Hung up. Considered for a second. It was worth a shot. “George Whitaker.”
Her phone started ringing. At four rings she began to plan her message.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Uncle George. It’s Issy.”
“Issy,” he echoed in a tone somewhere between surprise and suspicion. “Working late?”
“I’m on my way to Painter’s Cove.”
“On a Thursday night? Odd time for you to take a vacation, isn’t it?” To his clients he was impeccably suave and persuasive. To his family he was just irritated and dismissive.
“Doing triage.”
“What?”
“Grammy is in the hospital.”
There was a slight pause. “Not dead?”
“No.” Issy picked up on the slight tremor of concern and thought better of her uncle for it.
“I talked to an officer who said she’d fallen, maybe had a slight heart attack. I’ll know more once I get there.”
“I told Wes to make better arrangements for her. She shouldn’t be staying in that house alone.”
“She has Mrs. Norcroft,” Issy said, but she was thinking, Why doesn’t George call Wes “Father or Dad” like a normal person would? Or for that matter, why did Issy and her sister call their own mother Jillian. Like claiming relationship was something to be ashamed of.
“A housekeeper almost as old as Fae and Leo. This is what happens when—”
She cut him off; she’d heard it all before and it was just going to get worse.
“Vivienne has left her children with Grammy.”
“What?”
“I don’t know exactly what happened. Evidently Vivienne left them off with Grammy and no one has been able to get in touch with her.”
Her uncle barked out a laugh. “Well, the fruit doesn’t fall far from the tree does it?”
Issy winced. “I’m on my way there now, but I have to be in D.C. tomorrow. What should I do?”
“Turn around and go back. Wes left Dan Bannister in charge of the estate. Let him handle it.”
“That’s just it. No one seems to know where Dan or Vivienne is.”
A derisive snort from the other end of the call.
“Uncle George, the police are talking about sending the children to social services.”
“Well, there’s your answer. Let them go.” He hung up.
Issy hung up. How many decades would it take for her to get it? This family would never be a “family.” Respected art patrons for generations, the Whitakers had nurtured strangers but couldn’t seem to help themselves.
Fae Whitaker aimed at the dark second-story window, pulled her arm behind her head, and threw as hard as she could. She heard the plink when the pebble hit the glass—a paltry sound—and no light came on.
She hiked up her skirt and grabbed a handful of small rounded rocks. Threw the whole batch, which nearly overturned her and knocked the wreath of flowers from her head. The pebbles made the nice sound of hail hitting glass. A light came on. Not the one she’d been aiming at but another one downstairs.
She snatched the wreath off the ground and shoved it back on her head. She climbed the steps to the porch, where she waited until she heard scuffling behind the door. “Ben Collins,” she hissed. “I need your help.”
The door opened, momentarily blinding her with light. Then she made out the shapes of Ben and his sister, Chloe. Ben looking like young Lochinvar; Chloe’s curly hair, a halo of gold. For a moment Fae could only stare.
“Fae?” he said. Ben’s voice was croaky, like he’d just awakened from a hundred-year sleep.
Chloe moved him aside and took Fae’s arm. “Come in. What’s the matter? What are you doing out so late?”
Fae hadn’t expected to see anyone but Ben. Chloe lived in town. Fae didn’t know why she was here, but she was glad to see her. Ben and Chloe had been best friends with Issy from the day she started kindergarten and had been a constant part of the Whitaker family since. They’d know what to do.
Chloe led her to an old armchair. She sat down and was nearly swallowed up by the sagging cushions. Her headpiece slid down over one eye. She snatched it off and put it on the trunk that served as a coffee table.
Ben was walking slowly toward them, frowning and trying to smooth down his cowlick, a hopeless endeavor. He’d been fighting with that cowlick since he was a boy.
He sat down across from her. He’d managed to shuck on jeans and a T-shirt. Chloe was still dressed in her nightshirt that told the world that girls just wanted to have fun. Girls wanted a lot more than that, and Chloe knew it as well as Fae.
