The Stolen Canvas(8)
“I’m not!” Tara crossed her arms over her chest.
He ignored her protest and pushed out his lower lip in a thoughtful gesture. “We’re going to that little Maine backwater burg, but you’re going to show up alone. You won’t know me. You’re just a girl alone who’s learned her mother has died; you have no place to go and no one to turn to. You just want to meet the lady who comforted your mother in her last years.”
“And then what?” Tara demanded wearily. “What good is that going to do?”
“Just leave it to me.” He stroked his jaw in concentration. “We’ll go slow. We have to be real careful. Now, grab that junk. We’re getting out of here; I’ve got some thinking to do.” He got up, cradling the pillow and letters in his big hands.
Tara followed, shivering in her thin jeans and sweater. Her arms full of cartons and bags, she didn’t even close the door behind them. The landlord would come and throw the remaining pieces of her mother’s life in the trash bin. Poor Claire Andrews. All that was left of her was one skinny failure of a daughter who hadn’t even said goodbye.
3
It was late when Annie said goodbye to Alice. They’d gone out to lunch at a vintage tea room and had taken their time coming home. It had become their practice to make Tuesdays special, beginning with the Hook and Needle Club meeting; today had been no exception. They stopped at several roadside vegetable stands, found some luscious-looking strawberries, Granny Smith apples, and sweet corn with variegated yellow and white kernels. Their arms were bulging when they finally decided to call it a day.
After seeing Alice off, Annie dined late on frosted wheat cereal for supper. She answered her email, spruced up the kitchen, and took the sweet corn out to the porch. The messy task of shucking was best done outside where the wind or plucky birds could take the silky hairs stripped from the ears. Boots followed with a look of intrigue on her whiskered face, but Annie expected little help from the feline quarter.
The sun hung low, melting into bands of gold and dusky rose. Strips of charcoal clouds rose as though chased upward by some unseen hand. That subtle light, as day began to die, evoked a certain sadness; something precious was coming to an end. While there was hope for tomorrow, this day would never come again.
She had often witnessed day’s end with her husband, Wayne. The spectacular Texas sunsets they had shared were so explosive with color and movement that it seemed you could almost hear them—like pyrotechnics on the Fourth of July. It always brought a lump to her throat, and she would squeeze his hand, knowing that he was hearing the fireworks too. Here at Stony Point, sunsets were no less lovely, but quieter—like music. Each night the melody was unique. Sometimes it was vibrant and chaotic; other times, it was methodical and tranquil.
Today, the music was slow and haunting, and Annie felt a peculiar melancholia. There was no one to turn to, to point to the sunset and say, “How lovely!” And in a sudden flash she thought about Ian, the venerable mayor of Stony Point, who had quickly become her friend. There had never been more than friendship between them; she’d made sure of that, in spite of hints that his feelings lay deeper. Still, it would be nice if he were here right now. She’d fix him a glass of that strawberry lemonade he was fond of, and they could just talk … Ah, Annie, she rebuked herself. You’re just feeling lonely. It will pass.
She leaned back in Gram’s wicker chair and ran her fingers along a smooth green ear of corn. She let a long green strip fall and watched Boots bat it with tentative white paws. The cat sniffed it and tossed her head in spontaneous play.
“It’s just you and me, Miss Boots,” she said softly to the swish-swish accompaniment of cornhusks across the porch floor.
She glanced up, suddenly aware of another sound. It was coming from far off, like sudden wind through beach grass. But the night air was still; no wind disturbed the leafy overhang of trees. The sound stopped briefly, and then started up again. Was someone walking up the overgrown path that led to Grey Gables? Annie often took that shortcut after a walk along the water, but visitors usually used the driveway.
Annie dropped the corn into a green bag and walked toward the path lined with daylilies and daisies. Perhaps Alice had forgotten something or was coming back for a chat. “Hello?” she called, a little nervously. Stony Point neighbors seldom locked their doors, even at the height of the season when tourists abounded. It was charming, even though it might be foolhardy. Hadn’t she learned anything after that pirate cove map had been stolen and the incident with the greedy antiques dealer?