A Stillness of Chimes (8 page)

Cassie perked up. “Laura just got into town, right?”

“That’s what I heard.”

“I’ll call her. She might need some help sorting through her mom’s things.”

“No doubt. Jess lived in that house for thirty-some years and never threw anything out.”

“Yes, but at least her house looked like
her
.”

The dig went unnoticed. Or maybe not, because he stopped the massage abruptly and walked over to the window, hands in his pockets. He started whistling, so she couldn’t have hurt his feelings too badly.

Cassie sat up straight and idly picked up the month-old newspaper that lay on the table, neatly folded to reveal the obituary. Her dad had mentioned it when he’d called to ask her to fly home for a while. It worried him, the way her mom had left the paper there, day after day. Cassie had to admit that was a bit strange, but the suddenness of Jess’s death must have made a hard blow even harder.

Silently, Cassie read the obituary one more time. “Jessamyn Flynn Gantt is survived by her daughter, Laura Gantt of Denver, and was preceded in death by her husband, Elliott Gantt; by her parents, Hollis and Laura Flynn; by a brother, Robert Flynn …”

Some people would have argued that Elliott hadn’t preceded Jess, but Cassie didn’t want to believe it.

“Why didn’t you call me when the rumors about Elliott first started?” she asked her dad.

He turned from the window. “Same reason I didn’t call Laura. It’s all hogwash.”

“That’s what I think too.”

“Rumors are like tumors. They’ll spread in a hurry if you don’t take care of them.” He shook his head. “Poor old Elliott. He hated himself for those black fits that made Jess and Laura so miserable. If he’d lived longer, he might have done worse. God rest his soul.”

“Yeah, it was hard on everybody. Especially Laura.”

He brought the coffee to the table. “I just hope she won’t hear the jokes. People say he’ll be Prospect’s new tourist attraction. You know, like some towns brag about sightings of Sasquatch or aliens? They say Elliott’s our claim to fame.”

“That’s horrible. People can be so cruel. He can’t be alive, though. He must have had a heart attack or something while he was fishing. And if that’s what happened, at least his last day on earth was a reasonably happy one.”

“I’d almost rather believe that than imagine my buddy hiding in the hills, half-starved, while people stuff their faces at the diner and gossip about him.”

“Me too.” Still, Cassie wished she could believe Elliott was back, for Laura’s sake. But he wasn’t.

Elliott and his little band had been a crowd favorite from the earliest years of the festival, their toes tapping as they played and sang. He’d often
switch instruments between songs, going from fiddle to mandolin, or from mandolin to guitar. He could play—and build—all those instruments. Laura had been so proud of him. So loyal in spite of his problems. So crushed when he drowned. She’d be crushed all over again if she let herself start believing the rumors.

Cassie rested her head on the table, her eyelids as heavy as her heart, and wished she were home with Drew. With no worries but the bills. The bills came in faster than the money, though. At this rate they’d never be able to start a family. Not in California, anyway.

Somebody should have warned her that marriage wouldn’t be all moonlight and roses. Some days, as much as she loved Drew, marriage was the hardest job she’d ever had. But Laura probably envied her just for being married.

Laura’s life hadn’t turned out as planned either. When they were sixteen or so, she’d thought she would go to UGA and come right back to Prospect to teach school. And marry Sean, of course. That was a given. That was the foundation of her other dreams and his too, until she went and broke his heart. But even if they’d married, they would have learned soon enough that the starry-eyed phase couldn’t last.

“I’d better get out of here.” Her dad was juggling two briefcases and a travel mug. “Get the door for me, Cass? Say, one of my third-floor apartments will be vacant in a few days. I’ll give you the nickel tour before the new tenant moves in.”

Not especially interested in the apartments in the renovated Halloran Building, she took a careful slurp of hot coffee before she spoke. “I’ve seen them before. Years ago.”

“Yeah, but I like to show ’em off whenever I can,” he said with a grin.

She opened the door for him and socked his shoulder. “You’re worse than Trevor with a new toy. Okay, fine. Let me know when.”

