“Hey, just so you know, your cousin threw the first punch.”
“I thought it was a shoving match.”
“It was. But as I said, things got out of hand.”
Zoey understood how that could have happened since Mark was involved. The fact that Nick wasn’t actually friends with her cousin came as a relief but there was still something she needed to address.
“I want to ask you a favor, and I’m being serious, okay?” After he nodded, Zoey said, “I know your intentions are good and I can appreciate that until recently, you didn’t know me. But the next time something concerns you about Aunt Ivy or about her house, could you please let me know, instead of Mark? Or if you’ve already made an agreement to tell him first, could you let me know in addition to him?”
“What are you talking about? I don’t have any concerns about your aunt and if I notice anything that needs to be fixed in her house, she’s the one I talk to about it. I don’t involve anyone else in repair or renovation decisions unless a homeowner has specifically requested me to. That’s not the way I do business.”
They had pulled up to a stoplight in front of the hospital and Nick looked over at her, his eyes lit with indignation, his mouth a harsh line. Either he was telling the truth or he was an even better actor than Erik had been. Zoey had to be absolutely sure which one it was.
“Mark doesn’t check in with you about my aunt?”
“What? Of course not! Like I said, I hardly ever speak to him. And I certainly wouldn’t ever spy on a client on behalf of her family members.”
“You didn’t tell him about Aunt Ivy leaving the gas on?”
Zoey could practically see the lightbulb going on above his head when he remembered. “Yeah. I did. But only because he happened to call right in the middle of the incident.” Nick explained that even though the fumes were negligible, in an abundance of caution he brought Ivy to Sylvia’s room, opened all the windows and closed her door. Sylvia was too weak to get out of bed or leave the house and he didn’t want either woman to feel nauseated from the smell. Which meant Ivy wasn’t available downstairs to answer the landline when Mark called.
“It kept ringing and I thought there might be an emergency, so I picked up and told Mark that she’d have to call him back later. Understandably, he wanted to know what was going on. I gave him the bare facts, that’s it. The only other times I’ve spoken to him lately have either been when I came to Sylvia’s funeral or when we discussed the kitchen remodel and the stove—and I had Ivy’s approval to do that that.”
Zoey swallowed. “I’m sorry. I misunderstood something he told me.” Nick blinked a couple of times but didn’t say anything in response, so she feebly joked, “Didn’t I warn you I was hypervigilant when it comes to my family?”
Someone behind them honked to indicate the light had turned green, so Nick pulled forward into the hospital parking lot, slowing as they approached the ER department entrance. He put the transmission into park. “I’ll go get you a wheelchair.”
“Why? Are your arms too tired to carry me the rest of the way?” she chaffed him, but he got out of the truck without laughing. Without even smiling. Her heart dropped two ribs lower in her chest, heavy with regret for insulting him. She intended to apologize again as soon as he returned, but a medical assistant came with him, pushing a wheelchair.
Nick helped transfer her from his truck into the chair so the assistant could wheel her inside. “Good luck,” he said curtly before leaving to find a parking space.
The nurse brought Zoey into an exam room and took her medical history but it was another thirty minutes before the physician came in. He had a mop of dark ringlets, tanned forearms and bright blue eyes, although they weren’t as pretty as Nick’s—not that Zoey was comparing. No surprise, he wore a wedding band.
“Hello, Ms. Jansen. I’m Dr. Socorro. Sorry for the wait. I’m actually an ER pediatrician but we’re short-staffed today,” he explained. “When they paged me to cover a shift, I was surfing, so if you smell something fishy, it’s me.”
“I’m glad there’s someone else on this island who doesn’t think it’s too early in the season to go swimming.”
“It’s never too early. Never too late, either.” The skin around his eyes crinkled when he grinned. Zoey had become glummer and glummer about Nick the longer she’d been waiting but the doctor had such a magnetic personality she couldn’t help but chuckle. “So, tell me how you got your owie—sorry, force of habit. Tell me about your injury.”
