Harbor of the Heart

by Katherine Spencer

  Nolan stared at her a moment, then took a cookie. She could tell by the set of his mouth as he slowly chewed a bite that he had considered a reply, a rebuttal probably, but had stopped himself.

  “Interesting theory. It seems to work well for you,” he added with a small smile.

  Claire wasn’t sure if it was a condescending smile or a friendly one. She actually didn’t care. That’s what she believed, and she didn’t see any reason to be less than honest about it.

  “It does work out well. Once we get deep into the summer, I can always find something to cook and serve growing out there—strawberries, asparagus, kale . . . Do you have a favorite summer fruit, Nolan?”

  “I do. Quite a few, actually. I love peaches the best. Peach pie is my very favorite. My mother used to make it just perfectly and served it warm from the oven with vanilla ice cream. The peaches were soft and sweet and smelled like perfume, and the crust was so light and buttery . . .”

  A dreamy look came over his face as he described the childhood treat. Peaches weren’t in season yet, or Claire would have surprised him with a pie. Not to rival his mother’s, of course; just to cheer him.

  But before she could mention it, his eyes opened wide, and his mouth dropped open as well. He put his glass down and slapped himself on his forehead.

  “That’s it! That’s it exactly . . . Four and twenty black birds. Baked in a pie! . . . Four and twenty,” he repeated. “And then just twenty-four.” He said this last part nonchalantly, with a shrug, as if it should be perfectly obvious.

  Claire just stared at him. Had the poor man gone mad from all the trauma and stress in his life? Perhaps they should call a doctor . . .

  But when he ran to the trunk, crouched down, and deftly twisted the lock open, still reciting the rhyme, she knew what had happened.

  Just as she had suspected, taking his mind off the question had brought the numbers bubbling up to the top of his mind. Or at least brought up the right clue.

  But even with the lock tossed aside, Claire noticed that the lid wasn’t opening very easily. She walked over, wondering how she could help. Edison was already there, standing next to Nolan, who was also down on all fours, crawling around the trunk, trying to figure out the problem.

  “It’s gotten dented on this side, see? And maybe jammed with some sand.” Nolan grunted as he tried to pry and push the lid up.

  Daniel had left, but Claire had some tools in the mudroom.

  She went inside and grabbed the first thing she could find—a claw-shaped gardening trowel. She brought it out and offered it to him. “Will this help?”

  Nolan looked pleased. “It might do. It might do very well.”

  He forced the sharp prongs under the rim of the lid at the dented spot and started to pry it open. When the trunk began to slide away under his force, Claire leaned over and held it steady.

  “Thanks,” Nolan said politely between grunts.

  The metal edge slowly eased back, and Nolan used the tool again on the front of the trunk. Finally, the lid flipped open.

  “Eureka!” he said aloud.

  “Amen,” Claire seconded as she stood up. Part of her felt the contents of the trunk were Nolan’s private business. But another part of her was too curious after all this time—and after helping him open it—not to look inside. Besides, he hadn’t asked for privacy.

  Claire leaned over and looked in the trunk. From what she could see around Nolan—who knelt on the floor with both arms and most of his upper body inside of it—the mysterious and precious trunk was filled with soggy green file folders and piles of papers secured with rubber bands. There were also many long cardboard tubes with plastic seals on either end. Each tube was labeled and marked with scrawled handwriting. Claire didn’t try to read the labels, realizing she couldn’t decipher the handwriting anyway.

  Nolan picked up one of the tubes and opened it. A roll of tissue-thin off-white paper slid out. It was water-stained on either edge but otherwise unharmed. He unrolled the large sheets, spread them between both hands, and quickly looked over the top sheet. Claire could tell it was a mechanical drawing of some kind, done on a grid with measurements, equations, swirling arrows, and handwritten notes scattered throughout.

  “One of my inventions,” he said briefly. “For a water purifier, solar powered.”

  “What a wonderful idea. People need clean water all over the world.” And mostly in countries where there was little access to the huge power grids that everyone she knew took for granted.

  “Never quite got the kinks out,” he admitted, rolling up the drawing again. “But it’s getting there. If someone else doesn’t get there before me,” he added with a sharp, self-deprecating laugh.

  He slid the drawing back into the tube and sealed it, then gathered up a few others. “All of these tubes . . . my inventions. Or rough drafts—ideas in progress,” he explained. “At least the tubes are airtight. Or should be.”

  “I hope the seals have done their job,” Claire said sincerely. There were many drawings stored in the trunk. No wonder he’d been so worried. This really was a treasure chest; a treasure chest of creative ideas. Perhaps his entire life’s work.

  “Are all those tubes different inventions?”

  “More or less. A few are revisions, or improved drawings. But most are different concepts.”

  “My goodness . . . you’ve thought of so many inventions.”

  “Yes, I have. But I’ve only sold a few. Even then, only one was ever produced on a mass scale. It’s very difficult to bring an idea to market, to nurture it along from a mere thought in your own mind to a solid object. One that really works,” he added with a small smile. “You know Edison—Thomas Alva, not my friend over there,” he clarified, glancing at his dog. “Thomas Alva Edison tried ten thousand filaments before he found the right one to make a light bulb.”

