More Than Words Can Say (3 page)

Adam and Lucy had divorced while Chelsea was in college. With no daughter left to raise, they had slowly and quietly grown apart, he with his ever-expanding businesses and she with her ever-widening social obligations. There had been no adultery, no fighting, no real animus of any kind. Their loss of intimacy having been more insidious than sudden, it was as if they had simply given up on loving each other. Then one day Adam had quietly left the house, and in her own way, Lucy understood.

Adam had enjoyed several relationships since then. But although Lucy had received many offers of companionship, she had chosen to remain alone. Chelsea had never known why, save for the possibility that her mother still lived in the past and was unable to move on. Or perhaps the men that Lucy had met since her divorce hadn’t been appealing enough, especially after having been married to a man as vibrant as Adam. In any event, unlike many children of divorce, Chelsea could honestly say that she still loved her mother and father equally. And for that much, at least, she felt lucky.

“So how was school this year?” Adam asked.

“Okay,” Chelsea answered. “Plus, I make really big bucks as an art teacher.”

“Speaking of which,” Adam said, “have you reconsidered my offer?”

Chelsea shook her head. “Thanks, Dad,” she answered. “But I really don’t want to work for you. I like my summers off too much.”

Adam chuckled quietly. “I know,” he said. “Even so, I’d be immensely happy to assign you absolutely no responsibilities and grossly overpay you for completely ignoring them.”

Chelsea smiled at her dad. Then she again remembered her grandmother’s letter, and she cautioned herself against mentioning it. Even so, she was brimming over with questions that Adam might be able to answer.

“It wouldn’t work out just now, anyway,” she added. “Shortly after the funeral, I’m going away for a few days.”

“Oh?” Adam asked. “Where to?”

“Apparently I’ve inherited Gram’s old cottage on Lake Evergreen. I need to go and see it, before deciding whether it’s worth keeping.”

It took a few moments, but Adam finally remembered. “Good Lord . . . ,” he said. “You’re quite right. I’d totally forgotten about that. And congratulations, I suppose . . .”

Chelsea’s eyebrows lifted questioningly. “You
suppose
?” she asked.

Adam nodded. “Well, yes,” he answered. “God only knows what kind of shape the place is in by now.”

“Allistaire says that it’s been well maintained over the years.”

“Could be,” Adam said. “I wouldn’t know.”

“So you were aware that I’d inherit it?” Chelsea asked.

“Sure,” Adam answered. “But it’s been so long now that I’d forgotten.”

“Did you ever go there?”

Adam shook his head. “I’ve never even seen the place. By the time your mom and I were married, the cottage had been closed for nearly twenty years.”

“Do you know if Mom has any pictures of it?”

“I have no idea,” he answered. “But even if she does, by now they’re so old that they’d probably make the place look a lot better than it really is. Would you like me to come along and help you check it out? I’d be glad to do it.”

Chelsea almost agreed before stopping herself. She would need privacy if she were to properly follow Gram’s instructions. Even so, she briefly lamented the lost chance to be with her father for a few days.

Chelsea shook her head. “Allistaire told me that a caretaker has been looking after the place,” she answered. “He and his wife are supposedly going to meet me there and show me the ropes.”

“Well, if you find that you need anything, call me and I’ll drive up. If not, come and see me when you get back, because I’ll be eager to hear all about it. And now, I’m going to get a stiff drink and find your mother. I’m sure she could use some support. In our own way we still love each other, you know.”

Chelsea kissed him on one cheek. “I know, Dad,” she said.

With that, Adam headed off toward the kitchen. Hopeful that he might provide them with some food, Rhett and Scarlett eagerly scampered along after him.

While taking another sip of scotch, Chelsea again looked out the broad picture windows, thinking. Since her grandmother’s death two days ago, she had been trying to summon up some courage and store it away in her heart, against the awful day when she would again lose someone she loved. Perhaps then she could call upon those carefully preserved armories of strength and use them as shields against her pain. Then she shook her head a little. Was she deluding herself? Probably, she realized, but it was a pleasant fantasy to nurture.