“I saw the ambulance.” Fae watched Ben and Chloe’s faces, waiting to see their reaction, if they knew something they weren’t telling her.
“When?” Ben asked.
Fae looked toward the window and the dark night. “A little before moonrise. About nine o’clock.
“I was coming back from the Renaissance Faire. I meant to take the bus home, but I stayed late at the storytelling because a nice young family offered to drop me off on their way to New Haven. I should have come home earlier like I planned.”
“I’ll make tea,” Chloe said, and slipped away.
Ben slid over to sit next to her. He took her hands. His hands were strong, warm, but rough, an outdoorsman’s hands.
“Fae, tell me about the ambulance.”
“I saw it on the road as we were coming home. We all opened a window and sent a prayer to whoever was inside. They dropped me off at the gates of the Muses and I stopped by to let Leo know I was back. All the lights were on, but she wasn’t home.”
“Maybe she went to visit friends.”
“I called the ones I knew. None of them had seen her.”
Chloe returned with the tea things and placed them next to Fae’s wreath of flowers.
Fae took the wreath back and pulled it down over her hair. She crossed her arms to ward off bad possibilities.
Chloe unfolded an afghan and draped it across her shoulders. Fae smiled at her, but that wasn’t the kind of cold she was feeling.
“She was in the ambulance. I should have flagged it down. Gotten her out. But I didn’t know.” Fae looked from Ben to Chloe. “There is nothing wrong with Leo. She’s strong as a horse—or is that an ox? I never get the two straight.” She took a teacup from Chloe. “I’ve only been gone a week. She shouldn’t have been in that ambulance.”
“Maybe she wasn’t,” Ben said.
Fae watched him stir sugar into his tea. “She was. They have her, she’ll be so upset.”
Ben put his cup down. “You mean she was really in the ambulance?”
“I said she was.” Fae put down her cup and pushed the floral wreath back from her brow. Why did the damn thing keep sliding off?
“I’m sure she’s okay,” Chloe said, looking sympathetic.
They were both looking sympathetic, and thinking poor old crazy Fae. Just humor her. Well, maybe she was crazy, but she didn’t need to be humored. She needed to get Leo home, where she belonged.
“Did you call the hospital?”
“I did.”
“You did?”
“Yes. On the house phone. She’s there.”
“What did they say?”
“They asked me if I was a family member. They could only speak to family members. I said yes. Then they asked me if I was the mother of the children.” Her mind went cloudy for a minute. She looked from Ben to Chloe. “What children?”
Brother and sister exchanged looks.
“Children?” Ben asked.
“Did you ask for details?” Chloe asked.
“I hung up.”
“Why?”
“What children? I don’t know about any children.”
Chloe sat down next to her. So young and sweet. “We don’t know about any children either. There is some reasonable explanation, so don’t you worry. Do you want Ben and me to drive you to the hospital?”
Fae shook her head. “I can’t go there
.”
“Fae, have you maybe smoked a little too much weed tonight?”
“Ben!” Chloe gasped.
Fae dashed away a big fat tear. Shook her head. “I can’t go because . . . Look at me. I’ve been camping out at the Renaissance Faire for a week.”
“I see your point.” Ben agreed.
Fae put down her cup. “I shouldn’t have come.” She started to stand.
“Of course you should have,” Ben said, standing right where she wanted to go. “And I apologize.”
Fae tried to side step him.
“Fae, it’s all right.”
“No, it isn’t. My nephew George has been threatening to have me locked away since I danced at Wes’s funeral last year. George has never appreciated me. Even as a child. He has no sense of humor whatsoever.”
Ben laughed, but Fae knew it was just to make her feel better. “Then he’ll put Leo in a home. It will kill her to be away from Wes.” She hung her head. “It will kill me, too.”
“He would never do such a thing,” Chloe said.
