by Leslie Meier
“I hope not. I don’t know how long I’m going to have to stay,” she told him. “The plan is to bring her back home to Maine as soon as the doctor gives the okay.” Lucy paused. “How are things there?”
“Oh, we’re managing,” he answered, grumbling. “But the sooner you get back, the better.”
“I’ll do my best,” promised Lucy, who was thinking that the blue water of the pool looked awfully inviting, and the sun felt lovely on her vitamin D–starved skin. She closed the flip phone and slumped down in the chair, put her feet up, and sipped her coffee. After a while, however, the heat became too much for her and she retreated inside, where she adjusted the wood blinds to block the sunshine.
She sat down on the slipcovered couch and switched on the TV, finding a morning news show. Much to her surprise, they were showing film footage of Vicky and Henry leaving the courthouse and, after giving a brief recap of the case, segued to a discussion of elder abuse in Florida. The segment gave her an idea and she called Ted at the paper.
“I don’t know how long I’m going to have to stay,” she told him. “It all depends on Elizabeth’s recovery.”
“It’s awfully bad timing,” he complained, “what with the Van Vorst story.”
“I know,” admitted Lucy. “But I could do some features for you, while I’m here. I was thinking of doing something on elder abuse in Florida and how they handle it.”
“It’s better than nothing, I guess,” said Ted, giving his grudging approval.
“I’ll get right on it,” promised Lucy, who was already unzipping her suitcase and pulling out her swimsuit.
Lucy’s days soon fell into a pattern. She woke up early every morning and went for a swim, then ate a quick breakfast, tidied the apartment, and went to the hospital. Elizabeth made slow but steady progress. She grew stronger every day, but continued to run a low-grade fever. The doctor explained to Lucy that the fever was an indication that the infection was lingering and said he wouldn’t release her until he was satisfied it was completely gone. “I do not want to risk a relapse,” he said.
So Lucy did her best to keep Elizabeth amused, bringing her magazines, and staying with her through lunch. Then Lucy would leave to spend the afternoon working on the feature story she promised Ted, returning to the hospital in the evening for a visit and to check on Elizabeth’s progress. Finally, on the fifth day, they got the okay to leave.
Bill met them at the airport, his welcoming smile turning to an expression of concern when Lucy finally appeared pushing Elizabeth in a wheelchair.
“It’s just for the airport,” said Elizabeth, noticing his dismay. “I’m really fine.”
“She’s supposed to rest as much as possible and she’s not allowed to climb stairs or lift heavy objects,” said Lucy. “She has an appointment with Doc Ryder tomorrow and he’s going to monitor her progress. If all goes well, she can go back to work in five weeks.”
Bill nodded and took the chair from Lucy, pushing it along. When they got to the exit, he left them to get the car; he was fuming about the parking fee when he pulled up. Then, leaving the chair on the curb, they loaded Elizabeth and the luggage and drove off, headed to Tinker’s Cove and home.
Next morning, leaving Elizabeth in the care of her younger sisters, Lucy returned to work. Driving the familiar route, she noticed the white satellite trucks from the TV networks were no longer parked in front of the police station. Stories ebbed and flowed like the tide and with no new developments on the immediate horizon, the media had gone fishing in deeper waters. They’d be back, she knew, when the case went to trial.
The phones were quiet when she got to the office, and there was no sign of Ted or Phyllis. A stack of unopened mail was on the reception counter and she started flipping through it, figuring she might as well get a start on the events listing. That’s what she was doing when the little bell on the door jangled and Sue walked in.
“I heard you were back,” she said. “How’s Elizabeth?”
“She’s doing okay but it’s slow. I feel so guilty. She called me asking about cramps and I told her it was probably just her period. The doctor said it was a close thing. She could have died from the infection.”
“But she didn’t,” said Sue. “And you got a week in Florida.”
“It was nice,” admitted Lucy. “Except for the worrying.”
“Well, she’s back home and on the mend. I’ve only got a minute,” said Sue, waving a folded copy of the New York Times. “I’m on my way to Little Prodigies. I’ve got to fill in for Chris today. Her twins have upset tummies.”
“She has my sympathy,” said Lucy.
