In the Blink of an Eye (23 page)

Lincoln doesn't mind the food spatters that are building up inside. He figures sooner or later, he'll clean the thing. That, or get a new one. This one's pretty ancient, like the rest of their appliances. Money isn't as low as it used to be, since he got the life insurance settlement. Besides, there's always the Sears charge. Corinne didn't like to use it unless it was absolutely necessary. But Lincoln figures one of these days, he'll drive down to Jamestown and replace the microwave and the toaster and the Mr. Coffee that drips so slowly he's taken to starting it before he takes his shower in the mornings.

As he waits for the three minutes to pass before his ravioli will be ready, he uses the small bathroom off the kitchen, then scrubs his filthy hands. There's no towel to dry them on—he has yet to fold the clean laundry heaped in bushels in the dining room. But at least he got it off the line before the rain started falling.

Thinking of the laundry reminds Lincoln of yesterday's unexpected visitor. Pilar.

Why did she have to barge in and stir up old memories?

It's not as if he doesn't think about Kathy every damn day of his life as it is. But having that woman here talking about it has left Lincoln feeling raw. He didn't sleep well last night; kept thinking about Kathy, and Rupert, and Nan, and all that happened so many years ago.

Back in the kitchen, he spreads three slices of Wonder Bread with a thick layer of margarine. He gobbles the bread and his ravioli in less than five minutes, seated at the wobbly wooden table in the corner by the window.

Corinne liked to call it the “breakfast nook,” but that was just wishful thinking. The rooms in this old farmhouse his grandfather built are rectangular and unadorned by nooks or alcoves or even moldings, unlike some of those fancy gingerbread houses over in Lily Dale.

On only two occasions was Lincoln ever inside the house where Kathy grew up. The first was when she brought him home to meet her parents after they had been dating for a few months.

Lincoln's mother—who adored Kathy—bought him a new shirt for the occasion: a short-sleeved cotton one with buttons and a collar. She said he could wear it again a month later, for his high-school graduation. She even ironed his least-worn pair of jeans before he dressed for the dinner at the Biddles, and assured him that he looked fit to meet President Nixon.

But not fit to meet Rupert Biddle,
he thinks now, stung even three-plus decades later by Kathy's father's obvious and immediate rejection. Though his wife at least attempted to be civil, if stiff, Rupert was cold to Lincoln from the start. Lincoln could feel the man's assessing gaze traveling over him from head to toe; could see in his eyes that he didn't approve. As they all picked at the elaborate dinner Nan prepared, only Kathy chattered—nervously, almost desperately, trying to find common ground between her father and Lincoln.

There was none.

What did a farmer's son who had never been more than thirty miles away from Sinclairville have in common with a middle-aged, well-known, well-off medium?

Absolutely nothing.

Before the evening was over, as Kathy helped her mother clear the table, Rupert managed to pull Lincoln aside and warn him not to get too attached to his daughter.

“She has big plans for her life,” the man said.

Plans that don't include you.

He left that part unspoken, but the meaning was clear.

“She's not going to be around Lily Dale much longer,” Rupert told him.

“I know she'll be going to college in less than two years,” Lincoln replied. “I would never want to take that away from her.”

“No, you won't be taking that away from her,” Rupert said, almost in a warning tone. “But I'm not talking about college. Katherine may be finishing her high-school education elsewhere. The local school system isn't challenging enough for her. She deserves the best education we can give her. The best of everything.”

“Yes, she does.”

“Then we understand each other,” Rupert said evenly.

Lincoln nodded, his gut twisting at what Kathy's father implied.

When he later questioned Kathy about her leaving Lily Dale before she went away to college, she brushed it off, telling him her father was always talking about sending her to a fancy boarding school. Her parents were both from New York City, she said, and even after all these years in Lily Dale, they were a bit snobbish about certain things.

Anyway, Kathy assured Lincoln that she had no intention of leaving Lily Dale. Not now, and not ever. She said she wanted to go to college at the state university over in Fredonia. They had an excellent school of music, and that was what she wanted to study. She loved to play the guitar, especially folk music.

