Insult to Injury Page 6

  “Okay.” I’m tongue-tied and rattled, being here in the basement with Gail, so close to the shelf that leads to the secret room. She’s no fool, this woman. To the contrary. I don’t think I’ve seen anyone look at me like Gail does, scrutinizing, calculating, and, very briefly, perhaps twice, with stunned curiosity. One of those times was when I persuaded her to try the feng shui approach with her book collection. I’m sure she intended to go old school, authors in alphabetical order. It was pretty funny when she stared at the much more restful look of color coordination.

  “When you’re done, that’s it for today. I’ve picked up a few of those jars, and they’re damn heavy. I don’t want you to overdo.” Gail tilts her head as she regards me. “I’m driving into East Quay half past twelve. You think you’ll be done by then?”

  “Sure thing. It won’t take long.” I swallow. “Um. Can I hitch a ride? I was going into town myself in the afternoon.” Where I get the courage to ask, I don’t know, but I’m sure I’m pushing it. Why would she ever do such a thing?

  “Why not?” Gail shrugs, lifting only her left shoulder. Her injured arm is tucked into its orthosis and also in a sling today. She moves as if she wants to cradle it like a baby, but of course she wouldn’t do something like that in front of anyone else. I don’t like to show anything I perceive as a weakness either. “If you want to wash up before we go, you can do that in the guest bathroom on the first floor. Second door to the left. And don’t dawdle.”

  “I won’t. Thanks.” I feel myself smile in a way I’m not used to, my mouth wide and open.

  Gail blinks. “Hmm. No problem. I’ll be upstairs in my study. Don’t disturb me unless you absolutely can’t figure out something. I can’t imagine whatever could be among these…items.” She doesn’t wait for me to acknowledge her words before going upstairs.

  I’m glad Gail’s going to the study rather than the spy corner in the living room. I know I’m getting my hands on some cash through helping her, and perhaps whatever Manon Belmont has up her sleeve will pan out in a good way, but I still need to harvest some of the jars. I won’t take any of the ones Gail wants to donate. I just couldn’t, but if I see any that are one month too old, that wouldn’t be as bad a theft, would it? I try to convince myself of that theory.

  To not dawdle—I mean, who uses words like that—I hurry over to the shelf farthest from the door. I sort through all the pickled cucumbers first and have to concede that most of them are too old. Six are still okay and intact, and one I place over by the swing shelf. Then I fear Gail may come down unexpectedly and see me create a stack she didn’t give instructions about and move them closer to the ones by the door.

  Applesauce has fared best among all the jars. Twenty of them to donate, four to me, and the rest will need to be thrown out. I inspect the red peppers, apricots, orange marmalade, and even some homemade sauerkraut. I decide on approximately the same ratio for all of them.

  My back starts to hurt when I haul the largest ones over to the door. I place them out of the way so I can still get in without risking running into any of them. That could make a big mess.

  I glance at the ceiling. I can’t hear a thing from upstairs. Hurrying over to the swing shelf, I open it faster than usual now that I don’t have to be afraid of Gail hearing noises from below. I carry the jars I put aside for me down the few steps. I can’t slow down even if I’m afraid I’ll stumble and send some of the jars crashing onto the floor below. Every time I return for two more jars, I listen for footsteps, for creaking floorboards, or for Gail’s voice. Still nothing. Holding the last two jars, one under each arm, I almost skip all the steps in one jump, and just as I’m about to put them on the small table, I hear her. I toss them onto the bed, rush up the four steps, swivel, and push the swing shelf closed. Not about to wait for Gail to stand in front of that particular shelf and draw her attention to it, I throw myself down next to the discarded batch of jars, but I slip on the part of the concrete floor that has been polished smooth by many feet over many years. I careen toward the jars and hold my hands out to try and stop myself, but I still make a lot of noise as I slam into them.

  Pain shoots up through my hands and arms, and my right hip smarts so badly, tears form in my eyes.

  “Romi!” Gail sounds upset, and soon she crouches next to me, her good hand on my shoulder. “What happened?”

