Four Seasons of Romance (22 page)

“Open it,” she said.

Slowly, cautiously, as if he were examining one of the
ancient paintings from his curriculum, he unfolded the cloth. Inside was an
arrowhead made of bright-white stone, crumbled pieces of clay all around.

“What was it?” he asked, running his thumb through the
ruins.

“Me,” she replied. “It was I, made of clay.”

They took the treasures back downstairs and examined them by
the crackling fire.       “You

kept
all this after all these
years,” he said.

“Your father gave them to me when we were teenagers. I’d
never throw them out. Not for
all the
world.”

“So why didn’t it work between the two of you?”

“Most of what was written in
The Song of the Lilies
is true,” she said, rising to put out the fire. “If you want to know more about
your father, it’s all right there. The only difference is he faced his demons
and changed in the book, whereas in real life, it never happened.”

“Did you ever try to find him?” he asked.

“He would never forgive me for my mistakes, so I never
tried. I don’t even know whether he’s alive anymore, he wasn’t taking care of
himself when I last saw him. Sometimes, I wish…” Her voice trailed off.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing.
I’ll go to bed,” she
said.

Leo kissed her goodnight, and then watched her disappear
down the long hallway. He paced in front of the fireplace, playing back
everything she’d told him, deciding not to pursue the topic any further—not
with his mother, anyway. His questions were far from answered, but this
revelation had opened new possibilities. If there was one thing he’d learned from
his many years as an art historian, it was that there was always more beneath
the surface, and as the embers from the fire faded from orange to black, Leo
Murray began to make his plans.

The following morning, he launched phase one of his plan.
Catherine, Susan, and the kids were getting ready to go Christmas shopping; Leo
begged off by saying he wasn’t feeling well.

“Should we stay home?” Susan asked, feeling his forehead.

“Not at all!
Go out and enjoy
yourself. It’s just a bit of a headache. By this afternoon, I’ll be good as
new.”

After a bit more convincing, they headed out in scarves and
matching knit hats, leaving Leo alone to prowl the house. He went to the
computer immediately—another gift he’d given his mother. When he had to boot
it, he realized she probably hadn’t turned it on since the day he spent three
hours teaching her how to use the mouse. Confound it, he thought. Why won’t she
learn how to use the damn thing?

Armed only with his father’s full name, Leo started to
search. In forty-five minutes, Leo had blazed an Internet trail that revealed
his father’s dual identity, his artistic success, and his current whereabouts.
No, he wasn’t at a cemetery dead from a drug overdose. Leo Taylor—who went by
Leo Ellis now—resided in the Malvern Acres Senior Living Community in Malvern,
Pennsylvania, just fifteen miles away from Philadelphia. He was easy to find;
in retirement, the older Leo had even entertained himself by creating a
Facebook
page under his full name. Isn’t that interesting,
the younger Leo mused.
Perhaps he’s ready to be found.

He checked his watch. Catherine and Susan were likely to
make the Christmas shopping an all-day affair. Did he have enough time?

His heart answered the question for him. In minutes, he’d
put on his leather jacket, jumped in his
Prius
, and
set the GPS for Malvern. His heart pounded as he drove and drove through the
snowy streets on his mission of finally finding his father.

*

“I’m Bruce Nelson, with the
Philadelphia Inquirer
.
I’m here to interview Leo Taylor, whom I believe goes by Leo Ellis.”

Leo Murray’s heart raced as the nurse looked him up and
down. Surely, she would see through his disguise. What was he doing? He was a
professor at Brandeis, and he had never impersonated anyone in his life.

“Mr. Ellis is in Unit 35,” she said, smacking her gum
loudly. “That’s independent living. Go back out the door and make a right.
You’ll see it at the far end of the complex.
Big red door.
Painted it himself.”

She disappeared down a brightly lit hall, and Leo went back
outside.
Maybe this is stupid
, he said to himself.
Why don’t I just
tell him who I am?

