The Loft Page 4

  “Oh, I don’t think one thing has anything to do with the other,” Annie says.

  “It certainly does,” Ophelia argues. “There are only so many hours in a day and so many days in a lifetime. A woman has got to decide how she wants to spend those hours and days.”

  Annie laughs. “Nonsense. There’s time enough for everything.”

  “Not always,” Ophelia replies sadly. “Not always.”

  For a moment she sits silently then explains that this is the reason Annie must treasure her early years with Oliver.

  “In a few years you and Oliver will have a family, and the days will be crowded with things waiting to be done. You won’t have the luxury of time to sit and dream together.”

  Annie smiles at such a thought. A family is what she’s been wishing for all these years. She relishes the idea of a laundry basket filled with bibs and rompers.

  “And when we’ve got those babies that are going to keep us so busy,” she says, “don’t you think they’ll need a grandma?”

  “I’m not suggesting I won’t be part of your life; I’m just saying I don’t want to be the biggest part,” Ophelia argues.

  For most of the afternoon they go back and forth on the issue, but Annie stands firm in her resolution. She and Oliver will move into her old room at Memory House, and she will take care of everything until Ophelia is strong enough to return.

  There is no mention of what will happen then, but a plan is already churning through Annie’s mind.

  ~ ~ ~

  When Annie arrives home from the hospital, Oliver is gone and there is a note on the table. It says Andrew is picking him up, and he will be at the office if she needs him. He writes that he will be home about seven.

  Perfect, she thinks.

  She takes Ophelia’s apron from the drawer, pulls it over her head and starts working. Tonight she will serve roasted chicken with vegetables from the garden and for dessert fresh raspberries with clotted cream.

  It is fifteen minutes before seven when she hears the chugging of a car pulling into the drive.

  When Oliver walks into the house he is carrying a chilled bottle of champagne and three red roses tied with a ribbon.

  “Since you didn’t get to enjoy the special dinner I had planned,” he says, “I thought I’d make this one special.”

  “I had the same thought,” Annie says, laughing. “I’ve made—”

  “Roast chicken,” he says, finishing her sentence. “I could smell it the minute I opened the door.”

  Annie has set the tiny table on the back porch with the china that once belonged to Edward’s mama, and in the center of the table five narrow candles bunch together on a crystal butter dish.

  When they sit down to dinner Annie can easily imagine this is exactly how it was with Ophelia and Edward. She mentions this to Oliver.

  “Perhaps we’re following in the footsteps of their memories,” she says.

  “Only temporarily,” he says. “When we get back to Wyattsville, we’ll start making our own memories.”

  It is only now that Annie tells him Ophelia won’t be coming home for more than a month.

  “And when she does,” Annie says, “she won’t be able to climb stairs or drive.”

  A look of disappointment tugs at Oliver’s face.

  “I’m sorry,” Annie says. “I realize this isn’t ideal, but Ophelia doesn’t have anyone else. I have to be here to run the apothecary and care for her.”

  “I know,” he replies sadly. “As much as I wish it were different, I wouldn’t change you for anything in the world. That big heart of yours may be a pain in the neck, but it’s also why I love you as I do.”

  He stretches his arm across the table and lifts her hand into his. “We’ll work it out.”

  Oliver is uncertain as to how they will work it out, but he knows that wherever Annie is he will be beside her. Never before has he loved a woman the way he loves Annie.

  After dinner they take the comforter out to the lawn and lie beneath the stars. A slight breeze ripples across the pond, and from the far end of the water they can hear the nasal honking of the swans. Annie pulls her iPod from her pocket and selects her easy listening collection.

  When Eric Clapton’s Wonderful Tonight plays, they dance barefoot on the grass. Their bodies are so close and sway in such unison that at a distance you’d believe them to be one figure. Her head is pressed to his chest, and he can smell the sweetness of jasmine in her hair.

  “I love you, Annie,” he whispers, then tilts her face to his and kisses her full on the mouth.

  Afterward they lie side by side on the comforter and talk about the future. Oliver promises when the time is right they will take their honeymoon. And then one day start a family and have a home of their own.

  “With a big backyard,” he says. “A really big yard, one with room for a garden and a sandbox and a swing.”

  Of course all of this is in the future. For now there is only the reality of living in a small bedroom. A bedroom that is across the hall from what will soon be Ophelia’s room. And the three of them will share a single bathroom.

  With a bit of sadness threaded through her words, Annie says, “I just hate that Ophelia won’t be able to lie in bed and look at the stars. I know that’s something she’ll miss.”

  She tells some of the stories Ophelia has told her.

  “Imagine,” she says, “Edward knew the name of all these stars.”

  This thought gives Oliver an idea.

  Ophelia

  Annie means well, but sometimes she can be as bull-headed as I am. She’s set on the thought that she’s gonna take care of me when I come home, but I’m just as determined that she won’t.

  I may be getting on in years, but I’m not too old to remember what it’s like being young and newly married. Why, I wouldn’t trade those early years with Edward for anything in the world. If the good Lord came to me tonight and said I could live another century if I was willing to forget those first years, I’d turn Him down flat.