Moments after he’d walked out, her phone rang. She braced herself for a too-cheery conversation with Tigger, who’d be calling to announce her ETA, but caller ID showed Laura’s number.

“Hey, girl,” Cassie said. “Can you believe we’re both in town at the same time? We have to get together.”

“Absolutely.” But Laura sounded rushed and abrupt. “I’m going out to the old cabin this afternoon. Will you come with me? I want company while I poke around.”

“Sure. Tig’s coming over, but she can visit with my mom until I get back. Poking around won’t take all day, will it?”

“It probably won’t.” Laura still didn’t sound quite like herself. “Wear jeans and boots, okay? There might be snakes. I’ll pick you up in a little while. Can’t wait to see you.”

“Same here,” Cassie said. “We’re in the new house now. Just outside of town, remember?”

“I remember. See you soon, Cass.”

Cassie walked to the living room window that looked out on Prospect far below. Beyond the neat grid of downtown streets, beyond the new houses in the hills outside the city limits, lay the remains of the Gantt homestead. Laura hadn’t mentioned the purpose of her trip to the old ruin, but Cassie knew.

Sean locked up the workshop and led Gary across the back lawn, past budding azaleas and a few late daffodils that the previous owners must have
planted. “I’ll tackle the yard work as soon as I can,” Sean said. “Seems like spring barely got here, but summer’s already knockin’ at the door.”

“The yard’ll look great in no time,” Gary said, slapping Sean’s shoulder. “All those perennials and flowering bushes will appeal to gardeners. Azaleas, rhododendrons, hydrangeas—you have everything, don’t you?”

“I guess so.” But if they weren’t in bloom, Sean couldn’t tell one bush from another.

“It’s a dandy little workshop too. Elliott would have been green with envy, boy.”

Boy
. Dale always used the word with contempt. For Gary, it was just part of his genial, I-love-everybody attitude.

Sean shot him a quick look, realizing he’d spoken of Elliott the way a sane person would—as if he was a dead man. “Still think the rumors are bunk, Gary?”

“Absolutely. Do you know if Laura’s heard them yet?”

“I told her, just yesterday. She didn’t know what to think.”

“It’s a tough time for her.” Gary shook his head. “So … Ardelle’s timing is lousy, but she wants to invite both of you to our grandson’s birthday party. Trevor turns five next week, and she’s throwing a party on Saturday night.”

“Party hats and pin the tail on the donkey? That kind of party?”

“No, thank God. Tigger’s throwing a kids’ party on a different day. This is the one where the grandparents pick the menu and overindulge the kid in stuff he doesn’t need. Cassie’s in town, and I’m sure she’d love to see both of you.”

“Drew didn’t come?”

“No, just Cass. She’s laid off, actually, and she … she wanted some time
with the family.” Gary looked away for a moment, frowning into the sun, then smiled at Sean. “You know you want to come.”

“Sure I do.”

“You and Laura don’t mind hanging out together?”

“I don’t, anyway.”

“All right, then. You can expect an official invitation soon, probably via her.”

“Great.”

But the sympathy on Gary’s face made Sean wonder if the whole world could see his heart on his sleeve. He supposed they all knew why he hated birthdays.

Shrugging it off, he opened the back door and waved Gary into the kitchen. “Sorry I didn’t clean up the mess. I didn’t know you’d be available so soon.”

“This isn’t a mess. It’s progress.” Nodding with satisfaction, Gary looked around the half-painted kitchen, cluttered with tools, masking tape, and cartons of tile to go on the floor later. He chuckled at the crayon scribbles on the walls—“The last owners really left their mark, didn’t they?”—and cast a critical eye at the cupboard door that had sagged since Sean was a kid.

“Gotta fix that,” Sean said.

“All in good time. You can’t fix everything at once.” Gary wandered into the living room, where light streamed in through bare windows.

Heavy drapes had covered the windows sixteen years before, when social workers stopped by unannounced. When Dale moved to the state pen for a few years, he’d probably been exposed to more sunshine than he’d ever allowed in his own home.

