More Than Words Can Say (4 page)

Hoping to assuage some of her tension and grief, Chelsea took a long, hot shower. She then donned a bathrobe, put her wet hair up in a towel turban, and poured a glass of Bordeaux. She carried her wine to the living room sofa, where she could watch the gathering storm through the windows. After lighting several candles, she dimmed the lights, reclined on the couch, and took a welcome sip of wine.

The rain was coming harder now, the heavy drops forming silvery rivulets on her windowpanes and curiously distorting everything that lay beyond them. Dolly soon appeared and jumped atop the couch. Just then, another lightning bolt flashed across the night sky, followed by a strong thunderclap. Unlike many dogs, Dolly was never frightened by storms.

Chelsea took another sip of wine and again looked out the window. Even as a child she had always loved rainstorms—the way they smelled and how they always made everything seem clean and new. Then her thoughts turned inward, and she closed her eyes for several moments. Her beloved grandmother was gone, and the mere thought of Brooke’s passing still stabbed unrelentingly at her wounded heart.

Almost immediately, she began to cry. Perhaps her tears came so suddenly because she was at last alone. Or maybe the death of her grandmother had finally settled into her soul. Whatever the reason, she let her tears flow freely this time, causing her emotional surrender to somehow feel both good and bad.

She had worshipped her grandmother, and valiantly attempting to withstand this huge loss was nearly more than she could bear. For the last two days, she had steadfastly tried to be the same capable woman that she had always been. But when darkness at last fell and she was alone, her disguise quickly crumbled, just as it had done tonight. Even when she tried to be tough, the unbearable sadness bled through her carefully crafted façade. It appeared in her face, in her mannerisms, and in her reticence to believe that her grandmother was really gone.

The funeral was tomorrow, and she hugely dreaded laying Gram to her final rest. Like most people, Chelsea believed in attaining closure. But this time her heart rejected it, because it would mean that her beloved grandmother was truly gone for good. Sighing, she did her best to compose herself.

She fully realized that most people thought she just glided along in life as the privileged daughter of an equally privileged family. But her real friends knew that Chelsea had always been something of a scrapper and quite willing to go her own way, if need be, to follow her heart. Yes, she could have taken the easy road and gone to work for her father. She smiled a little as she recalled Adam’s comic but heartfelt offer of employment. Many would have gladly taken that path, she knew. But she hadn’t wanted a soft, unchallenging life of nepotism. In her heart of hearts, she had long felt the need to prove herself all on her own.

Despite its civilized nature, Lucy and Adam’s divorce had shattered Chelsea’s world.

When Adam left the house for good, Chelsea had been shocked and she cried for days.

In some ways, the divorce had been more difficult for her than for anyone else. But by now Adam and Lucy’s parting had matured, its raw nature replaced with a more socially presentable patina. So much so that whenever the three of them were together, it almost seemed like they were a true family again.

To her credit, Chelsea had never placed blame or taken sides. Not only because she loved them both, but also because of the quiet and largely civilized way in which Adam and Lucy had finally separated. During that difficult time, it had been Gram who encouraged Chelsea to pursue her MFA. It had been painting, plus her great love of children, that had led Chelsea to become an art teacher.

Chelsea had loved those halcyon days when Gram had so patiently taught her. Eventually Chelsea’s painting style would find its own path, differing rather sharply from Gram’s. Some would later say that Chelsea’s works even outshined Brooke’s, but Chelsea never agreed. To her, Brooke’s paintings were among the best she had ever seen. Chelsea still loved to paint, but these days she had time for it only during her summer breaks. While continuing to gaze out the rain-streaked window, she took another sip of wine.

In addition, Brooke had always hoped that Chelsea could find someone worthwhile to love, someone who could make her feel whole and cherished. But sadly, Brooke died knowing that there was no one special in Chelsea’s life. With that memory on her mind, Chelsea’s thoughts inexorably turned toward her unsuccessful love life.

