The Irresistible Blueberry Bakeshop & Cafe

by Mary Simses

  “Who?”

  He nodded slowly. “Lila Falk. She was a good friend of Ruth’s.”

  I picked up the bag. “Lila Falk?”

  “Sure thing,” he said. “Last I heard she’s still in Maine, living in a nursing home. In Kittuck, I think. Yep, she’d probably know, if anybody did.”

  I took the pen and scribbled the name Lila Falk on the back of the receipt. “I’m staying in Beacon,” I said. “Where is Kittuck?”

  “North,” Wade said, waving his hand in a noncommittal way. “North of Beacon, north of here.”

  “How far north?” I asked.

  “What kind of wheels have you got?”

  “Wheels?” I said. “I have a BMW.”

  He smiled. “You can do it in an hour.”

  Chapter 9

  Mr. Cummings

  I sat in my car a few doors down the street from the camera store, looking for the Saint Agnes Care Center on my phone’s Internet browser. It wasn’t hard to find the number, as it was the only nursing home in Kittuck. Apparently it was the only one around for miles. The ad that popped up said, “Serving the communities of Kittuck, North Prouty, South Prouty, and Loudon,” and then it listed a string of other towns as well.

  The woman who answered the phone told me Lila Falk was indeed a resident there, but suggested that the following day would be a better one for a visit.

  “Friday afternoons get a kind of hectic,” she said. “We have music starting in a little while, and then some of our residents do crafts. But there’s nothing going on tomorrow. Can you come then? Maybe around one or two?”

  I pulled out my cell phone and checked my calendar for Saturday. The whole day was empty. “Yes,” I said. “I think I can fit that in.”

  I turned into Dorset Lane at four o’clock, knowing I was very early but not wanting to take any chances at missing Chet Cummings. I could see right away that something was different—a blue Jeep was parked next to the Audi. This is it, Gran, I thought as my pulse quickened. I’m finally going to give him your letter.

  I parked in front of the house, took the envelope with the letter in it, and walked to the front door, where I gave a loud knock. After knocking several more times, I still heard no response.

  He has to be in there, I thought as I walked back down the steps to the lawn. I turned and stared at the house. Maybe his hearing aid was off. I walked around the house, looking in windows. When I came to the dining room, I spotted a navy blue Windbreaker hanging over the back of a chair, and I noticed that the piles of mail that I’d seen two days before were gone.

  I was almost back to the front yard when I saw an aluminum ladder lying on the ground. I stopped, glanced at the window above me on the second floor, and looked back at the ladder. It might just work, I thought. Chet Cummings’s hearing aid was probably off, or he was watching TV with the volume turned way up, as Gran used to do. He had to be upstairs, and there was only one way to find out.

  I slipped my grandmother’s letter into my pocket and then managed to prop the ladder up against the house. I climbed a couple of steps, told myself not to look down, and kept going. When I peeked into the upstairs window I saw a room with a gray rug, a wooden desk with books and papers on it, and a wall of white bookshelves. On one of the shelves was something that made my heart stop—an old mechanical camera. I knew what it wasn’t—it wasn’t a Nikon—but I couldn’t tell what it was. A Leica, maybe? I kept staring, straining my eyes to bring the name of the manufacturer into focus.

  And then I heard a voice below me. A man’s voice. An angry voice.

  “Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  I froze, my knuckles white as I gripped the ladder. Then I looked down. Dressed in jeans and a dark blue T-shirt, with a faded TOWN LINE PLUMBING SUPPLY baseball cap on his head, stood Roy. Roy. I couldn’t seem to get away from him. He was everywhere. And he was catching me in every humiliating moment. I looked around to see if anyone was taking a picture.

  “I have some business here,” I said, my tone cool. I was still angry with him for the way he’d acted after we’d left the Antler. And what I was doing here was none of his concern.

  He put his hand to his forehead and squinted. “Oh, my God, it’s…it’s you!”

  I descended the ladder as gracefully as I could, feeling Roy’s eyes on me the whole way down. “Yes, it’s me,” I said, stepping off the last rung, noticing his day-old beard.

