Читать книгу Always Florence - Muriel Jensen - Страница 11

CHAPTER THREE

“COOL!” Dylan studied the art supplies spread out on the kitchen table. He picked up a sketch pad and flipped through the blank pages. “Really?” he asked Nate for the third time. “Bobbie gave you all this for me?”

“Yeah.” Nate turned off the burner under the whistling teakettle. “She was telling me she’s teaching art at your school until the holidays, but just for the lower grades. I told her that was too bad, because you like to sketch. She thought you might like to have some stuff to work with.”

“Wow.” Sheamus hung over Dylan as he zipped open a green fabric envelope that contained pencils, some new, some stubs. There was a large-format paperback on basic sketching and a box of pastels. Dylan held up a two-inch-square gray object wrapped in plastic.

“What’s that?” Nate asked.

“The wrapper says it’s an eraser.”

“I’ve never seen one like that.”

“It’s probably for real artists. Wow.”

Nate turned back to the stove before Dylan could think he was too interested. That would certainly ruin his own fascination with Bobbie’s gift. After pouring boiling water over the cocoa powder in the mugs, Nate added two ice cubes to each, then topped them with miniature marshmallows. He poured himself a cup of coffee.

He put the cups on the end of the table, away from the supplies. Sheamus, wearing a pout, sat down in front of his cup. His hair was disheveled and a smear of dirt ran across his cheek like a scar. Stella would be horrified that Nate had seated the boys at the table without making them wash first, but there should be some advantages to an all-male weekend.

“She doesn’t like me, does she?” Sheamus asked, his voice a little strained. “’Cause I thought she was a witch.”

Nate gave him a gentle shove. “Of course she likes you. But this is for Dylan because he’s interested in the same thing she’s interested in. And she gave you a carved pumpkin to hang in your room.”

That didn’t help. “But Dylan got one of those, too.”

“Remember when we bought you a new winter jacket, but we didn’t get one for Dylan because he didn’t need one?”

Sheamus was horrified by the comparison. “That’s clothes! Who cares about clothes?”

Nate bit back laughter, having to give him that one. “I’m sorry. You can’t have everything he has, and he can’t have everything you have. It’s the way the world works.”

“It sucks!”

“I know.”

Sheamus blew out air and sipped carefully from his cup. He gave Nate a pleading, put-upon look over the rim. “Can we buy me a new game for my Nintendo?”

“No.”

He sighed noisily. “Then can I have a cookie?”

“Sure. Help yourself.”

Dylan put everything in his bag and picked up his cup. “I’m going to look at this in my room.”

“Bobbie said the pastels are messy,” Nate warned. “So be careful, okay?”

“Okay.” Dylan walked away, the bag slung over his shoulder, the cocoa held carefully ahead of him. Arnold, curled up under the table, stood—unsure whether to follow Dylan or stay with Sheamus. Then he heard the cookie jar lid and the decision was made.

Sheamus came back to the table with three cookies. He handed one to Nate, held one out to Arnold, who snatched it greedily without touching the small hand with even a tooth, then sat down again.

“Thank you,” Nate said. Sheamus sloshed his cocoa and Nate handed him a napkin.

“Maybe I could be an artist, too.” Sheamus twisted his sandwich cookie apart and scraped cream off the bottom half with his teeth.

“Maybe you could. I have paper in my office. We’ll get you some.”

“Artists use special paper.”

“Right. Maybe Dylan will give you a sheet.”

Sheamus gave Nate a look that told him he knew better than that.

“My mom would buy me something to make me feel better,” he said, trying another tack. “Maybe some different kind of art stuff.”

Nate pushed his cup aside, crossed his arms on the table and leaned closer. “No, she wouldn’t. She never let you whine, remember? And she didn’t like it when one of you had to have something just because the other one did.”

Sheamus’s eyes filled with tears suddenly. Nate could see this was no artful manipulation, but real emotion. “I don’t like to remember,” he said, a quiver in his lips.

Nate reached for his arm and drew him onto his lap. “I know. Sometimes I don’t, either. But if you don’t ever think about them, then you can’t remember the really nice things.”

Arnold whined in concern and came to sit beside them.

Sheamus leaned into Nate and kicked out with a grubby tennis shoe. “When I think, all I think is that they’re not here.”

“Yeah.” He couldn’t deny the truth of that. “I really miss them, too. When your dad and I were little, we were a lot like you and Dylan. We did a lot of things together and we fought a lot, but when we got older, I realized how smart he was. We stopped fighting so much and started helping each other. Someday, you and Dylan will be like that.”

“I don’t think so.”

“I do. And when your dad met your mom, I would have been jealous because she was so pretty and so special. But she and your dad were so happy, and when you guys were born, it was hard not to be happy with them.”

There was a moment’s silence, then Sheamus asked worriedly, “Do you think they’re still happy?”

