~ ~ ~
For several days the residents looked for Wilbur’s watch, and at some point Rose suggested perhaps a search of every room would be beneficial. Max enjoyed the day-to-day misery of the watch’s disappearance and agreed. “What harm would it do,” he said, confident in the knowledge that the tick of the timepiece was muffled in three layers of socks and stuffed between the bed frame and box spring where no one would possibly think to look. In a strange and perhaps slightly deranged way, he enjoyed playing this game of cat and mouse. It made him feel smarter and stronger than the others. He was the game master. They were the pawns to be sacrificed, lambs led to slaughter.
Once he found he could roam the house in the wee hours of morning with no one being the wiser, Max launched a series of nightly raids. At about nine o’clock he’d set the stage with several yawns, the kind that catches hold of others and has them following suit. Not small stifled yawns hidden in back of a cupped hand; they were big, wide open, and with arms outstretched. It was both obvious and intentional. By the time Max announced he was ready to retire, most everyone else was also.
Harriet, Laricka, Louie, and even the doc were no problem; two or three well-orchestrated yawns and they toddled off to bed. Rose was less suggestible, but she went to bed when the child went to bed and never opened the door before morning.
Caroline could have been a problem, but now that she’d gone back to working on her novel she hibernated in the attic loft all evening. A glow of light was visible beneath her door, but she was oblivious to anything happening downstairs. Max could have stumbled over a hassock or banged against the wall, and she wouldn’t have heard it.
The only real problem was Wilbur—suspicious, eagle-eyed Wilbur, generally the last one to bed.
Once he closed the door to his room, Max stretched himself across the bed and waited until he heard the thump of Wilbur falling onto the mattress. Sometimes it was ten or fifteen minutes, other times it was hours, but he remained patient and after the thump he continued to wait until the chorus of muffled snores began.
Certain he could roam without interruption, Max pocketed loose change left lying on the countertop or the end table. He rummaged through the drawers of the dining room buffet and took several pieces of silver from the cupboard. He was clever enough to focus on the seldomly-used things, things that wouldn’t be noticed when they went missing. When Thanksgiving rolled around Caroline might go in search of the silver turkey platter, but by then it would be too late. On a night when he could find nothing else of worth, he pocketed a still-in-the-box set of tiny salt dishes rimmed with gold.
All of the thefts went unnoticed.
When Caroline counted the blessings of Ida’s love she never thought to do an inventory of the household goods, so when the silver serving spoons and salt dishes went missing she was none the wiser.
The Storyteller
In the days following the Maggie Sue sighting, the Sweetwater house settled into a time of quiet calm. The disappearance of Wilbur’s watch remained a mystery, but other than that there were few disturbances. Max continued his nightly raids but the things he took were not readily missed, and the thefts went undetected.
Feeling smug and self-satisfied with his endeavors, Max took on the appearance of a changed man. He came to dinner every night and was reasonably cordial to everyone including know-it-all Louie and little Sara, even though the child’s constant chattering at times grated on his nerves. When that happened, he would close his ears to her voice and concentrate on what bounty the nightly raid would bring; once he’d pictured the gleam of a silver spoon or the jangle of loose coins, he could smile and nod as if he were listening.
The evening Louie announced he had finished building Sara’s playhouse, Max even offered a burst of applause. The corners of his mouth curled at the edges, but it was only because he remembered Louie’s smashed thumb.
The new Max was not just tolerable but at times could seem charming. It was only a few days before Harriet regained her interest and suggested he stop in some evening for a nightcap. Of course after Maggie Sue Max saw Harriet as a poor substitute, but he nonetheless returned her smile and gave a sly wink.
The only resident not fooled by Max’s new persona was Wilbur. After so many years of living, he knew lions did not suddenly become vegetarians. Max was a killer at heart. He wasn’t one who’d willingly give up ownership of what he believed to be his. Nor was he likely to let go of the hatred he had for Ida’s granddaughter.
