“You were thinking you’d be a good and faithful friend,” Aggie said from the other side of the study where they were applying a fresh coat of a pale silvery blue to the walls and new white paint on the trim – the first fresh paint the room had had in nearly forty years.
Though the lack of furniture still made the mansion seem empty, newly painted walls at least diminished the derelict feel left by all the wall shadows and smudges where paintings had hung for decades on the now blank plaster, still punctuated here and there by hooks and nails.
“Fresh paint is easy,” Aggie had said when she suggested it to Aunt Cory, “and it will make the house feel so much brighter. This we can do ourselves,” she’d insisted, but, “I didn’t realize how big these rooms are,” she’d admitted to Shannon once she got started. “Fourteen foot ceilings and all the trim and mouldings.”
Cory had helped wipe down all the woodwork and walls she could reach from the floor, but “no ladders,” Aggie insisted, images of broken bones working their way into her head.
“No,” Shannon recalled now, using a clean rag to wipe the paint smear off her forehead, “you plied me with three gin and tonics before you asked me to help. I wasn’t in my right mind.”
“You don’t have a right mind,” Aggie laughed.
“Very funny,” grumbled Shannon, holding her roller handle like a spear as she took threatening jabs at Aggie.
“You wouldn’t dare,” Aggie said, but she didn’t look so sure as she circled Shannon, ready to parry the attacking roller, though her only weapon was a paintbrush.
Just then, Cory walked in. “Oh, it looks so cheerful,” she said, clasping her hands together in delight and pretending she hadn’t noticed Aggie and Shannon threatening one another with their painting implements. “You girls are doing a wonderful job. How about some lunch?”
Shannon lowered her roller, beaming. “She called us girls.”
Cory chuckled. “You could be seventy and you’d still be girls to me.”
Aggie grinned as they wrapped the brush and roller in plastic wrap to prevent them from drying out.
Approaching the kitchen, they smelled bacon frying.
“BLTs,” Cory announced. “My favorite summertime meal.”
“It smells heavenly,” Shannon said as she washed up at the sink.
“And I’m starving,” Aggie added. “Even Dad won’t be able to complain when he sees how much better the house is looking.”
As they began eating, Cory said, “Your father is not happy about this arrangement, is he?”
Aggie took her time chewing and swallowing before replying, “No, he isn’t.”
“What the hell are you thinking?” Edward Bishop had said to Aggie the week previously when she had gone to visit him at his home in Muirfield. His new wife, Clarissa, younger than Aggie by five years, and already surgically enhanced in several places, had poured him a cold beer as he came home from his round of golf. “Not only are you giving that crazy old aunt of mine false hope that she can stay there,” he’d said angrily, “but now you’re throwing your money away on that dinosaur of a house. Money you don’t have, I might add. She wasted all hers, and now she’ll bleed you.”
Aggie tried hard not to roll her eyes. Her decision to become a teacher had always been a sore point between her and her parents. “You could have done anything,” had been a frequent refrain when she was in college and for several years after. “Your brothers were smart! They went into fields that pay, for God’s sake,” she’d heard time and again.
“I like spending time with Aunt Cory,” Aggie said in her defense. “And that house is worth fixing up. It’s your family home,” she’d reminded her father. “Don’t you care about it?”
Edward scoffed as he put his feet up. “This house is bigger than that one, and it’s new. Why in the world would anyone want to hang onto something old and past its usefulness?”
Aggie stared at him and bit her lip just in time to keep herself from blurting, “And just when do you think Clarissa is going to find you old and past your usefulness?” She knew there was no way her brothers or their wives would take care of him or their mother if anything happened, and that they would expect her, as the only daughter and the one who didn’t have an important job, to be the one to take care of them. The hell with that, she thought, watching Clarissa stroke his sweaty hair, what was left of it, off his forehead, and trying not to shudder in disgust. You’d better have good long-term care lined up.
“He thinks you’re wasting your time and money here, doesn’t he?” Cory guessed slyly over their sandwiches.
