Title: Coco Robichaux and the Girl in the Little Blue Hat
Fandom: General Hospital
Characters: Tracy Quartermaine
Prompt: #29 Arrival
Word Count: words
Rating: PG
Summary: Tracy attends an opening night.
Author's Notes: I don't normally do crossovers, but I just got this little idea on how to connect Tracy to the YaYa Sisterhood. My timeline, based on the books, not the movie, would have Tracy as a contemporary of Siddalee (who is actually older than Sandra Bullock in the books).

I.

The previews for Women on the Cusp were the buzz of New York. Tracy Quartermaine, who had about as much interest in the theater as she did in upside-down bonsai growing, barely skimmed the article as she read her daily New York Times over breakfast. Another drama, another Tony bid, another group of pretentious actors emoting over the footlights.

It was only a name in the second paragraph that caught her attention, a name so individual and unforgettable that Tracy put down her coffee and started the story again from the start.

Siddalee Walker.

She frowned, blinked, and read again. "Writer/director Siddalee Walker, a Louisiana transplant, has emerged as a true force of nature on the Broadway stage."

"Well, I'll be damned," she murmured, continuing through the drivel about sets and lighting and projected ticket revenues. Okay, she paid attention to the projected ticket revenues. "I'll be damned…" she repeated.

"Something you want to share, or just contemplating your eternal reward?" Alan muttered from behind the sports page.

"Siddalee Walker is directing a Broadway play."

"Sidda who?"

Tracy rolled her eyes. "Siddalee Walker. You remember, that Girl I used to write to in Louisiana, back when I was in boarding school."

"The one with the crazy lady from the plane?" Alan rolled his eyes. "I still think Mother was insane to let you write to them."

"They were nice, and Mrs. Claiborne was not crazy. She was--" Tracy thought back to her one encounter with Teensy Claiborne, back before she'd learn to judge so harshly, back when strangers with stories could be magical and intriguing, instead of just cause for suspicion. "She was beautiful."

"What was that club she belonged to? The Woo-Hoos? The Hee-Haws?"

Tracy stared at the page, not reading the words anymore. Her mind was a million miles away, and thirty years in the past. She felt her lips forming the words of her own volition, and a lifetime of envy and admiration poured into the enunciation. "Ya-Ya!"

II.

The Petite Ya-Yas were first and foremost a captive audience. Whenever the Ya-Yas felt a surge of creative energy, whether in the form of an impromptu musical number or craft project or any other such thing, their first line of feedback came in the form of the young minds trapped and helpless in their clutches. Each new outfit, each pronouncement of innovative thought, would be trotted out before whatever available child was on hand with a "What do you think of that, cher?" immediately following the presentation.

This was always followed by enthusiastic support or, if the Petite was feeling particularly brave, a timid suggestion for improvement. Siddalee could remember with burning intensity all the times her suggestions had been followed, because those moments were always accompanied by rounds of applause and overwhelming compliments from the Ya-Yas at how smart she was, how clever, how perfectly charmant!

Show-off and spotlight junkie that she was, Siddalee Walker made it a point to always offer suggestions if she had them.

For the most part, as a group the Petite Ya-Yas didn't mind being creative guinea pigs. It was stimulating, and they often found themselves doing the same thing themselves--using each other as sounding boards, brainstorming partners, and make-shift audiences for all forms of creative play.

But the Ya-Yas were the mistresses of the art, and it was a rare Petite who saw themselves on a par with their mothers. The stories were Siddalee's favorites, and she could sit for hours listening to the tales of Vivi, Caro, Teensy, and Necie as little Girls in Thornton, Louisiana, or even tales of their adventures as grown-ups. One of the best, and most personal to Siddalee, stories happened to Teensy after she was already married with children. She loved to hear the tale of the Coco Robichaux and the Little Girl in the Little Blue Hat.

Teensy and her husband Chick loved to travel, and often left their kids Ruffin and Genny with the Ya-Yas while they set off on adventures of their own. It was on a trip like this to Paris that Teensy encountered the Girl in the Little Blue Hat.

Chick had flown home early from their vacation, leaving Teensy on the prowl with money and the Paris shopping scene at her disposal. Her flight back to the States was under-booked, and the ever-persuasive Teensy had managed to sweet-talk the counter agent into an upgrade. As she settled in to a long but luxurious return flight, she noticed that the first class cabin contained only two other passengers--a worn-looking businessman and a Girl in a Little Blue Hat.