“I do. They’re together, so they’re happy.”

The boy thought about that, then sat up in Nate’s lap and rested an elbow on his shoulder. His blue eyes were troubled. “Okay, but you’re not going anywhere for a long time, are you?”

“No, I’m not.” He prayed that fate would support his conviction.

* * *

NATE DROPPED THE boys off at school Monday morning, then detoured a block and a half to the Astoria Coffee House to pick up a triple Americano. By the time he parked in the transit center lot just steps from his office, his cup was almost empty.

It had been an awful morning. Mondays were tense for the boys anyway after two days of not having to conform to a schedule. But today was Halloween and Sheamus was so excited he was practically airborne—without benefit of a spiderweb. Nate hated to think what the added sugar after trick-or-treating would do to him.

Dylan pretended to be taking the day in stride, but Sheamus was driving him into a foul mood more easily than usual. The ride to school had been loud and contentious. Trying to focus on the road, Nate had heard Sheamus accuse, “You’re on my side of the seat!”

Dylan rebutted with typical hostility. “How can I be on your side? You’re in a stupid little-kid seat!”

Nate looked in the rearview mirror just in time to see Sheamus fling a hand at Dylan. His brother caught it and squeezed. Sheamus’s screech felt as though it drove a spike through Nate’s ears.

He’d pulled up to the school and turned to frown at both of them. Sheamus was crying and rubbing his hand, and Dylan’s expression could have drawn blood.

“I’d love to make this trip once,” he said, suppressing the bellow in his throat through sheer force of will, “without the two of you screaming at each other before we even get here.”

“He broke my hand!” Sheamus wept.

“You hit him first.” Nate came around the car to help Sheamus out of his seat. “When you react by hitting, you have to expect the other person to hit back.” He leaned over the little boy and gently manipulated his hand. It felt intact, though there was a slight bruising on the back. “Can you close it tight?”

Sheamus made a fist and didn’t even wince.

“I think it’s fine. Now, don’t hit anybody else, okay?”

Sheamus looked abused and misunderstood. “I don’t ever hit anybody. I just hit him ’cause I hate him!”

“I hate you more!” Dylan replied venomously.

“You don’t hate each other,” Nate insisted, pained over the thought that they really might. “You get angry because life is hard, and you take it out on each other.”

They looked at him as though he were a Klingon come to life. It occurred to him to be grateful that at least they agreed on that.

“No,” Dylan insisted seriously. “We really hate each other.”

Nate gave Sheamus a gentle shove toward the school yard, where kids ran and shouted and waited for the bell to ring. “Remember that tonight you’re Spider-Man and everyone’s going to give you candy.”

“We have to go to Bobbie’s,” Sheamus said over his shoulder. He’d stopped crying, and excitement now battled the misery in his eyes.

“Right. First thing.” Nate caught Dylan by the shoulder and stopped him from following Sheamus.

They boy squirmed, trying to escape. “I’m going to be late!”

“You’ve got four minutes.” Nate held on to him. “Look, Dyl. You have to stop being so mean to Sheamus.”

“But he...”

“I know. He swung at you first because he’s even more scared than you are, and you’re always awful to him. I know he can be exasperating for you, but try to have patience. Try to help him out a little.”

“He’s a dork.”

“He’s seven.”

“I’m not scared. I’m just...”

When Dylan hesitated, Nate offered carefully, “Lonesome?”

Dylan looked into his eyes and for just an instant the vulnerability he struggled so hard to hide was visible. He opened his mouth to speak. Nate waited, hoping. Then the bell rang and the moment was gone.

“Now I have to go,” Dylan said.

Nate dropped his hand and straightened. “Right. Try to have a good day. Think candy.”

Dylan seemed to consider whether or not to be amused by that blatant example of bad adult advice, but decided against it. He simply turned and ran for the door, his Iron Man pack slapping against his back.

Nate returned to the present as Hunter pulled open the office door for him. His friend took one look at him and the empty coffee cup and made a face. “Rug rats getting to you, huh? I want to sympathize, man, but the Astoria Food Bank Fund-raiser Committee is in the conference room and they’ve been waiting for you for a good fifteen minutes.”

Nate said something he’d never let the boys hear. “Forgot they were meeting here today. We have to get doughnuts.” Not only had he taken over Ben’s place in the Astoria office of Raleigh and Raleigh, but he’d found himself taking over his brother’s place as a community volunteer. He could deal with never having a free moment, but with charity work he faced a learning curve, since most of his previous activities—both professional and social—had been focused on self-interests. Still, the people involved in this particular fund-raiser were hardworking and appreciated the use of the office conference room. And they probably accounted for all he had in the way of a social life these days.

“Jonni went to Danish Maid Bakery, and Karen is making coffee and hot water for tea and cocoa. I told your committee that you had to stop first at a client’s.” He pointed to the cup Nate still clutched. “The Coffee House is a client. I didn’t say you were doing business, just that you had to stop there.”

