OKAY, SO I WAS READING THE CHAPTER AGAIN TO TRY AND PLAN THE SECOND ONE AND I REALISED I TOTALLY CHANGED THE NARRATIVE. I STARTED OFF IN THE THIRD PERSON (WHICH IS WHAT I INTENDED, BECAUSE LEWIS WILL SWITCH TO FIRST PERSON WHEN HE STARTS TELLING THE STORY) AND THEN RANDOMLY SWITCHED TO FIRST. OOPS, I THINK I GOT TOO USED TO WRITING IN THE FIRST WITH MY LAST STORY. ANYWAY, HERE IS THE CORRECTED VERSION. I HOPE I HAVEN'T MADE THINGS TOO CONFUSING. THANKS FOR THE NICE REVIEWS, BY THE WAY. NEW CHAPTER TOMORROW HOPEFULLY
Lewis Nixon's Young Lady Part 1
Note- Okay, I wasn't really happy with the first chapter of the original so I was thinking of a change of format. It's still the story of the girl Lewis met but, instead, this time told him his point of view and involves the girl's granddaughter.
………….
1990
"Ladies and Gentlemen we are now beginning our descent towards Los Angeles and will be landing in approximately 30 minutes," the Stewardess's voice chirped out over the intercom.
Breathing deeply, Emily sat back in her chair. Finally. She felt like she'd been flying for days rather than hours. She could have killed herself for choosing to fly from London to LA direct without a stopover. Part of her thought she was crazy for taking this trip in the first place. Darting around, her eyes laid to rest on the worn leather-bound diary secured safely in the seat pocket in front of her. Her grandmother's diary. Careful not to damage it, she lifted it out and flipped to the last few pages, reading the entry she had read so many times over the last few weeks:
I can't believe how much my life has changed in the past few months. Washed out and on the verge of self-destruction…and look at me now. I feel like my old self again. And it's all because of Lewis Nixon, the man with his own troubles. Perhaps that what brought us together in the first place, perhaps we were meant to meet on that path to self-destruction, perhaps to help each other. I think I've fallen too hard, though. I'm supposed to be thinking about my own wedding and all I can think about is a married man. It's all pointless anyway, because we'll never be together.
"Lewis Nixon", the name rang over and over in her head as the Fasten Seatbelts sign blinked above her head.
…………………..
"Enjoy your stay in Los Angeles," The Passport Control Officer smiled, giving her a toothy grin that she suspected was anything but genuine.
"Thank you," She said, taking her passport off of her and putting it in her handbag.
Grasping the handle on her suitcase, she walked out into the LA sunshine. What am I doing here?, she muttered to herself. A yellow cab rolled up next to her. She hadn't even noticed She'd joined the queue for a taxi.
"Hey Lady I aint got all day," the driver spat at her from inside the car. "You gettin in or what?"
"What?" She asked, realising what was going on. Hurriedly she opened the door and slid in. "Sorry, yeah."
"Where to?" He asked impatiently.
Reaching into the back pocket of her jeans, she pulled out a crumpled piece of paper and handed it to him. "Here please."
With a screech the taxi sped off. No going back now.
…………………..
Just as written on the paper, the taxi dropped her off outside a large, white sandstone mansion in what seemed to be a respectable neighbourhood.
"This is it?" She asked the driver, nervously.
"33 Maple. That's what it said on that paper," He said, rolling his eyes.
"Thanks for everything," She said dryly, handing him the money and getting out. "Keep the change."
"Wow, 33 cents! You're a Saint," He said sarcastically, speeding away.
Rude taxi drivers were the furthest thing from her mind as she stared at the house. Was this really a good idea? Yes. Yes, she had to know. Slowly she climbed the porch steps and knocked gently on the door. Her stomach filled with butterflies. Shit, maybe this wasn't such a good idea. Turning on her heel, she walked quickly back to the stairs.
"Can I help you?" a woman called out.
Swallowing, she turned around to face her. She was an elegant woman with good posture who, despite being elderly, had a face that still showed glimpses of the beauty it's younger version once had. "Grace?"
"Yes," She said, staring unsurely at me. "Can I help you?"
"My name is Emily Howard, we spoke on the phone," Emily replied.
"Oh yes," She said, smiling and slapping her forehead as if to suggest her forgetfulness. She came forward and offered her a hand. "Grace Nixon. Lovely to meet you. Please come inside."
"I was so sorry to call so out of the blue," Emily apologised as she led her through her deceptively large home.
"Not to worry about it," She replied. "I just hope my husband can provide you with the answers you're looking for."
She led her to a parlour room, with a oak wood table for two with matching chairs set up over a large balcony window. "Why don't you take a seat here. I'll see if my husband feels like talking right now."
"Thank you very much," Emily replied, sitting down on one of the chairs.
As she reached to open the door, she turned back to her. "You should know something. I didn't tell my husband everything that we discussed on the phone. There are certain things he simply wont speak about regarding the…well, that period of his life. Please, don't push too hard."
"I won't," She promised, wondering what times she referred to.
