While Tomorrow Waits

By Naomi Takemoto

When death severs young Giselle McClintock’s closest family bonds, she finds herself disconnected from her own family and weaves her way into her great aunt’s global empire. Hidden passions ignite a maze of entanglements, putting Giselle on the outside again, struggling to stay connected to her family.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Naomi Takemoto
• Release date: Dec 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9780986063824

Naomi Takemoto

Naomi Takemoto, a third generation Japanese American clinical social worker, turned wife and mother, discovered that children experience life much differently than adults think. Nothing is as it appears from the outside. She credits her mother with the lessons of tolerant and accommodating mothering that taught her the power of a generous heart.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

A Mad Hatter’s Tea Party

Angels have been a part of my life, even before I could have known of their existence. Twenty-five years before my birth, an angel intervention joined the stars of destiny for two strangers, opening doors of opportunity for my mother-yet-to-be and altering her life path in a new direction. Although my angels are not immortal or supernatural and walk among us like ordinary people, they are anything but ordinary. However, it was many years before I realized their words of comfort, words of wisdom, or words of caution as angel interventions. Here are their stories as much as my own.

* * *

The first reported story of an angel intervention happened on a snowy night in late November 1967, when a look across a crowded room changed lives for three generations. My mother’s aunt, Kathryn Montague’s eye caught the eye of wealthy widower, Oliver P. Harrison. He crossed the room, carrying two glasses of champagne and asked her to dance. Kathryn Montague was an opera singer, who had been loved by noblemen and aristocrats across Europe and had sung the passions of love during twenty years of operatic performances. But she had never found love until that moment. Oliver P. Harrison had been married for nearly twenty-five years, widowed for six, but had never been in love. It was my grandmother, Pilar Montague Van Hauten, who became the angel who unknowingly brought her older sister, Kathryn, to Philadelphia. It was Mr. Harrison who brought the two sisters together, altering the courses of their lives and that of my mother, Olivia Van Hauten McClintock. I am Olivia McClintock’s youngest child, Giselle. Herein my story begins.

* * *

Wealthy and influential, Oliver P. Harrison, whom we called, Uncle Oliver was the reason my three older brothers and I were admitted into prestigious Miss Hulling’s Country Day School for the wealthy and social elites of The Main Line of Philadelphia. When I was turning 5, my oldest brother Gabriel was12, Baron was 10, and Tristan was 8. They had been a better fit for Miss Hulling’s than I was. They were beautiful, charming and social magnets, who fit comfortably into a wide circle of friends. I was satisfied to have my mother, my favorite stuffed animals, Froggy and Baby and my best friend, Clio, who had been like a nanny to me since the day I was born as my only friends. They filled my days with games, imaginary adventures, and afternoon teas served on fine, hand painted china with elegant pastries and petit sandwiches. The girls at school might have enjoyed an invitation to play with me, but they had little interest in my friendship.

I didn’t belong at Miss Hulling’s Country Day School, which should have been our clue that the perfectly appointed 5th birthday party with girls from Miss Hulling’s would become the perfectly appointed disaster. Mommy’s aunt, Kathryn Harrison, whom we all called, Aunt Katya, carefully covered every detail, even engaging her chauffeur, Jasper, to be our butler, who accommodated our every want and wish.

We created our own Mad Hats from an assortment of adornments. Tommy Twister, a tall, lanky clown entertained us with magic hat tricks and with lighting fast speed, twisted, turned, knotted and folded long, thin balloons into every imaginable creature, never disappointing us even once. We followed a treasure map written in riddles of rhyme that lead us through the house, around the yard and up the stairs in search of the treasure with the Queen’s Hats. They were Aunt Katya’s hats, pieces of fashion art that gave me a glimpse into her magnificent life as a European opera star, before marrying Oliver P. Harrison. They were indeed, fit for a queen. My guests and I tried on multiple hats and draped ourselves in boas, silk scarves and other fashion accessories until we were satisfied with our finished look. In a display of elegant young socialites, we strutted to the table and gracefully seated ourselves at the perfectly appointed table with fine china, silver and crystal.

Plates filled with delicate triangular sandwiches, pinwheels, petite cookies, mini-tarts filled with chocolate mouse with a dollop of whipped cream, and thin slivers of moist cakes with raspberry and lemon filling were placed in the center of the table. The girls waited to be served, but as soon as I reached for my first sandwich, it was the signal to help themselves. Within seconds, they were reduced to hungry cowhands seated around a table of grub, ready for the taking. By-passing plates and forks and foregoing napkins, the girls propped themselves onto their knees on their chairs for easier reach and with hands and mouths full, they stuffed their faces with sandwiches, cookies, and cake, without anything ever touching a plate. Jasper circled the table filling our glasses with homemade lemonade and iced tea, which we used to wash down the food stuffed in our mouths. I watched in amazement at my table of rich little would-be debutantes, eating voraciously like starving street urchins. What was happening? I wondered. Sometimes a girl flashed a worried glance at Mommy or Aunt Katya, wondering if they objected. But the smiles on Mommy’s and Aunt Katya’s faces said, eat up, and that’s exactly what they did. My guests were starved for not just food, but the freedom to be kids, without the rules and restrictions of their station in life. It was the freedom to choose what to eat, how much to eat, how to eat, and in what order to eat that set them free, with just an occasional worried glance before taking yet another piece of cake or chocolate mouse tart. With our faces covered in raspberry filling and chocolate, we leaned back like overstuffed nobility at our banquet table, which was a complete mess.

