The only child of Lucy and Adam Enright, Chelsea had enjoyed a rather privileged upbringing. Her father owned several large auto dealerships, though he spent little time at them these days, preferring instead to oversee things from his downtown corporate office. Still a robust man, depending on the season he could be found bird or deer hunting, skiing the local slopes, or attacking the golf course at his country club.
To her father’s disappointment, Chelsea had never expressed any interest in the family business, preferring instead to receive her MFA and teaching credentials at Syracuse University. Teaching helped to fulfill her, and she enjoyed having her summers free. Because of Brooke’s inherited wealth and Adam’s financial success, Chelsea’s mother, Lucy, had never worked, instead immersing herself in the Syracuse social scene. She was a fixture at fashion luncheons, charity group meetings, and her much-beloved bridge club games.
Ironically, Chelsea’s family’s social standing had seemingly cursed her love life more than it had helped it. She oftentimes wished that she could meet a good man who had never heard of the Enrights, but the longer she remained in Syracuse the more discouraged she became. Although Syracuse claimed nearly one hundred fifty thousand residents, it seemed that everyone already knew everyone else. Moreover, news and gossip traveled with the speed of light—especially when it concerned the relatively wealthy.
Putting her thoughts aside, Chelsea at last guided her convertible up a long knoll and onto a huge circular drive, where she parked among the host of cars already there. Since her grandmother Brooke’s death, the Enright house had been bombarded with friends, relatives, and the food everyone had brought. At first glance, today appeared no different.
Before getting out of her car, Chelsea took the key her grandmother had included with the letter from her purse and hung it on her cherished silver necklace, also a gift from her grandmother. She then safely tucked both treasures back inside her blouse. Having Brooke’s mysterious key lying directly over her heart felt right, somehow.
Knowing that she would need to redo her hair and makeup, she gazed at her face in the rearview mirror. Her wavy, dark red hair was long and parted on one side. High cheekbones, large green eyes, and a sensuous mouth completed her lovely portrait. Today she was clothed in tan Ralph Lauren slacks, a white silk blouse, and shiny brown pumps.
As Chelsea walked across the driveway, she admired the lovely home in which she had been raised. Built entirely of stone, it closely resembled a small English manor house. Professional gardeners maintained the immaculately trimmed lawn and colorful landscaping, and the house sat atop a hill, allowing for a magnificent view. When Chelsea’s parents divorced, Adam had graciously transferred full ownership to Lucy.
Until she started teaching, Chelsea had lived here all her life. She had loved growing up in this wonderful place and although she now owned a perfectly lovely town house of her own, every time she visited, she was reminded of how much she missed it. After crossing the brick driveway, she opened one of the stately double doors and walked inside.
As expected, she encountered a subdued atmosphere. Appropriate music was softly playing and there were many visitors, most of whom she recognized. They seemed to be about equally divided into those who were glumly milling about by themselves and others who were congregating in mournful little groups. While making her way across the foyer and into the kitchen, Chelsea was compassionately greeted by many of them and she responded in kind. The kitchen was also busy and hugely overloaded with food. For some reason, casseroles seemed to be the most popular offerings. She sighed a bit as she stared at it all.
I’m sure that my mother and father appreciate all this, she thought. But I could never understand why people always bring so much food to those whose terrible grief has totally robbed them of their appetites . . .
On seeing that a makeshift bar had been set up on the kitchen island, she poured two fingers of single-malt scotch. She took an appreciative sip before walking on into the living room.
By almost any standard, the Enright living room was immense. Its greatest attributes were an emerald-green rug, dark colonial furniture, and a huge marble fireplace. After making the rounds of those who had congregated there, Chelsea stepped out onto the equally large sunporch that adjoined the living room’s far side. Here, she hoped to find some solitude.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked both the swimming pool and the tennis court, and beyond the sloping hill, there lay a wonderfully expansive view of Syracuse’s southeastern side. Taking refuge in one of the many overstuffed chairs, she swallowed another welcome sip of scotch. For a time, she wished that she could simply melt away into the chair cushions and become invisible to all who might wish to offer up yet more depressing condolences. She hadn’t seen her mother yet, but that would happen soon enough.
