Thursday, July 11, 2013

A Visitor


My Dearest Stephen,

My search for Sarah is not going well. I have been all over New England and still I cannot find one trace of her. I am starting to believe that she told me a lie about her going to Maine. I am also starting to believe that I will never find her, and I am not sure what frightens me more. As of now I am heading to New York, I think this is where she is, something I think I have known all along. Where else could she be so well concealed? My train should arrive at Grand Central sometime this evening. I am planning on staying at the Plaza Hotel; you know the one that opened a few years back? I know back when we said goodbye that I told you I wanted to do this alone, but I fear that I must abandon my pride and say that what I said then no longer applies. I miss you so very much. Please, my love, I need my port in the storm. Please come to me, joining me in New York my dearest friend. I will send you more details upon my arrival. I hope to see you soon.
All my love,
Ramona

Stephen felt a grin stretch across his face. She wanted him to join her! He was happy that she had had the experience of independence that she had needed, yet Stephen had missed Ramona with every breath he had taken since she had left Boston in search of her half-sister. He raced with boy like speed to find his trunk. He dove under his bed, and found it, coated in dust when the bell rang.
“Damn!” He swore as his head collided with the bed bottom. Emerging from beneath his bed, and covered in dust, Stephen nursed his bumped head. He heard the Butler answer the door below, but could not hear who was being greeted. Stephen lugged his trunk to the top of his bed, and began to hastily pile clothes into it. So emerged in his packing he did not hear the door to his room open, and was taken by surprise when out of the corner of his eye he saw a shape in the doorway. He jumped, making a yell of surprise and amazement when he saw his brother, Eric standing in his room.  Eric looked very much like Stephen. His hair was lighter, and he had gray eyes, but he was still sturdy and strong like all Scots men. He was dressed in travel clothes, and had his hands in his pockets.

“Eric?” He said, sounding more confused than jubilant. His last encounter with his brother had not gone well. Eric had stormed out of the house after an argument they had had about his studies and money. He had not seen his younger brother in months, nor had he any idea he was coming home to Boston, for they did not keep a correspondence.
“Hello Steve” Eric said, a tone of cockiness in his voice that Stephen loathed. He supposed the tone was due to the fact that Stephen, covered in dust and shirt un-tucked, looked a mess. Stephen squared his shoulders, and straightened up.

“What are you doing here, Eric?” He asked, bitterness clinging to every word. The euphoria that had held him captive with the reading of Ramona’s letter was evaporated, now all he felt was the pent up resentment towards his brother that had held him captive before he had met Ramona. Eric gave him a coy smile, and walked farther into the room.
“Mother wrote to me, and I have business with a… a friend of mine.”
Stephen took that to mean that Eric had some rendezvous with a woman he had met in college, that or worse.
“You know you are not welcome in this house.”
Eric smirked at him in response. “Mother told me to come, and this is her home.”
Anger boiled through Stephen’s veins. “You know as well as I that this is my home now, Father left it to me in the will.” Stephen saw Eric’s brows crinkle at this retort. He hated being the younger brother, and Stephen, always playing the role of the elder brother played off this hatred like a game. He knew it was childish to play off his brother’s childhood resentment, but at this moment he did not care. The minute Eric had taken his inheritance and abandoned his family; Stephen had all but counted his brother as dead.  It was taking every fiber of his being from beating Eric to a pulp where he stood.
“Where are you going?” Eric asked, looking at the trunk, overflowing with clothes.
“Not that it is any of your concern, but I have business in New York.”
“Oh?” said Eric, sounding amused. His tone perturbed Stephen to no end. He turned his back on his brother, attempting to continue packing.
“Out of curiosity Steve, would this “business” happen to include a Miss Ramona Ramsey and a Miss Sarah Turner?”
Ice flooded Stephen’s veins, as he quickly took control of his fear. He was a lawyer after all. He would put his education to use. Slowly he turned to look at Eric.
“What do you mean?”
Eric’s smirk reemerged on his face. “You know exactly what I mean. And there is no use in pretending you don’t know. You see I have had a letter from darling Sarah.”
And the cool disposition Stephen was trying to exude escaped him.
“You … you know Sarah?” He stammered. But how? When? None of this made any sense.  Eric walked over to Stephen’s dresser and picked up a baseball that had been sitting there. They had played catch with it years ago. Now his brother tossed it up and down, as if the ball was Stephen himself. “How do you know Sarah?” Stephen asked, trying to sound as assertive as possible.
 “In the biblical sense.” Eric replied, chuckling as he continued to toss the ball up and down. Stephen’s heart began to pound when it dawned on him what his brother meant. Stephen looked into Eric’s cool calculating gray eyes.  Regardless of how Eric knew Sarah, one thing concerned him above all else.
“How do you know about Ramona?”
Eric stopped tossing the baseball, and looked at his brother.  A grin as cold as his eyes spreading across his face.
“Oh Stephen, the question is not how I know what I know, but how much I do know. And more importantly, what information I have that can reunite you with your darling little ginger girl.”
“It seems we have much to discuss.” Stephen said through clenched teeth.
“It seems we do,” said Eric. And with that he placed the ball back on the dresser and exited the room. Stephen looked at his trunk, then at the ball, and finally at the door. Sighing and saying a silent prayer for strength, he followed 

