A Stillness of Chimes (16 page)

Sean shook his head. He wasn’t accustomed to thinking that way.

Tired of feeling like a stalker, he tried again. “Laura!” he shouted over the music.

Her head jerked up, her eyes wide. “Sean! You scared me.”

“Sorry. The door was unlocked. I yelled but you didn’t answer.”

“You could have yelled again,” she said tartly, pulling the flannel shirt off her shoulders and dropping it on the bed.

“I did. Mind if I turn down the volume a little?”

“Go ahead.”

He found the stereo on Jess’s dresser behind a clutter of toiletries and turned it down. “Music is best when it’s good and loud, but there’s a limit.”

“The louder the better, my dad always said. What brings you by?”

“I wanted to make sure you were remembering to keep your doors locked.”

Laura rolled her eyes. “Oh brother.”

“Did I prove my point?”

“Yes. Happy now?”

“Not exactly.”

The lively number ended. After a brief silence, a beautiful little guitar solo moved the band into a melancholy ballad with Elliott singing the lead. Doc and Noodle provided the unobtrusive harmony.

When water burns and granite turns as wat’ry as the dew
,

When horses run upon the sun, then shall my love be true
.

Elliott had written the song, trying to re-create the tone of an old Scottish ballad. Sean wasn’t sure it worked on that level, but it captured the mood of heartbreak.

When cockle-shells turn siller bells, and barley grows at sea
,

When frost and snaw shall warm us a’, then shall my love love me
.

Decrepit old Mikey, happy in his own selfish little universe, was curled up on a pillow against the dark red wood of the headboard. There used to
be three cats. Mikey, Turbo, and Slinky had slept wherever they pleased. Sometimes there were two cats on a shelf, like bookends, or one cat snoozing on the mantel, squeezed between the knickknacks. Part of the décor. Now they were down to Mikey, the oldest, ugliest one. His fur was the same gray-brown as a possum, and he was about as useful as a possum.

Sean looked around the room. Laura had folded a lot of clothes already and placed them in bags and boxes. A brown purse lay flat and empty at the foot of the bed, its contents dumped beside it—an opened wallet, keys, papers, lipstick. A dozen other purses made a heap on the floor.

She started folding one of her mom’s sweatshirts, a brown one with “Appalachian Trail” in green letters above a dogwood flower.

“Going through her clothes already?” he asked, just as Elliott was singing “then shall my love love me” again.

“Well, we know
she
isn’t coming back,” Laura said in a matter-of-fact tone that didn’t fool Sean for one minute.

He sat on a corner of the bed while she folded the sweatshirt. She tucked it to her chest with her chin, exactly the way Jess did. The way Jess used to do.

The cherry-wood headboard shone red in the sunlight, a nice backdrop for Laura’s hair. The headboard was one of Elliott’s finest pieces, its focal point a distinctive knot design that he hadn’t carved into anything else. A true-love knot, he’d called it. Its curves looped so gracefully around each other that they fooled the eye into thinking he’d tied the knot from a length of rope, then magically turned it to silky wood.

Laura’s hair hung down, screening her face. Sean wanted to push her hair aside and give her a kiss with the old familiarity they’d lost. He wanted to tumble her down on the bed, right on the neat piles of clothes.

Needing something else to think about, he reached for Jess’s wallet, turning it sideways to study her driver’s license through its transparent window. The picture had been taken before her red hair had started to fade into gray. The wallet held a Red Cross blood donor card too.

“I didn’t know your mom was a blood donor,” he said.

“Oh yeah. So was Dad. Gary and Ardelle are too. Their civic-mindedness must have rubbed off on me, because I’ve started giving blood a couple times a year.”

“Good for you. I should too, but who would want blood from a Halloran?”

She didn’t answer except to purse her lips slightly. He couldn’t decide if she had Jess’s mouth or Elliott’s, but she definitely had her mother’s calm strength. Too much of it, maybe. And dark shadows under her eyes.

