“W-I-L-D-E-R?” Beth broke in.
“No, W-Y-L-D-E-R. But I’m afraid I don’t know where she is. She moved out years ago…when she went to college. Then her brother left and her parents moved out a couple of years after that.”
“Do you know which college?” Beth blurted out impatiently.
Mrs. Miller turned slowly toward Beth, pursed her lips, and thought for a moment. “I believe it was the University of Washington. Yes, I’m sure of it, because I remember thinking, ‘Why do you need to go all the way across the country when we have perfectly good universities right here in Maine?’”
Beth smiled. She hoped this new information was the beginning of a trail that might lead to Sarah Wylder and on to the elusive Katherine Thompson. Sarah would know where Katherine went, she hoped. And then Beth would be able to track down the diary’s author, putting an end to the mystery. Of course, the plan hinged on a number of ifs, but Beth was excited nonetheless.
The other ladies chatted for a while, but Beth paid little attention to their conversation. She was already planning her next set of phone calls.
* * * *
Mary and Beth returned to the bed and breakfast a little before noon. They were surprised to see Abigail standing on the front porch laughing with, of all people, Kenny McLeary. Mary tossed Beth a curious glance, but Beth didn’t acknowledge because she was staring in fascination at Kenny. The pair on the porch had not yet become aware of the two approaching women, so for a moment they continued talking as if no one was watching. Kenny looked natural and relaxed, the laughter entirely transforming his features. Beth barely recognized him.
Thirty seconds later, Kenny appeared to notice them out of the corner of his eye. He stopped laughing and put on his familiar stoic face. Beth was stunned.
Mary took advantage of the awkward moment. “Hello, Mr. McLeary. What brings you to my abode on this fine morning?”
“Just dropping something off. I’ll be out of your hair, ma’am,” he said as he quickly brushed past the ladies. He glanced up at Beth on the way, obviously fraught with embarrassment.
Mary called after him. “Oh, do stay for lunch.”
“Thank you very much, ma’am, but I must get back to the store.”
“Nice to see you.” Her saccharine sweet tone lingered while the echo of his receding footsteps faded away.
Livid, Abigail scowled at her daughter.
“What?” Mary asked, feigning innocence.
“Don’t mock him,” Abigail whispered sharply.
The Virginia Point ladies walked to the sitting room. Beth followed slowly, taking one last glance over her shoulder before entering the house.
“So what was that all about?” Mary asked.
“It’s none of your business.”
“Please, Mother. I’m just bursting at the seams with curiosity.”
Beth wanted to admit that she was curious too, but she wasn’t sure it was an appropriate time to share such information. So she sat quietly and listened.
“He was dropping off some jewelry,” Abigail said finally.
“You’re buying jewelry?”
“No, I’m selling it.”
“You’re selling jewelry?”
“Yes, in Palm Beach.”
“Really?” Mary asked with great fascination.
“Yes, really. Kenny and I split the profit.”
“Well I’ll be damned.”
“Yes you will if you mock that man in my presence again.”
“I only invited him for lunch, Mother. You’re so sensitive.”
“I saw it in your eyes. You were needling him. You know he doesn’t like to socialize.”
“He sure was having a nice time with you, now, wasn’t he?”
“Kenny and I go way back.”
“Really? How come I never knew about this?”
“If you disappear for over twenty years, you cannot expect to know everything that goes on in your old hometown.” She glared at Mary, but Mary sat silently tapping her index fingers together. Abigail sighed. “I suppose the only way I’m going to get out of this is to tell you the story.”
“I’m all ears,” Mary said, grinning triumphantly.
Beth followed the conversation with great intrigue.
“Okay,” Abigail began. “Kenny moved here when he was in his mid-twenties. You were still in Norfolk. You barely had time for your mother and her stories.” She cast a reproachful glance in Mary’s direction.
Mary rolled her eyes.
