Vivian In Red (50 page)
Eleanor stops short, and just gapes.
“Hey there,” he says.
“What? How?”
He chuckles. His laugh is throaty, deep compared to his speaking voice, and this sends a little chill up my neck. Alex steps forward for a quick friendly hug, before stepping back to answer. “Apparently, your grandfather thought this Arnie guy should interview my mom, and talked this Arnie guy into arranging a little trip.”
“Like he was so hard to talk into it,” I interject. “He practically jumped across my desk to get your phone number.”
Eleanor turns around to stare at me, and her face is glowing with one of her biggest, broadest smiles I’ve yet seen. In these moments, she’s never more beautiful. I would orchestrate a surprise like this every single day if I could, just to get that smile out of her. “Grampa, why didn’t you tell me?”
“Ta-da!” I add some jazz hands, to the merriment of the crowd all around.
I knew she and Alex had been talking on the phone. I knew that because her cousins are always eavesdropping, and also because I’m a little nosy, too. And I further knew that she would brighten like a struck match whenever she got a call. She should hide this from me in my house? When I’ve known her since she was born?
Alex and Eleanor walk toward the piano.
“Loved your lyrics, Mr. Short.”
“You can stop with the mister already. And I hope you’ll come to dinner tonight, if that writer doesn’t have you too busy.”
“I’m all yours,” he says, but by this time he’s looked back at Eleanor.
We all can’t stop staring at them, and they can’t stop standing there like mannequins, so finally Devon breaks the spell by announcing dinner break. Someone cuts the stage lights to a reasonable soft glow, and we disperse, all us of acting like we’re not staring.
I take a seat halfway out in the house, spying on them, if I’m being honest. Eleanor and Alex walk to the edge of the stage and sit like she was before…hanging their feet off and leaning back on their hands. Eleanor kicks her feet lightly. Are they talking about the flight? New York? About Mark Bell, who, we found out recently, was after all Millicent’s father? I plan to ask Alex at dinner if the Bell family was welcoming, or aghast. We had to lend him the family lawyer to get their answer, but they might have softened by now.
Now Alex hops down easily from the stage, and he holds out his hand and helps Eleanor down, as well. They walk side by side up the aisle, companionably.
They’re going to pass right by me, and I’m not swift enough to hide, so I rely on my natural old man cuteness to get me out of trouble for spying.
“Hello, Grampa.” Eleanor folds at the waist to kiss my cheek.
“Hi, kids. Boy, we pulled it off, didn’t we, Alex? The surprise. Guess it’s the producer in me, I can’t resist orchestrating the dramatic reveal.”
Eleanor asks him, this time staring out into the soft dark, “How long are you here? Before you have to get back home?”
“Well, the trip for the book interview is officially just a couple days, but I’ve got some time since I quit my job.”
Eleanor mock-slaps his arm. “You didn’t tell me!”
“It just happened. We finally cleaned out and fixed up Estelle’s house, so I’m staying there now until we sell it, while I figure out the next thing.”
I pipe up. “Happy to have you at the townhouse. Loads of room. You and your mom, just you, whatever. Right, Eleanor?”
“Of course.” Eleanor adds, “Hey, let’s get you something to eat. Where’s your mom? I’d love to meet her. Grampa, you want to come?”
I shake my head as Alex answers, “Resting up from the flight.”
“We’ll do something fun today,” Eleanor says. “Nice and touristy. Last time you were here we hardly even let you out.”
“Will you stand over a subway grate in a white dress like Marilyn Monroe?”
“Only if you climb the Empire State like King Kong.”
They say their farewells to me, and I turn to watch them go, shameless spy that I am. I can’t help myself. All the world’s a stage, old Will said, and he’s not wrong.
As they walk up the aisle, Alex drapes his long arm behind her so his hand rests on her shoulder. Eleanor’s arm slides underneath Alex’s black leather coat, around his waist. They pause at the top of the aisle, out by the theater lobby. The doors are propped open, and the daytime light filtering in sets them in silhouette. They turn toward each other, and Eleanor tips her face up to look at him straight on. She takes one step closer, but there’s still a line of daylight shining between them. For several heartbeats they stand there like that, still and close, but separate.
Then they step apart and move out into the lobby, disappearing from view.