Aggie met her eyes and nodded. “Yes. But he’s wrong,” she said defiantly. “I don’t understand how he can just walk away from this place.”
“Ah,” said Cory, her eyes growing misty, “some of that may be his father’s fault.”
“Grandfather Terrence?” Aggie asked in puzzlement. “How?”
* * *
Corinne runs through a freezing February rain, up the walk to the main entrance of Walter Reed General Hospital. At the front desk, a severe-looking woman is typing something with several carbons, pounding the typewriter keys to make all her copies legible.
“Excuse me,” Corinne says breathlessly, “can you help me? I just got this telegram…” She digs in her coat pocket and holds out a crumpled piece of paper. “My brother is here. Major Terrence Bishop.”
The woman, looking irritated at the interruption, pauses her typing to consult a clipboard. “Ward 10, that way –” but before she can finish, Corinne is rushing down a long corridor, scanning signs, looking for Ward 10. Skidding to a halt outside the entrance to the ward, she sees a dozen white iron-railed beds lining each side of a long, dimly-lit room.
A white-capped nurse wearing a white shawl against the chill is sitting at a desk half-way down the ward.
Corinne, dismayed as she scans the beds, does not at first see Terrence among the occupants.
“May I help you, Miss?” asks the nurse in a whisper.
“My brother, Major Terrence Bishop,” Corinne whispers back, her eyes brimming with tears as she fears the worst.
“This way,” the nurse says, leading Corinne to a bed she’s passed, not able to recognize the man lying there, most of his head wrapped in heavy white bandages, only one eye and his mouth exposed. His arms and torso are also heavily bandaged.
“Shrapnel and bullets,” the nurse whispers. “He’s sedated. I don’t know if he’ll be able to tell that you’re here,” she says kindly, pulling a straight-backed chair near, “but you may sit with him awhile.”
She resumes her work, writing in the patient charts as Corinne sits and waits. From time to time, one man or another moans or shouts out, bringing the nurse hurrying over to whisper soothingly, sometimes offering an injection or a pill after which they quiet.
Dusk is falling as dinner trays are brought to the ward, and some of the men sit propped against pillows to eat. Others can’t sit up, or can’t bend casted arms to feed themselves. Terrence doesn’t awaken.
“May I help?” Corinne asks, watching helplessly as the nurse tries to get to those who require assistance.
“Oh, yes, please,” the nurse says gratefully. She looks about Corinne’s age. “If you could feed Lieutenant Cooper, in the bed next to your brother?”
Corinne turns to the man she’d had her back to and realizes, with a shock, that he has no arms. Fumbling in her embarrassment and uncertainty, she moves the dinner tray to the bedside table and asks, “May I help you?”
“You sure can, honey,” the young soldier says with a rakish grin. Corinne pulls her chair near the bed as he sits up and wiggles his rear-end back so that he can sit against the bed’s headrails.
Corinne hesitantly lays a napkin across his chest.
“Oh, come on closer, sugar,” he coaxes. “It ain’t like you gotta worry about wandering hands.”
Corinne is so shocked that she drops the fork, its clatter echoing loudly in the room. He laughs
, which makes Corinne blush even more.
“Lieutenant, please be kind,” the nurse admonishes. “Miss Bishop has only just arrived.”
The change in Lieutenant Cooper’s attitude is instant. “Bishop? Terrence’s sister?” he asks, looking abashed.
“Yes,” Corinne says, retrieving a clean fork from the meal trolley.
He glances over at Terrence’s still figure. “We were together at Anzio. He pulled me to safety. I didn’t hear he was hit until later.” He shrugs his shoulders. “Sorry about before.”
Corinne holds out a forkful of beef stew. “It’s okay,” she smiles. “But something tells me my brother’s going to have plenty of stories to tell about you when he wakes up.”