Known and Unknown


The white stone seemed to shine in the grime of the city. Putting her shoulders back, just as her mother taught her, Ramona climbed the marble steps, hoping and praying she would find her sister within these doors.  

Reaching the top of the steps, Ramona was stretching her gloved hand towards the brass knob on the door when she heard her name.

“Ramona! Ramona!” Shivers bolted up her spine. Only one voice in the world could say her name like that. She spun around and there he stood.
“Stephen!?” She exclaimed with amazement. Tears filled her eyes and before she knew it she was running to him. She flung herself into his arms and held him tight. He was so solid and firm. Real. She inhaled his smell and looked up, searching for the familiar green gaze, and she found it. His eyes were sparkling and she noticed they were also a little damp from tears, yet a smile was spreading across his face.

“I have missed you so much!” She said her voice full of breathless delight.
He chuckled in response “And I you my love.” My love. Oh! He still loved her! It had been more than a month since she had last seen him. Since she had last been in his arms. Ramona had almost forgotten the warmth and safety that she had come to know there. She looked up into his green eyes again. She had expected him to come when she had asked in her last letter, but one thing puzzled her. New York had hundreds, goodness thousands, of people how did he find her here?
“How?” She asked, “How did you find me?”
Stephen bit his lip. It was a nervous habit of his. “It is a long story Mona. I would much rather tell it to you at your hotel.” She looked up at him with even more bewilderment. Stephen answered her look at once.
 “I know where Sarah is.” 

A Man's World

"Jim_MEY!"
"Damn!"  She had jumped so hard that her finger had slipped and now three "f's" resided in the center of her perfect typed copy."
"Best run, word has it that good ole' Charlies on the warpath and all the junior editors are in an extra pissy because of it."  She nodded and reminded herself not to simper- it had taken a good month for her to remember not to try to flirt her way out of trouble here.  She still had to pinch herself to remember to answer to "Jimmy;" on her very first day she had almost given herself away when she hadn't reacted with enough gusto to the questionable pictures of showgirls that one of the copy editors had provided.  Sighing she pulled the cover over her Underwood No. 5, her pride and joy and her only possession of any value.  When she had first moved to the city she had paid for it dearly; ruefully running her hand over her slowly returning brown locks she wondered what her friends and family would think if they could see her now.
The editors office was never a safe place for an aspiring reporter, you were twice as likely to get fired as you were to get words of praise.  Steeling herself she pushed in the door.
"About time, Mullen.  Sit."  She did, reminding herself to keep her legs spread wide and not cross her ankles as her cotillion teachers had once so forcefully instructed. 
"Now, I've read your latest article."  She kept her eyes on her knees, barely letting herself breath.
"And It's horse shit.  Mullen, you've got a good brain for prose but no one cares about this nonsense.  People want a REAL headline, Bobby Millers been writing up a piece on prizefighting and I'm fixing to run it on the front page."
"I'm sorry sir, I just thought-"
"Stop thinking!  I don't pay you to think, I pay you to write."  She sighed, inwardly.
"Yes sir."
"Now, I have an assignment for you, something that people really do want to read about.  Some society lady from Boston is in town and she's throwing a charity ball down at the Metropolitan Art Museum, go see if you can chat her up, get her story.  Shouldn't be too hard of a job, pretty ladies, plenty to eat-after the shit you send me I shouldn't be rewarding you like this."  She nodded, rising and brushing her trouser legs off as she did.
"Saturday night, nine pm.  Oh, and Jimmy?  Don't give me any more of this shit."  He slapped her article into her chest and she turned, letting the door close behind her.
Back at her desk she slid the rejected article into her bag.  "Hundreds of Women Assaulted by British Police in Brutal Attack against Peaceful Protesters."  Her British brethren would have to wait.  Silently she cursed whatever Bostonian aristocrat was making her leave her impassioned writing for a night of silly talk and town gossip.  Reaching her hand into her pocket she let her fingers graze the black velvet box that she had taken to carrying with her.  Timothy no doubt had given up the ring for lost, along with his would be betrothed- but somehow by holding the ring she felt closer to him and closer to home. 
Though she hated to admit it, Sarah was just a little bit homesick.