Portrait of a protege, p.6
Portrait of a Protégé, page 6
part #2 of Portraits Series
She pulled her bobbed hair from her face and tucked it behind her ear. It wouldn’t stay. “I was actually planning on going in the water when you came up, so I’m just going to postpone it till you get here.”
“Promise you’ll go in then?”
“I promise.” She glanced at an envelope in front of her. “By the way, I received another note from my grandmother.”
“Did you?”
Leila pictured Clarence’s brow, arched with intrigue. “Yes. Another invitation to visit.”
“Are you considering it?”
She tapped the envelope’s edge on the hardwood maple. “Yeah—maybe this winter.”
“I think that would be a fine idea.”
“Maybe you’d like to come along. Angela always asks that I send you her kindest regards.”
“Yes, and you’re always so diligent about passing them along.”
She stood, moving to the French door and stared at her reflection overlaying cove lights. “You should call Angela sometime.”
“Are you trying to set me up with your grandmother?”
Leila chuckled. “I know the idea doesn’t repulse you.”
“Never mind that, young lady.”
“Fine.” She turned, tangled in the cord. “So, when are you coming up?”
“Tomorrow.”
Chapter 6
Traffic north of Springfield, Massachusetts thinned. Myles let up on his grip of the steering wheel and turned up the volume on Mozart’s Symphony No. 25, the music he had shared with Leila upon her graduation. In his quiet moments, it still amazed him that he, a fifty-six-year-old man, should have a twenty-two-year-young woman as his closest confidant. Not that he confided everything in her, but there was not another friend—since Ian—that had any interest in what he thought or felt. Aside from his ex-wife and daughter, no other individual had so altered the course of his life. In fact, where would his relationship with Bonnie be if not for Leila and her own tumultuous past? As much as he looked forward to seeing her, he did not look forward to the dual purpose of his visit.
Driving secondary State Route 11, he rolled down his window, allowing the early afternoon air to cool his brow. A high-pressure system forecasted blue skies and strong breezes over the Lakes Region for the next several days. Perhaps good weather would elevate both their moods.
Myles had no sooner pulled into her dooryard when Leila sprinted from the cottage to his door side. She hadn’t mentioned her new bobbed hairstyle, and he almost didn’t recognize her. Even though he had been to visit several times since Ian died, this time she appeared more mature than the young woman she was a year ago.
He pulled himself out of his car as she squealed and threw her arms around his neck. After a quick squeeze, he held her at a distance. Moving her chin one way and then the other, he inspected her new look.
He flicked a lock near her jaw. “I like it.”
“Really? You don’t think it makes me look too boyish?”
“You couldn’t look boyish if you tried.”
She smiled at his endorsement. “What did you bring for dinner?”
“You’ll see. You grab the groceries, and I’ll get my luggage.”
When they entered the cottage, he forced himself to think only of the happy times he’d had there. Yet, the corresponding season, the sounds and heat of summer—compared to autumn and winter—made it difficult not to remember Ian last July. The controversial young coach turned comrade had always made him feel so welcome in spite of their rocky past. He was grateful to have had his Leila in solid, caring hands.
Myles scanned the living room—the imprint of Ian’s taste. Leila cared little about decorating unless Ian solicited her opinion—even then, it didn’t matter to her. In fact, Myles always liked Ian’s preferences better than Leila’s. She would have happily kept all her mismatched dishes and furnishings.
Myles made for the basement where he always slept, as Leila poked her head from the kitchen.
“Why don’t you take the room upstairs?” she said.
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll sleep in your studio.”
She came to his side, reaching for his bag. “No, I insist.”
Myles flashed one of his incisive squints. “You haven’t been sleeping upstairs.”
Leila shrugged. “I did once … for a few minutes.”
“And when I last visited?”
“Sofa.”
“Well, it’s time you start.” He headed downstairs.
Leila followed. She hugged her studio doorjamb as he laid his bag on the bed.
“What do you want to do this afternoon?” she asked.
“I would love to take a swim and just relax.”
“Ah yes—” she sighed. “A swim.”
“So, you do remember your promise.”
“I guess so.”
“Go on then. Get your swimsuit on.”
Leila took her time changing. She didn’t feel like swimming, but Clarence Myles had given her a directive, and part of her still had difficulty disobeying him. She stood at her bedroom window overlooking the cove. Clarence stepped into sight as he walked from the basement exit below her to the patch of sandy beach. When he reached the shore, he shrugged off his shirt, exposing his broad back. He turned and looked up toward her window as if wondering what had detained her. The sight of his physique surprised her. Although she had seen a glimpse of it in his doctor’s examining room a few years ago, she didn’t remember him looking so—so fit.
Without further delay, she headed out onto the back deck and down the stairs toward the beach. He had walked out onto the long narrow dock, where Ian used to moor his sailboat, and motioned for her to join him. She met him at the end.
He nudged her. “On the count of three, then?”
Leila’s lungs constricted and her mouth dried at the sight of all that water. It wasn’t even the same water as a year ago—not the same molecules—not Ian’s last gulp …. Leila rubbed her eyes, already short on breath, and nodded. When Clarence counted off and dove, her feet remained securely anchored to the safety of the dock. He emerged and gave her his censuring glare.