I put on the performance of a lifetime, oooh-ing and aaah-ing and pretending excitement and joy at the gifts I would never play with. What do girls do with sparkly pastel Little Ponies, Barbies, tiny dolls and accessories stored inside a tiny plastic purse? But when I passed the gifts around, all the girls knew exactly what to do with those sorts of toys. I wished I understood the fascination.

The table had been completely cleared and new china and silver were laid out for the birthday cake. Clio, my nanny who wasn’t actually a nanny, but a gifted pastry chef and my best friend, carried in a beautiful cake with whipped cream frosting and strawberry halves along the edge, and five tall sparkly candles that looked more like 4th of July sparklers. After singing Happy Birthday, we were served a yummy strawberry shortcake made of thin layers of chiffon cake and whipped cream filling and slices of strawberries. It was light and delicious and my guests ate hungrily as if they hadn’t eaten all day.

When it was time to leave, most girls were grinning from ear to ear, some wanting to come back for another day of dress up. Aunt Katya and Mommy had hoped I’d make some friends, and it seemed the goal had been achieved. But I silently smiled, exhausted, delighted the day was over and relieved Aunt Katya’s party was a success, but not committing to any future dress up play days. Jasper was in the foyer offering to take the girls’ hats and handing them their balloon hats, their personal millinery creations and mini albums of pictures of the day. Everything was going smoothly until Amber refused to give back Aunt Katya’s hat.

I found it, and I’m keeping it. Amber said to Jasper. Amber was leader of the popular gang in my class.

No, you can’t keep that hat. It belongs to my aunt. I pleaded.

YES I CAN! she shot back.

We’re keeping our hats, too! her posse of friends piped in as they lined up together next to Amber. Before I knew what happened, my fingers were wrapped through Amber’s hair, tangled in her ringlets of curls. She screamed an ear piercing, bone chilling scream and the room filled with horrified faces, all screaming at me to LET GO. My fingers became more tangled in her knotted mass of curls, and I dragged her across the foyer trying to break lose. Mommy finally intercepted us and held onto my hand as she worked to undo my fingers. Amber’s hair stood straight up in the air, making her look like the Bride of Frankenstein, with eyes blazed with fury and fear. With claws bared, she struck out at me, but Mommy pulled me aside, out of striking distance.

She didn’t mean to pull your hair. Mommy insisted. She just wanted the hat. It was an accident. Suddenly Amber’s mother was in the doorway, mouth wide open and eyes blazing with fury.

OH MY GOD! WHAT HAPPENED TO YOUR HAIR! she shouted. Who did this to you? she demanded to know.

SHE DID! Amber screamed, her finger pointing at me and tears pouring down her face. I’m going to tell everyone at school what a mean and horrible person you are. she shouted. Everyone’s going to hate you for what you did to me!

I never should have allowed you to attend a party with people we don’t know. her mother said. That was society speak for…..commoners. Amber’s mother stormed out with Amber in tow. Her gang threw their hats on the floor and in a queue, followed behind Amber and her mother. Daddy held the door open, waiting for them to pass.

Thanks for coming to Giselle’s party. he innocently said to the backs of their heads. Hope you girls had a good time.

Standing behind him were Uncle Oliver, Aunt Katya’s husband, Mommy’s older brother Benjamin, whom we called Uncle Buck, Mr. Johanssen from across the street, my brothers, and a chauffeur, who was there to pick up two of my guests. They filled our foyer and watched silently as the girls marched out without a thank you or good-bye.

Mr. Johanssen’s twins ran to him, jabbering wildly in vivid detail about the fight he had just missed. Their hands waved through the air, recreating the action, and then my cousins took over, interrupting and correcting them as they shouted more details to their fathers. In their excitement and delight, the incident exploded into a bar room brawl, and I hid in shame, tears pouring down my face. I hadn’t intended to pull her hair. I only wanted the hat.

If we’d known there was going to be a cat fight, we would have hung around. Daddy snickered as he held back a grin.

Ethan! It’s not funny. Mommy scolded and pinched her brow together as a warning.

Well, you put a bunch of girls together for the afternoon, and someone’s bound to go home crying. my oldest brother, Gabriel said.

C’mon girls. We’ve got to go. Mr. Johannsen and Uncle Buck said. The girls took their handmade hats, balloon hats and photos and marched out with a quick wave and Thank you. That was a GREAT party! they shouted.

My last two guests, Hazel and Bridget, the richest and shyest girls in my class, stood paralyzed, backs pressed against the wall. Slowly they unpeeled themselves from the wall, stepped forward and accepted their hats and photos. Without being instructed, the girls thanked Aunt Katya and Mommy for the lovely party and shook their hands. They thanked me with a sympathetic smile, as if pitying me for the fallout I’d face on Monday morning. But then Hazel smiled a funny smile as if trying to hide her delight that I had gotten the best of Amber. They were rich girls but not popular. I called them cling ons, wanna-be’s who circled outside the perimeter of the closed group of popular girls. Social structure began early at Miss Hulling’s. Being timid and shy, they only had each other as friends. I’d only seen their parents once. Their nannies or chauffeurs always took them to parties or attended special events or performances.

As the two girls walked past my two oldest brothers, Gabriel and Baron, they glanced up momentarily, giving my brothers shy and embarrassed smiles. Gabriel’s and Baron’s disarmingly beautiful faces peered down at them. Radiating charm behind mischievous and charismatic smiles, they turned two timid five-year old girls into giddy admirers, giggling and whispering to each other as they followed their chauffeur. My brothers had that affect on women of all ages, but it seemed to completely by-pass their own awareness. They simply were who they were without forced affect… a seemingly boundless well of unchecked energy that oozed from every pore in their bodies and filled every inch of space with effortless, charismatic charm.