But something told him to stick to his instincts on this
one. As a fifty-one-year-old academic who spent most of his days holed up in
the faculty office, he figured he might as well seize the opportunity to have a
little fun as he headed toward the door like a spy from a blockbuster Hollywood
film.

Leo could feel his heart beating as he strode down the
sidewalk, the first time he’d ever come face to face with his real father. He
knocked. In a few moments, the older Leo opened the door. For a moment, his son
forgot the ruse, looking into this man’s eyes. Here was his father, the answer
to questions he’d been wondering about since he was a boy.

Then, he remembered what he was doing and cleared his
throat.
“Hi, Mr. Ellis?
I’m Bruce with the
Inquirer
.
How do you do?”

“I’m well, thanks.” Despite his age, the man’s voice was
clear as a bell. “What can I do for you?”

“It’s come to our attention that you’re the man on whom the
hero in Catherine Murray’s most successful novel was based. I’m doing a story
on what the real Leo is like. Not the one in the book—the man behind the myth.
Enough of the fiction; readers want reality!” He realized he was talking too
much, probably because of the nervousness.

“Catherine?
My Catherine?
I’m
sorry,” the older Leo said. “I might be stupid in my old age, but what book is
this?”

“
The Song of the Lilies
.
By Catherine Murray.”
The younger Leo looked at him in
amazement. He assumed everyone had heard of the book, as it had been a New York
Times bestseller for thirty straight weeks.

Leo’s eyes flashed with an unnamed emotion, and then
vanished. “I’ve never heard of the book, no.”

Leo Murray hadn’t prepared for this, but then, he remembered
he was wearing his satchel, so he thrust a hand inside and pulled out his
much-loved copy. “Here you go,” he said, scribbling his cell-phone number
inside the cover. “Consider it a loan. I’ll be back in a week to get it.”

His nerves had gotten the best of him; he couldn’t bear to
stand there one second longer. With a slight nod, he hurried back down the
path, leaving the older Leo staring after him.

The renowned sculptor shut the door and stared at the book
in his hands, running his fingertips across the name on the cover.
Catherine
Murray
. How it both pained and delighted him, seeing her name in print; he
couldn’t help envisioning Catherine Taylor on the book instead.

So, Catherine had done well. He saw the “#1 bestseller”
inscription and felt a sudden jolt of pride. Leo was surprised he hadn’t heard
of the book, but then again, he didn’t frequent many literary circles and
tended to spend his days drawing, not reading. When he did read, he preferred
fast-paced, thrilling action books centered on murder and intrigue.

He glanced at his watch. The stretching class at the
community center didn’t start for another couple of hours; he had time.

Leo stretched in his La-Z-Boy and read. He didn’t make it to
the stretching class that night. He didn’t make it to dinner, either. For the
next eight hours, he didn’t put the book down, reading all nine hundred pages
in less than two days.

He laughed like a kid; he cried like a baby. Leo was living
his life again—the only part of his life he really cared about—the one that had
Catherine.

And when Leo finally closed the book, he had not only read
it but also read between its lines. “She wrote this just a few years ago,” he
whispered, realizing that her love for him hadn’t faded with time, just like
his love for her.

 He knew, beyond any doubt, that Catherine still cared
about him and kissed her name on the cover. “Oh, Catherine,” he said, “
there
was only you. There
was
only
ever
you
.”

*

At first, Leo wasn’t sure he should call Bruce, the nervous
reporter who had given him the best gift he could ever imagine. Then, the man
had come to his doorstep looking for an interview, hadn’t he?

So, he dialed the number inside the book’s cover. Never mind
that it was past midnight. “Hello?” a
groggy
voice
from the other end of the line answered. “Who is this?”

“Hello, Bruce? This is Leo Ellis Taylor. You lent me the
book earlier.”

Leo Murray was suddenly wide-awake as he slipped his feet
into his slippers and crept out of the guest room so as not to wake his wife.
“Yes, this is Bruce.
Hi there.”
He edged toward the
back door. It was below freezing outside, but he didn’t want to risk his mother
hearing the conversation.

