Sea Glass Summer (19 page)

Before she had time to digest this, the bell rang. ‘Excuse me a minute, Harris, there's someone at the door. I'll just check who it is . . . walking there now. Oh!' she said, opening up to see a van in the driveway and a man on the step holding a cellophane wrapped offering that could only be flowers. ‘It's a floral delivery – I have to go.'

‘I can hang on.'

‘Better not. I've a cake about to come out of the oven.'

‘Sounds like you're celebrating.'

‘Just the moving-in kind.'

‘Call me back. The number will show on the ID, but don't make it too long as we're going over to Lisa's parents and won't be back till late.'

‘Got you.' Might be tricky explaining to the in-laws why he was on the phone to his ex-wife. She pocketed the cell phone, apologized to the delivery man and a few moments later was back in the kitchen unwrapping the flowers. The card was signed,
With much appreciation from Gwen and Sonny
. She stood smiling at it. The heavenly scent of roses filled the room – twelve pale pink ones, interspaced with ferns and baby's breath. They had to be an old-fashioned variety; the newer ones didn't have nearly that much scent. She should have been surprised that Gwen had chosen that particular shade of pink that had always been her favorite, but somehow she wasn't; it only deepened the sense of connection she had felt that morning. If a phone directory had been left behind in the house she hadn't come across it. So she pressed 411, asked for a Garwood on Ridge Farm Rise, Sea Glass, Maine, got the number and moments later, at the third ring, Gwen picked up. They had a short but warmly conversational chat. Sarah's delight in the roses bubbled through, and Gwen expressed pleasure that they had been delivered so promptly.

‘A very small token of gratitude for your incredible kindness.' She went on to say that when Sid Jennson had returned her car that morning he'd told her about repairing the fence, adding that he had then taken Sonny back to his house for several hours and that the visit had been very successful. Sonny had returned in excellent spirits. ‘I really must think of something special to do for Mr Jennson and his wife. People here are very neighborly, but last night you and he took the word to a new level.'

‘I'm sure he was as happy to be of help as I was. Your roses have brought a breath of life to the house, but a four-footed visitor would be very welcome. How would it be if I came and fetched Jumbo for an outing on Monday?'

They agreed on early afternoon. The call ended rather hastily when Sarah remembered the cake in the oven. She checked it, decided on another fifteen minutes and went in search of her wire cooling rack. Harris's call had slipped from her mind when she unwrapped the roses; now it drifted back in. She had only the vaguest curiosity as to what he had wanted to ask her, but she would phone him back as promised after she had taken her cake out of the oven and set it to cool on the rack. But when she did so there was no answer. Apparently he had not lingered in setting off with Lisa and the little girl to visit the in-laws. Never mind, he'd try again or she would.

The chocolate cake came out just right: moist but not soggy to the touch. An hour later she was dusting it with powdered sugar prior to wrapping it loosely in two layers of tin foil. Four o'clock. Sarah headed out into warm sunshine to go next door, having made up her mind not to go in if asked. That was where she was a little shy, or perhaps old fashioned: a man on his own – Nellie had said his wife was away for the weekend visiting the college daughter. Also a lot of people didn't appreciate impromptu visits that dragged them away from whatever they were doing. Nellie Armitage's showing up to camp in her living room for a lengthy chat, especially on moving-in day, would have driven even her easy-going mother, Louise Draycott, right up the wall.

Sid Jennson handled the situation perfectly when he opened his front door. He thanked her enthusiastically for the cake, made light of repairing her fence, invited her to step inside but didn't press her when she said she really needed to get back and continue her unpacking. Entirely true – there were her clothes to be hung in the closet. Also towels and other necessities to be stored in the bathroom.

‘Seems never-ending, doesn't it?' He gave her a rueful smile and she thought again what a genuine man he seemed to be. ‘I remember when we moved in here five years ago we wondered if we'd ever get organized. Seemed to go round in circles for bloomin' days. The wife and daughter claimed I was chiefly to blame with all my tools. You'd think to hear them go on that I'd moved in an entire hardware store.'

