Something About Sophie (2 page)

A hesitation in her voice turned Sophie's attention to the odd stare and thoughtful frown on her face. “What is it?”

The woman shook off the stare but the frown remained. “The strangest thing: for a moment there, the way you tipped you head, I think . . . it . . . you reminded me of someone. I don't even know who, it just seemed familiar.”

“One of those creepy déjà vu moments?”

“
Oui
. Aren't those weird?” They laughed. “And for the record, we have no ghosts here. You're safe as can be.”

“Good to know.”

“I'll leave you to settle in. There's coffee in the kitchen, or tea if you like. I'll be baking Drew's pie.”

“Drew's pie?”

“That rascal. Every time he sends someone over here, he comes knocking at my back door for a piece of my cherry pie.” She laughed and confided, “I mass produce them every two or three months. I give a couple to neighbors, but I freeze most of them for this very reason.” She smiled. “Plus, I get to look forward to his visit. I used to babysit the McCarren kids for Elizabeth once in a while—he was always my favorite.”

“He seems nice.”

“He is . . . and more.” She started to leave, then popped her head around the door. “Do you have allergies?”

“No.”

“Shellfish?”

“Love 'em.”

“Good.” And she was gone.

J
esse made a delicious Crab Louie for their supper. Her son, Mike, didn't eat green food. Period. He was fifteen with dark shaggy hair and braces on the big grin he'd inherited from his mom, was thin and bony, and had the biggest feet Sophie had ever seen. He ate four cheeseburgers, ketchup and mustard only.

Between the meal and after dinner coffee and dessert, the doorbell rang and Jesse went to answer.

“Is it awful having strangers in your house all the time? Does it bother you?”

He scrunched his nose. “No. Not most of the time. I've gotten used to it, you know? And she likes it.”

“It's only the two of you.”

“Since I was one. He skipped—my dad?”

She nodded. “Sorry.”

“Can't miss what you never had, right?” He didn't sound the least bit bitter. He was either an excellent actor or Jesse had done a good job of being both parents for him. “But Mom says he was tall, six-six maybe, so that's something.”

Well, yes. It was, but what?
she wondered, though she didn't have to ask.

“Basketball.”

Apparently, she was beginning to look incredibly dense because he laughed and flipped his palms up—it was obvious. “I love basketball. I play all the time. I'm usually the combo guard, but if I get fast enough and tall enough, I want to play swingman. Like Kobe Bryant and LeBron James.” He gaped at her. “How about Michael Jordan?”

“The shoe guy?”

Sophie held her giggle until the boy looked dangerously on the verge of convulsing—and then they both laughed. That's when Jesse returned, followed by a dark-suited gentleman with a horseshoe of silver hair around the base of his head and silver wire-framed glasses. His expression was formal but warm, guarded but still easy to read. He was excited to see her.

“Sophie, this is Graham Metzer.”

“Hello.” He nodded and smiled and she looked to Jesse for further instructions.

“He's Arthur Cubeck's lawyer and he'd like to have a word with you.”

“Oh. Sure.”

Clearly bursting with curiosity, Jesse took her coffee and her son—who grabbed two apples from the sideboard to hold him until dessert—and left the room.

“Mr. Metzer, would you like a cup of—”

“Ms. Shepard,” he said, cutting Sophie off in his haste. “I couldn't believe my ears when young Dr. McCarren called to ask if Arthur had, by any chance, left a letter for you with me. This is good luck, indeed.”

“Really? He left a letter?”

“No, I'm afraid not, but he did leave you something in his will.”

“His will?”

“That's correct. And you being here saves us the time of having to notify you by mail, but, well, Dr. McCarren mentioned that you were planning to go home in the morning. Ohio, as I recall.”

“That's right.”

