Three Words for Goodbye

by Hazel Gaynor

  Surprised by the gesture of a woman offering a handshake, he hesitated before finally accepting and shaking my hand vigorously.

  “I enjoyed our discussion,” I said. “I hope to see you again tomorrow evening after dinner. I’ll have caught up with the latest news by then and we can embark on round two!”

  Though he clearly disapproved of a woman’s interest in politics overall, he seemed open to the idea of being challenged, and smiled.

  “That suits me just fine, young lady. I look forward to it.”

  I returned his smile. “As do I, sir. We might both learn something from each other.”

  He chuckled. “You say what you mean, don’t you.”

  “Always.”

  As we left, Clara shot me an exasperated look. “You say what you mean, don’t you,” she said, mimicking Mr. Wainwright’s deep voice. “If he only knew.”

  “But don’t you see, Clara? Not everyone is offended by a person who says what they think or feel. It’s freeing, actually. You should try it.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “By the way”—I grinned—“that was an excellent imitation. I think you might have a future in comedy.”

  We looked at each other and burst into laughter.

  Clara

  The Orient Express was everything I’d hoped it would be, and so much more. There was an artful elegance about it, every last attention to detail carefully considered. I felt perfectly at home as the locomotive sped across the French countryside, the motion rocking me gently from side to side as my thoughts raced over the colorful patchwork of vineyards and fields, and jumped ahead to the canals of Venice.

  I pictured the city through the eyes of the artists I admired: the soft pinks and blues of Monet’s Le Grand Canal, Renoir’s dappled depictions of the crumbling buildings, Sargent’s bold brushstrokes, da Vinci’s use of perspective, and Canaletto’s almost photographic details. My fingers itched to capture the iconic scenes myself. I relished the prospect of having the freedom to indulge my creative instincts. Would I paint in watercolor or pick up some more pastels? Sketch the gondoliers in charcoal, perhaps? I needed more paper, certainly, and a couple more brushes would be useful, too. I looked forward to an idle morning shopping for art supplies.

  As the train hurtled along, the words in Violet’s latest letter flitted through my mind: It’s as if I knew I had to go there, that I knew Matthias was waiting for me. I felt the same sense of destiny as the rhythm of the locomotive matched the thoughts circling in my mind: Edward and Charles, Edward and Charles, Edward and Charles, on and on, each turn of the wheels taking me closer to the rendezvous with Edward and farther away from the man I would soon marry.

  My emotions swayed from excitement to dread, hope to despair. I wasn’t used to feeling so conflicted. My life had always been one of predictable milestones, dutifully adhering to the path of expectations set out for me when I was born the eldest daughter of an affluent New Yorker. To even think about Edward in any way other than a friend was shocking to me, and yet, that was precisely how I thought about him now. What dangerous game was I playing?

  * * *

  BETWEEN THE CAREFULLY ordered schedule of dining, I took out the watercolors Edward had given me and painted the finer details of the train’s decor: the filigree door handles and the gilded cornice, the intricate lace trim on the linen tablecloths, the elegant embellishment on the handle of the sugar tongs. I was drawn to smaller details, to the things others might easily miss. It was why I liked capturing expressions and faces. There was so much to see if you really paid attention to a person.

  “What are you working on?” Madeleine asked, peering over my shoulder as I sat beside the window in our compartment.

  “Pretty, dainty, elegant things,” I said. “And you’re blocking my light.”

  “And we must never put dear Clara in the shadows.” She picked up her journal from the writing desk. “I’m having coffee with Mr. Wainwright. I’ll leave you to it.”

  I gave her one of my disapproving looks. “Off to talk Nazis and politics, I suppose? Be careful, Madeleine. He could be a spy for the Nazi Party for all you know. He’ll have you locked up in a gulag for writing unkind things about them.”

  She told me to stop being so worried all the time. “Besides,” she added as she peered around the door, “the gulags are in Russia.”

  “Well, be careful you don’t end up there, then.”

  “Why? Would you miss me?” she teased as she closed the door behind her.

