Sea Glass Summer (31 page)

Oliver conceded that it might be. They departed, still going back and forth, leaving Sarah to her thoughts as she laid the table and took a bowl of fruit from the refrigerator. Dusk meandered from living room to kitchen and back. What was the real situation with the Cullys? Why had they taken Oliver? A sense of duty? To spite his grandfather because his daughter's marriage to Gerard's brother had ended in his death and those of their parents? That seemed far-fetched, but if Gerard was an alcoholic his thinking might be . . . befuddled. But was he? If Oliver's home had been teetotal he could possibly have misconstrued. No, that wouldn't wash. Twyla enjoyed a glass of wine and Oliver had mentioned that his grandpa had liked an occasional beer. What did Evan make of it all?

Footsteps on the stairs preceded a return to the kitchen. The cinnamon rolls and fruit bowl were on the table, along with a glass of milk for Oliver.

‘Coffee, Evan?'

‘Yes, please.' He stood and admired. ‘Couldn't get those at my Frenchified bakery. They look every bit as impressive as they smell.'

‘Thank you.'

‘I still feel it's too late – that I've badly let the male side down' – this in an aside to Oliver. ‘Maybe I should button my lips until I can think of a way to make amends, but how can I do that and drink and eat?' He took the mug she handed him with a smile that would have melted the most unsusceptible female.

‘Still take it black?'

‘Mine isn't a fickle heart.' His voice was teasing, but the look in his eyes wasn't. Sarah poured her own coffee and the three of them sat down. Jumbo lay angled toward the French windows, contemplating nature. She hoped he wasn't pining for Gwen. Oliver passed her the milk. Evan's enjoyment of his cinnamon roll was obviously genuine, although he didn't eat the six cinnamon rolls as he'd said he would. He stopped at one as Sarah did, but Oliver was reaching for his third before withdrawing his hand.

‘I'm being greedy, aren't I?'

‘Absolutely not.' Sarah put a roll on his plate. ‘We're all entitled to a splurge. It's not as though you don't enjoy variety. You've helped put a dent in the fruit bowl and I've seen how you enjoy protein – especially chicken and fish – along with salad and green vegetables. That's something that can't be said for most kids.'

‘Elizabeth and Gerard aren't into food. They seem to eat less than Feathers and don't get I can't too.' It was his first reference to the parakeet in several visits and Sarah, knowing it was a sore point, never brought it up. ‘Elizabeth got irritated once and said the small portions were to help me lose weight.'

‘Why on earth should you?' There was more than irritation in Evan's voice. ‘You're fine just as you are. I see no virtue in attempting to emulate the skeletal looks of those two bullies if that's what she's after.' He picked up his coffee mug. ‘Still staying clear, I hope.'

‘Yes, thanks to you. But I still never go out without one of your cards in my pocket.' Oliver patted his shorts pocket. ‘I asked Twyla after some other kids got on at me about being fat, knowing she'd be honest, and she said I wasn't – that I just had a sturdy build.'

‘She was on the mark.'

Sarah, pouring more coffee, agreed. He was clearly relieved, but she saw there was still a question in his eyes. She sat down. ‘What is it, Oliver?'

He began twisting his paper napkin. ‘There's something I've been wanting to ask you both, but I'm afraid you'll think I'm weird.'

‘I don't believe so,' said Evan, ‘but give it a chance and see.'

‘Do you think,' Oliver's eyes went from one to the other, ‘that I could look like Nathaniel Cully?'

Sarah was about to say that wasn't a weird question, but realized in time that more had to lie behind it. ‘I don't see why not; family resemblances travel from one generation to another, maybe skipping some and then picking up again. My brother, who's into genealogy, told me that. He said he'd found a photo of my maternal great-grandmother and I look more like her than either of my parents.'

Evan leaned forward, elbows at home on the table. ‘Nathaniel's statue shows a strong physique – what my Aunt Alice, who's a complete romantic, would call a fine figure of a man. And I think it quite likely you've inherited his bone structure.'

