Sea Glass Summer (23 page)

That day and several others slipped by into the establishment of a mostly peaceful routine. Sonny had surprisingly few outbursts and those were directed against herself, never Twyla. Mostly these had to do with his belief that he played second fiddle to Jumbo. He was initially angry that Sarah took the dog for a walk most mornings, and occasionally in the afternoons.

‘You make her do it,' was his accusation. ‘You make her feel sorry for you because I'm a burden to you.'

But this minor cloud gradually dissipated in his enjoyment of seeing Sarah.

‘You like her, don't you?' he would say to Twyla, as if this were vitally important to him.

‘She's one special young woman, Sonny. It couldn't be plainer she has a big place in her heart for you.'

It gladdened Gwen that the two women she was becoming increasingly fond of had taken to each other immediately. Sometimes on an afternoon the three of them would sit, usually around the kitchen table, getting to know more about one another in a leisurely, conversational way. During one of these sessions Twyla talked about having spent most of her life, until coming to Maine, in Louisiana, mentioning that a great-grandmother had been Creole, which naturally led to an enthusiastic discussion of that type of cooking. Sarah had learned from Libby Jennson that there was a neighborhood potluck group that met once a month, with each member taking a turn hosting, and that a gumbo or shrimp Creole would be a fun dish to serve.

Twyla's manner of speech was of a much more relaxed form than had been present during her initial meeting, technically the interview, with Gwen. The change had been there when she had talked to Sonny on returning with her suitcases and had increasingly extended to herself and Sarah. But it was always hearing that soothing voice flowing over Sonny like balm that brought the deepest comfort.

‘Now don't you go fretting that someone made off with your socks. Those creatures have a way of thinking of places to hide themselves. Nothing more mischievous than socks. But you and me are more than a match for them; by now, after hiding under the bed, they've likely popped back in the drawer. And if they haven't we will hunt them down to the last one.'

It was so very much what Mrs Broom would have said if Gwen couldn't find something. When two weeks of Twyla's presence became three, Sonny's frame of mind had so improved that he sometimes spent half an hour or more at a time playing the piano, with one or the other – sometimes both – of the women sitting listening to him. Gwen had told Twyla that Clare Andrews, Oliver's mother, had come to talk to her about taking lessons, and of her deep regret that she hadn't suggested the girl come and practice on the instrument at which Sonny now sat. The imprint of that memory – the sweet, open face framed by the red-gold hair – became more vivid with Gwen's every recurring thought of Oliver. Twyla had taken him on several occasions to see his grandfather and to Sunday church, which she and Sonny had not attended because he'd been apathetic about doing so. Elizabeth and Gerald had put up no opposition to these requests, but they had never encouraged her to linger beyond what was polite when she returned him to the house. It was Sonny who had started urging Twyla to bring ‘her boy.' Gwen read in Twyla's eyes that she welcomed doing this, but doubted the Cullys would agree to it. Indeed, she sensed the suggestion had been posed and refused. Perhaps they had genuine concerns about Oliver being around a man with Alzheimer's. One had to be understanding on that point, even while thinking such fears out of touch with life today. And yet there had to be a way to support Twyla in an attempt to reach these people. An idea was forming . . . when she had talked about Clare's visit as a teenager, Twyla had responded that Oliver had recently said he would like to learn to play the piano.

Gwen's own world was much less constricted than it had been. She and Twyla had ceased to think which of them should be doing what for Sonny at a given time. Whatever worked on a particular day or night is how it went. This understanding had made it unnecessary for Gwen to write to the garden club offering her resignation as president. A few informal gatherings, over coffee at someone's house, tended to be planned or crop up, but the only firm date on the calendar was the monthly meeting. It was thinking about the one coming up the following week that suddenly suggested to Gwen a means for her to make contact with Elizabeth and Gerard Cully and hopefully bring the conversation around to Twyla and Oliver. Embarking on the plan required phoning Madge Baldwin, one of whose responsibilities was special events. Saying anything to Twyla ahead of time might raise her hopes only to dash them. Then if Gwen got the go-ahead, the final decision would be Twyla's.

