The Myth of Perpetual Summer Read online

  Her eyes cloud. “I saw what he’s become. But we have to try.”

  I nod and go to look for one of my needles. At least I know this one is in the New York City haystack.

  * * *

  I first have Information look for Dharma James. Then I nearly smack myself in the head for my stupidity. She was adopted. I have a stroke of luck when the operator finds just one listing for Dharma Vandervere in Manhattan. I’m not surprised she’s not using just her first initial as many single women do—Dharma always was about being noticed. And of course she’s in Manhattan and not the boroughs. Roger Vandervere would never have let his darling live anywhere but the best.

  The phone rings so many times, I almost give up. Then a groggy, “This had better be fucking important.” Unlike me, she has completely shed her Southern accent. She sounds so much like Margo it takes me a second to orient myself.

  “Dharma, this is Tallulah.”

  There’s silence for several seconds. “I figured you were dead.”

  As with Walden, I extend the hand of atonement. “I’m sorry. I just discovered Uncle Roger never gave you my letters. I’ve thought of you both so often, but felt calling would be bringing Lamoyne too close to your doorstep.”

  “So why are you bothering me now?”

  “Something’s happened and I, we, think you should know.”

  “And by we you mean?”

  “Gran and I. Walden is in some serious trouble and he needs—”

  “I watch the news.”

  The detachment in her voice is chilling.

  “He’s going to plead guilty,” I say. “He’s protecting that cult leader. We were hoping you could try to talk to him, convince him to change his plea. Then we can work on getting him to accept legal help.”

  “It looks to me like he is guilty.”

  I still can’t get myself to admit my sweet brother could have done something so barbaric. “He won’t have a chance at all if he pleads guilty. He’s been brainwashed.”

  “He’s obviously as batshit crazy as Dad was, so it’s probably safer for everyone if he’s off the streets. Who knows what he’ll do next.”

  “Jesus, Dharma, he’s your brother.”

  “I am an only child now. And it suits me just fine. If this carries on, there are people in Michigan who might make the connection to the Vandervere family. So the quicker this is out of the news, the better. Besides, there’s nothing I can say that’s going to change his mind—not if his favorite sister can’t.”

  Jealous as ever. “Won’t you try? Please. For Gran.”

  “No. Not for Gran. Not for you. Not for Griff. Not for Walden. Not for Margo.”

  I grasp at my only remaining straw. “Do you know where Margo is?” If Dharma won’t get involved, maybe Margo will.

  “Some commune out west, last anyone heard—but that was five years ago, when she contacted Daddy needing money.”

  Daddy. Dharma finally has the undivided adoration of a parent. “Where out west?”

  “I have no idea. Neither does Daddy, so don’t call him. He cut her off. I have to get back to sleep. I have a performance tonight.”

  The phone goes dead in my hand, and my heart goes cold in my chest.

  About five minutes later, Ross sticks his head into the library. “Lavada said you’re trying to find Dharma.”

  “Oh, I found her.”

  He comes and sits on the edge of the desk as I recap for him.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, then looks at his watch. “We need to head to the courthouse.”

  The phone on the desk rings. Before I remember this is Ross’s house, I snatch it up. “Dharma, I knew—”

  “Tallulah, this is Amelia. I’m afraid I don’t have good news.”

  I reach out and grab Ross’s hand. “He won’t change his plea.”

  “All we can do now is look toward sentencing.”

  I hang up the phone, feeling weak and gut-punched, even though I knew this was the likely outcome.

  Ross pulls me out of the chair and holds me close.

  “I don’t know how I’m going to tell Gran about Dharma.”

  “Just like you wish she’d always dealt with you. With unflinching honesty.”

  I stand back, taking his hand again. “You’ll help me?”

  “Lulie, I’d do anything you ask.”

  And just like that, calm, steady Ross Saenger opened another door inside me.

