Hearts That Survive (36 page)

Caroline wept. When she was able to speak, she told him about being in the boat. Told him how she held Henry, what she told him, and that Phoebe kept saying she was there.

Alan's voice trembled, "If either of us had known, things might have been different."

Armand touched Alan's arm. "We can't do anything about the
if
's. We deal with what is."

Alan nodded. "I learned about that in the war. Fight and survive."

They agreed, and because Lydia's secrets were known now, Caroline began to tell about precious little Henry as a ring bearer. They all laughed and delighted in the memories. She told Alan about Lady Lavinia. Through the day, through dinner, into the evening.

Finally, they decided there were so many stories, so much to talk about, they'd invite others to tell him more. In the meantime, he could stay at the lake house.

Caroline had a good feeling about him, and Armand gave Joanna a knowing glance before taking Alan to the lake house.

Joanna hoped Alan would get busy with his broom, because her feet were ripe for the sweeping.

A
lan thought he'd found a gold mine in meeting the beautiful Joanna but realized she wasn't someone to toy with, but a girl a guy might take seriously, something he hadn't considered before. Not that he'd had much opportunity in the past few years, having been on the front lines with a weapon in his hands.

He was fascinated that she held in her hazel eyes the green secret Armand told him about, inherited from her grandmother. Joanna cooked a dinner for him in the lake house. They walked along the lake, watched the sunset, embraced in the twilight, kissed in the dark, and returned to the lake house, where she walked right past as if without a thought of going inside. She took him to church on Sunday. He hadn't done that since his childhood, with two parents, a lifetime ago.

Joanna called Phoebe, and Alan talked to her. Phoebe cried. He had an aunt. His dad's sister.

He had friends and family and a girlfriend who were beyond anything he could have imagined, and he was an imaginative fellow. He'd never known family life could be like this. He met Caroline's family and Bess's family and heard their stories.

He said he'd send for the Meccano set, but they didn't want to chance it being lost in the mail. His landlord would be notified, a servant . . .

Servant?

. . . would be sent to get it, and Lydia Dowd would fly in with it.

Lydia Dowd. Beautiful older woman with hair like snow. Eyes like sapphires. Money written all over her, and around her neck and on her fingers, looking like a jewel herself. With some people you just knew. Anybody in New York knew the name.

Lydia, as she insisted he call her, told him a shortened version of her story. Even so, it sounded like a best-seller to him. Alan's dad had been a ring bearer in her wedding on the
Titanic.

Who wouldn't sit—stand up and listen to that?

He remained sitting, but it wasn't easy. Stanton-Jones, his grandfather, had become John's best friend on the
Titanic.
These people had been first-class passengers on the
Titanic.
They treated him, one who struggled to pay rent, like a firstclass person.

Their stories, his story, became bigger than life. But he could get it on paper, and it would be his life.

Each night before turning out the lamp, he stared at
Once Upon
on the bedside table. He hadn't read it. Just reading the author's name was enough.

Henry George Stanton-Jones, II.

What a name.

So Alan Freeman Morris's dad was really Henry George Stanton-Jones, III.

Or, Henry George Freeman Morris Stanton-Jones, III.

Alan was, if he took his dad's name, Alan Freeman Morris Henry George Stanton-Jones, IV.

That wouldn't even fit on a book. He could use it and take up two lines or shorten it to Alan Stanton-Jones, IV.

He could write the
Titanic
book in time for the fiftieth memorial. It would be celebrated all over, even in England and Ireland.

At last, the great American novel was laid in his lap, meant to be. His time had come.

They all acted like he was somebody. Well, his grandfather was a famous novelist. His great-grandmother and greatgrandfather were royalty.

As if that was not enough, they all became ecstatic about Lydia's son arriving.

Beau Dowd!

No. Couldn't be that one. The biggest movie producer in Hollywood?

But he was.

And he moved into the lake house with Alan. He wanted to get to know him.

This slowed down Alan's interaction with Joanna.

After all, he had to make a living. No, make that a mint.

Beau talked to him like he was just another guy, so Alan reciprocated. He was a descendant of royalty, after all. He finally mentioned he might write a book about the
Titanic
and discovered what he should have known all along. Beau had the rights to everyone's stories. Legal right. Contracts.

Alan had nothing.

Until he learned that Beau Dowd needed Alan Morris's legal permission, his being Stanton-Jones' heir, to make a movie of
Once Upon.

Alan stared at the contract. The advance would enable him to give up the rinky-dink apartment, be financially secure for longer than he could estimate. And he wouldn't need additional work anyway since he'd be consulting on the filming of the movie.

Considering his newly-acquired background and the association with Beau Dowd, he could almost see the greenbacks covering his life like springtime across a meadow.

Several weeks later he strolled along the path by the lake while the sun dropped into the horizon and the sky turned dark and he found himself alone.

Lately, he hadn't given much thought to eye color.

J
oanna had grown up with family and friends who shared their confidences, admitted their weaknesses, and prayed together. She didn't feel the time had come for her to share just yet. She knew Alan needed the acceptance they offered. He had family now. He had friends.

Having spent a restless night and awakened early, she made coffee, filled her cup, and went out back. Fog lay across the landscape like the mist that lay over her mind.

"May I join you?" she heard as she stood staring into visibility obscured.

"Any time." She recognized the voice of Beau, with whom she'd had a special bond since she was twelve and approached him about
Once Upon.
They'd discussed it as if he valued her opinion.

Since then, she valued his opinions in particular. In silence she finished her coffee, set the cup on a table, and walked with him through the English gardens Caroline loved to tend. They looked like they belonged in an impressionistic painting.

"Why did it change, Joanna?" Beau asked.

"He changed."

"How?"