“I brought you this,” said Sue, handing her the paper. “There’s a big story in the arts section about Maxine.” She pointed to the headline with a freshly manicured finger. “See here? ‘Arts community says farewell to a muse.’ ”
Lucy quickly scanned the story that cited Maxine as an influential figure in artistic circles who was once linked romantically to the sculptor Karl Klaus. Her daughter, it said, top model Juliette Duff, just back from an assignment in Peru, spoke movingly of her mother at the memorial service.
“Interesting, hunh?”
“Yeah,” agreed Lucy. “I had no idea Maxine was interested in art.”
“Or artists,” added Sue.
“It does explain the sculpture. I never thought VV was into modern art, you know, and I wondered why she had Jelly Beans.”
“It says here that Maxine was an early admirer of Basquiat, a muse to Julian Schnabel and that she once dated Paul Simon. That must’ve been before Edie.”
Except for Paul Simon, Lucy had no idea who Sue was talking about. “I didn’t realize Juliette was so successful,” offered Lucy.
“I knew I’d seen her face somewhere,” said Sue, producing a Vogue magazine from her tote bag and flipping through it. “But look here. Juliette in jeans, Juliette in lipstick, Juliette in jewels, Juliette seemingly naked with a tiger cub and a handbag, the whole thing is full of Juliette.”
Lucy squinted at the last photo, which was spread over two pages. “You’d have to pay me an awful lot to get me to cuddle up naked with a tiger, even if it is only a cub.”
“You’d need a bigger handbag,” said Sue.
Lucy ignored the insult. “I was wrong about Juliette, too. I underestimated her. I thought she was just a messed-up rich kid who dabbled in modeling.” She took another look at the photo, noticing that Juliette was tickling the tiger cub’s chin. “I think she might be a force to be reckoned with.”
“I think you’re right,” said Sue.
Sunday dawned a perfect spring day, the sort of spring day that was so rare in Maine that it seemed a shame to spend even a minute indoors. Lucy was no exception, so after she’d seen Sara and Zoe off to the Friends of Animals shelter, where they filled in for the full-time workers on weekends, she went straight over to Molly and Toby’s house on Prudence Path.
“I want to borrow Patrick,” she said, scooping up the squirming little boy in a big hug. “Elizabeth and I are going to start a garden and we need a helper.”
“That’s great,” said Toby, who was loading the breakfast dishes into the dishwasher. “Molly’s got to work today at the diner and I really need to hit the books. I’ve got a test in business ethics on Monday.”
Lucy tickled Patrick’s tummy, sending him into a fit of giggles. “Business ethics, an oxymoron if I ever heard one,” she said.
“You’re absolutely right,” he said with a rueful grin. “It’s not actually about right and wrong, it’s about what you can get away with, without breaking any laws.”
Lucy perched on one of the kitchen stools with Patrick in her lap. “Are you sure business school is right for you?” she asked.
“Don’t worry, Mom,” said Toby, peering at her over the rim of his coffee mug and taking a long drink. “I have a solid sense of right and wrong despite my professor’s best efforts.”
“Oh, I know that,” said Lucy. “I have
trouble imagining you in an office all day, wearing a tie and all that. You love being outdoors, being on the water.”
Toby looked out the window, studying the little clouds scudding across the blue sky and judging the way the tree branches tossed in the breeze. “Storm’s coming,” he said. “And I’m glad I don’t have to be out there, trying to outrace a nor’easter in a leaky tub with a hold full of fish.” His gaze fell on Patrick, who was mouthing a spoon. “Did you hear about Will Smollett?”
“No? What happened?”
“He was working on Lady Liz, he was using a portable generator and accidentally electrocuted himself.”
Lucy knew that Will had two little girls and his wife was expecting another baby. “Is he okay?” she asked.
“They say he’ll make it, but there’ll be medical bills and he won’t be able to work for a long time. They’ve set up a fund for his family.”
“I’ll make sure we run something in the paper,” said Lucy, easing Patrick off her lap and standing up. “I think we’ll let you study for that test. Patrick and I have seeds to plant.” She gave his hand a squeeze. “Do you like gardening, Patrick? What shall we plant?”