He would and gladly. George Whitaker was a bitter man. But Fae wouldn’t burst Chloe’s bubble. There were few enough happy spirits in the world, and Fae wouldn’t be responsible for making one less. “I can’t go to the hospital, but I have to get Leo out.”
Chloe put her arm around her. “Ben will be glad to drive over to the hospital and find out what’s happening, won’t you, Ben?”
“Absolutely. And how am I to get information when I’m not a family member?”
“You’ll figure out a way. You’ve gone out with your share of nurses. Flirt. Bribe them. Or wheedle and beg. Whatever works. Fae and I will wait here drinking tea and eating some of those lemon curd bars I made yesterday. You’re going to call us as soon as you find out anything, so don’t forget your phone.”
As the door closed behind him, Fae sent him a silent prayer to carry with him. And love to see him through. Even strong, young men sometimes needed a little help from their friends.
Chapter 2
Issy made the drive in record time and only slowed down long enough to get her bearings in the parking lot before she blew through the doors of Coast General Hospital. A wooden information desk curved along the wall of the lobby below recessed lighting that did nothing to enhance the features of the receptionist. Issy stopped to ask for Leonore Whitaker’s room number.
“Third floor, cardiac. But visiting hours are over.”
“They sent for me,” Issy said.
“Oh.” A sympathetic smile. “You go ahead, dear. Take the elevators on the right to the third floor. You can ask for her at the nurses’ station.”
“Thank you.” Issy had stayed relatively calm on the drive from Manhattan, but now her nerves took over. She waited impatiently for the elevator, which seemed to be stuck in the basement, then made the interminable ride to the third floor.
The nurses’ station was just off the elevators; a nurse walked her down the hall to room 317 and held the heavy door for Issy to precede her.
Issy stopped just inside. Her grandmother lay on her back, so still, covered by a sheet and a light hospital blanket. She was tall, thin, with wisps of white hair framing her face. She didn’t look sick or frail, except for the IVs trailing from her arm and the monitors beeping green and red like the controls of a spaceship.
The nurse nudged her into the room.
Issy tiptoed toward the bed. “Grammy?” she said quietly.
“She’s been sedated, so she probably won’t waken while you’re here. It’s nothing to be worried about.”
Issy nodded distractedly.
“The doctor is making his rounds. He should be by shortly. I’ll make sure he speaks with you before he goes. Would you care to visit with her while you wait?”
“Yes, please.”
The nurse left the room and Issy pulled a chair to the bed. She sat down, slipped her hand beneath her grandmother’s and gently closed her fingers around it.
“Grammy? Grammy, can you hear me?”
Leonore Whitaker knew this place. A young girl at the general store had told them about the cove; it was on private property, but there was a footpath to the sea through some artist’s place, called the Muses. They all decided to go. It had been a hot dusty ride from the music festival where they’d hung out for three whole days.
Leonore longed for a bath, but a refreshing swim would do until she got home. If she went home. Her new friends were driving to California, or Colorado, or Canada. Any of those sounded fine to her. But first a refreshing swim.
Just don’t be too loud, the girl told them. They don’t mind people coming there, but you have to be respectful. Of the land and the art.
They parked the van and found the opening to the path, walked single file through trees and bushes past patches of tall beach grasses. Until they came out onto a rocky ledge surrounded by beach roses that grew right down to the water.
It was a secluded place, a stretched-out orb of water with a narrow opening at one end where you could see ocean on the other side.
They were perfectly alone except for the gray patches of slate here and there where roofs appeared like pieces of a collage among the tree leaves.
Her friends didn’t hesitate; they stripped and splashed into the water, but Leonore stood back, just breathing in the salty air.
“Come on, Leonore.”
She stepped out onto a rock that jutted over the water. Pulled her shift up over her head and let it drop to the rough granite. Then she stepped to the edge.
And there he was, half hidden by the trees on the opposite shore. He had something in his hand. A paintbrush. They’d disturbed a painter at his work.
