LimeLight (29 page)

“Close up the flue?”

He bends over, takes out his flashlight, and peers up into the fireplace. “See this piece of metal right here?”

I bend down next to him and look up to where he’s shining the light. “I think I see it.”

“If you keep it closed, except when you want a fire, your house will stay warmer.” He pulls on the metal, and I hear a
clunk
and some soot falls down. “Just like that.”

“I see.” I slowly stand up. “Thank you.”

“No problem. Just don’t forget and start a fire with your flue closed, or you’ll really have problems.”

I nod as if this is news to me.

“Nice place you got here.” He glances around my living room. “Really cool stuff too.”

“Thank you.” Now I feel as if I should do something to thank this young man. Does he expect some sort of payment?

“Wow, are these real photos or just posters?” He’s studying the photo montage now.

I go over and stand with him. “They’re the real thing.” Then I tell him about Gavin and his work, and although Tom doesn’t recognize the name, he’s familiar with some of the movies Gavin directed. And he’s impressed. I point out Gavin and myself in the photos, and Tom turns to me and says, “So you were, like, famous?”

“My husband was…although I did have a brief acting career…but mostly I was famous by association.” I’m somewhat stunned to have admitted this much. But then, really, who is Tom going to tell?

“Well, that is really cool. I can’t wait to tell my wife.”

“I’d like to pay you for helping me tonight, but I don’t have any cash on me at the moment.”

“Oh, that’s okay. I just helped you ’cuz it was the right thing to do.”

The right thing to do.
I wonder how he so easily determines what “the right thing to do” is.

He points to a shot of Gavin and John Wayne. “So you even knew the Duke?”

“Oh yes. He came to our house quite a bit. That shot was taken on the set of
The Searchers.
”

“Your husband directed
The Searchers
?” His brown eyes are huge now.

I chuckle. “No, no… John Ford directed that one. But Gavin helped a bit on it. He and John were friends.”

Tom just shakes his head in wonder. “Wow, this is the closest I’ve been to anyone famous.”

Then I do something that surprises even me. I remove the photo from the wall and hand it to him. “Here. You keep this.”

“No way, Mrs. Fioré. You can’t be serious.”

“I am serious. I want you to have this for helping me tonight.”

“But it’s your husband and—”

“I have many, many photos of my husband. And to be perfectly honest, John Wayne wasn’t my favorite. I suppose I never forgave him for that time he threw my punch bowl into the swimming pool.”

“He what?”

I laugh. “Oh, it’s foolish, I know, and I really shouldn’t hold it against him, but we were having a very nice cocktail party, and John was enjoying quite a bit of Tequila Conmemorativo—his favorite drink—and he got a little carried away with a story he was telling. And the next thing we knew, he had slung the punch bowl, along with the punch, right into the swimming pool.”

Tom laughs, then tries to hand the framed photo back to me. “I can’t take this.”

I hold up my hands. “Yes, you can.”

“But why?”

I consider this. “Because it’s
the right thing to do.
”

He thanks me for the photo, then goes out to check on my car. After he’s removed his equipment, he knocks on my door again. “I’m not sure if that charge’ll hold till morning, Mrs. Fioré. You might want to take your car out for a little drive to keep the battery going.”

“I really don’t like to drive at night. What happens if I don’t?”

“Could be dead in the morning.”

“Oh…”

“I could take it for a little spin, I mean, if you trust me. I don’t blame you if you don’t. But if you want to make sure the car’s charged up good, it’d be the best thing to do.” He grins. “And I’ve never driven a Jag before.”

I wave my hand at him. “You go ahead, Tom. Your truck will be here. If you don’t come back, I shouldn’t have too much trouble tracking you down.”

“That’s for sure.” He laughs. “My wife would kill me if I stole a car. We’re expecting our first baby in February, and I don’t think she’d appreciate having a felon for the daddy.”

So I watch as an almost complete stranger drives off into the freezing, foggy night with my car. I’m sure some people would call me incredibly naive or simply stupid, but I trust Tom.

I
feel strangely empowered now. As if I have a smidgeon of control over my recently disrupted life…or perhaps, as Michael suggested, someone more powerful is watching out for me.

With authority and purpose, I open more heater boxes, placing one unit in my bedroom, one in the bathroom, and one in the kitchen. Then I put my other hardware store purchases away and plug in my new telephones. I place the black one in the living room and the white one in the bedroom, testing them to make sure they both work. I’m fully aware that this is an everyday thing for most people, but when I hear the dial tone, I feel as if I’ve just climbed a mountain.

Unfortunately it’s probably too late to call my accountant. Just the same, I try Jackie’s number. When I get his answering machine, I leave a message, asking him to call me at my new number. “At your earliest convenience, please.”

