The Shape of Night(36)
Once again she reaches for her phone; she’s already dialing as I walk out the door.
* * *
—
I pull the silk scarf from my bedroom closet and once again admire the summery pattern of roses printed on silk. It’s a scarf meant for a garden party, a scarf to flirt in, sip champagne in. It would be the perfect accessory to brighten up one of my boring black city dresses and I’m briefly tempted to keep it. After all, Charlotte hasn’t asked about it, so how anxious can she be to have it returned? But this is her scarf, not mine, and if I hope to ask her about the ghost in the turret, this scarf could be the best way to open the conversation.
Downstairs, I fold the scarf in a layer of tissue paper and slip it, along with the cookbook, into a FedEx envelope. I include a note.
Charlotte, I’m the new tenant in Brodie’s Watch. You left your cookbook and this gorgeous scarf in the house, and I’m sure you want them back.
I’m a writer and I’d love to chat with you about this house and your experience living here. It may be useful information for the new book I’m writing. Is there any way we can talk by phone? Please call me. Or I can call you.
I add my phone number and email address and seal the envelope. Off it will go tomorrow.
That afternoon I putter away cleaning the stove, feeding Hannibal (again), and writing a new chapter of the book, this one about fish pies. As the clock ticks toward evening, that package for Charlotte keeps distracting me. I think of the various items she left behind. The bottles of whiskey (which I’ve long since finished drinking, thank you very much). The scarf. The stray flip-flop. The copy of Joy of Cooking with her name inscribed in it. That last item I find most puzzling of all. The grease-spattered cookbook was clearly a faithful friend in the kitchen, and I can’t imagine ever leaving behind one of my treasured cookbooks.
I close the laptop and realize I haven’t spared a thought for dinner. Will this be yet another long night hoping that he will appear? I imagine myself ten, twenty years from now, still sitting alone in this house, hoping for a glimpse of the man whom only I have seen. How many nights, how many years, will I be waiting here with only a succession of cats to keep me company?
I glance up at the clock and see that it’s already seven. At this moment in the Seaglass Gallery downtown, people are drinking wine and admiring art. They are talking not to the dead, but to the living.
I grab my purse and walk out of the house to join them.
Fifteen
Through the window of Seaglass Gallery, I see a well-dressed crowd sipping from champagne flutes and a woman with a long black skirt who sits plucking a harp. I don’t know any of these people and I haven’t dressed up for the occasion. I consider climbing back in the car and driving home, but then I spot Ned Haskell standing among the crowd. His name is on the list of featured artists posted in the gallery window, and although he’s wearing blue jeans as usual, he’s spiffed himself up for this event with a white button-down shirt. Seeing one familiar face is all it takes to draw me into the gallery.
I step inside, pluck up a champagne flute of liquid courage, and make my way across the room toward Ned. He stands next to a display of his bird carvings, which are perched on individual pedestals. How did I not know that my carpenter was also an artist, and an impressive one? Each of his birds has its own quirky personality. The emperor penguin stands with its head rolled back, its beak wide open as if roaring at the sky. The puffin has a fish tucked under each wing and a fierce I dare you to take them from me scowl. The carvings make me laugh and suddenly I see Ned in a different light. He’s more than a skilled carpenter; he’s also an artist with a delightful sense of whimsy. Surrounded by this elegant crowd, he looks ill at ease and intimidated by his own admirers.
“Only now do I find out about your secret talent,” I tell him. “You’ve been working in my house for weeks, and you never once told me you were an artist.”
He gives a modest shrug. “It’s just one of my secrets.”
“Any other secrets I should know?”
Even at fifty-eight, Ned can still blush, and I find it charming. I realize how little I actually know about him. Does he have children? He told me he’s never married, and I wonder if there’s ever been a woman in his life. He has shown me his skill as a woodworker, but beyond that, he has revealed nothing about himself.
In that way, we are more alike than he knows.
“I hear your carvings are sold down in Boston, too.”
“Yeah, the gallery down there calls it ‘rustic art’ or some such nonsense. I haven’t figured out if that’s an insult.”
I glance around at the champagne-sipping people. “This doesn’t look like a rustic crowd.”
“No, most of these folks are up from the city.”
“I hear Dr. Gordon has a few paintings here tonight.”
“In the other room. He’s already sold one.”
“I had no idea he was an artist, either. Yet another man with a secret talent.”
Ned turns and stares across the room. “People are complicated, Ava,” he says quietly. “What you see isn’t always what you get.”
I glance in the direction he’s looking and notice that Donna Branca has just walked into the gallery. She’s reaching for a glass of champagne when our gazes meet, and for an instant her hand freezes over the tray of drinks. Then she lifts a flute to her lips, takes a deliberate gulp, and walks away.