While Jack had
taken charge of all the complicated details of her life, seen that she had
money, clothes and everything a teenaged girl might need, the McConnells had
offered her a haven in which she found comfort and fellowship.
As pastor of their church, Mike had baptized
Emily as an infant, prayed at her mother's bedside during the years of
recurring illness, been there as a rock of consolation after her death.
Sara, with her sweet, quiet manner, had been
the perfect companion for the more mercurial Lilianne and the two had been
close friends from the beginning, when each had come to the valley as an
outsider.
They had shared a love and
knowledge of music and art, as well as the motherhood of their growing
children.
Sara had been
so kind, so watchful, when Emily had suddenly become part of her household,
making every effort to see that she had the privacy a girl her age needed.
She had understood and encouraged Emily's
wish to visit the farm, to put things in order after her father's abrupt
departure, helping her pack and clear the house, preparing it for an uncertain
future.
Mike had offered Emily a
sounding board, guiding her toward acceptance of the changes in her life in the
context of her already well-developed faith.
As her father's long-time friend, he had shared her grief and understood
her frustration at facing a future where the man they had known was now so
cruelly disabled.
Mike and Sara
would understand her need to come home.
Whether they would agree that she was mature enough to take on so much
responsibility, she couldn't be sure.
But their support could serve as added ammunition against whatever
doubts Jack might have about her readiness to live on her own.
Then there was
Angela to consider.
Where Jack would
debate the wisdom of her plan with rock solid logic, her godmother would most
like respond emotionally, with the sort of fiercely intense approach she took
to everything in her life, from her music to her family.
It seemed that if her heart told her to do a
thing, no matter how illogical, Angela did it.
While her instincts usually proved to be wise in the end, there were
often heated arguments or torrents of tears along the way.
With her Italian husband, Sal, she frequently
engaged in furious debates, before the predictably passionate
reconciliation.
Even with her teenaged
daughter, Lil, the similarities between the two led to endless wrangling over
the most trivial issues, generally concluding with Angela's taking the day.
The thought of seeking Angela’s
approval set her stomach quivering and effectively cleared her mind of any and
all coherent arguments.
She might be
able to stand up to Jack’s reason, but she knew she was no match for Angela.
The vision of Angela’s dark eyes flashing as
she bluntly spelled out the obvious made her cringe and retreat.
No, she would go to Angela only if and when
she knew she had won over Jack.
Emily believed
Angela would likely accept a
fait accompli
with good grace.
She was a loving godmother and a caring
ally.
But she would much prefer
informing Angela of her plans, rather than attempting to enlist her help.
She knew she
had been blessed initially by her parents' choice of Jack and Angela as her
godparents, and further by her father's appointment of Jack as her guardian.
They had been closely involved in her
upbringing, and remained faithful to her through all the changes.
She was well aware of the need for their
continued support.
They were the only
family she had now.
The challenge would
be convincing them she was ready to at least try life on her own terms.
She looked down
the list of fragmented ideas on her notepad and shook her head sadly.
There was nothing here that would stand up to
the loving objections she could anticipate from the very people she needed most
on her side.
It would take clear
thinking and firm resolve to face arguments that might make perfect sense to
her mind, but were in complete opposition to what her heart told her was right.
Fighting the
specter of inevitable defeat, Emily went through the house turning off lights,
ending up before the hearth with only the firelight illuminating the room.
Brushing her still damp hair, she tried to
lull herself into a state of calm.
Prayer, she knew, would order her mind and still her fears.
But to pray, she needed to quiet her racing
thoughts and banish the rising anxiety that fueled them.
She had always found strength in her
confidence that God was somehow involved in her day-to-day living, watching
over her every step.
Through all the
challenges and the changes, her faith had held her fears in check.
There was no reason that this time would be
any different.
This assurance she felt,
that she was making the right choice, that in fact God had guided her toward
it, should be proof that she would find the strength and courage she needed to
go forward.
There by the fireside, in the
absolute stillness of the night, the simple words of wisdom came stealing into
her thoughts.
Have faith, be still and
let God be God.
Chapter Two
Crawling into
the back of the limo, Stani huddled in a corner, closing his eyes behind the
lenses of his sunglasses.
If he could
only be still for a bit, he told himself firmly, he might yet avoid being sick.
His head was exploding now and waves of
nausea threatened to ultimately humiliate him.
Robert, his dark face devoid of expression, gently closed the car door
and slid in behind the wheel.
Turning
back to his passenger, he offered a bottle of mineral water and a
hairbrush.
“Young sir,” he said softly,
“you'll be needing these I think.”
Stani opened
one eye to accept them, pressing the cool bottle against his burning
cheek.
“Thank you, Robert.
And thank you for waiting.”
He was relieved that it had been Robert, and
not one of the car service drivers, who had been asked to wait.
Officially Milo's chauffeur, Robert had been
with them since their arrival in New York.
He was by now a member of their already irregular family, although Stani
knew that idea would have been resisted by both Milo and Robert.