‘I mean,' the napkin was now a paper corkscrew, ‘could I really, really look like him when he was a boy, maybe a couple of years older than I am now? Even to his having a round face like me and the same colored hair? You see . . . the weird part is I've seen him twice on the window seat in my bedroom at the Cully Mansion. He told me the first time that it used to be his. He was holding a book and said he was surprised I hadn't read it. And it was on the window seat the next morning.
Oliver Twist
, the same one we've been reading. I know it wasn't there when I went to bed.'

Sarah was aware of Jumbo resettling his position by the window. Evan leaned back in his chair, head cupped in his hands. ‘Yes, I think it entirely possible you could look that much alike. You'll have searched for confirmation one way or another. No luck, or inconclusive?'

Oliver shook his head. ‘There are no portraits of him at any age in the house. There's one of his father looking fierce. I bet he didn't think any of his three sons important enough to be painted. And the photos of Nat at the historical society – Brian and I went there – are all of him as a grown-up. Most of them when he was old. One moment I thought I saw a resemblance and then I didn't. And I haven't done any better at the house, though I've kept on looking, even after Mrs Polly told me Miss Emily said she'd had all family photos put on a bonfire because looking at them made her feel lonely.'

‘A few could have escaped; I'd go on with the search.'

‘There's still the cellar, but I've promised Brian I'll wait until I can get Elizabeth and Gerard to agree to him staying overnight, and so far there's always an excuse. And it has to be at night.' Oliver didn't elaborate and Evan didn't press him. ‘It's kept locked, but when I asked Mrs Poll if there was a spare key she showed me where it was.'

‘What's the big question?'

‘Do you think my imagination's gone haywire, or that I could have seen his ghost? Do either of you believe they really exist?'

‘Someone left the copy of
Oliver Twist
on that window seat,' Sarah pointed out.

‘Elizabeth and Gerard said they didn't.'

‘Hmm.' Evan continued to relax in his chair, as if they were merely talking hypothetically. ‘Could be that for some reason they'd rigged the previous night's appearance electronically and left the book to seal the deal.'

‘But he and I had a conversation. How could they fix what I'd say to blend with Nathaniel's end? I don't like them – I can't pretend I do – but why would they?'

‘I can think of several reasons. I not only write mysteries but, having read the best and sometimes the worst, I tend to the opinion that Gothic villainies work better in fiction than in life. If your aunt's and uncle's intent is to play havoc with your mind, I think they'd have put their devotion to you on public display, which – from what I've gleaned – they haven't. I'd say they're a couple with problems and leave it at that for the moment.' Evan turned to Sarah. ‘Would you like to go first in answering the main question? How do you stand on a belief in ghosts?'

She'd been sitting thinking, knowing she had to be honest with Oliver. To lie would be a betrayal of his trust. Luckily, her answer wasn't a negative one. ‘At one time I'd have said I was skeptical, verging on I didn't; but since coming to Sea Glass I've been edging toward the possibility. Nellie Armitage I can take with a pinch of salt. I'm never sure if she really believes in her spirit guides or came up with them to provide herself with a persona. But if it's the first option I don't think she's nuts. And Libby Jennson next door says she's up to the idea of contact with those beyond the grave, enough to go to a séance – or circle – at Nellie's church and was disappointed when it was her grandmother, not Mom, who came through.'

‘Sounds quite wholesome described that way,' interposed Evan.

‘Still my turn,' said Sarah with a mock frown. ‘Nellie and especially Libby, who are so down to earth, may have cracked the door open for me, but you can't base your opinions on other people – there's more. When I came to Sea Glass, for what was to be no more than a weekend visit, I had this strong feeling that this was the place that had been waiting for me always and it became even more powerful when the real estate agent showed me this house. I knew absolutely it was where I belonged. Oh, I know people have vibes, occasionally experience déjà vu and that all houses have atmospheres. And I kept telling me that's all it was. But first came the sense of immediate connection with Gwen, that she was one of the reasons I'd been meant to come here. And then . . .' This wasn't going to be easy to say in front of Evan, but she couldn't see not doing so for Oliver's sake.

‘Go on, Sarah. You've made me feel so better big time already.'

‘It was when I found Evan's letter to Ms Fielding in the mailbox,' she couldn't look at him, ‘I think I felt her presence urging me to write to the EB on the return address corner, that it was,' she searched her mind – not being as good as the other two at finding the perfect word, ‘crucially important to do so.'

