Patterns in the Sand (6 page)

 

 

“You didn’t ask her why she was there?”

 

 

“No. And I got the feeling it would be better if I didn’t. I figured she had as much right to be there as anyone else. Ellen Marks walked by and stopped to thank me for some lobsters I dropped off for her and Rebecca, so I introduced them. Willow perked up when Ellen invited her to stop by the Lampworks Gallery and see Rebecca’s new glass bead collection. She told Ellen about her own fiber art, and Ellen grooved on it, asked lots of questions. Willow seemed to come alive when she talked about her art, just like Jane and Ham and Aidan do when they talk about theirs.”

 

 

“And then what happened?”

 

 

“Well, that was curious. While they were talking, I ran over to the tea shop to get a couple cold drinks—I was sweating up a storm. I told Willow I’d be right back with one for her. But when I came back out, she was gone.” Cass snapped her fingers. “Just like that. Disappeared into thin air. I spotted Ellen through the window of Lampworks, talking to a customer, so I knew she wasn’t there. She had simply disappeared. ”

 

 

“Strange,” Birdie said.

 

 

“She seemed comfortable talking to Ellen, but even with her sunglasses on, I could tell she was checking things out while they talked, looking at people walking by, checking traffic in and out of the galleries—Aidan’s and others down the road.”

 

 

“As if she were looking for someone?” Birdie wondered.

 

 

“Could be. As I walked back to my truck, I thought I caught a glimpse of her yellow T-shirt walking back up that alley next to Aidan’s. But I had more lobsters to deliver, so I moved on—I had promised Joe the hot dog guy I’d bring him some before the market closed—the thought of the Chicago hot dog king craving lobsters was just goofy enough for me to promise him a couple.”

 

 

“Catherine, you have a heart of gold,” Birdie said.

 

 

“Don’t tell anyone. It’ll be our secret.”

 

 

A vibration in the pocket of Nell’s slacks pulled her attention away, and she pulled the cell phone from her pocket. She stepped away, leaving Cass and Birdie admiring a pile of melons, and snapped the phone open, frowning at the unfamiliar number.

 

 

It wasn’t what Nell had supposed. Not Polly’s Salon reminding her of a hair appointment next week, or Nancy Hughes with a question about the historical society’s last board meeting, or Ben calling from a friend’s sailboat just to check in.

 

 

It was Willow, her voice so soft Nell could barely hear what she was saying. She was crying.

 

 

At first, Nell wondered how Willow got her cell phone number. Perhaps Izzy had passed both their numbers along, wanting to be sure Willow had someone to call if she needed anything. And then she remembered the little card she kept near the guesthouse phone. Her number was on it—a way for guests to reach her if they had a question, needed an extra blanket, or just wanted to know if the coffee was on yet. Just like the finest B and B, Ben had teased her. She was glad Willow had seen it. And used it.

 

 

“Nell,” Willow began, “I didn’t steal your bike.”

 

 

“No, of course you didn’t.”

 

 

“I shouldn’t have just taken it without asking.”

 

 

“It’s fine, Willow.”

 

 

The silence that followed was so long that Nell thought Willow had hung up.

 

 

And then she heard her blow her nose.

 

 

“It’s been a long day, is all,” she said softly. Then added. “I’ll be leaving in a couple days, but . . .”

 

 

“Of course. The guesthouse is all yours.”

 

 

She heard Willow breath again, sucking in air, as if steadying herself.

 

 

“For just a few more days?”

 

 

“Of course. And the bicycle, too.”

 

 

“Thank you.”

 

 

The last two works were so soft that Nell wasn’t sure what she’d heard.

 

 

And then the line went dead.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 5

 

“ I
t was odd, Ben. I’d swear she’d been crying. And the abrupt way she hung up was almost to cut me off so I wouldn’t ask any more questions.”

 

 

After receiving Willow’s call, Nell was hopeful that when she got home, she’d find Willow on the deck with Ben, drinking a cold beer and filling him in on her life, her home, her art.
Or who she was
, Nell thought.

