When the tanker had moved past the lighthouse, beyond the edges of Seaside Cove, the gawkers below continued going about their business. The oppressive silence returned. Jill positioned herself on the sofa facing the window, her back to the shrouded object in the corner. From beneath the padded cover, she heard the piano’s call. It tugged at the edges of her mind, the lonely, desolate cry of a forsaken lover.
Kind, dark eyes smiling into hers. What composer do you favor? Liszt. Definitely Liszt.
What was with her today? Everything seemed to remind her of the accident. She needed to think about something else. With a savage gesture, Jill seized the remote control and jabbed the Power button. Thank goodness for the mind-numbing distraction of daytime television.
“Listen, Bradford, I hear what you’re saying. I just don’t know if this town can handle a whole flock of tourists.” Mr. Allen, owner of the Midshipman’s Inn, picked up the last of the cookies from the tray his wife had placed between them and ate half of it in a single bite.
Greg Bradford leaned toward the polished maple coffee table and set his china cup on the matching saucer. He remained on the edge of the chenille sofa, his arms resting on his knees, and held the older man’s eyes. “It’ll take some work, but I think it’s a vital move. We have to take action to establish a solid tourist trade here in Seaside Cove. If we’re going to survive, we need an influx of money in the town’s economy. Outside money.”
Mr. Allen puckered his lips and leaned against the chair back. “What do we have to offer tourists? We’re just plain folks in these parts.”
“We have the Atlantic Ocean, and charter fishing, and a lighthouse, and unique shops, and several great locally run restaurants.” Greg opened his arms wide to indicate the Inn’s tastefully decorated front room, complete with a bay window overlooking the harbor. “We have local charm, including your place here. The Midshipman’s Inn is a terrific B&B, one of the best in Nova Scotia. It will play an important part in our new tourism program.”
Interest sparked in the older man’s eyes. “A friend of mine runs a B&B over in Peggy’s Cove. His place is full every day of the summer. Raking in the money, he is.”
“That’s exactly what I mean.” Greg folded his hands and rested them on his legs. “Seaside Cove has every bit as much to offer tourists as Peggy’s Cove. There’s no reason we shouldn’t have as big a tourist industry as they do.”
“Our wharf’s looking a bit shabby, though. Have to spend some money fixing that up.” Mr. Allen’s eyes narrowed. “That’s what Samuels is going on about. Says you’ll drive the town to bankruptcy, and all the business owners with it.”
Greg steeled his features against the grimace that threatened to appear at the mention of Richard Samuels, a current councilman on the Halifax Regional Council, and an outspoken opponent to Greg’s tourism development plan. He picked up his cup and sipped lukewarm coffee, trying to give himself time to come up with the correct response. Samuels represented a small but powerful group of change-resistant residents who preferred to keep everything the same — always. Couldn’t they see that the town needed to generate some revenue? The sidewalks were cracking, a quarter of the streetlights didn’t work, and most of the public buildings were in need of repair.
“It will take some effort to get this place ready, by the town and by individuals, especially business owners.” Greg caught and held Mr. Allen’s eyes. “But I think the investment will pay off. If we can demonstrate that we have the infrastructure in place to handle an increase in tourism, then when I’m elected to Halifax Regional Council, we can lobby for additional governmental money. That’s a critical element in my plan.”
A thoughtful look crossed the man’s features. “A couple of my rooms could use a bit of attention.” He glanced toward the ceiling, above which lay several of the Inn’s rooms. “And the building needs a fresh coat of paint to look her best. Been meaning to do that for some time now.”
“The whole town could use a fresh coat of paint, my law office included.” Greg grinned. “I’ve been thinking when the weather warms up we could have a couple of community clean-up days where everybody pitches in and helps.”
Mr. Allen leaned back in his chair, studying Greg like he was contemplating a chess move. “So, what exactly is it you want from me, Bradford?”