Leonore stretched her arms to the side, lifted her face, then her breasts, to the sky. Felt a tingle of exhilaration and dove into the water.
He was waiting for her on the other side. She broke through the surface, sucked in a deep lungful of air, and saw him, or the bottom half. Khaki trousers and Birkenstocks worn with socks.
She looked up and fell irretrievably in love. He held out his hands, helped her out of the water, and led her through the woods to a meadow of cornflowers where they made love in the high grasses. She never went to California or Colorado or Canada. She stayed with Wesley Whitaker. Beautiful, kind, loving Wesley.
Issy felt her grandmother’s fingers tighten slightly around hers. “Grammy?”
Leo’s eyelashes fluttered. Her eyes opened. “Wes?”
Issy swallowed. “No, Grammy. It’s Issy. You’re going to be fine.”
“Issy?”
“Yes, I’m here now.”
Her grandmother smiled but it wasn’t for Issy. Her fingers relaxed and Issy knew she was asleep.
Her grandmother didn’t waken again, so when the doctor stepped into the room a few minutes later, Issy kissed her cheek and followed him into the hallway.
“Dr. Rajneesh Prasad,” he said, shaking her hand. “My father, Dr. Neeraj Prasad, was Mrs. Whitaker’s cardiologist before he retired. And I am honored that Leo chose to stay with me for her care. You are her granddaughter?”
“Yes. Isabelle Whitaker. I just drove from Manhattan. How is she? Is it serious?”
“She is resting comfortably and we are monitoring her closely. She was not very clear on what happened. Whether she had a dizzy spell and fell, or if she fell first. The upshot is she has a mildly sprained ankle, a few bruises, a bit of dehydration. She was complaining about a pain in her chest. That’s why I’ve decided to keep her here a few days for observation and to do some tests. Check everything to the fullest.”
“But she didn’t have a heart attack?”
“A mild angina attack, to which she is prone. Something that can be treated with drugs and rest. But I do not feel comfortable with her staying alone in that large house. Are you planning to stay? She’ll need someone with her.”
“My great-aunt Fae Whitaker lives on the property.”
“Yes. I see, then I’d suggest a home-
care attendant.”
An attendant? Neither Leo nor Fae would go for that.
“It’s early yet, time to discuss the future. How long are you staying?”
“I don’t know,” Issy said. Tomorrow morning? But how could she leave? “Long enough to make sure she’ll be taken care of.”
“Good, good, then we’ll talk at a later date. In the meantime, don’t worry. She is in excellent hands.”
He said good night and strode off down the hall.
Issy turned in the opposite direction in search of her nieces and nephew. She followed the sound of a television broadcast to a green-walled waiting room where a female police officer sat at a square Formica table. Amanda slumped at the table beside her, her cheek smashed into the remnant of a vending machine snack. Griffin was curled up asleep on the black Naugahyde couch.
A skinny teenager was slouched in a chair, head bowed over her phone, earbuds planted in her ears and thumbs flying over the surface. For a split second hope that Vivienne was at the other end of that text swelled in Issy’s brain only to be snuffed out as Stephanie raised her eyes and glanced at Issy without slowing her relentless thumbs, and lowered her gaze back to the screen.
The officer stood and gave Issy’s dress and heels the once-over. “Can I help you?”
“Isabelle Whitaker,” Issy said stretching out her hand.
The officer looked at it and Issy let it drop. “Are you from social services?”
“No, I’m their aunt. I talked with Detective Griggs.”
“I’ll notify him you’re here.” She pulled a radio off her utility belt and spoke into a cloud of static. “The aunt is here.”
A crackly voice answered. The officer hung up and motioned for Issy to sit down.
Which she did, gratefully. She should have changed into jeans and running shoes. Her feet hurt, she was exhausted, and this might take a long time.
The television played on, none of the children roused, though Issy was tempted more than once to pull the cellophane wrapper away from Mandy’s face. Stephanie didn’t look up again.
The Beach at Painter's Cove Page 2