More Than You Know (9 page)

14

“B
er, Micah’s here!” Rumer called from the kitchen. Beryl looked up, startled, and realized the needle had never lifted from the album—it was still gliding across the smooth black inner circle, hitting the label and jumping back, making a scratching sound. She stood up, leaving all the papers on the desk, set the arm of the needle on its stand, clicked the turntable off, and hurried to the kitchen.

“Hey!” she said with a smile when she saw Micah standing in the kitchen with Flan sitting on his foot.

“Hey,” he replied.

“I see you’ve made a friend!”

“Yup,” he answered with a grin, leaning down to scratch Flan’s blocky head. “What’s her name?”

“Flannery . . . Flannery O’Connor,” Beryl answered with a smile.

Micah chuckled. “Very appropriate.”

“Uh-oh,” she teased, nodding to the glass of wine in his hand. “I see my sisters corralled you into joining them for cocktail hour.”

“Yeah, sort of—they said you’d be joining us.”

Beryl raised her eyebrows. “Did they? And I was hoping to get more work out of them.”

“You guys deserve a break,” Micah said sympathetically. “I don’t envy the task you’re facing.” He paused. “Anyway, my mom thought you might need some sustenance.” He nodded toward an apple crisp on the counter. “She said it’s from a recipe your mom gave her years ago and she hopes she’s done it justice.”

“I’m sure she has,” Beryl said. “It looks yummy. Please tell her, ‘Thank you.’ ”

Rumer nodded. “It looks like a picture.”

Isak looked up from filling a big pot with water. “Thanks, Micah—that was very thoughtful.” She put the pot on the stove top and lit the burner. “Can you stay for dinner?”

Micah frowned and shook his head. “No, no, I couldn’t . . . I mean I can’t. I meant to come earlier—not at dinnertime—but Charlotte and I took Harp for a walk and it got late.”

Beryl looked at the wine bottles, trying to decide if she wanted any. “Who’s Harp?” she asked curiously, looking to see what color Micah had in his glass.

“Harper is my parents’ Lab.”

Isak eyed him thoughtfully. “Hmm, seems there was a book your dad loved to teach by an author with that name—could there be a connection?”

Micah laughed. “How’d you know?” He seemed to relax a little and took a sip of his wine.

Beryl smiled, finally pouring a glass of the Free Range Red. “I think your dad and our mom shared that odd trait of naming their pets—and in our mom’s case, her children—after famous authors.”

“Was your mom behind all your names?”

Beryl looked at her sisters and laughed. “She claimed to be.”

Micah nodded thoughtfully. “Beryl . . . Markham, right?” Beryl nodded, and he turned to Rumer. “And Rumer . . . hmm—Godden?” Rumer grinned, and he looked at Isak thoughtfully. “Isak Dinesen—of course!” Then a puzzled expression crossed his face. “But her real name was Karen. . . . in fact, her family called her Tanne.”

Isak grinned, impressed by his knowledge. “It was Karen, but Isak is much more interesting, don’t you think?” She eyed him suspiciously. “How do you know so much about all these women writers, anyway?”

“Well, you have to remember, I owned a bookstore, and they were all remarkable ladies . . . and authors,” Micah explained. “They lived in exotic places, flew airplanes, loved passionately—and wrote books!”

Beryl laughed. “I guess our mom had really high hopes for us.” She paused. “It’s funny that our mom and your dad both did that. I wonder if they got it from each other. . . .”

“It’s possible,” Micah said. “They’ve known each other a lot longer than I realized. My parents remember the accident—my mom said it was . . .” He stopped in midsentence and shook his head. “I’m sorry—that is probably the last thing you want to talk about now.”

“Actually, I was just reading about the accident,” Beryl said. She looked at her sisters. “There were some newspaper clippings in that drawer.” She looked back at Micah. “Our mom never talked about it, but I’d really like to hear what your mom remembers.”

Micah nodded but didn’t say more.

“I never knew anything about the other driver,” Isak said, looking up.

“I didn’t either,” Rumer added.

“His obituary is one of the clippings,” Beryl said quietly.

There was an awkward silence and Rumer looked up from peeling a carrot. “You really should stay for dinner, Micah. We’re having lobster ravioli in a vodka sauce that looks like it’s to die for; it’s from that new fresh pasta place in town.”

