Hearts That Survive (25 page)

C
aroline felt content at the country home. Bess had no need to learn secretarial skills now. She stayed home to take care of the house and gardens.

Home. The thought felt nice.

A couple of days a week Caroline and Armand took the rented carriage to the station. She held the reins a few times, and Armand laughed. "Safer than in the McKay."

She punched his arm. He was quite muscular. He should be, spending as much time working on that lake house as he did in his office.

"And when do we get the car over here?"

"No, no. You said if the speed limit was fifteen, which it is. I made no car promise."

"But you smiled like it was the greatest idea ever." She squinted at him. "Like you're doing now."

He laughed. "Looks can be deceiving."

She didn't always care for obviously true statements, not when they made her think of herself. She was content, but always present was that threatening dark spot inside.

They took the Beaumont train into Halifax and talked as friends, which they surely were, although the situation seemed rather odd. He was in her employ, and yet she was dependent on him for the rental house. If she were ever going to find out what he needed from her, perhaps being a little personal might be a good start.

The opportunity came the day the first burials took place. William's was one of them. Armand went with her and Bess, as did people from the surrounding area. They dressed in black. She wore a new hat with a veil that shielded her eyes. She felt Armand's eyes on her as if he thought she'd cry. She didn't. Neither did Bess. But that little dark spot acted up, and for a while she felt she was slipping into depression the same way the
Titanic
had slipped into the ocean.

Armand must think her heartless. She would speak of William. "We had a good marriage," she said one morning on the train.

His head turned quickly toward her. "Good?" She saw the reflection of his face when it turned toward the window. His eyes were sad.

Maybe Armand was wondering what a good marriage was. He hadn't opened up about his personal life, and she wouldn't pry.

One day had been particularly depressing, understandably so due to all the morbid things they were dealing with. Friends and relatives came to the office, having been told they could receive financial help throughout the city, including the Bettencourt offices. There was talk of
Titanic
items being found in the ocean or swept onto shore, including a deck chair. She wondered who might have sat in it.

As if sensing her distress, Armand suggested they go for a ride. He drove. She was startled when the car stopped. A beagle came loping down the road, his legs bending like a prancing show horse's. But his shrill yelping sounded painful. He stopped beside the car, whining.

Strips of hair were missing from his body and at one place across his head. "We must help him."

Armand said, "I'm sure you must."

She opened the door. The dog cowered, uncertain of her intentions. "Come, doggie. I'll help you."

He whined, stepped back, and yelped. All of a sudden, he jumped into the car.

"Bravo!" He licked her hand and settled on her feet while Armand gave her a wide-eyed look and then started the car.

Bess looked pleased when they brought the dog home in a big canvas bag with his raw feet bandaged. After a few days, Caroline realized how he soothed them just by needing them.

Several days later, Caroline sat on the porch in a rocking chair. As the beagle lazed near her, she saw a figure appear out of the fog from the direction of the lake house.

Bravo opened his big brown eyes and lifted his head. He whined, and Caroline laughed softly as the morning air filled with singing, as if all were well. She'd sung in church but never in the robust way he did.

He never came to his home, now hers temporarily, without a good reason or without being invited to supper by Bess, who usually took food down to him.

Bravo ambled off to meet him as Armand approached, singing "Down at the cross where my Savior died." She thought he might have chosen a better subject with which to greet her this fine morning.

But seeing the newspaper he held, she felt a warning rumble inside her. Maybe the song was meant to prepare her for something. She could tell him she was prepared. Nothing was certain.

He reached down and patted Bravo on the healthy side of his head. The beagle lowered his head as if he were in ecstasy and returned to his blanket beside Caroline's chair. Armand looked happy. "Thought you'd want to see the paper Willard brought this morning."

He leaned near, holding out the paper. He smelled like sawdust and paint and ordinary work. She liked that.

Her eyes devoured the picture. Dear Lydia and Craven, such a handsome couple, prominent in the picture, with others in the background. They stood smiling, looking like they belonged together. Caroline studied the full-length photo. Lydia's dress was lovely, but her jewels were more conservative than she would have expected.

She understood when she read the article. The focus was on their courage, which would make a display of wealth inappropriate.

After a period of seclusion, they met with a few friends to celebrate their marriage and the beginning a family, hoping their moving on with their lives would be an encouragement to others.

"Thank you for this." Caroline looked at Armand, sitting in the rocker on the other side of Bravo. "They're moving on with their lives. That's good." She meant that. She was glad for them. Her words should not have sounded forced.

