by Leslie Meier
“You shouldn’t blame yourself. I found that my mother was much happier at Wonderstrand Manor than she would have been with me. They had special programs, wonderful meals. And she was safe there. They kept the doors locked so the residents couldn’t wander off.” Lucy hadn’t thought about this in a long time and found her resentments had lessened; she was remembering her mother fondly. She smiled. “She loved the sing-alongs, all those old songs like “How Much Is that Doggie in the Window?” and “Wunderbar.”
“That place sounds wonderful.” Laura had placed her hand on Lucy’s arm. “We couldn’t afford anything like that. We had to depend on Medicare.”
“But even so . . .” protested Lucy.
“No. This was almost twenty years ago. Things were different then. This was a Medicare mill. The patients were kept strapped in their beds; they got minimal care. It was terrible.”
“I’m so sorry.” Lucy knew her father had provided well for her mother; there had even been a modest inheritance left for her after her mother’s sudden death from a stroke.
“The worst part is that Mom had money.” Laura’s chin vibrated. “She should have been in a place like Wonderful Manor, whatever it was called. But Dad trusted an old friend with his investments. . . .” Laura stopped suddenly. “It was that savings and loan crisis. Maybe you remember?”
Lucy remembered. “My father believed in T-bills.”
“Smart man.”
Now Lucy felt tears pricking her eyes. She’d never really had a chance to say good-bye to her father, never had a chance to tell him how much she loved him. He’d survived a massive heart attack and was convalescing when he suddenly developed pneumonia. Her mother had been caring for him at home. She’d discouraged Lucy even from visiting and had disregarded his symptoms. Lucy had often felt she should have insisted on visiting; she should have realized her mother was already suffering from Alzheimer’s, which she’d tried to hide.
“We have to remember that hindsight is twenty-twenty,” she told Laura. “Of course we should have and could have, if we’d only known, but we didn’t. We have to forgive ourselves.”
Laura’s eyes were huge and she cast them upward. “That’s what I pray for, all the time: forgiveness. But I don’t think He does forgive me.”
Lucy was no theologian, but she had attended church enough to pick up the general gist. “Of course He does.”
Laura shook her head. “No. I saw my mother’s body—the undertaker showed me. He was so upset, said he’d never seen anything like it. Bruises and bedsores and marks from the restraints, her skin rubbed raw. She looked as if she’d been tortured.”
“Did you report the nursing home to the authorities?”
Laura’s eyes widened. “I was so ashamed—I didn’t say a word.” She sobbed. “But I can’t forget. I’m haunted. Whenever I close my eyes, that’s what I see.”
Lucy was beginning to feel out of her depth. She furrowed her brow and patted Laura’s hand. “Maybe you should talk this over with a professional.”
“That’s what my husband says. He keeps saying how lucky we are, how Will has grown up to be so fine and he goes to a great college and we have a nice house and no money worries. He says I should get over it and enjoy life.”
“That’s easier said than done—but he does have a point. You can’t change the past, only the future.”
Laura brushed away her tears with the backs of her hands and then clasped Lucy’s hands with both of hers. “Oh, Lucy, thank you. You’ve made me feel so much better.”
“I’m glad I could help,” said Lucy, standing up and looking back toward the pew where Pam was sitting, absorbed in her book.
“Really,” insisted Laura. “I think you have a calling. Have you considered the ministry?”
Lucy was chuckling, about to admit the thought had never crossed her mind, when she jumped, hearing a sudden enormous crash. Her first thought was for Pam, but Pam was fine, looking about curiously for the source of the noise. Turning the other way, she saw Will in the center aisle, bending down to replace a kneeling stool.
“That boy is so clumsy,” said Laura, giggling as her son advanced down the aisle toward them.
“Aren’t they all?” said Lucy, deciding to head back to Pam.
“But don’t you want to see the museum?” asked Laura.
“Thanks, but I need to get back to my friend.”
“Oh, well, now that Will’s here, I can go with him. He loves old things and museums. Isn’t that right, Will?”
“Sure, Mom.”
