More Than Words Can Say

by Robert Barclay

  When Brooke’s expression darkened a bit once more, Greg shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It seems that I just keep sticking my foot in my mouth. Or clubfoot, as the case may be . . .”

  Brooke nodded. “No apology needed,” she answered. “The truth is that if I’m going to have a husband fighting overseas, I’d better get used to the idea. And besides,” she added with a bit more authority in her voice, “this maudlin attitude of mine isn’t what Bill would want.”

  “I’m glad to hear you say that,” Greg answered. Then he gave her another of his nearly incandescent smiles. “And I’ll bet that when you were at your happiest, you were a real handful.”

  At last, Brooke smiled fully. “So I’ve been told,” she answered.

  A few moments later Emily brought their food, and they ate for a time in silence. “You’re right,” Greg said. “No offense to your cooking, but this is one of the best things I’ve ever had. And thanks for introducing me to Emily. She’s a great gal.”

  Just as they were finishing their lunches, Emily came back over. “Thank you,” Greg said. “And the deep-fried pickle slices were amazing! I’ll be sure to come back here, I promise you.”

  “And we thank you,” Emily said. Then she gave him a short, mischievous smile. “Try not to break too many hearts this time when you walk back to the door, oui?” she asked. “After all, it isn’t every day we get a movie star in here.”

  Greg laughed. “I’ll try to keep that in mind next time,” he said laughingly.

  “And please come out to my cottage sometime soon, won’t you?” Brooke asked Emily. “It’s been a while since you visited.”

  “Mais certainement!” Emily answered.

  With that, Greg paid the bill, then he and Brooke left the restaurant. Sure enough, just as many female eyes watched him leave as had watched him arrive . . .

  “AND SO, GREG has made his first visit to the Blue Rooster,” Brandon read aloud. “And as I said before, it was a lovely day. We had taken my Cadillac into Serendipity, and before leaving for home Greg offered to drive, and I agreed. And so, we put the top down and drove back through the lush, green countryside to Lake Evergreen. And even now as I write this, I’m not sure what possessed me to do so, but when I laid my head upon his shoulder, it somehow seemed right.”

  Brandon closed Brooke’s journal and set it down on the coffee table.

  “Was that the end of the entry?” Chelsea asked.

  “Yes,” Brandon answered.

  “Does the Blue Rooster still exist?” Chelsea asked.

  “Yes,” Brandon answered, “as a matter of fact, it does. Emily Rousseau owns it. She’s a very old woman now, and something of an institution in Serendipity.”

  “Do you suppose we could go there sometime?” Chelsea asked.

  “Sure,” Brandon answered. “I’m familiar with Emily. And although we can’t know whether she and your grandmother stayed in touch all those years, I’m sure she’d love to meet you.”

  Suddenly feeling the need to be closer to Brandon, Chelsea scooted over a little. She then said nothing for a time as she watched the flames dance in the lovely rose quartz hearth. Emily Rousseau was someone she very much wanted to meet, and she hoped that she could do so soon. Because of all the citizens of Serendipity, Emily might be the only remaining one who could tell her about her late grandmother.

  Brandon ended up staying for another hour while the two of them talked and watched the mesmerizing flames. And when at last he did go home, while standing on the porch and watching him walk down the sandy beach, Chelsea felt yet another tug on her heart.

  Chapter 13

  Why isn’t she responding? Brandon wondered desperately. What on earth should I be doing that I am not?

  He again checked the vital-signs monitor and saw that both her heart rate and blood pressure were still falling. It was Brandon’s job to keep this woman alive until the surgeon was prepped. But he was clearly losing the battle, both for her and for himself.

  To his surprise, she suddenly opened her light-blue eyes and looked straight at him. At first, she began to smile. But as she came to fully understand her surroundings, a look of abject terror overcame her. She started to say something, but before the words could come out, she lost consciousness again.

  She knows . . . , Brandon thought. She knows where she is and that I’m trying to save her . . .

