by Pat Warren
Outside, she hurried past the shop, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. How could she forget her pain when everything and everyone reminded her of her loss? What kind of person would even want to forget the best part of her life? Yet how could she go on with these tortured memories haunting her every step of the way?
The walk wasn’t helping, Briana decided, and turned around, heading back. But she’d scarcely gone a block when she ran into two of her grandfather’s old friends, Jake McGrath and Ambrose Whitmore. Both elderly retirees and widowers, they were lifetime residents of Nantucket. Naturally, they’d heard about Gramp moving to the Boston nursing home near Briana’s folks, and they had a dozen questions. Shifting from one foot to the other, she answered politely, then begged off, saying she had to get back.
At least they hadn’t brought up the tragedy that had changed her life forever, Briana thought as she turned onto Cliffside Road at last. Rounding the bend, she glanced up at the corner house painted Wedgwood blue, the home of one of her favorite people. Irma Tatum’s age was a secret she’d likely take to her grave, though Briana knew she was hovering around eighty. She admired the fact that the woman’s mind was quick, her humor bordered on the bawdy, and her sense of style was girlishly bizarre.
She’d buried three husbands, Irma was fond of saying, and survived the Great Depression and several smaller ones. Yet she was still here, as solid a fixture as Nantucket’s cobblestone streets. She was the kind of person who always made you feel better for having talked with her, and Briana badly needed to feel better.
Before she could knock, the widow was at the door, opening the screen, drawing Briana in for a long look and a comforting hug. Irma was every inch as tall as Briana’s five-seven, her back straight and her figure quite slim. Today’s outfit was a long, maroon broomstick skirt, a multicolored floral blouse, and silver dangle earrings that nearly reached her shoulders. A bout with cancer and chemo had thinned her hair to near baldness so she’d purchased an assortment of wigs in various colors and styles. This morning’s version was an outrageous shade of red, twisted and gathered at the back of her head and anchored with a large mother-of-pearl comb. She owned almost as many pairs of glasses, wearing bright turquoise frames at the moment.
“I’m so glad you’re here, honey,” Irma said, her throaty voice unable to disguise her sudden emotion. “You look like you could use a good meal. Let’s go into the kitchen. My clam chowder should be ready. We’ll have a nice lunch.”
Dropping her packages on a nearby chair, Briana followed Irma into her big, inviting kitchen. “I’d planned to stop at the inn for lunch, but after walking around the shops, I didn’t have the energy.” She settled in one of the maple captain’s chairs at the round table, feeling at home, remembering how often she’d shared a cup of tea or homemade pastry here with Irma. This room was the heart of her home, with its plank flooring, large oval braided rug, and corner brick fireplace. Even though it was a warm day, there was a fire going. Briana stretched her hands toward the flames and felt herself relaxing.
Irma squinted through her glasses as she reached for two Franciscanware soup bowls. “Did one of those shopkeepers say something they shouldn’t? Bunch of nosy busybodies. I hope you didn’t let them upset you.” She moved to the stove and began spooning chowder.
“Everyone’s been very kind. I realize they want to know about Gramp, a few even want to fly over and visit him. It’s so hard, telling people that on a good day, he may recognize them. But most of the time…”
“Folks should know that. Don’t they read? There’re articles in the paper constantly about Alzheimer’s.” The disease was like a festering fear that hovered over every senior citizen. Two of Irma’s lady friends had it, and now Andy Gifford, Briana’s grandfather.
She set the steaming bowls on the table along with napkins and silverware, then put the kettle on for tea. “Jake and Ambrose came by last week, wanted to know if I knew anything. Couple of old coots. Once they plop down on your porch, you can’t get rid of ‘em. ‘Specially that Ambrose.”
“Maybe he was here for more than information, Irma.” Knowing how much the older woman enjoyed men and loved to flirt, Briana felt a smile forming, the first in a long while. It felt good.
“Pshaw! I can do better than either one of those two.” Arranging crackers in a dainty Limoges dish, Irma returned to the table.
