The Bar Harbor Retirement Home for Famous Writers_And Their Muses

by Terri-Lynne Defino

  “They were good days,” Switch agreed. “We’re lucky we had them. There’s many who never do.”

  “I’m not feeling quite as generous as you are today.” Alfonse tilted his face to the sun. “I’ll have tea, thank you. Peppermint, if there’s any left.”

  Switch stood over the kettle, arms crossed, waiting for it to boil. Didn’t he know it wouldn’t if he watched it? Why would a man even do such a thing when the whistle would shriek loud enough? But that was Raymond Switcher, always content to stand still. To observe. He’d never been the one with a witty comeback, only with a humble smile. Witty comebacks were Alfonse’s territory. Scathing ones belonged to Olivia. To those outside their royal court, Switch might have even seemed a simple soul thrown in over his head, but he’d never gone under. Never once. Alfonse came to understand he was the wisest, had the keenest intellect. The old saying was true—it was the quiet ones you had to worry about.

  “Here you go, Alfie.” Switch handed him the steaming cup. Square hands. Callused and cracked. The hands of a farmer, not a writer. “Peppermint. You’re almost out, though.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I have a whole bunch that I grew and dried myself, if you’re interested.”

  Ah, the farmer’s hands. “I’d love some. Thank you again.”

  “You feeling better now?”

  “Do I look better?”

  “Much. Want me to get rid of the oxygen thing for you?”

  “Oh, I’d forgotten it’s there,” he lied. “I suppose I should let it stay.”

  Switch sat back in his chair and sipped. “So what were you doing over on my side of the tracks, anyway?”

  Alfonse pointed to the notebook Judith had just returned to him. “She was looking at something for me. I was too vain a fool to tell her I needed to rest.” He sipped his tea. At least peppermint had a bite to it. “Honestly, I hadn’t realized going out meant I had to get back, too. I’m still not accustomed to thinking in terms of my limitations. And then she forgot I was there.”

  A grim nod, and Switch set his cup onto the coffee table. “It’s why she’s here, you know.”

  “No, I don’t know. She didn’t say. Is it . . . Alzheimer’s?”

  “Sadly, yes.”

  “But she’s so young.”

  “Early onset. One day, she went out to meet one of her writers for lunch, and never showed up. She was missing for two days before she finally turned up at St. Luke’s.”

  “What happened?”

  Switch shrugged. “No one knows, really. Thankfully, some nice kids saw her wandering and confused and got her to the hospital. She didn’t know who she was, who anyone was. A couple days later, she woke up and was herself again. Well, mostly. Her sister convinced her she shouldn’t live alone anymore.”

  Judi had a sister and still she was here in the Pen? Alfonse quelled the disdainful chuff. All families had their issues. “I imagine it’s best for her. She’s safe here, and among friends. She’s always been the distracted sort. I’d never call her ditzy but . . . ?”

  “Disorganized.”

  “Exactly.”

  “It’s a shame she never married, had kids,” Switch said. “Judith would have made a good mother, I think.”

  Judith would have made a terrible mother, just as Alfonse would have made a terrible father. They were selfish people, centered on their work. Much as he enjoyed children, he never saw the point of producing them. Olivia had four, after all, and that had earned her nothing but heartbreak. “Speaking of children,” he said, “how is my goddaughter?”

  Switch’s whole face crinkled. “As of February, Lizzie’s a grandma times two. I got a great-grandson and a great-granddaughter. Twins.”

  “That can’t be. She’s just a teenager.”

  “She was when you saw her last.”

  “Not true. I attended the wedding.”

  “She married when she was nineteen.”

  “Oh, right.” Tears welled. A little pixie, all dimples and flyaway curls and frilly dresses. Now a grandmother. “How quickly time flies by. It’s not possible I haven’t seen her in, what is it, thirty years? That child was the apple of my eye.”

  “She’s missed you. Asks about you whenever we talk. In fact, she’s coming up for the Labor Day picnic. It’s open to families now, though few ever come. She wants me to meet the twins. I think knowing you’re here now pushed her from a maybe to a definite yes.”

