House of Broken Dreams a tale of A Virginia Family Byrd Roberts                                         GLB Publishers                                          San Francisco FIRST EDITION Copyright © 2003 by Byrd Roberts All rights reserved. Printed in the U.S.A. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording or any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for inclusion in a magazine, newspaper or broadcast. Published in the United States by GLB Publishers P.O. Box 78212, San Francisco, CA 94107 USA Cover by W. L. Warner This is a work of fiction. Other than Alexander Campbell, who was actually one of Norfolk's first aldermen, names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Library of Congress Control Number: 2003100748 1-879194-41-4 Printed 2003 Chapter One      As we were about to leave our dormitory room, Vic noticed a telegram had been slipped under our door. He picked it up.      "It's yours, Mister Strutwick Widdicombe Hall." He grinned and handed it to me. "From one of your admirers, I guess!" "Not everyone is attracted to red-heads," I parried.      "Oh, I'm not attracted to all red-headed men." Vic teased. "Only those with dark red hair and no freckles…. Big blue eyes certainly help, too!"      Vic put an arm around my shoulders while I removed the telegram from its envelope. As I read the contents, my carefree mood vanished.      "It's from Mrs. O'Brian, our housekeeper."      "What is it, Strut? You look so strange."      "My father died today…I'm to return to Norfolk immediately."      I felt lost. Vic pulled me close. Resting my head on his protective chest, my dominant feeling was numbness. My father and I had never been close; we had merely tolerated each other. His death, however, would throw the family into a state of disorder.      "It'll be all right, Strut. You will see." Vic massaged the back of my neck as he spoke. "I will be at your side through all this."      For moments I remained still in his arms. Then, slowly, I disengaged myself and stood straight. "1 guess 1970 isn't turning out to be such a wonderful year," I said grimly. "I wonder what happened to Oliver. A car accident? Whatever, it had to be sudden."      "I'll be in Norfolk by Friday evening, Strut."      "I wouldn't have anything, actually, if I didn't have you, Vic. You come first." Reaching up on tiptoe to kiss him lightly on the cheek, my eyes moistened.      I packed my suitcases while Vic went to gas up my Jaguar. Leaving him there at college was difficult to do. When he returned, he had coffee and sandwiches for us. We ate quickly and then packed the car.      Driving down Interstate Sixty-four gave me time to think.      Victor Gilmore and I had become close back in our prep school days. A bond had been forged between us. I was very much in love with him, thriving on his companionship, reveling in his handsomeness, and adoring his magnificent body. At six foot one, he was four inches taller than I was. His bright brown eyes and good-looking face were crowned with a mass of unruly dark hair. His body was muscular and athletic.      Our families approved of our longstanding "friendship." His family had the money; mine had the esteemed and glorious name. The Widdicombe Family had been in Norfolk forever.      There was little traffic on the interstate, and I made good time. My mind turned to the family. I wondered how Claire was holding up. Smiling, I remembered how she had always discouraged me from calling her Mother. Meek Claire, who had always blended into the background, saying little, seldom smiling. Yet, she wasn't the quiet, efficient type. Claire had always been…simply there. She was accustomed to being cared for all her life.      Well, Mrs. O'Brian was comforting her tonight. I could rely on that. Mrs. O'Brian was loyal to the Widdicombes, and she would be until the day she drew her last breath. She had been with the family for forty years, living in and managing the household, rearing my sister, Carolyn, and me.      The car was stuffy, and I lowered my window a bit. The chilly air was invigorating.      Carolyn. I couldn't be sure how my sister was holding up. She was thirty-five, fifteen years older than I. I realized I did not know her very well. The difference in our ages was a barrier between us, and neither of us had ever tried to overcome it. She was absorbed with her own family…her dear Owen and their three boys. God, I hoped Carolyn hadn't descended on the house with her entire brood. That would overwhelm Claire, who was better left in Mrs. O'Brian's capable hands.      Claire and my father. I tried to think of them as a couple, as a pair, but I couldn't. My father, Oliver Hall, had been cool and self-confident, always so assertive. He had been so much the master of the house that one would have thought he was the Widdicombe, not Claire.      