Waterbury Winter, page 18
Definitely easier than expected, she thinks, as she drives away. Easier for her now to manage her father, anyway. He’ll remain unchanged, but she is growing into her true self, the person Alice Morgan would have wanted her daughter to be.
As Julia turns south on the interstate, she allows memories of her mother to flood back. Alice had dealt with Julius the best way she knew, brushing him aside and attending to her own interests. As long as she kept a clean house and good table, he didn’t usually complain. Julia doubted he ever noticed her gentle, artistic soul, her extraordinary garden filled with shining plants, her intricate knitting, or her well-crafted writing. The butterfly lightness of her garden never penetrated the dark recesses of the house. He’d given her a comfortable lifestyle, but no companionship. Sympathy for her mother’s lonely illness drove Julia to leave school and hasten home to care for her during those last months of her life, a decision Julia never regretted.
On the drive home, she reaches for chocolate, then turns on the radio and sings to the catchy refrains of songs from The Wizard of Oz. “Over the Rainbow” strikes her as a fitting end to the day she dreaded. She’ll likely never see her father again. She will live more comfortably, free of the crushing burden of unfulfilled promises, and finally honor her mother by writing the family history.
CHAPTER 30
Back at work, Julia resolves to talk to Lisa. She wants to clear the record, doesn’t like the tension between them, and hopes to find her in a happier frame of mind.
Lisa stomps around her office cleaning out files.
“I submitted my resignation this morning,” she says icily. She avoids Julia’s stare as she stacks a pile of folders on her desk.
“Oh. That’s good, isn’t it?”
“Probably. It’s important to know when you’re done.”
“True. Look, I want to apologize if I’ve caused you any trouble,” Julia says.
Lisa slams a file on her desk and regards her with an expression of incredulity. “You tried to take over my case. That was bad enough. Then you tried to steal away my man.”
“You handed me the case,” Julia says in exasperation. “And I didn’t steal Barnaby. He doesn’t belong to anyone.”
“Oh no? That shows how little you know.”
Julia flushes. “I came to find out how you’re doing, not to get an update on your love life. I’m sorry you’re so bitter, and I wish you the best of luck in your new career, whatever that is,” Julia says as she backs out of the room, not wanting to hear any more.
January twenty-sixth. You’re forty, Julia says to her reflection in the bathroom mirror. Are these lines in her face she hasn’t seen before? She smooths moisturizer on her cheeks and forehead and brushes her long hair. Maybe she should cut it. It’s still thick and shiny without a trace of gray, so not yet. She chooses a gray wool suit to wear for work and a bright green scarf to brighten it for her dinner with Nancy later.
“Happy birthday,” Margaret says, handing her a card. “I want you to know how impressed I am about your management of the Hawkins case. Elsa called me and told me her mother has come around to the idea and will move next week to her new home. Elsa gives you credit for that. Excellent work.”
“Thank you,” Julia says, “but just curious—did you ever explain to Lisa in no uncertain terms that I was in charge of the case?”
“I did, but she resisted the idea—couldn’t accept the fact that she wasn’t performing up to standard. Anyway, as you may know, she resigned from her job, says she’s enrolling in cooking school in New York intending to open a restaurant someday. I’ve assigned you a new case, but we can talk about that later. Have a good day, and feel free to leave early.”
Julia feels a great sense of relief. She sits for a while at her desk savoring her success, but can’t help worrying about what on earth is going on with Lisa.
After work Julia meets Nancy at Bistro, a new French restaurant in the historic Municipal Center. They’ve agreed having dinner in Waterbury suits them better than a longer trip to New York in the uncertain weather.
“Nice restaurant, Nancy,” Julia says. “Have you eaten here before?”
“I bring clients here sometimes. My wealthier ones. The food’s excellent, and they have an extensive wine list.”
They peruse the menu.
“Champagne?” Nancy asks. “My treat. And oysters for an appetizer?”
“Champagne, thank you. Not fond of oysters. I’d prefer a salad. Then the artichoke quiche.”