She had experienced her fair share of romantic liaisons. But so far, no man had held much real interest for her, causing the few relationships into which she had entered to be short-lived. Truth be known, she wished that she could meet a genuine man’s man. She certainly didn’t desire some overly macho brute. But she did want someone who was confident in his masculinity, someone who would ultimately care more about her than he did his golf game or the cut of his suit. And with each passing day, she increasingly doubted whether such men still existed. She had been disappointed again and again over the years, and some of her girlfriends said that she was being too picky.

So far, no man had broken her heart to the point of desperation, but none had rescued her from her loneliness, either. Although she was only thirty-three, she increasingly felt as if the prospect of finding someone who would both love and understand her was dwindling with each passing day. Even so, she refused to “settle,” as some of her female friends had done. True enough, they had gotten married. But Chelsea could oftentimes detect a sense of sadness in their eyes that had much to do with what their futures might have been had they held out for true love. Knowing that each woman’s heart was similar yet also different, Chelsea had never been judgmental about the life decisions that her female friends had made. But she felt sorry for some of them, and she refused to take the same course.

Sadly, her soul mate hadn’t arrived. She had never believed that one plus one equaled two in a healthy and loving relationship. Instead, she had always held tight to her conviction that one-half plus one-half equaled one. But her other half remained a ghost, an apparition of her own making who caused her mind to yearn and her heart to suffer. Much to her own disappointment, she was a single woman in her thirties who lived with her dog.

Tired of reliving her problems, she extinguished the lights and candles and walked into her bedroom. After drying her hair and removing her robe, she slipped gratefully beneath the cool, crisp sheets. Dolly soon wandered in and jumped atop the bed. Lightning again illuminated the night sky, followed by another strong bang of thunder. Like usual, Dolly seemed oblivious to it. As Chelsea’s eyes gained heaviness, once more she lovingly touched the mysterious little key that lay upon her chest.

A few days from now,
she thought as the dark tunnel of sleep approached
. A few days from now, I’ll go and see Lake Evergreen. I wonder what it’s really like . . .

Chapter 4

F
our days later, Chelsea found herself navigating the mountains and valleys of the Adirondacks. The sun was high, and the passing scenery was lovely. After another half hour or so, she would turn onto Rural Route 30 North and then search for Schuyler Lane, the narrow dirt road that encircled Lake Evergreen.

She had consulted a road map to learn that the nearest town from Lake Evergreen was Serendipity, New York, some twelve miles farther north. She had also learned that Serendipity boasted all of 12,793 people. Small, certainly, but also large enough to provide whatever extras she might need during her brief weekend stay.

Along with Dolly and one suitcase, she had brought an AM/FM radio and a CD player. Allistaire had warned her that even if there were a radio there, it probably wouldn’t work. He also said that there would of course be no television. Chelsea had also brought along the old recipe notebook that Brooke had bequeathed to her. Although she had yet to examine it, she might try preparing one or two of them, she reasoned, if the mood struck.

Chelsea had borrowed a new Explorer from one of her dad’s dealerships to use for the trip and was relying on Allistaire’s handwritten directions. Allistaire had also arranged for Jacques and Margot Fabienne to meet her at around three
P.M
., so they could help her open the cottage and also drop off a few staples. So far, she was ahead of schedule.

Chelsea was enjoying the Explorer, despite its unaccustomed size. She had doubted the need for such a big vehicle, but her father had insisted. Besides, he had said, dogs get antsy on country drives, especially gundogs. A few years ago, Adam had trained Dolly to hunt game birds with him. Why have a retriever, he argued, that couldn’t retrieve? Chelsea had smiled at that. She didn’t hunt or fish, but she had no problem with those who did. And where she was headed, she reasoned, that attitude was probably a good thing.

Chelsea glanced at the rearview mirror to see that Dolly did in fact seem restless. Chelsea had left one of the rear windows down so that Dolly could occasionally stick her head out and allow the rushing wind to ridiculously buffet her face. Someone once told Chelsea that dogs did that because they loved having their highly acute senses of smell bombarded with so many new and unusual scents.

But who really knows?
Chelsea thought as she concentrated on the road again
. And Dolly isn’t telling. . .