“Well, you can relax. I ran into them on Main Street and brought them up to date.” She inhaled the marvelous aroma of the chowder. “This smells wonderful.”
“Dig in, kid. We’ve got to put some pounds back on you.” Irma would have chided her more for not taking better care of herself, but she knew exactly why Briana had lost weight, why she had dark circles under her eyes. Irma didn’t have the heart to go on about it. Who could blame the poor thing for her loss of appetite? She bent to taste her own soup, found the chowder to be quite tasty, if she did think so herself. “How’s the house looking these days? Your grandfather hadn’t done much in months, though we can scarcely blame him. Andy’s been ill longer than any of us knew.”
Briana let a spoonful of chowder slide down her throat, enjoying the wonderful flavor. “No, we certainly can’t blame him, but the house has been neglected for longer than a few months. When I was here last Easter, I did a thorough cleaning but there’s so much more that needs doing. The whole place could use a fresh coat of paint, a roof inspection, possibly a furnace check before winter. And the garden! What a mess.” She bent to her soup, feeling overwhelmed by such a big project right now. Perhaps if she weren’t so preoccupied and restless.
“I could recommend a couple of handymen. Fix the place right up while you supervise from the porch.” Irma got up to pour boiling water into her favorite Royal Doulton teapot. Through the years, she’d collected lovely things, not to be admired but to be used daily. After all, who did she have to save them for?
Letting the tea steep, she returned to the table. “I heard Andy say a dozen times that if something happened to him, the house belonged to you because you always loved the place as much as he.”
Briana sighed, still touched by her grandfather’s generosity. “Yes, Tom Richmond sent me the documents. Gramp drew up the paperwork a while back. He has a life estate until his death, and afterward, it’s officially mine. I doubt he’ll ever come home again, poor soul.” The attorney’s notice had jarred her, not because of its message, but seeing it in writing somehow made it seem so final, as if to say that her grandfather wouldn’t be around much longer, a fact she didn’t want to face.
“Do you know what you want to do? Perhaps fix up the place and move here? Or are you thinking of maybe selling the house?” Irma waited, hoping Briana’s answer wouldn’t disappoint her.
“Oh, I couldn’t sell that house. I’d feel like I was cutting off my right arm.”
Irma let out a relieved breath, pleased her assessment had been on the money. “Maybe, under the circumstances, living here away from all the memories in Boston would be a good thing for you right now.”
Slowly, Briana set her spoon down. “I have memories of Bobby here, too. No matter where I go, he’s with me.”
The words were said so softly, so sadly, that Irma took a moment to swallow the sudden lump in her throat before reaching over and grasping Briana’s hand. She’d been waiting for an opening, knowing from personal experience that a parent who loses a child wants to talk about it, yet doesn’t. She’d walk carefully here, and let Briana lead the way. “He always will be,” Irma said. “My Timothy was two when meningitis took him. That’s fifty-two years ago, and I still think of him.” The grieving and working two jobs to make ends meet had killed her first husband shortly after their son’s death. The double sorrow had nearly finished Irma.
Briana squeezed the older woman’s hand as her eyes, brimming with tears, met Irma’s equally damp gaze. “Tell me, does it ever get better?”
“The sense of loss never, ever goes away. It’s like an open wound that scabs over, but ne
ver quite heals. Yet the pain does ease in time.” Irma cleared her throat. “And work, physical work like fixing up that house, can help a great deal.”
Briana dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. “I’m sorry. I get like this several times a day, and I can’t seem to control it.”
“That, too, will let up, honey. I’m living proof that a strong woman can get through a very difficult time.”
Briana tried a smile. “I don’t think I’m as strong as you.”
“Sure you are. Just give it time, and strength will come to you. You’re a survivor, Briana. There are two kinds of people in this world, the quitters and the survivors. And it’s been my experience you can pretty much tell early on which way a body’s going to go.” This was turning into a pity party, the last thing her young friend needed. Rising, Irma cleared the soup bowls and busied herself with the tea things. “Just wait until you see what I have for dessert.”
“Not for me, thanks. The chowder was just enough.”
