Fate of Angels

By JoAnna Christine Daniels

Father Francis is a gifted priest in 1908 France when he meets the young novice, Sister Louise. Despite strict codes of conduct, he falls secretly in love with the impetuous, high-spirited woman. She falls in love with his music. The attraction intensifies . . . leading to an unprecedented scandal . . . vehement opposition from family and clergy.

When her outraged father takes drastic action, Louise fights to be with the priest she loves. A test of wills ensues . . . dreams of an Atlantic crossing, and a bid for freedom in the New Worldbut can their forbidden love overcome the dictates of the times in which they live?

Years later, it is the beautiful, intrepid Mimi, who risks it all for the man she loves. She drives from California to New York to win the heart of the handsome Broadway actor from Minnesota, George N. Valentine. But like her mother before her, can Mimis passion for her lover surmount the obstacles that work to keep them apart?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Oct 18, 2016
• ISBN: 9781480835504

JoAnna Christine Daniels

JoAnna Christine Daniels, author of The Gateway and Eye of the Solstice, is currently writing her next novel and recently completed a screenplay for Fate of Angels. She attended LMU Los Angeles with an English major and studied in Germany and France. She has traveled extensively and speaks four languages. Daniels lives in Littleton, Colorado near her youngest of three sons and enjoys all that the Rocky Mountain state has to offer.

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Copyright © 2016 Christine J Schlichte.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction based on true events. The names of the main characters, and most of the incidents that occur, are actual. The dialogue is the product of the author’s imagination.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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ISBN: 978-1-4808-3549-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-3550-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016912927

Archway Publishing rev. date: 10/12/2016

WWW.JoAnnaDanielsbooks.com

Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Epilogue

"The soul, to know itself, must gaze into a soul ... "

Was there ever a time I never knew you

Or have you always been there

My golden angel

Lover

Soulmate

Swirling through Ages

In Realms of Light

Evolving

Changing

In harmony with our song

Of tempestuous love

We will find each other

Below as Above

When does it begin

Beloved Spirit

Teacher

Where time exists through troubled days

The melody of our hearts

Will draw the flame

And he who is mine

Thirsting

Burning

Will speak his love. At last!

And behold

The dance of life again embrace

The Fate of Angels

In Joy

In Grace

DEDICATION

For my parents, George and Mimi, who taught

me to be brave.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I will start by saying, this was a story that had to be told. The courage and the tenacity, the passion and the strength it took to live these lives is, to me, mind-boggling. I thank my dear mother, Mimi, for giving me all the unbelievable details of her life and love of the one man she could not live without. I am grateful for her unfaltering memory of my grandparents’ remarkable journey that started in the Old World, took them to the New World, and all the incredible details surrounding their time together. Their courageous actions set not only a precedent, but a whole family history in motion. I am so grateful to be a part of that intrepid, and rather audacious, line!

I want to thank my amazing father, George, for sharing the details of his passion for the New York stage, all the inevitable ups and downs, and his unceasing love for Mimi Wagner. Their bravery and unconditional love have been an inspiration to me my entire life.

I must thank all my brothers and sisters, Irene, Mary, Phil, Danny and Jeannie, who read the manuscript and gave me such insightful feedback, never failing to enlighten me in very specific areas of the story.

And for George, Mimi and Georgie, Louise and Francis … … I hope you are pleased …

CHAPTER 1

GRAY, FRANCE - 1908

S ister Louise!

Rebellious eyes clamped shut with frustration. Looking up from her singular infatuation at the carved glass portal, she regarded the Mother Superior without the slightest sign of remorse. An impudent face peered out of the tight confines of a compulsory black habit, posture rigid, blue eyes defiant. Then standing to every inch of her diminutive height, Sister Louise responded, "Oui, Mére Supérieure."

The elderly, punctilious nun exhibited the manner of a tyrannical General. Why aren’t you at prayer, Sister Louise?

I’m listening to Father Francis ... to his organ music, the young girl hastened to correct. It’s as good as a prayer. The defiance in her voice was evidence of a willfulness that defied early twentieth century behavior in young ladies and was unheard-of in the convent. Sister Louise turned her face to the sounds of the Ave Maria, ignoring the older woman’s glare.

