Justine skirted another sermon. “If you can’t trust Abe, then who can you trust, right?”
“Right.”
“Enjoy your vacation. I can’t wait to see Haven. Love ya…bye.”
“Bye.” Sam disconnected.
She paced the room for a few minutes, willing her ire into submission. She’d have to stay calm if she were to find anything out on Jonathan Gladstone. The library would be closing soon. She had slept too late. Now she’d have to wait until tomorrow to get to the bank.
She replaced the handset, grabbed her purse and checked the closet, the only place an intruder could hide. No Leon this time. She navigated the steps and headed out the lounge door.
Sam waved to Aaron. “I’m heading for the library.”
“Say hello to Lillian for me.”
“Lillian?”
“My sister, Lillian Bordeaux, Zack’s mother…she’s the librarian.”
Everyone in Haven was probably related somehow or another to everyone else, if not by blood then by heritage, a stream of love enveloping one’s every breath. Sam envied the connectedness, wishing she could belong, in spite of her past, in spite of the secrets. But then, Haven had its secrets, too. Another reason to stay…mysteries to unravel.
****
Jonathan turned the landscape toward the light. No, the colors were all wrong! He paced the length of the cabin. Why couldn’t he get the shades the way Angelica would approve? He stopped pacing, and opened the tubes he’d bought at Sadie’s. He filled in Angelica’s gown then dabbed the hyacinths with different colors, stroking the petals one by one.
He stopped…his breathing rapid and exacerbated.
The rage again.
He threw the palette across the room, sank into a recliner, and buried his face with his palms. “I’m sorry, Angelica. I can’t do it.”
She seemed to call him from every corner of the cabin, her summons more intense each day. Come to me, Jonathan. Come join us. We will be a family again.
“I will. I promise. When I finish your portrait. ”
He intended this canvas to be his masterpiece, a portrait of Angelica next to a vase of her beloved hyacinths, like the works she had inspired him towards before her death—where flowers danced in joy. Now he could only paint when in a rage, and his rages produced dead hyacinths, brutalized, bleeding. Jonathan longed to join her and Elliott, until he went to the canvas, and his genius became imprisoned. He couldn’t join her in failure.
Jonathan peered out the picture window, the lake still hazy from the morning rain. “I can’t come to you now, Angelica. There’s another voice calling me. I don’t know whose it is, and I don’t know whose to listen to. Don’t you see? That’s why I have to go away from here…away from your memory. Please, don’t be angry with me.”
Jonathan slammed the door to the cabin and mounted his ATV. Mud splattered onto his pants and shirt, and he laughed at the sheer magnitude of the moment, the ping against his legs like a rhapsody of hope.
He must live. For what, he didn’t know, any more than he knew the source of this certainty. Paris would have the answers.
13
Sam gazed at the brick and wooden structure, perhaps one of the oldest left in Haven, with the exception of the church. According to the outside placard, Arlington Memorial Library was donated by Muriel Gladstone Arlington, Emmanuel’s daughter, in memory of her husband, Congressman Franklin Arlington. Had Muriel married Franklin out of love, or prestige? So much of the Gladstone hierarchy steeped in intrigue.
Inside, a white-haired woman in a striped, charcoal-gray pantsuit stamped books at the counter. A younger girl, possibly sixteen or seventeen, took books off the counter and placed them into a rolling cart. The older woman gazed up. “May I help you?
“I’m—”
She smiled. “I know who you are. You’re the girl who’s rooming at Aaron’s place.”
There was something to be said for anonymity, something not so difficult to achieve in Manhattan.
“You have me at a disadvantage. Seems everyone in Haven knows who I am, but I’ve only met a handful of people. I’m assuming, though, you’re Lillian Bordeaux, Aaron’s sister? I see the resemblance. You both have kind eyes.”
“Nice of you to say.”
“Everyone in Haven has been kind.” Except Jonathan Gladstone.
Lillian pushed out a humph. “My dear girl, no town is without its dirt roads. But I’m glad your first impressions are favorable. What can we help you with?”
