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Also Saturday, December 21st
The gas station was next door to Lester’s, a sprawling sporting goods emporium that sold everything from footballs to AK-47s. They once had a complete gardening section, but the garden nuts felt increasingly intimidated by the gun nuts and took their business elsewhere. Lester wasn’t over-bothered by it—he just added more guns and a bigger firing range.
Charlotte stood shivering with her back against the wind as she held the nozzle of what had to be the slowest gas pump in the universe. The Lester’s parking lot was in direct view, and, bored, she idly watched as a forty-something guy in a pickup truck with a blade plowed the snow out of the lot. He worked fast, and a bit aggressively, and had the 100-car lot cleared well before Charlotte finished filling the tank of her Jeep. He parked the truck at the side of the building, walked with deliberate, not-too-fast, not-too-slow steps, like blue-collar guys everywhere. He rolled up the sleeves of his plaid flannel shirt, revealing tattoos on both arms. He took a last puff of the cigarette hanging off his lip, and tossed it in a snow pile with one hand while smoothing back his longish hair with the other. At the front, he grabbed a snow shovel, and cleared and salted the customer entrance area.
The gas pump finally spit out her receipt and she hustled back into the Jeep, driving off with the heat set on full blast. Charlotte was not a fan of winter, ski trips to Aspen notwithstanding. And the older she got, the less she liked it; her feet and hands were always cold, unless snuggled up under a blanket. She also didn’t like this part of town; it reminded her of things from long ago that she’d rather forget.
She turned off Harvey onto Sheffield, then right on Pierce, and parked in front of Helene’s condo. Simon’s Land Rover wasn’t parked in front of his unit next door. The condo association paid for snow removal, but no tire tracks were evident in the snow that remained on the driveway. She went up the walk and rang his doorbell; no answer. Did he sleep in his office? Was he ill, did he fall in the shower and crack his skull? Was he murdered in his bed? She shook the image out of her head. The Garibaldi situation was getting to her.
The winter sunshine made its way into every corner of Helene’s condo, and in fact made it almost too bright to sit in the kitchen. Helene tilted the blinds just enough to cut the glare and yet allow them to enjoy the view of the courtyard. The kitchen was redolent of cinnamon and coffee. Charlotte rubbed one foot with the other; the friction of her socks rubbing together brought warmth and blood flow back into her toes. The weather could do whatever it wanted outside, because it was so lovely inside Helene’s kitchen.
Helene asked for the details of the incident at the Garibaldi’s that Charlotte left out from her phone call earlier in the day.
“How shocking!” Helene’s hand gripped her linen napkin a little tighter. “It’s bad enough when someone you know dies from illness or an accident, but when it’s from deliberate violence, it just throws up a thousand questions, doesn’t it?”
“Absolutely.” Charlotte nodded sadly. “Do you know the Garibaldis well?”
“Well enough. Paul knew Alonzo from working with him on the barn project; Janice is a supporter of the arts, so I am better acquainted with her.”
“The lab is an impressive place, and yet from the outside, you’d never know it was there, at least not at first glance.”
“Paul also did the design for that wall of windows in the living room. Have you seen it?”
“I have. It’s very striking, and you can hardly tell it’s not original to the house.”
“He said that was the beauty of working with a Federal or Greek Revival house—the straight lines and symmetry makes adding windows and doors fairly simple.”
The wall of windows came about, Helene explained, because Janice had always made a spice cake for Paul when he had meetings with Dr. Garibaldi, a cake that was almost identical to one Paul’s mother made when he was growing up. It was clear that Alonzo was not sparing a dime for the new laboratory, but also clear that hardly a dime had ever been spent on the house. One day, over cake and coffee, Janice talked about the house, and her wish that there was at least one room where she could enjoy the sunshine when it was either too cold or too hot to be outdoors, a common problem with the weather in northern Indiana. Paul thought it over, made some quick measurements, and the following day presented her with a sketch and specifications for a series of French doors that would open out onto a new veranda and flower garden. It was his way of thanking her for the spice cake—and proved, Helene remarked dryly, that the way to a man’s head was also through his stomach.
The design appealed to Janice, but not so much to Alonzo, who immediately rejected the project on the grounds of usefulness. What was the point, he said, of more doors leading outside when they spent so little time out there even during the summers as it was? What was the point of more verandas and gardens when Janice barely kept up with the one—a vegetable garden—that she had?
Alonzo explained to Paul that Janice had been on antidepressants for some time, with mixed results. He could see the value of cheerful sunlight, especially during the long winters, but he was afraid that the sight of a neglected garden—and Janice was notorious for not finishing what she started—would be more depressing than not having a garden at all. Paul got him to at least compromise for all windows and no doors or new garden, especially since the windows could be had more cheaply as part of the barn project.
