‘Would you play me something?’ Sarah asked gently.
‘Can’t.’ No turn of the head, his voice seeming to echo from a darkness within. ‘The music’s gone. The doctor tried to trick me it would come back if I took my medicine. They all do it. Treat me like I’m a child. Mother had a woman in to watch me, but got rid of her . . . stealing my things. They all do it.’
‘That’s bad.’ A painful squeeze at the base of Sarah’s throat. ‘What if you closed your eyes and imagined you were playing for your Aunt Rowena? Remember,’ she hesitated, took a step into the room, ‘you said I reminded you of her. Maybe she was sending you a memory, to let you know she wishes she could hear you play again.’
‘I liked her. She called me a young Mozart. My father never thought I was any good. Now Mother only cares about that dog. It’s so alone in here.’ He tapped his head. ‘Sometimes,’ he finally turned, blue eyes – so like his mother’s – meeting Sarah’s hazel ones, ‘sometimes I think I’m losing my mind. Do you think I could be?’ The question was the more harrowing because it was so reasonably, almost conversationally spoken.
‘No. I think you’re just tired and that can make anyone feel down.’ A psychiatrist might not consider this to be the correct response, but it felt right to Sarah to offer a soothing reply to someone old and confused. The tragedy was that Sonny Norris wasn’t old, he was middle-aged – a time of life which for many promised many vigorous, productive years ahead. She thought of her parents, eagerly anticipating a move to Florida.
Sarah was turning on the gas under the stainless soup pot when the first halting sounds of melody drifted her way. In the time it took to remove a glass bowl of green salad from the refrigerator and set it on the counter the notes were gaining in confidence. She knew very little about classical music, had brushed it aside from teenage years on in favor of rock and some folk, but she did recognize Beethoven’s Fur Elise. A given for anyone who had sat (however bored) through a basic high school music class. The word exquisite hadn’t come to her then. It did so now as she stood absolutely still, absorbing not only the aching loveliness of the sound but also the poignancy of Sonny Norris finding, within his long term memory, a sanctuary. He was now shifting tranquilly into Moonlight Sonata. Could his mother hear him from behind her closed bedroom door? Sarah’s hope was that she was still asleep and the gift of her son’s return to something of his former self would seep into her dreams.
The rest of the evening had passed quickly. When the music ceased half an hour later, Sarah asked Charles if he was ready to eat. He came without protest to the kitchen, where he consumed without interest and in silence a few spoonfuls of soup and poked fitfully at the salad. Pushing back his chair, he retreated upstairs. The dog then came into the kitchen and headed toward the door at the back of a mud room. Having let him out into the fenced area beyond, she spotted a container of dog food on a shelf. Below it were two bowls: one filled with water, the other empty. Possibly he didn’t get fed at this hour, so perhaps she should wait and ask Gwen. Once he was back inside and had allowed her to pat him, she went up to check on Gwen to find her still asleep, not so much as a stirring between the opening and closing of the door.
Sarah decided to feed the dog . . . Jumbo . . . if she remembered his name correctly. Following her into the mud room, he munched on the food she put in his bowl. When it was empty he gave her an appreciative look from those surprisingly gentle eyes for an animal with so powerful a build and such ominous jaws.
‘No one could say you have a weak chin,’ Sarah told him. He sat, tail wagging appreciatively, and disarmed her by holding up a paw. She knelt to shake it. ‘Good to know you. Nice boy. I think I could get to like you very much. And I thought I could only relate to small, fluffy dogs.’ Might she reconsider limiting her choice when getting one of her own? Perhaps not – she wanted one that would snuggle on the sofa with her, but when it came to loyal devotion to his owner Jumbo could be second to none. He returned to his post outside Gwen’s bedroom door, and Sarah, suddenly hungry, ladled a bowl of soup for herself. It was as delicious as its aroma had promised. She had a second helping along with some of the salad of mixed greens and citrus dressing she had removed from the fridge. A glance at the kitchen clock showed it to be getting on for nine. She did the dishes, wiped the table and counter top, and made a couple of further trips to look in on ‘her patient’ with the same results as before. To rouse her with the offer of a meal didn’t make sense. Following her final check at ten thirty Sarah took a blanket from a linen closet – the same blanket that was to slide off the sofa during the early hours of the morning, causing her to wake feeling chilled.