Hunter was several inches shorter than Nate, but had a build more appropriate to a quarterback than an accountant. He had the dark blond hair and blue eyes of his mother’s Scandinavian ancestry. Ben had trusted him completely, and now Nate did, too. Hunter had saved his hide more than once in front of clients. He never missed a detail and seemed to have memorized the tax code, complete with current changes.

Nate felt fractional relief. “You should have been a lawyer rather than an accountant.”

His colleague laughed lightly. “They don’t have a tax season. Who’d want to miss that? Here’s Jonni.”

An attractive woman in her mid-fifties wearing a dark skirt and matching jacket ran from a silver compact at the curb to the office door. Nate held it open for her. She was the workplace counterpart of Stella, without whom nothing would function smoothly. She had bright blue eyes, silky blond hair and an easy, efficient manner that had saved him more than once.

She handed him the bakery box and a tub of cocoa mix with one hand, and took his briefcase with the other. “Go,” she said. “Karen and I’ll bring in the coffee and water. Your committee notes are on your chair at the conference table.”

“You’re a treasure,” he told her.

“Yeah, yeah.” She disappeared down the hall toward the kitchen as Nate carried the appeasing doughnuts into the conference room.

The previous renter, a law firm, had had a nautical bent, and the walls of the room were decorated with ship’s wheels, navigation charts and paintings of ships. The pictures made him think of Bobbie and the bright artwork on her walls. These pieces seemed suddenly pale and staid in comparison.

The five people around the table greeted him with pointed verbal abuse.

“Just because you’ve recently adopted two children, don’t think you can keep us waiting.” Sandy Evans, who worked for his attorney and was in charge of developing concepts for the fund-raiser, harassed everyone with equal fervor. “I mean, one of them is ten years old. I have two under five and I was here on time. And I don’t have the luxury of meeting in my office.”

“Go easy on him.” Jerry Gold was the shop teacher at the high school. He was very tall and reedy and wore a University of Oregon jersey over jeans. His wife had given birth to their first baby in August. “He probably got to sleep in and had trouble getting moving. I mean, I haven’t slept in weeks, so it was easy for me to be on time.”

“And I came from across the river.” Clarissa Burke had a fashion boutique in Long Beach, Washington, and one in Astoria. She was a white-haired woman who was the epitome of grace and style—even after her husband left her for one of her young sales associates. “And you’ll see that I—”

Nate put the doughnuts in the middle of the table. “I know. You probably braved pirates to get here in a leaking kayak you had to drag across the river the last mile with a length of rope in your teeth. Right?”

She cocked an eyebrow. “It was a length of leather,” she corrected, “and I was still here on time.”

“And remarkably dry.” Mike Wallis owned the building and The Cellar, a wine shop in the basement, under Nate’s office. He was small in stature but big in ideas.

“I’m just saying,” Clarissa added pointedly, “that punctuality is important in small-town service. There are less of us to do more work, so it’s a good thing if we don’t hold each other up. Your brother understood that.”

Even Sandy groaned at the comment. “Clarie, he’s a bachelor with two little boys and no parenthood experience. Cut him some slack.”

Nate gave Sandy a grateful smile. He wanted to shout at Clarissa that he’d had one hell of a morning, and that while he wished more than anything that Ben were still here, he hated the comparisons to him because he’d always felt that he’d never measured up to his older brother. It was Ben who’d made the skills Nate did have work for the business.

Instead, remembering what he told the boys to do when they’d been misjudged or misunderstood, he fought for patience. He nodded politely to the older woman. “You’re absolutely right. I won’t be late again.”

At that moment, Jonni and Karen carried in thermal pots of coffee and hot water, a stack of white, diner-style plates and cups, and paper napkins.

“Perfect.” Nate smiled his thanks.

The two disappeared quickly, closing the door behind them.

After doughnuts were selected and beverages poured, Clarissa, the committee’s chairwoman, started the meeting. For all the group’s frivolity, the items on the agenda were efficiently worked through one by one. By ten o’clock they’d decided to do several small projects throughout the fall to accommodate all the groups who wanted to help, culminating with one formal event with a Christmas in Old Astoria theme.

“How formal?” Jerry asked worriedly.

Sandy made a broad gesture, apparently seeing the picture in her head. “You know, something really classy. Something upstairs in the Banker’s Suite.”

“So, dinner and dancing?” Clarissa asked.

The Banker’s Suite occupied the second floor of a former bank built in the Greek Revival style. The upstairs had been remodeled in grand fashion for weddings and other special events.

“Yes, but maybe with a raffle—some special items that’ll really get attention. What do you think?”

A skeptical look went around the table. Clarissa shook her head. “Those twenty-dollar raffles are a thing of the past these days.”

