She knocked quietly and, hearing a gruff, muffled reply within, cautiously opened the door to the private room. The gentleman seated in the large recliner at the window couldn’t have been more different than Claire had expected.
Though he wore a neck brace and a thick bandage on his left hand, not a wrinkle marred the dark olive complexion, and a head of thick brown waves nodded for her to enter. If Robert Tripleton was a day over forty, he had discovered—and drunk often from—a fountain of youth.
Claire was left speechless. She was grateful for the dark glasses he wore, for they served to remind her that the man was—at least temporarily—legally blind and hopefully unable to detect her surprise.
“M-Mr. Tripleton?” she stammered.
“Yes. That’s me.”
“I’m Claire Anderson. They sent me to read for you. Do you have something you’d like me to start with? Is this a good time?” Suddenly flustered, her voice squeaked out of control.
She'd carried a vague picture of this Mr. Tripleton in her mind: a picture of a very wizened, feeble, ancient person. And now here the man sat—dark, good-looking in a rugged, outdoors way, and seemingly far too young for a place like this. She wondered what his story might be. What tragic circumstances had decreed that a man so young and seemingly vital recover from his accident in a nursing home?
He was neatly dressed in tan slacks and an open-collared oxford shirt. His smooth-shaven face—and a tiny scrap of tissue covering a razor nick—attested to the recent use of a spicy masculine shaving soap, the scent of which hung faintly in the air of the room.
“Ah… so they finally sent you.”
“Yes. Do you have something in mind you’d like me to read today? Or is there something I could bring you from the library?” Claire asked, regaining her composure.
He fumbled for a well-worn volume on the table beside his chair. “I was in the middle of this when I was”—he searched for a word—“sidelined by this.” He touched the dark glasses gingerly.
“Do you have any sight at all?” Claire ventured.
He was very matter-of-fact. “I can make out light and darkness—some vague shapes if the light is right. It seems to be a bit better day by day, but the doctors are not promising that I’ll be able to return to work anytime soon.”
“And what is your work?” Claire asked, making conversation.
“I teach—I taught,” he corrected himself, “at the college in Mullinville. English literature.”
“Oh, how awful!” Claire cried.
“Teaching English literature? It’s not all that terrible.” Despite the confining neck brace, Robert Tripleton laughed heartily at his deliberate misinterpretation of her remark.
His genial laughter put her more at ease. “No, I meant . . . well,’ it must be terribly difficult to lose your sight—especially in your profession.”
He turned serious again. “It’s not been easy. But I am looking at this as a very temporary condition. And I do thank you for your offer to read to me. I will appreciate it more than you can know.” As though dismissing any further sympathy, he handed her the book. “I believe my place is marked.”
She took the book from him and turned the brittle pages to the place marked with a folded sheet of writing paper. She was dismayed to see that the volume was an early copy of Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina.
“I thought you said English literature,” she commented, hoping he could detect the smile in her voice.
“Ah, but I much prefer the Russians. This is not my classroom reading. This is for pleasure.”
“I remember reading this book in college, but I don’t recall finding much pleasure in the reading. I seem to recall it as very dreary and depressing and long.”
“Are you aware that many scholars believe this to be the greatest novel ever written? It is a tragedy, but it has a very profound message.”
“Which is?”
He turned his head in the direction of her voice, a skeptical grin on his lips. “But I thought you read the book, Miss Anderson. You didn’t perchance just read the Cliffs Notes version, did you?”
In spite of the fact that he could not see her face, she blushed. “It’s possible,” she admitted, smiling sheepishly. Then changing the subject, she smoothed her hand over the frayed book cover. “This is a wonderful edition. It looks very old.”
“It was my grandfather’s. Look inside. I think this copy was published in the early part of the century.”
She leafed back to the front of the book. “Oh, this is old,” she whispered almost under her breath.
Handling the volume on her lap gingerly, she told him, “I hardly feel qualified to read a book like this aloud. I admit I came in expecting to read a light mystery novel or maybe a biography. But I’ll do my best. Would you mind filling me in on what has happened to this point?”
“Why don’t we just start all over at the beginning. I could make an honest student of you yet.”
Claire laughed, feeling much more at ease in the man’s presence. But she protested, “You don’t need to start over on my account.”
“No. It’s been so long since I began the book”—he cleared his throat deliberately—“my third reading, I might mention—that I would benefit from starting over at the beginning anyway.”
“If you’re sure.”
Claire opened the book and cleared her throat. At first the words and phrases of the great novelist seemed difficult and foreign to her, but as she became involved in the story, the characters began to come to life and she found herself lost in the drama of the unfolding story.
“‘Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way,’” She read thoughtfully, then couldn’t help interjecting, “Oh, how true!”
He eyed her.
Claire clapped a hand over her mouth. “I’m so sorry, I promise I won’t comment on every sentence. It’s just…that statement struck me as so timeless.” She read another paragraph and started to read on, but he lifted a bandaged hand and interrupted her.
