“Thanks,” Carol said. “I’ll do that. I don’t know why I haven’t before.”
Maybe, Julie thought, they could go together. But at the moment it wasn’t in her to make that suggestion.
The group was now gathered in Sarah’s bedroom, decidedly less impressive than her sister’s room across the hall. When the guide and other visitors moved on, Carol and Julie lingered for a moment.
“So many lives that have come before,” Carol mused. “And now here we are. And when we’re gone, there will be others. And every single person who has ever lived or who will ever live will experience birth and death, joy and sorrow, pleasure and pain.” Carol sighed. “You’d think that with all human beings have in common with one another they’d be better at getting along.”
Julie nodded. “History shows us that nothing really changes. Not the core things. Love. Hate. Ambition. Curiosity. Compassion.”
“So, do you consider yourself a nostalgic person?” Carol asked.
Julie smiled. “Like my mother? Not really. I mean, there’s nothing wrong with nostalgia, but it is a form of selective memory.”
“Yes, necessary at times but not always.”
Like self-pity, Julie thought.
“Does Sophie enjoy studying history?” Carol asked as they left the room to join the others.
Julie shook her head. “Generally speaking, if it took place more than six months ago, she’s not interested. Scott’s that way, too,” she admitted. “I mean, focused on what’s happening right now. Except that he likes some of the classic rock bands.”
Carol smiled. “Oldies but goodies. So, who comes along when you explore historic sites? I’m assuming you do explore historic sites?”
“I do, and I go on my own,” Julie told her aunt. “I’ve always enjoyed my own company.”
“I’m a bit of a social loner myself,” Carol said. “But having someone who shares your passion is also a good thing.”
“Yes,” Julie admitted. And she thought that if she could get out of this swampy mental place she was in, a goal for her future might be to cultivate more friendships. She might have lost Aggie for good; even if she hadn’t, Aggie didn’t share Julie’s interest in history. Julie would like to know someone who did.
“I’m glad you suggested we come here,” Carol said when the tour was over and they had stepped outside the house. “Now, how about we have lunch? Do you know of a nice place in town?”
Julie did. She had heard about a restaurant from one of her colleagues who had eaten there a few times with her mother, one of those notoriously fussy eaters. At least, according to her daughter.
As they crossed the main street, Julie felt what could only be described as a glimmer of pure enjoyment. Carol was engaging with Julie as a person, not as a bundle of issues. She hadn’t once mentioned Scott’s affair or the plans Julie was supposed to be making to dig herself out of her depression. She hadn’t commented on, or in any other way taken notice of, Julie’s recent weight gain. They had engaged in real conversation about something other than Ferndean, housekeeping, or who in Yorktide was doing something he or she shouldn’t be doing.
“Lunch is on me,” Carol said as they entered The Green Apple. “I have to make up for appearing on your doorstep with no notice. Maybe one day I’ll learn. But I doubt it.”
Julie laughed. She liked her aunt Carol.
Chapter 81
Bonnie was seated at her kitchen table, mending the summer duvet cover; that morning while making the bed she had found a spot worn completely through. She wondered what Carol did when she discovered a tear in an otherwise good bedsheet or a slight nick in an otherwise whole drinking glass. She probably threw out the damaged piece and bought a replacement. That was fine for those with money to burn, but not for a woman like Bonnie Elgort, a woman who had always known the value of a hard-earned dollar.
Bonnie frowned at the spot she was mending. Things looked a little fuzzy through her glasses. She wondered if her prescription had changed. She hoped not. New lenses could be expensive. Not that Bonnie was a pauper or anything. Now someone like Carol wouldn’t be inconvenienced by the need for updated glasses. No doubt she would buy herself a few new designer frames to boot.
With a sigh of frustration, Bonnie stuck her needle into the pin cushion, took off her glasses, and rubbed her eyes. She had been out of sorts since that morning when Julie had told her that Carol had shown up at the Millers’ doorstep to invite her niece on an excursion.