In the year 1908, the small French abbey of the Sisters of St. Louis in the town of Gray, France on the outskirts of Dijon was home to a dozen sisters, a handful of postulants and one Mother General. She refused to tolerate this waywardness in her novices.

You can listen to the organ music during the mass each and every morning. Her words split the air, unequivocal and precise. You are disobeying the rules! Now, go join your prayer group, Sister Louise! Her face bulged from the wimple, flushed and angry at such insolence.

Sister Louise scurried away with an obligatory reply, head held high, jaw clenched, mouth pursed in youthful indignation.

At the mutinous age of nineteen, such discipline was the bane of her existence. She followed the rules most of the time, yet there were those days when she found a spiritual solace in Father’s music—much more than any she derived from prayer. Why was she forced to worship God in only one way? Prayer took on many forms; it came from within, from the heart, the soul. Not just the endless litany of so many words.

She hated all the rules and let out a sudden resolute sigh. It may have been the way of her times, but she did not have to like it. I will speak to Father Francis about it, she decided right then and there. Personally!

* * *

Long, artistic fingers held the final chord of the Pater Noster, stirring every parishioner in the vaulted Cathedral of St. Bènigne with an emotion that was uncharacteristic in the year 1908. Powerful notes resounded from immense pipes of the century-old organ, and Father Francis drew out the sound until it echoed in every corner of this massive structure in the Centre Ville of Dijon. He always said the Sunday mass here at St. Bènigne, and most attended solely for the spiritual sustenance his music inspired. Today, the young Jesuit had astounded the community.

In the choir loft, sisters in attendance from the Monastére de Gray stood for the final Domini, heads bowed, hands folded before them. One stood with more reverence than the rest.

Sister Louise rose slowly, prayer book pressed to her bosom, eyes fixed on the organ, on those hands ... on Father Francis. Forever ingrained in her mind, she would remember it as the most beautiful mass he had ever played. Masterful, yet so moving. It’s his mass. The St. Francis mass. He wrote it and named it after Francis of Assisi. She overheard him telling the Mother Superior a month ago that he was composing a new mass, today being the first time he played it for the parishioners. And how marvelous it was. How inspired! He would play it every Sunday now, and she would look forward to hearing it. Oh, yes! How she would look forward to it each time!

The young woman fought down a jubilant smile. The Mother Superior was strict. She would not approve of smiling during the service.

In a clumsy rush, Sister Louise fumbled with her songbook then joined the rest of the nuns in the final chorus. Her lips mouthed the words, signifying the end of the mass ... but her thoughts remained immersed in Father’s music.

Why did his compositions excite her so completely? Why did the music stay with her for hours afterwards? Days even? She must speak to him. But when? Her life was not her own, and his church work demanded all of his time. Perhaps, if she were lucky, he could find the time to speak to her other than in that dark, solemn confessional, she thought, pouting in exasperation.

The congregation began leaving the cathedral while the priest played a soft hymn. The sisters filed out, each in turn dipping a finger in holy water and making the sign of the cross with a slow genuflection. As Sister Louise walked past, she gazed at Father Francis, so young, yet so very gifted. She tried to memorize every aspect of his visage. Dark hair framed a small, studious face, as serious eyes sparkled in his acknowledgement of every parishioner, transforming his humble demeanor.

He, too, watched all the sisters go, careful not to give the young novice any undue attention, but smiled warmly with a nod of his head. He must suppress the natural tendency to acknowledge her attraction to him.

She returned his smile, her face gleaming with admiration. She wanted desperately to say something to him right then, but didn’t ... couldn’t! Sensing her uncertainty, his gaze followed her until she disappeared around the corner.

She took her time catching up with the other sisters. She didn’t want to rush, but savor the pleasure of her private and most propitious exchange with Father. While no words were spoken, his smile and the warmth in his eyes would remain indelibly carved in her mind.

Horses waited patiently while the women climbed into two attending tandems. Drivers cracked their whips, the broughams lurched, and they were on their way back to the abbey at Gray.

When Father Francis wasn’t saying the mass at St. Bènigne Cathedral, he served the small parish church at Norge-la-Ville. Louise had grown up and lived most of her life in the small village. Since entering the convent, however, the distance between Gray and Norge made it difficult for her to see him. For this reason alone, she would gladly live back home with her parents.

