Sea Glass Summer (28 page)

‘We're doing this in style.' Mr Bryant, without shifting position, looked as though he had reached out to touch Sarah. ‘I've my cell; should you call your parents to ask if it's all right for you to go with us?'

‘They're dead.' It was always painful to say this. ‘And I can't live with my grandpa anymore because he had to go into a nursing home. Twyla took care of him until he got too bad. We both loved her from the start.'

Sarah explained for him. ‘Oliver recently moved in with his father's brother and wife – Gerard and Elizabeth Cully. The house is that big red Victorian.' She pointed across the road.

Mr Bryant assessed it at a glance.

‘I'd just as soon not call them.' Oliver hoped they wouldn't feel obliged to insist. ‘Gerard's not having one of his best days and when he's . . . like that . . . Elizabeth sometimes gets one of her headaches and goes to bed.'

‘I'm sure it'll be all right.' Sarah placed a hand on his shoulder though obviously speaking to Mr Bryant. ‘It's not as though we're leaving the immediate area. Cones is straight ahead between the grocery store and the flower shop.'

It took no more than a minute or two to reach its door; almost equally quickly the three of them were seated at a small, round white-topped table. In front of each was a tall glass dish full of vanilla ice cream, deluged in fudge sauce, hugely piped with cream and topped with chopped nuts. No maraschino cherries. That they had all decided against them gave Oliver a wonderfully comfortable feeling. It suggested an already established bond. He told himself this was silly; the result of gratitude for their having rescued him from a bad situation, but the feeling wouldn't be banished. Sarah and Evan weren't just being kind. They liked having him with them. He was as convinced of that as he was that Brian had been right – Cones did have the very best hot fudge sundaes.

Amazing how the conversation flowed as if the three of them had sat around a table together for years. Afterward he couldn't remember what got the ball rolling. Somewhere in the middle they'd asked him to call them by their first names.

He heard himself talking about Emjagger and Stone with the indifference of referring to characters in a book that wasn't worth finishing, explaining that the latter's full name was Rolling Stone. Evan had promised to let him have his latest in his series and Oliver couldn't wait to read it, especially as he'd described the period as Dickensian. Sarah had flushed when admitting she only knew of Agatha Christie when it came to mysteries.

‘Twyla says maybe their names may have turned them into bullies.'

‘Don't think of making fun of us; we're real tough dudes?' Evan laid down his spoon alongside the empty sundae. ‘It's an explanation but not an excuse. My guess is this has nothing to do with what they think of you as a person. They want to bring you down a peg or two because of that statue out there making a visible point that the name Cully means something around here.'

‘I think that's right.' Sarah leaned forward. ‘What matters is that they don't start up again after they get over their fright. I don't like the idea of them living next door. Ten miles away would be too close.'

Oliver felt a need to reassure her; to offer the tenderness he'd so often received from Grandpa and Twyla. ‘I don't think they'll pull anything else.'

‘Neither do I, but just in case they so much as breathe on you the wrong way, let me give you this as promised.' Evan reached into his jeans' pocket, pulled out a small black leather case and handed Oliver a business card. He'd never seen one before. ‘My home and cell numbers are both on there, along with my street and email addresses. Here, take two, that way you can keep one on you and put the other away for safekeeping. Don't worry about calling too early or late. I meant what I said about day or night.'

‘Thanks, Evan!'

‘That makes me feel better,' said Sarah. ‘Why don't you give me those, Oliver, and I'll write my numbers on the back. I just got a home phone and I always take my cell with me even if it's just to go into the yard.'

Evan handed her a pen. ‘Always best to have at least two contacts.'

Oliver nodded. ‘With Twyla taking care of Sonny Norris she mightn't be able to leave him if Mrs Garwood wasn't home.'

‘You will tell your aunt and uncle what happened?'

‘I don't think I can. They've gotten neighborly with the parents and I can't see them risking messing that up; besides Elizabeth acts like she thinks I'm lucky Emjagger and Stone want to be friends with me. She'd say it was nice they wanted to take a photo of me on the statue and they couldn't have realized they'd scare me. But I promise I'll tell Twyla tomorrow when she takes me to church and to see Grandpa.'

