Broken Heart Attack

Chapter 2

Chapter 2After leaving Nana D's farm, Emma and I went shopping at a local bookstore. An hour later and a hundred dollars deeper in debt, we exited the charming literary wonder set between the two Braxton campuses with our hands full of recycled bags stocked with books. I'd snagged a copy of the debut novel in a new mystery series that had caught my eye. Next stop, the Pick-Me-Up Diner for an early dinner and much-needed therapy session with my sister. Since she was the only person I could talk to about Francesca, Eleanor would have to suffer through endless conversations about what to do next.

When we arrived, I ordered Emma to wear a hard hat in case she bumped into any of the construction in the currently being renovated Pick-Me-Up Diner. Emma joined Manny, Eleanor's chef, who was in the kitchen testing new recipes even though the place wasn't accessible to the public. It still needed a final inspection on Wednesday morning before allowing in any paying customers.

“She seems to be adjusting well.” Eleanor pulled her dirty-blonde, curly hair into a bun on the top of her head and wrapped a scrunchie around to hold it in place. While our older siblings had inherited our father's lanky body structure, Eleanor and I split the dominant Danby and Betscha traits in resemblance of our mother. Eleanor got saddled with wider hips and shorter arms than she'd liked, and I ungraciously accepted untamable hair and a tiny button nose that refused to properly balance my glasses. “Still haven't said anything to Emma, right?”

“No, I wouldn't know how or where to begin. I'm living in one of your daytime dramas lately.” I teased my sister even though it hadn't felt like a laughing matter. I loved Francesca, and the day I buried my wife was the worst day of my life. I was having trouble believing her reappearance wasn't a dream.

“Tell me again exactly how the Castiglianos pulled this off?” When Eleanor had met my mother-in-law to pick up Emma, Cecilia sent my daughter upstairs in my parents' log cabin, aka Royal Chic-Shack as we all called it, while she informed Eleanor to wait in our father's study. A few minutes later, Cecilia snuck Francesca into the small, private office nestled in the far corner and locked the door. Eleanor shockingly learned that Francesca was alive, and I was summoned home immediately.

“I had less than one hour with her, then Cecilia whisked Francesca away to New York, refusing to provide any way to reach her. All communication must go through my controlling in-laws,” I replied. It was like a Woody Allen movie playing out in front of me, not my own life. “I'm hoping to see her again when they return tomorrow.”

“You're seriously telling me Francesca's been hiding out at the Castigliano mansion for over two years?” Eleanor asked with bright eyes and an exaggerated amount of air blown through her lips to push rogue bangs away from her forehead. “Diabolical!”

“Yes, the whole macabre series of events happened quietly and quickly. A few days before the fake car accident, a rival mob family, the Vargas gang, had kidnapped Francesca. I never knew about it because I'd been away on a film set. Her father's goons killed one of their men, and as retaliation, the Vargas mob captured Francesca. When he found out what'd happened, Vincenzo instructed his henchmen to do whatever it took to return his daughter.”

“But how did she end up faking her death? You've never explained that part.” Eleanor peered through the small window in the kitchen door to verify Emma was still helping Manny prepare dinner and not listening to our conversation.

“The only way Vincenzo could protect her was to stage an accident that looked like the Vargas family's newest driver had killed her. He bought off a local cop who poured alcohol all over the other guy's car and had the medics attempt to rescue Francesca. They never caught the driver because there never was one. When the police called to tell me about the accident, Francesca was in the room with them, trying to convince her father to find another solution.”

“I can't believe she'd hurt you like this. Painful.” Eleanor acted as if it were her wife who'd lied and disappeared. I knew she was empathetic, but no one could understand the impact to my world.

“I remember seeing a few random thugs checking out the accident. They must have been there to ensure Francesca looked dead and to report my reaction. Vincenzo eventually convinced the Vargas family that he'd suffered enough by losing his daughter. Everyone agreed to call off their turf war and carefully observe proper boundaries in the future.”

“Does she have to stay dead forever? What kind of life is that?”

“I wish I knew. We only had time to agree on not telling Emma for now.” It'd made me so happy to see my wife, but my body filled with an intense anger I'd never experienced before. “Francesca's been spying our daughter at the Castigliano mansion whenever Emma slept over. When I told the Castiglianos I was moving back to Pennsylvania, Francesca freaked out. It meant she could no longer watch Emma from a safe, comfortable distance.”