“I’m interested in any information you have about the Gladstones.”
“Miss Knowles—”
“Sam.”
“Sam…we have a whole wall dedicated to that subject. And then there’s the microfiche from the newspaper, The Haven Gazette, a weekly paper, more of a hobby than anything else, barely supports itself. My husband, Tom, edits it.” Lillian came out from behind the counter and walked into the lobby, reappearing arm in arm with a thin, tallish man wearing a medieval monk’s garb, complete with a Friar Tuck hairdo.
He offered a handshake. “Tom Bordeaux. You must be Sam Knowles. Zack speaks highly of you.”
“I think highly of Zack, too. He’s been a great help to me.”
Tom glued his gaze on Sam as if studying an anomaly. After a few awkward moments, he removed his wig, revealing a full head of cropped gray hair. “This costume’s for a skit I’m doing in Zack’s class next week, tried it on for size. Pardon me for staring, Miss Knowles.”
“Sam.” Maybe she should just wear a sign.
“Haven gets a lot of tourists, but we rarely have a moose murderer among us. You’re famous.”
Would it be wrong to ask God to send a blizzard so the people could forget her and the moose and find something else to talk about?
Lillian squared her shoulders. “Tom is an adjunct history professor and also a writer. He’s an expert on the Gladstone Legacy. He’ll tell you anything you need to know. Save you hours of going through books and newspapers, and Tom likes to show off his knowledge.” She rubbed his arm. “My Tom has three PhD’s from Columbia. It seems I’ve spent my whole life the wife of a college student.”
“Now, Lillian—”
Justine said that the world was so small a toothpick connected the two hemispheres. Must be true. “Dr. Thomas Bordeaux? You’re a guest lecturer at Columbia.”
“From time to time, yes.”
“I attended one of your lectures a few years back about the impact of waterway development in American History.”
Tom smiled. “Well…well. Most of my lecture audiences are captive, required attendance if they want the grade. I’m not the most gifted speaker, I’m afraid, and the students use the time to sleep or write letters. I’m pleased someone actually paid attention, even more so that you remembered.”
Sam’s cheeks heated with embarrassment. “Not me. Actually, my friend was the one who attended and dragged me along. But something you said did stick with me.”
“What was that?”
“History is what connects us as people and should not be taken for granted. Studying our common heritage unifies us as a nation and a world. Or something like that.”
“Close enough, I’m sure. Sounds like something I might have said.”
No need to spoil the man’s moment by admitting the thought came back to her only now; though, at the time, his words pricked her conscience, ignited a latent desire to learn more about history. Unfortunately, the interest suffocated under a mountain of legal studies.
She could pursue it now, and she had a living, breathing encyclopedia ready to spit out his knowledge at will. “What can you tell me about Jonathan Gladstone?”
Tom tossed his wig on top of the counter. “Anything you want to know. I’ve written volumes on the Gladstone estate, and I’m considered the foremost biographer on Jonathan Gladstone.”
“My friend Justine said he was famous.”
“He was, in art circles, anyway, at least up until five years ago. Some
say he could have been the Rembrandt of landscapes. I published a few essays on his work in The New Yorker and Newsweek. He stopped doing gallery exhibits after the accident.”
“You mean when his wife drowned?”
“Come upstairs in the meeting room and I’ll explain.”
Sam mouthed a “thank you” to Lillian and followed Tom up two flights of steps into a spacious lounge, probably colonial, but then she knew as much about architecture as she did art. A marbled fireplace took up most of one wall, and a massive, intricately-carved wooden table centered the room. The walls were adorned with portraits and landscapes of every period in history.
“This lounge is used for various community events,” Tom said. “And a good place to display art.” He pointed across the room. “Over there is our colonial collection.”
Sam squinted to read the names—under one she made out, Paul Revere.
“Colonial artists painted portraits, mainly, and usually in the winter, too busy in the summer and fall with crops and such. Many of the artists painted figures with blank faces. When they received a commission, the artist filled in the face of their patron.” Tom pointed to the central portrait, and Sam peered into the same coconut-brown eyes she’d seen at Sadie’s shop. “I assume that’s Emmanuel Gladstone.”
