’t even funny any longer. Why I remember when Mayor La Guardia read the funnies over the radio in’45. Now that was a hoot!”
“You hardly look like this ‘bat boy’. More like a Hollywood starlet.”
There was that laugh again, her eyes sparkling with humor. “Oh, do go on. I haven’t heard such sweet nothings in years!”
Jack took a seat across from her and filled her coffee mug, thinking nothing of stealing it for himself. Already, his heart was pounding in anxiety. He had to take this slowly.
“So, what brings you home today? Tired of that closet of yours in Garden City or have you just missed me?”
“Good day for a bike ride, and … I missed you.” He dipped a strawberry into a bowl of sugar and popped it into his mouth.
“Well, you wouldn’t miss me if you would just move back home, dear. You know this house is yours when I’m gone. My children don’t want it, and you are the oldest of my grandchildren. So you should start to make arrangements. Would you be so scandalized to move in with your grandmother or are you waiting to find the perfect apartment in the Big Apple?”
“The Big Apple? No one calls it the Big Apple anymore.”
“It used to be a song … and a dance … and I’ll have you know the origin of the term is sketchy at best. I never knew a single Gold Coaster who sold apples in the city to make ends meet!” She snorted a laugh. “Well … anything is believable, huh? For cryin’ out loud, I still waterski!”
“You loved growing up here, didn’t you?”
A contented smile spread across Lizzy’s lips. “I love the Island. I loved Meercrest, but there’s something special about Evermore. I feel the most peace here, especially this garden.”
“I took a drive over to Meercrest the other day. The water tower looks to be leaning a little. Sort of like the leaning Tower of Pisa, and I noted that the gazebo was damaged from the ice storm in January. The roof is caving.”
“Ah, my water tower. If only I could move it here. I’ll have to look into that. As for the tea gazebo, I think we should have a bonfire.” She shuddered. “My mother’s personal tavern.”
Lizzy watched as her grandson leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his Izod insignia. He tilted his head up to the sun, warming his already tanned face. His visit was unexpected and—his talk of Meercrest and visit there—unusual. She wondered what he was about coming to Evermore this early on a Sunday morning. To share in her Sunday morning ritual? She didn’t think so, but she’d be patient. Jack’s mind was like an onion. She needed to allow the layers to peel back. He’d get to the point when he was ready.
The first peel she figured was his question, “Are you still up to go to that Mets-Giants game at the end of August with me?”
“Of course! Why wouldn’t I? The Giants are my team even if they abandoned us New Yorkers in ’58”
“I could get tickets to see the Dodgers game the week before.”
“Why ever would I want to see the Dodgers? They’re another traitorous team. Abandoning Brooklyn like they did. You’re a dear to ask, but no thanks.”
The second layer fell away when he stared in distraction at the vibrant pink and white Sweet Williams at the border edge of the garden. “I was wondering? Have you ever been to Victoria Flatbush?”
She couldn’t meet his eyes when she answered, her focus traveling instead to what held his attention. The flowers named “First Love” caused a small, thoughtful smile upon her lips. “Flatbush, Brooklyn? Maybe. I can’t recall. I once visited your great-aunt, Lillian, in Park Slope when she christened her son. Gosh that was … hmm …” She shrugged. “Gordon, yes, that’s his name.”
It was Jack’s sudden fidgeting that alerted her to his inner struggle. He rested his hand on the leather fanny pack clipped around his waist and began to play with the zipper. She waited for the third layer to fall away. While waiting, she dipped a strawberry into the sugar bowl. G-d, she loved the sweet, succulent taste of fresh berries.
“When was that?” he asked. “The christening?”
No, she wouldn’t allow this conversation to go any further. Definitely not.
“Darling, after your overnight visit last week, you never mentioned that you’d be back so soon. Not that I’m not happy to see you and enjoying this delightful little tête-à-tête, but it’s clear to me that you’re making small talk in your attempt to procrastinate.” Her voice grew concerned. “You can tell me anything, you know. Your secrets I’ll take to the grave. I’m very good at keeping secrets.”
“You know I don’t keep secrets.”
“I have not seen you this distracted since you broke up with that … that … what was her name?”
“Amy?”
“No, not her, the other one.”
“Lisa?”
“No, she was evil incarnate. I mean the one with the … you know.” She held her hands far from her chest.
He raised his eyebrows. “Ohhh … Cindy.”