As the broughams bounced along toward Gray, Sister Louise bit her lip in silent, ruminative thought, despite the constant chatter all around her. The young sisters always felt immense relief when the Mére Supérieure rode in the opposite coach, Louise noticed, coaxing a mischievous smile from her lips.

Again the question: how would she get to Norge-la-ville to speak to Father? She needed so many answers, and she knew he would have them. If only there had been a way this morning. "Sacré Bleu!" she swore under her breath just as the coaches came to a shuddering halt outside the all-too-familiar gray-stoned abbey.

Occasionally, Father Francis said the weekday mass for the sisters at their abbey chapel. He often practiced on their organ in the small choir loft, sending the beautiful sounds of his music not only throughout the abbey, but the surrounding grounds, as well. On these days, Sister Louise found a way to kneel piously, if not inconspicuously, in the pew beneath the loft just until the sounds from above ceased, and she heard him push back the bench. A quick nod at the fifteenth-century eyes of the Virgin d’Oiselay, then she would hastily grab her rosary and exit the abbey chapel to join the other sisters at group devotions. She had been reprimanded several times for this behavior, but she couldn’t help but feel it was always worth it.

On many occasions Father knew she listened, and he would play his favorite pieces just for her.

The sisters adhered to a strict routine at the abbey Monday through Saturday, beginning each morning at 5:00 a.m. and not ending until 8:oo p.m. that evening. This included group prayer first thing upon arising—Louise had never gotten used to the idea of praying at such an ungodly hour—then breakfast and daily chores, which compared favorably to farm chores, she had to admit. Those were followed by mass then lunch. In the afternoon, she enjoyed the relaxation of choir practice, but dreaded group devotions—all those repetitive Hail Mary’s! Later in the afternoon, one of the young deacons from Dijon taught theology class, and the last part of the day was also Louise’s favorite—solitary meditation. It confined them all to their own rooms for a full sixty minutes just before the supper hour. This gave her time to enjoy the privacy of her many thoughts and ideas, which centered exclusively around everything she wanted out of life—and intended to have. If her parents thought she was going to become a nun … they were in for a big surprise!

At this point in time, however, her daily routine never varied. Day in and day out it was the same, except for those few precious moments when she found a way to sneak into the chapel and listen to Father Francis. His music was the only thing that brightened the monotony of abbey life.

Sunday afternoon was considered free time at the abbey. Most of the sisters kept to themselves, reading, sewing, or writing letters to their families. Visitation took place only six times a year, so Monday morning usually produced stacks of outgoing letters on the Mother Superior’s desk.

Sister Louise did, indeed, miss her mother and father and ten brothers and sisters. As the youngest child, she enjoyed being the object of everyone’s attention. Forced to stay at the abbey against her will, however, her parents had succeeded only in provoking her rebellious nature. It may have been easier to get up at 5:00 a.m. to pray rather than milk a cow or slop the pigs, but she liked living in Norge at the old farmhouse. It allowed her much more freedom to do what she wanted to do.

Today, unmotivated to write a letter, the sun beckoned her outdoors, and she walked in the garden, her young thoughts forming devilish fantasies that played havoc with the strict teachings at the abbey. Should she go to confession again, she wondered privately? A sudden giggle escaped her. She couldn’t possibly reveal her daydreams to Father!

In spite of her long, black robes, the outline of a womanly figure was evident to the eye, her bearing confident, the proud tilt of her head indication of a tenacious nature as she strolled between well-trimmed hedges and flowering shrubs. She had a passion for life and for living that was well contained, for the moment, within her habit of black cloth. She questioned her parents’ decision to send her to the convent. Quite often! She needed people around her who stimulated her, brought out her vivacity, and allowed her to be herself—in her father’s words, a feisty girl. So why did he insist on quelling her spirit?

From a distance, she heard a buggy approach then pull to a stop on the gravel driveway. Twirling around and recognizing their visitor, Sister Louise inhaled an exhilarated breath.

Father Francis had come to the abbey!

I will greet him before the Mother Superior has a chance!