Sean closed the wallet. “I hope you’re getting some rest,” he said. “Stress can wear a body out.”

“I’m not stressed. I’m just sorting through … stuff. And I mean that both literally and figuratively.”

“Are you made of steel?”

Laura’s mouth—the side he could see, in profile—twisted upward. “Stainless.”

She tucked her hair behind her ear, giving him a better view, and picked up a flowery shirt. Her long fingers folded it quickly and neatly.

“Once the festival craziness is over, I can help you tie up the loose ends,” he said.

“I remember doing some of that for Dad before I left for college. Canceling a dentist’s appointment. Taking back his library books. They were overdue, but the librarian waived the fines.”

“You’ll need to cancel your mom’s credit cards too. Turn in her driver’s license. Do her taxes. Decide whether or not you’re selling her SUV.”

“I’ll sell it. Guess I’d better start advertising.”

“Slap some signs on it and drive it around town now and then too. It’s not good for a vehicle to just sit.”

She nodded. Still fussing with that shirt, she laid it on the bed in a neat rectangle and plucked the shoulders square. She’d always been a bit of a perfectionist in an imperfect world.

Finished with the shirt, she studied him for a long moment that was hushed and still. Even the stereo fell silent between songs.

“Can you humor me for a minute?” she asked.

“Sure,” he said as the band launched into another of Elliott’s originals, a mournful tune he’d called “Blue Mountains.”

“Okay,” Laura said. “Let me give you a tour of the closet.”

“Excuse me?”

“You need to see Dad’s side of the closet.” She sat up straighter. “I think Mom thought he’d come back someday, because it’s still full of his clothes.”

“Your mom was a pack rat.”

“Come on, Sean. Just let me show you what I’ve found.”

“Laura, don’t get caught up in these false hopes. I’m afraid they won’t pan out and you’ll be devastated.”

No longer calm and saintly, she glared at him. “That’s not what you’re afraid of. You’re afraid to face facts.”

He dropped the wallet on the bed and stood up. “You don’t seem to know the definition of the word
fact
. You need—”

“What I don’t need is your advice. If you refuse to do something as simple as looking in the closet, you can just get lost, Halloran.”

Locking eyes with her, he made his decision. He cranked up the stereo again and walked out. He was halfway down the steps by the time the three-man band started wailing about blue mountains and broken hearts under a lonesome moon. He climbed into his truck, slammed the door, and turned on the country-rock station as loud as he could stand it.

Laura would be afraid too, if she knew what he knew. A tour of the closet might have brought him to the brink of telling her.

Driving too fast, Sean headed back to town. Past the Brights’ old house, past the library, past the old park. One quick glimpse of the picnic tables under the trees brought back the Fourth of July picnic when he and Laura were sixteen.

The smoke from grilling meats. Little kids shrieking and waving American flags. Firecrackers whining and popping in the dusk. The acrid smell of gunpowder. Then, when Elliott was already edgy from the crowds and the noise, Gary had smarted off about some fool thing.

Elliott had shoved him backward into a picnic table and nearly strangled him—and then wept and apologized and helped him pick the potato salad off his shirt.

He always apologized profusely and sincerely, but he’d proved himself capable of hurting anybody, over anything. Or over nothing at all. And that was exactly why Sean didn’t want to tell Laura what he’d once seen at Bennett’s lake.

Five minutes after Sean’s truck barreled out of Laura’s driveway, Ardelle’s car pulled in with its top down. Gary was at the wheel. His straight, sandy hair was windblown, but Ardelle had a big scarf tied firmly around her head.

They charged up the steps, laughing about something. Wearing oven mitts, she carried a dish covered with aluminum foil. Gary was carrying a plastic bag that probably held food too.

“Go away,” Laura said softly, watching through the screen door. “Go find Sean and smack him for me.” She pasted on a smile and opened the door. “What a nice surprise. Come on in.”

