San Francisco May 19, 1909
"Monte Cristo Design and Construction. Really?"
Erik spun toward his office door, pen knife in hand. He'd been so involved in putting the finishing touches on the final interior designs for the Danby Foundation hospital that he hadn't heard the door open.
"Are you planning to attack me, Mr. Dantes?" Benjamin Sholokhov calmly put his briefcase down on a nearby chair, looking pointedly at Erik. "Or is that how you greet all your visitors?"
Erik looked down at the knife. "Old habits," he muttered, setting it back on the drafting table. Then he smiled, walking forward and holding out his hand. "It's been a long time, Mr. Sholokhov. It's good to see you." He shook the smaller man's hand. "Very good, indeed."
"You haven't answered my question." Sholokhov smiled.
"Well, I already appropriated the name Dantes, so why not carry along the theme? Besides, it's fun to sign my papers as E. Dantes."
"Do people get the reference?"
"Some." Erik admitted, "Although not as many as I'd like. People aren't as well read as they should be."
He gestured to a comfortable seating area in a corner of the large office, indicating that Benjamin should sit. "Miss Vanucci, please come in here."
His secretary stepped just inside the office doorway. "Yes, Mr. Dantes?"
"I didn't hear you announce Mr. Sholokhov's presence."
"That's because I didn't let her," Benjamin said. "I told her I was an old friend and wanted to surprise you."
"And you believed that?" Erik asked her. "Do we have to have the 'nobody is admitted until I tell you to admit them' talk again?"
Miss Vanucci drew herself up to her considerable five-foot-eight-inch height and looked him straight in the eyes. "No, Mr. Dantes. He said he was a friend. Then he asked if you were in your usual foul mood, so I took that as proof he knew you."
It took all his will power not to laugh. "Good point, Miss Vanucci. Forgive me for doubting you."
She inclined her head graciously. "Would you and your friend like some refreshments? Tea or coffee?"
Erik looked to Sholokhov for his answer.
"Being in America, I suppose coffee is the best response." He looked at Erik for confirmation. "I never could get a proper cup of tea in this country."
"Coffee it is," she said. "I shall return with a tray shortly."
Once they heard the outer office door close, Sholokhov turned to Erik. "She's a bit of a dragon, isn't she?"
"Oh, you have no idea," Erik confirmed, smiling. "She's a cousin to one of my good friends here, and I swear, sometimes I think she's secretly working for Alma and reporting back to her. Especially when it comes to food."
Sholokhov looked at Erik's thin frame and nodded. "Yes, I understand the connection between women and their need to fatten up men. I've learned to eat what my wife puts in front of me without question. Fortunately, I'm usually so busy that I burn it off before it can rest too much around my middle." He patted his stomach. "But I interrupted your work. Please," he gestured to the drafting table, "finish up what you were doing. Then we can settle in and talk over coffee."
By the time Miss Vanucci returned with a trolly cart, Erik completed his work and returned to the seating area. She wheeled in the cart and took a moment to lay out the contents. She set a plate of pastries in the center of the low table, and then put a sandwich directly in front of Erik. "It's two o'clock and I know you haven't eaten since you came in this morning—I assume just after sunrise?"
He stared at her, then nodded abruptly. "Thank you, Miss Vanucci. You can tell Alma you've done your duty by me today."
"If you wouldn't mind, put your dishes on the trolley when you're finished and I'll come back and collect them later." She smiled at both men. "Very nice to meet you Mr. Sholokhov." Then she pointed at the sandwich, looked at Erik and said, "eat."
Once the door closed behind her, Sholokhov chuckled. "Reminds me of someone, we both know."
"Yes," Erik agreed. "Only this one's a lot stricter."
"So why do you keep her around? Isn't it unusual to have a female secretary?"
"I suppose it is; I never really gave it much thought. As I said, her cousin is a friend." At Sholokhov's raised eyebrows, he sighed. "The truth is she has four children to support on her own. She can't get a regular job that pays her enough and allows her to work around their schedules."
"Four children? Didn't you call her Miss Vanucci?"
"Her sister and brother-in-law died in the earthquake and there are no other relatives who can take in all four children." He looked toward the closed office door. "She thought they should stay together, so she took them on without complaint and never asked anyone for help. I admire that. And she's also proven to be exceptionally good at her job here. "
Sholokhov nodded in agreement. She sounded exactly like the type of person whom Lillian would have helped. He sighed then, thinking of Lillian and the message he had to deliver.
"So, Mr. Sholokhov."
"Benjamin. I think we know each other well enough to use given names."
"Very well, Benjamin, I'm guessing you're here about the groundbreaking. I've already had my work crews clear and level the land. I planned to start tomorrow, but I suppose I can hold off a day until Friday. If you want some sort of ceremony, you'll have to plan it. I don't bother with that sort of thing, I just start working."