“Listen,” the older man said. “I’m not sure how you found
me, but I’m glad you did. I want to find out whether you know how to get in
touch with Catherine.”

The younger Leo smiled.
If only he knew.

“I take it you like the book?”

“You
kidding?
It’s the best thing
I’ve read since… since my fourth-grade primer!”

“You’ll give me an interview, then?”

“Of course!”

The younger Leo stomped his feet to keep the blood flowing.
“Then, it’s a deal. I’ll come by tomorrow for the interview, and I’ll see what
I can do about reuniting you with Catherine.”

The moment he hung up, a hand fell on his arm. He whirled
around to see Susan standing behind him. “I know what you’re up to,” she said.
“I heard the whole thing. I knew you didn’t have a headache this morning.”

He gave her a peck. “You know me too well.”

“I want to help,” she said. “I think it’s wonderful, what
you’re doing.”

“You don’t think it’s unethical?”

She smirked. “Moral philosophy was never my strong point.
You know that.”

“Then, don’t say anything just yet. I want to keep it from
my mom a little while longer. I want the reunion to be perfect.”

“You’re a good son,” Susan said. She took him by the hand.
“C’mon,
Bruce
.
Let’s go back inside before we freeze
our feet off.”

The next day, Bruce drove to Malvern. His wife covered for
him, telling Catherine, “He’s got a whole list of Christmas errands to run.”

The older Leo invited Bruce inside and made them each a cup
of tea, and they spent a long December day together, just the two of them.

“Don’t you want to use a tape recorder?” Leo asked at one
point.

“I never use one,” Bruce responded. “I have great memory.”
Phew
,
he thought.
Dodged that bullet.

He asked Leo a few questions, but it didn’t take much to get
him talking. With wonder and delight, he listened to his father’s stories about
his mother and their all-consuming love for each other; Leo’s story could have
been a novel in itself. 

“Want to see something she gave me?” the old man asked.

“Of course!”
Bruce made a note to
tone down his excitement; he was supposed to be an objective reporter, not a man
who had finally found his father after fifty-one years.

Leo took him to a back room and opened a small clay box.

“Did you make that?” Bruce asked.

“I did.” He pulled out a long chain; something small and
silver dangled from the end. “Careful,” he said, “it’s fragile.” He laid a
delicate, heart-shaped locket on Bruce’s palm.

“Catherine gave it to me before I left for the war,” he
whispered. “Open it.”

His son pried it gently open and saw the pictures of his
mother at ages nine and seventeen. “She’s beautiful,” he said and meant it.

“The most beautiful woman in the world,” Leo said wistfully.

Bruce was all smiles as he scribbled notes for his mythical
newspaper article. Then, he got his father talking about art. Unaware that the
man sitting across from him was an art history professor, Leo delighted in the
artistic knowledge this reporter had and the fact that the two of them seemed
to have much in common. . 

“I like you,” he told Bruce. “You remind me of
someone.” 

In this way, Bruce got to know his father, without Leo ever
being the wiser. If Bruce’s identity was to be revealed, he felt his mother
should be the one to do it and the time for that drew near. 

The December sun sank low on the horizon when Bruce finally
stood to go. “This has truly been my pleasure,” he said, shaking Leo’s hand.

“Please, come back anytime. You’re a most welcome guest.” He
paused, almost afraid to bring up what was really on his mind.
“And Catherine?”

“I promise I’ll do everything in my power to put you two
back in touch.”

Leo looked disappointed. “That’s it? That’s all?”

Bruce placed his hand on the older man’s shoulders. “I’ll
see you tomorrow.
We’ll
see you tomorrow.” The smile that spread across
Leo’s face could have lit a concert hall.

The sun set in a bath of pink and yellow as Bruce drove back
from Malvern, but for his parents, the sun was about to rise. 

*

The next day, Leo and Susan Murray did their best to hide
their excitement.

“I thought I’d go for a drive today,” Leo told his mother
casually at breakfast. “Want to come along?”

“It’s Christmas Eve. Won’t the roads be jammed?”

“On the contrary, I imagine they’ll be very clear.”