There are moments in life when we're each faced with a decision. Sometimes we don't realize the full consequence of that decision until many years later. I should have told my story years ago, but I was too afraid. I am hoping you will have the courage that I did not have.
If you can spare a few days of your time, please come to San Francisco and speak to us. We will be forever in your debt.
Yours sincerely,
Molly Harper
Olivia set the paper down and stared out at the ocean, wondering why Molly's words always seemed to send a shiver down her spine. Certain phrases jumped out of the letter: We did something that was pretty shocking and amazing. Sometimes I can hardly believe what we accomplished without getting caught. What on earth had the women done?
And there was something about the way Molly said we need you, Miss Bennett that made her wonder again just how Molly had found her in the first place.
Molly had referenced her work, but she was only listed in the acknowledgments of Philip's book as someone who had helped Philip with his research, so why hadn't Molly written to Philip or another well-known writer? Why her?
The question ran around in her mind, but she wasn't going to find the answer sitting in her rental car. She was here. She might as well go inside and hear what the women had to say.
When she entered the senior center a few minutes later, she was both surprised and happy to see the brightly colored lobby. She hadn't known what to expect, but this was not some dreary, dismal old folks home, at least the lobby wasn't. There was no one at the reception desk, so she moved to the double doors on her left, seeing balloons and streamers.
She paused in the doorway, noting a buffet table in the corner that was laden with an enormous punch bowl as well as a large cake, platters of finger sandwiches and bowls of chips. An enormous sign covered one wall with the words: Happy Birthday Eleanor.
The large airy room with lots of windows was warm and inviting. There were several card tables in one area and then four large couches around a circular coffee table at the far end of the room. There were a half dozen people sitting on the couches, two men and four women, all of whom appeared to be in their seventies or eighties. At the center of attention was a pretty white-haired, blue-eyed woman wearing a bright red dress with a pair of matching red heels. She laughed at something someone said, and the whole room seemed to follow her lead.
The man sitting next to her had black hair peppered with gray, light blue eyes and a ruddy, weathered complexion. He was dressed far more conservatively in black slacks and a gray tweed sports coat over a white shirt. His handsome features would have made him quite the attractive man in his day, Olivia thought. He had his hand on the woman's thigh in a loving, somewhat protective gesture. He obviously cared a great deal about her.
She was about to go over and introduce herself to the group when a woman came up next to her.
"You must be Miss Bennett," she said. "I'm Nancy Palmer."
The tall, middle-aged, dark-haired woman was the one she'd spoken to on the phone the day before.
"It's nice to meet you," Olivia said.
"You, too." Nancy gave her an approving smile. "I am so glad you decided to come. Molly and the other women have been talking about your possible visit for weeks."
"It took a while for Molly's letter to reach me."
"She wasn't sure it ever would, but somehow it did. She called it a little miracle."
"I don't know if I'd call it a miracle." Again she was somewhat baffled by the intensity of Molly's desire to bring her to the senior center. "Do you know why she wrote to me? Did she tell you how she got my name?"
"She didn't tell me. Maybe one of her friends knows." Nancy paused, her smile fading. "I really wish Molly could be here today. She was so looking forward to meeting you, and of course she wouldn't have wanted to miss Eleanor's party. The two of them have been best friends for a very long time."
"How is Mrs. Harper? Has there been any change in her condition?" Olivia asked.
"Unfortunately, no, but I'm not giving up hope, and I know Molly's friends are praying for her every day. This group of women has been coming here for the last ten years. This center has become their second home, and they pretty much keep it going with their own private donations. They feel it's important to have a place for seniors to go and be with their friends and have some fun. These ladies have about twenty-five years on me, but sometimes I think they have more energy than I do."
Olivia smiled. "That's pretty cool."
"It is. You're going to enjoy getting to know them, although there are some very strong personalities in the group."
"Molly specifically mentioned Eleanor Callaway, and I know this party is for her. Can you point her out to me? Or should I just assume that she's the sparkling blonde in the middle of the group?"
