Tall, Dark And Difficult

by Patricia Coughlin

  She made a left to take the back roads into Newport. “I had planned to hit a couple of places in Middletown on the way back, but this next stop will have to be the last. I have to be at the shop by noon.”

  “You plan to work after this?” he asked, surprised because his own afternoon plans called for a nap.

  “Of course. Saturday is my busiest day. I have a part-timer, Laurie, who opens for me, but she baby-sits for her mom in the afternoon. Running a business requires stamina.”

  Rose felt his stare and glanced at him briefly as she turned onto one of the narrow brick streets that characterized Newport’s harbor district. “Why are you looking at me that way?”

  “I guess I’m still trying to figure you out, Miss Rose Davenport.”

  “That shouldn’t be much of a struggle,” she replied with a shrug. “I’m hardly Mata Hari.”

  “No, you’re a woman who communicates with plastic flamingoes and—”

  “Gladys is not plastic,” she interrupted, indignant as she rapped on the bird to prove it.

  “All right,” he conceded, “you’re a woman who communicates with hand-painted wooden flamingoes, looks like a new millennium version of a sixties flower child, and is one hell of an astute entrepreneur.”

  “Thank you. I think. I’m not sure you meant any of it as a compliment.”

  “I meant all of it as a compliment,” he assured her. “You’re not at all what I expected…and I’m not referring simply to age. Frankly, I expected you to be nothing more than a giant pain.”

  “And I’m not?”

  “No, you are, but you’re a very intriguing giant pain, and I am…intrigued,” he confessed, his tone turning rueful.

  “And you don’t want to be?”

  Griff shrugged. “Let’s just say, it comes as a surprise. It’s been a while since I’ve been much interested in anything, much less something as bizarre as a truck painted to look like a quilt.”

  “What can I say? I took a class in trompe l’oeil, started small and worked my way up.”

  “How small?”

  “Let’s see…the first thing I painted was a broken egg on the tile floor in front of my refrigerator.”

  This time he didn’t need to ask why.

  “I get it…as if someone had dropped it.”

  “Exactly. Then I painted keys and lace gloves on the table by my front door and lace swags in the dining room, and then I was ready for the truck.”

  “So you’re an art major. That explains a lot.”

  “Sorry to poke a whole in your theory right off the bat, but I’ve taken one art class, last year in night school. My degree is in social work.”

  “How did you end up dealing in has-beens of distinction?”

  “Luck,” she said brightly. “Long story short? I went into social work because I wanted to work with people that I wanted to help. I graduated with high hopes, lots of energy and absolutely no clue about real life. I did a lot of things in a hurry, made a lot of mistakes and ended up crashing and burning before I was thirty.”

  “That was five years ago,” she went on as she searched for a place to park. “I licked my wounds, whined a lot to anyone who would listen, and then decided that before I tried to work magic on other people’s lives, I ought to fix my own.”

  “And you did that by going into business for yourself.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t go so far as to say my life is fixed,” she hastened to point out. “But I’m working on it, and I’ve finally figured out that if I want to make other people happy, I have to make me happy first. And this—” she indicated the truck, now filled with a morning’s worth of rescued treasures “—makes me happy.”

  She spotted a Volvo wagon pulling away from the curb half a block away. “Perfect timing,” she said as she took its place. “First Gladys, and now a parking spot on Spring Street. Looks like this is my lucky day.”

  They went to the next sale, and ten minutes later were back in the truck and headed for the bridge.

  “Not a bad morning’s work,” she remarked. “Can you believe I got that great lace tablecloth for three dollars?”

  “Sure. After seeing you pay ten times that for a box of old letters and pictures of strangers, I’d believe anything. What the hell are you going to do with all that cra—stuff?”

  Rose gave a noncommittal shrug. “I’m not sure. Maybe use them as filler in a window display.”

  “I don’t even know why I bothered to ask. I’m just about convinced you could sell snow cones to Eskimos.”

  “The one thing I won’t do is sell them,” she informed him.

  “Doesn’t that fly in the face of your whole trash-to-treasure philosophy?”

  “No, because they aren’t trash. They’re mementoes, history, bits and pieces of actual lives. That sort of thing shouldn’t be bought and sold.”

  “What am I missing? Didn’t you just…”

  “Buy them? Yes, but only so someone else wouldn’t. I like to think of it as rescuing them from the insensitive, ungrateful hands they’d fallen into.”

  “Tell me, is your house full of stray cats and injured birds, or is it only inanimate objects you feel obliged to rescue?”

  “I’m not fussy,” she admitted. “Though I’m drawn to some castoffs more than others. For instance, I can’t stand to see someone tossing out their grandfather’s war medals or pillowcases hand-embroidered by a great-aunt. I say if you’re lucky enough to have a family heirloom, treasure it.”

  “I’m sure your ancestors are duly grateful.”

  “Not likely,” she said, just a touch of regret in her tone. “In my family, the only things passed down from one generation to the next were debts and bad habits. Maybe that’s why I’m such a zealot on the subject, but it breaks my heart to see the family Bible and scrapbooks tossed into a box along with old paperbacks.”

