The Pickle Boat House (3 page)

The Morgans were one such couple. Grace had been a Sunday school teacher and Harry a truck driver. They had grown silver haired together and completed each other’s sentences, if they found it necessary to talk at all. This morning, they approached Van with a slow and steady gait, hand in hand.

“Good morning, Mr. and Mrs. Morgan. Nice to see you out today,” Van said as they came face-to-face on the boardwalk.

“Morning, sugar,” replied Mrs. Morgan. “Good to see some young people out enjoying God’s beautiful day.”

“Yes ma’am.” Everyone looked like a youngster to Mrs. Morgan. “It certainly is too beautiful to waste being inside.”

“I’m glad we caught you, dear. Harry and I are going to be moving soon. We got a very generous offer for our house. We just couldn’t refuse it. In the next month or so, we’ll be heading down Angela and Duke’s way in Virginia. We wanted to make sure we thanked you for all your kindness. I thought you might like to drop by before we leave, and take a peek at some of the older things we’re not taking with us. There are still some things of Mother’s you might want—for your Nevis collection, of course.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry to see you go,” Van said. “I apologize. I didn’t even realize you had your house up for sale.”

“Oh, we didn’t. Out of the blue, an out-of-towner offered good money, all cash. Like I said, it was too good to pass up. It’s time. Being on our own is almost too much to handle. We’re both looking forward to being near the grandkids.”

“It sounds lovely, Mrs. Morgan. Anytime you can get good money for land in Nevis, you have to give it some thought. I’ll make sure to stop by before you go. Would it be okay if I brought my genealogy charts of your family, just to make sure I’ve got it all down?”

“It would be a pleasure. Bring it all over, and we’ll look at it one last time. Come on, Harry,” she said to her husband. “We’ll be all off schedule before long.” Harry never said a word, but tipped his ball cap to Van, and they continued past her on their daily ritual.

* * *

When Van got home and rounded the corner of her house she was surprised to see a woman hanging by her fingertips from the side window of the house next door. Her legs were flailing wildly as she tried to recover her footing on a box just out of reach. Van could hear her beginning to squeak.

“Can I help you there?” Van shouted as she scurried to grab the woman’s waist. She helped her get earthbound again, easing her back onto the box.

“Damn it! You are not going to
believe
what I just did,” the woman fumed, tossing her bobbed red hair. “I just locked myself out of my house—so damn-fool stupid today. But just today, of course,” she said with a laugh. “Would you mind if I used your phone to call my daughter? She can bring me the spare key.”

“No problem. We can have a cup of tea while you wait.”

“That would be nice, thanks. “I’m Jean, by the way—just moved in.”

“Vanessa Hardy. I saw all the comings and goings. I was wondering who the new owners were.”

“Owner. Just me. Kicked the bum to the curb and partway down the street a few years back.”

“Oh, sorry.”

Jean shrugged. “Well, you shouldn’t be. I’m sure not.”

They worked their way around a flower bed overflowing with roses and daisies. Just above the vibrant floral display, a single mourning dove circled endlessly around the top of a little birdbath while a cat, crouching amid the daisies, monitored its progress. The cat looked up as the two women climbed the stairs, and gave a single plaintive mew.

“Hi, there, Mouse,” Van said, pausing to stroke his head.

“Mouse? Where!” Jean screeched, scooting behind Van.

“No,” Van said. “He doesn’t
have
a mouse; his
name
is Mouse! He’s the resident stray. You’ll be friends before long. He hits up everybody for basics—thinks it’s his inalienable right to sit on everyone’s porch. He loves driving all the indoor dogs crazy. That’s my haughty, naughty boy!” Mouse began to rub back and forth against her legs as she tried to get to the door.

“Who’s the silent sentinel?” Jean asked, nodding toward the staring man sitting on the porch next door.

Van didn’t even have to turn around to know exactly whom she meant. “Ernest Pickett, self-anointed neighborhood watch. If you want to know what’s going on in your life, just ask him—he’ll know more about your business than you do.”

Mr. Pickett rose out of his chair. He hugged to his chest a dainty white teacup poodle with a pink collar. “Tell your gardener to stay off my grass,” he said, glowering at the women. “I’m gonna call the cops. I don’t pay my taxes for you to stomp around on my lawn.” His eyes burned with malice.

