Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-Three

The next morning Fran wakes with a start. She sits up in bed and pulls the covers to her chest, trying to sort out her dreams from reality. It happened. She really kissed Peter yesterday. Their slow walk to her apartment wasn't her imagination, nor the way they sat together in her kitchen for hours, chatting over instant coffee about the big and small things of life.

She'd learned last night that Peter has no intention of writing his own plays.

"It turns out I'm not particularly passionate about crafting my own work. But helping other people craft theirs…" His hazel eyes lit up, then he leaned forward on the table and confided, "Hammerstein thinks I have real talent." In fact, Hammerstein told Peter there'd be a job for him at Rodgers his accomplished mother, who was a successful writer herself. And they talked about what they hoped for the future. They both wanted to continue living in the city, but relocate to somewhere with more space once there were kids.

Later that morning Peter is at Fran's doorstep with a cup of coffee from Sal's. Fran looks at the paper cup with its bright yellow sun and feels her throat close. It's just a cup of coffee, she tells herself. But it's not. It's more than that. She links arms with Peter and the feel of him next to her, solid and sure, somehow makes the world seem more certain.

"It's going to be strange without Mr. Hammerstein," Fran says. Walking close to Peter, her happiness makes her remember how much she loves autumn in the city. The silver birch trees have all turned russet-gold, and with the rain last night, the air is a heady combination of rich earth and wet leaves.

"I don't think he's ever missed a day. He's usually the first one in and the last out."

"Knowing Mr. Hammerstein, he's taken work to the hospital with him," Fran says.

"Oh, he'll be panicking the entire time he's there. Which reminds me, I doubt I'll be seeing you for lunch. Hammerstein's asked us to oversee Halliday at the theater. I don't think he trusts him not to change the script."

"You're kidding," Fran says.

Peter shakes his head. "Halliday wanted the opening scene to feature Maria catching her bloomers on a tree branch. Thought it would give the audience a big laugh."

Fran stares at him in horror.

"It's going to be a long day," Peter admits.

The office is as lonely as Fran imagined it would be without the boss. No voice booming loud and cheerful through the walls, no scent of cigar smoke wafting down the hall. In fact, she's the only person there until just before five, when the door swings open and Peter returns with the rest of Hammerstein's assistants. She thinks the group seems muted, then realizes that a young man is with them who rarely comes to the office.

"Mr. Sondheim." Fran rises and extends her hand, and Hammerstein's protégé shakes it warmly. Hammerstein has always said that Sondheim is the third child he should have had. The two even share the same black hair and dark eyes.

"Franny, always good to see you." He smiles, but the expression doesn't reach his eyes. Two years ago, Sondheim made his mark on Broadway by writing the lyrics to West Side Story. Now Gypsy has opened and it's turning out to be his second big hit. This afternoon, however, he doesn't look like a man on top of the world. "I've come to collect a few things for Ockie," he says.

"Of course." Fran unlocks the door to Hammerstein's office and leads him inside. "I hope everything went well this morning."

Sondheim remains still for a moment, then his eyes fill with tears. "No. I'm afraid it isn't good news."

For once, Fran doesn't know what to say. Instead, she waits for Sondheim to continue.

"I've just told his assistants that he has cancer and that the doctors removed the tumor. But it wasn't just the tumor. The cancer spread. They don't know how long he has left."

Fran actually feels dizzy and Sondheim takes a staggered breath, like he can't believe the reality of it either. "I'm…I'm so sorry," she whispers.

Sondheim pinches his eyes closed with his fingers, then tries to focus on the matter at hand. "Everything will go on. There's nothing he wants more than to finish this play."

"He said he had one more song left to write."

Sondheim confirms this. "Yes. He wants the papers from his second drawer. And he wanted me to give you this."

He holds out an envelope and Fran takes it. She stares at it for several seconds, trying to guess what could be inside.

"I believe he was hoping you would give me an answer."

"Oh." Fran tears it open and is moved by the sight of Hammerstein's familiar handwriting, with its big loops and curls. The paper smells faintly of lavender, like something he might have borrowed from his wife.

