The Forever Stone

by Gloria Repp

  “Which room?” he asked, already halfway down the hall. “This empty one, right?”

  “That’ll do.” What did he mean by marching right into her house?

  Remi set the ladder in one corner while Kent surveyed the parlor as if he were going to buy it. “Nice proportions,” he said. “Look at that molding up there. Remarkable.”

  He nodded, agreeing with himself, and stepped through the connecting door to the dining room. “This is what you’ve found so far?” He coughed. “Dusty, isn’t it? And me with a bad cold.”

  The room, crowded with boxes, cabinets, and the long, over-full table, seemed to shrink when the two men walked into it. Remi whistled as he bent over a pile of gilt-edged dinner plates.

  “You said it, kid.” Kent picked up a clear quart jar, and ran a finger over the name embossed on it: COHANSEY. “I’m learning about South Jersey glass,” he said. “It’s important, historically.” He sounded as if he were sharing a secret. “I’m going to have a whole chapter about it in my book.”

  He replaced the jar with elaborate care. “We’d better go. Remi has to put those notes of mine into the computer, and there’s a stack of books for him to read.”

  “I can handle it.” Remi’s smile told her that he liked the work.

  Kent coughed again. “I’ve still got this congestion—don’t I sound terrible? It might’ve settled in my lungs.”

  Madeleine eyed him, not sure what to say. That cough didn’t sound very bad.

  He gave her a pitiful look. “I need to get plenty of sleep.”

  Remi grinned, as if remembering something pleasant. He said in a low voice, “The innocent sleep; sleep that knits up the raveled sleeve of care.”

  “Whatever.” Kent was already on his way out of the room.

  “Thanks for the ladder,” Madeleine said, keeping her voice impersonal. “Aunt Lin will appreciate your bringing it over.”

  She watched them drive off. Sleep that knits up the raveled sleeve, huh, Remi? A quote from Macbeth. How did an orphanage dropout happen to be quoting Shakespeare?

  She stood on the porch for a minute, listening to the soft shussing of wind in the pines. Maybe it was thoughtful of Kent to bring her that ladder. He reminded her of a big, friendly puppy. But still . . .

  Her cell phone rang, and she answered it on the way inside. Her mother sounded cheerful today. “Hi! Anything exciting going on?”

  “We’ve got one room all ready to paint and we found some old—”

  “—Pretty tame, don’t you think? I just met this gorgeous blond guy, Wayne. He’s an auctioneer. Lots of fun.” Her mother’s laugh had that disgusting undertone. “How about you? Met anybody good looking?”

  “Not really.”

  “Too bad. Is your aunt off on another trip?”

  “Yes.”

  “Just as I thought. And you’re stuck with the work. George is still asking about you. Don’t forget, you can come home any time.”

  “Thanks, Mother. Bye.”

  So, she’d found herself another one.

  The evening stretched ahead. What about taking advantage of the new kitchen? She could do something with the Gilliflower apples.

  Why had it seemed important to bring them?

  Because they represented her conversation with Frances Rondell, which had led to her declaration of . . . rebellion? No. Independence.

  She didn’t feel like making a pie, but cookies would taste good. With walnuts. The recipe came easily to mind, and it wasn’t until they were cooling on a rack that she realized why.

  She’d made apple-walnut cookies a hundred times for Dad. “I need some goodies for my young ruffians,” he’d say. The next day he’d go off with the bag of cookies and return to tell of progress made with Pol or Jose or Shawn—whoever his current project might be.

  The lumpy brown cookies smelled tantalizing, but the first bite turned to ashes in her mouth.

  Would she ever get over this? She’d been improving, getting used to missing Dad, until she’d married. And then . . .

  She yanked open a drawer, shook out a plastic bag. Give them away. How about some cookies for Bria’s little brother? She labeled the bag and put it outside on the rocking chair.

  Bria arrived early the next morning, and with her came a large black Labrador. He stood in the doorway, wagging his tail and grinning in the amiable manner of all Labs.

