The Third Angel (25 page)

A detective had found her. When he and the girls' father jimmied the lock on the apartment door and walked in, they could hear her singing. They followed the sound. They were both practical, wary men who felt as if they'd stumbled into a dream. Bryn had a beautiful voice, sad, a little like Patti Page. Her voice echoed as though she'd fallen down a hole; but actually it was reverberating off the black-and-white tiles. She'd been in the bathtub, in steaming hot water. When Bryn saw her father and the detective, she'd stood up without even bothering to cover herself. “No,” she had cried. “Go away from here.”

Bryn was thinking about that moment as she pulled the pins out of her hair and let it fall down her back. She moved so quickly Charlotte didn't even understand what her sister was doing at first. Later, Charlotte had the sense that it was almost as though someone had committed suicide in front of her, as though Bryn had stood there and pulled the trigger without giving her sister time to react. Charlotte sat there in shock while Bryn began to hack at her hair. She held the length of it in one hand like a snake or a rope. With a few quick clips, she cut it off right there in the ladies' room.

“Jesus, Bryn.” Charlotte rushed over but Bryn just kept snipping, shorter and shorter until the floor was littered with clippings. Charlotte backed off; she wasn't about to fight Bryn for the scissors. She knew how headstrong her sister was. “Are you happy now?” Charlotte asked when Bryn finally stopped. There were pale blond threads all over her blue dress. Bryn was silent; she'd run out of steam. The strange part was, she was even more beautiful.

“If this is how you want to look when you get married, fine. I'm going up to finish my meal,” Charlotte said. “You're your own worst enemy, kiddo. No one's going to feel sorry for you.”

“Then feel sorry for Teddy,” Bryn said. “It's not fair for me to marry him and you all know it. Considering I'm already married.”

The man she had married four years earlier, when she was only nineteen, was Michael Macklin. He was the one who'd taken vows he never thought he'd say and certainly never thought he'd believe. He was now drinking at the bar of the Lion Park Hotel. He'd had dinner there as well, some fairly awful stew and a salad. He was hoping to see the little girl, who he knew was his best chance. Lucy hadn't been invited to the adults-only family dinner. She'd signed that stupid contract Charlotte had shoved in front of her just to shut Charlotte up. Anyone who knew Lucy knew she wasn't the sort to get into any real trouble, and in fact she had fallen asleep while reading a guidebook about London. She dreamed about the ravens at the tower. She dreamed Hyde Park was filled with snow and white rabbits, huge rabbits that were as big as dogs. They would come when called, but you had to ask nicely. You had to say, O rabbit, I beg of you.

Here is a secret, one rabbit said to Lucy. It's all pretend.

When Lucy woke up she didn't know where she was. She had to look out the window at the lights of passing cars on Brompton Road before she remembered. She was relieved not to be at the dinner with the adults. She wished she still had the diary of Anne Frank and hadn't lent it away. When her stomach started growling, Lucy realized she had missed dinner; she came down to the restaurant at nine, famished.

“Hello,” she called when she saw Michael, who was on his second drink.

“Skip the beef stew,” he called back. “I don't recommend it.”

Lucy ordered macaroni and cheese and an apple tart for dessert.

“Oh, and tea,” she told the waiter. She had become a tea fanatic in the short time since she had arrived. In a way she already felt like a different person from the one her friends knew back home. She probably looked a lot older; she probably sounded a little like Katharine Hepburn.

Michael came over and sat across from Lucy. He was wearing a black suit and a blue shirt. He had a lot of style.

“I started the book,” he said. “Anne Frank had courage. I can see why you admire her. You don't find much of that in this world.”

“Most of the time you find crap in this world.” Lucy looked up to see if he was shocked by her language this time. He wasn't.

“I need you to do something for me,” Michael said. “Well, actually, for love.”

Lucy stared at him. “I'm not an idiot,” she said. Her food had arrived and she started to eat. “You want to use me in some way to get something you want. Right? Otherwise you probably wouldn't even bother to talk to me.”

Michael Macklin smiled. “You're smarter than most people.”

“That's exactly what a person would say when he wanted someone to do some dirty work. Do I have to shoot someone and say the gun went off by accident?”

