Hearts That Survive (33 page)

Beau and Angelina returned from Hawaii the following week. Angelina looked pregnant, and her son was lovely as ever. Their time together was nothing short of wonderful. But he needed to get back to his studio in California. He sorted through what he had in his
Titanic
office. He and Craven decided a secretary at Beaumont could keep him informed about any information or material.

The visit was quite satisfying, although Lydia hated to see him leave. She and Craven spent more time at home nowadays, maybe because they were getting old or something. She was looking forward to a restful evening.

But that afternoon Myrna said the Grahams were downstairs. They weren't expected. Walking down the stairs, she saw Jean and Hoyt in the foyer, their faces stark. What could have happened to them?

Jean caught her hands. "Oh, Lydia. I'm so sorry, but—"

Lydia knew the something had not happened to the Grahams, but to her.

A
heart attack, they said.

Craven had experienced chest pains after returning to the office following lunch with Hoyt.

They thought it might be something he ate. But he had another attack at the hospital and could not be revived.

The funeral was delayed to give guests time to travel from abroad. Board members, employees, and friends would eulogize him in the great church, which was worthy of the tribute to such a successful man.

She dressed in traditional black and wore a hat with a black veil that covered her eyes. The beautiful casket at the front of the church was surrounded by so many flowers the air was hard to breathe. The eulogy was one of praise for the respectable life Craven had lived, the good work he had done, the charities he had supported, and the fine family he had had. They were all blessed by the life he had lived.

Their life together for over three decades was summed up in one afternoon.

The congregation rose while the coffin—she thought John had been sent home in a wooden box—was rolled down the aisle, and she thought of another aisle, on a ship that sank.

"Mom," Beau prompted. She moved out of the pew. Her son held her arm. She walked down the aisle and out of the church. They rode in a black Cadillac to the cemetery, where a huge tombstone, befitting a great man, would later be placed.

But first, she and her son watched Craven Dowd's casket, just like that mighty ship, be lowered into the ground, along with her secrets.

The cards, the condolences, the visits, the calls were endless. People caring. Wishing her well. After two weeks, she insisted Caroline return to Nova Scotia. She hurt most when Beau left. But he said he was as close as the telephone.

One morning, their attorney paid a visit. He gave her a safety deposit box. Craven had willed that it be given to her two days after he was buried. Lydia took it, but had no desire to see anything financial. She was Craven's beneficiary, and the will held nothing to question.

But in a lonely moment she became curious. All business matters had been taken care of. Maybe the box held a present for her. His going-away gift? That would not thrill her. He was not here to tell her how beautiful she made a piece of jewelry look.

She took it to the library and opened the top. Surely there was some mistake. Craven left her
this?
She pulled out the blue garter John had taken from her leg and Craven had caught. And kept.

And a bottle? But without a cork. And without champagne. Picking it up, she saw a sheet of blue paper rolled up in it. She remembered Craven holding a piece of blue paper, then rolling it and saying, what? Oh, yes—utter nonsense.

She turned up the bottle, slapped its bottom, and caught the edge of the paper with her finger and pulled it out. She unrolled it and began to read the words written on
Titanic
stationery.

The . . . utter nonsense.

She screamed.

Servants came running. It took a while to convince them she only needed water, despite her thinking she might need an ambulance. They obeyed when she dismissed them but did not close the library door upon leaving.

She began to read the utter nonsense.

As sunflowers turn to contemplate the sun,

I turned to view your golden loveliness

And loved, desired to care for, not possess:

To cherish till our earthly days are done.

But then desire for pleasure we should shun

Crept in: Brief bliss brought shame with each

caress.

Though we have sinned, I love you none the

less,

But more, yet more, 'til life's last thread is spun.

That life is now too short. My child-to-be,

Through these last hours I pray that you may

grow

In faith as well as form, that you shall know

My love sent from my grave beneath the sea.

Heaven grant that you may always feel this bond

Of love until we meet in worlds beyond.

John

—Psalm 23

She started to read the poem again and realized that this was John's name, his handwriting, his pen and ink—he had held this paper. She touched it to her cheek, to her heart, loved it with her hand. John's words had come from the depth of that ocean, and it had taken him more than three decades to find her. But he'd done it.

My love sent from my grave beneath the sea.

He wrote this while knowing those were the last moments of his life.

I pray . . .

He prayed for his son. She did not readily understand poetry and read it over and over. John wanted him to
grow in faith, in form, know his love, meet him beyond.

Was this what Beau was searching for? Why he could never get enough information about the
Titanic?
Was John's prayer being answered? But what was it John prayed for?
To know his love. Feel the bond. Meet him.

She read Psalm 23. John wanted them to dwell in the house of the Lord . . . what was it he'd said? You'll be in my heart . . . forever.

John's son had been on that ship, with his dad. Beau was saved from that disaster on the sea.

She reached for the phone. "Beau. I need you to come home. Why? Because I have everything you need for your
Titanic
movie, right here in my hands." She added silently, and in my heart.

She might lose her son's respect, but he would know his father's last thoughts were of him, for him. He would know his father's words had traveled from a cold, watery grave over three decades to tell him of the love that would be in his heart . . . forever.

B
eau arrived late. "Get a good night's sleep," Lydia said. "We'll talk in the morning." After breakfast they sat across from each other in the library. He read the poem. Studied it a moment. Held it out to her.

"Put it on the side table. You may want to read it again after you hear my story."

"Mom." He leaned forward. "You've already told me your story."

"Not this one. Please don't say anything until I'm finished."

