by Ellery Adams
Car doors slammed at the top of the driveway.
Olivia’s heart beat faster at the sound. “Even though I’d be honored to take them all, I’m happy to have just one. There is someone else you might want to give the rest of these to, someone you’ve never met.”
Wheeler wasn’t listening. He’d raised his head at the sounds coming from outside and squared his shoulders. Without looking at Olivia, he headed into the kitchen, where he stood in front of the window and peered out toward the driveway.
“That’s a good fellow, our chief, and a fine artist to boot. You could do worse, girlie.”
Rawlings had parked at the top of the long drive and was now making his way with slow deliberation down the unpaved road, a giant of a man by his side.
“Who’s the big guy?” Wheeler asked.
Exhaling, Olivia put her arm around the old man’s back. “His name is Raymond Hatcher. He was raised by Agnes Hatcher, James’s widow, but I believe he’s your son. Yours and Evelyn’s.”
Wheeler’s eyes fixed on Raymond, his face filling with wonder. Olivia could see it spread over his features, glowing like a full moon over the ocean. His mouth worked, but no sound came out. There was nothing but the radiance of this new discovery. It flowed out of his eyes, smoothing his wrinkles until he seemed young again. A young soldier. A young lover.
“We did have the one night together, but I never thought . . .” Wheeler whispered in awe. He refused to blink, drinking in every inch of the approaching figure. A smile began to form on his lips, and the closer Raymond drew, the bigger the smile became. “I’ll be damned! Look at that boy. Evie, he’s such a fine, strappin’ man.”
Olivia cast him a sidelong glance. Was he confusing her with his lost love, or was he speaking to Evelyn’s ghost?
She moved away from him, opening the door and wordlessly inviting Rawlings inside.
Raymond waited on the stoop while the chief explained the charges and read the Miranda. His tone was soft and calm and held no judgment. Not for the first time, Olivia was grateful for his professional poise, his kind heart.
Wheeler ignored him completely. He didn’t acknowledge his presence at all. He passed him by, his eyes locked on Raymond’s. They were shining with joy. It was what every child hopes to see on their parent’s face, and despite Raymond Hatcher’s sixty-odd years, he reacted as any little boy would. He opened his huge arms and enfolded his father into them, holding him tenderly and murmuring his happiness through muffled sobs.
Rawlings and Olivia retreated deeper into the kitchen to give the men some privacy. They sat at the table and waited.
“Does Ray know?” she whispered.
“He knows everything about Heinrich Kamler. That he didn’t kill James Hatcher and that he’s his father. I showed him the records. I also told him about Wheeler Ames. And that while he was innocent of one murder, he was guilty of another.”
Having seen the embrace between father and son, Olivia could tell that Ray Hatcher was prepared to accept these truths, if only to have a few minutes with a man he’d longed to meet all of his life.
Olivia reached under the polished laminate and searched for Rawlings’ hand. He clutched hers in return, and they sat in silence, seeing the echoes of the last weeks’ anguish and worry and wonder reflected in each other’s eyes.
Listening to the soft murmurs being exchanged between Ray and Wheeler, Olivia wanted nothing more than to put her head on the chief’s solid shoulder. She wanted to tell him that she was in love with him, but this was not their moment. Their time would come.
Easing her hand free, she placed her Heinrich Kamler watercolor on the table and smiled at the chief. Rawlings stared at the couple on the beach for a full minute and then brushed her cheek with his fingertips. He understood what she was silently conveying. The kiss of his fingers on her flesh was a clear message of “I’m in love with you too.”
Several evenings later, Olivia and Haviland pulled in front of the Salters’ house. A blue “Welcome Baby” balloon bounced from the mailbox, and Caitlyn was on the front lawn creating enormous, magical-looking bubbles by running across the grass with a hoop filled with a film of soapy water.
As Olivia watched, enthralled, a Chinese dragon of a bubble rippled from Caitlyn’s hoop, wriggling and glistening with oil-slick rainbows in the fading light until it popped to the sound of the little girl’s laughter.
