Elwyn Turner appeared even more shriveled and shrunken than when Grace had seen him only days before. He turned to the child, unrecognizing, no light gleaming from what had once been sharp black eyes. His pallor was grey, the color of the winter sky that hung beyond the beveled glass window, his face a blank picture.
“I brung you something, Mister Elwyn!” Little Gus continued chattering, looking puzzled at the lack of greeting from the unseeing old man. “You know, it’s real close to Christmas and we might not get back by here, so we got to help Santa out sometimes. That’s what Uncle Gus used to say, right, Aunt Sis?” The room was quiet.
“Yes, Little Gus.” Bernadine’s voice caught as she watched her nephew take the old man’s hand and place the rumpled gift in the loose grasp. “Yes, we do have to help Santa out sometimes.”
“I picked this out myself, Mister Elwyn. Just for you. I even used my own money!” Little Gus Turner beamed proudly, and then looked into the eyes that stared vacantly his direction. “That’s a good present there, Mister Elwyn. You want me to help you open that up?”
The long wrinkled fingers grasped the package slightly, and then vaguely pushed it toward the small boy who stood near the wheelchair.
“See this ribbon? I tied that up myself! And I picked the paper with the reindeer on it, ‘cause I like them reindeer. Sometime I’m gonna see them when they come, Mama says. Here, Mister Elwyn, you gotta help, ‘cause this is your gift, not mine! Mama lets me help unwrap Merry’s gifts sometimes, but you’re old enough to do it yourself, aren’t ya? You must be a hunnerd years old!” The paper crinkled as the boy pulled, his words echoing through the room.
“Ninety-four, Young Master. Mr. Turner is only ninety-four years old.” Napoleon spoke.
Elwyn raised his head at the sound of Napoleon’s voice. He suddenly seemed to realize he was not alone. One frail hand reached out from the wheelchair to touch the blond head of Little Gus Turner.
“A gift for . . . is it Christmas?” The fog was lifting from the dull blackness of Elwyn’s eyes.
“Yes, Mr. Turner. It’s nearly Christmas.” Bernadine answered.
“You came back.” The old man, voice rusty, stared at the boy, remembering the shining blue eyes and fair features of his youngest son.
“Sure we did. Miz Phillips come too. C’mon, we got to get this open so I can get home to dinner. Little Merry will be looking for me. And I got to feed Jericho tonight.”
“I don’t celebrate this—this Christmas.”
Little Gus Turner was puzzled. “Don’t matter. Don’t give Christmas presents to get one back. I give this one to you.” He shifted from one foot to the other. “And you don’t owe me one. It don’t work like that, Mister Elwyn. Besides,” the boy’s confidence rebounded with the rapid stride that only a stalwart four-year-old can display, as he stage-whispered, “might be something you need.”
“Something I need. Nonsense.” Elwyn Turner was still not himself, but some small thing crept into his voice, some curiosity at what a child would give an old man whom he did not know, for a holiday which he did not celebrate.
He crinkled the paper, tearing it slowly and looked at Little Gus. “And you want nothing in return?” The eyes were sharp again, the voice still broken glass.
“Naw. I just want you to open it.” Little Gus was triumphant, his smile radiant in the dim room.
“Fine. If it means you’ll leave me alone, I’ll . . . ” Elwyn Turner pulled from the Christmas wrap a pair of ragg-wool socks, the thickest socks Grace had ever seen. He was clearly astonished. It was safe to guess that he had not been the recipient of such a gift before.
“Socks. These are socks.”
“Yep! ‘Cause this is a very old, very cold house, Mister Elwyn. And nothin’ feels better than a warm pair of socks in the winter! I got some just like ‘em.” The boy reached down and pulled up one pant leg to reveal a small but matching grey wool fisherman’s sock peeping out over green snow boots. “We gotta keep our heat turned down in the winter cause it’ll cost a whole fortune if we don’t, Mama says. Maybe you gotta do that, too. So, you gotta have warm socks!” Still triumphant, the small boy sat down in the chair opposite the astonished Elwyn Turner.
The old man lifted the bundle and looked to his valet solemnly.
