“We were friends with the Iversons for years,” she said. “He was a good man. Died of lung cancer. Used to smoke like a chimney.” She shook her head sadly, then crossed her legs and removed her left shoe. “I was on my feet most of the afternoon,” she explained. “I’m not as young as I used to be, and Lloyd Iverson’s death really shook me.” Sighing, she looked over at him. “How was your week?”
Tom shrugged.
“Are they treating you well?”
He nodded as if to say he had no complaints.
“How about the food?”
Another shrug.
“Speaking of food,” she said, brightening. “I got the most fabulous recipe for broccoli lasagna at the wake. I just love it when I find a good recipe. Last month we buried Marion Parsons, and a lady from her church brought the most incredible noodle salad made with—and this is the kicker—whipped cream. Spaghetti noodles with a marshmallow and cream dressing. It was out of this world.” It suddenly occurred to her that Tom might not be interested in hearing about the recipe exchange that went on at wakes.
“I’m glad to hear you like it here in Cedar Cove.”
He nodded again.
“I think I’ll make up a batch of that broccoli lasagna and take half of it over to my daughter. She lives alone now, and I just don’t think she eats enough vegetables. It doesn’t matter that she’s fifty-two, she’s still my little girl and I worry about her.”
Tom smiled faintly.
“Would you like me to bring you a piece, too?”
Grinning, Tom shook his head.
“You don’t like broccoli, is that it? You and George Bush. Not George W. I don’t know if he likes broccoli or not.”
Once more Tom shook his head.
“Broccoli’s good for the bowels. Now, that’s something we both need to think about, especially at our age.” She laughed outright, wondering how Olivia would react if she could hear her now.
Shuffling his right foot, Tom laboriously rolled the wheelchair over to his nightstand.
“You want me to get something for you?” she asked.
His white head bobbed.
“It’s inside the drawer here?” she asked.
His brown eyes were intense, and he indicated that she’d guessed right.
Charlotte eased open the drawer and found a pen, pad and a small coin purse that closed with a zipper. Years earlier, Clyde had carried a similar one. Thinking Tom might want her to write something down, she took out the pen and paper.
He frowned and shook his head.
She reached for the coin purse, instead, and glanced at him again.
Tom smiled and nodded.
“Do you want me to open it?” She realized that he must and carefully unzipped the small leather pouch. Inside was a folded yellow sheet of paper, which she removed. She set aside the coin holder and realized there was something enclosed in the paper. A key.
“What’s this?” she asked, openly curious now.
Tom sat back; he seemed to be waiting for her to discover the answer on her own.
Charlotte unfolded the single sheet of paper and saw that it was a receipt for a storage unit right here in Cedar Cove. How he’d arranged that, she couldn’t guess. She’d have to ask Janet Lester.
Uncertain what she was supposed to do with the key, Charlotte looked questioningly at Tom. “Everything seems to be in order,” she assured him, returning the key and the receipt to the pouch. She was about to place it in the drawer when he stopped her, leaning forward and clasping her forearm with his right hand.
His eyes pleaded with her.
“You don’t want me to put it back here?” she asked.
He shook his head, breathing hard from his exertion.
“What would you like me to do with it?”
He looked directly at her purse, which rested on the floor next to her large knitting bag.
“Take it with me?”
He nodded.
“Wouldn’t you rather I gave it to someone in the office?” Surely that would be more appropriate than for Charlotte to keep it.
He shook his head, his expression adamant.
“All right, but I feel I should tell Janet about this.”
He shrugged.
“Don’t worry, your key’s in good hands. I’ll make sure nothing happens to it.” She slipped the pouch inside her purse, then reached for her knitting bag. “I made you a lap robe. You need something to keep your legs warm. There’s a chill in the air these January mornings, isn’t there?” She settled the robe over his legs and stepped back to admire it.
Tom smiled, and made a shaky gesture to show his appreciation.
“You’re most welcome,” she said.
Tom’s eyes closed briefly and she understood that he was tired. It was time to go. “I’ll be back next Thursday,” she said, gathering her bags.
He gave a slight nod.
“Don’t you fret about a single thing. Oh, and I’ll bring you a slice of that lasagna.”
He grinned and shook his head.
“All right, I’ll spare you.” Tom was probably on a special diet, anyway. “I promise to take good care of this key for you.”
He sighed and patted the lap robe.
“The pleasure was all mine. Goodbye until next week.”
She left his room more quietly than she’d entered it, and immediately sought out the social worker. She didn’t want to take the key without letting someone know.
Janet was in her office, talking on the phone. When she saw Charlotte, she motioned her in and ended the conversation a minute later.
“Hello, Charlotte, what can I do for you?”
She explained about Tom Harding and the key.
Janet rolled her chair over to the filing cabinet and opened the top drawer. Extracting a file, she laid it on her desk. While she read through the file, Charlotte took a second look at the receipt for the storage unit. She saw that it was a renewal, which had been paid by the state—paid in full for the entire year. Apparently Tom had run out of funds for his care and become a ward of the state. What assets he owned were being stored in the unit and would be sold at the time of his death.
Janet continued to scan the file. “Unfortunately the information I have here is the bare minimum. Tom suffered a stroke five years ago, but there’s nothing about any family—and next to nothing about his background.”
“He seemed to want me to keep the key,” Charlotte said, unsure what she should do.
“Then I think you should. I know you have it, and so does Tom.”
“All right, I will.” That settled, Charlotte stood. “He’s a lovely man.”
“Yes, he is, but just a little mysterious.”
Charlotte had to agree and she admitted to being intrigued.
Grace Sherman grabbed a carton of milk and placed it in her grocery cart, then headed for the checkout stand. As she wheeled toward the front of the store, she decided to take a short detour and look over the paperback display. Books were her passion—books of all kinds, from classic fiction to