Evan drew out another couple of cards and handed them to Sarah. ‘One for you to have on hand. And may I have your info on the back of the other one?'

‘Of course.'

‘Good!' Oliver heard a lot in that one word. Evan glanced at his watch. ‘I hate to cut out but I have to be heading back to Boston if I'm going to be able to make my dinner engagement with a woman who considers unpunctuality one of the deadly sins.'

‘Having to wait around can be so annoying.' Sarah's face didn't give anything away, but Oliver sensed her disappointment.

They got to their feet and moved to the door. Once outside Evan continued casually, ‘On this occasion I can't shave off a minute. It's her seventieth birthday and we've got reservations at her favorite restaurant. She also happens to be my favorite aunt.'

‘That's fortunate. My Aunt Beth is a pain.'

‘Do either of you have plans for next weekend? If not, I could come back Friday or Saturday and take you out to celebrate the pleasure of meeting you.'

‘I'm free either day.' Her voice was every bit as casual as his had been. ‘What about you, Oliver?'

‘Are you sure I wouldn't be in the way?'

‘Of course not.'

‘A lady in the era I write about,' said Evan gravely, ‘would never consider setting foot out of doors in a man's company without a chaperone.'

‘And quite right too,' laughed Sarah.

They were nearing the road when Oliver asked Evan the titles of some of his books.

‘The first in the series was
Twist
, the second
Dodge
. It got a little tougher after that. They're based on Dickens'
Oliver Twist
, which makes meeting you not only a pleasure, but an intriguing coincidence. Oliver Twist and the Artful Dodger cross paths as adults and pair up as champions of the downtrodden.'

Oliver felt the ground shift under his feet. Coincidence was right! ‘Someone just gave me a copy of
Oliver Twist
. Grandpa is really big on Dickens, but he'd never read that one to me. Wow! How cool is this!'

Sarah and Evan waited outside until Oliver let himself into the house, where he found Elizabeth and Gerard seated on the facing sofas. No sign of continued friction lingering from her anger on finding her husband drunk. She was leafing through a glossy art magazine. His eyes were closed, presumably listening to the classical music drifting around them from an unseen source.

‘So.' Elizabeth raised her eyes in Oliver's direction as he hesitated in the doorway. ‘Did you have a fun afternoon?'

‘Great, thank you.'

‘And have you come up with a name for the newest member of the household?'

Oliver didn't have a clue what she was talking about until she swiveled round to take in the birdcage. He'd forgotten all about the parakeet. ‘Feathers.' The name just popped out.

‘Fits.' Gerard had cracked open his eyes. ‘Are we getting close to dinner?'

As a meal it didn't count for much of one. A couple of mouthfuls of some sort of casserole, but at least husband and wife seemed back to normal with each other, and there was no mention of Emjagger and Stone to disrupt Oliver's thoughts of Sarah and Evan and the prospect of being with them again next weekend. If Gerard and Elizabeth didn't like it, too bad.

When he went up to his room that night he was going to take
Oliver Twist
into bed with him, but instead he picked up one of the paperback romance novels he'd found in the attic. Hearing from the volunteer at the historical society museum that Miss Emily had exchanged letters with his father made her a much more friendly reality. He leafed through that book and a couple of others before taking up another that opened up close to the middle, for the reason that there was a letter tucked into that space. Oliver's heart thudded, hoping that it was from his Dad until seeing in the left-hand corner of the envelope the name and address of a law firm. Inside was a single page with the same letterhead above, dated December 1998 and containing only a few typed lines:
Dear Emily, I think you are wise not to change your estate plan. To single out one brother over the other for preferential treatment might cause a family rift reminiscent of the estrangement between your grandfather and his brothers. I am always at your disposal, my dear friend. Yours most sincerely, Arthur Rappaport.

That letter had been written four years before Oliver was born. He returned it to the envelope, which he replaced in the book. He lay trying to figure it out. What was an estate plan? Was it the same as . . .?' A yawn took over his face. The happiness and excitement of the afternoon had made him incredibly drowsy. He would just close his eyes for a moment. Weird thing, time. This time he wasn't sure that he'd been asleep when he opened them to see the young Nathaniel Cully again – with legs stretched out – on the window seat.

