Page 32 of Mornings By the Linden Tree
“Perhaps,” I said, feeling a touch of whimsy I usually never felt. There was no man more firmly rooted in reality with all its pits and falls than Wesley Barlowe. But for some reason, I was enjoying the hell out of watching her and Lennon reacting to my cottage. “We’ll keep an eye out when we go to the beach. Let’s get settled into our rooms, then we can take a walk along the shore before we go to the Purple Egret for dinner at seven.”
“I love how organized you are even when it’s a last-minute trip,” Lennon said with a smile as I showed them around. It was a small cottage for the area, with only a large main bedroom and a smaller guest room. There was a lovely pullout sofa in theden Lennon could use if he didn’t wish to sleep with me, given we had a child with us and weren’t in any sort of committed relationship.
“The Egret is one of the finest eateries on the island. Fresh seafood with an excellent waitstaff and top-notch bartenders. Tasteful without being loud. No brash bands or rowdy elements. They do showcase trendy solo artists from time to time. A singer with his guitar, that kind of thing. Something to lend ambiance to a meal but not drown out conversation with head flailing and—what?”
Lennon gave me a wink that confused me, but I led them around, dropping my bags in the main bedroom. I placed my bag and the satchel with the ashes on the wide bed covered with dark blue bedding and opened the doors to the outside. We stepped out onto a small porch. A hot tub sat off to the left, a table and two chairs on the right, and a long boardwalk led to the beach. Tall grasses swayed in the winds, bells from the boats sailing along the bay back into the marina floated skyward to mingle with the song of gulls, sandpipers, and terns.
I showed them the two baths, one off the main bedroom and one off the living room. I’d spoiled myself with the main bath by adding heated floors, a double vanity, and an oversized triple-head shower. The fluffed and fresh thick white towels hung just so off the towel rack by the sleek toilet. As with the rest of the cottage, small oils of Nantucket painted by local artisans hung on the walls. Perhaps I could lure Lennon and Valeria into one of the many antique shops and small stores filled with artists, potters, and glass workers. Strolling through the varied stores and galleries was one of my favorite pastimes when I was on the isle.
The kitchen greeted us with a full fridge that matched the Viking stainless steel oven and stove. Light curtains on the twolarge bay windows danced on the wind. We ended back in the foyer where our shoes were lined up tidily by the front door.
“Why don’t we unpack?” I suggested. Lennon shrugged. “Please, there are plenty of drawers in my room. I insist you take some.”
“Okay, sure, but I can work from a suitcase.” My gasp made him laugh. “If you had pearls, I bet you would have clutched them.”
I gave him a dry look, then lifted his case from the floor and took it to my bedroom. Lennon took Valeria to the tiny room with a twin bed. That room was soft peach and ivory tones, with plush coverlets and thin draperies. The windows were small and looked out at the front of the cottage where tall spikes of gladiolas and hollyhocks served as background for flowering shrubs.
I divvied up the closet and the lone sailor blue six-drawer double dresser. I laid out his shirts and shorts, hanging up a badly wrinkled short-sleeved polo shirt and a wild floral Hawaiian shirt. I did not touch his socks or undergarments. Those were his to tend to. Rifling through his underwear seemed far too intimate at this stage of…well, whatever it was we were doing. Or I was doing, I should say. Lennon seemed quite sure of where he was and what he wanted from me, this new exploratory feelings thing, and life in general. He was just having trouble finding the kind of backing and exposure to help him reach his professional goals. Perhaps I could pull a few strings when we got back to Boston…
When I was done, I found the two of them searching the channels of the monstrous television mounted on the wall in the den slash living room. Both were barefoot, with floppy beach hats on their heads.
“You did mention a walk on the beach before dinner,” Lennon said. Valeria wiggled her tiny bare toes.
