18

 

The stairs’ carpet had been re-secured with a new rod. Despite the woven runner, the stairs creaked beneath my weary feet, apparently rousing Carrie. She called my name in a sleepy voice.

It had been an emotionally draining day; I prayed she didn’t have a new list of jobs for me. I tapped on her bedroom door and pushed it open enough to poke my head in. “Are you OK?”

From the depths of her room she said, “Almost asleep, but I wanted to thank you for handling the Steering Committee tonight.”

“Yes, about that.” Since the situation was unresolved, I’d done nothing to deserve her thanks, much as I appreciated the unexpected words.

“I can sleep easy knowing they didn’t choose Danny Murdock. That’s all I care about. Can you wake me by ten?”

“Ten?” I was supposed to open the clinic at nine.

“I don’t know how late I’ll sleep otherwise. Never taken sleeping pills before. And could you vacuum downstairs and dust?”

I knew I’d offered to help, but vacuum and dust Carrie’s house when I should be at work?

“Mimi’s catering the reception after Claude’s memorial service, so you won’t need to do any of that work. But people will come here from the church, and I want the place to be presentable. You understand.”

Traditionally, our church ladies catered funeral receptions in the church hall. It was their gift to the grieving family, their way of making a difficult time a little less complicated. I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised Carrie’d made other arrangements. Carrie was a Hunter after all, and Hunters didn’t settle for egg salad sandwiches and oat cakes in the church basement.

Well, Geoff had given me permission to miss work if she needed me. As it was, the clinic would only be open in the morning. Everyone in town would be at Claude’s memorial service in the afternoon.

So I said I could handle things. She needn’t worry. “Anything else?”

“If there is, I can’t stay awake long enough to remember.”

“Then, goodnight, Carrie.”

She didn’t answer. Maybe she was already asleep.

Arching my aching shoulders, I let myself into her office, flipped on the desk lamp, and booted up her computer. The screen saver was a picture of her and Claude. He wore his kilt—only his kilt—and she an elegant, narrow black gown, and her necklace, of course. They made a handsome couple, the tanned, muscle-bound athlete, and his willowy blonde wife.

I found the Steering Committee’s address list and sent a brief email to each member, saying they could suggest whoever they wanted, and the one who got the most nominations would be the person we approached first. Hopefully this would work. With less than two weeks until Hum Harbour Daze, we couldn’t afford to be fussy about our voting process.

Before I logged out, I noticed a file titled INSLIST on her desktop. I pondered it for a moment then clicked it open. It was an insurance document listing the items missing and their insured value. I didn’t take the time to read it—wasn’t sure I cared. But in case I changed my mind later, when I wasn’t so weary, I printed off a copy and went to bed.

 

****

 

Morning came too soon. I’d slept better than the last time I’d stayed the night, but I wouldn’t have described my sleep as refreshing. Not that it mattered. Once dawn slanted its yellow fingers through my open window, I pushed back the covers and attacked my duties. I walked Caber along the shore—finding three pieces of lime-green glass—made myself breakfast, called Geoff, hunted down Carrie’s cleaning equipment, dusted, vacuumed, straightened, took phone messages—all-around Girl Friday stuff.

At ten, I presented Carrie with a breakfast tray: a dish of fresh fruit, toasted bagel smothered with cream cheese, and a mug of strong coffee. She looked like a Scarlett O’Hara sitting in her massive bed surrounded by plumped pillows. All she needed was that spectacular bed jacket.

There was something weird about Carrie, I thought as I left her alone. The way her emotions flipped on and off. Sometimes she seemed truly devastated, and other times…other times it was like she almost enjoyed the attention. As if it was her due.

I shook my head as I stepped into the shower. Grief was too big an emotion for me. I would never understand it. I would never understand capricious Carrie—capricious being a word my mom often used to describe me, though I don’t consider myself unpredictable.

With each hour, I seemed to be getting sucked deeper and deeper into Carrie’s life. Any personal plans I might have had for the day—like work, Dunmaglass, Hum Harbour Daze planning—I set aside. After my shower I helped Mimi set up for the post-memorial reception, arranging stacks of dainty luncheon plates and folded napkins, clearing spaces for floral arrangements, ensuring the Hunters’ tea service was ready for use. In other words, I polished the silver.

With no time left for lunch, I hurried home to change. I allowed myself about sixty seconds in Dunmaglass. I wanted to be sure Ash was ready for a possible influx of customers before and after Claude’s memorial service—which was mercenary, I knew, but necessary nonetheless.