“Yes, Mr. Pickett, I’ll take care of it,” Van politely shouted back at him as she winked at Jean.

“You have a gardener?”

“Nah, he means the older gentleman who does odd jobs around here. No one but Mr. Pickett would call him a gardener. You’ll meet Charlie. He’s wonderful.”

Van was barely inside the door before she was accosted by a tiny Yorkshire terrier. It began to dart, scamper, and twirl like a dervish in the entryway as she came inside.

“Hi, sweetie, I’m glad you missed me. Move out of the way, now. Mommy has company.” Van scooped her up with one hand and kept moving toward the kitchen.

“Oh, what an adorable puppy!”

“Adorable pain! Lulu doesn’t have much puppy left in her anymore. She’s been my best bud for a while. My huggie …”

Van continued toward the kitchen and plopped Lulu into the dog bed by the back door. “The phone’s right there by the window,” she said, motioning across the kitchen.

Jean walked over and chuckled at the white rotary phone hanging on the wall. It was refreshing to see that someone besides her didn’t live and die by the latest technology.

“Marla, Mom … No, everything’s okay. Listen, would you please come over at lunchtime and let me back in my house? I accidently locked myself out … Under the flower pot … No, you must not have put it back … No, no other way. Please. You can stay for lunch if you like … Well, okay, thanks. Bye.” Jean hung up the phone with a little sigh.

“Is she busy?”

“No, doesn’t care. Unless she gets something out of it—then she cares. It’s okay, though. We’re working on it,” she said, putting a weak smile back on her face. “You have kids?”

“One. Deceased.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry.”

Van just stuck her head back in the cabinet to get the tea and change the subject. “Black or herbal—which would you prefer?”

“Oh, black, none of that froufrou stuff.”

Jean made herself at home at the kitchen table, and they talked for a while about the weather and all the other safe little things that people discussed when getting to know each other. They liked each other immediately. Gradually, the conversation drifted off into private musings, with Van puttering over the tea and Jean staring out the window.

“What kind of mosaic are you?” Jean asked suddenly.

“Huh?”

“Your plaque,” she said, nodding at the little wooden plaque over the stove. “‘When the burdens of life shatter you into a million pieces, remake yourself into a beautiful mosaic.’ What kind of mosaic are you?”

“Oh, you like?” When I was on vacation last year I bought it at an arts festival in Virginia. It was one of those feel-good-about-yourself summer days. Ten bucks that I could have used to drown my sorrows in the wine-tasting tent. Just another bad choice—God knows I’ve made enough of them. I don’t know what kind,” she said, sighing thoughtfully. “I’m still trying to figure out if all the pieces are still there and where they all go.”

“Married?” asked Jean. “I don’t see any husband pictures.”

“Separated.”

“Still talking?”

“Yep. Our life together is over, but he’ll always be the only one for me.”

“In that case, my advice is to get rid of him. I did a few years back. We’ve been fighting ever since. He’s good at turning my daughter against me—just about ruined my relationship with her. I’m still trying to get that back on track. You’re better off without a man complicating your life. They never listen to a word you say.”

Van laughed. “I’ll take that under advisement. Richard and I had a beautiful first life together.”

“What happened?”

“He got a little too friendly with his executive assistant and started hitting the bottle pretty hard. I just couldn’t trust him anymore.”

“What a jerk. Like I said, take him to the curb and punt from there.”

“I’m trying to move past it all. It was a difficult time for both of us.”

“Not to change the subject, but nature calls. May I use your bathroom?”

Van pointed her down the hall as she put the dishes in the sink.

“What did you do to your bathroom, girl?” Jean yelled. “This is an oasis! I just
love
a tub with claw feet!”

Van could hear her giggling. She walked down the hall to the bathroom to find Jean on her knees, draped over the side of the tub.

“What are you doing on the floor?” Housecleaning hadn’t been a top priority on Van’s to-do list for quite a while, and she was relieved that she had cleaned yesterday. She got down on the floor and ran her hand lovingly along the edge of the tub.

