by Meany, John
“Wait a minute,” she said, getting water for the hot coca. “What’s that dripping noise? Do you hear that?”
“Yeah. Unfortunately I do hear that,” Blake Cromwell sighed. “Must be that dag garn pipe under the sink again. Rotten plumber. I told my wife Lavern that fellow was a rotten plumber. But no, she insisted he knew what he was doing.”
“The pipe?” Ashley inquired, not wanting to hear about his plumbing woes.
“Yes young lady. That’s where your problem is.”
“What’s wrong with the pipe?”
“It’s leaking again. Not to worry. I have a trusty toolbox back at my place. I’ll go get it and have this fixed up in no time.”
“All right. Do whatever you have to do.”
***
He returned in five minutes.
From his cluttered toolbox, Blake Cromwell withdrew a wrench. Then, as Ashley went in the other room to unpack her belongings, he went to work.
The telephone.
A part of Ashley wanted to call her mother to let her know that she was okay. Whereas another part of her did not want to speak to her mom for at least a week.
As for Troy, Ashley did not want that jerk in her head period. Ashley wanted to get as far away from him as possible. In fact, yesterday, the decision to rent this cottage had been made, while she had been drunk and not thinking sensibly.
“Here comes the rain,” Blake Cromwell muttered, from underneath the sink. With his monkey wrench, he banged on the leaky pipe.
“It’s raining you said?”
“Sure is. I might be as blind as a bat, but I still have the ears of a rabbit.”
Ashley, who was displeased to see that the majority of the clothes in her suitcases were wrinkled, glanced out the front door.
Blake was right.
The menacing sky had burst. Quarter-size rain had begun to pelt down upon the land, and the raw whistling wind that accompanied it, had picked up significantly. Across the road where there was a lonely marsh, the tall, brown cattails wiggled stormily from side to side.
Crestfallen, Ashley folded her arms. “How long’s this crummy rain supposed to last?”
“Just through the night I heard,” Blake’s kind voice came from the other room. “Don’t let this weather get you down. They say by this time tomorrow it’ll be as dry as a whalebone and twenty degrees warmer. As Shirley Temple once said ’The sun will come out . . . tomorrow. Bet your bottom dollar that tomorrow, they’ll be sun.’”
CHAPTER 57
All evening long, the storm, with its frigid northeasterly winds, battered the coast, sending huge waves bombarding the shore.
Hour upon hour; the cold rain came down in raging torrents. Seaweed, clamshells, driftwood, and other debris, littered Castle Beach. The Weather Channel reported that this had been the strongest storm to hit the New York metropolitan area in more than a decade.
***
Nevertheless, just as Blake Cromwell had predicted, by noon the following day, the sun had returned, the ocean had calmed. It became much warmer, about fifty-five degrees.
Since it had turned into such a superb afternoon, Ashley, who still had yet to contact her mother, set up her easel on the patio, facing the sea.
As she dipped her brush into the circular pattern of color on her pallet, Ashley observed down near the quiet surf, a couple of small children in rolled up blue jeans. They were collecting shells. The taller of the duo, the girl, had pigtails. The boy with her was short and thin with a high-pitched voice.
Sadly, for Ashley, seeing these kids aroused memories of the summer when she and Troy had gone to the beach with Kimberly. In total, they had ventured to the shore together five times.
Now, as Ashley began to paint, it didn’t take long for the kids in the rolled up blue jeans to notice her. In time, they came up to chat.
“Hi,” the little girl announced when she and the boy with her had reached the cement patio. “Are you an artist?”
“Why yes I am,” Ashley responded politely. “And who might you be?” She smiled.
“My name is Caitlyn.” The girl had hair the identical shade of golden blonde that Ashley had. It was also the same length, down to her shoulders. “And this is my brother Brent.”
“Well, hello Caitlyn and Brent. Pleased to make your acquaintance.” Ashley swirled more brown and white hue onto her brush.
“What’s your name?” the boy asked. He looked to be around eight years of age. His sister was probably about ten.
