Last Licks

2

After Ollie finally settled down, Sunny got a chance to talk with some of the doctors. Surgery to implant a brace on the broken bone was tentatively scheduled for the next afternoon, and shortly afterward a social worker would be turning up to get the ball rolling on some place for rehab. Mike made sure to mention Ollie’s preference for Bridgewater Hall. The discussion took a while, and by the time Sunny and her dad got out of the hospital, true dark had already established itself.

As they drove home, Mike discussed the pluses and minuses of other nursing homes in the area. “I think physical and occupational therapy, they’re the big considerations,” he explained. “Otherwise, you’re just being warehoused, lying in bed, watching daytime television. Bridgewater Hall has two hours a day, one in the morning and then one in the afternoon. Everywhere else I looked into only had an hour. The place isn’t all that big—only seventy-five beds both for the old folks who are permanent residents and the short-timers in for recuperation. But the rehab patients have a separate wing of the building with exercise space and equipment. And the therapy staff has a reputation all over the state. They get good results.”

“The physical therapist who came to the house and worked with you was pretty good,” Sunny pointed out. “Getting results when he could only come once a week—well, that depended a lot on my nagging.”

Mike sighed. “I know I gave you a hard time about my exercises. It’s easier taking orders from a stranger than from your own kid.”

“Having a hard time taking me seriously because you once changed my diapers?” Sunny inquired, grinning.

“That’s probably part of it,” Mike said with a laugh. “Also, in a facility, it’s harder to escape when they want you to do stuff. You can’t get away with giving them guff about wanting a nap or not feeling up to exercising.”

“Looks as though it turned out pretty well for you despite convalescing at home,” Sunny told him. “Nowadays you can walk your kid right into the ground.” She glanced over at her dad. “Do you really feel you missed out on the fancy-schmancy rest home?”

“I was really glad when you came home to help out.” Mike’s voice grew rueful. “But maybe if you’d stayed in New York, you’d still have your job.”

Sunny briefly turned to give Mike a pat on the arm. “I wouldn’t blame yourself for that, Dad. The Sentinel was bleeding jobs well before I took my leave of absence. Sooner or later, my number would have been up.”

Although it kind of stings when the editor who cans you is also your ex, Sunny’s uncompromising back-of-the-head voice felt compelled to add.

They continued on in silence until Sunny made the turn home onto Wild Goose Drive. “What was that?” Her voice grew sharp. For just a second, the Jeep’s headlights had ignited an answering glow in a pair of animal eyes.

Mike rolled down the window and peered out into the gloom. “It’s the damn cat.”

“Shadow? What is he doing out?” Sunny exited the SUV and stepped forward. With his striped gray fur, Shadow was almost invisible against the dark grass.

“I think he figured out how to gimmick the screen door in the kitchen,” Mike said. “Come to think of it, I didn’t see him all afternoon.”

Shadow came toward Sunny, but stayed just out of reach, then turned away, his legs and back stiff, his tail a flag of offended pride.

“Shadow!” Sunny called after him.

“You missed his supper,” Mike said. “I guess he’s peeved.” Despite having turned his back on Sunny and stalking off, Shadow somehow still managed to zip between her legs and into the house as she unlocked the front door. He elaborately ignored her as Sunny headed to the kitchen and got out a can of the good cat food, and even stayed aloof as she scraped the can into his dish and added fresh water to his bowl. He waited until she was well away before he came up and began taking small, determined bites.

He’s got to be starving, but he won’t let himself be hurried, Sunny thought, watching him from the kitchen doorway “Hey, how come the furball gets fed first?” Mike demanded, reminding her that there were other hungry people in the house.

Sighing, Sunny went to the refrigerator and got out the deli salads she’d picked up at Judson’s Market the day before. They might be leftovers, but with some bread and cold cuts, they’d make a decent cold supper.

Mike came into the kitchen to get plates and scowl at Shadow. But when he saw Mike, the cat abandoned his bowl and advanced on Sunny’s father, reaching out a paw to pat at his shin.

