By the time I finally left the library and headed north on the highway toward Kittuck, it was noon. I turned on some music, Sarah Vaughan singing “My Funny Valentine,” but it didn’t have its usual calming effect. It didn’t dispel the bewildered feeling I had about the Bugle article.
The highway was a ribbon cutting through the Maine forest. A blur of green pine trees whizzed by my windows, and by the time I put some old Oscar Peterson music on I’d passed the exit for Lewisboro and the camera store. True to the prediction of the man at Brewster’s, I made it from Lewisboro to Kittuck in an hour.
Just after two o’clock I walked into the Saint Agnes Care Center, a small, three-story brick building that would have been modern in 1990. The inside had an antiseptic, doctor’s-office smell, combined with something that reminded me of old blankets and mothballs. The receptionist gave me a visitor’s badge and instructed me to take the elevator to the third floor.
I stepped out in front of a nurses’ station, where two women in white uniforms were working behind a counter, one studying a blinking computer monitor; the other writing on an erasable whiteboard mounted to the wall. A large clock high above ticked away the time. The woman at the monitor turned and asked if I needed help. Her plastic badge said NOREEN.
“I’m here to see Lila Falk,” I said. “My name is Ellen Branford. I called yesterday.”
Noreen nodded and gestured for me to follow her. “Are you a friend?”
“She knew my grandmother,” I said. “When they were children.”
“Your timing is good,” she said, leading me down the hall. “Her daughter, Sugar, usually comes on Saturdays, but she called and said she’s coming tomorrow instead.”
Sounds from television shows drifted into the hall as we passed open doorways. Some of the residents sat in wheelchairs outside their rooms. A man with a few strands of white hair ambled toward us on a cane. Noreen turned to me. “Lila is almost eighty, you know.”
I did know. “Yes, my grandmother was eighty when she…” I paused and took a little breath. “She was eighty.”
We walked on, toward the end of the hall. “Lila also suffers from dementia,” Noreen said. “It’s pretty serious.”
Dementia. I hoped I hadn’t made the trip for nothing. After what the man in the camera store said, I had built up hope that Lila Falk would be able to tell me about Gran’s childhood.
“It’s up and down with her,” Noreen explained as we moved to let a man in a walker pass by. “Sometimes she’s fine. Other times, not so good. Doesn’t know who she is or where she is.” We stopped in front of an open doorway. “I just want you to be prepared.”
I nodded as Noreen knocked and we stepped into the room. The walls were pale blue, and I caught the faint smell of bleach. A tiny woman with hair like a puff of gray cotton sat in the first of two hospital-style beds. She was watching reruns of an old television show called The Match Game, in which contestants tried to match celebrities’ answers to fill-in-the-blank questions.
“Hi, Dorrie,” Noreen said, waving to the woman. Dorrie looked up, a smile spreading over her face like the gradual opening of a flower.
“Hello, Noreen,” she half whispered, and I caught the trace of an English accent.
We walked toward a petite woman seated in a large chair next to the other bed. Her blue eyes seemed to have captured light from the sky. She wore ivory pants that matched the color of her wavy hair and a blouse adorned with a pattern of small pink rosebuds. A pink crocheted blanket covered her lap and, on top of it, lay an open copy of Glamour magazine.
“Lila, you have a visitor,” Noreen said. Lila raised her head and looked at Noreen and then at me. “This is Miss Branford. She would like to talk to you about someone you know.”
Lila picked up the magazine and turned it around for a moment to view the pages upside down.
“Well, I’ll leave you two,” Noreen said.
I thanked her and pulled up a chair. “Miss Falk,” I said. “I know we’ve never met but I believe you knew my grandmother, Ruth Goddard.” I pronounced the name slowly. “You two grew up together in Beacon.”
“Beacon,” she said, not looking up from the magazine. “Who is Beacon?”
“Beacon, the town.” I said. “Where you grew up. Here in Maine.”
Lila rearranged the blanket on her lap, moving it around carefully, as though she were following some master plan.
“Do you remember Ruth?” I asked. “You were close friends when you were young.”
Lila looked back at her magazine and began turning the pages.
“You two must have gone to school together,” I added. “She went to the Littleton School.” I thought about the gnarled tree on the lawn. “I drove by there a few days ago, and do you know what?”
I waited for a response, but Lila just tugged at the bottom of her sleeve, which someone had folded back into a cuff. She pulled at the rosebud fabric.
