Northern Light

by Deb Davies

  Arnie let the motel sojourners back into the house in the morning, and though Black Pearl was obviously glad to be back, he resented being confined and pawed resentfully at the now locked cat door flap. The six of them sat around the pine kitchen table with mugs of weak coffee and stick-to-the-fingers glazed doughnuts Arnie had picked up.

  “We didn’t find much,” Arnie repeated. “No fingerprints around the patio doors, which is where I am supposing our perp gained entry. There are some smudges that, by the way they’re positioned, make me think the door wasn’t even closed all the way when the jokester arrived.” His voice could not have sounded more disapproving if he learned Claire was opening a house of ill repute.

  “There were footprints we believe were made by oversized boots that sloped at the heels and probably are down a sewer in Gaylord by now. What we think are big, smudgy glove prints—the same that were on the outside door—show someone opened the refrigerator, pushed food around, and hauled the salmon out.”

  “I’m glad they didn’t take the cheddar,” Claire said.

  Jen said, “I don’t think they want comments on food, Aunt Claire.”

  Arnie continued, “We didn’t find any hint of disturbances inside the house, food and bird aside, or fingerprints, except from people we all know here, and no sign of anything taken, based on Claire’s list.”

  “You never took my fingerprints,” Charles said.

  “Your prints were all over the bathtub,” Elaine pointed out. “And why would someone who writes about birds go around shoving them into houses?”

  “Ah,” Charles said.

  “So no, we don’t know much. It seems like someone played a mean prank. God knows why.”

  “It can’t be that easy to just scoop up a raven,” Claire protested.

  “They can be addlepated in their first year,” Charles said. “The bird could have gotten hit by a car—the side mirror, say—or attacked by an eagle that couldn’t quite carry it off. No pun intended.”

  Elaine favored him with a “you shithead” look.

  “I still don’t like it,” Arnie said. “Doors are to be closed. Doors are to be locked. Alarm system installed. Are you listening?”

  “So if we lock the doors behind us, we can leave,” Charles said.

  Arnie glared at him, and Elaine ran a hand through her hair in exasperation.

  “That is to say, I can leave.”

  “Yes,” Arnie said. “Please do. You’re taking the bird?”

  “You think I’m giving you the bird!” Charles exclaimed. The rest of the group looked at him, looked at each other, and decided he was clueless but not truly offensive.

  “How is Oscar?” Laurel asked.

  “Doing well, but he needs continued care,” Charles said. “Groggy.”

  “We want to know where you will be, in case we need to find you.” Arnie glowered.

  “Jen is going to drive me home,” Charles explained. “I want to get Oscar someplace where he can recuperate.”

  Jen seemed to surprise him by refusing. “If we can think of another way to get you there, I’d rather not go,” she said. “See, I’ve come up with a wonderful idea—something I can do for you, Aunt Claire, but it would help me too. Could you drive Charles to his cabin?”

  “Me?” Claire’s face was a blank. No one had asked her to do a favor for them since George died. In fact, now that she thought about it, everyone had been treating her as if she were as fragile as a small moth caught in the web of a big spider. Before she married George, she’d taken trips on her own. She’d learned new skills, taken risks. Moving had been a risk, and she’d done it for George without a second thought.

  “I’d like to freshen up your house,” Jen said. “And not just with air freshener.”

  “Jen!” Laurel sent her a look that said, How could you?

  “A makeover,” Jen explained seriously. “Nothing drastic, but the sofa needs some help…recovering? The blinds need work too. Then it might be nice to tint the paint to complement those changes. And I could do those things. I am applying to interior design schools. I’ve always had a good sense of color and the way it changes in light. Outdoor light, I mean, not just indoor light.”

  No response. She looked at Claire, determined to get through her pitch.

  “I helped a friend pick out colors for a New York apartment, from which—if you were on just the right angle—you could see the Hudson. The right paint and one expensive Calder rip-off mobile, and everyone’s eyes were drawn to the Hudson instead of the building next door. She took pictures, but now I can’t get in touch with her.” Jen faltered. She had worshipped Claire from afar for years, but now her own life was changing. She knew interior designers needed moxie to succeed.

