The Last Word

Chapter 18

Love is the flower of life, and blossoms unexpectedly and without law, and must be plucked where it is found.

—D.H. LAWRENCE

It would take Oyster Bay a long time to recover from the shock.

From the outside, everything looked the same. The shops and beaches were filled with tanned tourists, and the rental homes and hotels were booked right through the first weekend of September. The locals smiled and appeared to be as merry and carefree as always, preserving the utopian image of their seaside town.

But in the privacy of bars like Fish Nets, the less glamorous hair salons, and on the fishing boats, people whispered about what had happened. They talked and wondered and argued over Wheeler’s crime and then tied on their aprons or rolled up their sleeves and got back to work.

The Bayside Book Writers took a hiatus. Only Laurel was able to put pen to paper following Wheeler’s arrest. Reluctantly, she wrote the article unveiling the identity of Nick Plumley’s killer. It was her finest piece to date. The front page spread was read by wide-eyed townsfolk and fascinated tourists, the latter flocking to Bagels ’n’ Beans so they could later brag to neighbors and coworkers that they’d bought a bagel or a cappuccino from the killer’s café.

Wheeler’s employees, with a little guidance from Olivia, were struggling to keep the place running smoothly until Ray Hatcher decided what would become of it. The café belonged to him now, as Wheeler had legally transferred all of his worldly possessions to his son the morning after his arrest.

Ray, who’d spoken to Olivia shortly after a DNA test confirmed that Wheeler was his father, didn’t seem interested in the windfall. He quit his job, moved into Wheeler’s house, and spent his free time visiting his father in jail and avoiding the press. Rumor had it that he had enrolled in an introductory painting class at the community college and, come September, would see whether or not he’d inherited any of Heinrich Kamler’s artistic talent.

As for Wheeler, he’d known that he would never return to Oyster Bay following his arrest. After confessing to murder and admitting that he was once a prisoner of war, he faced federal and state charges and was sure to spend the remainder of his life in prison. Before he was sentenced, he’d written Olivia a letter asking her to help Ray sell his paintings.

“If they’re worth anything, you’ll know how to get the most money for them on behalf of my boy,” he’d written. “And don’t let Ray spend a dime on lawyers. Being with him every day has been a gift I probably don’t deserve. For the first time since I left my tent that night to follow Ziegler, I feel alive. I hear the deputy call my name and I know my son is waiting for me down the hall. He’s got Evie’s eyes.”

Olivia had folded the letter in half and put it down on her desk blotter. Covering it with her palm, she made several phone calls regarding the paintings. Then, after sharing her opinion with Ray, she contacted Shala Knowles.

“We have one hundred and twenty-five Heinrich Kamler originals to lend your museum,” she’d told the thunderstruck curator. “You may have them for a total of ninety days and then they’re to be sold. Yours will be the only comprehensive exhibit of Kamler’s work. Can you drop everything and set up a space for the first of next month?”

Shala eventually found her tongue and assured Olivia that she and her staff would work tirelessly to mount the finest possible exhibit.

“Then I’ll bring the paintings to you tomorrow morning,” Olivia said. “But I have one condition.”

“Yes?” Shala asked, her voice still quavering with excitement.

“I’m sure you’ve read about the criminal charges brought against Mr. Kamler, but his son and I would like his art, and not the newspaper headlines, to speak for his life. I must personally approve any biographical information you plan to print in museum brochures or advertisements regarding the exhibit. Mr. Kamler’s son has graciously agreed to put off the sale of these paintings at my request. I told him that I owed both you and the museum a favor.”

Shala made a sound of protest at the other end. “I was just doing my job, Ms. Limoges.”

“But with a rare blend of sincerity and passion,” Olivia said before her voice became steely. “However, if I read a single line mentioning Kamler’s connection to the death of author Nick Plumley or a World War Two prison guard from Camp New Bern, I will storm into your museum and rip his paintings right off the wall.” She let her threat hang between them for a moment. “Do I have your word that you’ll show me any material you mean to print on Kamler?”

The curator hesitated. Olivia knew she was asking this woman to deliberately ignore the sensational details of the artist’s life, details that would lure hundreds of new visitors to the museum. “Do you mind if I ask why you’re so keen on protecting Kamler?”

“He’s been living in my town for over forty years, but I knew him under a different name,” Olivia explained. “In fact, he’s a friend. A close one.”