A few moments later, Lucy’s two shih tzus happily arrived and began nuzzling Chelsea in an urgent quest for food. Her mother had named them Rhett and Scarlett, and although they were not Chelsea’s type of dog, she liked them well enough.
When she reached down to pet Rhett, a familiar voice said, “God, how I dislike small dogs! I don’t know why your mother got them, but that’s Lucy for you. Give me a big old gundog every time. Speaking of which, how’s Dolly these days?”
Chelsea looked up to see her father, Adam, standing beside her chair. “She’s fine, Dad,” she answered.
Adam Enright bent down and kissed his daughter’s cheek. “And Syracuse’s most eligible bachelorette?” he asked. “How’s she doing?”
Chelsea rustled up a little smile. Seeing her father always brightened her mood, no matter the circumstances.
“When I meet her, I’ll ask,” she answered. “Have you been here long?”
Adam shook his head. “I just arrived.” He pulled a chair closer and sat down. “How are you holding up, kiddo?”
“I hate clichés, but I’m doing about as well as can be expected,” she answered.
“Yeah, me too,” Adam answered.
“And Mom?”Chelsea asked.
“She’s still devastated,” Adam answered. “But I always knew that would be the case. They were practically joined at the hip.”
Chelsea nodded. “Yes . . . ,” she said sadly.
Chelsea looked lovingly at her father. He was a tall, fit man in his early sixties with short gray hair, deep blue eyes, and a strong jaw. He had been her rock while she was growing up, and Chelsea thought he looked especially handsome today in a black polo shirt, gray slacks, and cordovan loafers.
Adam and Lucy had divorced while Chelsea was in college. With no daughter left to raise, they had slowly and quietly grown apart, he with his ever-expanding businesses and she with her ever-widening social obligations. There had been no adultery, no fighting, no real animus of any kind. Their loss of intimacy having been more insidious than sudden, it was as if they had simply given up on loving each other. Then one day Adam had quietly left the house, and in her own way, Lucy understood.
Adam had enjoyed several relationships since then. But although Lucy had received many offers of companionship, she had chosen to remain alone. Chelsea had never known why, save for the possibility that her mother still lived in the past and was unable to move on. Or perhaps the men that Lucy had met since her divorce hadn’t been appealing enough, especially after having been married to a man as vibrant as Adam. In any event, unlike many children of divorce, Chelsea could honestly say that she still loved her mother and father equally. And for that much, at least, she felt lucky.
“So how was school this year?” Adam asked.
“Okay,” Chelsea answered. “Plus, I make really big bucks as an art teacher.”
“Speaking of which,” Adam said, “have you reconsidered my offer?”
Chelsea shook her head. “Thanks, Dad,” she answered. “But I really don’t want to work for you. I like my summers off too much.”
Adam chuckled quietly. “I know,” he said. “Even so, I’d be immensely happy to assign you abs
olutely no responsibilities and grossly overpay you for completely ignoring them.”
Chelsea smiled at her dad. Then she again remembered her grandmother’s letter, and she cautioned herself against mentioning it. Even so, she was brimming over with questions that Adam might be able to answer.
“It wouldn’t work out just now, anyway,” she added. “Shortly after the funeral, I’m going away for a few days.”
“Oh?” Adam asked. “Where to?”
“Apparently I’ve inherited Gram’s old cottage on Lake Evergreen. I need to go and see it, before deciding whether it’s worth keeping.”
It took a few moments, but Adam finally remembered. “Good Lord . . . ,” he said. “You’re quite right. I’d totally forgotten about that. And congratulations, I suppose . . .”