  “If you spruced it up for me, you could get some shots for a portfolio,” Claire said.

  “Claire, that’s sweet.” Laurel looked mildly horrified. “But how do you know you’ll like what Jen comes up with?” Jen rolled her eyes at her mother.

  “I’ve seen Jen’s drawings since she was a little girl.” Claire’s voice was brisk. “She’s right about those new paints that are supposed to coordinate with or play up vistas of trees, a barn, or whatever. I read an article about it in This Old House magazine. I sure don’t want to do anything decorative just now, but the color scheme does make this house seem like George’s Little House in the Big Woods. If Jen wants to experiment, I’ll pay for what she does and enjoy the results.”

  “We could talk about your ideas,” Jen suggested.

  “You have carte blanche, Jen,” Claire said. “Is that all right with you, Arnie, if I drive Charles back to Luzerne?”

  Arnie and Elaine looked at each other. Elaine knew that Arnie had a schoolboy fixation on Claire, but neither of them had seen Claire so animated since George died. Charles did check out as a legitimate, if odd, writer. And if anything went wrong at the house, Claire would be safely out of the way.

  “Get your stuff,” Arnie said.

  It took no time for Claire and Charles to pack. She grabbed a sweater, and Charles rifled the refrigerator for Oscar’s sustenance. They drove off in the rental car, leaving the Bentley for Laurel. Arnie scratched his head and stared after them.

  Laurel got a cup of tea and talked to Jen, who did seem to have good ideas that wouldn’t cost too much. She took several deep breaths and headed out on her daughter’s instructions toward Everything Michigan.

  Ann had suggested she and Patsy do some touch-up painting, and that offer had been the start of Jen’s design. My whiz kid, Laurel thought.

  Tansy brought tuna fish sandwiches—rye bread, but nothing special—that had been left over from the assisted living center where she was an administrator. Ann had an infinitesimal bit of lettuce protruding from the corner of her mouth. Tuna was not something she sold at her own store, and as such, was a treat, as were the pineapple squares and piña coladas that accompanied their lunch. After she took a sandwich to Patsy, who was tending the counter, Tansy sat sipping iced tea and apologized for hurrying.

  “I got a call this morning from a prospective client. We’re meeting at Best to Be. I know the name is a little corny, but I wasn’t responsible for the name of the place. We do offer a good range of health care services. People who are independent can rent an apartment and keep their own car. They can opt in or out of a morning and evening check-in to make sure they are fine. We have a small urgent care center, if someone is ill or hurt but is recovering, and an adjacent facility offering care for people who need extensive help. It’s a good place. Usually.”

  “Usually?” Laurel asked.

  “There can be sad times,” Tansy said. “Some people check their parents in and never come see them. That’s why sometimes, patients run out of pajamas or underwear. But there are times when people are just funny.”

  Laurel looked at her skeptically.

  “One winter, even backup generators went out, and the refrigerators didn’t work. We used a smaller than usual dining room to get
food to people who, because of physical problems, might’ve needed extra help eating, and told the staff to give out cookies after dinner instead of offering ice cream. We wanted to keep the freezers closed. But one aid ignored us and gave one man an ice cream bar. Pretty soon, we had a crowd of white-haired people thumping their walkers, shouting, ‘He got a nutty bar! We want nutty bars! We want nutty bars too!’ We couldn’t outshout them, and two of our diners got into a fight about who had the right of way. Residents were lurching out of wheelchairs to take sides and throw silverware. One woman smacked another with a plate and said, ‘That’s because you always interrupt me!’”

  “What happened?” Laurel was goggle-eyed.

  “I lit a match under a sprinkler head, and people left the room, many of them helping each other. One man using a wheelchair remained in the room until it emptied, out of chivalry, I thought. He confided that he hadn’t had so much fun in years.”

  Laurel tried to think how to word her question. “Were those people mentally OK?”

  “Oh, sure,” Tansy said. “Anyone who wasn’t ‘all there’ got food trays in their rooms that night, so they would feel more at home. The nutty bar rioters? I think they were just being human.”

  My parents died years ago, Laurel thought. If they hadn’t, would they have led nutty bar riots?

