by Dana Mentink
“Uh-huh.”
“That’ll fix the rip right up. Good as new.”
The girl brightened. “Good idea. But brothers are still dumb.”
Rosa watched it all with the surreal feeling that she was observing from afar. The breeze continued its capricious meanderings, as if things were perfectly normal, as if the world’s equilibrium had not just been dealt a severe blow. Though she saw the wind toying with the branches of the big cypress that sheltered the burned trailer, she did not feel it on her face. Rosa was surprised to find that Pike had stayed near. To gloat, maybe. They both waited until Manny shuffled back, having concluded his kite repair advice. “What did you mean, Dad, that you didn’t remember?”
Manny cast about for a while, starting and stopping his words, pocketing and unpocketing his hands until he finally hooked his thumbs through his belt loops. “I think I’ve got something.”
“You’ve got something.” She felt slow and stupid. “Got what?”
“Alzheimer’s?” Pike asked.
“No, not that,” Manny snapped. “It’s got a different name. ‘Pick’ something.” He pulled a paper from his pocket. “Here, I wrote down what the doctor said.”
He handed over a crumpled scrap of paper and headed to a bench perched in the shade of the cypress tree several yards away.
Rosa smoothed the scrap. “Pick’s disease.” She looked at Pike. “Have you heard of it?”
Shaking his head, he thumbed his phone to life and typed in the search. She watched him read, and though he kept his features in a calm, noncommittal expression, something trickled through the coffee brown of his eyes and the corners of his mouth tightened the tiniest fraction as he scrolled through the information.
“What?”
He pocketed the phone. “We don’t need to research it now. Let’s go back to Bitsy’s and you and Cy can discuss housing options for Manny.”
He turned away, but she stopped him with a hand on his biceps. “Pike, tell me.”
He didn’t meet her eyes, but stared at her fingers curled around his arm. “Rosa, I think maybe this isn’t something you should hear from me in light of...everything.”
She didn’t remove her hand and he remained there, still looking away.
“Please.”
He hesitated. “It says Pick’s disease is a rare form of dementia.”
She blinked. “And?”
“And it’s irreversible and incurable,” he added softly.
Dementia. Irreversible. Incurable. The words fell like heavy stones in deep water, swallowed by the mad, whirling rush in her head. She looked at her father, who was skinning the bark off of a stick he’d retrieved, hunched and small on the hewn wood bench, dwarfed by both the old tree and the blackened wreck.
There seemed no sense to it, that she was standing, watching her father, while being floored by a diagnosis that seemed as if it belonged to a stranger. Manny had left a long time ago, chasing some sort of mysterious, phantom dream that he could not even articulate. He had abdicated the role of father when she’d most desperately needed one. So why, now, were her fingers rigid and her breath tight? Why should she care? Why did it pinch at a place deep inside?
Infuriatingly, Pike had been right. She should not have insisted he tell her about the disease because she was no longer certain she was in control. Above all things, she would not let Pike see her lose it. The man who hated her father. The man who had ridiculed her mother.
She realized she was still touching Pike and that he had covered her hand with his, tenderly, as if he feared bruising her. She detached herself. “I see. Thank you for the info.”
“Do you...want to go talk to him?”
Deep breath. A steadying smile. “I think we should go back. We’ll drive him to the inn, as you suggested, and talk to Cy. This is one of those times when I wish my brother would actually answer his cell phone, the big dork.”
Pike eyed her uncertainly, looking as though he was about to press her further.
“I’m sure Cy’s got the flat changed by now, or the car completely dismantled—one or the other.” Her laugh sounded tinny and strange in her own ears. She strolled to her father and told him of her plan. He nodded, without comment, and shuffled back to the car, the naked twig still clutched in his fingers.
Irreversible, her mind repeated as they drove back to the Pelican.
Incurable.
Unbelievable.
* * *
THE OLD NISSAN sported four fully functioning tires, Rosa noted, as they pulled in to the parking lot. Cy was on the front porch, poring over a stack of history books. Her brother believed that a decorator’s sacred responsibility was to understand the past of any given building before reinventing it.