Chelsea’s eyebrows lifted questioningly. “You suppose?” she asked.
Adam nodded. “Well, yes,” he answered. “God only knows what kind of shape the place is in by now.”
“Allistaire says that it’s been well maintained over the years.”
“Could be,” Adam said. “I wouldn’t know.”
“So you were aware that I’d inherit it?” Chelsea asked.
“Sure,” Adam answered. “But it’s been so long now that I’d forgotten.”
“Did you ever go there?”
Adam shook his head. “I’ve never even seen the place. By the time your mom and I were married, the cottage had been closed for nearly twenty years.”
“Do you know if Mom has any pictures of it?”
“I have no idea,” he answered. “But even if she does, by now they’re so old that they’d probably make the place look a lot better than it really is. Would you like me to come along and help you check it out? I’d be glad to do it.”
Chelsea almost agreed before stopping herself. She would need privacy if she were to properly follow Gram’s instructions. Even so, she briefly lamented the lost chance to be with her father for a few days.
Chelsea shook her head. “Allistaire told me that a caretaker has been looking after the place,” she answered. “He and his wife are supposedly going to meet me there and show me the ropes.”
“Well, if you find that you need anything, call me and I’ll drive up. If not, come and see me when you get back, because I’ll be eager to hear all about it. And now, I’m going to get a stiff drink and find your mother. I’m sure she could use some support. In our own way we still love each other, you know.”
Chelsea kissed him on one cheek. “I know, Dad,” she said.
With that, Adam headed off toward the kitchen. Hopeful that he might provide them with some food, Rhett and Scarlett eagerly scampered along after him.
While taking another sip of scotch, Chelsea again looked out the broad picture windows, thinking. Since her grandmother’s death two days ago, she had been trying to summon up some courage and store it away in her heart, against the awful day when she would again lose someone she loved. Perhaps then she could call upon those carefully preserved armories of strength and use them as shields against her pain. Then she shook her head a little. Was she deluding herself? Probably, she realized, but it was a pleasant fantasy to nurture.
Brooke had known many people in Syracuse. She had also been well recognized for her charity work and was a driving force on the board of the Everson Museum of Art, an avid painter right up to the day of her death. Her donated works hung in many local homes and cultural facilities. And it was from her that Chelsea had acquired her own love of art and painting. In the end, Brooke died in her sleep, passing from this world in much the same way that she had lived in it—quite peacefully, and without being a bother to anyone.
To her surprise, just then Chelsea thought she heard Gram’s comforting voice, whispering to her from afar. That wasn’t really the case, of course. Even so, she could clearly remember the many times that Gram had advised her as she was growing up. Gram was always there, always kind, always ready to help with any concern. If Chelsea didn’t seem to grasp her answers, Brooke would usually say, “When you’re older, you’ll understand.”
How odd, Chelsea thought as she again focused her gaze outside. That’s much the same thing that she said in her mysterious letter . . .
As she thought more about it, her fingertips unthinkingly sought out the little key that lay underneath her blouse. This time, touching it came automatically. And for some reason she had yet to understand, she found the gesture oddly reassuring.
Chelsea finally arose and walked to the far end of the sunporch. It was here that Brooke had sat and painted. The easel still stood where it always had, with its back toward the windows. An incomplete landscape rested on it, waiting to be finished by an artist who would never return. Just as likely to remain orphaned, Brooke’s various painting tools lay on a nearby table.
Brooke once told Chelsea that her interest in painting had begun shortly after her last visit to Lake Evergreen. She had hired a teacher to come to the house and instruct her, Brooke had also said, until she had developed a style all her own. But when Chelsea had innocently asked Brooke whether her final visit to the lake had had anything to do with her wanting to paint, a sad look had overtaken Brooke’s face. She then politely told Chelsea that her reasons had been personal and that she didn’t wish to speak of them.