After she explained, Dr. Socorro removed the three-inch splinter with an instrument that actually looked a lot like a carpenter’s pair of pliers—but unlike Nick could have done, he numbed the area, first. Before he left he gave her the contact info of a doctor who could do a wound check and said he’d give her printed information about how to keep the area clean.
“It should heal up nicely,” he assured her. “I think the worst part of this accident is that it’s going to prevent you from going swimming for a few days.”
No, the worst part of my accident is that I’ve messed up the… the friendship I was just starting to form with Nick, Zoey thought.
It took a while for the nurse to bring her the necessary paperwork and when she ambled into the waiting lounge some fifteen minutes later, she saw Nick before he saw her. Sitting in the chair nearest the exit, he was resting his forearms on his thighs and gazing down as he swung the purple thermal bag back and forth like a metronome in the open space between his knees. He must be so bored, Zoey thought. How many other guys would wait this long in an ER for someone they hardly know?
He didn’t notice her until she lowered herself onto the chair beside him and said, “Hi, Nick.”
He sat up straight and swiveled his head to look at her. “All done?”
“Yeah. Sorry it took so long. Thanks for waiting.”
“What else was I going to do? Make you take the bus home?”
“After what I said to you about my aunt, I wouldn’t have blamed you if you did… I really jumped to an unfair assumption, but it wasn’t because of you. It was because of me. Because I took something my cousin said the wrong way and I have this fear that…” Zoey didn’t know how to explain her error without telling Nick that she was concerned Mark was trying to take over their aunt’s house—and she didn’t think it was appropriate to go into all of that with him. So she just said, “I’m really sorry I insulted you and I hope you’ll forgive me.”
For an agonizing moment, Nick rubbed his forehead before responding. “It’s okay. I get it. Family dynamics can affect a person’s perspective in strange ways.” He handed her the thermal bag. “But I did eat both of the cinnamon rolls your aunt packed for us while I was waiting—I figured you owed me that much. I drank the milk, too.”
Zoey threw back her head and laughed. “Were they as good as they smelled?”
“Better.” Then he stood up and offered her his arm. She didn’t refuse it, even though her calf was still too numb to feel any pain and she could have sprinted to his truck if she’d wanted to.
Zoey had to admit it, Mark was right. With its black, shiny finish, brass trim, and classy design, Ivy’s modern-but-vintage-looking stove really did emphasize how outmoded and unsightly the rest of the kitchen was. Sylvia may have once described the white tile backsplash and yellow laminate countertops as sunny, but over the years the colors had dulled several shades. Zoey had installed higher-wattage bulbs in the overhead light, but they only accentuated the contrast between the old and new.
It’s not my house, it’s not my business, she reminded herself. As long as Aunt Ivy is happy with it, that’s all that matters.
The problem was, Ivy didn’t seem happy with it. In fact, for that first week after Nick and Aidan installed the range, she wouldn’t allow anyone to use the oven. They were permitted to use the burners on the stovetop, but not to bake or broil anything inside it. Ivy claimed it was because she’d never had such a sparkling clean oven before and she didn’t want it
to get dirty right away, but Zoey had a hunch she regretted purchasing it. And that the real reason she didn’t want to get it dirty was because she was considering returning the appliance.
After preparing stovetop or cold meals all week—since the gas tank for the outdoor grill was empty—Zoey was growing tired of it. Ivy had suffered several crying spells that week, so she didn’t want to say anything that might make her feel pressured, for fear she’d send her spiraling into sorrow again. But on Sunday evening while Gabi and Ivy were drinking tea in the living room and she was sipping ice water, Zoey hinted that it was time for Ivy to break in the new oven.
“Do you know what would be really good for supper tomorrow night? Lasagna. I’ve got my interview in Providence in the morning. On the way back I’ll pick up some of that Italian sausage you like so much from the deli downtown. I should be home by twelve-thirty or one, so you and I could make the lasagna together in the afternoon.”
Because this would be the first time after Sylvia’s death that Ivy was going to be alone for several hours, Zoey scheduled her interview as early as possible, so her aunt would only have to spend the morning by herself.
“I’m going to be late because I have band practice and then I’m going to Amy’s house,” Gabi said. “Her mom always invites me to stay for supper, so you two should eat without me.”