He stood. "I'd better get back. I have to take advantage of the few hours Willard can give me."

Get on with your life? Why?

As he stepped out onto the lawn, she stood and moved to the banister. "Incidentally," she called, having no idea why, "are you taking me to your church in the morning?"

His brown eyes held the sun. "At fifteen miles per hour." Shortly afterward she heard
When Jesus shows his smi-i-li-ing face, there is sunshine in my soul.

Well, at least that was a happier-sounding one. The fog had lifted. Her gaze moved to the sky, where the sun promised a shiny day.

He really did drive up to the house on Sunday morning in a car he must have rented at that place near the train station.

He introduced her and Bess to people who already knew about them and were friendly but not imposing. After seating them, he exited the sanctuary through a door near the stage.

He returned with the choir, which wore white robes with black lapels. Of course he'd be in the choir. He had a wonderful voice. He hadn't said anything. There were a lot of things neither of them had said.

The songs were nice, and she sang softly, "Sweet hour of prayer that calls me from a world of care." Bess did better, and Caroline wondered if and where her friend had ever attended church. Certainly not in the great cathedrals as she had. The choir sat, and she thought she was prepared for the preacher.

But Armand swung aside the half-door and walked out. The organ played. His voice filled the sanctuary.

Our Father who art in heaven

And she was back in the little boat.

Caroline's eyes moved toward Bess. They glanced at each other and quickly away. Caroline knew she was remembering that song being sung on the sea. A prayer.

Don't touch me, Caroline willed. Bess didn't but instead clasped her own hands on her lap.

Give us this day our daily bread.

They'd been hungry.

For thine is the kingdom and the power and the glory forever.

The
A . . . men
seemed to be strung out forever and she didn't know if she could stand it, but the people were saying amen and clapping. He sang extraordinarily well.

He returned to his seat as if he'd done nothing special and focused on the preaching. The pastor's topic was prayer. He reminded them to continue keeping the
Titanic
survivors in their prayers. All knew the Marstons, members of their congregation who had lost their lives. Shouldn't she feel peace and comfort instead of the rumble?

"And pray for the dog that Armand and his friends saved and are caring for." People chuckled at that. This was church? She looked at the mischievous expression on Armand's face. The remark took the tension from the focus on the tragedy. Armand would have known that. The pastor knew that. You can't keep talking about tragedy, thinking about it, without some kind of relief. Bravo! For the dog.

They had saved the dog.

Bess said Caroline had saved her life. Who had saved Caroline?

Out there, she'd seen hundreds and hundreds and hundreds calling on God and Jesus to save them. He didn't.

Out there, she knew she was going to live.

She didn't know why.

She was afraid of the
power . . .

But she would like to meet the one who had saved her.

And ask why.

C
aroline asked Armand about all that talk of being saved. She said she wasn't ignorant of God and Jesus and religion, but hadn't heard it as simply and plainly as the pastor had spoken it. "It sounds perfect, but if you have Jesus, whatever that means, why aren't people's lives happier, why—"

He interrupted. "Because," he said, "it doesn't make you less human. Just more divine."

"Divine?"

He was unwavering. "Yes. The Holy Spirit comes to dwell in you. You can cry and hurt and question, but it's like he puts his arm around your shoulder and says he'll get you through, and someday, maybe not in this world, you'll understand. No matter what, the soul is saved."

She shuddered, remembering he'd talked about the souls out there on the ocean. Had they been lost forever?

She'd been . . . saved.

But she was also twenty-six years old and felt . . . still adrift?

Yet, she began to go through the motions that these ordinary church people of varying means did. She attended Bible studies, and held them in her temporary home. She was supposed to serve the Lord. She was serving people. Surely that counted.

Weeks passed, and her life was full. She and Bess got into the habit of going to the lake house often, taking a lunch for Armand and Willard and watching the building's transformation into a quaint little cottage with two bedrooms and all the modern conveniences, and construction of the attached structure for boats.

Willard, being a fisherman by trade, although one would never know it considering the amount of time he was at the lake house, said they should learn to fish. Bess took to it right away and had no problem with putting a worm on a hook.

Caroline shrieked, but once she hooked a worm, after the lecture about that's what God made them for because fish had to eat and people had to eat fish, she had no problem. When she actually caught a fish, she screamed and carried on so much that Bravo whined and nudged the bucket as if to get rid of what had caused the tumult.

