How Nancy Drew Saved My Life (28 page)

“Yeah,” I said, realizing the truth as I spoke it, “you do deserve happiness.” I raised my glass. “Cheers.”

Sweet smiled wide as she stretched across the table to kiss me on the cheek.

“Hey,” I said, “just don't expect me to call you Mom.”

Edgar clapped his hands together in a “that's settled” sort of way, smiling brightly as he placed a hand inside his jacket.

I knew what he was reaching for.

“No!” I screamed.

Dad's and Sweet's heads zipped my way.

“What?” they asked.

“Sorry,” I said. “I just didn't want anything to spoil your big moment. If anyone else has anything important to say, they should probably save it for after dessert.”

My father looked at me closely.

“You're kind of an odd girl, aren't you?” he said.

I rolled my eyes, gave an embarrassed smile.

“Yeah,” I admitted.

“Yeah,” Edgar said softly, using rare slang. But I could see from his smile that he meant it lovingly, that he was proud I was willing to let someone else go first with happiness.

 

After dinner and dessert—two desserts in one day; my life really
was
getting good!—we retired for drinks in the library. If my father thought it was odd that a busy ambassador should take the time to entertain the visitors of his daughter's governess he didn't let on. Perhaps it was that he was finally starting to see me in a more worthy light and thought I deserved such fine treatment. Or perhaps it was that he was so in love with Sweet, he couldn't see anything else clearly.

As well as Edgar had treated me over the last several weeks in the privacy of my bedroom, I myself was not used to being treated with such a public display of his regard for me. True, he had not touched me in their presence, nor had he said anything to indicate that he held me with more than a fond regard, but drinks in the library had not exactly been the norm in my stay there thus far.

And drinking had not much been the norm in my previous life, the few times I'd imbibed with Gina and Britta notwithstanding, so the combination of the two glasses of wine over dinner plus the after-dinner sweet drink Edgar served were enough to go to my head.

Edgar was asking my father and Sweet about the specifics of their wedding plans. Funny, I hadn't thought to ask that myself—what kind of ceremony would they have? And where?—but they were obviously pleased now at Edgar's asking.

Sweet positively glittered as she said, “We will get married near the dig where we first met, of course.”

Of course.

She turned to me.

“And we will want you there, Charlotte, of course.”

Of course.

I took a sip of my drink, thought about flying to Africa. Iceland was so cold, Africa would be so hot. Couldn't I ever go anywhere where the temperature was temperate?

But it would be special, I realized. My father, the version of my father I was used to, could so easily have gotten married without me present and sent a postcard afterward. It was nice he wanted my approval, nice they both wanted me there.

“Well,” I said, “of course I'd love to.” I looked over at Edgar. “But only if I can get the time off from work.”

Edgar laughed. “Now, what kind of man would I be if I didn't allow you time to attend your father's wedding?”

I pictured Sweet on her wedding day. What kind of dress would she wear? Whatever she wore, I realized, she would be stunning.

But, wait a second: What kind of dress would I wear for
my
wedding? And when exactly would we be getting married? Edgar hadn't said yet. Would it be before them? After them?

Suddenly, I had an overwhelming urge to hear Edgar make the announcement at last. After all, I'd waited—what?—at least an hour and a half since my father and Sweet made their announcement. Surely it was my turn for happiness now.

And it seemed that Edgar was eager for happiness now too, if the way his hand kept unconsciously reaching for the jeweler's box in his jacket's inside pocket was any indication. It was as though, ever since I'd screamed “No!” at him over dinner, when he'd reached for it the first time, he'd been waiting for me to give an indication that I was changing that no to yes, so he could formally, publicly ask me, and then I could really say yes.

Feeling as if I was about to give the most important head nod of my life, I met his eyes, eyed his jacket pocket meaningfully, met his eyes again, and started to nod.

Which was right when Mrs. Fairly ushered a breathless Robert Miller into the room. My eyes were glued on Edgar as he watched Robert enter. There was a wary look in his eyes, but he continued with his motion, slipping his hand inside the jacket.