“I rushed over here to find out if you could possibly stay, until after Thursday morning, which is when the family would like the will to be read. It
is
unusual to have a formal reading of the will these days; this is a first for me. Generally, a copy of the will is simply given or sent to the deceased's personal representative and all beneficiaries named in the document; also to any known disinherited heirs who might contest the will, before we admit it into probate. But it was Arthur's, Mr. Cubeck's, request that the will be read aloud to a gathering of his entire family to avoid any misunderstandings.” He hesitated. “This is also peculiar in as much as the will itself hasn't been altered in twenty-five years—reviewed and reaffirmed, from time to time, but not altered—and apparently the family is ignorant of its contents. Highly unusual. Particularly in these circumstances.”

“What circumstances?”

“Arthur's age and the length of his illness. As a rule, the will and its contents are part of one's
getting their affairs in order
as one grows older or becomes infirmed, and the family has at least a vague awareness of its contents. I'm not accustomed to this sort of high drama.”

“High drama?” She knew she was repeating him but none of it was making sense.

“Secretiveness,” he said, like that one word ought to clear it all up. He hesitated before he asked, “So, will you come? Thursday. My office on Main Street. About ten
A.M.
?”

“I guess so, sure. But I don't understand. I'm not family. I don't even know the family—or even Mr. Cubeck, for that matter. I'd rather not intrude if I can avoid it.”
Plus,
she wasn't too hot on the idea of having whatever information he had about her birth mother announced to a bunch of strangers.

“I understand.” He shifted his weight uncomfortably and looked nervous. “Arthur didn't make your presence a requirement, and, unfortunately, I'm not at liberty to explain the conditions right now, but I can tell you that he left you . . . well, an extraordinary gift. For not being part of the family, that is.”

“Like what?” He pressed his lips together and shook his head. “Oh, right.” She sighed. “Well then, I guess I'll see you Thursday morning, Mr. Metzer.”

“Thank you. I hope it's not too big an inconvenience for you.”

She stood to walk him to the door as he didn't seem inclined to chat over coffee. “It's not inconvenient at all. I'm taking sort of an
aimless
vacation, I guess you could say. Especially now with Mr. Cubeck gone. So all I need to do is call my dad and let him know I'll be staying here longer than I thought, and check to see if Jesse will keep me a couple more days.”

“You know I will,” came her holler from the TV room down the hall. “You can stay as long as you want.”

She grinned at Mr. Metzer, enjoying the idea that small towns in America were all alike: her backbone, her greatest asset, and her richest source of unswerving constancy—in so many ways. “Well, all right. I'll call my dad.”

She let the man out, said good night, and was closing the door when she caught Jesse in her peripheral vision. “That was weird.”

“Is everything okay?” It wasn't a casual question; she was genuinely concerned.

“Arthur Cubeck left me something—more than a letter—in his will. And I didn't know he existed six months ago.”

“Oh. Wait a second.” She dashed through the hall door to her office and returned a moment later with a refolded newspaper, open to the obituaries. “This might help. See? There's a nice picture of him. Taken a few years ago, but he hadn't changed much until the last year or so. Chemo, you know.”

She did know. “Thanks, Jesse. He . . . He looks like a kind man.” She squinted at the small picture. An attractive man, he still managed to look like the stereotypical country cleric: studious, unpretentious, composed. There was a sadness about him, too, around his eyes, like he'd seen too much.

“He was a good man. Now, how about some pie?”

Chapter Three

T
here was another picture of Arthur Cubeck displayed atop his coffin Wednesday morning—the same pose but larger.

His obituary had stated he was well known and admired in the community; but that seemed like a gross understatement when, even leaving the house early with Jesse, there was standing-room only inside the small Unitarian church. The eulogy and affirmations were ardent and heartfelt. Sophie heard later there were friends and neighbors gathered on the lawn and sidewalk outside the church holding their own memorials in small groups, in low voices. A true tribute to a man's life.

She had debated whether to go to the graveside service, but it didn't appear to be a private family affair—she suspected the better half of the town's entire population was there. She stood at the back of the crowd trying to look as unobtrusive as possible, next to Jesse, who seemed determined to greet and commiserate with the whole of said populace.