Lifting her skirts well above her knees, she ran in long, unhindered strides the entire length of the garden right up to his horse, reaching it just as Father Francis set foot to the ground. Shaking, her hand raised to stroke the horse’s withers, steadying herself and hoping fervently the sturdiness of the powerful animal would calm her trembling body.

Sister Louise! he greeted her, surprised and more pleased than he should have been. "Vous êtes hors d’haleine me fille." The fact that she was noticeably out of breath was his second observation.

Yes, I am. Mon Dieu! She took several deep breaths and came closer. I was hoping to speak to you before you go inside, Father, she gasped, still endeavoring to catch her breath.

Quelle chance! she rejoiced, reveling in her good fortune and quite unconcerned about what he must think of her behavior.

She waited on his reply, taking the chance to study him up close, this man who composed such glorious music. He must be extraordinarily gifted, in a divine way, she decided, resting her gaze on his full mouth. Under her scrutiny, it turned into a warm, self-conscious smile, matching the humbleness of his outward manner. Of average height and medium build, dark hair was parted and combed neatly to the side. Strong cheekbones high-lighted a small, good-looking face, and indulgent, hazel eyes emanated abundant, yet restrained, delight. Through his clothing, she could see he had muscular shoulders and a strong, wiry physique. She imagined how it would feel to caress those muscles.

At first astounded, and then enthralled by her girlish exuberance, his eyes remained inquisitive, lips curved in an expectant smile.

Louise made the private calculation that he must be at least twenty-eight, thirty at the most.

An older man, she mused, gladness bubbling up through her.

He watched her, and waited, with caring eyes, patience and diligence etched on his profile, as sister Louise gathered her chaotic thoughts, formed questions. An unwitting glance at the convent reassured her they would not be interrupted by the Mother Superior. Father’s eyes moved in that same direction, followed by a quick, understanding smile that brightened an otherwise serious face. Placing his back to the convent, he offered her his full, undivided attention, a dormant spark of life awakening somewhere within the depths of his being.

Father Francis reached into his vest pocket and slipped on the wire-rimmed glasses Louise was so accustomed to seeing perched on the bridge of his small nose.

Much better … The gleam in her eyes became clearer, her small face, pear-shaped and flushed, radiated glowing health and a barely-concealed impetuousness he found disturbingly irresistible.

She’s a beautiful, young woman—obviously misplaced.

He would listen to her thoughts then he must go inside.

Her mouth trembled on the words that came out with difficulty, but strong conviction. "I believe there is more than one way to worship God, n’est ce pas, mon père?" Did he agree?

"Bien sûr. Of course. Is this a problem, ma soeur?"

A small, fretful pout preceded her response. I am not allowed to listen to your music during group prayer ... and it’s the only time you’re here. There, she said it.

And this bothers you? His tone remained level, yet inwardly, he was captivated by the lovely gamine before him.

Is music not a form of worship? she prevailed. "Your compositions are so ... parfaites. The word rushed from her lips in a whisper. I am filled with wonder and complete solace."

A meek man, Father Francis bowed his head at this last comment, unprepared for her impassioned praise. He was not boastful, nor proud. He simply loved music and the deep feelings he could convey with the mere tips of his fingers.

Born in Lyon, France, Francis Jacques Wagnier attended private schools from a young age where he studied music, psychology, and languages. His talent, coupled with his sensitive nature, had led him down a solitary path where he had only halting communication with women his age. Whereas he expressed himself with difficulty around women, with God he found total acceptance. Music became the sole expression of his being, a way to praise God that gave him joy. His poetry mirrored the reflections of his heart. He had attended Catholic seminaries throughout his childhood, and by the time he turned twenty-six, he was an ordained, Jesuit priest.

Gazing at the young woman before him, he understood the passion she possessed. He felt himself drawn to her love of music, to her idealism, and he longed to tell her so ... but the words would not come. Within himself, he berated his cowardice and let her speak.

Is it wrong for me to want to listen to you play, over an hour of repetitive Hail Marys? she wondered aloud, finding strength in his silence. At the same time, she felt confused.

A compassionate smile shone in his eyes, in the slight curve of his mouth. He wanted to answer her question with honesty.