  I returned to my work, enjoying the sweep of the fine brush across the page, and the way the watercolors blended and softened, running into each other like old friends. Edward had patiently encouraged me to experiment with different techniques: to use a palette knife rather than a brush, to try Expressionism rather than the Impressionist style I always favored, to use watercolors and pastels rather than oils. As I worked, my mind returned to our conversation in the art gallery, the day before my departure.

  “What do you see?” he’d asked as we studied a print of Les parapluies by Renoir, one of my favorite pieces of Impressionist art, depicting a group of Parisians in a rain shower.

  “I see lots of umbrellas.” I’d laughed as a rain shower pattered against the gallery window. “But I don’t actually see any rain.”

  “Precisely! And that’s the genius. The rain is implied. We don’t have to see raindrops to know that it’s raining. Art is as much about what is left out as what is added.” He looked at me from beneath a lock of wavy hair. “It is often what is left unsaid that conveys the clearest message, is it not?”

  I remembered how I’d instinctively covered my engagement ring with my other hand. Whether consciously or subconsciously I wasn’t sure, but the unspoken implication was obvious to us both. I was engaged to Charles, the sort of man I had always been expected to marry, and yet it was the man beside me, his hands speckled with paint, who’d set my mind on fire and my pulse racing.

  A knock at the compartment door interrupted my thoughts.

  “A gift for you, Miss Sommers,” a stewardess said as I opened the door. She pressed a small package into my hands.

  I thanked her, sat at the writing desk, and untied the string. I was surprised to see a selection of tubes of oil paint and a palette knife. I turned over the enclosed note card.

  My dearest girl,

  Something to help you indulge in your little hobby while you are so cruelly distant from me. I thought oils would be best for doing some proper painting. That other style is so wishy-washy.

  Take care, darling. I miss you madly.

  Charles

  The gift was a thoughtful gesture, and yet as I looked at my just-painted watercolor drying beside the window, I could hear Charles calling it wishy-washy. I knew he’d sent oils because he preferred them to watercolors. But what he didn’t know was that oils were impractical, and almost impossible to use properly while traveling, something he would have understood if he took more interest in my hobby.

  But was it only a hobby?

  I thought of Madeleine and her singular determination. She had serious ambitions, a sense of purpose, while I had only a sense of obligation. I’d never considered the possibility of art becoming my profession. I’d never considered having a profession at all, aside from arranging charitable luncheons and hosting parties for my husband’s business colleagues. But with the Wainwright daughters each asking for a portrait, and Mr. Wainwright insisting he pay a fair rate for my time and talent, I wondered if I was capable of more than I’d believed. Was it possible for me to pursue a different life from the one I’d always assumed someone like me must live?

  My hands steady, I folded Charles’s gift back into the tissue paper and placed them it the drawer.

  * * *

  THAT EVENING, AFTER a lavish meal and too many glasses of after-dinner sherry with the Wainwrights and the Culpeppers, Madeleine and I settled into our own interests: her words, my art. I recognized the signs now when she was deep in concentr
ation, the way her brow crinkled and how she chewed the end of her pencil while she was searching for the right word. As I watched her, it occurred to me that perhaps we weren’t so different after all. I painted with color. She painted in words. In truth, our skills complemented each other, something I’d never considered before. I was too busy being angry at her, but now . . .

  “I have an idea,” I said as a thought struck me. “We should put my sketches with your descriptions. Create a sort of travel journal as a gift for Violet.”

  Madeleine looked up from her page, surprise showing on her face. “You mean, create something . . . together?” She clasped her hands to her chest in faux shock. “Oh, Clara! I thought you’d never ask.”

  I scrunched up a sheet of paper and threw it at her. “Well? It makes sense, don’t you think?”

  “It does. And I think it’s a lovely idea, actually. Are you sure you’re feeling alright?”

  It was getting late and I closed my sketchbook for the night, a smile on my face. I was getting used to Madeleine’s sense of humor again, remembering how easily she could make me laugh.

