Sea Glass Summer (42 page)

He pulled the covers up but a thread of thought snagged him back as he was about to drift off. Evan and his Aunt Alice were on a mission, like sleuths in the sort of books he wrote, searching galleries in Boston for something Sarah had said Willie Watkins had helped narrow down, something about teeth. Mrs Poll's teeth . . . Willie had talked about them . . . only he'd called them something else. Oliver couldn't reach the word – it was floating away from him. He was muddled . . . had to be . . . because why would anyone go looking for Mrs Poll's teeth?

He woke the next morning feeling anxious but accepting of Nat's advice to stay put for the moment. He clung to the knowledge that Sarah would be back from Portland that evening. In the meantime he would see what the day brought. If there was trouble there wouldn't be any question that going to Twyla was right thing to do, but he hoped for her sake he wouldn't have to do that. He took his bath, a shower being far too modern an invention for the house, and got dressed in the first T-shirt and pair of shorts that came to hand. As always he removed Evan's card from the top of the dresser and put it in his pocket. His dread of going downstairs increased when he stood at the top and saw Elizabeth in the hall below. When he reached her she was still standing in the same place, rubbing her hands up and down her folded arms. She looked as if she hadn't gotten much, if any, sleep. There were dark shadows under her eyes, making her face look starkly pale.

‘Hi,' he said in her general direction. He held his breath. Braced himself for whatever might be coming.

‘I came up to your room last night but you were asleep.' Her voice was strained to a thin flat line. ‘I wanted to tell you how sorry I was for everything I said to you. It was inexcusable. I'm not sure what came over me, except that I hate driving long distances and panic that the stress will bring on one of my headaches.' She pressed a hand to her forehead.

So she was making an excuse. ‘It doesn't matter.'

‘Yes, it does. You must hate me.'

‘I don't hate people.' Oliver wondered which of them looked more wooden.

‘Gerard says you have every right.'

‘I don't want to talk about this anymore.'

‘But we must. I don't want you left with terrible memories about that bird's death. Please let me do something to help lessen the damage I've done.' There was now a look of desperate appeal in her eyes. ‘I buried him in the garden this morning. Gerard was too squeamish to do it.'

He would be. Oliver felt a flicker of sympathy for her. Gerard would always leave the difficult or unpleasant for her to handle.

Elizabeth said quickly, ‘But I thought if we were to have a little memorial service this evening, that might give you the chance to express your feelings about,' she was clearly searching for the name, ‘about Feathers and what he meant to you – the hope perhaps that he's now flying free, or something of the sort. I'd like to think it may help put this unhappy episode, especially my part in it, behind you.'

Oliver stared at her, appalled. It would do the opposite – make the memory even worse. He was about to say he couldn't, wouldn't do it, when he remembered what Nat had said about a hurdle being faced – one that would lead him where he needed to go. And yes . . . a mention of Feathers. ‘OK, Elizabeth, if you think it a good idea.'

She visibly relaxed. ‘I've thought about who you'd want here. Twyla, of course . . .' This had to be important to her if she were prepared to make this concession, but Oliver was only too ready to let her off the hook. He wasn't going to put Twyla through watching his discomfort.

‘Afternoons and evenings are her hours for looking after Sonny. And,' he added quickly, ‘asking Gwen to come wouldn't be kind; she's such an animal lover she'd find such a service upsetting.'

‘Yes, of course.' The relief showed. ‘Sarah?'

‘She'll be in Portland.'

‘Disappointing.' Elizabeth twitched at her sleeves. ‘That would seem to leave your friend Brian. You've been wanting him to spend a night, haven't you? What better time than this for the two of you to be together?'

The trapped feeling, one of being squeezed dry, vanished. Hope relit its candle. Here was an irresistible offering. Suddenly Oliver felt a surge of excitement; he was starting to get the riddle Nat had presented him with last night. The hurdle was the memorial service for Feathers and the place it would lead him to was the cellar, which he had promised only to visit with Brian. There was more to be unraveled; the reference to
Through the Looking-Glass
would at some point fit into place. His original interest in searching the cellar was to find a picture of Nat as a boy that would reassure him that his visitor's appearances in the bedroom had not been imaginary, but something insistent was telling him that there was something down there of far greater importance.