Now, it didn't take Teensy long to figure out that the Girl was not traveling with the businessman. She sat alone, just across the aisle one row up from Teensy, all of nine or ten years old, dark brown hair perfectly coiffed, an expensive traveling suit of the type little Girls wore in the 1960s, spotless white gloves, and a cunning Little Blue Hat. It was the hat that caught Teensy's attention, because it matched the suit and shoes perfectly. From birth, Teensy had been a prissy dresser, a little princess who would never allow something as mundane as sneakers to touch her feet. So the sight of this young Girl intrigued her, and she amused herself on the boring flight by imagining the background of the Little Girl, whom she guessed to be the long-lost granddaughter of Edward and Mrs. Simpson of England.

Long flights being what they were, Teensy periodically dozed off, and awoke to find that the Girl had been periodically losing bits of her ensemble. First to go were the white gloves, which Teensy spied neatly tucked into the Girl's matching little handbag. Later, she saw the jacket folded and draped over the empty seat next to the Girl.

Half-way across the Atlantic, she woke to find the Girl with her tray table down, a single olive rolling back and forth across it as she played a make-shift game of table tennis with the olive as the ball and her fingers as the paddles. Teensy peeked in front of her--the businessman was fast asleep, a martini glass sans olive dangling from his right hand. She chuckled as she watched the Girl play, not noticing the stewardess coming up the aisle.

It happened quickly--a misguided shot with the right hand, a slip of the left hand, and that olive was off the Girl in the Little Blue Hat's tray and onto the floor, right in the path of the stewardess's shoes. Teensy winced as the foot came down, crushing the olive into the carpeted aisle.

The Girl in the Little Blue Hat tucked her hands in her lap, assuming the most innocent look Teensy had ever seen on a non-Ya-Ya in her entire life. The stewardess stopped in disgust, picking up her feet and staring at the ground up olive on the sole of her shoe. She then turned to the dangling martini glass and the sleeping man who held it. She sighed in a very perturbed manner and took the glass from the businessman's hand.

When she was gone, the Little Girl noticed Teensy for the first time and, with a look of utmost innocence, shrugged. "Wonder where that came from?" she said.

"Must've been Coco Robichaux!" Teensy said with a knowing grin.

"Who?" The Little Girl leaned forward, intrigued, her feigned innocence forgotten as she perked up her ears to hear the tale of the naughty Coco Robichaux.

Now every one of the Petite Ya-Yas knew about evil Coco. When a dish broke, or the last bit of ham disappeared from the fridge, or muddy shoe tracks appeared as if by magic on the living room floor, everybody knew that Coco Robichaux was the culprit. It was Teensy's mother, the exotic Genevieve Whitman with her colorful clothes and free-spirited ways, who had first told the tale of Coco back when Teensy was a little girl. The Ya-Yas had pounced on the legend with a vengeance. It was Coco who first brought Vivi and Teensy together with Necie, whom they mistook for Coco in her goody-goody disguise. And over the years, the ever-elusive Coco--ageless and wicked as the day was long--passed down to a new generation of Ya-Yas.

"She's the most naughty, wicked little Girl who ever lived. She's smart, too, so she never gets caught." Teensy smiled at the Little Girl's expression. It wasn't so much shock as admiration, and right then and there she felt the surge of Ya-Ya in the air. This child, far from being a pampered little goody-goody, had fire in her. "Ma mére /i. told me about Coco when I was much younger than you. I've always been hoping to meet her some day."

"If Coco was a little girl when you were a little girl," the Girl in the Little Blue Hat said skeptically. "Wouldn't she be a grown up woman now?"

"Oh, no!" Teensy put up her tray table, for story-telling required a certain amount of space to be done right, and she didn't want to chip her nail polish while gesturing. "Coco Robichaux is like Peter Pan. Nice little Girls grow up to become housewives and mothers. Wicked little Girls never get old, and Coco is the wickedest of them all. Why, I'd say she never lost her baby teeth, she's so evil."

The Little Girl started laughing at this and rolled her eyes. "That's a myth," she accused.

