The Loft Read online

  “If you have time we’d like to take you to lunch,” Annie says.

  “I know,” Lillian replies. “Oliver already called.”

  She leads them down a wide hallway. “We have a tradition here at Baylor Towers. When a newcomer arrives we like to welcome them properly.” They step through a door onto an open terrace.

  Under the awning is a buffet table loaded with bowls of salad and plates of food. When Lillian gives a wave, the group echoes in unison, “Welcome to Baylor!”

  Ophelia scans the faces in the crowd and sees Sam and Pauline along with the other friends she’s met during the weeks at Kipling. A smile curls the corners of her mouth and she murmurs, “Oh my, what a wonderful surprise.”

  Annie wants to find fault with Baylor Towers. She wants to dislike the people who are taking Ophelia from her, but it is impossible. They are warm-hearted and friendly. As Ophelia moves about the room chatting with one person and then another she somehow looks younger, like the years have fallen away.

  Sam tells a joke and Ophelia laughs. The sound is almost musical. It is a sound not burdened with the weight of sadness, and for that Annie is thankful.

  The party continues for most of the afternoon, and when they finally leave Annie can understand why Ophelia wants to live here.

  Baylor Towers is making Ophelia a part of it, just as Annie has become a part of Memory House.

  ~ ~ ~

  One week later a moving van pulls into the driveway of Memory House. A broad-chested man with hands the size of ham hocks knocks at the door and asks if this is the Browne residence.

  Ophelia nods. She hands him the list she has prepared and points to the boxes sitting in the living room. They are packed and ready to go. She is leaving her collection of treasures behind. The bicycle, the ball, the raggedy doll, the Lannigan Bible, all of the things containing the memories of other people will remain here at Memory House. It is where they belong.

  Ophelia knows Annie will care for them, watch over them and hold them dear, just as she has done for all these many years.

  The First Night

  Annie and Ophelia are already at the apartment when the moving van arrives. As the men carry in the odd bits of furniture, the apartment begins to look like a miniaturized version of Memory House. Ophelia slides the glass door open, and the fragrance of flowers floats in. Only the splashing of ducks in the pond is missing. Although it is a sound she has grown used to, it is something she can easily do without.

  Once the movers are gone, the two women set to work unpacking the boxes. It is not a difficult job because there are only twelve cartons and a tall wardrobe box. The apartment is small with only one large closet in the bedroom, a tiny linen closet in the bath and a single wall of cupboards in the kitchen. With this in mind, Ophelia has brought only the things she needs: a handful of silverware, six dishes, two sets of sheets and a small stack of towels. The rest she has left behind at Memory House.

  By five o’clock the towels are hung, the bed is made and all of the boxes have been emptied. Ophelia plops down on the sofa.

  “Whew,” she says. “I’m bushed.”

  “Relax for a while,” Annie says. “I’ll make a pot of tea then run out and pick up a few groceries.”

  A tin of dandelion tea was one of the things Ophelia deemed necessary. The various teas, along with her jars of herbs and spices, fill the bottom shelf of the corner cupboard.

  “That sounds lovely.” Ophelia pushes against the back of her leather chair, and the footrest comes up. She leans into the soft leather and closes her eyes. It is just for a minute, she tells herself, but when Annie returns with the tea she is sound asleep.

  Annie quietly slips out and heads to the grocery store. It is less than a block away so she walks.

  The store called Baylor Grocery is like a miniature supermarket. They have almost anything a person could ask for, but it is all pared down to single-serving proportions. Wheelbarrow-sized bins of fresh vegetables are nowhere to be seen; instead there are small baskets of fruits and vegetables. The tomatoes are bright red and the string beans a vibrant green, as fresh as they would be if pulled from Ophelia’s garden.

  Annie goes up and down the aisles selecting what she knows Ophelia will need: milk, eggs, bread, cheese, a prepared dinner of baked meatloaf and another of roast turkey.

