Kitabı oku: «More Than a Memory», sayfa 3

Chapter Three

ON THE OTHER SIDE of town from the Rowans’ B and B, Clare Logan knocked on her son Garret’s kitchen door. His dog, Domino, a black-and-white spotted hound, barked and jumped up to bat the glass, but there was no response from Garret. Clare shifted the load she carried and, after a sharp command for the dog to sit, let herself in. “There’s a good boy,” she murmured as the hound sniffed her shoes, whined, then padded over to his empty food dish and gave her a pathetic look. “I see your master has fallen down on the job this morning. Let me check on him, then I’ll get you some kibble.”

“Garret,” she called again, “it’s Mom. I’ve brought homemade breakfast rolls and black coffee.” Clare set the still-warm rolls and the thermos on the granite counter. She tsked over the lack of any sign that Garret had eaten the night before.

Making her way to the living room, she wasn’t surprised to find her youngest son passed out on his leather couch, still wearing yesterday’s clothes. His left hand was wrapped limply around a half-empty bottle of Bushmills that rested on the floor. Grimacing, she took away the bottle, capped it and unceremoniously rolled Garret off the couch onto the hardwood floor.

“Cripes,” he yelped, coming alive. “Can’t a man get peace and quiet in his own home?” He tried levering himself up on both elbows, but groaned and fell back flat. He flung an arm over his eyes to protect them from the bright morning sunlight as his mother threw open his drapes.

“Dad and I heard from all three of your brothers last night. They said you tossed them out of here so you could wallow in self-pity. I was willing to let you mope for one night. Now it’s time to buck up and display a little Logan pride.”

Clare stowed the whiskey bottle in an otherwise empty portable bar, spun back toward her son and settled her hands on her hips.

“Go away,” he groaned. “Can’t you all see I just want to be left alone?”

A petite woman whose head barely reached the shoulders of her husband, Donovan, or any of her four sons, Clare Logan was nevertheless no weakling. She proved it now by hooking Garret under his arms and muscling him to his feet. He swayed unsteadily, but with his mother’s assistance, managed to stumble toward the downstairs bathroom. “Time for a shower,” Clare announced. “You smell worse than the pub after a bachelor party. I’ll fetch you some clean clothes, then I’ll feed Domino. A chore you should have handled hours ago.”

“Jeez, take it easy, okay? My head feels like I got kicked by a mule.” Garret leaned both palms on the sink and peered into the mirror before passing a shaky hand over his stubbled jaw. “I’m entitled to tie one on, Ma. Or didn’t Brian tell you who showed up at the pub yesterday afternoon?”

Clare crossed her arms, but her expression became a shade more sympathetic. “Sean phoned first, then Brian. Honey, we’ve all watched you be depressed over that girl for too long. We grieved with you in the beginning. Back then we loved her, too. Now I’m mad as hell. She couldn’t have phoned or written to you once in all that time? You know she could have.”

Garret’s jaw twitched as he gritted his teeth.

“Oh, son, it’s been so good this past year to see you getting back to the Garret we all know and love. None of us are willing to stand idly by and let Colleen Drake send you into another black hole.”

Garret winced as his mother rolled Colleen’s name bitterly off her tongue. “Men don’t get depressed,” he argued. “I missed her and floundered for a while is all.”

“That’s the kind of stubborn thinking that kept you from enjoying life. You found out whiskey didn’t help before. It won’t do anything now.”

Garret sagged and his chin hit his chest. “I did try drowning my sorrows in booze. Luckily I hate hangovers.” And after several stiff drinks last night, Garret convinced himself he’d been mistaken yesterday at the pub. Now he wasn’t sure. “So,” he said, heaving a sigh. “She’s really alive? I started to hope, as Brian suggested, that it was her double.”

“Don’t we wish? No, she tried to book a room at the resort. Sean figured she’d stop there, and he called Trish to warn her. She made up a story about all the area hotels being full from now through the Mountain Music Festival. Sean and Brian hoped Colleen would leave and go on her merry way. Unfortunately, no one told the Californian couple who opened that new B and B in the south end. Galen was driving home from work and saw Colleen hauling her luggage into the old Rowan house.” Galen was the eldest of Clare’s four sons, and the only one not involved in Logan’s pub.