‘Interesting!' said Evan, sounding as if he meant every syllable. Unfortunately it was a word open to interpretation. Never mind. This was all about Oliver. She was about to mention the sensation she had experienced of a child walking beside her along the beach but changed her mind. How could she lay the possibility on Oliver that the child might have been him? It could sound as if she believed she had some emotional claim on him, which she didn't. Even if Elizabeth and Gerard Cully decided to give him up, it would be Twyla he'd want to be with. ‘Your turn, Evan.'

‘Right.' Oliver picked up a cinnamon roll. ‘Even if you're convinced this ghost and other spirit stuff is garbage you have to tell it like it is.'

‘OK, here goes. Even if I thought it was I wouldn't think you or Sarah nuts. Thousands – millions, probably – believe in ghosts. I heard on TV recently that statistics of those who do, gathered from a survey of the United States' population, was surprisingly high. I don't remember the percentage. That said, leaving Sarah out of it,' he smiled at her, ‘I still think you may have projected the entity of Nat Cully. His looking like you, if a little older, would make for a safe connection. And being thrust into an alien environment you need a friend. It's quite common for younger kids to have imaginary ones. I wouldn't think enlightened parents wig out about that. What induces a five-year-old to create a Fred or Harry has been delayed in your case.'

‘Right.' Oliver had finished the cinnamon roll, which seemed to Sarah to be a very good sign.

‘What I absolutely don't believe is that you're seriously disturbed. If you were you wouldn't have conjured up a perfectly nice boy sitting reading a book. You're not being tortured by the dark visions and voices that urge their sufferers, often on the grounds that it's God's will to hurt – even kill themselves – or others. Now, time for me to own up to my own suspected brush with the unseen, which as in your cases could have been entirely my imagination. In my line of work I can't disclaim having a vivid one, can I? But I can't remember experiencing any similar before.' Evan got up to refill his coffee cup, continuing with his back turned. ‘Count me in, Sarah, on that business of the letter to Nan Fielding.'

Neither she nor Oliver interrupted. It wasn't the moment. But he continued as if one of them had spoken. ‘No, I didn't feel any special prompting to write it. We'd corresponded by snail mail over the years after getting back in touch. She hadn't a computer and didn't like talking on the phone. Only had one for emergencies. During the time she taught at my high school a man broke into her house and brutally attacked her.'

Sarah and Oliver both exclaimed in distress.

‘The talk pointed to some guy who'd been pursuing her big time; she called a halt and he was waiting when she came in one night. Looking back I can see she was good-looking, somewhat in Gwen's style. The experience sent her into a withdrawal from which she never recovered. Life, personality, can make some of us more vulnerable than others. There were always lags in our correspondence, so I thought nothing of it when she didn't get back to me in a couple of months, certainly no unsettling premonition that she'd died or even might be ill.' He was still turned away, for some unknown reason realigning the coffeepot. Sarah had never seen any signs of obsessive compulsion before. If anything he was inclined to be untidy, which – instead of checking off as an unwelcome trait – she had put in the endearing column. ‘What “happened,”' he put it in quotes, ‘was when I returned from the book tour and found your letter waiting among a bunch of mainly junk mail. The moment I picked it up I had this feeling that it was a life-changing moment. Regrets to the prosecution, it came before I'd even glanced at the writing or return address. Afterwards, I didn't bother trying to find your phone number; I knew I had to come down to Sea Glass the next day. Let's not even bother throwing in the three of us showing up at the same time on the common at a crisis moment. No arguments if they're coming. That has to go into the chance category.'

‘Wow!' said Oliver. ‘This is getting way cool.'

‘What has to be put into evidence in defense of imagination is that in returning from my travels late in the evening I was tired to the extent of being in something of a fog.' Evan finally returned to the table with his mug. Sarah had the feeling he'd have preferred to restrict his glance to Oliver, making clear he believed the opportunity to become a healthy male influence in the life of a boy, who already lacked a father and was likely to soon lose his beloved grandpa, was the foreshadowed life-changing moment. And for her it had to be the only one that mattered.