The Loft Page 2

  I told him the same thing I’m telling you and he said, “Don’t worry, Dad, I’ll see she’s well taken care of.”

  He will. I’m certain of it. Oliver’s serious-minded and carries responsibilities like a briefcase shackled to his arm.

  I’m mighty proud to have a boy like him, and I think if Grandma Olivia were here to see him she’d be just as proud.

  The Dream

  When the caterer’s truck finally leaves, Memory House is silent except for an occasional squawk from the ducks on the pond. Ophelia climbs the stairs to the loft where she sleeps. It will be comforting to lie in bed and search the night sky for a few familiar friends.

  She changes into a soft cotton nightgown, plumps the pillow and crawls into bed. Above her there is a large skylight—the skylight Edward built. On nights when she is most lonely, she can look up and imagine him there among the stars he loved so dearly.

  Tonight they shine brighter than usual. She can see the constellation of Pegasus clearly. She searches her mind for the names of the stars in the constellation but can remember only one: Enif. It shines more brightly than any of the others.

  Even after Ophelia has closed her eyes she can still see the night sky, and she can remember the sound of Edward’s voice naming each individual star.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?” a voice says.

  It comes from behind her, but Ophelia knows without turning that it is Edward.

  “Yes, it is,” she answers. She feels the warmth of his hands on her shoulders.

  “We had some good years, didn’t we, Opie?”

  Ophelia feels herself smile. Opie. It is a name only he uses, and it is good to hear it again. Then she sighs. “It’s been so long.”

  “Too long.”

  “It hasn’t been easy,” she says, “taking care of this house, the garden, the apothecary…”

  “I know.” He gives her shoulder an affectionate squeeze. “I was glad when the girl came. It was good to see you laugh again.”

  “She’s gone now,” Ophelia says sadly.

  “I know.”

  She feels the tug of his arm as he pulls her closer to his chest.

  “Maybe you too should leave here,” he says. “Find a place where there’s less work and someone to watch over you.”

  “I could never,” she says. “This is where I belong.”

  “It’s not good for a person to be alone,” he says.

  “I’m not alone. You’re here with me.” She snuggles deeper into his arms. “I stay here because this is where I can look into the night sky and find you.”

  He laughs. It is the same gentle laugh she has heard a thousand times before.

  For a moment there is only silence and the joy of having him hold her. She would like to remain like this forever, but soon he will disappear just as he always does.

  He knows her thoughts, and again there is the soft sound of his laughter. “Opie, my dear sweet Opie. I don’t live here in this house. I’m alive inside your heart. I’ll go wherever you go.”

  “But here in this room—”

  “Look at the sky,” he says. “On nights when there’s a cloud cover overhead, you can’t see the stars but you know they’re still there.”

  Ophelia smiles, realizing this is true.

  “So am I,” he says. “No matter where you are, I am with you and I will be until the end of days.”

  She gives a melancholy sigh. “But I miss you terribly.”

  He touches the side of his face to hers, and she can feel the heat of his breath.

  “I know,” he answers. “In time we will be together again.”

  “When?”

  Ophelia feels the movement of his body as he shrugs.

  “It’s still in the future,” he says. “I don’t know when it will happen, but on that day I’ll come for you.”

  “You’re here now. Why can’t you just take me with you?” She turns to face him and is startled. Never before has she seen Edward older than he was the day he died, but now he has white hair and looks remarkably like Ethan Allen Doyle.

  “Edward?” she says, but before there is time for an answer he is gone.

  Ophelia bolts up and screams out his name, but it is too late. Now there is only the empty room and the rose of a new dawn drifting across the skylight. She is still groggy from sleep and wants to hold onto the dream, but it is impossible. She remembers only that he was there and knows only that he is now gone.

  She sobs and lowers her head into her lap. “Oh, Edward.”

  Today is Sunday, a day when almost no one comes to the apothecary. It stretches in front of her like a long road to travel. Ophelia climbs from the bed with the steely resolve that has carried her through the years.