"That's fine, Erik. There's no need for a ceremony as we're having a banquet on Saturday evening to formally launch the project. You can break ground whenever your people are ready."
"Good, good." Erik finished the sandwich and poured another cup of coffee. "Banquet? Will Lillian be here for it?"
Benjamin reached into his pocket and handed Erik an envelope with his name on it. "Don't open it just yet, I must talk to you first."
An overwhelming sense of dread encompassed Erik. The sandwich sat like a boulder in his gut. "What's happened?" He looked at Sholokhov who looked back at him. "Just tell me."
"Lillian's dead. She died the afternoon the ship sailed for America. I'm so very sorry."
He couldn't speak, could barely catch his breath. No. She couldn't be dead. Not Lillian. She was a force of nature.
"It was cancer," Sholokhov continued. "She was diagnosed a little over two years ago. She's spent the majority of the time since working for the Foundation. She loved your design for the hospital here, it was by far her favorite." He smiled a moment at a memory. "The Board of Directors, on the other hand, hated it. She fought them tooth-and-nail until they approved. It's a good thing weapons weren't allowed in the boardroom."
"Did she know it was my design?"
"I don't think so. She told me she loved the whimsy of the design with the towers at the top and the single gargoyle sitting on the roof watching over the place. She even loved the landscape and interior designs, and she never commented on those with the designs of the other hospitals we'd built."
"I'm glad it made her happy." He was having trouble speaking. He just wanted Sholokhov to leave him alone. He wanted everyone to leave him alone, but he still had to ask one more question. "Did she suffer much?"
The doctor shook his head. "I wouldn't let that happen. She had laudanum for when the pain was too great. Her stepsons and their families were with her and they wrote that her passing was peaceful. Being Lillian, she'd already planned her funeral and made sure all her affairs were in order. She even planned her outfits for after she passed."
He grinned, remembering what his wife told him about that entire afternoon's discussion between Lillian, her daughters-in-law, and Rebecca. "She was quite specific. She didn't care what they put her in for the viewing, but she was adamant that the only jewelry worn was that gold charm bracelet of hers.
"I remember it." Erik blinked rapidly, it was getting harder to keep his feelings in check. "She wore it all through her visit here."
"Of course," Sholokhov nodded, draining his coffee cup. "She's always had it as long as I've known her. I've never seen her without it. And there was quite the row about her burial dress. She insisted on that tattered suit she wore during the earthquake." He smiled. "Rebecca said she thought the women were going to come to blows over that. Apparently her daughters-in-law felt that was beneath her status as the Dowager Baroness."
"I'm sure Lillian, didn't give a damn about what they thought." He could see her so clearly in that moment, eyes flashing as she fought to get what she wanted.
"No. Rebecca said Lillian threatened to add a codicil to her will leaving them only one pound each, if they argued. Furthermore, if they thought they could dress her as they pleased after she was dead, she'd find a way to come back and haunt them into their own graves."
Erik laughed at that, feeling Lillian's warmth surrounding him. Gods, he would miss her terribly. "She would do it, too."
"She would." Benjamin huffed out a sigh. "I'd best be going. I came by because I knew she'd want me to tell you in person and I promised to deliver the letter." He rose and moved toward the door. "One more thing. When I saw her last she was very insistent that you attend the banquet."
Erik shook his head. "No. I can't."
"Please," Sholokhov said. "It's going to be a celebration of her life. Please try to attend."
"I'll try." He held out his hand to the doctor. "Thank you Benjamin, for telling me in person. I know it wasn't easy for you."
"We both, in our own ways, loved her. And we've truly been blessed to know her." He shook Erik's hand. "I've left my information with your secretary as well as invitations to the banquet for yourself and Mr. Khan. Please come."
Erik stood still, waiting for enough time to pass for Sholokhov to exit the office building and be on his way to the hotel. Then he picked up the envelope with his name on it and walked out of his private office. "Miss Vanucci, please contact Mr. Khan and tell him I probably won't be at the club tonight, and not to worry. And have the invitation Mr. Sholokhov left sent round to Mr. Khan."
"Of course, Mr. Dantes. Is there anything else?"
"No." He looked at her, seeing concern in her eyes. "I'll be at the hospital site tomorrow and Friday and probably most of Saturday as well. If you need me, send a messenger." He pulled the office door open, then suddenly turned back to where she sat. "Thank you, Miss Vanucci. I know I don't say it enough, but thank you. Please take the rest of the day off."
He was out the door before she could respond.
. . . .
He left his office walking blindly through the streets until he reached his home. He looked up at the building and found he couldn't bring himself to go in. Instead he kept walking until he found himself entering the livery stable in his neighborhood where he kept a carriage.