Amy was the fourth-chair flutist in the school band, a sophomore, and Gabi had practiced with her three times last week. Zoey was glad her niece had made a connection with someone other than Aidan, but it surprised her that Gabi never played her instrument at home. She repeated the excuse that she didn’t want to hurt Moby’s ears. Zoey supposed that was possible, since the girl seemed to have adopted Sylvia’s pet, or vice versa, and she went out of her way to tiptoe past Moby whenever he was taking a cat nap.
“A whole lasagna for just two people? That’s too much food. I can make chicken soup on the stovetop,” Ivy proposed.
“It’s kind of hot out for soup,” Zoey objected. “Gabi, why don’t you invite Amy here to practice for a change? Then she could eat supper with us.”
“I already told her I was going to her house.”
Zoey tried a slightly different tack to get the cooking ban lifted. “Later in the week you should have Aunt Ivy show you how to bake a strawberry-rhubarb pie. Yesterday I bought strawberries at the market and I saw rhubarb at the farm stand when I went for a walk on Friday. I could pick some up,” she suggested. “Aunt Ivy taught my mom and yours how to make the most delicious, flaky crust you’ve ever tasted. She tried to teach me, too, but I never got the knack of it. It always turns out tough.”
“That’s because you handle the dough too much,” Ivy chided.
“I bet Gabi will catch on right away, like Jess did.”
Ivy clasped her hands together. “Gabi, did I ever tell you about the time your mother found rhubarb growing in the woods in Rockfield? She was about your age and she loved to bake, so when she happened upon all that free fruit, she must have picked a hundred stalks. She had so many she couldn’t fit them all in the bicycle basket, so she wrapped the rest in her beach towel and carried it over her shoulder, like Santa’s sack. ‘Aunt Ivy, Aunt Sylvia, look what I found!’ she shouted when she cycled up the driveway. You would have thought she’d discovered gold, she was so excited. She brought it into the kitchen and even before she unwrapped it, I knew from the smell, it wasn’t rhubarb. It was—”
“Skunk cabbage!” Zoey chorused with Ivy. The two of them had to wipe their eyes from laughing but Gabi hardly cracked a smile. Zoey figured that was because she didn’t know the difference between the two plants, but when she explained how nobody would want to make skunk cabbage pie, Gabi just rolled her eyes.
“My Denny loved strawberry-rhubarb pie, too,” her aunt remarked, her eyes sparkling. Zoey knew exactly what she was going to tell Gabi next. “Every time after he’d eaten his last bite, he’d scrape the plate clean with the side of his fork, push back his chair and pull me onto his lap. ‘Ivy,’ he’d say, ‘The best pie is like my best girl. They’re both sweet enough to savor and tart enough to make me pucker up.’ Then he’d kiss me.”
Again, Gabi’s smile seemed like an effort. Kind of like she’d tasted something sour. Zoey couldn’t tell if she was embarrassed by her aunt’s saucy anecdote, if something else was bothering her, or if it was just run-of-the-mill teenage moodiness.
Before she could ask her what was on her mind, Gabi excused herself to go finish her homework. She kissed Ivy’s cheek as she usually did. “Good luck with your interview tomorrow, Aunt Zoey,” she said before leaving the room.
Zoey understood that her niece had other things she’d rather do than hang out with her aunts, and she had no intention of pressuring her into it. But she had kind of hoped Gabi would want to learn to bake a pie. Not only because that might motivate Ivy to use her new oven. But also because Zoey was trying to drum up an activity her aunt might enjoy besides playing cribbage or sitting in the living room, staring at the photo of Denny.
Ivy had frequently commented that she didn’t know what she’d do without Sylvia and Zoey was beginning to see that was no exaggeration. Now that her sister-in-law was gone, Ivy seemed at a loss for ideas about how to occupy her time. Unless Zoey did the same things with her that Sylvia had always done, Ivy aimlessly flitted from room to room, often breaking down in tears. She was fairly confident that after the worst of her aunt’s grief passed, Ivy would be able to manage —albeit, slowly—most of the physical tasks that were required in order to take care of the house and herself. And she could increase Carla’s visits or employ an additional person to do the more arduous chores and errands. But, even though it was important to Ivy that she maintained her independent lifestyle, Zoey wasn’t quite as certain about her aunt’s ability to cope emotionally with Sylvia’s absence. So, before she left, she hoped to help her develop a social network, as well as to become engaged in a hobby or a daily practice she enjoyed.
