The Bar Harbor Retirement Home for Famous Writers_And Their Muses

by Terri-Lynne Defino

  She nodded. His drumming heart ripped in two.

  “Do you love me?”

  She nodded. Traitor heart. It started up again.

  Enzo closed his eyes. “Does he know?”

  “No. He’s gone. For good. I’m your wife. I chose you. Do you understand?”

  Yes, he did. Too horribly well. He held out his arms for the baby now asleep. Cecilia handed Patricia gently, confidently over. Enzo cradled the child close. He leaned low, breathed in her milky scent. She’d been his, all these months. He couldn’t not love her any more than he could not love Cecilia.

  Enzo reached for his wife, the mother of his child. He cupped her still-exposed breast before tucking it into her dressing gown. She didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away in revulsion. Cecilia smiled that same smile she’d been conquering him with since asking if she could see his room, way back last June-almost-July. She might not be entirely his, but he was entirely hers.

  And he was the luckiest guy in the world.

  Chapter 18

  Bar Harbor, Maine

  June 27, 1999

  Few of the wrong turns you make in life are actually wrong. Sometimes, you just don’t know you’re going the right way until you get there.

  —Cornelius Traegar

  “He’s alive?” Alfonse gasped. “Giancami survived?”

  “Genius, isn’t it?”

  “But, Olivia, how could you? This is our story.”

  “You gave it to Judith before I ever let Raymond see it.”

  “She only looked. Besides, we need her. I don’t have the leisure of time, for transcription or editing. What you did wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair at all.”

  “You’re such a child, Alfonse.” Olivia laughed softly. Cecibel could barely hear her through the door. Thank goodness Olivia, in her hurry, hadn’t noticed her chasing after her with her forgotten sweater, or that she’d left the door to Alfonse’s room open a crack. Cecibel touched it, barely a feather’s weight of pressure, and it opened just enough to hear Alfonse’s chuckled response.

  “Well, I suppose it could be worse. You might’ve given it to Georgette.”

  “Bite your tongue! The woman’s a hack, at best.”

  “She’s had more best sellers than you and I combined.”

  “She is . . . was prolific, I’ll give you that. But her kind of best seller isn’t the same as ours. Romance!”

  “Is this not romance?”

  “Heavens no. Romance must end happily ever after. This will not.”

  “Won’t it?”

  “Not if I get the last chapter.”

  Alfonse sighed. Or maybe he wheezed. Cecibel quelled the urge to rush in and make sure it was the former.

  “Then I suppose this must mean we are in it together,” he said. “The four of us.”

  “The four of us,” Olivia echoed. “And thank goodness for that. Raymond pulled us from the brink of disaster.”

  “He pulled you from disaster.” Alfonse sniffed. “My part was right on track.”

  “Too bad you derailed mine.”

  “You’d have figured out something just as brilliant.”

  Silence, then, “Thank you.”

  “I never doubted it for a moment, Livy.”

  “Well, the point is moot. Raymond added his brilliance, and this story will be the better for it.” She tsked. “Could you imagine if the media got wind of this? Alfonse Carducci, Raymond Switcher, and Olivia Peppernell writing a novel, edited by none other than Judith Arsenault? There would be a frenzy.”

  “Wait until I die to share the news,” Alfonse said. “Whether our efforts turn out well or poorly, there will be publishers across the globe bidding on the rights.”

  “That’s not what we’re doing this for.”

  “Of course not. But that’s what will happen nonetheless.”

  Cecibel rolled to the side, silencing her laughter inside Olivia’s sweater still in her hands. They bickered like Statler and Waldorf. Like Edina and Patsy. Neither could outdo the other, and neither actually wanted to. It fed them, this bickering. It proved their deep and abiding love. She wished for a little of that for herself, even if her wit would never be so sharp, or her tongue so biting.

  “Cecibel? What are you doing outside Mr. Carducci’s room?”

  She bolted upright, her hand, as always, smoothing her hair against her face. “Good afternoon, Dr. Kintz. I followed Olivia down here. She forgot her sweater. I overheard the two of them . . . chatting in there and didn’t want to interrupt.”