  A man and woman need time to get to know one another. To explore each other’s bodies, make love and dance around the living room naked if they want to. Two people married in the sight of God ought to be able to do things like that without worrying some old biddy is going to hear them.

  I’m fine with having Annie and Oliver stay at Memory House while I’m at the rehab center since they have the place to themselves. But once I come home I’m gonna insist they go on back to their own house.

  I’ll say having them underfoot all the time is a nuisance. If Annie keeps harping on me about not staying alone, I’ll tell her I’m going to get Edna Porter’s sister to come live with me in exchange for free room and board. I won’t really do it, because Maggie talks nonstop and I’m not sure how long I’d be able to put up with that. I’ll just say it so Annie can put her mind to ease.

  I’ll say it’s okay if she wants to work in the apothecary and lets me pay her the same salary she makes at the library. That would be good for both of us. She’d have her own life with Oliver, and I’d still have time to sit and talk with her.

  It’s funny how Annie fills up that big hole in my heart. The house seems downright lonely when she’s not there. Memories are a big comfort, but there are times when you just need a live friend to talk and laugh with.

  I think Edward would be pleased to know I have that.

  The Architect

  On the Friday that Ophelia is scheduled to be moved to the Kipling Rehabilitation Center, Annie wakes up early. She goes to the loft and packs a suitcase with the things Ophelia has asked her to bring: the blue robe, three cotton nightgowns, some housecoats and an assortment of creams, lotions and powders.

  At the last minute she includes the Lannigan Bible and a snow globe that once belonged to the Lannigan girl. The Bible holds the first memory Ophelia ever discovered, and it is one of her favorite treasures.

  When Annie is ready to leave she kisses Oliver goodbye and says, “I’ll call y
ou later.”

  “Call me here,” he replies. “I’m not going into the office today.”

  Were this another time, a time when Annie didn’t have so much on her mind, she likely would have asked why, but today she doesn’t. Instead she hurries out the door so she will get to the hospital early.

  Oliver has said nothing about his plan, but for the past two days he has thought about little else. Not because he minds the daily commute to Wyattsville, but because the door to the other bedroom is less than three feet from the door to their room. As much as he cares for Ophelia, that’s too close for comfort.

  Since the day Annie first appeared on his doorstep, Oliver has wanted to make love to her. Not in a cautious way that hides beneath the covers and speaks in soft whispers to avoid being heard, but with a joyous passion that casts abandon aside.

  Today he has three different architects coming to look at the house. His thought is to add a wing, one that is an exact replica of the loft, skylight and all.

  The first one arrives at ten o’clock on the button. He checks the loft then walks through the remainder of the house.

  “What you need is a completely new floor plan,” he says. “If we take down the wall between the living room and the dining area, we can create a pass-through to the kitchen and make it a great room.”

  “We’re happy with the house just as it is,” Oliver replies. “All we need is a wing for the extra bedroom.”

  The architect raises an eyebrow. “And you want it to look like that room upstairs?”

  Oliver nods.

  “That room looks like something a do-it-yourselfer put together. It’s not finished properly. There’s no beveling on the bookcase. The mitering on the baseboard is crooked as a drunkard’s hat, and I’ll bet dollars to doughnuts that if you took a level to the floor you’d find at least a seven degree slant.”

  “You’ve got a good piece of property here,” he says. “Just give me the okay, and I can turn this place into a showcase with nice clean contemporary lines. I’m visualizing an all glass walk-through that leads to a side wing suite.”

  “I’m not interested in redoing the house,” Oliver repeats. “All I want is a wing that replicates the upstairs bedroom.”

  The architect wrinkles his nose and shakes his head. “Sorry, buddy, no can do. I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”

  He takes back the business card lying on the table and walks out.

  The second architect is no better, the only difference being he suggests taking down the wall between the two bedrooms and making it one large suite.

  “That doesn’t solve my problem,” Oliver says.

  “Well, I’m thinking bump out that upstairs room, double the size and add a full bath. That way you’d have three decent-sized bedrooms.”

  This time Oliver is the one to shake his head. “That’s not going to work.”

  The architect hands him a card and suggests he think it over.

  “Another full bath will definitely increase the value of the house,” he says.

  The last appointment is with Max Martinelli. When Oliver opens the door he is surprised to see a woman—one who is better described as a young girl.

  She sticks her arm out and offers her hand. “Max Martinelli.”

  Oliver shakes the offered hand and invites her in. After a moment of awkward hesitation he says, “Your listing said Max, so I thought you’d be a guy.”

  She laughs. “I know. That’s why I use Max instead of Maxine. Not too many people are interested in working with a female architect, especially one who’s fresh out of school.”

  “What school?”

  “Parson’s Design.”

  “Can’t argue with that,” Oliver says. “So let’s see what you’ve learned.”

  He guides Max up the stairs and shows her the loft. “What I want to do is add a wing for an extra bedroom that’s an exact replica of this room. Skylight and all.”

