It was a long time before he fell asleep, and when he did, the fire was finally dying. The embers were a soft glow in the room, and the snow had stopped falling beyond the windows. And when he woke up in the morning, the woman who owned the inn was knocking on his door with warm blueberry muffins and a pot of steaming coffee.
I thought you might like this, Mr. Waterston. She smiled at him, as he opened the door to her with a towel wrapped tightly around his waist. He had sent all his pajamas to storage, and kept forgetting to buy new ones. But she had no objection at all to seeing his long, lean, muscular body. It only made her wish she were twenty years younger.
Thanks so much, he said, smiling at her, still looking sleepy and a little bit tousled. And when he drew back the curtains, he stood staring at how beautiful it looked. The snow lay in graceful drifts and her husband was outside shoveling the driveway.
You'll want to be careful driving today, she warned.
Is it icy? he asked conversationally, but he didn't look worried.
Not yet. But it will be later on. They say it's going to snow again this afternoon. There's a storm front coming down from the Canadian border. But he didn't mind at all. He had all the time in the world, and he could drive through New England in twenty-mile increments if he had to. He was in no rush to do anything, not even go skiing, although he was looking forward to it. He hadn't skied in the States since he'd lived there. He and Carole had gone to Sugarbush in the old days, while he'd lived in New York. But he had already decided to go someplace different. He didn't need any more pilgrimages to places where he had memories of her. Especially not over Christmas.
Charlie left the inn an hour later, showered and dressed in ski pants and a parka, carrying the thermos of coffee he'd bought from them. And he got on Interstate 91 without difficulty, and headed toward Massachusetts. He drove steadily for a long time, and he was surprised by how clear the road was. The snow scarcely slowed him at all, and he never even needed to put on the chains the rental company had provided. It was easy driving until he reached Whately, and then it began to snow lightly, and he watched the snowflakes collect on his windshield.
He was tired by then, and he was surprised to see how far he'd come. He had been driving for hours,, and he was just on the outskirts of Deerfield. He had no particular destination in mind, but he decided to try and press on for a while, just so he wouldn't have as far to drive to Vermont the next morning. But by the time he passed Deerfield, it was really snowing.
Historic Deerfield was remarkably picturesque, and he was tempted to stop and look around. He had gone there with his parents as a child, and remembered his fascination with seeing the three-hundred-year-old houses that had been preserved there. Even as a child, he had been fascinated with all things architectural, and his visit had made a big impression. But he decided it was too late to stop now, and he wanted to press on. With luck, he might even make the Vermont border. He had no particular route or plan in mind, he just wanted to keep going, and he was constantly in awe of how beautiful it was, how sweet the towns were. He drove through covered bridges and past historical towns, and he knew that there were waterfalls nearby. If it had been summer, he would have stopped and walked, and maybe even gone swimming. New England was where he had grown up. This was his home, and he suddenly realized that it wasn't an accident that he had come here. He had come here to heal, and to touch familiar ground. Maybe at last, it was time for his mourning to end, and for him to recover. Six months before, he couldn't even imagine it, but now he felt as though the healing process had begun because he had come here.
He passed the Deerfield Fort and remembered his boyhood fascination with that landmark, but he only smiled as he drove on, remembering his father. He had told Charlie wonderful tales about the Indians along the Mohawk Trail, which Deerfield was on, and the Iroquois and the Algonquin. Charlie had loved hearing about them as a child, and his father had always had a remarkable store of knowledge. He had been an American history professor at Harvard, and trips like these had always been a special gift from father to son, as had been the tales that he told him. It made Charlie suddenly think about him again now, and wish that he could have told him about Carole. Thinking about both of them brought tears to his eyes, but he had to stop dreaming and concentrate on the road again as the snow began to fall harder. He had only come ten miles in half an hour since Deerfield. But it was getting too difficult to see now.