  “And who’s this?” Madeleine asked.

  Bria put a hand on the dog’s head. “Lockie. May he come in? He can sleep on the porch if you’d rather not.”

  “Sure,” Madeleine said. “Is he yours?”

  “Sort of.” Bria sounded as if she didn’t want to discuss Lockie’s history. “Jude said to thank you for the cookies. He loves to eat.”

  “Good! I like to cook. Be sure to tell him we’ve got plenty of work.”

  They painted all morning, and while they were cleaning up, Madeleine asked, “What are you going to do this afternoon?”

  The girl hesitated with that same caution. “I have some other painting to do.”

  Bria left after lunch, and for the next hour Madeleine scraped old paint off the small panes of the parlor window, but finally she put down her razor blade. To reward herself, she’d go check her e-mail at Timothy’s store. She’d take him some of those cookies and see about finding an online course.

  Timothy greeted her cheerfully from behind the counter. “Hello, Mrs. Burke. I see you brought your laptop. Come to do some work online?”

  “If that’s okay with you. I want to take a baking course.” She handed him the bag of cookies. “In the meantime, I’ve been practicing, and I thought you might like a sample.”

  “Capital! I’ve got a significant sweet tooth. I’ll save them for our afternoon break.”

  He led her through a curtained doorway to a large room that might once have been a parlor. Against one wall stood filing cabinets and a roll-topped desk. A long table took up most of the center, and at the far end was a green corduroy sofa flanked by matching overstuffed chairs.

  He waved at the table. “Would that be a suitable place for you?”

  “Just right.” While she was setting up her laptop, he began sorting papers at the desk.

  She read her messages, wrote to three friends about her “wilderness adventure,” and began researching online baking schools. A course on breads would be a good place to start.

  From dozens of courses, she chose one that looked promising. It had videos to watch, articles to read, even tests to take. She scribbled in her notebook. Each item she baked had to be evaluated by a proctor.

  A door opened at the far end of the room, and Timothy spoke to someone. “Time for a break already? It’s just as well, I’ve tangled these figures again.”

  She glanced up—an older man carrying a mug—and back to the note she was writing to herself.

  Timothy stood beside her. “Mrs. Burke? I’d like you to meet a friend of mine.”

  The man had a trim, athletic frame and an air of coiled energy that belied his weathered face. Perhaps not so old.

  “Nathan Parnell,” he said. In contrast to Timothy’s plaid flannel, he wore a dress shirt, pinstriped blue. His gray eyes seemed to take her measure in a single glance, but she couldn’t tell whether he’d filed the data or discarded it.

  “Hello,” she said, closing her laptop. She’d have to come back later.

  Timothy was limping over to an old mahogany sideboard. “Please, don’t go. Won’t you help us sample your cookies?” He gave her a twinkling smile that she couldn’t resist.

  “Thank you, I will.”

  “Would you like root beer? Or maybe some tea? I can make a pot of chai.”

  “Chai sounds good.”

  Timothy moved with the confidence of an experienced host, filling an electric kettle with water, setting out mugs, arranging the cookies on a plate. This must be their afternoon ritual.

  His friend looked out of the window by Timothy’s desk, tapping a finger on the
mug as if he were inventing a tune for himself. The light picked out the reddish tints of his brown hair and gleamed on a thin, puckered scar that ran down one side of his face.

  Not the sociable type? That was fine with her.

  While they drank their tea, Timothy praised the cookies and asked why she wanted to take a cooking class. “I like to bake, anyway,” she said, “but while I’m out here, a course would give me a chance to improve. It’s something I’ve always wanted to do.”

  “No chance at home?”

  “Not really. I was teaching, and besides . . .” Something about the kindly gaze invited her to speak with candor. “Things at home will be changing. My uncle is going to manage my mother’s business, and he wanted me to help.”

  Timothy’s smile encouraged her to go on. “The doctor-uncle?”

