PART I – 1919
Chapter One
“Don’t you find constant supervision rather tedious?” Sumner stared out the window of his father’s brand new, red Buick limousine. It was a glorious fall day in Los Angeles, but the mild temperature and warm sunshine did nothing to cheer Sumner Hemmings.
“The pleasure is all mine, Sonny,” Merritt Hemmings replied. He reviewed paperwork while the chauffeur wove through traffic.
Sumner frowned. He detested his childhood nickname and repeatedly requested his parents refer to him as Sumner, to no avail. “You haven’t been leaving the bank this early. Is there some reason I am deemed especially untrustworthy today?”
“Your recent escapades signal my failure to keep the promise I made your mother. After all, she sent you here so I could encourage mature and responsible behavior.”
“If you believe chaining me to the teller position in your bank and keeping me to your ridiculous stipend is going to change my life, I think you and Mother are being rather obtuse. I am a grown man, after all.”
Merritt chuckled. “It’s important you have a thorough knowledge of every aspect of banking operations. Starting your career as a teller not only provides a working knowledge of the bank, it allows you to gain the respect of the employees. You will run the bank at some point. It’s my duty to prepare you for that eventuality.”
Having listened to endless recitations of his father’s plans, Sumner sulked. “I can simply leave, you understand?”
This comment drew a guffaw from his father. “We all know you won’t.”
“I left before.”
“That may be, but you certainly didn’t hesitate to take up the good life in New York when you returned from the war. How many of your friends never returned?”
“We’ve been over this before,” Sumner disgustedly replied.
“There will be no repeat of your drunken spree of last Saturday, am I clear? Drinking is illegal in this city. No doubt, it will soon be illegal in the entire country. The last thing I desire is to write your mother with news of your incarceration.”
Sumner continued to gaze out the window. The multi-storied buildings of downtown gave way to more modest structures. Ever-present palm trees poked above rooflines. The road was no longer jammed with automobiles fighting for space with trolley cars. It was rare to see a horse on the streets of Los Angeles, although horses still pulled fire wagons. Familiar olive trees marked the Los Feliz area where Merritt Hemmings made his home.
A sudden longing for the camaraderie of the war washed over Sumner. “You’ve forgotten, drinking beer and wine in restaurants is completely legal, at least this week.” Secret, underground bars in the city flourished since saloons were forced to close last year, a fact Sumner refrained to mention.
“Take this paperwork,” Merritt demanded. “We’re going next door so you can meet Mrs. Argyle. I recently updated her trust, and I want you to familiarize yourself with our more important customers.”
Sumner reluctantly took the paperwork. It meant nothing to him.
“Mrs. Argyle is a wealthy widow who manages her late husband’s business. She’s a lovely woman. We don’t see as much of her as we would like because she often travels for work.”
“So, she’s a romantic interest?”
“Hardly. I am a married man, after all.”
Sumner snorted in derision. “I don’t know if I would qualify your relationship as a marriage. You and Mother live on opposite ends of the country. When did you last lay eyes on each other? I’m guessing five years?”
“Your mother and I have different interests. She finds California boorish and pedestrian. My business is here.”
“I hate to tell you, but Hawaii went dry last year. You best find a different location for your bank. Here we are. Alfred, let us out in front of Mrs. Argyle’s home. Behave yourself, Sonny, or you’ll find your stipend further reduced.”
* * *
“Mrs. Argyle, you have guests,” announced Dorothy, the downstairs maid.
“Oh dear, who is it?”
“The neighbor, Mr. Hemmings, and a nice-looking young gentleman.”
“Show them into the front parlor and serve tea. Let them know I’ll be right in.”
Sighing deeply, Mary Argyle turned back to the invoices on her writing desk. She intensely disliked being home. Tedious work always waited there. She much preferred traveling, searching for the fine artwork that made her business successful. Circumstances prevented her from living and working in New York—her true regret—but such was the way of life. There was less competition in Los Angeles, although she considered it something of a backwater.
As Mary pushed her chair from the desk and headed for the parlor, she considered the burgeoning motion picture industry might bring Los Angeles the importance it currently lacked. The newly rich from that industry were easily duped into believing her expensive wares could provide the culture they so obviously lacked.
“Mr. Hemmings,” Mary gushed, walking into her tastefully appointed parlor as both men stood. “So good to see you. I assume you finished the work on my trust?”
“Yes. Let me introduce my son, Sumner, who’s taken a position at the bank. He’s living with me until he becomes established.”