He passed a sign on the way into a small town, and saw that he was in Shelburne Falls. As closely as he could figure it, he had gone about ten miles northwest of Deerfield, and the frozen river running nearby was the Deerfield River. It was a small, quaint-looking little town, nestled on the hillside, looking out over the valley. And as the snow swirled around him ever more furiously, Charlie abandoned all thought of driving on to Vermont. It didn't seem wise to go any farther, and he wondered if he could find an inn or a small hotel. All he could see around him were small, neatly tended homes as he kept driving. And it was nearly impossible to drive now.
He stopped the car for a minute, unsure which way to go, and then rolled down the window. He could see a street leading off to the left somewhere, and turned the car slowly, deciding to try it. He was afraid to put the car into a skid on the fresh snow, but the snow tires held, and he headed slowly down the street that paralleled the Deerfield River, and just as he was beginning to feel lost and think he had best turn back again, he saw a neat, shingled house with a widow's walk and a white picket fence around it. And the sign hanging outside the fence said simply PALMER: BED AND BREAKFAST. It was just what he wanted. And he pulled carefully into the driveway.
There was a mailbox that looked like a birdhouse outside, and a big Irish setter came bounding through the snow wagging her tail as she saw him. He stopped and patted her, keeping his chin down as the snow swirled around him, and he made his way to the front door and made use of the well-polished brass knocker. But for a long time no one answered, and Charlie began to wonder if anyone was at home. There were lights on inside, but there was no sound, and the Irish setter sat down next to him and looked up at him expectantly as they waited.
He had just given up, and started down the front steps again, when the door opened cautiously and a small white-haired woman looked at him, as though wondering why he had come there. She was neatly dressed in a gray skirt and pale blue sweater, she had a string of pearls around her neck, and she had snow-white hair pulled back into a bun, and brilliant blue eyes that seemed to examine every inch of him as he stood there. She looked like some of the older women he'd known in Boston as a child, and she seemed an unlikely candidate to be running a bed and breakfast. But she also made no move to open the door any farther.
Yes? She opened the door only slightly wider to let the dog inside, and she looked up at Charlie with curiosity, but there was no sign of welcome. May I help you?
I saw the sign ' I thought ' are you closed for the winter? Maybe she only ran it in the summer, he thought to himself, some of the bed and breakfasts did that.
I didn't expect anyone over the holidays, she said cautiously. There's a motel on the highway to Boston. It's just past Deerfield.
Thank you ' I'm sorry ' I ' He felt embarrassed to have intruded on her. She seemed so ladylike and so polite that he felt like some kind of hooligan barging in on her without warning or invitation. But as he apologized, she smiled at him, and he was startled at how alive her eyes were. They were almost electric, they were so full of energy and life, and yet he could tell from looking at her that she had to be in her late sixties, and he suspected that not long since she had once been very pretty. She was delicate and genteel, and she surprised him as she took a step back and opened the door wide enough for him to enter.
Don't apologize, she smiled. I was just surprised. I wasn't expecting anyone. I'm afraid I forgot my manners. Would you like to come in for something warm to drink? I'm not really set up for visitors right now. I usually only get paying guests in the warmer weathe
r. He hesitated on the doorstep as he looked at her, wondering if he should drive on while he still could, and find the motel she had recommended. But it was very tempting to come in and visit with her. He could see from the doorway how handsome the living room was. It was a beautifully built old house, possibly even from Revolutionary days, there were heavy beams overhead, carefully laid floors, and he could see that the room was filled with lovely antiques and English and Early American paintings. Come in ' Glynnis and I will behave, I promise. She indicated the dog as she said her name, and the big setter wagged her tail furiously as though endorsing the promise. I didn't mean to be so inhospitable. I was just startled. And as she spoke to him, Charlie found himself unable to resist the invitation, and walked into the warm, welcoming living room that seemed to engulf him like magic. It was even lovelier than he had suspected from the doorway. There was a fire burning in the grate, and there was a remarkably beautiful antique piano in the corner.
I'm sorry to intrude. I was driving north to Vermont, and the snow got too heavy to drive any farther. He looked at her admiringly, thinking about how pretty she still was, and how graceful, as she walked into her kitchen and he followed. She put a big copper kettle on, and he couldn't help noticing that everything was spotless.