Sean ran his fingers over the smoothness of the newly painted wall.
When he was eight or nine, his mom wanted to get rid of the ugly, outdated wallpaper. She’d pulled off only one narrow strip before Dale stopped her. It stayed that way for years, a jagged ribbon of off-white in a room where everything else was dark: wallpaper, carpet, furniture, drapes. The house had its first breath of fresh air when the bank foreclosed on it and sold it to the Clawsons, who sold it to the family of wall-scribblers. Sean bought it in February, with Gary acting as broker. They used the same bank that had foreclosed on Dale’s loan.

Elliott had been a surrogate father, but Gary was like an uncle. He’d offered plenty of practical help through the years, including cash, but he never let Dale get wind of it. Gary had said he didn’t want to be paid back. Pass it on to someone else, he always said. Pay it forward.

Gary continued his walk-through, checking out the bedrooms and the bathrooms too, and returned to the kitchen. “It’s a pretty little house, and it’s solid. Seems premature to sell, though. Except for the workshop, you’ve barely started the renovations.”

“The workshop had to come first.”

“Now you get to the rest of the house and you … what? Decide it isn’t worth the trouble?”

“When I was a kid, I dreamed about kicking Dale out and making the house the way my mom wanted it. I thought it could somehow … undo the damage. As if fixing up a house could fix the past. It doesn’t work that way.” Mad at himself for being motivated by emotions instead of common sense, he shook his head. “I just want out.”

“But you’ve set up the perfect little shop out back. Why let it go? Most places, the zoning rules won’t even let you run a business from your home.”

“I know.”

“And you’ll get a far better price if you finish the renovations.”

“I know.”

“But you still want out in a hurry? Why?”

As Sean looked around the room, he realized he’d hunched his shoulders and balled his hands into fists. His old defensive stance.

He straightened his posture and flexed his fingers. “No matter what I do to the place, I won’t be able to get rid of Dale’s stench. I don’t mean that literally, but you know what I mean.”

“I do, but you’re the king of the castle now. You make the rules. You create the atmosphere. But if you can’t stand to keep the place, you could put just a little more work into it and turn a nice profit. I’ll list it right now if you want me to, but I’ve never known you to quit in the middle of a project.”

“I’ve never tackled a project as tough as this one,” Sean said. “I remember you tried to talk me out of buying it. I should have listened. You’ve never steered me wrong.”

“Oh, I doubt that.”

“No, you’ve never let me down. I wouldn’t have survived without you and Ardelle. Elliott and Jess. Keith. My grandma.”

Gary laughed out loud. “Not to mention social services, a couple of churches, and probably the PTA.”

Sean laughed too, but he felt like a charity case. “I can’t argue with that.”

“What’s this?” Gary moved over to the couch where that pretty little F-style mandolin lay, its carved top of Sitka spruce gleaming like gold against the rich blue lining of the case. He pulled it out, his big hands dwarfing the slender neck. “How much for this little beauty?”

“Brace yourself. It’s my best piece yet.”

Gary plucked a string, the sound a tiny, unpracticed sample of the mandolin’s potential in the hands of a good picker. “How much?”

Sean couldn’t keep the smile off his lips. “About three grand.”

“Yowee.” As gently as if it were a newborn babe, Gary tucked the mandolin back in its case. “You sell many at that price?”

“No, most of ’em are built and priced for casual musicians. This one’s a custom job for a pro in Nashville. He’s picking it up later this week.”

“Gibby Sprague?”

“Not this time. This one’s for a session musician. Gibby buys from me now and then, though.”

“Will he be in town for the festival?”

“He hasn’t missed one yet.”

“Think he knows Jess passed away?”

“Laura must have told him. He and Elliott were pretty tight for a while.”

Gary ran a finger over the smooth wood of the mandolin. “Elliott would have been proud of you. The apprentice has surpassed the master.”

Sean shook his head. “I’m just starting to learn what I need to learn.”