made his way out of the small bedroom and into the kitchen.
He flicked on a light and checked the coffeepot. Empty. Carefully he measured out some dark brown grounds, added water, and started the machine. He took a chipped mug out of the sink, rinsed it, and poured a generous amount of whiskey into the bottom.
The coffeemaker hissed and sputtered, the rich scent of the beverage filling the room. Alcott put his mug under the dripping liquid. As soon as it was full, he took it and replaced the coffeepot. Cradling the mug, he shuffled into his studio.
Alcott was eighty years old, white-haired, with a pointed chin and watery blue eyes. His nose had a slight hook, making him appear birdlike, and his wiry frame and quick movements added to the comparison. He was arthritic, but the whiskey helped mask the constant pain. It helped with other things, too.
Like memories of Gracie.
He gazed at her portrait, hanging on the wall of his studio, and recalled one of the days she’d posed for him on the porch. He’d arranged some faded red pillows on the white wicker couch, and told her to sit there and relax. She’d complied, laughing, asking him how she could relax when she knew he was scrutinizing her every pore?
And yet she had relaxed, he thought now. She’d become almost dreamy, her thoughts a million miles away from their porch overlooking the bay. She had worn her hair to her shoulders then, and Alcott recalled that it curled in soft waves around her face. He’d managed to capture those waves in the painting, using light strokes to show the fine wisps that would not be tamed, no matter how many times she used her heavy wooden hairbrush with the special bristles. She’d been wearing a crisp white blouse, with a blue bandana tied jauntily around her neck, and the effect of the colors—red, white, and blue—had given the finished work a look of Americana, as if the artist had set out to paint something patriotic.
Alcott gazed at Gracie’s smile. Guileless, as if she hadn’t a care in the world, as if she knew her future would always be rosy, her heart as young and strong as it had been on that September day.
He felt his lower lip tremble and he put a shaking finger up to touch it, spilling his coffee in the process. He swore and grabbed a painting rag to mop up the mess. Guilt and shame, his ever-present companions, rose up as if revived by the hot coffee. He swallowed, and backed slowly out of the studio.
_____
The cove was nearly silent under the cold night sky.
Darby strained her ears to hear the gentle lap of the water, as faint as a caress against the smooth sand. No breeze stirred the tall spruces, no gong of a bell buoy, nor cry of a gull, marred the stillness.
The air was bracing, chilling Darby’s nose, lips, and cheeks. She shoved her hands deeper into the down coat’s pockets and lifted her head to the heavens.
There it was.
The constellation Cepheus, a box-like array of stars with a triangle on top. “King Cepheus, the promise breaker,” she heard her father whisper. Darby imagined, as she had so many times as a child, the proud Ethiopian ruler seated on his throne. She recalled the story of his downfall, of how Cepheus had betrayed the hero Perseus by breaking a promise, and how the king and his beautiful wife Cassiopeia had perished at Perseus’s hand, turned to stone by the ugly Medusa’s head.
Promises. Did they all turn out to be hollow? She thought of her parents, of their blithe assertion that they would come home from their sail on that beautiful August day. And yet they had never returned.
Minutes later Darby was back in the snug farmhouse. She made the bed in her old room with brushed flannel sheets and spread a heavy down comforter on top. She changed into her pajamas, brushed her teeth, and checked the time. Nearly eleven p.m.—the perfect hour to call the West Coast.
The phone rang at her assistant Enrique Tomas Gomez’s house and an answering machine with his smooth voice picked
He flicked on a light and checked the coffeepot. Empty. Carefully he measured out some dark brown grounds, added water, and started the machine. He took a chipped mug out of the sink, rinsed it, and poured a generous amount of whiskey into the bottom.
The coffeemaker hissed and sputtered, the rich scent of the beverage filling the room. Alcott put his mug under the dripping liquid. As soon as it was full, he took it and replaced the coffeepot. Cradling the mug, he shuffled into his studio.
Alcott was eighty years old, white-haired, with a pointed chin and watery blue eyes. His nose had a slight hook, making him appear birdlike, and his wiry frame and quick movements added to the comparison. He was arthritic, but the whiskey helped mask the constant pain. It helped with other things, too.
Like memories of Gracie.
He gazed at her portrait, hanging on the wall of his studio, and recalled one of the days she’d posed for him on the porch. He’d arranged some faded red pillows on the white wicker couch, and told her to sit there and relax. She’d complied, laughing, asking him how she could relax when she knew he was scrutinizing her every pore?
And yet she had relaxed, he thought now. She’d become almost dreamy, her thoughts a million miles away from their porch overlooking the bay. She had worn her hair to her shoulders then, and Alcott recalled that it curled in soft waves around her face. He’d managed to capture those waves in the painting, using light strokes to show the fine wisps that would not be tamed, no matter how many times she used her heavy wooden hairbrush with the special bristles. She’d been wearing a crisp white blouse, with a blue bandana tied jauntily around her neck, and the effect of the colors—red, white, and blue—had given the finished work a look of Americana, as if the artist had set out to paint something patriotic.
Alcott gazed at Gracie’s smile. Guileless, as if she hadn’t a care in the world, as if she knew her future would always be rosy, her heart as young and strong as it had been on that September day.
He felt his lower lip tremble and he put a shaking finger up to touch it, spilling his coffee in the process. He swore and grabbed a painting rag to mop up the mess. Guilt and shame, his ever-present companions, rose up as if revived by the hot coffee. He swallowed, and backed slowly out of the studio.
_____
The cove was nearly silent under the cold night sky.
Darby strained her ears to hear the gentle lap of the water, as faint as a caress against the smooth sand. No breeze stirred the tall spruces, no gong of a bell buoy, nor cry of a gull, marred the stillness.
The air was bracing, chilling Darby’s nose, lips, and cheeks. She shoved her hands deeper into the down coat’s pockets and lifted her head to the heavens.
There it was.
The constellation Cepheus, a box-like array of stars with a triangle on top. “King Cepheus, the promise breaker,” she heard her father whisper. Darby imagined, as she had so many times as a child, the proud Ethiopian ruler seated on his throne. She recalled the story of his downfall, of how Cepheus had betrayed the hero Perseus by breaking a promise, and how the king and his beautiful wife Cassiopeia had perished at Perseus’s hand, turned to stone by the ugly Medusa’s head.
Promises. Did they all turn out to be hollow? She thought of her parents, of their blithe assertion that they would come home from their sail on that beautiful August day. And yet they had never returned.
Minutes later Darby was back in the snug farmhouse. She made the bed in her old room with brushed flannel sheets and spread a heavy down comforter on top. She changed into her pajamas, brushed her teeth, and checked the time. Nearly eleven p.m.—the perfect hour to call the West Coast.
The phone rang at her assistant Enrique Tomas Gomez’s house and an answering machine with his smooth voice picked
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