Hearts That Survive Part 38

"In addition to their being in love, Joy comes from a mom who knows how the upper cla.s.s lives, and how to serve others with grace and humility. Willard is a conscientious, hard-working man. Joy has been influenced by those qualities," she said. "She's a bit sa.s.sy like her mom can be, but she's a sweet girl. A supportive type who will make a good pastor's wife."

Lydia marveled at Caroline's att.i.tude. Maybe she should try to see the good qualities in Angelina.

Their children were making mature decisions, and there seemed nothing on the horizon to mar those ambitions of theirs. For the time being, all was smooth sailing.

69.

The Second World War slowed Beau's dreams. He had White Star Line's list of t.i.tanic survivors and had begun contacting more of them than he had when he'd made the doc.u.mentaries. He'd sent out notices in the media for anyone with information or memorabilia to contact him or send items to the Beaumont office, where a room was set aside for such.

He wouldn't be available to receive the information, however. He joined the Navy and was a.s.signed to the base at Pearl Harbor. Angelina and his production crew agreed that would be a wonderful setting for a movie with a love story theme.

j.a.pan had a different idea. The shock of the bombing and fear drove Lydia to her knees. She and Caroline stayed in constant contact. David's experience was harrowing from the beginning. When the war broke out, the West Nova Scotia Regiment was mobilized as an active service force battalion. David was often in the midst of the fighting, serving as chaplain.

David returned home battle scarred, but not as one of the 352 Nova Scotians who lost their lives nor the more than one thousand who were wounded or missing. Beau's and Angelina's lives were spared. He served in Hawaii for the duration of the war and filmed the horror, but he also included love stories.

Lydia's arms ached to embrace her son, but after the war ended, he remained in Hawaii to film, promising to return soon. He asked if anything to do with the t.i.tanic had materialized.

"A few survivors contacted the office," Lydia said, then added, thinking it would make him smile, "And a new case of champagne bottles arrived. Most wine bottles come empty, but the champagne is intact."

"I saw a report on that," he said. "The corks on champagne don't implode like those in the wine. I want them. When I make the movie, they'll come in handy. But," he went on, "the public may now be more interested in war stories than t.i.tanic stories. Still, I might find something to regain their interest."

Lydia relayed the message to Craven, who said the same thing about waning interest. "But Beau thinks he might find something."

"He just might," Craven said, and it sounded like a warning. "He's relentless in his search."

A gnawing concern stirred. "Would you ever tell him?" She could imagine that if Beau found something to cause him to ask personal questions, Craven might say, No. I'm not your dad. I make real trains. You come from a fellow who made toys.

Her hand was on her heart when Craven said, "I, tell him? Break his heart? Leave him fatherless? When he questions me, I will say ask your mother."

Craven said when. But it was an if. More likely a never. After all this time. Anything that came up would have to be from a survivor like Phoebe, who had been a flower girl. Caroline had kept in touch with her over the years.

But she wouldn't be concerned. So much had changed through the years. She looked at Craven. Except him. How could a man his age have no wrinkles, only a few lines and hair that had turned, not gray, but silver? She realized she was smiling, and he was watching her. Then he winked.

But she had another idea. "I'd like to go to Beau's office tomorrow. His former office workers might not be available when he returns."

The next day Craven left his office in the afternoon and came into Beau's. She looked at her watch. "I didn't realize it was so late. Let me file some of this, and then we can go."

"May I help?"

"There's a crate over there. Open that while I finish here. And if it's champagne, just stack the bottles on the shelf in the storage closet. Should be a tool in there you can use."

He tore off the envelope attached to the crate and read the letter inside. "Interesting," he mused. "These were found by a fisherman off the Newfoundland coast before the war, along with other t.i.tanic items. Seems some deep-sea divers dislodged them, or something broke loose from the s.h.i.+p."

He read more. "Southampton kept the items but didn't remove these after seeing what they were. Of course, they've known of Beau's movie projects for years, and thought he might use them."

He opened the crate while she complained. "I don't know why people claim to have been on the t.i.tanic when they're not on the pa.s.senger list."

"They want to be in a movie."

She supposed so.

"More bottles." He took the wrapping off the bottles and lined them up on the desk. Some were empty, most were still intact.

He was trying to remove a cork, and finally succeeded, then took a piece of paper from the bottle.

"What's that?"

"I'm reading it."

She was only trying to make conversation. He was taking his time.

Finally he said, "It's a note from someone who sent the bottle."

"Someone else wanting a part in the movie?"

"That could happen. Looks more like . . . utter nonsense."

Seeing his hand tighten, she thought he was about to wad it up and toss it into the trash. Beau would need extras, representing over 2,500 pa.s.sengers, plus the crew. "Craven, why don't you leave the note in the bottle? Beau can sort out what's utter nonsense or not."

"You're right." He rolled the note and returned it to the bottle. "It's his movie. Let Beau sort it out."

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 t.i.tanic 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.

70.

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 s.h.i.+p 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 s.h.i.+p, be lowered into the ground, along with her secrets.

The cards, the condolences, the visits, the calls were endless. People caring. Wis.h.i.+ng 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 t.i.tanic 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 t.i.tanic? 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 s.h.i.+p, 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 t.i.tanic 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.

71.

Beau 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 s.h.i.+p."

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 gla.s.s 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 s.h.i.+elded 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.