“Why, yes it is.” Tom stopped in the middle of the room by a series of paintings, all of Mirror Lake, many of which featured hyacinths of various colors, some with buds poking through a thin layer of snow. “Jonathan donated these at the height of his popularity.”
Sam scrutinized the landscapes, not sure what she should be noticing. Tom pointed to a second set. “These were donated last year. Notice anything different?”
Her untrained eye caught the obvious absence of light. No happy play like the others. An eerie moon cast protracted shadows along the violet red hyacinths masquerading in grotesque human form. “I’m no art connoisseur, but I see the differences. What happened?”
Tom’s smile vanished. “Jonathan’s life seemed to fall apart after his wife died. He painted these early masterpieces shortly after he married. Everyone thought he and Angelica were very much in love. Sometimes the couple could be seen fishing on Mirror Lake. At other times, Angelica would take the boat out while Jonathan sketched.”
Tom pointed to a painting of a young woman seated in a row boat and holding an antique fishing pole. “All that changed after she had the baby. Not surprising. Tragedy seems to follow some families. Many town folk believe the Gladstones were cursed after the first mansion burned to the ground.”
While Tom’s side trip proved to be interesting, Sam prodded him toward more immediate information needed to prepare for her interview with Jonathan. “My friend thought Jonathan’s wife drowned. Is that true?”
“They both did—Angelica and Elliott. Rumors quickly spread after Angelica’s disappearance that she had taken Elliot and run away. After their bodies were found a year later, some speculated that Jonathan had killed them both. Other rumors circulated that Angelica suffocated the boy, then drowned herself.”
“Why would she do a thing like that?”
“Elliott was born with a rare disorder called schizencephaly, Type II.”
“I’ve heard of it. In law school, we studied a few adoption cases involving the disease. But these children were from overseas. I thought the disorder was rare in the United States.”
“Rare, but not unheard of. That’s what the kid had, all right. Seizures, paralysis, blindness, nothing more than a vegetable, really. At age four, Elliott still wasn’t responsive. He’d make a few guttural sounds when he rolled his eyes, but that was about it. Angelica’s journals state that the boy didn’t even respond to her voice. Something like that is sure to break a mother’s heart. It might have caused her to do something brash.”
Sam felt a ping of sympathy toward her prospective client. No wonder he was standoffish, gossip must follow him everywhere. Sam remembered the tabloids after Daddy died. Curses were as medieval as Tom’s costume; yet, something sinister seemed embedded in the Gladstone legacy.
“Did the autopsy reveal anything?”
“The bodies apparently had become lodged under the rocky ledge, and the spring thaw pushed them loose a year later. The autopsy proved both Angelica and Elliott drowned, and, after months of investigation, their deaths were finally ruled accidental.” He clicked his last statement.
“And you don’t agree with the findings?”
“Not my place to agree or disagree, but the circumstances were very mysterious and the investigation failed to explain everything. Jonathan testified that he had been in town getting art supplies. When he returned home, Angelica and Elliott were missing. He searched the entire estate and found the empty rowboat adrift in the water. He notified the authorities. Divers looked for them but couldn’t find anything. Some speculated Jonathan had murdered his wife and child, buried their bodies, and staged the drowning.”
How awful to be so uncertain for so long.
Tom contorted his lips to one side. “Thing is, no one can figure out why Angelica would have brought the boy out in the rowboat to begin with, especially without a life preserver. Jonathan took Angelica’s disappearance pretty hard. He stopped painting entirely until the bodies were found. Then these dark landscapes followed. Although judged to be artistically brilliant, they sell sluggishly. Rumor is that Jonathan hasn’t had a commission in over a year.”
The landscape she’d bought in the morning must have been an early Gladstone. “So what you’re saying is, he’s broke?”
