The Jewelry Case Page 7

  “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 cliché: "Those who can, do; those who can't, teach." As another cliché 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.

  The sound of a truck awoke her, followed by a deafening clamor. Still yawning, she found Ian in front of the house, unloading equipment from his truck with three helpers of assorted sizes wearing virtually identical faded jeans, old T-shirts, and tool belts.

  "Oh, hi. I thought we'd start right away," Ian said, looking up as she approached. His hair had lost its dusty, tousled look: it was damply combed into bangs over his forehead. He had shaved, probably with a dull straight razor. His jaw looked raw.

  "I thought you were a late sleeper," she said grumpily. "When I called you from the yellow pages, I could have sworn you were still in bed."

  "Oh, I was just up late the night before working on something important," he said cheerily. "I'm usually up by six."

  He introduced his co-workers by their first names: Quinn, whose broad shoulders, long black hair, and high cheekbones cau
sed her to surmise that he was Native American; and Rusty, a thin, sandy-haired man with the beginnings of a straggling beard and a stained T-shirt, who nodded politely and crushed her hand in an unexpectedly strong grip.

  "Quinn and Rusty are going to help me out," Ian explained. "This afternoon, we're going to gut the upstairs bathroom. Gotta take care of the mold first, it's a health issue."

  "Okay, fine," she said, shuddering a little at the thought of mold infiltrating the house. "I'll leave you guys to it."

  She wandered back to the kitchen and made herself lunch. There was something decadent about watching other people work while having nothing to do oneself. She used the rest of the tuna to prepare a sandwich with lettuce and pickles, and ate it at the kitchen table, watching through the window as the men flexed their muscles setting up the buzz saws and uncoiling electric cables.

  Idly, she planned the rest of her day: perhaps a short walk in the woods behind the house this afternoon, another nap before dinner, and then some reading in the evening, curled up on the sofa with Esther's old records for background music. There was a whole bookshelf of paperback mysteries by her favorite authors in the living room.

  Finishing her sandwich leisurely, she continued watching as Ian give brief directions and walk around overseeing the work as it progressed, taking hammer in hand himself to show the others the correct procedure. The other workers seemed to respect him, accepting his corrections with a respectful nod, or a joke, or a high-five. She wondered why this surprised her.

  Then, with a jolt, Paisley realized the answer. Steve Lopez had prejudiced her against him. What had her neighbor said? Nothing specific that she could recall, just vague innuendos about Ian's competence. From what she could tell, though, Ian certainly seemed to know what he was doing.

  Of course, she could be wrong, she reminded herself. No one was more ignorant about such things than she was.

  Paisley's hopes for a peaceful afternoon were soon shattered by the ringing of hammers and whirring of saws, and she developed a pounding headache. Even putting in earbuds and turning up Wagner's Ride of the Valkyries did not drown out the din. Paisley put up with the commotion as long as she could, then fled back to town. Her leg felt better, and she had planned on a walk anyway.

  This time, she was careful to give the grazing cow a wide berth. Walking on the unpaved shoulder of the road, watching for oncoming traffic, she remembered that she should renew her efforts to buying a cheap car to use for the summer. She had cursorily checked Craigslist but hadn't found anything nearby. That was a problem. It wouldn't be practical to walk to town every time she needed a half-gallon of milk.

  Shirley had promised to keep her eyes open. Maybe the red-haired bookseller had heard something. Too bad Paisley hadn't thought to ask for the woman's number.

  As she started puffing up the long, steep hill, a black sports car pulled up next to her and a familiar face looked out. "Hey there. Going to town?" Steve looked fresh and cool in a spotless white shirt, his tanned arm casually propped against the open window frame, his black hair neatly styled.

  Paisley pushed a strand of sweaty hair out of her eyes. He probably had stopped out of pity, but she didn't care. "Hi, Steve." She didn't bother to answer his question, since her destination was obvious. Eyeing the Audi R8, she thought the vineyard must be doing well for Steve to be able to afford such a flashy model.

  "Still no wheels, huh?" His critical tone was that of a Californian who wasn't used to seeing someone actually walk somewhere. His next words proved it. "This isn't New York, you know. No public transportation."

  "Really?" Sarcasm edged her voice. "I guess that explains why I couldn't find the subway stop."

  Without smiling, he leaned over and pushed open the passenger door. "You shouldn't overdo it in this hot weather, not with that bad leg. Hop in."

  She hesitated only slightly. She had been taught not to get in the car with strangers, but, she reminded herself, Steve wasn't a stranger. After all, she had already visited his house and even accepted his invitation to dinner. Besides, her leg was throbbing again.

  "I've been meaning to ask what brought you to River Bend," Steve said as she settled into the soft leather seat with a sigh of comfort. He darted a glance at her dusty sandals, either from sympathy or concern for the immaculate carpet. "This doesn't seem the kind of town that would attract a woman of your, er, cosmopolitan background."

  She shrugged off the attempt at a compliment. "Impulse, I guess," she admitted. "I wanted to check out my inheritance."

