‘So you went to one?’
‘I’d been to a fortune teller a couple of weeks before Sid showed up in my life.’ Libby paused as the ginger cat, having come down the stairs, jumped on her lap. ‘She told me I was about to meet an older man, we’d get married, go to live abroad and he’d adopt my little girl. Phoebe was ten at the time; I’d been divorced for five years and had no intention of getting into a serious relationship. We’d done just fine on our own.’
Sarah took this in, allowing for the fact that memories of what is actually said can be elastic. She hoped no hint of skepticism showed in her voice. ‘Did anything happen for you at the circle?’
‘I don’t remember what was said until about halfway through when the medium – a very ordinary, middle-aged woman, the sort you see all the time pushing a cart round the supermarket – asked if anyone there had a grandmother named Margaret. There were about eight of us there and I put up my hand.’
Not an unusual name, thought Sarah, and if it hadn’t struck gold there could have been a shift to Marjorie or Mary, drifting down to any name beginning with M; classic flim-flam. ‘Was there a message?’
‘That she loved me and hoped I wasn’t ruining my hair having those bleached streaks put in; then she said she had to go because it was someone else’s turn.’
‘You must have been excited.’
‘Not really.’ Libby’s golden gray eyes held a musing expression. ‘You see, I’d been really hoping my Mum would come through. But then, when I thought about it afterwards, I realized it would’ve been unbelievable if she had. She was always one to stand back and let others push in front.’ This was said with such complete seriousness that Sarah suppressed a smile. It was at that moment she knew how very much she was going to enjoy knowing Libby Jennson.
‘That’s all so interesting,’ she said, ‘but I think if I had the glimmer of a gift I’d have had a shiver of premonition before that car came through the fence.’
They went on to talk about the situation relating to Sonny Norris and his mother. Libby didn’t know either of them, but said Sid had been extremely moved by the hand they had been dealt. She mentioned his having brought Sonny home with him for a few hours and that they both hoped they could do more without being overly intrusive. Sarah spoke of her plan to take their bull mastiff, Jumbo, out for walks, starting that afternoon if the rain would kindly let up.
Libby glanced toward the window. ‘It looks like it’s practically stopped already. How about another cup of tea and slice of lemon bread?’
‘I’d love it, but I’d better get back.’ Sarah explained about the Brown’s Hardware delivery, looked at her watch, saw it was approaching ten thirty and got to her feet.
‘Let me know if you’d like any help,’ said Libby on opening the front door for her. ‘I live for a paintbrush or roller in my hands; I’m as much of a nut about it as Sid is with his sewing and all the rest of his relentless activities.’
The rain had indeed become negligible. Just the odd drop, as if bored with the whole business. Sarah turned onto her own driveway with a smile on her face, which broadened to one of delighted relief when she saw what was on the step. It was a gray cat. Was it the bowl of milk, diluted now by rainwater, that had worked the charm? She moved forward with concentrated nonchalance, afraid to breathe as she reached to open the door. So far so good! The animal remained seated as if cemented in place. Then the amazing moment. When she stepped inside it followed as if this were an accepted pattern. In clear light it looked even more painfully emaciated than she remembered. She made no attempt to pick it up – best to let it get its bearings while she opened a can of tuna. It was the kind packed in water which would surely be better on an empty stomach than the oily kind. She also got out the milk. As soon as she set the two bowls down on the kitchen floor the cat crept up like a dusky shadow to hunch down and begin devouring the contents of both, interrupted only by the occasional flinch-eyed sideways glance. ‘Dusky.’ That’s what she would name it, male or female – for its color and the time of day when she had first seen it. She’d ask Nellie and Libby if they knew of a lost cat and if that wasn’t successful ask for their suggestions for attempting to track down the owner, but she didn’t feel much optimism. Its almost skeletal frame suggested it had been attempting for fend for itself for some time. Meanwhile, she would need to scoot out as soon as Brown’s had completed their delivery and pick up food and a litter box. Leaving it while she did this, and afterward taking Jumbo for his walk would, she hoped, provide a calm settling in period.
