by Cathy Elliot
“Neat,” LeeAnn said. “Anything else?”
“Well--” Annie couldn’t lie, though the impulse danced across her mind. “I bought one more thing, but it turned out to be broken.”
“Broken? Didn’t you preview, Mom? What was it?”
Annie flinched as she held the phone. “It was a … wicker chair.”
There was a long silence on the line. Finally, LeeAnn said, “I see. So that rude woman didn’t buy every piece of wicker. Just every good piece.”
“You put that so succinctly.” Annie smiled now at her inept auction ability. “As they say, live and learn. Besides, I’m pretty sure Wally can fix it. In the end, I think I’ll have a gorgeous wicker chair for very little money.”
“Way to go, Mom. You always could take care of yourself. What a woman.”
Annie laughed. “Not sure if I can take much credit. Alice came to my aid over and over. But things do have a way of working out, don’t they?”
They continued their conversation, Annie even chatting with both John and Joanna for a few minutes before LeeAnn got back on the phone. The visit was a better balm to what ailed her than the biggest basket of French fries. Annie informed LeeAnn on the kitchen remodel, detailing Wally’s work so far. She didn’t, however, fill her in on the thievery thing. No need to upset the poor dear.
Or start an argument.
They ended their conversation with Annie promising to look at dates for returning to Texas. The holidays would be here before she had a chance to buy her plane ticket, according to LeeAnn. Or her mom could just pack up before the weather turned wintry and drive home. For good.
That LeeAnn is a persuasive young woman.
When Annie hung up the phone, she pressed the button on the answering machine. As promised, librarian Valerie Duffy had left a message that the interlibrary loan item had arrived.
Mike Malone spoke next. “Ms. Dawson, just a confirmation that I’m doing deliveries tomorrow afternoon, weather permitting. Should be by your place between three and four o’clock. If you’re not home, I’ll leave your chair on the porch.”
Another message elicited funds for a particular candidate running for the Stony Point school board in the fall. Goodness, who was she? And why had she called Annie?
Lifting her sleeping cat to her chest, Annie gave her a snuggle and then arranged her on the sofa. Boots barely awakened, only opening one eye halfway before relaxing into the cushion like a floppy feline doll.
Annie headed upstairs to change, pulling off her sweater and accidentally hooking the pearl necklace around her chin. Once it fell back into place, she ran the pendant back and forth along the gold chain as she selected a sage-colored T-shirt to wear for the evening. Just as well that the expensive trinket hadn’t been exposed all afternoon if a thief had targeted her.
Or had her car been one of many? She wondered what Ian had learned at the police station. It might be too soon for folks to notice things missing from their vehicles. If Annie hadn’t opened her back door with the intention of showing the medals to the mayor, who knows how long before she would have realized they were gone?
In fact, how long had they been gone? When had she seen them last? Thursday was her best guess. She’d taken them to Ian’s office. Then placed them on her backseat and spent time in town.
She’d been to town several times since then. Parked her car at Alice’s, at the church, at the assisted-living facility, at Magruder’s, and places she couldn’t recall.
What if the medals and other items hadn’t been taken during the auction at all? She could be wrong about what happened today, overreacting to an imaginary crime.
Or she could be a target.
A loud knock on the front door startled Annie. She quickly stepped into her jeans. Unclasping her necklace, she dropped it into an antique bowl filled with earrings she hadn’t yet put away. She shrugged on the long-sleeved T-shirt and dashed back to the landing.
“Coming! Coming!” Annie said in response to more knocking, taking the steps as fast as she could.
She opened the door wide, breathless.
“Don’t you ever look first to see who it is before flinging open your door?” Alice stood with hands on hips, her stare reproving. She wagged her finger. “After having your things stolen right out of your car--what if I were the perp?”
Annie tried not to laugh. “The perp?”
“You know what I mean,” Alice said, striding through the hallway and into the living room. She dropped her cross-stitch bag on the floor with a thump. Boots, apparently interrupted from her sweet sleep, refused to acknowledge the visitor and jumped off the sofa. The cat trotted out into the hall, tail held high, and disappeared.