"Non, ma soeur, it is not wrong. But do not hold it against the Mother Superior. She is only trying to instruct and guide you in the best way she knows how."

And you?

"Moi?" He didn’t understand her question at first, or he chose not to. The yearning in her blue eyes made him want to reach out to her and reassure her in some way. She wasn’t that much younger than he, and he found himself needing to talk to her, share his own feelings. Such a lovely, vulnerable young woman—but these were the very traits that made him feel insufferably disquieted.

Do you pray often? She rephrased the question.

I pray in the morning, sister, and I pray during the mass.

And your music?

His brow creased. "Je ne comprends pas." What was she asking?

Shifting her position, she gazed briefly at the ground ... then her head came up. Is singing and the joy of listening to church music an acceptable form of prayer?

Something in her eyes begged him to reveal his true feelings as her gaze held his, persistent, yet trusting his next words, willing him to answer from his heart.

Sensing her plea for truth, he could not speak falsely. He would not damage her tender emotions for the sake of the Mother Superior.

"La Musique … he began, ... it is the richest of prayers ... the most spiritual way to worship God," he whispered. On this he had no doubt. Day and night, it was the soul of him. His life. He was looking directly at Sister Louise as he spoke the words, and she glowed, a broad smile brightening her young, radiant face.

I was right! And Father agrees with me.

Father Francis saw the victory in her eyes. He felt buoyed by her enthusiasm and her genuine praise, and deep within him, something long forgotten stirred. Propriety alone forced him to end the conversation, bid her au revoir, and turn to his appointment with the Mother Superior.

But for the first time in his life, he felt absolutely alive …

CHAPTER 2

NEW YORK CITY - 1937

T he packed theater rang with enthusiastic applause. The cast of players took one last curtain call. It was the final performance of HAMLET after a successful run of eight months on Broadway. Tears of elation streamed down the faces of the young men and women, hands locked in a low, sweeping bow, signaling the end of another experience that would forever bind the actors and actresses to this moment in time, this profession.

Leslie Howard had lived and breathed the part of Hamlet for those eight months. He gestured again to his supporting character, Horatio, acted superbly by George Valentine. The applause crescendoed to a deafening pitch. Then each in turn, the rest of the cast was given their due, ending with a standing ovation for all.

The curtain came down; the applause slowly diminished.

It was over.

Until the next play, the next break.

George let out a long, satisfied sigh. He shook Leslie’s hand and threw a strong arm around his shoulder. With the curtain down, the whole cast continued to shake hands, intermittently hugging or patting each other’s backs, each and every one laughing or crying. The fellowship always ran high at the end of a successful play. HAMLET had been no exception.

George left to go home. He rarely attended the after-play parties that were so predictably spontaneous. He preferred a good night’s sleep and a clear mind the following morning when he would begin his search for the next audition.

Though young in years for an accomplished stage actor, George Norbert Valentine often found himself playing the leading role, and more often than not, the part of the heavy. Pitch black, wavy hair, combed back off his forehead, and dark, compelling eyes, framed by full eyebrows, gave him the face and demeanor most directors strove to discover amidst the hundreds of men and women who auditioned for parts every day. George had that look—fierce and impassioned one moment, soft and vulnerable the next. Beneath a calm exterior, he exuded an animal magnetism casting directors longed for in a Shakespearean actor, his startling, dark looks made even more so by his gentle bearing.

Gratified with the outcome of HAMLET, George went to his dressing room, cleaned up and changed his clothes. He said his good-byes and walked out the backstage door that led onto the street. With a quick intake of the cool evening air, he came to an abrupt halt.

Mimi!

A combination of astonishment and exhilaration flashed in his eyes; he squelched it. At twenty-eight, his age exceeded hers by too many years. His mouth turned into a slow smile. He approached her.

How did she get here? Had she seen the play? Did she come to New York just to see me? He was being presumptuous. What had it been? Four years? Five maybe? His emotions played havoc with his heart as a dozen questions crowded his mind. Then a broad smile emerged. In spite of his reservations, his pleasure was genuine.

He walked up to her, extending a large hand, which she accepted, her much smaller one strong and very comfortable in his. She could not repress a laugh at his formality. Then before either knew what was happening, she was in his arms. She was holding him again.