"Hey, Mr. Dantes, playing hooky from the office?"
Erik looked up, focusing on the voice. He knew the man, one of the owners, he thought. He couldn't remember the man's name. "Yes," he managed to find his voice.
"I've got Morningstar here, if you'd like me to saddle him up."
"Yes, thank you." Erik pulled out his wallet, intending to pay for a full day's rental. He wasn't sure how long he wanted to ride, he just knew he had to get away for a while.
Morningstar was a black stallion who was very particular about whom he let ride him. When Erik first came to the livery stable a year earlier, he saw the animal off in a back stall and found himself drawn to it. To everyone's surprise, the prickly horse allowed the strange man in the mask to ride him without any problems.
Erik briefly considered buying Morningstar for himself but put the thought aside when he realized he just didn't have enough time to devote. Instead, he rented the horse out whenever he had time for riding and made it a point to visit the animal at least once a week, if only for a few minutes at a time.
The stableman brought the stallion around to the livery front and handed the reins over to Erik. "Any idea when you'll be back, Mr. Dantes?"
"I'm—I'm not sure." He handed over payment.
"This is too much," the man protested. When Erik refused to take any money back, the man handed him a bag of carrots as a treat for the horse.
"That's okay. I'll leave a note for the nightman if you're not here when I leave. Have a good ride."
Erik could only nod at the man, no longer trusting himself to speak. He mounted Morningstar, taking up the reins and clicking his tongue. Then he guided the horse out onto the streets.
. . . .
Erik rode aimlessly through quiet neighborhood streets, letting the stallion set his own pace. He was aware just enough to make sure Morningstar didn't injure himself or anyone else, otherwise he was numb.
She was dead. Lillian was dead. His Girl was gone forever. The words repeated in his head over and over again. He stopped to let the horse drink and realized Morningstar was drinking from a stream, not a trough.
Where was he? He looked around and saw the outskirts of the city at his back. The ground rose higher and higher ahead of him. How did he get this far out? Then he looked up the path and recognized where he was. They were stopped at the bottom of the hill where he'd led his group of earthquake survivors to safety three years before. This was where they rested when he'd collapsed and they were found by the Army relief wagons.
Carefully, he guided the horse up the trail to the few remnants of the camp. He could still see some of the deeper ruts made by the wagons bringing refugees to safety and later taking them back to start the rebuilding of their city. There were still dozens of holes in the dirt from tent stakes driven deeply into the ground. The ground was trampled bare from all the people who lived on that hill while waiting to return to whatever remained of their lives. Several yards off to the side, he found a grassy patch surrounded by shade trees where he could tie Morningstar and let him graze protected from the elements.
He stroked the horse's long face and rested his own head against the soft muzzle. "Stay here, boy. You'll be safe. I've got to take a walk. I'll be back." He pet the horse once more then walked away from the campsite, heading up a thin trail he'd followed once before.
He sat on the ground, leaning back against a small boulder, looking over the edge of the land toward the city. Closing his eyes he could see the devastation once again and hear a gentle voice speaking softly to him, asking if it was he whom she heard that day in the church and refusing to believe his automatic denial.
It helped him to know his voice had given her comfort. It was worth the pain of his memories to please her. He was sorry he'd never sung for her again.
He was sorry for so much. He regretted not reaching out to her in England, even though they'd both agreed that silence and distance was for the best. Instead he buried himself in his work and pushed thoughts of her aside. And now, it was too late.
Too late to even say goodbye once last time.
Tears filled his eyes and slipped down his face. Reaching up, he released the catch on his mask and removed it. He felt it only right to bare his face in his grief for her. She'd been the only one—the only person who'd ever looked at him and didn't scream. The only one who'd reached out her hand in friendship without first shrinking back in horror. Even Nasir, who got to know Erik long before he ever unmasked, couldn't suppress a cry or cover his shudder of fear upon looking at his friend's entire face for the first time.
'Lillian…." He sobbed openly for a while, pouring his grief out over the land. Finally, exhausted, he wiped his face with his hands and looked up at the sky. The last few faint tracings of daylight appeared in the west and he knew he'd have to return soon.
Reaching into his jacket for a handkerchief, his hand brushed paper and he remembered. Sholokhov gave him an envelope with his name on it. Slowly he pulled it from his pocket and stared at the writing. He'd never actually seen a sample of Lillian's handwriting, but he somehow knew the bold script was hers.
She knew she was dying. She knew they'd never meet again and she wanted to leave him one last thought. "Or is it a lecture?" He grinned, sniffling back his tears. Yes, knowing Lillian, it was probably a lecture. One final admonishment for her Boy.
He glanced at the sky again. He had to read the letter now, before night fell completely and it was too dark to see. His hands shook as he carefully opened the envelope and pulled out the folder paper. He blinked several times to clear his eyes and then began to read.