Abigail continued. “He was a young man with an impressive talent, and he wanted to sell jewelry. He worked out of the house he rented from the Willoughbys. But people around here were a little leery of him, with his southern accent and all. For goodness sakes, Mary, he was a transplant…and a wilting one at that.”
“I understand, Mother. You’ve always had a soft spot for the emotionally distressed.”
“Yes, and I had a lot of practice with three daughters.”
Mary scowled.
“Anyway, I wanted to help him out, make him feel welcome here, so I became his first customer. I bought a silver brooch with three emeralds. It was shaped like a pine tassel, graceful and quite charming.”
“I remember seeing you wear that.”
“Yes. That was Kenny’s work. I recommended him to the visitors who stayed at The Cove, and he managed quite well. I sort of took him under my wing. He didn’t have any family to look after him.”
Mary cocked her head expectantly.
“He grew up in Alabama. His mother was a drunk and his father was abusive. He ran away from home when he was fourteen.”
Mary furrowed her brow. She was envious that her mother was privy to gossip unbeknownst to her. “When did he share this with you?”
“When Nana died. I was grieving and he opened up to me. He told me that he had tried to go back and look for his mother, but he was never able to find her. He was living in Philadelphia at the time, working for a jeweler. When he couldn’t find his mother, he moved up here and branched out on his own.”
Beth looked down for a moment. She tried to imagine what it would be like to have been on her own at the age of fourteen. She remembered how lost she was in her teenage years – angry with her father for not being there, and lashing out at her mother because she was there. Her poor mother seemed to take it in stride as if it were her expected burden to absorb, without recourse, all of Beth’s hormonal pain and resentment. She felt momentarily ashamed. That afternoon, her opinion of Kenny McLeary changed – from faint amusement to modest admiration.
Mary interrupted Beth’s reflections. “So how did you end up in the jewelry business?”
“Oh, now that’s a long story.”
“I’m listening.”
“I’ll tell you the short version.” Abigail gave Mary a warning glance. “Kenny wanted to open his own jewelry shop. It was the fall of 1994. The Lyndon family was selling Jeanie’s Ice Cream Parlor. He called me to ask if I thought it was a good idea. I told him that not only did I think it was a great idea, but I would loan him the money to get it off the ground.”
“Wait. You were already in Palm Beach. I remember when Kenny opened his shop.” She pondered for a moment. “And I remember that you made a big deal of encouraging me to tell our visitors about him.”
“Yes. And I also sent you a teardrop diamond pendant that same year.”
“You little sneak.”
Abigail chuckled. “Anyway, we agreed on a loan payment structure of ten years, but he paid it off in eight. That first year I was concerned. I wasn’t sure he would make it. He was doing very well until he met a witch of a woman named Melody.”
“Ah, I remember her,” Mary said thoughtfully. “She was rather flamboyant – the town drunk.”
“Yes, among other things. Poor Kenny. Drunk mother, drunk girlfriend – the fate of a young man with a troubled childhood.” She continued with the original story. “Anyway, this Melody was greedy, and she distracted him. He spent mor
e time designing jewelry for her than designing pieces to sell. I pleaded with him during the summers when I visited. I thought about calling the loan, but I just couldn’t. He was such a lost soul, and my protective, motherly instincts pre-empted my financial wisdom. Thank God that didn’t backfire on me.
“In February of ninety-eight, he decided to propose to that monster. She laughed in his face. She was having an affair. He called me the next morning, distraught. Then, out of the blue, he sent me an absolutely stunning engagement ring. I don’t know if he meant for me to keep it. It was an awfully lavish gift to send one’s lender. So I sold it and wired him the money. Fifty-three hundred dollars.”
“Fifty-three hundred dollars?”
“It was a one-carat marquise diamond, beautifully set. A woman bought it for her grandson. She was encouraging him to make a commitment to his lady friend.”
“That’s a lot of money.”
“Oh, you wouldn’t believe how much money some of those old birds have.”
Beth bit her lip, trying to keep a straight face.
