Art's Blood (34 page)

Willow buried her face in her hands. Her muffled voice quavered as she spoke. “I made a solemn promise never to tell. I can’t tell— if I did, the money would stop and…there might be other…consequences.”

Aidan ignored his mother and went on. “At one point— I think I was about eight years old— I decided that our benefactor must be my unknown father. My father— that was another thing she’d never talk about. Once, when one of those mysterious calls was going on, I got on the other phone and yelled, ‘Dad? Dad? It’s Aidan. I want to see you.’ ”

He looked at his mother, who turned her head away and bit her lips. “How pathetic is that?” he asked bitterly. “Mr. Benefactor evidently didn’t like the sound of my voice, because right after that call we were on our way to India for a nice long stay in Sri Bananaforashura’s little work camp—”

“Aidan! Those were precious years! Sri Namanandapura is a very holy man. Your spirituality soared during that time.” Willow looked indignant but Aidan continued.

“Right. About then is when I decided that the person on the telephone wasn’t my father
…or
Santa Claus. No, I went back to my original theory— it’s God and God has a really warped sense of humor. And I’ve gotten over wanting to see him.”

He stood and stretched with a conscious grace.
Like a golden tomcat. He has Willow’s hazel eyes too— or are they green?
Elizabeth watched him, wishing she could offer some comfort.
Such a handsome boy and so angry. Probably with good cause.
Once again she noticed the extensive scarring on his left arm.

“Mum, I’m going to go over to Ben’s cabin and hang with the guys for a while. Ben has some new CDs I want to hear.”

Laurel and Ben came out of the kitchen carrying mugs of coffee. They scooped up the scowling Aidan and made for the back door.

“Sleep well, Aidan. Tomorrow may bring great changes,” Willow called out as her son disappeared through the door. Then she turned to Elizabeth.

“It is a terrible situation indeed, but I have to believe that Spirit is working in all things. For instance, when Aidan was incarcerated, he tells me that he was treated very kindly and was not put in with the other prisoners. He does not know it but I am sure that it was the work of the one he calls our benefactor.”

“And you can’t tell him who the…benefactor is?”

“I am absolutely forbidden to; I shouldn’t be talking about this matter at all.”

“Because the money might stop?”

“Because I don’t want to lose my son.”

Willow had refused to be drawn into further conversation, begging only to be shown where she would stay. “I choose to spend this time before sleep in meditation and affirmation— I will undo the negative forces that Aidan has awakened.”

Elizabeth took her to the guest room and made sure that she had everything she needed. The heavy
thump-thump
of Ben’s CD player wafted through the window.

“I’ll holler over to him to turn that down—” Elizabeth began, but Willow put up a restraining hand.

“When one truly meditates, the senses are turned inward. I will simply choose not to hear those sounds.”

“Okay, if you’re sure…” Elizabeth started to close the door behind her, then paused. “Willow, what happened to Aidan’s arm?”

Willow, who was unpacking the contents of her little duffel bag, looked up warily. “Why do you ask?”

Good question. Very rude behavior on the part of a hostess. But…
“I don’t know…it just looked as if it must have been a really severe burn…. I wondered if it had had some adverse effect on your son…. He seems so unhappy.”

“That mood will pass. As for the injury…it occurred when he was an infant and he has no memories at all of the circumstances. Nor do I wish to arouse them. The burns have healed, he has the use of his arm, and of course Spirit is protecting us both.”

Willow came to the door where Elizabeth was lingering and took hold of the knob. “Blessings on you and on this green sanctuary, Elizabeth.” The door began to close, gently but firmly. “Good night.”

There was a click as the lock engaged.

Elizabeth was in bed and half asleep when the phone rang. She fumbled for the receiver. Phillip’s familiar gravelly voice filled her ear and she smiled and stretched out on her pillows.

“Thanks for calling.” She told him about her houseguests and tried to give him the gist of Aidan’s impassioned rant about the mysterious benefactor.

“And all that Willow will say is that Spirit is protecting them. But there’s something really strange about all of this.”