“Why do you suppose she came back after all this time?” Garret muttered half to himself as he turned on the shower. “At first, I could have sworn she didn’t recognize me. Then she hiked herself onto a bar stool and ordered sarsaparilla like she always did. I, uh, yelled at her in front of customers—a couple of salesmen traveling through White Oak Valley who’d stopped in for a beer. I realized what I’d done, and told her to meet me outside. But I just couldn’t face her. Seeing her was like an electric shock, Ma.”

“I’m disappointed in her. She doesn’t seem the least bit fazed by how she treated you, Garret. Brian said he told her she was wasting her time sticking around. This morning Jaclyn paid her a visit. She told Colleen that you and she are dating. I detoured past the B and B on my way here, thinking she’d have taken the hint to go. I assume it’s her car with Massachusetts license plates still parked in their lot.”

“Jackie should’ve stayed out of this. If there’s fighting to be done, it’s between me and Colleen.”

“Jaclyn’s seen you at your worst. She cares about you, Garret.You two have more in common than you’ll admit. She knows what it’s like to have your heart broken.”

“Yeah, but even so…”

“This room’s steaming up.” Clare reached inside the door and turned on the noisy exhaust fan.

Grimacing at the stab of pain in his head, Garret quickly shut the fan off. “Ma, I’ve told you—told the whole family—I’m simply not in the market for a wife. I wish you’d all listen.”

Clare held up a hand. “Take your shower, Garret. Domino’s been waiting long enough for his breakfast, so I’ll take care of that after I drop some clean jeans and a shirt outside your door. Once you feel yourself again, we can hash this out over coffee and rolls.”

“No food, Ma. Coffee, black and plenty of it, will do me. Thanks for sobering me up, but there’s nothing to talk about.” He meant that, too, as he shut the bathroom door and stripped out of clothes that did smell like swill. Garret loved his family, but at times they could be too interfering.

Stepping under the pelting spray, he tried to force his thoughts to focus. Not that he wanted to revisit the pain he’d suffered in the years after his return from Ireland. He’d brought home a wedding ring he’d intended to put on Colleen’s finger. So many times, he’d imagined how the stones would flash under the pub’s stage lighting whenever her talented fingers worked their magic on her fiddle strings. What would his family say if they knew how often, when he was alone, he took out the ring and the fiddle Colleen had played at the pub whenever he could talk her into it? She’d played there in spite of her mother’s vehement objection.

There was one thing Garret knew to be true. Sharon Drake had never liked him. She’d chased him back through the hole in the hedge between the Drake and Logan houses too often to count.

Over the years he and Colleen had gotten good at finding ways to steal time together. There’d never been anyone else for either of them. After they were old enough to realize they were in love, they swore they’d move heaven and earth to be together forever.

Colleen had broken that promise in the worst possible way, and it had nearly killed him.

Turning off the spray of water that had grown considerably cooler, Garret buried his face in a navy-blue towel. If only he could shut off the vivid memories as easily. He thought he’d succeeded in filing them out of reach this past year—until yesterday when he glanced up and saw Colleen standing there. She’d displayed all the poise and sophistication her mother had insisted she could have if Garret was out of the picture.

Garret wrestled with a million questions only Colleen could answer. One in particular haunted him. But he didn’t know if he was strong enough to hear the blunt truth.

Deciding to get answers one way or another, he retrieved the clothes his mom had left outside the bathroom door and got dressed. Garret hoped his mother had taken the hint that he preferred to be left alone. He should’ve known better. Meddling was a family art. Indeed, Clare Logan bustled about, bringing order to his kitchen.

“Hey, boy.” He bent slowly to keep the lingering dizziness at bay, and scrubbed Domino’s head and patted his wiggling backside. “No run today,” Garret said when the dog sat and stared longingly at the leash hanging next to the back door.

Crossing to the sink, Garret washed his hands before accepting the steaming mug Clare held out to him.

“I must say you look a lot more presentable than you did when I got here.”

“I feel fine. You don’t need to babysit me, Ma. I’m going to work as soon as I finish this coffee. It’s good, by the way.”

