was all very sudden and there was nothing that could be done. It caught all of us by surprise. It was her time and she was ready. There, there…It was peaceful, really it was. You know our Merry…. She died with a smile on her face.
Birdie reached a shaky hand up to wipe the tears from her cheek. That was four days ago and she still couldn’t believe her sister was dead. In her opinion, she was allowed to slip away. Rose should have called her to Evanston the minute Merry’s flu worsened. The doctor should have admitted her to the hospital at the first sign of fluid in the lungs. Fury, guilt and sorrow twisted in Birdie’s heart as she wrestled with the issue that kept her awake at night and shortened her temper during the day.
If only she had been faster—perhaps skipped making the phone call or that pot of coffee, if she’d pushed the speed limit on the way down—she might have been able to save her.
Jillian DuPres Cavatelli Rothschild Season reached above her head with a shaky hand and buzzed for the steward. Most of the other passengers were slowly becoming alert, having eaten and napped. But the plane was a mess. The stewards had done their best, but eight hours of togetherness was getting very old and the interior of the enormous plane looked as tired as the 178 passengers felt.
She buzzed for the steward once again. A handsome blond young man in a horrid navy-and-burgundy striped shirt sauntered down the narrow aisle to her seat and mustered a tired smile. He had long, curly lashes that any model would kill for, but from the looks of the circles under his eyes and his bored expression, he was more eager for this plane to land than she was.
“I’d like a Scotch, please,” she said, handing him money. “And some water and ice.”
He paused, furrowing his brows, seemingly trying to gather his last vestige of polite intervention. “We’ll be landing soon, ma’am. Perhaps some coffee?”
Jilly straightened in her seat and delivered one of her famous megawatt smiles. “If I wanted coffee,” she said in a honeyed voice, “I’d have asked for it. What I want is one of those cute, itty-bitty bottles of Scotch and a glass of ice with just a smidgen of water. Please.”
The steward looked severely uncomfortable now, glancing furtively at the old woman in the next seat who was hanging on every word. He stretched across the backs of the row ahead and said in a low, conspiratorial whisper, “You’ve had three already and you didn’t touch your dinner.”
Jilly leaned forward and replied in a stage whisper, “I know. I never eat anything I can’t identify.”
“Are you sure you wouldn’t want some coffee, or perhaps some tea?”
It was embarrassing enough to have to ride in coach again. In first class they wouldn’t have questioned her request. More Scotch? Right away!
Jilly dropped all pretense of friendliness. “What I’d like, young man, is a cigarette. But since you fucking well won’t let me have that, I’ll settle for a Scotch.” She turned to the elderly woman. “Excuse my French.”
She could tell from the way the steward’s lashes fluttered that the slim young man wanted to tell her what she could do with her fucking cigarette and Scotch. Jilly steeled herself, ready for a fight when the little bell went off and the pilot’s voice informed them that he was sorry but that there was heavy snowfall in Chicago and that there would be long delays. This was met with a chorus of groans from the passengers. The steward closed his eyes for a moment and took a breath. When he opened them again, he proffered a perfect steward’s polite smile that said, Forget it, it’s just not worth the aggravation.
“Right away, ma’am.”
Jilly watched him retreat down the aisle as a dozen more lights lit up and hands flagged him as he passed. She hated to be called ma’am, madam, frau or any other sobriquet that implied she was old. Still, she felt a twinge of regret for making such a fuss, but not so much that she didn’t want her drink.
A short while later the little bottle of Scotch was delivered, along with her five-dollar bill. Apparently the flight was in a holding pattern and drinks were on the house. Grumbles were still audible throughout the cabin but the gesture of goodwill went a long way to settle the passengers. “Thank you,” she said sweetly as she tucked the five-dollar bill into her purse. These days, every dollar counted.
“It’s been a long trip, hasn’t it,” the old woman beside her said in a sympathetic voice. She’d introduced herself as Netta. She was doll-like and positively ancient with waxy skin rouged in small circles over her cheekbones. Her eyes, however, were an animated blue that rivaled the sky Jilly had left in Paris.
Jilly could only nod, thinking how it would take longer than the endless eight-hour flight to explain to this woman the journey she’d traveled since she’d received the telephone call from Rose. Hell, just since her last smoke. Until the last boarding call she’d stood in the bar, puffing like a locomotive, storing up nicotine in her cells for the long trip like a camel would water. She’d been in agony anticipating her return to the old Victorian loaded with memories as ancient and musty as the velvet curtains and bric-a-brac. You can’t go home again, the old adage said. She wished it were true. For twenty-six years, she’d tried not to. But here she was, on a Boeing 747, doing just that. Everything she owned was squeezed into two large Louis Vuitton bags and stored in the belly of this plane. She’d had to borrow the money from a friend to purchase the ticket to Chicago—one-way coach.
“Are you all right?” the old woman asked kindly.
Jillian turned her head. She saw genuine concern in the bright blue eyes, not curiosity or annoyance at her fidgety behavior.
“I’m just tired,” she replied, taking her glass of Scotch in hand. “Thanks.”
“Is it your job? I read about stress on working women all the time.”
A short laugh escaped as Jilly shook her head. “No, not the job. Unfortunately.”
“What do you do, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“I’m a model.” She shrugged lightly. “And I was in a few foreign films.”
The woman’s eyes crinkled with pleasure. “I thought so. You’re very beautiful.”
The compliment washed warmly over Jilly and she smiled for the first time that day. “Not so ‘very’ anymore. I’m…retired.”
Her smile fell as she heard again the comments of the agencies. You are still a beautiful woman, but…You’re over forty. You know how it is…. Look at them, they are nineteen! So young!
She couldn’t blame them. Age was an occupational hazard of the beauty business.
“I’m too old,” Jillian said, finding it easy to confess to a stranger.
The elderly woman laughed lightly and shook her head. “How amusing. I was just thinking how I wished I was as young as you!” She reached out to pat Jilly’s hand. “You see how Einstein was right, my dear. Everything is relative.”
“By that you mean the grass is always greener, I suppose.” She didn’t want to add that she didn’t find that the least bit comforting.
“No,” the woman replied. “Actually I was referring literally to the theory of relativity. How different observers can describe the same event differently. From my position in the universe, my dear, you are young. And vibrant and beautiful. From your position, let’s see…” She raised a crooked finger with a tiny, yellowed nail and pointed.
“I suppose you see that child over there as young and beautiful, am I right?”
Across the aisle sat a twenty-some-year-old woman in jeans and a clinging shirt, devoid of makeup, with dewy skin and the firm muscle tone Jilly had lost long ago. Mouth pulling in a wry smile, Jilly nodded.
“You see? It’s all relative. Why do you think older women like to stick together? Because we see one another as beautiful and vibrant. I guess you could say we’re traveling at