Dear Miss Connelly,

I read your notes with great attention and have decided I must meet with Maria in person, despite Mrs. Hammerstein's insistence that I remain in bed. Maria has graciously accepted a dinner at our apartment on the fourteenth, and I wonder if you would come as well, since you are the one who knows her best. Perhaps you might bring Peter? I find him to be a wonderful conversationalist as well as an extremely talented writer. I trust him to tell me the truth about this song before I send it out into the world. And I suspect he would not be averse to accompanying you.

All good wishes.

Sincerely,

Oscar

Fran feels her face go warm at the suggestion that Peter would enjoy accompanying her, then looks up to find Sondheim watching her intently. She can see the question on his face and obliges. "He wants Peter and me to come to dinner."

Sondheim laughs. "Sounds like Ockie. Still groggy from surgery and already making plans."

On the walk home that evening, Fran tells Peter about the letter. It's not until they're almost at Sal's, however, that she tells him what else she's learned. "Sondheim said it's terminal."

Peter stops walking, and in the glow of the streetlamps, the raindrops on his peacoat look like a spray of gold. "That can't be right. This morning he told us it was stomach cancer, but that he'd had the operation."

"Yes, and the operation removed the tumor." Fran shakes her head miserably. "But the cancer had already spread. There's nothing more the doctors can do apparently."

They continue toward Fran's apartment, and she can see how shaken Peter is by the news. "But he's always been so healthy—"

Fran nods. "When he began coming in late, I thought he was working on something else. Maybe something he didn't want Rodgers to know about. You know how they are." Always quarreling, never really getting along. There couldn't be two more different men. While Hammerstein didn't drink, Rodgers appeared to be an alcoholic. And while Hammerstein genuinely believed in love—having found it with his second wife, Dorothy—there wasn't a girl in New York who escaped Rodgers's notice.

Peter wraps his arm around her waist and holds her close for the remainder of the walk. It feels good to have someone to share the devastation of the moment with. Because it isn't fair. Of all the men in the world to be struck down, why Hammerstein?

They stop outside her building and Peter tucks a wet curl behind her ear. In a few minutes the drizzle will turn to steady rain. They should hurry. But he presses his forehead to hers and they both close their eyes.

"See you tomorrow?" he asks.

"Yes." All she wants to do right now is climb under her covers and forget everything.

He kisses her briefly, and Fran can still feel the warmth of his lips against hers when she reaches her apartment and finds an envelope in her mailbox. The return address looks familiar. Then her heart begins to race as she realizes what it must be. In her apartment upstairs, she drops her pocketbook next to the door and tears open the envelope, skimming the letter. She has to read it several times just to be sure.

"There's been an offer!" She can't believe it. "There's actually been an offer!" She reaches for the phone, and a moment later, her father is celebrating at the other end of the line. All those nights of delving into Vinnie Ream's story. The long weekends of research. The writing. And now the world can read A Northern Wind, the story of this extraordinary young sculptress who became Lincoln's artist as well as his confidante during the Civil War. Even her mother is briefly impressed.

"So your book is really going to be published," she says. "Oh, sweetheart, I didn't doubt it for a minute. And what does Jack think?"

"Don't know," Fran says lightly. "Jack has apparently gone back to Virginia to run for Congress. But I suspect that Peter will be extremely happy for me."

There's silence. "That Peter Rickman boy from your office?"

"Mmm-hmm," Fran hums into the phone. Fran knows her mother is dying to know more, but her father takes the line back.

"Honey, we are so proud of you. So tell us, when will it come out?"

Fran explains the long process of publication. How first the book will need to be edited, then copyedited, then publicized. "A year?" she guesses.

It doesn't matter to her father. His daughter is going to have a book published.

As soon as Fran puts down the receiver, she dials Peter, and when she tells him the news, he's thrilled.

"Don't hang up your coat. I'm taking you out to celebrate!"

"What?"

"Oh, yes," Peter assures her. "We're going out."

Twenty minutes later, Fran gives a little gasp as Peter appears in her doorway. His shoes are wet and his hair is plastered against his head. "Didn't want to stop for an umbrella," he explains. "Shall we?"

"Would you like to dry off first?"

"And waste good celebration time? No chance." He reaches for her hand. "Let's go."