“That's why she came back from the dead now?” Eleanor said without blinking for a long time.

I nodded. Francesca tried to abide by her father's rules and stay hidden, but when the possibility of never seeing her daughter again became a reality, she snuck onto the plane with her new fake identity to convince me not to take Emma away. Francesca had worn a costume, dyed her hair, and sat far away in coach from Emma—Cecilia had undoubtedly flown first class. “I have no idea what to do next. I can't let this impact Emma, but if her mother's alive, shouldn't she get to be part of her life?”

“Only if it isn't dangerous. What about you? Are you thinking about getting a new identity and disappearing somewhere to rebuild a life together?” Eleanor looked disappointed and worried that I would leave town again.

In the forty-one minutes Francesca and I had together, all of which were supervised by my mother-in-law, we only discussed what to do about Emma. “I haven't thought about it. Right now, I just want to find out what she's been doing the last two-and-a-half years. I don't even know if we're technically still married, or how any of this works.”

“Don't you still want to be married to her? You loved Francesca so much.” Eleanor hugged me, then stepped away.

“I'm overwhelmed. I want to reclaim what we once had, but she lied to me. She ended something intimate and passionate. We were great together, and now, it feels strange to be around her.” I paused to keep my emotions from exploding. “The new Francesca has short blonde hair, wears colored contact lenses, and speaks differently. I don't recognize my wife anymore, Eleanor.”

My sister leaned in to kiss my cheek, but my ringing cell phone interrupted us. I looked at the screen and groaned. What did my boss want with me on a Saturday evening? I preferred to ignore her but needed a temporary break from thinking about Francesca's reappearance in my life.

“Good evening, Myriam. How's your weekend?” I asked in as calm a voice as I could muster. Eleanor patted my shoulder, then went into the kitchen to check on Emma and offer me some privacy.

“I've no time for small talk. I'm fixing gargantuan issues with our upcoming King Lear production. I suddenly remembered you were supposed to drop off your course recommendations for next semester. You seem fond of keeping me waiting for you to get your job done properly,” Myriam said haughtily. Her normal appearance backed up the narcissistic attitude, too—she always wore immaculately cut power suits and kept her short, spiky gray hair perfectly styled. I'd suspected at one time it was a wig, and if I ever had the chance, I'd rip that sucker off to test my theory. It didn't matter that she could be old enough to be my mother. The viper needed to be taken down a notch or two.

While Myriam was correct about the deliverable, we'd agreed on Monday being the due date. It was only Saturday. I'd completed them that morning but hadn't planned to submit them until the last minute as retaliation for her giving me such a short deadline. It was the only way I could irritate my boss without crossing any overt boundaries. “Certainly. I thought we could discuss them in our weekly meeting next Tuesday. I'd be happy to email them to you tomorrow.”

“That simply won't do. I need time to review before we meet, and I'm in rehearsals all day tomorrow. I distinctly asked you to get them to me in advance, but it seems you struggle with listening and punctuality. 'Better three hours too soon than a minute too late.' Wouldn't you agree?” Myriam ordered me to hold on, then shouted at someone in the theater about annunciating properly.

“As you like it,” I replied, naming the Shakespearean comedy from where her line came.

“Now you understand who's the boss. Drop it off in thirty minutes at Paddington's Play House. And don't dawdle. I'm sure it'll take me hours to revise and comment on it,” Myriam growled before hanging up.

As I tapped my fingers on the diner's dusty table, I considered my options. If I stood my ground, Myriam would continue to itemize everything she'd felt was an influential enough reason to push me out of Braxton. If I let her obnoxious attitude roll off my shoulders like it meant nothing, she might eventually tire and bore of chiding me every moment of every day. Before I acted too severely, it'd be beneficial to have my first official meeting with Ursula to understand her perspective on the situation.

Eleanor agreed to drop Emma off at our parents' place on her way home since our mother was remaining in for the evening. Our father had an out-of-town golf game that weekend, which meant our mother planned to curl up with the latest regency romance novel from her favorite author—her sister, Deirdre.

