Dark Beach - By Lauren Ash Page 0,21
Molly, since you have invited me to dinner. So very nice of you. I’ve been on microwaved macaroni for weeks now. My fingers ache with the arthritis, you see. It started about ten years ago, and it will not let up. The doctor gave me medication, but it just doesn’t work very well.”
“I have arthritis, too,” John added, splaying the fingers of his right hand and showing her.
“It’s quite a bother, especially when the barometer drops.” Molly sympathized. “I can tell when it’s going to rain, which is basically all the time.”
“This summer has been worse than others. It’s that La Niña business.” John shook his head. “Seems as though it’s permanent. The weather used to be much better.”
Jenny nodded as she put the fish in the oven. “Should only be about half an hour, I think. Wine?”
“Oh no, not with my heart medication. Well, maybe just a taste,” said Molly. She took a seat at the dining table, next to John.
“Just a taste for me as well.” John moved his chair over a little to let Molly in.
Jenny poured them each a half-glass of Chardonnay and lit a new white candle on the windowsill. It would be just the three of them; Kip had already eaten her usual fare—chicken nuggets—and been put to bed.
“So tell me a story about Gerry.” Jenny joined them at the table.
“I didn’t know her. I only saw her in passing, in town,” John said quickly.
Molly took her cue. “What kind of story do you want? I have many.”
“Anything. Something interesting. What was she like ... before?”
“She was quiet, kept to herself most of them time. She liked the beach, and she loved seashells—had quite the collection.”
“I’ve seen them, throughout the house,” Jenny said. “They’re all so beautiful—all colors, even some shark teeth. I didn’t know those washed up on the shore. I wonder where she got them?”
“No idea,” said Molly, gripping her wineglass to still the permanent shaking of her hands.
“They wash up on the shore all the time. You just have to look for them,” said John. He took a sip of wine. “I don’t collect them myself, but many do.”
“She was quiet,” Molly repeated.
“Oh, I know you’ve got more than that.” Molly was holding out on her, Jenny knew it. “What’s with the fisherman saying up front?”
Molly shook her head. “Nothing.”
“Oh, come on! There’s got to be something more there.”
Molly glared at her and raised her eyebrows at John, as if she didn’t want to say in front of him. “I think someone gave that to her. I’m not sure.”
“I see,” said Jenny, relishing the secret female understanding that passed between them—an understanding that was universal, no matter the age or background, whenever women were in the presence of men. “Did you know her when Ron lived here as a boy?”
“Yes, I did. But we were not close back then. I knew her from our reading group. We met once a month to discuss the latest book. Gerry didn’t say much in the group either. Most of the woman thought she had a bit of an air about her—the way she carried herself. She was always neat as a pin, not a hair out of place.”
“She’s in a home now?” John asked.
“Yes. But, the poor soul, I don’t think she really knows where she is most of the time. Every once in a while I’ll talk to her and she’ll answer as if nothing were wrong, as if the illness had not touched her at all, but that is a rare occasion, that one. Some grow old gracefully, and some don’t. I almost envy her sometimes. She doesn’t know what’s going on. I, on the other hand, feel this...” She put down the wineglass and showed John her cramped, arthritic hand.
“Oh, it’s not that bad.” John patted Molly’s bony shoulder.
She looked right at him. “Yes, it’s much better with company, isn’t it?”
“God, yes,” said Jenny. “Everything is better with company. Come on, you two, dinner is ready.”
* * *
They chatted late into the night, mostly about comforting, generic topics, until John thanked Jenny for dinner and excused himself.
“Before you go, I wanted to ask if I could borrow one of your lock picks? I have a box I need to get into,” Jenny said as she saw him to the door.
“Sure.” He opened the leather pouch and gestured to a pick. “This one is good for most locks. It shouldn’t be a bother. Just jimmy it until it pops loose. Call me