"That would be an excellent guess," Nancy said with a smile. "Her husband Patrick is next to her. He rarely spends time here. He usually just drops Eleanor off and picks her up a few hours later. It's the one place he can leave her where he knows we'll take good care of her. Eleanor suffers from Alzheimer's."
"Really?" Olivia asked in surprise. "She seems so normal, so healthy."
"She has good days and bad days. Today is a good one, thankfully. The rest of her family will be arriving shortly; they're quite a large group. Eleanor has five children, at least twenty-five grandchildren and several great-grandchildren. She and Patrick have created quite a legacy—and not just with their family. The Callaways are very well known here in the city. Many of them are San Francisco firefighters. At one time Patrick was running the whole department. Of course, he's been retired for some time now. Shall I introduce you?"
Before she could reply, a young woman interrupted their conversation, asking for Nancy's assistance in the kitchen.
"I'm sorry," Nancy apologized. "I'll be right back."
"It's fine. I'll introduce myself." She was used to talking to people. She'd conducted most of the interviews for Philip's books, so she knew how to get people to open up, even if they didn't want to. But Molly had led her to believe that this group wanted very much to talk to her, so she wasn't anticipating any problems.
She was wrong, she realized five minutes later. While Eleanor had squealed with delight after she'd introduced herself, and the other ladies had all perked up in anticipation of their conversation, Patrick Callaway had given her a steely glare that was more than a little intimidating. He hadn't said anything yet, but she could see the storm brewing in his eyes.
"Sit down, Miss Bennett," Eleanor said. She turned to her husband. "Why don't you let Miss Bennett take your seat? Didn't you want to call your niece before it got too late on the East Coast?"
Patrick frowned, then reluctantly stood up. "Yes," he said. "I do need to make that call."
"Sit next to me," Eleanor said to Olivia, patting the now vacant seat beside her. "I can hardly believe you're here."
"Why are you here, Miss Bennett?" Patrick asked. Despite his previous comment that he needed to make a call, he hadn't gone very far.
"Didn't I tell you?" Eleanor asked her husband, a puzzled look coming into her eyes. "I swore I did. Miss Bennett is going to write a book about the old theater group." She looked back at Olivia with a warm smile. "Molly was tickled pink when you said you'd come." Her gaze turned sad. "I wish she was here to meet you."
"So do I. She didn't tell me much, but she said you all had a story to tell, and that I would want to hear it."
"We have lots of stories," Eleanor said.
"You're not doing this today," Patrick interjected, making his words a statement rather than a question. "It's your birthday. The family will be here soon. Today is a day for celebration."
"Well, we have a few minutes, I think." Eleanor turned back to Olivia. "Where should we start?"
"Why don't you tell me about the theater group?" She focused on Eleanor, happy when Patrick finally moved away. She didn't know why he seemed so angry or cold, but he was defin
itely not happy about her presence here. She couldn't help wondering if he was one of the men Molly had referred to in her letter—one of the men who preferred to speak for his wife, rather than let her speak for herself.
"We were part of the Center Stage Community Theater Group," Eleanor said. We started it in 1975, and it ran for six very successful years. Let me introduce you to the gang." She waved her hand toward the only other man in the room. "Tom Kennedy. He used to build our sets. His late wife, Marjorie, was one of our most popular actresses."
Olivia nodded to Tom, a skinny, balding man whose appearance was brightened by the bold colors of his red and yellow Hawaiian shirt. He gave her a smile and said, "These broads were something else back in the day."
"Tom, no one uses that word anymore," the woman next to him complained. She was a curvy redhead with dark brown eyes and a saucy expression that told Olivia she wasn't that displeased by being called a broad. "I'm Ginnie Culpepper. I was the makeup artist for the group," she explained.
No wonder Ginnie Culpepper looked ten years younger than everyone else. She obviously had a sly hand with cosmetics.