  * * *

  My mouth goes dry looking up at the massive limestone Orleans Parish courthouse where Walden’s fate will be decided. The stairs to the colonnaded entrance rise in a daunting mountain. My reservations about Gran’s ability to climb them are short-lived as she grabs a handrail and starts up before either Ross or me. Inside, the arched hallways echo footsteps in a nerve-racking way.

  We take seats right behind the defendant’s table. The row is empty but for us and a man with a sketch pad sitting at the far end. I suddenly wish I had the comfort of my own sketch pad.

  Walden is led into the courtroom looking exactly as he did yesterday, handcuffed, unkempt, and detached. Gran grabs one of my hands, Ross the other. Walden doesn’t look at us. He sits alone at the defense table, still as stone.

  The judge is a grouchy-looking man with a head like a bowling ball. I spent last night thanking God for the moratorium on the death penalty imposed by the Supreme Court a couple of years ago, still fearing a charge of first-degree murder. I feel a little weak with relief when the charges are aggravated criminal damage and manslaughter. According to Amelia, that was the best we could hope for.

  The judge then asks Walden to confirm that he has refused counsel. It takes three times to get him to respond verbally. The judge urges him to reconsider. To this, Walden stands mute.

  The judge asks for his plea.

  Just buy us more time. Please. Please. Please.

  Walden holds his silence.

  “If you do not enter a plea,” the judge says, “the court will record not guilty.”

  “Guilty.” Walden’s voice is loud and strong.

  My stomach takes a slow roll.

  Beside me, I hear a stifled whimper from Gran, but I don’t have the courage to look at her.

  The judge remands him to the county jail to await sentencing, bangs his gavel, and it’s over. Walden has surrendered his future and his freedom for a man who used him and then betrayed him.

  The deputy steps over to escort Walden from the court.

  I stand, hoping the motion will draw his attention. But he never turns. A tingling numbness takes over my body as I watch him saunter from the courtroom, once a beloved, sweet innocent, now an unfeeling, murdering stranger.

  I glance down at Gran. She looks like someone just pushed her off a cliff. She took my report of my conversation with Dharma (a fully honest recounting) so well that it was obvious she had little hope of a different outcome. But she clearly hadn’t given up on Walden’s plea.

  Ross and I each take an elbow to help her stand. She wobbles slightly but holds her head high as we walk out. As soon as we step outside the courthouse doors, we hit a wall of cameras and reporters thrusting microphones in our faces. They are pressed so close, we can’t move forward.

  “You’re the family of Walden James?”

  Before I think, I nod.

  Camera flashes flare. Shoulder-held TV cameras nudge closer.

  The questions are rapid and overlapping:

  “Can you tell us anything about the cult he belonged to?”

  “Does his guilty plea surprise you?”

  “Do you have reservations about him refusing counsel?”

  “How long has he been a disciple of Westley Smythe and the Scholars of Humanity?”

  Ross leads with a shoulder and pushes us through. “Excuse us.”

  The questions keep coming, the voices louder, more condemning. The television cameras pace us all the way to the bottom of the long flight of steps and halfway to the parking lot.

  By the time we ge
t Gran settled in the car, she’s trembling and pale. “What is wrong with those people? How can they be so heartless?”

  Even as I attempt to calm her, it astounds me that after spending most of her adult life as grist for the Lamoyne rumor mill, she can even ask this question.

  30

  There was no shock in the outcome of today’s hearing, and yet Ross, Gran, and I are acting just that, shocked. Consequently, the afternoon has been extraordinarily quiet.

  Amelia told us it could be a month or more before he’s sentenced, depending on the court calendar. There are no phone calls to inmates in the Orleans Parish jail, and no one can force Walden to accept visitors. I’ll keep trying to convince him to accept help through letters, but it appears Walden has made his bed and wants to lie in it.

  Gran is in her bedroom, presumably napping, but I hear her moving around up there occasionally. Ross disappeared into the library to catch up on paperwork. I’ve been drifting through the high-ceilinged rooms, studying the art, looking at magazines—I found Psychology Today particularly fascinating. I walked the garden, reacquainting myself with funnel-shaped, vibrant hibiscus blooms and glossy-leaved white-flowered camellias, restless and unfocused—yet glad to be alone.