Abigail continued. “Anyway, Kenny was flabbergasted. I called him and told him that I couldn’t possibly accept such a gift, but that the jewelry business held promise in Palm Beach. We made an arrangement, and he’s been sending me a dozen pieces or so a year ever since.”
Mary shook her head. “All of this going on right underneath my nose. And I thought I was the queen bee on the gossip chain here in Virginia Point. You’ve outdone me again, Mother.”
“When you pay more attention to who people are than what they are doing, you’d be surprised what you learn.”
Mary groaned. “All right, Mother. Good advice…and great story.”
Abigail shook her head.
“After all that I’m starved,” Mary announced. “Let’s make some lunch. Beth are you going to join us?”
Beth looked at her watch and stood abruptly. “Oh,” she said, startled. “No, thank you. I had important phone calls to make this afternoon. It is already almost one o’clock. I’d better run, but thank you for the invitation. And thank you, Abigail, for sharing your story. Kenny makes a lot more sense to me now. I never imagined he was such a courageous person.”
Abigail smiled. “I’m glad the moral of the story wasn’t lost on everyone,” she said, gesturing to Mary with a shrug that said what can you do?
Beth chuckled and said her goodbyes.
She ran almost the entire way, arriving home out of breath. But she immediately grabbed her cell phone, ran upstairs to her computer, and pulled up the University of Washington website. After several phone calls, she reached a young woman in the transcripts department. She explained her quest for a Sarah Wylder who would have enrolled in 1976. The woman on the other end of the phone seemed disinterested.
“I cannot give out information on our students, current or past,” she said in monotone.
Beth’s heart sank. She should have expected such a problem. “I don’t need to know her grades or anything. I would just like a last known number or address. Surely you maintain an alumni database.”
The woman was annoyed. “I cannot give you that information, ma’am,” she said sternly.
Beth thought for a moment. “What about professors? Could you give me the names of the most popular professors for freshmen that year?”
The transcript assistant sighed. “That is the oddest request I’ve ever heard. I’ll transfer you to the faculty department.”
Beth waited on hold for several minutes. She went over the story in her mind. She hoped to draw out a little more empathy from the next person with whom she spoke. Finally, a woman came on the line.
“This is Laurie. How may I help you?”
Beth cleared her throat. “Yes, thank you, Laurie,” she began cautiously. “I have an unusual request. I’m looking for an alumna, Sarah Wylder.” She blurted out the spelling and other details quickly, before Laurie would have the opportunity to shut her down. “I understand that the school cannot give out information on this woman, but I was wondering if I could get a list of the most popular teachers from the mid-nineteen-seventies. Is that a difficult request?”
There was a long pause. “I could get a list of the staff during that period, but I have no idea which professors were more popular than others – at least from the students’ perspective. The most populated classes are not necessarily the most popular. And the professors handling those large, core classes don’t really get to know the students on a personal level.”
“I suppose that makes sense.”
“What did you say her name was, Sarah Wylder? Do you know her major?”
Beth’s pace quickened. She might get her foot in the door. “I don’t know her major, but could you look it up?”
Laurie sighed compassionately. “I can look it up, but I’m afraid I cannot give you that information. But I’ll get you the list of professors. It shouldn’t take me more than a half hour. Do you have a fax?”
Beth’s shoulders slumped. She had no incoming line and she really didn’t want to ask Mary or anyone in town to take a fax for her. Her determination to keep the details of her quest secretive was working against her. “No, I’m afraid I don’t.”
“I’ll mail it to you then,” the woman responded cheerfully. She took down Beth’s name, address, and phone number. Beth thanked her and hung up.
Twenty minutes later her phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Beth? This is Laurie from the University of Washington.”
“Yes, hello, Laurie.”
“I’m getting ready to send you your list,” she said. Beth heard a staple gun go off. Laurie sounded a little awkward as she continued. “But I just thought I’d give you the name of a professor I believe will be the most helpful. Do you understand?” Laurie seemed to be slightly nervous.
