Sea Glass Summer (20 page)

To prove Sarah wrong about the nap he shot toward a cushion-lined basket the moment Libby opened the door into the kitchen after shedding the pink jacket and white scarf. It was a light, spacious room, with a lengthy farmhouse table at the far end surrounded by a mismatch of chairs painted in various colors, echoed by the Toulouse-Lautrec prints on the cream walls and the up-to-date Tiffany-style pendants suspended about the butcher block island. Libby excused herself to spread the blankie over Sheridan, who was giving a good impression of being asleep if he wasn't.

‘Are you wet through?' she asked Sarah on straightening up. ‘I can lend you a sweater; it would be wretched if you got pneumonia, especially after your narrow escape from that car.'

‘I'm fine, thank you. Just a few damp spots.'

‘So what will it be? Tea or coffee?'

‘Tea, please.' Sarah had been looking at the wooden sign on the door to the mud room that read:
Second Chances Are Better Than First Ones.

‘You may find it stronger than you're used to, even if I don't let yours steep. I use British blend, you see. And I'm out of lemons. Sid and I still take ours with milk and he's been here twenty-five years to my ten. We met on one of his trips home, in a pub where I worked evenings as a barmaid.'

‘I'd really like to try tea the proper English way.'

While Libby got busy putting on the kettle and getting out cups and saucers, Sarah wondered about Phoebe, the college-age daughter.

A faint snoring drifted their way from the basket. ‘That's always the way with the little tyke. He's always worn out after a good run,' said Libby. ‘You wouldn't think to look at him how fast he can go. Should be in the Olympics.'

Sarah thought about Jumbo's sedate indoor pace. Would he too go all out if released from his leash on the beach? She hoped the rain would clear by the afternoon so she could go and collect him.

‘It's a great name, Sheridan. How did you come up with it?'

‘From the TV series
Keeping up Appearances
. The one with Hyacinth Bucket – pronounced Bouquet. Sheridan's her son, who never appears on scene, but brings lots of laughs.'

‘My mother won't miss it, even though she's watched every episode half a dozen times. I've been over when she has it on and it is funny, but I don't remember anything about the son.'

‘Who could blame him for not visiting? The dreaded Hyacinth causes someone to fall off a bike when she mentions an invitation to one of her candlelight suppers with the Royal Doulton. Everyone wondering how her mild-mannered husband, Richard, stands it. I always get the biggest kick out of her,' Libby continued to enthuse as she poured steaming water into a brown earthenware teapot, ‘when she's on the phone to Sheridan wanting to know how he's doing with needlepoint studies at the university. Thrilled to the core by his devotion to Mummy until he asks for seventy pounds for a pair of silk pajamas. Anyway, as soon as I saw my little guy – the one presently snoring his head off – I knew I was going to be every bit as batty and braggy about him.' Libby was now filling the teacups. ‘Do you want to put in your own milk?'

‘No, you do it, please.'

Libby reached for the pitcher. ‘That's another of Sid's things.'

‘Snoring?'

‘Needlepoint. Mostly cushions. His mother taught him to sew when he was six; told him every man should know how. Along with being able to darn his own socks – not that anyone does that anymore. But she certainly did Sid a favor; he trained in upholstery and got in with a good firm before getting a job offer over here from an American on a buying trip in England on vacation. Sid stayed with that company till he retired. Now he does jobs part time. We usually head south for a couple of months in the winter and he's like a bear with a sore head, pining for his sewing machine.' Libby handed over a cup and saucer. ‘Would you like some lemon bread with that? Don't mind if I hang on to your wonderful cake?'

The alternative proved to be delicious when they took it along with their tea into a living room that opened off the end of the kitchen with the farmhouse table. They sat in bright yellow armchairs that went excellently with the black and cream toile sofa, a repeat of the wallpaper pattern. If Sid had done the upholstering he was a master. Sarah summed up the general vibe as mod-traditional. What fun! Against the staircase wall was a cabinet with broad cranberry and cream stripes. Its oversized black knobs added just the right amount of mischief chic without detracting from the silver tray and sparkling cut glass decanter and wine glasses, or jibing at the elegant walnut-framed mirror above. Sarah admired the cabinet.