  For breakfast she makes blueberry pancakes. It is the same breakfast she sets out for guests, but today they seem tasteless. She sprinkles a heaping tablespoon of brown sugar on the pancakes, but they still are flavorless as cardboard. Finally, she scrapes them into the garbage can. She was not all that hungry anyway, she tells herself. Instead she will brew a full pot of dandelion tea, perhaps with a bit of chamomile and a sprig of mint. Then she will sit on the back porch and read or perhaps crochet.

  After the kitchen is cleaned and the breakfast dishes put away, Ophelia pulls a book of Walt Whitman poems from the shelf. She is just about to settle on the porch when she hears the sound of the Good Shepherd’s bells. They are calling people to worship.

  The memory of yesterday is fresh in her mind. It has a certain warmth in it. People she has known for years go there. Friends shake hands and hug one another. The thought of a casual embrace or her hand touching another is welcomed on a day such as this. She sets the book aside and takes a lightweight jacket from the hall closet. Being at the Good Shepherd Church is far better than being alone.

  Some days Ophelia can tolerate the loneliness, but today it is harder. Why, she cannot say. Perhaps because she has grown used to Annie being there, or maybe because of the dream. Feeling Edward’s closeness and then having him disappear again freshens the pain of his absence.

  Ophelia has not driven for well over a year, but she has not forgotten how. It is like walking; you take a single step then it all comes back. Anyway, it is just over three miles to the church. Not a busy road. An easy drive. Nothing to be nervous about.

  “Don’t carry on like a helpless twit,” she tells herself and takes the car key from the basket in the kitchen.

  When she slides into the driver’s seat Ophelia feels her heart pounding against her chest. “Silly old woman,” she grumbles and turns the key in the ignition.

  The engine sputters and coughs then dies. She tries again. There is a momentary growl of resistance; then it surges to life. She adjusts the rear view mirror and backs out.

  Ophelia is halfway to the church when the first pain hits. It is like a hammer slamming against her back and pummeling her ribcage. She slows the car, but before she can pull to the side of the road the second one comes. It is worse than the first. She falls across the steering wheel, and the car slowly rolls over the edge of the road. When it finally comes to a stop, the right wheel is in the creek that runs alongside the road.

  Short Honeymoon

  On Sunday morning Oliver is up and dressed before Annie even opens one eye. They will honeymoon in New York, and he has the week planned: several Broadway shows, dining in five star restaurants and strolling through Central Park. He bends down and kisses her nose.

  “Wake up, sleepyhead,” he says. “We’ve got to get going.”

  She sits up and rubs her eyes. “What time is it?”

  “Almost seven,” he says and sets a cup of coffee on the nightstand beside her.

  Annie pushes the covers back and climbs out of bed. “Isn’t there any tea?”

  “No,” he says. “Sorry. I got so involved with the reception I forgot to get it.”

  A year ago Annie couldn’t start the day without a tall mug of coffee; now she dislikes the bitter taste. She wrink
les her nose.

  “I’d like to check on Ophelia anyway,” she says. “Let’s stop by the house, and I can grab a cup there.”

  Oliver winces. “I’d like to be on the road by eight,” he replies. “It’s a seven-hour drive, and we’ve got early dinner reservations.”

  This evening is meant to be a surprise so he doesn’t mention that the reservation is at One if by Land, Two if by Sea, a quaint carriage house restaurant in the West Village. It’s a place where reservations usually require a six-month wait. He wants this night to be special and has asked for a table in the corner with a bottle of champagne and a ribboned rose for Annie.

  “Would you settle for a chai from Starbucks?” he asks.

  She smiles. “I suppose so,” she says and heads for the shower.

  They are about to turn onto Route 95 when Annie pulls her cell phone out of her purse and punches in Ophelia’s number. It rings a dozen or more times, but there is no answer.

  “That’s strange,” she says. “Where would Ophelia be this early in the morning?”