“Yes! Going so long without those probably knocked you for a loop.” She laughed, trying to divert his line of curious questions. “Is a girl involved? Or perhaps, there is no girl and that’s the problem. A man’s unfulfilled needs can certainly feel like the end of the world.”
“What? Getting girls is not a problem, Grandma.” He rolled his eyes. “Sheesh, the places your mind goes.”
“Then what is the problem?”
He took a long drink from the coffee mug, and Lizzy lowered her eyeglasses to the very tip of her nose. She raised an eyebrow, her locked gaze calling him out. Getting him to talk was like pulling teeth.
Jack put the mug down and now began to play with the roses in the center of the
table. “Well … this is about a girl, but I’ll get to that in a minute. First, I have a question about the painting.”
Another beating around the bush question, another peel. She sighed. “Which painting?”
“The one you are fighting with the French Culture Minister over.”
Lizzy grit her teeth. “Oh that man is infuriating! He’s dragging his feet on this when he knows damn well that the painting doesn’t belong to the French government. He’s as bad as some of these museums I read about—claiming ignorance over the many paintings in their possession. I know for a fact that the Hendrick Avercamp was plundered by either the Vichy government or Nazis! They need a Commission to make this process easier. The French government owes the Jews millions!”
“I agree, but why is this particular painting so important to you?”
She furrowed her brow. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Well, I understand about the Monet and the Degas and your eagerness to return those paintings to their rightful owners, but I never did learn how you knew about the ownership of the Dutch Master that the French have in their possession. Whose is it and why are you playing proxy for them?”
“I didn’t think you cared to know, Mr. I Prefer Not To Get Involved.” She drank from the coffee mug, watching her grandson from over the rim.
“Do you think you’ll be successful in acquiring it?”
“I am … as usual … optimistic in my endeavor. I’m sure that when I meet with that insufferable little putz and hand over the two other Masters, he’ll have no choice. If you must know, I’ll share this with you because you have asked and it is obviously bothering you, but the painting belongs to the family Lillian married into. It was taken from them upon their deportation during the Paris Roundup. If he’s still living, I hope to have the foundation deliver it to Lillian’s husband Louis. His grandfather and aunt were murdered in Auschwitz.”
“But, how did you know the history of that painting?”
“Their name, DeVries, was listed in a Nazi document of reported stolen works of art during the Roundup. I knew this family had been deported. What’s at the heart of these questions, Jack?”
“I saw an almost identical painting Wednesday night and … and well … that’s where the girl comes in.”
Fear bubbled within her at his statement, and she watched as Jack unzipped his fanny pack and withdrew an old photograph, its decorative edges scalloped, its back slightly yellowed with the passage of time. She wondered what the snapshot had to do with the painting, let alone his sudden interest in it—and involving a girl no less.
He slid the photograph across the metal table toward her, and she froze when it stopped at her outstretched fingers.
Her left hand flew to her heart and she gasped in intense, stunning shock. Eyes blinked with disbelieving snaps as she beheld herself fifty years younger beside the man who still owned her heart, now beating a fierce litany.
She could barely control the shake to her hand when she lifted the image from the table. William. My love. Oh G-d, Will.
Lizzy physically felt a fracture form in her usual cool composure as though split by a scalpel to her heart’s wall. She focused solely on that incredible, sensitive man whom she wounded so many years ago. With her trembling index finger, she traced his image, remembering that day when she surprised him at Drane Airfield. How handsome he had looked in his flight gear, how in love they were.
Faced with his image, she pushed down the usual fight that always began with the emergence of such memories. Instead, she welcomed the rush of them. She closed her eyes and raised the edge of the photograph to her bottom lip where she smoothed it against the curve of plump flesh. After thoughtful seconds, the image lowered, caressing her chin, sliding down the sensual slope of her neck. Soft skin met the now warm photo as it glided over her bare chest, finally coming to rest upon her pounding heart as though pretending to hold Will within the rhythmic cadence of its beat.
Lost in memories and clutching the snapshot to her body, another crack in her retaining wall appeared, a deeper fissure this time. Her lips trembled as she held back the tears, vividly remembering their pledge to one another.
-Please wait for me, Lizzy. I love you so much it feels like my heart is going to explode.
-I promise, I’ll be waiting. I’ll always be your girl. After all, I was born to be yours.
She could still feel the lingering tingle of his gentle, soft kiss against her lips after her declaration at the train station when she left him in Florida.
A lone tear streamed down her cheek.
“Grandma? Are you all right?”