  “I highly doubt that.”

  Switch grinned. “Bryce is coming, too.”

  “Her husband?”

  “Bryce is Lizzie’s son. James died back in, oh gosh, just after Bethany was diagnosed. That’d be 1980? Yeah, January of 1980. Traffic accident.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “You were too busy being famous your whole life.” Switch laughed softly. “Bethany used to call you the comet. You came around once every twenty years or so.”

  “Always the comedian, your wife.” Alfonse sipped his tea. Bethany had been a bank teller until she became Mrs. Switcher. Wife, mother, then real estate agent. She rarely read—a point she loved vexing Alfonse with—and when she did, it was nonfiction. She was the love of Raymond Switcher’s life, and the one woman Alfonse could not have seduced even if he’d tried—which he never did. “I was devastated to hear of her death all those months after the fact. I’d have come, Switch. I hope you know that.”

  “There’s that famous thing again.” Switch shrugged. “It was a long time ago. But thanks.”

  Silence crept out of the shadows to bask in the sunshine with them. Alfonse sipped his tea already growing cold in the air-conditioned room. Switch was as prone to silence as he was to observing. It settled around him comfortably in a way Alfonse had always envied, but not enough to strive for.

  “So,” Alfonse said, “do I detect another reason your room is way out by Judith’s in the newer wing?”

  Switch’s lips twitched. “Maybe.”

  “You surprise me, my friend.”

  “How’s that?”

  “You’ve been a widower for nearly twenty years now.”

  “Eighteen, but who’s counting. I’d say that’s long enough, wouldn’t you?” Twitching lips became a huge smile. “Besides, couples get better rooms with kitchenettes and everything.”

  “So she can make you pies?”

  “So I can make her fried chicken. It’s my specialty.”

  Ah, to eat something with too much fat and salt and spice. Alfonse looked into his teacup and set it aside; the click of porcelain on wood echoed a tight rap on his door.

  “I got it,” Switch said.

  Olivia pushed into the room as he got to the door. “What’s this I hear about you collapsing?”

  “Greatly exaggerated.” Alfonse waved her off. “I got a little winded.”

  “You’re wearing an oxygen tube, Alfonse Carducci. Don’t you dare tell me it was exaggerated.”

  “Ask Raymond. He was there.”

  But Raymond Switcher had already, wisely, left. Olivia pulled a chair closer to his. She took his hands. “What were you doing all the way out there?”

  “I’d been chatting with Judi and walked her to her room. Blame my chivalrous nature. I didn’t think of the consequences.”

  “But you have to, Alfonse. For once in your life.”

  His heart pinched. “It is my life now, Livy.”

  Olivia squeezed his hands. She got up and made herself a cup of infernal tea without asking if he wanted a refresher, thank goodness. Alfonse would have, beyond all doubt, put his head in his hands and bawled. Dunking the tea bag, blowing steam across the lip, she sat on the edge of his desk.

  “Have you finished your part?” She tapped the notebook there. “Or do you need until the end of the day?”

  “I’ve finished,” he said. “On the short side, but complete. Take it.”

  She set her teacup down, picked up the book. “Where did you start them?”

  “You ask as if you don’
t know how to read what’s there in front of you.”

  “Just making small talk.” Olivia scanned the pages. “Good. I was afraid you’d dwell too long in Paterson. It’s a love story, not a murder mystery.”

  “I know what it is. We agreed to keep focus where it belongs.”

  “Well, you do tend to linger on things, Alfonse. You make your point a thousand different, lovely ways, but they are, after all, the same point.”

  “It’s part of my voice.”

  “Indulgent is what it is, but I do love your style. For the most part.”

  “Then why that crack about lingering on the same point?”

  “Just making an observation. Come now, Alfie. Don’t get your ego in a twist. This is a creative endeavor, the last we will ever do. Don’t get bogged down in ego now.”

  “If you haven’t noticed in the centuries of our friendship, my dear, I spend most of my time bogged in my own ego.”