Sumner took Mrs. Argyle’s hand and displayed his most charming smile. “Lovely to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you, as well. Have a seat, gentlemen.” Mary quickly judged the young man. She had a talent for categorizing men and was quite accurate, if she did say so herself. Although she had nothing but respect for the elder Mr. Hemmings—a kind man no doubt married to his work—the younger Mr. Hemmings was definitely trouble. She’d seen his type before—irresponsible and bold, almost beyond tolerance. Such was often the case with young men.
“This is a bit sticky,” he noted. “Would you mind if I washed my hands?”
“Straight down the hallway,” Mrs. Argyle offered. “Dorothy, would you show him the way?”
“I’m certain I can manage. Thank you.”
After Sumner washed his hands and started for the parlor, his attention was taken by movement in the backyard. Stopping to take a closer look through the conservatory window, he gasped in surprise. Beneath the large oak tree that separated his father’s property from Mrs. Argyle’s sat the most breathtaking woman Sumner had ever seen. Her features seemed beyond perfection. Blond tresses curled on top of her head. Her long, slender neck supported a finely-boned face with flawless skin, crystal blue eyes, a delicate nose and bow mouth. Likely too large for her petite face, she wore a pair of horn-rimmed, round spectacles.
Intent upon a book, the woman primly turned a page as she sat in the shade, oblivious to her admirer. The lush garden paled in comparison to her beauty.
“Who is the young woman in the garden?” Sumner interrupted as he strode through the parlor doorway.
Merritt scowled at his son’s rudeness while Mrs. Argyle explained, “That’s my niece, Madeleine Crawford, the subject of the trust you delivered.”
Sumner would have to take a better look at the trust. “Oh, of course,” he replied, suggesting he understood completely. “Perhaps I should introduce myself.”
Mrs. Argyle could not imagine a less agreeable end to her afternoon. “I’m so sorry. Surely, you understand my niece is not well.”
“Certainly, but it couldn’t hurt if I—”
“It could indeed, hurt. My niece cannot converse. She’s not able. It would prove distressing if you appeared in her garden. She is—quite simple-minded,” Mrs. Argyle explained with honest regret.
“I see.” What a waste of beauty, thought Sumner as he made himself busy with his tea. But the glimpse of loveliness in the garden was a significant distraction. It would prove his complete undoing.
* * *
As the days dragged on, Sumner alleviated his boredom with thoughts of Madeleine sitting in her garden. Returning from work each day, he rushed upstairs to his bedroom, which overlooked Mrs. Argyle’s yard. After throwing open his window, Sumner stood back to be certain Miss Crawford’s curiosity was not aroused, then manned his personal observation post, attempting to catch a peek of his fantasy woman. He realized she was a fantasy, albeit one with a face—such a beautiful face.
He imagined how her voice might sound and daydreamed about conversations they could have. Sumner recognized his life had dissolved to an all-time low if his greatest joy was covert observation of a mentally deficient woman. His understanding failed to deter this activity, however.
Almost every afternoon, Madeleine read, did needlework or drew in the garden. Sumner never saw her interact with any other person. He wondered what kind of books she pored over. Were they full of pictures? Something that would interest a child? They did not appear to be. Never able to glimpse her drawings, Sumner contemplated borrowing his father’s binoculars to satisfy his curiosity. This activity smacked of impropriety. He wasn’t exactly sure why.
Occasionally, Madeleine walked through the garden, clipping flowers. Although he enjoyed the way she moved—she was graceful and petite—this activity signaled her return to the indoors, which disappointed him no end. He felt rather pathetic at this realization.
She sometimes sat at a table under the huge live oak. He had the vague idea she painted. His attempts to preview her work on the flat surface met with failure. The leaves and branches were too thick to afford him an adequate view, even from his window near the tree.
Sumner believed Madeleine dressed in the most current designs, which seemed something of a waste, although her aunt could certainly afford it. No fashion expert, Sumner’s sole, serious interest in women’s clothing was how to take it off.
Sumner left home early on Saturdays, returning well after his father’s traditional bedtime. This meant Sumner could frequent his new favorite haunt, The King Eddie Saloon. The original saloon became a respectable piano store while a nearby outside stairwell delivered customers to the basement.
A huge network of tunnels existed beneath Los Angeles, enabling saloons and liquor salesmen to do business out of sight of the general populace. Sumner was a realist and not surprised the police department—subject of countless vice investigations—was complicit in the illegal selling of hard liquor.
Disappointed when congress passed the Volstead Act over President Wilson’s veto, Sumner contemplated his current illegal activity was probably the most exciting thing in his life—the most exciting real thing.
