Circled Heart (41 page)

“I’m ruining our children,” I had said to Drew later that day, dropping onto the hassock next to his feet. “I wish I were more like you. You let the boys be boys.” Drew pulled me into his lap at the comment and held me against him, a comfortable place to which I had by then grown accustomed.

“Perhaps I do,” he responded, “but you teach them to be men, and you’re the one they’ll thank someday. You bring the passion, Johanna.”

“Well,” I told him thoughtfully, “there’s passion— and then there’s passion. You do very nicely on your own accord.” He did, too. Who would have thought that a man so fond of the company of women, who once said he preferred variety in his female companions and stated with unequivocal firmness that he contemplated a wife with horror, would turn out to be such a tender, loving, faithful husband? I take no credit for the phenomenon, only enjoy its benefits.

Originally I prepared for daughters, anticipated my own little army of suffragettes, and planned to encourage them to scale new heights on behalf of women everywhere, but in the ironic way of divine Providence, we were blessed instead with sons.

When our first child Richard was born, I felt a small and shameful pang of disappointment that he was not a daughter until Drew came in, the baby in his arms.

“A son,” he said and then stopped, unable to continue. I saw on my husband’s face something of the little boy he once had been, a wistful remnant of the unloved Drew in the cold San Francisco mansion, an unguarded expression that spoke of redemption and unbelievable second chances. At that moment the gender of our children became totally irrelevant.

In private moments Drew reminds me that none of our sons was conceived domestically.

“Not,” I usually answer with a half smile, “for want of trying,” which always brings a wicked grin to his face and a predictable and enjoyable response. He’s right, though. Richard followed a visit on behalf of the Red Cross to the war zone in the south of France, David arrived after our Mediterranean holiday, and Theo was born nine months after Drew and I traveled to China for an emotional search for the three Swan graves and reconnection with my old friend Dinah Hudson in the process. Obviously, the tourist sites were not all we explored when we were out of the country.

We have certainly seen the world and continue to do so. I have run the Swan-Gallagher Philanthropic Organization for the last twenty years and travel both nationally and internationally on its behalf. Gallagher Enterprises grew to include banks and businesses on both coasts and in Europe as well. When the American stock market crashed in 1929, our diverse foreign investments helped keep our banks open and ensure the safety of all the funds. Because of Drew’s personal and financial commitment and with my complete support, none of our investors lost a cent and our employees did not lose their jobs. Not many could say the same during those difficult years, and it was the primary reason Drew received the Starr Award an unprecedented second time.

From time to time, our paths cross Allen Goldwyn’s. When that occurs, we never make more than cursory and courteous conversation. I know he married, but I have never met his wife. He’s still in the building business, constructing practical train stations and warehouses around the city, plain rectangular buildings, close to the ground and finished in grays and browns. He makes a good living, I’m told.

Drew and I could have honeymooned anywhere. Money was no object and Drew was expansive in his urging. “Moscow,” he suggested. “A villa in Tuscany. Paris. Africa. Choose Johanna. Let me take you somewhere you’ve always dreamed of visiting.”

When I told him my preference, he scrutinized my face to be sure I wasn’t joking, realized I wasn’t, gave a sigh, and left to buy train tickets. We spent the bulk of our honeymoon in Blessing, Kansas, reserved the best room of the Hansen House for our nights and spent our days getting to know the family I had never met. My fears that Drew would be bored or uncomfortable with people from the Kansas countryside were presumptuous, unnecessary, and unfounded. He was as easy discussing hog futures as he was the latest price of feed corn with Uncle Pete, the husband of my father’s sister, Mary. My Uncle Carl owned and operated the Hansen House with his wife Louisa, so he and Drew were thick as thieves about investments and interest rates from the start. I had a bevy of cousins, too, and cousins-in-law and children of cousins, enough that I had to write down names and try to memorize them in the evenings. I found the graves of my father’s parents and felt an unexpected rush of emotion and connection as I stood by the plain markers that showed the resting places of Johanna and Theodore Swan. My honeymoon trip was a journey of discovery and delight, in some ways I had anticipated and others accompanied by an unexpected twist of the heart.

I remember awakening late one morning in our room at the Hansen House, reaching next to me for Drew and finding his place and pillow empty and cold. I sat up suddenly to discover my husband fully dressed and seated cross-legged at the foot of the bed, apparently engrossed in watching me sleep.

“Have you been out already?” I asked. As a woman of energy and industry, I was embarrassed to sleep late.

“Out and about, yes.”

“You should have awakened me.”

“You didn’t get enough sleep last night,” he said and grinned.

I decided not to pursue that particular subject and asked, “Where did you go?”

“There’s an auction at that big stone house on the south end of town. Do you remember seeing it? A beautiful old place right across from the department store. I went to take a look.”

I reached for my robe and yawned unglamorously. “Didn’t Aunt Mary say that was the banker’s house?”

“The banker’s widow’s house. A Mrs. Fairchild. Since there weren’t any children, the estate is auctioning off her belongings. Carl told me there were some fine old furnishings and to get there early if I wanted to have a chance at anything.”

“I saw several markers for Fairchilds in the cemetery. How sad to see one’s personal and private mementoes given to strangers.” Changing my posture to mimic Drew’s, I sat cross-legged with my back against the headboard and asked, “So? Did you buy something? Do we have to make room in the parlor? Will you expect me to wear some fashion find that’s caught your fancy even if it’s thirty years out of date?”

“Would you do that if I asked, Johanna?” I couldn’t tell if he were teasing or serious.

“I would do anything for you,” I answered evenly. “Haven’t you figured that out by now?”

We sat as still as two bookends with rows of dreams and memories yet to make propped between us. Finally, Drew held out his hand to show a worn velvet box resting on his palm.