‘I painted it,' Libby admitted.

‘I'm impressed. You really have a knack; I love this room and the kitchen.'

‘Thanks. For all my grumbling it makes it nice that Sid takes a big interest. Did you look at a lot of houses before deciding on the one next door?'

‘It was the first I was shown and a case of love at first sight. I had this instant feeling that we belonged together and refused to look at any others.'

Libby looked at her across the glass coffee table. ‘Are you a bit that way?'

‘What way?'

‘Psychic?'

‘Oh, no! Not a grain of anything like that.' Up through the voiced denial wriggled a worm of uncertainty that wouldn't have been there a couple of days ago. There was the suddenly remembered episode on the beach yesterday afternoon, which she had shoved from her mind as a waking dream, and the strong feeling of connection to Gwen Garwood. ‘I'm like a lot of people in thinking houses have atmospheres. Probably something to do with ones we have related to in the past, without really remembering them. Anyway,' she added lamely, ‘that's just my thinking. Do you believe in psychic phenomena?'

‘Well, I'm not as strong on it as Nellie Armitage across the road with her spirit guides.'

‘I've met her. Quite a character.'

‘Showed up on your doorstep within two minutes of the movers taking off is my bet,' suggested Libby shrewdly. ‘Not one to let the grass grow under her feet is Nellie. But you can't help liking her. Can't do enough for people she likes. She goes to a spiritualist church in Dobbs Mill, that's about four miles from here, towards Ferry Landing. I got interested when she got talking one day, soon after Sid and I moved in here, about circles outsiders are invited to attend. They're held in the evenings mid-week and I suppose you could call them séances, but without the lights being turned off and the holding of hands. You sit on folding chairs lined up around the walls like you're there for a book club meeting or what have you.'

‘So you went to one?'

‘I'd been to a fortune teller a couple of weeks before Sid showed up in my life.' Libby paused as the ginger cat, having come down the stairs, jumped on her lap. ‘She told me I was about to meet an older man, we'd get married, go to live abroad and he'd adopt my little girl. Phoebe was ten at the time; I'd been divorced for five years and had no intention of getting into a serious relationship. We'd done just fine on our own.'

Sarah took this in, allowing for the fact that memories of what is actually said can be elastic. She hoped no hint of skepticism showed in her voice. ‘Did anything happen for you at the circle?'

‘I don't remember what was said until about halfway through when the medium – a very ordinary, middle-aged woman, the sort you see all the time pushing a cart round the supermarket – asked if anyone there had a grandmother named Margaret. There were about eight of us there and I put up my hand.'

Not an unusual name, thought Sarah, and if it hadn't struck gold there could have been a shift to Marjorie or Mary, drifting down to any name beginning with M; classic flim-flam. ‘Was there a message?'

‘That she loved me and hoped I wasn't ruining my hair having those bleached streaks put in; then she said she had to go because it was someone else's turn.'

‘You must have been excited.'

‘Not really.' Libby's golden gray eyes held a musing expression. ‘You see, I'd been really hoping my Mum would come through. But then, when I thought about it afterwards, I realized it would've been unbelievable if she had. She was always one to stand back and let others push in front.' This was said with such complete seriousness that Sarah suppressed a smile. It was at that moment she knew how very much she was going to enjoy knowing Libby Jennson.

‘That's all so interesting,' she said, ‘but I think if I had the glimmer of a gift I'd have had a shiver of premonition before that car came through the fence.'

They went on to talk about the situation relating to Sonny Norris and his mother. Libby didn't know either of them, but said Sid had been extremely moved by the hand they had been dealt. She mentioned his having brought Sonny home with him for a few hours and that they both hoped they could do more without being overly intrusive. Sarah spoke of her plan to take their bull mastiff, Jumbo, out for walks, starting that afternoon if the rain would kindly let up.