What a beautiful home you have ' is it Mrs. Palmer? He remembered the name on the sign, and she smiled in answer.
It is. Thank you. And you are? She looked at him like a schoolteacher expecting an answer, and this time he smiled. He didn't know who she was, or why he had come here, but he instantly knew that he loved her.
Charles Waterston, he said, extending a hand to her politely, and she shook it. Her hands were very smooth and young for her age, her nails were neatly manicured, and she wore a plain gold wedding band. That and the pearls she wore were her only jewelry. All the spare money she'd ever had she'd put into the antiques and paintings that he saw all around him. But their quality wasn't lost on Charles, who had seen too many fine things in his childhood, and in London, to ignore them.
And where are you from, Mr. Waterston? Mrs. Palmer asked as she prepared their tea tray. He had no idea if he was being invited to tea, or would be allowed to spend the night in her establishment, and he didn't dare ask her. If she wasn't going to let him stay, he knew he should press on before the snowstorm got worse, and the roads too icy. But he didn't say a word about it, as he watched her put a silver teapot on an embroidered linen cloth that was much older than she was.
That's an interesting question, he said with a smile, as she waved him to a comfortable leather chair in front of the fire in her kitchen. There was a George III butler's table in front of it, which she liked to serve tea on. I've been living in London for the last ten years, and I'll be going back after the holidays. But I'Ve just come from New York, yesterday in fact. I'Ve been there for the past two months, and I was planning to spend a year there, but now it would appear that I can go back to London. It was as simply as he could explain it, without going into all the details. And she smiled gently as she looked at him, as though she understood far more than he had told her.
A change of plans?
You could say that, he said, as he patted the dog, and then looked up at his hostess again. It was as though she had been expecting him, as she put a plate of cinnamon cookies on the table.
Don't let Glynnis eat them, she warned, and he laughed, and then he thought he should ask her if he was intruding. It was nearly dinnertime, and there was no reason for her to be serving tea to him, particularly if she didn't take in guests during the winter. But she seemed to be enjoying the visit. Glynnis particularly likes cinnamon, although she's also quite partial to oatmeal. Mrs. Palmer explained about the dog, as Charlie smiled at the owner of the erstwhile Cookie Monster, wondering if she had lived there all her life. It was difficult to look at Mrs. Palmer, and not wonder about her story. She seemed surprisingly elegant, and very fragile. Will you be going back to New York again, Mr. Waterston, before you return to London?
I don't think so. I'm on my way to ski in Vermont, and I thought I'd fly back via Boston. I'm afraid New York isn't my favorite town, although I lived there for a long time. I've been spoiled by living in Europe.
She smiled very gently at him then, as she sat down across from him, at the small, distinguished table. My husband was English. We used to visit there once in a while, to see his relatives, but he was happy here, and once they died, we never went back. He said he had everything he wanted here in Shelburne Falls. She smiled at her guest, and there was something unsaid in her eyes. Charlie couldn't help wondering what it was, if it was grief, or merely memory, or love for a man with whom she had shared a lifetime. He wondered if, at her age, he would still look like that when he spoke of Carole.
And where are you from? he asked, sipping the delicious tea she had brewed for him. It was Earl Grey, and he was a tea drinker, but he had never tasted anything like it. There was something truly magical about her.
I'm from right here, she said with a smile, setting her cup down. The china was Wedgwood, and as delicate as she was. The entire scene reminded Charlie of the many places and people he'd met on his travels around England. I've lived in Shelburne Falls all my life. In this house, actually, it belonged to my parents. And my son went to school in Deerfield. He found it hard to believe as he looked at her, she seemed so much more worldly than one would have expected from a woman who had lived in New England all her life, and he sensed that there had to be more than she was saying. When I was very young, I went to Boston for a year, and lived with my aunt. I thought it was a very exciting place, and that was where I met my husband. He was a visiting scholar at Harvard. And when we were married, we moved here, that was fifty years ago, this year in fact. I'll be seventy this summer. She smiled at him, and Charlie wanted to lean over and kiss her. He told her about his father's teaching career, and that he had taught American history at Harvard. He wondered if he and Mr. Palmer had ever met, and then he told her about his trips to Deerfield as a child, and his passion for the buildings there, and his fascination with the glacial potholes in the huge boulders in the Deerfield River.
