Hearts That Survive (24 page)

Later that night the subject turned to other matters. After all, he'd been gone for weeks. Although she feared he might think she looked rather like a small whale, he didn't really seem to give a lot of thought to her stomach.

A
nd what if I don't?" Caroline said with a saucy turn of her head as if she was not only stubborn but had an inborn wild streak.

And what if I do?

Forming the right answer was not an easy thing to do when Armand's feelings were taking off like a runaway horse. But his emotional carriage had smashed into a tree before, and he'd tried to pick up the pieces and identify something from the wreckage. Then Armand decided nothing was salvageable, so he let it lie, went about handling his work in an organized way, and spent his evenings in solace on the lake with the fish and his nights in distressing, and pleasant, memories.

Let things be. The Lord had given him peace, acceptance. The wounds had healed, but scars remained, and he didn't need to chance the hurt again.

The blame lay with her for being such a kind, helpful person, so caring about the plight of others. She wanted to help, and when she saw the statistics she put her hand to her mouth and closed her eyes. He didn't know if he'd know what to do with a crying woman. She didn't cry. She said she'd help.

She jumped right into the midst of the suffering and pain. They began to work in the office together as he helped her spend her money to meet the needs of others.

She was so involved in the work, she didn't ask how his plans were going with the idea of a rental place for her and Bess. Now the needs of victims needed to be met, the burials made, the memorials observed.

Sometimes Bess joined them and assisted Mrs. Jessup, who was teaching her a few secretarial skills.

One day in the midst of a difficult project, Caroline said they should stop for a spot of tea. He agreed and stood. "Café?"

As they strolled to the nearby café, she asked, "Where do you sleep nights?"

He laughed lightly. "I have a few rooms above my office." He missed his house, but he had an experiment under way in his mind.

"You can't rent them?"

"I could."

He felt her eyes on him. "You'd rather just," she gestured with her hand, "donate them to needy people?"

That was easy to answer. He reached for the door of the café. "Yes."

After they were seated and had ordered sweets and tea, hers with a little cream, she again mentioned her gratitude for his allowing them to stay in his apartment and that she knew it must be difficult for him to be confined to his office and a hotel bedroom.

"Not at all," he said.

The waitress brought the teas and sweets. She dawdled with the tea while it cooled and bit into the sweet, as did he. He was not surprised when she announced, "I will pay rent on the apartment until I find time to look at whatever places you find." She jested, "Or until you decide to evict us."

Not a chance,
he might have said but swallowed it with his sweet and followed it with a drink of tea.

"But I will want to look at anything you find."

"Certainly."

She lifted the cup with her graceful hand. "I want to pay back rent."

"Good," he said. "And I'll donate it to the victims' families."

She gazed at him over the rim of her cup, and there seemed to be a little gleam of pleasure in her blue-speckled eyes, perhaps reflecting the color of her blouse.

The following morning, just as the sun rose and shone through the windows, she descended the stairs, walked across the lobby, and entered his office. She came right up to the desk, braced both hands on the edge, and leaned toward him.

"Guess what?"

He couldn't begin to do that.

"I'm giving you the morning off." He contemplated that. Yes, he worked for her. His handling of her finances and what she did with them was a business matter. Perhaps she had an errand. "I've planned an outing."

"Bess will be going with you?"

"Bess is straightening up the apartment before Lola comes to clean. Said she wouldn't dare let anyone see the clutter. And then she's going to the market. She does all the cooking." She waved a hand. "I don't cook."

The thought of whether or not Bess were going along didn't seem to disturb him.

Then he realized she didn't say she was taking the morning off, but rather that she was giving him the morning off. He leaned back, away from the faint scent—akin to a fragrance forgotten, now remembered.

"You know I'm determined to be an ordinary, independent person."

"You've made that clear." He wondered what else she considered ordinary other than donating a fortune to the less fortunate and speaking about where she might be of help when this need ended.

"Since we have the morning off, I thought you might teach me to drive."

That brought him out of his chair. "The car?"

"That black contraption that goes honk-honk instead of neigh."

He didn't bother to say that this did not fit into the definition of ordinary. There were maybe six cars in the entire city, most driven by men. The rest of the population drove horses.

About that time the thirty-one-year-old man inside him, whom he'd forgotten about, paid a visit. He said, without thinking, what Bess had said quite effectively, "Blimey! Let's go."

Why not?

The question lent itself to positive and negative answers.

Because this was the first time he'd seen her hair fastened back from her pretty face and falling in soft waves around her shoulders, and he knew it wasn't light brown but sun caressed and turned to . . . he didn't think a lot about colors but had heard the phrase "burnished gold." It seemed to fit.

Why not?

Because when she was behind the wheel, paying little attention to brakes, he was scared out of his wits, not only by seeing the danger of a horse and carriage ahead, but because the attorney in him, who'd taken a short nap, had now awakened and returned with his common sense.