That led to Sarah mentioning her visit to Brown's that morning and how she needed to work out the amount of floor tiles and paint she would need.

‘My Libby's a great hand with a paintbrush should you welcome any help. And I've one of those special ladders for doing staircase walls. She's not much of a one for heights and if you're the same I could take care of that job. Expecting her back Monday morning from visiting our daughter, Phoebe, at college and getting her ready for going to England to stay with family for a month. She'll want to have you over for dinner one night, will Libby. How'd you fancy roast beef and Yorkshire pudding?'

Sarah replied that she'd love to try the real thing and was just about to say goodbye when she heard a meow and a large ginger cat sauntered through the living room on which the door opened. For not the first time that day she thought of the frightened one she had been holding when Sonny Norris crashed the car through her fence. She had been out several times calling and looking for it without success. Sid Jennson didn't mention bringing Sonny here and providing Gwen with a break for a few hours. He wouldn't be one to hold his acts of kindness up to the light.

‘What a lovely-looking cat,' she said.

‘Thinks he owns the world. Spoiled rotten, just like the dog. A great one for animals, my Libby. Would rescue a lion from the zoo if they'd let her and have it sleep on its own pillow at the foot of the bed. Still, mustn't grumble,' his smile deepened, ‘she sees me right. Have to play fair and not hog all this cake before she gets home.'

On returning to Bramble Cottage Sarah hoped to get a glimpse of the stray cat, but only saw a grey squirrel dart across the road and skim up a tree. Without much optimism she put a saucer of milk on the front step and another on the back patio. Her fear was that the cat had succumbed to some predator the previous night. That Libby Jennson was an animal person encouraged her to hope that they would get on well. She spent that evening pleasantly occupied with a dozen small tasks. She had only one small television and, other than watching the news, rarely had it on unless she was sitting down to knit. She made a note to get cable or an alternative installed.

Sunday morning passed to the accomplishment of removing the kitchen cabinet doors, baking the cake for Gwen and getting to work on the sample of a design for a child's sweater – ages two to six – with its first name worked on the front. She used Julia. Her niece at eleven would consider herself way too old for it but she would enjoy seeing it in the magazine. In the afternoon she took a long walk along the beach, in the opposite direction around the bay than she had taken yesterday. The sun was warm on her shoulders, encouraging her to gravitate to the water's edge. It came furling up without fuss or foam over her canvas shoes. There were a couple of sailboats at rest sufficiently far out to be no more than graceful silhouettes, their naked masts piercing the thin, silver-blue sky. She paused to draw them into herself. Did they dream of past voyages, or future ones? A plump white and gray gull eyed her beadily from a barnacle-encrusted grouping of rocks. What did she want most as she spread her own wings? She felt something touch her hand. The strong, firm grip of a child's hand in hers. The gull shot upward to join in a fierce flapping of its cronies, accompanied by quarrelsome squawks. The foolish moment was gone with dizzying abruptness.

It had been hours since lunch. And that had been a skimpy one because her mind hadn't been on eating. Turning back, she skirted the bigger islands of rock and pocketed several pieces of sea glass before reaching the steps up to her garden. She would have to find a little glass bowl to put them in, along with the one she had found yesterday. Could she now call herself a collector? Even something of a connoisseur? Amusement erased that odd moment on the beach.

While eating dinner, the niggling thought crept in that there was something she had made a mental note to take care of – something small yet important – but she couldn't get further than connecting it with talking to her father on the phone shortly after her arrival. It would come back to her, but it didn't that evening. It was only after phoning Brown's hardware at nine the following morning to reel off her list – including a last moment addition of a drop cloth – that she remembered the note she had promised her father would be written promptly to Aunt Beth. A thank you for the overnight stay in New Hampshire. Best to take care of that small courtesy immediately. Brown's had promised a delivery between eleven thirty and noon. She had stamps in her billfold and quickly located a Hallmark card. Aunt Beth didn't think much of those who didn't ‘care enough to send the very best,' and filled up both sides without mentioning Harris's call. He hadn't phoned again, so perhaps what he'd wanted to ask Sarah wasn't all that important.