  Blood covered his latex gloves, and sweat poured into his eyes. Several nurses aided him, their faces a series of taciturn masks as the life inexorably drained from the badly injured woman. Every time he tried to help her, it seemed that he couldn’t work fast enough. And every time he tried to think of something else to help save her, it was as if all of his training had somehow abandoned him. He felt useless and inconsequential as his patient struggled to stay alive.

  Then he watched in horror as the final bit of breath rattled from her lungs. The telltale sounds coming from the monitor soon became a steady tone, and the electronic life line went flat. Because they had known this woman, several of the nurses started to cry. And then, quite extraordinarily, he heard the bizarre sound of a dog, plaintively whining . . .

  Brandon suddenly awakened and lurched upright in his bed. Outside his bedroom window, the sun was starting to rise. His chest was heaving, and he was drenched with sweat. The nightmare had come again, he realized. Jeeves stood anxiously by the bedside. As he laid his muzzle atop the covers and worriedly gazed at his master, his whining began anew.

  Brandon sighed and shook his head. Before reaching down to give Jeeves a comforting pat, he ran his fingers through his damp hair.

  “It’s okay, boy,” he said to Jeeves. “Just another one of those nights.”

  He tossed the covers off his naked body, put on a robe, and shuffled into the kitchen. He always prepared his coffee the night before and set the timer to start before he awakened. As he took his first sip of the life-giving brew, the warm mug felt good in his hands. After letting Jeeves outside, he went out onto the porch and sat down. Although the sun was still rising, his pilot’s instincts said that the day would be fair, with a slight wind coming off the lake. Good flying weather, he realized, but he wouldn’t be flying today.

  He hadn’t suffered his recurring nightmare for a while, and he had been hoping that it had at last abandoned him. But now he knew differently. His real-life failure to save that woman had haunted him incessantly for more than three years. And shortly thereafter, the tragedy had begun invading his sleep as well. The nightmare didn’t resurface often, thank God. But when it did, it rattled his very soul.

  Just then the phone rang, interrupting his thoughts. He shuffled back into the kitchen to answer it.

  “Hello?” he said.

  “Brandon,” a female voice answered, “it’s Claire.”

  Claire, he thought. So kismet exists, after all . . .

  “Hello, Claire,” he said. “Is everything all right?”

  “No,” she answered. Her voice sounded frightened, worried.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “It’s Rachel. She’s sick.”

  “How so?”

  “She’s coughing, and she feels warm to me.”

  “Can you bring her to the emergency room?” he asked.

  He believed he already knew the answer. But because visiting Claire was something he would rather avoid, he had needed to ask.

  “No,” Claire said. “Pug never came home last night, and I’m alone, without the truck. He’s probably off drunk again. Can you come?”

  Silence reigned on the phone line for a time as Brandon closed his eyes. “All right,” he finally answered. “I’ll leave soon.”

  “Thank you, Brandon,” Claire answered quietly. “And God bless you.”

  As Brandon hung up the phone, a lone tear ran down his scarred cheek.

  Chapter 14

  Still half-asleep, Chelsea again heard an odd, unrecognizable sound. It was loud, causing her to roll over angrily and wonder why th
e infernal noise wouldn’t just stop and leave her alone. Then the strange clatter came again, this time growing into a continual racket so strident that it seemed to drill straight through her. Determined to discover the cause of the noise, she clambered out of bed, threw on a robe, and with Dolly in tow, shuffled out onto the porch.

  She looked at the lake to find that the mysterious sounds had been coming from Brandon’s floatplane, as its engine had been starting up. The attractive red and white aircraft was preparing to take off. She watched with sleepy interest as Brandon turned the plane into the wind and pushed the throttle to the max.

  The roaring plane was soon speeding across the waves, and then it lifted free of Lake Evergreen’s watery grasp. It was an interesting sight to see, causing Chelsea to wonder about whomever Brandon was visiting this time. As the plane banked into an easterly climb, Chelsea watched until it vanished from sight.

  Perhaps it was only wishful thinking, but she thought she smelled freshly brewed coffee, so she walked into the kitchen to investigate. To her happy surprise, her new coffee machine was burbling pleasantly. Brandon, she realized. He must have prepared it for her after doing last night’s dishes. Bless you, she thought as she gratefully poured her first cup. She then heard Jeeves whining just outside the kitchen door, so she let Dolly out to join him.