  His profile remained focused on the road, but she saw his dark eyebrows glide up. "Inheritance? Oh, you mean Esther's place?"

  She didn't answer right away, for the truth was it wasn't just Esther's house that had brought her. That sharp flash of recognition she had experienced while looking at the photograph had come from something else, something centered in the house but which had nothing to do with paint or floorboards. But she couldn't explain that to Steve, not when she didn't fully understand it herself.

  "I'm not sure what I mean," she said finally, her tone indicating that she didn't want to talk about it any more, and to her relief, Steve did not follow up with any more questions. His silence, perversely, made her chatter on, however.

  "I don't understand why Esther left the house to me, to be honest," she said after a moment. "I mean, I'm not even related to her."

  "You were married to Jonathan," he pointed out, passing a truck with a smooth motion of his wrist. "That makes you a Perleman, doesn't it?"

  "But that's the odd thing." She turned toward him, noting again how well dressed he looked for a wine-grower. Wasn't there some fancy term for the profession? Vintner, that was it. She didn't know which designer was responsible for the crisp, button-up shirt he wore open at the throat and that fit his shoulders as perfectly as if it had been tailored for him, but it reminded her of the type Jonathan had favored, not the cheap brands they sold at Wal-mart or Sears, the kind her father had worn. The slim watch on his tanned wrist looked like real gold. "Esther didn't leave anything to Jonathan—just to me. I never understood that. I didn't even know her that well."

  "I can see why you might think it odd." His mouth relaxed into the blinding smile she remembered from yesterday. "But it's not that surprising. Jonathan's family had a long-running feud with Esther. From what I understand, the bad feelings went back to the time she was a girl."

  Paisley studied him with curiosity. "Oh? How do you know?"

  He glanced at her. "I grew up next door, remember? I used to play with Jonathan when we were kids, and my parents knew his parents. There are no secrets in a small town."

  His words echoed those she had thought to herself, not long ago.

  "It still seems strange to me," she mused, as they reached the top of the hill. "Esther seemed too nice to carry a grudge, and yet she slapped Jonathan in the face by leaving the house to me. Shouldn't she have made more effort to find another blood relative to leave it to, even a distant one?"

  He gave her a quick look. "I must say, it's to your credit to think that way. But blood is not always thicker than water." He pulled the car to a stop. "I'll drop you off here if that's okay. It's a short walk to Main Street."

  She opened the door. "Thanks for the lift. You're a lifesaver."

  "No problem." He touched his forehead in a salute.

  As Paisley watched the Audi recede into the distance, she kicked herself for bringing up personal matters with a near-stranger. What did Steve care whom Esther had left the house to? But he had been too polite to shown boredom.

  She remembered their upcoming dinner together and found to her surprise that she was looking forward to it. Why not? It wasn't a date, but it wasn't too early to build a social life again. At least, it was a start toward normalcy.

  Chapter Five

  It was Friday afternoon, and the sidewalks along River Bend's main street were busier than before. Clusters of patrons filled several of the outside tables of the café, with its cheerfu
l blue-and-yellow striped awning. Across the street, Shirley was placing books into a paper bag while a pair of customers waited. When the door jingled, she turned to Paisley with a wide smile, and pushed her thick plastic-rimmed glasses up her snub nose.

  "Hi, there!" she greeted her at once. "I hear you've hired Marvin McMurtry's kid to fix the house up for you."

  Paisley could not hide her surprise. "How did you know?"

  Shirley's grin grew wider. "There's no privacy around here. Haven't you learned that yet? I just want to know how you got Ian to take on the job. Last time he popped into my store, he told me he wouldn't have time to do much reading this summer because he'd be working on his thesis for his architecture program at Berkeley."

  "Berkeley?" Paisley asked, stunned. "You mean Ian's a college student? I thought he was a handyman."

  "Oh, he knows how to do renovations. Ian worked for his dad's contracting company until Marvin died a couple of years ago." Shirley paused, and a tiny frown dented her forehead. "To be honest, that's why I was surprised Ian agreed to do your project. He hated construction work. Once, he told me he wanted to design buildings, not build them. What was your secret for persuading him to do the renovations?"

  "No secret. I just called the phone number in the yellow pages," Paisley said, puzzled.

  "You must have found an old phone directory, honey. There isn't even a website."

  "Oh," said Paisley. That explained why Ian had seemed confused that day when she had called him out of the blue. But why hadn't he told her the truth? Why show up the next day with a clipboard and a couple of friends, as if he took on such jobs every day?

  Since Ian wasn't there, she posed the question to Shirley instead.

  Shirley pushed her glasses up her broad nose again. "He probably took the job because he needed the money," she said matter-of-factly. "College is expensive. Don't worry, Ian knows what he's doing." Shirley glanced at her watch, a cheap Timex. The customers had left with their purchase, and the store was empty. "Come on, Paisley, let me treat you to lunch. I have questions for you, too, but at least you'll get a free meal out of it. And you don't have to answer if you don't want to."