Tangled Roots

by Marcia Talley

  Quoting Gilbert and Sullivan, I thought, smiling to myself, was a refreshing change from slinging Bible verses about like weapons.

  I had opened my mouth to ask Sean what in blue blazes his project was about when, correctly reading the puzzlement on my face, he clarified, ‘Urban planning. We’re looking for cures for Parkageddon.’

  ‘Ah,’ I said, trying to sound wise.

  ‘We’re not quite finished here,’ Sean said, reaching for his cell phone and tapping it to life. ‘The cops isolated a frame from the videotape, enhanced it and made a still. They gave the still to our attorney, but she let me take a photo of it after we got into the cab.’ He hopped off his bar stool, walked around to our side of the counter and set his cell phone down between his mother and me.

  I stared at the image on the screen. My nephew, Sean Cardinale, stared right back.

  Next to me Georgina gasped and grabbed my arm. ‘No way!’

  I leaned closer, squinting at the tiny screen.

  Like looking in a mirror, Sean had said earlier, and yet … I flicked my fingers to enlarge the image. ‘This isn’t Sean,’ I said, trying to keep my voice calm. ‘Take a look.’ I circled my hand in the air until I had everyone’s undivided attention. ‘Sean parts his hair on the left. This guy, whoever he is, parts his hair on the right.’

  ‘Maybe the image’s reversed?’ Georgina suggested.

  ‘Nope,’ I said. ‘The numbers painted on the garbage bins are right way round.’

  ‘It’s not Sean!’ Georgina whooped.

  ‘No, it’s not.’

  ‘Then who the hell is it?’

  ‘That’s a very good question.’ I looked up at Sean. ‘I think you better call Ms Foster, don’t you?’

  ‘They say everyone has a doppelgänger,’ Dylan mused. ‘Someone who looks exactly like you, down to that annoying mole you’ve been meaning to have removed.’

  ‘Story of my life,’ Sean snorted.

  ‘I didn’t mean twins, obviously,’ his brother said.

  ‘Time out, boys,’ I said. ‘One of you call Sydney Foster now. Let her know what we’ve discovered about the guy in this picture. In the meantime, keep looking. I think Lacey will be easier to find than doppelgängers.’

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Several days later, I met Georgina for lunch at Atwater’s Belvedere Square Market, a popular eatery featuring homemade soups and artisanal sandwiches. After picking up our order at a counter inside the sprawling market, we managed to snag one of the sidewalk tables, shaded from the noontime sun by a green and white awning.

  The police had been strangely quiet, and we hadn’t heard anything more from the twins’ attorney, but rather than feeling relieved, our nerves were humming with unresolved tension.

  ‘I think we need some time away. Just us sisters. You, me and Ruth,’ I said after we sat down, emphasizing my point with a spoon of corn chowder.

  Georgina harrumphed. ‘Remember how well our last sister trip turned out?’

  ‘All the more reason to try again,’ I said.

  Georgina nibbled on her avocado toast, apparently mulling it over.

  ‘How long has it been since you visited our place on the Eastern Shore?’ I asked.

  Four years previously, Paul and I had purchased a fixer-upper on Chiconnesick Creek near Elizabethtown, Maryland. We’d repaired, renovated and laid its ghosts to rest and now spent almost every summer weekend enjoying our cottage retreat.

  Georgina sipped her chai latte. ‘Honestly, Hannah, I can’t remember. A year ago maybe?’

  ‘I rest my case,’ I said, sliding the soup bowl aside and reaching for my grilled ham muffaletta. ‘Ruth cleared her schedule for this coming weekend. Say you can, too.’

  ‘I thought you and Ruth were going to tackle Dad’s storage unit this weekend.’

  ‘We were, but Dennis called and needed his truck so we had to postpone. It’s not like there’s any rush. Nobody’s touched anything in there for years.’

  ‘You’ll probably run up against rust, mold and mildew,’ she grumbled.

  ‘Climate controlled,’ I told her. ‘Stop changing the subject. Are you coming or not?’

  Her brow furrowed. ‘Gosh, Hannah … I don’t know. What about the kids?’

  ‘What about them? The twins are in school, Julie’s filling out job applications …’

  ‘Aren’t you forgetting about Colin?’ she cut in.

  ‘Colin can stay with Emily. I’ve already checked with her. A little cousin time with Timmy will be fun for both of them.’

