I'll Let You Go (74 page)

T
here may be those who feel the transformation of Marcus Weiner improbably contrived (though it is hoped the cynical reader would have long since abandoned our tale). For the skeptic who has held on, stubborn as he is dubious, the author merely suggests—for nothing is being sold here—that there is ample precedent to Mr. Weiner's awakening and that the precedent has a name: Mystery.
^†
We will leave it at that.

The day of the funeral, Marcus kept an appointment he thought would not be fitting to cancel. Besides, he could be of no solace to his son moping around the Santa Barbara estate. The men in suits knew how to reach him and had an explicit directive to do so should Toulouse need his counsel or company.

When Trinnie saw him stepping from the Town Car, he had just returned from an emotional reunion with none other than Amaryllis Kornfeld.

It has been noted that on Samson's Montecito visits, Marcus used to inquire after the girl—and was delighted when the detective eventually called to say she was living in the home of his old friend the baker. He felt guilty about not having replied to Gilles Mott's kind note while in jail—and over his shabby treatment of Mrs. Mott, too. After all, the man had been faultlessly generous in providing sustenance in food and moneys, which in turn allowed Marcus to feed that poor soul and her brood. Now
fate had decreed that Amaryllis be properly with them—just as “Topsy” had wished all along. He owed the couple a debt and was, naturally, anxious to visit his onetime ward. He owed
her
, too, for she had been as an angelic tutor, rousing and nurturing in him all the feelings he now had for his discovered son.

Much as the children had been, Marcus was of course astounded to learn the connection between Amaryllis and the Trotter kids; yet because so much of his life had seemed, and still seemed, a dream, it struck him as being perfectly right. He thanked the detective for enlightening him, and was glad he'd been told before Edward had brought it up.

At the risk of further complication (from which the author has never shied), it is important to note that Amaryllis had herself not yet been apprised of “Topsy's” tortuous connection to the Trotter
familia;
as a stipulation of his being allowed e-mail privileges, Trinnie had forbidden her son to share the revelation. She said things were already messy enough. When a date for a rendezvous had been set, Lani called Marcus to reiterate that he was not to bring any of it up, just yet—they would tell their foster daughter in time.

Marcus had other concerns; he wondered if the child even remembered him. Lani assured that since being told of the impending visit, “Topsy” had been very much in the girl's thoughts. Yet with youngsters, she added, one never really knew.

That afternoon Marcus sported the same staid, bespoke ensemble worn for court appearances. When he stepped from the car, he was concerned that his formality might be misinterpreted as high-handed. Gilles rushed out to greet him, dispelling all worries with a deep-dish hug. He explained that Lani and Amaryllis had taken Felix to the vet after the cat had “got into” some flea-control gel. He was in the middle of cooking, or at least midwifing, a meal Lani had begun—and quickly enlisted a neighbor to watch the stove while they dashed to the bakery. Gilles said he'd forgotten something.

“Fancy!” he said, getting a load of the Lincoln and its driver.

“Don't have a license yet—Mr. Trotter's been kind enough to allow me use of the car. Shall we avail ourselves?”

“Hell, yes! Let's avail away! Always
knew
you'd make it to the top, William!” He hesitated. “Shouldn't call you that, huh?”

“William's fine.”

“No—you're
Marcus
. But Amaryllis still calls you Topsy.”

“Does she?” He smiled, pleased that she called him anything at all.

“Well, let's hurry—they should be home before too long. Don't want to keep 'em waiting!”

They climbed in the Town Car and wound toward Beverly Boulevard, Gilles hamming it up like they were a float in the Rose Bowl parade. The chauffeur pulled into the alley behind Frenchie's, right around where he'd left off the orphan girl nearly a year ago. Marcus loitered halfway between car and dumpster while the baker went in. For a moment, he had that hunted feeling and needed to remind himself he was no longer a wanted man. He almost went inside for old times' sake but thought better of it; Gilles emerged holding a soiled pink box tied with thin white string.

The Volvo was there when they got back. Amaryllis bounded out to tell Gilles that Felix would be all right but needed to stay over for observation.

“Good, good, good—now, say hello to an old friend.”

“Hello,” she said, staring at Marcus.

“Hello!”

He smiled and hung back, not wishing to crowd her. She looked beautiful—so much
longer
than when he had carried her on his back from the Higgins—with shorter hair, and some fat on her, too.

“Well, don't you know who it is?” the baker said.

“It's Topsy,” said the girl nonchalantly, as if idly identifying a photograph. Lani called from the kitchen, and Amaryllis sprinted off, disappearing through the front door.

Marcus asked the baker if he felt the visit was a good idea. Gilles reassured that she was shy and had actually been awaiting him with great anticipation. That made him feel somewhat better, but he wasn't sure if it was puffery. He followed his friend into the house.

Lani served lunch in the backyard (roasted guinea hen stuffed with nutmeg and parsley) on a glass-topped wrought-iron table set with wild-flowers. Marcus even drank a glass of wine, which he usually eschewed owing to various meds. Table talk skirted anything related to hard times, and while now and then he caught the girl staring at him with a kind of formidable acuity, it was readily apparent that they would share no intimacies—at least not here. His focus drifted. Toward the end of the meal, Amaryllis brought up the place called MacLaren and told her
mother how much she wanted to go for a visit, especially to see Dézhiree. Plates were bused while Gilles went inside to arrange the surprise.

