Sea Glass Summer (18 page)

Rounding the corner into Wild Rose Way she wondered in what ways, other than taking Jumbo the bull mastiff for walks, she could be of help to Gwen. Perhaps grocery items to be fetched and library books picked up and returned; these thoughts were brought to a halt when she noticed that there was no longer a break in her fence. Clearly Sid Jennson had made good on his promise to repair it. What a special man! She parked her car in the garage and went next door, but there was no answer to her ring. Her thanks would have to wait, but words alone would be inadequate. She needed to do something to express her gratitude; the sunny feeling it gave her was enhanced by the welcoming feel of her kitchen. She hadn't intended to do much cooking, let alone baking, until she had finished painting the cupboards and walls. In the interim unpacking more than the coffee maker, toaster and a couple of pans was pointless, but taking a grocery store purchased bakery item next door as a thank you gift just wouldn't do under the circumstances. There was that chocolate raspberry flourless cake that she always received compliments on, with people asking for the recipe, and she had made so often that she knew the recipe by heart. Making it only required a bowl, a whisk, spatula and a spring form pan; no hauling out her food processor. Why not make a cake for Gwen and Sonny as well?

Sarah sat down and began making a shopping list – a long one. Ten minutes later she drove out onto Salt Marsh Road and around the common to spend a very pleasant half hour in Plover's Grocery. It coupled old-fashioned charm with broad aisles, spotless floors and sensible organization. The varnished wooden service counter with its brass trim looked as though it had been in place for a hundred years, but the shopping carts came in three sizes and colors – red, green and yellow. She lingered longer than strictly necessary in the fruit and vegetable section, charmed by the bundles of asparagus tied with lavender ribbons and the lemons nestled in nests of mint. In her search for hazelnuts she wandered down an aisle to a subtle waft of spices emanating from clear plastic-fronted bins. She had never done any cooking verging on the exotic, but on impulse poured two scoops of saffron rice into a plastic bag, weighed and labeled it and did the same with the hazelnuts. Her one concern about the cakes was that she wouldn't be able to find the particular brand of dark raspberry chocolate the recipe called for and would have to substitute. She need not have worried. There it was on a shelf around the corner. Plover's might be small, but as she continued with her purchases, filling up the red shopping cart, it became clear that she wouldn't be left regretting her supermarket in Evanston.

On wheeling up the shopping cart and beginning to unload she asked the woman at the check-out counter if there was a home goods center anywhere nearby.

‘Not one of the big chain ones, but there's Brown's Hardware just round the corner.'

Once there she zeroed in on the paint charts and sample strips, and was instantly enchanted. This was like playing doll's house, but she mustn't be deflected from her first priority which was choosing the exact shade of white for the kitchen cabinets and custard yellow for the walls. The latter she found quickly and was hesitating as to the other when a stocky, middle-aged man in a green apron with a pencil behind one ear came out from an aisle stocked with cans to ask if he could be of assistance.

Sarah held up the yellow strip. ‘I've decided on this for the walls and ceiling, with a satin finish, because it's for the kitchen.'

‘Most of the flats wash well; there's been a big improvement over the last few years, but I'm with you on the satin for kitchen and bathrooms.'

‘I've just moved into an older home and am going to be repainting everywhere. Definitely flat for the living areas and bedrooms, but I've always thought the kitchen can do with a little extra shine.' Sarah wasn't usually chatty when shopping, but the man reminded her a little bit of her father; even the name on his plastic orange tag was similar – Berney to Dad's Barney. Besides, she didn't want to make any avoidable mistakes. ‘I rather like this white for the cabinets, but I don't know what the best type for them is.'

‘I'd suggest deck paint. Can't beat it for durability and it looks great. What you're looking at now is a good honest white and that we can give you.'

‘I won't be taking it now. Have to work out how much I'll need of both colors and then I'll come back Monday.'

‘Call in your order and we'll deliver.'

