Rose had been watching the numbers on the mailboxes along the roadside. “I think Dana’s house is that next one on the right. She mentioned that her mailbox was a black-and-white cow and that there was a big stump in the front yard.”
“I see the stump,” said Maryann, slowing. “Which reminds me, John Lombardi said I should tell you that you ought to get rid of the stump in your yard ASAP, before you’re inundated with carpenter ants.”
“How does John know I have a stump in my yard?”
“Evidently he was out there doing an appraisal of Fairfield House and he happened to see it.”
“I didn’t know Griff was having the house appraised,” Rose told her, puzzled.
“I thought it was a little strange myself. He hasn’t changed his mind about selling, has he?”
“Of course he hasn’t changed his mind,” Rose assured her. “Fairfield House is part of his heritage. You don’t sell part of your heritage…at least, Griff wouldn’t. I do know the house is going to need a lot of work, which he won’t be able to handle himself. Maybe he applied for a home equity loan.”
If so, she thought, she was even happier that she’d decided to surprise him with the second bird.
“I made it,” exclaimed Maryann, as they pulled into the driveway and parked. Without wasting any time, she reached for the door handle with one hand and her purse with the other.
“Hold on,” said Rose, grinning, as Maryann turned back to look at her. “I know you’re in a big hurry, but I just have to tell you this one thing… When your gramma Viola and you are right, you’re right.”
It had taken the better part of the afternoon to replace just two sections of the porch’s rotted and broken balusters. But, thought Griff, it was worth it. He gripped one of the ornate wooden pieces and tugged, grinning when it failed to budge. It had been a slow, trial-and-error process at the start, but he was good with his hands and had a knack for knowing how things go together. Now that he’d mastered the task, the other dozen sections would go a lot faster.
But that would have to wait a while longer.
He was ready to knock off for today, and not for the reason he would have expected just a few weeks ago, because his leg or neck or back was acting up. Since he’d started working on the long list of repairs the house and grounds needed, he’d actually been bothered less by pain. Or else he just had less time to think about it. Whatever the reason, Fairfield House was in a helluva lot better shape than when he’d first arrived. And so was he.
It was, he mused, and not for the first time, as if he had stepped into a movie version of his life. It’s A Wonderful Life, starring Hollis Griffin. The plot and location and most of the action weren’t even close to what he’d have written had he been consulted, but, of course, he hadn’t been. Just the same, it felt right somehow, as if this could have been his life…if he had kept spending summers with Devora, or Gus had never taken him to watch planes take off or if he had upchucked his first time up instead of feeling like he was right where he had always belonged.
The day he stopped belonging in the cockpit of a combat jet was the day he started feeling as if he didn’t belong anywhere. He had not expected that ever to change. He hadn’t even hoped it would change. Because, he realized now, hoping would have been the first step toward acceptance, and he had no intention of accepting the lousy hand he’d been dealt, much less play it.
But somehow, change had happened. It had sneaked right past him. He wasn’t sure of the precise day and time—only that one morning he woke up with the sweet smell of summer rain and roses filling his head and the most gentle and giving woman he had ever known by his side, and realized that the raw ache at the core of him that he had been sure would be there forever, was gone. Not that he had turned into a happy idiot overnight. But that hard nugget of pain, like a lead shot in his belly, wasn’t there.
At first he’d tried to get it back. He willed himself to feel alone, to conjure that sharp sense of isolation that had been so acute that at times it had felt as if even the old wreck of a house didn’t want him around. But it was no use. When Rose was around, it was beyond him to feel alone or isolated or anything other than lucky.
Thinking about how that particular rainy morning had played out kept him smiling to himself the entire time he was gathering his tools and grabbing a glass of iced tea to carry back to the porch. He could spare a few minutes before getting cleaned up, and this was one of his favorite times of the day. Mostly because Rose would be coming home soon, but also because it gave him a chance to sit by himself and look over the fruits of what was turning out to be a considerable amount of hard labor.
The truth was, he got a kick out of it. If anyone had told him he would one day be content to sit and contemplate a freshly mowed lawn or some wooden spindles that still needed painting, he would have been tempted to either shoot them or himself. But he liked seeing it come together, and was not at all daunted by how far there was to go.
The appraiser he’d hired made it clear that the place needed more than cosmetics to realize its full potential value. When Griff took a look at the figures John Lombardi had provided, he’d made up his mind on the spot to return Fairfield House to her former glory before doing anything else.
It was going to take time, and money. Money was not a consideration. In addition to the house, Devora had left him her small trust fund and some valuable stock, and he had arranged for that income to be used for the renovations. While cost wasn’t a factor, quality was, and he was checking out firms as far away as Boston and Hartford because they were rated the best at what they did.
It was a pretty exciting venture…especially when compared to the past couple of years of his life. Which made it even more difficult to keep from talking it over with Rose. She knew he was doing some fixing up on his own, of course, and that he had plans for a new roof and paint job and to have the windows reglazed. It was Rose who mentioned that the house had its original “working” shutters and urged him to see if they could be made operational again. Listening to her talk about how his ancestors must have shut them as a buffer against the raging wind and sea during the worst hurricanes of the last century, made him, for the first time ever, feel a bond with those stodgy old relics whose photographs sat beside his on the piano. It made him feel as if he belonged.