Brought out of that place in her heart where sheltered memories of her sweetheart dwelled waiting for her dam to break, Lizzy wiped the moisture from her cheek, opened her eyes, and smiled in wistful remembrance.
Once again, she looked to the image and whispered in a voice that sounded so young, so contrite, “Where did you get this?”
Jack sighed, reaching out his hand to her, which she took. “This is why I didn’t want to do this. Looking back is never happy.”
“You’re wrong. He made me so happy.”
It was then that she realized the buried secrets of five decades were unavoidably being exhumed. Her grandson had given her this photograph; he knew of William. The barrier holding all the secrets and emotions back split even further. “Where did you get this, Jack?”
“The girl is William’s great-niece Juliana. I met her last week when she came to the paper looking for information … about you. She told me about your wartime romance. She knows about Lillian, Kitty and the whole Renner history.”
“His niece. Lillian’s granddaughter?”
“Yes. She met Kitty who took her to the museum. Grandma, she desperately wants to meet you. Would that be okay?”
Lizzy was stunned, her words exiting as her mind raced ahead at the ramifications of this girl knowing part of her history with William. “She wants to meet us? Oh that Lillian could be here. Yes, I would love to meet Juliana.”
“Good, she’ll be so happy. You see, she inherited William’s home in Brooklyn where the painting is … and she found all your letters in a footlocker filled with snapshots and his war memorabilia.”
The splintering fissure spread into a thousand leaking cracks, and she couldn’t stop her dam from shattering with a powerful burst. Her heart seized, and she clung to the snapshot even tighter. “In-in-inherited? Primrose Cottage? Is William … did he? Please G-d, no!” She cried out, panicked from the depths of her soul. “Tell me, please!”
Jack rose from his chair and knelt in the grass beside her, taking her hand in his. “Please don’t cry. He’s not dead. Please don’t cry. I meant to say that he gave her the house. He’s alive. She’s flying out in a few days to find him. Would you like to see him again?”
She bowed her head, allowing the flood of tears to roll unabashedly unchecked, her head shaking with raw emotion flowing through her. Closing her eyes again, she whispered, “I have never wanted anything more in my entire life. To see him again is …” Her voice trailed off with unspoken words concealed in the privacy of her heart.
Although relief washed over her, and joy soared through her, she knew judgment and atonement for her past actions would be at hand. She knew the one secret she concealed for forty-nine years would need to finally be told.
Lizzy smoothed Jack’s askew hair. “But, he may not come. I hurt him so terribly—twice, betraying him in every way he thought possible. After your grandfather’s death, I was too afraid to find him … too afraid to face his condemnation and anger. He will never forgive me, but there are things he must be told.”
“If he loves you, he’ll forgive whatever you did.”
“He won’t. He won’t come, and I am sure his love for me has long extinguished.”
“That’s not very optimistic of you.” Jack took a deep breath. “Grandma … if he does come, does he still own your heart, as you once said—until the end of lif
e’s story?”
She looked down at the snapshot again. “He does. He always has. I established the Phoenix Foundation in honor of him.”
Lizzy crumbled, falling onto her grandson and sobbing with deep, wracking emotion as his arms came around her, comforting her in his embrace.
~~*~~
Twenty-Seven
Trade Winds
June 25, 1992
After check-in at JFK Airport’s Delta Airlines ticket counter, Juliana stood by the gate, waiting to board the first of her flights to Sitka, Alaska. High above the tarmac, she looked out the huge terminal window, watching planes taxi down runways, maintenance crews scurrying to keep on schedule, and the ever-present baggage trolleys pulling cargo and luggage. Lost in thought, she ignored the hive of gate activity behind her, vaguely registering the garbled overhead announcements. Sporadic glances toward the closed door of Gate 39 indicated that departure would be some time yet. She sipped her black coffee, continuing to observe the men below her work on the nearest wide-body jet awaiting its next journey.
Expending nervous energy, she tapped the fingers of her free hand against the glass. She was anxious, not because of the air travel, but of what she’d find at the other end of the eleven hour trip across the country. Jack hadn’t indicated details, just that William was alive, and he had provided her with an address where the man had lived for the last fifteen years. Questions weighed heavily upon her shoulders. Was her great-uncle married? Did he have children? Was he healthy? Where had he been all these years and, more importantly, would he be willing to come east to see her grandfather—or Lizzy, for that matter?
She was no longer concerned about all those questions she had at the beginning of this mysterious journey, the ones that asked, “Why did you give me the house and the money?” “How did you even know about me?” “What happened in the war and your being a POW for two years?”