Suddenly, inspiration struck. “Aunt Ivy, I’ve got an idea. Why don’t I go online to check out what kinds of programs the senior center offers?”
“You’re far too young for that, dear. But I read in the Gazette that the library offers watercolor and oil-painting classes. A local artist teaches them for free. Emily-something-or-the-other is her name… I still have the article in the kitchen. I’ll go get it.” Her aunt leaned forward to put her teacup and saucer on the coffee table.
“Thanks, but that’s not what I meant. I was suggesting we could check to see if there’s an event or class that might interest you.”
“Me? I’m too old for the senior center.”
Zoey had heard some of her friends say their parents or grandparents who were in their sixties, seventies and even eighties felt they were too young to go to a senior center, but she’d never heard that anyone had claimed to be too old.
“I’m sure there’s not an age cut-off.”
“Maybe not, but I’ve read the center’s calendar listing in the newspaper, too. Yoga classes. Computer tutorials. Trips to go wine tasting and to the theater in New York City. I wouldn’t be able to keep up with any of that. And a penny per point is as much as I’m willing to gamble so I have no interest in playing Bingo on Tuesdays with them, either.”
It was a fair argument. Zoey had read somewhere that the year-round senior population was fewer than two hundred people, and the vast majority of them were in their mid to late sixties and still working. And since it was so secluded on the island, no one had ever built assisted living or senior housing. But Zoey kept trying to persuade her aunt, saying, “There must be at least three or four people your age living here. If not in Benjamin’s Manor, then in one of the other Hope Haven towns.”
“The only person on Dune Island who’s my age is Phineas Witherell. I can’t really picture the two of us being friends again, even though it’s been, what, some sixty years since our… our falling out.”
After years of listening to her aunt’s
stories, Zoey thought she’d heard everything Ivy had wanted to tell her about her life on Dune Island. But now, in a single sentence, she’d dropped two bombshells regarding local lore. The first was that Mr. Witherell’s given name was Phineas. No one, including Ivy, had ever mentioned that in front of Zoey before now. When she was a girl, she didn’t think he even had a first name. Phineas. Phineas Witherell. It suits him, she thought.
The second shock was that he and Ivy had once been friends. As soon as Zoey heard that, the rumors Gabi told her about Sylvia and Mr. Witherell fleetingly came to her mind. But she knew better than to give them credence; just because Ivy and Mr. Witherell had been friends didn’t mean Sylvia and Mr. Witherell had been lovers.
“I didn’t realize you and Mr. Witherell were close. I thought you hardly knew him.”
“‘Close’ is too strong of a word. But for a time when we were young, we were more than acquaintances.” She explained that the summer after her mother died, she was so inconsolable that she’d walk to the end of the peninsula where the lighthouse was and sit by herself, watching the boats coming in and going out for hours. She’d bring a lunch that the housekeeper had made, but in Ivy’s words, she was “off her food.” So she’d give it to Mr. Witherell when he’d come out to survey the grounds before going to bed.
“His schedule was upside down, since he worked all night. So he thought nothing of eating pickles and coleslaw and fried chicken at ten o’clock in the morning,” she marveled. “Sometimes he’d show me the notes he’d made in his log book. His position required him to keep track of the tides and the weather and such. He was very smart but he could really go on and on—not at all like he is now, hardly a word out of him. I think he was even lonelier than I was, back then.
“Anyway, by the next summer my mood had improved and I only walked to the end of the peninsula once or twice and when I did, he wasn’t there. I’d cross paths with him on occasion in town, but we never struck up a real conversation again… until our rift.” Ivy’s bottom lip quivered. “I’ve often regretted how I treated him that day.”
Aunt Ivy's Cottage: A totally gripping and emotional page turner Page 14