Nancy places their orders. The champagne arrives immediately, and she proposes a toast. “To your next decade. I predict great success and happiness.”
“I don’t think I share your boundless optimism, but thank you all the same.”
They clink glasses and sip.
“This is a luxury, Nancy. Thank you.”
“Is it? I thought Barnaby took you out wining and dining.”
Julia grimaces. “I’ve only seen him twice. Not sure I’ll see him again after that disaster at O’Malley’s. Let’s not talk about him. I’d like to enjoy myself tonight. How are things going for you? Don’t you miss having someone in your life?”
“Not me. Happy as I am. I wouldn’t mind a few more clients, but I enjoy my work. I still want to go to New York. Let’s plan to go for my birthday in the spring.”
“All right.”
“How was the visit with your father?”
“Okay. I retrieved some important documents I needed.” She leaves it at that. The task before her needs attention, but not advice from well-meaning friends. Nancy won’t pry.
“So how’s work going?” Nancy asks.
“Well enough. I keep hoping I can make peoples’ lives better. I may not succeed, but I try.”
“A worthy goal. Here’s to you, my friend!” Nancy says.
The two women finish their meal and bottle of champagne. They chat about their fitness goals for the year. Not unexpectedly, Nancy’s expectations are much higher. They order crème brûlée for dessert.
Julia forces Barnaby out of her mind. She has a new project, one to occupy heart and soul for months to come.
CHAPTER 31
Barnaby spends weekday evenings learning to use his new computer. The amount of information he can learn on the internet continues to amaze him. After researching the best route to California and the mileage to various cities, he checks the price of rental properties in Santa Barbara and Santa Cruz. They’re exorbitant. He’s uncertain what to do about the house and what it’s worth in the current depressed market. Putting that question aside, he considers the possessions to take along. The fewer the better. Best to keep things simple in his new life. He needs money for the move and living expenses when he arrives and quickly decides the best way of raising the funds will be through his art. He’ll apply for the mural competition and sell more paintings—to Sly, or online, or both. Though not certain he can trust Sly, he wants to explore all possibilities for earning money.
His possessions will fit into a small trailer that he can haul with the Honda. U-Haul offers several trailers to hold his painting supplies. He can transport Popsicle in the back seat of his car in a new, smaller cage. She won’t like it, but he can’t do anything about that. He’ll take his summer clothes. As he makes plans, his spirits rise. It’ll be a new adventure—one he has dreamed about for most of his adult life. Anna had been equally enthusiastic about the idea. He’d like to fulfill at least his side of their shared goal. But he’s getting ahead of himself. He has to make money from his art first.
By Saturday, he’s ready to launch his online business. He has already scanned some paintings and now needs to post them online to capture some sales. Alan has designed a website and, following his instructions, Barnaby sets up the listing. He prices the paintings at $2,000 each and uploads the images. It’s easier than he expected. Buyers will send him an email to confirm the sale, along with mailing instructions. Pre-payment is required, with the final payment due once he knows the shipping costs. This will be a good way to build a following, and much simpler than going to galleries to install the work.
On Sunday morning, he checks his email. There’s a note from a Steven Michael.
Hello. I’m writing from Oregon. My wife has been looking at your website and loves your work, especially the beach scenes. We’d like to know more. We’re especially interested in any larger paintings you have. Could you send more images and the dimensions? Thank you, and we hope to hear from you soon. Steven.
Barnaby is impressed. A sale, so quickly? This is the way to go. He hasn’t thought about including larger paintings, partly because of the higher prices, insurance, and shipping costs, but if someone wants one, it’s okay. The larger paintings will have to be scanned by the print shop, though, and that will take time. He writes back.
Dear Steven, Thanks for your interest in my work. I have larger paintings, measuring 40 inches by 23 inches but it will take me a few days to scan them into the site. They are also more expensive, $3,000 plus shipping. Please let me know if you’re still interested. Regards, Barnaby Brown.
