The Stolen Canvas (5 page)

What could she say of the mother she knew so little about, who had withheld her secrets along with her love? Something like hunger pain churned inside Tara. She toyed with a muffin crumb on her napkin.

“She used to come here when she was a girl. She knew your grandmother. The truth is, we didn’t get along very well when I was growing up.” Tara paused. “I left home when I was sixteen. It was a mistake, I know that now. Funny, how you’re so sure of things and then …” A wave of dizziness swept over her.

Annie rose and came around to her chair. Tara felt a warm hand on her shoulder, and heard the quiet voice. “Perhaps you’ll show me those letters. I’d like very much to see them. But right now, I think you need more rest. Why don’t you go back upstairs and lie down while I clear up the breakfast dishes.”

Tara rose, allowing Annie to steady her. “I—I shouldn’t impose any longer, Mrs. Dawson,” she began weakly.

“It’s
Annie
, and you are not imposing. Now, go along and do as I say.” She spoke gently but guided Tara to the steps with a firm hand. “When you feel better, bring the letters out to the porch. I’ll be working on a crochet project for the animal shelter. We’ll soak up the sunshine.” She paused and then added with emphasis. “And we’ll talk then.”

Back in her bedroom, Tara lay on the soft white coverlet and wondered what would happen next. Perhaps it was the weariness washing over her that made her want to cry, or it might have been the unexpected kindness from a stranger who had no idea what she was getting into.

5

Wally Carson steered his boat toward the dock, enjoying as always the feel of sun on his back and the wind in his hair. His peapod had a shallow draft and maneuvered like a dream. He’d only had an hour after finishing up a project for Stella Brickson, and time had passed too quickly. It always did when he was fishing.

He and his brother, Jeremiah, had spent much of their youth on their father’s sixteen-foot Swampscott dory. Wally knew that if he hadn’t become so good with wood and tools, he might well have become a lobsterman—like his father. But unlike his father, he’d found that peace and significance came from something more powerful, more profound.

He was lucky to live in this place that he’d loved all his life, and he was lucky to have work to do. And besides, he had a family of his own now. He and Peggy, a waitress at The Cup & Saucer, had made a good life for themselves. They had waited a long time for Emily, but she was worth every anxious moment of the wait. Wally felt himself smiling. That morning she’d flung her six-year-old arms around his neck and begged for a story.

“Tonight, Miss Twinkletoes!” he had chided. “Our stories are for bedtime. Today, you’ve got things to do—and so do I.”

Emily loved his stories—mostly made-up tales about a ballet dancer who got into all sorts of adventures but continued to wow audiences with her graceful art. Madeline had to be in the stories too. The cloth doll Emily loved had a mop of yellow hair, a pink tutu and ballerina slippers that crisscrossed up her stuffed ankles.

Between Peggy’s tips at The Cup & Saucer and his handyman jobs, they’d been able to get lessons for Emily at Myra’s School of Dance. A recital was coming up, if memory served Wally right.

“You ready?” Peggy had come streaming into the front room of their cottage, clutching her apron and purse. Her short hair was hastily moussed; her vivid blue eyes sparked with light. “My customers will be waiting!” She grabbed Emily by the hand.

Their summertime routine included taking Peggy to The Cup & Saucer and Emily to day camp. As a handyman, Wally could work at his own pace, freeing him to cope with all their schedules. They had only the one vehicle, a slightly feeble pickup truck with more speed than dignity, but it got them where they needed to go.

The hour on the water had flown, but it had restored his peace. Peggy would be expecting him for supper soon. He pulled the peapod into the trawler bay that belonged to Todd Butler, who operated the town’s best fleet of lobster boats. The summer Wally had broken his arm, Todd had hired him to do odd jobs while he healed and now let him tie up at his docks whenever he wanted to. Todd’s brother, Ian—Stony Point’s ubiquitous mayor—had put a good word in for him. Ian Butler looked out for Stony Point citizens.

Wally smiled. Soon he would be working at Grey Gables again. Annie Dawson had told him she wanted her pantry refurbished to match the cabinets he’d recently done. He loved helping Annie restore the old Victorian house she had inherited from her grandmother. Yes, he was a lucky man to have a place here with neighbors who cared.

Reluctantly, he tied up his peapod, left the wharf and headed down the beach. It was a spectacular Maine afternoon. The sand was warm beneath his feet, and a soft breeze cooled his face. The tourist season was in full swing, but most people had left the beach area and had gone in search of supper. Wally liked this time of day when a man could be alone with his thoughts. It was quiet and peaceful as he walked toward town.

“Hey mister, can you spare a dime?”

He hadn’t heard anyone behind him. The out-of-the-past cliché was odd, but there was something familiar about the question—as familiar as the voice, rich and deep with a slight twang. Wally whirled around.