  “Looked to me like you were listening in.”

  Snagged. “Maybe a little. But not in a bad way. I was waiting for a break in the bickering to knock on the door.”

  Dr. Kintz chuckled softly. “They are pretty funny when they get going.” And he cleared his throat. “But eavesdropping isn’t ethical. You’re a care provider, not a journalist.”

  “Understood. Sorry, Dr. Kintz.”

  “See that it doesn’t happen again.”

  “Yes, Dr. Kintz.”

  “You may call me Richard.” He wagged a finger. “But not Dick.”

  Cecibel smiled her half smile. “After hours, Doctor. During working hours, it would be better to stick to formalities. The nurses would have a cow if they heard me use your given name.”

  “The nurses around here are prone to cow-birthing, I’ve noticed. Ah!” Another finger wag. “I got a laugh out of you.”

  “It was more of a snort,” she conceded.

  “I’ll take it.” He looked at Alfonse’s door. “I came to see Mr. Carducci, but I suppose he and Mrs. Peppernell will be at it awhile.”

  “They tend to. I’ll leave Olivia’s sweater on the doorknob. She’ll find it when she comes out.” Cecibel hung the sweater, being careful to close the door all the way without the audible evidence ratting her out. “Entertaining as they are, I have another few hours before my shift is over. Guess I better get back to work.”

  “You heading that way?” He pointed.

  It was the only way to go, but Cecibel answered, “I am.”

  “Good, I’ll walk with you. I wanted to apologize for my questioning the other day. It was out of bounds, and I am sorry.”

  “You have a right to ask questions of your staff, especially if they seem a risk to our patients.”

  “You are in no way a risk to my patients. I know that. Curiosity should never dictate a psychiatrist’s actions, and I allowed it to. I know you’re the most reliable employee on staff, the residents love you, and the nurses resent your competence. Anything else I needed to know is all there in your charts. Can you forgive me?”

  “Nothing to forgive.”

  “Thank you.”

  “This is me.” Cecibel stopped in front of the supply closet she didn’t really need to get into as much as she wanted to part with his company. The newly rigged lock was, once again, swaying on its hinge. She groaned. “Not again.”

  “Mr. Gardern?”

  She pulled open the door. Toilet-paper rolls, what was left of them, littered the ground. “Apparently. What is it with him and toilet paper?”

  “I’ll see to him,” Dr. Kintz said. “You stay and clean up here. I’ll have someone bring back whatever I’m able to retrieve.”

  Cecibel bent to the task. What hadn’t unrolled, she put back on the shelf. What had, she put in a garbage bag. She wouldn’t throw it away; it was perfectly usable. Just not by the residents. Though she was tempted to use it to refill supplies in the nurses’ lounge, she’d give some to Sal, to Finlay, and save some for herself. Before she finished straightening up, Sal arrived carrying a garbage bag full of what she assumed were more toilet-paper rolls. He flung the sack to the floor like Santa coming out of the chimney. “We need more orderlies around here.”

  “We have six.”

  “Six part-timers, honey.” Sal huffed. “I’m a manager. I shouldn’t be toting stolen toilet paper around.”

  “Susan and Jill are here today.”

  “They’r
e on break.”

  “Together?”

  Sal pursed his glossed lips.

  Cecibel shook her head. “You let them get away with it, Salvatore.”

  “It wouldn’t have mattered. Dr. Dick found me, not them. We orderlies all look the same to him, even if I wear my little name tag that says I’m managing staff.”

  “He’s still learning his way around. And don’t call him that if you want to keep your title.”

  Sal waved her off. “He can’t fire me. I’d sue his ass.”

  “Not your job, your title. Insubordination is a big offense. He’d be within his rights.”

  “You taking his side?”

  “I’m taking yours. If you lose your title, who’s left to fill it, huh? Me, that’s who. No thanks.”

  Salvatore pulled her into an off-the-ground bear hug. “You’re a lamb, you know that? A sugar lamb.”

  “Put me down.”

  He obliged, but not before pinching her. “Mmm-mm! Sweet ass.”

  “Salvatore!” She slapped at him and missed. “You can’t do that!”