  “What are you doing here? And why were you up there snooping?” he demanded.

  “What am I doing here?” I said. “What are you doing here?” I brushed some dirt off my pants. “Are you following me? What’s going on?”

  He looked at me, startled. “Me following you? I’d say it was the other way around.”

  “Look, I have business here,” I said. “I’m trying to find someone.”

  Roy glanced at the ladder and then at me. “That’s how you try to find people? Looking in their windows?”

  I tossed my head and stood up straight. “I don’t think I need to answer your questions.” He was as bad as Chet’s neighbor. “Oh, and by the way,” I added. “You’re trespassing.”

  He pointed to me. “No, you’re trespassing. This is my house.”

  His house? His house? How could that be? My mind went immediately into overdrive, trying to figure out where I’d made the mistake. I had used the address on my grandmother’s letter and cross-checked it with two Internet directories and the tax collector’s website. Chester R. Cummings, 55 Dorset Lane. This was the address. Still, I’d obviously made an error somewhere. Roy’s name was Cummings, but he was the wrong Cummings. I couldn’t believe I’d wasted four days. I was missing Hayden’s event tonight, and I still didn’t know where Chet Cummings lived.

  “I didn’t know it was your house,” I said, “or I wouldn’t have come. I’ve got the wrong address, that’s all.” I turned and walked to the front yard.

  “You mean you’re not going to leave your lawsuit papers?” Roy called out.

  I spun around. “Excuse me?”

  He came closer, staring at me, and then he took off his baseball cap and ran a hand through his hair. “Or maybe you found someone else to sue.” He put the cap back on. “Big-city lawyers don’t scare me. They still have to put their pants on one leg at a time, like everybody else. Or should I say skirts?”

  Faded sunlight crept through the branches of a beech tree, casting patterns on the grass. “You know,” I said as I felt a crease settle in my forehead, “I’m just trying to deliver a letter. I guess Cummings is a common name around here.” I sighed and then gave a shrug. “I hope Chet Cummings is easier to deal with than you.” I turned and marched across the front yard to my car.

  “You’re looking for Chet Cummings?” Roy called out.

  I kept walking. I had nothing more to say. I’d go back to the inn and try to sort this out. See where I’d gone wrong. Maybe I’d figure it out; maybe I wouldn’t. Either way, this was it. I’d tried my best to do what Gran wanted me to do and, as disappointed as I was to admit defeat, I’d come to the end of the road.

  And then Roy called out again. “I know him.”

  I stopped. He knew Chet Cummings. He knew him. I found the wrong house and the wrong Cummings, but he knew him. In New York, the chances of that happening would be a billion to…

  But I wasn’t in New York. I was in Beacon, and it suddenly dawned on me that the chances of that happening in Beacon were probably pretty good. And it probably wasn’t the first time people had confused two families with the same last name.

  “You know him?” I said, turning to face Roy.

  “I ought to,” he said. “He’s my uncle.”

  “Your uncle? Chet Cummings? Are you sure? I mean, it’s Chet Cummings I’m talking about.”

  Roy nodded. “Yeah. I ought to know my own family.”

  His family. I could hardly believe it. My Norman Rockwell image of Chet and me chatting over tea and cookies in a cozy kitchen was comin
g back into view.

  But then Roy looked at me suspiciously. “So you’re the one who’s been snooping around here the past couple of days,” he said, waving his hand in the direction of the house.

  I could feel my neck turning warm and the heat rising to my face. “I wasn’t snooping.”

  “One of my neighbors said a woman kept coming around, knocking, looking in the windows, calling my name. Said she had a black car with New York plates.” He pointed to my BMW. “That yours?”

  Why did he always put me on the defensive? I planted my hands on my hips. “Yes, it’s my car. And yes, I was here. I was looking for your uncle.”

  Something flickered in Roy’s eyes. “So you weren’t looking for me.”

  Why would I be looking for him, with his scruffy five o’clock shadow and beat-up jeans? “For you?” I laughed. “I just told you—no.”

  He stared at me. “What do you want my uncle for? Are you going to sue him, too?”