  He shrugged. “Maybe they needed the money.”

  She shook her head vehemently. “No way. When I was with Social Services, I dealt with people who needed money…desperately. More often than not, they kept the family Bible and photo album in a place of honor.”

  “So what’s your conclusion? That the poor are basically noble but that middle-class suburbanites will sell Granny’s dentures without missing a heartbeat?”

  “I don’t think it’s a matter of money at all. Like most everything else in life, it’s a matter of priorities. Most people are more concerned with tomorrow than with today…much less yesterday.”

  She continued. “Just think about the pop-psychology expressions constantly being tossed around—moving on, getting on with your life, recreating yourself and, my personal favorite, closure. ‘I need to find closure,’” she quoted dramatically and shook her head. “As if the past is something you can put neatly in a box and store in the basement…or sell at a yard sale.”

  “Time doesn’t move backward,” he pointed out.

  “Yes, but life isn’t lived in a straight timeline, either. The past is with us, whether we choose to acknowledge it or not.”

  “Seems to me there’s a lot of room between acknowledging the past and living in it.”

  “Point taken,” she conceded, as they approached Wickford. “I don’t expect everyone to share my love of anything and everything vintage.” She shot him a grin. “Though it sure would be great for business if they did. The way I see it, if Gramps’s old smoking stand turns out to be an original Stickley, worth thousands at auction, it makes sense to sell it and finance the kids’ education. Anyone who pays that kind of money for a smoking stand will be sure to give it a good home, and the kids’ framed diplomas will be Gramps’s legacy. But if instead his legacy is a wooden jewelry box he made for Grams on their first anniversary, I think it should be cherished—broken hinges, peeling paint and all. That goes double when it comes to really personal items, like photos and marriage certificates.”

  “And if the family doesn’t see fit to cherish it, you will?”

  “Damn right. Or, in the
case of Gramps’s jewelry box, I’ll find a like-minded buyer who will. Truly personal mementoes are different. I don’t feel right profiting from them. It may sound silly, but finding a diary or old letters is like being a caretaker of someone else’s dreams.” She glanced across at him. “You, of all people, should understand that.”

  He looked startled. “I should?”

  “Isn’t that exactly what you’re doing by completing Devora’s collection?”

  “Oh. That. Yeah…sure…I—I guess I just never thought of it in quite that way.”

  Rose’s smile deepened. Her impression of the man was like an ongoing volleyball game in her head. Just when she thought she had never encountered anyone less endearing, she caught a flash of real vulnerability and found herself softening toward him. It had happened more than once this morning. He had said he was intrigued by her. Maybe you could say she was intrigued in return. Devora would have said she was smitten. All she knew was that the past few hours had been much more enjoyable than she had anticipated.

  She almost felt guilty for charging him. Almost.

  He cleared his throat, still looking uncomfortable. Poor thing. He really had a hard time accepting praise—at least when it came to anything that smacked of the dreaded S word. Sensitivity.

  “The thing with Devora and the birds is really more complicated than just me…” He hesitated. “How did you put it? Pitch-hitting for her dream.”

  “I said being the caretaker of it, but you’ve got the idea.”

  “Yeah, well. There’s a little more to it than that.”

  They turned a corner and caught the red light, with Fairfield House looming before them in all her glory.

  “Doesn’t she just take your breath away?” Rose asked, as the truck coasted to a stop.

  He sort of grimaced.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I interrupted. You were saying something about you and Devora’s Borealis collection…about it being complicated.”

  “Right. Exactly. It is complicated. Too complicated to get into when I know you’re pressed for time.”

  “I have a few—”

  “No. I wouldn’t want to make you late. What would Lulu’s mother say?”

  “Lulu? You mean Laurie?”

  “Right, Laurie. I do need to discuss it with you, though. Maybe we could talk about it later. Tonight. Over dinner.”

  “That would be great,” she said. The spur-of-the-moment invitation left her feeling a little surprised, a little nervous and a little disappointed. “Unfortunately, I have plans tonight. It’s sort of a standing commitment or I might—”

  He waved off her explanation. “No problem. With Charlie?”

  “Who?”

  “Charlie. Sort of nondescript guy, brown shorts, pushes packages… You called him Charlie the other day at the shop.”

  “Oh, that Charlie.” The suggestion made her chuckle. “Not quite. The thing between Charlie and me is strictly for fun.”

  “So I take it your regular Saturday night commitment is more serious?”

  “You could say that,” she returned, not about to reveal where and how she spent her Saturday nights.

  “No problem,” he said again, his tone jovial. Almost too jovial, as if he was relieved she had other plans. He pointed at the end of the driveway. “You can just drop me there,” he said. “No need for you to drive all the way up to the house.”

  “Sure there is. Door-to-door service is in my job description,” she joked, turning into the drive. “Besides, all that climbing in and out of the truck had to be hard on your leg. I couldn’t help noticing that you seemed to sag a little as the morning wore on.”

  “I said stop here,” he ordered roughly, and Rose hit the brakes, sending the three of them—Griff, Gladys and her—sliding forward. “I busted my leg. That doesn’t make me a damn cripple, or one of those broken-down castoffs you’re so good at finding.”