  A little while later, as I began my bedtime routine—cleansing my face and pinning my hair at the vanity—the train came to a sudden stop. My pots of face cream and bottles of perfume skidded across the polished wood, and Madeleine toppled from her chair.

  “What on earth’s going on?” I rushed to the window to see what was happening, but it was pitch-black outside. “Why have we stopped?”

  Madeleine joined me, peering out of the wide window and rubbing our breath from the glass.

  “Maybe we’re being kidnapped,” she said. “Or arrested for talking to strangers about Nazis.”

  I flicked my hand against her arm. “It’s nothing to joke about. We’re in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night. We might be in very grave danger.”

  Madeleine laughed. “Let’s hope so!” She grabbed her coat, shoved her feet into her slippers, and opened the compartment door.

  “Where are you going?” I whispered, instinctively lowering my voice. “You can’t go wandering around at this time of night, especially not in your pajamas, or whatever that is you’re wearing.”

  “Actually, I can go wandering around whenever and wherever I choose,” she replied, a mischievous smirk at her lips.

  “Well, I’d prefer it if you didn’t.”

  Seeing my concern, her expression softened a little. “Finish your beauty routine and get some sleep. It’s probably just an electrical fault and nothing to worry about. I’m sure we’ll be on our way again soon.”

  I hoped she was right. As she closed the door behind her, and I slipped into bed, I had only one thought on my mind: we couldn’t get to Venice soon enough.

  Maddie

  I stepped out of the room to find the corridors empty and the usually bright sconces dimmed. Either most of the passengers had already gone to bed, or more likely, wouldn’t be caught dead walking around in striped pajamas and slippers. Ah, well. I wasn’t known for my fashion sense, and my journalist’s nose smelled drama.

  I shivered as I moved from one train car to the next, glad I’d at least had the common sense to throw on my coat over my pajamas. To think I’d just begun reading Murder on the Orient Express only yesterday. Clara had said it was inviting trouble, but I thought reading it while on the train itself was perfect. Now, the smallest ounce of regret prickled over my skin as my imagination ran wild. Dark passageways, train cars filled with strangers, a mysterious and abrupt halt on the tracks in the middle of the night. Would Mussolini’s men stop the train to search it? Or perhaps there were bandits that lived scattered throughout the Alps, planning to rob the wealthy patrons on board.

  Even as I dismissed the thoughts as silly, I tiptoed forward, across another car toward the lounge, where voices drifted through the door that was slightly ajar. The low light of table lamps flickered in the dark. I pushed the door open just enough to step quietly inside.

  The lounge was empty except for one gentleman, still dressed in his suit from dinner, and a bartender he was speaking to in hushed tones. They both had their backs to me, so I crept a little closer and ducked behind a chair.

  “A herd of goats?” I heard the man say with a light chuckle. “Is that all?”

  “They must have been spooked by something,” the bartender replied. “The conductor said we’d be on our way again shortly.”

  I wanted to laugh. So my wild imaginings of bandits was only a pack of wayward goats. My shoulders eased, but I couldn’t help being a little disappointed. I’d at least hoped for a bit of danger.

  As I stood up and turned to go, the bartender spotted me.

  “Can I help you, miss?”

  “No, thank you. I just wanted to see what had caused the train to stop. It sounds harmless.”

  “Nothing to worry about,” he agreed.

  At the sound of my voice, the other man turned around, and I froze. I knew that pair of broad shoulders, the curls of dark hair, the long sloping nose.

  “Daniel?” I almost shouted. “What are you doing here?”

  A sheepish grin crossed his face as he pushed his hands into his pockets. “Hello, Madeleine. I wondered when we might bump into each other. Try as I might to remain inconspicuous, the train isn’t all that large.”

  “Inconspicuous? Tell me why you’re here,” I demanded as I folded my arms. “Because this clearly isn’t a coincidence.” Every instance when I’d run into him in Paris raced through my mind. Had they all been planned? My anger began to rise, and yet part of me was happy to see him again.