She was still sitting, with sunlight gilding the beautifully polished desk and tables, thinking what a contented feel there was to this house despite the distressing situation under its roof, when she heard footsteps on the stairs. She got to her feet and went into the foyer. Gwen was coming down the last few steps, wearing a sapphire-blue velour robe with a matching satin sash, the perfect complement to the forget-me-not eyes and silver hair. Looking at her, Sarah thought she must have been lovely as a young woman – still was, for that matter. A complexion to die for at any age. And she did look better for a night’s sleep.
‘You stayed.’ The smile illuminated her, as if from a light turned on within. ‘I must have known you did, for I slept the night through, something I haven’t done in a while. How extraordinarily kind of you, especially under the circumstances. And, I’m ashamed to confess, I’ve forgotten your name.’
‘It’s Sarah Draycott.’
‘Sarah . . . a lovely name, it suits you. Did you manage to get any rest yourself?’
‘Plenty. I was perfectly comfortable on your sofa.’ Sarah should have been eager to leave, to get back to Bramble Cottage and all that needed to be done that day, but she found herself in no hurry. Instead she wanted the chance to get to know this woman a little better and, if possible, to reach out and be of some small help. An idea had already come to her. She could offer to take Jumbo for a daily walk. It would be good preparation for when she got a dog of her own. ‘I helped myself to a blanket from your linen closet. That was after enjoying a wonderful meal; I hope you don’t mind my making myself that much at home.’
‘My dear, I would feel terrible if you hadn’t done so.’
‘I’d love the recipe for your split pea soup.’
‘An old standby; I’ll get it to you.’
‘Your son didn’t eat much.’
‘He doesn’t. Lack of appetite, no interest in food. Goes with the condition. Wonderful that you could get him to the table.’ Gwen bent to stroke Jumbo, who had now padded down to join her in the foyer, then let him out into the fenced yard. She smiled at Sarah. ‘Would you like coffee before you leave?’
‘I’d love a cup.’
The kitchen looked even more friendly in the morning light. Gwen moved lightly between the cupboards and refrigerator. ‘I thought I heard Sonny playing Beethoven in the evening, but I must have been dreaming; it’s so long since he’s touched the piano.’
‘I found him there. He talked for a little and when I was getting the meal ready I heard him begin that first piece. So beautiful.’
‘Then, my dear, I am even further in your debt. Music was his passion from the time he could crawl to the piano bench. His dream was to be a great concert pianist, but by the end of his first year at Julliard he knew that wasn’t in the cards. There’s such a huge gap between the exceptionally gifted and the sublime. Accepting that realization took time.’
‘That must have been hard.’ Sarah felt her eyes sting. A brilliant career might have compensated in part for what he was enduring now.
‘Sonny’s given name is Charles. He was named after his father, a tradition going back three or four generations. My husband didn’t want him to be Charlie. We assumed he’d shift to Charles as he got older, but he refused.’ Gwen opened the door for Jumbo, and then filled the coffee cups. ‘His wife, Beatrice, joked about t
heir wedding, claiming he mumbled: “I, Charles Edward Norris,” as if afraid someone would jump up and accuse him of using an alias. She was a lovely person, with a great sense of humor. She taught business at Fieldhurst, a small, private university in Rhode Island, where Sonny headed the music department. What inspired him most was working with promising children, recommended by their grade school music teachers. No children for him and Beatrice, something never discussed with me; sadly she died from breast cancer five years ago. And shortly afterwards Sonny moved in with me. It worked well for both of us. He was ready to retire from the university and concentrate on tutoring. The first indication of his decline was when he began forgetting appointments with students.’
‘How terribly sad for you both.’ The heartfelt words sounded flimsy to Sarah’s own ears.