Madge always tended to make it difficult to get to the point. If someone had called to say they'd noticed her house was on fire she would have interrupted to say how bad the flu was this year, although not quite as dire as predicted. In a way, thought Gwen, this was part of her charm. Now Madge rattled on for what seemed like five minutes about how relieved she was that Sonny's carer was proving to be such a godsend, because this showed the car accident was meant to be – the intervention of a higher power, which made her feel so much better, because for several days afterward she had been worrying herself sick about having been the one who gave Sonny the keys. As she had said to her husband, knowing she was a piece of the grand plan . . . This continued until she paused to draw breath, allowing Gwen to quickly insert her idea of a garden club project that she would – with Madge's approval – like to present to the membership at next Thursday's meeting. The response was not only enthusiastic but short-winded, enabling Gwen to get off the phone smartly when she heard Twyla come in through the backdoor, having been gone for an hour or so doing errands. An appreciative OK being given, along with the required phone number, Gwen dialed and spoke to a surprised Elizabeth Cully. After a momentary hesitation, she agreed to see her at the Cully Mansion the following day at two in the afternoon.

Now Twyla expressed her mounting concerns. ‘On the day Oliver's aunt and uncle came to collect him, they – or I should say Elizabeth – made all the right noises about the importance of him and I staying in close touch, but it sure hasn't worked out that way. Other than taking him to church and on to see his grandpa on Sundays, there's always some excuse for us not getting together, and never one mention of me being invited over to the house. Did something change or did they always intend it that way? That's what I've been asking myself.'

When the time came to set off in the car for the appointment Gwen did so with some trepidation. So much counted on her not risking antagonizing the Cullys before hopefully working her way round to the real purpose of her visit: attempting to encourage them to allow Twyla more time with Oliver. It was Elizabeth Cully who admitted her into the oppressive hall and then into the truly ghastly living room with the gargantuan four-poster bed at the end where the windows overlooked the rear of the house. Or would have done so had they not been shrouded in disintegrating gauze curtains framed by presumably once red velvet panels. Of Gerard Cully there was no sign, but there could conceivably have been a half dozen people hiding out under the bed or among the conglomeration of massive Victorian furniture. This period always conveyed to Gwen both self-importance and a patriarchal dominance of the lesser female mind. Before sitting down, at Elizabeth's invitation, on a decrepit sofa of some moldy green fabric, Gwen had counted four towering display cabinets. The overflow crowded every flat surface to the point of obsessive compulsion. Tarnished Indian brass bells, snuff boxes, blackened silver nutcrackers, grape scissors, little carved boxes and a myriad of other knickknacks jostled each other for breathing space. Let the womenfolk fritter their time away obsessing over trivia.

Such a mindset was on view in the oil portrait of a ferociously bewhiskered old man; its heavily layered, blackish olive background seemed entirely a product of his personality, making the artist superfluous. Those eyes surveyed the room as if it remained, and always would, his personal kingdom. Nathaniel Cully? Gwen didn't think so. She had heard stories of the devoted doctor making his rounds in his horse and buggy, or setting out in a rowboat during a storm to rescue a group of strangers. Perhaps one of his two brothers or, even more likely from the manner of dress, his father.

Elizabeth Cully half-heartedly offered coffee or tea and, accepting the polite refusal without suggesting a cold drink as an alternative, she sat down on the equally ancient sofa facing the one on which Gwen was perched in careful avoidance of poking springs. For some moments she had felt herself shrinking in size like poor Alice in Wonderland. How very small and powerless must Oliver feel in this dreadful room!

‘It's good of you to come, Mrs Garwood,' she said as if reciting the beginning of a prepared speech. ‘I hope you won't take it that my husband doesn't appreciate your garden club's interest in us if he doesn't join us?'

‘Not at all.'

‘The fact that he works from home inclines people to think that he can stop what he's doing at the drop of a hat, but he'd never have gotten where he has – trading in the financial market – with that attitude.' Elizabeth's hand moved restively from her long skirt, made from some loosely woven material in a deep rust color, to the neckline of the matching top.

‘That's absolutely fine. You and your husband can discuss at leisure my suggestions for how the garden club might best help in the restoration of your grounds. As I said on the phone, we consider ourselves mutual beneficiaries in projects of this type. They are splendid opportunities for honing skills and gaining knowledge. If you find yourselves willing to participate I will put the matter before the full membership next Thursday. I'm optimistic it will meet with enthusiastic support, given the Cully history and Sea Glass's good fortune in having members of the family back in residence.' Gwen wondered if she had sounded obsequious. If so, had Elizabeth taken it as her due?