  As Chelsea took another sip of coffee, she fully realized how lousy she felt. She and Brandon had killed that entire bottle of wine last night, and some of the Pinot’s effects were still with her. Moreover, her wounded hand was throbbing again. After taking another welcome drink of coffee, she went into the bathroom and eagerly slipped out of her robe.

  One of the cottage’s greatest attributes was its huge, old-fashioned porcelain bathtub. It was pure white with clawed feet, a goose-necked spigot, and knobbed faucet handles. Doing her best to keep her wounded hand dry, Chelsea drew a hot bath and lay in it for nearly an hour, letting the warmth seep into her bones.

  On finally feeling more human, Chelsea realized that her appetite had resurfaced. She wanted some breakfast, but her head still ached a bit and she didn’t feel much like cooking for herself. Then she remembered the diner that Brandon had mentioned last night, and she decided to visit it. And so, after grabbing up her car keys and her purse, she set off to find the place . . .

  FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, Chelsea found the diner. Although it looked old and isolated, it was busy. Alongside it lay a series of lakeside docks, complete with gas pumps for car fuel, boat fuel, and perhaps plane fuel. Various kinds of boats were tied up, indicating that people also came here by water. About fifteen vehicles, most of them pickup trucks, were haphazardly parked in the gravel lot.

  The diner was a true American classic—one of those wonderful old stainless steel affairs that Chelsea had always loved, with a long stretch of windows running across its front side and a pair of chrome doors at its center. A large sign hanging over the doors read BEAUREGARD’S. When Chelsea approached the front doors, she smiled as she saw a sign reading SORRY, WE’RE OPEN! As she opened the door and walked in, a little brass bell attached to its top cheerfully announced her entrance.

  Inside, the 1950s still reigned. Unlike newer “vintage” diners, this was the genuine article. A row of red leather booths lay alongside the front windows. Fifties-style tables and chairs stood on the floor between the door and the counter. An ancient, bubbling Wurlitzer jukebox stood in one corner playing some classic Elvis, and the small sundry shop Brandon had mentioned lay on the far right side of the room. The interior walls were also stainless steel; the floor was red and white checkerboard linoleum. Several uniformed waitresses were in evidence, all busily going about their duties. Typical of most diners, the grill lay on the opposite side of the counter.

  Most of the customers were older men, picking at their breakfasts while they shared the latest doings. The welcome aromas of strong coffee, fresh baked goods, and frying sausage lingered in the air, causing Chelsea’s appetite to sharpen further. Like so many things about Lake Evergreen, she immediately liked this place.

  Deciding to sit at the counter, she spied an empty seat next to an obviously nearsighted old man, holding today’s newspaper about two inches from his nose. As she settled onto a stool, a woman behind the counter sauntered over. About the same age as Chelsea, she had short blond hair, a pert figure, and deep dimples. Despite the early hour, her apron already showed the telltale signs of hard work. As she crossed her arms over her chest, she gave Chelsea a knowing smile.

  “You ain’t from around here, are you?” she asked, the southern accent in her voice quite noticeable.

  Chelsea smiled back. “That’s true,” she answered. “But how did you know?”

  “Well,” the woman answered, “for one thing, you’ve never been in here before, and I know everybody. Then there’s the still-shiny shoes, the brand-new Explorer parked outside, and the Ralph Lauren purse,” she answered. “To me, all those things scream ‘city girl.’ ”

  Chelsea liked her immediately, and her smile said so. “You don’t miss much, do you?” she asked. “Are you the owner?”

  “Yep,” the woman answered. “You want some coffee?”

  Chelsea nodded vigorously. “Black, please.”

  The woman poured some fresh coffee into one of those marvelous porcelain mugs that only diners seem to use, and she put it down before Chelsea.

  “I inherited this joint from my daddy,” the woman said as she busily wiped the countertop. “He built it in ’54. You don’t see many real ones like this anymore. Truth is, it was cheaper to just keep everything the way it was, rather than remodel it. Turned out to be a good decision, ’cause if you wait long enough, damned near everything comes back into style eventually.” She smiled and offered a hand. “Jenny Beauregard,” she said, “at your service.”

