“Well, the someone wants to sell them, Lizzie.”
“Boy, wouldn’t that be great.” A little extra money was always good. “Is it the little craft store next to the grocery?”
“It’s the Mason Gallery in Boston. On Newbury Street.”
Lizzie’s eyes popped. “What?”
“Mr. Mason was up here buying antiques with his wife and I happened to be taking a stroll with my morning coffee. He saw my mug and when I told him I made it and had others they came back to the house. He liked what I did and wants to send a truck to pick up fifty pieces.”
Good…Lord. The Mason Gallery specialized in selling one-of-a-kind objets d’art to the high-rent crowd in Boston. Lizzie had only ever walked by the window because she knew the prices inside were way out of her league.
“What should I do, Lizzie?”
“Well, do you want to sell your work?”
“I think so.” There was a slight pause and then her mother’s voice grew soft, almost ashamed. “But, Lizzie, you know I’m not good with money. Will you take care of all that stuff? I mean, I am not…good with money.”
Lizzie closed her eyes, knowing there was so much more in that comment. Her mother was rarely self-aware, but in this moment, she was totally present and obviously clear about her mental deficiency.
The shame was painful to hear. And so very unnecessary.
“Mom, don’t worry, I’ll take care of everything. I’ll tell you what we have to do.”
There was sigh of relief. “Thank you. Because you know what? I really like pottery. I could see myself doing this for a long while. I think I’m not just inspired, I think I’m good at it.”
Lizzie blinked away the tears that pooled in her eyes. “That’s wonderful, Mom. I think that’s wonderful.”
“You know, Lizzie…you take such good care of me. Except I was thinking last night, I kind of wish someone would take care of you. Or don’t you want that?”
Lizzie had to rub her eyes. “I don’t know, I’m pretty self-sufficient. I do well on my own.”
Like a cheerful bird call, a dinging sound rang out in the background. “Oh, Lizzie…I must go. I have some mugs ready to come out of the kiln now. They’re so pretty. Bright blue like a summer sky on the outside, white as clouds on the inside. The rims are sunshine-yellow. I’m calling it my July series.”
Lizzie thought back to the morning she and Sean had walked out into the sunlight and both seen the same beauty in the day.
In a raw voice she said, “That sounds lovely, Mom. Just…lovely.”
When Lizzie hung up the phone, she replayed the conversation in her head to try and keep herself from thinking of Sean.
She’d only ever heard that serious tone of voice from her mom a couple of times before. The subject had been her love for Lizzie’s father—the one constant in the woman’s life. So chances were good this interest in pottery was going to stick.
Lizzie put the phone back in the charger and went into her spare bedroom. She’d put the majority of boxes in here to keep them out of her way, and as she looked at her things, she counted the times she’d moved in her life. Out of home to college. Dorm changes. Nursing school. First apartment. Then this one.
She would like a home, she thought. A place to be permanent in…where the front door and the interior rooms were a constant through the seasons of the years.
But she was probably going to be a vagabond for a while yet.
As she glanced at the boxes, she thought, yeah, she and U-Haul were going to be dating for a couple more years. Vagabonds needed to take their stuff with them. And that meant boxes and bubble wrap.
With a long exhale, she went over to the closet and figured she might as well pack up the winter clothes that were stored there.
As she opened the door, she saw something on the floor inside that brought her to a halt.
It was a tool box. A beaten-up tool box that was painted red, but so scuffed and old it was more like a dull brown. On the side, the telephone company’s name was stamped in yellow block letters.
Bending down, she picked it up by the worn black handle and put it on a waist-high stack of cartons.
Mr. O’Banyon’s tool box.
He’d given it to her about a month before he’d died, had insisted that she take it with her downstairs after one of their Sunday dinners. When she’d asked him why, he’d told her that he wanted it in safekeeping, that he could only trust her with what was inside. At the time, she hadn’t understood why a bunch of tools were in such danger in his apartment, but he’d been agitated from a switch in his meds and a little paranoid, so she’d taken the thing.
Out of curiosity and because the sight of it made her miss her friend, Lizzie flipped free the silver clips in front and opened the lid.
Only to frown.
It was full of papers, not tools. Papers and…photographs.
Which kind of made sense because it wasn’t the dead weight it should have been.
Lizzie reached in and took out the picture that was on top of the pile. It was a black-and-white photo of a young, dark-haired woman who was standing in front of what could only be described as a palatial mansion. She was wearing a sundress and staring out at the camera with a lovely, flirtatious smile.
Sean’s mother?
Lizzie delved farther into the box and found birth certificates for Mark David, Sean Thomas and William John O’Banyon. As well as a death certificate for Anne Whitney O’Banyon. There were also faded report cards bearing Sean’s name. Clippings from the Globe featuring Billy on the football field. A commendation from the army for Captain Mark D. O’Banyon.
Way at the bottom, there was a bunch of papers that were folded up and secured with a thin rubber band.
She had no intention of reading them. She truly didn’t. In fact, she was feeling bad enough for intruding on things that were Sean’s and his brothers’.
But then the old rubber band broke and the documents unfurled.
At the top of the first page she saw three words: Child Protective Services .
God help her, she kept reading.
When she was finished, her knees were so weak, she had to sit on the bare floor.
***
In his office in Manhattan, Sean swiveled his chair around so that he faced the bank of windows behind his desk. Outside, a gorgeous September day was spilling sunshine all over the skyscrapers of Wall Street.
Exhausted, tense, in a nasty-bastard mood, he decided as a public service that he would leave a little early tonight and go for a run in Central Park.
Unfortunately, the plan made him think back to the last time he’d run around outside.
That glorious afternoon with Lizzie at the Esplanade.
Putting his hand under his tie, he felt for his cross through his shirt. As he traced the outline of the crucifix, he pictured her after she’d found it in the grass, a smile on her face, the gold necklace swinging from her fingertips, the holy pendant catching the sunlight.
God, he missed her. Even though he shouldn’t.
On some level, he still found it hard to believe she’d done what she had. But as a practical matter, it was difficult to repudiate what he’d seen with his own eyes.
As a finance guy, he knew that cashed checks didn’t lie.
“Mr. O’Banyon?”
He swung the chair back around and looked over his paper-riddled desk. Andrew Frick and Freddie Wilcox were standing in the door to his office, the two young guys looking tired, but very pleased with themselves.
“Hey, boys, what’s doing?” Sean said.
Andrew came forward and put a four-inch-thick file on the desk, all the while glowing like a kid who was turning an apple in to the teacher. “We’re finished with the analysis.”
Sean leafed through the documents a little. “Nice. Very nice. Must have kept you two up all night.”
“It did, but it’s like what you say, you can sleep when you’re dead.”
Sean closed the file. “Yeah. Right.”
Damn…All of a sudden, he wanted to give them a pep talk about the evils of sinking too much into your work. He wanted to warn them that long hours hardened you and relentless competition drained you and meanwhile life slipped by and you didn’t even notice how alone you were.