Patrick was thoughtful, apparently considering his options.
“Lettuce, for salad? How about radishes? Or spinach? It will make you strong like Popeye.”
Patrick was clearly puzzled. “Who’s Popeye?” he asked.
Lucy was shocked. “You don’t know about Popeye?” she asked.
“No.”
She turned to Toby. “Kids today,” she muttered, leading her grandson out to the garden.
Chapter Thirteen
Six weeks later, Doc Ryder gave the okay for Elizabeth to return to Florida and her job at the hotel, but advised she go back to work on a Thursday or Friday, so she would only have to work a few days before having the weekend to recover. That was fine with Lucy, who figured she could take her to the airport on Wednesday afternoon, after deadline.
She was just leaving, after seeing Elizabeth pass through security, when her cell phone rang. It was Rachel.
“I’m sick,” she whispered in a hoarse voice. “I’ve got a sore throat and sniffles. I think maybe I’m running a fever.”
“Have you been to the doctor?”
“No.” Rachel coughed. “It’s just a head cold. I’m taking fluids—lots of orange juice—and resting.”
“I’m sorry for you—you sound terrible.”
“I think it sounds worse than it is,” said Rachel, but her brave words were contradicted by another coughing fit.
“Is there anything I can do for you? Do you need anything?”
“Actually, that’s why I called. There is one thing you could do, Lucy,” she said, her voice fading. “Could you look in on Miss T for me?”
This was so like Rachel, thought Lucy. She was sick as a dog but she was worried about Miss Tilley. “Sure thing. Don’t give it a thought. Take care of yourself.”
“I will,” promised Rachel in a barely audible whisper.
Lucy promptly called Miss Tilley, whose voice was much stronger than her caregiver’s. “I’m fit as a fiddle,” she said. “I’m ordering pizza for supper.”
“What about breakfast tomorrow?” asked Lucy. “Can I bring you something?”
“I think I can manage to make a cup of tea and pour some Raisin Bran into a bowl.” She paused and Lucy could hear her dentures clicking, a sure sign the wheels were turning in her old gray head. “I will need a ride—I’ve been invited to Pine Point for lunch tomorrow.”
Lucy wondered if the old dear was suddenly senile. “Are you sure about that?”
“I am. VV called and invited me herself.”
Lucy had done her best to follow the Van Vorst case while nursing Elizabeth, but it had been a juggling act and she’d apparently dropped a ball. “Really?”
“Yes, Lucy. Really. I’m supposed to be there at one o’clock. She said there will be lobster Newburg.”
Lucy remembered the skeletal figure she’d glimpsed at Pine Point and was extremely doubtful, suspecting the lunch was nothing more than a pipe dream, though she wasn’t sure whether it was Miss T or VV who was doing the dreaming. Nevertheless, she thought it best to indulge the fantasy. She might even get a peek into the situation at Pine Point herself, which would come in handy now that Vicky and Henry’s trial was only days away.
Following Miss T’s instructions, Lucy rolled through the open gates at Pine Point at exactly one o’clock on Thursday and pulled up to the front door. It was immediately opened by Willis, who came out to help Miss Tilley out of the car.
“Mrs. Van Vorst would be pleased if you would join her for luncheon,” he said, speaking to Lucy.
Lucy was flabbergasted. “Me?”
“She would be honored,” he said.
Lucy was suddenly aware that she was wearing a faded pair of jeans, running shoes, and a T-shirt adorned with the logo of a paint company, a freebie that the hardware store had given to Bill.
“You can leave the car here,” said Willis. “It will be fine.”
“All right,” said Lucy, turning off the ignition and reaching for her purse. Willis held out his arm for Miss Tilley and helped her up the steps to the door and Lucy followed, thinking this was a big improvement over the last time she’d come to Pine Point, when she’d had to use the service entrance.
Willis ushered them through the foyer and into the dining room, where VV was seated at a small table set for three by the French doors. She was in a wheelchair, and still extremely thin, but her white hair had been freshly washed and styled and she was wearing a pink tweed jacket over a matching pink blouse. A beige cashmere throw covered her legs.