The man behind him was sturdily built, well-tailored clothing belying any need for a handout. He was wearing sharply pressed slacks and a pale blue shirt under a nicely cut jacket. The worn loafers he wore fell a bit short of the overall well-groomed look; maybe he just preferred the comfort of old shoes. He was older and heavier, his dark hair tinged with silver, but the ironic grin and laughing eyes had not changed.

“Jem?” he croaked, grabbing the extended hand with both of his. “Is that really you, man?”

“It’s me, but call me J.C. More sophisticated for a man in my position, eh?”

Wally swallowed hard, trying to take in the changes in his brother. He hadn’t seen him in quite a while. As kids they’d run along this beach and swam like two dark fish until their lungs were bursting.
Mister, can you spare a dime?
They’d used that line with tourists when they wanted money for soda or snacks. These days a dime wouldn’t buy a soda straw or a candy wrapper.

Then the stormy teen years had come, and they’d been in more than their share of trouble. Wally’s mind whirled with memories. He’d been no saint then, to be sure, but Jem had a special knack for getting in harm’s way. Folks said the two of them had been the death of Pop.

There had been no feminine hand to gentle their rough edges. Their mother had died of cancer when Wally was ten. Dad’s downward spiral had begun then. Most days he came home from fishing in his old boat and drank until he passed out in the living room chair. Wally and Jem were pretty much left to their own not-so-wise devices.

Peggy had saved Wally from total destruction, but for Jem there had been no savior. It was rumored that he liked the drink too, and that he liked loose women, but most of all, that he liked money. He’d always been a schemer, sure his next idea would make him rich. Wally remembered how Jem had devised a plan to swipe buoys after dark and exchange them with their own so they could haul in a bigger catch the next day.

Jem slung an arm around Wally’s shoulder as they walked, turning away from the beach and taking Grand Avenue toward the downtown area. They were nearing the town center, but Wally paused and turned to Jem … or was it J.C.?

The last he’d heard, Jem had dabbled rather unsuccessfully in an import/export business and lost his shirt. Obviously, he’d found a new one—a rather nice silk one that fit snugly over his expanding waist. But he was still a handsome man. It had been years since he’d seen Jem. Wally wondered why he never came around.

Jem always said he was an outsider, the black sheep. “Besides, I ain’t gonna be no smelly lobsterman; I’ve got better fish that need frying!” Wally remembered him saying that. Jem, it seemed, had little interest in his roots. Last year’s Christmas card had arrived in March like the afterthought it probably was. And Wally never had an address to send his brother one.

Given the train wreck of his teen years, maybe it was a good thing Jem hadn’t hung around Stony Point. Wally kicked at a tuft of crabgrass hedging the walkway. But you’d think when a guy had family he’d show up once in a blue moon. Well, here he was, right beside him, tall and muscular
.
Jem had always made Wally feel small.

Wally thought about what Jem had said.
A more sophisticated name for a man in his position?
“So what
position
do you have now?” Wally asked hesitantly.

“Well, little brother, I’m a businessman—real estate—Boston right now.” He clapped Wally’s shoulder, gave it a proprietary shove, and looked him up and down. “And you’re looking pretty good yourself.” He glanced down at Wally’s boots. “You lobstering like our old man?” He said it with good humor, but in the old days Jem had little good to say about the man who’d raised him.

Wally shrugged and gave his head a little shake. “Now and then, when I’m not building or repairing something, I hire on with Todd Butler’s crew. Got my own boat; Todd lets me tie up at his place.” His boat was a simple peapod, but he’d bought it with his own money, and she was a tight little craft. He said nothing about searching the bay for birds; Jem would likely consider that a sissy thing to do.

“Old Todd made good for himself,” Jem said tersely, “but having your brother as the mayor can’t hurt.”

For having been away so long, Jem had a remarkable memory for names and events. Wally stuffed his hands in the pockets of his jeans and felt his balled-up fists, a sign of the old tension he used to feel around Jem. Wally always craved his respect, but at the same time he distrusted him. He looked up and saw the sun glinting on Jem’s black hair that still dipped over his left eyebrow. “Been a long time,” he said.

“You still work for the old lady who owns that big Victorian house on Ocean Drive?”

“Mrs. Holden passed away; her granddaughter owns it now.” He paused. “So what brings you to Stony Point?”

Jem stopped, drew in a long breath, and looked back toward the lighthouse, the marina and the bay, golden with molten sunshine. “Yeah,” he said in a dreamy exhalation, “it has been a while, but the old place looks the same. Maybe a bit more prosperous. Lobstering and tourism ain’t been half bad, seems like.” As they gazed over the well-trimmed lawns, the neat shops, the clean boardwalks, and the busy beaches, Wally felt pride in his hometown.

“We do all right,” Wally said. “Summer people spread the word; seems like we get more every year.” He waited for an answer to his question. Why had Jem turned up now?