“Young Master Turner, that is a fine and thoughtful gift.” Napoleon spoke firmly and moved into the breach, taking the package carefully .
“Your mother . . . ” Elwyn Turner attempted to clear his throat, his voice catching. “Your mother is a woman of some sense. What’s her name?”
“Laurel Schull Turner. Same last name as you, see?!” Another smile at his mother’s name.
“Schull? One of the Schull brothers’ daughters. No, that would be a granddaughter now, I suppose.” Bernadine saw his hesitation. Other than barking orders at nurses and his valet, Elwyn Turner had not engaged anyone in actual conversation for many years. He was on shaky ground.
“Yes, Mr. Turner. She’s Hilliard Schull’s granddaughter. You knew him, I think?”
“Hilliard Shell. Yes. I knew Hilliard Schull. He was a good man . . . a man with character.” The words trembled. Grace wondered if he thought of the run on the bank, when the brothers stood with him in front of the axe-wielding crowd.
The screeching, battling wretch of recent days had become simply a fragile, elderly patient, like those Grace had seen through the doors of the nursing home where Gina Rodwell’s mother tended them. Unlike that population of lost souls, Elwyn Turner’s money kept him in the dark Victorian and he had the care of Napoleon Harker, but still his mind was fading.
“She married Nathan’s boy?”
“My daddy is Nathan Turner and so is my granpaw!!” The legs swung against the rungs of the hard backed chair. Little Gus was enjoying the family attention.
“See, we all live in this small town, Mister Elwyn, so it’s like we’re all related ain’t—isn’t it?” A stern look from Bernadine corrected his grammar.
“Yes. Franklin Hill. Franklin Hill was always small. When I was at the bank you know, at one time we had only one hundred accounts. That was all.” The voice grew faint. Elwyn Turner was slipping back to the year of the financial disaster. The room was quiet.
“Little Gus, I think Mr. Turner is a bit tired. We need to let him get some rest.” Bernadine moved to take the child out of the room.
“Okay, Mister Elwyn, you get yourself some rest so you’ll be awake when Santa comes!”
The silver head lifted. “Santa? Santa doesn’t come to this house anymore, boy. He hasn’t come here in forty years.” Elwyn Turner did remember Christmas. He remembered it well. Meredith’s death had changed everything all those days and months and years before. There was the Time With Meredith and then the Time After in the old man’s mind. There was nothing after for him, not his children or grandchildren. No lights or tree had graced the old house, the smell of evergreen did not drift through the halls as it had when his wife was alive. The laughter of children had gone from him when the laughter of his wife was silenced.
A crease developed in the small forehead. Gus Turner stuck his hands into his britches pockets, thinking.
“I’ll tell him where you are, Mister Elwyn. You just try to stay awake. If I say a prayer, maybe Jesus will tell Uncle Gus and he can tell Santa. They all know each other up there, Mama says. And you said Mama’s got good sense.”
Grace reached for Little Gus’s hand, leading him toward the door. She had seen the beginning of tears on the old, lined face.
Little Gus shook off her grasp and ran back to the wheelchair. “Don’t you worry, Mister Elwyn. It’ll be okay.” The child half climbed the chair and hugged its elderly occupant.
Bernadine’s head jerked in astonishment. Napoleon stood motionless, watching the scene. Elwyn Turner lifted his arm and put it around the boy, touching the blond hair again. A strained noise came from his throat. “Just like Gus. Just like him.”
Little Gus Turner looked up in wond
er at the old man.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Comfort and Joy had settled quickly into Grace’s daily routine and were suspicious of the lidded basket she placed them into for the trip to the vet. Grace had already waited days, trying to fatten up the two wanderers before taking them back out into the cold.
She sat in the empty waiting room of the clinic holding the basket on her lap, listening to Joy’s scratchy mewing. Grace whispered consoling words to the basket. Shortly after they arrived, the receptionist had checked them in with a curt, "The doctor will be right with you.” And then promptly departed, purse over her arm, as the clock ticked over to 5:00.
Grace waited patiently. Then, not so patiently until 5:30, when no sound came from the back office. Finally, she picked the basket up and walked past the reception desk and down the hallway, looking for any sign of life in the series of small, antiseptic-smelling rooms. Faint strains of the Halleluiah Chorus came down the hallway. She could hear papers shuffling and off-key humming to the music.
