Baroness (37 page)

She turned away, out of the pocket of memory, and her gaze scraped across Oliver's desk, landing on a trio of framed pictures in the corner. Esme and Oliver on their wedding day, a twinkle in her mother's eye, despite the solemn expression. The next, an arranged photograph taken of all three on holiday in Newport. Lilly looked as if she had eaten something sour for breakfast.

And the third picture? Just of her, a shot taken by Oliver—he was always taking out his camera in the unstaged moments of life. She'd never seen this photograph before—of her, seated on the window seat in the parlor, her knees tucked under her skirt, her hair in long braids, reading a book in the afternoon light.

She looked lost in her own world, oblivious to the fact that Oliver's lens focused on her.

Perhaps she'd always been oblivious.

How had she never recognized Oliver's steadfast love?

Or perhaps she had simply disdained it.

But it hadn't disdained her. His love had followed her across the ocean and back, even out West. What had that preacher said in Minnesota?
And the Word says that neither death nor life, nor angels nor rulers, not things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height or depth, nor anything else in all creation will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.

Rennie was wrong. God's love was here, in this world, if she just looked for it. He did show up when she needed Him. In Oliver, over and over. And perhaps God kept showing up, despite the fact she'd run from Him too.

She ran her thumb over the picture of her mother, of Oliver, still hearing the preacher.
When God adopts you into His family, you belong to Him. He's stamped His name on you. A name that comes with His protection. And His birthright—which is eternity and the power to live with joy on this earth. It's all yours, just as if you'd always belonged. But the Good Word says that to have this, you must repent.

Repent.

She sank into Oliver's chair. Stared out toward the city. “O God, I'm sorry I turned away from You. That I ran from You. From where I belong.”

In His arms.

And, at the
Chronicle.

She returned the frame to the desk and headed to the door, opening it to poke her head out. “Madeline, I need Bernie and Mitch in here with a status of today's edition.”

The woman stared at her, and Lilly shut the door before the secretary called security.

She hadn't a clue what she might be doing, but she, like her parents, would figure it out, trusting in God's blessing.

Six hours later, she'd put the paper to bed, toured each of the departments, and written a column that she might actually read. Especially after Bernie complimented her on the Lindbergh piece. Commitment. It felt like fire in her veins.

She took the train home then walked through Central Park, through the column of arching elms along the pathway, breathing in the lazy fragrances of the pear and cherry trees, the pink magnolia blossoms. Sometimes she could still smell the prairie on the wind, but Central Park conjured its own magic, with the mounted police patrolling the park, the scurry of squirrels upon the willow oaks.

How many times had she strolled through the park with her mother, capturing the memories of her childhood?

Yes, she belonged here.

She exited the park and crossed the street to the Price family chateau. Once upon a time, footmen—Oliver, in fact—stood at the door to attend guests through the iron gates. When Oliver married Esme and moved into the chateau, he'd retired many of them, given others a job at the paper, manning the presses or working delivery. Now, only a handful of staff remained—the cook and two scullery maids, her mother's lady's maid-turned-housekeeper, Bette, and her two assistants, and Mr. Stewart, Oliver's father and butler, who had resisted his son's insistence to retire.

Apparently, in the golden age of the Price family, Phoebe Price employed a small army to keep the grounds running, her parties on the social register of must-attend events. Even Aunt Jinx had a larger house staff, despite her smaller assembly of rooms in the Warren and Went-worth Building at 927 Fifth Avenue.

Lilly opened the door, the lilac trees in the courtyard of the house scenting the July air. Still, the silences, marred by only the ticking grandfather clock in the foyer, drilled through her, especially when she dropped her handbag and pushed open the doors to Oliver's office.

