Sea Glass Summer (13 page)

On reaching a wooden bench set back from the path she released Jumbo and sat down, feeling winded. She hadn't been getting enough exercise. The dog hesitated, sniffed the air, padded forward into the start of a run, then came back to lie down at her feet. No amount of encouragement resulted in his taking off. He shouldn't feel this way, she thought, he's young. It's not right that he feels chained to my side; I want him to enjoy life, to romp and play. He needs a child, or at least someone young, to teach him how to have fun. Have I turned into a selfish, irresponsible old woman? Am I also keeping Sonny with me for my sake more than his own? She had been through this many times, always reaching the same answer. Placing him in a nursing home, while he still had periods of awareness, would be agonizing for him. In addition to placing the ad for a carer in the weekly paper, she would phone Mr Plover. He would gladly pin a
Help Wanted
notice for her on the grocery store's bulletin board.

Gwen stood up, re-clamped Jumbo's leash, and walked on for a half mile before turning back. She was relieved to find the note still taped to the door. Removing it, she went inside and saw by the Pennsylvania Dutch clock that it was almost noon. Sonny had not demanded to be brought home yet. With Jumbo reunited with his ham bone, she heated a bowl of split pea soup in the microwave, placed an apple, a wedge of white Cheddar, a slice of buttered French bread on a plate, and settled at the table. Sometimes when eating lunch alone she'd bring in a book, enjoying the companionship that reading had always brought. There can be no truer friend, she remembered her father saying when she was about six years old, than a book that speaks to your heart. Today she needed to just sit, feeling the old house wrap itself around her.

She had just finished what was always her last cup of coffee for the day when the doorbell rang. The obvious expectation was Sonny and Sid Jennson, but she was wrong. It was Nellie Armitage standing on the step. As usual she carried the stick that seemed to be more of a fashion statement than a necessity. She was wearing the inevitable orange Crocs.

‘Hello, Nellie. What a pleasant surprise. Do come in.' Gwen ushered her into the book room, with Jumbo following a few steps behind.

‘Sure this isn't a bad time, Gwen?'

‘Not at all, I have the house to myself for a moment.'

‘Your son's not home?'

‘No.' Gwen did not expand on this. The mention of Sonny had increased her nebulous anxiety about Nellie's visit.

‘I only intend staying a few moments, so don't worry yourself about offering me coffee.' Nellie planted herself well back on the sofa. ‘My, this is comfortable.' She laid the stick alongside her. ‘It's about your son that I'm here.'

‘I see.' Gwen sat in one of the fireside arm chairs, her expression giving nothing away. Jumbo settled on the floor beside her. This had to be about the car accident.

‘Interfering you could call it, and I'm first to admit I'm known for sticking my nose into other people's business. But in sensitive situations I do turn to my spirit guides for wisdom on whether, or not, to stay out of things.' Nellie squinted a glance at Gwen, assessing whether she bought this.

‘Some might call them your conscience. In any event, you felt you should come and talk to me. What about my son?'

‘You'll have guessed it. I heard about him crashing the car through that fence.' The usually twinkling brown eyes met Gwen's soberly. ‘Got the story straight from the horse's mouth.'

Gwen felt a stab of disappointment. She had thought Sarah Draycott would say as little about the incident as possible. Of course, being determinedly fair, that wasn't realistic. What could Sarah be expected to say in answer to questions?

‘Well, you know how she is,' Nellie continued frankly. ‘Madge Baldwin couldn't keep it to her lonesome if she found a white egg in a carton of brown ones. I'd no sooner walked in the door from spending the night at my great nephew Reggie's house in Ferry Landing, than – darn it – there went the phone. Madge! Pouring out the story like she'd cut an artery. All about her being to blame for your son taking the car. How she should have got it back sooner, so you wouldn't have been taking a nap when she returned it.'

Not Sarah. Gwen relaxed against the back of her chair. ‘It wasn't Madge's fault; I told her so when I phoned this morning.'

‘In one ear and out of the other, obviously. I had a cousin of Madge's sort, more than happy to take the blame in any drama going if it put her center stage. Very good at springing tears and getting lots of clucking sympathy. But I'm not here to tell tales and make you feel worse, Gwen. Madge mentioned, at the end of her wail, that you once tried bringing in a carer for your son. And it didn't work out.'

