Ezra
His dreams had been interrupted the last few nights. This time it was not from Rachel’s breathy thoughts interrupting his slumber, peppering him with her worries about theawful plan. Nor was it because he could not stand to lie there another night, alone in his bed, in his big empty house atop the bluff. This time it was because Ezra’s mind had shifted course, like the little Sunfish they used to own, back when he and Amy would whip across the bay on a reach and turn back for home.
Lying awake at night, Ezra imagined the present trajectory of his life as the sailboat changing course. He is tacking, if only for a moment, he tells himself. Still. It is a new course. And it goes against the grain of hisawful plan, temporary or not.
In his dreams Rachel was all for it. Of course she was. He could hear her cry,Ready about!, into the wind, as if she were the skipper. Of his heart she would always be, but here—now—only Ezra navigated this imagined body of uncertain water, tiller in hand. It was his call to make. Ezra’s grip tightened as he pushed the wooden tiller away, turning the bow into the eye of the wind.Overhead the sail deflated and flapped. Ezra ducked, shifting his weight as the boom swung across the cockpit, catching wind. He trimmed the mainsheet, and the sail went taut once more. Ezra’s lungs filled with new wind, too, and he squinted into the distance. There was no end to the horizon ahead.
When he awoke that morning, Ezra thought of Amy. He almost called to ask her if she ever thought of the Sunfish. He wanted to tell her about the goldfinch, too. But he would wait.
Holly had called to take him up on his offer, her voice bright with enthusiasm. “Dr. Schwartz, consider yourself commissioned.”
“But you haven’t seen my work yet,” he reminded her.
“I don’t need to,” she told him. “I’ve had painters in here all winter, and though they tested for lead, none had any fine art experience. Besides, you’re a neurosurgeon.”
“Retired,” he reminded her.
“Still. If parents trusted their children’s brains with your hands, I can trust you with my bird.” Holly was not done. “Plus, Bruce likes you.”
It was decided.
Despite Holly’s confidence, restoring the mural at the Cranberry would not be a small undertaking.
It was possible it would take him longer to complete than he was willing to hang on. It was quite possible he’d muddle the whole thing. With this weighing upon him, the moment he hung up with Holly, he put on a nice shirt and drove straight to the Eldredge Public Library in town.
On the other side of the heavy oak door, time seemed to stand still inside the Eldredge. The Romanesque revival was an architectural gem, and stepping into its cool recess made Ezrawonder why he had not visited in so long. He had his answer when he got to the circulation desk.
“May I help you?” the woman behind it asked.
Ezra blinked, suddenly unsure. The woman was probably his age, her short haircut pragmatic, the front of her red sweater adorned with navy-blue cats. She pushed her glasses farther up the bridge of her nose. “Sir?”
He should not have come here. Ezra didn’t like talking to strangers. Or asking for help. Worse, this whole mission was ill-conceived; who did he think he was, offering to restore a historic mural in an inn he had been in exactly once and had no reason to return to again? But then he thought of the look on Holly’s face when she’d first shown him the mural, and later, the little patent leather shoe. Holly, he realized suddenly, was probably very close in age to his daughter, Amy. It occurred to him that Holly’s earnestness also reminded him of Amy. Was that what all this was about?
“I’m not sure,” he managed. “I’m doing a project, restoring an old wall mural. I was hoping to find some material on retouching paintings.”
Ezra waited for this woman in her cat sweater to inform him they had no such specific content, that his request was no less ridiculous than a pizza delivery kid coming in to ask how to compose a symphony. One didn’t need to be a neurosurgeon to see that coming.
It turned out he’d underestimated both the librarian and her collection. Twenty minutes later Ezra left with two restoration books, a pamphlet on conservator work from the Atwood Museum, and a feline motif Post-it note with the name of a gallery owner the librarian referred him to.
Still, after all his research, Ezra felt ill-prepared as he made his way over to the Cranberry. Bruce met him in the doorway. “Hello, dog,” Ezra said.
They headed through the lobby. The downstairs was busy in a pleasant way. Behind the kitchen door came the assuring clink and clatter of cookware and the aroma of something fresh baked. Ezra followed his nose to the small bar and gazed upon the spread: scones and small pots of what looked to be whipped butter and jams; a large bowl of assorted fruit. Carafes of coffee that smelled of chicory and made him think of a trip he and Rachel had taken to New Orleans, years ago for a medical conference. He couldn’t recall what the conference was for, but he’d never forgotten the coffee.
“Hello, Dr. Schwartz. I’ve got fresh cream if you’d like some.” Linus’s eyes traveled to his messenger bag, filled with art supplies, and the museum book under his arm. “You’re all Holly’s been talking about this morning. Follow me.”
After snagging a scone with his free hand, Ezra did as told. Linus talked even faster than he walked. “We weren’t sure what you’d need, but we’ve set up a workspace for you and sectioned off the fireplace area so you won’t be disturbed. Though I can’t promise you’ll have total privacy. Our guests can be quite… curious.”
Sure enough, they’d sectioned off the fireplace area with a velvet rope. Behind it was a chair and tray table, along with a roll of paper towels and a small waste basket. Three glass mason jars lined the table. “For your brushes,” Linus said, straightening them. It reminded Ezra of walking into the OR on surgery days, the sterile trays of surgical instruments at the ready. Only this time his patient was two-dimensional and of the avian class.
Linus was right: there were plenty of passing stares. “Is there anything else I can bring you?”
Ezra began unpacking his materials. “Thank you, I think I’m set.” The goldfinch was speaking to him, and he wanted to get straight down to work. Bruce must have sensed it; the dog flopped at Ezra’s feet and curled up.
“I’ll be in the lobby if you need anything further,” Linus said.
But Ezra didn’t hear him. He was too busy studying the goldfinch, his focus already straying from the makeup of the bird to its condition. Sure enough, there was flaking about the edge of one wing and also around the base of the clouds. Fortunately, it wasn’t too bad. It appeared that the painters Holly had hired that winter to repaint the rooms had worked carefully around the goldfinch. He thought about the tips the gallery owner had given him, as he pulled out his materials and laid them on the table. Solutions and adhesives. Q-tips and cotton balls. Then his brushes and his sponges. It was going to be a larger project than a few days of touch-ups. Several days, at least. Maybe a week. In his mind the Sunfish skittered by on the water, its red-and-white sail taut with wind. This was more than a mere change of course. If he stayed here and did this, it meant more time.
For the next hour, Ezra gently cleaned the mural. That work had him out of the parlor as much as in it. He’d brought distilled water for the project, but there were a few things more he needed.