Will was smiling agreeably enough, but Lucy wasn’t convinced. Her experience had taught her that teens could be less than honest when they were engaged in achieving their own ends. They pleaded for permission to spend the night at a friend’s house, declaring that “of course her parents are going to be home,” and you got a call from the cops at one in the morning advising you to pick up your kid at the police station because neighbors had called complaining of a drunken party. Or you found a charge on your cable bill for an adult movie that your teenage son swore must be a mistake because he’d never do anything like that. Never. Not ever. And fools that we are, thought Lucy, watching Laura and Will going off together, parents want to believe their children are telling the truth.
“What was that all about?” asked Pam when Lucy joined her on her pew. “It looked intense.”
“You can say that again. She’s guilt-stricken over her mother’s death. She feels she didn’t do enough for her.”
Pam sighed. “I guess we all feel that way when our parents pass on.”
“Not like this. Laura really feels guilty. She needs help.”
“I hope she gets it,” said Pam, a mischievous glint in her eye. “You know, I believe I spotted an ice-cream place in the plaza outside.”
“I believe you’re right,” said Lucy.
“And I think I could just about manage to hobble over there.”
“Well, let’s go,” said Lucy, taking her arm. “I’ve had it with churches.”
“You said you loved them.”
“I’ve changed my mind,” said Lucy, stepping through the door and taking a deep breath of fresh air.
Chapter Nineteen
After finishing their ice-cream cones, Lucy and Pam made their way back to the pickup point in front of the Abbey. They were the first ones there and perched themselves on some concrete bollards to wait for the others to gather.
Predictably, Dr. Cope and Jennifer were the first to arrive. Dr. Cope greeted them with his usual courtesy. “Did you enjoy Bath? I’d have to say this has been my favorite day of the tour. The Roman baths were really something to see. And to think, the Romans appreciated the healthful benefits of regular bathing and had the engineers to create these baths thousands of years before modern man.”
Jennifer smiled. “I read somewhere that Queen Elizabeth—the first, that is—took a bath once a month.”
“Whether she needed it or not,” added Pam, smiling. “And I imagine she did.”
“They say the Native Americans in Maine could smell the European ships from shore and were pretty disgusted by the new arrivals’ poor hygiene,” volunteered Lucy.
“I’ve heard that, too,” said Quentin, sidling up to Jennifer. “Indoor plumbing is one of civilization’s finest achievements.” His gaze drifted over her figure, lingering at her bust. “Which do you prefer: a shower or a bath?”
Dr. Cope gave him a stony look and wrapped a protective arm around his granddaughter’s shoulders. “That’s rather personal, isn’t it?”
Quentin shrugged, regarding Jennifer with a certain sparkle in his eye. “I just wondered, because the hotel has only showers. I’m looking forward to a nice long soak when I get home.”
“Me too,” said Lucy. “And I’m awfully glad the water in Tinker’s Cove isn’t bright green.”
“Point taken,” laughed Quentin. “Did any of you sample the water in the Pump Room?”
Jennifer wrinkled her nose. “It was
disgusting. I couldn’t finish the glass.”
“A pity.” Dr. Cope’s tone was serious. “They say it’s full of healthful minerals.”
“We tried it.” Ann Smith joined the group, along with her husband and daughter. “I wouldn’t recommend it.”
“Absolutely foul,” agreed Tom.
“But the food was very good.” Caroline actually smiled, seeming relaxed and comfortable for the first time since the incident in Brighton. “That Devonshire cream stuff is awfully good.”
“The prices were ridiculous, however,” said Ann.
“It was a treat—nothing wrong with a treat now and then,” replied Tom.
Listening, Lucy thought this was a conversation the Smiths repeated from time to time, with Ann arguing for restraint while Tom pushed for small extravagances. She suspected there was absolutely nothing he wouldn’t do for Caroline, who reminded her a bit of a baby cowbird. The mother cowbird was a heedless creature who laid her eggs in another bird’s nest, replacing the natural parents’ eggs with her own. When the baby cowbirds hatched, they were usually much larger than the surrogate parents, who struggled to keep up with the growing chicks’ enormous appetites.