  “Oh, sugar, please. It’s just between us girls. You know I like me some fine male-tail.” He put his hands on his hips, studying her behind. “Skinny as it is, yours is fine. You should be getting some male-tail yourself.”

  “Not currently in the market for any, thank you.”

  “Not even for Finlay’s?”

  “Of course not. We’re friends.”

  “Mm-hmm. Wouldn’t be some old-ass tail you got a hankering for, would it?”

  Cecibel’s face flamed. “Don’t talk about him that way. Have some respect.”

  “But you knew exactly who I was talking about.”

  “Knock it off.”

  “Oh, lord in heaven, looks like I struck a nerve.”

  “You’re pissing me off is what you’re doing.” Cecibel snatched up the garbage bag full of toilet paper and started stacking. She’d kissed Alfonse’s brow, his cheek, lingered on his lips. She let him see her when she let no one else, because there was admiration and there was love, and there was something else that transcended both. Slamming the garbage bag down, she turned away from Sal before he saw her tears. “Alfonse Carducci is a distinguished artist, and a very sick man. Don’t denigrate all his accomplishments and my respect for him by making him some old-ass tail.”

  “Hey.” Salvatore touched her gently now, a fleshy hand turning her around. “I was just playing with you. I’m sorry.”

  “Fine. Whatever.” Sniffing, she averted her gaze. “Fin and I are going to light a fire down on the beach tonight, maybe roast marshmallows. Want to come?”

  “I have a gig,” he answered. “But you two have fun.”

  “We always do.”

  “He’s a nice man, that Finlay.”

  “A very nice man. See you later.”

  “And I’m dismissed.” He spun off, striking that injured pose he’d perfected. Cecibel couldn’t help laughing, internally at least. Salvatore was a beast but she loved him. He was one of the few constants in her life.

  Cecibel finished stacking the salvageable toilet paper and filled stray grocery bags with what was not. One she left at Sal’s door, one she tossed into her room, and the third she brought out to Finlay’s place over the maintenance barn.

  The metallic tap of equipment repair sent her to the barn rather than his loft. Finlay was headdown under the hood of an enormous tractor-mower. Cecibel tried not to stare at the end sticking out, but it was, as Salvatore would say, a fine bit of male-tail. She checked herself. Quickly. Firmly. She wasn’t allowed to have those kinds of thoughts.

  “Don’t want to scare you,” she called.

  He bolted upright, slammed his head on the open flap. “Oh! Ouch! Too late.” He rubbed his head, looked at his greasy fingers, and grabbed a rag. Cleaning his hands, he came her way. His hair stuck up straight and mucky where he’d rubbed it. “What’s up?”

  Cecibel held up the grocery bag. “Mr. Gardern got into the supply closet again. I brought you the salvageable toilet paper.”

  “That’s a strange sort of love token.” He laughed, took the bag. “Thanks. We still on for tonight?”

  “I already bought the marshmallows.”

  “Good, because I grabbed some chocolate bars and graham crackers while I was out earlier.” He peeked out the crusty window. “Looks like we’re going to have a clear night. Should I bring my telescope?”

  “You have a telescope?”

  “A real nice one. Dr. Traegar left it to me when he died.”

  Curiosity, once sparked, kindled anew. “Really? You were that tight?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Did you know him when you were a kid?”

  Finlay tossed the rag onto his toolbox. “Yeah. He took me in when my parents gave me the boot.”

  After all he’d been through. Cecibel crossed her arms over her chest. “Your parents? Why?”

  “Before I got arrested and all that,” he answered. “After Mr. Bennet . . . after he did those things to me, I . . . I wasn’t myself. Then he went on trial for doing stuff to that other kid, and I guess I was kind of out of control. I tried to tell them, my parents, what he did to me, but they were on the side of most other adults in town, saying the kid was lying because of a bad grade.” He grunted. “As if a kid would admit to being butt-fucked for a better grade. Sorry. Language.”

  “It’s okay. I had no idea.”