 

 

A name. An artist. That was absolutely all they knew so far of this enigmatic wisp who had fallen into their lives.

 

 

But there was no bike in the drive or on the guesthouse porch, and a knock on the door went unanswered.

 

 

“Maybe it’s not so strange.” Ben sipped a small glass of brandy and slipped his other arm around Nell’s shoulder. They sat together on the deck, the black sky above and their feet lifted onto the stool Ben had pulled over. “The fact that she found her way to Canary Cove, for example—that makes sense to me. Artists find one another. And I’m sure she was intrigued with the colony, more intrigued than she’d be sticking around here to have breakfast with two people twice her age whom she doesn’t know from Adam.”

 

 

Nell leaned back into the curve of Ben’s arm and looked up at the sky. A late-night breeze was gently sweeping away the heat of the day, and in the distance, just beyond the thick wooded area that ran down to the edge of the Endicott land, the sound of the waves against the shore soothed the day’s jumble of events.

 

 

“And she broke into Izzy’s shop and fell asleep in the window because—”

 

 

“Because she was tired. Which is exactly what I am, love.” Ben rolled his head sideways on the back of the double chaise and kissed Nell on the forehead, then pulled himself from the chair. He looked down at Nell. “Are you coming?”

 

 

“In a minute. I’ll get the lights.”

 

 

Nell watched Ben walk back into the house.

 

 

Nightly rituals.
And with them came a rush of comfort that Nell couldn’t begin to explain. She pushed herself up from the chair and walked over to the edge of the deck, the wind flapping her loose cotton blouse around her body. She looked down again at the guest cottage nestled at the edge of the woods.

 

 

Where could Willow have gone tonight? Maybe she’d finally connected with Izzy to plan the presentation she’d offered to give. Or maybe they were looking over Willow’s pieces of art, which Nell herself was anxious to see.

 

 

But as Nell’s gaze strayed across the deep yard, a cloud shifted overhead and a sliver of moonlight highlighted the cottage. Then Nell heard the sound. An animal? There were reports of coyotes on Cape Ann—Ben had seen one following their neighbor down the street last winter. She listened carefully. The sound carried on the breeze—a soft howling sound.

 

 

Nell walked down the deck steps and toward the flagstone path leading to the back of the yard. A sliver of fear shot through her. She wondered if Ben had heard the sound through the open upstairs windows.

 

 

But as she walked farther down toward the guesthouse, she spotted a slight figure, dressed in a familiar yellow T-shirt and jeans and hunched down on the floor of the narrow porch. Her knees were bent, and she hugged them tightly to her chest—and from beneath the thick tangle of hair that fell across her arms and legs came a mournful, muffled keening of grief.

 

 

Willow seemed to feel Nell’s presence before Nell said a word. She lifted her head slowly and looked up at Nell, tears running down her cheeks and her hair tangled and unbrushed.

 

 

“Willow, can I help?”

 

 

But before Nell had a chance to act on instinct and gather the young woman up in her arms, Willow uncurled herself, wiped the tears away with the back of her hand, and stood up.

 

 

“It’s silly to cry, isn’t it? I don’t do it often. I’m through crying, Nell. I’ve cried so much.”

 

 

Willow forced a smile to her face. And with a slight gesture toward Nell, a touch to her arm, and a nod, she turned and walked through the door of the guest cottage, disappearing into the darkness within.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 6

 

Later, Nell would remember that it was an unusual night, that Sunday. The crowds were the same—a jolly mix of summer folks, Sea Harbor residents, and others from the Cape who drove in or motored their boats over to Sea Harbor because they enjoyed the festive atmosphere that Art at Night created.

 

 

There was music, as usual, from the deck of the Artist’s Palate, as Pete Halloran’s band filled the air with old Beatles music. “When I’m Sixty-four” and “Come Together” rolled down the winding street like a red carpet, welcoming people and fashioning the evening’s mood.

 

 

But the air was sultry, with little breeze. Only a few stars dotted the sky, and a strange current—“anxious” was the word that stayed with Nell—ran beneath the light banter of friends and neighbors or the more serious discussions that the gallery owners and artists engaged in with customers.