Alice plumped up a pillow and settled into the corner Boots had vacated. “Annie, have a seat.”
“I thought that was my line,” Annie said, sitting in a floral chair across from her friend.
“OK, you got me there. But is it my fault that you are such a good hostess, hospitality just exudes from the whole house? You don’t even need to try; I already feel welcomed when I turn into the driveway.” Alice opened her bag and pulled out her current cross-stitch project.
“Oh, please.” Annie laughed, though she indeed was pleased that Alice felt that way. “I knew you were at the door. Who else would it be?”
“That’s the question. Who? Or is that whom?” Alice rolled her eyes upward, as if looking for the answer on the ceiling. “No matter. Annie, I’m worried about you. I’m afraid you might be in real danger.”
“I don’t think having those medals stolen out of my car warrants a bodyguard. Though I do wonder why just those items were stolen.”
“It is weird to think that someone we don’t know examined your grandfather’s file and looked at the photos too,” Alice said, stitching on her design.
Annie nodded. “I get nervous thinking about it. Plus, I feel terrible to have lost those medals and pictures after my grandparents kept them safe for so long.”
Alice stopped her stitching. “You’re not the person at fault here, Annie. Someone else helped himself, or herself, to those medals. That’s the person to blame.”
“Do you think it could be a woman?” Annie wondered if anyone in her circle of friends might have a reason to make off with the medals.
But, no. She wouldn’t even entertain such a scenario. The idea was absurd.
“Hmm.” Alice considered it. “I know they’ve been a little persnickety lately, but I can’t imagine anybody in our Hook and Needle Club ever hurting you or taking your property. They aren’t that sort. Besides they were all devoted to Betsy. She gives you an additional shield of protection.”
Gram again. Her loveliness lived on, reaching out and covering Annie with its sweetness. It made her feel both grateful for her heritage and embarrassed that she had lost the medals. Like she broke a trust.
They chatted as they stitched until it was time for Alice to leave. Annie watched her get into the Mustang, fire it up with a respectable roar, and drive away. She didn’t want anything happening to her best friend.
That night Annie turned from side to side, never finding just the right position for a sound sleep. Her thoughts would not rest either. It was a scary experience for her to be the victim of a theft. Or any kind of victim. She didn’t like the word. It made her feel powerless when she had just begun to gain control again.
What if Annie had learned something no one ever wanted divulged? Something kept secret with the medals for all these years? What if she truly was a target?
Annie pulled the covers up around her ears. If only Wayne were here. No one would dare harm her then.
Shivering, she dragged Boots across the quilt and hugged her close.
20
Annie spent most of Sunday hunkered down at the house, avoiding all thoughts of medals. She needed a little time off, even from church, and started the day locked safely indoors.
Mike Malone had called to cancel his chair delivery, suffering from a sore b
ack after loading boxes for one-too-many auction customers. Alice had been busy all day, so Annie’s interactions were at a minimum, the phone ringing only one other time, a call from her grandchildren. At home in her cozy world, she painted two of the vintage frames with some gloss white paint Wally had left behind. Then with Boots as company, she settled down to finish her afghan. A minor masterpiece, if Annie did say so. Too bad it was a day late for the auction. Now she’d have to find it a new home. Most likely, the afghan was Texas bound.
Should she be bound for home, as well?
Restless, Annie looked around for another project but found nothing to tempt her. Rather than pace up and down the hallway, she decided to take a drive along the harbor. Perhaps she would pull over and walk among the boats, allowing the lapping waves to lull her troubled spirit. But before she realized it, Annie had passed the pier and pointed her Malibu toward Ocean View Assisted Living. And Harold Stevens.
The senior facility sprawled across a hillside just outside of town, overlooking the ocean. She parked in the guest lot and sauntered along the sidewalk, trying to glimpse the sea view beyond lush lawns. But the view was blocked by a low wall at the edge of the cliff. Nearby stone benches sat angled toward the water, a rustic vista point.