“I was going to,” she said. “But my feet wouldn’t cooperate.”
He treaded water. “You are getting wet or I will come and pull you in myself.”
“I will, I will.” She plunked herself onto the edge of the dock, her knees to her chest.
He waited a moment and then squinted. “Feet in.”
She slipped her toes and then ankles beneath the surface and then up to her mid-calves. He moved toward her.
“Do I have to come over there?” He inched his way closer and grabbed her ankle.
She retracted her leg as if his touch stung. “Please don’t, Clarence … I can’t. I mean, I just realized that I need to do it all by myself, when I’m alone …. But I’ll do it before you leave, I promise.”
“Alright. But you’re missing out,” he said and mercifully swam away. She kept her eyes on him, not allowing her gaze to wander out over the foreboding lake. After several minutes, he approached again, but this time, hoisted himself back up on to the dock and sat beside her.
She smiled. “I guess all of your early morning swims at the pool have paid off.”
“Yep.” He thumped his chest. “The old ticker is better than ever. Nothing like a heart attack to motivate a man to get in shape.”
Leila turned and looked at his chest. She touched the scar, parting the hairs that covered it. “Is there any sensation?”
His eyes widened with a quizzical glint. She withdrew.
“A little bit,” he said. “You’re not still worried about my heart, are you?”
“Not really. No. You take better care of yourself than practically anyone I know, with all your vegetable juicing and vitamins. I mean, look at you, you’re in great shape.” His quizzical expression returned and she quickly added, “—for an old guy, I mean.”
He chuckled and slipped back into the water. He swam around the cove, his strokes strong and precise as he moved toward the mouth of the lake. It had never occurred to her that a man his age could look athletic. The word virile came to mind and she blushed.
He swam a wide circle back and dove deep, disappearing and then emerged a short distance from the dock. “I’m starving. Let’s start cooking.”
~
Myles watched with amusement as Leila cracked a couple of eggs over a mound of flour, and began squishing it through her fingers. The tip of her tongue pressed between her lips like a child. He added a pinch of salt.
“Oh, I forgot.” She held up her sticky fingers. “Music. Go turn on the stereo. There’s a tape already in there.”
Myles hit play. As the symphony began, Rachmaninoff’s piano joined the strings.
“Ah,” he said as he reentered the kitchen, “the Rach three.”
Leila’s wrist nudged a stray hair from her forehead. “I’ve always wondered why you gave me that particular music selection.”
He winked. “Reminds me of you.”
“Really. How so?”
“It has such a sweet melody as it begins, and then plays contrapuntal with intense and agitated undercurrents.”
“Hmm ….” She looked at him askance. “Actually, it has always reminded me of you for the very same reason.”
“Imagine that.”
They listened without a word as the music continued. Leila kneaded the pasta dough with all Rachmaninoff’s fervor, as Myles affixed the pasta machine to the countertop. “I’ll crank. You feed.”
Leila flattened her dough and began the process. “So, tell me about Peter’s meeting with the doctor. Did he have him sticking square pegs into round holes?”
“No. Motor skills are more the neurologist’s job. The psychiatrist ran a similar gamut of responsiveness tests but seemed more interested in the actual incident that precipitated the mutism.”
“I see. So I suppose you had to recount the whole thing.”
Myles peered at Leila as if he were wearing his readers. “Which is a secondary reason why I’ve come to visit.”
Leila did not react. He continued, “You see, the doctor believes that knowing any additional details regarding that interval while Peter and Ian were out in the boat could be crucial in helping him to deal with the trauma. I was hoping that through the police report we might locate the man who retrieved Peter.”
“We don’t need the police report for that, I know who it was. Raymond—something. He stopped by—I think it was last August—still summer, anyway.”
“You never told me about that.”
“Didn’t I?”
“No, you didn’t. What did he want?”
“To see if there was anything I needed. You know, help putting the boat away, which of course you had already done before you left. He brought the float in, though, and covered it for winter, and—” she gestured toward the window with her flour-covered hand “—there it sits. He gave me his number in case I needed anything. I still have it somewhere.”
“Well, if you could find it, that would be great.”
“Sure. I’ll look after we eat, and I’ll give him a call.”
Leila draped the pasta atop a cotton cloth over at the table. Myles sliced shallots and chanterelle mushrooms as the olive oil heated in the pan.
“The important thing,” he said, blotting sea scallops as the oil began to smoke, “is that once the scallops hit the pan you don’t disturb them until they’re crisp and golden brown, otherwise they will exude their liquid and steam or poach. Cook them two or three minutes at the most. Flip them only once. Are we ready with the pasta?”
Myles poured Sauvignon Blanc as they sat to eat. Although the sun was only just dipping below the tree line of the shady little cove, he lit candles. One could never have too much ambiance.
“This is really nice,” she said.
Myles gestured at some flour on her nose and she dusted it.
She continued, “I wish we could eat together every night.”
“I’d question the prudence of that. We’d both end up the size of a mammoth. Besides, I don’t cook this way every night.”
“It’s not a matter of the food. It’s the company.”