 

 

But that was only in memory, only after the evening had played its course. A memory colored by what happened that Sunday night. And how valid such memory was, Nell had no way of being sure.

 

 

 

 

 

Join us tonight,
Nell’s note to Willow had read. She taped it to the door of the guest cottage early Sunday, not wanting to disturb Willow if she were sleeping.
I think you’ll love the art, the people, and the night air
.
It’s a good time.

 

 

To her surprise, Willow stopped by the house on her way to Izzy’s knitting shop a few hours later, and they settled on a time. Willow’s face was scrubbed, and she wore a clean white T-shirt and denim shorts. A thick braid down the center of her back took more years off her face, and if Nell didn’t know better, she’d wonder if she should carpool Willow to soccer practice or the swim team.

 

 

The familiar Birkenstocks looked a little too big for her narrow feet, Nell thought, as Willow took the cup of coffee Ben offered her and slid up on a kitchen island stool, her feet pigeon-toed on the rung. Her mood was pleasant, if not upbeat—and she never mentioned the night before, when Nell had found her huddled beneath the stars, her young body seeped in sadness.

 

 

Nell didn’t mention it either, relieved that what had bothered the young woman seemed to have lessened. Homesickness, perhaps? Or a relationship problem. They knew next to nothing about Willow, after all, and, admittedly, she’d lived nearly two dozen years before stepping into their lives so recently.

 

 

“You two are great,” Willow said. “Thanks for letting me stay here. As great as Izzy’s window was with all that scrumptious yarn, your big high bed in the cottage can’t be beat. I fell asleep before I hit the pillow.”

 

 

She looked over Nell’s shoulder at a contemporary print of a brilliant red sailboat flat against an azure ocean and pointed at it. “That’s a nice print. And your guest cottage has such great art, too.”

 

 

“Most of what we have is from artists right here on the Cape,” Ben said.

 

 

“So do you all know one another?” Willow tugged on a strand of hair that had escaped her braid and shifted her gaze to an abstract sunset, a canvas washed with pinks and greens and yellows hung near a bookcase in the sitting area.

 

 

“Most of us do. Our Cape is small. And Canary Cove is an intimate place.”

 

 

“I met Cass this afternoon. Everyone seems to know everyone.”

 

 

“It’s usually a good thing,” Nell said with a smile.

 

 

Willow’s smile slipped from her face, and she seemed to give Nell’s comment undo attention. Finally, she pushed away whatever thought had furrowed her brow. She stood and picked up her bag.

 

 

“You’re right. I lived in a small town, too. And it’s mostly good.” And then the smile came back, but slightly guarded this time.

 

 

“So tonight,” she said, heading for the door. “I’ll be here at eight. You can count on me.”

 

 

 

 

 

True to her word, Willow showed up on time, her hair washed and brushed and restrained again by a thick dark braid that trailed down the center of her back.

 

 

The three parked on a side street, and made their way together along an already crowded Canary Road. Even in the unusual heat of the night, Willow seemed bright and interested, her eyes taking in the sights around her.

 

 

Nell imagined Willow growing up in a small town, and wondered how she had fared in that environment. She was like a flower child, a free spirit. Had she fit in—or had she grown up waiting to leave?

 

 

They passed by Ellen and Rebecca Marks’ Lampworks gallery, crowded as always with people admiring Rebecca’s glass. Through the window, her platinum head moved in slow motion as she greeted customers graciously and explained the art of handblown glass. When talking about her art, Rebecca was charming.

 

 

Down the street, the small tea shop had a line of people winding out onto the street as they waited for a cold glass of tea or soft drink.

 

 

The road was blocked off for the evening and the threesome wove their way through pockets of people spanning the area between the shops on either side. The door to Ham and Jane’s gallery was held open by a large brass frog, its head shiny from the many hands that had rubbed it smooth for good luck. Nell reached down and touched it out of habit, then spotted Jane standing inside, talking to customers.