Authors: Gloria Repp
The bell jingled again, and Timothy glanced at the woman who marched in. “Excuse me a minute please.” He limped off to meet her.
Kent took the long-handled roller from Madeleine and hefted it. “Yes, this will do,” he said. “How about a step ladder? Do you have one?”
Madeleine looked around for Bria, but the girl had walked off, her pony-tail bobbing as she went. “I don’t think so, but we can—”
“Oh, no, you’re such a tiny thing, you’ve got to have a ladder.” Kent smiled down at her. “Chairs can be dangerous. I’ll bring one by for you.”
He gave her another smile, one that might or might not have been meaningful, and hurried after Timothy. “Hey, old friend, can you sell me some ice cream real quick? Then I’ll let you get on with your wheeling and dealing.”
Bria reappeared, and they added brushes and a paint tray to the rollers Timothy had suggested. While they paid for their supplies, a large coffee-brown dog peered around the end of the counter. “He wants to meet you,” Timothy said. “He takes a personal interest in my customers.”
The dog regarded her with intelligent eyes. His rough coat suggested no particular breed, and one ear was torn, giving him a comical, lopsided look.
“He’s a dear old critter,” Bria said. “Just checking you out.”
The phone rang and Timothy turned to answer it, but first he said, “Thank you, ladies! I hope to see you again.” The dog seemed to think it was his duty to escort them to the door.
As they drove away, Madeleine commented on the dog, and Bria remarked that he took care of Timothy like a protective uncle.
It was a picturesque comparison, abstract and unexpected. She wanted to ask whether Bria was going to school anywhere, since she looked old enough for college, but the girl had fallen into one of her silences.
Her own thoughts returned to the store, weighing Kent’s eagerness to “drop by.” Did he think he could just come on over and they would have a cozy little visit? Surely he knew that Aunt Lin had left for New York.
The Manor’s driveway came up fast, and she almost missed it but her thoughts didn’t pause. She should have told him, “No thanks. I’ll get a ladder of my own.”
Why hadn’t she? . . . Mouse!
She parked the car, gathered up their purchases, and looked at Bria’s remote face. “Can you stay for supper?”
Bria shook her head. “But I’ll work tomorrow morning if you want.”
The wooden rocking chair on the porch caught Madeleine’s eye. “Why don’t we put that chair into my car, and I’ll drive you?”
“I’ve got my bike here,” Bria said. “Jude can come over for it, later.”
“But he shouldn’t have to carry it when I could—”
“I’m sure.” Bria turned away. “Thank you, anyway.” A minute later, she and her bike had disappeared into the woods.
Madeleine ate leftovers for supper, watching the pine trees fade into twilight. She’d forgotten to ask Timothy where she could get her car fixed. It drove as well as ever, but it didn’t look like itself. Tomorrow, she’d go back and ask him. And she could start on some research for her course. Finally!
The sound of a car’s engine jerked her gaze to the driveway. Kent. With the stepladder? She dropped her fork and hurried to the back door. If she went outside, it would be easier to send him away.
At least he wasn’t alone. When the Bronco stopped, a young man wearing a red baseball cap jumped out to open up the back. Kent slid from behind the steering wheel and sent her a high voltage smile.
She closed the door behind herself and waited.
Kent’s companion was half his age, half his width, and equally tall. He lifted out the ladder with one hand and joined Kent on the porch.
“Oh,” Kent said, “this is Remi.”
Remi gave her a sunny glance. A knockout, sure to captivate any teenage girl, with that caramel-colored skin and black sparkling eyes.
“And this is your ladder,” Kent said with a self-approving smile. “We’ll put it inside for you.” Without waiting for an answer, he reached past her to open the door.
“Which room?” he asked, already halfway down the hall. “This empty one, right?”
“That’ll do.” What did he mean by marching right into her house?
Remi set the ladder in one corner while Kent surveyed the parlor as if he were going to buy it. “Nice proportions,” he said. “Look at that molding up there. Remarkable.”
He nodded, agreeing with himself, and stepped through the connecting door to the dining room. “This is what you’ve found so far?” He coughed. “Dusty, isn’t it? And me with a bad cold.”
The room, crowded with boxes, cabinets, and the long, over-full table, seemed to shrink when the two men walked into it. Remi whistled as he bent over a pile of gilt-edged dinner plates.
“You said it, kid.” Kent picked up a clear quart jar, and ran a finger over the name embossed on it:
COHANSEY
. “I’m learning about South Jersey glass,” he said. “It’s important, historically.” He sounded as if he were sharing a secret. “I’m going to have a whole chapter about it in my book.”
He replaced the jar with elaborate care. “We’d better go. Remi has to put those notes of mine into the computer, and there’s a stack of books for him to read.”
“I can handle it.” Remi’s smile told her that he liked the work.
Kent coughed again. “I’ve still got this congestion—don’t I sound terrible? It might’ve settled in my lungs.”
Madeleine eyed him, not sure what to say. That cough didn’t sound very bad.
He gave her a pitiful look. “I need to get plenty of sleep.”
Remi grinned, as if remembering something pleasant. He said in a low voice
, “The innocent sleep; sleep that knits up the raveled sleeve of care
.
”
“Whatever.” Kent was already on his way out of the room.
“Thanks for the ladder,” Madeleine said, keeping her voice impersonal. “Aunt Lin will appreciate your bringing it over.”
She watched them drive off.
Sleep that knits up the raveled sleeve,
huh, Remi? A quote from
Macbeth.
How did an orphanage dropout happen to be quoting Shakespeare?