Gwen lightly touched her shoulder. ‘I’m glad we’ve met. I only wish it could have been under different circumstances. Let’s sit down and enjoy our coffee. Sonny and I have both known a great deal of happiness, separately and together. And there will still be joy ahead; finding it is rather like searching for pieces of sea glass washed up onto the beach. Just when you’re about to stop looking, it’s there to be picked up – something small and beautiful. Perhaps that sounds fanciful.’
Sarah looked across the kitchen table at her. ‘What you just said was rather wonderful, Mrs Norris.’
‘Thank you, my dear, but I should have mentioned that my name isn’t Norris. Sonny’s father and I divorced. A year later I married my late husband, John Garwood.’
Five
After days of rain the sky was as blue as Gwen’s eyes, and the garden bathed in sunshine. She welcomed its comforting warmth as she knelt, dressed in an old pair of slacks and sweater, weeding a perennial flowerbed in the front yard. The chill that had penetrated her body on discovering that Sonny had taken the car had still been there when she had woken that morning. It had ebbed during the hour she had spent talking with Sarah Draycott over coffee and croissants, but had seeped back when that nice young woman left. Reality had to be faced. Last evening could have been so much worse, but it served as a warning that more must be done to protect Sonny from himself. Sarah had been so generous, making light of what had happened, and even offering to return in the coming week and take Jumbo for a walk. Gwen had gratefully accepted for the dog’s sake and her own. She very much wanted to spend more time with Sarah, without forcing a friendship.
Gwen set the trowel down and straightened up, to look toward the rustic bench where Sonny sat, holding a newspaper, but looking over it with that unfocused gaze. Sometimes he appeared to read, but how much he absorbed she didn’t know. He had always been keenly interested in politics and what was happening on the world scene. Now that was lost, along with so much else, including, until last night, any willingness to sit down at the piano. He had not mentioned Sarah this morning. A burst of yellow, like concentrated sunshine, from the forsythia bush behind the bench, along with the deep pink of the azaleas, emphasized his depleted appearance. He had grown from a sensitive boy into a serious man, but one with a dry sense of humor, which included an ability to laugh at his own foibles. A trait developed, perhaps, as a defense against his father’s ever-ready criticism of any blunder or ineptitude.
As she walked toward him, the memory returned vividly of the afternoon when Rowena’s engagement to John was announced – she at the piano – and the scene that had dragged her up from her music. Sonny knocking over the lamp and his father’s enraged reaction. Anger out of all proportion to the incident. The more shocking because such a display had never previously occurred when company, even family, was present. And rarely in private. Charles had, in general, vented with the cutting barb, or by icy withdrawal. Caught up in all the emotions John had evoked in her since their meeting in the garden, Gwen hadn’t dwelt on the reason for her husband’s loss of control. She had hurried Sonny from the room to the kitchen to console him. The kitchen because Mrs Broom was there to produce a cookie and glass of chocolate milk. Sonny had loved Mrs Broom. And she, in turn, had been devoted to him.
Gwen sat down beside her son on the bench. He glanced at her without speaking, but she saw his expression lift. Sometimes their closest communication came without talking. This was such a beckoning time of year. A good part of her love for gardens was the sounds. Some enlivening, some dreamily soporific, as with the bee now buzzing among the azaleas. The family two doors down on her side kept hives, selling the honey at the village market. So many cottage industries in Maine. There were few houses on Ridge Farm Rise. Hers, the original farmhouse, sat a good distance back from the road. She could only see half of the Baldwin’s house, across the road, from where she sat.
Poor Madge. Gwen had phoned her, after doing the breakfast dishes, to briefly fill her in on the outcome of Sonny’s taking the car. She had stressed that Madge must not blame herself for his having taken it. On ending the call, she had remained uncertain that she had put the matter to rest. Madge was a nice woman, warmly generous and a tireless volunteer for good causes, perhaps taking on too much. Gwen sensed she was also the type of person who thrives on drama.
