Back at the cottage, she gave the shells a soak in vinegar, and dried them in the sun. When they were dry, she picked the largest shell and painted its insides white, and then, with a fine brush, painted a layer of gold around its rim. When the paint had dried, she brushed on a layer of Mod Podge, then carefully peeled the two-ply napkins apart and pressed the colorful side into the shell. She trimmed off the extra, lacquered the paper, and rubbed the edges with fine-grained sandpaper. “See that?” she asked Willa, extending her creation for the dog’s perusal. “It’s a dish for my necklaces and earrings.”
Willa sniffed the shell dubiously, and gave Diana a hopeful look. Diana tossed her the last of Mike Carmody’s dehydrated hot dog rounds, and then, after painting and decoupaging the rest of the shells, she lined them up in a row. They were brightly colored, their gold rims vivid. From a distance, they looked like flowers, pinks and creams, reds and golds, unfolding in the sun.
10
Diana
On the last day of March, Diana woke up one morning to find the cottage so cold that she could see her breath. She wrapped her down comforter around her and padded, barefoot, down the stairs and over to the thermostat, which said that it was fifty-two degrees. She bent to put her hand down against the vent and felt no warmth, and no matter how many times she turned the thermostat’s switch off and then on again, the cottage refused to get any warmer.
She pulled on jeans, wool socks, and her warmest sweater, which was made of thick cranberry-colored wool and came down to her thighs, and quickly kindled a fire in the woodstove. Then she called Reese. “There’s no heat in my cottage,” she said.
“Did you turn the thermostat on and off?”
“Yep. Nothing happened.”
“Is there oil in your tank?”
She grimaced, vaguely remembering something Michael Carmody had said about an oil tank, back in the fall. “Shoot.”
Reese’s voice was not unsympathetic. “You’ve got a caretaker, right?”
Diana sighed. “I do.” She’d thrown out Michael Carmody’s business card, but he was in the Yellow Pages, and the cheerful-sounding young woman who answered the phone said, “I’ll send him right over.”
“Thank you,” said Diana. She put on her down coat, and she and Willa went to sit on the deck and await Michael Carmody’s arrival.
Twenty minutes later, the caretaking truck came rumbling up the driveway and pulled to a stop beside her Honda. Michael gave her a salute and opened his door. The truck’s springs seemed to sigh in relief as he climbed out. He wore jeans, work boots, a canvas barn coat, a red and black plaid shirt, and his usual Red Sox cap.
“Tank empty?” he asked.
“I’m not sure.” That was easier than having to explain that she’d never even located the tank.
Michael set off on a walk around the cottage. Diana followed along, thinking that Frankie hadn’t been wrong to call him a bear. He didn’t walk as much as lumber, and it wasn’t hard to picture him spending a few months gorging on salmon and blueberries, getting ready to hibernate. She was smiling at the thought of Michael using his large, nimble hands to snatch salmon out of a river when he turned around.
“What’s funny?” he asked.
“Nothing.”
Michael made a grumbling noise. A bearlike noise. Diana bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. A moment later, he was kneeling next to a round black tank, half-hidden behind a lilac bush, low on the side of the cottage. When he gave it a rap with his knuckles, she could hear the echo. “Yup,” he said. “You’re dry.” He pulled out his cell phone and punched in a number. “Hi, it’s Michael Carmody. Let me talk to Little Don.” When someone—presumably Little Don—picked up, he said, “Yeah, I’m up here at the Levy cottage on Knowles Heights Road. They got an account?” He paused, then nodded. “Yuh. We’ll wait.” He pocketed his phone, said, “Shouldn’t be more than an hour,” then reached in his pocket and tossed Willa a disc of dehydrated hot dog.
“How’s my girlfriend?” he crooned, as Willa bounced around the patchy grass, looking half-insane with joy. “How’s my number-one girl?” His beard had gotten bushier since Diana had seen him last.
“How much is this going to cost?” she asked, trying to keep her voice businesslike.
“Well, I’m not sure.” He turned to examine one of her shutters, lifting it from the bottom, then wiggling it back and forth before pulling a screwdriver out of his pocket and tightening one of the screws. “What’s your deal with Dr. Levy? Is she paying utilities, or are you?”