  She still looked skeptical. ‘Ganging up on me again, are you?’

  I confessed that we were. ‘The older kids are grownups, Georgina. And they won’t even have to cook. You have more casseroles than they could eat in a month of Sundays. I know, because I stowed them in your freezer. Thaw and bake. Easy peasey.’

  She dredged up a smile from somewhere. ‘OK, Hannah, you’ve talked me into it.’

  ‘Great!’ I said. ‘So, here’s the plan. If we’re going to avoid weekend traffic on the Bay Bridge, you’ll need to bring Colin down to Emily’s early on Friday morning.’

  ‘Wait a minute!’ she said. ‘He’s got school!’

  ‘Missing a day or two of fifth grade will not screw up Colin’s chances of getting into Harvard, Georgina.’

  She laughed, the first genuine laugh I’d heard from her since before Scott’s death. ‘OK, you win!’ And she tucked into her lunch with enthusiasm. Both the laugh and the appetite were promising signs my sister was coming back from the dark place where she’d been living lately.

  Mid-afternoon on Friday, after a provisioning trip to Harris Teeter outside Easton, Ruth, Georgina and I arrived at the cottage we’d named Our Time. I’d phoned ahead to give Laurie, our caretaker, a head’s up. She’d put out clean towels, made up the beds with fresh linen and opened the windows to the balmy, late summer breeze. When we arrived, Laurie’s husband, Rusty, had just finished cleaning the barbeque grill. He greeted us with a breezy, ‘Have a great weekend, ladies,’ tossed his tools into a compartment on the back of his Harley and took off in a shower of gravel.

  After stowing the groceries, I kicked off my shoes and padded barefoot out onto the deck that overlooked the creek. A great blue heron posed at the end of our dock as flocks of geese honked noisily overhead. ‘Ah, that’s what I’m talking about,’ I said.

  Georgina came up behind me, carrying a tall glass of iced tea. ‘Thanks for talking me into this, Hannah.’ She settled into a deck chair, turned her face toward the afternoon sun and closed her eyes.

  ‘What room do you want me to take?’ Ruth shouted from an upstairs window.

  ‘Either one,’ I yelled.

  ‘I have dibs on the yellow room,’ Georgina shouted back without even opening her eyes.

  I would be sleeping in the master suite I usually shared with Paul in a wing addition just off the living room.

  After cheeseburgers on the grill, we relaxed in chairs on the deck listening to the keening of the frogs. Ruth unearthed a second bottle of Oyster Bay merlot which paired perfectly with the dark chocolate-covered caramels I’d picked up at Trader Joes. I’d been hiding them from myself in the cottage pantry.

  ‘When it comes to religion and politics,’ Georgina said, breaking the companionable silence, ‘I have nothing in common with Church of the Falls people, but they couldn’t have been kinder to me and the kids after Scott died.’

  ‘“Freely you have received, freely give”,’ Ruth quoted. ‘Book of Matthew, I believe.’

  Georgina smiled. ‘Scott would know. He could quote chapter and verse.’ After a moment she added, ‘The Johnsons sent a beautiful peace lily in a pot and the nicest handwritten note.’

  ‘The Johnsons?’ Ruth asked.

  ‘Our Native American cousins,’ Georgina reminded her. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t get to meet them.’

  This was a welcome, one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turnaround from her previous attitude.

  ‘I’m k
icking myself, too,’ Ruth said, ‘but at least I have an excuse. I was out of the country. Have they gone back to South Dakota, then, Hannah?’

  ‘They’ve been home for a couple of weeks. Everyone had to get back to work.’

  ‘Do you think they’ll ever come back?’ Georgina asked.

  ‘They hope to,’ I said. ‘But until then, there’s no reason you couldn’t visit them.’

  ‘Julie’s talking about going,’ Georgina said. ‘She’s rather taken with the twins, I gather. Mai and Nick.’

  ‘They’re great kids,’ I told her. ‘Properly brought up.’

  Thinking about the mystery surrounding the death of our common ancestor – Joseph White Bear – I reminded my sisters that I still had the key to our father’s storage unit. ‘I’m looking for a good time to reschedule the work. Ruth, are you still in?’

  Ruth raised a lazy hand.

  ‘Georgina, do you want to help us look through it for clues?’

  Ruth turned her head. ‘Come on, Georgina. Be a sport.’

  ‘I just can’t right now,’ Georgina said. ‘Just about everything sends me off on a crying jag. Looking at old family photos will do me in for sure. Maybe later?’