Wilbur kept a sharp eye on Max and a watchful eye on Caroline. When the others went to bed he stayed awake, sometimes for an hour or two, sometimes longer. He waited and listened for footsteps on the stairs. Only after he was certain the house was secure for the night did Wilbur close his eyes and sleep.
With Rose now doing most of the cooking, Caroline returned to writing. She spent long hours in the attic loft, composing paragraphs then deleting them. Although Matthew and Claire were once so vivid in her mind they had now morphed into dull, grey characters, characters without feeling or a sense of purpose. Remembering Peter Pennington’s promise that the desk held many stories, Caroline would at times take her hands from the computer keyboard and place them flat on the desk, waiting for inspiration to come, perhaps spelled out like words on a Ouija board.
On the Wednesday following his encounter with Max, Wilbur sat in the darkened parlor listening for the sound of trouble and waiting for the day to end. From the corner of his eye he caught the movement of a shadow that slid silently through the hall and up the stairs. Wilbur stood and walked to the foot of the staircase, but by then the figure had disappeared. On the second floor there was a bath and the bedrooms of four people: Harriet Chowder, Rose Smith, Doctor Payne, and Wilbur himself. Up the second flight of stairs was the attic loft where Caroline slept and worked.
Without waiting Wilbur started up the stairs and continued to the attic. From inside Caroline’s room he heard the sound of her voice, soft, low, muffled almost, and thick with a sorrowful undertone. He rapped on the door and without hesitation eased it open.
Caroline was sitting at the computer staring at an almost blank screen.
“I heard voices,” Wilbur said. “Are you okay?”
Caroline answered with a smile and a nod. “I was talking to myself.”
“Well, if you need somebody to talk to, I’m here.”
“Thanks.” Caroline laughed. “I wasn’t actually talking to myself; I was going over the dialogue in my story.” She paused a moment, then sighed, “At one time I thought this was the most wonderful story, but now…”
“Now what?”
She shrugged. “Now it sounds so silly. Fake almost. Matthew and Claire are like plastic dolls trying to pretend they’re real people.” Caroline gave a weary sigh. “Maybe I’m not meant to be a writer.”
“I doubt that’s true,” Wilbur said. “My understanding is the Lord hands out talent based on where a person’s heart is. You’ve got a heart for storytelling, so maybe you just need to search for the right story.”
“But this is the right story,” Caroline replied. “It’s exactly the way I imagined Greg would act if he wasn’t so egotistical and self-centered.”
Wilbur chuckled. “Oh, I get it. You thought you were in love with this Greg—”
“I was in love with him,” Caroline said indignantly.
“No, you weren’t.” Wilbur laughed. “You were in love with the image of who you wanted him to be.”
“Well, sure, I wanted him to be different, but that’s only because I could see—”
Wilbur interrupted her with another chuckle.
“What’s so funny?” Caroline asked.
“You thinking you were in love,” Wilbur answered. “You might have been infatuated, but you weren’t in love.”
Caroline sputtered a few words of objection but before she could get going, Wilbur began. “Love is blind. It doesn’t see faults. The man married to a fat woman doesn’t see her as fat; he sees her as ju
st right for his arms. The woman married to a drunk doesn’t see him as a drunk; she believes he’s a man under pressure who simply needs a drink every now and then. That’s how love is.”
He continued to speak, but as Caroline listened she thought back to her conversation with Rose. Although Joe was mean and abusive, Rose never stopped loving him. She was fearful of him, and yet she made excuses for his behavior and turned a blind eye. It was only because of the great love for her daughter that Rose allowed herself to leave. The sorry truth was, if Joe were to show up at the door Rose, or Rowena as he would call her, would most likely allow him to take her in his arms. However foolish or irresponsible that might be, it was the blind love Wilbur spoke of.
Caroline could not say the same about Greg. She saw his faults. They were as obvious as the nose on his face. Although it had taken time for her to come to this conclusion, she knew when she saw the Philadelphia skyline fading from the rearview mirror of her car she had already stopped loving Greg.