  My life in San Francisco is a series of planned movements with little variance to my well-worn path, a disciplined work schedule and a quiet apartment. I’m well suited to it, much more than to the footloose life I had with Cody. But until now, I never realized how much I need solitude.

  It’s nearly four o’clock when I knock lightly on the library door.

  “Come on in,” Ross says.

  “Sorry to interrupt, but I need to get a rental car. Gran seems done in, so I’d like to wait until morning to drive her home. That is if you don’t mind having houseguests another night?”

  He stands and walks toward me. “I’d have you both stay forever.” The look in his eyes is serious enough that it sets off those teenage flutters.

  “What car rental is the most convenient?”

  “I’ll drive you two up in the morning.”

  “Thank you, but no. You’ve already disrupted your life too much for us. Besides, it’s nearly a six-hour round trip, and I have to get back to New Orleans to fly home anyway. Renting a car is the only sensible option.”

  “Leave it to you to be sensible when it comes to protecting someone else’s needs.” He surprises me by giving me a quick kiss on the forehead. “I’ll arrange for the car.”

  “Thank you.” I turn away and peruse the bookshelves. “I’ve always wanted a home with a library—such a sense of stability, a place too refined for bad things to happen.”

  He comes up behind me, close enough that I can feel the heat of him on my back. “I wish I could take away your painful memories.”

  I think of my domino trails. Painful events set me on every one of them. I turn and face him again. “Just lately I’ve realized those memories made me who I am. Who would I have become without them?”

  His hand cups my cheek, and his eyes hold mine. “You might be a little freer, more open, and less guarded. But still you.”

  I have a strange sense of falling as I stare into his eyes.

  The phone on the desk rings and we both jump.

  “That’s a call I scheduled,” he says. “I need a file from my car.” He moves toward the door. “Will you pick it up and tell him I’ll be right there?”

  “Sure.” I pick up the receiver, still a little off-balance from the kiss that almost happened. “Saenger residence.”

  “Mrs. Saenger?”

  “No, I’m a houseguest. Dr. Saenger will be right with you. He just went to get a file.”

  “Doctor?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Aren’t you the call he scheduled?”

  “No.” There’s a pause, long enough I begin to think he cut the connection. “Lulie, is that you?” That voice, familiar, yet different.

  “Griff?” I sit down hard on the desk chair.

  “Oh my God!” There’s a break in his voice. “When Tommy called and said he saw you with Ross, I couldn’t believe it.” He takes a shuddering breath. “I was calling Ross’s mom to get his number . . . and . . . and here you are.”

  I imagined this moment so many times. Here it is, and all the words I planned to say evaporate from my mind. What’s left is an accusation. “Tommy called you. Because he knows where you are.”

  “He has a number. I’ve been—” He cuts off abruptly. “Who are you to complain about not letting anyone know where you are?”

  “I suppose that’s a draw. Although I never would have left if you hadn’t deserted me.”

  “You know I couldn’t stay.” His voice is soft, apologetic.

  I can’t bear this conversation right now. “You know about Walden?”

  “Yes.”

  “The first hearing was this morning. That’s why Gran and I are staying with Ross. She wanted you here, too.” Even though I know it’s unfair, I can’t keep the censure from my voice.

  Ross walks back into the library, and his brow creases with curiosity. I cover the receiver and give a wide-eyed whisper. “It’s Griff!”

  Ross tosses his files on the desk. “He’s okay?”

  I raise my palm in a Who knows? gesture.

  Griff asks, “How did Walden, of all people, end up in a cult?”

  As I fill him in on Walden, the shock of hearing his voice begins to subside, and I begin to gather more solid footing.

  “You don’t think there’s much hope of getting him to accept a lawyer?” he asks.

  “Not at this point. But I’m not going to give up trying. Maybe now that he’s away from that man’s influence, we’ll have a chance. Once you get here, maybe he’ll respond to you.”