I feel quite pleased with myself when I hang up. Although I felt like screaming and demanding that he send money immediately, I was actually rather polite. Hopefully that will get his attention. Then I call Michael.

“Hello, darling! It’s so good to hear your voice. How is everything in Silverton?”

“It’s been interesting. But I think I might survive.”

He laughs. “Oh, you are a survivor, Claudette, if ever there was one.”

“I wouldn’t go
that
far.”

“Well, I’d love to chat, but we have guests. Richard’s sister and her husband and kids came out for Thanksgiving, and we were just about to head down to the beach for a sunset picnic.”

“Sounds lovely.”

“Oh, it is. I wish you could join us. It’s been glorious weather.”

“I wish I could too. It’s freezing cold here.”

“Well, stay warm, darling, and have a good Thanksgiving.”

“Yes. You too.”

I hang up and look out the window in time to see headlights pulling into the driveway. I meet Tom at the door, and he hands my keys over. “She’s a great little car, Mrs. Fioré.” Then he gives me a business card as well. “I hope you don’t mind, but I stopped by my brother-in-law’s house and showed off your car. I told him you might be in the market for a garage to keep her in. He sent you his card.”

“Thank you.”

“Thanks again for that photo of the Duke. I can’t wait to show my wife.”

“You are very welcome, Tom. Thank you once again for all your help tonight.”

I close the front door and walk through my living room,
looking at the photos and various pieces of original art that grace my walls, studying them closely as if seeing them for the first time. I suppose I have taken these things, as well as their monetary value, for granted. I remember Melinda’s challenge to me earlier today, that if I could part with some of these pieces, I might be able live a bit more comfortably. I consider Tom’s suggestion of a garage. Surely, a garage might be more useful to me, not to mention my car, than one of these paintings. And yet how does one go about selling a valuable piece of art? I wouldn’t even know where to begin.

I decide to be like Scarlett O’Hara and just think about that tomorrow. Right now, I am hungry. And I have a load of wet laundry that needs to be placed in the dryer. I hope it hasn’t gotten smelly with mildew yet. To my relief, the clothes seem fine as I take them out piece by piece and place them in the dryer with one of Michael’s magical dryer sheets.

“There.” I close the door and turn the dial to sixty minutes, just like Irene showed me. And then I hear the dryer running, and I figure I must’ve done something right.

After fixing myself a light dinner, I am exhausted. I should wash the dishes, but I’m afraid I might break more than I clean. They will have to wait until morning. And yet it seems too early to go to bed. I wish I could sit down and lose myself in front of an old movie, but the television is still not connected to cable.

I wander back to my bedroom, which is still rather messy. That too will have to wait until tomorrow. When I would get impatient about something not getting done, Gavin used to
remind me that “Rome wasn’t built in a day.” Of course, I was usually impatient with someone else’s lack of initiative…not my own. Nevertheless, the saying probably still applies.

Thinking of Gavin reminds me of that box of letters my mother saved over the years. From a glance I could see that a number of them were written by Gavin. I know he and Mother got along wonderfully—sometimes so much so that I would become jealous. But, really, what could he have possibly written to her?

I retrieve the box of letters, take them to the living room, and begin to sort through them. It might make more sense if I read the older ones first, a bit like reading someone’s journal. I separate Gavin’s letters from the occasional postcard or greeting card sent by me. I feel slightly embarrassed to see my brief notes…not even complete sentences, and many times I simply signed my name. How personal.

I start with the oldest letter I can find. It was written in 1981, shortly after we returned from Mother’s seventy-fifth birthday party.

As I attempt to slip the pages back into the envelope, my hands are actually trembling. So Gavin did know about my relationship with Phillip. Yet he never said a word about it to me. In my defense, I never slept with Phillip. Of course, I wouldn’t have slept with anyone by the time I was past my midfifties. I just didn’t have that kind of confidence. But Gavin was right; I was involved in an emotional affair.

Still, I am stunned to think that Gavin told my mother about this. Oh, certainly, he didn’t go into detail, but he did tip
his hand. I couldn’t be more surprised. I hurry to read the next letter. It’s dated a few months later.

I read over the part about where Gavin regretted being married to his job. I do remember when this realization seemed to hit him. At the time I worried that it was because he had gotten some grim diagnosis and was dying. He was, after all, in his seventies then. For all I knew, our time together was limited.

Things did begin to change between us in the eighties. It was as if we truly became friends. We had good times on vacations. We willingly spent time doing things together. He talked me into taking up golf. Despite the fact that I was getting older and more obsessed over the whole aging process, those really were the golden years. And whenever I wanted the latest procedure, insisting I would only be happy if I could remain young, Gavin never argued. No matter the cost, he never balked. All he would say is, “I think you look lovely as you are, darling, but the choice is up to you.”