More Than You Know (8 page)

11

B
eryl woke up to the sensation of four paws landing lightly on the bed and then a small, warm body curling up beside her. She looked down and saw Thoreau lying in a long shaft of early-morning sunlight, licking his front paws with his eyes closed in contentment. She reached down to stroke his head, and he pushed it up against her hand and purred softly. “You are such a mush,” she whispered. They lay like that for a long time and she must’ve dozed off, because the next thing she heard was a flushing toilet. She looked down, realized Thoreau was gone, and rolled onto her back to stretch. Then Rumer came back in the room and threw a pillow at her.

“Gettin’ up, lazy bones?” she teased.

“Mmm-hmm,” she answered with a yawn.

“I always sleep best in this old bed,” Rumer mused. “Maybe I’ll have it shipped to Montana.”

“That’ll be good for your marriage,” Beryl teased.

“Hey, after last night, who knows if he’s ever coming back.”

“He’ll come around.”

“I don’t know,” Rumer said, sitting on the edge of Beryl’s bed. “He was pretty p-oed when I told him Isak wanted to pay for their airline tickets.”

“Well, I can understand how he feels, but Isak’s right—your son should be here for his grandmother’s funeral.”

“Isak’s right about what?” called a voice from the hall. She peered into their room with raised eyebrows. “When are you guys going to learn?” she added with a grin. “I’m always right!” Then she ducked as two large pillows careened toward her head.

“Ber, do we have eggs?”

“Yup.”

“K . . . I’m making scrambled. Y’all interested?”

“Yup,” they both answered with a grin. Rumer pulled on the sweatshirt with the torn neck that she’d found in her dresser drawer and shuffled down the stairs while Beryl headed to the bathroom.

When she joined them in the kitchen, the kettle was already clicking and Rumer was making coffee. “I hate to be the bearer of bad tidings,” Beryl announced regretfully, “but another thing we need to take care of is Mum’s obituary.”

“Well, Ber,” Isak said, “you’re the writer. Do you feel like doing it?”

“If you want,” Beryl said. Her writer’s mind immediately searched for the words and phrases that would best describe their mom: generous, steadfast, faithful . . .

“Oh, and Tommy said he’d be honored to give a eulogy,” Isak continued as she whisked the eggs, “and Meghan said she’d be fine with a reading. They’re coming in Thursday.” She looked up. “Ru, what did Will say?”

“He said he’d let me know by tonight,” she answered cryptically.

“Okay, but no later, cuz we really need to figure this out.”

After breakfast, they lounged around the table, sipping their coffee and tea, and Beryl rubbed her feet on Flan’s belly. “Do you guys feel like going to church?” she asked hopefully.

Isak shook her head. “No . . . I don’t think I want to see anyone before the service. Besides, going through this house is going to take at least the whole week and then some. Do you have any idea what we’re going to do with all the furniture?” She tucked her hair behind her ear and looked around, shaking her head in dismay. “I honestly think we’re going to have to hire one of those estate companies.”

“That’s what I suggested,” Rumer said, looking at Beryl. “Really, Ber, we have no way to dispose of—or move—any of this furniture. What are we going to do with it all?”

“Well, I was hoping the people who buy the house might be interested in it. . . .” She looked around too. “Isn’t there anything you guys want?”

“There are things I might want, but I’d have to arrange to have them shipped. Nothing is ever simple,” Isak said.

“No, it’s not,” Beryl agreed, “not when you live thousands of miles away.”

Rumer shook her head. “Well, I can’t even begin to think of paying to have something shipped. Maybe we could get one of those storage units.”

“That costs money too,” Beryl said. “In this miserable market, though, maybe we don’t have to worry, right away, about having the house completely empty. Who knows how long it will take to sell. But we’re not getting anywhere just sitting here.”

Rumer yawned, “You’re right.”

“We need a plan,” Isak said, sitting up. “Breakfast dishes, showers, and you said we need boxes—any idea where we can get some on a Sunday?”

“There’s some at the shop,” Beryl said, “and maybe the grocery store. They have those boxes with the handles that eggs come in. And whoever goes to the store can get some of those big black garbage bags too.” She paused. “You guys can shower first. I’ll clean up.”

“Go ahead,” Rumer said, nodding to Isak. “You cooked. I’ll help Ber.”

 

An hour later, Rumer and Isak went to the store and left Beryl sitting on the front porch with her laptop open, Flan at her feet, and Thoreau curled up in the wicker chair beside her, basking in the sunshine. She began to work on her mom’s obituary, distracted by the thought that her sisters would forget something. They had a key to the shop and instructions to retrieve the remaining chocolate croissants from the freezer, as well as any boxes that might be piled in the storeroom. “Don’t forget the garbage bags,” she called. Rumer gave her a thumbs-up as Isak peeled out of the driveway, leaving a cloud of dust floating across the yard. Beryl shook her head. “That girl will never grow up!” she said with a sigh, scratching Flan’s head.