"This is Constance Baker," Ginnie added, putting her arm around the shoulders of the thin, quiet woman by her side.
Constance had brown hair with wide streaks of gray and a pair of glasses perched on her nose.
"Tell her what you did," Ginnie encouraged.
"I sold tickets and made up the programs and flyers," Constance said. "I was behind the scenes. Eleanor and Marjorie had all those lines to learn every month. They were always in the starring roles. I never knew how they did it. And Eleanor, with all her kids, had a lot on her plate."
"What about Molly?"
"Molly made the costumes," Eleanor said. "She was a wizard with a needle and thread. She could turn scraps of material into a ball gown."
"That's cool. How did you all meet?"
"Molly and Ginnie and I were friends from the neighborhood," Eleanor said. "Constance and Marjorie and some of the others in our group we met either through school—many of us had children the same age—or through friends of friends. I think at one time we had almost forty people working in the theater. It was a wonderful time," Eleanor said.
"Why did it end?"
Eleanor's mouth curved down into a frown. "There was a fire at the theater. The stage was destroyed. We wanted to try to set up somewhere else, but we couldn't make it happen."
"It was sad," Constance said. "There were a lot of tears the day we realized it was over. Not just for the theater, but because we wouldn't be able to use the money anymore, and that was the worst part."
"What do you mean?" Olivia asked. "What were you using the money for?"
"Oh. Well…" Constance looked at Olivia as if she'd just spilled some big secret and now didn't know what to say.
Her guilty look made Olivia sit up a little straighter. Now she was getting to something. "Molly's letter said that the theater group accomplished something shocking and amazing. Anyone care to explain what she meant?"
"We raised money for a charity," Eleanor said, drawing Olivia's attention back to her. "We were able to help some people who needed it."
"That's very generous," she said, still feeling like she was missing something. There was something sizzling in the air now, unspoken words, long held secrets perhaps…or was her imagination just getting carried away?
"That's enough," Patrick interrupted, as he returned to the group. "It's Ellie's birthday today. You can all talk about the past later. The family has arrived."
Olivia looked up as a large group of people came into the room, many of them carrying birthday presents.
"We'll talk again, dear," Eleanor said, patting her arm. "You're going to stay in town for a while, aren't you?"
"I'm not sure," she said, frustrated that their conversation was ending just as it was getting interesting.
"You have to stay at least a few more days," Eleanor said, some urgency in her tone. "Molly wanted you to know her story. And I wish I could talk to you more today, but we're having a party. Can you come back here tomorrow?"
"All right. I can do that."
Eleanor smiled. "Good. And hopefully in the next few days Molly will wake up and be able to speak to you herself."
"That would be nice."
Olivia got to her feet as Eleanor's family swarmed around the seating area, all eager to give Eleanor a kiss, a hug, and wish her a happy birthday.
As she moved away from the couch, she found Patrick Callaway walking along with her. He followed her into the lobby.
"Miss Bennett?"
She stopped and looked at him, sure she was not going to like what he was about to say. "Yes?" she asked warily.
"You need to leave my wife alone."
She was startled by his blunt statement, but in her research assignments for Philip, she'd often run into reluctant subjects, and she didn't back down just because someone wanted her to. "Your wife wanted me to come and talk to her. She and her friend Molly invited me here." It wasn't completely true. The letter had come from Molly, but as evidenced by Eleanor's recent plea, Eleanor also wanted her here.
"Molly is dying. You can't talk to her, and I'd prefer it if you didn't speak to Eleanor. My wife is ill. She may not have appeared that way today, but she has lapses in memory. Sometimes she has no idea who she is or who anyone else is. She gets extremely upset when she can't remember something."
Olivia didn't really know what to say. She certainly hadn't seen that side of Eleanor in the past half hour.
"I don't want to waste the good moments Eleanor has left talking about ancient history," Patrick continued. "I want her to stay in the present, to enjoy the life she has now."