Simon and Garfunkel.

They were her favorites. She could play all of their music, but Lincoln always requested the same song.

“Kathy's Song,” it was called.

There hasn't been a rainy night since when, lying in bed listening to the drops hitting the roof overhead, Lincoln doesn't hear her sweet voice, singing the soulful lyrics for his ears alone.

I hear the drizzle of the rain . . . falling like a memory . . .

“I wouldn't be able to stand being more than a few miles away from you, Lincoln,” she once whispered into his ear, resting her head on his shoulder. “I won't ever leave you.”

No. But he left her.

Right after his eighteenth birthday, his number came up in the birthday lottery. He was shipped to Vietnam. The only thing that kept him going in that hellish jungle was the knowledge that Kathy would marry him when he returned.

After he got the letter saying she was leaving him, he didn't care whether he lived or died. He took foolish risks and was awarded a silver star medal. When his time was up he remained on active duty.

Finally, the war was wound to a close and he made his way home to Sinclairville, to the farm where his parents still toiled. There, he began to heal. And there, he met Corinne, at a barn dance one clear May evening when the sky was filled with stars.

He never forgot Kathy Biddle.

But he never stopped trying.

G
LANCING ONE MORE
time at Nan to make sure she's asleep, Pilar rises from the chair beside the bed, her heart pounding.

As she moves through the room, she vaguely notices a faint, familiar scent wafting in the air. She assumes it's from something blooming outside the window . . . but the window is closed, and the scent seems to permeate the room from within.

That's odd,
Pilar thinks, standing still and looking around for a source to the floral perfume. There's nothing she can see—not potpourri, or cut flowers, or cologne.

Stop wasting time. Rupert might be home any minute,
she reminds herself. She hurriedly leaves the back bedroom and makes her way toward the front of the house. He didn't say where he was going, but he did tell her he wouldn't be long.

There's a wide window in the front door and the desk is in full view of it. If he comes home now, he'll spot her and realize what she's up to before he even steps inside.

He left on foot, which means he's stayed right here in Lily Dale.

Pilar steps out onto the porch, vaguely noticing that the rain has stopped at last. She glances in either direction down the street to see if he's coming. He isn't visible from here, but that doesn't mean he isn't nearby. You can't see very far down the narrow street, and several trees obstruct the view.

She'll have to move fast. There might not be another opportunity.

Scurrying to the desk, she tugs on the rolltop, half expecting to find it locked.

To her surprise, it isn't.

She lifts the top and rummages swiftly but carefully through the contents, quickly locating the address book.

Is Katherine married? What's her last name?

Pilar has no way of knowing.

She quickly flips the pages to the
Bs,
assuming the Biddles' daughter might be listed under her maiden name.

She isn't.

Pilar will have to go through the book page by page until she finds it.

Luckily, there aren't many entries on each alphabetized page, and many of them are for area professionals: doctors, accountants, insurance agencies. It seems Rupert and Nan limit their friends and acquaintances to those Pilar recognizes as being from Lily Dale. Though they traveled frequently before Nan became ill, they don't seem to have been visiting far-flung relatives or friends. Nobody's address is outside the local area . . .

Until Pilar comes to the first one on the
J
page.

Katherine Jergins.

This is it,
she realizes. It has to be. The name is followed by a New York address. The town is Garden City.

That's on Long Island. Pilar is almost certain of it.

There's a phone number, too.

I can pick up the phone and call her right now,
Pilar tells herself. She's tempted to do it, but something is stopping her.

She can almost hear Raul's voice warning her not to be impulsive—not to stick her nose where it doesn't belong. Yet this time, it's more intuition than Pilar actually making contact with his energy. Her husband was a cautious person, that's all. He always told her not to make hasty decisions.

Anyway, now that she has actually found the information, she can call any time. It doesn't have to be now. Or even today.

Or maybe Rupert has already called her, she thinks hopefully. Maybe she'll be here any day.