“We had a really nice afternoon,” Julie said. “We talked about all sorts of things.”
About Julie’s mother? Bonnie had wondered. Well, why not? Bonnie had tried to co-opt Nicola, even at times to turn her away from her mother; there was no point in denying that. Was Carol now trying to co-opt Julie, get her to switch allegiance from her mother to her aunt?
Roughly, Bonnie pushed her chair away from the table and stood. She was being ridiculous. Most likely Carol’s intentions in inviting her niece out for a pleasant afternoon were perfectly harmless. Family harmony was a good thing, something to strive for. Ken would be the first to remind her of that. And if Carol could in any way be of help to Julie—though for the life of her Bonnie couldn’t see how!—then that was a good thing.
It was.
Bonnie fetched a glass of water and returned to the task of mending. Maybe she wouldn’t dwell so much on Carol and her involvement with Yorktide if her own life were fuller, if, while she waited anxiously for the future of Ferndean to be decided, she had more responsibilities and more enjoyable activities to keep her busy.
For one, she could volunteer like she had done so often in the past. There was no down side to volunteering. She might ask Nicola if there was an opportunity at Pine Hill. The local library might need assistance. There were all sorts of possibilities.
As for hobbies, well, it had been a few years since Bonnie had belonged to a quilting group or to a book group. When Ken got sick, she had retrenched and focused all of her time and energy on caring for him. It might be fun to contact one of her former quilting or reading group buddies and see if there was room for one more at the next gathering.
And as for paying work . . . Something unpleasant had occurred to Bonnie the night before as she lay in bed. What if she applied for a job in town and was given the position out of pity? How could she be sure she was being hired by one of her fellow Yorktide residents for her skills and not for being Ken Elgort’s widow?
“Ow! Darn!” Bonnie sucked the tip of the finger she had stabbed with her needle. How could she handle the responsibilities of a job, volunteer or paying, if she couldn’t even concentrate on a simple task like mending a hole in a bit of fabric?
Bonnie put down the needle and pushed the duvet away from her. If she was grumpy it was because she was lonely. If she had a job, she would have a place to go and people with whom to interact. So what if she was hired because people felt bad for her? She hadn’t asked to be alone. She hadn’t wanted her life to look like it did.
With a groan of impatience, Bonnie got up again from her chair and began to pace the kitchen. Carol had gone on about the dangers of self-pity. And loathe though Bonnie had been at the time to admit that her sister was right, now she was prepared to agree. Ultimately, self-pity got you nowhere. But once you started down the dark and slippery slope of self-pity, it could be awfully hard to turn around and climb back up.
Bonnie abandoned her mindless pacing and strode out to the garden. The fresh air, the bright summer blossoms, the smooth green of the lawn, within moments all of these had worked their usual magic on Bonnie Ascher Elgort. Gosh, how she loved it here in Yorktide! How could anyone in her right mind not?
All would be well, Bonnie decided right there and then. She would banish self-pity. She would rebuild her life, with or without her sister a few miles down the road. Yorktide had never let her down before. Why would it let her down now?
Chapter 82
Carol turned away from the idyllic scene outside the kitchen window with an
impatient sigh. Verdant fields and swaths of wildflowers were all well and good, but they could be so . . . so dull.
Earlier in the summer Judith had asked her what she planned on doing once she was settled in Yorktide. Carol had pretended a confidence she hadn’t really felt. She would lecture. She would mentor. She would travel out of Yorktide on cultural quests. She would be fine.
But the truth was, even with all the family drama whirling around her, Carol was bored. What she wanted was a paying job, a task on which she could focus, the pressure of performing and producing. She wanted the subsequent praise and respect.
Carol reached for her cell phone, surprised she hadn’t thought of this before. She would call Ana, ask how things were going with her husband, catch up on a bit of industry gossip, and then she would offer her services on a short-term, contractual basis. There must be some project on which Ana could use help. Carol would set her rates low, a special deal for a colleague. Ana would be thankful.