  ‘Wasula’s a hundred and two,’ I reminded her, ‘so I’m not inclined to dilly-dally.’

  ‘No worries,’ Ruth said. ‘I’m all in. Name the day, and I’ll be there, as long as it’s not Thursday. That’s my yoga day.’

  A buzzer rudely rent the air. I excused myself to transfer a load of sheets from the washing machine to the dryer. When I returned, Ruth was silhouetted by the setting sun, leafing through the Tidewater Times, a purse-sized booklet that included feature articles, tide tables and a monthly calendar of local events sandwiched between ads for local businesses.

  ‘Here’s something I’d like to see,’ Ruth said. ‘It’s an exhibition at the Blue Crab Art Gallery in Elizabethtown.’ She glanced up from the page. ‘Have you ever been there, Hannah?’

  ‘Yes, once. It’s lovely,’ I said. ‘They bought an old pharmacy and converted it.’

  ‘What kind of show?’ Georgina asked lazily.

  ‘It’s called “Arts by the Shore”,’ Ruth said, referring to the booklet. ‘Showcasing over fifty regional artists and craftsmen. Maybe I’ll find some merchandise to sell at the shop.’ She closed the booklet over her thumb, marking the place. ‘How about we have lunch somewhere in town, then check it out?’

  ‘Cool,’ Georgina said, looking more relaxed than I’d seen her since the August we’d spent at Rehoboth Beach shortly before her marriage to Scott. ‘I’m in.’

  My wine glass was halfway to my lips when a silent alarm brought me up short. Scott and Georgina’s wedding had been in early September. They had an anniversary coming up soon. I drained my glass and reached for the wine bottle, thinking Beware: Dangerous Shoals Ahead.

  Around ten o’clock, with dishes done, my sisters having retired for the evening and a last load of sheets and pillowcases tumbling in the dryer, I set about the routine of putting the cottage to bed for the night. As I flipped on the nightlight in the upstairs hallway, I noticed that Georgina’s door was open and her bed hadn’t been slept in. I poked my head in the doorway. ‘Georgina?’

  Her room was empty.

  She wasn’t in the bathroom, either.

  No need to panic, I thought as I hustled downstairs to search for my sister.

  I found her outside, dressed in her nightshirt, sitting at the end of the dock, dangling her bare feet in the water. Moonlight glistened off the tears that streamed down her cheeks.

  ‘Keep that up,’ I said as I settled down next to her, ‘and you’ll raise the water level in the Bay.’

  Georgina swiped tears away with the back of her hand, and then surprised me by laughing.

  Grief affects people in unique and mysterious ways, I’d found. I wrapped my arm around my sister and drew her close. ‘I know you loved him, Georgina.’

  Surprisingly, she began to giggle. ‘But that’s just it, Hannah! Do you want to know why I’m crying? It’s not because I miss Scott, it’s because for the first time in my life I feel truly free!’

  If I had been sitting any closer to the end of the dock, I might have tumbled straight into the water. ‘What?’

  ‘Shocks the hell out of me, too, just saying it out loud.’

  ‘But tears?’ I said.

  ‘Because I feel guilty about it.’ She turned to me, eyes wide. ‘Am I a terrible person?’

  I assured her that she wasn’t.

  ‘You won’t tell anybody, will you?’

  ‘Don’t be silly. Of course not.’ After a moment, I asked, ‘Are you going to be OK, Georgina? Financially, I mean.’

  ‘Scott took good care of us, Hannah. He had a huge life insurance policy and some sort of mortgage insurance that paid off the house. Turns out Scott was worth more to us dead than alive.’ Georgina’s voice quavered. ‘I feel horrible about that.’

  Georgina scissored her legs, splashing water over her calves, sending mini-waves rippling into the creek. ‘Can I share something else?’

  ‘If you think my heart can take it.’

  ‘It’s good news,’ she said. ‘I got an email upstairs just now. In October, I’ll be playing the organ again at All Hallows.’

  ‘I thought you couldn’t stand the warden there, Lionel Streeting?’

  ‘It’s not nice to say, but Lionel had a stroke and had to retire, thank God. The new church warden is a woman, someone I know from before, in fact. She sought me out when their organist moved to Seattle. I’d told her no at first, but after Scott …’ She let the thought die.

  ‘That’s fabulous, Georgina,’ I said, meaning it.