For a moment, the two were alone. He told her how pretty she looked, and she deadpanned that he looked “different.” She asked where his beard had gone and remarked that he was a good deal thinner than she remembered. He laughed, but she only smiled, and by then Gilles had returned with a tray of desserts: mille-feuille of custard, almonds and honey. By the taste of it, he could tell the flour had been rolled “hot”—Marcus always made sure, as his father had taught him, to run his hands under cool water while evening out the layers. Still, it was a lovely, magnanimous gesture, true to the baker's form. Lani returned with little cups of espresso and partook herself of the lemony Moscato d'Asti.

Soaking in the sun (he'd hung his coat on the back of the chair), his broad face dappled by leaf shadow and the skittish attentions of a silver fritillary—soaking up all the space and time the four of them had traveled since being apart—well, Marcus thought it more than a small miracle.

Suddenly, it was over. The men smoked cigars while Amaryllis helped at the sink, though Lani shooed her away (she wanted her outside, with their guest). Gilles asked about his arrest and imprisonment, then talked all kinds of harmless nonsense about his fascinating recovery and how if he should write the whole incredible story up in screenplay form it would win fourteen Oscars, and so on. Marcus heard raised voices; then Lani's alone. She was talking to the girl, not harshly but firmly.

When mother and daughter re-emerged from the wings, Lani announced it would be a wonderful idea for Amaryllis to show her old friend the Shakespeare Bridge.

“No, no,” said Marcus, mindful of the girl's feelings. “Another time, another time!”

“Go with her. It's nice to walk,” said Lani.

“Go!” said the expansive Gilles. “You should see it!”

“Oh, the bridge won't go away! I'm sure Amaryllis has other things to do,” he said guilelessly.

“I'd
like
to show you,” she volunteered.

He was surprised, because she sounded quite sincere. Only human, Marcus had mistaken a child's nervousness on seeing a mythical figure
from her own Dark Ages as a sign of indifference. He grabbed his coat, and they set off, first passing through the coolness of the house.

Lani stopped him just inside the front door.

“
Tell
her,” she whispered, “about who you
are
—if you want to. I mean, she should
know
. I mean, the hell with it—when she came to stay with us, I said, ‘No secrets!' But you do what you like.”

They walked through the neighborhood in relative silence, but this time the girl led the way, unlike long-ago peregrinations. Watching her chug along on her own steam as an independent (if still tiny) person, he couldn't suppress a smile.

After a time, she spoke. “You don't talk with an accent anymore.”

“Did I have a thick one? I didn't think it was too bad.”

“It
was
,” Amaryllis said, and he saw her roll her eyes. “Were you just pretending?”

“I wouldn't say I was pretending—I really did feel I was someone else.”

“Were you crazy?”

“Did I seem crazy?”

“No.”

“I don't think so, no. I think that—that I had
concerns
—preoccupations, if you will … that others—well,
most
people—don't have.”

“You were in jail,” she said, not looking back at him.

“I was. A terrible place.”

“The detective thought you killed my mother.”

“Yes.”

“The lawyers came and talked to me.”

“I was grateful for what you told them about the scarf.”

“But you
didn't
kill her.” She looked him tentatively in the eye, wanting him to tell her what she already knew.

“No, Amaryllis, I didn't. To be accused of something like that was the hardest thing. And that it was your mother—”

“But they found the person who did it.”

“Yes.”

“The man who owned Half Dead?”

“Yes.”

“He was your friend?”

“He was.”

“Did you know that he killed her?”

“I did not—and was shocked when they told me. I had no idea he was capable of such a thing. Did you ever meet Mr. Fitzsimmons at the encampment?”

She nodded. Then: “He used to come around with that dog. He tied him up outside when he came to see her. She always made me go leave, but I never played with that dog.”

“I wanted to call you the moment I found out what they were accusing me of. I couldn't believe it! But they wouldn't allow me. And then so many things happened … I moved to a hotel—and then to a house on the coast, where I now live. I finally got my wits about me and the energy to come see you. I ask your forgiveness for the delay.”

They had reached the bridge, and sat down on its bulwark.

“Not as big as the one on Fourth Street, is it?” he said.

“I like it better.”

She stared into the canyon. The spirit of the child he knew was hidden by armature grown these past rough seasons. Cars rumbled by, and they watched birds and planes and insects. The world was filled with flying things.

“Do you like living with Gilles and Lani?”

She nodded.

“Marvelous people. Good souls. Have you seen your brother and sister?”

“Uh-huh. They live in Lawndale.”

“Lawndale. Now, where is Lawndale?”

“I don't know. It takes an hour to get there—no, maybe a half hour. We're going to California Adventure next month.”

“Very good, very good.”

“Where do
you
live?”

“Santa Barbara—a place called Montecito, actually.”

“Where's that?”

“Up north, about ninety minutes.”

“Is it near Tunga?”

“Well, I'm not really sure!”

“Does the man drive you everywhere?”

“Until I get a license.”

“Are you rich?”

“No. But the people taking care of me are.”

“I met some friends when I went AWOL from Mac—MacLaren. They were
really
rich. I met Boulder Langon, the actress.”

“I see. And how is school for you?”

“Fine.”

“Have you made many friends?”

She nodded.

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

She shrugged.

“Is that a yes?”

“Sort of.”

“Does he go to your school?”

“He goes in Santa Monica.”

“You like him.”

She nodded. “He stopped e-mailing me.”

“He did?”

“A week ago—but I think his mom probably made him. He's one of the friends I had when I went AWOL. She probably thinks I'm bad. They are
so
rich.”