“The history of a place is what changes a house to a home,” Cy preached at anyone who would listen.
He glanced up as the trio climbed the front steps. “Oh, hey, Pops. Changed your mind about the visit?”
Before Rosa could open her mouth, Cy began hurling historical bomblets at her from his spot on the wicker bench. He gestured with a dusty volume. “Got it from Julio. Took us an hour and a half to find it. The Pelican was built by Harold Herzberg in...”
“In 1860, Cy. I know.”
“Yes, but did you know he was a carpenter turned...”
“Forty-niner who eventually discovered that there was really no money to be made in the goldfields. Yes, I knew that, too.”
“Well, did you know that there was a notable portrait done of Herzberg and his wife, worth thousands, that was stolen from what used to be the Tumbledown Bank some twenty years ago?”
“Hmm. Nope, that’s news to me.”
“Anyway, his carpentry background explains the extensive woodwork.” Cy patted his pockets for a pencil until Pike pointed to the one behind his ear. “There’s a mention of the oak window seat in the dining room being a favorite of Mrs. Herzberg, who used to have guests join her to shell peas and watch the horse-drawn carriages come up from the docks. We’ll need to do it.”
“Do what, Cy?” she said wearily, though she already knew.
“Restore the window seat. Make it a focal point. It won’t be hard—most of the wood is still sound. Aunt Bitsy is fine with it.”
“Yes, she is,” said Bitsy as she stepped out onto the porch. She handed Cy a tape measure. “You left this in the bathroom.”
Pike huffed. “I’m aware that no one is listening, but this inn is on the verge of being sold. There’s no need to do work with window seats or paint or anything else.”
Cy wore a glazed expression as he rambled on about crown molding and stain.
Pike rolled his eyes, mumbling something about being trapped in a nuthouse.
Rosa tried to rally, determined to ignore Pike and his bad tidings. “Time and money, Cy. The window will cost both. And besides, we have something to discuss that’s more important.”
He gaped. “More important than a window seat?”
She nodded. “At the moment, yes.”
Manny rocked back and forth on his heels. “She wants to tell you I’m losing my marbles.”
Cy’s face did not show the signs of shock and surprise that Rosa expected. His mouth opened and closed.
“Oh,” he said. “That.”
Rosa sighed. “You already knew about the Pick’s disease?”
He nodded. “Dad mentioned it when he was last in town.”
“And you didn’t tell me?”
“He wanted to tell you himself, but you weren’t up for the meeting.”
“You could have told me anyway.”
“Well,” Cy said, tapping the pencil on his palm. “You were stressed about the library design. You’re not the easiest person to talk to when you’re stressed. And I figured we had time.”<
br />
Cy had no doubt used his life strategy of avoidance. Don’t acknowledge the ugliness around you, and it’s not real.
“This isn’t something you should have kept to yourself.”
“Generally,” he said, quirking an eyebrow at her, “you don’t want to hear anything about Dad, even the good news. So why would you suddenly be interested in this?”
Rosa gasped, ready to fire off a retort about maddening brothers, but Manny stopped her.
“Not your brother’s fault, Rosa. I didn’t want you bothered with it.”
Bothered with it? Were they all crazy?
Bitsy wrapped herself in a hug. “I read an article about Pick’s disease one time. Is that...” She looked timidly at Manny. “Is that what you have, honey?”
He flashed her a ghost of a grin. “Yeah. Pretty soon I can play hide and seek with myself.”
She didn’t smile. “Oh, Manny.”
Rosa wanted to be angry at Cy and furious with her father, but she could only summon up utter bewilderment. “He’s burned down his trailer.”
“What?” Cy’s jaw dropped. “I knew he’s been in a loaner unit, but I thought it had something to do with having the floor replaced.”
She waved a hand. “It doesn’t matter right now. Where is he going to live? We have no time to help him find a place.”
