The Time Between (26 page)

“Did it?”

“No.” I didn’t drop my gaze. “Not until I almost killed my sister.”

He didn’t react but kept his cool gray eyes on me.

I kept talking; it was suddenly important that he know everything. “I dared her into doing something stupid, and she did it. And she fell and broke her back. It’s why she’s in a wheelchair.”

“Did you push her? Or threaten her?”

“No, of course not—”

“Then I can’t see how it was your fault.”

“You don’t understand,” I said, flustered. “I knew she would climb the tree as high as she could because Glen was there, watching. She wanted him to think she wasn’t afraid, but I knew she was. And . . .” I stopped, unable to admit to him something I’d never even admitted to myself.

“And what?”

I shook my head. “I’m not the person you think I am.”

He took a step toward me. “Of course you are. Why else would I allow Gigi to spend so much time with you? Or put my aunt Helena in your care? We’ve all made mistakes, Eleanor. It’s moving beyond them that makes us the people we are.”

My cell phone rang just as he took another step toward me. I quickly took it out of the pocket of my shorts and saw with some alarm that it was Glen.

“This is Eleanor.” I waited for Glen’s voice.

“Eleanor? This is your mother. I’m on Glen’s phone.”

The hairs on the back of my neck stood at attention. “Is everything all right?”

“We’re at the hospital, but everything is just fine.”

“What? Why are you at the hospital?” Finn touched my arm, as if to remind me that I wasn’t alone.

“Eve had an episode and her doctor wanted her to come to the hospital so she could check her out. She’s fine now.”

“What do you mean, ‘an episode’? And which hospital? I’m on Edisto but I can be in Charleston within the hour—”

“No, there’s no need for you to come. That’s why Glen had me call you. He’s with Eve and the doctor, and everything is fine. We were just afraid that if you called the house and nobody answered you’d get worried.”

“I need to be there,” I insisted.

“No, you don’t. The doctor has explained everything to us and it’s all fine. Glen and Eve don’t need you to come.”

“But . . .” Tears of frustration welled in my eyes.

“I know you want to think that Glen needs your help. But he doesn’t. He’s her husband, Eleanor. Let them be.”

I looked at Finn, realizing that he was standing close enough to hear the entire conversation.

“We’ll call you once we get back home. I’ve got to go now.” Without waiting for me to say good-bye, my mother ended the call.

I stared down at the phone for a long moment before Finn took it from my hand. “She’s right, you know,” he said gently.

My gaze whipped up to meet his as feelings of hurt and betrayal and utter loss poured through me like batter hitting a hot skillet. “You don’t understand.”

I turned around and almost ran down the dock toward the house just as the first stars of the evening appeared in the sky, as if to guide my way.

Eve

I
sat on the sofa, my legs resting on Glen’s lap, while I hand stitched the lapels of Eleanor’s jacket. I could have used the sewing machine, but I wanted to know each stitch, wanted to ensure that it fanned out perfectly behind her neck; I wanted her to feel the love and care that had gone into making this suit for her, regardless of where she would wear it.

Headlights illuminated the wall over the television set, and the three of us turned to see Eleanor’s white Volvo pulling up in front of the house.

“I thought you called her,” Glen said.

“I did,” my mother replied. “I told her that everything was fine, that she didn’t need to come.”

I tucked the jacket behind me before placing my hand on Glen’s arm while we listened to the sound of a key in the latch. Eleanor stood inside the doorway, her hair disheveled as if she’d been in the wind, her nose and cheeks tinted pink by the sun. Her eyes were wide and sparkling, filled with too many emotions for me to recognize. Except for the hurt. I was way too familiar with that one. I had also never seen her look so beautiful.

Mama put the television on mute, then stood and walked toward Eleanor. “I told you that we were fine. I hate that you came all this way.”

Ignoring our mother, Eleanor closed the door and came to stand in front of me. “She said you were in the hospital.” Her gaze flickered over me as if to make sure that I was still whole, finally settling on the very small swell of my abdomen. “Is everything really all right?”

Glen gently lifted my legs off him and placed them on the sofa so he could stand. “We’re fine. Really. I’m sorry you had to drive all this way for nothing.”

She fumbled for words while she stared at him with reproach. “I . . . she’s my sister. I was worried.”

“I know. But I was there, and everything was taken care of. I can handle this, Eleanor. Regardless of what you and Eve might think.”

Her eyes met mine in an unspoken question.

“I told them about the AD. I had to. Dr. Wise said I needed to, just in case you weren’t here when I needed emergency care, or I didn’t recognize the symptoms. I can’t always feel when things aren’t right because of my paralysis, and Dr. Wise said it would be best if somebody was able to monitor me at all times.” She glanced up at her husband. “The doctor made me see how stupid I was being.”

Glen began walking to the kitchen. “I need a beer.”

“Get one for me, too,” Eleanor said, surprising us all. I hadn’t seen her drink a beer since she was seventeen, riding shotgun in Rocky Cooper’s truck.

