“Did he paint it?” Allison’s voice was no more than a whisper. Grace nodded. They all stared at the painting in silence.
“What happened then?” Heather asked.
“Well, at first James and I wrote regularly, but after my first year of nursing school in Portland, we lost touch. I wrote several times without hearing back. Finally I decided not to write again until I heard from him. . . .” Her voice choked with emotion. “The next thing I knew he was married.” Grace stared into the fire, and Allison wished there were something she could say. She felt almost sorry she’d encouraged Grace to talk about it. She’d had no idea. . . .
“Well, Grace,” Andrew stated, “James must’ve been a bit of a fool. Sorry, Allison.”
“To be truthful, Andrew, I’d have to agree with you. You see, the woman he married, my mother, isn’t half as nice as Grace.” Andrew and Heather looked surprised.
“Of course, if he hadn’t married Marsha, I guess I wouldn’t be here. . . .”
“Life certainly has some unexplainable twists in it,” Grace said.
“What you told me tonight helps to fill in some gaps, but there is still so much more.” Allison stared at the painting as if searching for a clue.
“I can tell you what I heard after that, though I can’t guarantee it’s all true. Mercury and I continued to keep in touch while I was in nursing school. I was lucky to have something to throw myself into. Mercury told me that James gave up his art when a baby came along. That would’ve been you. It seemed that Marsha’s parents had connections that helped him land a job in insurance. Then Marsha’s career began to take off, and after that the war came. I joined the Red Cross, and the next thing I heard about James was that he’d been killed—” Her voice choked.
The fire crackled and Allison felt a lump grow in her throat. She swallowed and attempted to speak. “Grace, did you ever hear about a scandal with my dad in the insurance company?”
Grace smoothed her hand over a cushion. “Yes, I remember Mercury telling me—it was summer of ‘42, I believe, and the last time I ever saw her. I stopped by to tell them good-bye just before I left on assignment for England. She mentioned you, Allison, and how she’d been getting your room ready for your visit. And then about the awful letter she’d gotten. Accusing James of embezzlement, I think it was. She didn’t believe a word of it, though. She suspected it was some sort of scam to get him out of Marsha’s life. I didn’t believe it, either. James might’ve been a bit foolish, but he wasn’t a thief.”
Allison shook her head sadly, hoping Grace was right. It was bad enough having Marsha as a mother, but she couldn’t bear to think her father had been a crook. Just then she remembered the letter from Marsha’s closet safe.
“You know, Grace, I discovered this old letter at Marsha’s—” She didn’t want to go into the details of how she’d been snooping. “It seemed as if it had been written to clear my dad’s name. I brought it with me, though I don’t know exactly why.”
“Really? Well, you should definitely share it with Riley. Even though James is gone, I don’t think Riley’s ever forgiven him. You never know, the letter might help him. Unforgiveness is a horrible thing. It can eat away a person’s soul. . . .”
There was a long silence. Allison stared up at the painting. It was so intense. So full of pain. She thought about the note in the garden shed, and the letter J. “I have this really weird feeling. . . .” she began.
“What is it?” Grace asked. Heather and Andrew leaned forward to listen. The fire crackled loudly, and Allison’s eyes were pulled up to the painting again.
“It sounds so incredibly foolish. I don’t even want to say it out loud. You’ll think I’m crazy.”
“Go ahead, Allison, we’re your friends,” Andrew said.
“Well, I just keep getting this feeling that my dad is alive.” She heard Grace gasp. She knew it was ridiculous. What was wrong with her, anyway?
“Oh, Allison,” Grace whispered. “I don’t know what to say. I know how much you must wish he were alive. . . .”
“That’s not it, Grace. Not completely. I just . . . well . . . I keep getting this feeling.”
Heather reached over and placed her hand on Allison’s arm. “I know what you mean, Allison. Sometimes I feel like my mum is still alive. I think I can hear her singing when I’m on the beach. But I think it’s just God’s way of comforting me, you know? Reminding me that she’s okay and I’ll see her again.”
Allison nodded, but it wasn’t the same. The feeling she had about her dad wasn’t comforting. It was disturbing and haunting. Like a demanding question that kept rattling around in her head.
