liver.”
He looked at me with arched eyebrows. “Get in, Tish. She’s dying.”
13
“Olivia’s dying?” I sloshed around to the passenger side and jumped in. I slammed the door and fastened my seat belt. Joel moved in slow motion to put the car in gear.
“Well, hurry up. She could pass at any moment,” I urged. I didn’t want to miss out on my last opportunity to meet my great-grandmother.
“So she says,” Joel replied.
The car pulled forward at a snail’s pace.
“You don’t seem to be taking this very seriously.” I pushed my foot against the floorboard, hoping the car would accelerate in response.
“Nope.” Joel stopped at the top of the drive, sending a lengthy gaze in either direction before pulling onto the highway. “She’s been dying for the past twenty years.” He glanced at me with cynical eyes. “Leverage, you know.”
My lips formed a silent “oh.” I nodded and looked out the window. I knew firsthand how weighty the threat of death could be to the living. My grandma Amble had used her illness to guilt me into dropping out of college to take care of her in her last days, which had stretched out for more than two years. Recently, I’d given thought to what I should have done instead of playing into her death drama. I should have continued to live. I should have stayed at college and finished my degree. Hospice and visiting nurses would have been more than sufficient to provide for my grandmother’s physical needs. I would have been home with her on weekends and breaks anyhow.
I sighed. That reasonable scenario had seemed so selfish at the time. But Gram and I would have enjoyed each other so much more without the martyrdom that brought anger, resentment, and eventually murder into my heart.
Joel kept below the speed limit as he drove toward Port Silvan.
“So remind me again why you live with Olivia?” I said.
He gave me a glare that told me my question didn’t merit an answer.
“I’m not trying to be nosy,” I said. “I just don’t think it’s healthy for a guy your age to be living with his great-uncle and great-grandmother.” The sign for the cider mill passed by on my right. “I mean, don’t you plan on dating or getting married and having a family? What kind of woman is going to want to move in with Papa B and Olivia?”
He looked at me tight-lipped, then glanced back at the road. “I suppose I should just lace their morning coffee with cyanide and be done with them?” He shook his head. “Oh, wait. I don’t feel like going to prison for three years.”
I swallowed and stared ahead. “Point made,” I whispered.
He tipped his head at me. “Listen. I don’t want to fight with you. I live at the lake house because I choose to. Uncle Bernard and Grandma Olivia are both good people and I like helping them out. I like hearing stories about the old days. And to me, it’s better than living alone. But”—he made sure he caught my eye before continuing—“they’re not perfect. Watch what you say in front of Olivia. She’s not a big believer in confidentiality. If you cough in front of her, Port Silvan is going to hear that you’ve got pneumonia.”
I waved a hand. “You’re exaggerating.”
“No, I’m not. You’ve been warned. And that’s all I’m going to say about it.”
Joel navigated the curve out of town. A few minutes later we pulled into the drive at the lake house. Joel parked in the detached garage, pushing a button to shut the garage door behind us. The noisy clanking meant I didn’t have to say anything as we got out of the vehicle. I followed him outside and across the cobblestone walk.
We came in the house through a side door that led into an entry room. From the landing where we stood, steps forked up to the kitchen or down to the basement. Behind us hung at least twenty coats and jackets in denim, canvas, camouflage, nylon, and flannel. Boots and shoes were scattered across the floor near the back wall. Paint that had once been bright white was covered with black scuff marks.
Joel took my coat and slung it over an open hook. I removed my swampers and lined them near the wall. My socks made contact with a pool of water. I cringed.
“You want a cup of coffee to take in there with you?” he asked.
I’d worked up a dose of perspiration on my walk and now that my slicker was off and my socks were wet, I couldn’t stop shivering. “Coffee sounds good.” I rubbed my arms to chase away the chill. I could already feel the pneumonia setting in.
“You want a fresh sweatshirt or something?” Joel asked.
I nodded. “Slippers, too, if you have some.”
“Come on,” he said. “You can change upstairs.” He motioned for me to follow him.
The front steps made a steep run to the second floor. My socks slid on the smooth cherry treads. At the top, I paused to view Silvan Bay. Most of the snow had melted from the shore, with only an occasional patch still lingering in shaded areas. A lone ice-fishing shanty, patched together with a hodge-podge of boards and old siding, sat half submerged in the retreating ice, perhaps destined to bob as a menace to boaters until sinking at last to the bottom of the bay.
“Here,” Joel said from a door at the end of a long hallway. “After you change, come back downstairs and I’ll bring you to Olivia.” He handed me the warm garments I’d requested and walked off.
I entered the bedroom. The air was cold, as if the room had been shut off from the rest of the house. A pink comforter with lace edging covered a white wrought-iron bedstead. Candles in colorful holders lined the window ledge. A wreath of dried wildflowers hung above the round mirror of the ’50s-style dresser. I wondered how the room had been allowed to exist in the mostly male household.
A photo on the wall showed a smiling Leave It to Beaver family of three. I took a closer look. I recognized a young-twenties Puppa sans moustache and dressed in a coat and tie. The woman next to him would be my deceased grandmother. She was beautiful, with dark hair and happy, gleaming eyes. That made the toddler in the picture my father. He looked about three years old when the photo was taken. An abundance of curls topped his head. Baby teeth peeked out from his wide-mouthed smile.
I ran a finger across the glass. Surely the little family had held such promise. Who could have known the tragedy in store for their lives?
I turned my back on the past and put on the thick sweatshirt. I stepped into the slippers, closed the bedroom door behind me, and made my way downstairs.
“Joel?” I called when I got to the entry hall.
“This way.”
His voice came from a door that hung open underneath the steps. I hadn’t even seen it my first time through.
I entered what must have been at one time the nursery. Small and square, the room was painted a pale blue that had darkened unevenly over the years. From the light fixture in the center hung a child’s mobile, with a circle of giraffes that remained forever just out of reach of the jaws of a smiling lion. A door in the far corner of the room probably connected to the master bedroom.
A hospital bed sat against one wall. Joel’s shoulders blocked the view of the woman under the covers. Her feet moved beneath the white spread.
“Joel. Move so I can see Patricia.” The voice was sharp and strong. An underlying waver revealed the speaker’s advanced age.
My cousin stepped aside with a flourish of his arm, as if to say, “She’s all yours.”
I smiled and moved to the edge of the bed. The lovely Olivia wore carefully coifed and silvered hair. Her lined face was still pert and attractive for a woman her age. A touch of rouge brightened her cheeks.
“Hi. It’s nice to meet you.” I held out a hand in greeting. Though her bones looked as delicate as a bird’s, she nearly crushed my fingers with her feisty grip.