This was why Olivia had come. She needed to be with this family, her family, to see them revolving around one another like a group of planets in orbit. She needed the noise and the joking and the certainty that Anders was truly okay.
Kim squealed upon seeing her, gushing thanks over the nursery and hugging her repeatedly. Olivia left Haviland outside to snap at bubbles and tiptoed down the hall after Kim.
“He’s asleep, but I want you to see how happy he is in the room his auntie made for him.”
Olivia waited as Kim eased the door open and then stepped back. “Take your time. I love to watch him sleep. It makes me feel like all is right with the world.”
Anders was on his back. The curtains were closed but the lamp was lit and the scattering of stars on his ceiling bathed his face with an angelic glow. He had filled out since Olivia had last seen him, and she marveled at his plump cheeks and chubby wrists, delighting in the rise and fall of his sturdy chest and the strands of silky hair covering his head.
He sighed and then smiled in his sleep. This was followed by a nearly inaudible coo. Olivia’s breath caught.
As she stood wondering what Anders dreamed of, she felt someone coming into the room. Caitlyn crossed the carpet to Olivia’s side without a sound and took her hand. Gazing up at her with compassion, she whispered, “They fixed his heart, Aunt Olivia. He’s all better now. Everything’s gonna be okay.”
Olivia couldn’t believe that such a young child had seen that she was in need of comfort. She knelt down and tucked a strand of loose hair behind Caitlyn’s ear, her heart overflowing. “Thank you, honey. I really wanted someone to say those exact words to me.”
And then Olivia held her niece close, trying her hardest to believe the little girl’s promise.
Chapter 18
Love is the flower of life, and blossoms unexpectedly and without law, and must be plucked where it is found.
—D.H. LAWRENCE
It would take Oyster Bay a long time to recover from the shock.
From the outside, everything looked the same. The shops and beaches were filled with tanned tourists, and the rental homes and hotels were booked right through the first weekend of September. The locals smiled and appeared to be as merry and carefree as always, preserving the utopian image of their seaside town.
But in the privacy of bars like Fish Nets, the less glamorous hair salons, and on the fishing boats, people whispered about what had happened. They talked and wondered and argued over Wheeler’s crime and then tied on their aprons or rolled up their sleeves and got back to work.
The Bayside Book Writers took a hiatus. Only Laurel was able to put pen to paper following Wheeler’s arrest. Reluctantly, she wrote the article unveiling the identity of Nick Plumley’s killer. It was her finest piece to date. The front page spread was read by wide-eyed townsfolk and fascinated tourists, the latter flocking to Bagels ’n’ Beans so they could later brag to neighbors and coworkers that they’d bought a bagel or a cappuccino from the killer’s café.
Wheeler’s employees, with a little guidance from Olivia, were struggling to keep the place running smoothly until Ray Hatcher decided what would become of it. The café belonged to him now, as Wheeler had legally transferred all of his worldly possessions to his son the morning after his arrest.
Ray, who’d spoken to Olivia shortly after a DNA test confirmed that Wheeler was his father, didn’t seem interested in the windfall. He quit his job, moved into Wheeler’s house, and spent his free time visiting his father in jail and avoiding the press. Rumor had it that he had enrolled in an introductory painting class at the
community college and, come September, would see whether or not he’d inherited any of Heinrich Kamler’s artistic talent.
As for Wheeler, he’d known that he would never return to Oyster Bay following his arrest. After confessing to murder and admitting that he was once a prisoner of war, he faced federal and state charges and was sure to spend the remainder of his life in prison. Before he was sentenced, he’d written Olivia a letter asking her to help Ray sell his paintings.
“If they’re worth anything, you’ll know how to get the most money for them on behalf of my boy,” he’d written. “And don’t let Ray spend a dime on lawyers. Being with him every day has been a gift I probably don’t deserve. For the first time since I left my tent that night to follow Ziegler, I feel alive. I hear the deputy call my name and I know my son is waiting for me down the hall. He’s got Evie’s eyes.”