Badly hung over one Sunday morning, Sumner dressed and crept to his window to see if the lovely neighbor was ensconced in her yard. Perhaps her perfect features would serve to brighten his day. He hoped she wore her red gingham dress. It was his favorite and showed off Madeleine’s modest curves to perfection.
Peering out the window, Sumner believed she did, indeed, have on the red dress. Madeleine was barely visible, seated beneath the tree. Frustrated at the way his head hurt and disappointed at his inability to observe, Sumner decided to crawl out the window onto a tree branch to have a better view. If he was slow and cautious so as not to cause the branch to quaver, he might satisfy his curiosity and discover what Madeleine accomplished at her table.
Gingerly swinging first one leg, then the other, out his window as he sat on the sill, Sumner grabbed the branch above for support and inched his way toward the trunk of the tree. Looking down in his recently inebriated state, his head began to spin.
When Sumner tried for a firmer grasp, his foot slipped off the limb, and he plummeted toward earth as if in slow motion. Strange thoughts came to his mind. He saw men fall from shattered or burning aircraft during the war and always wondered what they thought, knowing their lives were over. He imagined they prayed, but the trip toward earth must have seemed either inordinately long or much too short. Could one enjoy the ride down while it lasted?
Before he knew it, he was lying on the ground. His beautiful angel appeared above his face. He was certain he could reach up and touch her perfect, creamy cheek, if only he could move his arm.
“Sir, are you all right?” spoke the vision.
Try as he might to answer, Sumner’s eyes closed as he surrendered consciousness.
* * *
Having eclipsed his father in height at 14 years of age, it seemed especially annoying when Sumner looked up at the man from his prone position in bed and asked, “What did the doctor say?”
“You are incredibly lucky. Nothing appears to be broken.”
“I assure you, absolutely everything hurts.”
“I can’t say I have much sympathy for you. What the hell were you doing in that tree?”
For this, he had no explanation. Sumner pursed his lips, which also caused pain. He could not conceive of any lie to support a claim of sanity on his part. “Is Miss Crawford quite all right? I saw her in the yard.” A change of subject seemed a wise choice.
“No, she is not. You nearly scared her to death when you fell out of the tree at her feet. The doctor placed her on complete bedrest.”
“She didn’t seem alarmed when she spoke to me.”
“What are you saying? The woman can’t speak. You hit your head. You were hallucinating.”
“No. Before I passed out, she clearly asked if I was all right. Her voice sounded amazingly as I imagined it would. She seemed quite coherent; completely articulate.”
“You obviously were not lucid. You are imagining things, Sonny. You can’t even work. Your face looks as if you’ve been in a brawl. The doctor advised you must stay in bed for the next three days and give yourself a chance to heal.”
“But I heard her—”
“I will have no more of this, none of it, do you understand? No more climbing trees; no more talk of Miss Crawford. This is your last chance. I am perturbed beyond measure. When you return to work on Thursday, I expect nothing but dignity and attention to every detail of your job.” At this, the elder Mr. Hemmings made an abrupt departure.
“Thank heaven,” Sumner said aloud. If that was all his father spoke of his escapade, he had gotten off lightly. His mind immediately turned to thoughts of Madeleine Crawford. She seemed normal in every way. Something was terribly wrong. What sort of game was being played next door?
Sumner managed to crawl out of bed in the afternoon to take a look out his window. As his father advised, there was no sign of Madeleine. He picked up a book, but the vision of his neighbor, so close he could touch her perfect face, made it impossible to read. He was certain he hadn’t been hallucinating.
If the lovely Miss Crawford were actually able to read, Sumner decided there was no reason he couldn’t send a missive next door. If she couldn’t read, surely someone would read his note to her. He considered how he might apologize. By Tuesday afternoon, he constructed an acceptable, if somewhat improper message:
Dear Miss Crawford,
My sincerest apologies. I am quite concerned my rash behavior of Sunday morning has caused you distress. Reason abandoned me as I was intent on catching a glimpse of your work. Unfortunately, my boyhood ability to climb trees deserted me in my old age. Imagine my surprise when this reality so quickly became apparent.
Rest assured, I am recovering, having managed not to damage anything of importance except perhaps my pride.
My father informed me my surprise and untimely visit to your garden has proven less than beneficial to your own health. Please accept my genuine regret. If there is anything I can do to ease your troubled spirit, consider me your contrite and willing servant.
Yours,
Sumner Hemmings
He believed the note was too forward. It undoubtedly painted him more an admirer of art than of his neighbor. Certain he’d witnessed a side of Madeleine Crawford he was never intended to see, Sumner bade the butler, James, deliver his message next door.
* * *
Mary Argyle stood back, trying to decide which of the evening frocks displayed across her bed seemed most appropriate to pack for her journey.
