Whatever Lola Wants (26 page)

He put on a jacket against the February wind, and loped over to Madeline Staunton's barn office. “I need help.”

“You usually do. What now?”

“I need you to find someone.”

“Who?”

“Her name's Julie Robertson and I don't have any idea where she is.”

“You know her?”

“I did.”

“When? Where?”

“A long time ago.” He thought. “Just over thirty years ago.”

Madeline Staunton sniffed. “Old girlfriend?”

Carney grinned. “About as old as me.” He explained about the postcard and handed it to Mrs. Staunton. “I'd like to know what she's done for the last thirty years.”

“Where'd you last see her?”

“Where we lived. Median, over in New Hampshire.”

“What do you know about her?”

Carney told Mrs. Staunton everything he could remember.

“I'll see what I can do.”

Back in his office Carney sat on a stool and played his cello. More and more cello playing these days, less and less time resolving disasters. In the last couple of years he'd been on the road lecturing, then publicizing his book. He'd had letters about the book, two dozen or so, mostly from fans, a couple from the crazies. Where had Julie found the book? Strange, writing a book and making a reconnection after three decades. Madeline Staunton would track Julie down.

But two weeks later Mrs. Staunton conceded failure. Median had led her nowhere, Julie's parents long dead, no trace of their daughter there either. Middlebury College too had lost track of her, last known address a small town in South Dakota but she was gone from there as well. Still Mrs. Staunton had written to all the Julie Robertsons she had located on the Internet. None who answered admitted to being Carney's, Median's, Middlebury's Julie. Possibly her name was no longer Robertson. In which case, end of the line. Disappeared. Except for a single postcard.

Over a beer with Charlie Dart, Carney said, “Remember Julie? Julie Robertson?”

“Julie. You saved her from that guy. On the skinny side. You and her were some item.”

“She wrote me. About the book.”

Charlie grinned. “Yeah?”

“I want to find out about her.”

“Write her back.”

Carney explained; the card, the search. “I want to see her again. I think I need to see her.”

“All these years, you still think about her?”

After a couple of seconds, he said, “Yeah.”

“So?”

“Charlie, when you worked for that insurance company, you tracked people down.”

“Sometimes.”

“Think you could find her?”

“Might take a while.”

“Would you try?”

•

“Will he? Find her?”

“We'll have to wait and see.”

“Okay.” Lola lay back on a cloud. “Ted? Anything new happening yet? Down there?”

I had the sense of rustlings in Richmond, at Terramac. But nothing cohesive yet. “All pretty quiet still.”

Slowly I said, “You bored with the past?”

“Nope.” She closed her eyes and waited for me to continue.

•

3.

Priscilla Cochan returned aglow from
Burlington. A soft day in early spring, the late afternoon of a fine fine day, her world spinning right. She loved Johnnie as of old, she loved the baby, Melissa, and her older daughter, Deirdre, and she loved the new growing tiny being inside her. She had ached with love for her lost boy, Benjamin, an ache blessedly weakened with the passing months, an ache she knew would never disappear.

She'd married Johnnie young and Benjie had come soon. Johnnie's genius and his hope had excited her. It taught her that vision, once dreamed, could become a solid thing, tactile, working in the world. Johnnie would build consequential pieces of the future, and she'd walk by his side. She left her life in Boston, family and friends, shops, libraries, museums, to come to Merrimac County at the top of Vermont, Johnnie's adopted community. To build a city! No foundation-financed experiment here, not like that Biosphere Two place out in Arizona. This would be a city for human beings to live in. Johnnie's kind of people. Her heart was large enough for two, for four, for much much love. Would she tell Johnnie now, immediately? Or wait for the perfect moment.

When Johnnie came home she was lying in their big deep tub near-covered with bubbles, soaking away the day's sweat and smell. “Hi,” she called. Tell him from the bath?

He opened the door and stared at her. “Hi.”

She saw him frown. “You all right?”

“Sure. 'Cept I've got another meeting. Why?”

She smiled, careful. “Well, you're early and—”

“I'm fine. What's up?”

