Chapter 50 Hope
hope
Over the next week, I threw myself into clearing Gran’s house, working on the coffee shop mural, and helping plan Gran’s secret send-off party.
Matt was working long hours in Baton Rouge, preparing for a trial.
When I had a spare moment, I scoured the Internet, tracking down Joe Madisons in the Sacramento area.
Problem was, there must be about a million of them. I didn’t know if I was searching in the right city or even the right state—after all, Gran’s last information about him was sixty-something years old. I didn’t even know if he was still alive.
I’d phoned every airline listed as operating in the United States, asking if they’d had a pilot named Joe Madison who’d worked for them thirty years ago (I figured that the more recent the records, the better the odds that airlines might still have them), and every one of them told me they couldn’t access files that old and that even if they could, they wouldn’t release that information.
I’d sent e-mails and even a snail-mail letter to each airline, asking them to please forward it to any Joe Madison pilots who might have worked for them.
“I can’t find a single lead,” I told Matt when he showed up in the backyard Thursday evening, the first week in May.
He pushed the swing with his feet. “I talked to someone I know, who put me in touch with a private detective.”
“I can’t afford a private detective.”
“I can.”
My heart turned over. I couldn’t believe he would offer something like that. It was the kind of thing you’d do for family, or your oldest, closest friend. Not someone who was leaving in a few weeks and would be out of your life forever.
“That’s really sweet, Matt, but I don’t want you to do that.”
“Why not? I want to help.”
“Well, as Zoey would say, ‘it’s not ’propriate.’”
“According to who?”
“Me.”
I thought the subject was closed. Matt and I continued to meet in the evenings after the girls and Gran were in bed—we’d usually talk in the swing, and then end up rendezvousing in the shed—but Tuesday the following week, he showed up at Gran’s front door shortly after dinner, accompanied by a elegant elderly woman with high cheekbones and white hair styled in a French twist. She wore a simple navy dress and red lipstick.
“I hope it’s not too late to be paying a call on your grandmother,” Matt said.
“Not at all. She and I were just going through some old albums.”
“Good. Because I have someone here I think she’ll want to meet.”
Matt looked me in the eye, and I knew this woman was somehow connected with Joe. My heart started pounding in my chest.
“Who is it, dear?” Gran called from the living room.
“Matt. And a . . . a visitor.”
“Well, invite them on in.”
I must have opened the door and stepped out of the way, although I don’t really remember doing it, then led them into the living room. “Miss Addie,” Matt said, “this is Viola Madison.”
The woman stepped forward. Gran rose from her chair and extended a hand, and the woman took it in both of hers. “Adelaide? It’s such a delight to finally meet you. I’ve heard so many wonderful things about you.”
“Who on earth from, dear?”
“Why . . . from Joe.”
“Joe?” Gran put her hand on her chest. “Joe Madison?”
“Yes, dear. I’m his widow.”
· · ·
“Oh. Oh my.”
I ran to Gran’s side, alarmed, and helped ease her into her chair. “Are you okay?”
She sat there, her hand still on her chest. “Yes. Yes, dear.” Her eyes were fixed on the woman’s face. “Joe’s gone?”
“Yes. He died six years ago. A heart attack.”
“But the flowers—” Gran suddenly broke off. She bit her lip, as if she realized she’d said something she maybe shouldn’t have said.
“What flowers?” I asked.
“Oh, nothing.” Gran’s hand flapped the question away.
“It’s okay. I know all about them,” Viola said gently. “Joe’s attorney sends them.”
“What flowers?” I repeated.
“Tulip bulbs.” Gran’s voice was thin and breathy. “Every spring they’d come. Charlie thought I ordered them, but . . .”
An image flashed in my mind—tulips flaming in the front yard every March, then disappearing, leaves and all, to await another spring.
As luck would have it, Hannah was the aide on duty. She looked at Gran and Viola, then back again. “I think you-alls need a drink.” She scurried into the kitchen.
“Joe arranged for you to receive the bulbs every spring for the rest of your life,” Viola said.
“Oh, my. And you—you knew?”
“Yes.” Viola’s eyes creased as she smiled. “You were the reason he married me.”
The conversation was interrupted by Hannah returning with a bottle of wine and a mismatched assortment of juice glasses. She poured all of us a glass, then took one for herself and sat down on a cane chair in the corner, actively listening. This time, no one bothered to shoo her away.
“I don’t understand,” Gran said. “How . . . ? When . . . ?”