  She leaves the store carrying three shopping bags filled to the brim, more than enough to last for several days. She will be back tomorrow, but until then she wants to make certain Ophelia has what she needs.

  Ophelia is still asleep when Annie returns, so she leaves a note saying she has gone home and will be back tomorrow. She explains there are dinners ready to pop in the oven and at the bottom of the note she adds, “I love you and wish you a world of happiness in your new home.”

  ~ ~ ~

  By the time Annie gets back to Memory House, Oliver is already home. She catches the smell of roast chicken the moment she opens the door.

  “Oliver?” she calls out.

  “In the kitchen,” he answers.

  She follows the sound of his voice and when she spots him with Ophelia’s apron wrapped around his waist, she laughs. “What’s this?”

  “I thought you might not feel like cooking tonight, so I picked up a baguette and a rotisserie chicken. Now I’m making a salad.”

  Annie crosses over and peers into the bowl. It is filled with chunks of romaine, tomatoes, cucumbers, onions and what looks to be a bit of summer squash. On the cutting board there are partially chopped red and green peppers.

  “That’s going to be an awfully big salad,” she says. “Are we having company?”

  “Nope, it’s just the two of us.” He pulls her into his arms and presses his body to hers. Lowering his mouth to her ear he whispers, “But I’ve got something special planned.”

  He leads her outside where he has already spread a blanket on the lawn. Beside it sits a tray with two glasses and a bottle of Pinot Grigio chilling in the ice bucket. He pulls the iPod from his pocket and hits play. The strains of soft instrumentals fill the air; not songs Annie can recognize, just sweet melodies.

  “In case you haven’t noticed it, we’re dining al fresco.”

  Annie is still wearing the jeans and tee shirt she has been working in all day. “Do I have time for a shower?” she asks.

  He nods. “But make it quick. Dinner is in fifteen minutes.”

  While Annie is showering, Oliver arranges a platter with salad on one side and slices of chicken on the other. They will eat from the same dish. He will spear bites of chicken and hold them to her lips, then use his hands to break apart pieces of the baguette for her. He wants this to be more than a meal; he wants this to be the first in a long string of new memories that will make them a part of this house.

  Ophelia’s words have settled in his heart and he knows they are true; he only hopes he can make Annie believe.

  When she returns, Annie is barefoot. Her hair has the scent of fresh strawberries and hangs wet against her shoulders. She wears only a lightweight spaghetti strap dress and her panties.

  Oliver gives a look of approval. “Pretty,” he says. He kisses her mouth and lowers her to the blanket.

  There is no rushing, no sense of urgency. There is only the chilled wine, the sweet sound of music and the moon climbing ever higher into the sky.

  Annie

  I thought the first night without Ophelia here would be heartbreaking, but it wasn’t. Having dinner outside on the lawn was like stepping into some sort of fairyland.

  I guess Ophelia was right; there is something magical about this house. I’ve felt it for a long time but always believed the magic was in her, not the house. Oliver, bless his heart, was wise enough to see the truth.

  To me the loft seemed like Ophelia and Edward’s special place, sort of a hallowed ground that strangers shouldn’t trample on. But this morning after Oliver left for work I went up there and looked around. The bookshelves are empty and the mattress is gone, so now it
just feels like a big empty room. When Ophelia moved out, all her memories went with her.

  I guess that’s how it’s supposed to be. Treasured memories are meant to stay with the person they belong to. Only the scattered memories with trouble stuck to them stay behind, waiting for someone like me to someday stumble on them.

  After last night I’ve decided to let myself be happy here. I know it’s what Ophelia wants, and now I can see it’s what Oliver wants also.

  I’m going to buy a mattress and turn the loft into our bedroom. Oliver may not be able to name the stars, but that certainly doesn’t lessen the pleasure of lying there and looking up at them.

  Living in this house makes people do things they never thought they’d do, and Ophelia claims that’s a good thing.

  I certainly hope she’s right.