"Not at all. Cross my heart and swear to Judy Garland. If you ever come down to Thornton, Louisiana," she paused, adding, "That's where I'm from. Thornton, Louisiana. If you ever come down there, they'll tell you. Coco Robichaux is the real deal."

The Girl laughed again and pushed her tray up just like Teensy did.

"I'm sorry," Teensy said. "We haven't been properly introduced. My name is Mrs. Genevieve Whitman Clairborne, but my friends call me Teensy."

"Hello, Mrs. Claiborne," the Girl said formally.

Teensy fixed her gaze on the young Girl. "You can call me Teensy, if you like." At the Girl's smile, she added, "I didn't get your name, cher."

"My name is Miss Tracy Lila Quartermaine." She frowned slightly, and added, "People just mostly call me Tracy. I don't have a nickname." Something in the Girl's tone suggested to Teensy that a nickname wasn't all the little rich girl didn't have, but she kept that to herself.

"Well, you're mighty young to be traveling across the ocean all by yourself, Tracy."

Tracy shrugged, a century of nonchalance in those little shoulders. "I do it all the time. I go to school in Switzerland and come home to New York on summers and Christmas. I had a layover in Paris," she added, explaining her presence on this particular flight.

Teensy struggled to keep the shock from her face. She knew that some people sent their children off to boarding schools, and she and the Ya-Yas had often joked about shipping the whole mess of Petites off to some South Seas island until they were eighteen, but to see a little girl in such a situation just seemed horrible to her. In her heart, she knew that no matter how tired she got of being a parent to Ruffin and Genny, she could never just pack them up and send them by themselves to a foreign country for most of the year. "Don't your Mama and Daddy come to get you?"

"My daddy is in business. He is the founder of The ELQ Company, and a very busy man. He's always in meetings and on business trips. Mother came with me the first time, to show me what to do, but…" The Girl twisted up her face slightly, frowning at the thought. "She's very busy, too, and it would be a waste of time and money for her to fly all the way to Switzerland just to get me."

"Well," Teensy said, covering her own sadness for this little Girl with an overly cheerful tone. "You are a very brave and grown-up young lady, cher. Très bon."

"Merci boucoup, Mme. Claiborne," Tracy said in flawless French.

"Parles-tu francais, cher?"

"Je parle un peu, s'il vout plaît," came the response, along with a giggle. At Teensy's inquisitive look, she said, "Your accent is funny."

"Well, it's Louisiana French, sugar. We speak it differently than people in Paris. Some of our words are different, and some of the pronunciations may sound a little strange." She smiled at Tracy. "Imagine if Shakespeare left England with a bunch of his friends and lived on an island far away from the rest of the world all the time until today. His descendents would speak a very different brand of English than we do, don't you think?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Well, my ancestors left France hundreds of years ago, and the language changed with them over the years." She nodded to Tracy. "You speak it very well, by the way."

"Thank you. I'm learning it in school. I'm going to start Italian next year, and probably German after that." She was playing with the fabric on the seat behind her, picking at it absently as they talked. "They like you to learn German first, what with it being Switzerland and all, but I like Italian better. It sounds better, and you don't spit nearly as much."

Teensy laughed out loud. "Well, that makes a lot of sense."

"Gianna, the girl who stays across the hall from me at school, is from Genoa, and she—" Tracy stopped, seeming to realize her manners. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't bother you anymore," she said shyly. Teensy recognized the look from her own childhood—it was the look of a girl who had apologized far too often to adults for just being herself. Tracy reached for a stack of newspapers in the empty seat next to hers. "Besides, I have a lot of reading to do."

"Good Lord, what is all that?"

"The New York Times, The Wall Street Journal, and The Washington Post. My daddy reads them front to back every single day, and I'm a little behind." She straightened in her seat. "I don't want him to think I'm uninformed." She picked up the Times, which seemed thicker than her thigh, and hefted it onto her lap. "Thank you for the lovely conversation," she added politely.

Teensy winked rakishly. "Well, if you read anything particularly juicy, feel free to let me know."

Tracy laughed. "I will."

The rest of the flight passed uneventfully, with the Girl in the Little Blue Hat reading one after another of those papers, front to back, while Teensy dozed in and out of sleep and the businessman began to snore. It was mid-morning when they reached Idlewild Airport, and Teensy was looking forward to a good stretch of the legs before catching her connection to Baton Rouge.