“Hellooo?” she called down the hallway and stopped in front of an office, overflowing with paper. Anatomical drawings of a dog were on one wall, a cow on another. An example of the course of feline leukemia was posted above the desk with a plastic model of the internal organs of a cat sitting below the poster, in pieces like a child’s puzzle. Turned away from Grace and bent over a low file cabinet against the far wall, the off-key baritone was still humming, dressed in jeans and a heavy field shirt of dark green. Grace caught herself admiring the cut of the jeans, then coughed quietly.
“Excuse me?”
“What the—DAMN!” The man’s head came up sharply under the overhead cabinet with a resounding thump. Grace winced.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I, well—”
“Is this an emergency?” His voice was sharp. One large hand was rubbing what was no doubt a growing lump on his skull.
“Uhm, no I—”
“Office hours are nine to five unless it’s an emergency.” The man’s green eyes were mesmerizing. They were also watering from the pain.
“I had an appointment at 5:00, but your receptionist said to wait.” Grace felt like one of the school children in Homer Emerson’s office.
“She left you out there? err—sorry.” It was not a genuine apology, but Grace thought possibly it was the only one she’d get.
“Are you all right? No blood, I hope?” She tried a weak smile. He had the goodness to look embarrassed.
“No, no. Well, what was the name?” Both kittens were now mewing and scratching the basket. Joy almost inaudible, Comfort in healthy voice.
“Phillips. Grace Phillips”
He strode down the hallway to the reception desk, scanning the space and then looking at a computer print-out he pulled from a stack of files held in place by a coffee cup featuring a border collie with the gleaming smile of a game show host and advertising dental bones.
“Okay. Phillips. Here you are. Let’s take that basket of cats back here and have a look.” Pulling a sheet of white paper off a large roll, he covered an examining table and grabbed a notepad.
“Address is on—oh, that Phillips. Living in the old Bouche place, right?”
“Yes that’s me, that’s us. You see I found these kittens in the ice storm. Well, actually, they found me. And Norm thinks the mother may be dead.” He already had Comfort in one hand, running a finger over his small nose, then palpating his stomach while the kitten purred, allowing the exam and enjoying the attention. Grace was surprised to see him slip a cover off a hypodermic needle quickly and slide it under the silver tabby’s skin before Comfort, who was enjoying a one-finger neck scratch, could complain. He listened to her describe the condition of the kittens when they were found and then handed her the silver tabby and pulled Joy away from a trash can she was examining with one paw.
“A little raspy there, aren’t you?” Joy answered with a nearly noiseless meow and then gave the vet her now-famous grin.
“She seems to be fine. Some Siamese there, definitely. Well,” he said as he washed his hands in the sink after finishing with the white kitten, “she may not get the voice back. But that may be to your benefit. The Siamese are yowlers. And climbers. You’ll find this white one on top of your refrigerator soon. They were lucky you opened your door in the middle of that storm, Miss Phillips.” There was no accent on the Miss as there had been with Lance Curtis.
“It’s Grace. I’ve always been more of a dog person. But there they were and they were in bad shape. Maybe that’s when Joy lost her voice.” She stroked Joy and then tucked her, uncomplaining, into the basket with a drowsy-looking Comfort.
“Comfort and Joy, a couple of early Christmas presents. They’ll need another round of shots in a few weeks, so you’ll be back to see us. And,” the grin was genuine this time, “sorry about the wait out there. I’ll have a word with Trudy. She has young ones, so she worries about leaving on time.”
“Thank you for seeing them.”
“Small, but getting stronger it appears.. Give them kitten food and the wormer I’ve jotted down here and they’ll be fine. The Bouche mansion will be devoid of mice with those two around.”
He did have a nice smile, she thought again. He looked to be in his forties , with black hair and very, very green eyes. She shook herself mentally. She was staring and she knew it. But the look was warm and friendly. Grace smiled.