“I’ll say. I just finished talking to Hank. We met after my class for a beer and he says that the whole case against Aidan is very likely going to be thrown out. Talked about some heavy pressure being brought to bear and someone caving. But that was all he knew— or all he would say. About Aidan, anyway. Oh, Hank was full of interesting scuttlebutt— the old man at the junkyard’s been picked up—”

“Travis? He’s hardly an old man.”

“Not Travis— his daddy. I’ll tell you all about it later.”

“Why don’t you come out tomorrow and stay for dinner? I imagine that Willow and Aidan will be here.”

“Elizabeth, I don’t need any extra incentive to come see you.” His warm chuckle was surprisingly intimate in her ear. She lay there in the dark room, enjoying the comforting rumble of Phillip’s voice and remembering how her girls had sometimes fallen asleep during marathon phone conversations with the boyfriend of the moment. And how she and Sam would enjoy sleepy, end-of-day talks, snuggled comfortably against each other.

“Phillip, I—”

The telephone began to crackle and beep. “Elizabeth, I think my battery’s giving out. Dammit all…I’ll call you tomorrow. Sweet dreams.”

There was a final series of beeps and then nothing. She lay there holding the silent telephone.
Sweet dreams.

T
HE FLORIST HAD CALLED EARLY THAT MORNING.
A rush order— twelve fresh herbal wreaths for a wedding at six P.M. Could Elizabeth possibly…the price would be doubled. And deliver them to the church by two? In south Asheville? Wonderful! You’re a lifesaver. Just whatever fresh herbs will hold up in a wreath; we’ll add ribbons when they get here.

Baskets of freshly cut herbs marched across the back of the worktable, heaped high with the aromatic harvest. There were branches of sage— the ordinary gray-green, the rich purple-leafed, and a judicious helping of the variegated, mottled with cream, purple, and green. Silvery lavender stems and bristly deep green rosemary lay in piles. The sage branches bore thick purple blooms, and tiny blue flowers sprinkled the tips of the gently curving rosemary.
Too bad there aren’t any lavender spikes, but we harvested all of them earlier. That’s okay, these wreaths are going to be really nice anyway.

The smell of the herbs was intoxicating: the sage, with its powerful, somewhat leathery aroma, seemed to strike a dominant masculine note, tamed and complemented by the sweeter, soothing lavender and the teasing, astringent rosemary.
My god, I could be describing The 3,
Elizabeth thought as she looked at the herbs she had chosen.
The sage would be Boz, of course— a little goes a long way. The lavender for Kyra and the rosemary for Aidan— there’s more to him than I had realized. Rosemary for remembrance— he has too many bitter memories. But so does Kyra.

She was staring at her baskets of herbs when she heard voices outside the workshop.

“Hi, Mum, need some help?” Laurel and Aidan came into the shop. Aidan’s eyes were busy, missing nothing. He seemed more relaxed than he had the night before and gave her a little smile.

“Put me to work. Laurel’s been showing me the farm.”

“Thanks, you two. I need to do these wreaths myself. But I’ll think of something. Laurel, I’ll be taking these into town right after lunch— it’s a rush order. On my way home I’ll drop the quilts I’ve collected so far for the show at the library. They’ve got more room to store them than I do. And…oh yes, Phillip’s coming out late this afternoon and staying for supper. What’s Willow up to? I think she was still asleep when I left the house.”

“She’s down on the deck doing her yoga.” Laurel grinned. “The dogs love it. Molly and Ursa are watching and James keeps trying to lick her face. But really, Mum, we’d like to be useful. Ben’s off being manly on the tractor— what can we do?”

Elizabeth thought. “The blueberry bushes need more mulch— if you want to do that it would be a big help. There’re some buckets and gloves in the shed and you could use the little truck.”

She watched them go, and was suddenly struck with the realization that Laurel seemed…what…particularly
interested
in Aidan.
Get off it, Elizabeth. These interests come and go.
She laid out her wreath forms and began to assemble the tools she needed: wire, pruning shears, hemostat…the hemostat was missing.

A handy though not indispensable tool, the hemostat had serrated jaws that could lock around a cluster of stems, holding them in place and freeing both of her hands for the tedious task of unobtrusively wiring the clusters to the grapevine bases. She pawed through her supply shelf but the hemostat was nowhere to be seen.

