Sea Glass Summer (11 page)

‘Please don't worry.' Sarah felt incredibly sorry for her. ‘I wouldn't do that to you or your husband. The entire fence needs repainting, so replacing the part that's gone will be nothing.'

‘I do appreciate your forbearance. Even so, you must allow me to insist on taking care of the expense.' Another hesitation. ‘My dear, Sonny isn't my husband. He's my son. Early onset Alzheimer's. My father had it, although we didn't know the name for it in those days.'

It was hard for Sarah to get the words out; there were none that would be adequate. Mr Norris had pleaded for his mother and that part had not been nonsense. ‘What a tragedy for you both.'

‘We manage, with the obvious exception of today. Do forgive me, I realize I haven't got round to exchanging names.'

‘Sarah Draycott.' She wished she were wearing her raincoat so she could have taken it off and placed it around the other woman's shoulders.

‘Gwen . . .' The beading of perspiration had increased and now she swayed. Sarah had an arm around her when Sid Jennson came back with Sonny Norris. He had driven the Cadillac into his driveway.

‘I don't think you should drive it home,' he told Gwen. ‘If it's all right with you I'll check it out, see if there's been any damage. In the meantime I'll run you and your son home.'

‘Maybe I could do that,' Sarah offered. An exchange of eye contact told her this new neighbor understood the sense this made. She would be able to offer assistance, if necessary, that a man could not, such as helping Gwen Norris into bed – surely the best place for her right now. At that moment she appeared in more need of a doctor than her son.

Leaving Sid Jennson to provide the supportive arm, Sarah hurried indoors to gather up her purse and cell phone, along with a throw blanket, and then out through the kitchen door to the garage to back out her car. The ride to the house on Ridge Farm Rise took only a couple of minutes with Sonny Norris sitting silently in the back. Even with a knitted blanket around her shoulders, Gwen looked ill, had trouble unbuckling her seat belt and needed Sarah's support from the driveway to the front door. Sonny preceded them, leaving it open behind him, to become a shadowed figure mounting a silhouette of a staircase. A large, brindled dog emerged silently to survey them from the foyer.

The house was a dark red, New England, two-story, but Sarah took in nothing of its surroundings. Her mind was entirely occupied with getting Gwen inside and off her feet. They entered the room lined with bookcases to the left of the front door, followed by the dog, and again Sarah observed little beyond the available seating. The now visibly trembling Gwen grasped the arm of the sofa and sank onto it with Sarah's help, murmuring that she was reacting like an old woman and would only need a moment before going upstairs to check on her son. Her hand moved to stroke the dog now lying beside her feet.

‘Jumbo . . . my gentle giant, ever faithful, utterly devoted.' It was not clear whether she was speaking to him or Sarah.

‘I like dogs – I'm hoping for one of my own. Can I get you anything? A cup of tea?'

‘Nothing, thank you. I'll be right as rain if I just stay still until this silly dizziness passes. You should be getting back home, my dear.' The blue eyes strained to focus. ‘I know that house has been empty so you can only just have moved in, to be confronted so soon by all this disturbance.'

‘Don't give that a thought. You and your son are what matter. Is there anyone I can call? Your doctor or someone to spend the night with you, so you can get a decent rest?'

‘What a thoughtful young woman you are, but I'm already feeling better.'

It was clear to Sarah that this was overly optimistic. When Gwen attempted to stand she had to grab for Sarah's hand to steady herself. As if sensing impending movement the dog had risen before his owner did and now stood off to the side. Sarah knew at that moment she would have to spend the night, but this could be voiced later. The immediate necessity was getting the other woman upstairs and into bed, and this was accomplished with only token protest. Sarah turned her back while Gwen undressed and slipped on a nightgown. Head resting on two plump pillows, Gwen smiled in weary gratitude as Sarah tucked the bed covers around her.

‘Why don't you have an hour's sleep? Then I'll come back and see if you would like something to eat and drink.'

‘There's soup on the stove,' the voice was increasingly faint, ‘and salad and such in the refrigerator.'

‘Meanwhile, shall I check in on your son?'

‘Bedroom to the left, but he won't answer your knock unless he chooses. Probably sleeping after . . . everything. Don't think he'll try to leave again, but worry I may not wake if . . .'

