16 Lighthouse Road

Page 8

“Yes?” she asked stiffly.
“I thought you should know Ian’s going to sea. He’s been transferred to the George Washington”
That didn’t make sense to her. The George Washington was an aircraft carrier. Ian was a submariner, a nuclear electronic technician. “He’ll be away six weeks?” she asked numbly, not understanding the transfer.
“More like six months.”
Six months? “Oh.”
“That’s why he came by tonight. He wanted you to know.”
Cecilia wasn’t sure what to say.
“He didn’t mean to cause any trouble.”
Cecilia swallowed hard. “He didn’t…not really.”
Andrew peered over his shoulder as if he’d heard someone call his name. “I’ve got to go. I just wanted to tell you I’m real sorry about your little girl.”
“Th-thank you,” she managed to say. But he was already gone. She waited a few moments and decided her peace of mind was worth more than her pride. She had to be sure Ian wasn’t driving. Hurrying outside, she stood on the sidewalk, searching for her husband’s car. He was nowhere to be seen.
A sense of loss filled her, an emptiness. Ian was going to sea for six months and she hated the thought of it. She didn’t want to feel anything for him, but she did. At any rate, she told herself wryly, he had his wish—with Ian at sea, she couldn’t proceed with the divorce.
Tired and discouraged, Cecilia strolled toward her own ramshackle car, shoulders hunched against the cold. She could smell the ocean tonight, and a lowlying fog was rolling in from the cove. A car drove slowly past. Looking up, Cecilia saw that it was Ian’s. Thankfully, Andrew was behind the wheel. As she watched, her husband’s gaze connected with hers.
Cecilia was shocked by the longing she saw in him. It was all she could do to keep herself from calling out. She yearned to wish Ian a safe voyage and see him off without this animosity between them.
But it was too late. Much too late.
Charlotte Jefferson wore her finest dress—Navy dotted Swiss, with long sleeves and a full skirt—on her next visit to Tom Harding at the Cedar Cove Convalescent Center. She’d worked feverishly knitting the lap robe for him, and it showed excellent workmanship, even if she said so herself.
Tom was sitting in his wheelchair when she breezed into the room. “I told you I’d be back,” she said, smiling warmly, the newspaper tucked under one arm. Her new friend looked well. There was color in his cheeks and his eyes were clear and bright.
Tom nodded, obviously pleased to see her. His right hand pointed shakily to the empty chair.
“Thank you,” she said, sinking gratefully onto the seat. “I don’t usually dress up in my best except on Sundays, but I just came from the funeral of a friend of my husband’s.”
Tom stared at her blankly.
“We were friends with the Iversons for years,” she said. “He was a good man. Died of lung cancer. Used to smoke like a chimney.” She shook her head sadly, then crossed her legs and removed her left shoe. “I was on my feet most of the afternoon,” she explained. “I’m not as young as I used to be, and Lloyd Iverson’s death really shook me.” Sighing, she looked over at him. “How was your week?”
Tom shrugged.
“Are they treating you well?”
He nodded as if to say he had no complaints.
“How about the food?”
Another shrug.
“Speaking of food,” she said, brightening. “I got the most fabulous recipe for broccoli lasagna at the wake. I just love it when I find a good recipe. Last month we buried Marion Parsons, and a lady from her church brought the most incredible noodle salad made with—and this is the kicker—whipped cream. Spaghetti noodles with a marshmallow and cream dressing. It was out of this world.” It suddenly occurred to her that Tom might not be interested in hearing about the recipe exchange that went on at wakes.
“I’m glad to hear you like it here in Cedar Cove.”
He nodded again.
“I think I’ll make up a batch of that broccoli lasagna and take half of it over to my daughter. She lives alone now, and I just don’t think she eats enough vegetables. It doesn’t matter that she’s fifty-two, she’s still my little girl and I worry about her.”
Tom smiled faintly.
“Would you like me to bring you a piece, too?”
Grinning, Tom shook his head.
“You don’t like broccoli, is that it? You and George Bush. Not George W. I don’t know if he likes broccoli or not.”
Once more Tom shook his head.
“Broccoli’s good for the bowels. Now, that’s something we both need to think about, especially at our age.” She laughed outright, wondering how Olivia would react if she could hear her now.
Shuffling his right foot, Tom laboriously rolled the wheelchair over to his nightstand.
“You want me to get something for you?” she asked.
His white head bobbed.
“It’s inside the drawer here?” she asked.
His brown eyes were intense, and he indicated that she’d guessed right.
Charlotte eased open the drawer and found a pen, pad and a small coin purse that closed with a zipper. Years earlier, Clyde had carried a similar one. Thinking Tom might want her to write something down, she took out the pen and paper.
He frowned and shook his head.
She reached for the coin purse, instead, and glanced at him again.
Tom smiled and nodded.