Libby glanced toward the window. ‘It looks like it's practically stopped already. How about another cup of tea and slice of lemon bread?'

‘I'd love it, but I'd better get back.' Sarah explained about the Brown's Hardware delivery, looked at her watch, saw it was approaching ten thirty and got to her feet.

‘Let me know if you'd like any help,' said Libby on opening the front door for her. ‘I live for a paintbrush or roller in my hands; I'm as much of a nut about it as Sid is with his sewing and all the rest of his relentless activities.'

The rain had indeed become negligible. Just the odd drop, as if bored with the whole business. Sarah turned onto her own driveway with a smile on her face, which broadened to one of delighted relief when she saw what was on the step. It was a gray cat. Was it the bowl of milk, diluted now by rainwater, that had worked the charm? She moved forward with concentrated nonchalance, afraid to breathe as she reached to open the door. So far so good! The animal remained seated as if cemented in place. Then the amazing moment. When she stepped inside it followed as if this were an accepted pattern. In clear light it looked even more painfully emaciated than she remembered. She made no attempt to pick it up – best to let it get its bearings while she opened a can of tuna. It was the kind packed in water which would surely be better on an empty stomach than the oily kind. She also got out the milk. As soon as she set the two bowls down on the kitchen floor the cat crept up like a dusky shadow to hunch down and begin devouring the contents of both, interrupted only by the occasional flinch-eyed sideways glance. ‘Dusky.' That's what she would name it, male or female – for its color and the time of day when she had first seen it. She'd ask Nellie and Libby if they knew of a lost cat and if that wasn't successful ask for their suggestions for attempting to track down the owner, but she didn't feel much optimism. Its almost skeletal frame suggested it had been attempting for fend for itself for some time. Meanwhile, she would need to scoot out as soon as Brown's had completed their delivery and pick up food and a litter box. Leaving it while she did this, and afterward taking Jumbo for his walk would, she hoped, provide a calm settling in period.

She stood with her back to the kitchen counter watching it, while confining her movements to a minimum and murmuring soothingly.

‘Thanks for coming; I was worried about you. That's a big scary world out there; I hope you'll get to like being an inside cat. I'll get you some toys. This is really going to be fun.' Both bowls were empty and she would have loved to bend down and pick the sad little thing up, but after looking up at her for a moment it shifted away through the opening into the living room. She remained where she was; hands pressed to her hips, felt the stiffened quality of her right jean pocket and realized it was the letter. The one she had found in the mailbox addressed to Nan Fielding, that she had forgotten when Libby and Sheridan had come up to her in the rain.

She pulled it out and stared down at the handwriting on the white envelope, not business-size, written with a black ballpoint pen, angular strokes, which suggested to her a man, possibly in a hurry. Ridiculous! The initials EB in the top left hand corner above the return address gave nothing away. She was romanticizing a secret love interest between the writer and a lonely elderly woman. Or willing a devoted nephew on her. In another moment it would be the son Nan had left on the church steps with a note pinned to a blanket saying
Mommy loves you.
What did she think she was? A medium at one of the Dobbs Mill circles? Even more foolish was the powerful insistence, seeming to come at her from all corners, that what she held in her hands was somehow vital to her own future. Medium nothing! She had to be off with the fairies, as Libby had described herself when down on the beach. Translation – let loose in Never Never Land. All that was required was that she write
deceased
and put the letter back in the mailbox. But she knew she couldn't bring herself to do that for purely compassionate reasons. She couldn't chance that it had been sent by someone requesting a donation to a once-attended poetry club or even a former neighbor. Already the letter she would write and enclose with the envelope was forming rapidly in her head, as if propelled by something outside herself.

Dear EB,

I moved into Bramble Cottage over the weekend and found your letter in the mailbox this morning. I am sorry to say that Nan Fielding died, peacefully as I understand it, sometime in March; I'm uncertain of the date. You may already know this, but if not I hope this isn't very upsetting for you. My sympathy if this is a personal loss. The garden promises to be lovely which seems to me to say a lot about her.

Sincerely,

Sarah Draycott