Beth’s heart began to race. Did Laurie look up Sarah’s transcript? Did she handpick the name of a professor in Sarah’s department? The wheels in Beth’s brain began to spin. “Ah, yes, I think.”
“Are you ready?”
Beth fumbled for a pen. “Yes.”
“Peter Stephens. He was a biology professor, retired three years ago. He’s a professor emeritus now, and he still has an office in the biology building.”
Beth scribbled down the number and thanked Laurie profusely.
“No problem. One note though.”
“Yes?”
“You didn’t hear it from me.”
“Got it.”
After hanging up, Beth immediately dialed the number for Professor Stephens. It went through to his voice mail. She left a simple message, asking him to call her when he had the opportunity. Then she set the phone down on the desk, stood up, and stretched.
“I guess that is all I can do for the day,” she concluded. She realized she was starving, so she made herself an early dinner and took a walk. She brought her cell phone, a piece of paper and a pen just in case the professor got her message.
She returned home in the early evening. The professor had not called, but Beth faithfully dragged her phone around with her wherever she went. Before the sun set, she spent some time working on the painting. She was pleased with her work. With another couple hours of effort it would be finished, but she wanted to wait until daylight.
As she got ready for bed she thought about the diary. Her life was turning into an obsession over a stranger and now that stranger’s seemingly uncompassionate friend.
“Maybe I should give this up.”
In the end, her rational side resigned. She propped herself up in bed and gave into temptation once again.
Chapter 17
Severing Ties
Sometime between his eleventh and fourteenth birthday, Kenny’s mother ceased to be his champion. When he was younger, she had stood up for him, placing herself as a barrier between Kenny and his father. But such moments of heroism had cost her in the form of breaks and bruises. As she grew weary, she discovered that making Kenny the co
mmon enemy channeled the violence in another direction, away from her body. She drank more as the years passed, drowning her shame, and numbing her to the reality of what transpired within the walls of their house.
On Kenny’s fourteenth birthday, he awoke to find his mother drunk and comatose, languishing on the couch. She lay face down on a throw pillow with one arm dangling over the edge. He gently pushed her, but she did not stir. That heartwarming spectacle had greeted him every morning for six months or more.
Kenny didn’t notice his father enter the room.
“That piece of shit is useless for the day,” Mack said, pointing at Kenny’s mother. He threw a large basket filled with laundry in Kenny’s direction. The clothing landed all over his mother. She looked pathetic – drunken into a stupor and covered with dirty underwear and socks. “So guess who’s doing laundry today?” his father bellowed.
Kenny sighed. It was his birthday. His mother probably didn’t remember and his father didn’t care. With an air of resignation, he slowly began to gather the laundry into a pile.
“I want my socks white.”
Kenny looked at the socks. Mack wore them around the house, and he often wandered outside without shoes. The socks were dark gray on the bottom with an occasional grass stain. Kenny pursed his lips and said nothing.
“You got a problem?”
“No, sir.”
“I thought so.” Mack turned away.
Kenny took a deep breath and went out on a limb. “Father?”
“Yes?” Mack looked back, his voice dripping with annoyance.
“It’s my birthday today.”
“So?”
“I was wondering—”
“What? You were wondering what? Did I buy you a pony? You’re not getting anything. I’m between jobs now. We can’t afford gifts.”
Kenny glanced around. The living room was littered with whiskey bottles and empty cigarette packs. He had a rough idea of what those items cost. He looked at the ground.
“Don’t go sulking at me. You’re lucky I keep a roof over your lousy, fucking brainless head.” Mack marched down the hall, into the bathroom, and slammed the door.
His father had not worked for almost a year. The rent had not been paid for months. Kenny saw the eviction notices and past due bills when he picked up the mail. There was never anything in the refrigerator except for beer, stale doughnuts, and an occasional carton of spoiled milk. He always scrambled to make dinner for himself, or he sneaked over to a friend’s. The filthy house was only barely a roof over his head, and it certainly was not a home.
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