The Melody Lingers On (5 page)

Bettina, the nanny, had been with her since shortly after Katie was born. Small, with a compact body, with only a few strands of gray in her glossy black hair, Bettina at sixty-one had the
energy of a woman half her age. For the last year she had been taking care of her elderly mother and needed to catch the six o’clock bus from the Port Authority to her home in New Jersey.
Lane had been forced to give Glady an ultimatum. Either she left the office promptly at five or she would have to change jobs. Glady had reluctantly agreed, although she regularly muttered about
how lucky Lane was to have such a kind and understanding employer.

A roast chicken and sweet potatoes were already in the oven. Asparagus was in a pan on the stove and the table in the dinette was set. Lane shed her coat and gloves and scarf and sat with Katie
in their compact living room. It was their special time together. She always allowed the phone to take messages between the hours of five and seven. Her mother in Washington and her close friends
understood that. It was a joke among them that the rule was made for the benefit of Glady, who thought nothing of calling Lane minutes after she arrived home. Sometimes they asked why Lane
didn’t change jobs. Lane’s answer always was that Glady’s bark was worse than her bite and it was deeply satisfying to work for someone who was so incredibly talented. “I
learn something from her every day,” she told them. “She not only is a marvelous designer but she can read people like a book. I wish I had that talent.”

The phone rang twice during the time that she and Katie were having dinner but she did not check her messages until after Katie was tucked into bed at eight thirty.

Both of them were from Eric Bennett, asking her to have dinner with him on Saturday night.

She hesitated, put down her cell phone, then picked it up again. The image of the attractive man who, with a touch of irony in his voice, had walked them through the Bennett mansion filled her
mind.

Glady had said that she thought Eric might be innocent of any knowledge of the scam. “
Might
be innocent,” not
is
innocent, Lane thought.

She hesitated, then pushed the call-back button on her cell phone.

W
ere you talking to that nice young woman who was here with Glady Harper?” Anne Bennett asked her son. She had come into the former breakfast
room just as he was ending his conversation. They were about to have their usual late dinner.

“Yes, I was,” Eric said, smiling.

“I Googled her,” Anne told him as she sat at the table and unfolded her napkin. “Thanks to you that’s the one thing I’ve learned to do on the computer.”

Eric knew that his mother had learned to use the Internet after the Fund failed because she wanted to see any news article that applied to his father. He had refused to teach her how to use
Twitter because of the never-ending references to him. They came not only from the bitter investors who had lost all their money but also from comedians who had made Parker Bennett a source of
their jokes. “Park your money with Bennett and you’ll never have to pay income tax again” was one of the latest.

He did not tell his mother that he had Googled Lane Harmon as well. “And what did you find out about her, Mother?” he asked.

“She has an interesting background,” Anne said with a nervous gesture as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

Watching her, Eric thought of how his mother’s hair used to look. She had worn it in an elegant silver-tinted upsweep perfectly coiffed by Ralph, her longtime hairdresser. His blood boiled
when he thought of how, after ten years as a valued customer and a generous tipper, she had been barred from returning to his salon. “Your presence will upset too many of our clients who lost
money investing with your husband,” he had explained.

His mother had returned home choking back tears. “Eric, he wasn’t even apologetic,” she had told him. Now a stylist from an inexpensive salon in Portchester came to the house
once a week.

He opened the bottle of pinot noir that was in a Waterford crystal decanter next to his chair.

Marge O’Brian, their full-time housekeeper of fifteen years, was his father’s staunchest defender and still came in to serve his mother lunch and dinner and to tidy up. One of the
great problems of moving to New Jersey was giving up Marge, who could never leave her family in Connecticut.

Tonight he knew she had prepared a Waldorf salad, salmon, and wild rice, his mother’s favorite dinner. He only hoped that when it came she would do more than pick at it.

Now he asked, “And what did you find out about Lane Harmon?”

“She was widowed in a car accident before her baby was born. She’s the daughter of Gregory Harmon, the congressman who they said had the potential to be the next Jack Kennedy. He was
killed in a crash when he went on a golf outing in a private plane with three of his friends. Lane was only seven years old. Isn’t it terrible that she suffered that kind of loss
twice?”

“Yes, it is.” Eric reached for his mother’s glass and filled it. “You may be pleased to know that I invited her to have dinner on Saturday night and she
accepted.”

Anne Bennett smiled, a genuine smile. “Oh, Eric, that’s nice. She’s so pretty and I can see how smart she is. She made me feel so comfortable. That Glady Harper may be doing us
a favor, but she intimidates me.”

“I suspect she intimidates everyone, Mother, even me,” Eric joked.

Anne Bennett looked affectionately across the table at her son. Then her eyes filled with tears. “Oh, Eric, you’re the image of your father. I so often think about how we met purely
by happenstance. We were both going down the subway stairs. It was raining and the stairs were slippery. I slipped and almost fell. He was on the step in back of me. He grabbed me by my waist and
held me against him and that was the beginning.

“He said to me, ‘You are so pretty. Why do you look familiar?’