“The school is still there,” I said. “A redbrick building. Do you remember it?”
Lila kept tugging, as if she were trying to unfold the sleeve.
“Here, let me help you.” I began to straighten out the fabric. She studied my hands as I unraveled the material. “This just needs to be undone…like that.”
Lila looked at me, her blue eyes a spark in an otherwise placid face. “Ruth?”
Ruth? I smiled. “No, I’m not Ruth, Miss Falk. I’m her granddaughter Ellen.”
She cocked her head. Then she reached over and touched the clasp on the front of my grandmother’s pearl necklace, running her finger over the silver shell. “It’s good to see you, Ruth.” She let out a sigh and gave me a little smile.
I started to correct her again, and then I stopped. Her frail hand hovered above the clasp. “It’s good to see you, too,” I said.
She stared at me with her piercing blue eyes. “Littleton?” The hairline cracks in her face angled away in every direction.
I pulled my chair a little closer. “Yes, Littleton Grammar School.”
She looked down at the magazine, pointing to an ad for a perfume called Seven Secrets. It had a scratch-and-sniff card, which she pulled out and proceeded to scuff with her fingernail. She pushed the card in front of my nose.
“Smell that, Ruth.” She waved the card.
I took a little sniff, expecting something potent, but the card smelled like gardenias, and I thought about the sunroom my grandmother had in San Francisco, with its gardenias in big clay pots, their white petals bursting like snow against deep green leaves.
“It’s lovely.”
Lila tilted her head and stared at me. “Your hair looks different.”
“Excuse me?” I touched the ends of my hair.
She shrugged and smiled. “Pretty,” she said. “But then, you were always pretty.” She laid the gardenia card against her face, as if it were something she wanted to hold tenderly. “Do you remember the man in the flower shop…who used to give us flowers?”
I looked at Lila, the scented card pressed against her cheek, her eyes focused on something over my shoulder, beyond me. “Yes,” I said.
She placed the card in my hand. “Daisies and carnations.” She sighed. “But sometimes he gave us gardenias.”
I glanced down at the fragile skin on her gnarled fingers, the faint blue of the veins running underneath. “And we’d put them in vases,” I said.
“Oh, I’d put mine in a vase,” Lila said. She looked toward the window, as though she might find a gardenia bush growing out there. Then she turned to me. “You’d paint yours.”
It was as if she had opened a window into a long-darkened room. You’d paint yours. Of course there were more paintings. Just as I thought. I wanted to ask Lila a million questions—about the paintings, about her friendship with Gran, and about Chet Cummings. I wanted to let loose the bits of information I knew were dancing in her mind. But I sat patiently, one hand gripping the other, waiting for her to go on.
“What did you like best about the paintings?” I said.
“You could almost…” She closed her eyes and lifted her hand in the air. “You could almost touch them.” She stroked the fabric of her blouse, and I wondered what she was seeing, what images of my grandmother she recalled.
Lila looked away, and I watched her fingers as they began to work the corner of the magazine cover, folding the edge down, then smoothing it back up, down and up, down and up.
Finally, with a little tremble in her voice, she said, “It was awful for him, you know…when you left.”
I waited a moment, and when she didn’t go on, I asked, “Awful for whom?”
“Chet,” she said in a half whisper.
“Yes,” I said. “Chet.”
“He didn’t understand, you know…how you could change your mind.” She pulled the blanket to her neck and wrapped her arms around it. “And so fast. Love him and then…well, then there was Henry.”
The sound of my grandfather’s name startled me, and I tried to picture him as part of this love triangle so long ago. Lila’s roommate stirred in the chair and mumbled in her sleep.
“Chet thought you’d come back, but I knew you wouldn’t. When he got the news…when he found out…” She sighed.
“The news,” I said, trying to nudge her forward.
“That you were engaged. He couldn’t believe it, Ruthie. Best you didn’t see him then. The poor boy was miserable. He had to leave.” She looked down at the blanket.
He had to leave what? I wondered.
She held up her hands. “And then everything fell apart.”
“You mean Chet and me?’”
“No, I mean—”
A high-pitched howl of laughter came from the woman in the other bed, and Lila and I turned to look at her. She had woken up and was watching the television again.
Lila sat up, the blanket slipping back into her lap. Her eyes, deep like glacier ice, studied me.
