Gravel crunched beneath his polished wing tips as he stepped out onto the drive.
The charade had begun.
He grabbed his suitcase from the car trunk, strode across the drive and up the wooden steps to the wraparound porch. His footfalls echoed on redwood, sounding like threatening thunder. For the thousandth time he shook off nagging misgivings for agreeing to Bonner’s plea. Banging out some of his frustration on the heavy lion’s head knocker, he announced his arrival with the finesse of a machine gun.
“She won’t be able to tell you’re not Bonn,” he mumbled. “He was nineteen the last time he was here. People change. Besides, she’s practically blind and deaf.” Even if she weren’t, he and Bonn both had black hair, brown eyes and were approximately the same height, though at six-three Taggart was an inch taller. They were equally athletic and hit the gym several times a week for their regular racquetball game and weight training. They both played basketball in an amateur league. Besides their physical likeness, Taggart knew Bonner’s history as well as he knew his own. He could do this favor for his friend—cheer an ailing grandmother whose fondest wish was to see her only living relative—just once more.
He winced. Well, she would believe he was her relative. That would make her happy, and that’s what counted.
The front door opened to reveal a well-rounded, solid woman in a floral print dress. She looked to be in her mid-forties with a sprinkling of gray in her short, curly mop of brown hair. The expression she wore on her square face and small, plain features, was polite, but cool. “Mr. Wittering?” she queried in a tone that didn’t sound like she’d been looking forward to meeting him.
Taggart nodded. “I’m a little late. My flight…” He let it drop. Delayed flights were more the norm than the exception.
“Yes, we checked.”
Taggart sensed there had been a moment of alarm in the Wittering household. Had they suspected Bonn had once again decided to disappoint his grandmother in favor of some new, impromptu escapade? The thought made him annoyed with himself for not easing their minds with a phone call. But the delay had only been an hour, and he’d made up time on the road. He supposed the truth was, he’d had his mind on his own dementia, agreeing to play out this little drama. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I should have phoned.”
“That would have been nice,” she said, snappishly. Taggart didn’t blame her for her attitude. On the contrary, he took pity on the woman, possibly the caregiver who’d doggedly written to Bonn, begging him to visit his grandmother. She clearly cared for her employer and was fiercely protective of her feelings.
“I’d like to see my grandmother as soon as possible,” he said, assuming a repentant grandson would.
The woman’s expression eased slightly, the taut slash that was her mouth softening but not quite curving into a smile. “After I show you to your room, I’ll let Miz Witty know you’re anxious to see her.”
Ah, yes, Miz Witty. That’s what Bonn always called her.
The woman waved him forward and stepped out of his way. “I’m Mrs. Kent, the housekeeper. Everybody calls me Ruby.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Ruby.” He followed her through the foyer to the stairs. He didn’t have much time to look around, but his impression was of furnishings that were a blend of modern with antiques; ceramic pottery and art abounded. He guessed they were original pieces collected over the years.
The place had a homey, welcoming feel, smelling of furniture polish and what he could only describe as—women—the scent left lingering in the air from flower arranging, scented baths and candles. His home had once smelled very much like this, until Annalisa—
“This is your room, Mr. Wittering,” Ruby said, interrupting his melancholy reverie. She halted at the top of the stairs and opened a door.
“Call me—Bonn.” He looked away, made a pained face at the sour taste that lie left in his mouth. Get used to it, Tag, he counseled himself. You’re going to be Bonner Wittering for the next two weeks.
“If you insist—Bonn,” she said as he shifted to face her again. “Miz Witty’s room is across the hall toward the back of the house. I’ll let her know you’ve arrived. Take a few minutes to freshen up, then go see her.”
“Thank you, Ruby.” He moved past her into a sunny room, obviously intended to make a guest both comfortable and at ease. The furnishings were influenced by the Shaker tradition of simplicity, left natural with a hand-rubbed oil finish. Bright rag rugs dotted the pine planks. In front of the lace-swathed window, a colorful bouquet of fresh flowers and greenery sat on a drop-leaf table, filling the room with sweetness.
He set down his bag and turned to the housekeeper to compliment the accommodations, but she no longer stood in the doorway. He peered out into the hall to glimpse her as she disappeared into to Miz Witty’s room, no doubt to make the big announcement—the prodigal has returned!
Or so they thought.
Taggart decided to give Miz Witty a few minutes to prepare for his arrival, so he unpacked his suitcase and put away his things. He opted not to change out of his business suit, though he didn’t recall Bonn ever wearing one, except when he’d been best man at Taggart’s wedding to Annalisa, and, then, three years later—at her funeral. But Miz Witty wouldn’t know how Bonn dressed. The last time she’d seen him, he’d surely been wearing a suit. After all it had been Bonn’s parents’ funeral, after their tragic deaths in an avalanche while they’d been cross-country skiing.
He ran a hand through his hair, not so much to move it out of his eyes, but to give his aggravation and frustration an outlet. Putting a fist through the wall didn’t seem like the best plan.
Catching his scowl in the dresser mirror, he adjusted his expression and left the room. It was time. He’d put it off long enough. He walked to Miz Witty’s door and knocked. The “Come in,” he heard had a melodious ring to it, as though the person speaking were exhilarated. He swatted down a fresh surge of self-loathing and turned the knob, pushing open the door.
His attention went immediately to the centerpiece of the room, a large bed with a tall, ornately carved headboard and shorter but equally ornate footboard. The bedspread was a fusion of white silk, lace and brocade, giving the impression of a wintertime landscape. In the midst of all that snowy finery, reclining against a multitude of pillows, lounged a petite, queenlike woman with ivory skin and a smile so reminiscent of Bonn’s it gave Taggart pause. Her eyes were large and iron-brown, her bone structure classic. Powder-white hair crowned her head in a groomed mound of wispy curls. Taggart thought she was an attractive, youthful-looking woman, even days away from her seventy-fifth birthday. Her white, silk dressing gown frothed with lace at the neck and wrists.
She held out her arms, looking like a human-size China doll, come to life. “My Bonny!” Those brown eyes grew liquid with what Taggart knew were tears of joy. He was struck with an urge to be transported telepathically back to Boston for an instant, just to kick Bonn in his backside for neglecting this fragile-looking doll of a woman. Without further hesitation, he moved across the Persian rug and leaned over the bed, allowing her to take him in her embrace. He held her gently, inhaling her scent, talcum powder and French milled soap.
“It’s good to see you, Miz Witty,” he murmured against her cool cheek. “You’re looking marvelous.” He’d seen her picture among the few Bonn kept. She was older by at least a decade than the photograph he remembered, and from what Bonn had said about her failing health, Taggart was surprised she looked so well. As for being blind and deaf, well, she certainly wasn’t blind. She didn’t even seem to need glasses. He wasn’t sure about her hearing, yet. But she’d apparently heard his knock, which hadn’t been particularly loud. “How are you?” he asked in his normal voice, a test to see if she could hear him.
“Just wonderful. My right leg is still too weak for me to stand, since my last stroke, and the pneumonia wasn’t a cake-walk, but I’m getting stronger every day.” She grasped his