Twenty minutes later, having decided on the deck paint and with a half-inch stack of color samples for the other rooms in her purse, Sarah was about to leave when, on impulse, she turned round and went into the floor covering section. She'd been toying with the idea of painting the kitchen's tired beige vinyl with the intention of replacing it down the line with porcelain tiles. Now another temporary option presented itself when she examined the selection of self-stick tiles. Her eyes went to a periwinkle blue which, if teamed with a white, would be perfect, and the installation had to be preferable time-wise to painting a checkerboard design.

Sarah asked the salesman who appeared in the aisle if the tiles could be delivered along with the paint she was planning to order.

‘No problem. Do your measuring and we'll work out the number of boxes.'

Sarah drove back to Bramble Cottage cocooned in domestic contentment. Interwoven with thoughts that the sea-green paint color was likely to be just right in subtle contrast to the natural linen slip covers in the living room, and that the teal should really cozy-up the study, was the realization of how inviting she had found the interior of the house on Ridge Farm Rise. It was all very well to claim the primary thing was your home reflects your taste. Undeniable was the hope that guests would enjoy the ambience offered sufficiently to settle back and relax or mingle animatedly in a group setting. She had always thought she didn't care much for period furniture; had considered it stuffy and self-important, suggestive of a determined retreat into the past. That had not at all been her reaction to Gwen Garwood's décor. Perhaps this was partially because she had responded to the living room's muted color scheme, the dusky gray-green velvet sofa and drapes; the time-dimmed patterned carpet, accented by the mulberry silk lampshades. She had particularly and surprisingly liked the pieces of pewter. A memory came of hearing pewter described as a friendly metal. To that she now added the word honest. And that was Gwen. A short amount of time in her company left no doubt of her ingrained integrity. Impossible to imagine her ever having a disloyal or deceitful thought, let alone acting on it.

The hope of a friendship with Gwen that would grow to include Sonny followed Sarah into the kitchen. She had just finished putting the dairy items in the fridge when she was caught up short on remembering that her jewelry box was still in the car's glove compartment. She had forgotten about it until now. Yesterday she had been fully occupied with other matters and it certainly hadn't crossed her mind during this morning's shopping. In the past she had rarely, if ever, left the car unlocked, but Sea Glass oozed safety. Not bothering had been a welcome shift, a sheltered time warp. Now misgivings arose. In that box was the diamond and garnet ring that had belonged to a great-grandmother. Until one of the stones had fallen out, and luckily been found, Sarah had worn that ring almost constantly in recent years. If she'd gotten round to getting it fixed she'd be wearing it now. Yes, Nellie Armitage had assured her that the local crime rate was low, but she had also mentioned that the Cully Mansion had been broken into during the winter. What if some passerby had tried the car door and made the most of a golden opportunity? She drew in a breath before darting out to the garage.

A wave of relief flooded through her on opening the glove compartment to see the jewelry box in place. It wasn't large or elaborate, but well-made and of a warm honey maple. Her parents had bought it at a craft show at the mall and given it to her for her fourteenth or fifteenth birthday. It was one of life's small constants; always ready to hand on her dressing table, bringing back happy memories of childhood and adolescence. She had left it till the last moment to pack, and then decided there wasn't room in either of her suitcases. Back in the kitchen she lifted the lid. Wasted panic. There was the ring. Box in hand she ran upstairs to put it on the dressing table under the window. In her relief she didn't think about transferring the bracelet to a safer place.

Her mind instantly turned to making up the bed and hanging the sheer curtains. There was the screwdriver to be located, in addition to three or four other trips up and down the stairs, one of which included taking the silver-gray paint sample from her purse and holding it up against the wall. Perfect. She thought about using the same color in the bathroom, but decided that might look as though she was trying to fake an en suite, and returned to her idea of painting it and the half-bath downstairs the sea green she'd picked for the living room. By now it had to be well past one o'clock, and she prepared a tuna salad, spooned out half of it onto a bed of endive and bib lettuce, sliced off the end of the baguette, and settled down at the kitchen table with her paint color strips alongside. After clearing up she got busy on the cake for Sid Jennson. She had decided to make the one for Gwen Garwood tomorrow and take it over to her on Monday. The last thing she wanted was to create the impression she was going to be no sooner out the door of the house on Ridge Farm Rise than back ringing the bell. She had sensed an underlying reserve in Gwen that was part of her own nature. Having closed the door on the spring form pan, she was noting the time on her watch – exactly two o'clock – when her cell phone rang. As she reached for it on the counter top the thought went through her mind that it would be her sister-in-law Kristen or her brother Tim calling to see how she was settling in. Good! The cake didn't need to be checked for forty-five minutes. Time for a lengthy chat. Both Kristen and Tim were talkers and the two girls would insist on having their turn with Aunt Sarah, wanting to know how soon they could come and visit.

