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The wind chased away the crowds of tourists, and the market stallholders along the promenade packed away their wares with one eye on the darkening clouds that scudded across the sky.
Connie went to the end of the wide pier and stared away through the harbor entrance to where the surf was crashing against the break wall, and a thin mist blurred the sky and the sea into a smudged line without definition.
She could live here, she decided suddenly – she could grow accustomed to the laid back lifestyle of coastal Maine. She thought about her tiny apartment in New York, the thronging crowds that filled the city and the constant jar of noise that she had grown accustomed to. The city had an undeniable vibrancy that was like an energy, which swept people up and carried them along. In contrast, even the summer crowds here along the coast were no comparison, and she found herself idly wondering what towns like Hoyt Harbor would be like in the winter. She imagined deserted streets, local store holders hunkering down to wait out the long cold months until the tourists returned. Then she thought about the dream she had confided to Blake – her dream of a gallery. Hoyt Harbor – or any other sleepy town along the coast – could never compare to the mighty commercial influence of New York City. But did that matter?
Connie didn’t think so. Surely, she reasoned, if the art she stocked was of good quality, then the tourists would come from the cities – and the internet had made dealing in quality art a global business. Maybe, just maybe, a little gallery somewhere on the coast of Maine wouldn’t be the worst way to make a modest living.
The thought made her smile. She drifted back along the pier, and wandered into a café that was just beginning to fill with early dinner guests. It was still daylight – the setting sun was hidden somewhere behind a scar of grey cloud. Connie found a table in a corner with a view of the harbor through the full-length glass windows, and she sat down with a weary sigh. Her knee ached a little. A waitress brought her a menu and Connie asked for change, then went to the pay phone in the corner and first phoned the mechanic.
The car was repaired, and the damage had been largely superficial. The mechanic had left the car beside his workshop garage and the keys were waiting in the mailbox in front of the building.
Connie thanked the man and hung up. She hesitated for a moment, took a deep, grim breath and set her jaw. Then she phoned her sister’s home in New Hampshire.
It was an awkward call. Jean’s voice sounded concerned, and Connie was reluctant to say too much on the phone. She needed to see Jean face-to-face to explain what she had done, and she needed Jean to see the paintings so she would be convinced. Connie put a carefree smile into her voice.
“I’m heading back early tomorrow morning,” she said. “I thought I would stop by the nursing home and visit mom, then spend tomorrow night at your house, if you don’t mind a freeloader for a night. There are some things we need to discuss…”
Jean’s voice came down the line with unfeigned concern. “Your boyfriend has called here twice looking for you,” her sister muttered, the tone of her voice almost loathing.
“He’s not my boyfriend,” Connie denied.
“Okay, your boss. Duncan said you had lost your cell phone. He thought you might have contacted me. He seemed disturbed.”
Connie nodded. “It’s one of the things I want to talk to you about,” she said.
“Are you all right? Are you in trouble?”
“No,” Connie smiled. “Not any more – but the full story will have to wait until I see you. I should be there by this time tomorrow afternoon.”
She hung up with a sigh of relief. The conversations between her and Jean had always been strained. Jean was nineteen years older than Connie, and since their mother had needed the care of full time nursing, the relationship between the sisters had become more like a parent and daughter. Jean meant well, Connie knew, but the two women had inherited different personalities and values from their parents. Jean was the steady one – the daughter who studied hard, worked diligently, and ultimately built an obscure life of moderate happiness. Connie had always been the indulged child – the daughter born at a time when her mother and father were the age of grandparents.
Connie went back to the table, ate a quick meal and then walked back across the bridge to the mechanic’s. By the time she reached the repair shop her leg was throbbing and the last of the day’s light had gone. She drove back to the vacation rental with her headlights on, and flung herself down on the big mattress with a weary groan of exhaustion.
There were four emails on her laptop from Duncan. Connie’s fingers hovered over the keyboard, teasing herself – testing her resolve. Finally, with something that felt like an uplifting gesture of deliverance, she slammed the computer screen shut and left the messages unread.