“Sounds tempting,” Micah said, “but . . .”

“No buts,” Isak chimed in cheerfully. “Just call your mom and tell her you’re having dinner with the Graham girls—she’ll understand.”

Micah looked at Beryl for support, but she just laughed and shook her head. “I know, they’re unrelenting. But honestly, I think you should stay, too—it would cheer us up.”

“Well, when you put it that way,” he said with a smile, “how can I possibly say no?” He went out on the porch to call home, and Isak and Rumer both grinned and gave her a thumbs-up.

Beryl shook her head and, in a hushed voice, whispered, “You guys are crazy, you know that? We’re supposed to be getting ready for a funeral.”

“Hey,” Isak whispered, looking over her shoulder to see where Micah was, “we are getting ready, but that doesn’t mean our lives have to come to a screeching halt. Besides, I’m sure Mum’s looking down and smiling—and giving a thumbs-up too. In fact, she probably guided Micah over here.”

“
His
mom guided him over here,” Beryl whispered, taking down four of their mom’s blue Staffordshire plates.

“If I’m staying,” Micah said, coming back in the kitchen, “you have to give me a job.”

“Jobs are hard to come by,” Isak teased, “but you can set the table.”

Micah laughed as Beryl handed him the plates.

“These are kind of fancy,” he commented, admiring the plates.

“Well, dinner’s always a special occasion around here,” Beryl said. “Growing up, we always had candles, music, fresh flowers . . . and used special plates.”

“In fact, we need some music,” Rumer said, following the same train of thought. “Ber, want to pick out another album?”

“Somethin’ old and classy,” Isak said as she stirred the vodka sauce.

“I don’t think Mum has anything but old and classy.” She looked at Micah. “Want to help?” He reached for his glass and followed her into the office.

“Don’t mind the mess,” she said, waving her hand across the room.

“Don’t worry, I’ve seen worse.”

He peered over her shoulder as she flipped through the albums and she felt his arm touching her back. She breathed in his wonderful, clean scent—was it soap or aftershave? She couldn’t tell, but she could feel her heart pounding. “See anything you like?”

“They’re all great; it’s all the same stuff I grew up on. How about that one?” he asked.

She pulled the album out of the box, slid it from its sleeve, and carefully placed it on the turntable. “This was one of my mom’s favorites,” she said, gently setting the needle on the spinning disc. The record crackled to life and was followed by the unmistakable, melancholy voice of Billie Holiday singing “I’m a Fool to Want You.”

Micah took a sip from his glass. “My dad used to always listen to these old songs.”

Beryl nodded. “I know what you mean. We were listening to Frank Sinatra before you came and it brought back so many memories of dancing around the kitchen with my mom.” She shook her head. “It must’ve been so hard for her to carry on without my dad, but she never let on; she just tried to fill our lives and our home with happy memories.” She paused, suddenly realizing she was telling him something he already knew. “My sisters told me about your wife, Micah—I’m so sorry.”

“Thanks,” he said, pressing his lips together in a sad smile. “It’s been hard. I met Beth when we were in college. We had so much in common—my mom said we were like two peas in a pod. We’d both wanted a big family, but she had trouble getting—and staying—pregnant. She had two miscarriages before Charlotte, so when she was diagnosed with cancer, she didn’t want to do anything to jeopardize the pregnancy. After Charlotte was born, she lived long enough to see her smile . . . and hear her laugh . . .” His voice trailed off, his eyes glistening.

“I’m so sorry,” she said again, wishing she had the courage to give him a hug, but she felt foolish and awkward, so she just laid her hand gently on his arm.

He looked up. “What can you do? Death is a part of life—as you well know.” He shook his head and smiled. “How’d we get on this subject anyway? I’m supposed to be cheering you up!”

Beryl laughed. “It’s my fault—I brought it up.”

Micah looked down at the spinning record. “Can they hear that in the kitchen?”

“Yup, my mom put speakers everywhere in the house. She liked being able to hear it no matter where she was or what she was doing.”

“She was a smart lady!”

As they walked past the desk, Beryl pointed. “Those are the clippings.”

Micah stopped to study them. He picked up the picture of her dad. “You have his eyes,” he said with a smile.

“That’s funny—everyone always said I look like my mom.”