He was gone now, dead at fifty-nine. Whatever had happened must have been unexpected. Claire would have written me if my father had been taken ill. The bank would feel the loss. Oliver Hall had been a pillar of Norfolk's financial community.      At twenty I was not really prepared to take charge as head of the family. I was intelligent enough to understand that, yet there was no one else to do it. Certainly Claire could not.      I wanted to return to Lexington with Vic in January. I could not endure separation from him now. Perhaps I could organize the household's operation so that I could manage it and go to Washington and Lee, too. Mrs. O'Brian would help me the best she could. Vic would help, also, I was confident.      Then I remembered my great-aunt…Aunt Charlotte. I had never seen her in my life. Months would pass without my even remembering her up there on the third floor. Incredible. Her few needs were seen to by Mrs. O'Brian. The old lady had turned eighty-seven this past October; I remembered Claire saying so, just a single statement of fact not elaborated on. No one in the Widdicombe family ever talked about Aunt Charlotte. There had always been a rule of silence in regard to her. I do not think my father had ever seen her, either.      As a child I had been forbidden to go to the third floor. Once, when I was eleven, I had secretly slipped up the stairs and had listened at her door. Hearing nothing, I slowly turned the knob, but the door was locked from the inside. I was certain it had remained locked to this day.      So, I had the responsibility of Claire and Aunt Charlotte. Younger men than I have had to shoulder family responsibilities. I did feel equal to it, but I was reluctant.      I drove the car into the Hampton Roads tunnel, slowing down to the speed of the cars ahead of me. The tunnel was dank, and its smell irritated my nostrils. When I drove out the exit, I was relieved; returning to Norfolk always made me feel good. I was back on familiar ground.      My headlights immediately blurred into fog wafting through the dark streets. When I turned into the Freemason section of the city, I remembered Claire once told me its former name had been Old Atlantic City. I had wondered at the time if New Jersey had the new one.      Once my Jag turned onto the old cobblestone streets, I had to slow it to a crawl or damage the shocks. Then I saw our house and felt strong. Whatever the situation inside those walls, I would deal with it.      I drove into the carriage house, long ago converted into a garage, and, bags in hand, walked down the brick path and into the walled garden at the rear of the house. When I entered through the French doors to the family dining room, Mrs. O'Brian came from the kitchen to meet me.      Dropping my luggage, I hugged her. She patted my shoulder, meaning to comfort me.      "Mister Strutwick, I hope you're ready for the worst. It's been a mighty bad day for the family."      She looked older. Worry and concern shoved in her green eyes and in the creases on her face. Gone was her usual autocratic demeanor. I had never seen her so devoid of self-confidence.      "Stay calm, and we will work through this together," I said, turning to sit at the dining room table. She touched my arm and stopped me, then gestured toward the chair at the head of the table. "I would like a bourbon and water before we begin, Mrs. O'Brian. Won't you have a drink with me? I imagine you need one, too."      "No, sir, I will not drink with the Widdicombes," she said, going into the kitchen and mixing my drink. When she returned, she added, "I will have one later, when I'm alone." I was not surprised by her reluctance to join me. It would infer equality.      "You've been feisty all your life, Mister Strutwick, and that's gonna hold you in good stead during this trouble."      "Now that you've placed me at the head of the table and fortified me with good bourbon, tell me how my father died." I spoke calmly.      "Oh, dear God in heaven. I hate to say it." She looked away.      "Say it quickly then. I'm relying on your strength," I ordered quietly.      She stared at an oil painting over the Queen Anne sideboard and started. "Mister Hall shot himself at the bank…in his office! Blew his brains out! Trouble over the money coming up short, they told us. Miss Carolyn…she's been almost out of her head, calling and calling here. Then coming over herself with her youngest, little Keith, and leaving him with us."      "The boy's here? But why?"      "Miss Carolyn and Mister Owen been going 'round and 'round, hollering and cursing! Mister Owen is furious, says he's too mortified to go back to work at your daddy's bank. Called him an embezzler! Miss Carolyn brought us Keith 'cause he was fussing with his father. The boy was taking up for our family, and Mister Owen slapped him hard! The child's face's still got a big red place on it!"      "That sonofabitch! I'll see him tomorrow. Who's with Keith?"      "Oh, Mister Strutwick, the child's happy and peaceful now. He settled down when I told him he could sleep in your room tonight… ‘Just for tonight,' I said." There was a hint of a weak smile around the corners of Mrs. O'Brian's mouth. "He worships the ground you walk on, Mister Strutwick. Always has."      "You did the right thing." I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "Well, so much for Oliver Hall. I don't think I'll miss him. And Claire? How is she taking all this?"      I went to the kitchen, still talking to Mrs. O'Brian who followed me. I replenished my drink and noticed that the kitchen was as immaculate as always. This stout housekeeper was a wonder, keeping order during this turmoil.      "It's Miss Claire I don't understand. No, sir, not at all. Calm as she can be. She talked to Miss Carolyn no more than five minutes before sending her home." She grew pensive.      "I was taking Miss Claire some coffee in the family living room when Miss Carolyn came bursting in with the boy. Miss Claire said she would not listen to all that raving, said it was unbecoming a Virginia lady. The child ran over to her chair and threw his arms around her. She fretted over him and had him quieted down like you wouldn't believe!"      "Claire did that?" I had made my second drink much stronger, and it had its relaxing effects. Claire had never seemed a soothing personality.      "She sent Miss Carolyn home to get ahold of herself, said we'd all discuss the situation tomorrow with you. Said you would know the best course to take. Then she went up to her room."      "Umm. There it is," I murmured.      "What's that, Mister Strutwick?"      "Strut takes the reins!" I proclaimed sarcastically.      "Why, for sure you do! Think anybody else 'round here could take charge of the Widdicombe family?"      "I'll do what I can, Mrs. O'Brian, but I'll need your help."      "You've got that," she promised, before going to a cupboard and retrieving an envelope. Offering it to me, she said, "Here's one more thing, Mister Strutwick."      "A letter for me?" I puzzled, taking the envelope and returning to the family dining room, drink in hand. "Is it from my father?" I sat down again at the head of the table.      "It's from Mister Hall, all right, but it's not to you. Think you oughta open it, though." She stood beside me.      "It's addressed to a Mrs. Kitty Wenzel in the Selden Apartments. I don't know the woman."      "It was on your father's desk at the bank, so they brought it here. And that's not all. That woman has been calling here since late this afternoon. Keeps asking to speak to Miss Claire."      "Did you let her?" I frowned.      "No, Mister Strut, I sure didn't. Told her she'd have to talk to you." Mrs. O'Brian wrung her hands and looked at me imploringly. "Did I do right?"      "I'll read the letter and then answer your question. You surely did no wrong."      I tore open the envelope and read the letter. It was a farewell note from my father to Kitty Wenzell. He had been in love with her. From the letter I surmised that he had been keeping her for some time. I hated Oliver Hall for this. Claire must not be told; she would be devastated.      "You did the right thing, Mrs. O'Brian. Is this letter all that was brought to the house by the bank's representatives?"      There are two boxes in the library. Personal effects, they said."      "I will go through those tomorrow. Of course, you did not mention this letter to Mrs. Wenzel when she called?"      "Of course not, Mister Strutwick. She don't know about the letter."      "Then it is a confidence between you and me."      "And the bank people."      "They won't be a problem. Now I'm going upstairs to speak to Claire…if she's awake."      "Oh, she's awake. Said she wouldn't go to bed until she talked to you.      I stood up and took Mrs. O'Brian's hand, pressing it between both of mine. "You are a treasure. Don't worry. You've managed very well. With time all will be as it should be." Then I released her hand and turned to go.      "But suicide and, and…taking the bank's money…think of the scandal!"      "That was all Oliver Hall's problem," I answered, "and he was not a Widdicombe! We simply have to ‘divorce' him…after the fact."      Picking up my luggage, I left the puzzled woman and mounted the rear staircase. Upstairs, I left my bags outside the closed door of my bedroom, so as not to awaken Keith. There was a wedge of light under Claire's door. I knocked.      "Come in, dear." she called. Claire was leaning over her bed, fingering something when I entered. She looked drawn but not distraught. She stopped what she was doing and came toward me.      "Claire, I am here now." I embraced her.      "Strut, I thought you would never come." She smiled and pecked me on the cheek. "There are things to discuss tonight. You'll be so busy tomorrow." She returned to the bed and resumed what she had been doing.      