She supposed she could understand that, but she sensed there was something more behind his concern than just what he'd stated. "It's really up to your wife," she said.
"It's not up to her. I am in charge of my wife's health, because she can no longer take care of herself." He paused as an attractive blonde woman motioned for him to come back to the lounge.
"Grandpa, we're going to take a picture," the woman said.
"I'll be right there, Shayla," Patrick said, then he turned back to her. "I hope I've made myself clear, Miss Bennett."
"Very clear," she said, watching him return to the party. She knew what he wanted, but what he wanted wasn't her priority; it was what the women wanted. She'd come to hear them speak, to write down their stories, and until one of the women sent her packing, she was going to stick around for a while.
"Miss Bennett, there you are," Nancy said, approaching her with a cardboard box in her arms. "I'm glad you didn't leave yet. I have something for you."
She handed the box to Olivia, and it was surprisingly heavy. "What is all this?"
Molly was putting some things together to give to you when you arrived. "I'm not really sure what's in there, but I know she wanted you to look through the items."
"I will." She hoped there might be something in the box that would tell her why she was here. "I'll bring this back to you tomorrow. Eleanor told me to come back then."
Nancy smiled, relief in her eyes. "That's perfect. Eleanor and the others usually arrive around noon. They have lunch and play Bridge until they get tired."
"I'll come around lunch time. I'm staying at the Union Street Inn. If anything changes with the women or with Molly's condition, I'd appreciate it if you'd let me know. I think you have my cell number."
"Yes, and I'd be happy to give you a call."
"Thank you." She paused. "Eleanor's husband doesn't seem eager for me to speak with her. He doesn't want me to agitate her in some way. Is he being overly protective? Or should I be more careful when I'm talking to her?"
"Patrick Callaway adores his wife. Since she was diagnosed with Alzheimer's, he's become very protective of her. In some ways, he isolates her, and I'm not sure that's a good thing. I know Molly was worried about it, too. But I can't criticize, because I have seen Eleanor when she
is having a very bad day. She gets confused and frightened, and it's really unsettling to witness. So, yes, I would tread carefully, but I would also understand that Patrick is simply trying to watch out for his wife."
"Of course. Thanks for helping me to understand. I don't want to do anything to upset Eleanor, but if she wants to speak, I want to listen to what she has to say."
"Good," Nancy said. "That's why they wanted you to come here."
"And you really don't know why they picked me?" she asked again.
"I'm sorry, I don't. Someone must have heard you were a really good writer."
She really wished she knew who that someone was.
As Nancy went to join the party, Olivia headed to the door, eager to take a look through the box Molly had left for her. She could see several bound notebooks through the slit in the cardboard. Had Molly left her journals? Or maybe they were photo albums.
She was so caught up in thinking about what possible treasures might be inside that she barreled through the front door without looking where she was going and ran straight into a very solid male chest. The collision brought forth a grunt of pain from the man she'd just knocked back a foot, and she couldn't help the gasp that escaped her lips when the box went flying out of her hands, bouncing off the man's hand and onto the ground.
"Sorry," she said immediately, stepping backward.
"You should be," he muttered, wincing with pain as he grabbed two fingers that were taped together on his left hand.
She hadn't hit him that hard, but she suddenly realized that the box had hit his hand, and he obviously already had an injury. "I am really sorry. Are you okay? Can I get you something?"
"It's fine," he grumbled. "I think the box got the worst of it."
"I wasn't looking where I was going."
"I wasn't, either," he admitted, leaning over to grab his phone off the ground. "I was checking a text."
She appreciated his candor, and now that he wasn't wincing she could see how attractive he was. His brown hair was thick and wavy, his eyes a deep blue that matched the color of the nearby sea. He had strong features with a defined jaw and chin, and she could see the same muscled definition in his body as a thin t-shirt clung to his broad chest and faded jeans hugged his hips.
When Shadows Fall (Callaways #7) Page 3