  “It was a long time ago.” He shrugged, and like that it was dismissed back into the past. “So, yeah, Dr. Traegar took me in. He set me up with one of the therapists here. She testified for me, at my trial, but, well”—he rubbed the back of his neck—“we all know how that went. I was glad I got out before Dr. Traegar died. He hired me and said I’d never have to worry about finding work ever again. I always had a place here. Good man.”

  “I wish I’d known him.” Cecibel leaned on the tractor wheel. “You and Sal are lucky. Other than you, Sal, and some of the residents, I don’t think anyone here now knew him.”

  “You’re probably right about that.”

  “Sal says Dr. Kintz is just looking for a reason to fire him.” Cecibel laughed. “I love him, but Sal does plenty to get himself fired all on his own.”

  “He won’t be fired,” Fin said. “You, me, Sal. We belong here. Everyone who comes through here knows it.”

  “Seems that way, huh? Well . . .” Slapping hands to thighs, she pushed herself off the tire. “I guess I should get back to work. See you at eight?”

  “You bet.”

  The metallic tink followed Cecibel out of the barn. Her mind churned, brought back earlier conversations, earlier thoughts. About Dr. Traegar. About Sal and Fin. About Dr. Kintz’s questioning and apology. Something wanted to connect, but wasn’t sitting right in her head. It coaxed that old itch out from under her skin, the one she got when anxiety was building to a point of no return. An itch she thought lost long ago in a past she tried to forget. Until recently, when Dr. Kintz questioned her about Dr. Marks and leaving the hospital without her consent. It had sent her running without knowing where she was going, straight into Sal, who’d been likewise questioned with information found in a file neither he nor she knew existed. It had been the first time in years she’d even thought Jennifer’s name.

  Stay put. Don’t come out. Please, just stay dead.

  Cecibel stopped in her tracks. She inhaled deeply, exhaled long, forced thoughts onto a different, safer, but connected path.

  File? Or chart? Sifting through their recent conversation, Cecibel was almost certain Dr. Kintz had said chart. Employers kept files on their employees. Doctors kept charts. Dr. Kintz was, after all, a doctor. A slip of the tongue? Had to be. Her heart’s hammering kept double-time rhythm to the metallic tink still audible in the distance. Whether file or chart, Cecibel hadn’t known of its existence, and that wasn’t acceptable. No one in the Pen knew anything about her outside of who she was since coming to work there, after the ru
in. Anything else wasn’t simply unacceptable, it could prove fatal. For someone. Cecibel had killed before; there were no guarantees she wouldn’t snap again.

  * * *

  We fell free from on high, like dragons mating. We snapped and roared and bit. And we loved.

  Alfonse read his own words from the pages of Cecibel’s mangled copy of Night Wings over and over again. Unrequited love was too easy, too ordinary, and not at all his golden Valkyrie. Whatever horror of her past had been visited upon her face had nothing to do with a broken heart. Not that sort, at any rate.

  The ground came at us. I saw it and didn’t care. She never saw it coming at all. I covered her eyes; if she saw, too, she’d have banked her great and powerful wings.

  Whether Cecibel was the one covering or covered, he couldn’t say, but she was definitely, intimately one of them.

  I didn’t want to be saved, and so she couldn’t be either.

  Had she been the one who needed salvation, or the one who didn’t want it at all? Perhaps she was both.

  Searching the passion in the creases, within the rips and tears and worn-away pages, Alfonse conjured an image of his Cecibel before half her face had been left on the road. A girl, in a car, a book on the seat beside her. His book. And after the accident, bandaged to hide the worst of her pain, that book on her bedside table, waiting. He imagined her picking it up one day, finding the passage that spoke so loudly, reading it over and over, rolling the cover onto itself, her grip as fearsome as her hidden face.

  A soft knock. Four twenty. Right on time. Alfonse smoothed the haggard copy as best he could and tucked it into the cushion of his chair. “Come in, Cecibel.”

  The door opened, and there she stood. His golden Valkyrie. His Cecibel. Alfonse reached out his hand, and she came.

  Chapter 19

  Bar Harbor, Maine

  July 4, 1999

  There is no I in t-e-a-m, but there is an m and there is an e, so go to hell.