Then I drove Carrie’s SUV into Antigonish to pick up her mother. I knew, even before I accompanied Geoff while he visited patients in the poshy seniors’ residence where Phyllis Hunter lived, that Carrie’s mom had very exacting standards.

So I set a fresh box of tissues on the console between the front seats, adjusted the AC until the car’s inside thermometer read a comfortable twenty-two degrees Celsius, and selected a classical music CD from Carrie’s collection. I prayed my efforts would earn me a modicum of civility.

Phyllis Hunter waited in a wheelchair in the mirrored foyer of the Inverness Arms Seniors’ Residence. She wore a veiled black hat and oversized black mink stole. I was warm in my sleeveless black dress.

I greeted Mrs. Hunter and her caregiver.

“She sent you?” Mrs. Hunter grabbed a strand of my hair when I leaned close. “I told her I didn’t want the black one.”

So I should color my hair? I gently disentangled it from her knurled, arthritic fingers. “I’m sorry you feel that way, Mrs. Hunter. But I promised your daughter I’d help her as much as I could. This afternoon’s going to be hard for her.”

“Do you think I don’t know that? I’ve lost my husband, too, you know.”

“I’m sorry,” I said automatically.

“Don’t patronize me, girl. I know you don’t care a hoot about my loss.” She glanced back at the caregiver pushing her chair towards the waiting car. “Hurry up, and get me into that ridiculous contraption, or I’ll be late. If I make it there at all. I told her I didn’t trust this one’s driving.”

I was sure Mrs. Hunter knew absolutely nothing about how I drove.

The caregiver gave me an apologetic smile as she assisted Mrs. Hunter into the SUV. I climbed in the driver’s side and double-checked the seatbelt was properly attached—Carrie’d warned me her mother worried about buckles not holding.

Mrs. Hunter rapped my fingers with her brass-handled cane. “Don’t touch me, girl! I have enough strangers pawing me. Every day there’s someone new in this infernal place. Just get used to one nurse, and they replace her with another.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Is that all you can say? I’m sorry? I assumed your mother would teach her only daughter to speak up for herself, instead of mincing. I’m sorry. I’m trying to help.” She puckered her mouth when she mimicked me.

I bit back a reply and pulled out of the parking lot. Blessed silence lasted less than a minute.

“You trying to get us killed, too? Open your eyes, girl.” She pointed at the car stopped at the red light. It patiently awaited its turn to go through the intersection while I proceeded. I had the green arrow. I was supposed to proceed.

“There’ve been enough deaths around here. We don’t need any more.”

I kept my mouth shut.

“Do you think we need more deaths?”

“No, ma’am.”

She exhaled a blast of air from her nostrils. “I suppose you’re another one of his fans?” I noticed she never used people’s names.

“You aren’t?”

“A grown man who tosses telephone poles? Maybe if he’d put in an honest day’s work now and again.”

“Your son-in-law was a champion athlete.”

“Is that what you call it?”

“Carrie’s very proud of his accomplishments.”

Mrs. Hunter grunted. “Over-sized biceps don’t make a man.”

“I don’t mean to disagree, but Claude Oui was much more than that. He was honest, and kind, and he loved the Lord.”

She sniffed derisively. “He loved the Lord a darn sight more than he loved his family.”

I thought that was supposed to be a good thing.

“Honor your parents. That’s what the Good Book says. But he was running off to Africa, wanting my daughter to go with him. And leave me here alone.”

I almost said I was sorry again. “There are lots of folks at the Inverness Arms. You wouldn’t be alone.”

“Don’t contradict me, girl.”

“I’m sorry.”

She stared at me until I felt my cheeks growing warm. “I suppose you’re one of those born-again types like he was?”

I flashed a sideways glance trying to gage her intent. “I’m a Christian.”

“And you think I’m not?”

I kept my sights glued on the road ahead, although our conversation had turned more dangerous than the winding pavement. “I have no idea, Mrs. Hunter. Do you love the Lord?”

She blew air from her nose. “Trust a MacDonald to think that’s all that matters in life.”

“I’m sorry?” I bit my lip. I shouldn’t have said that.

“Head in the clouds, the bunch of you. Not a whiff of common sense. And you, about to marry that missionary.”

“Geoff’s a doctor.”

“I know he’s a doctor. Don’t I see him every time he comes by the home? And you trailing along behind like some smitten little puppy.”

“Panther cub,” I said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Geoff says I remind him of a young panther. Black hair.” I gave it a tug for emphasis. “Brown eyes.”

Behind her veil, her eyes narrowed.

I couldn’t resist one last panther trait. “Hunts at night.”

“The man lives dangerously,” she said. I thought I detected the first hint of civility, perhaps even respect, in her tone.