While the man and the attorney argued and debated, he thought of a garden. The flower bed of his heart began to show new growth. Daisies pushed up and let their yellow petals sway in the wind. Sunflowers appeared and some could grow to be ten feet tall.

She grew on him.

But if a garden wasn't tended, wasn't watered, weeds took over and would choke out the potential blooms. Then you could walk by and tell yourself you're not a gardener anyway, you're an attorney. And she is a recent widow who has gone through one of the most devastating experiences a person could have. Perhaps that's why he thought of such possibilities, because they were impossible. The thoughts must flee.

So the attorney said about her driving, "Why not? Why not drive faster? Because you're not in the country. You can get six months in jail if you go over ten miles an hour here. In some towns it's eight and others six. You have to obey the law."

She scrunched her face. "How fast in the country?"

"Fifteen."

Her eyes grew big. "What about there?"

She turned down Young Street, headed toward Patriot's Point at the end. He said no again. "Cars are prohibited in there. Don't!" He grabbed her hand just as she was about to honk the horn. "That could scare the horse, wreck the carriage, kill the people. Now get back over on the left side of the road."

Her hand was flying all over the place. "You can be bossy."

He took a deep breath. "We should stop. Let me give you some instructions."

"I can drive while you instruct."

She could kill them both. She slowed and moved up and down the roads. Fortunately, there was little traffic. "These machines aren't called devil-wagons for no reason." He tried to keep his voice calm. "They don't have horse sense. If you see anyone walking or standing in the streets, sound the horn while you approach. But not at a horse."

Fearful she might drive into the offices instead of around them to the carriage drive, he told her to park at the curb. Upon entering the lobby, she turned her excited eyes and flushed face to him. Before she could say whatever was on her mind, Mrs. Jessup called to her.

"Caroline. You have a telegram."

She looked concerned, so he stayed nearby. "My friend, Lydia." She looked at him. "Oh, you know Craven. They married shortly after the . . . incident. They've moved into a house in Manhattan and—"

Her voice trembled. "They're going to have a baby." Her expression looked pained. "That's so wonderful. She's getting on with her life." She turned from him quickly. "I must write to her right away."

He would contact Craven Dowd with his own congratulations, since Craven had asked him to handle the financial affairs of Caroline Chadwick. He would let him know he continued to be of service to her as needed. He almost laughed. Minus any information about the driving lesson.

Armand watched Caroline ascend the stairs with her hand to her face. Perhaps she thought she wasn't getting on with her life.

The following day he took her and Bess to see his plan.

The women seemed to enjoy the short train ride, particularly when they neared Bedford, and they praised the beautiful scenery. Many times he'd walked the several miles from the station to his home simply because he enjoyed it, and he would sing and praise the Lord and feel the peace and be thankful for his blessings.

Today, he rented a carriage and provided them with a view of the lake, stands of trees, and the rolling green landscape. Upon seeing the house, Caroline said, "It reminds me of Lydia's description of the Long Island place."

They alighted at the front of the house. Caroline walked up the steps and onto the porch. She placed her hand on the banister and turned to him.

"This is the place you found to rent?"

She shook her head as if to say it wouldn't do, but she hadn't even seen the inside yet. He glanced at Bess, who looked as puzzled as he felt.

"It's one of the most peaceful-looking and beautiful places I've ever seen." But she reprimanded him, "I told you I wanted to live like an ordinary person."

"This belongs to an ordinary person."

Her eyes questioned. She looked at Bess, whose eyebrows rose.

They both stared at him. He felt color rise in his face, then took a set of keys from his pocket and held them up. Caroline said, "You don't mean . . . you?"

He must have looked guilty, so he gave a little nod. She said what she should not have ever, ever said, in a saucy tone, "Armand Bettencourt. There is nothing ordinary about you. I think you are quite extraordinary."

C
aroline adored it. Every room, every nook, every cranny. It was peaceful, serene, and cozy, yet elegant and had everything one could desire. She could hardly fathom this being his home.

It occurred to her that if Armand were an ordinary person, Craven Dowd would probably never have heard of him. Who was this man? He led them into a kitchen that was a cook's dream and motioned for them to sit at the small table positioneed beneath the window.

Bess looked as stunned as Caroline felt. They sat. He proceeded to pour water into a percolator.

"You rent this out?" She watched him reach into a cabinet and bring out a bag of coffee and then dip some out into a little metal holder.

"This is the first time." He put all the pieces into the pot, set it on the electric stove burner, and turned a knob. Was that ordinary? She didn't know how to make coffee. She only knew how to drink it.

He leaned against the island. "This is my main residence. The apartment is for convenience and bad weather." He lifted a shoulder. "Or whim."

Whim? Who was this man?

"My parents owned the home that is now my law office. They built this house several years ago." He brushed back the curls that had fallen over his forehead, and his dark eyes surveyed the kitchen. "Both were passed down to me when they were killed. And—"

His face clouded. The coffee made noises, and the liquid danced around in a little glass bulb on top. He took three cups and saucers from a cabinet and set them on a countertop near the stove. He opened the refrigerator and declared there was no cream. "Sorry. Sugar?"