  This was too much. I threw my hands in the air. “For God’s sake, I’m not here to sue anybody. My grandmother asked me to do her a favor and it led me to Beacon.”

  Roy nodded, his mouth slightly open. “Oh, your grandmother’s the one who’s suing.”

  A gray cloud began moving in overhead. I closed my eyes and counted to ten. I needed to calm down or I would be in the Bugle again tomorrow, but this time I would probably be in the police blotter, having been charged with murder.

  “No one is suing anybody,” I finally said. “It’s not about a lawsuit.” I began walking across the lawn to my car, thinking about my grandmother, my promise to deliver her letter, and how everything had gone so wrong. I’m sorry, Gran, I thought. I’m so sorry. Tears welled up in my eyes.

  And then I felt a tug on the back of my blouse.

  “Ellen, wait—”

  I spun around, my hands trembling. Everything I’d been holding in since my grandmother’s funeral—the anger I felt over her death, the grief, the sadness, the loneliness—burst open.

  “My grandmother died last week,” I shouted, tears falling down my cheeks onto my blouse. “I’m here because of her. Because she asked me right before she died to deliver something to your uncle—a letter. And I put it in an envelope from my law firm because…I don’t know, I just wanted to keep it safe.” I looked down. “So that’s it. I don’t care what you think anymore.”

  I turned to go, but Roy took hold of my arm. “Wait a minute, Ellen. Please.” Someone’s wind chimes began to jingle in the breeze. “I’m sorry about your grandmother. I’m really sorry.”

  A bee swayed lazily over a clover blossom and then flew away as the sky began to darken. And I realized how much I wanted to talk about my grandmother, needed to talk about her.

  “We were very close,” I said, my voice cracking. “She meant so much to me. And now she’s gone and I’m here and everything’s falling apart and I can’t do what she wanted and I feel like I’m one big disappointment to her.”

  Roy shook his head. “I’m sure you’re not a disappointment. And I owe you an apology. I’m really sorry.”

  I wiped my tears with my hand. “I don’t understand. Why did you think I was trying to sue you?”

  “Because that’s what lawyers do. When I saw your envelope with my name on it—”

  “It’s not what all lawyers do,” I said. “It’s not what I do.”

  He nodded. “Okay.”

  We stood in his front yard in silence, and then he asked if I had the letter. I pulled the envelope from my pocket, and we sat down on a wooden bench. Roy took off his baseball cap.

  “What does it say?” He reached for the envelope, but I held onto it.

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t really discuss it with you. You’ll need to ask your uncle. Is this his house?”

  Roy nodded.

  “Sorry, but I was asked to deliver this letter to him.”

  Roy looked at the envelope in my hand and then at me. “Ellen, any business of my uncle’s is business of mine.”

  “Well…I know you’re his caregiver, but—”

  “No, that’s not what I mean.” His eyes changed to a quiet, milky blue and the sides of his mouth drooped into an expression of resignation. He lowered his voice. “You’re going to end up dealing with me, because my uncle died.”

  I felt as though all the air was escaping from my lungs, leaving them empty, lifeless. The one thing I could have done for my grandmother had now been rendered impossible. The man she had loved as a young girl was gone.

  “I’m so sorry,” I whispered, staring at the envelope and the name Mr. Cummings and the red salvia that ran along the edge of Roy’s front lawn.

  “When did he…” I let the words trail off as a drop of rain tapped my arm.

  “Back in March.”

  Three months ago, I thought. Just three months. “I’m so sorry,” I said again. I was sorry. I was sorry for Roy, I was sorry for myself for failing at this mission, and I was sorry for my grandmother.

  Roy put his hand on my shoulder. “Do you think maybe you should tell me what’s going on?”

  The screen door opened and the sable cat I had seen lying on the dining room table two days before sauntered down the porch steps and across the lawn. He jumped onto the bench between Roy and me and sniffed at my hair. Then he rubbed his head against my cheek.

  “Mr. Puddy, come here.” Roy scooped the cat up in his arms.

  I reached out and patted Mr. Puddy’s soft head.

  “I’ve told you everything I know,” I said. “My grandmother wanted me to give your uncle the letter.” I could hear the cat purring—a low, gentle sound—as he lay in Roy’s arms.

