Hearts Divided (Cedar Cove #5.5)(64)

Both knew he was checking up on her, and why he never called in advance. She’d tell him what she told everyone else who worried about her. You don’t need to come over. I’m fine!

She’d made such assertions to Nick in the beginning.

You can’t possibly be fine, he’d tell her when he appeared despite her protestations. He’d arrive within fifteen minutes of his phone call, and she always seemed relieved when he did. And even if you’re fine, Clara, I’m not.

Nick didn’t care about the food she inevitably served him. He could cook his own meals. But if he permitted Clara to feed him, she’d end up nibbling on something, too.

It was past her usual suppertime. But Nick had the feeling she might have forgotten to eat. His impression was confirmed when they reached the kitchen.

On the table where her dinner might have been, four round boxes sat instead. Glossy boxes, he noted, each in a different shade of yellow.

“Hatboxes?” Nick prompted.

“They contain the letters Charles wrote me during the war. I haven’t read them since his return. I didn’t need to. I had him. And,” Clara said, “I knew every one by heart.”

“I’ll bet you still do.”

“I don’t know. Getting them down from the attic is as far as I’ve gotten.”

“The attic? Clara—”

“I’m perfectly ambulatory, Nick! And the railings a certain dear friend of ours added to all our walls and staircases make climbing up and down a breeze.” Clara smiled at the dear friend who, following Charles’s stroke, had made it easy for him to spend the remaining year of his life with the woman he loved in the farmhouse he’d always known. “Elizabeth painted these boxes for me.”

“Oh?” Nick asked, moving closer.

The varying shades of yellow were background. On each lid was an apple tree. One for every season. The style was primitive and bold, painted by a girl who couldn’t draw any better than she could sing.

The boxes weren’t works of art. But they were works of love. And passion, Nick thought. An exuberant affection for the trees, be they barren for winter, blossom-laden during spring, bountiful with summer fruit or brilliant with the leaves of autumn.

Elizabeth’s wintertime tree wasn’t entirely barren. Oblong splashes of red dangled from its outermost reaches. Christmas lights—like the ones that had illuminated a sobbing little girl.

“When did she paint these?”

“The first year she spent the entire summer here. She was eight, and we had such fun. On rainy days, we poked around in the attic, trying on old clothes, looking at old photographs, playing with the mah-jongg set Charles inherited from his father. Charles’s letters didn’t pique her interest. But she could tell how important they were to me. She wondered if they needed brighter homes than the white hatboxes I’d stored them in. They definitely did, I told her, and asked if she’d be willing to decorate them for me.”

“Did you suggest what she should draw? The seasons of the orchard?”

“I made no suggestions whatsoever. But, being Elizabeth, she shared her every thought. The boxes had to be yellow, she said, because I’d painted the house yellow to welcome Charles home from the war.”

“She didn’t go with the same yellow.”

“No. She felt it would be all right—if I agreed—to pick four brighter shades. You remember her affinity for the bright and shiny.”

“I do,” Nick said softly. “And the apple trees? Why did she choose to paint them?”

“Because she loves them. She’s always viewed them as the living things they are—as friends.” Clara touched an apple blossom on Elizabeth’s springtime tree. “When she was finished, Charles lacquered each box inside and out, sealing the cardboard and, or so we hoped, preserving her vivid paintings. But they’ve faded, haven’t they?”

Not at all, Nick thought. He felt quite sure they were as bright as the day eight-year-old Elizabeth had dabbed her final drop of paint. But Clara couldn’t see it. It was the worry he would find a way to address. Beginning tomorrow.

Tonight, he broached the worry that was foremost on Clara’s mind. “Have you heard from Elizabeth?”

“Not since Monday night. I don’t expect to hear from her, Nick. Not on that topic. She’s not mad at me because of what I said about Matthew. Sad, maybe. Disappointed. But not mad.” She sighed. “If anyone owes anyone a follow-up phone call, it’s me who should call her.”

“But you haven’t.”

“It wouldn’t be fair unless I was calling to tell her I’d decided my instincts were wrong and he was perfect for her after all.”

“You haven’t decided that.”

“Not even close. The more I think about it, the more convinced I become. It’s better just to let some time pass.”

“Is Elizabeth still coming for a visit at the end of the month?”

“We didn’t discuss it Monday night, but I’m sure she will. She’s not going to hold my concerns about Matthew against me. And she is going to marry him. I wasn’t trying to talk her out of it. I probably shouldn’t have said anything.”

“That’s not your style, Clara, not when the happiness of your family’s involved. Especially Elizabeth.”