“I know. Bad economy. But what if the tickets were five dollars instead of twenty? People who can afford them will buy several, and people who can’t will buy just one.”

“What special items do you have in mind?” Jerry asked. “I can probably get tickets to the Mariners.” He waggled his eyebrows. “My father-in-law has connections, and he’s crazy about his new grandson. Thinks I’m quite brilliant.”

Sandy rolled her eyes. “Lydia carried this baby for nine months, gave birth after what was probably a grueling labor if the baby takes after you sizewise, and you’re taking credit for him?”

Jerry grinned unabashedly. “I am.”

Clarissa joined him. “You do have to admit that season tickets are a brilliant idea. And that is one beautiful baby. I’ll contribute several items in a winter wardrobe. And my daughter is a jewelry designer in Palm Springs. I’m sure she’ll send us something.”

Sandy applauded. “Okay. You guys are on fire! Except for you, Jerry. You’re just kind of full of smoke. Nate, what can you get us?”

“A couple of free tax returns? I won’t even stipulate that they have to be simple.”

“Wonderful. We all know what getting taxes done costs these days.” She turned to Mike. “Can we count on you for a couple of gourmet baskets and wine?”

“Of course.”

“Great. So what have we left undone?”

Clarissa looked over her notes. “Not much. We’re agreed that we’ll have a series of small events so that all the groups that want to help us can. The high school kids are having a car wash and bake sale. The grade school kids are selling candy. The Astoria Coffee House and the Urban Café are contributing half the proceeds from a particular weekend to the cause. And the Downtown Association has agreed to devote a Saturday from noon to five where a portion of each business’s sales come to us for the food bank. What else? What’s Kiwanis doing, Nate?”

“Our plan is to lend support to whatever the committee wants. And we’re working on the raffle, too. Hunter is trying to get a really big prize to make everyone buy a ticket. Maybe a European trip, with airfare and hotel accommodations.” He went to the door and shouted for Hunter.

His colleague walked into the conference room. “Yes?”

“Can you give us an update on the status of the trip for the raffle?” Nate asked.

Hunter stood near the table, seemingly reluctant to share the news. “It’s not good, I’m afraid,” he reported. “It’s hard for travel agents to comp that kind of thing for us at this point in time. I’ve got a few local hotels and restaurants, but no one can do anything really big.”

Everyone around the table seemed to understand that.

“Does it have to be a trip?” Sandy asked into the quiet.

Nate noticed her eyes roving Hunter’s shoulders as she posed the question, then down the sturdy length of him as he replied.

“I guess not. What else would draw interest?”

“I know an artist,” Sandy said, with enough excitement to get everyone’s attention. “And she’s brilliant. In fact, I’ll bet we can get a painting out of her for the raffle. Something to support the Christmas in Old Astoria theme.”

“Who is it?” Jerry asked.

“Bobbie Molloy. She’s living here while she’s fulfilling a commission for my office.”

Nate looked at Sandy in amazement. “That’s who’s living in your aunt’s old house? She’s my new neighbor.... I didn’t know you knew her.”

“She’s kind of a private person. And she moved here to have time alone to work.”

“Then are you sure she’d want to help us?”

Sandy smiled sweetly. “I’ll talk her into it.”

“Didn’t you already talk her into teaching an art class at Astor?”

Sandy appeared surprised that he knew that. “Yes, I did. Why?”

Nate wasn’t sure why he felt protective of Bobbie Molloy. She insisted that she was doing well, but he remembered vividly how small she seemed, how pale. He wondered if Sandy knew she’d been ill. “Well, she seems a little...fragile.”

Sandy met his eyes and he was suddenly sure she knew everything about Bobbie, and maybe resented his interference. “If we don’t give her something to do, she’s going to spend every waking hour in that studio until she leaves for Italy in January. Her father called me recently to see how she was doing, and I promised him I’d help her get out and meet people.” Sandy looked around the table at the expressions on the committee members’ faces. Her colleagues obviously thought she presumed too much. “What? She was my roommate at Portland State, before she went to the Pacific Northwest College of Art. I care about her.”

“Well, if you ask her for a painting, won’t she still be spending every waking hour in her studio?” Nate asked.

Sandy considered that, then said finally, “As a member of the committee, and her neighbor, you can help her gather whatever she needs, check on her progress, support the work in whatever way you can. Why? Do you object to my asking her?”

He thought a moment. Bobbie Molloy seemed perfectly capable of taking care of herself. “No,” he said finally. “Go ahead.”

“I do like the painting idea,” Clarissa said as she closed her notebook and stood. “Okay. Back here next Monday morning same time?” She gave Nate a slightly apologetic smile. “You can be late as long as you arrive with doughnuts again. We’ll all try to get whatever donations we can for the raffle at the Christmas dinner dance, right?”