  “Outside in the garden?” Oliver suggests.

  “It’s only nine-fifteen.”

  “Perhaps she went to the store? Or church?”

  Annie frowns. “I certainly hope not. She doesn’t drive anymore.”

  “Maybe one of the neighbors came and picked her up.”

  She shakes her head. “I don’t think so. Something about this doesn’t feel right…”

  Annie hits redial and waits. Still there is no answer. She sits her purse back on the floor but holds the phone in her hand.

  After she has tried several times, Oliver suggests calling a neighbor.

  Annie gives an absent nod. “Emma Landon lives just down the road. I’ll call and ask her to check on Ophelia.”

  Annie taps Search and types “white pages directory-Burnsville, VA” then puts in Emma Landon’s name.

  The phone reports there is no listing.

  She types in George Landon.

  Still no listing.

  She tries Bertha Warren and finally meets with success.

  After punching in Bertha’s number she waits. It rings sixteen, maybe seventeen times, but there is no answer.

  The ridges across Annie’s forehead deepen. “This really is strange.”

  Oliver pulls to the side of the road. “I’ll call Andrew and ask him to go over and make sure she’s okay.” Andrew Steen was Oliver’s law partner and is still his friend.

  “It’s a forty-minute drive from his house,” Annie says. “Do you think he’ll mind doing it?”

  Oliver shakes his head. He is already dialing the number.

  Andrew answers on the first ring, and Oliver explains the problem.

  “It’s the white house on Haber Street,” he says. “All the way at the end.” He rattles off Annie’s cell phone number and tells Andrew to call as soon as he gets there.

  As they pull back onto Route 95, Annie says, “I’m concerned.” The truth is she is worried, but she uses the word concerned.

  Oliver glances over. He sees her lips stretched tight and a line of furrows hovering above her brow.

  “Want me to turn around?” he asks.

  Annie would like to go back; she would like to know Ophelia is okay and nothing is wrong. But this is their honeymoon. Oliver has special plans, and she doesn’t want to disappoint him.

  “No,” she answers. “Not yet.”

  Her finger nervously picks at the edge of her cell phone case and he hears the apprehension in her voice. “Are you sure?”

  “Pretty sure,” she says. “Hopefully it won’t be long before Andrew calls.”

  Oliver slows the car and eases off at the next exit. He crosses under the overpass and pulls onto Route 95 Southbound.

  “Thank you,” Annie says softly. A few moments pass before she speaks again. “I’m sorry. I know this isn’t how you planned to start our honeymoon.”

  Oliver stretches his arm across the seat and lifts her hand into his. “There’s nothing to be sorry about,” he says. “Our honeymoon is only one week. We’ve still got a lifetime of love to look forward to.”

  “True, but—”

  “There are no buts,” Oliver cuts in. “Even if I could, I wouldn’t change a thing about you. The kind of love you have for Ophelia is a rare and unselfish thing.” He glances over and smiles. “I’m hoping that one day you’ll love me as much as you love her.”

  A tear rolls down Annie’s cheek. She brushes it back and looks across at Oliver. He doesn’t have the chiseled chin and dark eyes of Michael Stavros, but to her he is the most beautiful man in the world.

  “I already do love you that much,” she says.

  He slows the car and eases onto the shoulder of the road. Unbuckling his seat belt, he reaches across the console and pulls Annie into an embrace.

  “Annie Doyle,” he says, “I love you more than I ever dreamed possible.”

  He presses his mouth to hers, and it is so much more than just a kiss. It is his promise of a lifetime.

  When their lips part and he moves back behind the steering wheel, Annie gives a deep sigh. She knows he is her Edward; he is the whole of her life.

  “We’ll have tomorrow and all the tomorrows after that,” he says. “But for now we have to go back and make sure Ophelia is okay.”

  They are crossing into Virginia when Annie’s cell phone rings. The caller ID tells her it is Andrew Steen.