‘Don't, I'll be here till morning, camping on your sofa. Any sound will rouse me. I've always been a light sleeper.' No answer. The worn-out mother had slipped into a temporarily merciful reprieve. Leaning closer, Sarah was relieved by the even breathing and a return of better color to the face and mouth.

As it happened there was no need to check on Charles Norris: as she closed the door behind her he came out of his room, merely responding to her greeting with a mildly puzzled look.

‘Your mother's sleeping,' she told him.

‘She does that.' He went down the stairs ahead of her and the dog that had been waiting at the bottom moved away without haste, but with a sideways look that suggested avoidance. When Sarah descended, he returned to stand alongside her, staring upward, placidly allowing her to stroke his great head. Then he climbed the steps, one silent paw at a time until turning in the direction of the bedroom she had just left.

Across from the bookcase-lined room, to the right of the front door, was another room of equal size, decorated in a similarly muted color scheme with a congenial grouping of chairs around the fireplace. Other pieces provided a tasteful blend of graceful antiquity and function. It was in here that Charles Norris had disappeared. Sarah stood at the entrance looking at him with an overwhelming compassion that she couldn't remember experiencing for anyone since her world had crashed in upon her. His mother . . . his poor, poor mother! How could she take the daily pain of watching him suffer what should have been – if it had to be either – her lot? He was seated at a bench before a grand piano, shoulders slack, gray hair straggled untidily from the wind, his hands drifting soundlessly the length of the keys, eyes staring straight ahead into some fathomless void.

‘Would you play me something?' Sarah asked gently.

‘Can't.' No turn of the head, his voice seeming to echo from a darkness within. ‘The music's gone. The doctor tried to trick me it would come back if I took my medicine. They all do it. Treat me like I'm a child. Mother had a woman in to watch me, but got rid of her . . . stealing my things. They all do it.'

‘That's bad.' A painful squeeze at the base of Sarah's throat. ‘What if you closed your eyes and imagined you were playing for your Aunt Rowena? Remember,' she hesitated, took a step into the room, ‘you said I reminded you of her. Maybe she was sending you a memory, to let you know she wishes she could hear you play again.'

‘I liked her. She called me a young Mozart. My father never thought I was any good. Now Mother only cares about that dog. It's so alone in here.' He tapped his head. ‘Sometimes,' he finally turned, blue eyes – so like his mother's – meeting Sarah's hazel ones, ‘sometimes I think I'm losing my mind. Do you think I could be?' The question was the more harrowing because it was so reasonably, almost conversationally spoken.

‘No. I think you're just tired and that can make anyone feel down.' A psychiatrist might not consider this to be the correct response, but it felt right to Sarah to offer a soothing reply to someone old and confused. The tragedy was that Sonny Norris wasn't old, he was middle-aged – a time of life which for many promised many vigorous, productive years ahead. She thought of her parents, eagerly anticipating a move to Florida.

Sarah was turning on the gas under the stainless soup pot when the first halting sounds of melody drifted her way. In the time it took to remove a glass bowl of green salad from the refrigerator and set it on the counter the notes were gaining in confidence. She knew very little about classical music, had brushed it aside from teenage years on in favor of rock and some folk, but she did recognize Beethoven's
Fur Elise
. A given for anyone who had sat (however bored) through a basic high school music class. The word exquisite hadn't come to her then. It did so now as she stood absolutely still, absorbing not only the aching loveliness of the sound but also the poignancy of Sonny Norris finding, within his long term memory, a sanctuary. He was now shifting tranquilly into
Moonlight Sonata
. Could his mother hear him from behind her closed bedroom door? Sarah's hope was that she was still asleep and the gift of her son's return to something of his former self would seep into her dreams.

The rest of the evening had passed quickly. When the music ceased half an hour later, Sarah asked Charles if he was ready to eat. He came without protest to the kitchen, where he consumed without interest and in silence a few spoonfuls of soup and poked fitfully at the salad. Pushing back his chair, he retreated upstairs. The dog then came into the kitchen and headed toward the door at the back of a mud room. Having let him out into the fenced area beyond, she spotted a container of dog food on a shelf. Below it were two bowls: one filled with water, the other empty. Possibly he didn't get fed at this hour, so perhaps she should wait and ask Gwen. Once he was back inside and had allowed her to pat him, she went up to check on Gwen to find her still asleep, not so much as a stirring between the opening and closing of the door.