Mama sat down on the love seat and patted the spot next to her. “You can sit here, Eleanor.”

My sister accepted the beer from Glen and took a long drink. “I’m exhausted. I think I’ll just go upstairs and go to bed.”

Glen and Mama exchanged a look, while I kept my gaze focused on my sister. “Because we weren’t expecting you back until tomorrow night, we were using your room to paint the new baby furniture.”

“New baby furniture?” she repeated.

“Yes. A crib and a changing table. And a rocker. Glen found them at a flea market for practically nothing—and the crib is almost brand-new. I just wanted everything to be like new, so Glen said he’d paint everything.”

She stared at me for a moment, then took another swig from her beer. “Is the paint dry enough that I can climb over it to get to my bed?”

“Should be,” Glen said, ignoring her sarcasm.

Eleanor turned to regard Glen more closely, studying him as if she’d never seen him before, and perhaps she hadn’t. At least not this Glen, who’d suddenly discovered that just because you’d always thought something was true didn’t always mean that it was. I’d only recently begun to recognize the same look in my own reflection.

Glen sat down again, sliding under my legs and resting his free hand on my knees. A look of disappointment crossed Eleanor’s face, as if she’d hoped that Glen would pull her aside to tell her that everything wasn’t all right and that he’d needed her to be there with him while he’d been driving me to the hospital. But Glen simply put the beer bottle to his lips and patted my knees.

“Will Mr. Beaufain be expecting you back at Edisto tomorrow?” Mama asked.

Eleanor frowned. “Probably, since it’s Saturday. I didn’t think to ask. Why?”

“He called here earlier, wanting to know if we’d seen you.”

She flushed. “I didn’t pick up. I needed time to think. I’ll send a text before I go to bed.”

“What did you need to think about?” I asked, having noticed the way the color on her cheeks deepened when Mama mentioned Mr. Beaufain’s name.

Her eyes focused on Glen’s hands on my legs. “About happiness. Something he said about learning to recognize it when we find it so we can enjoy it while it lasts.”

The room was silent for a moment, the muted mouths of the actors on the television screen moving in pantomime. Finally, my mother spoke. “He’s a very smart man.”

We all turned to look at my mother, who seemed uncomfortable with the attention. I recalled how she had once been, when our father was alive. How she’d always been dressed immaculately, with hair meticulously styled and makeup expertly applied, as if my father would have noticed and loved her less if she hadn’t made the effort. Her widow’s weeds had been the gradual shedding of all the things she’d once taken pride in: her glossy hair and beautiful face. Gone, too, were her inexpensive clothes, which with her needle and thread she had always managed to make look like runway couture. I figured she knew a thing or two about how fleeting happiness could be; she had taught us that it happened only once and could all be taken away with an ocean’s wave across a bow or a fall from a tree.

Eleanor wandered into the kitchen, tossing her beer bottle into the recycling bin with a clang. She returned to the den and stood there motionless for a long moment, as if wondering where she was and what she was supposed to be doing. Finally, she headed toward the stairs.

“Good night,” she said softly as she began to climb, her tread hesitant, as if she was no longer sure where she was, as if the stars that guided her had illuminated the wrong path.

Eleanor

The week following the kayaking trip in Edisto, Finn was gone to New York and Gigi stayed with her mother. I missed Gigi, and if I wanted to admit it to myself, I missed Finn and his cool, assessing gray eyes, which always made me want to tell him everything without holding back, regardless of how much I regretted it afterward. But I didn’t want to see him, didn’t want to resurrect our conversation about happiness and my failure to attain it.

I spent my time with Helena reading, walking with her around the property, and driving her to get ice cream. We bought red tulips and brought them to Magda’s grave, and we even ventured to the local library. We were both happy to find her romance novels in large print so that I was no longer forced to paraphrase certain parts when I read aloud to her.

I played the piano for her, but only after a long argument about what she wanted to hear versus what I was willing to play. I found myself not really caring anymore what I played, but we both enjoyed our arguments too much to stop.

On Saturday afternoon while Helena rested, I ensconced myself in one of the deep armchairs with a history book on Hungary, eager to read more and impress Helena with my knowledge of all things Hungarian. Nurse Kester had left to run errands, so when the doorbell rang, I had to sprint for the door to make sure the noise wouldn’t disturb Helena.

The man in his mid-thirties standing on the front porch at a respectful distance wore an expensive-looking suit with a rumpled tie and scuffed shoes. It made me think that he had a wife at home who knew how to dress him, but it was obvious that the man had other things on his mind.

He had solemn, dark eyes that creased at the corners when he smiled, as if he smiled often, and beautiful wavy black hair that most women would envy. He regarded me with some surprise.

“May I help you?” I asked.

He withdrew a white business card from his jacket. “I hope so. I’m Jacob Isaacson. My family owns an art and antique dealership in Atlanta. I was in town a few weeks ago and stopped by to see Bernadett Szarka but was told that she had passed. My sympathies.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I never knew her, but I’m working for her sister as a kind of companion. I will be happy to convey your sympathies.”