Beyond the houses was a wildflower meadow that in summer resembled a Monet; it was fringed by woodland through which ran a walking path that ended at Halcyon Street, on the edge of Sea Glass’s shopping and business area, above the common. It was getting warmer; the weather forecast had predicted highs in the mid-seventies. It was good to sit idle, bathed in warmth, hearing the small waterfall to her left splashing musically down a rocky incline to disappear under a culvert and reappear as a brook on the other side of the road. So peaceful, but she couldn’t allow her mind to drift. She had to think how best to locate an in-home carer, one with a personality acceptable to Sonny.
A few months previously she had hired a woman from an agency. She had been told, by several people, that she was the best in the area. Sonny had resented her from the start; she had fidgeted over his every move, talking at him rather than to him. When ordered, rather than cajoled, to take his medication, he had responded with belligerence. The agency had sent someone else. That hadn’t worked out any better. He had subsequently lumped both women together, never mentioning there had been two, talking about that woman you brought here. Gwen wondered now if her mistake had been having the help during the day time, her idea being that this freed up time for her to take care of what needed to be done, including getting Jumbo out for his walks. Also it had enabled her to take afternoon naps, in compensation for broken nights’ sleep. This time she would seek a person willing to do the night shift. On Monday, she would place an ad in the local weekly paper.
She felt better having that sorted out in her mind. There was something about a garden at this time of year, on the verge of summer, which was visibly hopeful. The leaves on the trees still had that look of tender awakening. The lawn was a lush green, still too wet for mowing. The Hardwicks, the family with the hives, had a teenage son who did the mowing for her. He was a delightful boy and completely reliable. He would come over as soon as the time was right. Sonny had been so good with that age group, with all the children he tutored. He turned to her now. ‘Where is Mrs Broom?’ It was one of those questions that came out of the blue.
Gwen hesitated; she always attempted to gage what truth he could accept. ‘She died, dear, but after a full life, and she and I continued to keep in touch throughout the years. The last time I heard from her she had become a great-grandmother.’
It took several moments for him to answer. So often his mind wandered off in another direction, from one sentence to the next. Not this time. ‘I loved Mrs Broom.’
‘We all did. She was a wonderful woman, and perhaps the best friend I ever had.’
‘She didn’t like the way Dad treated me.’
‘Didn’t she?’ Gwen reached for his hand. ‘Oh, Sonny, your father was fond of you; he just had difficulty expressing affection.’
‘He thought I was too like you. Why didn’t you leave him
sooner?’ It was a man’s question, voiced with concerned interest.
‘I convinced myself I was the one to blame.’ She kissed his cheek. ‘How do you feel about our taking Jumbo for a walk?’
‘I’ll stay.’
That, of course, wouldn’t work. Time to go back inside. She had just recovered the trowel from the flower bed, when a car – her car – turned into the driveway. It drew to a stop in front of the garage. She hadn’t given the Cadillac a thought since the Englishman, Sid Jennson, had offered to assess its drivability. Now here he was getting out of the driver’s side.
‘Checked out just fine,’ he said as she came up to him.
‘Thank you so very much, you’ve been more than kind.’ She smiled back at him. She had never met him before yesterday, which made his coming to her aid the more appreciated. That was Sea Glass for you. Someone always seemed to turn up in a crisis to lend a helping hand. It more than made up for the fact that nothing remained a secret for more than ten minutes. Sonny was ambling toward them. The contrast between the two men was stark, especially so considering they were probably around the same age. Mr Jennson, upright, vigorous and healthily complexioned, his thick hair gleaming silver in the morning sunlight. Sonny slump-shouldered and way too thin.
‘Want me to drive it into the garage?’
‘That’s all right, I’ll do it.’
‘Righty-ho.’ He handed over the keys. ‘By the way, I’ve fixed that fence. Had some of the same picket in the garage, left over from fencing in an area for the dog. The wife would have conniptions if it got loose and anything happened to it. I don’t think anyone will notice the repair. I did it early enough this morning; doubt any neighbors saw the damage.’
Sea Glass Summer Page 9