Once upon a time, her grandfather, August, occupied this space. After he passed, Esme had remodeled with white wallpaper to contrast the dark mahogany wainscoting, opened the velvet drapes at the windows to allow in the light, and replaced the family picture over the fireplace with an oil duplicate of the sitting trio of their family on Oliver's desk. Photographs of the city, from vagrant children to crime to architecture, hung on the wall opposite his desk. Apparently in his youth Oliver had worked as a photo stringer for the
Chronicle.
She barely believed it.

Behind his desk he'd hung her mother's debutante picture. Lilly could never reconcile the buttoned-up young lady with the woman she knew, the one as comfortable on a horse as she'd been drinking tea.

Lilly had made a point to never enter Oliver's lair, and now, just standing in the opening of the double doors felt too intimate.

Even, invasive.

“Ma'am, can I help you?”

Bette had served her mother in her youth and knew the secrets of the Price family better than any of them. White streaked her long black hair, netted at the back of her neck. She wore the requisite housekeeper's black dress minus the white apron of her assistants. She had always frightened Lilly, just a little.

“I was hoping to find Oliver.”

It just might be the first time she'd ever said that, but Bette didn't comment. Simply, “I'm sorry, ma'am. He left last night after work without a word. I don't believe he was expecting you back so soon.”

She wasn't expecting herself back so soon. Or, ever. Still, “I sent him a telegram from the Paris office. I thought he might have received it.” Of course, it had been a little vague.
Finished in Paris. Coming Home.

“I'm sorry, ma'am. I'll tell Cook you have arrived and will be needing dinner.”

Lilly tried not to taste the bitter swell in her throat as she climbed the stairs to her room. He would return…and she would be here running the paper and waiting for him when he did.

She had reached the landing when she heard the door open and footsteps in the foyer. She turned, her hand on the rail, and warmth spread through her, something new and brilliant as Oliver walked into the room holding his fedora and a small satchel.

“Oliver!”

He looked up, and she didn't know why it had taken her so long to see it—the warmth in his eyes, the delight. “Lilly!” He set down his bag and opened his arms.

She'd never had a father. Not until this moment when she wrapped her arms around his waist, let the warmth of his embrace speak to her. Safety. Protection.

Love.

Why had she been so afraid of it?

She stepped back, smiled into his eyes.

“I read your article. Magnificent, Lilly. How was Paris?” Despite his warmth, as he stepped back, she saw something flash through his eyes. Concern? Even, panic?

“Paris was Paris,” she said as she heard another footstep, as she looked past Oliver to the man coming up behind him, into their home. “But I belong here….”

Her words ended with a gasp.

“Hello, Lilly.” Truman pulled off his hat and looked at her with an intensity that could always unravel her just a bit.

Truman.

And he looked good. Time had been generous. His shoulders seemed broader under his faded leather jacket, and he wore a crisp white shirt and black tie, dark trousers, a spiffy rendition of the renegade flyer he'd been. He was even clean-shaven—no more raze of dark whiskers. Still, that unruly lock of black hair hung over his gray-blue eyes, and he gave her the slightest rakish smile, the one that never ceased to sweep words from her mouth.

She stood, mute, in the foyer, her gaze returning to Oliver.

“I should have done this years ago.” Oliver ran his hand along the brim of his hat, considering her, then Truman for a moment. Finally, “I'll be in my study should you need me.”

She wasn't sure just whom he might be talking to. Still, she had the crazy urge to lunge after him as he disappeared into his office.

She didn't want to guess at how she looked after two weeks' passage and a day at the
Chronicle
. For all she knew, she wore newsprint down her face, her hair in tangles.

“I know this is a surprise.”

She looked at him, then, trying to choose which words to start with. She managed an unladylike, “Uh…”

He smiled, too much charm in it, and she wanted to slap him. Perhaps she
could
find the correct words. “What are you doing here, Truman?” She shot a look at the closed door to Oliver's office.

No, not closed. Slightly ajar. She remembered Presley's description of him sitting in the tavern in Spain. Perhaps he had his ear pressed to the door, waiting in the wings. The thought propelled courage into her veins. “Finally, after four years, you track me down?”