Brooke had known many people in Syracuse. She had also been well recognized for her charity work and was a driving force on the board of the Everson Museum of Art, an avid painter right up to the day of her death. Her donated works hung in many local homes and cultural facilities. And it was from her that Chelsea had acquired her own love of art and painting. In the end, Brooke died in her sleep, passing from this world in much the same way that she had lived in it—quite peacefully, and without being a bother to anyone.

To her surprise, just then Chelsea thought she heard Gram’s comforting voice, whispering to her from afar. That wasn’t really the case, of course. Even so, she could clearly remember the many times that Gram had advised her as she was growing up. Gram was always there, always kind, always ready to help with any concern. If Chelsea didn’t seem to grasp her answers, Brooke would usually say, “
When you’re older, you’ll understand.
”

How
odd,
Chelsea thought as she again focused her gaze outside.
That’s much the same thing that she said in her mysterious letter . . .

As she thought more about it, her fingertips unthinkingly sought out the little key that lay underneath her blouse. This time, touching it came automatically. And for some reason she had yet to understand, she found the gesture oddly reassuring.

Chelsea finally arose and walked to the far end of the sunporch. It was here that Brooke had sat and painted. The easel still stood where it always had, with its back toward the windows. An incomplete landscape rested on it, waiting to be finished by an artist who would never return. Just as likely to remain orphaned, Brooke’s various painting tools lay on a nearby table.

Brooke once told Chelsea that her interest in painting had begun shortly after her last visit to Lake Evergreen. She had hired a teacher to come to the house and instruct her, Brooke had also said, until she had developed a style all her own. But when Chelsea had innocently asked Brooke whether her final visit to the lake had had anything to do with her wanting to paint, a sad look had overtaken Brooke’s face. She then politely told Chelsea that her reasons had been personal and that she didn’t wish to speak of them.

Chelsea picked up one of the brushes, remembering. Its wooden handle felt warm, as if her grandmother had just held it. She sadly closed her eyes, realizing that it was the sun that had blessed it, rather than her grandmother’s touch. She put the brush back down, wondering what would become of such cherished mementos. Just then, someone touched her shoulder.

“Hi,” Lucy said softly.

Chelsea turned and gave her mother a long, meaningful hug, as if some of the strength she had been storing away might somehow be imparted to her in this hour of need. When at last she stepped back, Chelsea was disturbed by what she saw.

Lucy hadn’t slept in two days, and dark circles lay beneath her bloodshot eyes. Her usually perfect makeup looked haphazard and wrong, from being so frequently reapplied between crying spells. Although her short gray hair was in place and she was suitably dressed, an overwhelming sense of grief showed through her every attempt to appear normal. When her tears erupted again, she did her best to wipe them away.

As Chelsea searched her purse for a tissue, her fingers brushed against Brooke’s aged letter, reminding her of both its message and its warnings. Much the same way that she had kept it a secret from her father, she must now also do the same with her mother, she knew. She had never been guarded around her parents, and she didn’t enjoy being that way now. But she had resolved to follow Gram’s wishes, so when the tissue came out of her purse, the precious letter stayed behind.

“How are you doing, Mom?” Chelsea asked.

Lucy’s faint smile seemed forced, manufactured. “As best I can,” she answered. “It’s just so hard, you know? We lived together for ages . . . and now I’m rattling around in this big house all by myself. It’s so quiet at night, after everyone has gone home . . .”

Then Lucy looked carefully around as if she were appraising her home, rather than admiring it. “Do you think that I should sell it now?” she asked Chelsea. “With Mother gone it seems so big, so empty . . .”

Chelsea sighed and shook her head a little. Less than an hour ago, she had asked Allistaire Reynolds that very thing about Gram’s cottage.
Death has an odd way of forcing us into making choices,
she thought. She put a comforting arm around her mother’s shoulders.

“I think that you’re getting ahead of yourself,” Chelsea answered. “There’ll be lots of time to consider that. And we’ll talk to Dad about it, too. He always knows what to do.”

Lucy’s next effort to smile proved no more genuine than before. “I don’t suppose that I could ask you to stay with me for a few nights?” she said. “I could really use the company.”