She made a decision. Instead of entering the Ocean View Assisted Living campus through the security gate, Annie turned and followed the signs toward the benches. She mused that it might not be so bad to live in a senior home if one had such a view.
The bench was hard and cold, and she sat scrutinizing the wild waves churning like fluid fury. She’d like to get a closer look, but gathering gray clouds hung like a menace, threatening to storm. From the scent of the sea air, she sensed there was little time before rain would fall. So she hurried toward the rock wall, wanting to better take in the magnificent sight but dreading the thought of being trapped in a downpour.
What was that? She swirled around, certain she had heard something. Or someone. But the grounds were empty. Annie stood alone, with only a cluster of old oaks bending at odd angles to keep her company. Why was she so jumpy?
She shook it off. She saw no other people, not even a dog prowling about. At this moment only Annie was enjoying this particular sight. Annie … and any number of seniors who might also be looking out from the facility’s wall of windows facing the Atlantic.
To the right of the wall stood a sign pointing to a cliff-walk down to a lower landing where seals might be seen at play. Intrigued, Annie walked along the rocky barrier, stones stacked one on top of another. It didn’t look all that secure. Following the sign’s direction, she stepped onto a narrow stone path. Edging her way downward, she held on to a metal railing attached to the side of the sea cliff. On her right, the ocean view was unobstructed. It was both exhilarating and frightening. She hadn’t done anything like this in Texas.
Annie stopped midway down the walk to watch the stirring sea splash against the rocks. A light mist covered her clothes as she basked in the primal feeling of the ocean. Her sights focused on Butler’s Lighthouse. The proverbial light in the storm. She wished she had her camera.
A loud rumble from overhead interrupted her reverie. She jerked her head back in time to see something tumbling toward her. Landslide! Annie’s hand slipped off the slick railing as she dodged the oncoming rocks. Teetering on the edge of the slippery stones, Annie almost lost her balance. She managed to again grab the railing, evading a plunge onto the rocky terrain below.
Breathless, she waited until the landslide subsided. She leaned back against the cliff, heart pumping like rapid cannon fire, and clung to the railing with both hands. A few minutes passed before Annie was able to inch her way back up the path. At the top, she collapsed on one of the stone benches. But she no longer cared about the view.
What had started the landslide? Or who? Looking around, she still saw no one. Her attention turned to the rock wall. Could some rocks have simply loosened and knocked others free as they fell? From the bench, she couldn’t see anything amiss. She probably wouldn’t anyway, because she lacked the nerve to explore so close to the drop. In this case, ignorance was her security.
The skies darkened even more. The rain should start soon, as if to punctuate Annie’s disastrous adventure. Dampness from the mist had crept into her clothes and chilled her bones. Shaken, it seemed past time to head over to Ocean View Assisted Living and seek out Harold Stevens. She hurried through the security gate, which she deemed a wise idea, considering the cliff-walk. Easy to enter but maybe not so easy to leave.
Annie noticed a lovely wreath on the door with a sign beneath that read “Welcome home to Ocean View.” She entered and found the receptionist. After asking about Harold Stevens, she was led through a hall into a large room, its amazing oceanic vista even better than Annie expected. A group of seniors played bingo at a long table, the numbers called out by a woman who must have been the activities director.
To the side, a resident sat alone, gazing through the wall of windows out to sea.
“Harold, you have a visitor,” the receptionist said, touching his shoulder before leaving to assist a frail woman whose walker wouldn’t go forward.
“Is it Harry?” the old gentleman turned and saw Annie. The light in his eyes faded. “I thought it was my grandson. He usually comes on Saturdays, but he missed yesterday.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Stevens. Maybe he’ll come today, instead,” Annie said, hoping she was right.
“Do you think so?” His initial regret disappeared, replaced with a hopeful smile. “Pull up a chair and meet my favorite lady, the sea.” He indicated the endless ocean expanse with the sweeping wave of a gnarled hand.
Thinking of her recent close encounter with that same lady, Annie shuddered. It might be a day or two before she wanted to turn her gaze seaward again. But out of respect for the senior Mr. Stevens, she gave a courtesy glance. “It’s magnificent.”