Across the street, Lucy spotted Sue and Rachel, both toting a couple of shopping bags.
“Golly gee, I was worried we were late and had missed the bus.” Sue was a bit out of breath. “The shopping was fabulous.”
“The Jane Austen house was lovely,” added Rachel.
“It was a fake,” protested Sue. “They admitted she never actually lived there.”
“It was typical of the period.” Rachel smiled. “I think I may have been a Regency lady in a previous life.”
“More likely a scullery maid,” said Lucy, catching Quentin’s eye. “We all think we’d be lords and ladies, but the truth is our ancestors were probably peasants. I’m sure mine were.”
“Not me,” insisted Rachel. “I’m sure I was to the manor born.” She opened her shopping bag and showed off a mug with the words Her Ladyship painted on it. “See? It was waiting for me at the National Trust gift shop. And I got one that says ‘His Lordship’ for Bob.”
Lucy rolled her eyes and glanced at Sue. “Actually, I did, too. In fact, I bought tea towels and cocktail glasses as well. For me and Sid. We’re officially Lord and Lady Finch.”
“I wonder if there’s time. . . .” Laura Barfield had arrived, looking a bit wan and out of breath. “Where is that shop?”
“Too late,” said Quentin. “There’s the bus.”
“Oh, dear,” Laura fretted. “I’m afraid I’ve lost track of Will.”
“I suppose you mean Sir Will,” suggested Dr. Cope in a somewhat sarcastic tone.
The sarcasm was lost on Laura, who’d spotted her son rounding the corner of the Abbey, along with Autumn. “He’s my prince,” she chirped, giving him a wave that he ignored.
“Some prince,” muttered Tom Smith, glaring at Will and stepping protectively in front of Caroline.
“Princes aren’t perfect,” said Jennifer. “Prince Harry seems to get in a lot of trouble.”
“He sets a poor example to be sure,” said Dr. Cope.
They had all gathered in a little group—only the Smiths were standing apart—waiting expectantly for the minibus to pull up when a huge tour bus slid to a stop in front of them, braking with a loud hiss. The doors opened and a large group began to disembark, chattering noisily and shoving them aside as they maneuvered to snap photos of each other in front of the Abbey.
“Germans,” muttered Tom Smith. “This is how they took Poland.”
“Shhh,” cautioned his wife. “They might hear you. A lot of them speak English, you know.”
“I hope they do hear me.” Tom lowered his brows. “People are too quick to forgive.” He turned to Quentin. “And since I’m mouthing off, how come we’re backtracking to Stonehenge? I was talking to the bus driver, just happened to run into him on the plaza there, and he said we’re doing things backward.”
Quentin nodded, watching as the Germans formed ranks behind their leader and the bus pulled away, allowing the minibus to take its place. “You’re right—I juggled things a bit so we’d be able to walk among the stones at Stonehenge. Unless you make arrangements for a special tour, after hours, you can only walk around the perimeter of the henge.” He paused as the door opened. “Trust me, this will be much nicer—and we’ll be there at sunset.”
There was little conversation as the minibus driver retraced the route from Salisbury and on to Stonehenge. It had already been a long day, and Lucy suspected most of the older folks were tired. She sure was, and she was looking forward to getting back home to Bill and the girls and the familiar surroundings of Tinker’s Cove. She was surprised to discover that she missed her house: her bed with the pillows that were just right, her roomy rolltop bathtub, even Libby the dog’s musty odor that clung to the old sofa in the family room where she liked to nap. But as she gazed out the window at the green fields and rolling hills, she was very glad she’d taken the trip.
They’d certainly got off to a rocky start, with George Temple’s death, but now that event, dreadful as it was, seemed like ancient history. So much had happened in the week that it was easy to forget the horrible circumstances of his death, especially since she hadn’t really known him. These things happened, she supposed, and even though she had her suspicions, she knew it was her nature to question things. That was why she was a good reporter. But she also knew that she tended to make mountains out of molehills, and the truth was that she didn’t really have any hard evidence that Temple had been murdered or that Caroline’s fall off the Brighton pier was anything but a sign of that poor girl’s disturbed mind. As for Pam’s slip off the curb, well, it was probably just that. And Autumn and Jennifer’s odd relationship? That could be explained by the fact that they were rivals for Will’s affection.