The next morning Allison awoke early. Heather still slept soundly, but Allison had hardly slept at all. She couldn’t stop thinking about her dad. Was it because of the things that Grace had shared, or was there something else? Maybe he was just becoming more real since she was finally getting to know a little bit about him. Even though she was tired, she knew she couldn’t stay in bed another minute. She quietly dressed and slipped down to the beach.
The sun was barely up and the sky was a soft periwinkle blue. A gentle breeze tickled the air. She sat on a rock and watched the waves tumble in, one after another. Her mind was partly numb by the thoughts that had haunted her all night. What if her dad had never met Marsha Madison? Would he have married Grace? Would he still be alive? Was there any chance that he might still be alive? She had heard stories of people getting identities confused in the war. Maybe that could—no, she had to stop thinking like this! Everyone knew her dad was dead.
She stared out into the sea. A glassy blue peak rose straight from the water, smooth and sleek, as if chiseled from stone. Then just as quickly it curled and was swallowed by foamy white surf.
Suddenly, she wished she were with Grandpa, sitting at the big mahogany table overlooking the garden and eating breakfast across from him. What if something was wrong? What if he’d had heart problems again last night? He’d looked so tired yesterday. Maybe she should run back and—
“Hey, down there,” Winston called from on top of the bluff. “If ya wanna eat breakfast, you better hurry up!” She waved and tried to dismiss her troublesome thoughts. She knew she was letting her imagination get the best of her. She scampered up the steps, reminding herself she would soon see Grandpa at church.
Inside, Andrew handed her a plate of hotcakes and sausage. The others were just sitting down.
“Sorry . . . I lost track of the time. It’s so pretty down there.” Allison looked around. “And you’re all ready for church.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” Heather replied. “The service doesn’t start for a couple hours.”
Allison helped Grace in the kitchen, then hurried off to change for church.
“What are you wearing?” Heather asked as she slowly pulled a satin ribbon back and forth between her fingers. Allison was once again reminded of her friend’s visual handicap.
“You know, Heather, I keep forgetting you can’t see—with your eyes, I mean. It seems you see so much without them. I’m wearing a summer suit that’s really Marsha’s . . . I mean my mother’s. It’s a peachy kind of color, like pink. But it really looks too old for me. My normal clothes got sent to that stupid old summer camp. Remember I told you all about it—Camp Horrible.” Heather laughed as they walked outside to meet the others.
“Wow, you look all grown up, Allison,” Winston commented.
“Lovely suit,” said Grace. Allison’s face burned in embarrassment when she realized she was wearing the clothes of the same woman who’d stolen Grace’s beau.
It was a quiet ride. Allison watched the landscape roll by through the salt-streaked jalopy windows. They pulled up to an old church building made entirely of stone. High stained-glass windows sparkled in the sun, and a stone steeple bore an old, weathered cross. Allison instantly spotted Grandpa standing with Muriel and George in the gravel parking lot.
“If you don’t mind, I’ll join Grandpa now. Thanks
so very much for everything.” She looked at Grace, then squeezed Heather’s hand. “I’ll see you later.” She jumped down and called to Grandpa.
Inside the church, the windows glowed in rich jewel tones. It was a small building, but something about the thick stone walls and heavy oak furniture gave an atmosphere of grandeur that could compete with any East Coast church.
In front of Allison and Grandpa sat Beatrice Jenson with Shirley. Shirley wore a bright pink suit with a matching wide-brimmed hat that managed to entirely block Allison’s view of the pulpit. Allison tilted her head to and fro, but it was hopeless. She’d have to just imagine what the preacher looked like. The pink feather on Shirley’s hat kept turning slightly to the left time and again. Allison peered over to see what interested Miss Jenson so. Andrew sat in the opposite aisle, his eyes focused on the pulpit. It figured.
Before long, the little choir in the loft sang their final song, and Allison realized the service was over. She could hardly remember what had been said, but she thought it was something about forgiveness. Hadn’t Grace said something about how unforgiveness could eat a person’s soul? Maybe Allison should’ve listened better.
“Good sermon, Reverend Simmons.” Riley shook the preacher’s hand. “This is my granddaughter, Allison O’Brian.”