The next suggestion wasn't as well received. In fact it caused inner thunderclouds to act up. "You need to go out in the boat," Armand said.

"I did it," Bess said. "With Willard. We didn't go far."

She didn't even want to look at the boat. Armand had her touch it while he described it. He called it his sailing dory, made of Eastern white pine. The lines were simple, it had a flat bottom, and it was about twenty-three feet long. She liked the high sides, but that really made no difference. Boats could sink from the bottom. One just needed something to hold onto occasionally.

Fortunately, the next days were foggy. Then it rained. When a sunny day appeared, it was time. The four of them got into the boat and moved out onto the water. The clear sky matched the smoothness of the lake. She could see land all around. She could swim to land. But she wasn't really afraid the boat would leak, or capsize, or that she'd drown.

She straightened her shoulders, removed her hand from Armand's, and breathed in the scent of fish and water and cool air and sunshine. On shore again, she stood before Armand and grabbed his hands and thanked him. "That was a good thing," she said.

"I know it's not easy for you, Caroline. But you're doing remarkably well."

She was doing. That was something. "I'm getting attached to this place, the people, the church. But I should think about something more permanent. I can't stay in your house forever."

"Sure you can." His face colored as if he hadn't intended to say that. "To tell you the truth, I didn't know if I could bear having anyone live in the house. But that was something I needed. And I did it. Just like you got into the boat." He paced in a semi-circle, then returned. "While we're doing so well, what do you think of our going to some fancy restaurant for dinner? Some evening."

He must have seen her shock. "The four of us," he added quickly. "We're friends—of course."

Questions formed in her mind, but all that came from her mouth was, "Armand?" She looked into his face for a long time. His lips parted as if he needed to take in more air. His hair had tumbled over his forehead, so without really thinking, she reached up and brushed it aside, which was fine for a friend to do, and realized their life vests were touching and she'd said his name and needed to follow it with something.

"Armand," she said again and smiled like a lady-friend would, trying to figure out what to say. Then she knew. "That's a delightful thought. But others might misinterpret. Even if it's the four of us."

He looked like he'd made the world's worst blunder. "You're right, of course. And it hasn't been that long." He was nodding.

Lest he think she didn't want to go with him, she tried to think of some way to dispel that idea. "Why don't I cook dinner for you? We'll eat at the house."

He rubbed his chin. "I thought you didn't cook."

"Bess has been teaching me."

"I accept." He looked intrigued. "Will it be the two, or four of us?"

"Four. Three." She shrugged. "I don't know. Does it matter?"

He grinned. "I was wondering if there's something I could get. If so, for how many?"

"Oh." She spread her hand. "I don't think so." Of course she didn't think so because she had no idea what she would cook.

"I can cook it for you," Bess offered when Caroline told her about her plans.

"I want to do it myself."

Bess's eyebrows did their thing. "Chicken. Baked chicken would be perfect."

"That's special?"

"In an ordinary way."

"Should I make those yeast rolls like you make?"

"Never! I mean, that takes too long," Bess said. "I know what. I have to go to the store anyway. If you don't mind, I'll pick up the groceries and you just get yourself ready."

She could do that. Wash her hair and pin it back in a roll. Maybe a little curl falling along the side of her face. No, not that. He might think she was trying to look like him. Searching the closet, she thought of all the clothes and jewels still in London and all of those lost on the ship.

But the ones she had bought in New York were sufficient. She wouldn't wear the suits she'd worn to church. Not the everyday skirts and blouses. Either the blue or green or, yes, the lavender. A sweet little silk dress with a darker sash and a mix of the two colors at the bodice. Too revealing? Well, no. Skin is skin, no matter where it's located.

The silver chain with a small diamond and matching earrings would do.

There. Not overdone or underdone at all.

When Bess returned, she asked her opinion. "Just right." The twinkle in her eye caused Caroline to believe it. "But you're not going to cook in it, are you?"

"Oh, well, no, of course not. Just making sure everything looks right."

She changed into cooking clothes and went down to see what Bess had bought. Cooking the dinner didn't seem too difficult. Just wash the chicken, put it in a pan, rub a little butter on it, stick it in the oven, turn on the heat, and take it out when it's done.

Anybody could make salad. Just cut up the ingredients Bess had bought. The rolls came from the bakery, already cooked. As Bess said, no need to make it look like she was going to a lot of trouble.