She and Bess said "Yes, please." Even as the pot continued to perk, he poured the coffee. She wondered what he'd been about to say after
and.
He brought their coffee to the table and returned to the island. There were two chairs at the table. Who were they for?

He could have brought in one of the dining room chairs, but he seemed uncomfortable, as if he might run rather than sit. He began to talk about the lake house and mentioned his boat, which he liked to take out on the water to fish.

"You take fish out on the water?"

He laughed. "No. The fish are in the water. I catch them. Trick them into eating a worm and they're snagged."

"You caught the swordfish?"

"Yes." He grinned. "But not in that lake." He set his cup down. "Well, ladies, shall we take a look at the backyard?"

They went outside, and the first thing she noticed was a patch of weeds and vines that appeared to have taken over a perfect spot for a flower garden. But her gaze moved beyond it to the green lawn and the serene landscape.

She would love a home like this but couldn't allow it. "Armand, you've given up your apartment. Now you offer your home. There's no way I can accept."

Bess walked over to the weeds. Armand glanced at her and back at Caroline. "Tell me, Caroline. Why do you help the families of the
Titanic
victims? Why did you help those children you talked about? You mentioned an orphanage in London where you volunteered. Why?"

Her hand gestured. "You know why I help. They need someone."

"Exactly," he said.

She glanced at Bess, who pulled a weed and began tying the stem in knots, as if she were not listening. "So you'll do this because . . . because . . . " She scoffed, "Armand. I am not needy."

His slow, "I am," was almost imperceptible. His eyelids covered his brown eyes as his shoe scuffed at the ground. The silence grew. Neither had anything more to say.

He moved to the back door and held it open. Bess tossed away her knotted weed.

On the return trip she hardly knew what anyone talked about, including herself. Her thoughts were pressing. She helped the needy for two reasons. They needed her. She needed to be needed.

She understood the need to be needed.

But why would he need to do this?

Why and how did he need
her?

His office was closed when they returned. He unlocked the door and went inside. At the top of the stairs, before he turned toward the rooms on the left, she said, "Armand."

He stopped, but his focus was on the floor. "I will rent the house on one condition."

His deep, sad eyes said he would suffer through whatever she had to say. "And that is?"

"I will let you become homeless only if the speed limit in that country place is at least fifteen miles per hour."

She didn't know the tune he was humming as he turned and walked to a room, but it sounded happy.

"I can't go to that house with you," Bess said as soon as she closed the door of the apartment.

Caroline almost fell onto the couch. "What do you mean? Of course you can. I can't go alone."

Bess appeared to be in as much pain as Armand had before she said they would rent the house. He needed her? She needed Bess. "Can't we be friends, Bess?"

"You're not thinking straight, Caroline." She dropped to the edge of the opposite couch. "I need a job so I can support myself. Goodness knows, I'm not crossing that ocean again. And if I can't be your maid, I'll have to find employment." She sat at attention. "That's the truth of it."

Nobody was making any sense tonight. "Bess, you buy the groceries. Cook the meals."

Bess scoffed, "I have to eat. Now, we can be friends if that's what you want. But I can't let you pay me for that. I have to find real employment, not just take your money."

This was quite awkward. "Bess. I want to learn to take care of myself. Not have to depend on a maid, or anyone else."

"Begging your pardon, Caroline Chadwick." She became huffy. "We all depend on each other. But I don't take charity if I can help it."

Caroline had to admit she was not ready for independence. She could maybe cook coffee after having watched what Armand did. Bess remained quiet while Caroline thought. Then an idea dawned.

"Miss Hotchkins," she said in a formal tone, and Bess raised her brows.

"You've been in my employ for a number of years, but I no longer need a maid."

Bess folded her hands on her lap and lowered her gaze to them.

"However, I'm thinking of moving into a house where I need to employ a cook and housekeeper."

Shoulders often spoke volumes. "And someone who can weed flower beds." Bess now had her lower lip almost inside her mouth. "Do you know anyone who might be interested in that position?"

"Yes, Mrs. Chadwick, ma'am, I do." That woman could change moods like one turning a radio dial from a terrible report to sweet music. She had apparently acquired another dose of confidence, and looked Caroline straight in the eyes. "And when you decide you no longer want her in your employ and you can take care of yourself, just tell her so."

Caroline suspected that might take a while, perhaps the rest of her life. Bess said the hour was late and bid her good night. When Bess disappeared from the room, Caroline realized she'd never asked her why she hadn't married. Was it because she had to make a living?

She was rather surprised at her next thought. Armand Bettencourt was young, early thirties at the most. He was quite appealing in many ways. And why did a dark sadness sometimes creep into his eyes?

More than that, she needed to know why he said he was needy. How could she, who couldn't even take care of herself, be the kind of person Armand Bettencourt could depend on when he was the one helping her with her finances and a place to live?

Again she wondered, because she needed to be needed, why would he need . . . her?