She snorted. “Don’t you know by now that flattery won’t get you anywhere with me? You’d say it was good if it was sludge, hoping I’ll hush up and make myself scarce. And I will—eventually. I have chores to do before I join Kellee at our pottery booth,” Clare said, referring to Brian’s wife. Clare, Kellee and Galen’s wife, Sheila, met throughout the year to mix, pour, fire and glaze unique pottery pieces they sold in local stores once a year during the arts and crafts fair. Garret remembered Colleen used to love to help, but her mother constantly complained that the chemicals in the clay would make her fingers too rough for playing her violin.

Clare broke into Garret’s silent musing. “Your dad is driving to Knoxville today to pick up supplies the community club ordered for the Art Association’s barbecue dance. Ride home with me. You can go along to see he doesn’t overdo the heavy lifting.”

Garret studied her through the steam rising from his mug. “This is Sean’s morning to volunteer at the firehouse. I can’t leave Brian to handle the pub by himself.”

“Brian suggested I ask you. He phoned while you were in the shower.”

“The way he bitches if he’s ever left alone to tend bar and cook for the lunch crowd? What are you guys not telling me, Ma?”

Guilt pinched Clare’s features as she avoided her son’s dark brown eyes, so like her own. Inspecting her lightly polished nails, she finally caved in. “It’s for your own good, Garret. On her way to work, Trish saw Colleen turning into the high-school parking lot. For whatever reason, it seems she’s determined to poke around town. Maybe she’ll find whatever she’s after and leave at the end of the day.”

Garret took a swallow of his coffee, which gave him time to process the new information. “She left White Oak Valley before she graduated. Do you think her visit has to do with that?” he muttered, finally setting his mug down. “Nah, any information she needed from the school she could get by phone.”

“Garret, we were discussing you helping your dad.”

Yeah, and he’d never hear the end of it if he turned her down. Not that he would. His dad had undergone a triple bypass the previous year, and the boys pitched in with heavy chores whenever possible. “Sure, I’ll go with Dad.” Besides, Garret figured it’d be smart to clear his mind before he talked to Colleen. “Give me a minute to let Domino run around the backyard first. Oh, and top off my coffee, will you? Then we can take off.”

“Really? Fantastic.” Clare sprang from her chair to get the coffee. “Do you feel like a breakfast roll yet? I used almond flavoring in the glaze just for you.”

He opened his mouth to refuse, then decided to save his arguments for the battle that was sure to come when his family learned about his plans to confront Colleen—even if he had to follow her to Boston. One way or another, he’d made up his mind that they were going to meet again. Today, he wasn’t up to a skirmish with her or his family, especially considering the way his head split when he whistled Domino back into the house.

But Garret knew he’d have it out with any or all of the Logans if they interfered with his seeing Colleen. He’d wasted one night trying to numb the shock of learning she was very much alive. Now it was time, as his mother had said earlier, to act like a man. A Logan. Surely she hadn’t forgotten what set Logan men apart from others. They believed in love at first sight and were loyal to that one woman forever.

There wasn’t much point in inviting another lecture by reminding his mom of that fact, Garret thought as they drove into town. When they arrived, he glanced over at the house where Colleen Drake had once lived.

So many memories had been woven between them over the years, until his life had been shattered by the news of her death. Only, she hadn’t died, and now she was back. Garret kept circling back to why.

JO RECOGNIZED the White Oak Valley High School building from the yearbooks she’d found. Hope had faded that she and Colleen weren’t one and the same person. And still it bothered her that driving up to the school evoked no memories beyond the photographs. While she had begun to accept that it was her picture in the yearbooks, and those were her talent awards, she wasn’t able to fathom that she’d hurt Garret Logan. She’d never been close enough to anyone to hurt them.

Kendra Rowan had volunteered to accompany Jo to the high school. It was only after she walked through the doors and didn’t know where to start asking questions, that Jo wished she had accepted the offer.

City schools had security guards at the entrances. Here, a person could wander at will. Jo stopped to study trophies in a case that ran the length of the main hall. There were awards for soccer, wrestling, basketball and 4-H ribbons. She looked for Colleen Drake’s name but didn’t find it. The name Logan figured prominently on a number of plaques and trophies. Jo concluded it was a big family.