“I was a stewardess. I was crazy about him—we all were. He was so dashing and handsome and charming. I was thoroughly in love with him, but he wouldn’t settle down.
Claimed there was only one woman he would ever marry.
” She took a sip from her juice glass. “I was with him right after you told him he should marry someone else and start a family of his own—and, well, I scooped him up on the rebound. We were married within two months.”
“Oh my.” Gran sat back, her eyes wide. “Did you have a good marriage?”
“In our own way.” Her lips curved in a small, wry smile. “We loved each other, and we were willing to overlook each other’s . . . flaws, I guess you’d call them.”
Gran stared at her, her mouth open. She abruptly closed it, then opened it, but no words came out.
“Joe was a wonderful man in many ways,” Viola continued, “but he had an insatiable craving for novelty and excitement.”
“He did like an adventure,” Gran mused.
“He always wanted what he couldn’t have.” Viola took a long draught of wine. “He had a roving eye, you know. Pardon me for saying this, but . . .”
“But what?” Adelaide urged.
“Well, it’s not my place.”
“Please.” Gran leaned forward. “Tell me whatever you can.”
“Well, through the years, I’ve often wondered if he could have been faithful to you, if he’d married you. Forgive me for saying it, but I have my doubts.”
Gran sat perfectly still, unmoving as a rock, for several long moments.
I leaned forward, about to ask if she was all right. Matt put a reassuring hand on my arm.
“You know,” Gran said at length, “that very same thought crossed my mind. I never really allowed myself to ponder it much; I didn’t want to, because I didn’t want to spoil the notion of a grand romance. But deep down, I think I had the same doubts.”
I sat there for a moment, stunned. I’d been so caught up in the tragedy of the thwarted lovers that it never had occurred to me it might not have worked out.
But Gran was right. The character traits that made Joe so exciting as a young beau would not necessarily have made him a good husband. How could one woman hold the interest of a man who was always in search of the next conquest, the next adventure?
Gran leaned forward. “Did Joe . . . Did you two have children?”
Viola’s lovely face, so composed until now, fell. She shook her head. “Lord knows we wanted them. That’s why Joe married me—to start a family. But it turns out Joe had the mumps when he was overseas, and it left him sterile.” She polished off her wine. “But . . . he had Becky.”
“It’s a such shame he didn’t know her.”
“Oh, but he did.”
The color drained from Gran’s face. “What?”
“He followed her progress through school and college, and when she got a job, he became a client.”
“He . . . met her?” Her voice was a raspy whisper. “When she was grown?”
“Yes. Oh, she never knew he was her father, of course. But she was his investment advisor. He would go to Chicago and take her to lunch.”
Gran’s hand flew to her chest again.
“You see, Joe did quite well for himself. He took all of his back pay from the service for the years he was a POW and invested it in IBM and Xerox when they first started. He made quite a fortune. He had a real knack for wheeling and dealing.”
“I knew he had a sharp mind,” Gran said. “Becky took after him that way.”
“He was very proud of Becky. Loved to say she’s the one who really made his fortune. He always gave her a generous Christmas ‘bonus.’ She refused to take it, so he started sending it to her anonymously.” She grinned. “Much like he sent you the tulip bulbs.”
“Oh my.” My grandmother’s hands fell to her lap.
“As for Becky, I believe she always gave her gift to charity.”
Gran nodded. “That sounds like Becky. She wouldn’t do anything that wasn’t on the up-and-up.”
“Well, that brings me to the topic I really came here to discuss.” Viola set down her juice glass.
“Good heavens—what more could there be?”
“Joe made provisions for Becky or her heirs in his will. He didn’t want to cause problems or scandal for you, Adelaide, so it specifies that the funds could only be dispersed after your death—or in the event that Becky learned of her true parentage.
Since Becky is gone and Hope knows the truth, well, the criteria is met.
So I’ve brought her a copy of the part of the will that pertains to her. ”
She reached into her bag—I think it was Prada, although I’m not as knowledgeable of expensive bags as my ex was; he said you could identify clients with the means to purchase serious art by the handbags they carried, although I’ve had friends who’ve gone into hock to buy a bag, so to me, an expensive one just means a person’s shelled out a lot for one item—or maybe even bought a fake. I had a friend who used to buy fakes.
But that had nothing to do with what was going on here. My ADHD flibbertigibbet mind was off on a tangent, because I was having a hard time processing what Viola was saying. I forced myself to focus as she pulled out a manila envelope and held it out to me.
“My attorney wants you to call him after you’ve had a chance to read through this.”