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Ruffling Feathers Chapter 18 - Playing a Little Shady Grove
Corbin Sullivan returned to his workshop to find his granddaughter spinning tales for Paul and consuming every edible scrap she could locate. The heavy air in the shop smelled of wood shavings and varnish, mold and apples. The ribs of the boat under construction lay stacked neatly, ready to be lofted. Paul's forehead glistened as beads of sweat broke free under the efforts of his labor. Corbin hid a small smile as he quickly surveyed his kingdom. Not bad for the son of an Irish immigrant to have a sixth-generation Yankee sweating in his shop for no pay. "A fanciful child, that one," Corbin commented after situating Addie in his office and directing her energies toward completing her spelling homework. "My daughter has given her too long a lead for her age. Beth and I do what we can to curb her..." His voice trailed off. "Is Addie Kirsten's child?" Paul asked evenly, almost carelessly. "No, no." Corbin shook his head vigorously, frowning, and then smiled slightly, remembering, "That's right, you and Kirsten were in school together as youngsters. She fancied you, I recall." He looked up at Paul and then resumed planing a board. "No, Addison is the child of my younger daughter, Ellen." Paul barely remembered that Beth and Corbin Sullivan had two daughters. Kirsten, the elder of the two, had so dominated the family. Kirsten and Paul attended Carlisle Point's little public school together, sat next to each other at Sunday School, and had gone to each other's birthday parties until Paul went off to private school when he was eleven. Nevertheless, when they were twelve, Kirsten had boldly telephoned Paul and invited him to her school's Sadie Hawkins dance. Awkward and shy, Paul had gone at his mother's insistence, but had never returned the compliment with an invitation of his own. Even at twelve, Kirsten Sullivan was overwhelming—long legs, long blond hair, she knew what she wanted out of life and had a pretty good idea how to get it. Paul's adolescent hormones were grateful that she singled him out. He could still remember how her hair smelled like newly mown hay; he could clearly recall the gorgeous curves that filled out her bathing suit as she walked along the wharf in the summer. But something in his head sent off warning bells when she cozied up to him. He knew that his libido had never forgiven his integrity for spoiling the fun, but he also knew that he would never be anything more to her than a meal ticket and a free ride to the next stop on her climb. His mother had told him that Kirsten married a judge after she graduated from law school in Boston. The last time he'd seen her was three years ago at an AIDS fundraiser in Manhattan. She made it clear that he could still win her favors if he so desired. He didn't. So that was Kirsten. Who was Ellen Sullivan—who was the woman who was mother to the elfin creature in Corbin's office that had already claimed Paul as her own? Paul knew Corbin Sullivan to be naturally taciturn. If he were going to get any information, he would have to ask for it. "I don't remember Ellen. How much younger is she than Kirsten?" "Three years." Corbin stood up and pushed back his baseball cap and ran his fingers through his iron-gray hair until it stood on end. "Poor Ellen," he sighed. "No one remembers her when Kirsten's around, and you didn't eye Kirsten the way the others did." Didn't seem to, Paul mentally corrected him. Corbin put his cap back on and resumed working, "Not until Kirsten left for college did Ellen have a beau she could call her own and a life she wasn't afraid to live. She married a real nice boy from Acadia right out of high school. Beth and I wanted her to go to college, but she and this boy wanted to get married first. His name was Darvin Crowe. Poor as could be. Worked the fishing boats since the time he was a lad, but he treated my poor gal real good. They both worked hard—he fishing and helping me out here in the shop and she worked at the market and the bookstore. Always reading was that one. They scraped together enough to buy a little house in town and had the child." Corbin nodded to the office where they could see Addie through the window lobbing spitballs into the wastebasket—she waved and pretended to resume working on her homework. "I'm sure Addison told you about her daddy dying. I believe the child wears it as a badge of honor, though she misses him something fierce." Corbin looked up as he heard rustling outside the shop door. "Ah, here's Ellen now." Paul heard feet stamping snow off boots, then the door swung open and a young woman in her late twenties backed into the shop carrying an enormous bag that hid her face. She dropped it to the ground, smiling broadly, "Here ya go, Dad. Yet another afghan for Mom from Mrs. Arbuckle." Her smile faded as she saw that her father was not the only man in the workshop. Corbin nodded in Paul's direction, "You remember Paul Donovan." Ellen Crowe smiled shyly at the handsome, brown-eyed man covered in sawdust and sweat and reached out to shake his proffered hand. She flushed slightly as their hands met and managed to stammer, "Yes, hi Paul. I heard you were back in town. I...um...I saw Gina at the market..." Mercifully, Addie bounded out of the shop office and gave her mother