Love, Louisa

by Barbara Metzger

  “Oh, no!” Louisa cried, but Dante put his arms around her to listen.

  As far as anyone could tell so far, Mr. Bradford got behind the wheel of Ms. Martin’s big white SUV when the valet brought it forward. He hit the gas instead of the brake, however, crashing into the car ahead of them. When Mr. Bradford got out to look, the guard reported, he collapsed right in the roadway. The ambulance had already come, and the campus patrol car had followed with Ms. Martin, who had been shaken up by the collision.

  “Be happy it happened here and not in Paumonok Harbor,” Dante told Louisa as they hurried out, her shoes in his hand. “The hospital is only minutes away from the college, instead of the forty it takes from home.”

  “And there’s not much traffic this time of night, is there?”

  “He’ll be fine,” Dante said, squeezing her shoulder as he helped her into the car the valet brought. He turned her away from the tow trucks that were already trying to separate the white SUV from the smaller car it had demolished. Glass and metal and radiator fluid were everywhere.

  There was no question of Louisa’s driving Mr. Bradford’s Mercedes to the hospital on her own. She didn’t know the way, her hands were shaking, and she needed Dante.

  She didn’t notice what kind of car he had. It was a black luxury something that couldn’t go fast enough to suit her. Dante handed her his cell phone and told her to call Marta, telling her to place an emergency call to Mr. Bradford’s physician, and another to his agent, who had left earlier in the evening. He had to be prepared in case they needed an extension in the book’s deadline. “Tell Marta not to call Mr. Bradford’s sister yet, until we know more.”

  Louisa was happy to have something to do, rather than worry and wonder how Dante could stay so calm. “How soon before we’re there?”

  “Soon.”

  But not soon enough. No deadline extension was going to be long enough. Mr. Bradford was gone.

  Dante told the nurse at the emergency room desk that they were Mr. Bradford’s niece and nephew, and he was the health care provider listed on the forms anyway. There were no decisions for the proxy to make, but they did get to talk to the doctor who was on call that night.

  They’d tried, the doctor said. The emergency medical technicians had tried in the ambulance, and they had tried at the hospital, but they couldn’t bring the gentleman back. The damage to his brain was so severe, he would have had no life anyway. They could not tell if Mr. Bradford had a stroke as a result of the accident, or if the coming stroke had caused the crash.

  Dante asked about Ms. Martin. She was shaken up, understandably, and needed a few stitches from the collision, but her sister was already on the way to drive her home.

  “At least he didn’t die in that poor woman’s bed,” Dante said, “although Mr. Bradford might have liked that, I suppose.”

  No. Mr. Bradford could not be gone. Louisa simply refused to accept that. He had to be all right. He had to be coming out of the back rooms in his tuxedo, telling her to stop fussing over him.

  The nurse at the reception desk was looking away, the doctor was saying how sorry he was.

  Mr. Bradford wasn’t coming. Just like Howard hadn’t come to the wedding. Louisa started to shake. Dante led her to an empty corridor where she could cry in private, wrapped in his arms.

  She sobbed against his chest. “I should have—”

  “No!” he said, a catch in his own voice. “Do not start feeling responsible. You were his assistant, not his nursemaid, and there would have been nothing you could have done were you with him, were he at home. You heard the doctor, it was a massive stroke this time. Would you have wanted him to lie in a hospital bed for weeks or months, with respirators and feeding tubes?”

  She shook her head no, which was a good thing, because Dante would not have let that happen, on Mr. Bradford’s express written wishes.

  He went on: “He was having the best time of his life, and who could ask for a better time to go? You heard him say this was his finest moment. All that recognition, a pretty woman on his arm, his friends rejoicing for him. Be happy for him now, Louie, because he didn’t die too soon.”

  “He could have died later, after his book came out!”

  “Yes, but I think he knew. He spent half the summer rewriting his will and setting up trusts. He wasn’t leaving anything up to chance, right down to the music he wanted played at the funeral.”