Olivia had folded the letter in half and put it down on her desk blotter. Covering it with her palm, she made several phone calls regarding the paintings. Then, after sharing her opinion with Ray, she contacted Shala Knowles.
“We have one hundred and twenty-five Heinrich Kamler originals to lend your museum,” she’d told the thunderstruck curator. “You may have them for a total of ninety days and then they’re to be sold. Yours will be the only comprehensive exhibit of Kamler’s work. Can you drop everything and set up a space for the first of next month?”
Shala eventually found her tongue and assured Olivia that she and her staff would work tirelessly to mount the finest possible exhibit.
“Then I’ll bring the paintings to you tomorrow morning,” Olivia said. “But I have one condition.”
“Yes?” Shala asked, her voice still quavering with excitement.
“I’m sure you’ve read about the criminal charges brought against Mr. Kamler, but his son and I would like his art, and not the newspaper headlines, to speak for his life. I must personally approve any biographical information you plan to print in museum brochures or advertisements regarding the exhibit. Mr. Kamler’s son has graciously agreed to put off the sale of these paintings at my request. I told him that I owed both you and the museum a favor.”
Shala made a sound of protest at the other end. “I was just doing my job, Ms. Limoges.”
“But with a rare blend of sincerity and passion,” Olivia said before her voice became steely. “However, if I read a single line mentioning Kamler’s connection to the death of author Nick Plumley or a World War Two prison guard from Camp New Bern, I will storm into your museum and rip his paintings right off the wall.” She let her threat hang between them for a moment. “Do I have your word that you’ll show me any material you mean to print on Kamler?”
The curator hesitated. Olivia knew she was asking this woman to deliberately ignore the sensational details of the artist’s life, details that would lure hundreds of new visitors to the museum. “Do you mind if I ask why you’re so keen on protecting Kamler?”
“He’s been living in my town for over forty years, but I knew him under a different name,” Olivia explained. “In fact, he’s a friend. A close one.”
Shala absorbed this unbelievable revelation in silence and then said, “In that case, I promise to respect your wishes, and I can’t tell you how grateful I am that you’re giving us this opportunity.”
Olivia’s final call was to an auction gallery in Hills-borough, the same town where Mabel, Evelyn’s girlhood friend, passed her days in an assisted-living facility. The auction company had an excellent track record with art sales, and Olivia planned to bring Mabel to the preview so she could pick out a painting—a painting that Olivia would later purchase for her.
As for Olivia’s Kamler original watercolor, it hung from the narrow wall of her bedroom, directly in the middle of a pair of large windows facing the ocean. It was one of the first things Olivia saw just before falling asleep and again when she woke.
While early-morning sunrays fell into her room, she would stare at the old couple walking along the sand. Her eyes always found them first and then drifted to the water beyond her window. The picture elicited a contradictory mixture of sadness and hope, but Olivia loved it all the same.
When she drove to Wheeler’s house the next day, it was jarring to be met at the front door by Ray. He seemed a little embarrassed to invite her inside a home that had belonged to his father for so many years, but Olivia was pleased to know that Ray was living there. He and the house were well suited. Each was weathered and worn but sturdy enough to bear the most ferocious storm. They were survivors, just as Wheeler was.
Together, Ray and Olivia collected the bundle of paintings and carried them to the Range Rover. Ray stroked Haviland’s fur, his gaze fixed on the harbor, and in that moment, Olivia felt as if Wheeler were right there with them. “Did you keep any of the paintings?”
He nodded. “Yeah. I liked the ones of the peanut farms and paper mills. And I kept two of the bakery pictures. That’s how my dad ended up with the bagel shop, you know. It used to be the town bakery.” Ray led Olivia and Haviland into the bedroom and showed her a watercolor featuring shelves of pastries, breads, and cakes. “He worked in the back, baking bread and pies and cakes, for almost twenty years. He loved the job and was real good at it. He and the baker grew close, and when the man died, he left the place to my dad. I think that’s so cool.”
“Me too,” Olivia agreed. “What will you do with the bagel shop?”