He presses the send button. He hopes he hasn’t priced the paintings too high, but that’s about what Sly is selling them for, so why can’t he?
Almost immediately, he receives a reply.
Hi again Barnaby. We’re interested. Please let us know when the postings are up. Cheers, Steve.
Elated at the quick response from a complete stranger, he adds three paintings with beach scenes onto his website. He emails Steven Michael and once again, receives a quick response.
Love all three big paintings. Want to buy ASAP. Wife’s birthday coming up. I’ll send a cashier’s check for $13,000 to cover the shipping costs. Expect it within the week. THANKS. Steve.
The check arrives. There’s an extra $4,000—more than enough to cover the shipping costs. He’ll have to refund the extra amount. This sale is too important to wait, and he calls Sal to explain his need to take a day for personal reasons. He buys bubble wrap, boxes, and tape. Then he wraps each painting and takes all three to the post office. He writes a check for the difference in shipping and sends it in a separate envelope to the address in Oregon.
After finishing his business at the post office and depositing the check at the bank, he concludes it would be fitting to celebrate his first online sale with a drink. He’d like to tell Sean about his second run of good luck, and a stiff drink has been his first reaction for years—but then he remembers he’s given up alcohol. He understands it’s hard to break an addiction but very easy to slip. He’s shivering, though, and a drink would warm him up. Perhaps it’s all the excitement. Happy he has the rest of the day to himself, he drives home. By the time he arrives, he’s boiling hot. Popsicle greets him as he opens the kitchen door.
“One, two, three, four, five, once I caught a fish alive,” she says.
“Six, seven, eight, nine, ten, then I let him go again,” he replies. Only I didn’t let him go. Felt sort of sorry for him, actually, that big fish—he’d fought hard to resist his capture. It hadn’t been fair. Fishing through a hole in the ice had been a tricky invasion of the fish’s space. Barnaby gives Popsicle a treat, then sits down at the table. He feels his forehead. Sweaty. Maybe he’s coming down with something. He drags himself to the bedroom and lies down.
Dull light bathes the room when he wakes and reaches for the clock. Friday, a work day, and he has overslept. He sits up. His head aches—his whole body aches. He sneezes, hauls himself out of bed, and pads to the bathroom. Glassy eyes squint back at him from the mirror. Not a time to get sick, with so much going on, he groans. He can’t miss work again. He takes a couple of aspirin, gets dressed, and goes to work.
“Sorry I’m late,” he tells Sal.
“What’s with ya these days, anyway? I thought ya laid off the drink. Hope yer not slipping.” Sal casts a wary eye at Barnaby, who is leaning against the wall. “Hey, ya don’t look so good. Are ya sick?”
“I’m never sick.”
“Well, ya don’t exactly act like the cat’s meow. Let me take a look at ya.” Sal holds his hand against Barnaby’s forehead. “Yer burning up. Got a fever. Go home, take care of yerself.”
Barnaby curses to himself. He has never felt so weak. He heads back to his car. Why is he sick? He doesn’t know anyone else who is ill. Then he remembers the wintry day fishing. He hadn’t dressed warmly enough. Ridiculous, catching fish in a frozen lake. At home, he peels off his clothes and flops into bed.
CHAPTER 32
Barnaby sleeps all day. When he wakes, the clock reads four o’clock. Is it still Friday? He’s not hungry, but his throat is parched, and he stumbles to the kitchen for a glass of water and to check on Popsicle. He gives her a handful of parrot food and a carrot.
Slowly, he climbs the stairs back to bed. He’s dropping off to sleep when the phone jars him awake.
“Is this Barnaby Brown? Vince Olivetti from the Bank of Boston here. I need to talk to you about a check you deposited here recently.”
“Uh, yes. Look, can I call you back? I’m sick.”
“Sorry to hear that. But please call soon.”
He slams the phone down. He’s too ill to deal with anything right now.