  He shoved open the door and jumped from the truck without using the cane. The show of agility cost him. Rose could tell from the way his jaw clenched when he hit ground. She winced inwardly, but her expression remained impassive.

  The door slammed shut, and he glared at her through the open window. “For your information, not everything or everybody wants to be rescued—not even by Rose Caretaker-of-the-World, Patron Saint of Has-Beens, Davenport.”

  Any trace of sympathy she’d been tricked into feeling disappeared. She felt her cheeks heat. As if, Rose fumed silently, she was the one who had reason to be embarrassed. He was lucky he’d gotten out when he did—if he hadn’t, she’d have kicked him in his bad leg without a second thought.

  Instead, she yanked the gearshift into reverse and glared back at him. “And then there are those who are too far gone, beyond rescue, lost causes…making the whole thing a moot point.”

  The truck lurched, forcing him to step away in a hurry and spraying gravel all the way back to the gates. Gears screeching, she shifted and tore into her own driveway next door.

  She sat gripping the wheel, temper popping, heart pounding. She had less than a half hour to unload the truck, change clothes and get to the shop in time to relieve Laurie. But first, she had something more important to take care of.

  Rummaging in the straw bag on the seat beside her, she found a small notebook and flipped it open to the first page. At the top, in neat even figures, was written $2,107.36. Rose did some quick calculations in her head and, directly beneath it, wrote $137.50, then drew a line and did the subtraction.

  $1,969.86.

  Damn. At this rate she’d be working for Griffin the rest of the summer to recoup her loss. She would never make it that long. She frowned, then remembered the coffee and blueberry muffins and, with something akin to evil pleasure, subtracted another nine dollars.

  Chapter Five

  Rose arrived at the Willow Haven Retirement Community shortly before seven that evening. As usual, the others were already gathered in the lounge, eagerly awaiting her arrival.

  She’d started the Saturday Night Collectors group for a number of reasons. She enjoyed being around people and helping others. And she missed Devora. Terribly.

  At Willow Haven, she’d hoped to recapture some of what she and Devora had shared. And in a small way, she had. But the Saturday night group had grown into something much more than a substitute for a lost friend or a way to keep a bunch of old folks entertained for a few hours once a week. Something more than she and the dozen or so residents who made up the core of the group could have imagined.

  It had started simply enough. Devora had shared Rose’s pleasure in finding loving homes for her treasures, and in the months before she died she had given Rose a number of things, some of considerable monetary value and some of none, all of which Rose cherished and would never part with. She had also given her over a decade’s worth of magazines devoted to antiques and collecting. The boxes they were stored in had literally taken over her small home, and the idea of donating them to the local nursing home had been born of desperation more than anything else.

  She had been en route to Willow Haven, the truck piled high with cartons of old magazines, when she happened to remember a club her sixth grade teacher had formed to teach her top math group about the stock market. They would meet one afternoon a week to “buy” and “sell” shares of stock, based on individual research done on their own time. At age eleven she had tracked and charted her way to being the group’s first millionaire. That her fortune was only on paper hardly diminished her excitement. More valuable than the math she learned that year was the realization that passion for what you are doing can be its own reward.

  It was Newton and the apple all over again. If it worked with kids and stocks, she reasoned, why not seniors and Chippendale? By the time she arrived at the nursing home, she was ready to pitch the idea to the director—and Saturday nights at Willow Haven hadn’t been the same since.

  The meetings fell on Saturday night more or less by default, but it worked for everyone. Weeknights were
reserved for more traditional seniors activities, such as bingo and line-dancing. Saturday nights, when both staff and visitors were scarce, could be long and lonely, with plenty of time for brooding about days gone by and what Devora used to refer to as “the could’ve, should’ve, would’ves.”

  Rose knew all about that. She’d also served enough time in dating bars and on blind dates to know that it was more fun spending Saturday nights with her friends at Willow Haven. It wouldn’t do to admit it to Maryann, but the truth was that somewhere along the way she had given up on romance, at least the heart-pounding, head-spinning, happy-ever-after variety that her friend had been blessed with.

  Rose was okay with that. She might not be living the life most single, thirty-something women dream of, but at least she no longer dreaded Saturday nights. From the start, she’d been inspired by the group’s enthusiasm and dedication. They quickly outgrew her modest vision of compiling facts and clippings in scrapbooks. They visited schools and church groups, did informal appraisals, and—thanks to a donation of floor samples from a local computer dealer—they also bought and sold through online auctions, earning enough to finance field trips to museums and flea markets.

  In the process, they had made new friends and developed a system of international Internet contacts that Rose had no doubt could take over the world if they weren’t otherwise engaged. She was counting on those contacts to help her locate the Borealis pieces Griffin needed to complete the collection.

  She waited until the end of the meeting to make her request, and received the expected chorus of offers to help.

  “I know a fellow in Germany who has a lot of that kind of thing listed on his Web site,” said Hal Sanders. “I’ll check it out.”

  “How about that dealer we met at Brimfield last year? Jim…Jack…” Ruth Marshall chewed her bottom lip as she struggled to recall the name.