  “So.” Tansy became businesslike. “Back to decorating questions. I could pick up a couple of porch chairs if you think Claire would want them. Deck chairs would be nice on her patio, and one of our clients is leaving a ground-floor apartment. Her husband was the gardener, and now she wants a place on the second floor that has a better view.”

  Laurel didn’t know what she had expected of Tansy, but she had not anticipated short brown hair and lipstick complementing a white tunic over beige linen pants. In tan leather flats, Tansy was the same height as her mother, who wore medium-height cork-heeled sandals and a Beatrix Potter apron over a yellow cap-sleeved dress. Ann had a pencil tucked behind one ear.

  “I hope the couch Zoe wants to give us isn’t too big and blocky,” Ann said, patting crumbs from her mouth. “That big piano and a big couch? What will that look like, Laurel?”

  “OK, I guess.” Laurel was thinking: Zoe? Zoe Weathers? She sipped thoughtfully at her piña colada, narrowing her eyes, pretending to try to visualize Jen’s work. Actually, she had no idea what that combination would look like.

  “Patsy says the floors will polish up,” Ann continued. “Jen hired a local company that refinishes old wood. Some women from the Unitarian Universalist Church have signed up to clean the windows all through the house. They’re taking contributions for a new boiler.”

  “Does Zoe need help getting the couch here?” Laurel asked. “Elaine Santana says one of her brothers has a trucking service.”

  “Let me know what you think about the chairs, Mom. If we don’t want them, the woman will sell them to someone else. They’re Adirondack chairs, and the backs were cut to Michigan’s mitten shape.”

  Tansy checked the time on her cell phone and rose to shake hands with Laurel. “I should get back,” she said. “I’m glad I got to meet you. Love you, Mom.” She daubed the small piece of lettuce off the corner of Ann’s mouth, and gave her a quick kiss, leaving Laurel a bit jealous, because, while she and Jen were on most of the same wavelengths, they weren’t physically demonstrative.

  “Check your lipstick, sweetie. Better text Jen and ask about the chairs,” Ann called after her daughter. “This, I think, is Jen’s parade.” She stood and stretched, one hand rubbing the small of her back. “What do you think Claire will do once the house looks better? You know her better than anyone here.”

  “I don’t have a clue,” Laurel said. “Having some color in that room couldn’t hurt. Maybe having some changes will make it feel as though the house is really hers, and she can do what she wants with it. I know she still has the condo in Grand Rapids. She could rent this place in the summers if she wants.”

  “I need a massage,” Ann said, watching Tansy leave the room. Some of the cheer radiating from the yellow dress had left her. “I am not,” she said, “an afternoon woman. I was when I was younger. I used to love the way flowers would smell—so intense. Lavender grows wild in fields around here. I’ve read that we don’t adjust to heat as well when we get older. And customers get grouchier by the hour. They all think they should be to Sault Ste. Marie by nightfall.”

  Laurel grinned. “Especially if they’re from either coast.”

  “Yup. New Yorkers are the worst. They think the Midwest is a bridge they cross to get to California.”

  “Can’t you take a nap, or just rest your back when Patsy’s working?”

  A smile touched Ann’s lips. “Patsy would be glad to run the store for me, if I asked her. She’s my loyal helper and strong as a horse. And yet…”

  “Where did you find Patsy?” Laurel asked.

  “She was my husband’s nanny,” Ann told her. “She did the laundry for his parents. Not usually housekeeping, because she scrubs silver with steel wool. Cleaning the way she does is good for the store. By the way, I’m sorry Claire got hurt when Patsy helped her. I did tell Patsy not to clean pine furniture with Comet, but I didn’t think to tell her not to leave dish soap and solvent on the floor.”

  “How the heck old is Patsy?”

  “Maybe seventy?” Ann looked vague. “After Monty died of pancreatic cancer, she stayed on with me. He left me enough money to start this shop. It was smaller then. And Patsy was a godsend. She’d help with Tansy, who was just a baby. We could put Tansy right in the store, in a bouncy chair or a playpen, and paint, stock shelves, whatever.”

  “Will Tansy take over the store from you, someday, do you think?”