In the office she was greeted by a woman working at a computer. “I came across some old yearbooks from this school when I was cleaning out a closet after my mother died. I just wondered if there are any teachers who would’ve taught here eight or nine years ago still on staff. I’d be willing to make an appointment to see someone after school or during a break. I’d really like to talk to them.”

“Eight or nine years ago? The board offered a really great retirement package four years ago. Most people who were eligible took the offer.”

“That’s disappointing, but I’m not surprised. Thank you anyway.” Jo had nearly reached the door, when the woman called her back. “Wait. Mr. Rice, our music instructor, came out of retirement at our new principal’s request. I don’t know if he’d be of any help, but he has a prep period that runs for another fifteen minutes. You’re welcome to see if he’s in the music room.”

Jo’s heart beat faster at that news. “I’ll go straight there. Where is the music room?”

“It was moved to the annex last year. Take a left out the door and follow the walkway. It’s the brick building in front of the ball field. That made it easier for students going to and from the field for marching-band practice.”

Some of Jo’s excitement drained as she left the office. From what she’d seen of high-school marching bands in Boston parades, none had violinists. And a small school like this might not have an orchestra. But, as this was her best lead, she followed the walkway to the music room.

A man with almost completely white hair and stooped shoulders sat behind a desk, changing reeds in a clarinet. Jo felt no connection to the room, or to him. She hesitated in the doorway, wondering if she should leave. But her shadow fell across his desk, causing him to glance up. His pale eyes, magnified by tortoiseshell glasses, widened, and the clarinet mouthpiece slipped from his fingers. “Colleen?” The teacher jumped up and adjusted his glasses. “Heavens to Betsy, we thought…Well, clearly the papers were wrong.” He brushed his hands down his sweater vest, then removed his glasses. “What have you been doing since you left here, child?”

“Growing up, mostly. Recently I’ve been playing first-chair violin with the Boston Philharmonic Orchestra. I’m currently on hiatus from that and from my private tutors. They say I should soon be ready for the Boston Symphony Orchestra.”

“I’m so very pleased. You were the most talented student I’ve seen at White Oak Valley. I did my best to nurture your gift.Your mother, bless her heart, had such a time getting you to practice the classics.We…she, primarily, despaired of you ever attaining your full potential. In those days, as I’m sure you remember, you spent far too much time hanging around down at the footbridge with the youngest Logan boy. You two were forever skipping out on church choir practice, too.”Mr. Rice set his glasses on a book of musical scores. Resting a hip on the desk, he sobered. “Sharon realized she had to move you away from your next-door neighbors, or risk you foolishly throwing away all your talent to marry young Garret. He’s a nice enough boy, butwe all knew he’d never be anything more than a bartender. Part-owner of the pub, it turns out. Oh, my dear, you’re frowning. Not every parent has the gumption to make these kinds of hard decisions.Your mother sacrificed a lot because your father had a well-established business here.”

“Mother recently passed away,” Jo blurted out.

“I’m sorry to hear that. And Joseph? Is there any chance the reports of his death were wrong, too?”

“No,” Jo murmured through suddenly dry lips. “Dad died. I was first reported dead at the scene, but I pulled through.”

A headache, one of the crippling kind that sometimes erupted behind the scar Jo hid with a full set of bangs, struck in earnest. She still didn’t remember experiencing anything Mr. Rice had mentioned. However, he’d given her an enlightening synopsis of her family. In particular, her mother, someone Jo knew could be controlling. Her mother was fanatical when it came to pushing Jo to work harder at furthering her career.

But would she have gone so far as to concoct a background full of lies?

It wasn’t at all surprising Sharon hadn’t mentioned Jo ever having a boyfriend. She would never have approved. There’d been a few times in the years since the accident when Jo made offhand remarks about hoping to meet a nice man one day and have a normal life, including a family. Sharon had raged against any such notion. She insisted Jo was destined for greater things than marriage. Sharon usually followed that statement up with a lecture about how she had given up her own singing career to get married and have Jo. And where were they now? On their own, without the man who had sworn to provide for them.

“I have a class in a few minutes,” Mr. Rice said. “Are you in town for long? I’m so glad you made time to drop by.”

The sounds of students laughing and scuffling on the walkway outside the music room brought Jo back to the present. “No, I’ll probably stay just a few days. Thank you, Mr. Rice, for taking time to visit with me. I appreciate it immensely.”