"Sure you don't need me?" Bess asked, and when she said no, Bess said she would be down at the lake house. She was going to try out the electric stove down there and make sure all was well. "You know there's a phone down there now."

Caroline nodded. "I have the number." Sometimes Bess behaved like she thought Caroline was a complete idiot. She did think, as the day wore on, she might use the dining room since the kitchen was heating up.

After she had made her preparations, gone upstairs, redressed, come down, and set the table, she heard the knock at the front door. So far, so good.

She opened the door and was aware that he looked very much the distinguished gentleman in his suit and white shirt and tie; perhaps his outfit was a tad more formal than the suits he wore to work. Since he had been working down at the lake house, he looked more rugged and sun-bronzed. She knew he was quite good looking but tried not to think of it much.

His mouth moved, but it said what she had: nothing. There was no reason to say you're handsome tonight, that would mean he usually wasn't, and if he said you're beautiful in that dress as William might have they'd both be complimenting the clothes, which both knew didn't make the person. But it sure could make you regard the person more closely, which you really shouldn't.

And he did seem to be regarding her rather closely. But she had reminded him she was a recent widow, so what was a man to do? She said, "Come on into the kitchen," and he did.

"Ah," he said, when they arrived, and he held out a bag. "For you. Us. Wine. With or after dinner." She took it and set it on the countertop near the sink.

Although she'd considered the dining room, she thought it safer to eat in the kitchen because she was serving and she really should have let Bess do this. Women didn't go around serving dinner while wearing silk dresses more suitable for dancing. Oh dear, no music. Not that she planned to dance.

Maybe she'd overdone it.

At least she didn't pull his chair out for him. He did it himself. She already had the rolls and butter and bread plates on the table along with the glasses of water. She'd already perked the coffee, as he had that other day.

She took the salad, already in two bowls, to the table. There. Now, would he prefer the chicken with the salad or after? After. She'd make this a two-course meal. Three really. Bess had bought a cake. The candle. Where were the matches? My, he was quiet tonight. "Do you know where the matches are?"

"They used to be in the pantry."

"Oh, well." She gestured toward the window. "It's still daylight. We don't really need a candle."

"You're right," he said, and she sat. He asked if he might just thank the Lord for the food, and she said that would be nice, so he did. Then they smiled at each other and picked up their forks.

"So you got the stove put in," she said.

That started a good conversation about stoves, and there was much about stoves she hadn't been aware of. "I'm glad to have it," he said. "I love to catch a fish, come home, and cook it fresh. I enjoy cooking." He cleared his throat and added, "Too. The salad is good." He nodded and messed up his hair. "Very good."

It should be. Took her over an hour to cook it. Fix it.

"I made coffee too. Would you like it now or with the chicken?"

"With the chicken will be fine." He took a bite of a buttered roll. Ate it all. And the salad. She had some left as her appetite wasn't the greatest at the moment. She'd just taken their salad bowls away and felt like taking a deep breath, but the air seemed different. She saw it then. Black smoke curling out of the top of the oven door.

By the time she screamed and jumped straight up, he was there, shutting the door, saying it was all right, just leave it in the oven. He turned it off, led her to the chair, and said these things happen all the time. He should have gotten a new stove for the house. That one was a few years old. They didn't need chicken anyway.

"The salad and rolls were perfect. Plenty." He got the wine. "Let's just laugh about the chicken and enjoy a glass of wine." He went into the pantry and returned with a corkscrew. Good. He kept talking, as if he knew he'd better. "I had Willard pick this up. Told him to get the best wine available."

He took glasses from the cabinet. He began to pour, then stopped and raised the bottle and read. "Dessert wine." He looked at her. "But there's nothing wrong with dessert wine," he explained, and she thought he thought she knew nothing at all about anything. "I think of it as a small amount after dinner to sip slowly. Some men like it with cigars. I don't smoke."

"The chi . . . chi . . . chi . . . ken did."

But neither of them laughed about the chicken. He said, "Why don't I just get rid of that for you?"

"No." He must have heard it. His face was as screwed up as hers felt.

She couldn't look at him. The only thing she could think of to say was, "I can't . . . c-c-cook."

"Here, I—" He touched her. Oh, he should not have laid a comfort-filled hand on her shoulder. It was too much. "Just go!"

She was wrong about the thunderclouds. The rumblings had been a warning of a volcano, and there was no way to prevent the eruption. It knocked the glass to the floor and her head to the table, and the lava, black and burning, flowed.