Connie went to bed early. She was tired, emotionally drained. Her mind drifted to the the long drive south in the morning and then – sometime between sleep and wakefulness – she thought about the one thing she had promised herself not to dwell on. She thought about Blake McGrath.
His smile haunted her dreams.
17.
The nursing home was a low sprawling structure under leafy trees, just a few miles outside of Exeter. Connie parked the car and stood for a moment in the shade. The facility was set on rolling green grounds with manicured gardens and an idyllic duck pond nestled amongst long rushes. Connie’s feet crunched across the gravel as she walked towards the sliding glass entry doors.
In the air-conditioned foyer she glanced around. She was overcome by the pervading sense that the home was a half-way house between a hospital and a funeral parlor. Despite the modern furnishings, the bright prints on the walls, and the profusion of flowers in vases, there was an air of lingering desperation that seemed to seep from the walls.
She smiled brightly at a woman behind a high reception counter, and introduced herself. The woman looked up sharply.
“Yes, we’ve been expecting you,” the words were like a warning. “Your sister called to let us know you would be visiting today. Before you go through to your mother’s room, would you mind taking a seat? The Director would like to have a word with you, I’m afraid.”
Connie felt a rising sense of alarm. She clutched her hand to her throat and her eyes became fearful. “Is mom… is she all right?”
The receptionist nodded her head. “She’s healthy,” was all she would say. Then she picked up her phone and buzzed through to an inner office. She spoke briefly, hung up the phone, and then gave Connie a little frown of annoyance.
“Follow me, please,” the woman said crisply. She was in her forties, wearing a nursing uniform with a watch pinned on a chain to her pocket. “The Director will see you right away.”
Connie was led through a warren of narrow passages and into a small office with spartan furnishings. A woman in her fifties or sixties with a care-weary face greeted her coolly. The woman was wearing a severe grey skirt and blouse. Her hair was scraped away from her bland face and tied back in a bun. She shook Connie’s hand and invited her to sit with the ominous tone of bad news to come.
Connie sat with her back straight, her knees pressed together and her handbag clasped on her lap, leaning forward attentively. The Director went behind her desk and stood beside the chair as if she was more comfortable with the barrier between them.
“I wanted to discuss your mother,” the Director said.
“Is she ill?”
“No,” the Director shook her head. “No. She’s annoyingly spritely, in fact. That’s what I wanted to discuss with you.”
Connie’s brow furrowed into a frown of deep confusion. “I don’t understand…”
The Director took a deep breath, held it for
a very long time and then sighed. She had a pen in her hand. She tossed it down on the desk, folded her arms across her chest, and fixed Connie with a grey steely glare.
“Yesterday your mother pinched one of the male nurses on the bottom,” the Director said. “The week before, she was found with a can of beer in her room – although heaven knows how she smuggled it in… and just last month she attacked our cat.”
“Your cat?”
The director nodded. “Mr. Snuggles is a cat that has been adopted by the facility. He roams around the grounds and gives the residents comfort and companionship. He is also instinctive. When residents are close to passing, Mr. Snuggles seems to sense their time is near, and he sleeps at the foot of their bed. Invariably, the next morning, the resident has passed. It’s as though the cat curls up to be of comfort…”
“And my mother?”
“She attacked Mr. Snuggles with her walking stick,” the Director accused. “Frightened the life out of the poor little thing and chased him down the hallway. Now he won’t go anywhere near her.”
Connie sat back, felt the relief like a great weight from her shoulders, and suppressed a smile. “I am sorry,” she said, her eyes sparkling. “I will talk to my mother about her behavior.”
The Director nodded. “Please,” she insisted.
Connie got to her feet. Her cheeks were flushed. “Is there anything else?”
“Yes,” the Director puzzled. “A question. Was your mother actually one of Marlon Brando’s lovers?”
“What?” Connie almost spat the question in incredulous shock.
“She told several of the other residents here that she was the lover of Marlon Brando.”
Connie giggled. Her lips did all kinds of things to stop herself from laughing. She shook her head. “That’s not true,” she said. “My mother and father were married for over forty years before he passed away.”
The Director nodded with a sour expression like she wasn’t the least bit surprised.