“You sound as though you know something about unhappy families,” he broached cautiously.
She sighed, caught off guard by the gentleness in his voice. She started to reply, then felt embarrassed that she'd been about to confide in a complete stranger—and one to whom she was supposed to be providing help, not the other way around.
“No more than many people, I suppose,” she hedged.
“I wonder if an unhappy family is preferable to no family at all.”
“And I sometimes wonder the opposite.” She hadn’t intended to be so candid. Then, partly to deflect the attention from herself and partly because she sensed his remark was a hint at his own situation, she asked, “Do you have a family?”
“I was born when my parents were in their forties. They died within a few months of each other the year I turned twenty-five. So to answer your question, my childhood was spent in quite a happy family, but I have been alone for many years. Nine now. . . no, nearly ten.” He seemed surprised by the realization.
Claire did some quick math. So he was, indeed, in his thirties. She was struck by his genteel, old-world manner. Despite his youthful appearance, his refined speech and dignified bearing—made more pronounced by the brace that held his neck high—caused him to seem older than his years.
“And you have no other relatives?” Her question sounded blunt in her own ears.
“No. I doubt that I would find myself in a place such as this had I any family at all.” It was the first time she'd heard the least hint of bitterness in his voice.
“I’m sorry,” she said simply. “It must be terribly difficult.”
He forced a smile and waved her sympathies aside. “Well, it’s not your fault. Let’s get back to the story.”
“You’ll remember that you were the one who interrupted that time,” she teased, trying to lighten the moment and feeling bold, perhaps because he couldn’t see her.
“Touché.” He laughed. “Read on, Miss And
erson.”
Disregarding the fact that he couldn’t see her smile, she grinned at him and began reading where they'd left off.
She read for an hour, until her voice became hoarse and she could see that he was growing weary.
“That’s the end of the chapter. Shall we quit for today?”
“Yes, but don’t wait too long to come back. We’re just getting to the good part.”
“Oh, I’ll be back tomorrow if that’s all right with you. You see, my grandmother is here recovering from a stroke. I teach here in Hanover Falls, but during the summer my days are free.”
“That’s good news. So you’re a teacher too?”
“Yes, but just elementary school. Third grade.”
“Oh, now don’t sell yourself short. I should rather teach a thousand college students than one third-grader. It’s a high calling—to teach a young child.”
“Well, I do love teaching.” His comments made her feel as though she'd been fishing for a compliment and yet she basked in them. Suddenly self-conscious, she looked at her watch. “I really should be going. I’ll see you tomorrow—at the same time if that suits you.”
“I’ll look forward to it. I do thank you so much for volunteering your time. You have a very pleasant reading voice.”
She blushed, embarrassed at the compliment. “I don’t know about that, but thank you.”
“No. Thank you. I don’t think you have any idea how much this means to me. I do thank you.” The sincerity in his voice was charming.
As she closed Robert Tripleton’s door behind her and met two nurses in the hallway, she had to conceal a smile. What an interesting encounter this had turned out to be. She found the man utterly enchanting and so easy to talk to that it was tempting to confide too much. She would have to guard herself against being unprofessional. Even though this was a volunteer position, it was an assignment she'd taken under the auspices of Riverview, and she wanted to do it with propriety.
On the way home she stopped at the library and checked out a copy of Anna Karenina and a biography of its author, Count Leo Nikolayevich Tolstoy.
She read until late into the evening, and she dreamed that night that she walked along the shadowy streets of nineteenth-century Moscow, escorted by a handsome man who wore a neck brace and dark glasses. But when the man in her dream turned stiffly toward her, it was Michael Meredith’s face that smiled above the brace.
Chapter 26
The door to Robert Tripleton’s room was open, but Claire rapped quietly on the door jamb to announce her arrival.
“Is that my story time lady?” a deep voice joked.
“’Tis I.” Claire played along.
She made herself comfortable in a straight-back chair in front of his recliner and took the book he held in her direction.
“I did a little research last night and borrowed a biography of Tolstoy from the library. It’s a lot more interesting than I thought it would be.”
“You’re certainly taking this assignment seriously.”
“Well, you made me feel so guilty I started to fear my degree might be revoked if I didn’t make up for my indiscretion back in Literature 101.”
“And it might yet be if you don’t get busy reading.”
Claire loved the easy repartee they'd quickly established. Laughing, she opened to the place she'd marked and began reading.
Claire read to Robert Tripleton every afternoon during the week, and in the evenings she waded through the biography of the great Russian author. Though much of it was interesting, especially in light of the novel she was reading, there were dry passages and information that didn’t interest her a great deal. Still she was determined to finish both biography and novel—word for word. Not the Cliffs Notes version this time.
Michael Meredith strode purposefully out the door and down the sidewalk toward the newly finished senior center. The building was operating at full tilt now, and overseeing its maintenance and activities was just another thing to keep him busier than he thought possible.