  “I slipped.” I meant to say I slipped carrying the last of the jars, but my hip is still making my tears well up, and I’m trying to contain myself.

  “I can tell. I saw you just after you went down, but I heard you do it. Are you all right?” Gail’s voice is unsteady too. “Let me see your hands.”

  “No. Hands are okay,” I lie. “My hip took the brunt of it.” I look at the jars, trying to stealthily blink the tears away. They all look whole.

  “As long as you didn’t cut yourself.” Gail cups my chin and studies me. The touch is warm, no, hot to my skin. I forget to breathe for a second. “Can you stand?” she asks, letting go.

  “Sure.” I move to stand on my knees, which I’m glad I didn’t slam into the concrete. “I’m such a klutz.”

  “I wouldn’t know, but I’m glad you didn’t hit your head. You didn’t, did you?” Gail lifts her hand as if she means to feel through my hair for bumps but lowers it again.

  “Eh, no. Just my hip, really.” I watch her rise with enviable grace, injured arm or not.

  “Go upstairs and clean up. Examine your hip and make sure you didn’t break the skin.” Motioning for me to walk ahead of her, Gail sends a quick glance toward the shelves and then follows me. “I can tell you managed to save quite a few for me to donate. Good.”

  “Yes, about a third, almost.” I kick off my old boots after I get upstairs. Then I remember that I’m not supposed to know the layout of the house. “Second door to the left, you said?”

  “Correct. I’ll be in my study until we leave.” Gail checks the time. “In half an hour. Actually, it’s a good thing you’re going with me. We can stop at the ATM so I can get your cash.”

  My cheeks burn. Why is that? I did a job for her, last night, though tiny, and today. Why do I feel so awkward taking her money? I walk into the guest bathroom. It’s a smaller bathroom that boasts a shower, sink, and toilet. I use the latter, and when I’m done, I examine my hip before I pull my pants up. It’s going to get black and blue as all hell. Damn. But no broken skin, at least. I pull off my shirt and the worn tank top. They were clean this morning, and sniffing them, I think they’re okay still. I wash under my arms and then my face. Taking one of the towels I press it to my face, only to moan when I feel how thick and soft it is. My towels in the secret room aren’t bad, but before I came back here, I had to make do with coarse paper towels or scratchy, cheap, terry-cloth washcloths. These are amazing.

  I raise my eyes to look at myself in the mirror. I’m pale, I mean, when am I not, but there’s more. Something new and different. And painful. It dawns on me. I know now why taking money from Gail for a job I’ve done makes bile rise in my throat. I cling to the sink and know what I see reflected in the mirror as I stare at myself.

  Utter, overwhelming, and mind-blowing guilt.

  Gail

  Following the head waitress, I weave through the tables among the lunch guests at the Sea Stone Café. According to its website, I have entered the new wing, a restaurant to complement the original café. Rustic, with that special New England charm, so common still in interior design, it seems very popular, considering very few tables are empty. I battle an unwelcome feeling of vulnerability as I’m directed to a window table overlooking the marina. After ordering a house-blend coffee, receiving the menu, and, oh, yes, let’s not forget, answering the polite question, “Just one of you, then, ma’am,” I focus on the view.

  Only five boats are still in the water by the docks. I watch them move as the gentle waves rock the boats between the fenders. If I were prone to being easily hypnotized, I could fall into a trance.

  Another wa
itress breaks me out of my reverie as she arrives with my coffee. I appreciate that she’s quick, as I already know that I want clam chowder and bread. The woman nods and smiles warmly at me before removing the menu. I direct my attention back to the window after she leaves, not sure why I thought having lunch alone was a great idea to begin with. Yes, I’m fed up with the frozen dinners at the house. I’ve tried cooking using just one hand, but even opening cans is a problem. I’ll have to get one of those electric openers at this rate.

  The haunting thoughts of my injured arm nearly drive my appetite out the window. During a few weeks after the first surgery, depression hit so badly I could barely swallow any type of food. I lost more than twenty pounds, and, sure, I’ve regained most of it, but after that experience, the idea of losing my appetite frightens me. Normally I truly do appreciate food, but I also need to stay well-nourished to be able to heal.