Jack would never have gone anywhere with wet shoes or wet hair. Fran grabs a large umbrella, and when they make it down to the street, Peter pops it open over their heads. And this is really all the celebration Fran needs. The shelter, the rain, and Peter's solid arm wrapped around her waist.

—

Several weeks later, Fran stares at herself in the mirror and has to remind herself to breathe. In her three years of working for Hammerstein, she can't recall a single occasion where an employee has been invited to the lyricist's home. It's an unthinkable honor. She studies her blue satin sheath with its small bow in the back, then slips on a pair of matching pumps and a white shrug that contrasts nicely with her hair. It's a special night and she wants to look the part.

When she opens the door for Peter at seven o'clock, he steps back and inhales. "You look…stunning."

"You don't look so bad yourself." It's true, especially with his curls combed back and his black suit tailored to his broad shoulders and narrow waist. She now knows that he used to run track-and-field in Boston, and since his graduation five years ago he's continued with running. She can feel the muscles of his thighs as she draws close to him and presses her lips against his.

Peter's breath comes faster. "Don't do that," he warns, "or we'll never get out of here."

Fran steps back. "What do you think will happen tonight?"

"With Maria or Hammerstein?"

Fran reaches for her pocketbook on the side table and locks the door. "Maria."

They start to walk and Peter hesitates. Fran can see how the question worries him. "She must know it's too late to change the play," he says. "Do you still think she might cause problems?"

"It's possible," Fran admits. "She's a forceful personality. She's been told that Hammerstein isn't the one who wrote the script, but she also realizes that the final word rests with him."

"Does she know about his illness?"

Fran shakes her head firmly. "Not unless he's told her, and I can't imagine him calling her and doing that."

They reach East Sixty-Third Street and look up at Hammerstein's five-story town house, the tall, glittering windows overlooking the tree-lined pavement below. Fran feels a nervous fluttering in her stomach as Peter rings the bell.

A maid in a simple black dress answers the door. "Mr. Rickman and Miss Connelly?" she asks.

They each affirm with a nod and she shows them into Hammerstein's home, with its sweeping balustrades and heavy chandeliers. Peter passes a look to Fran and she confirms what he's thinking with widened eyes. It's magnificent. Fran has heard a rumor, which may or may not be true, that even though Hammerstein's father had been the wealthy owner of several theaters, he had forced his son to become a self-made man, giving him next to nothing.

The maid leads them past a handsome dining room, where a long wooden table has been set for five, then takes them into a formal living room lined with cream-colored bookcases. Fran can hear Hammerstein's laughter before she sees him, a great bellowing sound that puts her fears to rest.

"Peter, Fran." Hammerstein rises from the couch and Fran conceals her shock at how much weight he's lost in such a short time. His voice, however, is the same. "I want you to meet Mrs. Hammerstein."

A beautiful woman, probably in her sixties, rises from a chair. Her dark hair is swept back from her face in a loose chignon, and there's real warmth in her eyes when she smiles. "Please, just Dorothy," she says. She's wearing an elegant black satin dress, paired with a stunning diamond necklace.

"A pleasure," Fran tells her, and Peter follows suit.

"Fran, you know Maria," Hammerstein continues. But Maria doesn't rise. In fact, from the look on her face, Fran suspects she's interrupted some sort of an argument. "And Maria, meet Peter, my most trusted assistant."

Maria tries for a smile. "And are you working on the script as well?" she asks.

Peter glances at Hammerstein. "Well." He clears his throat. "I'm not sure anyone is working on the script much these days. The play is in rehearsals—"

"Why don't you sit down," Dorothy suggests, indicating the empty chairs.

Everything is a shade of white or cream. The rugs, the walls, even the grand piano in the corner of the room. The maid reappears with drinks, and though Maria refuses, Fran accepts a martini. Then Dorothy tells them about Maria's recent phone call with Mary Martin, who will be playing her onstage.

"Mary hasn't stopped talking about your chat for days. I don't know what you told her," Dorothy says lightly.

"She asked me to teach her how to yodel," Maria says, and everyone laughs, imagining what this conversation must have sounded like. "She has a good, strong voice. But the von Trapps never did yodeling until we arrived in America."