Arthur Cubeck's son, Hollis, was pointed out to her, along with his wife, Jane, and two teenaged sons—Terry and John, Jesse believed. Another man, Craig Chamberlin, was Arthur's son-in-law. His wife, Arthur's daughter, Julie, had left Craig—out of the blue—then was accidentally shot in front of a liquor store in Richmond during a holdup a few months later. It was all very strange. Everyone who knew her was devastated. For three years, Craig raised their three pre-to-early teen children all alone, until he married a local girl, Lucy Bevens—and they'd recently revealed that she is four months pregnant. Everyone who knows them is thrilled. The other two gentlemen were, as Jesse recalled them vaguely, Arthur's cousins from Florida. Both had wives, one of which looked like a heart attack in progress—poor woman—and appeared intensely uncomfortable teetering on a padded folding chair.

Jesse was the equivalent of a small-town iPod. But Sophie didn't need the Wikipedia descriptions and connections of those present to commiserate. She found that one could feel the loss of a deceased stranger if one could draw from the sorrow of losing . . . oh, say, one's own mother, if that sorrow was still fresh and raw enough. And hers was.

In the end, it was the very late arrival of Dr. Drew McCarren that distracted her. Approaching from the opposite side of the gathering, he looked as natural in his dark suit as he did in his lab coat. In his business she suspected he attended many a funeral.

Passing through the crowd quietly, he touched a shoulder here, nodded there, and eventually placed both hands comfortably, and comfortingly, on the shoulders of an older lady in large dark glasses. She was medium height and elegant, and she had excellent posture. Sophie wondered if she was a yoga disciple or someone simply accustomed to holding her head high and proud. Either way, the outcome was striking and complimented the rest of the meticulousness—no better word for it—in her appearance. A stylish, perfectly cut black sheath with a long shantung jacket, a thick silver-chain necklace, and an expertly streaked salt-and-pepper hairdo that looked deceptively effortless and extremely becoming on her.

Beside her stood a young woman—slightly taller, more trendy than chic—who looked as easy and contented in her skin as the other appeared staid and proper, though they both stood out in the crowd. Or, they did now that Sophie's attention had been drawn to them. And if these were the sort of women the doctor was used to, it was no wonder he'd paid so little attention to her—not that it mattered anyway.

At least, that's what she was telling herself when his gaze roamed slowly over the grieving townspeople and settled on her—startling her, once again, with the directness of his stare. Was he aware of this unsettling habit of his or was it an unconscious byproduct of his honest and sympathetic personality? She could always look away, clearly, but that wasn't a habit of
hers
.

So they watched each other for that last few minutes of the service, and then he leaned forward to whisper something in the young woman's ear—she gave him a short nod and a light smile in return. The other woman got a swift kiss on the cheek. She reached up and without looking, unerringly palmed his cheek with great affection—and didn't budge when he removed his hands from her shoulders and stepped away.

Once he broke eye contact with her to make his way around the mourners, Sophie was free to breathe again and was careful to keep looking straight ahead as if unaware of him—it was, after all, a funeral. However, and intending no disrespect, she tracked him peripherally while Arthur's family and closest friends laid white roses on the coffin.

His stride was fluid and confident. He had a word, and often a touch, for everyone who turned his way while he circled the mourners. She lost sight of him, but it was only a matter of minutes before she heard murmuring behind her, sensed people moving beside her, felt him at her back—and she hadn't fooled him at all.

“Sorry I missed you yesterday,” he whispered over her shoulder.

“Do you always eat pie for breakfast?”

“If it's Jesse's.” She could tell by the delighted look on Jesse's face that he'd grinned or winked or done something else charming—like he hadn't two days ago with her. “And if you might be there.”