  “He was good at details, just not so good at timing. A few more weeks and the book would have been finished, at least.”

  “I think that’s what kept him going so long. And you.”

  She started crying again, but stopped when someone handed Dante a plastic bag with Mr. Bradford’s belongings in it: his watch and keys and wallet, his glasses and hearing aid and his dentures.

  “I didn’t know he had false teeth,” Louisa said, but she took the bag from Dante and clutched it to her chest as if holding Mr. Bradford to the earth a little longer.

  Meanwhile Dante had gone to sign papers, to speak with the receptionist about notifying the nephews, the funeral parlor, the newspapers. He came back and guided Louisa out to the parking lot.

  Someone leaped out of a taxicab before they could reach the car.

  “Howard? You came? That was so nice of you to care enough to—”

  “Of course I care. It was my car the old man plowed into, and over. No one at the college had his insurance card, or that woman’s either.”

  “His insurance?” Louisa echoed.

  “That’s right. Someone has to pay for my new car, don’t they? You’re a jinx, Louisa, that’s what you are. Every time you’re around, something gets wrecked. My mother was right: I’m a lot better off without you.”

  “He’s dead,” Louisa said, while Dante was making growling noises.

  “Dead? That’s too bad. But the insurance company will still pay.”

  Louisa handed Dante the bag of belongings. She bent down and scraped up a handful of dirt from the patch of garden next to them. Howard backed up, fearing she was going to throw it in his face. Instead Louisa crumbled the loose soil in her hand, then let it trickle from her fingers back to the ground at her feet. “That’s what you are, Howard,” she said, stepping on the little pile on her way to Dante’s car. “Dirt. Nothing but dirt.”

  *

  They drove to Osprey Hill, after stopping to pick up Champ and a change of clothes for Louisa. After hugging and crying with Marta and Rico, Dante and Louisa started to make phone calls and arrangements. A lot could wait for the morning, but they could make lists together tonight, rather than being alone in their grief. Louisa was glad to be doing something, glad not to think. She was glad to be with Dante, a rock to lean on.

  *

  The next week was overwhelming, but organized. Mr. Bradford had decided to be cremated, his ashes to be taken out to sea on Dante’s boat later. Louisa vowed to go, no matter how many seasick pills she had to take. Meantime, there would be no wake or interment or funeral as such. Instead they held a memorial service at the funeral parlor in East Hampton, with half the population of Paumonok Harbor mixing with celebrities and dignitaries from the entire East End. The place was filled with flowers, two framed pictures of Mr. Bradford, and an architect’s rendering of the proposed Wesley Bradford Memorial Arts Center. A fund was established at the bank, and donations were pouring in.

  Afterward, almost everyone came back to Osprey Hill to celebrate Mr. Bradford’s life, not mourn his death. They told stories of his generosity and kindness, his wisdom and erudition—and his sharp tongue and his intolerance of ignorance. They ate his food, catered so Marta could grieve, and drank his wine, and threw the flowers into the bay.

  Two days later another memorial was held in New York City. Everyone in the arts world attended, along with politicians and publishers. Louisa sat next to Mr. Siegal, her former boss, who was wondering about the estate’s disposition. Howard did not attend.

  Dante spoke briefly, mentioning the arts center,
Mr. Bradford’s love of the sea, his hopes for future generations, and his gratitude to Louisa Waldon for the last, joyous months. Louisa was crying again, of course.

  At the end of the week there would be yet a third tribute, this one in Hilton Head, with Mr. Bradford’s nephews and his sister, if she could be taken from the nursing home. Louisa chose not to go. Dante had to, both as old friend and executor of the will. He was going to stay on there for awhile, Dante told Louisa before he left, to start the legalities of selling that house and apportioning the art collection there between the nephews.

  “What about all these paintings and drawings?” Louisa wanted to know, standing in the living room of Osprey Hill.