In the end, Janice seemed quite happy with the change, even without another garden.
“Janice agreed with Paul to keep the style of the place intact. The property was once her grandfather’s. He was Edward Corton, you know, the university founder.”
This was news to Charlotte. “No, I didn’t know! So Alexa is Corton’s great-granddaughter. I don’t think she’s ever said a word about it to me.”
“Janice has never made much of it that I’m aware of,” said Helene, “so maybe Alexa never thought it was important, either. Janice’s brother, Jonathan, on the other hand, is involved with the university board of trustees, fundraising, all that sort of thing, and sometimes acts like he personally owns the place. But it’s always been owned by an association, not the family.”
“That’s what I thought. Still, though, it gives a different dimension to the Garibaldis, one I wouldn’t have guessed. It’s like they have a little more invested in the place than most of us.”
Helene’s phone rang and as she took the call, Charlotte checked her own cell phone for messages, but there were none. She tried Simon again, but once more it went straight to voice mail. Where could he have gotten to?
“That was my old friend Gottfried,” said Helene, returning to the kitchen. “He’s in town to play the organ tonight at the university chapel’s Christmas program, and invited me to the after party. So sweet of him.” Helene looked pleased with herself.
“Your social life is better than mine at the moment—have you seen Simon? I’ve called to let him know what’s going on, but it just goes straight to voice mail. I rang his bell just before I came over here, but nothing. That’s not like him.”
Helene paused to think. “You know, I haven’t seen him since Friday at the coffee shop, now that you mention it. He always checks in on me, too. I assume he’s swamped with end-of-semester work and grades.”
“I’ll stop by his office later on.” Charlotte paused for a moment, then wondered aloud, “That would be okay, do you think?”
Helene shrugged. “It’s hard to say with Simon, isn’t it? Or any man, for that matter. Do they shut themselves away because they don’t want to be bothered, or do they simply forget to re-emerge and turn their phones back on?”
Exactly Charlotte’s question.
The oven timer dinged.
“Charlotte,” said Helene, holding a pair of hot pads in her outstretched hand, “could you help me take the bread pudding out of the oven?”
“Hey, sure!” Charlotte opened the oven door and felt instantly toasted from the heat, the scent, and the perfection of the golden brown crust of the pudding in an enameled cast-iron casserole. It was also heavy, and Charlotte wasn’t surprised octogenarian Helene asked for help. She set it on top of the stove while she closed the oven door.
“This is a beautiful casserole pan, but—,” she began, knowing she didn’t have to finish the sentence.
“I know, I know.” Helene pursed her lips as she looked at it, but only for a moment, then looked up at Charlotte with her usual serene and elegant smile. “I do go on about changing and adapting as needed through one’s life, and here I’m clearly not practicing what I preach.”
Helene had baked the bread pudding for Donovan. She wrapped it in foil to keep it warm, but first cut two small pieces for herself and Charlotte, “just to make sure it was good.”
Charlotte broke open her bread pudding to let out some of the steam, and Helene said that there was some interesting news regarding Donovan.
“The lawyers found some French documents among his mother’s papers. It appears my sister Olivia was actually married to Seamus O’Dair!”
This was news, indeed. O’Dair, the Nobel Prize-winning author of the novel Least Objects, was once romantically involved with Donovan’s mother, Olivia Bernadin, herself a promising young writer in the 1950s. After a devastating breakup with O’Dair, the pregnant Olivia married an American serviceman stationed outside of Paris, Ronson Targman, and never published again. Although Donovan accidentally discovered that his real father was O’Dair, it wasn’t something openly acknowledged. He grew up with a depressed mother who hid the secret of his birth and her own talent, and with an abusive, career military father whom he could never please.
“So she was still married to him when she married Ronson Targman?”
Helene nodded. “It appears so. But that’s not all. Donnie was born in France. In Orleans. His birth certificate was in the papers, too. His name is listed as Donovan Marcellus O’Dair. Marcellus was my father’s name.” She beamed with pleasure.
Charlotte was stunned, and easily imagined that Donovan was, too. “So Ronson knew Donovan wasn’t his?”
Helene shrugged. “Donovan’s trying to work that out right now. I think he could probably use your help on that, since you’re transcribing Olivia’s notebooks.”
“Sure! I’d be happy to help in any way I can. He probably thinks I’m in Aspen, though.”
“Let me give him a call—and perhaps you can take the bread pudding to him.”