“I tell you, little brother,” Jem began with a slow drawl. “Real estate’s in a bit of a slump right now, so I thought it would be a good time to get a little R and R. And why not good old Stony Point? Catch up with my kin.” Jem rubbed his jaw. “Is the Shark’s Head still around? I sure could use a drink.”

Wally hadn’t touched a drop since he and Peggy had gotten married. But not staying sober had a lot to do with the accident that put him in Stony Point General for six weeks where he’d had time to think about where his life was going. Reverend Wallace had told him God was watching out for him and that there was a reason for everything. Wouldn’t Jem get a good laugh out of that! Church and God were topics for old ladies, he’d say, not for real men.

“I gotta get home,” Wally said uncomfortably. He moved on toward his truck parked in the shade along Cedar Street. He had retrieved it after Peggy had finished her shift. “Peggy will be waiting supper.” He fished for his keys with fingers still stiff from balling his fists. He wasn’t about to have a drink with Jem or anybody. In the old days they had sometimes swiped bottles from his dad’s stash—but those were the old days.

“So you’re married now, little brother?”

Wally winced over the “little brother” bit. You’d think they were still kids instead of grown men in their thirties. “Best thing I ever did. We have a little girl; name’s Emily.” Jem would remember Peggy from high school since she lived next door, but Peggy never asked about him. There were a lot of the old locals who would remember Jeremiah Carson, certainly. “And what about you, Jem? You have a family?”

“Me?” Jem quipped, as though the idea were outrageous. “Nah, I’ve had a few close calls, but no girl has tied me down yet.”

He’d had his choice of Stony Point girls, Wally remembered, and Jem had liked to party. But you’d think by the time a man reached his age that he would settle down. “My place is just there, beyond that rise. Come on. Peggy will put on an extra plate.”

“You sure, man? I hate to intrude.”

“You’ve been gone a long time, but you’re still family, Jem.” And Wally was surprised to feel a lump form in his throat.

“Maybe you wouldn’t mind introducing me as J.C.? There are folks around here who’d just as soon forget Jeremiah, if you know what I mean. I’d hate to get off on the wrong foot with the good folk of Stony Point.”

Wally shrugged and opened the door to his cottage. “Come on in. It’s not the Ritz, but it’s paid for, and Peggy’s fixed it up real fine.” Wally stood aside, waiting for Jem to pass through. A glance around brought a quick sense of relief. Peggy must have gotten home from The Cup & Saucer early enough to tidy up. On Wednesdays a co-worker gave her a ride home, picking up Emily on their way.

“Daddy!” Emily flung herself at him, her hands clutching his legs. “You smell like fish!” She wrinkled her tiny nose, and seeing Jem, cocked her blond head to one side.

“This is Je—‘er—J.C.,” Wally said, “my brother—and your uncle. He’s come for a visit.” Wally felt a burst of pride. He’d always yearned for Jem’s approval, sulked when it never came, and finally had simply let it all go. He no longer needed it; he never even talked about Jem anymore, not even to Peggy. But suddenly, the old feelings crept up from somewhere. Truth was he’d never stopped caring, even when Jem had been, for all intents and purposes, kicked out of town. Not that there hadn’t been reasons. What had brought him back? Was all that talk about position and success true or was Jem still looking for that dime?

“Hello, Mr. J.C.,” Emily said with her usual friendliness, cocking her head to one side and peering up at him.

“Well, Miss Emily,” Jem said, taking her hand and kissing it like she was a princess or something, “I’m very pleased to meet you!”

Emily stared out of curious blue eyes, her mouth quickly forming a smile.

“Can this be the same girl I knew in high school?” Jem extolled as Peggy appeared at the kitchen door. “You don’t look a day older!”

Peggy had changed into jeans and a soft lavender sweater that was one of Wally’s favorites. Her cheeks were pink with pleasure at the compliment. Jem was being too bold, but then Wally was always protective of his Peggy. She said something about wishing she’d known they were having company; she’d have cooked something better, but soon they were situated around the table.

“I hope you like meatloaf,” Peggy said, unfolding her napkin. “Did I miss you at our wedding? And what does J.C. stand for? When we were kids, it was always Jem!” Peggy could rattle on and ask more questions at one time than anyone Wally had ever met. He studied Jem’s swarthy face. If he was going to go around calling himself J.C., people were going to ask.

“I love meatloaf,” he said, “and I flog myself for missing your wedding, my fair lady. Alas, I was out of the country at the time. As to your third question … Jeremiah Hamilton Carson at your service.”

Wally groaned. Jem could be such a ham! All that high-toned speech!

But Peggy was clearly charmed. Wally felt a fleeting stab of envy—well, maybe just concern. Peggy was always ready to embrace the world, accepting everyone at his word. Innocence had its price, though, and he worried about her.