“Come in,” Mary replied to the knock on her bedroom door. She turned to find her niece’s caretaker entering the room. “Jem, which dress do you like more, this maroon or the emerald?”
“Green always looks best on you,” noted Jem, who was the senior employee in the household, having worked for Mrs. Argyle since she first arrived in Los Angeles with her baby niece in tow.
Mary nodded in agreement, “You are right, as always. What can I do for you?”
“Miss Madeleine has a note from the neighbor. Their butler brought it by.”
“Give it to me.” Mary quickly scanned the note then returned it to Jem. “You realize this is entirely inappropriate? Can you imagine the gall of that man? Please destroy it.”
“Yes, ma’am. Only, I don’t see why Miss Madeleine can’t have it herself.”
“Jem, you know perfectly well he only wishes to pursue our Madeleine. I certainly don’t want to encourage him. I already explained her disabilities.”
“Maybe he can see for hisself what you said ain’t exactly right.”
Mary scowled. The man’s proximity posed a problem she never previously encountered. She assumed the elder Mr. Hemmings intended to live alone when he moved in. The fact he had a grown son came as an unpleasant surprise. If only Madeleine was not blessed with beauty, circumstances would be much less complex.
“If he doesn’t receive a response, he’ll have no reason to doubt my explanation. Perhaps I’ll have a word with the senior Mr. Hemmings before I depart.”
“Yes, ma’am,” agreed Jem as she left the room. But she pocketed the note, having no intention to discard it. Madeleine could not be dearer if she’d been Jem’s own flesh-and-blood. The girl had a right to her life, whatever there was of it to be had.
* * *
Sumner scurried back to bed at the knock on his door. There had been no reply to his note. Madeleine hadn’t returned to her garden. He felt worse, by far, than at any time since his fall from the tree. It was as if every bone and muscle in his body were complaining.
“Come in.” Expecting a servant with his dinner, Sumner was disturbed when his father entered the room.
“Mrs. Argyle called on me at the bank today.”
“That’s nice.”
“No, it isn’t. She had business at the bank and will be leaving soon for her work. You sent a letter of apology to her niece?”
“Yes, I thought it appropriate.”
“It might be appropriate if the woman wasn’t mentally incompetent. Mrs. Argyle was thoroughly upset. Your note served as a reminder of her niece’s deficits. I don’t understand your fascination. It seems quite deviant, considering her unfortunate circumstances.”
“Have you ever seen her?”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“She’s the most exquisite woman I ever laid eyes on.”
Merritt frowned. “You must admit, longing for a woman who is unable to understand your desire is entirely abnormal. What is wrong with you?”
“Nothing is abnormal about Miss Crawford.”
“Listen to me. There is nowhere left to send you. Any further overtures toward the neighbor are unacceptable. If you can’t control yourself, you will soon be destitute on the street. I understand you don’t take me seriously. I assure you, I’ve never been more sincere in my life.” Merritt turned on his heel and strode toward the door. “I will see you at work tomorrow.”
Sumner rubbed his hand over his mouth. “Ow!” he complained. He rose from the bed and walked toward the mirror over his dresser to have a look at the bruises on his face. If anything, they were darker than on Sunday after his fall.
Since his father expected him to work, he saw nothing wrong in terrifying the bank’s customers. If they were forward enough to ask, he was more than willing to improvise a stirring barroom fight to satisfy their curiosity. Falling from a tree while spying on a neighbor was not an explanation he wished to share.
Standing back from the mirror, he attempted to assess his attributes in as objective a manner as possible. Aside from the bruises and black eye, Sumner believed himself to be a fine-looking man. His black hair was parted slightly right of center. He used only a little pomade to keep it in place and kept his face clean-shaven. His nose was rather finely boned. He had a square chin and blue eyes. At 5’10”, he was several inches taller than the average man. Sumner considered his build to be athletic—slim and moderately muscled—although he couldn’t recall the last time he participated in anything vaguely athletic. Lifting a glass of whiskey to one’s lips hardly counted as exercise. His overall appraisal seemed accurate since women were traditionally eager to share his company, but pilots were a hot commodity.
Sumner learned to fly from fellow affluent students at the university. They impulsively joined the war effort before the States entered the fight. Sumner had only a semester to complete his degree, another source of acrimony with his parents. War quickly took the thrill of flight from him, although most of his fellow pilots—the ones who survived—seemed as enamored of airplanes as they were before the war.
The younger Mr. Hemmings had no interests, no serious diversions, no ambition. If his father threw him out, he had no idea how to make a living. Even so, he did not intend to abandon his fascination with Madeleine Crawford.
