The Jewelry Case (9 page)

She raised her eyebrows. Who could have told him so quickly? Ray again? Bruce Harris's young receptionist?

"The guy’s competent enough, I guess. It's just
….
" He broke off, shrugging, causing an interesting ripple of muscles under his tight-fitting black shirt. "None of my business. Forget I brought it up. Would you like a lift home?"

"No, thanks. It's an easy walk." She suspected the invitation was perfunctory. He seemed impatient for her to leave. In the back of her mind, she mulling over his implied criticism of Ian. What did Steve mean by "competent enough, I guess?"

"Are you sure?" Steve insisted. "In your condition...."

At first she thought he was referring to her scratched knee. Belatedly she realized he meant her limp, and her face grew warm again. She was growing tired of being reminded of her infirmity. "No thanks. I'll be fine."

"All right. But if you need a ride some time, let me know. It's not easy getting around without transportation, and after all, we're neighbors."

Paisley tried to remember if she had mentioned that she didn't have a car. For the second time that day, she realized she would have to get used to the small town way of life, where everybody knew everyone else's business, no matter how trivial.

As she turned to start down the steps, he stopped her a final time. "Now that we've met, why don't you come over for dinner some time? It'll give us a chance to know each other a bit better, seeing as we're going to be living next door. I make pretty decent enchiladas. An old Mexican recipe of my grandmother’s." He favored her with a sudden blindingly white smile, and Paisley thought Ray had been right about her neighbor being a lady-killer. For some reason, he had suddenly chosen to turn his charm on her full blast. She wasn’t about to complain.

She hesitated, however. Being alone with a strange man in his house wasn’t something she felt comfortable doing. Compared to many women her age, she was naïve, but she wasn’t as naïve as that.

He sensed this and grinned. “Kevin will be here.”

She felt her face relax into an answering smile. "Okay, then." An hour in the company of a great-looking neighbor? Why not? Perhaps he was a little enigmatic, but then, brooding people were like that. She could almost forgive him for noticing her limp. Almost.

"Enchiladas it is," he said, still smiling. "You'll be busy settling in the next few days, so how about Saturday? In the meantime, if you need anything, give me a call." He produced a business card from his shirt pocket and handed it to her. The design was bold, graphic, well designed: grape leaves weaving the name of his vineyard. It matched the sign by the road. "A woman living alone in the middle of no-where.… You never know what could happen."

"Thanks," she said, slipping the card into her purse, although the paternalistic ring of his words jarred her. For the past five years she had foolishly turned over control of her life and her career to her husband, and look where that had got her! She could manage by herself perfectly well, thank you, and from now on she would.

To prove it, with her free hand, she managed to pull out a slip of paper and awkwardly jotted down her own cell phone number. "Here. Maybe I can help you out sometime as well. You never know."

Steve gravely accepted the slip of paper, and they shook hands like professionals meeting in an office. His fingers were warm and hard, just like when they had brushed her leg.

On the way home, she tried to walk steadily, arms wrapped around the battered bag of groceries, bemused by the fact that she had come looking for peaceful isolation and instead, on her first day, she had received two social invitations: one from the bookshop keeper, Shirley, and one from her Heathcliff-like neighbor, Steve Lopez. Maybe it was just as well, she thought. Keeping busy would keep her from dwelling on uncomfortable questions like how she was going to pay those mounting bills, and—her mind shrank from the thought—whether she would ever sing again.

The doctor had said to rest her voice. But perhaps soon she would try a few simple vocal exercises. Just to
see
....

#

When Paisley arrived back at the little white house under the towering oak tree, she collapsed into the porch swing, too tired to go another step. After resting, she took out her I-phone phone and used the calculator app to add up her assets and debts. The gentle movement of the swing under her was soothing; the results of her calculations were not.

She stared at the numbers, then returned the phone to her purse. What on earth was she doing here, planning to investing what little money she had in renovating a house she didn't intend to keep, when she could live rent-free with friends or relatives until her voice came back?
If
her voice came back. It made no sense.

Just then her purse began playing the Toreador song from
Carmen
, and she fished out the cell phone again. The name on the screen brightened her spirits.

"Nigel!" she squealed into the receiver.

A refined English accent poured into her ear, smooth as oil. "Hullo, Paisley dearest. How's my favorite former student? I was starting to think you were avoiding me. You haven't returned any of my calls."

"I'm sorry. I did get your messages, but...."

"I know, love, I know. You've been laid up in hospital. I've heard the whole, tragic story. Did you get the roses? The entire faculty chipped in, but I picked them out myself. Those dark-red ones are your favorites, aren't they? The scent is absolutely divine."

Suddenly there was a lump in her throat. "Yes, I got the roses. And yes, they were beautiful."

Nigel's voice grew serious. "So sorry about Jonathan. Such a shock to all of us."

She swallowed. "Yes. It's been ... difficult."

“The internet stories said you'd lost that lovely voice of yours. Could the fates be so cruel? Please tell me, darling, is the condition expected to be, ah, permanent?"

She tucked up her feet under her legs, detecting the undernote of concern in Nigel’s tone that matched her own fear. He had good reason to be concerned, for he knew exactly what she faced. Nigel's own career as a celebrated tenor in Europe had been cut short ten years earlier when an operation to remove a node from his throat went awry. He had found his way to the conservatory at Omaha, where he had built up a respected music program, hand-selecting his own students, one of whom was Paisley. She owed him everything: he was the one who had arranged for her try-out at the Met, and he had taken a great interest in her career, even after Jonathan swooped in and carried her away.