Myles smirked, “One week and I would bore you.”
“I doubt it.”
Myles chuckled at the notion, appealing as the idea was. If only life were that simple.
“So,” he changed the subject, “where shall we go tomorrow?”
Myles had hoped to visit the White Mountains, but Leila opted for Portsmouth—she and Ian had not been there as a couple, and she wanted new memories. In fact, all three had hiked parts of Mount Washington together. He agreed, someplace new would be best.
“Portsmouth is very historical,” she said as she brought their plates to the sink. “You’ll love the old architecture, and we can hang out at the water for a little bit.”
“Sounds perfect.” Myles rose. “Let me help with dishes.”
“No, I’ll take care of it.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. We both made the mess. We’ll both clean up.”
“I said no!” she snapped, catching him off guard. “I’m sorry. It’s just that it was mine and Ian’s little ritual. It would feel weird if you were washing dishes beside me.”
“Alright then, let me do the dishes and you find the phone number.”
“Okay.” In a few minutes, she returned. “That’s so weird, I don’t even remember writing it in my phone book, but here it is. Paul Raymond.” She dialed the phone.
Myles was amazed that she had no qualms about placing the call. She sounded almost businesslike when she said, “I wonder if Paul is available.”
A moment later, she responded, “Hi, this is Leila Brigham, I don’t know if you remember me—I’m fine, thank you. A friend of mine, Clarence Myles, is in town—the grandfather of the little boy, Peter. If it wasn’t too much of an imposition, he was wondering if he might have a word with you in person, sometime—Whenever it’s convenient for you, although, I guess the sooner the better.”
She was downright charming as she concluded the call. “That would be perfect. Thank you so much—we’ll see you tomorrow morning, then.”
She hung up the phone and glanced at Myles. “All set.”
Myles wiped his hand on the dishtowel. “Leila, you don’t have to come along. It may be very unpleasant … and—”
“And what? It might upset me and I might cry?”
Myles’ brow narrowed at her aloofness.
She shrugged. “I haven’t cried yet. Not really. So even if I did, that’s supposed to be good, isn’t it?”
He ached at her remark. “You haven’t cried for Ian?”
She moved toward the living room. “I did … a little I guess, at the morgue … but then, time was up and I had to get back home.”
In fact, Myles had not actually observed her crying in all those days before he left. Not even at the funeral home during visiting hours. He ascribed her composure to distraction, since there was a continuous trickle of people. There had been no preacher or eulogy—nothing that might have evoked tears. She had chosen a simple memorial, not unlike her grandfather’s—old Artie Sparks, legendary Delta-blues musician—where only a few gathered afterward.
Setting the towel aside, Myles followed Leila to where she sat on the sofa. “You’ve been holding it in all this time?”
“Not really on purpose. It just doesn’t come.” She shrugged. “I know that’s not normal.”
Myles beheld her with alarm. “What about when your father died? You cried then, didn’t you?”
“I cried a lot the afternoon he died, but then I had to get on with life—with the plan. I guess there were other times when I cried—but it took a long time.”
Myles’ concern spiked. “Have you considered—?”
“Considered what?” She slumped deeper into the cushion. “Sitting around in a bereavement group, spilling my guts in front of a bunch of strangers?”
“I’m not a huge proponent of psychotherapy, as you know.” He sat on the edge of the sofa beside her. “Yet, there are times when I think it has some value.”
Leila looked on the verge of rolling her eyes.
He continued, “Perhaps you might consider it. You could always call Doctor Jennings. At least you’re familiar with Valerie.”
“Clarence, I know you’re just trying to be helpful, but you know that I deal with things in my own way—” She gave him a sharp look that said back off.
Myles ignored it. “I’m not altogether convinced that you are dealing with it.”
“This is just what I do.” She pushed herself up to stand. “So why don’t we go for a walk and work off some of that pasta so your arteries don’t clog up.”
He was up against the immovable Leilian wall.
Chapter 7
In the dark, Myles stared at the ceiling as he folded his hands upon his chest, acutely aware of his pulse. The thought of Leila repressing so much emotion quickened his heartbeat. This would be her first full night in her and Ian’s bed. The ache she must be feeling made his eyes burn.
Upstairs, he heard shuffling and then the creak of the screen door. Leila must have decided to postpone her bedtime. Answering his intuition, he rose and stepped over to the window beside her drawing table.
By the light of the full moon, Leila walked to the end of the dock where she stood for a minute. Then, in a blink and with one quick, simultaneous movement, her robe dropped to her feet as she dove into the placid lake. She caused barely a ripple as she cut through the water and disappeared. An eerie tranquility glazed the surface as seconds passed—long seconds. Myles waited. His heart raced, eyes darting over the moon’s reflection until she resurfaced only feet from shore. Stunned at the sight of her naked body, he averted his eyes and returned to the edge of his bed.
Soon, the screen door creaked and he heard her footfall all the way to her room above his. He rubbed his eyes as he sat hunched, resisting flashbacks of Ian and that terrible day—and the look on Leila’s face as she left with the police officer. He dreaded his conversation with Paul Raymond, some poor soul who was likely traumatized in his own way.