Uncle Oliver lifted me into his arms and asked, Who won? a mischievous grin on his face. I held the hat high in triumph, and with a proud smile he said gleefully, That’s my girl! I perched the hat on top of Uncle Oliver’s head, which made him look like a cupcake with a dollop of blue frosting on top. I hugged him tight, because I WAS his special girl.

Got any food left? Baron asked. I’m starving!

It’s on the table. Clio replied. Clio was my only true friend, a nanny of sorts, and the first person I actually recognized as an angel in my life. Her childlike innocence always kept me entertained and never feeling lonely or friendless at a time when I had no other friends.

Clio, you are indeed a jewel. Baron complimented with a big smile that put an embarrassed and shy smile on Clio’s face. Baron was the only one of my brothers who could send her into giddy delight with just a smile.

Let’s get dressed for dinner. Tristan, the youngest of my three brothers said. Tristan is beautiful in a quiet, delicate and refined way, and the brother to whom I have always been the closest.

Don’t you dare put on one of Aunt Katya’s hats until you wash your stinky, sweaty hair. Mommy yelled after them.

I call first shower. Gabriel yelled and pranced upstairs. The preparations for my family birthday celebration had begun.

Uncle Oliver picked up a narrow-brimmed red felt hat that one of the girls had thrown on the floor of the foyer and placed it gently on Aunt Katya’s head.

You look as gorgeous as the last time I saw you in that hat when we toured the villas in Tuscany looking for our wedding site. My God are you beautiful! he cooed. I love you more every day.

Uncle Oliver was a very big, very rich and very powerful man, but he was putty in Aunt Katya’s hands. He was the patriarch of the Harrison Banking Dynasty, but Aunt Katya called him Pooh, because she said he resembled Winnie the Pooh, though I never saw the resemblance. Aunt Katya said it was because I never saw the Old Pooh. They had been married for nearly thirty years and seemed to fall more deeply in love with each passing year. Oliver Harrison was an angel who passed through my life, but I didn’t know it until many years later. I will tell his story in all it’s greatness…. but not now.

* * *

We gathered around our dining room table, each of us taking our spot, Daddy and Uncle Oliver at either end, Mommy to Daddy’s right and Gabriel to his left, and my other brothers lined up along side Gabriel like The Three Musketeers. Aunt Katya sat to Uncle Oliver’s right and Grandpa Sam, Mommy’s father, sat to his left. I was sandwiched between Mommy and Clio. Mommy wore a simple flat-top straw hat with pastel floral grosgrain hatband with a flat bow at the back. She looked like a maiden sitting on a picnic blanket gazing across a clear blue lake. Daddy silently watched her with loving eyes, and then she turned to look at him, blushing slightly. He took her hand, lifted it to his lips, and she gave him a shy smile, but with eyes that spoke of pure adoration.

OK, knock it off you two or get a room. Gabriel interrupted, and Mommy blushed bright red and dropped her eyes.

All in good time. Daddy said casually and raised Mommy’s hand to kiss it again. She simply looked at him and smiled. So much was said, though nothing was said, which is how it always was between them. Mommy spoke with her eyes, her face and her body, rarely speaking words, but always unmistakably clear. I glared at Gabriel for embarrassing Mommy, and he peered at me beneath the large black felt hat with sweeping brim that took up too much space at our table. His intense, smoldering James Dean eyes, peering out from beneath the hat’s brim, could have looked sinister and felt intimidating. But his eyes were filled with mischief, and he gave me an apologetic grin, which said,

Chill out, Gi. No harm intended.

Baron, my middle brother, talked with great gusto to Daddy, who sat quietly listening. Because he talked a lot, I thought our whole family talked a lot, but he was the one who filled the silence, entertained us, excited us, and drew us into his magical world of imaginative thoughts. Women loved Baron…. teachers, friends’ moms, women in the neighborhood, the check out clerk at the grocery store. Wherever we went, he unconsciously charmed women with his radiant smile, a friendly greeting, or thank you, that exuded the most endearing politeness resonating with sincerity. Within his few words and momentary glances, he made even strangers feel as if they were the only person who mattered and the most beautiful person in the world. It had a magical effect on women. He had donned a man’s Panama hat, and in that moment I was transported to Hollywood, with the glamour of art deco facades and old fashioned movie stars. Even I could be smitten by his charm, and on that day, his adoring gaze, soothed the bruising of my injured heart.

Clio brought out birthday cake, my favorite Mile High Chocolate Cake, with several moist layers of cake and the richest, creamiest chocolate ganache filling and covered in a bittersweet chocolate frosting that was too yummy for words. My family sang Happy Birthday, and then Uncle Oliver waved to me to come sit with him. I crawled into his lap as only I was allowed to do, and he handed me a small satin box with a bright blue ribbon. I opened it in anticipation of a delicate piece of jewelry, maybe a locket or a bracelet and was surprised by the small, silver figural of a woman in armor seated on a rearing horse with her sword drawn. What is this? I wondered silently.

Joan of Arc! Perfect! Gabriel shouted. Gi, better be ready when you throw down that gauntlet! No mercy, Gi. Gabriel warned.