“I told him I had just started working as a secretary at the same firm where he worked. We went down the steps and he walked me to my train. A few days later he called and asked me out.
That was it. When he proposed, he said that the moment he put his arms around me that day, he knew he would never let go of me again. I was dating someone else, but it didn’t matter. He was
history the day I met your father.”

It isn’t a blessing to be the image of my father, Eric thought. I can hardly go anywhere that people don’t turn their heads and look at me. But what was more unsettling was that his
mother repeated that story over and over again. His parents had been married eight years before he was born. His mother was now almost sixty-seven years old. He was beginning to wonder if she might
be in the early stages of dementia.

Another problem, he thought.

“Do you want your coffee in the sitting room, Mrs. Bennett?” Marge asked as she began to clear the table.

The sitting room was the new name for the den that had been designated for the help.

“Yes we do,” Eric answered.

“I’ll have another glass of wine,” Anne Bennett said.

Eric frowned. Lately his mother had been drinking too much wine. The house is dreary and desolate, he thought. It will be good when she moves to Montclair next week. Once Mother is settled
there, I think her spirits will be much better.

He guided his mother by the arm as they walked down the hall. But when they went into the room he was startled to see that the music box his father had given to his mother long ago was on the
mantel.

Anne Bennett reached up and took it down. “I love to hear it play. I know I told you it was the first present your father gave to me. It looks expensive but in those days it was only about
thirty dollars. We both loved to dance. The figures dancing when the music plays are Czar Nicholas and Czarina Alexandra. But of course you know that.”

No, I don’t remember that, Eric thought. He did remember that the ornate little music box had been on his mother’s dressing table for years. He had never been around when she played
it.

As Marge brought in a tray with coffee, his mother lifted the lid of the box and the figures of the doomed couple began to dance.

“I don’t know if you will recognize it,” his mother said. “It’s my favorite Irving Berlin song. It goes like this.” She began to sing softly. “
‘The song is ended but the melody lingers on.’

“Whether or not your father is alive or dead, our song is not ended and our melody lingers on,” she said, her voice fierce and allowing no room for contradiction.

O
n Friday morning Lane made her usual stop at Glady’s office and was surprised to see Glady poring over paint chips and swatches of
materials.

She opened the conversation in her usual brusque manner. Holding up one of the chips, she said, “You’re right. This deep blue is too dark for Anne Bennett’s bedroom. But
you’re wrong about going to another color. The answer is to put white wainscoting at chair height on the walls. That will punch the blue and be very dramatic.”

“And expensive,” Lane reminded her. “Are you doing this without charge?”

“Of course not. I’ll bury it in the bill I present to Countess La-di-da. She can afford it. I still say that bandit tipped her off to get her money out of his fund.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Lane promised.

“Don’t be in such a hurry. That’s not all.”

“Sorry.”

Glady held up five swatches of material. “I don’t like the spread and drapes we took from the old guest room at the Bennett mansion. I’ve ordered these. Spread, pillows, bed
skirt, vanity skirt, draperies, and chaise lounge. It will make a beautiful bedroom for that poor woman.”

“And all these to be charged to the countess?”

“Of course. We’ll do a little claw back of our own.”

Trying not to shake her head, Lane headed for her own office. This was the time when Glady called her suppliers and tortured them to be sure that there would be no delay in having work done or
supplies delivered on time.

Lane knew it was a good opportunity to make a quick phone call to her mother. Mom will be in the shop by now, she thought. Her mother owned an antique shop in Georgetown. She was always trying
to persuade Lane to move there, saying she would finance her opening a decorating business of her own.

Lane knew she was not ready to do that yet. Even just a minute ago I learned something from Glady, she thought. And besides that, I have no interest in living near my stepfather.

Her mother answered on the first ring. “Lane, I was about to call you. How’s Katie?”

“Great. She’s turning into quite a little artist.”

“No surprise.”

“And I’m fine too,” she said.

Her mother laughed. “Believe it or not that was my next question,” Alice Harmon said defensively.

Lane visualized the dynamic woman who was her mother. Alice Harmon Crowley was in her midfifties. Her once-auburn hair was now completely gray. She wore it in a short bob around her face. She
had no use for having to fuss with it. “There are better things to do than stand in front of a mirror and primp yourself,” was the way she put it. Tall and slender, she did yoga at six
o’clock every morning.

She did not remarry for ten years after Lane’s father died in the plane crash. Lane’s stepfather, Dwight Crowley, wrote a daily political column for the
Washington Post
and
was considered an important player on the Washington scene. He and her mother were married just as she was starting college. She was glad that her mother was happy with Dwight, but she didn’t
like him. His idea of a discussion was “I talk; you listen,” she thought. He’s nothing like Daddy.

Dwight and her mother were a sought-after couple in Washington’s inner circle. Now Lane asked, “Have you been to the White House this week?”

“No, but we’ve been invited to a White House dinner for the Spanish ambassador next week. What have you been up to?”

“Glady got a call from Parker Bennett’s son. We’re doing work on Anne Bennett’s town house in New Jersey.”

“I know a dozen people who got caught in the Bennett mess,” her mother said. “It’s been horrible for them. Did you meet the son? A lot of people, and especially Dwight,
think he was in on the scheme.”