A few minutes later, I pulled into the South Campus parking lot and grabbed the printed course outlines and film suggestions from my briefcase. As I entered Paddington's Play House, someone shouted terse stage directions at the actors and loudly dropped a prop. It sounded like something made of glass when I heard the earth-shaking shatter as it hit the stage. I ambled around the lobby, hoping whatever commotion was stirring up inside the theater would settle down.

Paddington's Play House had been built by Charles, Millard, and Eustacia's father in the late 1940s while his children were young. None of the other colleges had a theater program or entertainment venues, and the Paddingtons were determined to always be first in every endeavor. Built in the shape of a large octagon that resembled Shakespeare's Globe Theatre, it seated up to one-thousand guests. Unlike the original Globe Theatre, there was no standing room. A large cathedral ceiling with reclaimed wood beams, antique gilded and cushioned seats, and plastered walls painted an ivory white offered a charming and bespoke atmosphere. The college played four shows a year, one of which was always a Shakespearean production to properly celebrate the Bard.

I admired the inlaid, two-toned natural wood flooring as I descended into the seating area, hoping the ruckus had died down. Arthur and Myriam attempted to co-direct several reticent actors on stage. They both waved their hands furiously and stomped across the narrow expanse, demonstrating what the actors should've been doing. I was too far away to hear their words or see the expressions on their faces, but it was obvious they provided contradictory direction.

Two female voices startled me from the corner. A dark brunette in designer jeans and low-cut red blouse said, “He told me how pretty I looked earlier. I think maybe I have a chance.”

“Get out. He's too old for you, Dana. Why would you be interested in him?” the thin, taller girl with a pasty complexion and nasal voice replied. She'd pulled her neon-green hair up under a baseball cap and was dressed in a pair of old, ratty sweats.

Dana said, “I know he's not exactly the hottest guy and he might be a little on the older side, but he's hilarious. And he knows so many famous people.” She swooned as she spoke, then looked toward the stage. As her head turned, she caught sight of me.

I nodded in her direction. “Excuse me, would you know when they'll take a break? I need to drop something off for Myriam Castle.”

“Ugh, you better wait until she's done. Dr. Castle doesn't like to be interrupted,” Dana said.

“We're about ready to do a scene change. I'm the set designer… Yuri,” the girl wearing the sweats replied. I understood why she looked more casual than the rest. “She's Dana. You are?”

I remembered seeing the name Dana on Arthur Terry's cell phone earlier. Could she have been talking about having a crush on Arthur? Dana could barely have been nineteen or twenty-years-old, and he was my age. “Kellan Ayrwick. I'm a professor here at Braxton.”

“Awesome sauce. Let's head up together. They'll be done by the time we get to the front. Just wait in the front row until I climb on stage to change the set,” Yuri said.

Dana followed. “I'm handling props for the show. I'm not an actress, but I love everything about the theater.” Her bouncy walk and flashy grin demonstrated vast excitement of working on the show.

“You must be a student at Braxton?” I remembered Myriam had indicated everyone who worked on the play had to be a current or former Braxton attendee. They'd first cast any performers and hired all back-of-the-house roles from currently enrolled students. If there was a special need or talent not in existence at the school, they'd solicit help from alumni.

“Sophomore. Studying drama and psychology. I want to work on Broadway one day, but my parents forced me to take something practical as a back-up. It's not like I'll ever need to get an actual job. My family's loaded,” Dana said, shrugging indifferently.

She looked familiar, but I couldn't place her. “What did you say your last name was?”

“Ummm… Taft, but my mother's family has the money. You must know the Paddingtons. They own this place,” Dana noted with a slew of pretentiousness that hadn't gone unnoticed by either of us.

That's why she looked familiar. She had the same patrician face and narrow jawline as Eustacia and Millard. “I've met a few of your family members. Which branch do you hail from?”

“Grandmother is Gwendolyn Paddington. Grandfather passed away last year, but my parents are still around. Do you know Richard and Ophelia Taft? The grand dame is named for Grandmother's favorite Shakespearean character.” Dana leaned against the side wall while Yuri scattered toward the stage once the scene finished.

“I saw your grandmother earlier today. She was visiting my nana,” I replied. If Dana was related to Gwendolyn, she might be one of the family members trying to do away with the difficult matriarch. “You must spend a lot of time with your grandmother, too?”