  Chelsea shook her hand. “I’m Chelsea Enright,” she said. “So you’re a friend of Dr. Yale.”

  “How’d you know that?” she asked.

  “Brandon mentioned you and this place during dinner last night,” Chelsea answered. “I own the cottage next door to his.”

  “So you’re the one,” Jenny replied. “I shoulda guessed. Last time he was in, Brandon said that somebody from Syracuse had inherited the neighboring cottage and was finally gonna come open it up.”

  “That’s me,” Chelsea said. “I have to admit that at first, I was skeptical. But after I saw it, I was hooked.”

  Jenny gave Chelsea a knowing wink. “Not to mention Brandon,” she said.

  Chelsea blushed a little. “Well, yes,” she answered. “He seems like a really nice man. How do you know him?”

  “We went to high school together,” Jenny replied. “Then he joined the army, and afterward he went off to that fancy college and became a doctor. Truth is, we’re lucky to have him back.”

  Chelsea lifted her bandaged hand. “Tell me about it,” she said.

  “How’d you get that?” Jenny asked.

  “I was bitten by Jeeves, the Beer-Fetching Wonder Dog.”

  Jenny laughed again. “Yeah, I’ve seen Jeeves do that trick, too!”

  “Are you from someplace down south?” Chelsea asked. “I can’t help but notice your accent.”

  “Nope,” Jenny answered. “I was born and raised up here. But my parents were from Georgia, and when you grow up around a mama, a daddy, and three older brothers who all talk this way, some of it’s gotta stick. Matter of fact, I’m a direct descendant of General P. G. T. Beauregard, the Confederate hero of Bull Run.”

  “Sorry,” Chelsea said apologetically, “but I can’t say that I’ve ever heard of him.”

  Jenny smiled and made a throwaway gesture with one hand. “Don’t worry about it,” she answered. “Nobody up here ever does. So, do you want some breakfast?”

  “Yes, but I don’t know what. Could I see a menu?”

  “Sure thing,” Jenny answered.

  She reached under the countertop and produced a menu, which she handed to Chelsea. As Chelsea sc
anned the breakfast selections she found that many were recipes from the deep South, including such things as hoecake, grits, southern fried steak, and pecan-encrusted French toast. As Chelsea’s happy confusion grew, the expression on her face was not lost on Jenny.

  “How about lettin’ me decide for you?” Jenny answered. “If anybody knows what’s good here, it’s the owner.”

  Chelsea was intrigued. “Okay,” she answered. “Surprise me.”

  Jenny turned and barked out a few words to the short-order cook, who quickly set to work. After attending to a couple of other counter customers, Jenny returned.

  Soon after, Chelsea’s breakfast arrived. But when she looked down at the plate, not everything there was recognizable. She saw plenty of scrambled eggs and bacon, but lying next to them was some sort of messy-looking side dish.

  I did tell her to surprise me, Chelsea thought. She looked back into Jenny’s smiling eyes.

  “Uh . . . what’s that?” she asked while pointing her fork at the food in question.

  “Homemade biscuits with white pork-sausage gravy,” Jenny said. “My own secret recipe.”

  “For breakfast?” Chelsea asked.

  “Especially breakfast,” Jenny answered.

  When Chelsea took her first tentative bite, she grinned. This was nearly as pleasant a surprise as Margot’s coq au vin.

  “Wow, that’s good,” she said. “Who knew?”

  Jenny gave her a wink. “If you look around,” she answered, “damned near everybody.”

  “Can I ask you something personal?” Chelsea said in between bites of her breakfast.

  “I suppose,” Jenny answered. “Given how you’ve taken to my biscuits and gravy, we’re practically sisters.”

  Chelsea laughed a little. “Are you married?” she asked. “Got any kids?”

  “Nope on both counts,” Jenny answered. “I was married once, but he turned out to be a real snake. Cheated on me with every available skirt he could find. We got divorced two years ago.”