Though startled, George found himself embracing her back.

Mimi! What a surprise!

Hello, George. I was hoping to see you. The play was wonderful.

You saw it? Pleased, George gazed into spirited, blue eyes that looked up into his from her girlish height of 5’4", and for a moment, he lost himself to the shoulder-length blond hair that framed a bright, oval face. In the blink of an eye, small details about her caught his attention and galvanized his most secret emotions. He was caught off guard. No longer a teen-aged girl, she looked womanly in her Chanel skirt and the beige, tight-fitting sweater that hugged shapely curves.

He quickly subdued this sentiment. Instead, he began speaking of HAMLET. He had outdone himself this time, he knew, but he was an emotional man with strong passions, one of them acting. He found her praise gratifying.

Mimi’s eyes glowed. The first thing she had noticed about him when they met five years ago was his generous mouth and how, when he spoke, the chiseled line of his square jaw set his strong features into motion. And those broad shoulders .…

George was having his own thoughts. Five years! She had grown into a lovely woman. He liked what he saw. There was an aura about her that instantly captivated one’s attention, a strength and a purpose that was evident in the way she carried herself. She knew what she wanted, and she was not afraid to pursue her dreams, nor take risks in the process.

He touched her arm. Let’s walk, Mimi.

They moved together, past props and parked cars, in the direction of Times Square. Gradually, George steered the conversation away from him. He was not inclined to boast.

How did you get here, Mimi?

I drove.

All the way from California? He was flabbergasted at her moxie! She was daring, and that scared him.

Not alone. Milly and I drove out together.

Two women ... basically alone. That could have been dangerous. You took a chance. And loved every minute of it! He knew that much about her.

No more than you did when you and Lee drove out here. She challenged him with laughter in her voice. She liked his concern. Not one to submit willingly to the idea that a woman’s place was in the kitchen alone, she was ready with her response. Yet, in spite of herself, she found George’s traditional notions endearing.

He didn’t argue. She would probably never change. Maybe her impetuous, willful nature was one of the reasons he was so attracted to her. In his father’s day, she may have been referred to as brazen. He called it gutsy. She exuded a zest for living that defied all preconceived standards of femininity. But was she ever feminine … and sexy! He forced these observations to the back of his mind.

Mimi and George had met five years before through his sister, Irene. At that time he was twenty-three and Mimi just sixteen. George was immediately attracted to the vivacious French beauty, but felt driven to pursue a career in acting. He put her from his mind. She was too young, his little sister’s school friend! He didn’t have time to think of her—not for another few years. If even then.

It was the hint of a lingering French accent, the seductive warmth in her voice that had never quite left his mind. The combination of ingénue and adventuress that she was, and which made her irresistible—the tomboy in a woman’s body; the coquette hidden beneath the strong-willed girl; a soft smile followed by a strong handshake; tenacious, yet submissive; soft-spoken then flaring with anger. So many contradictions in one woman that made it virtually impossible for him to forget her.

Why had she come to New York? Why now … when he needed to concentrate on his career?

At midnight they were still walking slowly along theater row, the conversation touching on one subject after another. They stopped in at the automat for a cup of coffee.

How is your mother, Mimi? George asked. He put his money in the slot and chose two beverages. They sat down.

George felt concern for her mother who had been widowed a few years before. He remembered what a terrible blow it had been to Mimi and her family. Her parents had worked hard to get along in America after emigrating from France only seventeen years earlier. Then her father died after a long, debilitating illness.

Mama’s well, but she’s impossible to live with. Nothing I do is right. Her grief makes life unbearable for everyone.

I’m sorry, Mimi. He’d only met her mother once or twice. Years ago. She was an angry woman even then.

Ever since papa died ... she’s become a bitter woman. Lonely and resentful. All I get from her is complaints. Nothing helps.

We all grieve in our own way, he said softly. She was still so young. All of her hopes and dreams died with him.

Yes, I know.

It could take her years to mourn.

It’s so unfair, isn’t it? My father was never a robust man, but he had hopes of giving my mother everything she ever wanted. That’s why they came to America.