She stood with her back to the kitchen counter watching it, while confining her movements to a minimum and murmuring soothingly.
‘Thanks for coming; I was worried about you. That’s a big scary world out there; I hope you’ll get to like being an inside cat. I’ll get you some toys. This is really going to be fun.’ Both bowls were empty and she would have loved to bend down and pick the sad little thing up, but after looking up at her for a moment it shifted away through the opening into the living room. She remained where she was; hands pressed to her hips, felt the stiffened quality of her right jean pocket and realized it was the letter. The one she had found in the mailbox addressed to Nan Fielding, that she had forgotten when Libby and Sheridan had come up to her in the rain.
She pulled it out and stared down at the handwriting on the white envelope, not business-size, written with a black ballpoint pen, angular strokes, which suggested to her a man, possibly in a hurry. Ridiculous! The initials EB in the top left hand corner above the return address gave nothing away. She was romanticizing a secret love interest between the writer and a lonely elderly woman. Or willing a devoted nephew on her. In another moment it would be the son Nan had left on the church steps with a note pinned to a blanket saying Mommy loves you. What did she think she was? A medium at one of the Dobbs Mill circles? Even more foolish was the powerful insistence, seeming to come at her from all corners, that what she held in her hands was somehow vital to her own future. Medium nothing! She had to be off with the fairies, as Libby had described herself when down on the beach. Translation – let loose in Never Never Land. All that was required was that she write deceased and put the letter back in the mailbox. But she knew she couldn’t bring herself to do that for purely compassionate reasons. She couldn’t chance that it had been sent by someone requesting a donation to a once-attended poetry club or even a former neighbor. Already the letter she would write and enclose with the envelope was forming rapidly in her head, as if propelled by something outside herself.
Dear EB,
I moved into Bramble Cottage over the weekend and found your letter in the mailbox this morning. I am sorry to say that Nan Fielding died, peacefully as I understand it, sometime in March; I’m uncertain of the date. You may already know this, but if not I hope this isn’t very upsetting for you. My sympathy if this is a personal loss. The garden promises to be lovely which seems to me to say a lot about her.
Sincerely,
Sarah Draycott
Eight
Within five minutes of sitting down with Twyla Washburn on that Monday morning, Gwen could have kissed Nellie Armitage’s spirit guides for suggesting this woman to be the ideal person to help care for Sonny. He was still upstairs in his bedroom, having not appeared at the head of the stairs when the doorbell rang. They were seated in the book room. Twyla was on the sofa and Gwen in her preferred armchair with Jumbo lying alongside it. The coffee, prepared in readiness, had been poured. A plate of oatmeal raisin cookies was placed within easy reach of both women. The room wore its antiquity well. Very comfortable in there. Even cozy, against the blurred windows, with the table lamps lighted under their mulberry silk shades. The sound of the rain at the windows had a softly musical quality as if on the brink of coming up with a melody. On welcoming Twyla into the house she had instantly recognized her as the woman seated, with the endearing-looking sandy-haired boy, in the same church pew as Sonny and herself. She and Twyla had exclaimed at the coinciden
ce on shaking hands. The strength and kindness of the remembered face, framed by the becomingly cropped gray hair, seemed to settle upon the room like a healing touch. The steady eyes, several shades darker than the smooth brown skin, and the rich, warm voice, both calmed and brightened the moment.
Gwen heard the amusement in her own voice as she described the two previous helpers to whom Sonny had so strongly objected. ‘I wondered with the first one if he’d pull some schoolboy stunt, such as putting a frog in her bed or food coloring in her shampoo. They both treated him like a child which he naturally resented. Oh, dear!’ Her expression sobered. ‘I sound as if I’m trying to warn you off.’