“Your support,” Greg replied without hesitation. “The election is six months away, and things are already heating up. In order to be elected as Seaside Cove’s representative on the council, I need influential people like you to speak out for me. If the subject comes up, tell people you support the increased tourist trade program I’m proposing. And,” he ducked his head, “if you’re not doing anything Monday night, I’d sure appreciate you coming out to the town meeting and letting it be known that you support me as a candidate.”
“In other words, you want me to go head-to-head with Samuels and his crew.” A slow smile crept across the older man’s lips. “Don’t mind that a’tall.”
Relief washed over Greg. With Mr. Allen in his camp, he had an important ally in the community of Seaside Cove. “Thank you, sir.”
Mr. Allen got to his feet. “I suppose you’ll be needing to do some fund-raising for this campaign of yours.”
Apparently, the meeting was drawing to a close. Greg set his cup down and stood. “I’m spending as little as I can on the campaign, but mailers and postage and signs cost money.” That was one part of campaigning he detested. Dad advised that he needed to get over his reluctance, be bold. But people in this town worked hard for their money, and he hated asking them to part with any of it.
“Thought so.” Mr. Allen reached into the breast pocket of his shirt and pulled out a folded check. “Been planning to support you all along, Bradford. Just been waiting for you to ask.”
Greg took the check, then clasped the man’s hand in his. “Thank you. Your support means a lot to me.”
Allen walked him toward the door. “How’s that pretty girl of yours doing? She recovered from that accident?”
His coat hung on a rack near the front door. Greg shrugged into it before answering. “Jill’s doing well. She’s looking forward to Christmas this year, since she pretty much missed out on it last year.”
Greg focused on fastening his buttons. At least, he thought Jill was looking forward to Christmas. She’d put up her tree, anyway. The accident still bothered her, which was understandable. It had been a terrible tragedy, one she was lucky to have survived. Almost a hundred people lost their lives in the subway crash, and she’d nearly been one of them.
Like it always did, the thought of how close he’d come to losing Jill hit him like a fist in the gut. Without Jill he might as well find a dark cave to live out his days in solitude. All his plans for the future, all his goals and dreams, included her.
He thanked Mr. Allen again and bid him good-bye. A cold breeze ruffled his hair with salt-scented fingers before he covered his head with his Stetson. When the front door of the Midshipman’s Inn closed behind him, Greg followed the footpath to the small parking lot in the rear of the building, his thoughts on Jill. She hadn’t been the same since the accident. Completely understandable. It had been a tragic, life-changing occurrence. But in recent months she was starting to look like her old self again. She’d gained back some of the weight she lost during her recovery, and every now and then he saw the old sparkle in her eyes. Maybe all those appointments with the therapist were helping. She didn’t play the piano anymore, though, which bothered him. Shouldn’t she want to play again? It had been so much a part of her life before. Not just the performances, but hours and hours of playing every day. Surely she missed that.
He arrived at his car and punched the button to unlock the door. As he slid behind the steering wheel, a smile stole over his lips. What Jill needed was something to look forward to, something to focus on. And he had just the thing.
Chapter 3
CENTERSIDE NURSING WAS LIT WITH festive Christmas trees and fragrant evergreen.
Jill found Mom parked in her favorite location, in front of the bay window in the sunroom. The nurses knew she favored the spot and rolled her out there every afternoon to watch the sun descend toward the horizon. No sun today, though, just heavy gray clouds. Jill set a large red poinsettia on the window shelf, and bent to kiss her.
“Hi, Mom.”
Mom lifted her head, then dropped her chin back to her chest. Her left side curled, her lips fixed in a perpetual droop. Mom would be horrified if she were aware of her appearance. She’d once been a proud woman like her mother, Nana, but the stroke had stripped her of dignity.
Unbuttoning her coat, Jill slid out of the wool. “It’s going to snow. Isn’t that marvelous? You always loved snow.”
Fat, puffy flakes landing on her coat sleeve …
A smiling nurse appeared. “There you are, Ms. King. We wondered if you were going to make it today.”
