Mary Clark: The Shadow of Your Smile

Olivia felt the familiar hurt as her thoughts turned to Alex Gannon. “Oh, God, Catherine, no matter how strong your vocation, how could you not have loved him?” she whispered into the silence.

Alex’s parents, the Gannons. Olivia wished she could better remember the faces of the people who had been so kind to her mother. They had insisted she stay on as their housekeeper and live in the cottage on their estate in Southhampton after her father, who had been their chauffeur for many years, had died.

I was only five, but I remember Alex and his brother sitting on our porch talking to you, Catherine, Olivia reflected. Even then I thought Alex was like a young god. He was in medical school in New York, and I can remember Mother telling you that you were crazy to think of the convent when it was clear that he adored you. Long before it happened, I remember her saying, “Catherine, you’re making a mistake. Alex wants you. He wants to marry you. In a thousand years there’ll never be another one like him. Seventeen is not too young to get married. And why don’t you admit it? You are in love with him. I see it in your eyes. I see it when you look at him.”

And you said, “And seventeen is not too young to know that I am called to a different path. It is not supposed to be. That’s all there is to it.”

Olivia felt the unwanted tears come to her eyes. Six months after Catherine left for the convent, Mother remarried and we moved into the city, she thought. But when old Mrs. Gannon died, I went to her funeral with Mother and met Alex again. That has been over forty years ago.

Olivia bit her lip to keep it from trembling and clasped her hands. “Oh, Catherine,” she whispered, “how could you have given him up, and what shall I do now? I have the letter Alex asked my mother to give you, the letter begging your forgiveness. Shall I destroy it, and the record of your son’s birth? Shall I give it to your granddaughter? What do you want me to do?”

The faint rustling of the leaves falling from the trees that were scattered around the cemetery made Olivia aware that she was suddenly chilled. It’s almost four, she thought. I’d better get started for home. What did I expect? Another miracle? Catherine to materialize and counsel me? Her knees stiff, she got up slowly and, with a final glance at Catherine’s grave, walked through the cemetery back to the car. She realized that Tony Garcia must have watched for her approaching, because he was standing beside the car with the door already open.

She got into the backseat, grateful for the warmth, but without any sense of resolution. On the way back the traffic was much heavier and she was impressed by Garcia’s steady and skillful driving. When they were nearing her exit off the Henry Hudson Parkway, she commented on that and asked, “Tony, do you work full-time for the service? If you do, I’d like to request you if I have any more trips to make.”

I should add, any trips that I make in the next few weeks, she thought sadly, realizing that for an instant she had forgotten how very little time she had left.

“No, ma’am, I’m a waiter at the Waldorf. Depending on my hours there, I let the service know when I’m available to drive.”

“You’re ambitious,” Olivia said, remembering how when she began at Altman’s all those years ago, she had always tried to work overtime.

Garcia looked into the rearview mirror and she could see his smile. “Not really, ma’am. I’ve got a lot of medical bills. My little guy was diagnosed with leukemia two years ago. You can imagine how my wife and I felt when we heard that. Our doctor told us he had a fifty-fifty chance, and those odds were good enough for her and for him. Two days ago we got the final word. He’s cancer free.”

Garcia fished into his jacket pocket, pulled out a photograph, and handed it back to Olivia. “That’s Carlos with the doctor who took care of him,” he explained.

Olivia stared at the picture, not believing what she was seeing. “That’s Dr. Monica Farrell,” she said.

“Do you know her?” Garcia asked eagerly.

“No, I don’t,” and then before she could stop herself, she added, “I knew her grandmother.”

When they were down the block from the garage, she reached for the tote bag and said, “Tony, please stop at the curb for a moment. I’d like you to put this bag in the trunk. There’s a blanket quite far to the back. Slip it under the blanket, please.”

“Of course.” Without showing that he was surprised at the request, Garcia followed instructions, then drove Olivia the rest of the way home.

Greg Gannon brought the latest proof of his generosity to his private office in the Time Warner Center at Columbus Circle. “Where’ll we put it, Esther?” he asked his longtime assistant, as he stopped at her desk and took it out of the box.

The tribute was a Tiffany engraved glass prism about ten inches high.

“Looks like an ice cube,” he commented, laughing. “Shall I save it for when I have a martini?”

Esther Chambers smiled politely. “It will go in the case with the rest of them, Mr. Gannon.”

“Es, can you just imagine how it will be when I kick the bucket? Who’d want them?”

It was a rhetorical question that Esther did not attempt to answer as Gannon walked into his private office. Your wife certainly won’t and your sons would throw them in the garbage, she thought as she picked up the prism. And I’ll bet she wasn’t with you last night at that dinner. Then, with an unconscious sigh, she placed the prism on her desk. I’ll put it in the trophy case later, she thought as she read the inscription. FOR GREGORY ALEXANDER GANNON IN RECOGNITION OF HIS CONTINUING KINDNESS TO THOSE WHO NEED IT MOST.

Alexander Gannon, Esther thought. Instinctively, she glanced through the open door that led to the Foundation reception area, where a magnificent portrait of Greg’s uncle dominated the room. He had been a medical scientist whose genius for inventing replacement parts for knees and hips and ankles was the basis of the family fortune.

He died thirty years ago, before he realized how much good his inventions would do, Esther thought. I remember meeting him when I started working here. He was so handsome, even when he was seventy years old. He walked so straight, and he had silver hair and those unforgettable blue eyes. He never lived to see how successful his patents would become. The patents have all expired, but the Gannons got hundreds of millions of dollars for years from them. At least the family put some of the money in the Gannon Foundation. But I doubt Dr. Gannon would have approved of the lifestyle of his brother’s family.

Well, it’s none of my business, she reminded herself, as she settled at her desk. Still, you can’t help thinking… Sixtyish, with an angular figure and an unbending disposition to match, Esther was given to meditation whenever Greg brought in yet another trophy proving his oft proclaimed benevolence.

Thirty-five years ago she had begun working for Greg Gannon’s father’s small investment firm. Their office at that time was in lower Manhattan, and the business had been struggling until the medical devices invented by Alexander Gannon had released a tsunami of money and recognition. The investment firm had flourished and the income from the patents had changed the life of the Gannon family.

Greg was only eighteen then, Esther thought. At least after his father passed, he took over the investment firm and the foundation. His brother, Peter, never did much except pour money into Broadway musicals that closed on opening night. Some producer he is. If anyone knew how comparatively little those two give away, they’d stop kissing their feet in a moment.