I was thunderstruck. She was not upset, not depressed, and definitely not overly concerned. This was so unlike the Claire I had known, subservient to my father all those years.      Her dark red hair was flowing to her shoulders, instead of pulled back into the familiar severe bun. She was wearing a frilly powder blue wrapper, and she actually looked rather pretty.      "What are you doing, Claire?" I asked, going to stand beside her at the bed.      "I am inspecting this French lace, dear. I brought it back from Paris years ago to have it made into a dress and never seemed to get around to it, but now I've decided to. Jessie Cobb told me about a perfectly splendid seamstress on Boush Street, whom I called today…."      "Claire! We have to talk about Father."      "I know." She turned and looked at me. "I hope you are not too terribly sad, Strut. It must be difficult for you."      She left the bedside and seated herself on a Victorian loveseat. I followed and sat in the gentleman's chair next to her.      "I think your sister is having a wretched time of it. You should check on her in the morning. First thing." She folded her hands in her lap and looked at me calmly.      "Certainly. But, Claire, I don't understand you. I expected you to be, umm, well, overwrought, although I'm relieved you are not."      "I am so sorry," she spoke soothingly. "I am not being sensitive. Your father has just shot himself, and I'm running on about French lace."      "Oh, Claire, I'm not suffering! He was your husband! As for myself, I don't think I ever loved him."      "Neither did I! Does that surprise you?"      "Well, yes, it does. You've caught me off guard." I smiled sheepishly.      "I am sorry he died, and I am sorry he embezzled from the bank." Claire rolled her big brown eyes heavenward "But I am released now, free, for the first time in thirty-six years! Oliver was a bit of a tyrant."      "A bit," I said and laughed.      "You shouldn't laugh, Strut…be nice. We must respect the dead. Fetch me some port, please, and have some yourself."      "I have already had bourbon," I replied, going to the round gate-leg table by the window to pour her wine from a crystal decanter and taking it to her.      "I was only nineteen when I married Oliver," she spoke softly, sipping the port.      "Too young. A year younger than I am now. Grandfather should have kept you in Saint Mary's in Raleigh."      "Yes, younger than you, and not nearly as bright as you, Strut. I believe I married beneath myself, but it was Papa's doing. He arranged it. Oliver and I never did love each other."      "Do you realize that we have related to, communicated with, each other more in these past few minutes than we have in all the years before?" I was discovering that I enjoyed my mother very much.      "And we will have many more family chats, Strut. I feel that our lives will be happier now."      "But there are problems to be faced. I imagine the bank auditors will have to be reckoned with," I said.      ‘You will need some help with that. I'll call the nice young man at church who is a CPA. He can straighten out the debts and guide you into handling our finances."      "Who is that, Claire?"      "You should remember. His name is Neil Rice. He always stops to greet us after service at Saint Paul's…seems especially interested in you, dear."      "I remember him," I agreed, recalling the man.      Claire was correct in saying Neil Rice was especially interested in me. He usually cornered me in the church vestibule and questioned me about school, or anything he could think of, just to keep me there. I suspected he had a more personal than social interest in me.      "Yes, do call him. Ask him if I can see him tomorrow afternoon."      "There are the funeral arrangements to be made, too," she said. "I want the service to be held at Saint Paul's, not in a funeral parlor."      Of course it would be in our parish church. Claire was staunch Episcopalian; she thought that members of other denominations were, at best, misled Christians. The Widdicombes had been Episcopalian for eons, and before that they had been Church of England.      "Tomorrow I will see to all that," I assured her. "Is Saturday afternoon acceptable to you?"      "That will be fine, Strut, But, oh, I don't want to wear black. I feel older in black."      "Grey should do nicely, After all, this is 1970."      "Tomorrow I'll get a permanent." She emptied her glass. "And I can wear my sable coat for the funeral. Refill my glass, dear."      "We Widdicombes are a curious breed." I grinned when I handed Claire her wine. "Who would have guessed that you would be talking about permanents and sable coats only hours after Oliver died? Even I wouldn't have."      "Yes, we are curious, aren't we?" she said, fixing her eyes on the closed door to Oliver's room. They had had connecting bedrooms.      "Don't become sentimental now, Claire."      "Oh, I'm not. I was thinking about Oliver's bedroom. It could become a lovely sitting room for me. What do you think?" She continued to sip the port.      "Fine, but wait until after the funeral."      She nodded to signify that the matter was settled. Then I thought about my bedroom nearby and the difficulties I would have in slipping Vic upstairs at night. It could be an uncomfortable situation.      "Next week we shall make several changes to accommodate us both," I spoke firmly. "I will move my bedroom downstairs into the family-private living room. The furniture there will be at your disposal for your parlor."      The family living room, the kitchen, and the family dining room, all at the rear of the house, had doors that opened onto the walled garden. My proposed change would make it much easier for Vic and me to have late night trysts.      "Oh. You'd sleep downstairs? I think I understand," she smiled. "But not after you marry."      "Marriage is definitely not in my plans, Claire."      She was silent then, possibly weighing the implication of my words against the prospects of my marriage being a means of replenishing the Widdicombe coffers.      "There are two rooms on the third floor stuffed with family antiques. I shall choose from them to furnish my sitting room."      Contriving to appear relaxed, I stretched and stifled a yawn.      "You are tired, I know, but there is something else, someone else, we have to talk about."      "Yes, I know. Keith is here…in my bedroom asleep. It's all right."      "His father is upset with us, our family—blames us for Oliver's thievery…his suicide, too." Claire swirled the port in its glass. "Being in the same bank with Oliver does make it particularly awkward for Owen."      "As I understand it, Oliver got Owen his position in the bank," I mused.      "Indeed he did. But now Owen Fleming is very embarrassed, and he is raising hell with Carolyn. Keith was defending her, defending all of us actually, when Owen struck him."      "Carolyn was right in bringing Keith to us," I stated. "The boy's always been happy here."      "Keith is so like you were at eleven, Strut. I want to keep him here. Permanently."      "Why, for god's sake?"      "To rear him as a Widdicombe. To give him the love and attention I didn't give you and Carolyn when you were children."      "And to perpetuate the Widdicombe lineage since I won't be impregnating a spouse?"      "Oh, Strut, hush!" Claire smiled. "I'm blushing, I do believe."      "It becomes you. However, I do agree. If it can be arranged, Keith shall stay. He's the pick of the litter."      "Kyle and Kevin do keep Carolyn on her toes."      "I wish Keith had our dark red hair," I commented.      "He probably will, by the time he's grown. It is auburn now, and it will surely darken."      "I must go to bed. I'm tired to the bone, Claire." I stood up. "I don't feel just twenty years old tonight."      "And you never will again."      Claire stood also, and our eyes met. Her words had been totally honest and accurate. I would never feel twenty again. We walked toward the door together.      "Pity poor Kitty Wenzel. She must be grieving terribly," she murmured.      I gasped and turned to her. "You know?" I exclaimed. "You know about father and Kitty Wenzel?"      "Why, yes, for years. Everyone in Norfolk knows. I did what I could to encourage their affair. But Oliver did not know that I knew. I simply made it easy for him to see her."      "Why didn't you care?"      "Everyone needs to be loved, Strut, and that should include Oliver, too."      "I…believe we are a curious breed, Claire!"      She smiled and gave me a light kiss on the cheek as I opened the door. "I have a penchant for oysters. Do tell Mrs. O'Brian in the morning to have them at dinner. Fried, I believe, dear."      I agreed and then left her. Opening my door, I slipped the luggage in quietly. I did not want to wake Keith. Mrs. O'Brian had left a small lamp on for me. Not attempting to unpack my bags, I stripped to my undershorts and turned out the light. I eased into bed beside the still form and thought how marvelous the bed felt.      "Why didn't you put on your pajamas, Strut?" Keith's gentle voice whispered.      The voice startled me, and I made a sudden involuntary movement. "What's the matter?" he asked softly.      "I thought you were asleep, Kei, and I didn't want to fumble around and wake you. Furthermore, I'm too tired to care about pajamas."      "Oh," he murmured.      "Sorry I woke you. Let's go to sleep now."      "Sure. I'm glad you're back from Lexington, Strut," he said and leaned over. He kissed me on the ear, missing my cheek in the dark.      "Goodnight, Kei. We will talk at breakfast."      "Kei… I like that. K E I. The I makes the E say its name."      I knew then that I loved the boy and fell asleep with a smile on my face.