  “Don’t be silly. You wouldn’t be worth your salt as a writer if that were true.” She tucked the notebook under her arm, emptied their teacups in the tiny bar sink, and poured him a glass of water. “Now you need to rest.” She set the glass close enough for him to reach. “Will you be down to dinner?”

  “Of course.”

  “Would you like me to come for you?”

  “I’ll manage on my own.” Or Cecibel would help. Again. “Draw the shade before you go, Livy. The sun feels good but it’s a little too strong.”

  Olivia did as he asked, kissed his cheek, and left him. Alfonse didn’t want to rest. It was barely two in the afternoon, for goodness’ sake. He wanted to call Judith and have that discussion they hadn’t gotten the chance to have. He wanted to explain to Olivia that he made the same point a thousand different ways because there were a thousand different ways to see the very same thing and either you got that or you didn’t, but either way the words were lovely. He wanted to do those things over a glass of wine, some cheese, and a nice chunk of crusty bread. Falling asleep in the wheelchair, oxygen tubes still hissing up his nose, Alfonse wanted and wanted and wanted.

  Chapter 16

  Bar Harbor, Maine

  June 25, 1999

  Secrets are all fun and games until someone loses an eye.

  —Cornelius Traegar

  The baby never slept. It was as if she knew all about the lies she was being force-fed and was having none of it.

  Olivia’s pen tip nearly went through the heavy stock paper. She’d written the line a dozen times, each in almost the exact same way. The story wanted to begin with the baby and Cecilia’s guilty conscience and the longing—part postpartum, part a lifetime in the making. But she couldn’t get past the dead father.

  Alfonse had to go and kill the man, derailing Cecilia’s motivation to do as she was told instead of getting on a bus to Illinois the moment she discovered she was pregnant. Olivia had created Maria Antonette capable of taking over the family business until she could quickly remarry. She should have written that part, dammit! She’d simply wanted to draw out Cecilia’s evolution into the kind of woman who chose her own fate despite the conventions of her time. Instead, Alfonse made her obedient to her dead father’s promise. A young woman protecting her child, and the man she truly loved, by sacrificing everything she wanted for herself. Typical man. Instead of trapped, she appeared obedient, and no Cecilia of hers was going to be so without some really compelling reasons.

  Of course, Cami’s death forced Aldo to stay away. Olivia had to admit, she’d been thrilled about that twist. How could a man face the woman he loved when he’d killed her father? The tension promised down the road, when Aldo and Cecilia finally met again, was delicious. But what the hell was she supposed to do now with half the heroine’s motivation missing?

  “Good morning, Olivia.”

  Olivia gasped and bolted upright, a hand to her chest. “Raymond Switcher, has no one ever warned you not to sneak up on an old person like that?”

  “I didn’t sneak. I’ve been sitting right here watching you take vengeance on that poor notebook for the last ten minutes.”

  The library was, of course, a much frequented place within the Pen. No computers. No electronics whatsoever. Just books, the kind of leather chairs one could get lost in, and sunshine coming in the giant windows all along the back of the mansion. Comers and goers arrived and left unnoticed. Book clubs met and spoke quietly but animatedly. In the early years of her writing career, Olivia had gotten used to writing in coffee shops and public libraries, at her son’s basketball games, or her daughters’ tennis matches. Anywhere her husband wouldn’t catch her and demand she put an end to her nonsense and focus on the children. On him. And thus had learned how to tune the noise into the white kind conducive to creation. She couldn’t write in solitude if she tried.

  Closing the book, pen trapped inside, she glared at Switch. “You might have made your presence known.”

  “Watching you write was entertaining.”

  “I’m glad I amused you, now if you don’t mind . . .”

  “What are you writing?”

  “None of your business, dear.”

  “Come on, Olivia.” He nudged her. Winked. “I’d hate to see the new crop of indicas get mites or something.”

  “Don’t even joke.”

  “Okay, okay.” He slumped back in his chair, grinning, pointing. “Alfonse has a notebook just like that.”