  “Ten thousand? My . . . I didn’t know that. Like looking for a needle in a haystack, wasn’t it?”

  “Exactly,” Nolan agreed.

  “But it does happen now and then, right? You do find that needle,” she quipped.

  “Now and then, for a lucky few, success. Happily ever after. But it’s not all about luck. Or inspiration in the lab, or even technical expertise. There’s an entire business side that’s more important than any of those elements—a mysterious, hostile planet to me. I’ve learned that lesson the hard way. My best idea was stolen. Stolen right out from under my nose. I trusted the man . . . Now see where that’s gotten me. Betrayed. Ruined. Lost my laboratory, my business, my house . . . my entire life.” His voice grew a bit louder. “The most valuable idea I’ll ever have in my lifetime. That’s what really ruined me. Ruined my marriage, caused me to lose my house and my job, my good name and reputation . . . everything.”

  His tone was suddenly harsh and bitter, even angry. Claire was surprised. She had not seen or suspected this side of Nolan. He seemed such a mild, easygoing man, despite his anxiety.

  She didn’t know what to say. But she was curious. “Your idea was stolen?” she asked. “How awful. How . . . unfair. Was it another scientist? Another inventor?”

  “Ha! No, not at all. That’s the ironic thing about it; the cruelest cut. The man didn’t know the first thing about engineering, about physics, about anything but making a dollar. He was a businessman. Called himself a financial angel, willing to provide the investment to produce my invention. Well, he didn’t turn out to be an angel. Anything but. He left me high and dry and started making his own version of the product, with slight modifications to get around the patent laws. Clever, right?”

  “Very clever. Not very ethical,” she added.

  “Not the least bit,” Nolan agreed.

  “Wasn’t there something you could do?”

  Nolan came to his feet, hovering over the trunk full of soggy documents. “I’ve tried. I’ve fought him tooth an
d nail. Tooth and nail,” he insisted. “These are the files, all the letters about the lawsuit. I couldn’t let that cheater get away with robbing me like that. All I want is justice, my fair share of the profits. Not a penny more . . . or less.”

  “That sounds . . . fair to me,” Claire said carefully. It was hard to offer any opinion without hearing the details of the situation. But she could agree with the fundamental principle. She peered into the trunk at the stacks of files. “How long has the lawsuit been going on?”

  “It will be five years in September. Sounds like a long time, I know, but it went by so quickly. I’m just a little gnat, buzzing around, bothering a giant. A minor annoyance he keeps trying to bat away. But he can’t, see? I won’t give up . . . just on principle,” he insisted.

  Five years? That was a long time to pursue such a situation. Claire guessed it took a lot of thought and energy, too. Thought and energy that Nolan might have otherwise put toward new ideas and inventions. She hardly knew him well enough to say that straight out, though.

  And he did have a point. If someone had really stolen his idea, he deserved to be compensated. He shouldn’t have to walk away with nothing. But life isn’t always fair; Claire knew that very well. It’s not our experience that shapes our destiny. It’s the way we deal with it. It sounded to Claire as if Nolan was . . . a bit stuck. For a good reason, to be sure. But perhaps he was so caught up in the injustice that had been done to him that he’d lost sight of the big picture. His life was passing him by.

  He picked up a file folder and opened it. “The wheels of justice grind slowly,” he said.

  “I’ve never been involved in a lawsuit,” Claire admitted. “But I’ve heard that’s true.”

  “Take my advice—steer clear if you’re able.” He sighed. “What can I do with all these papers? I suppose some of them will have to be thrown out now. But I do need to keep the important ones.”

  Claire considered the problem a moment. “We have a clothesline back behind the barn. You can hang them out there. It’s such a fair day, they might dry in an hour or two.”

  “Excellent idea!” Nolan smiled with appreciation, making Claire feel very clever. “Where do I find the clothespins?”

  “They’re in a net bag on the line. There are more down in the laundry room.” Claire headed for the basement, sure that Nolan would need all the clothespins she had . . . and then some. “I can help you. That will make it go faster.”

  “Would you? That would be a great help. I have to make sure I’m not throwing away anything important.”

  “Of course. You don’t want to do that,” Claire agreed.

  She had some work to do today, but not a very heavy schedule, since the inn was still a day or so away from new guests arriving.

  She was sure Liza would not mind it if she helped Nolan with this job. It would lighten the load in the big trunk, and they would be able to move it up to his room and out of sight before guests arrived. And Claire did feel sorry for him after hearing more of his story. He had gone through more than losing his boat or even losing his position at Carlisle. He had been sailing through rough waters for years now.

  While Nolan examined the documents and sorted them into either a “dry out” basket or a “toss out” plastic bag, Claire carried the papers outside and carefully clipped them to a double-row clothesline that extended from the back of the barn to a large oak tree.

  Nolan was tossing out a good part of the trunk’s contents, but saving a great deal as well. Claire didn’t mean to read the documents, but it was hard not to notice that many were copies of letters from Nolan to other parties involved: to the patent office, various attorneys and judges, and even to the Better Business Bureau.