  “May I see it?” Roy’s voice was quiet, almost a whisper.

  I held the envelope, not wanting to give it up. This wasn’t what was supposed to happen. I was supposed to be talking to Chet. This was all wrong.

  Roy put the cat down and he scampered between the house and the hedge. “Ellen, I’d like to see the letter. Please.” He held out his hand.

  Finally I handed him the envelope. “All right.”

  He held it for a second before opening it. Then he pulled out the sheet of pale blue paper covered with my grandmother’s handwriting and began to read. After a moment he looked up. “Why did she think my uncle would send this back or throw it away?”

  “You just have to keep reading,” I said as I felt another drop of rain.

  Roy went back to the letter but soon looked up again. “She wanted to make amends.” He cast a questioning glance my way. “For what?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know. That’s what I was hoping your uncle could tell me.”

  Roy read on. “South Carolina,” he said a moment later. “Yeah, my uncle lived there for a long time, but he came back to Beacon about three years ago. Sounds like your grandmother was pretty surprised when she tracked him down here.”

  He continued to read, nodding at times. “Ah,” he said after a while. “So they were lovers.”

  “Yes,” I said. “They were lovers.”

  “‘If I hadn’t left you the way I did,’” Roy said, reading from the letter, “‘you wouldn’t have left Beacon and you wouldn’t have lost the thing that meant so much to you. I’ve always felt responsible for that loss and I’m sorry.’” He looked at me. “What did she mean about the thing that meant so much to him? What was that?”

  I shook my head again. “I don’t know. I don’t know what any of it means. She didn’t tell me about the letter itself. Just that she wanted me to deliver it.”

  Roy smoothed the paper with his hand. Then he read the letter to himself again as a handful of raindrops spattered the wooden bench. “So we know she left him for another man.”

  I nodded. “Yes. My grandfather.”

  Roy’s eyebrows went up. “Ah,” he said. “Your grandfather.” He shifted slightly toward me on the bench and I felt his leg brush against mine. “But we don’t know why.”

  “Why she left him?” I loo
ked up at the darkening sky. “Why does anybody leave anyone? I guess she fell out of love with him…or more in love with my grandfather.”

  “My uncle was a great guy,” Roy said.

  I smiled. “So was my grandfather.”

  He glanced at the letter again, as if some trace of his uncle might emerge from between the lines. Then he ran his finger along the tiny scar near his eye. “My uncle was there the day I got this.”

  I looked at the scar, a curved wisp of a line, and wondered what it would feel like to touch it. “How did you get that?”

  “Learning to ride a two-wheel bike,” he said. “I fell off and cut myself. Also broke my arm.” He glanced at his right arm. “I was six.”

  “And your uncle—”

  “He scooped me up and raced me to the hospital. Held my hand while they set my arm and put on the cast, while they stitched me up under my eye. I was scared to death. He told me if I made it through I’d get a medal for bravery.”

  I smiled. “That’s sweet.”

  Roy’s eyes sparkled. “Yeah, it was.” He put his head back, as if he might divine some memory from the sky. “Believe it or not, he gave me one. A real medal. He came over that night and handed me a box. Black velvet. And inside was this medal. A Distinguished Service Cross. It was my grandfather’s. He’d gotten it in World War II and given it to Uncle Chet.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No, I’m not. And Uncle Chet insisted I take it, even though it was something I knew he really loved. I still have it on my bureau. In the box.”

  “That’s quite a story.” I was so touched by his uncle’s gesture that it made me sadder than ever that I’d missed the chance to meet him.

  “He was a super guy,” Roy said, running his hand along the seat of the bench as if inspecting it for flaws. “He was like another father. My dad traveled a lot for his job and my uncle Chet kind of kept me out of trouble when I was a kid. He had a little marina and I used to hang around there, helping him repair the boats, patch the hulls, work on the engines, that kind of thing. He taught me to use tools—to love tools. The idea that you could fix something yourself, that you could make something yourself—” Roy looked at me with such intensity I could almost feel the presence of Chet Cummings there with us. “That’s what made him tick.”