“You need to go see Sugar, Ruthie. She has some of your things. I just didn’t have room…you understand, don’t you?” She closed her eyes, as though she were glimpsing the objects. “Some photographs, I think. Some letters.”
Photographs and letters. I felt a surge of excitement. “Sugar? You mean your daughter?”
Lila yawned and gave a little nod.
Of course I’d see her. If she had anything to tell me or give me of Gran’s, I’d be overjoyed to see her. “Yes, I’d love to do that,” I said.
Lila sighed and looked at her hands, as though they might have belonged to someone else. An announcement came over a loudspeaker: “Dr. Martin to reception. Dr. Martin to reception.”
Her eyelids began to droop. “A doctor is staying here in the hotel? How convenient.”
She yawned again, and her eyelids fluttered, like hummingbirds’ wings.
“Lila?” I nudged her arm.
Her eyes closed, her head dropped to her chest, and she was asleep.
The late afternoon sun draped the highway in a molten orange glow as I headed back to the inn. A million pine trees later, I pulled into the parking lot. It was almost six when I stepped into the foyer. The smell of sautéed onions greeted me and reminded me that I hadn’t eaten since breakfast.
I didn’t see Paula at the front desk. A plump young woman, with short curly hair in a shade of red not found in nature, sat behind the counter.
“Hello. May I help you?” She smiled and spoke in a slow, rolling voice.
“I’m Ellen Branford. I’m a guest here,” I said. “In room eight or ten or whatever it is. The Ocean View Suite.” I pointed toward the stairs, my arm feeling heavy. “Third floor, first room on the right.”
The woman wore a little black pin on which the name TOTTY was printed in white letters. “Okay, dear,” she said. “Nice to meet you.” Totty’s voice went up at the end of each phrase, as though she were forever asking questions. Nice to meet you?
“Is Paula off tonight?” I asked, digging around in my purse for the room key.
“Yes, she is.” Totty smiled, exhibiting dimples in her cheeks that gave her face a childish quality. I thanked her and headed toward the stairs, past the lounge and dining room. Almost all the tables were occupied, and a waiter was serving soup and salad to a couple seated near the door. I waved and he came over.
“Is it possible to order something and have it delivered to my room?”
“Sí, sí, of course,” he told me, his words coated in a heavy Italian accent. “You choose, we deliver. I get you a menu.”
He returned a moment later with a menu, which I scanned.
“I think I’ll try the Victory salad,” I said, pointing to the first salad on the list. SPRING GREENS, CRANBERRIES, WALNUTS, AND GOAT CHEESE TOPPED WITH RASPBERRY VINAIGRETTE.
He nodded and scribbled on a pad.
“And the roast chicken,” I added, pointing to the first entrée listed. HALF OF A SUCCULENT FREE-RANGE CHICKEN, ROASTED IN BUTTER AND FRESH HERBS, WITH MASHED POTATOES AND GARDEN-FRESH CARROTS. I had never eaten half a chicken in my life, but I was willing to try.
“Roast chicken,” he mumbled, scribbling again.
“What’s for dessert?” I said, throwing all caution to the wind and promising myself I’d make it up back in Manhattan. Maybe I’d even try to get in shape for that 10K race Winston Reid was sponsoring in the fall.
The waiter took a piece of paper from his pocket and read off the selections—cheesecake, brownie sundae, blueberry pie, and ice cream.
“The blueberry pie,” I said, without even thinking. “Oh, and a glass of white wine, please. Can you tell me what you have by the glass?”
He scratched his chin. “Ah, by the glass. We have a house wine and some others. Let me find you the list and—”
I waved my hand. “Never mind, I’ll just take the house wine.” I’d be reviving Hayden with smelling salts if he heard me say that. The house wine, Ellen? And you don’t even know what it is?
“Sí sí, we send it up.” The waiter nodded several times.
I trudged upstairs and unlocked the door, letting my purse drop to the floor. Then I stretched out on the bed with my arms around the pillow. The long drive up to Kittuck and back had knocked me out. Or maybe it was Lila. Either way, I just needed five minutes to relax. To lay my head on the pillow.
I yawned and thought about the love triangle—Gran and Chet Cummings and my grandfather. I thought about Lila Falk and her daughter, Sugar, and what she might have of Gran’s, and I thought about the pillow that felt so lovely under my head.
A half hour later someone was knocking at the door and I came to with a start, trying to figure out where I was.
“Miss, it’s Rodolfo from downstairs.” Another knock. “Miss, I have you dinner.”