“I found something that made me think of you.” he said. In a queer way the moment reminded me of the first time we had talked face to face, when he’d held his hand outstretched between us tightly clenching Douglas’s returned jewelry.

Without a word I rose, tied my robe around me, and went to sit on the edge of the bed next to Drew. I took the box from his hand and opened it. Inside, on yellowed satin lining, lay an unusual and antique piece of woman’s jewelry, intricately crafted, delicate, and very feminine. A petite round timepiece set in rich butter-gold and surrounded by small amber stones dangled from a graceful, golden, lily-shaped brooch. I had never seen anything like it.

“It’s beautiful,” I breathed, “but is it right for us to have so private a token of one man’s love for his wife?” I recognized it as the kind of gift a husband would choose—one-of-a-kind, distinctive, expensive—and wondered about the woman who had worn the gorgeous thing. Had she also been one-of-a-kind, distinctive, expensive?

“From what I’ve heard of the Fairchilds, I doubt if love was an integral part of their relationship, but if it was and this object represents Gordon Fairchild’s devotion to his wife, then yes, it is right, exactly right, for you to have it. There would be no difference in the giving.”

I understood Drew’s meaning, heard his unspoken words, and reached for his hand. “Thank you,” I said and did not mean the watch.

“I saw it and thought of you,” Drew explained, his voice suddenly low and ragged. “The amber is the exact color of your eyes. I saw it right away and had to have it because of what it is and what it means to me.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s all about time, Johanna, about filling meaningless, endless minutes and hours just to make it through to the next meaningless, endless day. A sad progression of wasted, wasteful time. Until you came along and suddenly time had an edge to it in a way I never imagined it could. It’s not that you give meaning to my life as much as you give meaning to my time. That’s what I thought when I saw it.” Drew spoke with unusual hesitancy, searching for the right words and still, I could see by his face, not satisfied with the results. “Do you understand anything I just said to you?”

I held the amber watch in my hand, gently caressed the stones and stroked the smooth gold, wondering what heartfelt meaning, if any, it had once held for another man and his wife, both now gone. The golden lily, no longer coldly metallic and inanimate, slowly warmed to my skin and seemed to take comfort and welcome from my touch. Somehow, I thought, this lovely ornament knows that it will be worn over my heart for all the years to come, knows and approves and is satisfied. Was it enchanted? Or did it simply reflect the emotion I felt for my husband?

I watched gold flecks in the amber take on a life of their own, watched the stones begin to move, sparkle, and deepen in burnished color, a display of happiness I could not misread. Enchanted, indeed, I decided, and caught in its golden gleam a brief but unobstructed glimpse into my future. I saw the man Drew Gallagher was and the man he would grow to be, saw the depth and the intensity of his feeling for me. That look into the future generated a profound sense of well-being, a feeling of overflowing gratitude, and a humbling knowledge of strength that remain with me to this day. I recalled Allen’s words, “Be happy for all of us. You have the power” and understood their meaning.

We’re all surrounded by time, overwhelmed by it, eventually drowned in it, each of us a small circle of humanity with the same inherent qualities of those amber jewels to move and sparkle. Only for most of us, it takes another’s warmth and touch and the certainty of belonging to make that happen. Every day of our lives we’re given opportunities to intersect with others but for a multitude of reasons, because of fear or anger or pride, because of our own frailties or the weaknesses of others, because of past pain or the possibility of future hurt, we don’t risk the connection. We don’t take the chance and so forfeit the opportunity for something marvelous. We lose any hope for the prospect of joy—and more than love it’s joy that gives lasting meaning to whatever time we’re given.

Drew sat next to me on the bed, watching my face and waiting with uncharacteristic indecision for some kind of reassurance. He had tried to share something that he was only beginning to understand himself, had exposed an inner part of himself to me that he had kept hidden for many years, and I understood that being vulnerable was new to him and not altogether comfortable.

I was filled with such tenderness for my husband that I hesitated for a moment, longing to make the right response. My darling, I thought, I don’t have the words to say what I need to say. The only thing I know for sure is that if we don’t take advantage of the moment, we could lose out on everything. I am as vulnerable as you, I wanted to tell him, my heart just as exposed and because of you, I am all at risk. But I refuse to be afraid. I have exchanged fear for joy and I won’t let you be afraid either.

I didn’t say any of those words, however. I could not get them out and even if I had, they wouldn’t have sounded right. Not then. We were both so new at sharing.

But my husband had asked me a question—“Do you understand anything I just said to you?”—and still waited for my reply, so I gave him a simple answer, offered trust and truth with every syllable and warmed each word with my love as my hands had warmed the amber lily and brought it to life. It was all I could say and would have to do for the time being. Drew deserved more from me but, God willing, I would have years to elaborate.

“Yes,” was all I said. “I understand perfectly.”

All quoted poems are from the collections of American poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)

Dedication page, from “Footsteps of Angels”

Frontispiece, from “The Song of Hiawatha”

Chapter one, from “God’s-Acre”

Chapter two, from “Something Left Undone”

Chapter three, from “Holidays”

Chapter four, from “Haunted Houses”

Chapter five from “The Haunted Chamber”

Chapter six from “The Two Rivers”

Chapter seven, from “The Sound of the Sea”

Chapter eight, from “Endymion”

Chapter nine, from “A Summer Day by the Sea”

Chapter ten, from “Maidenhood”

Chapter eleven, from “It Is Not Always May”

Chapter twelve, from “Dedication”

Chapter thirteen, from “The Goblet of Life”

Chapter fourteen, from “Snow-Flakes”

Chapter fifteen, from “The Song of Hiawatha”

Chapter sixteen, from “The Courtship of Miles Standish”

Epilogue, from “Elegaic Verse VII”