She shook his hand and studied his face. It was the first real look she’d gotten, and he wasn’t nearly as old as she’d imagined. In fact, he had a very nice smile.
“James’ daughter? Why, your father was a very good friend of mine. It’s a great pleasure to meet you, Allison O’Brian.” He patted her on the back, then looked over her shoulder with a bright smile. Allison glanced back to see Grace coming down the steps behind her.
“Good morning, Grace.” Reverend Simmons’ face was all lit up. “And how are you on this fine, sunny day?” It seemed he held Grace’s hand just a little longer than necessary, and Allison winked at Grace as she continued down the steps.
“I thought we’d drive down to Port View for lunch,” Grandpa suggested. “Give Muriel the afternoon off. What do you say, George?” Grandpa and Allison climbed into the spacious backseat of the car.
“Sounds like a good plan,” George agreed. Muriel nodded her consent as George closed her door. Allison loved the way Grandpa treated George and Muriel more like family than employees. She remembered how Grandmother Madison had always treated Nanny Jane like a slave. It still irritated her to think of it.
“Did you have a good nightgown party?”
“You mean pajama party,” Allison corrected. “Yes, it was terrific. And Grace is wonderful. It was fun getting to know her. I wonder if she’ll ever marry again. Is Reverend Simmons married? He seemed to be making sheep’s eyes at her.” Muriel chuckled in the front seat and George grunted.
“As a matter of fact, he’s not married,” Grandpa answered. “Never gave it much thought, but now that you mention it, he does seem awfully fond of her.” He scratched his head thoughtfully, but his face looked slightly troubled.
Before long, a sign announced they were entering Port View. Grandpa pointed out a big brick building. “That’s Port View High School, where Heather will go next fall. Of course, Andrew’s already there.”
Allison wished with all her heart that she could go, too. Maybe something would work out by the end of summer. Maybe Marsha would let Allison stay with Grandpa. Her thoughts were cut off when George parked in front of a plain white stucco building with big blue letters—Molly’s Chowder House.
“Doesn’t look like much, but they’ve got the best seafood you’ve ever eaten,” Grandpa commented as he held the door for Allison. The tables were covered in blue gingham oilcloth, and a bank of windows allowed patrons to view the fishing boats docked down on the wharf. They sat at a table by a window, and Allison peered down to a fishing rig below. A grizzled fisherman sorted out his nets while another busily gutted fish, throwing the scraps into a bloody bucket.
“Ugh, that’ll sure ruin your appetite,” Allison said. They all looked down and laughed.
“Yep, cutting bait. I used to do that all the time,” Grandpa mused. He launched into an exciting fishing story that lasted most of the meal.
Allison finished her last giant prawn and groaned. “I’m stuffed. You’re right about this place, Grandpa. It even beats my favorite chowder house on the Cape.”
“Is that a fact? Well, we O’Brians know our seafood.” He placed his last empty crab leg onto a big pile of shells.
Feeling the need to work off their enormous lunch, they slowly strolled down the waterfront street. Most of the shops were closed, but they bought some saltwater taffy at the candy store and went down to the docks. Grandpa admired a couple of commercial fishing boats, pointing out some new modern features. Soon the fog rolled in and the breeze picked up, and they all hurried back to the car.
On the ride home Grandpa looked tired. Allison was worried about his health—and her own future. What would become of her without him? He seemed her last shred of hope for any kind of normal life. She wished she could stay with him forever. She remembered the letter she’d written to Marsha . . . if only Muriel hadn’t mailed it. Then Marsha wouldn’t know. And how long would it be before Marsha responded? Allison shook her head, hoping to toss off those disturbing thoughts.
“Say, George, do you ever go fishing?” she asked, looking for some conversation to distract her from her worries.
Muriel laughed. “Not hardly, dear. George can barely stand the sight of a boat without getting queasy. Your grandfather took him out once years ago and brought him back pea green.”
George sniffed indignantly. “Well, it was pretty rough out that day.” He guided the car down the driveway and past the dock road.
Allison recalled how she’d seen him there last night. Andrew had felt fairly certain that George had been out on the boat. But why would George deny it? And why was he carrying that big empty box?