Like Chelsea had predicted, Brooke’s funeral had been huge, depressing, and seemingly endless. The Enright house had then again overflowed with people. For the rest of the day, Chelsea had endured yet more sober conversations, crying, and purposeful hand-wringing. In Chelsea’s opinion, Lucy had ensured that Gram’s service was far too ostentatious. Although Gram had been well-to-do, there hadn’t been a pretentious bone in her entire body. Chelsea also knew that rather than approve of her grandiose send-off, Brooke would have most certainly laughed at it.

While driving along, Chelsea tried to remember what she knew of her family history. Brooke’s father, a man named James Ashburn, had become wealthy in his own right. He had quit school early and started out by selling newspapers, come rain or shine, on one of Syracuse’s busy downtown street corners around the turn of the century. Then later, like many other young men of his era, he saw action during World War I. On his safe return home, he became a tenacious reporter for the same paper that he had so eagerly hawked as a young boy.

Striving tirelessly, he ended up owning not only the newspaper but also much of the surrounding business property as well. But because of her father’s manic work ethic, Brooke hadn’t seen much of him while she was growing up, so she had been raised largely by her mother, Gwendolyn. Like many hard-boiled newspapermen of that era, James had been a voracious drinker and smoker. When a heart attack suddenly took him in his midfifties, Gwendolyn wisely sold all of James’s holdings, ensuring that neither she nor her daughter, Brooke, would want for anything.

Brooke had married the first man she fell in love with, not an uncommon occurrence in her day. William Bartlett was a handsome and respected editor on James’s paper. Soon after they were married, the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor. Feeling an irresistible call to duty, “Bill” immediately quit the paper and enlisted in the army, hoping to become a war correspondent. James offered to use some of his considerable influence to keep Bill out of the war, but Bill adamantly refused. Although Brooke understood, when he left for basic training, her farewell to him had been tearful and heart wrenching. Tragically, Bill died in the war. But Chelsea didn’t know the particulars, because Brooke never wanted to talk about it.

Putting her family history aside, Chelsea smiled a little as she again touched her shirt and felt the key that lay beneath it. The closer she came to the cottage, the more she was dying to know what lay inside the hidden tin box.

She soon came upon a dirt road leading off to the right, and she stopped the Explorer. There she saw an ancient, weather-beaten road sign. It was little more than a pair of battered two-by-fours that had been nailed together and pounded into the ground beside the intersection. Its hand-painted letters read
SCHUYLER LANE
.

After consulting Allistaire’s directions for what would be the final time, Chelsea tousled Dolly’s ears. “This must be the place, girl,” she said. “Pretty swank, huh?”

As if convinced that they had at last arrived, Dolly barked eagerly.

Chelsea smiled. “I know, ” she said. “Truth is, I’m getting curious, too.” She then made a left-hand turn and started guiding the Explorer down the narrow dirt road.

Schuyler Lane was lovely. True enough, it was just a simple dirt road, with a dividing line of scruffy grass down its center where tire treads didn’t roam. Overhead there lay a dark canopy of maple branches, born from the dense woods that lined either side. The branches seemed to have made a pact to stretch toward each other above the road and marry in the middle. They gave the lane a shadowed and romantic look, causing Chelsea to smile a bit more as she traveled on.

Soon the lane split in two; one branch went east, and the other headed west. This was where it divided so as to encircle the lake, Chelsea realized. She consulted Allistaire’s directions again and saw that she needed to go west.

As she traveled farther, she occasionally caught shiny glimpses of a lake on her right and of a few cottages that also flashed, phantom-like, through irregular gaps among the trees. At last she came upon an old sign that had been nailed to a tree, its hand-painted letters worn and faded from the passing years. It still said
ASHBURN
, the last name of Chelsea’s great-grandfather.

Chelsea took a deep breath and turned right onto a private drive of sorts that headed northward toward the lake. Here the maples gave way to stands of fresh-smelling pines, and the ground’s dense, green covering was gradually surrendering to one more sparse and sandy in nature. Just then she saw the old cottage, and she drew a quick breath.