Cry for the Strangers Page 0,96
I know of,” he said slowly. “It’s just a lot of little things.”
“What kind of little things?” The innkeeper’s eyes glistened with anticipation, and Chip Connor suddenly decided he didn’t want to confide in Glind.
“Nothing I can put my finger on,” he said. He finished the beer that had just been put in front of him and stood up. “I think I’ll go for a walk. I’m probably just nervous.”
“It’s starting to rain out there,” Glind pointed out, his lips pursing and his brows knitting as he realized he wasn’t going to find out what was on Chip’s mind.
“It’s always starting to rain out here,” Chip replied. “Or if it isn’t starting, it’s stopping. See you later.” He tossed a couple of dollar bills on the bar and grinned as Merle scooped them up. Then he patted Glind on the shoulder and left.
It was a light rain, the misty kind of rain that makes the air smell fresh and doesn’t require an umbrella. It felt cold on Chip’s face, and he liked the feeling. It was almost like sea spray, but softer, gentler, almost caressing.
He started for the wharf, thinking he might check the moorings on the boats, but as he stepped out onto the pier he realized someone was already there: a small light bobbed in the darkness.
“Hello?” Chip called. The bobbing light swung around. Chip instinctively raised a hand to cover his eyes as the light blinded him.
“Chip? That you?” Chip recognized the reedy voice immediately.
“Granddad?”
“Well, it’s not the bogeyman, if that’s what you were expecting.”
Chip hurried out onto the wharf. “What are you doing out here in the rain? You’ll catch pneumonia.”
“If I were going to catch pneumonia I’d have caught it years ago,” Mac Riley groused. “I’m checking the boats.”
Chip chuckled. “That’s what I was going to do.”
“Well, it’s done. Everything’s secure, tight as a drum.” Then he frowned at Chip. “How come you were going to check? You don’t usually do that.”
“I was at the inn and I felt like taking a walk—”
“Something on your mind?” Riley interrupted.
“I’m not sure.”
“Of course you’re sure,” Riley snapped. “Give me a ride home and let’s talk about it. I’ve got some scotch that I’ve been saving just for a night like tonight.”
“What’s so special about tonight?” Chip asked.
“You. I don’t get to see you as much as I’d like. Well, that’s grandsons for you. Only come around when they have a problem. I can sit around jawing with Tad Corey and Clem Ledbetter all day and it doesn’t do me any good at all. They think I’m a senile old man.”
“You?” Chip laughed out loud. “The day you get senile will be the day you die.”
“Thanks a lot,” the old man said dryly. “You wanting to stand here in the rain all night, or do we get going?”
They returned to the inn, where Chip’s car was parked, and drove the few blocks to Mac Riley’s house in silence. “You ought to sell the house or buy a car,” Chip remarked as they went into the large Victorian house that Riley had built for his bride more than sixty years earlier.
“I’m too old,” Riley complained. “Can’t get a driver’s license, and can’t learn to live anyplace else. Besides, I don’t feel lonely here. Your grandmother’s in this house.”
As Chip’s brows rose in skepticism, Riley snorted at him.
“I don’t mean a ghost, or anything like that,” he said impatiently. “It’s just memories. When you get to be my age you’ll know what I’m talking about. Every room in this house has memories for me. Your grandmother, your mother, even you. But mostly your grandmother.”
They were in the tiny sitting room just off the entry hall, and Chip looked at the portrait of his grandmother that hung over the fireplace.
“She looks a lot like Harney Whalen,” he commented.
“Why shouldn’t she?” Riley countered. “She was his aunt.”
“I know. But for some reason I never think of it that way. I always think of Harn as kissing kin, rather than blood kin.”
“Around here there ain’t much difference,” Riley said. He found the bottle of scotch, poured two tumblers full—no ice, no water—and handed one of them to Chip.
“That who’s on your mind? Harn Whalen?”
Chip nodded and sipped at the scotch, feeling it burn as it trickled down his throat. “I’m worried about him,” he said. He was thoughtful for several minutes. Then he explained, “It’s a lot of little things. But mostly it’s the way he feels about strangers.”
“We all feel that way,”