Shala absorbed this unbelievable revelation in silence and then said, “In that case, I promise to respect your wishes, and I can’t tell you how grateful I am that you’re giving us this opportunity.”

Olivia’s final call was to an auction gallery in Hills-borough, the same town where Mabel, Evelyn’s girlhood friend, passed her days in an assisted-living facility. The auction company had an excellent track record with art sales, and Olivia planned to bring Mabel to the preview so she could pick out a painting—a painting that Olivia would later purchase for her.

As for Olivia’s Kamler original watercolor, it hung from the narrow wall of her bedroom, directly in the middle of a pair of large windows facing the ocean. It was one of the first things Olivia saw just before falling asleep and again when she woke.

While early-morning sunrays fell into her room, she would stare at the old couple walking along the sand. Her eyes always found them first and then drifted to the water beyond her window. The picture elicited a contradictory mixture of sadness and hope, but Olivia loved it all the same.

When she drove to Wheeler’s house the next day, it was jarring to be met at the front door by Ray. He seemed a little embarrassed to invite her inside a home that had belonged to his father for so many years, but Olivia was pleased to know that Ray was living there. He and the house were well suited. Each was weathered and worn but sturdy enough to bear the most ferocious storm. They were survivors, just as Wheeler was.

Together, Ray and Olivia collected the bundle of paintings and carried them to the Range Rover. Ray stroked Haviland’s fur, his gaze fixed on the harbor, and in that moment, Olivia felt as if Wheeler were right there with them. “Did you keep any of the paintings?”

He nodded. “Yeah. I liked the ones of the peanut farms and paper mills. And I kept two of the bakery pictures. That’s how my dad ended up with the bagel shop, you know. It used to be the town bakery.” Ray led Olivia and Haviland into the bedroom and showed her a watercolor featuring shelves of pastries, breads, and cakes. “He worked in the back, baking bread and pies and cakes, for almost twenty years. He loved the job and was real good at it. He and the baker grew close, and when the man died, he left the place to my dad. I think that’s so cool.”

“Me too,” Olivia agreed. “What will you do with the bagel shop?”

Ray shook his head. “I dunno. I gave one of the full-time guys a raise and told him to manage it for now. I can’t worry about that place. I only have so much time left with my dad.”

Having lived a lifetime without knowing the names of his biological parents, Raymond Hatcher wasn’t going to waste a second serving bagels and coffee to tourists when he could be with Wheeler instead.

Olivia thought back on the scant number of hours she’d had with her own father before he died. She smiled at Ray. “You’ve given him what he’s wanted his entire life.”

“What’s that?” Ray asked, flustered by the compliment.

Opening the passenger door for Haviland, Olivia watched the poodle hop inside and then turned back to Ray. “A family and a home. In you, he’s found both of those things.”

A few weeks later, the Bayside Book Writers donned suits and cocktail dresses and drove to Raleigh to celebrate the opening of the largest exhibit of Heinrich Kamler work ever assembled.

The museum’s illuminated gallery was packed with people. Carrying champagne glasses, they murmured to one another in discreet excitement as they studied the paintings. Laurel, who planned to interview several art connoisseurs for her next article, had actually brought Steve to the gala. The couple appeared rather stiff with each other, but Olivia noticed that Steve was serving as his wife’s photographer and seemed to be enjoying the role. He’d show her the images he’d captured while she scribbled quotes down in a notebook.

“We’re seeing a marriage counselor,” Laurel told Olivia when Steve left the room to sample the array of heavy hors d’oeuvres in the lobby. The two women stood shoulder to shoulder in front of the painting that had started it all; the snow scene of the cabin in the woods.

“I’m glad to see you together tonight,” Olivia said, and surprisingly, she meant it. She pointed at the cabin on the hill. “Maybe you and Steve could find a place like that and hide away for a few days.”

Laurel nodded. “That’s not a bad idea. One of my friends has a cabin in Boone. I bet she’d let me borrow it for a long weekend.” Her blue eyes grew watery, and she spoke so quietly that Olivia barely heard her. “I wonder what it’s like, to know a love that powerful.”

Olivia gave her friend’s hand a brief squeeze.