By Monday, he’s better. Not well yet, but the aching has lessened, and he’s no longer feverish. It must have been the flu. Either that, or a bad cold. He has enough energy to take a shower. It’ll help, and he can go back to work. He vaguely remembers there’s something else he needs to do . . . the bank. He needs to return the call to the bank. After making a cup of coffee, he dials the number, and asks for Mr. Olivetti.
“Ah, Barnaby. Thanks for calling,” he says. “We wanted to inform you we’re unable to cash the check you deposited here for $13,000.”
“But it was a cashier’s check.”
“Yes. But a bad check all the same. You can find anything on the dark web these days. If I may ask, who sent it?”
“Someone I don’t know, by the name of Steven Michael.”
“Is Steven the first or last name? Sounds like a scam, my friend. Those people often use two names that sound like first names.”
Barnaby groans. “I should have guessed. Is there anything I can do?”
“Well, if you think the guy is honorable, you can ask him to send another payment.”
“Right. Thanks.”
Barnaby hangs up. He doesn’t have the address. He’d sent the paintings to a post office box in Oregon. Stupid of him to get taken in. But who has scammed him? Someone trolling the internet, or someone he knows? He’s lost the paintings and the few thousand dollars he sent to the man. It might not be too late to cancel his check. He redials the bank number and asks for Mr. Olivetti.
“Barnaby here again. Is there any chance I can cancel my last check? I sent it to the man to reimburse him for shipping costs.”
“Wait a minute. Let me see. What was the date of the check?”
Barnaby thinks for a minute, then replies, “Must have been four days ago.”
“For $2,050?”
“That’s the one.”
“Too late. Cashed yesterday.”
“All right. Thanks,” Barnaby says miserably. Now he’s lost the money he sent to the fraudulent buyer, and he’s in debt again.
The online sales weren’t such a good idea. He’ll ask Alan to take down the website. His temperature rising, he reminds himself he’s not fully recovered yet and needs to take it easy. His head feels congested. Sudafed might help. He coughs and makes a strangling sound with his throat as he downs two tablets. A visit to Sean is the tonic he needs. He might allow himself a shot of brandy for medicinal purposes.
Barnaby drives to O’Malley’s to preserve his strength and heaves himself up to his usual post. Sean comes over to him right away.
“Hey, champ. How’s it goin’?”
“Brandy,” Barnaby mumbles. He watches Sean narrow his eyes as he pours the drink.
“What’s up, fella? You don’t look so hot.”
“Got sick and lost a lot of money.”
“But you just won a lot of money,” Sean says, frowning. “Did you lose it already? Or spend it?”
“Lost it. Got scammed online. Someone sent a bad check to buy paintings.”
“You don’t say. Bad luck, huh? And here I was thinkin’ how your luck’s changed. By the way, remember that guy Horace? He got really sore about not winnin’ the fishin’ contest. Came in the other day, wantin’ to know all about you.”
Barnaby blinks. “He did? What did he want to know?”
“You know how he is, disrespectful and all. He couldn’t get over you drawin’ at the fishin’ contest. Had some colorful words to say about that. Asked if you were a talented artist. I told him yes, of course.”
Barnaby takes a few sips of the brandy. It burns his throat but feels good. “That’s strange,” he says. “Why would he care?”
“I already told you. He hates losin’. And I think he likes Julia.”
Barnaby remembers Horace’s insult on the ice. Sunday painter. Perhaps he’s also a rival for Julia’s attention. He dismisses that unwelcome thought and leans across the counter. In a low voice he asks, “When did he come in?”
“Right after we went fishin’. Tuesday, maybe.”
“Hm. Could he be the scammer? Sounds far-fetched, but he clearly resents me for winning and who knows what else.” He downs his drink. “Do you know where he lives?”
“In town, on Water Street.”
In his weakened state, the strong beverage makes Barnaby’s head spin. Maybe Horace is the one. “I might drive over there and find him, then. See you later.” He slips off his seat.
“Hey, are you sure you’re in condition for drivin’?” Sean calls.