  “Are you at the house yet?” she asks.

  “Yes,” Andrew answers, “but there’s no one here.”

  “Sometimes she’s slow answering,” Annie says. “Did you ring the cowbell over by the apothecary?”

  “Yes. And I checked the garden and backyard. She’s not here.”

  “Is the car in the garage?”

  “I don’t know,” Andrew says. “There’s no window.”

  “Go around back,” Annie tells him. “That door is never locked.”

  “Hold on.”

  Annie listens to the sound of footsteps and the squeak of the rusty hinge.

  After a few moments Andrew is back on the line. “There’s no car in the garage.”

  “Is there any sign of trouble? A broken window? Trampled bushes?”

  “Not that I can see,” Andrew answers.

  Annie lets out a whoosh of air that is drawn from the pit of her stomach. “Oh, dear…”

  Oliver is going seventy-eight miles per hour; he pushes down on the pedal and takes it up to eighty-five.

  “We’ll be there in forty minutes or less,” he says.

  “Do you want me to do anything else?” Andrew asks.

  “I guess not,” Annie replies. She wants to believe there is a logical reason why the car is gone, but right now she cannot think of one. Her only thought is that Ophelia is behind the wheel of the car.

  After Andrew hangs up, they ride in silence for almost a minute. Oliver wants to say something that will ease Annie’s mind, but he knows words are useless at a time like this.

  “Perhaps Ophelia drove to church,” he finally offers. “There’s almost no traffic on Creekside road, so she should be fine.”

  “She hasn’t driven in over a year. Maybe longer.”

  “But that doesn’t mean she can’t.”

  “I hope that’s true,” Annie says. By now she has picked the plastic loose from one whole corner of her cell phone case.

  Annie Cross…now Doyle

  I’ll never forgive myself if something has happened to Ophelia.

  I should have known better than to go off and leave her alone. She’s ninety years old. A woman her age shouldn’t have to fend for herself. Someone should be there to drive her wherever she wants to go or call for help if she gets sick.

  It’s easy to forget she’s getting on in years because she doesn’t act old, but that’s a poor excuse for me being so thoughtless. I should have ignored her objections and made arrangements for someone to stay with her.

  I don’t say this to Oliver,
but I know Ophelia gets nervous in the car, even when she’s sitting in the passenger seat. Sometimes if I turn a corner a bit too fast, she’ll grab onto the armrest so tightly her knuckles go white. That’s not the kind of person who should be driving.

  I want to believe this is all just some crazy mix-up; that maybe George Landon borrowed the car to drive Ophelia and Emma to church or the vegetable market; but there’s a gnawing fear inside my heart saying that’s not the case. The truth is I’m scared to death she’s in trouble.

  Don’t ask me what kind of trouble or how I know, because I don’t have an answer. I can only tell you what I feel.

  Right now, I’m praying Ophelia is safe. If we get home and find she’s okay, I swear I’ll never again go off and leave her alone like this.

  Never. Not under any circumstances.

  The Call

  Annie is still holding the phone in her hand when it rings again. The caller ID reads Walter Bassinger. The name is familiar, but at the moment she doesn’t recall from where.

  “Annie Cross?” he asks.

  “Yes,” she answers.

  “I don’t know if you remember me,” he says. “We met at the Memory House Apothecary. You mixed up some ginger root tea for Louise…”

  “Yes, I remember.” Already Annie senses something is wrong. “Is this about Ophelia?”

  “I’m afraid so,” he answers. “There was an accident on Creekside Road.”

  The words ricochet through Annie’s head. What she feared most has come to pass. Although the thought is almost too painful to consider, she somehow summons enough courage.

  “Is Ophelia okay?” she asks.

  “I don’t know,” Walter replies. “When I found her she was slumped over the steering wheel. I called for an ambulance, and they took her to Mercy.”

  Tears already overflow Annie’s eyes. “Thank you,” she says with a sniffle. “Was she conscious? Did she say anything?”