It was my own, personal Monopoly piece. Each of my brothers had been given his own Monopoly piece. Gabriel’s piece was a knight on horseback with beautiful enamel paint on silver, Baron’s was a king, similar to a chess piece, and Tristan’s was a wizard in a blue and gold cape. In our family, Monopoly was NOT just a board game. It was where we rehearsed creating financial power and dominance, and learned the price of investment mistakes. Mommy said Uncle Oliver was a financial wizard, so he never played, but within the commentary he gave me as we sat together and watched, I learned mistakes that were made and opportunities that were lost. Clio was a Monopoly Addict. Her silver unicorn, Hobbes, was ruthless, marching boldly across the board, buying everything in his path and loading his properties with houses and hotels. Everyone feared Hobbes. My own Joan of Arc piece was the sign that I had graduated to the big boys’ table and could throw down with my brothers and other challengers. Unfortunately, I didn’t really know how to play, but if I had the courage, I was welcome at the table. It was an infinitely more valuable gift than any piece of jewelry.

I was exhausted beyond words when Clio ran my bath and put me in it to soak. I sank deep into the water, covering my head, trying to forget the rage in Amber’s eyes. Clio’s fingers, running through my hair as she washed it was deliciously soothing, and my eyelids drooped as I struggled to stay awake. She toweled me dry, humming a tune I didn’t recognize, combed my hair and blew it dry before I crawled into bed beside her. A card on the bedside commode said, Happy Birthday Giselle, and I knew Tristan, the youngest of my three older brothers, had made me a card. Tristan’s artwork filled our home and our hearts with memorable images. I curled up next to Clio and opened my card. On the front he had drawn an empty table set for tea under a blue sky with billowy clouds overhead and the sun peaking through from behind. Inside were pencil caricatures of my family looking ridiculous in brightly colored hats and cheesy grins, and holding a birthday cake that said, HAPPY BIRTHDAY GISELLE. It was an amazing likeness of my family, and a tear trickled down my face. I nestled into the crook of Clio’s arm, that place where the world disappeared, my breathing slowed and my heart felt calm. How could I not believe in angels, when swathed in her arm of love?

CHAPTER 2

Amélie Montpelier

Clio’s mother, Amélie Montpelier, became the Angel at the Gate of Harrison Manor in the midst of a Harrison family crisis in the spring of 1938. Amélie was eighteen, unwed, pregnant and on the verge of homelessness when Oliver Phinneus Harrison asked her.

Do you think you can manage two babies at once?

I was caring for more than two babies by the time I was twelve. Amélie replied.

A car will pick you up in the morning. Mr. Harrison said.

Six months earlier, Frederick Fritz Harrison, Oliver’s father and patriarch of the Harrison Banking Dynasty had died in a plane crash. His older son, Oliver Phinneus, the man we called Uncle Oliver, was catapulted into his father’s chair as President and Chairman of the Board of Heritage Bank and Trust. He had become heir to Harrison Manor, the family estate, and his widowed mother, Deidre Pendleton Harrison’s, overseer. He was only twenty-nine years old. Oliver and his first wife, Antoinette Monroe, were expecting their first child in the summer of 1938.

* * *

I heard Amélie’s story in the late winter of 1996 when Jezebel, Clio’s older sister, whom we all called Jezzy, talked about her mother on the anniversary of Amélie’s death. Jezzy was comfortably curled up in an overstuffed chair, and Clio and I were nestled together on the sofa. It was not a sad story, but nor was it a happy one. Jezzy didn’t sound sad, and Clio was wide-eyed with interest, at times teary-eyed at remembering her mother’s death and the emptiness it left inside her.

As Amélie’s story unfolded, Jezzy’s words held within them the mentally recorded stories, secrets, myths, and tragedies of the people who had lived within the walls of Harrison Manor for sixty years. She and Clio had spent a lifetime at The Manor, and that night, Jezzy became the mansion’s voice. Amélie Montpelier’s story was just one of the many closely held secrets about the lives within Harrison Manor.

Amélie, who was called Amé, was from Haiti. She was unwed and pregnant and ready to be thrown out of the home where she worked when Oliver Harrison appeared like an angel and offered her a job as a nanny for his yet unborn first child. He sent a chauffeur-driven car for her, and like a princess being driven to the gates of the mansion, Amélie entered the estate of Harrison Manor.

In July 1938 Oliver’s and Antoinette’s first child, Sterling Preston Harrison, was born. Young Amélie’s first child, Jezebel Jacqueline Montpelier, Clio’s older sister, was born in August. Antoinette Harrison was a young, beautiful and delicate bride when she became a new mother. Though she had been groomed to become a high society wife, she was never prepared to be a mother. As soon as she came home from hospital and placed her baby in Amé’s arms, it was as if her job was done. Antoinette had married into Philadelphia’s aristocracy, gave birth to the next heir in the Harrison Dynasty, and thus fulfilled every family expectation. Her job done, she was free to concentrate on the role for which she had prepared her entire life, Philadelphia’s premier socialite.

Amé, on the other hand, had been prepared to become a mother her whole life. She had cared for younger siblings until she was brought to America from Haiti. In Haiti babies did not sleep alone in cribs, separated from their mothers. So Amé did what Haitian mothers did and took the infant Sterling into her bed and nursed him from beautiful breasts as she nursed her own baby. Jezzy spoke reverently about her mama’s breasts. As soon as she was born, she and Sterling suckled side-by-side on Amé’s lap – Sterling on the right and Jezzy on the left. They never changed sides. Jezzy described her mama’s breasts as perfect, round and firm, like the boobs women on the Main Line paid big bucks to have. But Amé’s ‘boobs’ weren’t ornaments. They were unconditional love – always accessible with just the lift of a shirt, never restrictive, always comforting and nourishing, and no assembly required. They were pure joy.