  Olivia pursed her lips. She bit the inside of her lip until the sour-lemon sensation eased. “Does he, now? I imagine we all have one of these. Somewhere.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Do you want one? I’m sure I could find—”

  “You looked like you were having trouble.” He leaned forward, hand outstretched but not demanding. “Maybe I can help.”

  Holding the book tighter was all that kept Olivia from pushing it into his hands. “I’m sorry, Switch. You’re right. I am having trouble, but this isn’t something I can share.”

  “Why? Because Alfonse wouldn’t like me nosing in on your project?”

  “Alfonse has nothing to do with it.”

  “You’re a terrible liar, Livy.” He chuckled. “Curse of the redhead, no matter if your hair is white now. You two writing together?”

  She looked away. “It’s just a little project.”

  “Nothing Olivia Peppernell and Alfonse Carducci write will ever be little.”

  “It’s nothing like our past work.”

  “That’s good, no?”

  “Well, yes. Yes, it is. In a way. But really, it’s nothing I can share with you.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because we agreed to keep it between the two of us.” And Cecibel. He’s not supposed to know, but he does, only she doesn’t know he knows . . . Olivia sighed. “It’s rather complicated.”

  “How about you just tell me? It’s really not a secret anymore.”

  “Why do you want to know so badly?”

  Switch grimaced, and that grimace turned into a grin—the humble, gentle kind that graced every book jacket, every author interview, every review ever printed about his work. “I’ll tell you; it’s because I watched you scribble and scratch out and scribble again, and it filled me up in a way I haven’t been in way too long. It reminded me of that feeling I used to get when a story bubbled under my skin.”

  “Then write.”

  “Maybe all my stories have been told,” he said.

  “Nonsense.” But hadn’t she thought the same?

  Another signature Switch shrug. “I stopped writing when Bethany got sick. Back then, I figured it was temporary, until she got better. But she went and died on me when she promised not to. I lost that spark. I lost the stories. Until just a minute ago when I saw it burning in you. I just thought, maybe, since we’re such good old friends, you’d let me in on whatever lit you back up again, is all.”

  No sour-lemon sensation, but her lips pursed all the same. Damn him for being sincere, for speaking her own sentiments back to her
. “Raymond Switcher. I never thought you were the manipulative kind.”

  “If it helps your moral dilemma,” he said, “Alfie showed it to Judith.”

  “He did what?”

  Switch nodded. “That’s why he was out her way, I think. She put it in his lap and whispered something about the navy as we were leaving.”

  “I might kill him.”

  “Please don’t.”

  Retaliation for keeping Cecibel’s enthusiasm all to herself? Curse the man. Of course he’d go to Judith Arsenault to assuage his bruised ego. History repeating itself. Olivia gripped the notebook tighter. Damn it all, why not? If it was acceptable for Alfonse to seek advice, he couldn’t object to her needing the same. Well, he could. He would. The great Alfonse Carducci was the do-as-I-say-not-as-I-do kind. Still, in his state, it might not be wise to shove her righteousness in his face. She did love the old bastard, after all. “You have to swear you won’t tell him I showed it to you. That you had any input at all.”

  Switch raised his hand, put the other atop the notebook. “‘I solemnly swear I am up to no good.’”

  She pressed a hand to her chest, batted her eyes. “You’re a fan?”

  “Rabid. I got an advance copy from the UK. Hardcover, of course. You?”

  “We must have the same sources.” Olivia laughed. “It’s good to be the queen. Or king, as the case may be.”

  “There’s word of them being made into movies,” Switch said. “Not sure how I feel about that.”

  “They won’t be nearly as good. Movies never do the books justice. Well, rarely.” Olivia laughed softly, leaned in. “Have you ever been bestowed the honor of hearing Alfonse go on and on about From Here to Eternity?”

  “A few times, why?”

  She flipped through the notebook scrawl. “Because he slipped it in.” She showed him the passage. “At least he didn’t go into his tirade about taking out the brothel, venereal disease, and homosexuality to appease the Production Code office.”

  Switch scanned the page, his grin faltering. “The navy. So Judi has read it.”

  “Apparently.”