“You can’t turn this down.” Irma brought forth a cake dish, setting it on the table. “Chocolate with double fudge frosting. Sinfully delicious. And honey,” she added with a wink, “ain’t nothing wrong with a little sin now and then.”
Knowing when she was defeated, Briana accepted a piece large enough to feed a lumberjack. “Wow, you are generous with that knife.”
Irma brought over the teapot, then placed her hands on her hips and stood at an angle in front of Briana. “Well, what do you think? See anything different about me?”
Briana examined her from head to toe and couldn’t imagine what Irma had in mind. “Uh, not really.”
The older woman patted her rump. “Look, I’ve got curves back here.” She thrust out her rear, then gave an exaggerated bump and grind. “The damnable thing is that after fifty or sixty, you get flat back here. No man wants to pinch a woman who’s flat. I remember vacationing in Italy before you were born. Got pinched everywhere I went. Glorious trip. So, last weekend, they had a flea market going on over at the Wharf. I found these padded panties. Don’t you think they’re wonderful?”
Briana squelched a laugh, somehow managing to turn it into an approving smile. “I see it now. Looks great.”
Pleased with herself that she had her friend smiling, Irma sat down and squeezed lemon in her tea. “You better take good care of your parts, honey, ‘cause they have a way of disappearing.” She patted her chest. “The boobs are the first to go. You dry up and wither away to practically nothing. I’ve got pads here, too. Why do you think I always wear these busy little blouses? I’d look like a young boy in that lovely little knit thing you have on, even with a little stuffing.” She sighed dramatically, picking up her cup. “What nature’s forgotten, we take care of with cotton. Or,” she went on, pausing to stroke her cheeks, calling attention to her second face-lift, “what nature changes drastically, we correct plastically.” She chuckled at her own joke.
Briana shook her head, gazing at the older woman with affection. “I’ve missed you, Irma. You’re one in a million.”
The widow sobered. “I’ve missed you, too. I know I’m being selfish, but I’ll say it anyhow. I hope you’re here to stay.”
“I’ll be around awhile.” She needed the time to sort out her options. “I think I’ll enjoy redoing Gramp’s house.” Irma was right A few weeks of hard physical work couldn’t hurt. “I’ve always loved it here.” Her grandparents’ home had been the one constant in her life, with her parents continually moving while she’d been growing up. After their marriage, she and Robert had lived first in Manhattan, then in an apartment in Boston, followed by a house in Cambridge. And finally, after the divorce, she’d bought the Boston town house that had never truly felt like home, especially now, filled with memories of the son she’d never see again.
Her only real roots had been here in Nantucket. A part of Briana longed for permanence, a place she felt she belonged, where she felt safe. Perhaps after fixing up Gramp’s house, she’d know what she wanted to do with the rest of her life.
“It’s even better around here when all the tourists go home, you remember? No need to make reservations at the best restaurants. Hell, they practically give meals away, too. And the traffic slows down to a comfortable crawl.”
“I remember. And winters are so beautiful.”
Irma picked up her fork, indicating their dessert. “As I recall, chocolate’s your favorite, so have at it.” She’d baked the cake this morning after hearing via the grapevine that Briana was back. If she hadn’t stopped in, Irma had planned to take it over later.
Briana gave in to temptation. “Mmm, this is delicious.”
They ate in silence for a bit before Irma began again. “Did you hear about Jeremy dying? That man was a real class act. If I’d have been twenty years younger, I’d have set my cap for him long ago. You know, in the near thirty years I knew Jeremy Slade, I never once saw him with a woman romantically, though there were a few who tried to catch his interest.”
“Nor did I. I was very fond of him. When I was a child, he used to let me sit and watch him paint, if I promised to be very, very quiet. Afterward, he’d reward me with a lemon drop from the bowl he always kept on his table. He even let me go with him in his truck when he took his paintings to the gallery.” She took another couple of bites, then pushed her plate aside. After eating so little for weeks, she couldn’t manage more. “Have you met Jeremy’s son?” If anyone knew anything about her new neighbor, it would be Irma, who was privy to everything that went on in the island.