My dinner?
“Yes, I’m coming.” I sat up, brushed some hair away from my face, and tried to smooth out the wrinkles in my clothes. Then I opened the door. Rodolfo stood in the hallway, shifting from one foot to the other. He was holding a blue tray with seashells painted on it. On the tray was a vintage wineglass of etched crystal, which had been filled with white wine, a salad of colorful greens and cranberries, a large white plate covered by a gleaming silver dome, a slice of blueberry pie, and a pink rose in a bud vase.
For a moment, I just stared. It looked so beautiful. Then I caught myself. “Come in. Please.” I waved my hand.
Rodolfo looked around the room. “Where would you like?”
I thought he was joking. There was nowhere to put the tray except on the bed. “Right there, I guess.” I pointed.
“Sí sí.” He put down the tray.
I rifled through my purse for some loose bills. “Thank you,” I said, handing him a tip.
“Thank you,” he replied, making a little bow before he left.
I sat on the bed and tried the salad. The greens were crisp and fresh, and there were lots of big chunks of tangy goat cheese. The caramelized walnuts crunched in my mouth. Then I lifted the silver dome from the dinner plate. A puff of herb-scented steam rose into the air as I stared at the chicken. It was roasted to a golden glow and sprinkled with fresh sprigs of tarragon and some other herbs I couldn’t identify. The mashed potatoes looked creamy and buttery, and the carrots were coated with a rich, dark glaze. I ate everything within minutes, right down to the pie, with its flaky crust and still-warm blueberries. I wondered if Paula would ever part with the recipes. I had underestimated her. That was certain.
Too full to move now, I pushed the tray aside and lay down again, staring at a crack in the ceiling that looked like the state of New Hampshire. Gradually, my whole body began to relax. Don’t fall asleep, I told myself. You need to call Hayden and Mom and Sugar.…
We are walking through a huge, overgrown field bounded on all sides by stone walls. Some of the boulders have fallen by the side and Hayden is picking them up and setting them back into the wall, finding the proper place for each one, turning them and repositioning them until he is satisfied with the way it looks. Every so often he stands back and assesses his work and sometimes he takes a boulder off and tries it in another spot. I begin to pick up the smaller stones and to look for crevices in the wall where I might fit them.
“This happens after every winter,” he says. “It’s expansion and contraction that causes it.”
“Same as potholes,” I reply. “The roads do that and it makes potholes.”
“You’re such a city girl,” he says, wrapping his arm around my neck and pulling me toward him. Then we sit on the wall and gaze across the field as a breeze ruffles the weeds.
He jumps off the wall and pushes away some brambles. “Blueberries,” he says. In the space where he has cleared the weeds, green shoots poke through the ground.
“How did you know they were there?” I ask.
“They’ll always be here,” he says. And then he kisses me with a passion that leaves me unable to speak.
Someone was knocking at the door. I tried to pull myself from sleep, from the field with the stone walls and weeds and blueberries.
The knocking came again, a little louder. Rodolfo. He had come to collect the tray. I could smell the vinegar from the dressing and it didn’t smell that appetizing anymore. I sat up and rubbed my eyes.
Rodolfo kept knocking.
I tried to remember what was going on in the dream, but it was already vanishing, fog into sunlight. And then I remembered standing in a field with Hayden, fixing a wall. There were boulders and weeds and it was overgrown. We were lifting stones and putting them back in the wall.
The knocking continued. Rodolfo was being so insistent. Almost rude.
“Just a minute,” I mumbled, moving clumsily from the bed. “I’m coming.”
All right, take the stupid tray, I thought as I slid off the bed. And in that second, as my feet touched the floor, I realized the man in the dream wasn’t Hayden at all. It was Roy Cummings. Roy. Oh, my God, Roy had kissed me. And it was an amazing kiss, even more amazing than the one on the beach. I could still feel his arms around my neck. I could feel his lips on my lips. I could taste him. He tasted like salt spray, like the end of a long summer day.
I took the tray in my hands and moved toward the door. Balancing the tray with one hand, I turned the doorknob with the other. The weeds and the blueberries and the kiss. I wanted the dream. I wanted the kiss. I wanted Roy. Something inside me began to ache.
I opened the door to hand the tray to Rodolfo, and there, in a custom-made tan raincoat of Italian gabardine, holding a briefcase in one hand and a Louis Vuitton overnight bag in the other, stood Hayden.