  “I can see why,” she says. “Feels like there’s a lot of love in this room.”

  “Feels like?”

  She nods. “If you open yourself up, you can feel the parts of life that have been lived in a room. Say you had a spare bedroom used for an office and took all the furniture out; I’d still know it had been an office. Work places have a crinkly feeling; there’s lots of left-over frustrations and disappointments in the walls.”

  Oliver chuckles. “My wife and Ophelia are going to love you.”

  Without stopping to think about it, Oliver begins explaining how Annie came to his door saying she’d found a memory in an old bicycle that once belonged to his dad.

  “It was a pretty unbelievable story,” he says, laughing, “but one look at those eyes of hers, and I honestly didn’t care.”

  Without batting an eyelash, Max says, “Unbelievable, why?”

  Oliver raises an eyebrow and looks at her curiously. “Unbelievable because it’s not likely a person will find a memory left behind. It’s not exactly a dime lost between the sofa cushions.”

  Max laughs. “It’s not like that at all. You don’t actually find a memory, you just sort of sense it’s been there. It’s an aura people leave behind. Some are more powerful than others; those are the ones that are easier to feel.”

  “An aura?”

  “You know, like an invisible fingerprint. It tells you who the person was and how they felt about things.”

  Although there is a look of doubt on Oliver’s face she continues.

  “That’s how I knew there was a lot of love in this room.” She smiles. “That and noticing a lot of the woodwork was done by someone with more love than skill.”

  “Ophelia’s husband built this room.”

  “I thought so.” Max runs her hand along the bed platform and looks up. “Was he an astronomer?”

  “No, a businessman. But from what Ophelia has told us, he was fascinated with the stars and knew most of them by name.”

  “I knew it,” Max says.

  “By the aura he left?”

  She gives a sheepish grin and nods. “That…and the way the skylight is positioned directly over the bed. If you pay attention to such things, you can learn a lot about a person.”

  “Good grief,” Oliver says. “You remind me so much of Annie. You even look like her.”

  Max laughs. “I do, except her eyes are violet and mine are green.” She lifts her head and gives him a bug-eyed look. “Green, see?”

  “You can tell the color of a person’s eyes from an aura?”

  “No. I met Annie at the library. I was checking out a book on extra sensory perceptions, and we got to talking. She told me that same story about the bicycle, so I kind of figured it had to be the same person.”

  Oliver shakes his head. “Unbelievable.”

  “Actually, no, it’s not. We do look a lot alike, so I can see why you’d think…”

  Max Martinelli

  This is almost too good to be true. The minute I walked into this house I could feel the history of it. It’s not super fancy, but it’s full of charm. It’s the kind of place where you want to walk around sniffing the wood and peeking behind the curtains.

  Those bookcases in the loft are fifty years old if they’re a day. You don’t find that kind of grainy oak anywhere nowadays, except maybe in a mansion where some hot shot has paid through the nose to get it.

  The truth is I would have designed the wing for half of what Oliver Doyle is paying me. Actually I’d have done it for free it I had to. A project like this is great in an architect’s portfolio. It shows you’ve got style. I mean real style, not a cookie-cutter version of glass and chrome style.

  It’s funny that a judge is married to Annie from the library. But it’s even funnier to hear him say she thinks like I do.

  When Annie told me that bicycle story I guessed she was a lot like me. If it was up to me I would have stayed and talked to her all day, but you know how it is in a library. There were people behind me waiting to check out, so I just said I’d see her next
time.

  Maybe when the first sketches are ready I’ll come by in the evening when she’s at home. I’ll bring a bottle of wine and say let’s have a toast or something.

  It would be a good way to start up a friendship.

  This is so absolutely cool. Landing a project like this is like winning the architectural lottery.

  Roommates

  On Friday morning Ophelia is taken to the Kipling Rehabilitation Center in an ambulance. No siren, no flashing lights. Just a rock hard gurney to transport her from one bed to another. Annie is not allowed to ride in the ambulance. She will follow along in her own car.

  When they arrive at the center, the attendant lifts the gurney from the ambulance and rolls it into a foyer. He hands the waiting orderly a sheath of papers and says, “Browne, Ophelia.”

  Moments later she is whooshed into an elevator, taken to the second floor and assigned to room 214. On the wall outside the entrance to the room there are two patient nameplates: Lillian Markowitz is 214A, Ophelia is 214B.

  As they move her from the gurney to the bed, Ophelia catches a quick glimpse of the other bed and gives a saddened sigh. She’d hoped to have a spot next to the window, a place where on sleepless nights she could gaze at the stars and know Edward was with her. Instead she is on the inside with a divider curtain on one side and a wall on the other.

  Lillian Markowitz has the bed beside Ophelia’s window. She is a woman with fire engine red fingernails, hair the color of a canary and a laugh that could easily be mistaken for the sound of a hyena. Already she has crowded the windowsill with pots of flowers and looped a dozen or more get well cards over the slats of the venetian blind. Only a few thin slivers of sunlight can now slide through.