“Edgar!” Robert Miller said commandingly.

It was a voice that wouldn't be ignored and I turned to look at him.

He was still the same man I'd met the night of the house party. He even had what looked to be the same suit on, making him look like an underpaid federal employee, making him look out of place here. Didn't he own another suit?

“Robert,” Edgar said evenly. “I'll be with you in a moment. I was just about to—”

“No!” Robert cried, that one-word utterance sounding somehow different than mine had earlier. Mine had been of the “no, not now, but definitely later” variety. His sounded more like the “no, not at all, not ever” variety. But how could he know what was about to happen? And, even if he did, why would he want to stop it?

My father and Sweet looked on, confused, as Robert Miller quickly strode across the room, placing his hand firmly on Edgar's reaching hand, stopping him, stopping the beautiful moment I'd been so sure was going to happen right then from happening.

“I insist,” said Robert through gritted teeth. “You and I need to talk. Now.”

“But surely,” Edgar said, “it can wait until after—”

“No,” Robert cut him off. “It can't.”

If anyone had ever asked me before that moment if it were possible for Edgar Rawlings to be subservient to anyone, I would have said, no, that such a thing was impossible. But I saw now, as Edgar allowed himself to be led from the room with a “Won't be but a few minutes and then we can continue” thrown over his shoulder, that I had been wrong.

What other things had I been wrong about?

I stood there, after Edgar and Robert left the room, wondering what was going on. I turned to my father for help, but there was no help there.

“Charlotte, what's going on?” he asked, concerned.

Nope, no help there.

Sweet moved toward me, put a comforting hand on my arm. Odd, but since I'd met her, despite that she was obviously the same age as me, she'd seemed more mature. Maybe it was because she was marrying my father.

And then, as I stood there, dying with curiosity to know what the two men were talking about, the familiar saving refrain came to me: What Would Nancy Drew Do?

If I knew one thing in this world, it was that Nancy Drew wouldn't just stand around here, balefully, waiting for whatever blow fate was about to deliver. She'd go after the mystery, find out what the hell was going on.

I shook off Sweet's hand, not unkindly, and left the room. Walking on the toes of my shoes so as not to make too much sound on the floor, I made my way slowly down the corridor to Edgar's office. When I got there, I paused, flattening myself against the wall in order to eavesdrop.

In most quarters, eavesdropping was considered to be a despicable, sneaky thing to do. But Nancy Drew eavesdropped all the time and everyone thought the world of her. And, really, how else was a girl to learn what she needed to know?

I could only hear a mumble, but from the deepness of that mumble, I knew it to be Edgar talking. How I wished I could hear the words!

But then the other voice in the duet came in and that voice was angry, stern. I could hear it clearly.

“You can't do this, Edgar,” Robert Miller said, sounding somehow sad despite the sternness. “Bebe thinks you were going to ask her to marry you. If you don't do it now, there'll be an international incident.”

I felt my heart catch. I'd been given to understand that he and Bebe had not been that close after all. Why should she think he was going to marry her?

I waited breathlessly, waited to hear Edgar say that he wouldn't marry Bebe, that he loved me.

But those words didn't come, because, once again, when he spoke it was all mumble to me.

Then there was Robert Miller again, the now-hateful Robert Miller:

“It doesn't matter,” he said, “none of that. I'm sorry Miss Bell has to be hurt right now. But surely you can see it has to be that way?”

Surely
not,
I thought. Surely, Edgar will tell him so.

Silence, long silence. And then, finally, Edgar's voice, loud and clear.

“All right—” he bit off the words, each one a nail “—all right, Robert. We'll do it your way.”

I didn't stay to hear any more. What was the point?

I raced back down the corridor, the heels of my dancing shoes, the shoes I'd thought to one day dance with Edgar in, maybe even tonight, tattooing a mocking trail of laughter behind me as I flew.

I heard the door of the office fling open behind me, heard Edgar desperately scream, “Charlotte!” But I didn't stop.