Sarah decided to feed the dog . . . Jumbo . . . if she remembered his name correctly. Following her into the mud room, he munched on the food she put in his bowl. When it was empty he gave her an appreciative look from those surprisingly gentle eyes for an animal with so powerful a build and such ominous jaws.

‘No one could say you have a weak chin,' Sarah told him. He sat, tail wagging appreciatively, and disarmed her by holding up a paw. She knelt to shake it. ‘Good to know you. Nice boy. I think I could get to like you very much. And I thought I could only relate to small, fluffy dogs.' Might she reconsider limiting her choice when getting one of her own? Perhaps not – she wanted one that would snuggle on the sofa with her, but when it came to loyal devotion to his owner Jumbo could be second to none. He returned to his post outside Gwen's bedroom door, and Sarah, suddenly hungry, ladled a bowl of soup for herself. It was as delicious as its aroma had promised. She had a second helping along with some of the salad of mixed greens and citrus dressing she had removed from the fridge. A glance at the kitchen clock showed it to be getting on for nine. She did the dishes, wiped the table and counter top, and made a couple of further trips to look in on ‘her patient' with the same results as before. To rouse her with the offer of a meal didn't make sense. Following her final check at ten thirty Sarah took a blanket from a linen closet – the same blanket that was to slide off the sofa during the early hours of the morning, causing her to wake feeling chilled.

She was still sitting, with sunlight gilding the beautifully polished desk and tables, thinking what a contented feel there was to this house despite the distressing situation under its roof, when she heard footsteps on the stairs. She got to her feet and went into the foyer. Gwen was coming down the last few steps, wearing a sapphire-blue velour robe with a matching satin sash, the perfect complement to the forget-me-not eyes and silver hair. Looking at her, Sarah thought she must have been lovely as a young woman – still was, for that matter. A complexion to die for at any age. And she did look better for a night's sleep.

‘You stayed.' The smile illuminated her, as if from a light turned on within. ‘I must have known you did, for I slept the night through, something I haven't done in a while. How extraordinarily kind of you, especially under the circumstances. And, I'm ashamed to confess, I've forgotten your name.'

‘It's Sarah Draycott.'

‘Sarah . . . a lovely name, it suits you. Did you manage to get any rest yourself?'

‘Plenty. I was perfectly comfortable on your sofa.' Sarah should have been eager to leave, to get back to Bramble Cottage and all that needed to be done that day, but she found herself in no hurry. Instead she wanted the chance to get to know this woman a little better and, if possible, to reach out and be of some small help. An idea had already come to her. She could offer to take Jumbo for a daily walk. It would be good preparation for when she got a dog of her own. ‘I helped myself to a blanket from your linen closet. That was after enjoying a wonderful meal; I hope you don't mind my making myself that much at home.'

‘My dear, I would feel terrible if you hadn't done so.'

‘I'd love the recipe for your split pea soup.'

‘An old standby; I'll get it to you.'

‘Your son didn't eat much.'

‘He doesn't. Lack of appetite, no interest in food. Goes with the condition. Wonderful that you could get him to the table.' Gwen bent to stroke Jumbo, who had now padded down to join her in the foyer, then let him out into the fenced yard. She smiled at Sarah. ‘Would you like coffee before you leave?'

‘I'd love a cup.'

The kitchen looked even more friendly in the morning light. Gwen moved lightly between the cupboards and refrigerator. ‘I thought I heard Sonny playing Beethoven in the evening, but I must have been dreaming; it's so long since he's touched the piano.'

‘I found him there. He talked for a little and when I was getting the meal ready I heard him begin that first piece. So beautiful.'

‘Then, my dear, I am even further in your debt. Music was his passion from the time he could crawl to the piano bench. His dream was to be a great concert pianist, but by the end of his first year at Julliard he knew that wasn't in the cards. There's such a huge gap between the exceptionally gifted and the sublime. Accepting that realization took time.'