Pilar finds a pen and a scrap of paper in the desk and hastily scribbles Katherine's name and address. She tucks it carefully into the pocket of her khaki slacks and puts the address book back where she found it, closing the desk lid.

Then she returns to Nan's bedside to watch her sleep. The floral essence still wafts in the back bedroom. Remembering Nan's love of gardening and her fondness for aromatic flowers, Pilar crosses to the window. Pressing her face against the glass, she peers out, certain she'll find a garden in full bloom. There's nothing but a patch of well-watered grass and a maple sapling ringed by red geraniums and impatiens, and yellow marigolds.

Rupert must have planted those, Pilar thinks. Nan never liked marigolds, and she doesn't care for bright, primary colors when it comes to flowers. She loves soft shades, mostly pinks and purples, and fragrant old-fashioned perennials. Nan doesn't bother with scent-free, lackluster annuals—like impatiens—that come in black plastic cell packs at the supermarket and Kmart.

As she turns away from the window, sniffing, Pilar notices that the aroma is distinctly familiar. Which flower smells like this? She can't place the scent—nor the source for it in the room.

Maybe Rupert spilled some kind of cologne in here earlier,
she thinks, sitting by Nan's bed again. Her thoughts drift back to Katherine's phone number tucked securely into her pocket.

Another fifteen minutes passes before Nan begins to stir.

She mutters something, turning her head fitfully on the pillow.

Pilar frowns, rising and standing over the bed. The scent of flowers seems to be getting stronger still. She reaches out and touches Nan's thin shoulder. “Are you calling Rupert, Nan? He'll be right back. I'm here. It's me, Pilar.”

Nan doesn't seem to hear her. Her eyes remain closed and she seems to rest more easily for a few moments.

Then her head turns abruptly to one side again and she calls out.

This time, her speech isn't the least bit muffled. Pilar clearly hears the one word that spills from her lips.

“Katherine.”

She's calling for her daughter.

“It's okay, Nan,” Pilar says softly, stroking her friend's arm. “It's okay. She's coming.”

Nan opens her eyes. “Katherine . . . is coming.” It's not a question. It's a statement.

“Yes, Nan. Katherine is coming.” Pilar watches her, unable to tell whether she's lucid. She's almost staring through Pilar, rather than at her. “She loves you. Don't worry. She'll be here. I'll make sure of it.”

T
HE RAIN HAS
stopped at last, but Julia leaves the hood of her neon orange raincoat over her head to protect her hair from the dripping trees overhead. This isn't her favorite thing to wear—she doesn't like the bright color. But her mother—with her usual disregard for Julia's personal taste—sent it to her on her last birthday, and it's the only rain jacket she has.

The air is scented with the pungent, earthy after-rain scent, and even the dingiest cottages, freshly washed, glisten in the yellow rays that poke through a hole in the dense clouds overhead.

She has almost reached the house she still finds herself referring to as Iris's when she spots a figure descending the porch steps.

Rupert Biddle.

The man turns in her direction.

She waves to him, calling out, “Hello, Rupert.”

He looks almost startled to see her, as though he'd been lost in his thoughts even though he was heading straight for her.

“Julia,” he says, barely slowing his pace as he approaches. “How are you?”

“I'm fine. How's Nan? I've been thinking of her.”

“She has good days and bad days,” Rupert tells her with obvious reluctance, coming to a halt where the gravel walk meets the street.

She can sense that Rupert doesn't want to stop and chat. He must be hurrying back home to his wife. Wondering idly what he was doing at Paine's place, she asks Rupert, “Is there anything I can do? Maybe I can run some errands for you, or pick up some groceries?”

“No, thank you. I get around pretty well.”

Julia glances up at the house, and it occurs to her that he might be the person to ask about the energy she and Dulcie have recently sensed inside. After all, he lived here for most of his life.

Years ago, when she was a teenager, still haunted by Kristin's strange reaction to whatever she saw at the foot of the Biddles' stairs, Julia considered telling Rupert or Nan about the incident. But she never found the opportunity.