‘We hadn't planned to focus on landscaping this summer.' She waved a dismissive hand. ‘As is obvious, from spending five minutes in this room, we are overwhelmed by what needs to be done inside. I've only this week found a woman to come in and make an attempt at cleaning. And I don't think she would have stepped in the door if she hadn't worked for Emily Cully and has some loyalty to her memory. She's a Mrs Polly, and she told me that Emily had addressed her only by her last name. Confusing because there was a dreadful old parrot called Polly.' Elizabeth's eyes went to the naked birdcage on its pole near the four-poster bed. ‘Every time the old lady shouted at it Mrs Polly jumped.' She shrugged expressively. ‘This is one of her days with me, so she's around the house somewhere mopping floors. Not that I expect them to look any better for it.'

‘I've met her; she has a very pretty front garden. English cottage style, lots of sweetly old-fashioned varieties . . .'

‘Really? It's hard to imagine her handling a flower without crushing the life out of it. She's so huge, isn't she? Like a giantess in a Grimm Brothers' fairytale.'

Jabs at people's looks bothered Gwen. She hoped for Robin Polly's sake she wasn't within hearing range; from what she'd heard the woman hadn't had an easy life dealing with her father's drinking problem. ‘Let's hope you're happy with her work and she enjoys being back here.'

‘Yes.' She restively shifted her position, turning toward the marble fireplace that resembled a graveyard monument. Above it hung a painting of cows that appeared in desperate need of milking. ‘Udderly ghastly, isn't it?' She frowned, drawing a hand through her tangled mane with its obvious natural care. Even though the light that penetrated the front window was of a murky quality the dark roots visibly needed a touch-up. Was it a matter, Gwen wondered, of not having yet found a hairdresser in Sea Glass, or was she never one to obsess about her appearance? ‘I'm sorry, that was a gross way of putting it, but I'm one of those unfortunate people who suffer physical pain in the presence of amateur daubings. I'm sure being surrounded by such horrors is the reason I've had more wretched migraines in one month than I did in six before coming here.'

‘Our surroundings do have an impact.' Gwen's sympathy was genuine. Perhaps the Cullys' inability to understand a child's emotional needs stemmed from their having found themselves sunk in a quagmire since moving into the house. Gwen always tried to see the other side. She smiled kindly at Elizabeth while wondering how soon she could bring Twyla and Oliver into the conversation.

‘I was brought up with a passion for fine art. My parents had a very fine collection of post-Impressionist works; we moved in those circles . . .' Elizabeth paused and shrugged, ‘so you can imagine the toll this place is taking on me and my husband. Nothing would have induced us to move here, if only temporarily, but for our wish to take on the responsibility of his nephew. He asked us for a dog or a cat and we hated saying no, but there's no way we can deal with an animal wandering around having accidents God knows where.'

Again, Gwen could sympathize with her point of view. This was the moment to bring up her relationship with Twyla, but she found herself side-stepping it. ‘Have you taken him to see the scrimshaws left to the historical society by Emily Cully?'

The response to this was a darting look of such antagonism that it not only startled Gwen but brought back a vivid memory of Rowena's eyes suddenly blazing with rage upon her on the day after their father's funeral. They were alone in the living room of the family home in Concord, Charles already returned to Boston where Sonny had remained with Mrs Broom, John also gone and their mother upstairs resting. Nothing had been said in the past few days about the upcoming wedding, and it was when Gwen asked her sister if she and John had talked about when they would feel ready to go forward. At that moment the torrent was unleashed. Hadn't Gwen noticed that Rowena was not wearing the engagement ring? Or had she been too delighted by the absence to profess interest, let alone sympathy? Didn't she want to hear the gory details? Well, too damn bad! The ring had been returned weeks ago. Reason? It had been blatantly obvious after that family weekend in Boston that the prospective groom had taken one look at the younger sister and fallen hook, line and sinker. Chalk up success number two to dear, sweet Gwen. First Charles, now John. But she needn't crow so hard this time because he'd been very much a case of second best. Why had Rowena sent John to break the news of their father's death? Because someone had to do it, and their mother couldn't be left alone.