“During our interview, Wheeler told me about the art lessons he gave Evelyn. They were chaperoned at first, but after a few months, the guards gave them more and more space. It was as if the whole camp wanted to believe that the two of them could make it together, despite the odds.” Laurel dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. “Everyone shared in their story, everyone wanted to play a part in the fantasy. I guess a world at war has no magic left.”

“No. Their world was filled with propaganda and rations and uniformed men at the front door, holding telegrams,” Olivia said softly. “But Heinrich and Evelyn were the antithesis of all that—they were young and full of laughter and as bright as the stars.”

Catching a tear with the tip of her finger, Laurel sighed. “It was the hardest article I’ve ever had to write. It was nearly impossible to remain objective.”

“You did an amazing job,” Olivia said. “What did Steve think of the job offers you got from papers in Raleigh and Charlotte?”

Laurel smiled. “He asked me if I wanted to leave Oyster Bay, especially after all that’s happened to our town, but I told him that I loved every inch of it. Even the ugly parts. We’re not going anywhere.” She winked at Olivia. “In fact, the retired schoolteacher I hired to watch the twins started work this week. The boys are crazy about her.”

“Who’s crazy?” Harris inquired, joining the women in front of the winter scene.

Millay materialized seconds later, a vision of jade green silk, and took the arm Harris offered. He looked every inch the southern gentleman in a tux with a white jacket, and Olivia gazed at him fondly. Having been with him when he’d been shot, having pressed her shirt against his wound, she would forever feel protective of Harris Williams.

“Harris! You could be the next James Bond!” Laurel exclaimed. “Very debonair.”

Dipping his chin in recognition of the compliment, Harris produced a rose from the inside of his jacket and presented it to Millay. She rolled her eyes and pretended to be embarrassed but accepted the flower. Snapping off the stem, she put the rose behind her ear, a splash of red against the canvas of her black hair. Olivia did not miss the smile in Millay’s eyes as she shot a quick look at Harris.

The entire party turned their attention back to the Kamler snow scene until Millay crossed her arms over her chest and frowned. “Does anyone want to tell me what happened to Plumley’s sequel?”

When Olivia didn’t answer, Harris scowled at Millay. “You don’t have to talk about those things tonight, Olivia. We’re here to enjoy the art and some champagne and each other’s company, remember?”

“It’s all right, Harris. I know that it can be difficult to move forward without having a complete picture.” Olivia waved her friends over to the next painting—a scene of a lone fisherman in a small skiff. Though his line was in the water, the man’s upper body was slightly hunched over, giving the impression that he’d gone to sleep, lulled by the gentle waves and the soft sunlight.

“This isn’t something you can publish, Laurel,” Olivia began and pointed at the fisherman. “Wheeler gathered all of Nick’s materials—his notebooks, laptop, thumb drives, and so on and stuffed them into a garbage bag. Later, he dumped the whole collection into the ocean.”

Harris rubbed his chin and stared at Olivia, perplexed. “Come on, Nick must have had backup drives in his Beaufort house.”

Olivia shook her head. “It’s been searched.”

“What about a remote storage unit? His laptop was a Mac. He must have had off-site back up!” Harris was growing more and more flustered by what he clearly viewed as carelessness on the writer’s part.

“All I know is that Plumley’s agent has called Rawlings a dozen times, pleading with him to turn Wheeler’s house inside out in search of the tiniest remnant of the manuscript,” Olivia said. “And the police did look, but there was nothing there. Ray gave them free range in both the house and the bagel shop. That story is now at the bottom of the sea.”

Millay shrugged. “Maybe that’s the best place for it. Creates some empty shelf space for some new writers to fill. Here’s to us getting back to work next week.” She raised her glass, and the four friends toasted one another. “Where is Rawlings, anyway? I haven’t seen him for ages.”

“I haven’t either,” Olivia answered. “And he must really need a break. I called to see if he wanted a ride to tonight, but he told me he wasn’t up for a public event just yet. I think he’s bone weary.”

The writers fell silent, listening to the hum of the polished crowd as they strolled around the gallery. Steve appeared and slid an arm around Laurel’s waist, easing her away to view the photography exhibit in the next hall. Millay and Harris moved off as well, drifting toward an outdoor courtyard flooded with moonlight and the heady scent of Carolina jasmine.

Olivia glanced at her watch. It was still quite early, but she decided to leave. Shala had graciously agreed to let Haviland nap in her office and, at Olivia’s request, had emptied out the freezer in the staff room for the evening. Olivia retrieved both the poodle and the cooler she’d been storing in the freezer and left the museum.