“What. At six thirty?
A.M.
? On my vacation? Not likely.” Was he flirting? Now? At Mr. Cubeck's funeral? Also not likely, so— “Oh. You found a letter,” she said, turning to look up at him.

“No. Sorry. I looked everywhere, called everyone I could think of—I don't think there is one.”

“Oh. Well, I'm sorry about that. I was hoping.” She wanted to steer clear of the will reading and an informative letter would have been her ticket. “Thank you, though, for your trouble. I appreciate you looking into it.”

“Sure.”

She expected him to leave but he simply continued to stare.

“What? Is there something else?”

He looked confused at first, then smiled and drew Jesse into their chat—formally, as she'd assumed inclusion from the start. “Are you both going out to BelleEllen for the wake?”

She looked to Sophie. “Did you want to go?”

“No. Not at all.”

“Good. I have a couple coming in for an overnight sometime this afternoon—from Nashville, on their way to a wedding in Maine. And I sent my three-bean salad and a loaf of banana-date bread out with Gracie Bevens—Lucy's mother—so I was going to skip it. With this mob, no one'll notice.”

“They might.” He turned back to Sophie. “You've stirred up quite a buzz in town. I've been fielding calls about you since yesterday morning. Apparently, Graham Metzer paid you a visit
after
you'd been to the hospital to inquire after Arthur.”

Sophie's eyes drifted toward Jesse, who shook her head in innocence and shrugged. “Small town. Graham drives an ugly old black Lincoln, and he's hardly ever got good news to deliver. People notice where he goes.” She crooked a smile. “Besides, I never divulge personal information about my guests . . . until after they leave.”

Sophie was becoming as fond of Jesse as Drew McCarren apparently was.

“It might be just as well if you both keep a low profile today, to avoid a lot of awkward questions. Even my mother called about you.”

“Your mother?”

“You didn't notice her and my sister giving you the once-over? Over and over?”

She turned to look at the women she'd seen him with, and, sure enough, they were watching. Or so it seemed. It was hard to be sure with their dark sunglasses, but it certainly felt like it . . . now. She shook her head. “My radar's on the fritz, I guess.”

But it wasn't. She hadn't noticed his mother and sister in particular, but her radar had been pinging like a pinball machine all morning—people taking second glances, gawking and jerking away when she looked up. But it happened in small towns, right?

“Then it's your lucky day.” When she looked taken aback, he added, “My sister's okay but my mother . . . well, I love her, but she can get scary when she feels like she's the last one to know what's going on in town.”

Jesse gave Drew a motherly smack on the arm. “Pooh. You make her sound terrible. We all like to know what's going on around us. . . . Sophie, she's no different.”

“I understand. Marion's small, too. My dad says it doesn't matter how big or small a town is, the people are always the same: the best and the worst of it, often both.”

Jesse gave a nod. “Well, that's true enough. I like to believe most people mean well. Now, will you be all right here for a minute while I run over and give my condolences?”

“Of course. Take your time.” She expected the doctor to wander off with Jesse and to make it easy on both of them; Sophie turned to walk in the opposite direction to get out of the throng while she waited. It took a
Hey Doc, how ya doin'
to alert her that she wasn't alone—apparently her radar
was
jammed up. She stopped and watched him shake hands and pass comments with a man not much older than himself, then he joined her over
AUGUSTUS PEPPER 1918–1984.

“Look, I'm fine. Really. You don't need to babysit me.”

“That's a relief. I was never very good at babysitting.”

“Aren't you going to . . . ?” She motioned with her head toward the family. He didn't look away, didn't seem inclined to do anything but look at her—which was, after their original encounter, as gratifying as it was disconcerting.

“Line's too long. I'll catch them out at BelleEllen.”

“Pretty name.”

“Pretty little farmhouse about ten miles east of here. Arthur named it after his wife.”

“Jesse told me about her. Mr. Cubeck had a lot of pain and sorrow in his life. His wife. Two daughters. How does someone handle that much sadness?”