  A Time of Changes

  Before a month has passed, the changes begin. Ophelia settles into Baylor Towers as if she’d been born there. She joins the Garden Club and volunteers to make three floral arrangements for the Fall Festival Luncheon. She also buys a 21-inch television and the stand that goes with it.

  Every afternoon at three o’clock she raises the footrest of the leather chair and clicks on channel six. “Don’t call me when the Ellen Show is on,” she tells Annie.

  During the first few weeks Annie called or came to visit every day, but now she also is busy. With Max’s help she is trying to figure out what to do with the loft.

  At first she thought it was simply a question of ordering a new mattress, but once the mattress is delivered she realizes this is not enough. Something is wrong, but what it is she cannot say.

  When Oliver suggests they sleep in the loft, she claims it is too soon. And on three different occasions when Ophelia asks if they have moved into the loft, Annie shakes her head no.

  “What are you waiting for?” Ophelia asks.

  Annie explains that she feels like an intruder.

  “It’s almost like I don’t belong there,” she says. “Like I’m trying to fit into someone else’s shoes.”

  Ophelia laughs. “That’s because you haven’t made the room your own. Edward built that room for us; now you’ve got to rebuild it for you and Oliver.”

  “Rebuild it?”

  “Yes. Change everything. Pare it down to the bare walls and start over.”

  “I can’t. The bed is built in and—”

  “That’s not a bed,” Ophelia says, chuckling. “It’s just a platform Edward topped with a mattress. A few boards nailed to the floor, that’s all.”

  In Annie’s mind the platform had been a sacred altar, something to be revered and left untouched.

  “You mean you wouldn’t mind if I changed it?” she asks.

  “Of course not.”

  “But you said you wanted Memory House to always remain the same.”

  “No, I said I want it to stay the same in my memory, and it will. Anything you do now won’t change the picture in my mind.”

  Ophelia smiles and the flood of memories begins. “It’s long past time for that platform to go,” she says. “When we began sleeping in the loft every night, Edward promised he would replace it with a real bed.” She gives a nostalgic sigh. “He just never got the chance.”

  This thought settles in Annie’s mind and gives her renewed inspiration.

  On a Tuesday morning when there is a mist of rain in the air and fog surrounds the house like a low lying cloud, Annie brews a tea said to inspire creative thought. It is a bitter mix of yarrow and mugwort, but she adds clover honey to sweeten the taste.

  When the drink is ready, she pours it into a large mug and carries it to the loft.

  She tugs the new mattress from its base, leans it against the wall, then sits cross-legged on the wooden platform. She is determined to reimagine the room as one for her and Oliver.

  Little by little the picture comes. The walls change from a faded beige to a blue the color of a late afternoon sky. The pale oak floor takes on the sheen of ripened black cherries. Sheer curtains hang at the side window and puddle on the floor. Hours pass before Annie can imagine the platform bed gone, but once she does a beautiful mahogany Queen Anne bed easily enough replaces it. Perfect, she thinks and fixes the picture in her mind.

  That afternoon she calls Max.

  “I’m going to need your help,” she says. “Bring paint brushes and a crowbar.”

  The project takes a full three weeks to complete. They start by prying the boards of the platform bed from the floor. Already the room seems larger. Once the platform is gone, Annie fills the nail holes with wood putty and rents a sander.

  Throughout the week Max is there to help, and on weekends Oliver steps in. It takes three days of sanding before the floor is ready for stain. By then Annie has repainted the walls, and Max has turned the unfinished bookcase into the white of a cloud.

  Once the floor is stained and varnished, it needs another three days to dry. That evening Annie and Oliver talk about furniture.

  “I’m picturing a Queen Anne bed,” she says. “Something like this.” She flips open a folder and produces an ad clipped from Architectural Digest.

  Oliver raises an eyebrow and wrinkles his forehead. “Hmmm.”

  “Hmmm what?” Annie says.

  “Well, I was thinking we’d use some of my furniture from the townhouse.”

