A Season for Second Chances(13)

Mari listened. Too well. Annie wished Mari would intervene or cut her off, since Annie didn’t seem able to stop herself. But Mari sat back in her chair, nodding and drinking her tea, and said soothing things at appropriate times, like “Aww, you poor wee thing” and “Goodness me, you have been through it!” And when Annie reached the point in her story where she’d answered Mari’s ad in the paper, the point at which, to Annie’s mind, her story stopped abruptly because the rest had yet to be written, Mari leaned back and took a long swig of tea and watched a seagull drop a pebble from a great height down onto the stones below.

“Well, dear,” said Mari. “I feel like my little house will be safe in your hands.”

“You do?”

“Yes. I can’t think of a better guardian for my home than one who’s lost her own.”

“Oh, I haven’t lost it,” said Annie. “I just don’t want it anymore.”

“That’s the spirit!” said Mari. “Truth be told, we’re in a similar position, you and I. My nephew wants me to sell the place. Thinks a property developer would jump at the chance to get his hands on this land.”

“Surely your nephew can’t force you to sell?” said Annie.

“Force isn’t the right word,” said Mari. “Like I said, he’s a worrier. He’d like to see me somewhere a bit more populated. For safety! If he had his way, I’d be living in one of those retirement villages with twenty-four-hour warden control and a panic button around my neck.”

Annie didn’t think this sounded like a bad idea. Mari had to be well into her eighties, if not nineties. How long could she realistically stay living somewhere this remote? All the same, Annie wondered how much of selling to a developer was for Mari’s benefit and how much for his personal financial gain; beachside land must be at a premium. Instead she said: “Don’t let anybody force you into something you don’t want to do. If you don’t want to sell, don’t sell. Your nephew will have to respect your wishes.”

“Ach, don’t you worry about me, hen,” said Mari. “He’s a big softy underneath it all. Now, I’ll leave instructions on how everything works and days for bin collections and things. Paul, the window cleaner, comes every third Monday of the month, and I’ll leave this month’s money in an envelope. I’ve taken the liberty of making a few notes that might be helpful with orientating yourself with the Nook. I have to write notes for myself these days . . . I get a little absentminded . . . Now, then, let me see, what else . . .”

“So, I’ve got the position, then?” Annie asked.

“Yes, dear,” said Mari. “I’ve never left my home with a guardian before, so I’m not exactly sure of the protocol.”

“I’ve never been a guardian before, so we’re both learning new things!” said Annie. “I won’t let you down.”

“Of course you won’t!” said Mari. “How soon can you move in? I’m packed and ready to go. I had a good feeling about you. I called my nephew last night, and he’s coming down tomorrow to take me to the train station.”

Can’t wait to bundle you off so he can sell your home from under you, thought Annie.

Mari was bustling about the little sitting room, pulling papers out of seemingly random books on shelves and stacking them in a pile on the coffee table.

“If you’re leaving tomorrow,” said Annie, “that gives me a day to get my things in order, and I’ll move in on Sunday, if that’s okay?”

“Perfect!” said Mari. “I wouldn’t want the place left empty for too long; being so close to the sea, the house can get a little damp if it’s not lived in. But if you’re moving in straightaway, I can leave the range on for you.”

Mari picked a black china cat from one of the shelves, unscrewed its head, and tipped a set of keys from out of its body into her hand.

“Here,” she said, dropping the keys into Annie’s outstretched palm. “They’re all labeled. There’s rather a lot, I’m afraid, what with the kiosk and the tearoom and the flat, but I like to keep them all locked, you see, for extra security. These are my only spares. I’ve got a set, John has a set, and now you have a set. He may pop in from time to time just to see you’re okay.”

“It’ll be nice to meet him,” Annie lied. “He obviously means a great deal to you.”

“He’s a good boy,” said Mari. “He’s been like a son to me. Now, I’ll leave my number in Cornwall and my nephew’s number with the instructions.”

Annie smiled and thanked her while Mari continued to fuss around the small sitting room. “You can park by the garden fence; that’s what John does,” Mari went on. “He’s got one of those 4×4 thingamies, makes light work of the shingle.”

“That’s very kind of you,” said Annie. “Thank you.”

Annie drank the last bit of her tea and stood to leave, putting out her hand, and Mari took it. Her hand felt small and frail in Annie’s; the skin was loose around the slender bones and her fingertips were rough from a lifetime of hard work. Annie found herself feeling protective of this slight elderly woman and the home that she held so dear.

Mari stood and watched Annie to the garden gate.