‘Not at all. You’re saying what needs to be said upfront: that your son is due the respect owed to a grown man. I surely believe that can be provided while managing situations that could get out of hand. The loss of self, the sensation of being swallowed up in a fog of confusion has to be terrifying at times. It’s understandable that it should bring on angry, even violent outbursts. Very painful and disturbing for you as his mother.’ Twyla directed a look at Gwen that included both sympathy and encouragement. ‘If you decide you want me to come here, I’ll do all I can to make sure you get a proper night’s rest and some breaks during the day. It’s so important that you don’t wear yourself out if you’re to keep up a reserve of strength. I’m sure your doctor would say you should do something that makes you happy three times a day, Mrs Garwood.’
‘Do please make it Gwen. And if you don’t mind I’ll call you Twyla, but whatever makes you feel the most comfortable. Of course I want you to come. I’m convinced you’re just what Sonny and I need. Bless Nellie Armitage! She explained that you have personal reasons for wishing to be in Sea Glass, relating to your patient Frank Andrews’ grandson. Would that be the boy with you in church yesterday?’
‘That’s him.’ Twyla’s tall, bony frame instantly seemed to fill out like a down pillow. ‘I call him my lamb baby, because that’s what I saw first time I laid eyes on him. God surely broke the mold when he made Oliver Cully. And Frank and his wife Olive, before she died, more than did their part bringing him up the way his parents would’ve wanted.’
‘The news of the plane crash that took them and the other grandparents shook-up the community.’ Gwen motioned sadly with her hands. ‘In itself it was a terrible thing, and then there was the Cully name and all the excited chatter when Clare Andrews married into the family. I met her once when she was an adolescent – I’ll tell you about that sometime. From what I saw and have since she was lovely inside and out.’
‘There was an estrangement between Max Cully, Oliver’s father, and his family when he married Clare. Did you know about that?’
Gwen nodded. ‘Through the grapevine and in particular Nellie Armitage. She said when she came to see me about the possibility of your coming here that Oliver has very recently gone to live with his father’s brother and wife at the old Cully Mansion. She stressed that until now they’ve been virtual strangers and you’d like to be close by while he settles in – to be right on hand if he should need you urgently.’ Gwen set down her coffee cup. ‘I’m afraid I’m putting that badly . . . as if implying something negative against the uncle and aunt.’ She’d very nearly used the word sinister. It had to be the forbidding aspect of the Victorian house, too long abandoned, that suggested macabre possibilities. So foolish! The result of reading too many gothic novels of the sort satirized by Jane Austen in Northanger Abbey. Twyla sat silent, as if caught up in her own thoughts and Gwen continued positively. ‘Nellie explained how close you and Oliver have become since you started taking care of his grandfather. A bond I could see for myself in church. However kind Mr and Mrs Cully may be, it has to be a wrenching experience for Oliver being removed from everyone and everything he loves. Anguishing, I can only imagine, for Mr Andrews. Nellie could not speak highly enough of him and the entire family, including the son-in-law.’
‘Frank is one remarkable, rare man.’ Twyla’s eyes remained reflective. ‘Never a thought for himself when it became clear he’d have to go in a nursing home. His life since his wife died has been all about Oliver. Not an ounce of love spared from morning to night. Those two surely took my heart from the first day.’ She stared into her empty cup before slowly putting it down. ‘I didn’t marry until my mid-forties so no children of my own. My husband and I made a very happy life for ourselves until his death. Big families on both sides – plenty of nieces and nephews to help out and enjoy. All grown now. But how I feel about Oliver is different; he’s more bone of my bone than any of them, much as I’m real fond of them all. I can’t wrap the words around it . . .’
‘You’ve explained it beautifully,’ said Gwen gently, ‘and if being on the spot here with Sonny and me can benefit you and Oliver, it will be a blessing that makes me extra happy. Evenings and nights are when I’ll be glad of your help, but whatever the time I want you to feel free to go to him at a moment’s notice.’
‘I’m hoping Mr and Mrs Cully will let me drive him to his school in Ferry Landing and fetch him back in the afternoons. There’s only a few weeks left till the end of the school year. I’m going to call them; what I’m hoping is that they’ll agree to me going over to talk to them about it.’ Twyla added as if thinking a thought out loud, ‘Come fall they plan to take him back with them to New York.’