Sometimes he longed to run an idea by her, to get her input on every detail. But he was afraid. Talking about the house would be like playing tag in a minefield. One slip and everything could blow up in his face.
Sometimes he longed to just come clean and tell her the truth about everything—the will and the house and the real reason he wanted to find the damn birds. But he was even more afraid of what might happen if he did tell her. Even worse than having things blow up in his face would be knowing he had only himself to blame.
Not that he could think who the hell else could possibly be to blame for any of it. He was the one who had let Rose believe he had no plans to sell Fairfield House, and who was continuing to let her believe it. At first it had seemed a harmless, expedient thing to do.
He couldn’t recall his exact words from their first meeting, but someone with a flexible conscience could argue that technically he had not lied to her. You would have to be a lot more than flexible, however, to extend the same leeway to the all-out effort he’d made in the past few weeks to cover his tracks with attorneys and real estate agents and anyone else to whom he might have mentioned his intention—his firm, unwavering, impatient and pissed-as-all-hell intention—to sell. There was no way anyone could see that as anything other than what it was: the complete antithesis of the honest, open, intimate relationship Rose wanted, and believed they had.
Griff squeezed his eyes shut, but he still felt the heat from the late-day sun and the grinding of his own conscience. He hated having to keep something from Rose. But he couldn’t risk telling her. Not yet, anyway. He was constantly reminding himself that there was no need to do anything rash. It would take a while to finish
work on the house. Besides, his hands were tied until the other two birds turned up. After their initial good fortune, they’d had no luck and no leads. He almost smiled, thinking that at least there was that to be grateful for.
Sometimes he wondered what he would do if they never turned up. Legally, he wouldn’t be able to sell the house, but he could rent it out or sign it over to the town historical society. Or he could just leave and forget about it, go back to living his life the way he had been. There was an immediate tightening around his heart which ruled out ever forgetting anything about this summer in Wickford.
Maybe he could stay, he thought tentatively, testing the possibility the way you’d test a frozen pond before skating across it. He gazed again at the spindles, looking forward to seeing them all freshly painted. He would use semigloss paint on them, he decided. White, definitely, but nothing too stark. The guy down at the hardware store had told him about a place in Newport that specialized in mixing vintage paint colors. Milk paint, it was called. Maybe he would drive over there some day this week and check it out.
Maybe, while he was there, he would swing by the War College and look into that consulting job. There was no way he was going to be trapped behind a desk all day, but maybe his former commanding officer had been telling the truth when he said it wasn’t that kind of job. It couldn’t hurt to check it out.
He told himself he ought to get up, go inside to get cleaned up and see what there was in the kitchen to thaw, microwave or grill, since it was his turn to make dinner. Reluctantly, he got to his feet and stretched, aching, but not too badly. He stayed a minute longer, standing on the porch and gazing out at the ocean. He felt content with what he had accomplished that day, and was already anticipating the evening and night ahead. It was a good place to be.
Sometimes he didn’t want to think about what lay farther ahead. He didn’t want to know how his movie would end. Maybe because it was the kind you wished never would.
He’d showered and was pulling a navy-blue T-shirt over his head, when he heard the sound of tires on gravel next door, and smiled automatically. Rose was home. He glanced at the clock in the hall on his way to the kitchen. She was late. That was a lucky break for him. He’d sat on the porch longer than he’d realized and still wasn’t sure what he could scrounge up and turn into something resembling dinner. And fast.
They’d fallen into the pattern of each cooking a night and then eating out on the third. Rose was constantly amazing him with grilled salmon marinated in lemon and dill, or incredible New England clam chowder. It was a while before he caught on that the reason she could turn out a genuine meal so quickly was that she started before leaving for work in the morning, either tossing stuff in her Crock-Pot or in some secret concoction to marinate all day.
Griff was willing to do his share on the food front, but he wasn’t even close to the Crock-Pot or early-morning planning stage. Tonight he considered it a major feat to have the table set with chilled wine, a plate of cheese and an assortment of takeout menus by the time she appeared at the back door…bearing pizza.
“Don’t tell me,” he ordered, holding the screen door open for her and inhaling deeply. “Cheese, mushrooms, pepperoni and olives.”
“Close. Artichoke hearts instead of olives this time. I just felt like artichoke.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that,” he responded, deadpan. “Have you considered therapy?”
“Ha-ha.”
Grinning, he took the pizza box from her and put it on the table, then kissed her and kept on kissing her until she nudged him away, pointing out that, unlike him, the pizza was getting cold.
“You know, this is more proof that I lack sensitivity,” he remarked when they were both pleasantly full and dallying over just one more slice. “If I were sensitive, as you accused me of being, it would really bother me that you outdo me with dinner even on my nights.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, not looking it. “What did you have planned for dinner tonight?”