Mike’s grim expression melted to a wry grin. “Crazy cat.”

Yeah, the sarcastic voice in Sunny’s head commented, but he’s still getting fed first.

*

Four days later, Sunny had fallen into a routine with the hospitalized Ollie. At the end of the day, she’d bring any business that needed his approval up to County General. Thankfully, with the weekend there hadn’t been much for Ollie to deal with when he was really out of things, just a real estate deal with somebody in Portland who kept making phone calls to the MAX office.

Although Ollie had a boatload of businesses, the tour office served as headquarters and nerve center of his miniature financial empire. That’s where all the files were kept, all the mail was delivered, and all the calls kept coming in from Mr. Orton in Portland.

Today was the big day when Ollie transferred out of the hospital and into the nursing home. Sunny left the office early, carrying a fat envelope full of papers that Mr. Orton had express-mailed over for Ollie’s signature ASAP. Placing the bulky package on the passenger seat of her trusty maroon Wrangler, Sunny set off for Bridgewater Hall.

The orthopedic surgeon had worked quickly to pull Ollie’s broken bone together—and the hospital had worked just as quickly to get him out of there. An ambulance arrived to take Sunny’s boss to Bridgewater Hall around noontime. Mike Coolidge had volunteered to help with the move and get Ollie established in his new digs.

Heading north from Kittery Harbor, Sunny stayed on the interstate until she reached the exit that would take her to Levett. Then she followed a series of country roads until she came to the stone bridge that gave Bridgewater its name. The village had a downtown about a block long—a food store, Laundromat, barbershop, gas station, and dry cleaner’s. Following the instructions she’d downloaded, Sunny passed the business district, took the next left, and five minutes later pulled up in the driveway of Bridgewater Hall.

“Yikes!” she muttered, taking in the view. Except for the cyclone fence and the parking lot taking up a good piece of the front lawn, the place had a distinctly baronial feel. A three-story stone structure rose up on the left, complete with a two-story bay with battlements on top. And just to the right of those rose a heavy arch framing a pair of bronze and timber doors that would probably require a major battering ram to bust through if the local peasants ever decided to revolt.

Extending off to the right was a two-story wing set farther back, rising at the far right end to another three-story structure, sort of a miniature of the first hall.

Must have started out as someone’s stately home, or maybe a hotel, Sunny thought as she got out of her Jeep and headed up the walk. The doors, for all their imposing size, swung open easily, and Sunny immediately left medieval times for the world of twenty-first-century medicine—or at least twentieth century. The floor was institutional green terrazzo, and a guard’s desk flanked the doorway. The buildup had left Sunny expecting maybe a Beefeater with a halberd; instead, she saw a guy maybe a few years younger than she was behind a chest-high wooden counter. He was burly, with sandy hair in a military buzz cut and a wide, open face that was maybe softening a little along the jawline. But he wore his short-sleeved blue shirt and dark striped tie like a uniform, and there was plenty of heavy muscle on his arms as he took up a pen and pushed a sign-in book toward her. Still, his smile was cheerful and friendly as he said, “Welcome to Bridgewater Hall. How can I help you?”

“Yes, a . . . friend of mine just arrived today.” Maybe she was having a flashback to the Kittery Harbor Way, but Sunny didn’t want to call Ollie just a boss or employer. “Mr. Barnstable.”

“Oh, yes, he’s settled in by now.” As the guard ran down a list, Sunny got close enough to read the name tag over his breast pocket: R. WARNER. “Ah,” Warner said, “they put him in 114 with Mr. Scatterwell. Well, you should get some entertainment. Mr. Scatterwell’s the mayor of the rehab unit.”

“Thanks.” Sunny tried to figure out which way to go. Beyond the guard’s desk was a large open area done up as a sort of parlor, with armchairs, couches, paintings, and even a huge, ancient grandfather clock. Large fish tanks took up one wall. Opposite that stood what appeared to be a pair of elevators. Beyond those was a long hallway.