* * *
“Poor Terrence,” Cory said, dabbing at her eyes with her napkin. “He was never the same after the war. Father was so disappointed. He had counted on Terrence taking over the bank, but Terrence wanted no part of it. He said he’d seen enough of hurting people to last him a lifetime, and all he wanted to do was read or maybe work in a store somewhere. And that’s what he did. Margorie, his wife, tried to make it work, but… she and Edward left within a year of Terrence’s return home. I don’t think Edward has ever forgiven his father for not having more ambition, not being ruthless enough to survive in business. Even as a boy, he had that hunger to prove himself, and he still does.”
Cory looked at her niece. “You probably remind him too much of his father, being content to do something you love instead of something that will make lots of money.”
Aggie sat with her head tilted to one side. “How could I live my entire life in this family and not know any of these things?” she mused. “Someone could write a book about this.”
Chapter 16
“Mr. Herrmann? This is Beryl. I have an estimated value on that trilogy,” she said. “No, I’d rather tell you in person. Will you be at the store later this afternoon? Good… I’ll see you then.”
Ridley glanced over. “You sound like you’re sitting on a golden egg.”
Beryl grinned. “I am, kind of. This was Asimov’s Foundation Trilogy, all first editions from the early 1950s. Should be worth somewhere between four and six thousand.”
“You’re kidding,” Ridley said, stunned.
“For science fiction,” Claire would have scoffed in disbelief.
“I’m not kidding,” Beryl said happily. “These just rarely come up in this condition. So, if Mr. Herrmann can find a buyer, he’ll get a very nice commission.”
Ridley looked at her quizzically. “What do you get out of this?”
Beryl shrugged. “The thrill of the hunt, mainly. He always offers me books in trade, but for something big like this, he usually shares his commission with me.”
“Mind if I go with you?” he asked casually.
“Not at all,” Beryl said. “Claire’s away at a conference this week and won’t be home until tomorrow night, so we can grab something to eat, too, if you like.” She tried not to think about the fact that Claire was at her conference with Leslie.
Ridley left the desk for several minutes to restack a trolley of books. When he returned, Beryl was sealing a large envelope.
“That isn’t by any chance going to Ohio State, is it?” he asked.
“Maybe,” Beryl shrugged with a sly smile.
“You’re really applying?” Ridley asked in surprise.
“Just to see what happens,” Beryl said noncommittally. “They probably won’t call. I’m sure they’ll get plenty of applicants more qualified than I am.”
“I doubt that,” Ridley said, “but if they do call, you’ll have a chance to look for Corinne.”
“I know,” Beryl said, looking over at him. “I just hope she’s still around to find.” She dropped the envelope in the outgoing mail box.
Several hours later, Beryl and Ridley were heading toward his car.
“Oh, my gosh,” Beryl grumbled shakily, “I can barely lift my backpack, my arms are so wiped out.”
Ridley grinned wickedly. “Aren’t arm workouts great?”
As he wove through traffic on their way to the book store, he said, “Beryl, I’ve been thinking about what you said… about dating and… relationships and… George.”
She looked over at his hands clenched tightly on the steering wheel. “What would you think,” she said, “if I were to ask George if he could join us for a bite to eat when we’re done at the book store? That way –”
“It won’t feel like a date,” Ridley finished, relieved that she understood. “And then, I can kind of… see how it goes.” He glanced over and said gratefully, “That would be great.”
Mr. Herrmann was so pleased with Beryl’s news about the Asimov Trilogy that he insisted on taking them all out to eat. Placing a small “Be Back Soon” sign in the door, he led the way to the Tabard Inn. There, they had an animated discussion that eventually got around to how George had come to work at The Scriptorium.
“After I got out of the Navy, I wanted something as far away from the military as I could find,” he said quietly. “I wandered into the store and Mr. Herrmann and I started talking, and…”
“You were in the Navy?” Beryl asked, astonished that she had never known this.
George nodded. “Naval Academy and then fifteen years in.”
“Then discharged, just like that,” said Mr. Herrmann indignantly with a snap of his fingers. “Under that Don’t Tell rule.”