She'd lost track of Tracy in the rush to disembark, with folks coming up to hug loved ones, people pushing to the counter to get their transfer information, and the general commotion of a big city airport. It wasn't until she'd gotten her gate information that Teensy saw the last of the Girl in the Little Blue Hat.

She was being greeted by a sour-looking man in a chauffeur's uniform. They said nothing to each other, exchanged no greetings as the tall man took Tracy's travel bag and led her off toward the baggage claim area. There was no running and hugging, no parents glad to see their little girl after so many months abroad. Just a hired hand, leading her silently off to get her things, as if she were a stranger.

It was in that moment that Teensy hatched the initial plans for Operation Girl in the Little Blue Hat.

III.

The play itself was gritty, an emotional punch to the gut that affected Tracy more than she wanted to admit. She mingled with the crowd, feeling a little out of place with the artsy types who generally attended these opening night things.

She'd sworn she never use her son's industry connections for anything, but here she was, on Ned's influence, at the Tavern on the Green after party for the hottest play on Broadway. She recognized a few faces--there was that actress from Sunday in the Park with George. She'd seen it with Ned, mostly against her will, and found it long and tedious and depressing. There were several other actors there, none whom she recognized, although they were obviously "important" because flashes kept going off everywhere they went. She did spot Art Sulzberger, Jr. from the Times, and almost cornered him to bitch him out about a particularly nasty article they'd done on ELQ the previous month, but restrained herself. She wasn't here to network, and she certainly wasn't here to cause a scene. It was curiosity, mainly, a closure of sorts. She was here for one reason only--to meet Siddalee Walker.

She found her after a half hour of mingling, two white wines and a small plate of rumaki into the party. Siddalee Walker was gorgeous, first and foremost, with red hair so dark it almost looked black and the most perfectly smooth pale skin Tracy had ever seen. She had a figure that looked like something she worked for, and a smile that was dazzling and bright and imperfect. Tracy found herself smiling, too, watching as the woman spoke to some actress from the movies, the blonde who did all the accents. Meryl Streep, she thought.

But it was Siddalee who captured her attention.

Siddalee, who'd written at least once a week for seven years, long after her siblings and friends had lost interest, at one point sending more letters in a single year than Tracy's entire family combined, including Lila.

Siddalee, whose neat (if wobbly) handwriting adorned the blue and red international envelopes that came with such regularity during her school years. Siddalee, who crafted amazing tales of life and family and adventures in that exotic place called Thornton, Louisiana, pressed them onto onion-skin paper, and sent them across the seas to breathe life and joy into her otherwise dull existence.

She caught Tracy staring at her, smiled indulgently as the actress took off toward another photo opportunity, and crossed the short distance to say hello. Her accent was subtle, but Tracy recognized it as a Louisiana drawl, spicy and soft and charming. "I'm sorry…have we met?"

Tracy blushed, then smiled. "Not in person, actually," she said, extending her hand to shake Siddalee's. "This is going to sound like a line, but I'm not sure if you'll remember me." At Siddalee's questioning look, she said, "I'm Tracy Quartermaine. We used to write to each other, back when we were in..."

The rest of the sentence was lost as Siddalee's eyes grew wide in recognition, her smile enormous. She threw herself at Tracy with an "Oh, my God!" and an enormous bear hug. "The Girl in the Little Blue Hat!"

IV.

The first step of Operation Girl in the Little Blue Hat, as the engagement would henceforth be known, was to gather the support of the Ya-Yas, and by extension, the Petite Ya-Yas. Teensy came home full of tales of Paris and shopping and fun, but it was the story of The Girl in the Little Blue Hat that caught everyone's attention. Necie thought it shameful that one so young would be sent off like that, and Caro figured she had to be a tough little thing. Vivi was impressed by the Girl's manners, and all were intrigued by Teensy's insistence that this young thing had Ya-Ya potential. Each and every full-blooded Ya-Ya had an inborn radar for seeking out kindred spirits, and no one doubted Teensy's assessment of young Tracy Quartermaine for one moment.

It had only taken a little bit of inquiry while still in New York to learn more about the Quartermaine family. The company, ELQ, was a powerhouse, and Edward Quartermaine was known and feared in the state's business circles. A quick call to the business desk at The New York Times while waiting for her delayed flight to Louisiana had gotten Teensy not only the name of Tracy's parents, but the address of The ELQ Company.