“I’m Ashley.” For this new project, Ashley had chosen to paint Castle Beach, with an imposing pirate ship serving as the background, either as a play on Henry Morgan or Blackbeard. She had sketched the drawing the night before, and had been forced to do it by candlelight, because from 9:00 PM until 1:00 AM, the power had been out.
“What are you painting?” Caitlyn asked, staring at the canvas. “I can’t tell what that is.”
“It‘s a ship on the ocean,” Ashley acknowledged. “By the way, do you kids live around here?”
“Yupper,” Brent replied. “We live over there.” Ashley’s hunch had been correct. The boy pointed to one of the Victorians, a burgundy-colored home that had bleached black shingles.
“Looks like a castle.”
“Nah. It’s no castle. It’s just our house.” Brent suddenly hurried back down to the waves.
“I‘m sorry,” Caitlyn apologized. “Sometimes my dumb little brother gets nervous around people that he doesn’t know. He’s not as mature as me.”
“Oh. I see.”
“So Miss, where are you from? We’ve never seen you around before.”
Ashley reported to the youngster that she was from a different part of New Jersey, and that she would be staying in Castle Beach for an unspecified time.
“Why aren’t you kids in school today?” Although she was unaware of it, with her black French beret, smooth porcelain complexion, and blonde hair, Ashley looked European. Along the Jersey shore, you did not come across many artists who painted on the beach. Particularly during this time of year.
“The storm last night flooded the school parking lot,” Caitlyn explained, while still staring admiringly at the canvas. “None of the buses or teachers had anywhere to park, so they had to close.”
That wasn’t the only part of town that had been socked by water. The street in front of Ashley’s cottage had also been flooded. The nearby duck pond had spilled over, and if not for the neighborhood’s first-rate drainage system, Ashley’s yard would have likely been swamped as well.
“I bet you and your brother are happy about that.”
Caitlyn jumped up and down. “Woo hoo!” she cheered, clapping her hands. “We’re super happy. I was supposed to have a test today in math. A really hard one. Now I won’t have to worry about it until tomorrow.”
On the picnic table next to Ashley’s spare brushes, a goblet of white wine twinkled elegantly in the sunlight. She grabbed the chilly glass and took a sip.
“Miss, are you married?”
“No.” Ashley did not feel like discussing the topic. “Are you?”
Caitlyn giggled. “How can I be married? I’m only in sixth grade.”
“You just claimed you were mature.”
The youngster‘s exuberant laughter intensified. “Ha ha! Compared to my brother I am. But I’m not as grownup as my mom and dad.”
It turned out their mother was a stay-at-home parent, and their father was a coin dealer.
“You should see my daddy’s shop,” Caitlyn bragged. “It’s in New York. By Madison Square Garden. He has every coin in the world ever made.”
“Really?”
“Uh huh. You should go there some time.”
“Maybe I will.” Like the wine and morphine, the one thing this girl was doing that Ashley found helpful, she served as another distraction that kept her from dwelling on her breakup with Troy. As for her mother, despite Ashley’s decision not to
get in touch with her yesterday, she had resolved that she’d definitely call home in an hour. In addition, she had reached the conclusion that now she wanted Kimberly with her. Ashley already missed the baby terribly, and realized how desperately she needed her daughter in her life. “Caitlyn, do you believe in magic?”
“What kind of magic?”
“This kind of magic. Watch!” With a few speedy brush strokes, Ashley skillfully painted a treasure chest. The wooden box teemed with sparkling gold, silver, diamonds, rubies, and a long string of pearls.
“Wow! That’s so neat!” Caitlyn cried out enthusiastically. “I wish I could paint like that.”
“Thank you for the inspiration,” Ashley told her. “If you hadn’t mentioned that your father was a coin dealer, I don’t think I would have thought to paint a treasure chest. You‘ve been a big help.”
Overjoyed, Caitlyn called to her brother.
“What do you want?” Brent asked, chucking another shell into the tranquil sea.