“I got involved in something and lost track of time.” Jill avoided the woman’s gaze. Judge Judy’s docket this afternoon had been a doozy. “But Mom knows I wouldn’t miss a Thursday.”
The woman glanced at Mom. “Lorna’s had a good day.” Her voice rose, both in volume and pitch. “Haven’t you, honey?”
Mom didn’t acknowledge the question. Sometimes Jill imagined her mother raising her head and snapping, “I’m not deaf, and I’m not your honey.” Of course, that was just Jill’s own irritation coming through. Several of the staff members practically shouted when talking to Mom, as though the louder they spoke, the more likely Mom would understand the words. As far as the doctors could tell, the stroke had not affected her hearing, only her ability to speak coherently and her cognitive processes. Still, they were all kind and competent at Centerside, and Jill was grateful for the care they gave her mother.
She placed a hand on Mom’s shoulder. The bones felt brittle beneath a thin cotton blouse and even thinner skin. “Did she eat?”
“A bit. I hope to tempt her with a bite or two of custard before she goes to sleep.” She stepped toward the window and picked up the poinsettia. “How lovely. I’ll just take this to her room. It will brighten the windowsill with a touch of the holidays.”
“Thank you.”
When the nurse left, Jill pulled a wing-back chair closer to the wheelchair and sat down before she began her customary one-sided chat. “I can’t stay long today, Mom. Greg and I have a date tonight. He’s taking me to dinner at 44 North, so I’ll need to get dressed up. I thought I’d wear my burgundy dress with the black belt. Remember that one?”
She paused, but didn’t expect a response. A glimmer of moisture appeared in the corner of Mom’s mouth, and Jill wiped it away with an edge of the terrycloth bib that protected her mother’s pretty pink blouse.
“Greg told me to tell you he’s sorry he hasn’t visited in a while. Between his law practice and the election, he’s so busy he hardly has a free minute. But you’ll definitely see him at Christmas.”
Visits were so much easier with her boyfriend along to share the burden of conversation. Everything was easier with Greg around. His unending energy and boisterous enthusiasm had coaxed Jill back to life last year. After the accident he’d rushed to her bedside in New York, and spent more time there than in Seaside Cove during her hospital stay, even with a busy law practice to maintain and an upcoming election looming over his head. He was so patient with her recovery, even though he couldn’t possibly understand the depth of her loss. How could he? Though he had a lovely singing voice, Greg didn’t know a sonata from a waltz.
I see the love of the mystical in your eyes. Liszt’s spiritual nature, his ever-searching musicality, would appeal to someone like you. The memories rose again.
Jill’s throat tightened. She rose and paced to the window. The man’s image was seared in her memory. Robert. She had not learned his last name. There hadn’t been enough time before the crash. Before he died. He, and so many others. The ER doctor told her over and over how fortunate she was, the only survivor in that part of the train.
With an effort, she turned and gave her mother a bright smile that went unnoticed. “So, Mom, what do you want for Christmas? I haven’t done any shopping yet, but I need to get started soon. It’s only a month away. Would you like some new clothes? And what do you think about a housecoat for Nana? Hers is getting pretty ratty.”
Jill prattled on, filling the silence in the dayroom with inconsequential chatter about Nana and Greg, and when she ran out of fresh news about them, the latest antics of the afternoon soap opera divas. Mom never moved, never raised her head. Sometimes when Jill visited, she interrupted the monologue with an unintelligible string of babble, her eyes urgent with a message that remained frustratingly incomprehensible. Not this evening. Today, like many other times, she seemed unaware of Jill’s presence.
After she ran out of things to talk about, Jill fell silent. Outside, the sun had become a dim orange glow on the underbelly of low-hanging clouds. From somewhere in the depths of the nursing home, a phone rang twice and was answered.
“I dreamed about playing last night.” Jill let the words fall quietly between them. They hung in the air, and left the relief of confession in their wake. “I could feel the keys beneath my fingers. Could hear the music. It was Liszt’s Sonata in B Minor.”