a hard hug and proceeded to dominate the conversation with talk of school and sledding and the upcoming Christmas parade and party. As Ellen and her little daughter were leaving the workshop, bundled up for the quick walk up the street to their house, Addie gaily tossed over her shoulder, "Now, Paul, you be sure to come to the town party this Friday in the meeting hall. You bring a gift—you get a gift. Got it?" "Got it." Addie winked at him—"I'll fix it so you get the right gift." And so began the curious friendship of Paul Donovan and Addison Crowe. If Addie's mother objected to her daughter bonding with one of the richest men Maine had ever produced, not to mention the handsomest, she didn't show it. They told each other stories—tall tales of the sea and the Wild West, full of romance and adventure, daring deeds and heroic acts. Paul found that Addie had a rich imagination and chutzpah by the pound. A generous little soul, she was a loyal and fierce defender of her friends, and she proudly marked Paul as her closest friend. Her grandfather had taught her to play the harmonica and sometimes, when Paul was in a mood, he would ask her to "play a little Shady Grove." And then, she would play Shady Grove and Barbara Allen and Tom Dooley until Paul stopped scowling. If Addie wasn't handy to play a little Shady Grove, Paul did the only sensible thing he could think of. He walked the cliffs above Whiteside Cove, hoping the wind would blow the cobwebs out of his head and he could think clearly again and decide what to do about Donovan Industries. His mother hadn't helped matters. Over and over, he read the inscription she had written inside her posthumous present to him, the slender volume of Edna St. Vincent Millay sonnets— ‘To my dear Paul, This above all: to thine ownself be true, Was she really advising him to follow his heart and stay in Carlisle Point and design and build boats? Would she approve of him selling Donovan Industries as he was contemplating? Would she encourage him to swallow his pride and go to London and try again with Amy? When Paul first heard Amy's rich, throaty voice on the radio as he worked in Corbin's boat shed, he was so startled he had to sit down. He didn't need to hear her byline at the end of the story to know it was she. After that, he rarely missed All Things Considered or Morning Edition, half-hoping, half-dreading to hear her again. Often he did. NPR chose right when they chose Amy Hutchins to cover Europe's green scene. She found stories that mattered to Americans and delivered them eloquently, compelling her audience to attend to her words and sit mutely in parked cars, listening to the end of a piece. Saturday mornings he tuned in to hear her deliver a weekly light piece—impressions of cowgirl in London—charming and witty, her self-effacing comments reflected a sophistication her words belied. She sounded happy in London, and yet he couldn't imagine her in a city, any city. The woman he knew straddled mountains with the wind in her hair and the sun in her eyes. Yet she sounded as full of life and energy, enthusiasm and ginger as when he first met her. Here he was, stalking the cliffs above Whiteside Cove brooding over what to do with his life, while she was out there doing something with hers...without him. "Paul, will you remember me in a week?" Paul looked up at the intense little person sitting on a stool next to his workbench. The late February sun was giving up and afternoon was settling into bone-chilling quiet as Paul worked and Addie read her book. "Of course I will, Addie." Her question troubled him a little. She asked such odd, disconnected questions that often led to devastatingly true, childishly simple observations about life and love and truth. "Will you remember me in a year?" "Yes." "Will you remember me in ten years?" "Yeesss." He drew this one out to let her know he knew she was leading him down the garden path. "Knock. Knock." "Who's there?" "See you forgot me already." Addie collapsed in gales of six-year old hysterics at her own cleverness and Paul's corresponding density. Paul laughed at his little friend's glee in her own wit, and said, "Good one, Addie. You got me good..." He stopped as he saw a solitary tear trickle down a thin cheek. "Paul, when did you forget your parents?" "I haven't forgotten them, Addie. I never will." "Then I'm bad because I can't remember Daddy hardly at all." She hugged her stomach as if to block the pain of missing her father from escaping her body as tears now streamed down her face. "I used to hear him in my head all the time and see him too—I didn't even have to close my eyes to see him. Now, I can't see him much, sometimes not even when I look at his picture next to my bed. And I can barely hear him—the Queen of Heaven has to tell me what he's saying to me. I used to hear him all the time, not just when I was sleeping." Paul put his arm around Addie and kissed her forehead and dried her eyes. "You're not bad, little girl. You're a little girl. I was with my parents for many more years than you were with your daddy, so my memories are stronger." Paul struggled to explain and ease her pain and guilt at the healing process her body was insisting upon. Only his shallow breathing gave evidence of the blow Addie had delivered with her sucker punch.
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