“Come here. You have to see what this lady painted. A pirate ship and now a treasure chest. It‘s so cool.”
CHAPTER 58
Overnight and throughout today, Claire Whittaker, still unaware of her daughter’s whereabouts, had been so worried, there wasn’t a fingernail left on her delicate hands.
They’d all been nervously chewed off.
“It’s been well over twenty-four hours,” Rachel Gilbert commented, while gazing at the clock on the wall. “Maybe it’s time for you to take the next step.”
Claire sighed. “You think I should call the police now?”
“Yes Claire. I don’t know what they can really do at this point, except maybe put a make out on Ashley’s car. But it’s worth a try. Especially since it doesn’t seem like your daughter is planning to call you anytime soon.”
They were at the Whittaker residence, in the family room, sitting on opposite ends of the couch.
Snug in a toasty blanket, the baby lay on Claire’s lap quietly drinking formula. This was quite a relief, considering that Kimberly, since daybreak, had been sobbing and fussing even more than she had yesterday.
Claire was convinced that the baby was upset because of her mother’s departure. If for an extended period Kimberly did not get to see Ashley, she would become irritable.
“Wait a minute,” Claire uttered. “Are you sure it’s twenty-four hours? Or do you have to wait forty-eight hours, before the police will do something?”
“I don‘t know,” Rachel replied, now standing up. She stretched her stiff back, and then went to peek out the front door, hoping to see Ashley’s Toyota pull up. “I’m not an expert on police procedure. However, I always thought that once a person has been missing for a day, most municipalities will at least allow you to file a report.”
For the first time in perhaps a decade, Claire had gone two consecutive days without wearing makeup. Presently her face was intensely pale, and heavy black circles encased her eyes.
“Well,” she said, “whatever the time frame is, I think I’m going to wait.”
“You’re going to wait!” Rachel threw her arms up into the air. “For how long, Claire? Until your blood pressure soars so high you have a heart attack?”
“Look Rachel, I don’t want to argue with you. I’m just confused.”
“You should be.”
Claire glanced down and saw that some of the baby formula had dripped onto her pink, Gloria Vanderbilt jogging suit. Using a wet napkin, she wiped the dribble clean.
“In her note, Ashley specified that she might be gone for a couple of weeks. It’s not as if she said she was never coming back. My theory is because of what happened with her and Troy; she wanted to get away for a while, to sort out her emotions.”
In a dramatic display of hostility, Rachel slammed her teacup into its saucer. The hot cup and the spoon clanked explosively.
“If Ashley was my daughter, I’d want to find her as soon as possible.”
“And why is that?” Claire asked, even though she already knew the answer.
“So I could give her a serious piece of my mind, that‘s why. What normal parent would split like that, without taking their kid? You’re not this child’s caretaker!”
“Rachel, would you please lower your voice. I don’t want you shouting like this in front of my granddaughter. Show some respect. I don‘t want the neighbors to hear what you‘re saying either. Jeez!”
Rachel, dressed in a blouse and skirt from Kohl’s, began to pace around the room.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t help but be upset. I’m so disgusted by what your daughter has been putting you through. Yeah, granted, lately, Ashley has shaped up her act quite a bit. I’ll give her that. But this stunt she pulled now, is totally inexcusable!”
“Stop getting so riled up,” Claire urged, scowling. “I’m telling you, if you don’t lower your voice, you’re going to scare the baby. It took me long enough to get Kimberly to stop crying. I don‘t need you starting her up again.”
“Yeah. Sure Claire.” Rachel said, seething. “I’ll lower my voice. If it’s not about Ashley, it’s about the baby. Always about the baby.”
Switching the bottle of formula to her other hand, Claire asked, “What‘s that supposed to mean?”
“It‘s like I don‘t even know you anymore. Ever since this kid was born, that’s all you ever think about . . . The baby this. The baby that. And like I said, if it’s not about Kimberly, then it’s about Ashley.”
“What are you saying, Rachel, you don’t want to be my friend anymore?”