I don't know what my father and Sweet thought when they saw me race by the library, would never know, didn't care.

I hit the front door hard, fumbling with the handle, unable to open it through the tears blinding me. But then I had it opened, finally, just as Edgar caught up to me from behind, put his hands on my shoulders, turning me toward him.

“Charlotte, I can—”

“Don't. You. Dare.” I said it in a tone of voice that brooked no argument, even from him. And then using both my hands forcefully, I pushed him away.

Then I was out the door, slamming it behind me.

Having given no thought to what I was going to do, where I was going to go, I raced in the night down the driveway, my dancing shoes hitting the ice at a skid, sliding me along until I at last lost my balance, falling hard.

“Crap!” I shouted, railing at the night sky. “Why does there have to be so much fucking ice in Iceland?”

Then I laughed, laughed at the silliness that was me.

And then I cried, cried at what an idiot I'd been, thinking I could come to this foreign place and my life would be different, thinking things would be different with Edgar than they'd been with Buster, thinking my story would somehow turn out to be a happy one.

There was going to be no happy ending for me. I saw that now. But I also saw that I couldn't just leave right then and there. Outside of practical considerations, like the fact that all I had with me were the clothes on my back and it was the middle of the night and my passport and things were back inside the house, there was the matter of Annette. I could not, would not leave her as I had done the Keating children. It was my duty, my responsibility to stay with her until the future was settled. I couldn't let her wake in the morning and find me not there, never to be seen or heard from again.

So I would go back inside the house, that house I now hated, I would find some flimsy excuse to explain away my bizarre behavior to my father and Sweet. I would bide my time just up until, and not a moment longer, I could make my escape, my conscience clear.

T
he next day dawned as dreary as a day could dawn.

The night before, after doing what I'd promised myself I would do—make an excuse to my father and Sweet that they would somehow buy—I'd come up here to my bedroom. I was in the process of putting on my nightgown, having taken off the red dress, tearing the sleeve in my haste to get it off me, when the knock came at the door.

I recognized that knock.

I flung open the door, saw Edgar there, looking sadder than I'd ever seen him. For a moment, my heart went out to him instinctively, but then, angry with myself more than with anyone else, I pushed that tender feeling away.

“What?” I demanded. “What do you want from me?”

He moved to touch me, but I pulled out of reach.

“Please, Charlotte, listen. I can—”

“No,” I said. “I don't want to listen.
You
listen. I'll stay in this house, under your roof, but only until things are settled for Annette. You instruct Mrs. Fairly to find another governess for her. And, as soon she can find one, I'm out of here.”

“Please, Charlotte, I need you.”

That was a joke!

I thought about the woman he was going to marry now, the woman who was not me.

“Get out!” I said, no longer able to contain my feelings, not caring who heard me. At least I knew that Annette, the only one I was concerned for now, was a sound sleeper. I picked up the red dress, threw it at him. “Get out! I mean it! I don't want you talking to me, I don't want to talk to you. I'll stay until the situation is settled for Annette. And not one day longer.”

Then I threw the shoes, too.

Now that it was daytime, or what passed for daytime in Iceland that time of year, I was as miserable as a human being could be. Whatever strength from anger I'd felt the night before was gone now. In its wake, only devastation.

And nausea.

I attributed the nausea to a combination of things: the drinking I'd done the night before, coupled with the excess of anxiety over all that had gone on afterward.

Last night, while in the daze of trying to explain to Dad and Sweet my bizarre behavior, he'd told me that, mission accomplished in telling me about their plans to wed, they were returning to Africa today. We'd said our goodbyes. This was good, I saw, because I wouldn't have been able to bear witnessing their happiness just now. Right now, the happiness of others hurt too much. By the time their wedding rolled around, whenever that might be, I would be able to function like a proper human being, I would be able to smile and really mean it, but not now, not today.

I would have liked to pull the sheets back up over my head, declared the day over before it had even begun. But like mothers everywhere, you don't get the luxury of indulging your own sickness when you have a small child in your care; there are someone else's needs to attend to first. I may not have been Annette's mother, would never be, but she was still my responsibility until circumstances finally changed for good.