“Now, where was I?” she murmured, pulling her legs up under her and running her fingers through her still-damp hair. “Mum,” she murmured with a sigh, “I don’t think this will ever be a truly complete story if we don’t figure out who David is . . .” She started to tap away on her keyboard, writing down their family history from memory. When she finally had a rough draft laid out, she stood to stretch her legs and went inside to make a cup of tea. While the water heated, she went into her mom’s office to see if she could find something with her grandfather’s middle name on it.

She sat at her mom’s desk and looked around the room—there were papers everywhere. Feeling oddly intrusive, she pulled open the top drawer; it was filled with papers, too, but in an envelope in the corner she found a small key with a tag attached to it with string. The tag had something illegible scribbled on it. She looked at it closely; it was old and definitely not a house or car key. Just then, the kettle started to sing, demanding her attention, and she dropped the key back in the drawer and went to the kitchen. As she did, Rumer and Isak came through the screen door, laughing and clumsily carrying piles of flattened boxes.

“There’s more in the car,” Isak said, nodding in that direction while making her way into the living room. Beryl turned off the kettle and headed out to the car.

“So, how’d you make out with the obit?” Isak asked, coming up behind her.

“Pretty good, I think. You’ll have to read it.” She lifted out the rest of the boxes, and Isak reached for the sack with the croissants while Rumer reached for the rest of the bags.

“We bought lobster ravioli and vodka sauce for dinner,” Rumer said with a grin. “And cranberry chicken salad wraps from 12 Pine Street for lunch.”

“That sounds good, but don’t forget I bought food too.”

They carried everything inside and she dropped the flattened boxes on the pile in the living room. When she came back into the kitchen, Isak was sitting at the table looking at her open laptop with Rumer looking over her shoulder. “Do you know what Grandpa’s middle name wa—” she started to ask, but Isak held up her hand.

“This is perfect,” Rumer said softly, looking up.

When they finished reading, Isak nodded slowly. “It’s great, Ber, very nice.”

“Thanks. I just couldn’t remember Grandpa’s middle name . . .”

“It was Francis, I think—but you don’t need it,” Isak said.

“Okay, well, when I submit it online, they’ll post it right away and then run it in Friday’s paper.”

“Sounds good,” Rumer said.

Isak nodded in agreement. “Thanks for doing it.” She paused. “You know, we also need to find Mum’s will . . . or whatever she had set up.”

Beryl nodded. “I think she had a trust, but I have no idea where it is.”

Rumer opened the bag of wraps while Beryl put the croissants in the fridge and poured three iced teas. “Okay,” she said, “so right after lunch we’re going to get started, right?”

“Yup, right after my nap in the sun,” Rumer teased.

12

“I
don’t know, Dad,” Micah said, looking across the yard at the barn. They’d driven out to his parents’ cabin after church. “I’ve always loved it out here; it’s such a peaceful spot with the river and everything. But it’s so secluded and there wouldn’t be anyone for Charlotte to play with.”

“That’s fine, Micah. I’m not saying you have to stay here. I just had to come out to check on it and I thought you’d like to come along—and then it occurred to me that you might be interested in it. When it’s empty, it’s a big temptation for kids looking for a place to party. And the price is right—same deal I had with Linden Finch—just look after and maintain it. In fact, in his spare time, Linden built all those stone walls,” Asa said, pointing across the meadow. “He had a whole menagerie of animals here, but when that old fellow from New York—the writer, can’t think of his name just now—passed away, he left his farm in Dublin—the old Harris farm—to Linden. The old guy had no family, but he’d taken a liking to Linden.”

“Lucky, lucky Linden,” Micah said with a smile.

“Anyway, no pressure—you and Charlotte are welcome to stay at the house with us as long as you need to. Heaven knows we have plenty of room, and your mother loves having you and Charlotte home. But in case you decide you’d like a place of your own, you’re welcome to it.”

Micah nodded thoughtfully. He hadn’t wanted to move back in with his parents, but after Beth died, his world had collapsed around him and he needed some time to get back on his feet. “Let me think about it, Dad.”

“That’s fine,” Asa said, putting his hand on his shoulder. “The offer stands—you might find you want some privacy and can’t handle living with your old parents.”

Micah laughed as they walked toward the barn and Asa unlocked the padlock and slid the doors open. As he did, an old owl flew out from the rafters through the open hay door above them.

“Atticus is still here?” Micah asked in surprise.

“He is, old fellow . . .”

Micah walked toward the back of the barn and lifted up the dusty sheet covering his dad’s old Chevy pickup. “Dad, I think it’s time we restored this old truck.”