Beryl’s heart lifted a bit as she saw Ridley’s eyes meet George’s in unspoken recognition. When she and Mr. Herrmann took their leave over an hour later, George and Ridley were still talking.
“Good night, my dear,” Mr. Herrmann said with a knowing smile.
“Good night.”
Beryl waited for a bus, feeling a nagging melancholy that she couldn’t explain. It wasn’t until she was nearly home and remembered with a guilty feeling of relief that Claire wouldn’t be there, that she realized she missed the anticipation of coming home to someone who wanted to be with her, eager to share her day, having waited all day to hold her and kiss her. Ridley and George, if it worked out, were just beginning all of that – the thrill of discovering someone, finding out how much you have in common, the excitement of having that relationship in your life.
“You wanted forever,” she reminded herself.
“I wanted happily ever after,” herself retorted. “There’s a difference.”
Claire’s car was parked in its usual spot in front of the rowhouse. She remembered that tomorrow was garbage day, and the car would have to be moved. Winston greeted her with yowls of hunger as she unlocked the door.
“Okay, okay,” she said, patting him and trying to make her way to the kitchen without tripping over him.
A few minutes later, as Winston ate contentedly, she looked for a spare car key. It had been months since she’d needed it as she so rarely drove Claire’s car. It wasn’t in any of the kitchen drawers, nor was it on any of the hooks on the bulletin board. Claire used to keep a spare in her briefcase, though Beryl had no idea if it was still there. Retrieving the briefcase from its cubby, she carried it to the couch. There was no key in any of the outside pockets. She unzipped an inside pocket and slid her hand in. There was a leather key fob along with some cards. A few of the cards pulled out as she withdrew her hand with the key. One of them flopped open as it landed on the carpet.
As she bent down to pick it up and return it, her eye was caught by the words written inside – “your beautiful body” and “the way you make me feel” and “when you kiss me”….
Beryl clapped a hand to her mouth as she stared at Leslie’s handwriting. Numbly, she opened and read the other cards to find more of the same. Her heart was pounding so rapidly it felt as if it had cramped into one sustained, painful spasm.
“Breathe,” she told herself. She got up, the cards falling to the floor as she began pacing aimlessly, trying to force her brain to engage.
“How many times have I apologize
d?” she said out loud as she paced. “How many times has she lied to me? Insisted Leslie’s just a lonely friend?”
Winston, who had been cleaning his whiskers, paused in his ablutions to watch her as she walked back and forth, muttering to herself, rubbing her knuckles against her forehead or clutching her hair with both hands. After several minutes, she paused her pacing.
“This is getting you nowhere,” she said. “She’s due back tomorrow night. Calm down and think.”
But as soon as she stopped moving, her brain was immediately flooded with unbidden images of Claire and Leslie together and she began pacing again.
The room darkened as the late summer twilight fell, but she didn’t notice. She was startled by the ringing of her cell phone. Half-afraid it would be Claire, she glanced at the screen. It was Ridley.
“Hey,” she said.
“What an evening,” he said happily.
“What?” It took several seconds to recall that she’d left him with George not even an hour ago. This interlude of shock and betrayal felt as if it had been going on for an eternity.
“What’s wrong?” he demanded.
A wave of tears choked her unexpectedly and she couldn’t answer.
“I’m only a few blocks away,” he said. “I’ll be right there.”
“No, Ridley, I –” but he had hung up.
Within a few minutes, the doorbell rang. Beryl opened the door to find him standing there on his crutches. He came in and, bracing himself on one crutch, held her with his other arm as she sobbed.
When she quieted a little, she led the way upstairs. Turning on a light, she realized Claire’s briefcase and the telltale cards were still lying on the floor. Wordlessly, Ridley picked up a few and read them.
Though his expression was sympathetic, he said, “If this was really a surprise, then Claire isn’t the only one who’s been lying to you.”
Beryl blew her nose and dried her eyes. “I guess you’re right. Part of me did know, and another part wanted to believe her lies, so I did.”
He tossed the cards back to the floor and said, “Okay. So what now?”
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