“We can do that, but you must wear sandals.” Both of them pouted. “I know, we all like to feel sand between our toes, but there are sharp things in the sand that can cut us. No one wants to end up getting stitches on our holiday.” Plus, I promised the social worker I would return with Valeria in the same condition she had left Massachusetts. I’d gotten a gold star for informing them I was taking Valeria out of the state. I’d handled enough child custody cases to know you did your best to keep anyone associated with the minor well-informed at all times. Since I was still a temporary guardian, I wanted to ensure my record was sparkling clean. Hopefully, the search for Valeria’s blood father would be resolved soon, and I could proceed with seeking permanent custody.
“Are you wearing sandals?” Lennon asked a few moments later when he was strapping little pink sandals to little brown feet.
“I will change into sandals, yes.”
And so I did, when we were all properly outfitted with hats, obscene amounts of sunscreen, and a bag filled with cold juice boxes, wipes, and some red grapes for snacks. Dinner was a few hours away, and we’d not eaten since we’d left Boston. Even I was growing peckish.
It felt rather surreal when the two of us with Valeria between us, her small sweaty hands clasped in ours, made our way to the shore. I’d walked this boardwalk many times since I had purchased the cottage, always alone, always with a bottle of red wine and a single goblet. Never with another man and a child who was so eager to run into the surf, she was about to take off like a bottle rocket.
We waded out into the water, the warm waves rolling in. The surf could be a little rough here at times, but today it was gentle. Airplanes flew overhead as they came and went from the nearby airport. The sands were pale yellow and toasty warm. There were people about, obviously, as it was a large holiday weekend, butmost seemed pleasant enough as we played in the saltwater. Valeria was soaked and giddy when we finally had to persuade her to leave the water to wash up and change for dinner.
“But I never seen a mermaid,” she grumbled as she stamped back to the cottage, her dark hair filled with sand as simply wading in the waves had not been enough, she had to lie down and let the water roll over her until it tickled her chin. Lennon, too, had gotten sandy and sodden. I was the only one who had stayed dry from the knees up. In all honesty, a wet Lennon was a vision.
“We’ll be back on the beach tomorrow. Perhaps you shall see one then,” I told her. She seemed somewhat placated, but her mood was grumpy until we walked to the eatery about thirty minutes later. There, in one of the local artisan shops, she spied a dollhouse. Lennon and I were both drawn in by the details and charm of the small New England dollhouse, and within five minutes, I’d bought it and had arranged to have it delivered to the cottage in the morning.
“That will keep her busy for hours,” Lennon whispered as we made our way along busy sidewalks.
“Yes, it will. It was very considerate of them to add all the handmade furnishings as well as the display dollies.”
Valeria had the dolls clutched to her chest, talking to the mommy, daddy, and two children. They were small dolls, only a few inches tall, but finely made. Lennon and I had a grip on the straps of her bright sundress as we moved through tourists and natives out for a summer evening.
“Is she too old to use a lead?” I asked as we rounded a corner and ran smack dab into someone walking two large dogs. I hurried to pick up my niece even though the dogs had done nothing aggressive in any way. I was overprotective, I knew that. I truly did not care. Valeria had not been given the amount of parental care or shelter that she should have. Her mother couldbarely protect herself, let alone this child. So, now she was with me, I would make damn sure she was always watched over.
“I think she does well. She’s aware of her surroundings now and follows instructions well.”
“Okay, yes, she does all of those things. You’re correct.” I still carried her to the Egret, then placed her gently into a booster seat to gaze out at the sun slowly making its way down to rest for the night.
The server brought us menus, but I already knew what I’d be ordering: the lobster macaroni and cheese, a four-ounce filet mignon cooked well, a side of crisp green bean salad, and a Dirty Pelican.
“I want popcorn and sketti,” Valeria announced to the entire dining area. Several older people at nearby tables smiled warmly at her, then found themselves trying to work out this odd family dynamic.
“I don’t think they have popcorn here, but they do have pasta. Do you want meatballs?”
“Yes, please. Two.” She held up two fingers, then began placing her tiny doll family on her placemat. “Why is the dolls only milk color?”