“Dammit, Ben…if you could get in the habit of putting things back…” A glance at the clock on the wall reminded her that she had a deadline to meet. With a final inward snarl at her absent nephew, she abandoned her search and reached for a handful of sage.

The florist met her at the church, lengths of lavender-blue ribbon trailing around her neck.

“You’re a saint, Elizabeth. Can you believe it? At the very last minute Mama decided that we just had to have wreaths. She saw a picture in the latest issue of
Martha Stewart
and it sounded like we might as well call off the whole wedding if we couldn’t have fresh herbal wreaths. Jesus! Clients can be such a pain in the butt and the mother of the bride is always the worst! But I made her pay through the nose. Send me your bill and double— no, by God,
triple
it. That woman has gotten on my one last nerve! Kiss-kiss!”

The harried woman and her even more harried assistant carried the boxed wreaths up the church steps and disappeared inside. Elizabeth turned back to the van.
That was profitable— now, is there anything I need to do as long as I’m in town?

No, she’d done her errands and grocery shopping the day before, after painting class. But she
could
reward herself with a trip to the bookstore. Humming cheerfully, Elizabeth started the van and began to pull out of the church parking lot. Just across the street a discreet sign caught her eye:
The Golden Years: Assisted Living Facility—2.2 miles.
The arrow pointed to the right.

She hesitated. On the seat beside her was the bundle of quilts for the library. The animal quilt— the Fanchon quilt— was on top, carefully wrapped in an old cotton sheet.

What the hell— it must be a sign,
she decided and turned right.

The Golden Years facility looked more like a so-called stately mansion than a nursing home. It lay in parklike surroundings: huge old trees, well-tended flower beds, and carefully mown grass. A network of wide, winding paths, smoothly paved to accommodate wheelchairs and slow-moving seniors with walkers, snaked through the grounds. Attendants in cheerful pastel uniforms accompanied the aged men and women who rolled or tottered along the paths.

It was a beautiful scene, far removed from the institutional horrors that many elderly were forced to endure. No doubt the facility was luxurious on a scale that the young Fanchon in the poverty-stricken Appalachia of the thirties could hardly have imagined. But Elizabeth, assailed by a feeling of deep melancholy, wondered if the Fanchon of today ever looked beyond these manicured grounds and brilliant, orderly flower beds. Did she lift her eyes to the mountains rising dark in the distance and lament the past?

Elizabeth entered the spacious front hall, the Fanchon quilt bundled under her arm. Gleaming parquet floors, tastefully upholstered chairs and sofas, fine mahogany tables adorned with elaborate arrangements of silk flowers: all whispered that this was a facility for those of discriminating tastes— and deep pockets.

The coolly elegant woman at the information desk looked puzzled. “Teague? I’m afraid there’s a mistake. There is no Teague among our residents.” She opened a register and ran a lacquered fingernail down the page. “I’m so sorry; perhaps—”

“My fault. That was her maiden name.” Elizabeth struggled to remember. “No, I don’t know her married name. But I believe that she shares a room with a Tildy Rector. And her first name is Fanchon.”

The woman’s haughty expression immediately rearranged itself to a charming smile. “Oh,
Fanchon,
of course! I should have known— she’s the one they all come to see.” She pressed a button on her desk. “If you’ll just sign in, I’ll have an attendant take you to their suite.”

As she was escorted down the immaculate hallways, Elizabeth learned that Fanchon was something of a favorite at Golden Years. “Oh my, yes, Fanchon’s been with us— well, it’s over ten years since she and her sister came to live here.”

The attendant was chatty and knowledgeable. “They were both in their midseventies back then and I’m sure Fanchon wasn’t in need of our services. But Tildy required expert care and since Fanchon’s husband was dead, she decided to come here too. She said Tildy just wouldn’t be happy away from her. They have a lovely suite— our very nicest.” The cheerful middle-aged woman lowered her voice. “You wouldn’t
believe
what the monthly rate is. Are you one of those folklore people from the university?”

Elizabeth quickly explained about the quilt and the library exhibit. “I’d like to get some more information on the quilt, and maybe I could get a picture of Fanchon as well.”