  “Hell she will,” Ann snapped. “Tansy has a good job where she is. She’s got a retirement plan, and there are places where she could work that have stock options. I started this store so I could see her succeed. When I get too old to haul my ass around this business, I’m selling it, and I’ll sit back and watch it go bust. You’ve got to know the community to run this kind of store. We’re swamped most of the summer months, but even in the winter, with heating bills, we break even. We have book signings and craft and cooking demonstrations. But it’s got to be the right kind of books and the right projects.

  “There are trade-offs. I buy those spiral lucky walking sticks from Murphy, Claire’s neighbor. He doesn’t buy anything from me, but other veterans hear about it and tell their friends about me. The Marshes are good people, and I like to help them, but finding homes for their kittens also guarantees that when they stock up for winter, they’ll come here.

  “Everybody thinks they’d like to own a little store in the country. Like if I can run this store, running it must be a snap.” She drew a breath and smiled at Laurel. “Sorry,” she said. “It’s something I get peeved about, especially when couples from Chicago come by and say, ‘Isn’t this the quaintest place? I’ve always wanted to own a little store.’ But it’s like owning a bar. It’s hard work.”

  After she left the store, Laurel thought about Ann’s frustration and found she could empathize. Many of her students were between jobs or struggling to achieve credentials that would help them survive the future. For many, completing college classes made significant differences in their lives, but underprepared students needed individualized attention. Recently she heard more people say teachers are overpaid and lazy. The thought of going back to the world of “teach more people more, and have them learn it by yesterday” made her feel she might be too old for her job.

  Rain clouds were forming in the west when Laurel drove back to Claire’s. Then fat raindrops spattered on the Bentley’s windshield. Her thoughts turned to Claire and her drive with Charles to Luzerne. When she pulled up to the house, she barely noticed another car that should have been familiar to her.

  When she walked into the kitchen, rain dripping down her neck, she recognized David’s voice. He was sitting at the table with Jen and Ar
nie, holding a glass of cider.

  “David,” she said, feeling the world shift around her.

  “Laurel.” He stood up, favoring his right foot, and touched a hand to her cheek.

  His brown eyes, behind bifocals, looked kind as always. His mouth quirked in a not quite smile. Laurel thought she registered something like regret.

  “I needed to see you. And Jen,” he added.

  Laurel looked at Jen, whose expression was tired. She bit her lip, looking a bit like she’d just sucked on a lemon slice. Next, she looked at Arnie, who, she guessed, was not happy to know Claire was driving Charles and Oscar home. His mouth and eyebrows looked like horizontal lines sketched in with a stick of artist’s charcoal. Somehow, she didn’t think he was buying David’s angst.

  “Laurel, you look good. Look good, baby. Whew. That tan looks good on you.”

  “Thanks, David. What brings you here?”

  “I wanted to see Jen, and you, of course. Here’s the thing I thought you both should know. I’ve been dating Bethanie Belknap. I’m not sure if you’d remember her, but we are getting serious.”

  Laurel sighed.

  “So, I was wondering. You still have that ring that was my mom’s, right? The antique diamond we had reset?”

  “Uh. Yeah. I do. It was the most important gift I’ve ever received.”

  “It can’t mean much to you now, Laurel. Because I was thinking, Bethanie might like a token of our new start. We’re probably getting married.” He shifted his weight from his left foot to his right and back again, then sat, a bit clumsily, back in his chair.

  Arnie’s eyebrows flatlined. He knew by now that David was Laurel’s ex. Laurel still looked gobsmacked at seeing her ex-husband. Jen watched her father at work with a sad expression. He said nothing, because it wasn’t any of his business. He could think, however, and he thought, What a horse’s ass!

  A slow flush of anger rose up Laurel’s body, rising from somewhere between her breasts, up her throat, and into her face—almost like the flush of sexual arousal. She didn’t know why she felt demeaned. She hadn’t worn the ring to the office, but she had worn it to conferences and parties—places where people were more likely to take you seriously if you looked financially secure. She and David had gone together to pick out the updated setting for the princess cut diamond. She could still smell David’s aftershave, feel his arm around her waist. So was it the ring she cared about, or the life she’d lived with David? The life that had included their earliest sexual endeavors and the sweet, mutually agreed upon liaisons that had produced Jen?