I still remember them, he explained, as she poured another cup of tea for him, and began bustling around her kitchen, and then she turned to him with a warm smile. She felt completely safe with him. He looked entirely wholesome, and was obviously well behaved and very well mannered. She wondered why he was traveling alone during the holidays, and was surprised he had no family to be with, but she said nothing about that as she looked at him with a question.
Would you like to stay here, Mr. Waterston? It's no trouble for me. I can easily open one of my guest rooms. As she said it, she glanced outside again. The snow was falling furiously, and she would have felt unkind putting him on the road again, besides, she liked him and enjoyed his company. She hoped that he would accept her invitation.
Are you sure it wouldn't be too much trouble for you? He had seen the storm outside too, and he wasn't anxious to move on. He also particularly enjoyed her. She was like a glimpse into the past, and at the same time she seemed to have a firm grip on the present, and he was basking in the warmth of her company, as he nodded. I don't want to be a nuisance. If you had other plans, you don't need to pay any attention to me. But I'd very much like to stay, if you don't mind. It was a sweet minuet between them, and a few minutes later, she took him upstairs and showed him around. The house was beautifully built throughout, and he was more intrigued by how it was built than in seeing his accommodations, but when he saw the room she planned for him, he stood in the doorway and smiled for a long moment. It was like coming home as a child. The bed was huge, the fabrics worn, but all of it was beautifully made. The room was done in blue and white chintz, and there was lovely old china displayed on the mantelpiece, a ship model on the wall, and there were several old, very fine Moran paintings of ships on smooth seas and in storms. It was a room he would have loved to spend a year in. And like the other rooms he'd seen so far, it had a
large fireplace, and there were logs standing by, ready to be used. Everything in the house seemed precise and well kept, as though she were expecting her favorite relatives or a house full of guests at any moment.
This is just lovely, he said gratefully, looking at her warmly. It had been kind of her to take him in, and he appreciated both her hospitality and her effort. And she seemed pleased to see how much he liked it. She loved sharing her home with people who appreciated fine tilings, and understood what she was sharing with them. Most of the people who stayed with her came by recommendation. She didn't advertise, and it was only in the past year that she'd put out a shingle.
For seven years, taking in paying guests had assisted with her funds, and the people who stayed with her kept her company, and kept her from being too lonely. She had been dreading the holidays, and having Charlie appear at her door had been a godsend.
I'm glad you like the house, Mr. Waterston. He was examining the paintings in his room as she spoke to him, and he turned to her with a look of pleasure.
I can't imagine anyone not loving it, he said reverently, and she laughed, thinking of her son. There was a wistful look in her eyes when she spoke of him, but also an unmistakable spark of humor.
I can. My son hated everything about this town, and all my old things. He loved all things modern. He was a pilot. He flew in Viet Nam, and when he came home, he stayed in the Navy. He was a test pilot for all their most high-tech fighters. He loved flying. There was something about the way she said it that made him afraid to ask, and a look in her eyes that said the subject was very painful. But nonetheless, she continued. There was something about the way she moved, and looked at him, that told him the one thing Gladys Palmer didn't lack was courage. He and his wife both flew. They bought a small plane after their little girl was born. There were tears in her bright blue eyes as she looked at Charlie, but she didn't waver. I didn't think it was a good idea, but you have to let your children do as they wish. They wouldn't have listened if I had tried to stop them. They crashed near Deerfield fourteen years ago, when they were coming home for a visit. All three of them were in the plane, and they died on impact. Charlie felt a lump grow in his throat as he listened, and instinctively he reached a hand out to her and touched her arm, wanting to stop the words and the pain. He couldn't imagine anything worse, not even what he had experienced with Carole. This woman had been through so much more, and he couldn't help wondering if she had more children.
The Ghost Page 6