Carol placed a call to Ascher Interior Design. Ana was in a meeting. She would be given the message that Ms. Ascher had called. Was there any other message? No.
* * *
A day had passed. Ana had not called back, nor had she sent Carol an e-mail or a text. The message was clear. Carol had become surplus to requirements as far as Ana was concerned. So be it. Nothing lasted forever and it was right that the young should inherit the earth. Still, the realization that she no longer mattered to the person she had mentored for so long stung a bit. Carol might receive a card at the holidays and maybe even a gift basket, packed with cheese straws, jams, and cookies. And in turn Carol would send a—
What would she send to Ana? Nothing. Ana didn’t need anything from Carol Ascher, not any longer.
But what really mattered, Carol realized, was the problem of her boredom. And then it happened, the proverbial lightbulb moment.
She had never been serious about putting in a zen garden at Ferndean, but she was truly curious to know more about whatever it was that her ancestor had begun to build behind the house. The logical first step would be to seriously investigate the markings on the stones that remained half embedded in the ground.
Carol located a craft store a few towns away and set off to purchase a kit of tough, water-resistant paper and sticks of solid graphite. In spite of her diligent efforts, what she uncovered was disappointing in the extreme, just a bunch of short curves and broken lines running every which way but seeming in no relation to one another, at least none that Carol could understand. Time had done its best to annihilate whatever images or patterns had been carved into the rocks.
After a light dinner, Carol undertook a second and more detailed search of the house, though she had little hope of finding anything. Surely, if plans had existed, tucked away in an old desk or bureau, someone would have discovered them by now. Under a loose floorboard? Possibly, but why would anyone want to hide what was essentially a public document? The house had no secret safe as far as Carol knew; still, she peered behind paintings that had been hanging on the walls since her childhood, tapped on the back walls of closets in search of a hollow area, and ran her hands along wainscoting that might conceivably be masking a latch to a hidden door.
After a few dusty hours of futile searching—she hadn’t even unearthed a tarnished silver button or a faded postcard—Carol abandoned the chore. The next morning, she made a call to the Yorktide Public Library. The librarian on duty knew immediately that there was nothing in the library’s archives pertaining to the history and construction of Ferndean House. “I’ve often thought that odd,” she admitted before suggesting that Carol check with the local historical society. “Ask for Terry Brown,” she said. “He’s been there forever.”
Later that morning, Carol arrived at the Yorktide Historical Society. Terry Brown was there as promised. He was a wiry, straight-backed man, probably strong as the proverbial ox, maybe in his late seventies, maybe a decade younger. It was hard to tell with some people. He wore a pair of glasses low on his nose and as they were talking, he rocked slowly back and forth on his heels.
Though Terry Brown was sorry to report that, like the library, the historical society had nothing in its archives relating to the construction of the Ascher homestead, it didn’t take him but a moment to recall that one of his ancestors had been the foremen on Ferndean House back in 1848. There might be some old paperwork in the attic of the Brown family homestead. “I’ll check if you’d like,” Terry offered. Carol gratefully accepted his offer and gave him her phone number.
Carol left the building and got into her car. Before she started the engine, she checked her phone. There was a text from Ana. But Carol didn’t need Ana’s help now. She had her own mission. She put her phone back in her bag.
Chapter 83
Nicola shut off the engine of her car and looked up at Ferndean House. Just that morning her aunt had told her what Carol intended to do with the remains of the old, mysterious structure on the property. Unlike Bonnie, Nicola wasn’t fundamentally opposed to the idea of change, but she shared her aunt’s wariness about the nature of some of the so-called improvements Carol might make. It couldn’t hurt to sound her mother out on those improvements, especially now that they seemed to be getting along better than they had in some time.
“I was in the neighborhood,” Nicola said when her mother answered the door to her knock. Why had she lied?
Carol smiled and ushered her inside. “This is a pleasant surprise.”
