Pieces of Blue

Table of Contents

Pieces of Blue

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Epilogue

About the Author

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Copyright June, 2024 by Liz Flaherty

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means—graphic, electronic or mechanical—without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

Without in any way limiting the author’s exclusive rights under copyright, any use of this publication to train generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. The author reserves all right to license uses of this work for generative AI training and development of machine learning language models.

ISBN: 978-1-964676-00-5

Published by Annessa Ink

http://www.annessaink.com

Look for the helpers. - Fred Rogers

I can’t begin to count the helpers I’ve known in my life, 

and it is to them this book is dedicated, 

with admiration and gratitude.

Chapter 1

February

Trilby died.

I’m Maggie North. That has been my name for most of my adult life, with a few years out for being an idiot, but the day of Trilby Winterroad’s death became the center pole on my lifeline. Not when I graduated, married, was widowed or, later, divorced after a disastrous second marriage that comprised the idiot years. I measured my life from the cold day in early February when Trilby died and what came after.

We pieced together his last day after bidding him farewell in a quiet, private service and following the hearse to the little family cemetery on a hillside in central Michigan where he was buried beside the woman he’d been married to for fifty years. Beautiful, excruciatingly shy Claire had died a few years earlier, her body unable to beat a recurrence of cancer. Trilby had never known a day of contentment, much less happiness, since.

He spent the morning with Sam, his lawyer, got several notes in his leggy handwriting notarized, and left a hundred-dollar tip with his favorite barista at the coffee shop. He left a blue binder full of notes for his next book on my desk, laid printed funeral instructions on his own, then took a cocktail of drugs he’d researched when he wrote Mayhem in the Cascades. While he was still conscious, he called the pastor of the Episcopal Church, his sons, and me. By the time he called the EMTs to prevent any of us from being the ones to find him, he sounded sleepy and urged them not to hurry.

He then, dressed in the jeans and sweatshirt he wore almost every day, lay on the couch in his office with his longhaired dachshund Chloe curled up beside him and died.

He chose a day I wasn’t at work. I’d taken it off to celebrate a clear mammogram with my best friend and nurse practitioner, Ellie Wentz. I know it’s unreasonable, but I’ve found it difficult to forgive myself for that. How could I not have known?

Back in Muskegon in my apartment after the funeral, I made coffee for Trilby’s two sons and their wives, the lawyer, agent, and housekeeper who were with him nearly as long as I was.

He called us that morning, said his eldest son’s wife, Miriam. That should have been a clue. There hasn’t been a Winterroad born yet who talks on the phone before coffee.

He told me I was the best birthday present he ever had. Josie was married to Dan, his second son. Her voice failed, and she swallowed hard enough for me to see the movement in her throat and went on. "He always told me that, but then he’d say ‘But who likes birthday presents?’ and we’d both laugh like it was a new joke."

He paid me in cash, said Ruby, the housekeeper. He never did that before, and his note said he was giving me my birthday and Christmas bonuses early. Her eyes were red from weeping. How could I not have known?

I’m certain he didn’t mean for anyone to know. Sam Eldridge, whom Trilby had subsidized through law school, spoke quietly. He got every duck in a row. If there are things with the placement of said ducks that any of you don’t agree with, feel free to take it up with me. His smile was faint. Since, as far as I know, you’re all my clients, I’m afraid the only one who would benefit from that would be me.

Is this the official reading of the will then? asked Tom, Miriam’s husband. Where one of us stands up and bellows that we’ll contest it?

It is. Sam handed out copies of the document. As you know, the grandchildren all have trust funds—enough for college but not if they drink too much beer while they’re there. He also had bequests for them that have already been taken care of. They can’t be touched for quite some time. Trilby had a touch of the control freak in him.

The comment drew laughter, the relieving kind that often comes in the middle of profound grief. Just a touch, agreed Dan. I was actually born first, but since Pop liked Tom better, he let him be the oldest.