Michael took out an envelope. “It's a letter I want delivered. Simple. That's all you have to do.”

“Did you know there was a rabbit living in this hotel? Her name is Millie. She's actually huge. I've never seen such a big rabbit before.”

“Did you know rabbit is a popular dish in restaurants in France?”

Lucy put her fork down.

“And by the way,” he added, “I would have talked to you anyway. You're the only interesting person in the place.”

Michael Macklin was the handsomest man Lucy would ever meet in her life. She didn't think that's what anyone should look for in a husband, however. They should look for soul. But at the moment she was here, sitting across from him, dazzled. She realized Michael Macklin was more than handsome. When she looked in his eyes she saw something she didn't usually see. He seemed real in some way adults never did.

“Go on,” she said.

“Ah, the poor rabbit. They call it
le lapin
and cook it with onions and wine.”

Lucy laughed in spite of the gory details. “Not about the rabbit.”

“It really is love. I want you to take this letter to your stepmother's sister Bryn.”

“The bride-to-be?”

“She can't be engaged. She's already married.” Michael leaned forward and Lucy did, too. “To me.”

“Why should I?” Lucy felt sick to her stomach and a little too young for the conversation. She already knew it was hard to turn Michael down when he wanted something. Still, she was interested in hearing his argument. It was simple and effective.

“Because deep inside you believe in things,” Michael Macklin said. “Just like me.”

A
T ELEVEN O'CLOCK
Lucy was sitting behind the registration desk feeding Millie the rabbit a carrot that she'd gotten from the hotel cook, who was in love with Dorey, the night clerk. Lucy liked being in a hotel late at night. She was overseeing things while Dorey and the cook had a cigarette together out on the street, or so they said. Lucy noticed that Dorey was right. The rabbit liked to eat wallpaper as much as she liked carrots.

“That's not good for you,” Lucy said, not that the rabbit listened.

After a while the rabbit hopped into Lucy's lap and fell asleep; Millie shuddered. Bad rabbit dreams.

“Thanks for watching over things,” Dorey said when she returned. Her hair was messy and her mouth looked puffy, but she was cheerful and she treated Lucy as though they were friends.

“Are you in love with the cook?” Lucy asked.

“Of course not,” Dorey said. “I need a ring on my finger before it's love. A diamond. And not some little bitty thing.” Dorey got out a packet of chocolates and shared them with Lucy. “I see Millie likes you. She's a good judge of character.”

Lucy went upstairs and got ready for bed. Her father would never know that she was wandering around the hotel at such a late hour. He didn't need to know that Michael Macklin had asked for her help. She put the letter in the desk drawer. When Lucy fell asleep she dreamed of rabbits. It had become a recurring dream; she almost looked forward to it. She was in the park and she came upon a lake. She thought she should jump in and swim across but then she realized that the lake was a mirror. One touch and it would shatter. She stood on the edge, uncertain as to whether or not it would be safe to cross. She noticed that the rabbits were only shadows, not flesh and blood. They were just black shadows made out of soot. Lucy's mother was standing in the lake, the way she had on the day they saw the heron. She looked so real Lucy tried to run to her, but there was water everywhere in her dream, too deep to cross.

She gave Bryn the letter the next day at the dressmaker's. She'd been dragged along since Charlotte didn't seem to want to give her any time alone with her father. But this time it served Lucy's purpose. Charlotte and the other sister, Hillary, were out by the mirrors with the tailor having their hems taken up, complaining as usual. They didn't notice when Lucy wandered off. Bryn was in the dressing room in her slip, smoking a cigarette. She looked up and saw Lucy staring at her.

“What?” she said. “My hair?” Bryn ran a hand through her feathery pale hairdo. “Am I ugly?”

“Anne Frank had all her hair cut off,” Lucy said. “Not by choice.”

“Who has choices in this world?”

Lucy sat down on the bench next to Bryn, who seemed utterly weird and mysterious.

“You'd look pretty with short hair,” Bryn told her. “A pixie cut. You should get one. I'm sure Charlotte would hate it.”

Lucy didn't like her long dark hair. It tangled and made her hot. She was interested in the idea of pixies. She was interested in Bryn, who seemed so different from anyone she'd ever known, so moody and self-centered and beautiful.