But just as he relied on Milo and Jana to
keep his days and nights from running to chaos, he also depended on Robert, who
had gone far beyond his assigned duties on more occasions than Stani liked to
recall.
Laying the hairbrush aside, he
mused that Robert would never permit him to exit his car looking like something
picked out of the gutter.
As soon as his
head stopped pounding, he would try to bring some order to his still damp hair.
The car began
to gain speed on the freeway and he tried to relax, hoping to fall asleep.
Five hours to DC should be long enough to see
him back on his feet.
If only he could
get Milo's voice out of his head.
Never
in all their years together had he shouted like that.
Oh, Milo might get very angry with him at
times, but his voice tended to be ominously soft on those occasions.
When the phone
had rung, Stani had been sprawled on the floor, having apparently fallen just
short of the bed on his return home.
He
had no idea what time that might have been, but he was sure he had only been
asleep for a few minutes.
He had stared
at the phone, unable to convince his body to respond.
But it had gone on ringing until the pain in
his head had prompted him to at least attempt to make it stop.
He tried to
force a normal greeting; one never knew who might be calling.
But Milo had known, as he always knew, the
nature of Stani's condition.
He'd gone
off immediately, demanding to know if Stani realized the car was waiting
downstairs.
Of course he didn't know!
How was he to know what his day's schedule
might be?
That was what Milo saw to
every day of his life.
It was then that
he remembered.
Milo wasn't there.
He was in Aspen.
He and Jana had taken their first vacation
together in ten years, leaving Stani to go to Washington alone.
Milo was still
shouting over the phone, “Stani, you
must
pull yourself together!
Do you understand me?”
As always when upset, his accent seemed more
pronounced, clipped and authoritative.
“All
right!
I understand!
Can you call the driver back, ask him to give
me ten minutes?
Ask him to wait.
Please!”
Suddenly afraid he might start to cry, he bit his lip, hard.
Dropping the
receiver, Stani ran his hands through his hair, twisting his fingers into the
curls and pulling.
The pain brought
tears to his eyes, but it might help him to focus.
He took a deep breath, smelled the stench of
cigarette smoke—and maybe vomit?—in his sweater, and bile rose in his
throat.
Struggling to his feet, he
stripped off his clothes, stumbling toward the bathroom.
Somehow, in the next few minutes, he managed
to shower, brush his teeth and dress.
Grabbing his bag, packed by the ever-thoughtful Jana before her own
departure yesterday, he had nearly reached the door when, out of the corner of
his eye, he spotted the violin case.
With a muttered oath, he snatched it up, slinging the strap over his
shoulder, and jerked open the door, coming face to face with Mamie, her key in
hand, a look of supreme disapproval in her knowing brown eyes.
With a
sputtered apology, he pushed past her.
“So
sorry, Mamie.
I'm late, of course!”
“You're right
about that, Young Stani.
Robert is
standing at the curb.”
He was aware of
the slow shake of the housekeeper's head as she watched him race toward the
closing elevator doors.
As he stood impatiently
waiting for the next car, he turned back with what he hoped was a winning
grin.
“Don't worry about the mess I
left.
I'll take care of it when I get
back.”
The effort of the words and of
bending his face into a smile had been too much.
He tasted bile again as he got on the
elevator, thankful that it was unoccupied.
Mamie would clean his room, he knew, but at least he had made the
gesture.
Like Robert, Mamie could be
counted on to cover his tracks, although she rarely let him off without a mild
scolding.
When the
elevator doors opened on the lobby, he was blinded by the blaze of sunlight,
and groped for the sunglasses he could only hope were still in his pocket.
They might be considered part of his
celebrity disguise, but they were essential protection after the kind of
indulgence he'd enjoyed last night.
The
banging in his head escalating with every step, he sped past the waiting
doorman and dashed gratefully for the car, aware of Robert's solicitous nod.
Stani shifted
his position, stretching his legs across the seat and trying to find a more
stable resting place for his head.
No
longer panicked and angry with himself, now he was overwhelmed with shame.
He was sure Jana would have been standing
there by the phone, would have heard their conversation.
His pathetic idiocy had spoiled their much
anticipated vacation.
It seemed he
always understood, after the fact, how destructive his behavior had become.
He just couldn't seem to remember by the next
time he'd had a drink or two.
He'd fallen in
love in recent months.
Fine Scotch
whisky had become his passion, the object of his obsession.
He adored everything about it, from its amber
glow in the glass, to the slow warmth that spread through his body as it went
down.
And of course, he loved the
release of tension that followed soon after.
Whisky made the clubs and parties he frequented seem so much friendlier;
made
him
friendlier, more at ease around people with whom he had nothing
in common.
The only drawback to this
relationship was that he never felt completely comfortable until he'd had too
much to drink.
He was dedicated to
finding just the right balance between having a pleasant time and falling down
drunk, but in the process, he seemed to always go too far.