Asa smiled. “I hauled beach wood in that, took it to college—lots of memories in that old truck.”

“Well, you have time to work on it now—and I have time. What do you say?”

“Maybe . . .” Asa said, nodding wistfully. “Maybe.”

 

When they pulled into his parents’ house in town, a black Labrador pushed open the screen door, bounded across the yard, and, wagging her tail, dropped a sloppy tennis ball at Micah’s feet.

“Hey, Harper,” Micah said, picking up the ball. He threw it as far as he could, and Harper took off after it.

“She sure knows a pushover when she sees one,” his father teased.

“And you’re the biggest pushover of all,” Micah teased back.

“You’re probably right.”

Harper dropped the ball at Micah’s feet again. “One more, and then it’s time for lunch.” He threw the ball into the field next to the house and she charged off, but when she came back this time, ready to go again, she was disappointed to find him holding the door open for her. “Come on in and get a drink.” She sailed over the two steps and skidded into the kitchen, still carrying the sloppy green ball.

Charlotte was standing on a chair next to her grandmother, munching on an apple slice. “Hi, Daddy,” she said with a big grin. “We’re making apple crisp.”

“You are?” Micah said, reaching for a slice.

“Mmm-hmm,” Charlotte said, her blond head bobbing.

“How come you’re making two?” he asked.

“So you can take one to Beryl,” Charlotte answered.

“Oh, really?”

“Mmm-hmm. Grandma says it’s the right thing to do.”

“Well, Grandma would know.”

13

“
O
kay, if we’re going to find the will or trust—or anything of importance—I think we should start in the office,” Isak said, crumpling the paper from her chicken salad wrap into a tight ball. She ran her fingers through her hair, fluffing it, and then tucked the stray strands behind her ears. Standing up, she carried as much as she could to the counter.

Beryl watched as her oldest sister filled the sink with hot water. No matter what, Beryl decided, Isak always carried herself with grace and poise—and she did a very good job of hiding her demons. She stood to help clear the remaining glasses and called through the screen, “C’mon, Ru, your vitamin D absorption session is over.”

Rumer opened one eye and squinted. “Cute!”

Moments later, they all stood side by side in the sunny downstairs bedroom that their mom had converted into her office and surveyed her piles of papers. “This is depressing,” Isak said gloomily. She walked over to a stack of boxes near the window and opened one. It was filled with cards and letters dating back decades. “What do we do with all of this?” she groaned. “I think Mum must’ve saved every card that was ever sent to her! And all the letters—our whole lives are here. What do we do with them? Throw them away?”

“I don’t know,” Rumer said, shaking her head. “What do people do with their parents’ stuff? We definitely don’t have time to read every letter, but I hate to throw anything away that might be important.”

Isak shook her head. “Remind me not to do this to my kids. In fact, when I get home, the first thing I’m doing is renting a Dumpster!”

“Maybe that’s what we need,” Beryl suggested.

“Well, it might come to that,” Isak said, “but let’s start with those big garbage bags and some empty boxes and see how it goes.” She and Rumer went to get the bags, boxes, and tape, and when they returned, Beryl had fished out the key she’d found that morning.

“If you come across anything that needs unlocking, this could be the key,” she said brightly, holding it up.

Isak looked at it. “Did Mum have a safe deposit box?”

Beryl shook her head. “I honestly don’t know.”

“Well, if worse comes to worst, her attorney or accountant will know, right? Do we know who they are?”

“Hmm,” Beryl mused with a funny puzzled expression.

“Gee, you’re a big help,” Isak teased. “You were supposed to find out some of these things before Mum forgot.”

“You’re right, I should’ve; but hopefully we’ll find some clues when we go through her stuff.”

They got right to work, quickly establishing a system: Each one had a box and a bag—saved items went into a box, and garbage went into a bag. Slowly, slowly, the piles diminished.

Every once in a while, one of them would come across a funny anecdote or an interesting tidbit and would share it. “Holy cow!” Rumer exclaimed in an astonished voice, holding up a faded document. “Guess how much Mum and Dad paid for this house in 1964?” Beryl and Isak looked up quizzically from behind their piles and Rumer read the figure out loud: “$17,500!”

“That’s crazy!” Isak said. “You couldn’t buy an acre for that now.”

“Well, when we put it on the market, I don’t think we should ask less than $300,000,” Beryl said.

“We’ll have to have it assessed first,” Isak said with a sigh.

“By the way, Ber,” Rumer said, looking up, “I’ve been wondering how we’ve been paying for the nursing home all this time. Usually people have to sell everything they own.”

“Mum had a sizeable nest egg stashed away. I don’t know how she did it, but it’s almost gone now. There’ve also been regular deposits into her checking account all along, including a large sum at the end of last year, but I always assumed they were automatic deposits from a retirement account. I was beginning to worry that she’d run out and then we’d have to sell the house at a loss.”

