Beautiful(43)
“It is.” She missed it. New York was an unfamiliar place, even though she had worked there often, but she couldn’t imagine living there. It was exciting, but everything about it seemed hard and cold to her. It had none of the charm of Paris.
They talked for a while, until his coughing fits stopped him. It was a deep wracking cough that worried her.
“Chip is coming to see me today.” He was her half-brother. He was her father’s oldest child and only son. He was fifty-three years old, thirty years older than Véronique. He had two younger sisters, who were in their forties. They could have been her parents.
“You sound tired, Papa,” Véronique said gently, “you should rest.”
“I will, I’m going to take a nap before he comes. You take care of yourself too. Do what the doctors tell you.”
“I do. I’ve been very careful not to bump anything after the surgery.” The skin was very thin now on her arms and legs since her injuries. “A nurse comes to check the dressings every day.”
“Be careful you don’t fall,” he warned her. “It must be icy and slippery outside.” He was right. She had almost slipped a few times when she’d gone for a walk.
“I am careful. I’ll come and see you soon. I’ll call you tomorrow to see how you are.” And then she added, “I love you,” in her gentle voice. Hearing it brought tears to his eyes. He had missed so much with her. Her entire life. And she sounded so much like her mother. They had the same voice.
“I love you too. I hope you know that,” he said in a fatherly way.
“Now I do.”
“I always did, and your mother. Be careful of the choices you make. We regret our mistakes all our lives.” She didn’t know what to say to him, to comfort him. It was clear to her that he regretted not staying with Marie-Helene and their child. It was too late now, but at least they had found each other and finally met, at the right time for both of them. His wife was no longer there, and she was grateful to have a father, now that she had lost her mother. He was trying to offer Véronique some support in her absence.
“It turned out all right,” she said softly. “Maman and I were happy together. She had a good life,” she tried to reassure him. There was no point for him to torture himself now, he was old and sick. Véronique had a forgiving nature, her mother had taught her that, and had been a shining example of it in her own life. She had been a role model for Véronique in so many ways.
“I’ll talk to you soon,” he said, his voice fading, and a minute later, they both hung up. She thought about him for the rest of the day, and what he’d said.
She went to bed early that night, after watching a movie. She knew Doug was having dinner with a girl he’d met on the plane coming back from Ireland. She woke up in the morning, feeling fresh and energized, when the nurse came to change her dressings. Véronique had just woken up, and the nurse put The New York Times on the table next to her, and Véronique went to make a cup of coffee. The nurse left after she’d checked the bandages, and then Véronique sat down with her coffee and the paper.
A headline on the front page stopped her in her tracks. It was a photograph of her father when he was younger, and the headline read, Senator William Hayes Dead at 83. Beloved Elder Statesman Died of Pneumonia at His Home. It said he had passed away the previous afternoon, and she realized with an aching heart that he must have died not long after she spoke to him. She was so glad she had called him. Tears slid down her face as she read the article, about his many political victories, the laws he had helped to pass, the vice presidential candidacy that had failed. It said he was survived by his three children, Charles Hayes, who was currently running for a congressional seat, Adele Hayes Harriman, and Elizabeth Hayes Sutton, and seven grandchildren. He had been married to the late Florence Astor Hayes for fifty-six years, and she had passed away the previous year. The article said he had retired shortly after, and had been suffering from ill health for several years. Mrs. Hayes had died of Alzheimer’s.
They mentioned the senator’s many philanthropic activities. He was well known for his generous donations, as was his wife. It listed the numerous Senate subcommittees he’d been on, the important changes he had initiated, and said that he was one of the most respected and beloved members of the Senate. Nowhere did it mention Véronique or her mother of course. They were the best-guarded secrets of his life, that he had taken to his grave. But everything said about him spoke of a noble life, dedicated to improving conditions for others.
He had been instrumental in many of the anti-poverty programs, and she found herself wondering if he and her mother had been right to protect him from even a hint of scandal. The obituary would have read differently if a mistress in Paris and a love child had been disclosed, or a nasty divorce for those reasons. The decision not to expose him to that had been made jointly. Yet, from what he said, it was clear to Véronique that he regretted that decision in the end. She would miss him no less now than if he had been her legitimate father. The connection had been made, and even though only recent, their bond was strong. He had arrived in time to be a huge loss to her. She sat crying, thinking of everything they had said the day before. Most of all, he had told her he loved her, and always had, and her mother, and she believed him. She truly was an orphan now, and she had no one to share the loss with. She knew his death would have broken her mother’s heart, and maybe they were together now. She hoped so. His fifty-six-year marriage to Florence Astor had been an empty one, and their last years together couldn’t have been easy either if she had Alzheimer’s. It was Marie-Helene he spoke of as the love of his life.