“It’s from my other grandparents’ house. After they died, the house was sold and eventually burned down. To say good-bye, I drove past the yard one last time. Low and behold, the only thing left sitting in the middle of the yard was this old cast-iron tub. As a youngster, I had the hardest time hitching my leg up over the side to get in. My dad used to tell me how he would soap up the sides when he was little to see how fast he could swirl around the bottom. It’s a heavy sucker. The owners were glad to get rid of it, and I felt like I saved an old friend. When I moved to Nevis, I brought it with me. I didn’t want to change much in this house—too many fond memories of visiting my other grandparents here in the summer. But I love to take baths, so this is my one splurge. When I get bored or upset I come in here. I love to just soak and think. I’ve even eaten dinner in here. But, only when I’m really tired,” she added with a laugh.

“Do you work?”

“Historian at the Smithsonian. I’m on a leave of absence. Teleconferences every so often, and a lot of planning documents to produce before I go back.

“You’re impressive,” Jean said, and they both found it funny. “No, I really am impressed,” Jean said. She sat down flat on the floor and gave Van a smile. “I can see I’m really going to like living next door to you. Better get used to me.”

“Oh, I already have.” Van got to her feet. “Would you like a little red wine with that floor? I hear a good Chablis goes with any bathroom decor.”

“Where did you learn the fine art of drinking?”

“College. Pays to go to a highbrow party school like Carolina. If you wanted to chug beer, you went to State.”

CHAPTER FOUR
YANKEE DIMES AND WOODEN NICKELS

Van pulled out her music player and shuffled through her playlists until she got to the one called “Feeling a little Hamlet today.” Even though it was a bad choice, she had to go there. The quiet strains of “Year of the Cat” began to fill her ears as she pushed open the screen door and headed for the boardwalk. It was one of her son’s favorite songs. In fact, they all were his favorites, and they made her cry. Often she didn’t make it to the end, but she had to go there—to validate him, to prove that once upon a time he really did exist. It was a reality check involving compulsion more than comfort.

Several songs into the playlist, Van sighed and pulled the buds from her ears, the pain of loss trumping over the warmth of memories. She sat down on her favorite boardwalk bench, stretched out, and closed her eyes to regroup and let the water wash the pain away. The swish of the water on the shore, and the water birds squabbling as they jockeyed for space on each piling, carried her to a calmer place. Footsteps on the boardwalk mellowed to a muted rhythm, and the conversations of passersby faded to patchy, muffled whisperings. She let her mind wander, sifting through all her mental detritus.

As had happened many times before, she was drawn toward the warmth of the shining sun, and there she found him. His baby voice, filled with quiet awe, whispered in her ear, and she felt his tiny arm crooked around her neck. “I want to fly, but not like a plane—like a bird,” he whispered. He remained earthbound as the vision changed, and she saw him moving with grace, power, and speed as he took the ball toward the goal, the goalie crouching in anticipation. Without looking up, in a singularly unselfish act, he passed the ball to his wingman, who sailed it past the goalie and into the net. As the players high-fived at midfield, the roar of the crowd echoed and gradually changed to the sound of the surf. She mentally saw him there, too, catching a wave and barreling toward the shore. As he wiped out he laughed, then ran back into the water to catch another wave.

Tears spilled down the sides of Van’s face, emptying out bottled-up emotions. She felt her chest tighten. The daydream shifted again as she heard a familiar voice yelling at her. “Hey, doodlebug, how ’bout a Yankee dime?” her grandfather called to the little girl as she came running across the lawn of the pickle boat house, laughing as she came. When she reached him he swept her up and swung her around in a circle before setting her on her feet again. Leaning down, he planted a kiss on her smiling upturned face. In spite of the tears, Van began to smile. It was a short-lived smile, though, as the sound of ringing in her pocket jarred her back to reality. Flustered, she pulled her cell phone out.

“Hello?”

“Hello? Regency Plaza?”

“No, I’m sorry. You must have the wrong number.”

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry,” the voice said.

Van opened her eyes and sighed as she put her cell phone away. She lived for daydreams like the one that had just been so abruptly interrupted. Disappointment turned to irritation, and she reddened as she saw a nearby man on the boardwalk blatantly ogling her.

“Careful—you’re drooling,” she muttered, turning away from his unwelcome stare. She hated when men gave her the once-over, although she had to admit, it had never been a frequent problem. She had never been one of those swish-and-sway types. Closing her eyes, she retreated back into her daydreams.