George was shaking his head in quiet thought. He checked his watch as the waitress refilled their cups. The pace of the past few months was catching up with him, however much he delighted in this charming company. There were few women in his life, only Sylvia for the past year, and it had been a good year with her. They had shared their sorrows and joys, good breaks and bad, opening nights, final bows, and love. But now, as he talked to Mimi, even Sylvia began to recede to a place in the back of his mind, a place of less immediacy, less importance. Unlike many actors of his day, he was not a womanizer. It was not his style. He tended to be a one-woman man, and at the moment, something familiar, yet still so intangible, pulled at his core, spoke to him from a place deep within him. Unwilling to say good-bye to Mimi, the conversation between them continued.

The topic turned to something more positive. Mimi listened to George talk, pulled by his blatant attractiveness. She was happy to get off the subject of her mother, but couldn’t help wondering about the women in his life. Was he seeing someone even now?

George had enjoyed this unexpected encounter with Mimi, but he was fighting an inner battle. He didn’t want to encourage her in any way. She planned to return to California, soon ... and he lived in New York. He couldn’t afford to entertain even the thought of getting to know her better. Acting took precedence over everything now; his single motivation. Mimi had a life of her own in Southern California—a whole country away!

George weighed his next words, sensitive to her emotions. He knew that she still missed her father deeply, and life with her mother had not been easy since his passing.

He remembered that summer as though it were yesterday. He and his brother Lee left for New York just one month after her father’s funeral, and for Mimi, their departure had been just another painful good-bye after the already devastating loss of the father she adored. He wanted to say something now to uplift her before he walked her back to her car; anything that would take that sadness out of those beautiful, blue eyes. He began slowly.

America is the hope of many Europeans, Mimi. Your parents had a hard time, but they gave you a new life here, and your father would want you to enjoy it. Your mother is a strong woman. She’ll work through her grief and find a new purpose in life. Things will get better and easier between you. You’ll see. He was patting her hand gently, not one to cater to pessimism. In his limited experience with life, he had learned that one did not find success through negative thinking.

Mimi was shaking her head, still preoccupied with her mother’s attitude. She’s never gotten over the fact that papa lost his music. From the moment they arrived in America, she wanted people to acknowledge his gift, reward his talent. But that was never his ambition. It was hers! Amazed laughter rippled through her, instantly replacing her sadness. I believe it’s what made her fall in love with him in the first place, she mused, more accepting now of his absence in her life.

His music? George asked, touched by her sincerity.

Yes. She used to tell me he would be a great composer.

And he was.

But unknown.

That’s because he wasn’t interested in fame. It didn’t make him any less great.

You’re right. George always knew how to put just the right perspective on something and make her feel so much better. Fame was never his goal, she said, even way back then. He just loved to compose.

They exchanged smiles of wonder, and George realized he did not want to end the evening with her. Not just yet. He sensed she needed to talk some more. So did he.

Tell me about your trip over from France, Mimi. Do you remember any of it?

With that question, he saw an amazing transformation come over her as she gathered dim recollections of that tumultuous time. Smiling contentedly, George relaxed back in his chair and listened.

Yes, I do. It was exciting, an adventure any child would love! Blue eyes danced as she began her tale. Andree was ten, Roger was eight, and I was almost six—

Your brother and sister?

Yes, and I remember papa feeling very wistful at the thought of leaving his homeland ... for the second time!

When was the first?

Oh, George. Now you’re going back a long way.

His deep laughter joined with hers. The sound of her voice delighted his ears, and it did something to him. Something that was hard to ignore. A slight pause ensued while she reconstructed her parents’ lives, and close up, George memorized the proud structure of her face, the silkiness of her hair, smooth skin, lips …

Easier to just keep talking!

How did your mother feel about his decision to leave France? he asked.

"My mother? She’d go anywhere with papa ... but especially l’Amérique, she mimicked her mother’s pronunciation. It was usually papa’s idea to move somewhere, but she loved the idea of a change. To wherever! The gypsy in her, I guess. She and my father both thought he could do so much more with his music in the United States. She was constantly pushing him. But she had a way with him, too, you know?" A tenderness evoked purely by nostalgia flitted across her face.

George picked up on her sudden mood. I’m sure she did, he responded softly. He was well aware that her mother could be quite the shrew, but he