"When I first saw him, I knew my fantasy of a love story like the
English Country Garden
had arrived," she said. "He could, and did, sweep me off my feet. I fell in love with the good qualities in him." She sighed. "Maybe I thought something was there that wasn't."

"What did you think you saw?"

"A vulnerability."

"Like inside him is an insecure little boy? Wanting his daddy's love? Wanting to be something, somebody, and beginning to think money could buy it?"

"Exactly what I was thinking." She laughed lightly. "At least, something like that. He's become a different person."

"You're right. He is a different person. You expect humility?"

His question held the answer to that. They walked beside drystone walls lined with trees standing like gray sentinels.

"So. He changed from a fantasy to a real person. Tell me, if you had to choose, what would it be, Alan or the movie?"

She turned quickly. "You wouldn't take the movie from him, would you?"

"I could. He'd keep the advance, but there'd be no movie, no fame, and he'd become his old, charming self. Is that what you want?"

She felt foolish. "I want it all."

"And what is 'all'?"

She scoffed. "Why didn't you become a psychiatrist instead of a movie guru?"

He shrugged. "I seem to be doing all right." He laughed lightly, then grew serious again. "Alan's bright. Maybe he'll have a quick recovery. When he learns he's a boat adrift, he'll come around. You and I have been blessed by people around us who have learned the difference between illusion and the real thing."

"You like him." Oh, she hoped he did.

"Yes. I see his potential. I see his need. His grandfather and my dad became friends on that boat, not because they were first-class, but because they had two things in common. Their creativity and their faith."

She nodded. "When you asked what I wanted most for him, I almost said 'me.' But 'me' is not enough."

"And he's not enough for you."

"I know. I've already pulled away. Just not in my heart." "You know how Caroline says people react differently. Some come around quickly, some slowly. Maybe I can speed things up a little. Trust me."

She had no idea what he meant, but as they walked back toward the house, over the open fields spread out before them, the mist had risen.

A
lan thought Beau might give him some advice. "I've messed up with Joanna. We were doing fine. She was delighted about the movie. Now it seems everything connected with it puts distance between us."

"Would you give up the movie to get back your relationship with her?"

"You're not serious?"

"If Joanna wants you and you want her and you'd be happier without the movie deal and all that's going on with it, I'll tear up the contract. You get to keep the advance."

Beau turned and left the room.

Would I really?
Alan wondered.

Beau returned with the contract, which represented fame and fortune. Which was more important? That or Joanna?

Could he give up . . . his dream?

Not a chance. He said with confidence, "Tear it up."

Beau tore, saying, "This is the original. And I will throw it in the trash. You want to see?"

Alan didn't need to. Beau wouldn't mess around with him. The whole clan was probably fed up, and Beau wouldn't want the likes of him on a movie set. These were open, honest people. He might try it. "I've been a jerk most of my life. I don't deserve her." He shrugged, talking to himself really. "Now what do I do?"

"I can't tell you that. Have you read
Once Upon?"

Alan shook his head. He was supposed to consult on a book, and he hadn't even read it. He'd been thinking fame and fortune.

"Try it," Beau said. "Your Grandfather might have words of wisdom for you."

That night, Alan propped himself up in bed. Great job! He'd just given up the chance of his life with no greater chance of renewing the relationship with Joanna.

But he started reading.
Once Upon an English Country Garden—a love story.

A romance?

Henry George Stanton-Jones II wrote a romance?

The book became a best-seller in all Europe. All right. So his famous grandfather wrote a romance. He began to read.

Sensing my presence, she turned, the breeze teasing the bottom of her skirt, swirling it lightly around her ankles. Her gloved hand reached up to steady the straw hat on her black hair. I could feel her gaze but couldn't make out the eye color. She was all in white, standing with a background of the English Country Garden where colorful flowers swayed and danced and were as high and higher than she. She was so fair, and seemed to be a wisp of a girl. The white against the color made her all the more outstanding.

I had felt every emotion I'd ever heard of. But I never before felt what I did that day and knew it must be love.

I knew it was that indescribable word
love
so lightly tossed about.

I loved her.

She smiled faintly. And I knew she loved me too.

I couldn't speak. Could only offer my arm. She took it and we strolled along the garden path. Enjoying the beauty. Not the scenery so much as the knowing, the feeling, the absorbing the power of love.

Alan sighed. Well, his grandfather had known how to write a sweet little love story that appealed to the general population. Alan figured he could do better. Not on a love story, but something with action and drama. His life certainly had drama.

Then his eyes fell on the next line.

I should have known anything so beautiful, so perfect, so overwhelming, all-enveloping was simply too good to last.

That line kept him reading. Yes, it was the story of romance and love, but its being too good to last haunted every line after that.

Alan became engrossed with the character, and analyzed what he felt. The character hated God for letting her suffer. But he stifled his anger and hurt because her faith in God gave her strength, peace, a greater love of life, and an acceptance of leaving them all.

It was not until after her death that he called on that God in earnest. He'd felt her bearing children had weakened her further, but she left him with parts of herself. That faith, that knowledge gave him the will to live, to eventually write again.

Alan laid the book aside. No, the book wasn't about romance, but about the deepest emotions one can feel. About life, and love, and disappointment, and hating God, and learning to accept. His grandfather had learned hard lessons.

Alan looked at the title
Once Upon.

It started as a fairy tale.

Was the ending a fairy tale too?

Could one really—really and truly—know God's presence like his grandfather claimed? Was there a greater love than what human beings could give each other?

Alan read the author's note. Writing the story had given Stanton-Jones clarity. As he poured out his heart on paper, healing began. As he searched for God's answer when there seemed to be none, he began to experience that reaching for God, and putting the story down brought him relief.