She thought back later about those green eyes as she brushed her hair before bed. She had come home and belatedly checked the mirror. She cursed herself. No lipstick. Her face reddened by the wind. Hair blown all around. She probably looked like she had flown in on her broom. Why couldn’t her hair be dark, like Ellie’s? Or a nice golden blonde like Katy’s? She was the in-between sister. Moderately brown hair, an average nose. Average height and the other side of average build. She squinted at the mirror. She grabbed some lipstick and applied it almost viciously then checked the mirror again. She now looked ridiculous, with a red face and absurdly pink lips.
Why was it men like Lancelot Curtis drooled all over her hand, but men like the tall, good-looking vet with the nice smile greeted her with a head bang and a “Damn”? She was, in fact, cursed.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Grace, Ellie, and Granny were up to their elbows in Christmas cookies when the call came from Anthony Turner. Granny looked puzzled as she handed the phone to her granddaughter.
“It’s for you, Gracie. Young Anthony Turner, one of Bernadine’s nephews.”
“Grace? I’m sorry to hunt you down like this but Bernadine thought you might be with your grandmother. I need a favor. Do you think you could come and witness another will? I would ordinarily have my secretary do it. But, well—it’s Elwyn Turner.” Anthony spoke the name as if it were distasteful. “He’s gotten worse. His health, that is, and Napoleon Harker called me. Mr. Turner’s regular lawyer passed away a few years ago. He’s insisting that you stand witness.” The young lawyer cleared his throat. “He says he can’t trust anyone he doesn’t know or anyone he’s related to.”
Grace stammered, caught completely off guard by the request. “Well, Mr. Turner—“
“Anthony.” he insisted.
“Anthony. Doesn’t he realize you’re related to him?” There was a pause on the other end and then a short bark of laughter.
“I see your point. But to his strange way of thinking, I’m no more that man’s kin than the man in the moon. He doesn’t know I’m related to him by blood and I’m not going to point it out. I’m doing this as a favor to Aunt Bernadine.” He sounded embarrassed. “She practically begged me to go up there.” Anthony Turner switched on his charm in a way Grace found mildly alarming.
“It would mean a great deal to Aunt Bernadine and me if you could help us out, Grace. He doesn’t have many days left, according to the home health nurse.”
Grace explained to Granny Stillwell and Ellie about her rapid departure as she wiped flour from the telephone and began to wash her hands in t
he deep porcelain sink.
“I can’t imagine what in the world that old man is thinking.” Ellie commented.
Granny listened, her silver curls bobbed as she shook her head over a tray of chocolate thumbprint cookies while she dusted them with powdered sugar
“Maybe he’s regretting all those wasted years without his children, Gran.” Ellie crumbled a cookie, still warm from the oven, into a glass of milk and drank it with relish.
“You know what I think it is? I think it’s Little Gus Turner. I think he wants to know his great-grandson.” Granny said.
Grace pulled on a jacket and gloves and kissed Granny on the way out the door. Another trip into the cold, courtesy of Elwyn Turner.
There were more lights on in the big Victorian than she had seen since her return to Franklin Hill. Napoleon had dusted off the Queen Anne desk in his employer’s dim library and lit a fire in the massive fireplace. It still seemed as though the old house was flickering by gaslight when Grace sat down in the library with the cup of tea that Napoleon offered. A briefcase leaning against the turned leg of a leather and walnut chair quietly announced its owner, “A. N. Turner, Esquire” with an engraved bronze oval. Grace sipped the tea and watched the fire, wondering about the people who had once lived in the house with Elwyn.
Meredith Turner would no doubt have had garland hung across the library mantle. The scent of evergreen and the aroma of Christmas baking would have filled the air all those years before. A faded photograph sat on the large desk; a woman dressed in an intricately beaded flapper’s gown smiled out at Grace. She was slim as a rail and even the age of the photo could not hide the beauty and sparkle that was Meredith Turner. On the mantle, a couple stared fixedly into space, holding their stern pose for the many seconds required by the old metal plate photography. While they were not young, the woman had the snapping black eyes of Elwyn Turner and a pleasantly lined face, the man crow’s feet acquired from a lifetime of smiling more than frowning, and the unmistakable blond coloring that had survived more than three generations from the first Gus Turner, through to his great-nephew Little Gus Turner.
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