  “What about Dharma? Maybe she can get through to him.”

  “She’s in New York, on Broadway. Not coming. Imagine Margo multiplied by ten.”

  “Shit.”

  “Exactly. So it’s just you and me.”

  “Lulie,” Griff says. “I—I can’t come.”

  “What do you mean you can’t come? If it’s the money, I’ll buy you an airline ticket. Gran needs you here.”

  “It’s not the money. I just can’t come. Maybe in a couple of months.”

  My temper spikes. “A couple of months will be too late for Walden! What am I going to tell Gran?”

  “Don’t tell her anything.”

  “That’s just cruel—do you want her to go on forever not knowing if you’re dead or alive?” Did I just say that? Would she know I’m alive if not for Walden’s mess? “She’s grown so much older. Can you please at least talk to her?”

  He’s quiet for a moment. “I just can’t right now. It wouldn’t be fair to talk to her and not be able to answer her questions. But I will. I promise.”

  “Why are you being so cryptic? Are you in jail?”

  He laughs. I hear the old Griff in it, and it makes me realize how un-Griff-like he’s sounded.

  “If you’re not coming, at least give me your phone number so I can contact you with updates on Walden . . . and hunt you down if you break your promise.”

  “You can get a message to me through Tommy. Once you’re back in San Francisco, I’ll call you there.”

  Now Tommy’s scribbling when he checked my driver’s license makes sense. “Why is Tommy the one with the secret number?”

  “I needed someone in Lamoyne to be able to contact me, in case you came back, or something happened to Gran.”

  “Well, both happened. So now what?”

  “I’ll come as soon as I can.”

  “Are you a spy or something?”

  “Something.” I hear rustling and a muffled groan. “Listen, I have to go. I’m so relieved you’re safe.”

  It strikes me then that his voice has grown weaker as we’ve talked. I feel a riffle of panic. “Dammit, Griff. Tell me where you are.”

  “I can’t see anyone right now. I have to go.”

  I hear some
one talking in the background.

  “Griff? Please.”

  There’s a hitch in his voice when he says, “I—I want—Lulie, I’m sorry I didn’t take you to California.”

  The line goes dead.

  I whisper, “Oh, Griff, California wasn’t the land of perpetual summer, either.”

  I thought this wound had healed. But it’s as raw and bloody as it was nine years ago. I might not be that broken girl, but I do still long for my brother to take my hand and lead me away from the pain. And I want to do the same for him.

  Ross is waiting with expectation on his face. “So?”

  “He says he can’t come.” All my anger has been supplanted with worry. “He won’t tell me where he is or what he’s doing.”

  “What did he say?” Ross asks.

  “Nothing about himself. Just not to tell Gran because it’ll be better for her and that if I need to tell him anything to go through Tommy.”

  “I’m sure he has a reason.”

  None of my suppositions make me feel any better. Jail keeps coming to the top of the list. Or . . . “Oh God, maybe he’s in an institution somewhere. What if he is dealing with manic depression? He wouldn’t want Gran to know; it’d be too upsetting. But why didn’t he trust me?”

  He takes my left hand, turning it so the cut on my palm is facing him. Running a finger over the thin, red line left by the arrowhead, he says, “Sometimes the thing you need the most can hurt you the worst.”

  I look up into his eyes.

  “For a long time,” I say, “I thought the only way to protect myself was not to allow myself to need.”

  “And did it?” he asks. “Protect you?”

  “It just hurt me in different ways.”

  He brings my hand to his lips and places a gentle kiss on the palm. “We all hurt, Lulie. Every damn one of us. It’s better if we don’t do it alone.”

  The truth of that slices to the bone.

  The telephone rings. “That’s my call,” he says, disappointment coloring his voice. “I’m sorry, I have to take it.”

  I wave off his apology and leave the library, wondering if what Ross and I share is truly different, or if I’m just so worn down I want someone else to carry the load.