After she left, Emily looked around the impressive room. The Nixons clearly had a lot of money. The room was filled pictures and what looked like memorabilia from all over the world. Next to her, a framed picture of the two of them leaning against what looked like The Great Wall of China was propped up next to some ornate perfume bottles. Above the mantle was a large rifle with gold decoration. Her attention was grabbed by a display case of medals on the wall. She didn't have time to study them in detail, however, as the door opened again. Unsure of the etiquette with a war veteran, she stood up as he walked into the room. He took one look at her, raised his eyebrows and uttered the word "Jesus". He didn't say anything else after that, but he didn't really need to. His face said it all. It was as though he'd unlocked memories that he'd kept stored away for several years. I simply watched as they all came flooding back to him.
His expression steeled over as much as possible as he tried to compose himself after that and gave nothing more away as Grace walked instep with him to the table. Emily's first impression was that he was a very intelligent man, his face giving off a worldly wisdom. Like his wife, his face held faint echoes of good looks. Out of what seemed like affection for her husband, Grace pulled out his chair so that he could sit down opposite her.
"Well," She said, clapping her hands together after her husband was seated. "I'll leave you two to talk. I'll have the maid bring you some lemonade."
When she left an uneasy silence settled over the room. Emily didn't even know where to begin.
"So young lady," he said, filling the silence as he folded his arms to look at her. "Why have you come to see me today."
Nervously, she cleared my throat. "Um…my name is Emily Howard. I believe…I believe you knew someone in my family during the war."
"Oh yes?" He asked, raising an eyebrow at her.
"My Grandmother," she explained further, pausing before revealing her name. "Her name was…."
"Violet," He finished for her.
"You know?" Emily asked.
"You look just like her," He mused, looking at her intently. "Has anyone ever told you that?"
"All the time," she admitted, smiling faintly at him.
"So, that answers who you are," He said, scratching his head. "But not why you are here."
"I just have a few questions," she told him.
"Mmm hmmm," He nodded, trying to appear nonchalant. "And why couldn't you ask those questions to your Grandmother herself."
"Well she's dead," she told him bluntly. Perhaps too bluntly, as eyes sprang open in shock for a few seconds. She tried to smooth it over. "A few weeks ago."
"I'm sorry," He said simply, looking away.
"I'm sorry too. I wish I'd known her better. I was always too wrapped up in things to really get to know her, I suppose," She told him regretfully. "When she died, my mother and I were tidying up things in her house and I came across something."
"And what was that?"
"This," She said, reaching into her bag and pulling out the diary. Opening it to the last entries, she placed it in front of him.
Pulling a set of wire spectacles from his shirt pocket and placing them on, he began to read. He paused for a few seconds after reading and looked at her expectantly.
"Um…as you can see, a lot of the previous pages have been ripped out and I was just wondering if you might able to tell me…."
He slammed the book down on the table and stood up. She jumped.
"I don't talk about what happened during the war," He said, storming out of the room.
………………….
"Should I go?" Emily asked, walking into the kitchen and finding Grace reading a newspaper.
"No, Dear," She said, looking up at her. "He just needs some time. His heartstrings have just been pulled at, that's all."
"I really am sorry," She said, sitting down as Grace pulled out a chair for her. "It's very rude of me to come here and ask your husband questions about a relationship from his past."
"Not at all, my Dear," She patted Emily's shoulder. "That was a lifetime ago. Everyone has a past. I know I certainly have."
Emily smiled at her.
"If I may ask," Grace said, leaning closer to her. "What kind of woman was she? Your Grandmother, I mean."
"Honestly? I'm not sure," Emily said, shrugging her shoulders. "I never really took the time to get to know her. Properly get to know her, you know? I wish I had, though."
Grace squeezed her hand, supportively. "Well, I hope Lewis can help you out. I can see how eager you are, what with all those phone calls you had to make to trace us."
…………………..
Emily pushed open the door out onto the patio in the back garden. Lewis Nixon sat, staring out into the vast yard.
"Sir?" she asked, taking a seat next to him. "I'm sorry if I was forceful earlier."
He scratched his head, as though trying to fathom something. "You live in England, yet you flew all the way from there to LA to ask me about your Grandmother?"
"I actually live in New York," she corrected him. "I work there. However, you're right. I flew from England to come here."
"And that diary entry piqued your curiosity enough to make you do that?" He asked, unconvinced.
"Partly," she said, looking down. "There may be some personal motivations behind my decision, but I shan't bore you with that."
He tutted.
"Look, Sir," she said, raising her voice. "I used all of the money I was saving for my hen night to fly out here to ask you a few simple questions. I really don't think I'm asking too much for you to give me the answers."
"Wow, you're a lot like your Grandmother," His eyes lit up, amused. "What the hell's a hen night?"
"Uh…a Bachelorette party," she laughed, translating it into American-speak for him.
"Oh, okay," He nodded. He sighed, folded his arms and looked at her. "Well I suppose since you came all this way…. What do you want to know?"
"God," she breathed. "Whatever you can tell me. How you met each other, for a start. What happened between the two of you that made her rip pages from her diary? Also, why you never ended up together, which you clearly didn't."
He let out a small chuckle. "The whole story, then?"
"More or less,"
"Okay then, Miss," He said, shifting into a more comfortable position in his chair. "This is how I met your Grandmother…"