  Daniel’s smile faded, and his expression turned to one of guilty admission as he walked toward me.

  “If I tell you something, will you promise not to share it with Clara?”

  My eyes narrowed. “I’m not promising a single damned thing to a man who has suspiciously turned up on every mode of transportation I’ve taken since leaving New York.”

  The hopeful look in his eyes vanished. “Maddie—”

  “Miss Sommers, to you,” I interrupted.

  He sighed. “You have every right to be angry. I haven’t been entirely honest with you, but please let me explain. Over a brandy, perhaps?”

  “Fine,” I conceded. “And make it a large one.”

  We sat at the bar, ordered two brandies, and I swallowed mine in one great gulp. Daniel, on the other hand, took the smallest of guilty sips.

  “Well? Spill it, Miller,” I said. “The truth. All of it.”

  “I’m not actually a theater critic,” he said, exhaling. “Nor was I visiting a cousin in Paris.” At least he had the decency to look ashamed. “I work for Charles Hancock.” He paused, waiting for my reaction. “Your sister’s fiancé.”

  Whatever I’d been expecting him to say, it certainly wasn’t that. I stared at him a moment, speechless.

  “You work for Hancock?”

  He nodded. “I’m employed as an architect in his office in New York.”

  “The drawings . . .” I thought about our conversation in the hotel in Paris, the detailed buildings he’d sketched and which I’d admired. Hadn’t I even suggested he consider work as an architect? “But that still doesn’t explain what you’re doing on the Orient Express.”

  He ran his hands through his hair. “Charles asked me to discreetly escort his fiancé and her sister through Europe. Make sure everything went swimmingly, and report back on any difficulties, or misdemeanors.”

  “Misdemeanors!” Now I was furious. “He asked you to ‘discreetly escort’ us?” I couldn’t believe it. I laughed, it was all so ridiculous. “Who in the hell does he think he is?”

  “He’s Charles Hancock. He thinks he can control everything. Everyone.”

  “Well, you’re right about that.” I thought of Clara, of how upset she would be when I told her, and yet part of me was glad to have some evidence of Charles’s unpleasant behavior, beyond my personal opinion. “So, what’s in it for you?” I challenged. “Or do yo
u have a habit of following young ladies around Europe while they’re delivering letters for their dying grandmother?”

  He shook his head. “Don’t, Maddie. When you put it like that it sounds dreadful.”

  “That’s because it is dreadful. It’s downright insulting! As if we can’t take care of ourselves.”

  “Charles has offered me a management position when I return.”

  “Ahh. I see. Power and ambition. The things that make the world go around.” I peered at this man who I’d thought was a friend and was now nothing but an imposter. “Is your name even Daniel Miller?”

  He nodded and held out a hand in a gesture of defeat, or apology, I wasn’t sure. I leaned farther away from him on my stool.

  “Please, Maddie, try to understand. Charles was worried about Clara and wanted to make sure you wouldn’t get into any trouble while abroad. It’s a long journey, and with the unrest rumbling through Europe on all sides . . . I can see his reasoning. Never mind the way the two of you argue.”

  “My relationship with my sister is none of your business,” I said crossly. “Or his.” Yet even as I said it, I realized it would become Charles’s business when he and Clara were married. And I would become his sister-in-law. I couldn’t bear to think about it.

  “You’re right,” Daniel conceded. “It isn’t my business. But my relationship with you, is.”

  “Relationship? What relationship? There isn’t . . . I don’t . . .”

  “I admire you, Maddie. I hardly know you, but what I do know of you, I like. Very much. And . . . well, here we both are, stuck on a train in the middle of nowhere.”

  “Mademoiselle, another brandy?” the bartender asked.

  “No, thank you. I was just leaving.” I stood up and tightened the belt on my coat. “Stay away from us, Daniel. I mean it. We don’t need anyone to keep an eye on us.” Even Violet and Margaret had traveled through Europe alone, nearly fifty years ago! “I’ll send Hancock a telegram to tell him exactly what I think of his little scheme.”

  “Please, Maddie, I—”