‘Sorry, Elizabeth, I was thinking. It's great of you about Brian – fingers crossed that he can come.' Actually, there wasn't a shadow of doubt in Oliver's mind about this. Nat knew he would much prefer not to go down to the cellar at dead of night alone. ‘Shall I phone Brian now?'

‘Give me the number and I'll do it.' It made perfect sense for her talk to either Reggie or Mandy Armitage, but Oliver also felt sure she wasn't eager to hand over her cell phone and give him the opportunity to call others and spill the beans about her treatment of him yesterday. There was no house phone at the Cully Mansion. Saying she would be back in a moment, she left the hall, to return shortly with the news that Brian's father had said he would bring him over at seven that evening after he'd eaten.

So much for inviting him to dinner. But Elizabeth couldn't become someone else overnight, and Brian would have a much better meal at home. Mandy and Reggie were both good cooks. Actually, the timing was good. He and Brian could go up to the bedroom shortly after the service, without Elizabeth and Gerard feeling they had to sit and chat for too long, which Oliver was sure they would much rather not be stuck doing.

Elizabeth made a further gesture by having breakfast with him. Cereal and toast. Gerard came in halfway through. ‘Looks like you two have made up,' he said, pouring himself black coffee. ‘Onboard with her idea, Oliver? Not sure I go for it, but I'll sit in. Don't have to wear a suit, do I?' This was clearly an attempt at a joke.

Elizabeth closed her eyes, hands gripping the edge of the table. Oliver produced a smile, but doubted Gerard noticed. Having made his attempt at helping along a return to normal, he was all too eager to escape to his office. Elizabeth was also clearly ready to make a break for it. Saying she needed to take a walk to clear her head, she too left the kitchen. This wasn't unusual and this morning she did have reason to be distracted. Not only had the last half hour clearly not been easy on her, another concern might loom: the question of whether Gerard would stay sufficiently sober not to embarrass himself and her at the service.

After doing the breakfast dishes Oliver spent an hour cleaning the kitchen. If all of Mrs Poll's efforts couldn't get it to sparkle, he didn't expect much from his, but it gave him something to do. He would miss her, but he could always go and see her. The fear that he wouldn't get away from this house was gone. Sarah and Evan would make that happen. There was only this remaining day – and the start of the next – to be gotten through. And from seven onward he would have Brian at his side. He expected the time till then to drag, but it didn't. Back in his bedroom, he took down his two suitcases from the closet shelf and began emptying his dresser drawers, the ones with the drawings of ships on the backs, and neatly packed his clothes. He didn't take down the framed photographs of his parents, Grandpa and Grandma Olive, just in case Elizabeth or Gerard should come into the bedroom. This was unlikely, but he couldn't take the chance of their noticing the photos were gone and realize something was up. The suitcases went back on the closet shelf.

Oliver returned downstairs. Elizabeth was neither in the living room nor the kitchen, so either she was still out walking or had retreated to be alone, unless she was in the office with Gerard. Earlier he had thought it wouldn't be a good idea to go see Twyla today, but now he was feeling so much more hopeful that if the end was in sight he could go see her, Gwen and Sonny, without worrying about telling Elizabeth or Gerard. He left a note on the kitchen table saying where he was going and set off.

After a week of warm days and sunshine the weather had changed overnight. It was chilly under gray skies. The tall pines swayed and the other trees shivered in the sharp breeze. The patches of ocean he could see from the road showed waves scurrying along in the direction he was going, as if they too were eager to get somewhere else. Grandpa would have predicted a storm before nightfall. He should have worn a jacket, but Twyla or Gwen would lend him one if he took Jumbo for a walk, as he hoped to do.

He loved the house on Ridge Farm Rise almost as much as Bramble Cottage. Gwen let him in, delighted as always to see him, and led the way to the book room where Twyla was seated on the sofa with Sonny, reading to him from a magazine. She got up at once and held out her arms.

‘Come here, lamb baby, are you ever a sight for sore eyes!'