On opening the front door she saw that it was spattering rain – must have just started – and ducked out at a run to the mailbox at the foot of the drive. She pulled down the front, slipped in the card and was just about to close it again when she noticed another envelope further back. Mail for her already? How nice! Her heart sang as it had done so often during the last three days. No possibility occurred to her, but when she withdrew the letter she saw that it was addressed to Nan Fielding. It must have arrived after her death, but it would take studying the postmark to tell how long it had been there. That wasn't something to do with the rain coming down; if it wasn't smudged already it soon would be. She slipped the envelope in her jeans' pocket, closed the box and raised the red plastic flag to alert the deliverer that there was outgoing mail.

As she turned to hurry back inside, a woman wearing a lightweight pink jacket and a white cotton scarf wrapped around her neck came around the near side of the house next door. Her hair, with its blond highlights, was drawn back in a ponytail. At her heels was a small, fleecy dog of a yellowish white that suggested he wasn't bleached along with the scarf. Sarah had paid more attention to dog breeds over the last year or so and hazarded a guess this one was a mix. Half shiatsu, half poodle. Possibly. As it approached her in a short-legged charge it was clear from the
joy de vive
in his eyes that this was one compact bundle of mischief, who'd relish pulling the wool – or fur – over your eyes just for the fun of it at every given opportunity. He, or she, actually appeared to be laughing at her as he scooted to a halt.

‘Hello, there!' The woman's greeting was an unmistakably cheery one. Also noticeably British. ‘I'm Libby Jennson.' She could have been Sarah's age had Sid not mentioned the daughter in college. Rather lovely eyes, an unusual shade of golden gray, coupled with the proverbial English rose complexion. Also indicating her country of origin were the calf-high green rubber boots. Sarah was enchanted. She had always loved the word Wellies. Libby breezed on. ‘You must be Sarah! I've really wanted to meet you! Especially after having three slices of that chocolate cake! Sid kept tapping my hand away and reminding me it was at least half his! I'd love the recipe! Don't tell me it's been in your family for three hundred years and is a fiercely guarded secret!' All said in large print with super-sized exclamation points, undampened by the rain.

Sarah laughed. She was to discover that Libby often had this effect upon her. ‘Wish I could say it had been handed down, but I found it on the internet. I'll gladly print you up a copy. It was so good of your husband to fix my fence.'

‘Don't give it a thought. Sid isn't happy if he isn't busy. I'm over the moon I didn't come home to find he'd torn out a wall like he did the last time I went away for the weekend. I said to our daughter Phoebe last night that I think I'd better set off for home now rather than wait for morning; I've a nasty feeling Dad will turn the garage into a disco room if I don't. At sixty-six you'd think he'd be slowing down. Fat chance! And to think of the flack I got for marrying a man twenty years older. He'll be the one pushing me in a wheelchair!'

Sarah responded with that old line about age being only a number.

‘He's off now doing a hundred errands and there was me down on the beach with Sheridan, with not one industrious thought, just miles away in my head with the fairies. We'd be down there still if it hadn't started to rain.' Libby wiped a spatter from her face. ‘Crikey! It looks ready to come down cats and dogs and I'm keeping you standing here. How about coming back to my house for a cup of coffee or tea?'

Sarah hesitated. She needed to wash the kitchen walls and scour out the interiors of the cabinets, but that shouldn't take much more than an hour and surely establishing friendly relations with her next-door neighbor was more important.

‘I'd love to,' she said as several heavy drops plopped on her head to trickle down her neck.

‘Let's make a dash for it then. Come on, Sheridan, you need drying off and tucking up under your blankie.'

The little dog did now resemble a wet mop, but considering he skittered in circles, risking getting stepped on as they headed for the Jennson's house, he gave no indication of readiness to plop down for a nap. Libby entered the house by a side door that opened to a mud room. Unhitching an orange towel from a row of hooks she told the mop to sit, which he did with the offended look of someone asked to submit to a strip-search. Maybe it was the color orange that got to him. There was no mistaking the frown. With a name like Sheridan he could be excused for having expanded ideas of his own importance.