The 19th century farmhouse behind The Manor became Amé’s private residence and The Nursery. Antoinette rarely came to the farmhouse, but Oliver Harrison, whom Amé always called Mr. Harrison, made a ritual of taking his evening cognac to the farmhouse. Placing Sterling on his shoulder, he bounced him until he burped. Then Mr. Harrison put Sterling into bed. It was a strange but touching scene, yet the task was perfect for a man like Oliver Harrison. It gave comfort, had a purpose, and visible results. Mr. Harrison never spoke about his life, but Amé saw the burp give relief to a man with unspoken pressure that was magically released in the moment of that burp. During those quiet minutes with his son, Mr. Harrison discovered that Sterling was an easy, good-natured baby, who always burped after a reasonable length of bouncing, never too long, or too short. He was the perfect baby for a father who knew nothing about babies. Mr. Harrison’s ritual stopped as mysteriously as it had begun. Amé worried about how Mr. Harrison got relief from his troubles after he stopped coming to the farmhouse, but it wasn’t her place to question or invite him to continue to come back.

Jezzy distinctly remembered the day she and Sterling were weaned. He and Jezzy were seated on Amé’s lap, each straddled over Amé’s thighs and exploring Amés breasts. They were Jezzy’s and Sterling’s most prized possessions. They provided food, comfort and entertainment. The babies were entertaining themselves wiggling, massaging, and kneading Amé’s breasts. They created characters out of them, giving them voices that argued and cooed as Sterling and Jezzy pressed the large round masses together in combat or intimate embrace. Jezzy and Sterling were lost in their play-making when a very pregnant Antoinette unexpectedly walked into the farmhouse, shocked at the appalling sight. Jezzy remembered the shriek, Sterling being grabbed off Amé’s lap, Antoinette’s angry yelling and her mother silently sitting, eyes down, crestfallen and trembling as she clung to Jezzy against the hailstorm of Antoinette’s anger. Sterling never again had access to Amé’s breast. He stopped sleeping and bathing with Jezzy, and life was forever changed. Antoinette wanted Amé dismissed, but when Rebecca Victoria, a fussy, colicky baby was born, there was no more talk of firing Amé.

Rebecca became the thief who stole Amé’s precious breast. Rebecca totally upset the peace at the farmhouse. Mr. Harrison returned to his ritual, but stubborn and resistant Rebecca was an unexpected challenge. Amé thought Mr. Harrison might abandon his project, but he was not accustomed to being outdone, particularly by a baby. The ritual was combative, so Mr. Harrison brought whiskey instead of cognac. Amé’s heart warmed to the man she watched battle his own impatience. But he always won and showed even greater relief from his success. Rebecca and Mr. Harrison always had a tense and strained relationship, maybe because Rebecca was always defeated at his hands. Jezzy had a mischievous grin on her face after she told the story of Rebecca and her father. I had never cared for Rebecca. She always seemed rude and demanding with everyone, particularly Jezzy. But, apparently Jezzy got her just rewards when Emily Caroline was born, and Rebecca got bumped off her precious tit. Poor Emily suffered from Rebecca’s anger and abuse when no one was looking. But Emily was said to bring smiles to people’s faces, especially Mr. Harrison’s, who appreciated the easier experience after his struggles with Rebecca.

Clio came along two years after Emily and was the last to suckle on the magical tit She was born with a smile on her face, constantly cooing, chortling and laughing with the joy of being alive. But Clio’s birth shocked people, because there wasn’t a man around who might be her father, except Mr. Harrison. But, Jezzy knew their father as the man with no name. He appeared one day in their lives and left as mysteriously as he had arrived. Amé had explained that he came to borrow money to visit his dying mother in Africa. Nine months later, Clio was born, he was gone, and Amé was left with a broken heart that he had no feelings for her beyond a night of passion. They never saw him again.

Oliver Harrison and Clio adored each other, fueling the gossip that she was his daughter. She called him Popi even before she said Mama. No one else ever called Mr. Harrison, Popi. She laughed and giggled when he bounced her, and no one ever saw him laugh so freely as when he was with Clio. When she got older, she waited for him to come home. She’d hold up her arms to be picked up and stared into his face with a big smile. If he didn’t smile back, she shaped a smile on his lips with her fingers. No matter what his mood had been before she greeted him, his face softened and his mood changed. No one else could do that. But maybe no one else ever tried. Long after the burping game stopped, Clio was always the pressure valve in Oliver Harrison’s life. She brought him relief in ways no one understood. It was the beginning of a very special relationship between the two that lasted a lifetime.

Clio sat silently listening, a sad smile on her face, remembering her mother and her childhood with Popi. I sometimes wondered over the years, Who was Antoinette Monroe Harrison, mother of three? What kind of mother was she? Sterling almost never spoke about her, either good or bad. But Sterling always referred to Amélie as Amé and never as mother or mama. On the few occasions when he spoke about Antoinette, he referred to her as mother. There was never anger or bitterness in his voice. In fact, there was love, and all three of her children grew up to live lives not inconsistent with whom they had been as children. Rebecca lived an intense life as a lawyer. Emily lived a life doing what she loved, riding and caring for horses, kids, a husband, a garden, and an 18th century farmhouse. Sterling always did exactly what was expected of him. Yet much later he revealed that he was not the man he seemed…but that story is for later, not now. I was too young at the time of Jezzy’s story to understand the power of Amé’s beautiful breasts and her loving care of the three Harrison children. But her handprint would reveal itself in subtle and unexpected ways that humanized them, sometimes in spite of themselves.