Oh well. Not like it’s final curtain, anyhow. We’ve got plenty of time. Well, they do, anyway. Me, I’m eighty-nine, so who knows?
I’m alone in the seats now. Out of habit, I glance around for Vivian. I’ve never seen her again since that last day in my office, and I’m surprised as hell myself but I sorta miss her, this hallucination or whatever she was. I pull out my wallet from my jacket and open it. Vivian’s things are with Millicent, as they should be. But Alex gave me the dried flower. I hadn’t given it to her, and it might not have had anything to do with me. Maybe she just dried it in
Gone with the Wind
because it’s a big heavy book. But every time I smell roses, now… every time… I open the envelope in which I’d tucked the crumbling bloom and inhale, eyes closed. I think I must be imagining the scent; it couldn’t be this strong, not for something that’s been dead so many years.
At last I put the rose back and tuck the wallet away. It’s time to go home.
I have quite the cast of characters to thank for helping
Vivian in Red
come to life, seeing as I started this ambitious project about a songwriter without even knowing which Gershwin brother was the lyricist. (It was Ira.)
As ever, thank you to Kristin Nelson and all the fine people at Nelson Literary Agency. I know you’ve got my back, and I appreciate it so very much.
Thank you, again and again, to Jason Pinter at Polis Books, for loving Vivian and Milo as much as I do, and bringing them to the world for me.
Many thanks to intrepid copyeditor Christine LaPorte.
As for my research sources, they did their very best to educate me on everything from expressive aphasia to the Bronx, and whatever mistakes there might be are mine alone. Better yet, consider it poetic license.
Much gratitude to:
The Bowery Boys podcasters—Greg Young and Tom Meyers—for their New York stories sparking my imagination.
Kelly O’Connor McNees, for talking me off the ledge when I thought I wasn’t up to the challenge.
Philip Furia for insight on Tin Pan Alley lyrics and lyricists’ workaday lives.
Alex Disbrow for sharing pictures of his Art Deco Bronx apartment.
Lloyd Ultan for sharing memories of the Bronx of days gone by, told in his wonderful accent.
Dr. Michael Baird for information about DNA testing in 1999.
Dr. Jayne Hodgson for insight into strokes and their effects.
Stephanie Toering for details on speech pathology and recovery for stroke victims who have lost the power of speech.
My friends who tolerated this goy’s annoying questions about Yiddish and kosher and High Holidays. Amy Finkelstein, Marla Garfield, and Arnie Bernstein, you’re all mensches.
Jill Morrow and Elizabeth Graham, for their invaluable feedback and insight on early drafts.
Last, but he could never be least, Ernie Harburg, son of the great Yip Harburg (of “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” fame, and more) for talking with me about the life of a lyricist in the Golden Age of song.
Kristina Riggle
lives and writes in West Michigan. Her debut novel,
Real Life & Liars
, was a Target “Breakout” pick and a “Great Lakes, Great Reads” selection by the Great Lakes Independent Booksellers Association.
The Life You’ve Imagined
was honored by independent booksellers as an IndieNext “Notable” book.
Things We Didn’t Say
was named a Midwest Connections pick of the Midwest Booksellers Association. Her latest novels are
Keepsake
and
The Whole Golden World
, which was lauded by Bookreporter.com as “a riveting and thought-provoking page-turner that will appeal to fans of Jodi Picoult and Chris Bohjalian.”
Kristina has published short stories in the
Cimarron Review
,
Literary Mama
,
Espresso Fiction
, and elsewhere, and is a former co-editor for fiction at
Literary Mama
. Kristina was a full-time newspaper reporter before turning her attention to creative writing. As well as writing, she enjoys reading, yoga, dabbling in (very) amateur musical theatre, and spending lots of time with her husband, two kids and dog. Visit her online at kristinariggle.net or on Twitter at @KrisRiggle.
The following is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in an entirely fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2016 by Kristina Ringstrom
Cover and jacket design by Georgia Morrissey
Interior design and formatting by:
ISBN 978-1-943818-38-9
Library of Congress Control Number: 2016937092
First hardcover publication September 2016 by
Polis Books
, LLC
1201 Hudson Street, #211S
Hoboken, NJ 07030
