Page 1 of The Light Year

prologue

. . .

Westport, Connecticut

October, 1944

The room was dim.Not dark, just dim. Barbara always preferred to have a light burning in the bathroom attached to her bedroom. Even though she was nearly eight years old, she still didn't like to sleep in the dark, and each night, her mother tucked her into bed with no fewer than three dolls and teddy bears.

Slipping from her soft, warm sheets, and putting her bare feet on the carpet, Barbara looked around: her three-story dollhouse was silhouetted near the brocaded wallpaper, its interior facing out so that she could see the many bedrooms with their tiny beds; the mantle with its faux fire burning; the tiny doll mother standing in the kitchen holding a miniature replica of a cake. Barbara herself had never seen her mother standing in a kitchen and cooking anything, but she knew that, in many homes, the mommies did the cooking and the daddies left the house for work, coming home just in time to sit down at the table for dinner.

Barbara paused in the doorway of her room, bare toes curled into the carpet, as she listened for any sound of her parents. But the house was cold and quiet.

The hallway was long, and the walls were covered in framed paintings and photographs. It seemed to go on forever. At regular intervals, a wall sconce burned warmly, keeping the hallway from sinking into complete darkness. Right outside her bedroom door, Barbara stood, peering at the closed doors that lined both sides of the hall. Still no sound. She tiptoed on, wincing at every creak of the floors.

This wing of the house--the West Wing, as her mother always called it--ended in a wide staircase that turned a corner halfway down, its banister made of smooth and oiled wood. She ran her hand along the rail as she walked down the vacuumed stairs, her eyes catching on the large portraits of her serious-looking grandparents as they watched over the West Wing.

At the bottom, Barbara looked around again. Her stomach growled; her mother had been right: refusing to eat her dinner because she didn't like salmon or asparagus was a choice that she regretted. And now, in the cloak of darkness that had fallen over the house just after midnight, Barbara made her way to the kitchen not to see if there was any salmon left, but to try to get her hands on some of the cookies that Winnie, their main cook, kept in a jar on a shelf.

As she walked on bare feet past her father's office, Barbara could hear his voice.

"No," George Mackey said gruffly, "that's not what I asked for. No." He was clearly on the phone, but just to be safe, Barbara ducked into the darkened room across from his office and hid behind the door. "Tomorrow is my wife's birthday," Mr. Mackey said, "and I asked you to handle everything so that I can be here, where I'm needed."

Barbara stood behind the open door, listening, but not realizing the satin bow that held her hair back had slipped from her blonde curls and landed just outside the door. As she watched through the crack between door and frame, Neville, the tall, narrow man who had worked for her family since before her birth, strode down the hall, pausing only when he saw the blue satin bow. He stooped and picked it up, frowning at the pale blue bow in his dark-skinned hand as he stood just inches from Barbara. She held her breath.

Neville inspected the bow, his lips twitching in a smile. He took a step into the darkened room, standing just inches from Barbara. She was sure he could hear her eyelids blinking.

"Hello, little miss," Neville whispered. Even in the dark, Barbara knew he was grinning. "It's okay. It's me, Neville."

And Barbara knew that it was okay; Neville, who had three daughters of his own (and even some grandchildren, if she was to believe what she heard, though his skin was smooth and young, and his hair still dark) was the one member of the staff who always made Barbara laugh. She stepped out from behind the door, eyes wide, and said nothing as she looked up at him.

"Miss!" Neville whispered, putting a finger to his lips. "Did you wake up and wander down here? Are you lost?" he teased.

Barbara's face split into a wide smile; of course Neville knew she wasn't lost. This was her house, and she knew every nook and cranny of it by heart. Barbara loved being chased through the various wings by her older brother, Theodore, and on holidays, she liked to play hide-and-seek with her cousins. She shook her head, mischief dancing in her eyes.

"Hmmm," Neville said, pretending to consider their predicament. "Winnie tell me you did not eat your dinner, young miss." He shook his head disapprovingly, making a small clucking noise with his tongue. "Winnie tell me that young miss left allll the fish on her plate."

Barbara stared down at her bare toes, feeling ashamed. Winnie, who was Neville's wife, was an excellent cook, and Barbara loved her almost as much as she loved Neville. "I wasn't hungry at dinner," she whispered.

"But you are now, yes?"

Barbara nodded, looking at the satin ribbon that Neville still held in his hands. When he caught her looking, he handed it over. "Okay," he said simply. "Okay."

Without prompting, Barbara offered him her hand, and he took it in his large one, peering out the door like he was searching for the enemy. Neville looked back at her seriously, putting his finger to his lips once more. "Kitchen," he said simply, taking a few steps into the hallway in a dramatic version of her own tiptoeing walk. Barbara put a hand over her mouth and stifled a giggle as she followed along.

George Mackey's imposing voice disappeared behind them as they made a mad dash down the carpeted hallway, Barbara's short legs racing to keep up with Neville's longer ones. Barbara glanced back just before they turned a corner into the kitchen. Her father's shadow cut into the puddle of light that fell on the hallway carpet, and she knew that if he stepped out of his office, he would see her, and then there would be trouble. She sucked in a sharp breath and her heart nearly leapt out of her chest.

The kitchen was dark. Instead of reaching for a light switch, Neville turned on an oil lamp on the counter and a warm glow filled the room. The counters were bare, and the sink was empty. Every surface had been wiped clean after dinner.

"Okay, miss," Neville whispered, still keeping his voice low. "We will find you a snack."

The cupboards were organized the way Winnie liked them, with cans facing out, jars in order of what was contained within, and boxes lined up tallest to shortest.

"Oatmeal?" Neville whispered. Barbara shook her white-blonde head and bit her lip. It wasn't oatmeal she wanted. "Crackers with butter?" he offered, reaching for a box on a shelf. Barbara shook her head again.

Neville was about to take a jar of canned pears out for her inspection when the lights flicked on, blazing bright. They both blinked guiltily.

"Now, just what am I seeing here, huh?" Winnie asked, her round, incredulous eyes ping-ponging back and forth between her husband and the youngest child of her wealthy employers. "I know you not in here getting food for Miss Barbara, you old fool," she said to Neville, making a tsking sound at him. Winnie tightened the robe around her soft body and patted the scarf that covered her hair. Barbara had never seen her in pajamas--it had never even occurred to her that Winnie wore anything but her kitchen uniform. "She said no to dinner and her mother say no more food till morning."

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