She did not drive home to Oyster Bay but sped down the quiet highway, her air-conditioning blasting cold air onto the cooler on the floor of the passenger seat. Knowing that its contents were at risk of melting before she reached Beaufort, Olivia drove well over the speed limit, the black asphalt slipping beneath her tires as Haviland dozed in the backseat.

Luckily, the cemetery wasn’t gated and a caretaker had given Olivia excellent directions on how to find Evelyn White’s grave. Holding a battery-powered flashlight in one hand and the cooler in the other, Olivia knelt down on the grass before an unremarkable marble marker.

“This is from your Henry,” she whispered into the still air and removed the cooler lid. Inside were the gallon-sized plastic bags of snow she and Michel had made using dry ice in The Boot Top’s kitchen the day before.

Now, with Haviland watching at a safe distance, his head cocked to the side in curiosity, Olivia opened the first bag and carefully sprinkled the chilled flakes over Evelyn’s grave.

“This is snow, Evelyn,” Olivia said. “He promised that one day, he’d give you snow. Here it is.”

The thin coating of pure white twinkled in the light of the moon, shimmering briefly before the thirsty ground began to absorb it.

Olivia dusted the gravestone and grass with all that she had left inside the cooler. She only paused for a moment to look at the magical glint of the white crystals, but their beauty was not for her. They were Evelyn’s gift, so Olivia turned away before she could see them melt.

She never looked back. All she wanted was to return to Oyster Bay feeling as she did at this moment. Her heart was full of hope, of promise. It was as if some of the pain and grief of the past month had been washed clean by another woman’s dreams of snow.

It was nearly midnight when Olivia parked the Range Rover in front of the chief’s house. This was what Jeannie, Sawyer’s sister, had meant by doing something big to show him how she felt. For her to come here, to the house Rawlings and his wife had shared, took every ounce of courage Olivia possessed.

She had no idea what would be inside. Photographs of the Rawlings’ life together, her favorite chair facing his in front of the fireplace, a collection of porcelain tea cups, a bureau covered by an array of perfume jars. Her monogram on the guest towels. Her portrait on the mantel.

None of that mattered. He was inside. He was what mattered.

Olivia rang the bell and then backed off the stoop. She wanted Rawlings to see her aglow in her floor-length silver dress. She wanted him to wonder if a moonbeam had transformed into a woman, the woman who’d come to claim him.

He opened the door wearing a T-shirt and shorts, sleep lingering in his eyes. The flickering light from a television screen danced behind him.

“Olivia? What are you . . . ?” The rest of the question died on his lips. He only had to look at her for the answer.

He took a step forward, his hand outstretched. “Come in,” he whispered, his voice thick with longing.

She smiled, reveling in the yearning that propelled her into his arms.

And then his mouth was on hers, warm and wet, his hands sliding up the skin of her bare back. Deftly, he peeled off the straps of her gown before she had even crossed the threshold. She dug her fingertips into his hair and pressed her hips against him, surrendering to her desire.

Just before Rawlings closed the door against the night, Haviland shot inside and went off to explore. Olivia barely noticed. Every cell in her body was tuned in to Rawlings. She knew nothing except for his breath in her ear, the feel of his lips on her neck, his wide, rough hands cupping her breasts.

He carried her like a bride into the bedroom and laid her down, easing off her heels and running his fingers up her smooth calves. She sat up only to pull off his shirt and then tugged him downward by the arms, inviting him to crush her under his weight.

They made love as if they’d known each other for decades. To Olivia, the feel of Sawyer Rawlings’ body, his smell, even the sound of his groans, was intrinsically familiar.

The world beyond the bedroom slid away. Olivia felt as if she were drowning in heat, enveloped in a happiness far deeper than mere physical pleasure.

Sometime before dawn, with Rawlings sleeping soundly beside her, one of her hands captured in his own, she remained awake, drowsily studying his face.

Olivia felt as though she had entered the woods of Heinrich Kamler’s painting. She had crossed the ice-crusted stream and maneuvered through the bare trees and the shadows on the snow. She’d seen the smoke curling from the chimney and the light radiating from the window and had climbed the gentle slope leading to the cabin. To this man. To love.

It had been a long and lonely journey.

But at last, Olivia Limoges was home.

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