  “These? They’re mine, although Mr. Bradford helped me decide on some of the purchases. They stay with the house, of course. I’ll be moving back in here when I return. I was planning on staying on the houseboat through September, but I don’t like leaving Marta alone here so long, when people might think the place is empty. I figure I’ll be gone two weeks or so. With any luck, I can get it all done and not have to go back. Are you sure you won’t come with me?”

  Louisa couldn’t go, no matter how inviting a trip with Dante sounded. She’d be too busy finishing Mr. Bradford’s book. His editor and his agent had agreed—after Dante had made some phone calls—to let her complete the work. “Why would they trust me to write the last chapters?” Louisa was thrilled, and appalled.

  “You said all the notes were there, right? And everyone knew how much he depended on you to rewrite the previous chapters, so what would be more natural? They had too much money invested already to just junk the project, and besides, I am executor of the will, remember? I’m in charge of the trust that holds the rights to the book and all its earnings. I told them you can do it.”

  Louisa vowed to do the best job she could, to make Dante proud, and to earn the incredible fee they were paying her. Louisa would have done the work for nothing, as her tribute to Mr. Bradford, but this was a whole lot better. She’d be getting a quarter of the acceptance advance, a tiny part of the royalties, and her name in little print on the cover of the book.

  She wouldn’t have to worry about finding a job or making the rest of the repairs on her house. Without paying rent, without needing a new wardrobe every changing season, without eating out every night, she could make that money last until next summer, at least. Mr. Bradford’s literary agent had even hinted of more work to come, if the publishers were happy with the completed manuscript.

  They’d be happy, or she’d die trying.

  Louisa had never worked so hard in her life between the book, keeping track of the donations and the thank-you letters, and helping Marta and Rico pack up Mr. Bradford’s belongings. They had to decide what should go to the hospital thrift shop, what might have sentimental value to his sister and nephews, and which books belonged to Dante or should be donated to the library.

  She still made time for Teddy, who was missing his uncle as well as Mr. Bradford, who had been like a crusty old grandfather to him. She didn’t neglect her dog either, taking Champ for long walks on the beach, where she thought of Mr. Bradford swimming and Dante fishing, the tides changing, and the seasons.

  Fall was coming, the tourists were leaving, school was starting, and Dante did not come back. Louisa kept so busy she barely had time to miss him. Except for every other minute, every other thought that entered her head.

  He’d come back, she told herself. He had to; he practically owned the town. He had responsibilities, properties to oversee, an arts center to build, striped bass to catch. He’d come back when his business and Mr. Bradford’s was done. That’s what he promised, when he called. The question was, would he come back to Louisa?

  Dante did come back to Paumonok Harbor, at least, but not until the hurricane was on its way.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Elvira was raging up the Eastern seaboard, headed straight for Long Island. Dante was raging up and down Louisa’s living room.

  “You came back.”

  He looked at Louisa as if she were crazy. Crazier than he already thought she was, that is. “Of course I came back. I live here.” He’d been home for a day, boarding up windows all over town. He’d tried to get here sooner, starting as soon as the weather forecasters had a firmer idea of the storm’s path. His flights had been cancelled, though, diverted and delayed, until he’d finally bought a whole new truck, bigger and stronger than his old one. He’d picked a red one off the lot first, thinking about Louisa’s flower gardens and her orange sandals. She seemed to like bright colors. Then he thought about her in that evening gown and almost changed his mind for a black one. No, he’d never get home thinking about her in that dress, or out of it. He took the red truck. And thought about her anyway.

  He’d driven north, through the fringes of the storm that was headed in the same direction. Now he was here, exhausted, worried, and furious.

  “Masking tape? You think masking tape is going to protect your house from hundred mile an hour winds or more? That’s the precaution you’ve taken?”

  “Of course not. I have water and candles and a battery radio and a flashlight, just what the newspaper recommended. I took all the hanging planters down and brought in the porch furniture so it didn’t blow away or crash into a window.” She did not mention the bottle of over-the-counter sleeping pills she’d bought, hoping to sleep through the worst of the storm. It was either sleep or face the panic that was threatening to reduce her to a quivering mass of incoherence and incompetence. The TV newspeople were forecasting doom, showing the disastrous remnants of every hurricane and flood since Noah, it seemed. The radios were reveling in their warnings to have extra batteries. Bill at the hardware store told her the power had been out for a week in an ice storm two years ago. The supermarket was out of bottled water.