Lucy let out a big sigh and relaxed against her seat. It was time, she decided, to turn her thoughts toward home. She was worried about Elizabeth, she wondered how Bill had managed with the girls, and she really missed little Patrick. It would be great to get home, she decided, noticing the sky, especially in the west, was taking on a pinkish hue.
“We’re here!” announced Quentin as the bus turned off the highway into a spacious parking area. The last of the day’s buses were lined up at the exit, waiting to depart, and only a few cars were parked at the far end, probably belonging to employees. It looked as though the group was going to have Stonehenge to themselves.
Descending from the minibus, Lucy heard the buzz of steady traffic and was surprised to see the ancient site was quite close to a major highway that carried a heavy load of rush-hour traffic.
“Never mind the traffic,” advised Quentin as they followed him toward the ticket booth. “Remember, this is a sacred site, a place of great mystery and spirituality. It was also a place of sacrifice—archaeologists have unearthed the skeleton of a small child, it’s skull neatly cleaved in two. Clearly a blood sacrifice.”
Laura grew pale. “How terrible!”
Quentin shrugged. “It may have been deformed or mentally deficient. . . .”
“Why, that’s even worse,” protested Ann. “We must protect the weak.”
Quentin’s smile was patronizing. “A modern concept, I’m afraid. The ancients were more concerned with basic survival and couldn’t afford to waste scant resources on the weak and sick. Everyone had to pull their own weight, even children. If not, they went back to the gods.” He paused. “At least that’s one theory.”
The man at the ticket booth didn’t seem terribly thrilled to see them. “Ay, here you are,” he said in a voice that sounded like a grumble. “I suppose we might as well get started.”
When he stepped outside the booth and stood before them, they saw a man of medium height, dressed in shiny brown polyester slacks and a black sweater with the World Heritage Site logo. His gray hair could use a wash, his brows bristled over his horn rims, and a nam
e tag informed them his name was Dick.
“Follow me,” Dick said, leading the way along a winding asphalt path that dipped into a tunnel that ran beneath the roadway. “We’ve got plans to jazz the place up,” he told them. “When you come back—that is, if you come back in a couple of years—you’ll find the roadway’s been rerouted and we’re going to have a fine new visitor center.” He stopped abruptly in the middle of the tunnel, beneath a fluorescent light that cast deep shadows on his face. “Mind now, we don’t want any nonsense. Don’t touch the stones; don’t even think about carving your initials on them; don’t be a joker and try to push ’em over. Got it?”
They nodded and he resumed the march through the tunnel.
“Awright, then, remember, this ’ere site is a source of inspiration and fascination and a place of worship. There’s druids gather ’ere every summer, at Midsummer Eve. ’Course, the builders weren’t druids; they were Bronze Age folk, lived here some three thousand years ago. Took it into their ’eads to put up these stones, brought ’em some hunnerd and thirty-five miles from Wales.
“How you ask? Well, we think they floated ’em on barges, came through the Bristol Channel and up the river. That makes the most sense. But we don’t really know. And we sure don’t know why. The stones line up with the rising of the summer solstice and the setting of the winter solstice, so it probably had something to do with that, but like I said, nobody knows.”
He stopped at the tunnel opening. “Well, here you are, wander around to yer ’eart’s content. I’ll be ’ere if you want to ask about something, but I pretty much told you ever’thing we know. And don’t forget to stop in our gift shop on your way out. We keep it open late, especially for groups like you, and we have a fine selection of books and gifts.”
Emerging into the dying light of day, Lucy took Pam’s arm. “How are you doing? Can you manage here?”
Pam’s face glowed in the reddish light of the setting sun; she was standing still, awestruck by the sight of the massive circle of golden stones standing on the green and grassy plain. “This is amazing,” she said. “I want to see every bit, even if I have to crawl!”