“It’s odd that there was that one big deposit,” Isak mused. “Usually when monies are coming from a retirement account, it’s set up so it’s always the same amount.”

Beryl shook her head. “I don’t really know. I guess I should have paid more attention to it.”

They went back to their piles and once she’d gotten through a few layers of paper, Beryl uncovered her mom’s old turntable and receiver. She traced the wires back to actual speakers and then discovered an old Rinso box full of 45’s and 78’s, and an L.L. Bean box full of albums. She looked up to see if her sisters had noticed her discovery, but they were so absorbed in their own piles they hadn’t even looked up. Quietly, she flipped through the albums, slid one out, and gingerly placed it on the turntable; when it started to spin, she set the needle down and it crackled to life. At the familiar sound, Rumer and Isak both looked up, and then big band sounds filled the room along with Frank Sinatra’s smooth, unmistakable voice crooning “Come Dance with Me.” Rumer and Isak smiled, remembering how their mom used to swing them around the kitchen when they were little, singing along to Ol’ Blue Eyes; suddenly Beryl started dancing around the room like their mom used to do, singing at the same time. Laughing, Rumer and Isak joined in—surprised that they remembered every word. When the album ended, Isak looked for a clock. “Is it cocktail hour yet?”

“Nope, it’s only four forty-five,” Beryl said, changing albums and hoping they could get a little more done.

As Patsy Cline began to sing “You Belong to Me,” Rumer leaned back in her mom’s chair and groaned. “This drawer is locked. Do you think that key opens it?” The heavy oak desk had multiple drawers on both sides, but the bottom drawers were bigger than the rest. She leaned over to the other side. “This one is too.”

“I never knew that desk locked,” Beryl said.

“The locks are under the handles,” Rumer said, fiddling with the key but having no success. “Maybe we should get some WD-40.”

Isak knelt down in front of the desk, pulled the key back out, flipped it over, slid it back in, and turned it again. This time the lock clicked open. She pulled the drawer out and glanced through its contents. “More papers,” she announced, “which can only mean one thing—it’s definitely cocktail hour.” She stood up and looked around the room. “We’re getting there, though.”

“I’m with you,” Rumer agreed. “It’s time for a break.”

Beryl sat down in the chair. “I’ll be there in a minute,” she said. She pulled open the drawer, sifted through some of the loose papers on top, reached underneath, and pulled out an old manila envelope. It was tied closed with a red string wound tightly around a small cardboard circle. As she slowly unwound it, she pictured her mom’s hands—the last to touch it....

Beryl slid the contents of the envelope out onto the desk. It was a collection of fragile, yellow newspaper clippings. She looked in the manila envelope again to make sure it was empty and saw a crumpled piece of paper at the bottom. She pulled it out and unfolded it; it was a typed report, but the date was scrawled across the top in pencil:
November 15, 1968
—the day she was born!

With Patsy Cline softly singing “Sweet Dreams,” Beryl carefully read the accident report that had haunted her mother’s life, and with tears streaming down her cheeks, she felt, for the first time, the extent of her mother’s grief. When she finished reading it, she turned to the newspaper clippings. There were two about the accident: One showed a picture of the demolished truck, and one showed a picture of her father smiling. He looked no older than a boy and the caption read: “Thomas Graham, 26, leaves behind a young wife and three small children.” Paper-clipped to the article were three copies of his obituary.

Beryl wiped her eyes and glanced through the other clippings. There was an obituary for a man named Clay Davis. Mr. Davis, it said, had died on Christmas Eve, but it didn’t say how he died; it only asked that contributions be made to the VA in his son’s name. Beryl stared at the name, trying to remember where she’d read it before; then she looked back at the accident report and put her hand over her mouth in surprise. She continued to sift through the clippings, trying to make sense of everything. There was a clipping of a painting of New Hampshire’s Old Man of the Mountain and its caption read: “ ‘Old Man and the Moon’ as seen through the eyes of painter David Gilead, currently an artist in residence at Macdowell Colony, 1969.” There were several more articles about the artist and the shows he would be having—New York, Paris, Rome. One article showed a photograph of him standing beside a landscape. Beryl looked closely at the photo—he was very handsome and, even in the faded newspaper photograph, his eyes were striking. Finally, Beryl looked at the last clipping. It was torn, but it looked like it had been repaired with tape—tape that was now yellow with age and had lost its adhesiveness. The photo was of a woman wearing an elegant gown, and the caption read: “Catherine Gilead at a New York City Catholic charity fundraiser”; the year,
1980,
was scribbled next to the picture in pencil.

Beryl squeezed her eyes shut, trying to absorb what she was reading. Why had her mom saved these clippings? And why were they kept together with the clippings about the accident and her father’s obituary? What significance could they possibly have?