He waved away her thanks and escorted her to the door. “It’s a pleasure, Colleen, to know your talent has found a home. Your mother may have pressured you, but she only wanted you to do well. In show business there’s a name for her type. Stage mothers. I hope you’re happy, regardless.”

“Is there a reason I shouldn’t be?” Jo asked. Perhaps her old music teacher could shed light on why her presence upset so many people in town.

The teacher held open the door and told the incoming students to take their places. He turned back to Jo to say, “Happiness means different things to different people. I played with a band in my youth, but I didn’t like always being on the road. Settling down to teach made me a happier man than the fleeting glory or better money would have. Your mother believed fame and fortune were the be all and end all. That’s only true if being center stage fills your heart with joy, Colleen.”

She stepped out into the sunshine and still shivered. It was so awkward having people call her by a name that didn’t feel like hers. Jo pretended she knew what the music teacher meant, and waved a cheery goodbye. Several of his comments stuck in her mind. The main one—that Colleen had preferred hanging out with this Garret Logan over knuckling down with her music—struck her as odd. All Jo knew was practice.

The school library had copies of all yearbooks since 1945, when the school opened. A quick visit provided more information about the Logan clan. Garret, the youngest Logan boy, was two years older than Jo. From his photo, she recognized him as the first bartender she’d met in the pub. The one who had sent the beer mug crashing to the floor. For someone she’d supposedly spent a lot of time with—and ditched violin practice for—he hadn’t seemed all that pleased to see her come back from the dead.

On the other hand, Jo thought, any girl would have fallen for him. In his school pictures he was handsome as sin and had a roguish glint in his eyes. Yesterday she’d thought his eyes were dark and mysterious, like a forest pond.

Already fighting a migraine, she shut the yearbook with a snap, irritated by this bewildering attraction to a total stranger.

But he wasn’t a stranger to Colleen Drake. In fact, Mr. Rice said they’d been next-door neighbors. Didn’t it stand to reason that seeing the house she’d lived in as a girl might be the very thing to crack open a stubbornly locked history? Jo drove back to the bed-and-breakfast feeling that at least she was on the right track.

It was almost lunchtime when Jo arrived at Buttercup Cottage. Jim Rowan was putting the finishing touches on a big chef’s salad when she dashed in. “Do you have enough for a third hungry person?”

He smiled. “Kendra said you’d be back. She had me warm three wheat rolls.”

“How did your visit to the school go?” Kendra asked as she entered the kitchen from the porch. “Wait, let’s take our food outside. I’ve set the wicker table for three. Oh, and we have news. I rented the downstairs green room to a couple from Georgia—the Eberharts. They’re nice as can be. I thought you’d be excited to hear that they’ll be performing at the Mountain Music Festival. She plays a banjo and he plays something called a resophonic dobro guitar. I think that’s right.”

The name filled Jo’s head with imagined sounds. Deep, melodious tones very different from the pure ones of her violin. She heard herself say, “Tennessee mahogany makes the highest-quality instruments. I know because my dad was a master luthier.”

Kendra and Jim shared a blank look. “I’m sorry,” Kendra said, “we don’t know what that is…what your father did.”

The picture in Jo’s mind vanished. She rubbed at creases etched between her eyebrows. “I…don’t know…what were we talking about?”

“Guitars. Jo, are you all right? You’re shaking and you’ve gone awfully pale. Come, let’s go sit on the porch. Jim can bring our salad and rolls. I’ll pour you some sweet tea. Southerners swear sweet tea is the best pick-me-up possible.”

Jo didn’t resist as Kendra led her outside. “It’s probably low blood sugar. I should have eaten that second crêpe at breakfast.”

“Mountain air is probably thinner than you’re used to. Here, take this chair.” A frosty pitcher of amber tea already sat on the table. Kendra poured out three glasses and passed one to Jo. “I’ll be right back. I’m going to go look up that word, luthier, in my dictionary before I forget how to sound it out.”

She came back as Jim served up salad and parked a hot roll on each plate. “A luthier is a maker of stringed instruments. It’s one of those four-dollar words I bet only people in the profession use. Your color is better,” Kendra said after she sat.