One of the elevator doors opened, and a calico cat sauntered out.

Sunny blinked to make sure she wasn’t seeing things. The cat padded across the corridor, then broke into a sudden run to jump onto one of the parlor chairs.

Warner followed her eyes. “Therapy animal,” he explained. “We’ve got several cats and dogs here.” He called out, “Portia, what are you doing over there?”

The cat’s head briefly appeared over the arm of the chair, responding to her name. Then Portia disappeared again, no doubt arranging herself on the upholstery for a nap.

“Wouldn’t it be nice if we could all do that?” Sunny asked with a smile.

“Wouldn’t get much done if we followed Portia’s schedule.” But Warner’s smile was fond as he looked over at the chair. Then he glanced back at Sunny. “Sorry, ma’am, You’re probably wondering how to get to your friend’s room. Just follow the corridor—it’ll take you to the nurses’ station. They can direct you from there.”

I’m not so much older than you that you’ve got to call me ma’am, Sunny thought. She signed in, then extended her hand. “Sunny Coolidge.”

Warner replied with a firm handshake. “Rafe Warner.”

“I guess I’ll be seeing a lot of you.” Sunny hefted the bulging envelope she’d brought. “I work for Mr. Barnstable, and I’ll be bringing papers and stuff for him.”

Rafe smiled. “Well, welcome again. I hope Mr. Barnstable enjoys his stay.”

Sunny thanked him and set off for the corridor. Along the way, she stopped by the armchair that Portia had claimed. “Hello, there,” she said, extending the back of her hand. Portia was up before the hand got close, but she didn’t skitter away. Instead, she raised her head and gave Sunny a delicate sniff, staring up at Sunny’s face with greenish-gold eyes, their color heightened by the markings on her face. Black fur surrounded her right eye, ginger fur encircled her left. Against the white fur on the rest of her face, it made Portia look as if she were wearing a multicolored mask.

Barely had Portia checked out the hand than she lowered her head in a gesture Sunny had learned early in her relationship with Shadow. It was a silent command to be petted.

Maybe she’s catching a whiff of Shadow on me, Sunny thought as she ran gentle fingers over velvet fur. Portia thrust her head more determinedly against Sunny’s caress, wanting the space between her ears scratched.

Hearing a laugh, Sunny glanced over to the guard’s station and Rafe Warner’s smiling face. “Should have warned you, the critters around here are very touchy-feely. Spending time with the residents means a lot of petting.”

“So I see.” Portia wordlessly directed Sunny to take care of her neck and then arched her back to get a nice scratch there, too.

Rafe Warner came over. “Poor Portia isn’t getting as much attention as she likes.” He glanced around, then lowered his voice. “Hope you’re not superstitious. She’s gotten a sort of—reputation—lately.”

“Reputation for what?” Sunny asked.

Rafe shrugged uncomfortably. “As a jinx. A lot of the people she’s picked to hang around with—they pass away.”

“Is that so?” Sunny asked the cat. “What’s your weapon of choice? Is it fish breath? Or maybe a gas attack under the covers?” She’d learned from harsh experience that whenever Shadow closed his eyes and looked blissfully content, it was time to abandon the nearby premises until the noxious cloud dissipated.

“Folks seem to take it more supernaturally,” Rafe explained, chuckling.

“You mean people think that once Portia the Psychic Cat puts her paws on them, they’ll die?” Sunny shook her head. “Seems to me I read something about a cat doing the same thing in a hospital, and there turned out to be a simple physical reason. Really sick people are usually bundled up, making them nice and warm. That’s pretty attractive for a cat.”

Rafe nodded. “I’ve heard the same thing. But even people who pooh-pooh the idea of a cat choosing people to die get skittish if Portia takes a shine to them.”

“That’s silly.” Sunny smiled down at the cat. “You wouldn’t go around marking people for death, would you, Portia?”