“Just long enough to unload these vittles,” Ardelle said. “We’re on our way to Wednesday night prayer. I wish Cassie would’ve come, but there’s some silly show she always watches on Wednesday nights.” She paused for a breath. “It’s tuna casserole and lemon-poppy-seed muffins.”

“Thank you so much.” Still peeved with Sean, Laura was tempted to take it out on Ardelle by confronting her about the boxed-up journals and her other intrusions. But if she really couldn’t help herself, accusations would only be cruel.

Ardelle placed the hot dish on an empty burner of the stove and tucked her oven mitts under one arm. “It’s a lot for one person. You can invite Sean over. He’d like that.”

Gary gave Laura an apologetic smile. “Or you could, you know, freeze some for later.” He set the bag of muffins on the counter.

“Good idea,” Laura said, grateful that he understood.

Ardelle moved the muffins to a different spot. “I’m sure enjoying those plants. And the goodies and the scrapping supplies. Next time you come over, I’ll show you my latest scrapbook.”

“That would be lovely.”

“We’d better run. Come on, Gary. We don’t want to be late for church.”

Laura followed them onto the porch. Across the road, vehicles were
pulling into the church parking lot, and the building’s lights blazed in the twilight. “Looks like a good turnout for a weeknight.”

“Oh, we love the new preacher.” Ardelle trotted down the steps. “He preached a wonderful message for your mother’s funeral, didn’t he?”

“Yes.” Actually, Laura hardly remembered the message. She recalled the music, though, because she’d chosen the hymns herself, wanting lyrics that would soothe her soul with peace.

Heav’n’s morning breaks, and earth’s vain shadows flee
,

In life, in death, O Lord, abide with me
.

Laura’s vision went blurry and her throat ached. She hoped the Lord had still been abiding with a sinner who’d wandered far afield.

Gary leaned against the railing and gazed across the yard. “Look how those daylilies have multiplied. The whole slope will be full of flowers in a week or two, but Jess won’t be here to enjoy them.” He shook his head. “Sorry, Laura. That was insensitive.”

She moved to stand beside him. “No. I think things like that all the time.”

A wave of grief hit her again, as Sean had predicted. Her mom should have been there, chatting with her visitors or walking to the end of the drive for her mail. She should have been there, pulling weeds or picking wildflowers. She should have
been
there. Yet Laura was grateful that she’d had her mother for thirty years. Sean had had his mother for only ten.

She blinked hard and made herself focus on the present. Gary was still talking.

“The new daylilies are fancy, with ruffled petals or double blooms, but your mom loved the old-fashioned kind. That one is a golden oldie, you might call it, but it’s more orange than golden.”

Laura nodded, but they were just ordinary daylilies to her, no more special than the wild ones that grew in roadside ditches.

At the bottom of the steps, Ardelle turned around, working her hands together in a fidgety motion. “Come
on
, Gary. We can’t be late.”

“It’s all right, Ardie,” he said gently. “The world will go on turning if we’re thirty seconds late for Wednesday night prayer.” He moved away from the railing with tears in his eyes.

Ardelle’s new agitation was so troubling. Laura’s heart ached for both of them.

“Thanks so much for bringing supper,” she said. “It means a lot that you’re thinking of me.”

“Always. I’m always thinking of you, Laura.” Ardelle blew a kiss over her shoulder. “Don’t forget the birthday party!”

They climbed into the car. Gary revved the engine and made the short hop across the road to the church. He put the top up and they hurried inside, holding hands.

Nearly in tears, Laura sat on the porch steps with her chin in her hands and stared at the churchyard across the road. Her mother’s month-old grave had been covered with gravel to match its neighbors. The big floral tributes were long gone, but a few late daffodils bloomed near the family plot. They were delicate and soft compared to the garish artificial flowers on some of the graves.

Gram Flynn had always said believers’ graves were seeds sown for the Resurrection, when dead saints would pop out of the ground like tulips in
the spring. Every year, Laura remembered Gram when her favorite tulips bloomed, their white petals splashed with streaks of pink and red.