“I see what you mean,” Caroline said. “I guess a person who hasn’t known love shouldn’t be writing about it.”
Wilbur’s voice softened. “You’ve known love. Maybe it wasn’t the soulmate passion of a man-woman romance, but love has a lot of different faces. You loved your Grandma and she loved you. She loved you so much she wanted you to have the most-loved thing she had to give—this house. The house has its faults, but she loved it just as she loved the man who built it. The thing about love is, a person or thing doesn’t have to be perfect for you to love it. It only has to be perfect for you.”
Caroline’s eyes began to fill with tears. “I see what you mean,” she said wistfully. “I saw plenty of faults with Greg but I didn’t see any with Grandma. Everything she did was generous and kind and wonderful.” She stood, walked over to Wilbur, wrapped her arms around his waist, and hugged him. “Thank you,” she whispered.
~ ~ ~
After Wilbur left the room Caroline sat there for a long time, thinking. It was after midnight when she closed the file she’d been working on and opened a new one.
At the top of the page she typed, “Untitled by Caroline Sweetwater.”
~ ~ ~
I never knew I had a grandmother, she wrote, until one day the telephone rang and changed my life. It was near dawn when she saved the file and powered off the computer. Caroline climbed into bed still uncertain whether she had begun to write a novel or an autobiography. The story was without name or genre, but it had a heart as big as the house and spoke in the true voice of love.
She thought about Wilbur’s words again and decided to add him to the story. He would be the grandfather she never knew. Pleased with such a thought, Caroline began assembling all of Wilbur’s endearing traits and habits and that’s when she remembered the missing watch.
Tomorrow she would revisit the Previously Loved Treasures shop. After nearly a week Wilbur’s watch was still nowhere to be found and she had a lot of questions. Peter Pennington was generally a man with answers. He also had an uncanny ability to come up with whatever was needed. Perhaps hoping for a third replica of the watch would be asking the impossible, but then again maybe it wouldn’t.
Caroline
If yesterday you asked what I was writing I would have said a love story, but it would have been a lie. The book I’ve been working on for almost a year is nothing more than a bunch of romantic words tied together. It’s like a string of Christmas lights with a bulb missing. It’s only one bulb, but without it nothing else works.
Now I truly am writing a love story. It’s about Grandma. Before last night I couldn’t put my finger on what was wrong with the story, but now I can it see it clear as day. Wilbur’s the one who helped me. He might not look like a romantic, but he is. It’s the snowy white hair that fools you. If you look past the hair and listen to Wilbur’s words, you’ll see he’s got the most beautiful heart imaginable. When he was talking about Grandma and how she was one of the most loving women he’d ever met, I noticed his eyes were a bit teary. I can tell he misses her, maybe even as much as I do.
Yesterday evening after he went back downstairs, I took the picture of Grandma and Big Jim and set it alongside my computer. It’s just a snapshot but it gives me inspiration, and if I look at it and squint Big Jim looks a lot like Wilbur. It would be real easy to imagine Wilbur being my granddaddy.
There’s not a day that goes by when I don’t think of Grandma. I keep wishing we could have had more time together. I guess that’s how life is—the bad things hang on forever and the good things are gone in the blink of an eye. I don’t know if it’s true or if it just seems that way because you miss the good things so much. I sure do miss Grandma. At least I can be here in her house with the people she loved. The residents, she called them. It’s funny but I can almost see a piece of Grandma stuck to every one of these people. Well, everyone except Rose and Sara, they don’t have Grandma stuck to them because they never knew her.
The truth is these people are more like family than any family I’ve ever known. Most families squabble about this, that, and the other thing, but not the residents. They have nothing but kind words for each other. Even Max. It used to be he was angry and withdrawn, but no more. Now he’s downright pleasant. Yesterday at supper, Harriet said something funny and Max laughed out loud. Up until then I’d never even seen him crack a smile.