So I dragged myself out of bed, brushed my teeth because that's what people do even if a part of me no longer cared about living, put on clothes without taking any notice what they were and went down to breakfast.

“Isn't it the most wonderful news imaginable?” Mrs. Fairly said upon my entering.

I looked at her quizzically.

“Papa is to marry Miss Bebe!” said Annette. “I will finally have a mother!”

So he had told them already.

Then Annette saddened a bit.

“Of course,” she said solemnly, “it is not so nice as if you were to be my mother, but I know now that was just a silly dream of mine.”

Mine, too,
I thought, my heart breaking.

But then, as quickly as she had turned cloudy, she became sunny again. Well, Annette always was a resilient child.

“But I will have a mama!” she said.

“Yes,” I said, practically choking on the word as I touched her head lightly.

I wondered where he was, prayed I wouldn't have to endure seeing him that morning.

It was as though Mrs. Fairly read my mind.

“The master left early this morning for America. He was called back on some urgent business but should be back in two days. I only knew about the engagement to Miss Iversdottir from a note he left me.”

What had he done—called that…
blond
woman the night before on the phone, after leaving me in tears, and asked her right then?

It hurt too much to think about it.

“Annette,” I said, “when you're finished with breakfast, meet me in your room and we'll get down to work.”

“Aren't you going to eat anything?” Mrs. Fairly asked, concerned, as I moved to leave the room.

“No,” I said. “I have no appetite today.”

 

My work with Annette proceeded badly that morning.

I wanted her to work on her math—it was about time we each mastered that subject or at least tried to become less awful at it—but all she wanted to do was look over the scrapbook we'd started making for her weeks before.

She kept pointing to individual pictures of herself with her father.

“Here is where Miss Bebe's face will be soon,” she said, pointing at a photo of the two of them enjoying birthday cake. “And she will be here, too,” she said, pointing to the strip of small black-and-white pictures that had been taken at one of those mall booths.

Yes,
I thought,
she will be in all those places and I will be…gone.

It was too hard for me, thinking about the day that was sure to come even sooner than I'd previously thought, when I'd be separated from Annette for life.

“You know,” I said, trying to distract her, “we don't necessarily have to work on math this morning. We could work on reading or science. We could do an experiment!”

But even that didn't distract her.

“Okay,” I said, trying one last resort, “we could just color all day!”

Nor that, either. All she wanted to do was look at her family pictures and dream about the day, soon, when her family would grow bigger.

And all I could do was sit by, helplessly, and watch her. Maybe I couldn't have stood to see the happiness of my father and Sweet that day, but I couldn't stand to get in the way of her happiness, either.

 

The morning passed.

Lunch came and went, with me still unable to eat due to the nausea of anxiety.

“If you don't eat,” said Mrs. Fairly, “how will you work?”

“If you don't eat,” said Lars Aquavit, “how will you drive?”

“I'll be fine,” I lied, wondering if I would ever be fine again.

Afternoon started and Annette was still obsessing over the scrapbook. In order to protect myself from the pain of observing this activity, I gave my mind over to wondering what I was going to do with my future, now that it was obvious my services here would no longer be required.

Annette was busy enough in a self-contained way that I thought it okay to leave her to her own devices for a while. She hardly noticed my passing.

I went to my room, took out the manuscript I'd been working on, the roman à clef about Buster. Reading through the pages, I thought that some of it was good, but a large part wasn't; mostly, it was just the bitter tale of a foolish girl. My feelings for Buster had stopped completely, at last, like a broken clock that could not be started again. What a different world it would be if one could enter an affair with the same wisdom one has after going out from it.

I'd thought for so long that I wanted to write, that perhaps my salvation lay there, but I saw now that this was untrue. Whatever I was going to do in life, it wasn't going to be that.

I took the uncompleted manuscript down to the library where a fire was always lit midday and fed the whole lot in at one go. It made a bright flare.

Let someone else tell the stories, I thought. I had already told mine.