Grandpa retired to the den to rest, and Allison went up to her room to change. As usual, the sunny room welcomed her like an old friend. She put away her things and tried to settle down with Gone With the Wind again. It was hard to concentrate, but finally the story took her mind off other nagging thoughts. Before she knew it she’d drifted to sleep and awoke to Muriel’s gentle nudging.
“Sorry to wake you, dear, but supper’s ready and I thought you might get hungry.”
Allison rubbed her eyes. “Yes, of course. Thanks, Muriel, I’ll be down in a jiff.”
The table in the dining room was set for just her and Grandpa. Tonight there were only two candles burning, but the roses were still there. The blooms were fully opened and had faded to a soft, pale pink. A few limp petals lay on the polished table.
“Just a light supper tonight,” Muriel announced as she ladled a clear amber soup into Allison’s bowl.
“That’s fine. I’m still pretty full from lunch.” She sipped the steaming broth. “Delicious, Muriel.” Grandpa seemed quieter than usual. “Are you feeling okay, Grandpa?” She studied his face for clues.
“Well, I’m feeling a wee bit tired tonight, lassie. I think I’ll have my soup and then put my feet up in the den again.”
Allison finished her soup and poked at her salad. Even Muriel’s fresh-baked bread didn’t interest her tonight. She cleared the table, then checked on Grandpa in the den. He reclined in his big chair with his feet on the hassock, his eyes closed. She tiptoed closer, wanting to make sure he was still breathing. His chest rose and fell rhythmically, and she draped an afghan gently over his legs. Slipping back out, she joined Muriel in the kitchen to help dry dishes.
“I’m worried about Grandpa, Muriel.” Allison placed a teacup in the china cabinet. “He seems a bit off tonight. Did you notice?”
“Well, not particularly. . . . You know, tomorrow’s Monday and generally our day off. We were planning a trip to Portland, but if you think it’s necessary, we can stick around—”
“Oh no. You go enjoy your day off. I’ll be here with Gr
andpa. I’m probably just making a mountain of a molehill. I just get so worried when I think about his health.”
“The doctor said when he goes he goes, and no one can do anything about it one way or another.” Muriel said the words matter-of-factly, but Allison heard the catch in her voice.
“I’m sure that’s true. It’s just I don’t know if I could take it.” Allison twisted the dish towel in her hands and stared at the floor.
Muriel wrapped her arms around Allison. “Don’t you worry, darling. He’s such a strong-willed ol’ codger.”
“Thanks. I think I’ll go and sit with him awhile.” She quietly slipped into the chair by the fireplace. There was no fire burning tonight. She stared into the black grate. Empty and cold. Just how her heart would feel if she lost Grandpa. She knew how it felt to lose her father and Nanny Jane, and even Grandmother Mercury, whom she’d never known. She was certain she couldn’t handle losing anyone else.
“Hey, Allison, what’re you doing sitting there in the dark?” Grandpa sat up in his chair with a big grin. “Turn on the light, lassie.”
She rose to turn on the lights but stopped first to admire the rosy sunset outside. “Isn’t that beautiful, Grandpa? Is it really true what they say? Red sky at night, sailors delight. Red sky at morning, sailors take warning.”
“Some swear by it, but most good fishermen will tell you it’s no guarantee.” She watched the sky grow into an even darker and more intense shade of red. Maybe it was a signal that everything was okay for her and Grandpa.
“Grandpa, Grace told me a bit about my father.” She sat on the ottoman in front of him. Once again, Grandpa’s face clouded, and Allison knew he didn’t want to speak of his son. “And there’s something I need to show you.” She picked her words carefully and deliberately. “I hope it will help you to see my father in a whole new light. You wait here and I’ll be right back.”
She dashed up the stairs. It seemed to take forever to find the letter. She hadn’t planned to break it to him like this, but something inside compelled her. She had a new sense of urgency. This couldn’t wait! Maybe it had to do with forgiveness. She vaguely remembered Reverend Simmons’ words on forgiveness, along with what Grace had said about how unforgiveness could eat your soul. Those were strong words! But maybe—maybe if Grandpa could forgive her dad—maybe that would help him to get well, or at least heal his broken heart. She flew down the stairs and into the den.
Allison O'Brian on Her Own Page 13