He made a quick tour through the main activity room, stopping to chat briefly with the residents who had gathered there to work on a quilt, play cards, or just to visit. As always, he was greeted warmly, and his attention was eagerly sought by the elderly residents. Michael was flattered to be a favorite of these people, and he intended never to forget that they were the reason he was here—not the buildings or the money or any of the other things that tended to steal so much of his time from the things he felt to be truly important.
But this morning it was difficult to focus his attention. He knew that his preoccupation was apparent to his elderly friends. After only a few minutes of visiting, he headed back to his office.
With a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, Michael thought about the things he'd learned yesterday. The suspicions Vera had voiced weeks ago never completely died, but Geneva Grayson and Cynthia Harper seemed to have mended their differences and each continued to perform her duties with efficiency and compassion. Though hard to ignore, Cynthia Harper’s eccentric ways had been, for the most part, overlooked. Margaret Wallace had recovered sufficiently to move back into her apartment for a short time, though recently she'd taken another turn for the worse and was back in the skilled-nursing unit. Cynthia reportedly claimed it was her prayers that were responsible for Margaret’s recovery. While Michael certainly would not deny the power of prayer, he was mostly relieved that there had been no more mention of conversations with angels, nor had any other suspicious literature materialized.
But today the doubts loomed large and, in fact, seemed to be mushrooming far beyond vague suspicions.
The latest incident was more worrisome than anything that had come before, and Michael knew that he could no longer pretend that something was not terribly wrong. He also knew with certainty now that Cynthia Harper was somehow implicated.
A young nurse aide, new on the job, had come to Vera that morning telling of an alarming conversation she'd had with Harper. According to Melissa Warrington, Harper had told her an impassioned tale of her husband’s death three years earlier.
“Mrs. Harper told me that her husband—Jimmy was his name—was in such pain that she couldn’t even stand to be in the room with him. She said the strongest pain medications didn’t seem to faze him, and when he finally died, he'd been driven all but mad by the pain.” The story had poured out of Melissa in a frightened whisper as she sat in Vera’s office.
“The thing that scared me more than anything,” the young girl told Vera, “was when Mrs. Harper told me that he shouldn’t have suffered that way. She said, ‘I should have ended his suffering. There are things I could have done.’ “
“Did she explain what she meant?” Vera had coaxed.
Melissa nodded and plunged in. “She got this funny look in her eyes and started rambling on about the government and something about the Netherlands—how they have it all figured out over there so that everyone is allowed a compassionate death, and no one has to suffer needlessly. I may not have much of an education, Mrs. Johanssen, but I know enough to realize that she was talking about supposed mercy killing. She . . . almost looked crazy when she was telling me all this. Her eyes were… it was so weird—really creepy. I just thought I should tell you.”
When Vera related the incident to Michael that morning, she reported that the young aide had actually shivered involuntarily when she told the story. He immediately called Beth VanMeter into Vera’s office for a solemn meeting.
“We can’t sit on this for another minute,” he told the two women. “Something is seriously wrong here, and we had better get to the bottom of it before someone gets hurt.” If they haven’t already, he thought with a sinking feeling, remembering Frederick Halloran’s death ten months before.
The three had agreed that in light of an incriminating statement from a second source—completely unrelated to Geneva Grayson’s earlier accusations—Harper must be questioned and the board of directors be informed that an in-
house investigation was underway. Michael headed back to his office intent on arming himself with as much evidence as possible before he confronted Harper. And the first person he intended to talk to was Gerald Stoddard.
He searched through the files until he found the information he was looking for, Stoddard’s forwarding address and phone. Dialing the Texas number with determination, he tapped his fingers on the desk, listening as the phone rang on the other end.
“Hello?” a cheery middle-aged voice answered.
“Gerald Stoddard, please.”
“May I ask who’s calling?” There was casual caution in the voice, as though the woman were screening out a possible sales call.
“Yes, this is Michael Meredith with Riverview Manor in Hanover Falls.”
“Yes, of course, just a moment.”
Michael heard a muffled conversation over the wires, and then the feminine voice was on the line again, this time sounding agitated. “My husband isn’t able to come to the phone just now. Could I take a message?”
“Yes. Please have him call me at his earliest convenience. This is somewhat of an emergency. I need to ask him some very important questions.”
“May I tell him what this concerns?”
Michael had the impression that her questions were being prompted. He thought of referring to the conversation he and Stoddard had at the conference in Joplin, but he feared the man had been too drunk to remember. Finally he said, “Just tell him that we need some information about a nurse he hired shortly before he left his position here. It’s very important,” he repeated.
“I’ll tell him.”
Michael gave her the number. “Thank you, Mrs. Stoddard.”
He pushed the button for a dial tone and began to call the members of Riverview Manor’s board of directors.
The air in the boardroom hung heavy with curiosity. In his two years at Riverview, Michael Meredith had never called a special meeting—most certainly not an emergency meeting—and the members were naturally inquisitive about what had precipitated this gathering.
Nearly Page 21