‘How is Oliver dealing with that prospect?’ Gwen’s heart ached for the boy.
‘It upset him real bad. But yesterday, when we went out to eat before going on to see Frank, I could tell he no longer felt he could open up to me completely, couldn’t confide anything that’s gotten him upset because of setting me worrying, and having to ask me not to tell his Grandpa. There’s an old head on those young shoulders.’ The tenderness was visible in Twyla’s eyes and around her mouth.
‘Do they have to return to New York because their careers are there?’
‘Frank mentioned that Gerald Cully works from home as a day trader on the stock market, but his wife does a lot of volunteer work supporting the arts. If they could only stay on here while Frank is alive.’
‘Perhaps they’ll decide to do that.’
‘I’m praying on it. It’s more than good of you to listen to all this, Mrs Garwood – Gwen,’ she corrected herself, smiling. ‘Now how about the arrangements for me starting working here? Would this evening be too soon?’
‘That would be perfect.’
‘I’ll be going to see Frank later this morning and there’s hopefully that visit to the Cullys. If they agree to me getting Oliver from school I could take him back to the house while I pack my case and take care of a few jobs so that everything’s left straight. How’d it be if I got back here around five?’
‘I’ll have a meal ready.’ Gwen suddenly realized there had been something they hadn’t discussed – the matter of Twyla’s salary. Twyla responded with an amount that struck her as extremely modest, and refused to accept more when Gwen insisted.
‘What I’ll be doing here doesn’t require an RN.’
‘But it’s so reassuring that you are one.’
‘I started out way back as an aid; that’s where most of what used to be considered nursing is learned and that’s most of what your son is going to need from me, same as Frank.’
‘Sonny has these raging verbal outbursts . . .’ Gwen’s voice trailed away. She had heard his bedroom door open. Footsteps making their way down the stairs, with a heavy, half-hearted tread.
‘Every patient has emotional needs that need to be met.’ Twyla got to her feet and turned to face the man with the uncombed hair and morning stubble entering the book room. He was wearing dark trousers from what was obviously part of a suit, but still had on his pajama jacket with the button askew. ‘Good morning, Mr Norris. I’ve just been talking with your mother about me coming to help out here. She seems to think we’ll all get on fine together. I’m sure hoping you’ll come to feel the same.’
Sonny looked past her to Gwen, who had a
lso risen from her chair. Jumbo had tensed, his eyes steadily aware, protective devotion apparent in every line of his velvety body. ‘What about Lilly?’
Lilly Hatter had been coming for years on Wednesdays to help with the housework. A very pleasant, though never chatty, hardworking woman. As his condition declined Sonny had increasingly ignored her, although mercifully without belligerence. ‘She’ll still come; but, dear, it will be different with Twyla, she’ll . . .’
‘Be like Mrs Broom?’
‘In a way,’ Gwen felt a tiny surge of hope, ‘but she’ll be spending her nights here, because she wants to live close to the house where the little boy she loves very much lives. The big red Victorian down from the common on Salt Marsh Road.’
‘The old Cully Mansion,’ he said surprisingly while inching into the room, finally looking directly at Twyla. ‘Mrs Broom loved me very much. She used to say that I was her best pal.’
‘Mrs Broom,’ explained Gwen, ‘was our housekeeper and dear friend in Boston. She was with us from shortly after Sonny was born until several years after he left for college and I moved to Maine. I did my best, but nothing would persuade her to transport so far north. But we continued to visit her often, didn’t we, my dear?’ Her optimism increased. Sonny’s bemused gaze continued to linger on Twyla’s face.
‘She had brown eyes like yours. Kind eyes.’
‘She sounds one fine woman; I hope you’ll tell me more about her?’
He shifted restlessly. ‘I can’t always remember everything. It’s like someone locked in my head is trying to shut her out.’ He turned back to Gwen. ‘Are the other two coming back?’
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