The first thing the Ya-Yas agreed upon was that they'd have to go through the mother, whom Teensy had learned was a respected socialite in the town of Port Charles, New York, named Lila Quartermaine. A letter was written, edited, passed around the Ya-Yas for approval, and finally sent on to Mrs. Quartermaine, courtesy of The ELQ Company.

My Dear Mrs. Quartermaine,

I am Mrs. Chick Claiborne, of Thornton, Louisiana. You don't know me, but I recently enjoyed the pleasure of sharing a transatlantic flight with your daughter Tracy. During the trip, I found your daughter to be polite, charming, well-behaved, and a very pleasant conversationalist. You should be very proud of her.

The purpose of my letter is this. While chatting with your daughter, I learned that she is currently attending school in Switzerland. I have two children of my own, and in my small circle of friends, we have between us fifteen children, boys and girls, of varying ages. All of the children were delighted when I told them about Tracy, and many of them expressed an interest in becoming pen pals with her while she is in school in Europe.

I know that my request may seem unusual to you, but I feel that children do well to meet people from varying walks of life. I feel that Tracy would benefit from meeting children her own age who live in a place very different from the world she knows, and I am sure our children would be thrilled to learn about Tracy's adventures in Switzerland.

If you are interested in my offer, please feel free to call me collect at my home in Louisiana. My telephone number is in the header of my stationary. My husband and I travel often, and we love to meet people from all over. If you do not feel this is an appropriate suggestion, please accept my apologies in advance. I was quite taken with Tracy in the short time I spoke to her, and hoped that perhaps she might enjoy corresponding with some of our children.

Until I hear from you, I am

Respectfully Yours,

Mrs. Genevieve "Teensy" Claiborne

V.

The alcove they found was quiet, and the martinis strong. Tracy and Siddalee spent a moment just staring at each other, their expressions a complex mixture of awe, embarrassment, and amusement. They'd exchanged pictures during their seven-odd years of correspondence, but that had been decades earlier, before life had had its way with them, before time had stretched and softened and creased their lives into something barely recognizable as the Girls in the Faded Pictures.

"I can't believe you came," Sidda sighed, shaking her head. "You were the last person I expected to see here tonight."

"I'm not exactly the theatrical type," Tracy admitted. "But I saw your name in the Times and…"

"I wanted to look you up so many times. I would read the paper and see ELQ listed, sometimes even they would even mention your name …" There was a hint of sadness in Sidda's voice, an echo of rejection that hadn't gone away over the years. "When you stopped returning my letters, I figured, well, you'd outgrown me."

Tracy shook her head fiercely. "Sidda, no! I lived for those letters in school. It's just…" She hesitated. How to tell her? How to explain to this person who lived this life of freedom and wonder just what had become of her, what kind of life she'd gotten herself into?

"I married Larry Ashton ten seconds after I finished school. I figured out ten seconds after that what a huge mistake I'd made. I was whisked off into this weird world of history and obligation and–" She bit her lip, not able to meet Sidda's eyes. "I was embarrassed. I had built it all up so much in my head, and in my letters to you. You just kept writing, wanting to know how married life was, how it felt to be Lady Ashton. I was ashamed to write back and tell you I wanted to run away. I was pregnant before our three month anniversary, Sidda. I was locked in." She shrugged. "I'm sorry. When your letters stopped coming…"

"I didn't know," Sidda said apologetically. "I figured you were too good to keep writing to some hick from Louisiana, now that you were a Lady."

"I was a brood mare," Tracy said bitterly. "My entire purpose in that family was to provide an heir…and a trust fund to be plundered." She tilted her head to the side, examining Sidda's striking features, her clear, intelligent eyes, her flawless skin. "Even after I was married, especially I used to dream of running away to the wilds of Louisiana and becoming a Ya-Ya priestess. I envied your freedom." She paused for a moment, then added, "I still do, sometimes."

"Ha!" Sidda turned towards the general vicinity of Broadway and the theater that housed her play. "You saw my freedom on that stage tonight."