With a start, she realized her right index finger had moved with an unconscious gesture, tracing lightly over the ugly scar on her left hand. She jerked to her feet.
“I need to go, Mom. I want to be ready when Greg gets there.” She forced a laugh. “Can’t keep my best guy waiting, you know.”
When her mother made no answer, Jill stooped to press a tender kiss on her forehead. “I love you, Mom. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Jill followed Greg and the tuxedoed maitre d’ through the dining room of 44 North, an upscale restaurant that boasted a spectacular panoramic view of Halifax Harbor through floor-to-ceiling windows. Outside, lights on the moored ships shone like stars floating on blue-black waters. Inside, white tablecloths, sparkling crystal, and gleaming silver created an elegant atmosphere. A well-dressed clientele spoke in soft voices that blended with the background music, a low blur broken only by the occasional clink of cutlery on china. The maitre d’ led them to a table for two next to the window, then slid an upholstered chair out for her. Greg waited until she was settled to take his place on the other side of the table.
“This is beautiful,” she told him, her gaze sweeping the room. “I’ve heard about this restaurant, but I’ve never been here.”
“Me either.” A smile shone in his eyes like the lights on one of the ships below. “Tonight’s a special night, so I wanted to pick a special place.”
Something in the way Greg looked at her sliced through the gloomy thoughts that never quite left her, like morning sunlight that cut through thick fog in the harbor. When he was around, Jill could put aside all the pain, the memories, the shattered dreams, and pretend that the accident had never happened. Or at least that it was over, that it had no power over her any longer.
She smiled, determined not to think about the accident tonight, and reached across the table to take his hand. “What’s so special about tonight?”
“Oh, it’s a celebration of sorts.” A secret twitched at the corners of his mouth. “Carl Allen promised his support today. Even made a generous campaign donation.”
“Greg, that’s wonderful.” She squeezed his fingers. “With him and Rowena Mitchell on your side, there’s no way you can lose the election.”
He laughed and released her hand to lean back in his chair. “I wouldn’t go that far. There are still some pretty determined people who’d rather reelect Samuels. But at least it’s starting to look like I might not get completely buried in this election.”
Greg was unconscious of the impression he made on people, which was one of the things she loved about him. His open expression and unmistakable honesty, reinforced by clear eyes the color of the sea on a sunny summer day, created an instant appeal with ev
eryone he met. Not just women, either, though his rugged, six-two build and thick, dark hair didn’t hurt him any with the ladies.
“You’re going to win.” She picked up her water glass and held it toward him in a toast. “Here’s to the Cove’s new councilman.”
He didn’t lift his own glass. “I have a confession. That’s not what’s special about tonight.”
Jill paused, her glass still in the air. “It isn’t?”
“No.” His voice trembled with barely concealed excitement. “I was going to do this over dessert, but I can’t wait.”
He fumbled in the inside pocket of his suit coat, his stare fixed on her face. The first inkling of his intention inched over Jill like rays of sunlight creeping into the morning sky. She set the water glass down on the table and straightened in her chair.
“Jill, you know I’ve loved you from the moment we met, when I was moving into my law office and you and Ruth welcomed me to the Cove with a loaf of warm apple bread.”
Nana made it a point to act as a one-woman Welcome Wagon to anyone who moved into the community, and that day she had dragged Jill along with her. Jill had just come home from Ontario the day before, where she’d won the Chopin Piano Competition. The handsome young lawyer had made quite an impression on her, with his self-effacing manner and ready laugh. On Nana, too, who’d hatched a matchmaking scheme within ninety seconds of walking through his office door. Scheming wasn’t necessary, though. Jill had accepted a date with Greg before the bread had a chance to cool completely.
Only four years ago, but it seemed like a lifetime. She’d had dreams then. Carnegie Hall was still a possibility then.
Lost Melody Page 2