Dana rolled her eyes. She'd never be able to compete with me. I was king of that move. “Grandmother is hard to take. She cares more about what things look like than what's under the surface, you know what I mean?”

I shrugged. “Different generations, I suppose. They expect all the skeletons in our closets to stay hidden. I heard she's not been feeling too well lately.” I wasn't convinced anyone had been trying to kill Gwendolyn, but it wouldn't hurt to poke around.

“She is kind of old. Ever since Grandfather passed away, she's gotten worse. Grandmother keeps reminding everyone she's paying for this entire show.” Dana seemed like a typical college girl with a large chip on her shoulder. Kids her age thought anyone over forty was old. Wait until she saw the world without rose-colored glasses.

“Are you worried about something happening to her?” I asked.

“She's a tough old bird, but yesterday she could barely get through brunch. Everything tires her out quickly in the last few weeks.” Dana adjusted the straps on her blouse and checked her reflection in a compact mirror. “Looks like they're done on stage.”

As Dana marched up the stairs, Myriam waved me over. “Don't just stand around making me wait. Do you have the course outlines?”

After handing them to her, I said, “How's the show going?” Tomorrow's dress rehearsal would only be open to family and select faculty. Students were on Spring Break this week, but if they were involved in the theater, they had to stay on campus.

“Like a root canal with no pain relief. I never should have hired Arthur Terry, but like other people around here, he was forced upon me.” Myriam slid her tortoise-shell glasses an inch down her nose, pointedly stared at me, then sighed. Even the ruffles on her royal-blue blouse seemed to fluster.

“Is Arthur a bad director? We went to high school together, you know.” I ignored her dig about how I'd gotten my job at Braxton. She took every opportunity to belittle me or my family.

“He's new to the role. Actors often think they can easily transition from in front of the camera to behind the camera. His Broadway experience is lackluster.” Myriam walked away from me and descended the stairs. “Don't dally! Follow me.”

I had a gnawing urge to mock her as I trailed behind, but decided to set a good example in case anyone was watching. As Myriam hovered in the front row, I noticed Dana cornering Arthur on the opposite side of the venue. She'd placed her hand on his right arm and rubbed his shoulder. The girl was on a mission, but Arthur didn't appear highly responsive or remotely interested.

“If you didn't hire Arthur, who did?” I asked.

“Gwendolyn Paddington insisted I offer him the opportunity. Some people don't understand the value of hard work and earning their positions.” Myriam pulled a red marker from her briefcase and crossed out items on the outlines I'd given to her. “No, no. This won't do. You need to be more creative.” As the ink bled on the paper like a murder scene, her forehead wrinkled in spades.

“Gwendolyn's always been active in the arts, like her father-in-law from what I understand. She assumed responsibility as the patron of Paddington's Play House when he died.” She'd also been a savagely brutal and vocal art and theater critic before retiring several years earlier.

“She's one to put her nose where it doesn't belong.” Myriam stared at me, waiting for a response. When I didn't share one, she said, “We're done. Expect feedback on Tuesday. You may leave.”

I had little energy to argue with the monster and muttered a goodbye. As I strolled down the center aisle, a pale and disheveled Arthur joined me. “Ugh, those Paddingtons are truly going to drive me insane. I can't win with any of them. One day they'll be begging me to do something for them instead of the other way around.” He pulled at his hair and sneered as we entered the lobby.

“It sounds like things aren't going so well with the show. I'm sorry to hear it.” I hoped my empathy might calm him down.

“If it's not Dana playing her little games or Gwendolyn thinking she can control me, it's the confusion with that other one. And on top of it all, I can't find any way to win with that witch, Myriam. I should never have come back home,” Arthur grunted.

I couldn't agree with him more about returning to Braxton if I'd tried. Which other Paddington was causing him trouble? “Myriam mentioned Gwendolyn insisted you take this job. I would've thought you were on good terms.”

Arthur laughed wildly as he opened the door to step outside. “Maybe a long time ago, but not after what she did to me. I'm gonna take a cigarette break before I do something I regret. Is it dreadful that all I dream about is squeezing my hands around Gwendolyn Paddington's neck until her every breath has expired?”