Manny shifted his weight in frustration. “Rosa, stop talking about me like I’m not here.”
“I guess I’m used to you not being here. It’s second nature,” she snarled, regretting it immediately.
Her father rolled his shoulders and heaved out a breath. “I deserve that, I reckon.”
Cy stood, loosing a shower of pencils and bits of paper sketches from his lap. “We’ll figure it out.”
“I already have,” Bitsy said calmly. “He’ll stay here, in the carriage house, until the contest is over and you have time to think it through.”
“Inn’s going to be sold,” Pike fired off. “Bitsy, you know that’s our only option.”
Bitsy and her nephew locked eyes. “We have never agreed on the timeline, Pike. There’s a contest to be won and Manny can help, just for a few weeks.”
The only option? Rosa did not have time to wonder about the odd turn of phrase. Eyes on the prize, Rosa. “This is sink or swim time for Dollars and Sense Design, and we’re already behind,” she said. “Dad, having you stay here just isn’t a good idea.”
“I’ll stay out of your hair. Besides, I’m a pretty passable carpenter. I can help Cy with the window seat.”
“The carriage house isn’t habitable,” she tried.
“Yes, it is. Rocky and his brother stayed there for a while when his place was being tented for termites,” Bitsy interjected. “There’s a cot and tiny bathroom, even a small TV to watch if you enjoy the Spanish channel or local weather.” Bitsy beamed. “It’s all set, then.”
No, Rosa wanted to say. It’s not all set. I don’t want him here. But at the same time, something tugged deep down, underneath the aggravation. She looked from the preoccupied Cy to cheerful Bitsy to Manny, who studied his worn loafers. Finally, she turned to Pike.
“And what do you think about all this?”
“What do I think about having him here?” Pike said, keeping his gaze away from Manny and fixing his intense brown eyes on her face. “It’s pretty clear that you don’t care one iota what I think.”
He spun on his heel and stalked out to the parking lot.
Rosa’s thoughts flashed between the gentleness of his tone when he’d tried not to tell her the truth about her father and the anger that resonated in his words now. Pike was wrong about everything. Why should she care what he thought?
The door banged closed behind him.
Why should she care about Pike Matthews at all?
CHAPTER SEVEN
“LAND.” CY POINTED to a rich mahogany fabric swatch later that afternoon. “It’s got to be a land motif.”
“Sea,” Rosa insisted as she fanned the paint colors on the floor, a palette of glorious blue shades. “We’re decorating an oceanside inn called the Pelican. How can we not use the nautical theme?”
“Because Herzberg was a carpenter, not a sea captain.”
She groaned. “I know, I know. But...”
Cy held up a finger. “Ten decorating teams, Rosa. Six of the inns are seaside. Don’t you think they’re going to go nautical?”
Baggy slogged up and sat on top of Rosa’s paint samples, his worm of a tail whipping back and forth in hopeful arcs. She sighed and gave him a scratch on the ribs, which set him quivering with joy.
Cy laughed. “I think Baggy likes you.”
Why, she could not imagine. She was on the bottom of everyone’s list, it seemed, from Pike to Manny. “All right. Good point. I’ll refocus, since Bitsy said she’s fine with anything that doesn’t involve Captain’s Nest. I need to go into town and get more paint samples. Golds, rusts, some complementary colors.” Mind whirling, she removed the colored cards from underneath Baggy’s tush.
“And stain,” he added. “Something light but rich. And fabric to make the slipcovers for the upstairs ottoman. No, not fabric. A rug. Let’s upholster it with a rug—jewel toned stripes—to add color. Something thick and well made, that a carpenter would appreciate.”
“Stain, rug—got it.”
“And two-by-fours.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Huh?”
“The alcove at the bottom of the stairs. It’s screaming for set-in shelves.”
She saw it instantly. “We can display some faux antique maps, feature the one showing the Panama Route that the Herzbergs followed to come to the gold fields.”
“Grouped by color, with some up-lighting to really set it off.”