‘Just what I was thinking,' said Gwen.

‘Where have you been?' Sonny got to his feet as Twyla stopped hugging Oliver and stood up smiling. ‘I've missed you.' The blue eyes were unexpectedly bright in contrast to the worn face and gray hair. ‘I like you being here.' It was happily, not fretfully said and tears filled Oliver's eyes. If Sonny could at times work his way through the confusion that had become his life to show the kind and gentle man inside, anything was possible with sufficient trust and courage. Oliver went over and gave him the same kind of hug Twyla had given him.

‘I love you, Sonny,' he said. ‘You've taught me so much.'

‘Wish could've had you in my life longer. Teach . . . yes, what I do. Teach you a new piece. Come to the piano. Never know – could be the last time.'

‘It won't be. I promise I'll come back.'

‘I may have moved away by then.'

Oliver didn't know what to say to this. Sonny knew he was disappearing into himself; that time was robbing him of those on the outside day by day until he would be entirely, utterly alone. Oliver saw the grief on Gwen's face and the sadness on Twyla's. He took Sonny's extended hand and went to sit with him at the piano. For nearly an hour music flowed through the house; lifting it, thought Oliver, toward heaven. The final piece was
The Swan
. When the last note ebbed away Sonny got up abruptly and, without a word, went to his room.

Gwen stood at the foot of the stairs, looking up, before turning to Oliver. ‘Have I already told you it's by the French composer Camille Saint-Saens and that it's always had a special place in Sonny's heart and mine?'

He nodded, too moved to speak.

‘So hauntingly beautiful. He played it at a students' piano recital when he was twelve. I remember how the hall rang with applause.'

‘I'll never forget hearing him play it today.'

‘Neither will I, dear. A sea glass moment,' Gwen touched his cheek, ‘if ever there was one.'

They went into the kitchen where lunch was waiting. Twyla had made her special ham and asparagus casserole. The three of them sat talking for a while afterward about nothing important, just ordinary, cozy conversation. Then Oliver took Jumbo for a walk down to the beach and sat on the steps leading up to Bramble Cottage. It was growing colder, the waves darker and faster-paced, frothing with dingy gray foam. But the rain had held off and he had the jacket Twyla had lent him. Even if this hadn't been the case, Oliver wouldn't have budged. He needed to feel this closeness to Sarah and Evan. Each time he twisted round to look at the cottage he felt sure, as Sarah had told him she had done the moment she saw it, that it was waiting for him with open arms.

It had just started to rain in slow drips and drabs when he returned with Jumbo; by night it would be storming. Gwen and Twyla invited him to stay for dinner. They were having fried chicken which Gwen said she hadn't eaten in years but had been suddenly yearning for out of the blue. He said he wished he could but Brian was finally getting to come for a sleepover. And it wouldn't do not to get back till the last minute and spoil things with Elizabeth and Gerard. Also, given the weather Brian's parents might want to bring him in from Ferry Landing earlier than planned. So, at four thirty, Twyla drove him to the Cully Mansion, as always watching him mount the steps and go in the front door.

Typically, as opposed to yesterday evening, his return suggested he was entering an empty house. The overhead light was not on and only a couple of small table lamps fought back against the shadows. Then he heard Elizabeth's voice, overflowing at high pitch from Gerard's office. Any response was inaudible, but the source of the argument immediately became obvious.

‘I begged you, begged you to stay sober for once. How does this look? I made this overture and now we've got this kid coming!' Silence, then: ‘Oh, what does it matter? With luck we'll be out of here soon. I've taken the necessary steps to drag us up from the depths, while you've sunk further and further into the bog.'

‘For God's sake, Elizabeth, you know why!' Gerard's voice finally broke through in tones of anguish.

‘We've been through this way too many times. I'm done! If you insist on going through life believing you're a murderer, you're on your own from this point out!'

Only the certainty that the office door was about to open got Oliver moving. He was halfway up the stairs when Elizabeth's voice caught up with him. ‘Have you had a good day?' She didn't wait for an answer. ‘Unfortunately Gerard is deluged with work, so it doesn't look as though he can make it for our little service at seven.'