  The chowder appears before me, along with steaming warm slices of bread. I realize it might become a bit of a chore to put butter on it.

  “Do you need help holding the plate of butter, ma’am?” the waitress asks in a low voice. I cringe but tell myself it could be worse. She could’ve offered to butter it for me.

  “Yes. Thank you,” I say, forcing myself to not snap at the kind woman.

  She places two fingers at the edge of the plate, and I manage to spread some butter onto the bread. I’m relieved to feel my mouth water at the sight of the thick slices. So, no risk of not being able to eat just yet.

  The waitress leaves without saying anything more, and I decide to tip her well.

  As I begin to eat, my mind shifts from boats and kind waitresses to Romi. Before driving down to the marina, I dropped her off in the northern part of East Quay, which is clearly a wealthier area. I admit I’m curious who she might know there, since it’s obvious that Romi comes from another income bracket.

  When I stopped at the drive-in ATM and withdrew the money I owed her from last night and this morning, she simply stared at the bills in her hands.

  “That’s too much,” she said, frowning. “I only worked for a few hours.”

  This, somehow, made me angry. Not at her per se, but at how little she seemed to value herself. “You worked hard with those gigantic jars. You did what I asked you to do, quickly and efficiently. Just take what I owe you, and that’s that.”

  Romi pressed her small frame against the door, her eyes huge. “All right. Thank you.” Swallowing visibly, she folded the bills and tucked them into the inner pocket of her military-style jacket.

  During our drive into East Quay, she hadn’t said a word, which suited me fine, but now her unsettled look made her silence less comfortable. “Where can I drop you off?”

  Romi pulled a very small notebook from her pocket and flipped open a page. “At the top of Main Street will be fine, thank you.” She tucked the notebook back into her pocket and put her hands between her knees.

  So I did.

  Driving an automatic is easier for me, but it’s still awkward to put the gear shift into drive or reverse with my left hand. I make do, and as I pulled over where Main Street ends and divides into three smaller roads, Romi turned and looked at me with something unreadable in her eyes. If I hadn’t known any better, I would have guessed it was remorse, but that was of course ridiculous.

  Now as I eat the last of my chowder and reach for another slice of bread, I’m not so sure. I’m also uncertain why I bother with these musings. I don’t know this young woman. She’s my neighbor, she passes my house sometimes, and…and she looks like she’s all alone, something I have no way of knowing, of course. Perhaps that sense of being isolated, whether voluntarily or not, is the common thread that makes my mind return to her so often? That, and curiosity, I must admit. I was always a sucker for a puzzle or any type of mystery, and I can swear Romi has a story.

  My mother used to tell anyone who would listen that I was hopeless to watch crime shows with on TV, as I always guessed whodunit halfway into the show or movie. I could tell she was secretly proud, though. And she also insisted that it was my way of directing all my attention to a single subject that made me into the musician I later became. Is that why I’m drifting now, emotionally? I have no purpose and nothing to focus on except Romi, the enigma.

  My cell phone vibrates in my left jacket pocket. I glance around and see that the closest patrons around me have left and I won’t disturb anyone if I take the call. Looking at the screen, I see it’s Neill. I click the green receiver icon. “I apologize for biting your head off, Neill,” I say in lieu of hello.

  A few moments of silence and then he chuckles warmly. “Weighed on your mind, did it, girl? Don’t worry about it. Already forgotten.”

  I exhale. “Thank you. I can be such a bitch.”

  “Cut yourself some slack. I was treading where your vulnerability lives and thrives, and you weren’t ready for it. I can be such a busybody.” Neill’s warm voice wraps around me, and I know I’m very lucky to have a friend who understands so much, and cares even more.

  “Thank you.” I know I’m infamous for foregoing niceties more often than not, but with Neill, the man who has seen me through both good times and bad, I find it easy to express gratitude. It dawns on me that I’ve thanked Romi on several occasions but push the thought aside. “So, what’s up?”