Ray shook his head. “I dunno. I gave one of the full-time guys a raise and told him to manage it for now. I can’t worry about that place. I only have so much time left with my dad.”
Having lived a lifetime without knowing the names of his biological parents, Raymond Hatcher wasn’t going to waste a second serving bagels and coffee to tourists when he could be with Wheeler instead.
Olivia thought back on the scant number of hours she’d had with her own father before he died. She smiled at Ray. “You’ve given him what he’s wanted his entire life.”
“What’s that?” Ray asked, flustered by the compliment.
Opening the passenger door for Haviland, Olivia watched the poodle hop inside and then turned back to Ray. “A family and a home. In you, he’s found both of those things.”
A few weeks later, the Bayside Book Writers donned suits and cocktail dresses and drove to Raleigh to celebrate the opening of the largest exhibit of Heinrich Kamler work ever assembled.
The museum’s illuminated gallery was packed with people. Carrying champagne glasses, they murmured to one another in discreet excitement as they studied the paintings. Laurel, who planned to interview several art connoisseurs for her next article, had actually brought Steve to the gala. The couple appeared rather stiff with each other, but Olivia noticed that Steve was serving as his wife’s photographer and seemed to be enjoying the role. He’d show her the images he’d captured while she scribbled quotes down in a notebook.
“We’re seeing a marriage counselor,” Laurel told Olivia when Steve left the room to sample the array of heavy hors d’oeuvres in the lobby. The two women stood shoulder to shoulder in front of the painting that had started it all; the snow scene of the cabin in the woods.
“I’m glad to see you together tonight,” Olivia said, and surprisingly, she meant it. She pointed at the cabin on the hill. “Maybe you and Steve could find a place like that and hide away for a few days.”
Laurel nodded. “That’s not a bad idea. One of my friends has a cabin in Boone. I bet she’d let me borrow it for a long weekend.” Her blue eyes grew watery, and she spoke so quietly that Olivia barely heard her. “I wonder what it’s like, to know a love that powerful.”
Olivia gave her friend’s hand a brief squeeze.
“During our interview, Wheeler told me about the art lessons he gave Evelyn. They were chaperoned at first, but after a few months, the guards gave them more and more space. It was as if the whole camp wanted to believe that the two of them could make it together, despite the odds.” Laurel dabbed at her eyes with a
tissue. “Everyone shared in their story, everyone wanted to play a part in the fantasy. I guess a world at war has no magic left.”
“No. Their world was filled with propaganda and rations and uniformed men at the front door, holding telegrams,” Olivia said softly. “But Heinrich and Evelyn were the antithesis of all that—they were young and full of laughter and as bright as the stars.”
Catching a tear with the tip of her finger, Laurel sighed. “It was the hardest article I’ve ever had to write. It was nearly impossible to remain objective.”
“You did an amazing job,” Olivia said. “What did Steve think of the job offers you got from papers in Raleigh and Charlotte?”
Laurel smiled. “He asked me if I wanted to leave Oyster Bay, especially after all that’s happened to our town, but I told him that I loved every inch of it. Even the ugly parts. We’re not going anywhere.” She winked at Olivia. “In fact, the retired schoolteacher I hired to watch the twins started work this week. The boys are crazy about her.”
“Who’s crazy?” Harris inquired, joining the women in front of the winter scene.
Millay materialized seconds later, a vision of jade green silk, and took the arm Harris offered. He looked every inch the southern gentleman in a tux with a white jacket, and Olivia gazed at him fondly. Having been with him when he’d been shot, having pressed her shirt against his wound, she would forever feel protective of Harris Williams.
“Harris! You could be the next James Bond!” Laurel exclaimed. “Very debonair.”
Dipping his chin in recognition of the compliment, Harris produced a rose from the inside of his jacket and presented it to Millay. She rolled her eyes and pretended to be embarrassed but accepted the flower. Snapping off the stem, she put the rose behind her ear, a splash of red against the canvas of her black hair. Olivia did not miss the smile in Millay’s eyes as she shot a quick look at Harris.