The calico cat raised guileless eyes to her, purring loudly as Sunny’s fingers went back to work. Rafe reached down and joined in. It was obvious he knew all the spots where Portia wanted to be petted.

Sunny glanced over at Rafe. “Well, you don’t seem to be scared off.”

“I found Portia and her brother Patrick abandoned as kittens outside in the parking lot,” he explained. “Used to take care of them through the night shift, bottle-feeding them, keeping them warm, and petting them when they got lonesome or scared.” He gave Sunny an embarrassed smile. “I guess you could say they think I’m their mother.”

The phone at his post rang. “Sorry,” he said, hotfooting over to answer it.

“I still think you’re getting a bum rap, Portia.” Sunny gently kneaded muscles while Portia purred. She knew how those things happened.

I wouldn’t mind some magical abilities, though, Sunny silently told the cat. Help get some idiots to steer clear of me if they thought that taking up my time might make them keel over.

*

Shadow marched along the hallway at a determined lope. He’d checked all the windows in the room with the picture box, trying to find a loose screen. The one by the couch had seemed like a possibility, but even though he worked very hard, he hadn’t been able to get it to move.

Stupid screen, he thought, investigating the eating room. The windows here were small and hard to reach, and besides, they were rarely open. Shadow needed the combination of an open window and a loose screen. Whenever he came to live in new places, he always made sure he had a way to leave if he had to. Shadow couldn’t imagine leaving Sunny, but he still managed to find an exit. He’d learned to jump up and bang the handle on the screen door until it finally opened enough that he could squeeze out. That was fine—he’d used it to get out of the house that day he’d stalked that stupid bird. Bad enough the bird got away, but then Shadow had found himself stuck outdoors.

Now he had a new hunt—to find a way in. Most two-leggity types he’d lived with hadn’t paid much attention to screens. They let corners get loose or left spaces where a careful cat could lever up the frame on the screen . . . In one place, if he’d hit the right place when he jumped, the whole screen fell right out of the window. Of course, the human he’d stayed with hadn’t liked that. But it seemed as though Sunny and the Old One who lived here took care of things too well. Wherever windows were left open, the screens were sturdily in place.

He moved on to the kitchen, jumping onto the table. The window there was barely open at the bottom, just about the width of his paw. Shadow crouched down, poking his paw out. The screen was solid, and he couldn’t catch hold of the frame. With a hiss of annoyance, he dropped down to the floor and then leaped up onto the counter and the place where Sunny washed dishes. He had to stretch to reach the window there, and he didn’t have any luck anyway.

Even more maddening, as he fruitlessly poked around, a bird came fluttering by.

Shadow looked over to the door. Maybe I’ll go outside and give that flapper a surprise, he thought. But then he realized that not only was the screen door closed, but the glass one was closed, too. He couldn’t find a way in or out . . . at least not on this floor.

He started for the stairway. Stupid house.

*

Sunny finally managed to disentangle herself from Portia the cat and continued down the corridor, passing several closed doors and a connecting hallway until she came to a broad open space with a desklike island in the middle, where several white-clad figures were working. This must be the nurses’ station.

“Hello,” Sunny said to the nearest nurse. “I’m looking for Mr. Barnstable in Room 114—”

The woman immediately rose and pointed down the leftmost of the three corridors that radiated from in front of her desk. “That’s down in the rehab wing. He’s with Mr. Scatterwell.” She gave Sunny a smile as she said it.

Hope that means this Scatterwell is a nice guy, not the joke of the floor, Sunny’s annoying internal voice piped up. Sunny thanked the nurse and set off down the hallway, checking room numbers—although she could just as easily have followed the sound of her dad’s laughter. He’s still here?

She entered a space larger than the living room in her house, with an Impressionist-style landscape on the wall between two wardrobes. A pair of wheelchairs sat in front of a closet door, along with a pair of walkers—the kind with wheels on front, the frames all folded up. And, of course, there was the pair of hospital beds, with fancy coverlets that matched the drapes on the windows and the curtains hanging from tracks in the ceiling, everything neatly arranged to camouflage the institutional nature of the room.