Annoyed by another knock on his door, Sumner opened it, startling James, dinner tray in hand.
“I’ll take that,” offered Sumner.
“The note came by way of one of the help next door, sir.”
“Thank you.” Suddenly hopeful, Sumner tore open the small envelope.
My dear Mr. Hemmings,
I am cheered to realize your interest in my art and enclose a small token of my work to ease your curiosity. Next time I notice you staring at me from your window, I’ll be certain to acknowledge your presence.
The doctor has, unfortunately, ordered me to bed until tomorrow at the earliest. While finding your descent from the oak tree quite fascinating, I am relieved you weren’t seriously injured.
I can’t help but wonder at the fact you did not attempt conversation before your reckless journey through the branches of the tree. I assure you, I don’t bite.
However, to prevent my aunt’s careful scrutiny—she is overly concerned for my welfare—it might be best to communicate in writing since she is quite opposed to your current methods of exchange. Please address any messages to my maid, Jemimah Doucette.
I look forward to your next missive.
Very truly yours,
Miss Madeleine Crawford
Sumner looked inside the envelope to find an exquisite watercolor botanical of orange pyracantha berries and a leaf. The painting was executed on stiff cardstock measuring about two-by-two inches. It was beautifully initialed in the corner—M C. The woman’s writing was elegant and impeccable; her drawing incredibly detailed and technically perfect. She obviously had wit. Why would her aunt label her so unkindly? Unable to help himself, Sumner returned to his window.
He was disappointed but not surprised to find the garden empty. But he managed to garner Miss Crawford’s interest. Nothing prevented him from corresponding further with his beautiful and intelligent vision except the threat of imminent poverty. That was a chance he was more than willing to take.
Returning to work was more difficult than Sumner imagined. His body ached, resulting in a definite lack of patience for customers at his teller window. He quickly grew bored with the shocked reactions to his fictitious injury accounts.
There was no response to his latest note to Madeleine, and he failed to catch sight of her in the garden when he arrived home on Thursday or Friday afternoon.
Sumner sat on his bed removing his work shoes as he considered sneaking out to visit the King Eddy when he heard a noise, as if a pebble struck his window. Padding across his room in stocking feet, he opened the window to find Miss Crawford standing near the wall between the properties. His heart beat faster at the sight of her. She held her eyeglasses in her hand. Madeleine’s blue eyes seemed incredibly large—a window to her very soul.
Rather stealthily, she glanced over her shoulder toward her house and then whispered, “Mr. Hemmings, I accept your invitation. You can come for me at six tomorrow.”
Madeleine smiled and walked across the garden, taking a seat near the rose bushes where she normally read. It was obvious she considered herself under some sort of surveillance as she picked up a book.
Sumner raised his hand in agreement and barely made out her nod in reply. Standing back from the window, he continued to discreetly observe and was disappointed when she went indoors. The fading light must have proven too dim for her to read. If Madeleine believed he was still watching, she made no further gestures in his direction.
Somewhat stunned, Sumner returned to sit on his bed. What was he getting himself into? Madeleine’s mental condition was not exactly an acceptable dinner topic. If she was truly incapacitated, any number of unpleasant scenarios might result. She could become unhinged with little provocation. What would he do then? She could have some kind of fit or simply become disoriented. She could make unpleasant or undignified accusations against him.
Mrs. Argyle asserted her niece was unable to communicate. What did she mean? Madeleine was clearly able to speak. The longer he sat on the bed with his imagination, the more distressed he became.
By the time Sumner appeared at the Argyle front door at promptly six o’clock on Saturday evening, he had worked himself into considerable anxiety. He was more nervous about taking Madeleine out than he had been with any woman who came before. After knocking hesitantly, he was astonished when, instead of a servant, Miss Crawford swung wide the door and came barreling through.
“Shall we go then?” she inquired.
“Shouldn’t I greet your aunt first?”
“Oh, she’s gone for the evening.”
Sumner offered his arm to lead his companion to the limousine where Alfred stood holding the door.
Madeleine turned her head toward her house. With a sly grin and wide eyes, she spotted Jem in the doorway and shrugged her shoulders as if to convey the message—look at me!
Sumner helped her into the automobile and climbed up beside her. For better or worse, he was about to escort this purportedly disabled woman to dinner. He wondered if her beauty would blind him to any deficiencies she might possess. He hoped to make it home unscathed.
Jem waved as the limousine pulled from the curb. Considering the repercussions this evening could provoke, she shook her head in dismay. She had no regrets. Determined her girl deserved a more complete life, Jem was prepared to take any blame that might come her way.