She stood on the porch for a minute, listening to the soft
shussing
of wind in the pines. Maybe it was thoughtful of Kent to bring her that ladder. He reminded her of a big, friendly puppy. But still . . .
Her cell phone rang, and she answered it on the way inside. Her mother sounded cheerful today. “Hi! Anything exciting going on?”
“We’ve got one room all ready to paint and we found some old—”
“—Pretty tame, don’t you think? I just met this gorgeous blond guy, Wayne. He’s an auctioneer. Lots of fun.” Her mother’s laugh had that disgusting undertone. “How about you? Met anybody good looking?”
“Not really.”
“Too bad. Is your aunt off on another trip?”
“Yes.”
“Just as I thought. And you’re stuck with the work. George is still asking about you. Don’t forget, you can come home any time.”
“Thanks, Mother. Bye.”
So, she’d found herself another one.
The evening stretched ahead. What about taking advantage of the new kitchen? She could do something with the Gilliflower apples.
Why had it seemed important to bring them?
Because they represented her conversation with Frances Rondell, which had led to her declaration of . . . rebellion? No. Independence.
She didn’t feel like making a pie, but cookies would taste good. With walnuts. The recipe came easily to mind, and it wasn’t until they were cooling on a rack that she realized why.
She’d made apple-walnut cookies a hundred times for Dad. “I need some goodies for my young ruffians,” he’d say. The next day he’d go off with the bag of cookies and return to tell of progress made with Pol or Jose or Shawn—whoever his current project might be.
The lumpy brown cookies smelled tantalizing, but the first bite turned to ashes in her mouth.
Would she ever get over this? She’d been improving, getting used to missing Dad, until she’d married. And then . . .
She yanked open a drawer, shook out a plastic bag. Give them away. How about some cookies for Bria’s little brother? She labeled the bag and put it outside on the rocking chair.
Bria arrived early the next morning, and with her came a large black Labrador. He stood in the doorway, wagging his tail and grinning in the amiable manner of all Labs.
“And who’s this?” Madeleine asked.
Bria put a hand on the dog’s head. “Lockie. May he come in? He can sleep on the porch if you’d rather not.”
“Sure,” Madeleine said. “Is he yours?”
“Sort of.” Bria sounded as if she didn’t want to discuss Lockie’s history. “Jude said to thank you for the cookies. He loves to eat.”
“Good! I like to cook. Be sure to tell him we’ve got plenty of work.”
They painted all morning, and while they were cleaning up, Madeleine asked, “What are you going to do this afternoon?”
The girl hesitated with that same caution. “I have some other painting to do.”
Bria left after lunch, and for the next hour Madeleine scraped old paint off the small panes of the parlor window, but finally she put down her razor blade. To reward herself, she’d go check her e-mail at Timothy’s store. She’d take him some of those cookies and see about finding an online course.
Timothy greeted her cheerfully from behind the counter. “Hello, Mrs. Burke. I see you brought your laptop. Come to do some work online?”
“If that’s okay with you. I want to take a baking course.” She handed him the bag of cookies. “In the meantime, I’ve been practicing, and I thought you might like a sample.”
“Capital! I’ve got a significant sweet tooth. I’ll save them for our afternoon break.”
He led her through a curtained doorway to a large room that might once have been a parlor. Against one wall stood filing cabinets and a roll-topped desk. A long table took up most of the center, and at the far end was a green corduroy sofa flanked by matching overstuffed chairs.
He waved at the table. “Would that be a suitable place for you?”
“Just right.” While she was setting up her laptop, he began sorting papers at the desk.
She read her messages, wrote to three friends about her “wilderness adventure,” and began researching online baking schools. A course on breads would be a good place to start.
From dozens of courses, she chose one that looked promising. It had videos to watch, articles to read, even tests to take. She scribbled in her notebook. Each item she baked had to be evaluated by a proctor.
A door opened at the far end of the room, and Timothy spoke to someone. “Time for a break already? It’s just as well, I’ve tangled these figures again.”
She glanced up—an older man carrying a mug—and back to the note she was writing to herself.
Timothy stood beside her. “Mrs. Burke? I’d like you to meet a friend of mine.”
The man had a trim, athletic frame and an air of coiled energy that belied his weathered face. Perhaps not so old.
“Nathan Parnell,” he said. In contrast to Timothy’s plaid flannel, he wore a dress shirt, pinstriped blue. His gray eyes seemed to take her measure in a single glance, but she couldn’t tell whether he’d filed the data or discarded it.
“Hello,” she said, closing her laptop. She’d have to come back later.
Timothy was limping over to an old mahogany sideboard. “Please, don’t go. Won’t you help us sample your cookies?” He gave her a twinkling smile that she couldn’t resist.
“Thank you, I will.”
“Would you like root beer? Or maybe some tea? I can make a pot of chai.”
“Chai sounds good.”
Timothy moved with the confidence of an experienced host, filling an electric kettle with water, setting out mugs, arranging the cookies on a plate. This must be their afternoon ritual.
His friend looked out of the window by Timothy’s desk, tapping a finger on the mug as if he were inventing a tune for himself. The light picked out the reddish tints of his brown hair and gleamed on a thin, puckered scar that ran down one side of his face.
Not the sociable type? That was fine with her.
While they drank their tea, Timothy praised the cookies and asked why she wanted to take a cooking class. “I like to bake, anyway,” she said, “but while I’m out here, a course would give me a chance to improve. It’s something I’ve always wanted to do.”
“No chance at home?”
“Not really. I was teaching, and besides . . .” Something about the kindly gaze invited her to speak with candor. “Things at home will be changing. My uncle is going to manage my mother’s business, and he wanted me to help.”