“Great times, skippering my own boat. Eventually, my own fleet. Now my grandson tells the sea stories.”
Annie looked at Harold, who seemed like a frail shell of what must have once been a vital seafarer. Covered by a worn afghan, he was long-limbed and still handsome. She saw the family resemblance to Kate’s ex-husband Harry.
Elizabeth Taylor had just told her Harold Stevens liked the ladies. Now Annie was pretty sure the ladies must have liked him too.
“Let me introduce myself. I’m Betsy Holden’s granddaughter. Annie Dawson.”
Harold’s slow grin widened. “Well, I’ll be. Betsy Holden. She was a sweet gal. Couldn’t do no better than Betsy. We had wonderful times together.”
“So you knew my grandmother well?” Annie asked.
“Oh, sure. There was a time we might have …” His voice trailed off, lost in memories.
“Gram used to say that she had a first love, but she never told us who.”
“Is that so?” he asked, looking pleased. “Well, she was my first love. That’s for sure. True and faithful, even though I wasn’t. Best that she married Charlie.”
Annie’s breathing quickened. “So you knew my Grandpa Charlie too?”
“Charlie? He was my best friend. Up until … well, I don’t want to talk about it. It was my fault. All mine.” Harold seemed to deflate before her eyes, shame washing over him.
That didn’t sound right at all. Gram married her first love’s best friend? Her Grandma Betsy? But what else could it be? The knowledge apparently embarrassed Harold. It must have ended the friendship with Charlie, though Harold seemed to take the blame. Annie again wished her grandmother were here, this time to clarify the details of her relationships with Harold and Grandpa.
Though it was really none of Annie’s business.
Shifting the subject to safer ground, she said, “I just heard from someone that you were a big hit with the ladies in your youth.”
Harold laughed. “I guess I was, though I don’t remember most of them. I had some good years with my wife Caroline. God rest her soul. She just blo
tted out the rest.”
“What a lovely sentiment.” Annie patted his arm. Wouldn’t every wife like to hear something like that?
“There was one gal, besides Betsy, that I’ve never forgotten. She was beautiful. With a beautiful name.”
Annie must have spoken too soon. She played along, anyway. “Who was she?”
“Dorothy Divine. Doesn’t that have a ring to it?” Harold said to Annie, brightly. “Sounds like an angel.” Then he frowned. “I was in the service. So was she--a nurse. I got myself in all kinds of trouble. Charlie tried to help, but I was in too deep.”
“Tell me about that.” Annie sensed that this could be something important.
“Nope. It’s private.” Harold stared out the windows again.
She sat back in her chair. What had happened all those long years ago? Obviously Harold wasn’t going to enlighten her any further. Still …
“Mr. Stevens, somebody told me you were a war hero.” OK, a white lie. But maybe somebody would. “Did you ever receive a medal for bravery or anything?”
Harold’s gaze never left his beloved sea. “Nope. I don’t have any. Didn’t deserve any. That’s the truth.”
No wonder Kate knew nothing about his war record. The man had just shut down at the mere mention of the military.
“But Mr. Stevens, you served your country in wartime. That’s a fine thing, a brave thing to do, medals or not.” Annie reached out and touched his arm.
Harold stiffened. “Can’t talk about it.”
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to pry,” she said, pulling her hand back. “But I’m very glad to have met my grandmother’s first love.” Annie’s voice grew gentler. “Before I go, sir, I’d like to thank you for your service to our country.”
He gave a little grunt, still staring out to sea.
When Annie left, she thought she had spotted tears in the old gentleman’s eyes.
21
Monday morning brought more blustery weather with it, an unwelcome guest for Annie to entertain when she had so much to do in town. She ventured out on the porch to gauge the temperature and then immediately hurried back into the sanctuary of Grey Gables. Cold enough for a jacket and windy enough for a gale warning. Yesterday’s rain had slipped into full storm mode. Usually she found the wet weather an intriguing aspect of coastal Maine. Today it was an annoyance.