"I don't know if the loss of my voice is permanent," she admitted, realizing Nigel was patiently waiting for her answer. "Apparently the injury to my throat didn't directly affect the vocal cords. The doctors.... " She paused again. "They think it might be psychosomatic. That happens sometimes, apparently, after a shock."

There was a moment of silence on the other end while her former instructor absorbed this. "Whatever happens, darling, I want you to know I would be happy to offer you a position at the conservatory, if you want it," he said at last. "One needn't be able to sing to teach, you know."

She felt a sudden rush of sympathy. "I know. I do appreciate the offer, Nigel."

"…But?"

"You know I've never wanted to teach. I only wanted to perform."

He chuckled dryly, and she could picture him running his free hand through his immaculately styled, prematurely thinning blond hair. "You were born to be onstage, Paisley, my dear. But I thought that under the circumstances...."

She closed her eyes, remembering the clich
é
: "Those who can, do; those who can't, teach." As another clich
é
pointed out, beggars couldn't be choosers. Was she destined to end up like Nigel, a former singer forced to help others go on to glory? Paisley imagined her peers regarding her with pity and whispering "...Was up for 'Mimi' at the Met, but never got to perform. A car accident. Such a sad story, really...."

No. She wasn't
that
desperate, not yet.

She thanked Nigel again, and after a short friendly conversation about mutual acquaintances, said good-bye and rang off.

Silence closed in on her as she walked down the porch steps to the lawn and turned around to face the little house Aunt Esther had left her, the refuge to which she had fled in hope of a miracle. The structure looked very ordinary in the shadows cast by the huge oak tree that dwarfed it, with the painted clapboard sides and small porch, and white gingerbread on the eaves like decorative frosting on a wedding cake. A worn, tattered wedding cake. It was the kind of house that ought to be cared for, cherished, that should have kids running around the yard and a tire swing hanging from the big oak tree near the front door. A perfect tree for climbing; if she had been a little girl, she would have been up it in an instant. It was the kind of house, she thought, where one wouldn't think twice about borrowing a cup of sugar from the next-door neighbor.

That would be Steve Lopez. In many ways, he reminded her of Jonathan: darkly handsome, older, smooth, a shade mysterious. Hardly the type of man Paisley would think of borrowing a cup of sugar from. Although if she asked for one, she suspected Steve would give her more than just sugar.

The corners of Paisley's mouth twitched at the thought of a flirtation with Steve. Just because the last thing she wanted right now was a man in her life didn't mean that she needed to give up on all of them forever. Maybe later, when she was ready ... when she'd forgotten Jonathan's betrayal ... when the healing was over.... For the first time, that eventuality felt possible. Something else was bothering her, though: Kevin’s negative reaction when he had found out she was related to the Perlemans. Why? He couldn’t even have known Aunt Esther. From what Steven had said, the boy hadn’t moved to River Bend until after the old lady’s death.

As she walked inside to start preparing a light supper, she wondered what elderly Aunt Esther had made of her handsome neighbor with the vineyard and flashy cars. Had she stood peering out the living room curtains as Steve Lopez brought over a parade of lady friends in his fancy black car, to his bachelor home with its conveniently cozy leather couch and striking modern art? Had Esther been shocked, or amused? Remembering the lively sparkle in the old woman's eyes, Paisley rather thought it was the latter.

Paisley washed the lettuce well, chopped up the tomatoes, and threw together a tossed salad. As she set the table set for one, however, a sense of loneliness rushed through her. She grabbed the plate, and went to eat in the living room, instead, in front of the TV.

Once again, her thoughts turned to the house's elderly former occupant. Jonathan had mentioned that as a small child, Esther had lost her parents, brothers and sisters in the holocaust. The young girl had managed to escape to America and never returned to Europe.

Paisley thought of her own, recent tragedy; the guilt, the self-pity, the pills. Esther had borne a far greater burden without allowing it to prevent her from living a happy and productive life. Hmmm. Perhaps there was a lesson to be learned there.

Perhaps coming to River Bend had been a good idea after all, she thought. The hospital psychiatrist had said she needed to find a new purpose, to get her mind off her troubles. Perhaps, in deciding to fix up the house, she had found one.

"Thank you, Esther," Paisley murmured under her breath. "I don't know how you knew I needed this
—
but you were right."

Of course, the question remained what to do once the last of the money ran out. Maybe Paisley would have to accept Nigel's offer after all. But as Scarlett O’Hara, that indomitable heroine of
Gone With the Wind,
said, tomorrow was another day.

#

While deep in the pages of an Elizabeth Peters novel, Paisley heard the Toreador song go off again. Ian had texted the appraisal for the house repairs. The amount was surprisingly reasonable, but she hesitated. This was her last chance to back out. Everyone had advised her to sell the place, and surely they were right: the wise course of action was to get what money she could out of it, instead of sinking her rapidly vanishing savings into fixing it up.

Then she looked at the blaze of red and yellow tulips in the flower beds, sprouting from bulbs someone
,
Esther no doubt, had planted long ago. Fluffy white clouds scudding across the intensely blue sky, and the towering old oak that stood in front of the house cast cool shade. Although she was not given to flights of fancy, Paisley felt again that oddly powerful feeling that she was meant to be here. In that moment, her problems vanished completely, and she sensed an overwhelming sense of peace and well being. Everything felt ...
right
.

Then, from the corner of her eye, she saw a flash of gray in the bushes and sat upright, sending the hammock swaying. So Esther's cat had decided to remain after all. Somehow, the fact confirmed her own decision to stay.

She texted Ian back, opened a can of tuna, and spooned it into the cat food dish by the kitchen door. Then she settled back into the hammock and fell into a deep, restful sleep.