“Something fantastic. And complicated. Real gourmet quality.”
“Is that so?” She glanced around the spotless kitchen.
“It sure is. Something you would really love, too.”
“Okay, Griffin, I know I’ll regret it, but I’ll bite. Tell me what it is.”
“And ruin the surprise?” He shook his head. “No way, sweetheart. You’ll just have to wait until it’s my turn to cook again.”
He made a mental note to himself to buy a gourmet cookbook first thing in the morning, scratched it and made a note to locate gourmet takeout.
“All right,” she said, sighing. “But before my taste buds get their hopes up, at least tell me this much…is the main ingredient Cheez Whiz? Again?”
“Ha-ha. You’ll have to wait and see.” He carried their plates to the sink. “But just for the record, there is nothing wrong with Cheez Whiz. As a staple, it’s right up there with Spam and marshmallow fluff.”
“I rest my case. But as long as we’re on the subject of surprises,” she added, and stood to retrieve her canvas tote from where she had dropped it just inside the back door. She flashed him a mysterious smile. “I have one for you.”
From her bag, she pulled a package about half the size of a shoe box. It was wrapped in black-and-white checkered paper and tied with shiny red ribbon. She placed it on the table in front of him.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“It’s a present,” she replied, dragging her chair closer to his, her Mata Hari smile growing increasingly excited.
“It’s not my birthday,” he stated, eyeing it the way he would an explosive devise.
“It’s not a birthday present,” she shot back.
He glanced uncomfortably from the box to her. “I don’t have a present for you.”
“Sure you do.” She ran her fingertip along his cheek and bottom lip, slowly, until he couldn’t resist trying to suck it in deeper. She pulled away with a provocative smile. “And the sooner you open the package, the sooner I’m going to let you give it to me.”
Griff couldn’t help smiling. Then he reached for the box and slid the ribbon off. He’d always rolled his eyes whenever someone received a wrapped present and declared it “too pretty to open.” But this one was. Everything Rose did, she did with care; everything she touched she turned into something special and worth saving.
Inside the wrapping was a plain brown cardboard box, and inside the box were layers of tissue.
Deep inside, everyone has a catastrophe sensor, and Griff’s was sounding a warning even before he peeled back the tissue and revealed the delicate porcelain bird. Somehow he managed to paste a smile on his face and appear normal on the outside, when inside he was cursing and pounding his fist and itching to throw the damn thing against the wall.
“Wow.” It was the best he could do.
“Do you know what it is?”
“Sure. It’s one of the birds.” One of those freakin’, pain-in-the-ass birds that, one way or another, were destined to ruin his life.
She laughed and gave him a quick hug around the neck. “Yes, but do you know which one?”
It looked to Griff pretty much like the one the guy from London had shipped to them, and all the others in the glass case in the parlor.
“At first glance, it looks to me like the…” He dragged the words out as his mind scrambled for the name of one of the missing birds. When it came to him, he nearly shouted it. “The Piping Plover.”
Her smile was gentle. “Close. It’s the Zebra Finch.”
Griff actually looked at the bird for the first time and realized it had black-and-white stripes, like a zebra. “I guess I should have known that, huh?”
“I figured the paper would be a dead giveaway.”
He glanced at the paper. Black-and-white stripes. He shrugged.
“This is…great,” he said, then remembered to smile. “Really great. I had no idea you even had a line on another one. You haven’t found the last one, have you?”
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She shook her head, and his heart resumed beating.
“I’m afraid I may have some bad news on that score, but—”
“What kind of bad news?”
“First, let me tell you how I found this one, okay?”
Griff figured it was a rhetorical okay, so he listened, hiding his impatience, as Rose explained that she had seen an ad in a trade paper, made a phone call, and then, along with Maryann, driven to upstate Massachusetts to pick it up.
“That’s…great,” he said again. “So. What do I owe you?”
“Nothing. I said it was a gift, remember?”
“You can’t do that. These damn things are expensive.”
“I can do it if I want to,” she retorted. Lowering her voice, she added, “And I want to. Really, Griff.”
She laced her fingers through his and squeezed his hand. “I want to be part of this tribute to Devora,” she told him. “It’s little enough compared to all the help she gave me when I really needed her. I know this was your idea, but…” With a rueful smile, she continued, “That only makes me want to do it more. I want to be part of this with you. Please don’t spoil it for me.”
Griff’s stomach felt weird. The rest of him didn’t feel much better. Especially his tongue, which seemed to have doubled in size, making it impossible to say the words that wouldn’t come, anyway. All he could do was sit here, and let her gaze at him as if he had invented sunshine, and feel every bit the lying, scheming bastard he was.
Chapter Thirteen
When he was sure he could speak in a reasonably normal tone, he said, “Hell, Rose, I don’t know what to say.”
“Say thank you.”
“Thank you.
“You’re welcome. And I have to admit, you were right,” she added, her tone teasing, her smile so sweet and guileless that he wanted to cringe. She rested her palm against his cheek for just a few seconds. “It’s obvious from your blasé reaction that you really are a totally insensitive lout, after all.”
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