“I don't know. You seem— Nothing, I guess.” She felt a chill down her back whisper, sink deeper. “I thought maybe, because you're already home—”

“No, just a lot of little things.”

“Good.” The foamy soap hid most of her body. Except for her head, the red hair soaked flat. A hint of brown where her nipples showed through dying bubbles. Her crimson toenails down by the faucets. The idea came to her, she was hiding herself. He couldn't see her belly, not even a hint of new bleep curve rising above the water. “Nothing serious then.”

“Nothing that can't be dealt with.”

She smiled up at him.

“I'll be back late, probably.”

“Bye.” He disappeared beyond the bathroom door. She raised herself on an elbow, her shoulder in the air. She waited, heard the front door slam. She reached for a plastic bottle, poured in some green cream, ran hot water over it. More bubbles. All of her covered now.

Priscilla Ayer Cochan, after her examination, felt prickly still from Johnnie's glance. Today, this morning and afternoon, she had had several gynecological explorations, one medical, the other two consummately more pleasant.

She'd driven over to Burlington in air-conditioned calm to her doctor, Rachel Ryan, who'd taken her first thing in the morning. Congrats, Pris, you're pregnant again. A few tests, routine, come in next Wednesday? Which left her the rest of the day. For visiting her friend Tina; like she did every Wednesday, right? But Tina was in England. Well, for herself then. She drove to his house, where he'd be waiting as he did each Wednesday.

“Priscilla, you look beautiful.”

“I feel beautiful.” She smiled, for herself and for him.

They excited each other merely by looking, eyes meeting, holding, drawing closer. The power of his first touch, gentle as breath, shocked her again. A contact of lips and no return. They usually made love first so they could make love again later.

They'd met a few months ago at a crowded restaurant, chance, waiting to be seated. Priscilla's friend Tina wasn't available. Priscilla would treat herself to lunch. Only a table for two explained the hostess, nothing for half an hour, if they wanted they could share it?

Go ahead, Priscilla, she heard her fancy say. Share with him.

Okay, she'd share.

She told him she sometimes came to Burlington for the day, her husband was very busy, the nanny stayed with their children. He told her he liked eating by himself. No, he'd never been married. She said she grew up near Copley Square, she missed Boston, her husband's business kept them up here. He said he liked big cities but felt at home in small towns too, and he liked Burlington. They talked into the middle of the afternoon. The restaurant was empty. The hostess hoped they'd not minded being thrown together so. They asked for separate checks. He walked her to her car, he said, “Would you like—?” just as she said, “Do you think—?”

They did. It went from there. She conceded to herself at their second lunch, the pull was magnetic. The fourth lunch, he invited her to his home. They stood by the window high on a hillside overlooking Lake Champlain. She had known what would happen, craved it. When he slid his arm around her, so easy, a friend's gesture, first physical contact—how careful they'd been not to touch, not even when he helped her with her coat—they knew they had only to turn to each other.

It proved exquisite, this love grown from happenstance, a gentleness she hadn't known since before Benjie's birth. For him a return to hope in the present. He'd not meant to fall in love with her, not with anyone. But it happened.

Her love for Johnnie changed, became an older, more solid thing, a sense of happiness achieved. It decreased not at all in loving this other man. She had long been dazzled by Johnnie, his power and his ease. She had come to love his passion for Terramac, his devotion, loved him now with a fully fitting love. This new plenitude of love, in Burlington and in week-long memory, went on, wondrous. She loved them both.

Her baby, who the father? She didn't know. And, allowing the question, saw she didn't care. Ben had been born dark-haired, Melissa still blond, Deirdre red. Would he, this gentle luncheon partner, Wednesday partner, insist on rights to the baby, should it look like him?

“I have to tell you something,” she said.

“Anything you like,” he said.

“I'm pregnant.”

He smiled, a moment of delight, then caught himself. “And—you want to be?”

She nodded. “Very much.”

He embraced her. “Now, do you know—”

“No. And I don't want to.” She held him tight. “Do you?”