 

Late afternoon was usually the time of day Lars Aquavit reserved for teaching me to drive, or attempting to. Even though Annette was too old now for naps, after a full day's schoolwork she usually needed some downtime and Lars claimed that worked best for him.

“I am exactly between meals,” he liked to say, “so there is no risk of losing my lunch, and even if I do lose my appetite, there are enough hours left before dinner that I can regain it in time.”

Usually, he made me laugh when he said this, but not today.

And now, not only did I feel nauseous, but I was also feeling light-headed, as well, perhaps from having skipped two meals.

“I don't think I should be driving today,” I told him.

“But how can you learn,” he said, “if you don't practice?”

I was tempted to point out that if my driving talents were any indication, I hadn't been learning anything at all. Then there was the matter of my no longer really needing to drive at all, with me leaving here soon. Once I was back in Manhattan, I could spend the rest of my life on public transportation whenever I needed to go anywhere.

“I'm just tired today,” I finally said. “Maybe tomorrow. Tomorrow I'll learn how to drive.”

Having neatly gotten out of taking yet another driving lesson I suppose I could have sought out Annette and played away her downtime with her. But I really was exhausted and decided instead on a nap.

By the time I woke up, Annette had disappeared.

 

I looked for her everywhere, having seen by the clock it was time, past time, to get her ready for dinner.

But she was nowhere to be found.

How would Nancy Drew go about finding a missing child?

I hunted down Mrs. Fairly, the woman who usually knew everything.

“Oh,” she said, laughing, “you were sleeping, so of course you don't know. Miss Iversdottir stopped by. She said she wanted to take Annette for the evening, something about doing something ‘spiritual' together.”

“And you let her take her?” I demanded.

“Why wouldn't I?” She was surprised. “Miss Iversdottir said she'd spoken about it with Ambassador Rawlings last night when he phoned to ask her to marry him and that he must have forgotten to tell me about it. And, of course, Annette was thrilled at the idea of just the two of them doing something together, just her and her future mama. So why wouldn't I let them go?”

There was no logical answer I could give. Maybe it was just that I had hoped to keep Annette with me, if only for a little while longer.

“Now, then,” Mrs. Fairly said brightly. “About dinner. You haven't had anything to eat all—”

“I think I'll go back to bed,” I cut her off. Since there was no one here who needed me any longer, there really was no reason left for me
not
to declare the day over and done. “I'm still not hungry and I'm still exhausted. Must be a bug coming on.”

 

I really must have been exhausted, because it was the middle of the night when I finally came awake.

What had awakened me?

That sound, that wretched eerie sound that I'd occasionally been bothered by in this house, the one that sounded like laughter.

“That's
it!
” I finally cracked, speaking the words into the silence of my room. Ever since I'd come here, from time to time I'd been plagued with that annoying noise. Well, no more. I'd be leaving here soon. What was to stop me from breaking into that locked room and seeing just what the hell was going on? It was what Nancy Drew would do. She certainly wouldn't just lie here, staring at the ceiling while a madwoman cackled down the hall. I'd been subservient here for way too long, even if at times I tried to tell myself I wasn't. Coming to this house had screwed up my life and now it was trying to screw up my sleep. Enough was enough.

I cast about for something to break into the room with, knowing that Nancy Drew would never try something so foolish as throwing herself at a solid door. I finally settled for a credit card I hadn't needed to use once since coming here—good thing, I saw, since it had expired—and a needle from the traveler's sewing kit I traveled with, but also never used.

An expired Amex credit card, not even gold, and a sewing needle. Well, I certainly felt armed.

This time, I felt no need for tiptoeing as I had during the course of my amateur investigations. With Annette out of the house, and Edgar out of the country, there was only Mrs. Fairly, who could sleep through anything. The need for discretion had flown the coop and all that remained was the need for valor.

I strode boldly with my weapons down the hall. First, I tried the needle. It would have been so nice, so convenient if that worked right away. But the needle was too short, too skinny, and I only wound up dropping it, losing it down the hole.