“Forgive me for not getting up,” she said, holding out her age-spotted hands and smiling at her old friend.
Miss Tilley grasped both of VV’s hands and Lucy thought she detected the merest hint of tears filling her eyes. “It’s wonderful to see you,” she said. “Let me introduce my friend, Lucy Stone. She’s filling in for my usual helper.”
“Welcome, Lucy,” said VV. “Thank you so much for bringing Julia—it’s been quite a while since we’ve seen each other.”
“Too long,” agreed Miss Tilley as Lucy held her chair for her.
Lucy took the last seat, admiring the table setting as she unfolded a starched linen napkin and spread it on her lap. The floral plates were set on a perfectly smooth white damask cloth, the silver gleamed, the crystal sparkled, and the air was redolent of lobster Newburg.
“My favorite!” exclaimed Miss Tilley as Willis set a plate in front of her.
“I know how much you love it,” said VV with a wicked grin. “I hope it doesn’t kill you.”
“I don’t believe that nonsense about cholesterol,” said Miss Tilley. “Do you?”
“Not a bit,” agreed VV. “And my doctor says I need to gain some weight, so I’ve got permission to eat these delicious things.” She picked up her fork and hunched her shoulders in glee. “There’s key lime pie for dessert!”
Thinking that this menu sounded rather ambitious for Elfrida, Lucy posed a question: “Have you got a new cook?”
“No.” A gleam appeared in VV’s eyes. “I gave my cook a cookbook!”
“This is delicious,” said Miss Tilley, spearing a large chunk of claw meat.
Lucy took a bite and discovered she was right; Elfrida was becoming a wicked good cook. She turned her attention to her meal, enjoying every bite and listening to the two old women as they relived old times.
“So, Julia, you’re still a spinster lady and proud of it?”
“I am,” replied Miss Tilley. “I never could see what men were good for.”
“Children?” suggested Lucy.
Miss Tilley rolled her eyes. “Very messy, a dreadful bother.”
“Money, that’s what men are good for,” said VV.
“I didn’t need to marry for that,” said Miss Tilley.
“I did,” said VV. “I didn’t grow up
in a big house like you, with a judge for a father. I grew up on a hardscrabble farm stinking of chickens. I couldn’t wait to get away.”
Lucy looked around the richly decorated room at the numerous oil paintings hanging on the walls, the glittering gilt and crystal chandelier, the antique furniture, and the probably priceless Persian rug. Glancing through the window, she could see Izzy working outside, trimming a hedge. “You’ve come a long way,” she said.
“There’s always a trade-off, when you marry for money,” said VV. “I didn’t love Horatio, it wasn’t at all like my first love, but I made it work. I made him happy. On his deathbed, he told me so. He said he couldn’t have had a better wife.” She paused. “Love doesn’t last. Money does.”
“Who was your first love?” asked Miss Tilley. “What happened to him?”
“The love of my life,” said VV wistfully. “Every woman should have one. It was intoxicating. I was head over heels with him. Of course, we were only together for less than a year—there was no time for things to turn sour—and then he was gone, off to the war.” She dropped her hands in her lap and smoothed her napkin. She shook her head. “You know, Julia, I think you really have missed out, being an old maid.”
Miss Tilley smacked her lips as a generous slice of key lime pie was placed in front of her. “That’s rather presumptuous of you. You don’t know everything about me. Perhaps I’m not the old maid you think I am.”
“Oh, ho!” crowed VV, digging into her pie. “I hope not!”
Despite her good spirits, Lucy sensed that VV was beginning to tire. She only ate a few bites of dessert, then seemed to drift off, gazing out the window while Lucy and Miss Tilley chatted. Willis came in with coffee and moments after he left, one of the nurses appeared.
“I’m afraid it’s time for your medicine,” she said, tapping her watch.
VV raised a finger. “One moment,” she said, then, beckoning, she leaned toward Miss Tilley.
Sensing that VV wished to share a private thought with Miss Tilley, Lucy excused herself and went over to the fireplace on the other side of the room, where she interested herself in the seascape that hung above the mantel. Then Sylvia arrived and wheeled VV out of the room. “Do stay and finish your dessert,” she called as she was pushed through the door.