* * *

On Memorial Day Weekend following my birthday, I was invited for the first time to attend Jezzy’s and Clio’s Prom Night. Clio had never had a prom night, so Jezzy hosted one for her every Memorial Day weekend. It was their annual gala, which also served as a farewell party for Harrisons, before their summer get-away. I had never been to a gala, and after the events of my birthday tea, I was afraid when the limousine picked us up to take us to Harrison Manor. I was dressed in a fancy new dress, my brothers were dressed in suits, and Daddy and Mommy were dressed in formal wear.

The driveway leading up to The Manor was brightly lit as we passed through the gates of the estate, and a man dressed in a white waistcoat and black pants answered the door and directed us to come in. The Manor was lit with tall, white candles in shiny silver candelabra, large bouquets of fresh flowers filled the rooms, and silver and crystal made every room glisten. I felt as if I had walked back into an era of splendor and elegance, when Harrison Manor was at the center of social entertaining on the Main Line. The Manor bustled with white-coated servers carrying silver trays filled with elegant looking hors d’oeuvres or fluted crystal glasses of champagne. A fancy bar was set up in the great hall and multiple bartenders proficiently prepared cocktails, served wine, beer and non-alcoholic beverages. The atmosphere was from Harrison Manor’s grand era... before death, tragedy, and mourning filled its elegant walls and reduced it to a tomb. But right now, I won’t spoil Clio’s Prom Night with details about those days.

Clio looked more beautiful than I could have imagined. She wore a long, flowing peach colored gown with tiny flowers embroidered across the bodice, and sheer gathered silk over a silk cream colored under skirt. Her hair was styled high on her head, and she wore soft pink blush, lipstick and a hint of eye shadow. She was calm and confident, as if she had been born into high society and regularly attended gala events with Philadelphia’s aristocrats. Jezzy was the quintessential hostess, who greeted all her guests by name and thanked them for coming. Guests included, Oliver and Kathryn Harrison; Sterling Harrison and his wife, Monique; Mommy’s parents Grand mamá Pilar and Grandpa Sam; Jasper, Harrison’s chauffeur, and his daughter, Camille; housekeepers, gardeners, decorators, and other regular maintenance people who were unrecognizable in their tuxedos and ball gowns. I never saw Grandpa Sam happier than he was that night. He had no desire to be one of Philadelphia’s social elites, though he loved hob-nobbing with them as if he were one of them. But that night, he was among his people, enjoying the pleasures and grandeur of the rich, particularly since none of Philadelphia’s social elites had been invited. It was Jezzy’s and Clio’s hosted event, not the Harrisons.

Dinner was a long and leisurely, multi-course meal, elegantly served by staff carrying silver trays. But it was delicious and casual, with laughter and chatter filling the large dining room. My brothers sat far from me and held court with the surrounding guests, keeping everyone in stitches laughing at whatever they were saying. The laughter from my brothers’ end of the table spread across the length of the table as guests emptied bottle after bottle of wine and champagne. But Jezzy and Clio presided over dinner as polished hostesses and would never have been recognized as manor staff. Although not Harrisons by name, they were Harrisons all the same.

Jezzy stood to signal dinner was over and invited everyone to join her in the great hall for dancing, where disc jockeys were playing a Strauss waltz. Jasper took Jezzy and Uncle Oliver escorted Clio to the dance floor, followed by guests in formal gowns and tuxedos who filled the great hall. Dancing to the music of Motown, Michael Jackson, The Beatles, Bruce Springsteen, Frank Sinatra, Tony Bennett and waltzes by Strauss, we danced non-stop throughout the night. As soon as I went to the dance floor with Uncle Oliver, I never stopped dancing, even though my feet ached from my new shoes. I didn’t really know how to dance and felt dizzy twirling around the room to Strauss waltzes. My brothers, despite their youth, were excellent dancers and delighted all the middle-aged women with their energy, brilliant smiles and charming ways. In the morning I wondered if it had been just a dream. But my clothes lay on the large chair near my bed and my feet still ached. The memory of the evening stayed with me forever.

* * *

Jezzy’s and Clio’s Prom Night was the beginning of a summer when Harrison Manor became our private playground and summer camp while Uncle Oliver and Aunt Katya were away at some far away place. In their absence, Jezebel had new window coverings made, old furniture re-upholstered, replaced dated wallpaper with fresh paint and had all the grounds manicured and surrounding outbuildings maintained. The place was over-run with gardeners and landscapers, carpenters and maintenance workers, and Clyde McFarland, Harrison’s interior decorator, all of whom had been unrecognizable just weeks before at Jezzy’s and Clio’s Prom Night gala.

My brothers and I filled our days with action and adventure and spent every Friday night sleeping over at the estate. My brothers slept in the main house with Jasper, and I slept with Clio in the farmhouse. During Harrison’s absence, Jasper, their chauffeur, became my brothers’ partner in crime, transforming every mundane activity into something untamed, wild, and crazy. They even built a makeshift golf course, complete with a water hazard across a small pond at the edge of the woods. They played golf animal style, using a single club for all the holes, even putting. No matter what the game: basketball, badminton, volleyball or croquet, it always flirted with being out of control. Our dog Sonya, a beautiful, silvery gray Huskie, didn’t help matters and contributed to the chaos and my brothers’ outrageousness. But Clio and I kept our distance and entertained ourselves with leisure activities that turned the summer of 1996 into a dream summer vacation.