.
April 10, 1909
Dearest Boy,
I suppose I should address you as Erik, as that is the name you use as a man, and you are quite the man. But as you didn't give me a name when we first met, and the only name you ever had in my mind was Boy, I shall address you as such. Boy is the name of the man who lives in my heart.
You do live in my heart. You always have, since that first day. You just take up more space now that I've come to know you. Our time together was so brief, and I do regret that. I wish I had stayed in San Francisco. I wish we could have talked more and loved more and that you would have let me take away the sorrow that you wear like a cape from your shoulders.
As you are reading this, I must assume that I'm gone from this earth. I'm sorry that we didn't have a proper farewell, but in a way I'm glad. I know you'll remember me, for you have a fierce and loyal heart, and I'm happy that your last memories of me are of me well and happy, if not exactly glamorous.
Those few days we shared are precious. Don't dim those memories with thoughts of my death. That does neither of us any good and I prefer you think of me as your ravishing bedmate, rather than the stuffy Baroness Danby.
The hours creep on apace (with apologies to Mr. Gilbert), and I find I have so much I want to say but writing takes strength and that is in short supply for me so I must get to the point.
Stop being so damned stubborn! Open yourself up to people. I saw you start with the people you helped that day. There is a great capacity for love in you, despite your attempts to hide it. I can almost see you shaking your head no and I do understand why.
I know you've been terribly hurt, and that knowledge gives me pain, but I also know you can recover from the hurt if you allow yourself the chance. And to that end, I am sending you a gift. All I ask is that you don't refuse it out of hand, for if you give it time, I know it will bring you the greatest happiness.
Goodbye, my dearest Boy. I love you.
Girl
.
"Goodbye, my lovely Girl." He crumpled the letter in his hand, rested his head on his knees and wept for dreams and a future forever lost.
He didn't know how long he cried on that hilltop, but it was full dark by the time he walked back to where Morningstar was waiting. Reaching into his pocket, Erik pulled out the bag of carrots and offered the treats to the horse. Then he led the animal carefully down the hillside until they were once again on level ground and he mounted the stallion. "Come on, Morningstar, it's time to go home."
He returned the animal to the nightman at the Livery and purchased an extra bag of feed for the horse. Then he slipped into the night and made his way quietly back to the club. He bypassed the main entrance and instead, turned down the alleyway and slipped inside through a backdoor. After reaching his loft, he locked his door, removed his mask and wig, and crossed the darkened space to another locked door protecting a small room where he kept his most important possessions.
After opening the door he stepped inside, knelt down and opened a steamer trunk filled with objects from his life as the opera ghost. He and Nasir had quite a row over Erik's insistence on returning to the underground ruins to retrieve some of his possessions, but, as always, Erik won the fight.
He'd gone alone down into the cellars and returned to an anxious Nasir waiting on a rented wagon. He'd stuffed money, papers, and other objects into various sacks he was able to carry on his person. Later, as they began to pack for their journey to America, he asked Nasir to purchase a steamer trunk and filled it with those objects. It survived the earthquake, as did most of Erik's books and his few pieces of furniture and remined in the small apartment on the second floor until he dragged it upstairs to his new living space. In all the years since he'd left Paris, the trunk remained locked.
Sitting on the floor alongside the trunk, Erik reached around the side and opened a tiny hidden compartment containing the key. He looked at the small key in his hand, thinking about the contents of the trunk and the memories, good and bad, contained within it. Then he unlocked it and raised the lid, reaching unerringly for a battered leather instrument case.
He carried the case out into the main room, lowering himself down to the floor. Gently, he set the case on the floor in front of him and opened it. He hadn't looked at his violin since the day he placed it in its case, swearing never to play it again. Now he realized, at last, how foolish that vow had been. Lillian was right, he needed to stop dwelling on the past and look to his future. And he wanted to begin with music, just for her.
Reverently, he lifted the Stradivarius from its case, running his fingers over the polished surface and testing the strength of the strings. Then he removed the bow from its special slot, surprised to see the object still intact and in surprisingly good condition.
He sat on the floor in the dark, holding the violin until the clouds overhead parted and a shaft of silver moonlight came through the window behind him. Then he raised the instrument to his chin, positioned his hands and the bow, and began to play.
The soft melody of the Bach-Gounod Ave Maria surrounded him. The scent of jasmine seemed to fill the air and he thought he felt a whisper of a hand brush his uncovered cheek. It was enough. He knew she heard. Thank you, Lillian. I promise, I'll take your words to heart and be the man you want me to be.
He followed the Gounod with Mendelssohn's On Wings of Song, and then continued playing gentle pieces he loved, pieces he thought she would love, softly until daybreak.