  “I was wondering if you’d like some guests over the weekend. Laurence and I feel like a little road trip, and he’s curious about your farmhouse. I’ve tried to tell him you don’t have a barn or cows, but he thinks he can at least persuade you to get a goat.”

  I snort. “A goat?” Laurence has been engaged to Neill for more than a decade, and the two men’s well-developed, silly sense of humor always amazes me. “If he moves in and takes care of the critter, why not?”

  Neill guffaws, and I know it’s not so much what I said that makes him laugh, but the fact that I’m in the mood to joke around. It’s rare these days, but when it happens, it’s exclusively because of Neill and Laurence.

  We chat on about nothing much at all, but I decide that I really would love their company. “Today’s Wednesday.” I smile as I sign the receipt, adding a generous tip for the waitress. “Why don’t you drive up Friday after work, and we’ll have all of Saturday and most of Sunday?”

  “Brilliant!” A slapping sound tells me Neill has smacked his palm on his desk, which lets me know he’s really happy. He can give an entire lecture on the direct correlation of happiness and slapping furniture. If he does that with Laurence present, his fiancé will go off on a tangent where stinging palms can have naughtier reasons. That’s where I usually stop them since I hate blushing, and they’ll make me go crimson with the double entendres if I don’t reel them in.

  We hang up and I rise. Placing my coat around my shoulders with a well-practiced movement, I walk toward the entrance. As I round the head waitress station and reach for the door, another, half-hidden door opens, and two women step outside. I automatically cast a quick glance their way—and stop, midstride. A curvaceous, stunning blond woman in her mid-fifties, perhaps, and a younger, tall and wiry woman with black, short hair. The latter is vaguely familiar, but the first one I’d recognize anywhere.

  “Vivian Harding?” I say hesitantly, because running into the world-renowned mezzo-soprano here of all places is far too unexpected.

  “Yes?” the blond woman, who is indeed who I think she is, says and turns toward me. Her eyes don’t meet mine, and I remember reading that she lost her sight some years ago.

  “It’s Gail Owen, if you remember.” I suddenly regret starting this conversation. “We’ve worked together on several occasions.”

  “Gail?” Vivian’s cautious smile turns brilliant. “What on earth? Mike, this is Gail Owen, violin virtuoso, whom I’ve known since she was second violin in the Boston Philharmonic. And this gorgeous woman is my wife, Michaela Stone, but she prefers Mike.”

  Vivian extends her hand too far to the right of me.

  “Ms. O
wen has her right arm in a sling, Vivian,” Mike says kindly, then nods toward me. “Nice to meet you.”

  Without missing a beat, Vivian reaches out with her left hand instead. I take it and squeeze it gently.

  “So nice to run in to both of you,” I say, not sure what to feel right now. “And unexpected.”

  “I’ll say.” Vivian gives one of her famous, raucous laughs. “But a treat nonetheless. Are you coming or going?”

  “Going, actually. Just had a lovely clam chowder.”

  “That makes me happy to hear,” Mike says. “This is my place, even if I’m not part of the day-to-day work anymore.” She towers over both Vivian and me, and dressed mostly in black, she’s a formidable sight. So, Vivian married this much-younger woman. I try to remember if I’ve read about it, but to be honest, the last ten years before the accident, I was touring the entire world nonstop, and afterward, I haven’t been able to muster any interest in news or gossip. When it comes to the music world, I vaguely remember Vivian working with an improv group. Perhaps Mike is part of that?

  “We should meet up, Gail. So much has happened since we last worked together.” Vivian waves the hand that isn’t tucked under Mike’s arm. “We’re having that dinner party on Friday. You must come. I want to know all about—”

  “I’m sorry, Vivian. I’m having visitors from out of town.” Part of me is sad to miss it, but for the most part, I’m relieved.

  “They have to come too!” Vivian laughs again, and who can resist this force of nature? “How many of you can I expect?”

  Neill and Laurence will never forgive me if I keep them from meeting Vivian Harding. I’m trapped, and I know it. “Three. This is very generous, Vivian.” I put on my best smile for Mike’s sake.