‘So you've met them,' he said. ‘I could have told you everything was going to work out in the way that's best for everyone.'

‘Right!' Oliver barely blinked, before snuggling down and re-closing his eyes. ‘Goodnight, Nat. Talk to you later, I hope. I'll try to love Feathers.'

‘Sleep well, friend. And ask Mrs Polly about the key to the cellar.'

It was a perfect morning in early July, with just enough breeze to edge the deep blue silk of the bay with ripples of lacey foam, when Sarah came down her wooden garden steps to the beach. She stood taking additional pleasure in the hillocks of seaweed-covered rocks, thinking that those at a distance resembled a miniature mountain range, and that the splatters of greenish brown could have been the tangled tresses of mermaids washed in face down by the tide. Turning, she saw Libby Jennson on the beach. They often met down there on what they thought of as their beach at around eight thirty. Usually Libby had her little dog Sheridan with her, but not today. She explained his absence.

‘He's at the groomer's. Want to walk or sit?' Her hair, with its blond highlights, hung around her shoulders until she drew a ruched black fabric band from around her wrist and converted to a ponytail.

‘Sit, if it's OK with you. I'm going to collect Jumbo at ten and take him for a run.' They perched on Libby's steps, which were wider than Sarah's. A moment passed with them both eyeing the scattering of sailboats set at intervals on the blue canvas as if by a master artist's hand. The sun was warm on their backs. The perfume of red and white sea roses drifted on the air. Sarah loved it so much she wished she could bottle it to carry with her at all times. Maybe it was the feeling of utter relaxation that eased Libby, who couldn't be called nosy, into asking her next question.

‘So, are you falling for him?'

‘Impossible not to and Oliver's crazy about him too. So strong and gentle.'

‘Can't think of a better combination.'

‘And so obedient. At first I worried some about letting him off the leash in case he took off, but . . .'

‘Hold on a minute,' Libby interrupted, ‘who are we talking about?'

Sarah returned the wide-eyed look. ‘Jumbo.'

‘You may be, but I wasn't. I'm dog crazy as you know, but . . . push me off this step if you like – I deserve it – your frequent weekend visitor is who I meant.'

‘Evan. Of course. He
has
been down three times in the last month since we met.' Sarah didn't resent the question. Over the past couple of months she'd grown to like Libby more and more; she'd been generous with her help painting the walls and trim and had made those sessions fun. They had gradually come to exchange more confidences with each other. You could both laugh and talk in depth with Libby. ‘In your place
I'd
be wondering if romance was in the wind and would need to be gagged not to ask. But no, it's not like that. Purely, no pun intended, a friendship that revolves around our growing affection for Oliver. That doesn't mean I don't find him attractive; I imagine lots of women would and maybe under different circumstances, who knows? What's wonderful is how much the three of us enjoy being together, and the aunt and uncle haven't put any obstacles in the way of letting Oliver spend most of his time over here on Evan's weekends or come over a lot on other days.'

‘Are those two bullies still leaving him alone?'

‘So far so good. And his aunt has stopped pushing a friendship.'

Libby shook her head. ‘What an odd pair, that Mr and Mrs Cully! I'd like to know what motivated them to take Oliver in. He's wonderful, but have they noticed? Sid says it's simple, that – as his only relatives – there'd have been talk if they hadn't, but I'm with Nellie who considers the situation to be very murky.'

‘The spirit guides haven't pushed aside the veil to step forward with answers?' There was no bite to the question. Sarah had grown fond of Nellie Armitage; it would have been impossible to not have done given her intervention with Twyla on behalf of Gwen and Sonny and her obvious affection for Oliver.

Libby laughed. ‘Could be they only speak out after Nellie's tipped them her opinion. I'm never sure how much of a fraud she is, but – as I pointed out to Sid – whatever Sea Glass locals said on the subject wouldn't have been an issue for them if they'd stayed in New York instead of appearing on the scene and shutting themselves off in that mausoleum. Every time I walk past I think Halloween Horror House.' She returned her gaze to the sailboats.