Rosa sighed again, dizzied at the thought of it. “We can get frames cheap and paint them to look antique, in bronze and gold. You’re right. Cy, you’re absolutely right.” If only they could get Bitsy to open up Captain’s Nest, they could continue the color scheme right to the pinnacle of the Pelican. She made a promise to herself to bring it up again with Bitsy, along with delicate inquiries about her health and Pike’s insistence that there was no option but to sell the Pelican. The conversation would have to wait, though, since Bitsy had gone to town hours earlier and hadn’t returned.
Heavy footfalls sent Baggy scampering under the love seat. Manny was dressed in old clothes that would have been a perfect fit for a man six inches taller. He carried a toolbox that might have been left behind from Mr. Herzberg’s day. “Rocky fixed me up. I’m ready to start demolition on the window seat.”
Rosa felt her nerves icing over as Manny shouldered a sledgehammer.
“No demolition, Dad. Just replacing a damaged board. We decorate, we don’t demolish.”
“Right,” he said, peering through a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. “Which board goes? May have to tear out a couple to get to the offender.”
Something like a scream was bubbling up inside Rosa when Cy took her elbow and forced her purse into her hand. “Go get what you need. We’ll work on the window seat. Then I’ll clear out the sitting room so we can paint as soon as you narrow down a color.”
She cast a wary eye on her father. Pick’s disease. The diagnosis seemed impossible to believe as she took in the cheerful man before her. She might have convinced herself it was a dream, if she could not still remember Manny’s drooping shoulders, the shadows that circled in Pike’s eyes when he read about the disease. “Has anyone seen Pike?”
“Not since he left. Why?” Cy asked.
“I figured he’d be watching our every move, making sure we don’t damage this place he’s so eager to sell.”
“Good riddance,” Manny said. “We don’t need his kind around here.”
What kind? she wond
ered. Lawyer? Meddling nephew? Distracting man with a dimpled chin and annoyingly fit body? Snap out of it, Rosa. Through sheer force of will, she did not turn around on her way out to physically remove the sledgehammer from her father’s eager fist. Just before she closed the front door, Baggy shot through the gap and fell into step next to her.
“Are you afraid of that sledgehammer, too?”
With what probably required stringent concentration, the dog fixed his steady eye on her and gave her one precise yip. She scooped him up and installed him in the passenger seat of the Nissan.
In spite of Cy’s dubious automotive skills, the replaced tire held as they rode into town. Sunshine had succeeded in vanquishing the fog, and the narrow Main Street was abloom with geraniums and puffy-topped hydrangeas. Rosa enjoyed flowers from a distance. Too often, they were abuzz with bees, her mortal enemies since childhood, when she was attacked by a swarm. The storefronts were authentically old, not modern construction plastered with an antique facade, and she rolled down the window to catch the scent of the sea and the aroma of blueberry scones that billowed from the Brew Unto Others coffee shop.
It was no longer the corpulent LouAnn who ran the shop, Rosa was sorry to see. The proprietor was now one Nester Lodge, if the sign on the door was up-to-date. Rosa followed her nose into the shop. Nester was a slender man a few decades past his prime as a flower child. His curly hair stuck out in unruly puffs. He greeted her, filling her order for four blueberry scones and the biggest coffee the establishment could offer.
She pinched off a corner of the fragrant scone. Buttery and tender. “Just like LouAnn used to make,” she said.
“Yeah, she gave me the recipe before she left. She taught me it’s all in the gentle way you handle the dough. Rough hands make tough dough, you know?”
He laughed, throwing his head back so that his mustache trembled.
Rosa had not remembered the gentleness of LouAnn’s hands, but she could recall the booming voice and the café’s old striped wallpaper that peeled at the edges. “You’ve redecorated. I like the paint.” A soft blue-gray that modernized the space. Still, a tiny part of her missed the raggedy wallpaper. Strange. She drank some coffee, unwilling to let go of the memory of the place where she and her mother would go sometimes on the good days.