  A look of hesitation settles on her face. “I don’t think it’s exactly…”

  “You don’t have to decide right now,” he says. “Drive over tomorrow by yourself, and take your time looking around. Once you get the feel of the place, you can figure out whether that furniture will work here or not.”

  She nods. “Fair enough.”

  Oliver has seen the folder, and other than the Queen Anne bed the pictures inside are almost exactly the same as the furniture Ophelia took with her. He hopes Annie’s vision of what the rooms should look like will be swayed by memories of their time spent at the townhouse.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to come with me?” she asks.

  “I’ve got a full docket for the next two weeks,” he says, “but I trust your judgment.”

  The next morning Annie tacks a note on the apothecary door saying she’ll be back by four, then climbs into her car and heads for Wyattsville.

  Up until now she has been so preoccupied with the loft she has given little thought to the empty living room, the missing table in the hall or the breakfast nook with nothing but a single chair.

  When she parks her car in the townhouse driveway and unlocks the front door, it is like opening a treasure chest of memories.

  The warmth of Oliver’s smile when he introduced his dad, her long sought bicycle boy, is here in this room. She can still picture Ethan Allen sitting in the wing back chair and Ophelia across from him. The Christmas tree with its tiny white lights winking and blinking like the merriest of elves. The stereo spilling sounds of joy.

  She walks to the bookshelves, two tall cherry wood cabinets standing side by side, a graceful duo for sure. She runs her hand along the spine of several books, tales of heroic men, books filled with knowledge, so many stories. By the time her fingers touch The Wisdom of Judicial Judgment in the Practice of Law, Annie knows she wants to bring this entire room to Memory House. How could she not? Every splinter of wood is filled with memories, some that she and Oliver have already made and some that are waiting to be discovered.

  It is the same in the bedroom. How, she wonders, could she have ever imagined a Queen Anne bed in the loft? This bed, the one they slept in on their wedding night, is obviously perfect. And the dresser, such a wonderful match. It would be criminal not to take that and the nightstands as well.

  After she has gone through the entire townhouse, Annie has eliminated only a brown leather chair that is too big to move anyway and a vacuum cleaner with a broken hose.

  That evening as Annie and Oliver sit across from one another at the dinner table she gives a nostalgic sigh.

  “I can’t imagine w
hy we ever considered selling all those beautiful things at the townhouse,” she says.

  “Neither can I,” Oliver says with a twinkle in his eye. “Neither can I.”

  A Perfect Life

  On Thursday of the following week, a moving van pulls into the driveway of Memory House and unloads the furniture from Oliver’s townhouse. Annie points to the precise spot where every item is to be placed, and by early afternoon the house is exactly as she imagined it.

  Well, perhaps not exactly. There are still odds and ends to be done: unpack the boxes, set books on the shelves, hang the curtains and find a spot where the painting of the Wyattsville courthouse can be hung.

  The side room that was once Ophelia’s sewing den is now Oliver’s study.

  Although it is smaller than the study at the townhouse, everything fits. Annie unpacks the desk accessories, then sets to polishing the furniture. She is pondering the arrangement of things when the cowbell clangs and Max comes charging in.

  “I knocked, but I guess you didn’t hear.” She offers a bottle of Merlot. “I figured tonight’s the night, so this is to go with dinner.”

  Annie takes the bottle. “Thanks, but tonight’s not the night. Tomorrow is. I want everything to be perfect, and there’s still a lot to do.” She rattles off a list of still-to-be done chores.

  “Can Oliver help with some of that stuff?”

  Annie shakes her head. “He’d be glad to, but with Judge Cooper on vacation he doesn’t even have time for lunch.”

  Max peels off her jacket and tosses it on the chair. “I’m not busy. I’ll lend a hand.”

  Once even the tiniest fleck of dust is gone from the office, they move to the other rooms. Cleaning. Polishing. Shining every surface until it gleams. It is almost six when they finish the downstairs.