by Meany, John
Contemptuously, Rachel shook her head.
“Okay. Then lets drive down to the police station,” she suggested. “We can use my car. You can’t stand by her if you don’t know where she is.”
“I said I’m going to wait. At least one more day.”
“You really think she’s going to call?”
“She will,” Claire insisted, blindly flipping through her boring magazine. “I know she will. As soon as she comes to her senses.”
“And what if she doesn’t? What if Ashley is planning to buy another gun?”
“Don’t even say that, Rachel! If you’re going to say things like that, then you might as well leave!”
Humbled, Rachel sat back down. “I’m just saying that could be what she’s thinking. She really thought that guy Troy was in love with her.”
“He still is in love with her,” Claire quickly pointed out. “He just made a mistake. When I went and spoke to him the other day, I could tell he was just as brokenhearted as Ashley. Of course, being a man, he wasn’t going to come out and admit it. Though I could definitely tell, he was upset. I could hear it in his voice.”
While Rachel went into the kitchen to sweeten her tea, Claire thought about the possible repercussions of getting the police involved.
What if the state found Ashley to be an unfit mother?
In order to keep the baby, Claire might have to become Kimberly’s legal guardian. Realizing this gave her more reason to postpone driving down to headquarters. What is more, for all Claire knew, perhaps Ashley, tomorrow, was still planning to attend her therapy session.
CHAPTER 59
Once Caitlyn and Brent had gone home, Ashley decided to go in and have lunch.
Then, for a few hours, she continued to paint.
In the back of her mind, she knew there was something she was supposed to do. Yet, because of combining the morphine with white wine, she could not recall what that was.
It wasn’t food shopping: Ashley had already taken care of that earlier. She had also done a big load of laundry, and had ironed most of the clothes that had been wrinkled from being in her suitcases.
In addition, Ashley had thoroughly mopped the kitchen and bathroom floor with Pine-Sol, not that they needed it. But she did not want to risk having other people’s germs in an environment where she now planned to inhabit. Ashley had no idea what type of people had rented the cottage before her.
Now, as she put her pallet, painting knife, and brush down, Ashley again reached for her wine goblet.
Then she strolled down toward the purple ocean, taking the glass with her.
The other night, when the power had gone out, Ashley had taken a small amount of morphine, which had certainly mellowed her out. Today however, she had upped the dosage substantially.
Presently, the world seemed remarkably peaceful and her mind felt free of pressure. Watching a boat pass lazily along the sun-soaked horizon, Ashley suddenly remembered what she was supposed to do, phone her mother.
I might as well do it now, she told herself grudgingly. And get it over with.
On the way back to the cottage, she observed, down the beach a ways, Blake Cromwell. He and his wife were taking a walk, holding hands.
The property owner smiled and waved. Ashley did the same.
Once inside the rental, she immediately locked both the back door and the front. This was done out of paranoia. If Blake Cromwell happened to come back, Ashley was intending to act as though she wasn‘t here.
If Blake saw Ashley in this drugged-out condition, she feared that he might change his mind, and not to allow her to rent.
If that were to happen, Ashley did not know where she would go.
CHAPTER 60
While Blake Cromwell and his wife Lavern indulged in their late afternoon stroll along the beach, they were tossing breadcrumbs to the energetic flock of sea gulls, which were circling all around them.
Weather pending, this was something the Cromwell’s did each day.
“So what’s the story with our new tenant?” Lavern asked, watching her husband wave to Ashley. “I like the girl’s beret. I haven’t worn a hat like that in forty years.”
“I don’t really know what her story is,” Blake responded, throwing another handful of crumbs to the shouting gulls.
“Did you check her references?”
“No. She was in such a hurry to get in the place; I didn’t think to do that.”
“Blake!” Lavern reprimanded, lightly swatting her husband on the shoulder. “You were supposed to. You know how artists are. They can be very irresponsible. If this new tenant ruins the floor, I’ll have your head.”
“She won’t ruin it.”
“What makes you so sure of that?”
“Because she specifically told me she’ll put a drop cloth down.”
“Did you actually see this drop cloth?”
“Yes. I helped her drag it out of her trunk. For Pete’s sake, Lavern, don’t get into an uproar. This girl seems like an honest person. If she says she’ll put a drop cloth down, then I believe she will. She wouldn’t have brought it with her if she wasn’t planning to use it.”
Lavern Cromwell nodded, accepted the explanation. “And this young lady is she by herself?”
Blake shrugged. “She seems to be. She didn’t mention a husband or boyfriend. All I really know about her is she said she used to live down near Atlantic City.”
“Whereabouts?”
“Some small town called Wichita. Ever hear of it?”
Lavern had to ponder the question. “I think so. If I’m not mistaken, I think Wichita is in Burlington County.”
“Well, anyway,” Blake added, “this Ashley Ferguson- that’s her name- isn’t sure how long she’ll be staying. So far, she paid me for two weeks rent.”
“Two weeks! That‘s it?” Stunned, Lavern again bopped her husband on the arm. “Blake, what do you think we’re running here, a Bed & Breakfast? I want you to go back over there immediately and tell her, before she gets settled in, that we require, in advance, the full month’s rent and one month‘s security.”