  Twenty minutes later, Claire was standing outside studying the clothesline and wondering where she would fit in any more papers if Nolan needed to save more, when he trotted out of the house with a few more pages in hand and Edison following close behind.

  “This is the last of it, I promise. You’ve done a wonderful job out here. I could have never managed to get this all up so quickly . . . and carefully. I think a few of these might be dry already,” he said, examining a few sheets at the start of the line.

  “That would be a good thing. Then we’ll have room for the rest.” Claire took the wet papers from his hands and set them in her laundry basket. As Nolan removed a few dry sheets of paper, she hung up the wet ones.

  “Tell me, Nolan. What does your attorney think about this lawsuit? Does he think it should be going on this long?”

  “He claims he’s working on this night and day, claims we’re making progress. But there are always delays. Delays and delays. It could be settled soon, he tells me. He says that they’re going to give in and present me with an offer, a good offer. Nothing to laugh at, like before,” Nolan added with a scornful sniff. “Terms that won’t insult me. By the end of the summer. Well, that’s what my attorney tells me.”

  Claire was pleased to hear that the situation wasn’t so grim. “There’s a light at the end of the tunnel then, isn’t there?”

  “There is, if it comes through. I’ve gotten my hopes up before. Still, if my lawyer is right, I’ll have some funds to set up a new lab and get back to work. That’s the most important thing, getting back to work,” he insisted heartily. “I’ve been so . . . distracted by this battle. It’s used up all my energy. Drained me dry, like an old battery,” he confessed.

  “I can understand how that could happen.” It was just as Claire suspected. “I bet you have a lot of wonderful new ideas once you turn away from this distraction. Maybe you should start on something new while you’re waiting,” she suggested mildly.

  He had thought of one good idea, Claire reasoned. Surely he could think of others? He might already have more than one hidden in those tubes of mechanical drawings. Maybe Nolan couldn’t see the valuable diamond in the rough right under his nose because he was so focused on what he had lost.

  Nolan sighed and sat on a bench in the shade of the tree.

  “It’s not a matter of time, but of focus, of attention. It’s very hard to do that sort of work when you’re distracted and your mind is going every which way at once,” he tried to explain. “Even with a lawyer representing my case, I still need to put a lot of time into it. Working on our strategy, keeping up with correspondence to the patent office and invention societies and . . . whatnot. It takes a lot of time, a lot of thought. Nobody’s going to watch over my interests as well as I can. I’ve learned that the hard way.”

  Claire could not debate that point. Though she still thought her advice made sense. She knew that no one had an unlimited time on earth, and it seemed foolish to her to waste even a minute on anger and resentment and revenge.

  Nolan got up off the bench and examined some of the documents that hung from the clothesline. He did have a lot of energy, Claire noticed; restless energy. He was not one to sit still for long.

  Claire stepped back to admire her handiwork. The long rows of paper, drying in the sun, looked very pretty. “They look like flags, fluttering in the breeze,” she said to Nolan.

  He looked up from the sheet he was reading and took a wider view for a moment, too. “Yes, they do. But not white flags of surrender. Believe me, you’ll never see me raise those colors.”

  Claire forced a smile, but didn’t reply. His mind was made up. He would see this fight to the finish, no matter what it cost him.

  Chapter Four

  BY Friday, when guests were due to arrive, the trunk had been carried up to Nolan’s room and all the damp documents had thoroughly dried and been removed from the clothesline. Claire was relieved to see that.

  Nolan was still at the inn, working on having his identification replaced and getting access to his bank accounts and credit cards. Not that he had a large amount of funds to fall back on, he had told Claire. He tried to take the wreck of the Ariadne in stride,
but Claire could see that it undermined him. He did have the boat insured, however, and an insurance agent was coming out soon to assess the damage.

  “It’s not the best coverage one can buy, but I’ll get something toward repairs—or toward just going forward in some fashion,” he confided.

  Claire knew Nolan would prefer to fix the boat and not turn it over to a boatyard for scrap. She hoped he would be able to do that. The project would give him a goal, a new direction—one he so sorely needed, in her estimation.

  And how long would he stay at the inn? It had already been three nights. The weekend was not fully booked, and Liza had no objection to him staying longer. But Claire could tell that Nolan was getting restless and feeling he had already overstayed his welcome. He was a proud man, not one who accepted help easily, and not one to take advantage of generosity.

  Claire had overheard him a few times making calls to friends and casually mentioning his dilemma. Hinting around about needing a place to stay, “. . . just till things get sorted out.” Claire wasn’t sure exactly which situation he meant. His boat? His lawsuit? His lack of a job? Nolan had many situations to sort out, that was for sure.

  On Friday morning he was in the kitchen, in the midst of another one of these calls, while Claire prepared dishes for the lunch that would be served to the incoming guests—clam chowder, lobster rolls, and homemade strawberry ice cream and butter cookies. She had already put up the chowder and was working on the lobster salad.

  Nolan seemed to have a friend willing to let him stay. His tone sounded suddenly bright and excited. “Yes, I can come tomorrow. I’ll take the train. I can get into Boston easily from here . . . That would be great. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate . . .”