Aefle & Giesla Page 7

  “Of course it won’t. But I appreciate your sincerity,” she said. And now he wondered if she was patronizing him.

  Awkwardly, he got off the phone and finished packing, throwing items in without thinking now, angry at himself and the world in general. He made a quick call to the Oyster Point hotel to make sure he could get a room and then took off in his SUV, going out of his way to drive by the campus in case one of his colleagues was out and about. There, take that -- I’m driving a gas guzzler. What you gonna do about it? Maybe he wouldn’t hand the car over to Megan after all. What had DeeDee said about quality engineering?

  ***

  By the time he arrived in Oyster Point, Thomas was tired and irritated. Tired because of numerous traffic tie-ups prolonging the trip, and irritated because a half hour before pulling into his hometown, he’d had a call from DeeDee changing the lunch plans he’d made with her to dinner plans. If he’d known that, he’d have left Baltimore later, seen his Dad in the afternoon, and dealt with DeeDee in the evening.

  Now, with time on his hands, he had nothing much to do. He stowed his stuff at the hotel, glad that his room this time didn’t smell of antiseptic and mildew as his previous one had, and headed to Gentle Seas.

  At least I’ll get to give him a nice surprise. Tom hadn’t called ahead to let his father know he was coming.

  Tom and Megan tried their best to be dutiful children, even though their father was a bit on the cranky side. He’d been quick-tempered and hard to please as they’d grown up, but Tom had come to realize that his father simply thought that was the best way to prod them to succeed. And it had worked-- maybe a little too well. Both Tom and his sister had excelled in school and pursued grander goals than Oyster Point could have afforded them.

  Despite the fact that George Charlemagne himself had been a high school dropout-- he’d had to leave school to work to help out his family-- he’d made sure his kids had gone to college, supplementing their grants and scholarships with generous subsidies of his own, pinching pennies at home to make ends meet. As irritated as Tom could get with his Dad, he was always grateful for that.

  Being in an assisted living facility wasn’t easy for their father, Tom knew. He was a proud man, uncomfortable with accepting help. He’d had to have a lot of it after the strokes had ruined his mobility.

  Tom pulled into the sprawling facility’s parking lot on the edge of town fifteen minutes later. Although the grounds were meticulously kept up with benches and walking paths hugging tree- and shrub-edged lawns, Thomas rarely saw residents out and about much, except perhaps on the two benches lining the front door. That’s where adventurous inhabitants enjoyed the great outdoors or waited for family and friends to pick them up.

  Thomas took a deep breath as he walked toward the front portico. After their father had suffered a series of small strokes, Thomas and Megan had visited a half dozen facilities before deciding on this one, but it was still a compromise. They’d both liked a couple places farther out of town -- one had great activities and a marvelous game room, while another had more spacious individual rooms with lots of extras, such as microwaves and refrigerators. Both siblings had been willing to chip in to cover the costs at the more expensive facilities.

  But their Dad had balked at being too far outside of Oyster Point when they’d described the places to him, and he’d wanted to “pay his own way,” so he’d insisted on the less expensive Gentle Seas. What he didn’t know was that his pension from his forty-plus years at a canning factory and his savings didn’t cover the fees anywhere, and Megan and Thomas made up the difference every month without letting on. Because it had taken all their persuasive powers to get him to agree to move into an assisted living facility at all, they’d bowed to his will on facility selection. At sixty-eight, he was one of the youngest residents.

  The rooms were smaller at Gentle Seas than elsewhere, the activities list short and uninteresting, and the residents themselves less sprightly than those at the other places. But George Charlemagne had insisted it was perfect. Even in his disabled state, the man was stubborn. Thomas found the place depressing.

  “Hello,” the receptionist inside the front the door drawled while he scribbled his name in the visitors’ ledger. When she noticed who he was visiting, her smile dropped. “Mr. Charlemagne is in the dining room. By himself.”

  Damn. Thomas knew what that meant. His father had been so cantankerous that the administrators had placed him at a table alone where he wouldn’t upset anybody. Megan had already fielded a few calls from the Gentle Seas office complaining about their father, and they’d both talked to him about trying to get along better. Megan and Thomas lived in fear of the call from the facility saying they’d have to move him out entirely.

  “Thanks.” Thomas turned and headed into the spacious dining room.

  This was the best feature of this particular place. A big room, nicely decorated, it felt like a restaurant, and residents ordered off a menu to patient waitstaff at every meal. At other places, residents ordered a day ahead, as if they were in a hospital.

  “Dad!” Thomas called out cheerfully when he approached the table in the corner where George Charlemagne sat alone. Confused, his father looked up and around, then focused on Thomas. A smile lit his face like the sun beaming from behind a cloud -- it was an ear-to-ear grin, and for a second, Thomas was back in the best part of his childhood when his father would come home from work and Thomas would run out to greet him. He swallowed and strode toward his dad.

  “Have you eaten?” George asked and, without waiting for an answer, started snapping his fingers in the air, summoning a waitress. Luckily, the staff had the patience of saints, and a sweet-tempered woman in brown uniform and apron came over quickly. “My son needs a menu,” George growled, without looking at the woman. “And where’s my tomato soup?”

  “Coming right up, Mr. Charlemagne!” She turned to Thomas and smiled. “Soup is tomato or chicken noodle. Can I get you some while I bring the menu?”

  Thomas shook his head. “I’ll have whatever Dad is having. And some iced tea would be great.”

  “Nice to have someone to eat with,” George said to his son, as if it were an accusation.

  Thomas sighed. He saw his father as often as possible, but it wasn’t always easy to get here at meal time.

  “Glad to be here,” Thomas lied.

  George Charlemagne didn’t respond but looked down at his gnarled hands which he began tapping on the table. This sent a pang of nervous anticipation through Thomas -- finger-tapping usually preceded a burst of anger. Thomas looked around for the waitress, grateful to see her fast approaching with soup and other plates.

  “Here you go, Mr. Charlemagne. Your sandwich, too, just like you like it. Now you don’t give this son of yours any trouble, y’hear?” She set the same meal in front of Thomas.

  George said nothing but started slurping his soup as if Thomas weren’t there.

  “This all you having, Dad?” Thomas pointed to the bowl and plate.

  “All I want.” He sipped another spoonful. “Food’s rotten here.”

  Thomas sighed again and ate, as well. It wasn’t bad. Plain but hearty fare. The food had been one of Gentle Seas’ selling points with their father. They’d tested each dining room with him, and he’d proclaimed this the best -- “down-home cooking,” he’d declared it. Well, that hadn’t lasted long.

  Thomas tried to make conversation, but he didn’t have much in common with his father, their interests diverging once Thomas had hit high school. He talked about his drive over, some roadwork on the bay bridge, state politics, and then Thomas gave him a quick update on his own life, an article he’d had published, an award he’d recently won. His father nodded but didn’t say anything beyond “That’s nice.”

  Finally, after their plates were being cleared away, George started tapping his fingers again and looked straight at his son.

  “What’s this I hear about you and DeeDee McGowan?”

  Thomas straigh
tened. What a gossip town Oyster Point was.

  “Nothing,” he said. “Just a… a prank. Nothing serious.”

  George looked at his son, his flinty eyes sparkling. “You could do worse.”

  “Dad, look, nothing’s going on between us.”

  “Not what I heard.” His father’s eyes narrowed in a mischievous way. “You don’t stop a wedding for nothing.” He sounded pleased with Tom, a rarity.

  “Watch out for that Bewley boy.” Now his tone was conspiratorial, and Tom had to admit it felt good to be in accord with his father for a change.

  “Will do,” he said, patting his father’s bony hand.

  “His big sister works here.” He waved his arm around the room.

  Thomas smiled. “Sisters can be trouble.”

  “This one’s a witch with a capital B.”

  “I had no idea ….”

  “She doesn’t like me.”

  Was that true or just George Charlemagne’s tendency to push people away? Maybe Thomas could make sure his father never encountered Nurse Bewley. He’d talk to the receptionist on the way out. Or the administrator.

  “That’s terrible, Dad. I’ll see what I can work out.” At last, something Thomas could do for his father. “What shift does she have?”

  “What?” His father’s face contorted in confusion.

  “Morning, afternoon, evening-- which shift?”

  “She doesn’t work shifts. She runs the place.”

  ***

  A half hour later, back in his hotel room, Thomas talked on the phone with his sister Megan.

  “Damn, that’s right,” Megan was saying, “Winny Bewley Rockingham. She took over from Samantha Cornwall, that nice lady we first met with. Winny’s a--”

  “Witch with a capital B,” Thomas spouted.

  “You’ve met her?”

  “No, that’s how Dad described her.”

  “For once, he might be right. I didn’t tell you -- didn’t want to burden you at the end of the semester when you’re so busy -- but she’s already called me about Dad. Says he yelled at the woman who cleans his room.”

  “Damn it. Dad’s got to learn to control his temper, Megan.”

  “I know, I know. But you know what, Tom? I’ve come to the conclusion that folks in Gentle Seas might have a right to be cranky, and the staff should just put up with it.”

  Megan had really wrestled with the idea of putting their father into Gentle Seas. She’d even toyed with the idea of moving him to Baltimore to live with her -- but George Charlemagne had put the kibosh on that himself. He didn’t want to move from Oyster Point. He’d suggested she move there instead, and take him in herself.

  Tom sighed. “So what do we do?”

  “Well, first step is to sweet talk Ms. DeeDee McGowan into dropping that countersuit against Buck. Once you do that, maybe we can let Winny know you were the one who accomplished that feat. She might feel more kindly toward a Charlemagne.”

  “Look, maybe I should just apologize to Buck, too. I hadn’t even thought of that. I could send him a note explaining it was all a misunderstanding, something… refined.” It would cost him nothing to write such a note. He had wronged the man, after all.

  “No! Don’t do that. Not until we know what’s up legally. Don’t have any contact with him whatsoever. Don’t say anything that could be used against you -- an apology could be used as an admission of guilt. This is your lawyer, not your sister, talking.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  GOOD ADVICE -- not to have any contact with Buck Bewley.

  Thomas found that out the hard way within the next hour when he decided to stroll down Main Street to see how things had changed over the years. He hadn’t paid attention on previous visits, confining his time to seeing his dad, and the evening before the wedding he and Megan had rolled into town rather late. Some new shops had opened, and he thought buying a quaint gift from a local vendor might be just the thing to start things off with DeeDee.

  But Thomas was a mere two blocks into his window-shopping when he saw a burly man walking into the hardware store. Someone from inside called out “Hiya, Buck!”

  Thomas’s face warmed, and he ducked into a tiny shop so redolent with flowery scents that he immediately started sneezing. It was a soap and candle place teeming with lilac, rose, lavender, and patchouli aromas. Through his swollen eyes, he noticed that not an item appeared homegrown, so he did a quick sidestep out the entrance.

  But Buck’s errand must have been equally speedy, because a mere fifteen feet later, the jilted bridegroom was meandering out, stopping to take a call on his cell.

  Thomas thought Buck squinted at him but couldn’t be sure. Thomas hurried into a home furnishings store filled with baskets and dishtowels, crockery and tablecloths, all with country designs, all featuring ducks. He looked at some napkins, but noticed they were made in China, so he hastily replaced them. He peered out the big shop window, but Buck was still there, yacking it up on his phone, leaning on a parking meter. Maybe Megan was overreacting. Surely Thomas could walk on the same street with Buck.

  “Can I help you?” a clerk asked. And then: “Thomas… Thomas Charlemagne -- is that you?” She pronounced the name “Charly-main,” a common mistake among teachers and even friends during this youth. Tom had been impressed that the Gentle Seas waitress had gotten it right. Then again, George Charlemagne had probably made sure of that. His father may be no history buff, but he knew he was named after a king.

  He turned and recognized -- vaguely -- a woman about his age, with a neat auburn pageboy, white slacks and top and a blue cardigan tied over her shoulders.

  She held out her hand. “Rebecca Faulkes. I was Rebecca Malley back in the day.”

  He smiled and shook her hand while mentally cruising his old yearbooks.

  “I was in a chemistry class with you,” she said, not offended by his lack of remembrance. “But to tell the truth, that’s mostly a blur now.”

  “Oh, yes,” he said, not remembering.

  “I married Dickie Faulkes,” she continued. “We own a B and B in St. Michael’s and I started this store a year ago. I have one in St. Mike’s and one in Ocean City -- well, Fenwick Island, really.”

  So she was a success and proud of it. Had she gone on to college? Studied business? She must have. Dickie Faulkes -- he could almost picture him, a tall fellow with glasses, kind of earnest.

  “That’s great,” he said. “You’ve done well.”

  “Dickie’s done well.” She laughed. “He’s a lawyer now with offices in Wilmington and around here, too. But you know that.”

  No, he didn’t. He didn’t pay attention to the alumni materials the high school sent out and had never attended a reunion after the one where he’d reconnected with DeeDee ten years ago.

  “So I hear you’re a teacher somewhere,” she prodded.

  Thomas inwardly frowned. He hated the word “teacher” as much as he hated hearing his name pronounced “Charly-main.” “Teacher” implied elementary or grade school instructor. He was a professor. He told her so. And then added, for good measure, “And it’s ‘Shar-luh-main,’ emphasizing each syllable.

  “Oh, thought that’s what I said,” she countered, oblivious to the distinction he’d made.

  “I’m a medievalist,” he continued, warming to his topic. “I’m working on a book on an obscure medieval monk who wrote poetry in margins of the manuscripts he decorated. You see, it’s quite unusual -- almost unheard of, really -- to find a monk writing poetry during those times. Well, to find anyone writing platonic poetry. There was, of course, a great deal of sacred material at the time, which is probably why our poor, little monk felt compelled to hide his poetry-writing habit…” Were her eyes glazing over? For crying out loud, she could at least pretend to be interested. He was pretending to be interested in her store. This is why you left Oyster Point.

  The door jangled and her gaze flitted there.

  “Hey, Becky,” a deep male voice said. The hairs on the
back of Thomas’s head prickled. He didn’t need to turn around. The last time he'd heard that voice, he was fleeing for his life under the cover of sartorial artillery.

  “What can I do for you, Buck?” Becky sounded a little strained. Thomas moved to a table where red, blue, and green checked dishtowels embroidered with duck edging were artfully displayed around a wooden duck under a wood-carved wall hanging of another duck that itself was outlined by a string of flashing duck lights. Seemed like a good place to duck for cover. No point in troubling Becky by causing a scene in her nice store.

  “Any way I can talk to Dickie this weekend? I need to let him know something….” His voice trailed off, and Thomas was absolutely sure Buck was looking at him and figuring out who he was.

  Thomas was figuring out a few things, too. Buck needed to get hold of Becky’s husband, Buck’s lawyer! That’s why Becky had thought Thomas had known her husband was a lawyer -- because of the lawsuits over DeeDee’s aborted nuptials.

  Thomas picked up a towel and began scrutinizing its stitching as if he were a scientist intent on discovering the microscopic construction of thread without a microscope.

  “Tommy Charlemagne.” Buck said it under his breath, as if it were the name of a long-loathed criminal. He pronounced it “Karly-main.”

  Thomas turned and forced a smile to his face. There was no reason why they shouldn’t be amicable. They could disagree, after all, without being disagreeable. He would let the mispronunciation slip by. Tom had wronged the man, after all. It was a small thing. No point in embarrassing Buck.

  “Buck Bewley,” Thomas said, but his voice was so soft he had to clear his throat and say it again, trying to sound cheerful and friendly.

  Buck certainly was a powerful-looking man -- over six feet, well-muscled, tanned, sandy hair cut close to his scalp -- so that’s why he’d looked bald to Tom without his glasses on. Today he was wearing a blue T-shirt over khakis. He didn’t look like a thug, but he looked like he could take one down.