With Rose cooking and Max being happy, I’m starting to believe things can actually work out, but I still miss Grandma.
The Wristwatch
It was after ten when Caroline opened one sleepy eye and peered at the bedside clock. She’d slept through breakfast and halfway through the morning. “Oh, dear,” she said, realizing that Rose had been left to handle things on her own.
It was nothing to worry about; Rose was magical in the kitchen. In less time than it would take for anyone else to assemble the ingredients, Rose could turn out a tray of biscuits golden brown and fluffy as air.
Caroline smiled a lazy smile and remained in bed thinking about the words she’d written last night. For a year she’d stumbled around the descriptions of love, dredging up adjectives like “passionate”, “adoring”, and “devoted”. In the one hundred-and-twenty-six pages she’d set aside there was a plethora of those words, but not once had she captured the truth of love. Then last night she found what she’d been searching for and was pleased with the words. They came together the way puffs of down come together to make a cozy comforter. As she’d sat in the chair rereading what she’d written she could feel the peacefulness of Ida’s presence, and it settled into her soul as if it was meant to be there.
As she climbed out of bed, Caroline touched her hand to the old wooden desk. Was it true? Were there stories locked inside the desk, stories that would in time be hers for the telling? There was a blurred line between the magical mystery and what could be nothing more than wishful thinking.
Today she would visit the Previously Loved Treasures shop and try to replace Wilbur’s lost watch. While she was there, Caroline would ask Peter Pennington for the truth of the desk. But before she did either of those things, she had something important to do. Holding the seven pages in her hand, she hurried down the stairs. Wilbur sat on the front porch alone.
Caroline came up behind him and threw her arms around his neck. “Thank you,” she said and squeezed tighter.
“For what?” Wilbur asked.
She plopped down in the chair beside him. “For reminding me about Grandma.”
Wilbur looked at the papers in her hand and smiled. “So, is that a story about Ida?”
“It sure is.” Caroline straightened the pages and began reading aloud.
As Wilbur listened, a tear fell from his eye. He also felt Ida’s presence, but along with it came the heartache of longing for something forever lost. When Caroline finished reading, he said, “It’s beautiful. Your grandma would be so very proud.”
~ ~ ~
That afternoon after Caroline helped Rose with the lunch dish
es, she climbed into her car and headed for town. When she pulled up in front of the store, Peter Pennington was not standing outside. He was also not standing behind the counter. Caroline waited a few minutes then called out, “Yoo-hoo! Mister Pennington?”
Seconds later he hurried from the back room wiping a smudge of mustard from his upper lip. “Please forgive me. I was not expecting you today.”
“No problem,” Caroline replied. “I wasn’t actually planning to be—”
Before she could finish her thought, Peter interrupted, “But I’m supposed to know what you are going to do before you do it.” His glasses slid down a bit, and he pushed them back into place. “This is highly irregular. Highly irregular.”
Caroline wrinkled her nose. “That’s silly. How could you possibly know what I’m going to do before I even decide to do it?”
“That’s the way it is. It’s the way it’s always been.”
Before she had time to question his answer, Peter peered over his constantly sliding down glasses and asked what she was there for. “I’ve nothing scheduled for you.”
“Oh, I haven’t ordered anything,” Caroline replied. “But it seems that Mister Washington has misplaced his pocket watch again. I was wondering if you possibly might have another replacement.”
“Oh, dear, another thing that wasn’t supposed to happen.”
“Well, of course it wasn’t supposed to happen,” Caroline said. “People don’t intentionally go around misplacing things. I’m sure it was an accident.”
Peter Pennington shook his head doubtfully. “Not an accident. Definitely not an accident.”
“How can you be certain?” Caroline asked. “Wilbur’s up in years, he might well have left the watch someplace and simply forgotten.”
“No.” Peter bunched his eyebrows together and shook his head again. “Not likely. If that were going to happen, I would have known about it.”
Previously Loved Treasures Page 18