Sunny’s dad sat on a large, comfortable armchair under the painting, talking with the occupants of the beds. The man in the bed by the window was a stranger to Sunny, but he spoke to Mike as if they were old friends. Ollie lay on the other bed, still in pajamas, looking a lot less comfortable.

“Sunny!” Mike rose from his chair, turning to the stranger. “Gardner, this is my daughter, Sunny. Sunny, Gardner Scatterwell.”

The man fumbled for a device like a TV remote, and the bed moved him to a more upright position. He wore a track suit and had a pear-shaped, jowly face with just a fringe of white hair over the ears. His eyes were so pale blue they seemed almost colorless, and his nose was a sizable beak knocked a little off center. The creases around his mouth extended down toward his chin. Between the fixed gaze of those odd eyes and the slight bobbing to his head, he gave Sunny the impression of a life-sized marionette—with a less-than-experienced operator at the strings.

But Gardner Scatterwell gave her a wide smile and clasped her hand in both of his. “So you’re this old reprobate’s daughter? I knew your dad when we were in high school, back in the New Stone Age.”

“How do you do, Mr. Scatterwell?” Sunny said politely. She had a moment’s struggle extricating her hand from his double clutch. “Excuse me, I have to deliver something to Mr. Barnstable.”

Ollie wasn’t looking his best—not surprising when turning in his sleep or even sitting up to eat could trigger a stab of pain if he wasn’t careful. His skin looked a half-size too large on him, he had bags under his eyes, and he’d apparently collected a new crop of wrinkles. Sunny thought she’d seen her boss in a bad way those times he’d come in seriously hungover, but that Ollie had looked positively chipper compared to the way he looked now.

And the situation hadn’t improved his notoriously uncertain temper. “What is it?” he snapped. “Can’t a guy get any rest around here?”

Sunny held out her thick envelope. “Mr. Orton rushed this over.”

Ollie pushed the package away. “You think I’m going to worry about that, the way I feel?”

“The man said it was urgent.”

“Urgent for him maybe.” Ollie grabbed the envelope and glared at her over the big, dark, pouchy bags beneath his eyes. “He may lose a few bucks if the deal drags on, but it’s not costing me money. This can wait.”

Ollie contemptuously tossed the overstuffed envelope into his lap—then let out a stifled howl of pain as it landed on his bad leg. Sunny quickly collected the papers and deposited them on the hospital table at the foot of his bed.

“Oliver, you need something to take your mind off things.” Gardner looked at the gold watch on his wrist. “There’s some music over in the other wing right now.”

“I don’t feel—” Ollie began.

But Gardner just kept smiling. “Think you’ll feel better just lying here?” He hit a button on his souped-up remote, and a second later, a voice came out of a speaker. “Yes, Mr. Scatterwell?”

“Can we get an aide in here?” he asked. “My roomie and I want to get into our wheelchairs.”

While they waited, Gardner turned to Mike. “Go on, tell Sunny about our band.”

Mike laughed again. “We were the Cosmic Blade. I played bass, and Gardner here had a wall of drums. Remember how we used to start ‘Gimme Some Lovin’?” He began fingering chords on an air guitar. “Ba-da-da-da-dooomph, ba-da-da-da-dooomph . . .” Gardner immediately started wailing away on an imaginary drum set. Sunny couldn’t help noticing that he was seriously out of time with Mike—and that he quickly tired.

“Spencer Davis,” Gardner wheezed.

“A long time ago,” Mike said.

A young woman in a blue uniform came in, and began the process of transferring the patients from bed to wheelchair. Gardner Scatterwell was slow and awkward. “Damn stroke has really fouled me up.” His tone fell somewhere between explaining and complaining as he struggled into the chair.