Chelsea picked up one of the brushes, remembering. Its wooden handle felt warm, as if her grandmother had just held it. She sadly closed her eyes, realizing that it was the sun that had blessed it, rather than her grandmother’s touch. She put the brush back down, wondering what would become of such cherished mementos. Just then, someone touched her shoulder.
“Hi,” Lucy said softly.
Chelsea turned and gave her mother a long, meaningful hug, as if some of the strength she had been storing away might somehow be imparted to her in this hour of need. When at last she stepped back, Chelsea was disturbed by what she saw.
Lucy hadn’t slept in two days, and dark circles lay beneath her bloodshot eyes. Her usually perfect makeup looked haphazard and wrong, from being so frequently reapplied between crying spells. Although her short gray hair was in place and she was suitably dressed, an overwhelming sense of grief showed through her every attempt to appear normal. When her tears erupted again, she did her best to wipe them away.
As Chelsea searched her purse for a tissue, her fingers brushed against Brooke’s aged letter, reminding her of both its message and its warnings. Much the same way that she had kept it a secret from her father, she must now also do the same with her mother, she knew. She had never been guarded around her parents, and she didn’t enjoy being that way now. But she had resolved to follow Gram’s wishes, so when the tissue came out of her purse, the precious letter stayed behind.
“How are you doing, Mom?” Chelsea asked.
Lucy’s faint smile seemed forced, manufactured. “As best I can,” she answered. “It’s just so hard, you know? We lived together for ages . . . and now I’m rattling around in this big house all by myself. It’s so quiet at night, after everyone has gone home . . .”
Then Lucy looked carefully around as if she were appraising her home, rather than admiring it. “Do you think that I should sell it now?” she asked Chelsea. “With Mother gone it seems so big, so empty . . .”
Chelsea sighed and shook her head a little. Less than an hour ago, she had asked Allistaire Reynolds that very thing about Gram’s cottage. Death has an odd way of forcing us into making choices, she thought. She put a comforting arm around her mother’s shoulders.
“I think that you’re getting ahead of yourself,” Chelsea answered. “There’ll be lots of time to consider that. And we’ll talk to Dad about it, too. He always knows what to do.”
Lucy’s next effort to smile proved no more genuine than before. “I don’t suppose that I could ask you to stay with me for a few nights?” she said. “I could really use the company.”
And just how do I answer that? Chelsea thought. Should I obey the secret wishes of my
grandmother or the more immediate needs of my mother?
It had long been Chelsea’s opinion that Lucy’s brittle and rather martyr-like personality was a result of never having had to work at a “real” job, among “real” people. As far as Chelsea was concerned, Lucy’s charities, black-tie balls, and bridge club didn’t count. Because of her late father’s wealth and Adam’s success, Lucy had never worked a day in her life. As Chelsea had grown into adulthood, she had come to suspect that it was precisely this insulation from the real world that had shaped her mother’s personality. Rather than produce a sense of superiority in Lucy, it seemed that the privileged isolation she had experienced her entire life had somehow created a sort of silent inferiority in her makeup. Lucy had always been a good person, Chelsea knew, but never a great mother. And because of that, it had been Adam to whom Chelsea had always been the closest. But she loved her mother, and she hated seeing her in so much pain.
“I’ll tell you what,” Chelsea said. “I’ll stay with you for a few days, but then I have to leave town for a little while. Would that be okay?”
Chelsea went on to explain her meeting with Allistaire and how she was going up to Lake Evergreen to view the property. To help cushion the blow of her leaving, she then fibbed a little and told Lucy that Allistaire thought it best if she went there soon. She didn’t like doing it, but she was trying to walk a fine line between helping her mother and obeying the wishes set forth in Brooke’s mysterious letter. When Chelsea finished, Lucy nodded.
“Three or four days will be enough, I think,” Lucy answered. “I’ll probably be better after that. By then, I could probably use some time alone, anyway.”
More Than Words Can Say Page 2