“Honey, no! I‘m not going to do that.”
“Huh? And would you mind explaining to me why not?”
Blake informed his spouse that he had already told the new tenant she could move in. “And don’t worry. She paid me in cash.”
“I don’t care what she paid you with.”
“Dear,” Blake tried to negotiate a compromise. “Give her a chance. You’d like this kid.”
Lavern grumbled. In the past twenty-years of their fifty-year marriage, she’d been the dominant one.
“Where does this new tenant work?” she asked.
“Don‘t know. Maybe she makes a living selling her art.”
“That’s another thing I’m worried about. She’ll wind up staying, and then come the end of the month; she’ll say she doesn’t have the rest of the rent money.” Lavern Cromwell shook her head and then shooed away one of the loud birds, which had nearly landed on her head. “I don’t know of too many painters who earn a respectable living. The only time they’re usually worth anything is when they’re dead.”
Amused by his wife’s cynicism, Blake was forced to give up the rest of the breadcrumbs.
The ravenous gulls had become too hostile.
There must have been at least fifty of them. One bird had even managed to snatch the bread bag from Blake’s hand.
“That filthy bastard!” he snapped. “Did you see what that scavenger did? Plum near bit my finger off.”
His wife busted into laughter. “That’s probably because we’re starting to look so old the sea gulls think were scarecrows . . . So you really think I’ll like our new tenant?”
“Yes. She seems friendly.”
“Hmn.”
“You will. Trust me.”
Suddenly Lavern tipped her eyes up toward the sunny blue sky, and then uttered, “1853 I thi
nk he was born. He was Dutch.”
“Who‘s that?”
“Vincent Van Gogh. I once read a biography about him. That man had impressive credentials, particularly when you take into account that he never had any formal education. And I don’t think he really learned how to paint until he was around twenty-seven. Talk about a late bloomer.”
From his shirt pocket, Blake withdrew a box of menthol-flavored Vick‘s cough drops. He had a cold. “Wasn’t Van Gogh that guy who chopped off his ear?”
“That was him, yes. He was a masterful painter though. So were Mary Cassatt and Leonardo da Vinci. I also liked-” Lavern ran off a substantial list of other legendary artists, all of whom Blake had either never heard of, or whom he’d heard of, but wasn’t familiar with anything they may have painted.
Unlike her husband, Lavern Cromwell had a strong knowledge of culture. She read enormously. Biographies, novels, short stories, poetry, philosophical volumes.
Blake on the other hand was a man’s man.
He was handy with tools. Hardly ever read, except an occasional article in the sport’s section. He was the type of person, who, despite his advanced age, could not stay cooped up in the house for more than a day at a time. He had to be outdoors. As Lavern had once remarked, it was as if her husband was allergic to the furniture.
“See?” Blake articulated. “You and our new tenant would get along famously. The two of you could sit around discussing art mumbo jumbo.”
“I might get along with her,” Lavern finally owned up. “The question is, dear; would our new tenant be able to tolerate an old geezer like me?”
“Ah, you’re not that old,” Blake tried to soothe. “We tease each other about our ages. But the one thing we have going is we’re still young at heart. I say over the weekend sometime, you go over there and introduce yourself.”
“Okay. Maybe I will.”
CHAPTER 61
All at once, by the time Ashley had reached the kitchen, she was so out of it on the morphine and the chardonnay; she could not remember her mother’s telephone number.
She had made several bumbling attempts at dialing it, but kept getting the wrong residence. This was the same number Ashley had had since she was thirteen. Therefore, for her to forget it was akin to her forgetting her name.
“What number are you trying to reach?” someone asked. It was a female voice.
“I’m looking for Claire Whittaker,” Ashley garbled into the mouthpiece. “Isn’t this-” She recited what she thought were the accurate digits.
“No. I’m sorry,” the person replied. “No one by the name Claire Whittaker lives here. Perhaps you dialed the wrong area code.”
“Yeah . . . Could be.” Rather than hang up and try again, Ashley clicked the phone off. She realized if she could not remember the number, then obviously she must not be in any condition to talk.
She figured her mother was likely with her meddlesome friend Rachel Gilbert, who, just for the record, Ashley had begun to despise. Over the summer, Rachel had disapproved of her drinking to the point where Ashley could no longer tolerate it.
What a pain in the butt Rachel could be! And what gave her the right to pass judgment anyway?
When she was young, Rachel Gilbert had been a pot-smoking hippie. The same could be said about her husband.
***
There had been one day back in July when Rachel, as far as Ashley was concerned, had definitely crossed the line.
That afternoon Ashley was on the porch, sitting in the swing-seat.
With the hot sun blazing down from the turquoise sky, she’d been hanging out with the baby on her lap. At her side, on the table, Ashley had a cold glass of lemonade, which she’d secretly spiked with gin.
Prior to stepping outside, Rachel had been in the house chatting with Claire. On this occasion she wore, what Ashley thought was the most hideous summer dress she’d ever seen; so gaudy it made her eyes cringe. What is more, Rachel stunk of tacky perfume.