  Now Louisa thought she’d rather face the hurricane than Dante, who did not seem impressed by her preparations. He slammed his fist against a wall, which shook, proving how frail her house truly was, as if she didn’t know it.

  She tried to sound confident. Dante admired strength. So what if her spine was made out of sponge? “I, ah, also bought peanut butter and crackers in case I can’t cook for a few days.”

  “You can’t cook period, but that’s not the point. You can’t stay here.”

  “I am not leaving my house. You know how hard I’ve worked on it. Besides, if the power goes out someone has to be here to eat the melting ice cream.”

  He was not amused at her feeble attempt at humor. “Damn it, there’s nothing between you and Gardiner’s Bay except for a narrow stand of scrub oak and honeysuckle vines. That’s little enough protection from the wind, and nothing against the storm surge. The hurricane is due to come ashore right at high tide. Your house could be under water if it’s not swept out to the bay, or carried straight across Montauk Highway to the ocean. Half the town could be lost if the water breaches the dunes, or if the beaches are so eroded they can’t hold it back.”

  She couldn’t accept the idea that her house, her refuge, her cocoon of security, might disappear. Her tomato plants and her marigolds, maybe, but not her house. “No way. This place has been here for years.”

  “We haven’t had a bad storm in years, either, and the beaches aren’t as wide as they used to be. Besides, you won’t have a choice. The police and firemen come around and evacuate this area. It’s just too low, and too hard to get to if someone needs rescuing. The volunteers from the ambulance department can’t be expected to jeopardize their own lives trying to get here in an emergency. Ambulances aren’t built for high water, and you wouldn’t be able to call them anyway, if the phone lines go down.”

  “Yes, I would. Remember, you told me to take Mr. Bradford’s cell phone so I could answer his calls.”

  He’d told her to take the phone so he could check on her wherever she was, so he could hear her voice. “Cell phones don’t always work when transmitters go dead too. That doesn’t matter. You ca
n’t stay here alone.”

  “Then stay with me.” There, she’d said it, what she’d been hoping for since the first word of the approaching storm. Heck, it was the only thing she’d been thinking of since he left: having him come back here, to her.

  “I can’t. I have too many other responsibilities.”

  “I…see.” She saw that she was merely another concern of his, another duty, another obligation to look after. “Then consider me warned and go on about your knight errantry. I’ll take my chances here.”

  “I can’t leave you like that, Louie. It’s just too dangerous and I would worry too much. I need to know you’re safe. I need you where I can find you.”

  He needed her? “Thank you. I missed you too.”

  Dante pulled her into a hard embrace and kissed her, quickly. “You can’t imagine how much. I’d show you, but there’s no time.”

  “I can guess how much you missed me between your busy social calendar.” Louisa could not keep the resentment from her tone. She’d been pining for him while he’d been playing golf. She’d been answering sad condolence letters that enclosed donations for the arts center, while he’d been going to movies every night. Not that she was jealous or anything, wondering who he was with. “Not that it’s any of my business, of course.”

  “I was doing estate stuff, putting the Hilton Head house and its contents into the hands of the right people. I only played a couple of rounds of golf while I waited for the appraisers to come. Then it made sense to take care of the City apartment while I was waiting for the papers to go through. I figured I might as well kill some time seeing films that will never get out here, rather than watching reruns on TV. Mr. Bradford doesn’t have the sports networks on his cable, so I couldn’t even watch the Yankees. I only went to one game with Mr. Bradford’s agent. I was shuttling back and forth for ages, it seemed, until I decided to let your friend Siegal handle some of the local, legal stuff. Now I don’t have to go back to either place. Besides, I called all the time, didn’t I?”