“Do you want me to open it?” She realized that he must and carefully unzipped the small leather pouch. Inside was a folded yellow sheet of paper, which she removed. She set aside the coin holder and realized there was something enclosed in the paper. A key.
“What’s this?” she asked, openly curious now.
Tom sat back; he seemed to be waiting for her to discover the answer on her own.
Charlotte unfolded the single sheet of paper and saw that it was a receipt for a storage unit right here in Cedar Cove. How he’d arranged that, she couldn’t guess. She’d have to ask Janet Lester.
Uncertain what she was supposed to do with the key, Charlotte looked questioningly at Tom. “Everything seems to be in order,” she assured him, returning the key and the receipt to the pouch. She was about to place it in the drawer when he stopped her, leaning forward and clasping her forearm with his right hand.
His eyes pleaded with her.
“You don’t want me to put it back here?” she asked.
He shook his head, breathing hard from his exertion.
“What would you like me to do with it?”
He looked directly at her purse, which rested on the floor next to her large knitting bag.
“Take it with me?”
He nodded.
“Wouldn’t you rather I gave it to someone in the office?” Surely that would be more appropriate than for Charlotte to keep it.
He shook his head, his expression adamant.
“All right, but I feel I should tell Janet about this.”
He shrugged.
“Don’t worry, your key’s in good hands. I’ll make sure nothing happens to it.” She slipped the pouch inside her purse, then reached for her knitting bag. “I made you a lap robe. You need something to keep your legs warm. There’s a chill in the air these January mornings, isn’t there?” She settled the robe over his legs and stepped back to admire it.
Tom smiled, and made a shaky gesture to show his appreciation.
“You’re most welcome,” she said.
Tom’s eyes closed briefly and she understood that he was tired. It was time to go. “I’ll be back next Thursday,” she said, gathering her bags.
He gave a slight nod.
“Don’t you fret about a single thing. Oh, and I’ll bring you a slice of that lasagna.”
He grinned and shook his head.
“All right, I’ll spare you.” Tom was probably on a special diet, anyway. “I promise to take good care of this key for you.”
He sighed and patted the lap robe.
“The pleasure was all mine. Goodbye until next week.”
She left his room more quietly than she’d entered it, and immediately sought out the social worker. She didn’t want to take the key without letting someone know.
Janet was in her office, talking on the phone. When she saw Charlotte, she motioned her in and ended the conversation a minute later.
“Hello, Charlotte, what can I do for you?”
She explained about Tom Harding and the key.
Janet rolled her chair over to the filing cabinet and opened the top drawer. Extracting a file, she laid it on her desk. While she read through the file, Charlotte took a second look at the receipt for the storage unit. She saw that it was a renewal, which had been paid by the state—paid in full for the entire year. Apparently Tom had run out of funds for his care and become a ward of the state. What assets he owned were being stored in the unit and would be sold at the time of his death.
Janet continued to scan the file. “Unfortunately the information I have here is the bare minimum. Tom suffered a stroke five years ago, but there’s nothing about any family—and next to nothing about his background.”
“He seemed to want me to keep the key,” Charlotte said, unsure what she should do.
“Then I think you should. I know you have it, and so does Tom.”
“All right, I will.” That settled, Charlotte stood. “He’s a lovely man.”
“Yes, he is, but just a little mysterious.”
Charlotte had to agree and she admitted to being intrigued.
Grace Sherman grabbed a carton of milk and placed it in her grocery cart, then headed for the checkout stand. As she wheeled toward the front of the store, she decided to take a short detour and look over the paperback display. Books were her passion—books of all kinds, from classic fiction to mysteries and romances, from bestseller titles to biographies and history and…almost everything. That was why she’d gone into library work. She loved to read and often read late into the night. Her daughters shared her delight in books, although Dan had never been much of a reader.
As Grace reached the front of the store, she noticed that the lineups were long. She chose one, then got the current copy of People magazine and flipped through that while she waited. The truth came to her as she approached the cashier—she dreaded going home.
The realization left her breathless. They were low on milk, but it certainly hadn’t been necessary to make a special trip. She could easily have waited a day or two. Since she was here anyway, she’d thrown several packets of pasta into her cart, plus toilet paper and a couple of yogurts…as though to justify being to the supermarket at all. In fact, she’d been delaying the inevitable.
Dan had been in such a bleak mood lately. There seemed to be problems at work, but that was only a guess because her husband refused to talk to her about anything beyond the mundane. Any other inquiries were met with one-word replies. Television was vastly more interesting than sharing any part of himself with her.
Grace wanted to discover what was wrong, but he snapped at her whenever she tried. Every night it was the same. Walking into the house after work was like standing in an electrical storm; she never knew when lightning might strike. Because Dan was uncommunicative and morose, she chatted endlessly about this thing and that, in an effort to lighten his mood—and to forestall his outbursts of anger. They always came without warning.