“Enjoying your lemonade?” she asked, smirking.
Inside Ashley’s mother had the vacuum cleaner on. Therefore, there was no way Claire could hear what was being said.
“Actually I’m enjoying my lemonade quite a bit,” Ashley had replied, reaching for her tall beaded glass.
“You might be fooling your mother,” Rachel declared callously. “However, you’re not leaving me in a smokescreen.” She had shaken her head pitifully. “I’m on to you, Ashley. I know what you’re up to. We’ve all been drinking the same lemonade today, yet it doesn’t seem to affect your mother or me the way it affects you . . . Hmn. I wonder why?”
“Please don’t piss me off!” Ashley had snapped. “Okay Rachel? Just go back in the house.” The two, for a while, had had not been on the best of speaking terms. “You’re opinion means nothing to me.”
“Of course it doesn‘t. Years ago your father didn’t want to hear what anyone had to say either. And look where that got him.”
Ashley did not appreciate the comment. Who was Rachel Gilbert to bring up her father, who had been deceased for most of her life?
“Do you know what killed him?”
“Yes,” Ashley answered, becoming more aggravated. “He had a bad liver.”
“And do you know what caused him to have a bad liver?”
Silence.
“He couldn’t get off the sauce, that’s why he had a bad liver. His physician had warned him years in advance, when the cirrhosis was in its early stages, that if he didn’t cut back on the whiskey, it would eventually kill him.”
This heartbreaking commentary was not something Ashley liked to remember.
“You have his blood in you. And you know what they say about that in relation to alcoholism. It‘s hereditary.”
Ashley sighed. “Rachel, where do you get off telling me this?”
“All I’m trying to get through to you is that getting sloshed isn’t the answer. When you get drunk, it upsets your mother. And when she’s upset, I’m upset.”
“Hidey ho hum,” Ashley ignored her. “I’m not listening anymore. Talk to the hand.”
“Oh. That’s real mature. Tune me out by telling me to talk to your hand. What are you in eighth grade?”
“Just leave me alone, Rachel. I came out here to relax. Not to listen to you preach. If I wanted to listen to someone preach, I’d go to church. Just because my father had a serious drinking problem, that doesn’t have any bearing on me. We’re two totally different people. Furthermore, since he isn’t here to defend himself, I would prefer that you don‘t discuss him.”
Evidently, feeling trounced by that last remark, Rachel had gone back inside.
Ashley did not hate her mother‘s friend. Rachel was, in many respect, like the Aunt she had never had. The problem was, sometimes Rachel did not know when to stay out of other people‘s affairs.
It was during those frustrating times when Ashley would become sour toward her.
***
Now, while still standing in the kitchen of her beachside cottage, Ashley found herself confronted with yet another difficult situation; she had locked the doors in hope of avoiding Blake Cromwell, but had not taken into account that the kids she had met earlier, would be the ones who would pay her an unexpected visit.
Ashley peeked through the window (the one above the sink) and saw Caitlyn and Brent standing in front of her easel. The oil painting of the pirate ship was still wet. Ashley crossed her fingers that they wouldn’t touch it.
“I bet you a million dollars,” Caitlyn said to her younger brother, “that you could never paint something like this.”
“I could too,” Brent bragged, kicking sand on his sister‘s ankles. “I draw pictures in school. Lots of them. Sharks. Whales. Drawings of superheroes. They’re good too. Mrs. Beckett even has some of them hanging on the bulletin board.”
Caitlyn giggled. “Get out! I’ve seen your drawings. They stink.”
“They do not.�
��
“They do to.”
“Do not.”
Eventually, when they stopped harassing one another, Ashley watched in horror as Brent sauntered over to the red picnic table where she had left her wine goblet.
“The lady forgot her apple juice,” the boy announced, about to sample some of the chardonnay.
Suddenly Ashley was extremely angry at herself for not bringing the glass inside. Yet she was also infuriated at these children for invading her space.
“Yuck! This stuff smells gross. Like vinegar.”
“Put that glass down!” Caitlyn scolded, slapping her brother’s hand.
Fortunately, for Ashley, Brent obeyed.
Then to her dismay, the children knocked on the door. Quietly, Ashley stood with her ear pressed against the wood, waiting for them to leave.
“I guess she can‘t hear us,” Brent said, surveying his sister‘s bewildered expression. “Let’s go around to the front.”
“All right.”
Oh no! Why did they have to be so persistent?
As it turned out, Ashley did not know whether she had a doorbell or not. When Blake was here, she did not think to ask.
While she gradually made her way into the sitting room, Ashley heard, through the screen, the kids talking.
“Did you push it?” Brent asked.
“Yeah. Twice. Did you hear it ring?”
“Nah. I didn‘t hear anything.”
There was a momentary pause, then, “What about now?”
“Nope. I didn’t hear it ring that time either.”
“Forget it,” said Caitlyn, shaking her head. “I guess the doorbell doesn’t work. We might as well come back some other day.”
Disappointed, brother and sister returned to the beach. From the kitchen window, Ashley watched them walk back toward the sand dunes.