  Uncle Ashton’s speech still rankled. With a curt nod, she said, “It wasn’t just that. But I’d have hated to work with him, he’s so . . . arrogant. That’s a doctor for you. You’d think he’d keep busy enough with his adoring patients.”

  Timothy bent over his mug. Was that a smile glimmering on the wrinkled face?

  The man across from her had listened in silence, but now he chose another cookie from the plate and gazed at it. “Excellent cookies,” he said, “apples, and walnuts, and some flavor I can’t quite identify.”

  “Cinnamon.”

  “And you want to improve on this?” He had a warm, mellow voice that put her at ease.

  “Not this recipe—it’s an old favorite, and I’ve tinkered with it long enough. But the whole baking scene intrigues me, there’s so much to learn.”

  “More than you could get from a cookbook?” Timothy asked.

  “Yes, insights, professional tips, history. I can do cookies and pies, but I don’t know much about baking with yeast, for example.”

  She wouldn’t tell them her idea of becoming a pastry chef. Her mother thought it ridiculous, and Brenn had too.

  But Timothy looked as if he understood dreams, and his friend eyed her thoughtfully. His gaze was somewhat diagnostic, as if he were estimating the volume of blood in her veins.

  Blood? Oh, no, was he—?

  “You’re the doctor, aren’t you?” When would she learn not to spout her opinions? “I didn’t mean to be rude.”

  His eyes glinted with amusement. “Don’t worry about it. After all, you didn’t know you were speaking to a medical deity.”

  Even worse. He’d heard that from Timothy .

  The doctor took a bite of his cookie, chewed slowly, reflectively. “I’ve met doctors who are exactly as you have described. But you may find that they’re not all alike.”

  His reasonable tone was disarming. “Perhaps I should give you the benefit of the doubt,” she said, the doubt lingering in her voice.

  “I hope so, Mrs. Burke. Perhaps you will even change your mind.”

  “That’s a generous response.”

  “It’s a self-serving response, since I’m sitting here eating your cookies. And I have a project that could use your expertise.”

  She should have left when she had the chance. She glanced at Timothy. “Did I mention ‘opportunistic’?”

  He looked wise and said nothing.

  The doctor nodded, as if he would agree to any shortcoming she cared to mention, but she stiffened her resolve. “I’m sure you can construct a sentence properly,” she said.

  “I just thought you could give me an opinion, since you’re a professional.”

  “But I don’t edit, not anymore. I don’t teach English anymore, either.” Nothing that would remind her of Dad and his ruffians or the stories they wrote.

  The gray eyes challenged her. “You really don’t want to do this. I wonder why.”

  Persistent, wasn’t he? She’d give him something to think about.

  “Here’s one reason, doctor. People say, ‘Tell me what you think,’ but what they mean is, ‘Tell me my work is good.’ And if I can’t say that, their feelings get hurt. If I presume to give advice, they don’t listen. It all comes down to a matter of ego, and I’m done with that.”

  He leaned back in his chair, and his eyes still had a cool gray look but the corners of his mouth turned up.

  “What do you find so amusing, Dr. Parnell?” She used his title deliberately, edged it with a trace of disrespect.

  “At risk of offending you, Mrs. Burke, I was thinking that you probably had no trouble controlling your students.”

  ”What do you mean?”

  “A glance like the one you just gave me. I’ve seen glaciers with that blue-green color.”

  “I got along well with my students.”

  “I would work as hard as any of them.”

  More determined than most. She frowned at her mug, aligned it with her plate. Loosen up. Perhaps he deserved a chance.

  “I think you’re reading the wrong script,” she said. “This is where you’re supposed to give me a cold stare and walk off, clutching your papers to your manly chest.”

  He grinned, a quick boyish grin that transformed the scarred face. “You’ll look at it?”

  “Tell me why it’s so important.”

  Timothy pulled himself to his feet, smiling, and reached for the kettle. “More tea, anyone?”

  The doctor described his high-school English teacher, now a family friend and successful writer. Her latest project was to edit a collection of essays about Alaska, and she had asked him to submit a chapter for the book.