If that turned out to be the case, Claire would be fraught with melancholy. Rachel, for such a long time, had always had her back.
“No. That’s not what I’m saying.” Rachel stamped her foot and growled. “We’ll always be friends. I’m just fed up with your daughter. I’m so tired of this crap!”
“Okay,” Claire responded compassionately. “I can understand where you’re coming from. Except why do you have to bring the baby into this?”
“Because. Don’t you get it? Ashley should be the one taking care of Kimberly. Not you!”
“She does take care of her.”
“Really?” Rachel chuckled scornfully. “You call her latest disappearing act taking care of her child? Huh! I beg to differ. What Ashley is doing is called being selfish. And a hundred bucks says wherever she is, she’s probably back on the booze. Back on it heavily.”
Perturbed, Claire thought about the Smirnoff vodka that she had found in Ashley‘s studio.
“I doubt it,” she lied, not willing to discus her daughter‘s drinking problem. “Ashley took her easel with her and most of her canvases. So like Troy said, I think wherever she went, probably to a hotel, she’s concentrating on her art.”
Earlier that morning, Eve had left a message on Claire’s answering machine, stating that she and the curator from the art gallery in Trenton, would likely stop by over the weekend to critique Ashley‘s work.
“Need I remind you,” Rachel said, shaking her finger critically, “that some of your daughter’s finest artwork came at a time when she was practically drinking from sun up until sundown? I hate to say it; I think the booze actually helps her to be more creative. Yet that‘s about the only thing it helps. The rest of her judgment is way off the map.”
“Okay. Then for argument sake, Rach, let’s say Ashley is back on the booze: would it have been a smarter idea for her to have taken Kimberly with her? Or do you think she did the right thing by leaving the baby here with me, with someone who is sober?”
Stubbornly, Rachel frowned, sipped her tea.
“Do you have anymore Sweet’ N Low?” she asked. “My tea tastes somewhat bland.”
“First answer the question.”
“No Claire!” Rachel refused to sit back down. She kept edging closer to the door. “I’m finished talking about this. You know where I stand on the issue. So either notify the police or sh
ut up! Because if I have to listen to one more word about your crazy daughter, I’m out of here.”
That did it!
Claire could no longer sit here impassively, and listen to her friend act like a complete hypocrite.
“Rachel, what do you expect me to do, tell Ashley, when I do finally hear from her, that I’ve given up on her? That she’d better find somewhere else to live? And that wherever the hell she’s planning on going, she’d better take the baby with her, because I‘m no one‘s caretaker, and that if she can‘t manage to-”
“Yes!” Rachel interrupted defiantly. “That’s exactly what I think you should say to her. You need to be tough. With all that life insurance money she has, and the money she receives each month from Peter‘s parents, she can afford to be on her own.”
“Is that a fact?”
“Absolutely. Plus, now she’s also earning relatively steady profit selling her paintings. Therefore, there’s no reason for her to be here anymore. She certainly isn’t broke.”
Becoming deeply resentful, Claire reached toward the coffee table for a magazine. “For chrissakes, Rachel, my daughter lost her husband and was raped! Two people jumped her in the dark and nearly murdered her. Do you really think Ashley is supposed to get over those traumatic events in the course of a single year?”
“No Claire, I don’t. But she has to want to help herself. It’s as simple as that. And if she doesn’t want to help herself, then there’s really nothing you or anyone else can do about it . . . Ashley’s not a kid anymore, she’s a grown woman.”
Thinking it best to remove the baby from this verbal war zone, Claire put Kimberly upstairs.
“If your precious daughter,” she said to Rachel when she returned, “had lost her husband, then a couple of months later, got raped, while pregnant no less, I guarantee you she would have wound up just as emotionally messed up as Ashley. So don’t stand there, Rachel, and act as if your offspring is a model of perfection. I care about my daughter, the same way you care about your daughter. That means no matter what Ashley does, even when she pulls outrageous stunts like this, I have to stand by her. No matter what!”