“Oh, yes. I’d heard he was coming because Tom Richmond was Jeremy’s attorney, too. At the funeral, he seemed more ill at ease than grief stricken, standing in the back, watching everything, hardly saying a word. Once I ran into him in the market. He bought milk, bologna, catsup, bread, and beer. Lots of beer. Odd, since Jeremy was a gourmet of sorts and an expert on wines. But then, Slade doesn’t look anything like his father, either.”
“Slade? He goes by his last name?”
“Apparently so. Tom said that Jeremy referred to him as J.D. in the will, but as a grown man, he goes by Slade.”
“Do you know anything about him, where he’s been all these years, why Jeremy never even mentioned having a son?” Briana couldn’t say why Slade aroused her curiosity so. Probably because she hated seeing anyone ruin his life with drink, and naturally wondered what drove him to the bottle.
“Well, you know how closemouthed Jeremy was. Never said much about himself except he’d been a traveling salesman in California, and that he’d walked away from that life and moved here to paint. Tom had quite a time finding the son since he’d moved around a lot. Finally located him in Sacramento, where he’s a fireman. After the funeral, he came back about a week ago, but he keeps to himself, hardly ever leaving the house. In that way, at least, he’s like his father.”
“What about his mother?”
“Tom told me Jeremy never mentioned her. He did say that Slade spent some time in the navy.”
“The navy,” Briana said. “That’s why he moved around a lot, like we did because of Dad’s navy position.”
“Have you met him?” Finishing every crumb of her cake, Irma sipped tea.
“Sort of. I was taking down the shutters on the porch and having a hard time. He came over and helped. But he was less than cordial, especially when I mentioned I’d gone walking on the beach and run across him yesterday passed out drunk over by the lighthouse. I think he was nursing a monumental hangover.”
Irma shook her head. “Damn fool inherits one of the best houses on the island and probably a hefty bank account, to say nothing of a stack of unsold paintings worth a bundle, and he sits around the house eating bologna sandwiches and getting soused all day. Jeremy’s probably whirling around in his grave.”
“You know, Slade told me he hadn’t seen his father since he was ten, and yet Jeremy left everything to him. That seems odd.”
“Maybe that’s why he drinks so much. Those who lose their
parents one way or another when they’re young never quite get over it. Still, the man’s going to kill himself with all that boozing.”
Briana glanced up as the old-fashioned Seth Thomas clock hanging on Irma’s fireplace chimed the hour of one. She’d managed to fritter away the whole morning and then some. But she did feel better after her visit. Rising, she carried her teacup and half-empty plate to the sink counter. “This has been lovely and I’m stuffed.”
Irma bustled about, finding a covered dish and cutting a large chunk of cake. “You can have some of this with your dinner or tomorrow. And I’m sending some chowder home with you, too.”
“That’s nice of you, but not necessary. I went to the market and stocked up yesterday.”
Irma shoved the first container into Briana’s hands. “Yes, it is necessary. I want to see you regain that weight and … and I want to see you smile again.”
Briana pulled the older woman into a hug. “I’m working on it.”
The phone was ringing as Briana unlocked the front door. Only her folks knew where she was, or even knew the number. She dumped her packages on the kitchen table and answered somewhat breathlessly.
“You sound like you’re in training for the Boston marathon,” the man said.
“Craig? Is that you?” Briana pulled out a chair and sat down.
“Sure is. I got your number from your mother. I wanted to know how you’re doing. Like I’ve said, I worry about you, Brie.”
“Well, you needn’t. I’m fine.” Which wasn’t exactly the truth, but she wasn’t about to admit it. “How are things with you?”
“Great. The market’s high so things are perking.”
Briana pictured Craig Walker, Robert’s best friend, leaning back in his swivel chair at Fidelity Mutual Savings, the bank where they’d shared adjacent cubicles. His Armani suit coat would be hanging on his elaborately carved clothes tree and his Ferragamo loafers would be propped on an open desk drawer. A single man, Craig could afford expensive clothes. “I’m glad to hear that,” she said.