And just how do I answer that?
Chelsea thought
. Should I obey the secret wishes of my grandmother or the more immediate needs of my mother?

It had long been Chelsea’s opinion that Lucy’s brittle and rather martyr-like personality was a result of never having had to work at a “real” job, among “real” people. As far as Chelsea was concerned, Lucy’s charities, black-tie balls, and bridge club didn’t count. Because of her late father’s wealth and Adam’s success, Lucy had never worked a day in her life. As Chelsea had grown into adulthood, she had come to suspect that it was precisely this insulation from the real world that had shaped her mother’s personality. Rather than produce a sense of superiority in Lucy, it seemed that the privileged isolation she had experienced her entire life had somehow created a sort of silent inferiority in her makeup. Lucy had always been a good person, Chelsea knew, but never a great mother. And because of that, it had been Adam to whom Chelsea had always been the closest. But she loved her mother, and she hated seeing her in so much pain.

“I’ll tell you what,” Chelsea said. “I’ll stay with you for a few days, but then I have to leave town for a little while. Would that be okay?”

Chelsea went on to explain her meeting with Allistaire and how she was going up to Lake Evergreen to view the property. To help cushion the blow of her leaving, she then fibbed a little and told Lucy that Allistaire thought it best if she went there soon. She didn’t like doing it, but she was trying to walk a fine line between helping her mother and obeying the wishes set forth in Brooke’s mysterious letter. When Chelsea finished, Lucy nodded.

“Three or four days will be enough, I think,” Lucy answered. “I’ll probably be better after that. By then, I could probably use some time alone, anyway.”

Sighing, Lucy wiped her eyes again. “Oh . . . by the way,” she said. “Mother wanted you to have something else.”

“What is it?” Chelsea asked.

Lucy walked shakily toward an end table, where she picked up an old black notebook. She walked back over to Chelsea and handed it to her.

“It’s Mom’s recipe collection,” Lucy said. “You’re a far better cook than I, and she was always reminding me that it would be better off in your care. As was the case with so many things, she was right.”

Chelsea looked at the old notebook. It was so fragile that it was practically falling apart, with an old rubber band around its middle holding it all together. Although she hadn’t seen it for years, she remembered it. Just as she had painted nearly every day of her life, Gram had cooked nearly every day of her life. Sloping ramps had been built in the kitchen so that she could wheel her chair onto them and work at the proper height. Chelsea had never read any of the recipes the notebook contained; the most she knew about them was that they were all supposedly of Brooke’s own devising.

“Thank you, Mom,” Chelsea answered. “I’ll always treasure it.”

“I know you will, honey,” Lucy answered. “I know.”

At last, Lucy seemed to buck up a little. “And now,” she said, “let’s go and rejoin your father. We both need his strength right now. And we’ll see if we can eat something. God knows there’s enough food!”

Glad to see that her mother had at least partly rejoined the land of the living, Chelsea smiled.

“Sure, Mom,” she said. “I’m glad that Dad’s here, too.”

Without further ado, the grieving mother and daughter went back into the house and slowly made their way across the spacious living room.

Chapter 3

L
ater that night, Chelsea juggled her keys and a paper bag containing some leftovers for Dolly while simultaneously struggling to unlock her town house door. It wasn’t going well, and a thunderstorm was fast approaching. Just as the first drops fell, she at last made her way inside and switched on the lights.

Not surprisingly, Dolly sat waiting for her. Dolly was a gorgeous, light-colored golden retriever with big, brown eyes and a warm heart. On seeing Chelsea, she barked and happily jumped up, innocently adding to her mistress’s predicament.

“Yes, I know you’re hungry,” Chelsea said. “Don’t worry—I’ve got something special for you tonight.”

After finally placing her items atop the foyer table, Chelsea tousled Dolly’s ears. “Haff you been goot?” she asked. “Because eef you haven’t, vee haff vays awff makink you talk!”

“
Woof!
” was Dolly’s ubiquitous reply.

Chelsea released Dolly into the backyard, then she unwrapped the plate of meatloaf she had selected from the bounty at her mother’s house and she set it on the floor. When Dolly returned she immediately tore into the food, her tail wagging furiously as she nosed the plate hither and yon.