Her ‘Hi' was an enthusiastic one.

‘Sarah?' A man's voice, but not Tim's pleasant rumble.

‘Yes?'

‘It's me, Sarah. Harris.'

Her mind went instantly blank. She hadn't spoken to him in nearly two years. She stood there, her back to the cabinet, unable to bring his face into focus. It wasn't that she didn't want to; she tried and couldn't get beyond the dark blond hair and a wedge of nose. She knew it was a good nose, but she couldn't see it. ‘What uncharacteristic bad grammar,' she heard herself say lightly. ‘The man I knew would have said, “It's I, Harris.” Don't tell me you're nervous?'

‘Merely surprised that you didn't seem to have a clue who was speaking.' He laughed. ‘Deserved it, I suppose.'

‘It wasn't an intentional slap in the face.' Sarah had recovered sufficiently to wonder why on earth he was calling. It seemed a long time ago that she had never left a room without her cell, even though she had a house phone, in case he should choose that moment to make contact. Desperate to let her know that he regretted the divorce, that his new marriage was a dreadful mistake and pleading for her to take him back. Her father had told her in no uncertain terms to change both numbers, and after some mental bleating she had done so. Now she filled in the pause by reminding herself to arrange to have a house phone installed in the next few days if possible.

‘I've been hoping you'd moved on emotionally.'

No, you haven't, she thought without rancor, you much prefer the idea of my pining away in my lonely bed. Any protestations would bounce off his ego. He'd had plenty of good points and for a long time she had taken his arrogance for admirable self-confidence. ‘How is Lisa?' She might have been speaking of a mutual acquaintance. ‘And your little girl? She must be beyond the toddler stage now.'

‘Thanks for asking, Sarah,' his tone was now bracing, ‘it means a lot. I really was optimistic when I found out about your move to Maine and that you have left
us
in the rear-view mirror. Boyfriend out there?'

‘How did you get this number?' She could hear a woman's voice in the background, coupled by a child's wailing.

‘I've been wanting to get in touch and yesterday decided to phone your Aunt Beth and see if she could help me out. She and I always got along well and she didn't strike me as the sort to align herself with the rest of your family against me.'

‘No, she wouldn't do that.' Trust Beth to relish being the reasonable party. She'd be preening herself for days. Well, good for her. Why shouldn't she get a little fun out of life?

‘I hope you aren't annoyed with her for giving me your number. Not classified, is it?' Another laugh. ‘So many divorced people I know manage to be not only civilized but friendly. I'd like it to be that way with us, Sarah. And Lisa is all for it. Aren't you, darling?' An indistinguishable murmur, accompanied by another wail from the little girl. Amazing that she could hear it with sympathy free of heartache. ‘Anyway, getting to the main point of this call . . .' He hesitated.

‘Yes, Harris?' She was surprised by how easy it was to say his name without experiencing the smallest twist of pain. Her heart went out to Lisa. However much she might have supported this call it couldn't be entirely easy for her, especially considering her long, very close friendship with the ex. Under Lisa's sophistication there had always been hints of insecurity, the sort that could produce enormous guilt masked by brittle indifference. Hopefully she'd come to realize that no woman can break up another's marriage that is essentially sound. Sarah was suddenly tremendously glad Harris had phoned and aware that her voice had warmed. ‘Tell me what's on your mind.'

‘A favor if you're feeling generous,' another of those punctuation laughs, ‘or you could call it fair play?'