Tom smiled. “Hardly. Jonathan receives a substantial allowance from his father’s estate, and monies were left in trust at the Haven Savings and Loan for the upkeep and maintenance of Dawn’s Hope. Aaron serves as executor according to Richard Gladstone’s will.”
“But Aaron has only lived in Haven less than a decade.”
“Aaron visited Haven frequently to see us, and he and Richard Gladstone became friends. Jonathan made millions on his earlier landscapes, but, his career has come to a tragic standstill. Some speculate he’ll never get it back.”
Sam glanced at the clock in the hall. “I’m keeping you past closing. Lillian would probably like to go home.”
Tom reached into his shirt pocket and offered a business card. “If you need anything else, let me know.”
“Do you have any idea why Jonathan Gladstone would want an attorney?” Sam ventured the question, though it might breach an expectation of confidentiality. Sadie’s rule-bending must be wearing off.
“Not really, although Zack said something about Jonathan wanting to go to Paris.” Tom led the way to the lobby. Sam shook hands with Tom and Lillian and headed towards the Lighthouse Lounge. The late afternoon sun, a cantaloupe against a darkening sky, matched her subdued mood. She’d come to find reasons to hate Jonathan Gladstone, but instead discovered a soul that had been wind-tossed and storm-driven, even more than she had.
She thought of all the Haven residents she’d met so far: Aaron, Tracey, Leon, Josiah, Zack, Mazie’s bridge club, and the shuffleboard players—people cast from an odd mold. Something surreal rode on the canal that ran through Haven, drawing her in, her belonging to Haven as anachronistic as a light bulb in a Renoir. Yet, she wondered if Haven would be the briny balm that could finally heal her wounds, wounds still deep and raw, like Jonathan’s.
So far, Haven had proven to be a place of rest, and she couldn’t remember when she’d slept so soundly. Haven, a place of rest. A tune burst from a crypt of buried memories, a melody Justine’s church people used to sing—
I’ve anchored my soul in the “Haven of Rest,”
I’ll sail the wide seas no more
The tempest may sweep over the wild, stormy deep
In Jesus I’m safe evermore.
14
She was late, and she’d agreed to meet Zack at the lounge. She stopped at the front to read the sign: Yankee Pot Roast with all the trimmings. When she entered, the place was filled
to capacity. Apparently, Aaron and Sadie didn’t pay any more attention to seating limits than they did zoning laws. She searched the lounge for Zack but couldn’t find him. Maybe she should wait for him before taking a seat at a table…besides, there didn’t seem to be an available spot, for the moment.
Sam sat at the bar and watched Sadie whiz to and fro, carrying large trays teeming with guests’ suppers. An African-American man, dressed in an Armani suit, rose from a single table near the door and walked toward Sam. She recognized him almost immediately—Darnell Washington, the last man Sam thought to look for in Haven.
He nodded his greeting. “A pleasant evening, Miss Knowles, wouldn’t you say? I trust you’re finding Haven a nice place to rest after your horrible accident.”
“Don’t bother with the small talk, Darnell. It’s not your strong suit. What do you want?”
“Let’s just say I’d like to make an offer you can’t refuse.”
Like a jewelry assessor scans a fraud, Aaron raised an eyebrow and shot Sam a glance that silently rendered assistance if needed. “Everything all right, Sam?”
“Yes. Mr. Washington and I need a private place to chat.”
“You can use my office.” Aaron pointed to a closed door at the far wall behind the bar.
Washington extended his right arm and bowed, an affectation that nauseated more than impressed. “After you, Miss Knowles.”
Legal books lined the shelves, interspersed with nautical novels. Sam counted ten copies of Moby Dick. Washington pointed to a chair, perhaps wanting her to sit first. Chivalry went out the door with the joust, yet he oozed sickening politeness, and Abe had taught her to beware of overly polite defense attorneys.
“I’ll stand if you don’t mind.” Sam glanced at her watch. “You’ve got two minutes before I ask Aaron to boot you out of here. You know this is breaking protocol, cornering me like this while I’m on vacation.”
The Other Side of Darkness Page 10