He looked uncomfortable. “Actually, I left my card the last time I came, hoping Miss Szarka—Helena Szarka—would contact me.”

“Regarding . . . ?” I prompted.

“Some of her paintings. Bernadett contacted me prior to her death about one in particular, and I was hoping that her sister would allow me to see it.”

“To buy? As far as I understand, Helena isn’t interested in selling any of her paintings.”

“I’m afraid you might be mistaken, Miss . . . ?”

“Murray. I’m Eleanor Murray. And, no, Helena has been quite adamant that she is not interested in anyone seeing her paintings, much less selling them.”

He reached into his jacket pocket again and drew out two sheets of white printer paper folded in quarters. “After I heard from Bernadett, I did some research. Over the years, Helena Szarka has sold quite a few paintings.”

I took the papers, which showed small black-and-white photos of various paintings, listing the title, artist, and date sold. I wanted to tell him that he must be mistaken, but all the blank spots on the walls, the rectangles where the paint was darker, kept me silent.

I looked back at Mr. Isaacson. “What exactly did Bernadett want to show you?”

He looked contrite. “I don’t feel at liberty to discuss this with you since you’re not a family member. I hope you understand. But perhaps if you could tell Miss Szarka that I’m here?”

I handed the papers back to him. “She’s resting, I’m afraid, but I’d be happy to give her your card.”

It looked like he wanted to argue, but I stood firm, with the door partially closed behind me. I wasn’t afraid of him; I was afraid of what the pictures of the sold paintings and the art books that Bernadett had wanted to keep from Helena might mean. A cold chill blew at the back of my neck as I stood in the doorway. It took all the control I had not to slam the door in Mr. Isaacson’s face.

“Well, then, if you could just let her know that I stopped by again. I’m staying in Charleston through the weekend. That’s my cell number on the front of the card. Please ask her to call me day or evening—I’ll be available.”

His gaze flickered above my head, as if he were trying to see into the hall behind me. I took a step forward, bringing the door with me as I wondered why I was trying to protect Helena. And from what.

“I’ll do that,” I said. “Have a good day.” I stayed where I was until he was safely inside his car and backing out of the driveway. Then I moved back into the foyer and closed the door, my head down as I read the business card.

Jacob B. Isaacson

Isaacson & Sons

European Fine Art, Antiques

“Who was that?”

Helena’s voice startled me enough that I dropped the card. We both watched as it slid beneath the hall chest, out of sight.

“Leave it,” she said, gripping the head of her cane tightly as she turned toward the music room.

“But you don’t know who it was—”

“It is that man who is wanting to see my paintings. I am not interested. It is because of people like him that I have an unlisted number.”

“He said Bernadett called him—that’s why he was here.”

She didn’t stop her slow progress across the hall. “And Bernadett is dead, so there is no reason for him to return.”

Confused and not a little annoyed, I followed her. “Don’t you think you should see him? You don’t even know what he wants. What if he’s the man Bernadett wanted Finn to meet?” I rushed so that I stood in front of her, blocking her way into the music room. “I can have Finn call him to see—”

“No.” She didn’t shout the word, but she didn’t need to. She stopped, and I could hear her rapid breathing.

I put my hand on her elbow. “Are you okay?”

She shook her head, as if speaking would be too much effort. After a moment, she raised her eyes to meet mine. “I want you to play for me.”

I allowed my hand to fall from her arm as she moved into the room and settled herself onto the love seat. With a voice that shook only a little, she said, “Today is Bernadett’s birthday. I would like you to play Brahms. He was her favorite.”

“The waltzes?”

“I suppose. I would suggest his Hungarian dances, but they might prove to be too difficult for you. The waltzes are overdone, but Bernadett loved them. To play and to listen. And to dance. She loved to dance. She was so light on her feet and so tiny. Bernadett never lacked for partners when we would go to dances.” She stared wistfully out the window, seeing a world that I could not. “Magda and I would tease her that the reason she liked to waltz was so everybody could see her dress and the way the skirt would twirl with her.” She smiled at a memory, for a brief moment transforming her face into that of a beautiful young woman.

I could not see the Bernadett that Helena was talking about. All I could see was the sparse room and the handful of hanging clothes and two pairs of shoes in the armoire.

“All right,” I said, moving to the stacks of music lining the room. There were fewer piles now, as I’d managed to place quite a few in the pink binders.

“I’m going to put all the waltzes in the same notebook so that they’re easier to find instead of organizing them by composer. I’ve got them all stacked somewhere—”

“You did not ask me if that is how I would like you to do it,” Helena interjected.

“No, I didn’t. But you also didn’t tell me how you
would
like to organize them, either. I figured I couldn’t wait for the small window of opportunity when you’re awake to find out how you’d like it done. After you fire me, you can redo it all.”

I didn’t look up from my perusal of the piles, as I could well imagine her tightened lips and wobbling chin as she decided whether to laugh or put me in my place.

“That could be a problem. I do not believe that Finn would allow me to fire you now.”