Ollie was even worse. Pain not only made him clumsy, but also made him afraid to shift his weight at all. But at last both were in their chairs. Gardner looked up at Mike. “Would you mind wheeling Oliver?”

He grinned at Sunny. “At my age, and in my condition, I’ve got to grab any chance I can get to be with a lovely woman.”

Shaking her head but smiling, Sunny took the handgrips on the wheelchair. “Where to?” she asked.

He directed them around the nurses’ station and down one of the other hallways. Although it had the same floor and paint job, this corridor seemed a little narrower—older.

This must be the wing I saw coming up the walk, Sunny thought. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw Mike looking around with interest as he followed along with Ollie’s wheelchair. Ollie sat in a dejected huddle, ignoring it all.

“Just keep going, right to the end, and then you make a left,” Gardner said.

Sunny followed his directions past a series of semiprivate rooms, finally coming into a combination sunroom and cafeteria, where a small collection of older folks—mainly women—clustered in wheelchairs and walkers around a younger man playing guitar. They were all singing “Pennies from Heaven.” Sunny, Mike, Gardner, and Ollie all waited in the doorway until they finished and rewarded themselves with a little applause.

“Got room for a couple of late kids, Luke?” Gardner called as the clapping died away.

“Always,” the guitarist replied with a smile. He was a guy about Sunny’s age, with a big mass of shaggy, curly brown hair that spilled down into a big, shaggy beard. A proud nose poked out of all that hair, and a pair of warm brown eyes beamed at them.

Like melted chocolate, Sunny couldn’t help thinking.

The man shifted his shoulder under the colorful strap on his acoustic guitar as he beckoned them into the circle around him. “Luke Daconto,” he identified himself. “Musical therapist. Tunes and therapy, at your service. So, Gardner, you brought me a couple of new recruits?”

“Yeah, it’s a little too quiet for us down in the rehab wing,” the older man replied, introducing Ollie, Mike, and Sunny.

“Well, let’s see if we can come up with a cheerful song.” Luke’s fingers seemed to dance along the guitar’s fretboard as if they had a mind of their own.

Ollie suddenly perked up. “That’s ‘Smoke on the Water.’”

“Guilty,” Luke admitted. “You can’t always be playing ‘You Are My Sunshine.’ How about this?”

He launched into a spirited version of “When I’m Sixty-Four.” Some of the older audience members didn’t know the words, but Gardner Scatterwell joined in. So did Mike, and then Ollie. Finally Sunny picked up the chorus. She noticed one woman who wasn’t singing, but still tapped out the rhythm on the armrest of her wheelchair. Luke played a selection of tunes from several generations, from hits to standards to children’s songs. It was kind of silly, but Sunny found herself chiming in with as much gusto as the older members of the audience. The grand finale was “On Top of Spaghetti,” where Luke did a sort of call and response routine. It was obviously a favorite of the regulars in the group, drawing hearty applause.

“I’m afraid that’s it for today,” the guitarist eventually said. “Thanks to all of you for coming. I’ll be back here in a couple of days. And especially thanks to Oliver, Mike, and Sunny. I hope I’ll see you again.”

“Count on it,” Mike said heartily, and then looked embarrassed. After all, he was only a guest.

Gardner Scatterwell laughed. “Well, I need someone to wheel me in here. You volunteering, Mike?”

As they rolled back to Room 114, Sunny was glad to see that Ollie looked a little more animated. “He seems like a nice guy.”

“Hell of a guitarist,” Gardner said. “Did you listen to those little snatches of song he plays between the sing-alongs? Folk, jazz, rock, classical . . . this kid would have been a big help on the Cosmic Blade, right, Mike? Why’d the band ever break up anyway?”

He continued with funny anecdotes about the high school band’s musical career until they reached the room—and a mean-looking heavyset man leaped up from the visitor’s chair to loom over Ollie.

“Where the hell have you been, Barnstable?” the man demanded in a gravelly voice that was all too familiar. This could only be Mr. Orton. “What are you trying to pull?”