He laughed. If she needed help for the child, he'd be there, whoever the father. He had no problems about paternity. A good woman, then another, had wanted his contribution to conceive a child. Two had come into the world by him, two girl babies. He cared for them deeply. They liked him too, often spent hours or days with him. Lots of ways to care for people without owning them, and he planned to be close to the girls over the years. As the children and their mothers wanted.

Priscilla loved Melissa and Dee mightily and wanted this baby wherever it came from. She'd had asked him should they take precautions. If she wanted to. No. Good.

Inside her the new one floated, grew, multiplied in its cells, under layers of womb and sinew, under bubbles. What had Johnnie seen beneath the bubbles, inside the stretching skin?

•

“Well,” said Lola. “You going to tell me?”

“What?”

She sat beside me on my pillow of cloud. “Who's the lover?”

“Guess.”

“I can't.” She leaned toward me. So languid, she brushed aside my pages of notes. “You'll tell me right now.”

I said, “Karl Magnussen.”

“Sarah and Leonora's brother?”

“Him.”

“Wowee!” She reached out, she touched her naked finger to my mouth, my nose. With her palm, bare and warm, she grazed my cheek.

I couldn't help myself. I kissed her fingertips.

A tiny smile.

My heart, such as it is, pounded. “Lola. Listen. We aren't supposed to feel.”

“Yes, the rules. Who wrote them down? You ever read the rule-books? Do they exist?”

“Lola. The passions die, and so on. It isn't possible.”

“I didn't think so either.”

“And now?” I felt a stirring as I'd not since my last days on earth.

She grinned. “I'm feeling kinda—alive.”

“Yeah.” I laughed.

“Their dreams,” she said. “The secrets they're hiding. I want to know. All of it. It's almost like—like my heart was pumping my blood around again.” She stood, she smoothed her loose gown. Such noble curves at shoulder, bosom, waist, and bum, such graceful legs! “I need to hear everything you know.” She settled by my side.

“From right now on,” I whispered, “I'm never telling any story, except for you.”

She waited, then asked, “What happens next?”

•

4.

The Terramac report Carney had
given Theresa Magnussen had so displeased her, in the end he too was dissatisfied with it. So he'd needed all effort this afternoon even to open the cello case. The telephone rang, his line, not the one buffered by Mrs. Staunton; he'd told her to hold off all calls. He let it ring. The machine cut in. Charlie Dart. Last week Carney had spent two days with Charlie, the debriefing on the K'wan Seah mess. Charlie was supposed to be off on a toot.

Charlie was saying, “Come on, I know you're there. I've got some Julie info for you.”

Carney stared at the phone.

“Okay, never mind. I'm coming over. Do not leave. You hear me?”

Carney reached for the phone but the line had gone dead.

No chance getting his mind around to the cello. Charlie lived an hour away. Carney poured a Scotch and added a lot of water. He started a fire. By the time Charlie arrived the blaze had warmed the room to friendly.

“Scotch? Sure.” They sat by the fire.

Carney said, “So?”

“So you don't like to pick up your telephone?”

“You cut off too soon. What about Julie?”

“A guy I know, he tracked her down. He called me, told me. So I came back. I had to check her out before telling you anything.”

“Okay. Tell me now.”

“Well, it took a while. He started out in British Columbia and South Dakota. Nothing.”

“We knew that.”

“So he went back to the starting point. New Hampshire. Median.”

“Mrs. Staunton tried there. Nothing.”

“No, but maybe nearby? Concord, Nashua, Manchester. And there she was. Is.”

Carney leaned toward Charlie. “You saw her? You met her?”

Charlie nodded. “We talked about old times.”

“Is she okay? Is she married? Kids?” He considered, and frowned. “A grandmother?”

“She was married, it didn't last. Three years. South Dakota was a teaching job. She quit after eleven years. She came back to the east.”

“Kept her name? Her ex-husband's?”

“Hers.”

“Well how's she look? Sound?”

“Carney, don't get weird. It's been more than thirty years, right?”