‘There were two. Sonny reacted negatively to both.'

‘And why not, if they weren't his sort?' The brown eyes were suddenly very kind. ‘His feelings count. He still has an identity; that's what gets forgot by some people.'

Gwen was deeply touched. For all her talk of spirit guides, Nellie was not a frivolous woman. ‘That was the problem,' she agreed, ‘both women were pleasant – one of them very kind – but they treated Sonny as a standard case, a diagnosis. No effort to get to know him as a person.'

‘So here's my reason for coming. I know someone I believe could be just the one to step into the breach. She's a trained nurse, and even more importantly has been a wonderful support, above and beyond what could be expected, to her most recent patient, an elderly man struck down with Parkinson's. He's just gone into the nursing home. She'll be visiting him daily as they've become dear friends, but there are reasons why I think she might like to be in Sea Glass.'

‘Nellie, how very kind of you to put yourself out like this.' Gwen's eyes misted as hope flowered inside her.

‘Not at all.' The mischievous gleam was back. ‘If I don't do what the spirit guides tell me, they go hide my stick.'

‘Tell me more about this woman.'

‘Her name's Twyla Washburn. Widowed lady, mid to late sixties. A year or so after her husband died she took up as a traveling nurse – way to see places she'd never been before. Upshot is, when she did a stint in Maine she liked it up here, decided to stay on for a while, doing in-home care. For the past two years or so she's been taking care of this nice man I've been talking about. His going into Pleasant Meadows couldn't be put off any longer.'

‘These debilitating diseases steal so much.'

‘Cruel, that's what they are. His name is Frank Andrews, grandfather of young Oliver Cully. Perhaps,' Nellie gave Gwen an enquiring look, ‘you know his story?'

‘Oh, yes . . . the plane crash, such a terrible tragedy. I remember vividly reading about it in the paper; I'd met Clare Andrews once when she was about twelve or thirteen.'

‘You did?'

Gwen nodded. ‘She had come with her school class to a performance of the Sea Glass Choral Society, for which I was playing the piano. A couple of days later she phoned and asked if she could come and see me. She arrived on her bike, having ridden over from Ferry Landing. She wanted to know if I'd give her piano lessons, or knew of someone else who might do so. Such a pretty, sweet-faced girl. She told me she'd been saving her allowance for over a year and that she already played a little by ear. I had her sit down and show me what she could do. I was impressed. There was no doubt she had a natural ability.'

‘Well, that's something I hadn't heard.' Nellie shook her head as if acknowledging a shortcoming.

‘The problem was practicing between lessons. Clare had been using a neighbor's piano, but that person had moved and she said she couldn't ask her parents to buy her one. She knew they'd find a way, but it would require too many sacrifices on their part.' Gwen sighed. ‘When I read about her death I wished I could take back that time with her, have offered to let her practice here after school or on weekends. But tell me, how is her son?'

‘Now there I could go on all day. Oliver's a great kid, as loveable as they come. Could eat him with a spoon, I could. Him and my great nephew's son Brian are best friends. Live just around the corner from each other.'

‘What happens to Oliver now?'

‘His uncle – his father's brother – and his wife, that he's never met before, have taken him to live with them at the old Cully Mansion. Come fall he'll be going back with them to New York. Which brings us right back to Twyla Washburn. She and Oliver have grown very close. She and Frank would have liked her to have guardianship of him, but the aunt and uncle nixed that. Anyway, you'll see what I'm getting at. Twyla wants to see as much of Oliver as possible while he's in Sea Glass. Helping you out with your son would mean she'd be real close by if he needed her quick for a hug and some perking up. Now, I'm not saying she'd be running out the door every minute, but . . .'

‘I understand.' Gwen heard a car pulling onto the driveway. ‘Nellie, she sounds like a wonderful person. I can't tell you how much I appreciate you coming to tell me about her. Have you mentioned our situation to her, so she'll know who I am if I phone?'