“Are you in love?” Lucy asked.

“Personal, aren't you?” Bryn took a drag of her cigarette. “Yes, but with the wrong man. You?”

“I don't believe in it. I'm never getting married.”

Bryn laughed so hard she doubled over.

“I'm glad you think I'm funny,” Lucy said.

“You're smart,” Bryn said. “Smarter than anyone in my family. Fuck them all,” she added. “They think they know everything.”

Lucy sat up straighter. She was not accustomed to hearing grown-ups curse. “I see,” Lucy said, mostly because she couldn't think of a response. For some reason she had a wave of missing her mother. She wondered what her mother would have made of Bryn. Bryn must have been psychic or something; she could tell Lucy was sad. She took Lucy's hand and held it. They sat there for a little while, not saying anything, just feeling sad together. They could hear Charlotte and Hillary talking to the tailor. Their bridesmaid dresses were pale peach. A silk chamois. Lucy hated the color.

“He wanted me to give you a letter,” Lucy said quietly. “I don't know if I should, I don't even know if you want it—”

Before she could finish her statement, Bryn squeezed Lucy's hand so tightly her skin turned white. Her bones felt crushed.

“Give it to me,” Bryn said.

Lucy reached into her pocket and took out the envelope.

Bryn let her go. She shoved the letter into her purse. “Did you read it?”

“Of course not. Who do you think I am? Charlotte?” Lucy rubbed her hand. It still hurt. “You didn't have to squeeze me.”

“If you were Charlotte you wouldn't even believe in love. I'll show you what love is.” Bryn grabbed Lucy's hand back and put it to her chest. Bryn's flesh was hot and Lucy could feel her heart pounding. She felt her own blood rush to her head. Everything seemed heightened and fast and wild. “Now you know.” Bryn cast Lucy's hand away. “Don't forget it.”

M
ichael Macklin had
done some bad things, it was true. He continued to do them, using a child to get his letter to Bryn, tracking her down, changing his room to the one across from Lucy's so he'd have access to Bryn. Well, that was who Michael was. He'd lied about everything in his life, and he wasn't going to stop now when it really mattered. He'd lied so often and so well he sometimes got confused about the facts of his own life. In truth, they were simple: He'd been born in Manhattan to parents who meant well and did little. He was out to work at fourteen, then in the army, stationed in France, where he'd learned not only the language, but how to get what he wanted. He put his life on the line in France, and he hadn't even shivered. Some of the guys he knew said the only people who didn't fear death were those who had nothing to lose and he thought they were probably right. In battle, he'd felt alive. On the run, he felt he had something to run to. He liked danger, he liked the smell of it. He liked the feel of his blood running hot.

Michael was a thief, but he never stole from the poor. He'd seen
Robin Hood
with Errol Flynn when he was a boy, after all; he knew to look for people who could afford to lose some money, people who'd never even miss it. Michael resembled a dog in many ways: He could smell danger and he could smell wealth, he could stalk and quarry. He lived in the moment, for the here and now. He had gone through life without questioning much. The only time he ever felt connected was when he saw stray dogs. It had happened in abandoned villages in France and in New York City, down by the docks. It was a weird, visceral connection, like seeing yourself in the mirror and recognizing yourself even though you looked different from how you'd imagined, all fangs and fur and fear.

He'd come back to New York after the war and nobody gave a damn if he was a hero or a thief. Nobody knew him. Sometimes he went down past Tenth Avenue and he sat in the dark waiting for one of those dogs, desperate to be in the presence of a creature who would understand him. Funny how he'd felt that with Lucy, a twelve-year-old kid who couldn't possibly understand the kind of life he'd led. And yet she seemed to get him. She saw people from the inside out, and that was both a blessing and a curse.

Michael had met Bryn unexpectedly. He was walking down Fourteenth Street and she was walking ahead of him and he found himself following her. He had a strange thought, the strangest he'd ever had. He imagined that he had found an angel on earth and that he needed to protect her from people such as himself. Would anyone from his previous life believe he had fallen in love? Unlikely. He was a user, out for numero uno; everyone who knew him knew that much. They would never have believed he had spent all his money to court Bryn, or that he waited to have her in bed until they were married, or that he meant it when he said it was forever.