  ‘It is, isn’t it?’ Another tear slid down her cheek. ‘I’m so happy.’

  I bumped her arm with my elbow. ‘Little Sister, you are hopeless.’

  TWENTY-NINE

  The next morning, I awoke early. I poured myself a mug of coffee, stirred in sugar and a splash of half and half and carried it out to the end of the dock to watch the sun rise.

  Ruth and Georgina slept in. When the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee didn’t lure my sisters downstairs, I tried the nuclear option: frying bacon. Twenty minutes later, still dressed in our nightshirts, we were enjoying breakfast on the deck and planning our day.

  At ten thirty, casually dressed in jeans, T-shirts and sensible walking shoes, we piled into the Volvo. With grass swish-swishing under the car, I drove cautiously down the rutted track that led from the cottage to the main road. Five miles of corn and soybean fields later, we reached civilization – the colonial town of Elizabethtown.

  Carefully avoiding jaywalking Saturday shoppers, I steered the car down High Street, through the town’s single traffic light where High intersected with King and parked on the town square between the war memorial and the gaily-painted bandstand. Retracing our route down High Street on foot, we found the Blue Crab Gallery where I was pleased to note that the new owners, out of respect for the building’s history, had retained the ‘Wm Chase & Son’ spelled in black and white tiles on the sidewalk out front.

  When Ruth pushed the door open, a bell jangled, announcing our arrival. ‘Wow!’ she said as we stepped inside.

  Wow, indeed. For the ‘Arts by the Shore’ event every square inch of floor and wall space had been given over to local artisans.

  To our right, panels of painted silk fabrics undulated like Salome’s veils in the breeze wafting in through the open door, complementing the stained-glass mirrors that Alison Young had on display in an alcove just beyond.

  Ruth, immediately taken by Susan Woythaler’s whimsical blown glass ornaments, stopped to chat with the artist about them. When the discussion turned to consignments and invoicing, Georgina and I drifted away. I deserted Georgina at Deborah Kelchner’s jewelry stall where she decided to purchase a necklace crafted of silver, polished shells and fresh water pearls, but was having a hard time selecting a pair of matching earrings, and refusi
ng to take my advice anyway. Let Deborah deal with Georgina, I thought.

  I was inexorably drawn to a section near the back of the gallery by the torso of a mannequin decked out in a bikini made of vegetables. The area beyond the mannequin had been dedicated to low-brow pop art, including colorful Cinco de Mayo-style skulls painted on a recycled skateboard deck. Two large wooden panels, mounted on the wall, depicted surfer dudes captioned with graffiti-style puff lettering: Amped! Froth! Goofy Foot! My taste in decorating was eclectic, but not so eclectic as to include surfer dudes. I wandered on, past the artist who specialized in dog portraits and the mustachioed gentleman who crafted fish out of wine bottles and twisted metal, heading instead for a separate room marked Fine Photography.

  Yes! This was more my speed. Roger Miller’s vibrant, color photographs of Fourth of July fireworks over the Annapolis skyline, the Chesapeake Bay Bridge at sunset, and the Thomas Point Lighthouse decorated a moveable partition to my right. Black and white photographs by Pete Souza of Naval Academy men and women going about the serious business of being midshipmen hung on a similar partition set at right angles to Miller’s work. The wall to the far left, however, had been dedicated, not to photographs, but to a special long-term exhibit of seven beautifully matted and framed etchings, each signed by the artist, James A. Earl.

  I had never heard of James Earl, but the man was talented, no doubt about that. I was particularly taken by an exquisitely detailed etching of plovers skittering in the surf entitled ‘Can’t Catch Me!’. I noted the price – affordable – and decided it would be perfect for the blank wall over my desk at Our Time, then moved on to the next etching.

  A great blue heron dominated the foreground of ‘Ready for My Closeup’, its every feather meticulously executed. The magnificent bird had a rapt audience of two: a middle-aged couple shared an Adirondack loveseat in the background. For some reason, the couple looked familiar. I stared at the etching for a long moment, then stepped closer, hoping I wouldn’t set off any security alarms. If the couple in the etching hadn’t been holding hands, I would have sworn I was gawking at a portrait of Pastor Robert Thomas Selden and Judee McDaniel. No, don’t be silly, I told myself. You saw them only that one time, at the reception following Scott’s funeral. You’re probably mistaken. I needed to consult an expert.