“One day at a time, I'm told.”

“You'd know, I suppose. Your job and death go hand in hand.” He looked shocked; she scrambled. “Sort of. Right? Cancer patients mostly? You deal with people who die . . . might die, I mean . . . usually. You know, eventually.”

His lips twitched. “I'll go with ‘eventually.'
Eventually
we all die. And I rarely have patients who don't have at least a fifty-fifty chance of survival. Usually the odds are much better, so I like to think I'm more about hope than death. In fact, my dad's a cardiologist—handles a lot of cardiac patients and his stats are far worse than mine.”

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to insult you.”

“I know. At least you stopped short of calling me Dr. Death.”

“Oh, no, that's not at all what I meant. I—”

This time he laughed out loud. “Sophie, I'm kidding.” But as she began to relax, the more thoughtful he became. “So, who that you love had cancer?”

“I'm so obvious?”

“No. But sometimes hope isn't enough—nothing we do is enough—and then I need to be prepared to recognize and deal with the lack of hope, which turns into resentment and anger.”

“And that's what you see in me?”

“Hardly at all. Just flashes, like a second ago. I see you struggling with it.”

“My mom. She died last year. Stage-four esophageal cancer. Her pain—” She stopped; she could see he knew about the pain. “My poor dad refused to accept it. For almost two years, he dragged her from one oncologist to another, one hospital to the next, until she and I both put our foot down and refused to go with him. You talk about angry and resentful. . . . There didn't seem to be anything anyone could say to him. He's a psychologist—it was like he'd heard all the words before, so when he needed them, they didn't mean much.”

“I'm sorry.” There it was again: the understanding and compassion. He knew.

“Who was it for you?”

He smiled at her perception. “My grandfather, a long time ago.”

“Is he why you chose oncology?”

“Yep, pretty much. I always knew I wanted to be a doctor. You know, grow up and be like my dad, a big-time cardio-thoracic surgeon at the medical center—at the university in Charlottesville? UVA?” She nodded. She knew the one. “We'd save lives together. He'd be proud of me. We'd be a team and we could spend all kinds of time with each other—which we didn't when I was young.” His enthusiasm increased. “But my granddad was there. He took me fishing and to UVA football and baseball games—a huge Wahoo fan.” She was about to mention that her father was, too, but she liked the way he was smiling, remembering. “We must have gone to a thousand Flying Squirrels games in Richmond.”

“Flying Squirrels.” She squinted. “That's what, cricket?”

He laughed. “Minor league baseball. He wouldn't watch anything pro; said the games were better if they were playing for fun or hungry for fame.” He gave away to a fond chuckle and added, “When he developed lung cancer and passed away, I took a ninety-degree turn. I decided to cure cancer. I even spent a few years in research and—”

“The Florida cousins are flat-out strange,” Jesse announced, coming up behind them. “I asked about their trip up and that one in the yellow tie said they all came in the same car and that it had better be worth the trouble. Can you imagine?”

“They must be expecting quite a wake, huh?”

Jesse laughed and slipped her arm around Sophie's. “You're the sweetest thing. They're talking about the will, I'm thinking.”

“Mmm. I figured. But I've been learning about hope recently—thought I'd give it a try.” She glanced at the doctor; his eyes warmed and his lips curved upward.

“Well
, I
hope Arthur left them both a dozen rotten eggs for their trouble. Shame on them. Now, what did I interrupt?”

“Dr. McCarren was telling me about his grandfather and why he became a doctor.”

“Leroy? Lord, what a flirt he was. He had sweet little pet names for all of Elizabeth's friends; flattering, no matter how homely we were. I'm nine years younger than Elizabeth so, of course, I wasn't a part of her crowd but I was around, and he didn't show favorites. I was Jubilant Jesse—it means full of high-spirited delight. Isn't that nice? I loved him for that. He was a big fella with a roaring voice, and so full of energy. Wasn't he, Drew?”