“Your father came to my air show.”

She didn't bother to correct him, because yes, Oliver was her father. Except…so he hadn't tracked her down. Still, “I don't understand.”

Truman set his hat on the foyer table and reached inside his jacket. “He came to inquire after these.” He pulled out a folded wad of papers. “It's our divorce papers. I haven't signed them.”

His words stilled her, all the way through. “You mean we're still—”

“Married. Yes.” He curled them into a tube in his strong hands, drew in a breath, looked away from her, and it reminded her of that shaken expression after she'd climbed out onto the wing in the fog, when he'd depended on her to get them safely to ground. “I couldn't, Lil. Not when I still loved you.”

She stared at him, his words like a flame through her.

Any time Oliver wanted to burst through the door and throw Truman's hide from their house would be fine with her. Her entire body thrummed.

“Love me? Truman, you threw me away like an old piece of fabric, patched up your wounds with a new plane, a new air show. Let's not forget Agnes the Sky Angel.”

He held up his hand. “Lilly—”

“Do you even know what love is, Truman? Because guess what? Love sticks around. Commits. Love doesn't run.”

At least, that's what Oliver—what God—had taught her.

Every word appeared as a blow on his face and he winced, looked at the ground. “I know.”

“You know? What do you know? That you betrayed me? That what you did was—”

“Unforgiveable?” He said it so softly it shouldn't have silenced her, but she stood there as memory rushed back at her.
There's no forgiveness for me.

She turned away, her back to him, hating the answer. “No. Not unforgiveable. Nothing is unforgiveable.” She wanted to say the words—
I forgive you
—but they lodged in her throat.

He took a step toward her. It seemed the door to Oliver's office had cracked open just a bit wider. “Lilly, the day we did that suicide loop, when you nearly died, I nearly died too. The thought of losing you the way I'd lost my brother—because of my stupidity, my arrogance— I couldn't bear it. I don't know what Oliver told you, but I begged him to take you back to New York City, away from me. I was afraid of what could happen to you, with me. I asked your father to make you forget about me.”

No wonder Oliver had delivered the divorce papers. No wonder he never spoke Truman's name. She closed her eyes. “Then why are we still married? What are you doing here?”

Truman came up so close behind her she could smell the sky on him, the touch of the sun on his skin. If she turned, she might step right into his arms. She edged away from him.

“I'm here because nothing is right without you,” he said softly. “We belong together. Since you left, everything feels off balance.”

She rounded on him. “You have your own show—it's everything you ever dreamed of! I'm not stupid, I know that's why you married me. So that someday Oliver would buy you your own plane.”

He stared at her, his mouth open.

“That's not true, Lilly.” Oliver stood at the door now, his hands in his pockets. “I accused him of the same thing, and he told me he didn't want my money. I told him that he could have it anyway, as long as he loved you, kept you safe. That's why he told Marvel he could buy a plane.”

“But you let me believe—”

“That was my doing,” Truman said. “I knew that you would only leave me if I betrayed you. I knew you would find out what I said to Marvel, and I…didn't care.”

He didn't care that he'd hurt her. “Well, it worked.”

His lips tightened into a tight line of regret. “Yeah.”

“So you came back because—”

“Did you not hear the part where I told you I am still in love with you? That nothing is right without you? That when Oliver showed up to retrieve the papers from me—the ones I've been holding onto for four years— I couldn't bear not seeing you? I begged him to let me see you, and he agreed.”

“What if
I
didn't want to see you?”

Truman flinched. Glanced at Oliver. Then he nodded. “Okay. I deserve that. But I'm not signing those papers until I know you really don't want me.”

She hated the look on his face and the way he so easily stirred her heart.
I want you, Truman.

But then what? Live on the road with him, flying from one air show to the next? A vagabond life until one of them died?

She couldn't live that life. She glanced at Oliver, and he met her eyes. Not anymore.

Truman was her past. New York, the
Chronicle
was where she belonged now.