I never invited any girls from my school, but occasionally I invited my only two friends from school, Marty and Sydney, to join me at The Manor. Although they were boys and a grade ahead of me, they seemed younger than me, so they were always willing to follow my lead. Marty and I had bonded over Calvin and Hobbes. He carried a Calvin and Hobbes book in his backpack at all times. I grew up listening to Calvin and Hobbes comic strips from my brothers’ complete collection of the books. Sydney wasn’t a Calvin and Hobbes aficionado, but more of a cling-on, who clung to us because he had no other friends. But three felt like a group and less vulnerable than just a two-some. As pathetic as our mini-posse actually was, none of us was a lone outcast as long as we had each other. But without knowing it, I protected Marty and Sydney from schoolyard bullies, because rumors of the birthday incident made me seem too dangerous to cross.

Marty and I turned Clio into a Calvin and Hobbes aficionado. She loved the strips of Calvin at school, because Clio hated school and remembered teachers similar to Calvin’s teacher, Miss Wormwood, and always being in trouble for not knowing answers and not finishing her work. Her other favorites were Calvin’s snow people, which were my favorites as well. She immediately went out and bought every Calvin and Hobbes book she could find until she had them all. She read them over and over until she had many strips memorized the way Marty and I had. Clio and I brought out our books, even twenty years later, and still found the strips funny.

* * *

Seemingly overnight, in the autumn of 1996, life began spinning out of control when Mommy’s father, Grandpa Sam, went into hospital for surgery that wasn’t supposed to be life threatening… but was. Despite having a full time nurse, the best medical care money could buy and Uncle Oliver’s constant vigil, a mysterious infection went into his heart. Uncle Oliver had spent the day before Grandpa Sam’s death having breakfast with him, watching sports, reading the sports page and planning their next home improvement project for Harrisons’ estate at The Jersey Shore. But Grandpa Sam knew what the rest of us could not see. He spent his last day repeating the words he had said so many times.

I have lived a life I never dreamed possible, and all of you have made me the happiest man in the world.

Grandpa Sam was ready to let go of life and died in his sleep. Uncle Oliver was devastated by Grandpa Sam’s unexpected death. He had been Uncle Oliver’s best, maybe only true friend, and Uncle Oliver had been powerless to save his friend. Grandpa Sam’s ashes were scattered in the Atlantic Ocean near Aunt Katya’s and Uncle Oliver’s beach house at The Jersey Shore. It was his favorite place.

I didn’t comprehend the finality and permanence of death. I kept asking about when Grandpa would come back and kept imagining he’d come home, and everything would go back to the way it used to be. Innocence died when Grandpa Sam died. Life became uncontrollable, sad, unpredictable, and could hurt more than anything I dreamed possible. Once I realized I would never again hear his reassuring words, feel the comfort of his hugs, or see the kindness in his eyes that saw me from the inside out, I felt a huge hole form in my belly. I often looked down to check my belly for a hole. Although there was no visible hole, it was both real and imagined.

Grand mamá Pilar moved in with us, and I looked to her to fill the hole left by Grandpa Sam’s death. But her hole was so much bigger than mine, she needed more comfort than me. But Mommy silently grieved for the man she always said was the only person who knew who she was when she was lost to herself. The stories Mommy and Grand mamá shared about Grandpa Sam began to fill the hole inside me. Mommy was barely sixteen when Aunt Katya offered to take Mommy to Europe, and Grandpa Sam told her to fly away to the life he could not give her. He never resented that Mommy loved Uncle Oliver as much as him.

But the holidays, beginning with Halloween, widened the hole that hadn’t started to close. The memories of Grandpa Sam’s yard decorations, annual costumes and his delight at giving away candy made me cry. But we managed to walk through the motions of celebrating Halloween, Thanksgiving and Christmas. But the sting of seeing Grandpa Sam’s empty chair that he had occupied during nearly thirty years of Thanksgiving dinners brought Uncle Oliver to tears. He was unable to give his annual Thanksgiving blessing and sat down without saying a word. The sight of him overcome by grief was shocking. He was too big, too powerful, too rich and too important to cry over a simple man like Grandpa Sam. But Uncle Oliver knew the great man who had lived inside an ordinary life.

* * *

Our preparations for Christmas were modest that year, and our annual Christmas Eve family dinner was yet another reminder that life would never again be the way it was before it was broken by death. But none of these events prepared us for the shockwave that rocked us to our very core. Oliver Harrison died in his sleep on January 18, 1997, just months after we lost Grandpa. Grandpa Sam’s death had been peaceful and private, but Uncle Oliver’s death felt as if an earthquake had struck; the earth beneath our feet, splitting open and shaking uncontrollably. From the moment of the call, it was as if someone had sounded the alarm for the coming of a hurricane. Mommy grabbed us kids, and we rushed to be with Aunt Katya. But we were just one of dozens of cars filing through the open gate to Harrison Manor, but the only people who arrived without a briefcase.

Jasper stood outside the bedroom, and Jezebel stood guard just inside the door and grabbed us kids before we could reach Aunt Katya. But Clio was nowhere in sight. Aunt Katya sat on a chair next to Uncle Oliver, her face buried as she clutched his limp hand. The last time I saw Grandpa Sam was before he died, so it was the first time I’d seen anyone dead. But Uncle Oliver looked as if he were sleeping and was unchanged from the man I always knew. His face was calm, and he filled the bed with his large body. Although he was nearly eighty-nine when he died, I never thought of him as an old man. His face was always tanned, and he stood tall and straight from years of dancing Argentine Tango. But most impressive was the ever-present love he showed towards Aunt Katya. There was always a connection between them, if not physical, it was expressed through eyes that always sparkled and silently spoke to her.