A furrow appeared between his brows, but he leaned back.

"Beau, you were on that ship."

She felt his stare, but she stared into the past. In her father's office John had displayed his toy train, huffing and puffing around its track. Why she happened to be there she didn't remember, but her father, and Craven, and the others were all laughing. She had looked up and into John's eyes. That was the beginning of forever.

She talked to Beau all day, pausing only for mid-morning coffee together, lunch apart, afternoon tea together, dinner apart, an evening glass of wine. She had picked at meals in her sitting room. At lunchtime, she looked out the window and saw him in the backyard, walking while he ate. She didn't know where he ate dinner. But she could not sit across from him and look into his eyes as if she were his mother.

She was giving her life. He was losing his. He obeyed her and said not a word.

She talked as the room grew dim, then dark.

"Are we finished?" he finally said.

Possibly.

She said, "Yes."

He switched on the light, and she shielded her eyes for a moment. They hurt. They were dry. She would like the comfort of tears. They didn't come. All she had was an ache.

She knew he was staring at her, but she could not meet his gaze. "He wanted you to know—"

"I can read," he said. "May I take it with me?"

She nodded. "Be careful. It's old." For the first time, she felt old.

He stood. "I'll leave now."

She looked at him then. When had he developed Craven's blank gaze, his unreadable expression, his bland tone?

Just as quickly, he changed. "You're right," he said. "I could make a movie of this. Call it
My Two Dads. Or The Boat With No Sail.
No, not creative enough." He scoffed as if he hadn't intended to say that. "I have to give this some thought. Excuse me." He left the room. He left the house.

He left this stranger.

F
rom the time Beau began to grow inside her, Lydia had kept him safe with lies. Now she'd lost him with truth. She'd tried to give him his natural dad but took away the only one he ever knew.

Two weeks later, he appeared at her door. They shared no smile, no embrace. He suggested they go into the library.

Neither were comfortable. She saw it in his face. Heard it in his voice when he admitted it. "I've tried to absorb what you told me, and give some kind of response." He lifted his hand helplessly. "I can see a script, hear the lines, even know what they should be, but when it comes to talking about my own feelings, it comes out jumbled."

She smiled then. "John was like that. The more meaningful something was, the fewer words he could speak. He had to write them."

"That's the way of the writers I work with."

"Maybe I can make it easier. I'm not the mom you knew. I'm a stranger."

"Oh, far from a stranger. You told me everything."

Yes, and she would take whatever criticism he needed to fling at her. "Go on," she whispered.

"When I left here, I didn't know what to say, what to feel. At first I felt I had no dad. But I did, and do. I loved and respected Dad. And he seemed to be a good husband to you."

She couldn't know if Craven were the better man, but she could say, "The best."

He acknowledged that with a nod. "Then I realized I have two dads. But that flippant remark I made lodged in my mind. A boat with no sail." He scoffed self-consciously. "It's true."

She clasped her hands on her lap.

"I went out on a boat." He added quickly, "with a sail." The tension in his face eased. "I thought about Dad demanding I remember who I am. Could we have coffee?"

She nodded. He went over to the intercom and asked the maid to bring it. He returned to his seat. "David knew who he was at age six. He knew when your feet don't touch bottom, swim. I thought of all that." He grinned. "You can't be around the Bettencourts without having to think, beneath the surface."

That truth made her smile again.

"I never had to rebel against you."

Until now.

"You loved me every moment of my life. Never did I doubt."

Oh, I do. Can you love me?

"You were the perfect mother. And at the same time, the most beautiful woman in the world, who knows all the right things to do and say, to live the good life and be married to a successful, revered man." He heaved a deep breath. "I lived with that. My life and opportunities have been amazing. There's been no reason I shouldn't succeed."

She thought he was doing quite well for one who couldn't speak his mind.

"And then, as you talked to me that day, Mom began to fade like a scene in a movie when the camera moves away."

She was going to break her hands if she didn't unclasp them. No, that was all right. They would match her heart. Fortunately, Myrna entered then with a tray and set it on the coffee table. She couldn't reach for hers with numb fingers.

Beau picked up his cup and drank from it.

She waited for the final blow. He was dismissing her. He was a grown man, but he was her child, her baby. She sealed her lips as best she could and swallowed the scream threatening her throat.

He put his cup down. "You were no longer Mom. That's a label. Like Beaumont and Dowd. Good ones, mind you. And you'll always have that label. But, like you said, you were a stranger. A woman. A person. A flesh-and-blood human being. A scared little girl."

She wasn't sure . . .

"I didn't like it. I saw me as a scared little boy. Maybe that's why we're called children of God, no matter our age."

Now he sounded like David. But as he'd said, you can't be around them . . .

"I'm a grown man, have a wife expecting a child, have every opportunity at my fingertips. But I'm a scared little boy. I could not admit that to anyone but you, because that day you held nothing back, and became no longer just Mom. You're someone I want, and need, as a friend."

Like . . . Caroline was to her?

"I know," he said, "everyone else in this world could abandon me, by their own choice or by my stupidity, and you may not believe this, but I'm not perfect. But I know you will always stand by me, loving me."

She started to come out of her chair, but he halted her, perhaps aware her insides were doing the Charleston and her fingers were nearly broken. He took a sheet of paper from his shirt pocket. "Like it or not, want it or not, I have another dad. And he has reached out to me from the grave."

A tremble of her lips replaced what she intended as a smile.

He pointed to the paper. "In this, I was trying to make some connection with him and who I am and what I am."

She reached for the paper, unfolded it, and read.