“You must think I’m an idiot,” Jo said softly. She pulled apart her roll, then wiped her hands on her napkin. Lifting her thick bangs, she showed them the pale scar that ran from the center of her forehead to just above her left ear. “You read about my mother’s death on the Internet, but I guess that article didn’t give any old news. Seven years ago, my dad and I were involved in a car-train accident. Apparently early reports claimed we’d both died on impact, but really the paramedics managed to resuscitate me. I lived, but was in a coma for a while, and I underwent multiple surgeries for internal injuries. I get occasional headaches that hit without warning. And…” She hesitated. “As I said this morning, I still have trouble with my memory.”

“Like post-traumatic stress disorder, you mean? Oh, you poor thing.” Kendra grabbed Jo’s hand.

Jim gave her more salad. “My sympathies. At least I knew from the get-go what disabilities I’d be dealing with.”

“I’m not after sympathy. I know Kendra had questions,” Jo said.

“I’m nosy,” Kendra rushed to say. “I figured something was wrong, especially after you didn’t know Jaclyn Richmond. No matter, she’s so not worth remembering.”

“Kendra.” Jim frowned at his wife, who merely rolled her eyes. But she did turn her attention to her salad.

Jo cut her egg into the blue cheese crumbles. Dipping a forkful of salad to her side of dressing, she said, “I’m so glad I stopped back for lunch. I really appreciate the support.”

Talk turned then to the ongoing arts and crafts fair in town. When Jo mentioned heading out again that afternoon, Kendra explained which streets were closed.

“I hope I have time to poke through the stalls while I’m here. I’m moving into an apartment of my own when I go back to Boston. My mother never put pictures on our walls, except of me,” Jo said, blushing with embarrassment. “I want paintings with bold, beautiful colors.”

“Jaclyn Richmond’s paintings?” Kendra suggested with a grin. Both women broke up giggling.

“I wish you’d move here,” Kendra said when their laughter wound down. “It would be so nice to have a friend like you.”

A profound yearning swept over Jo. She honestly had no idea what it would be like to lead a halfway normal life. All she knew was practicing and performing. “I have to get going,” she said, jumping up abruptly. She carried her half-empty plate to the kitchen, found a phone book and was amazed at the number of Logans listed. She weeded out those whose names she’d seen in the yearbooks at the school. That left a Donovan. Tucking the address in her purse, she waved goodbye to the Rowans on her way out.

Again she’d been hoping the house next door to the Logans’would jostle her stalled memory. But the boxy, two-story structure had been painted recently, so she wasn’t surprised that it didn’t ring any bells. She knocked, hoping the new owner would invite her in. No one was home.

She left the porch and followed the stepping stones between the only two homes on the dead-end street. She came to a gap in a well-trimmed, flowering hedge and suddenly fancied she saw a dark-haired boy chasing a knobby-kneed girl, who escaped through the branches. Briefly, Jo saw herself as a child swinging down from the lowest limb of the oak tree that shaded both yards.

She blinked twice, and the child was immediately older. Her red curls brushed the brow of a clean-cut boy sitting next to her on the top step of the big white house. The two were whispering, and she looked happy. Really, really happy.

Then—poof—the vision melted away. In its place stood the silent houses, the sturdy tree and an empty veranda.

Summoning her nerve, Jo hurried up to the door. The veranda ran the full length of the Logan home. Had someone scooted across the hall? A woman?

Jo quickly knocked several times. If it was a person—a woman—faintly visible through the frosted oval glass, she had vanished. Three more knocks brought no response. Had the snippets of memory been the result of an overhopeful imagination?

More confused than ever, she returned to her car. Her next stop, and possibly her last attempt to find answers here, would be the footbridge across the river in the downtown park. Mr. Rice had mentioned that Jo—well, she as Colleen—hung out there with Garret Logan when she should have been practicing her violin. She’d already conceded that she was Colleen Drake. Now she’d just have to live with the knowledge that her mother had fabricated a history and that she may never fully know why.

The therapist Jo had seen briefly had said when memory loss lasted as long as hers, breakthroughs sometimes never occurred.

That was a disheartening prospect. But she couldn’t afford to stay here much longer. She needed to support herself.