Nicola extended the flyer she had pulled from her pocket. “I wanted to give you this. We’re having our annual summer crafts sale next weekend. A lot of the residents keep up with their sewing and knitting and model building. The sale never brings in much money, but it’s a fun event for all of us.”
“Thank you.” Her mother took the flyer and scanned it. “I’ll be sure to make a donation.”
“You don’t have to,” Nicola protested.
“I want to.” Carol smiled briefly. “I wouldn’t want to be forgotten in my old age.”
Suddenly, Nicola felt vaguely guilty. “I shouldn’t have just dropped by. I asked you not to do that to me and here I am doing the same.”
Carol laughed. “My bad habits are rubbing off on you! Seriously, though, it’s not a problem. I’m always glad to see you.”
Nicola realized that she believed her mother. Only weeks ago, she probably would not have.
“I was just about to make myself lunch,” her mother said, heading for the kitchen. “Are you hungry?”
“Don’t go to any trouble,” she said.
“It’s no trouble. Do you still like tuna salad?”
Nicola felt her empty stomach rumble. “With celery? And fennel?”
Carol smiled. “You remember.”
“I haven’t had your tuna salad since—”
“Since New York,” Carol said quietly, opening the fridge and taking out a Tupperware container.
Nicola perched on a stool at the small kitchen island; her uncle had put it in place not long after Shirley Ascher died and he and Bonnie were preparing the house for occasional renters. “Aunt Bonnie tells me you have plans to rebuild the stonework in the backyard,” she said. “Something about making it into a zen garden.”
“And she’s not happy about it, is she?” Carol asked, putting a sliced loaf of whole wheat bread on a wooden board and bringing it to the island.
“Of course not,” Nicola said quickly. “And neither am I, to tell you the truth. What does a zen garden have to do with Ferndean?”
“Well, you can rest easy,” her mother told her. “Nothing’s set in stone, pardon the pun.”
Nicola wondered. Did her mother mean to suggest that she might be open to some form of negotiation regarding the future of Ferndean? Or, Nicola thought, was she being way too naïve?
“Are you coming to Judith’s dinner?” she asked.
Carol brought the rest of the makings for sandwiches to the counter. “I don’t think so. To be honest, the PMA is
showing a film I’ve been wanting to see for ages and I’d really like to catch it.”
Did a film trump family, Nicola wondered as she piled tuna salad onto a piece of bread? Well, maybe in some cases. Nicola recalled having backed out of attending one of Sophie’s birthday parties in order to catch the opening of a popular zombie film.
“You haven’t made any big changes to the house yet,” she said. “Not that I can see.”
“No, I haven’t. Would you like coffee? Or iced tea?”
Nicola noted how quickly her mother moved away from the topic of Ferndean—again.
“Iced tea, please,” she said.
Her mother brought the drinks to the counter and perched on a stool across from Nicola.
“That’s a pretty blouse,” Nicola said suddenly. “I could never pull off that intense shade of yellow, though. Not with my complexion.”
“Yes, you have your—” Her mother laughed. “I mean, yes, this isn’t your color. I remember when you were a little girl you loved to wear bright colors. It was a bit horrifying, actually, all the hot pink and electric blue.”
“That was then,” Nicola said. “When I came to live in Yorktide I changed. I became more myself. The real me.”
“Is that true?” Carol asked. “I’ve sometimes wondered how much you were influenced by your . . . I mean, by the new environment.”
“Yes,” Nicola said firmly. “It is true.”
“Good. Some people spend a lifetime trying to know who they really are.”
Nicola laughed. “Well, I’m not saying I have all the answers!”
“No one ever does. So, will you take some time off work this summer?”
“No, at least, I haven’t scheduled any vacation time until autumn.”
“Have you been out of the country since the summer before you came to live in Maine?”
“Yes,” Nicola said. “I’ve been to Canada twice during winter break, back in high school. I went skiing with a friend’s family.”
“I didn’t know that.” Carol smiled. “I suppose there are lots of things about your life I don’t know.”
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