"Was it really like that? You always made it sound so magical in your letters." Tracy held her breath, wanting to believe, wanting to know that somewhere, magic existed, romance existed, friendships lasted lifetimes, perhaps eternity. She wanted to believe that place really did exist.

Sidda frowned, her eyes darkening as she considered the question. "It was like the play. And it was like my letters. My mother…the Ya-Yas…were unbelievable. They could be angels and fairies and wild primal goddesses in one moment, and in the next--hollow, broken, lost…" She sighed, picking the olive out of her martini and licking the alcohol off it absently. "I never knew what to expect. I had to always be on guard…just in case."

"I always knew what to expect," Tracy whispered, sipping her martini. "The worst."

"I see you're still wearing a wedding ring. You and Larry worked it out, huh?"

Tracy laughed loudly. "Uh, no. No, I left Larry in the dust as soon as I could figure out my own mind again. Too late for my trust fund, unfortunately…and no such luck for my son, who wound up in boarding schools just like me. My second son stayed with me, and I'm sure I'll be seeing the six-figure therapy bills for that decision, too, sooner or later."

"Wow." Sidda chuckled into her drink. "But you tried it again? Marriage, love, the whole thing?"

Tracy raised her left hand, nonchalant, and splayed her five fingers into a wiggling jazz hand. "Five times."

Sidda choked on her martini. "Oh, my god!"

"Well, the first three were the only ones that count--Number Three was the father of my younger son. Number Four lasted about 36 hours, bless his dead, rich soul, and Number Five…?" She shook her head, looking down at her wedding ring. "Well, the less said about him, the better." She glanced over at the fourth finger on Sidda's left hand. It was bare, without even a hint of a ring tan. "You?"

Siddalee looked embarrassed. "Um, no. Living with someone. Happily. He's around here somewhere—" She made to look for the guy, but Tracy stopped her.

"It's okay. I certainly didn't bring my husband. You don't have to introduce me to your…"

"Connor. Connor McGill."

"Your Connor." Tracy smiled indulgently. "Is it love?"

"As much as I can love," Sidda said softly. "As much as any of us can love."

"Amen, sister," Tracy said, downing the last of her martini. "Do you go home much?"

"Nah. Too busy. You?"

"Oh, every three years or so I get banished from the family for some wicked deed or another," Tracy said casually. "Then I kick around Europe for a decade or so until the dust settles. But mostly, I'm in New York. At home. With Daddy," she added sarcastically.

Sidda laughed. "So the Ogre of Port Charles is still growling, huh?"

"Well, now he has a little Ogress nipping at his heels." Tracy waggled her eyebrows. "I learned from the best."

"Ya-Ya," Sidda said softly, more to herself than to Tracy. "So did I."

"Sidda?" A young man with a goatee leaned over Sidda's chair and whispered something in her ear. He was dressed all in black, very hip and very not Connor, Tracy decided. Unless Sidda was in a long-term relationship with a flaming homosexual.

"Damn." Sidda stood, her expression honestly disappointed. "We have to do some cast and crew photos for the Village Voice. Will you stay for a while? I want to give you one of my cards, but I don't have my purse with me."

"Yeah," Tracy said with a wave of her hand. "Go. Be a star."

"Ha! Very funny."

But Sidda was already back in professional mode, her transformation from Louisiana girl to Broadway up-and-comer subtle but undeniable. Tracy watched in amazement, motioning to a waitress for a refill on her martini.

"Oh, Trace?" It was Sidda, hanging back from the young man. "I know Mama's gonna call me at some ungodly hour of the morning for a full recap of the evening. Any message you want to give the Ya-Yas?"

Tracy laughed. She had a lifetime of messages she want to give the Ya-Yas. A lifetime of courage she'd drawn from their stories, to be used when everybody told her she was evil, when everybody told her she was wrong. Sidda was the writer, the creative one. Tracy knew she'd never be able to articulate what she wanted to tell them in a single second-hand message.

"Just tell Teensy that she finally found Coco Robichaux," was all she said.

Sidda hesitated, then grinned broadly. "Will do. Don't leave without saying good-bye," she warned, and disappeared back into her moment of glory.

Tracy accepted the fresh martini from the waitress, handing her a twenty and telling her to keep the change. She was feeling expansive. She was feeling good.

"Ya-Ya," she whispered to no one in particular.

The End

Written for the LJ 100 Situations ficathon.

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