  “I’ve done three drafts,” he said, “but it’s missing something. I can’t disappoint her with work that’s second-rate.”

  “Will you give me a copy?”

  “Our printer just died,” Timothy said. “The new one should arrive next week.”

  The doctor leaned forward. “If you wouldn’t mind coming over to my office—it’s just next door—you could read it on my laptop.”

  But she would mind, very much.

  She looked a question at Timothy and he nodded, so she said, “Why not bring your laptop over here?”

  “That’s a good idea,” Timothy said. “If you’ll excuse me, I hear a customer. Our Friday afternoon rush, you know.”

  At least the man had enough sense not to watch her read it. He set up his laptop on the table, opened the document, and went to stand in front of the window.

  She read with care, scrolling back once or twice to check what he’d said on a previous page. Length was suitable, content original. Technically, it was flawless. Depending on what the editor wanted, it might do. But it could be better.

  Without looking at him, she said, “It is informative, doctor. Shaped well. Sentences properly put together. You might work on some of the passive constructions.”

  He left the window and sat down across from her. “Mrs. Burke.”

  Reluctantly she met his eyes, caught his don’t-kid-me look.

  “It isn’t very good.” His voice was as crisp as his writing. “Can it be fixed?”

  Might as well find out. For Timothy’s sake, she’d do her best.

  “I think it can, but it will cost you.”

  “What do you charge?”

  “I’m not talking about money. If you want to work on it, you’ll see what I mean.”

  “I want to work on it,” he said quietly.

  “Remember, you’re the one who said that.” She took a slow breath, thinking through an approach. “How long since you left Alaska?”

  “Four years.”

  “How long did you live there?”

  “Most of my life.”

  “Good. Now I’d like you to go sit down on that sofa, lean back, and close your eyes. Talk about someone in Alaska who made a deep impression on you.”

  As he stood, he paused and gave her a look she couldn’t interpret.

  He started in a monotone, telling her about Denny Woods, the young Inuit who’d sold him his first dogs.

  His voice warmed as he described how they became friends, went hunting, and ran their
dogs together. Denny didn’t have much of a problem with alcohol, just took a drink now and then. He’d prayed for Denny and had seen him start coming to their little church.

  “One day—” He sounded as if the words were choking him. “One day, Denny hitched a plane ride to McGrath with a friend of his, a pilot who’d had a few at the bar. Their plane went down somewhere in the Alaska Range. We never did find it.”

  He stood to his feet with a jerk, but when he finally spoke, his voice was impersonal. “Is that enough of a story for you, Mrs. Burke?”

  She suppressed her pity. Plenty of emotion there. If he could manage it, the writing would be good.

  She waited, not answering, letting him collect himself. He went over to pour himself another mug of tea. He picked up her mug and filled it too.

  Finally he sat down at the table and looked at her.

  She kept her voice as detached as his. “Thank you, doctor. The reason I had you do that is because your piece has all of its necessary body parts, but it is clinically dead. No pulse.”

  He frowned, but she ignored him.

  “And here my analogy breaks down because you can give it life. As it stands, it’s merely a documentary. To be effective, it needs heart—some reality, some passion.”

  She glanced up. The gray eyes burned with intensity, and she continued with more assurance. “When you told me about Denny, I saw that heart. You chose well. His story fits with your topic. If you can weave it into what you’ve written, you’ll succeed.”

  He was quiet for a minute. She hadn’t expected a burst of gratitude, but to see the lines deepen on his face was disconcerting.

  “Thank you,” he said. “I’ll work on it.” He stood to his feet and pulled out his cell phone, presumably to check for messages. While he was doing that, she slid her laptop into its bag and left.

  Timothy was waiting on a customer. Just as well, because she didn’t feel like talking. That look on the doctor’s face . . . It wasn’t an offended ego. Pain, maybe. Pain related to something more than the death of a good friend. Why had he left Alaska?

  CHAPTER 5

  Looks as if mousiness is not easily shed.

  I stood by while Kent,

  the handsome do-gooder,