Uncle Oliver, to my eyes, was a giant. He was always the tallest person in the room, and his large body and big hands would have been very intimidating, except his face was kind, his voice soft, and his walk was smooth and light. Yet, without it ever being said, I knew he was the most important person at any gathering. But more than all these things, Uncle Oliver had been the second most important man in my life, after Grandpa Sam. Everyone knew I was Uncle Oliver’s special pet. Perhaps it was because I was Mommy’s only daughter, or perhaps because I was Clio’s favorite or maybe it was because I was the youngest grandchild. Whatever the reason, Uncle Oliver gave me access to him in ways others would not dare assume were open to them.

Katya, nous sommes ici. Mommy said as she put her arm around Aunt Katya’s shoulder and kissed her on the head.

Mes chéries. Merci. Merci beaucoup. We were dancing last night. How can he be dead today? she wept. I was frozen in shock but then darted from the room to find Clio. I knew she would be at her farmhouse. The farmhouse always felt cozy with soft colors, comfortable with overstuffed sofa and chairs covered in floral chintz upholstery and windows covered with lace curtains. As I suspected, Clio was in her bedroom buried under the covers, rolled in a tight ball and sobbing uncontrollably. Her face was puffy, and her eyes vacant in disbelief and shock. I could almost see the huge hole in her belly, which she tried to hold closed with her own embrace, as if trying to keep her insides from spilling out. I silently crawled into bed next to her, and we wrapped ourselves into a bigger ball but still could not close the hole, no matter how tightly we hugged each other. When Mommy finally came for me, I refused to leave, because no one outside that room would be there to comfort me.

* * *

Aunt Katya’s husband, Oliver Phinneus Harrison, was the patriarch of one of Philadelphia’s oldest dynasties that dated back to 1774, when the first Oliver Pinneus Harrison arrived in America. Uncle Oliver’s great, great grandfather founded Heritage Bank and Trust in 1860. Uncle Oliver succeeded his father, Frederick Harrison, in 1938 as President and Chairman of the Board, following his father’s unexpected death. Uncle Oliver officially retired as President and Chairman of the Board of Heritage Bank and Trust in 1968, but he remained its heart and soul for nearly sixty years and until his death in 1997. His death marked the end of an era, and all hands were on deck to deal with the aftershock and the distribution of his massive estate.

But, our Aunt Katya was not part of the Harrison Dynasty. She was Uncle Oliver’s second wife, so not directly related to his surviving children or grandchildren. Since Oliver Harrison was our only connection to the Harrisons, overnight, we became strangers to people we’d always considered family and friends. Uncle Oliver had three children from his first marriage to Antoinette Monroe Harrison, so Sterling, his only son, Rebecca, his older daughter, and Emily, his younger daughter converged on Harrison Manor with their families. But in the wake of all the chaos, no one except my family was there to comfort Aunt Katya.

But Oliver Harrison’s, greatest joy had been his marriage to Aunt Katya. She gave up a life of fame and stardom as an opera singer to marry him, and he gave up the life of corporate giant to build a new life around their families and people too long neglected. In the twenty-nine years of their marriage, they were never separated a single night. They did everything together and indulged themselves in a life of privacy, travel, and the people and things that brought them happiness. So Aunt Katya proceeded with her personal funeral plans for herself and her family as if every detail was for an occasion where Oliver would be by her side.

Aunt Katya’s long time Paris designer, Jacque Trudeau, hand delivered an ensemble of dresses and suits in midnight blue, a blue so dark it almost looked black, but against the sea of black suits and dresses, were distinctly blue. Aunt Katya’s dress had been designed to compliment the large Tahitian black pearl necklace, with matching ring and earrings that Uncle Oliver had bought for her in Tahiti on their honeymoon twenty-nine years earlier. Her dress was made of silk and cashmere with a silver Elizabethan collar with tiny seed pearls. Her pearl necklace, not black, but a silvery grey, jumped out against the dark blue of her dress and revealed themselves beneath the collar of her matching coat with silver buttons and dark blue hat with matching veil. She was a vision of beauty, neither European noble nor Philadelphia socialite, but definitely not a half-bred commoner from rural North Carolina.

Aunt Katya had ordered a beautiful midnight blue velvet dress for me, but I never made it out of the gates of The Manor. I couldn’t get in the limo and bolted down the driveway and ran to the farmhouse. Clio was once again in bed, buried under the covers, sobbing uncontrollably. I buried myself under the covers with her and wrapped myself in her arms. Neither of us had spoken Uncle Oliver’s name since his death. It was dark when Mommy came for me.

Giselle. Come to The Manor and get some food. she said.

I’m not hungry. I whispered through my tears. But Mommy picked me up out of bed and held me tight as she carried me to The Manor that was filled with strangers. I ran to the kitchen where I knew I’d find Jezzy. I wrapped my arms around her, but she was pre-occupied with all the staff that was readying and serving food for the reception.

Baby, I can’t help you right now. Jezzy said between orders she gave to the staff and peeled my arms away from her.

I poked my head out the kitchen door and searched the room for Mommy, who was also pre-occupied with one group of the hundreds of guests. My eyes scanned the great hall and easily spotted my people, who stood out like dark blue polka dots against a black background. I