‘All taken care of,' answered Nellie smugly. She must have heard the car too, for she was getting to her feet. Though she was going on ninety, her hearing always appeared to be as acute as an eight-year-old's. ‘Already given her a call. Did so after thinking on what Madge had to say. Wouldn't have been right to raise your hopes for nothing. Left it with Twyla that she'd come over here Monday morning around ten, unless she heard different from you. Now I'll skedaddle and let you get on with the rest of your day.' She took a couple of steps, remembered the stick, retrieved it and headed for the door. ‘No need to turn me into a saint, Gwen, for a simple act of neighborliness. I've always liked you. You're what my mother would've called a real lady.'

The comfort of Nellie's visit, along with the prospect of meeting Twyla Washburn on Monday, stayed with Gwen for the rest of the day. When she asked Sonny if he had enjoyed his time with Sid Jennson he had nodded. Half an hour later he mentioned a cat.

‘It was outside that man's house when we got there and he took it in.'

‘That was kind.'

‘Gray. I like cats.'

‘I know you do, dear.'

‘Beatrice did too. We always had cats. She found Fur Ball out in the rain.'

It was the first time in a long while since he'd mentioned his wife. Gwen kissed his cheek, her heart full. She had loved Beatrice. Sonny wandered away upstairs to his room, and Jumbo emerged looking hopefully up at her. She produced a biscuit and set about preparing a pot roast for dinner in the way Mrs Broom had taught her years ago, dusting it with flour and salt and pepper and searing it in a little vegetable oil on top of the stove before adding a cup of red wine and bouquet garnish; then covering and placing it in a 325-degree oven for three hours. She had known little about cooking when she married. Spending time with Mrs Broom in the large, comfortable kitchen of the house in Boston had awakened her interest. She'd seen what enjoyment the other woman found in putting a meal together, especially when producing Sonny's favorites. Mrs Broom had welcomed him to sit chatting and watching while she worked. Passing him a bowl of batter to beat, asking if he'd be kind enough to brush milk on top of the apple pie and sprinkle it with sugar before it went in to bake. Gwen had felt like a child herself, learning along with Sonny, rolling out her own scraps of pastry and proudly producing cinnamon sticks. In times of stress she had increasingly gravitated to the kitchen, to be soothed by Mrs Broom's solid presence and soft-voiced instructions. She was always kindly encouraging.

‘You're a rare one for getting the hang of it, Mrs Norris. Now let me show you how to fold the sugar into the egg whites for the meringues . . . that's the way of it. You taking that over gives me time to put on a pot of coffee. It's about that time, isn't it? Like I say, a weary cook is a bad cook. Have to take a break once in a while or you'll end up putting mint in the brownies instead of the peas, although maybe that wouldn't be such a catastrophe – mint can give chocolate a nice little kick. Never be afraid to try something different, Mrs Norris. That's how you get to be your own woman in the kitchen: you don't let even a tried and true recipe think it's boss. Put your foot down.'

Dear, dependable, ever-supportive Mrs Broom. While readying the vegetables, carrots, onions and potatoes, to be added to the pot roast half way through its cooking, Gwen wondered if it would be helpful to Sonny if she were to find a kitten for him. He had brought the elderly Fur Ball with him when he moved in, but when she died a year later he had said he wasn't ready for another. She could not imagine Jumbo giving a cat, let alone a kitten, a hostile reception and perhaps having his own animal to love would reduce Sonny's antagonism towards the dog. The problem was his unpredictability. Best to wait and see if he, having had the thought triggered, expressed a desire for a cat.

That unpredictability was evidenced the next morning when they were having breakfast. His asking what day it was did not diverge from the norm. That was one of his first questions every day, but when she told him it was Sunday, he surprised, amazed her by saying he wanted to go – must go – to church. He and Beatrice had been Episcopalian, albeit sporadic attendees. He had attended St Anne's a few times after moving to Sea Glass. Gwen had accompanied him on those occasions, but could not remember the times of its services, so now looked these up in the telephone directory. 8 a.m. and 10.30 a.m. There was just time to make the later service if they hurried, which Sonny surprisingly did. He came back downstairs in a gray suit that she could not remember seeing him wear before. His collar was askew and his tie awkwardly knotted, bunching up midway on his neck. She refrained from making adjustments. He had done so well. It was his self-assurance that mattered, not what anyone else might think.