"Is that right?" Dorothy asks, putting down her drink, and Fran can see that she's intrigued.

"Yes." Maria nods. She's wearing a traditional dirndl in blue with an embroidered silver vest. She should look kind and matronly, but something in the set of her jaw gives her the appearance of a disapproving teacher. "I'm curious," she says, "why isn't our time in America part of this play?"

"Well." Hammerstein spreads his hands. "I'm afraid we only get two and a half hours to tell a story."

Maria sits forward and suddenly becomes animated. "But our life in America is the most exciting part!"

"Will you tell us about it?" Dorothy asks.

So Maria takes the rest of their cocktail hour to tell them about her time touring the States. The family met everyone during those days, from famous movie stars to popular politicians. Then in 1942 they bought a piece of land in Vermont. Its only building was a dilapidated shack, and without significant funds the family tore it down and built an alpine lodge with their own hands. Once it was completed and the family settled in, they began hosting music camps there for aspiring singers. When the United States entered the war, the eldest boys signed up with the army. Both were shipped overseas, and both survived. It felt like God Himself was protecting the von Trapps.

Then in 1947 tragedy struck.

"It was from his time in a submarine." Maria's eyes pool with tears. "All those diesel fumes and poor ventilation. Most of Georg's U-boat crew had died of lung cancer years before. Then it came for him." The tears slip down her cheeks, and everyone is silent.

Fran holds her breath and purposefully avoids looking at Hammerstein.

"He was a good man. A kind man," Maria says firmly, eager to make a point.

Hammerstein agrees. "And by the end of the play, this is what we want our audience to take away. That Georg was a wonderful father."

Fran can see Maria struggling to reconcile herself to this. That perhaps it makes no difference how Georg starts off. It's where he ends up that matters.

"Did your family continue touring after Georg's death?" Dorothy asks quietly.

Maria clasps her hands together in her lap. "No. I tried to keep everyone together, but the girls wanted to go off and get married." The bitterness is still heavy in her voice. "Of course, Rosmarie stayed, but that…" She shakes her head at the terrible memory. "She never liked to sing. I should never have forced her."

Hammerstein reaches out and places a giant hand on her knee. "We all have parenting regrets."

"Ha! I see your statue," Maria says.

"What—that?" Hammerstein looks to the plaque above the mantelpiece and the giant "Father of the Year" embossed in gold. Then he laughs. "I keep that there as a reminder. Because when it was presented to me, it couldn't have been further from the truth." Hammerstein sighs. "It reminds me to do better."

"I should have done better," Maria admits. "All that work and now only Johannes runs the lodge. No more singing. No more family Christmases. Everything just"—she snaps her fingers—"changed in an instant."

Fran can see how much this pains her.

"It's the hardest part of being human," Hammerstein agrees, putting down his drink. "Accepting that even the best things will have an end."

For a moment Fran thinks he's going to tell Maria about his diagnosis. In fact, gaining her sympathy might be the only way to ensure that she won't go to the press with her complaints. But Hammerstein remains silent, and Fran realizes that he's not telling her on purpose. He wants her to fall in love with this play as much as he has, to recognize the beauty of its journey and its songs. Not to be guilted into it.

"Fran gave me her notes on your visit," Hammerstein says. "I read them page by page and something stuck with me. A moment you told Fran about, when you were standing on the Untersberg."

"Yes, I remember."

"The whole world around you was changing, but the hills were the same. The flowers were the same." Hammerstein rises and walks to the piano. There's a single sheet of music on the stand. "For months I've felt a song was missing from the play. Then I tried to imagine you on the top of the Untersberg, buffeted by the winds of change while the natural world around you remained peaceful. And this is part of God's gift to us, isn't it? The knowledge that even while our circumstances might change, the world He created is stable and filled with beauty."

He hands her the music, and when she reads the title, her voice trembles. "?‘Edelweiss.'?"

Hammerstein smiles sadly and takes a seat at his piano. "Would you like to sing it?"

It's the shortest song in the play. Only fifteen lines. But by the time Maria is finished, everyone in the room is weeping.