“You do, but I can see your dad too. It’s funny how that happens. My brother Noah looks exactly like my dad, and I don’t think I look anything like my brother, but everyone says I look like my dad too. Go figure.”

Beryl nodded. “Well, look at us—somehow my parents managed to have a blonde, a brunette, and a redhead.”

Micah laughed. “It’s like having chocolate, yellow, and black Labrador puppies all in the same litter.”

Beryl gave him a funny look. “Nice analogy!”

Micah laughed again. “Sorry.”

He picked up one of the other clippings. “Why did your mom save these?”

Beryl shook her head. “I don’t know. I just came across them and I haven’t really had time to figure it out.”

“Do you know who this is?”

“Well, it says he’s a painter.”

“He’s a very famous painter. He’s in his seventies now and I heard he lives up near North Conway, but he’s a bit of a recluse. Could your mom have known him?”

Beryl shrugged uncertainly. “Well, she worked at MacDowell Colony for a while after my dad died and”—she pointed to the clipping of the Old Man of the Mountain—“this caption says he was there in 1969.”

“Seems to me he stayed at MacDowell more than once. His paintings are pretty valu—”

“Dinner’s ready,” Rumer said, popping her head in the doorway. They followed her into the kitchen where steaming plates of lobster ravioli in creamy vodka sauce and colorful salads were already on the table.

“Need a refill?” Isak asked, holding up the red wine.

“Sure,” Beryl said.

They all sat down at the kitchen table with the late-day sun streaming through the windows.

“So,” Beryl said, “I think I found a clue.” She described the clippings and Micah elaborated on what he knew about David Gilead. Rumer and Isak listened intently and, between bites, asked questions.

Finally, Isak leaned back and took a sip from her glass. “I don’t know,” she said skeptically. “What connection could she have possibly had to him? It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Maybe she liked his artwork,” Rumer suggested hopefully.

“She worked at MacDowell,” Beryl reminded them. “They probably met there and became friends.”

“Do you think he’s the one who gave her the ring?” Rumer asked.

Micah looked up and Beryl said, “I’ll get it.” She pushed back her chair and, moments later, returned with the ring and the card.

Micah studied the card. “This painting is definitely reminiscent of David Gilead’s work and the signature is spot-on.” He looked up with raised eyebrows. “From what he’s written, it seems like they were more than friends.”

Beryl shook her head. “How can that be? How could we have not known—unless we were too young and it ended before we were old enough to be aware of it?”

Isak sighed. “I guess that’s possible, but I wish we had more to go on.”

“Maybe there is,” Rumer said. “We still have a lot of papers to go through.”

Isak stood to clear the table and Beryl went to the office to get the clippings. She spread them out on the table and her sisters studied them.

“Dad looks like he’s about seventeen,” Isak said with a sad smile.

Rumer nodded and then pointed to the image of the artist. “Look at those eyes—talk about seeing right through someone!” Then she picked up the photo of Catherine Gilead. “I wonder if this was ripped by accident . . . or on purpose?!”

Beryl looked up and realized that Micah was standing at the sink up to his elbows in soapsuds and the dish drain was almost full. “Hey, you’re not supposed to do those!”

She reached for a towel and started to dry, and he smiled. “I can’t leave you with all this.”

“Are you leaving?” she asked, sounding disappointed.

He nodded. “Afraid so, I have to tuck in my little pal.”

“You should’ve brought her.”

“I would’ve, if I’d known.”

“You didn’t have any apple crisp.”

“My mom made two, so I’ll have some later—probably with vanilla ice cream,” he said with a grin.

“I’m coming to your house then.”

“Where’s our vanilla ice cream?” Isak teased, feigning disappointment.

Micah laughed and shrugged. “I don’t know—in your freezer?” he asked hopefully. He rinsed the sink, then dried his hands. “I do have to go, though.”

Beryl nodded. “I’ll walk you out.”

“Bye, Micah,” Rumer and Isak called. “Thanks for doing the dishes, and thank your mom for the apple crisp.”

“Bye! Thanks for dinner,” he called back, slipping on his jacket.

Beryl pulled on her fleece and held the door for him. Then she looked back at Flannery lying on her bed with all four legs in the air. “Flan, do you need to get busy?” Flan grunted, clambered to her feet, stretched, yawned, and trotted out the door.