I didn’t realize you knew, Tom said in a scandalized stage whisper. "Who told you?"

The brothers, both perfect combinations of their parents, laughed again, and we laughed with them. We were all Trilby’s family. We grieved, but laughter had been a mainstay all of his life—he wouldn’t be happy if we stopped now.

We skimmed the copies of the will, the reading glasses that decorated our faces attesting to our age group. Its contents were written in sparse language, leaving no room for argument or ambiguity.

I am disappointed. Laughter still lingered in Tom’s voice, lightening the heaviness that threatened the atmosphere in the apartment. Not a word about the legendary sapphires that came to America with our Australian great-grandparents sewed into…something. I don’t remember what, do you, Danny?

Dan shook his head. No. The story changed every time he told it.

I kept looking for mention of Greg Mathis, Trilby’s adopted brother and my ex-husband, but there was none. Not even the proverbial dollar. He was still in prison as far as I knew. I had no idea if he’d even been informed of Trilby’s death. I certainly wasn’t going to be the one to tell him. Other than a gasp from Ruby, no one said anything until Miriam said, It’s wonderfully generous and more than fair.

Everyone murmured agreement except me—I was surprised into silence. I knew, of course, that there would be special instructions concerning me, but figured they’d all have to do with business.

Nothing had prepared me to inherit a house I didn’t know existed on a lake I’ve never heard of. As with the other bequests, a note was included. I’m not going to insist you go to Harper Loch to live—insisting never works with you anyway. But it’s time to live your own life, find your own voice. Remember there's always a treasure out there. Look to the sun, Margaret Mary. That's where you'll find it. For better or worse. – TW

~*~*~

I spent the next two weeks clearing out Trilby’s office and helping his family prepare his condo for sale. Although a part of me was angry with him for ending his own life, I was grateful for how he’d left things. Other than the sapphires Tom and Dan thought were probably figments of their father’s fertile imagination, very few t’s had been left uncrossed or i’s undotted.

I have no doubt he understood the sense of disconnection his death would leave me with. I worked for him for thirty-six years, since I was sixteen. Other than Ellie, my best friend since second grade, I no longer had a sense of anchorage in Muskegon. There was no one left to miss. Even Sam, who’d been my what happens now? person often enough that I occasionally think I should keep him on retainer, was a professional acquaintance.

No, that’s wrong. If I’m honest about it, he’s probably my best friend after Ellie. There has been more than one flicker of…something…between us in the years of that friendship, but first he was married and then I was. Then he wasn’t and I was again. Nothing made us think pursuing a flicker would be a good idea. While we saw each other socially sometimes, it was usually in the company of others.

I was even able to disregard the fact that Sam’s looks had a whole lot in common with those of a fifty-some Mark Harmon. Usually.

The condo where Trilby and I had worked was completely cleared of any evidence we’d ever been there. Painters had come in and painted the walls ubiquitous white. The floors had been cleaned. It would sell, the realtor assured Tom and Dan, within days.

I sat across from Ellie at the Black Dog, the coffee house that had crossed to the wild side and served beer and wine. It had only been days since my life had changed entirely, I reminded myself, staring into the glass of merlot. Do you think Scott just puts red food coloring in this and passes it off for wine?

Ellie shrugged. Hey, three bucks a glass. Who’s gonna complain?

Good point. I scooted the glass aside and looked down at the notes I’d taken on Harper Loch. All I can find out is that the lake covers forty-some acres. It has a population of somewhere between 85 and 212 depending on the time of year, and you can buy milk, bread, and beer at the combination store and bait shop. The store’s name is Harper Mercantile. Placer, the closest town with any real amenities, is five miles away. It has two stoplights plus a caution light at the junction where the main street meets the highway. There’s a library, a doctor, a quilt shop, a vet, and an ice cream shop. Oh, and a boutique and at least one café. I’m sure there’s more, but that was sufficient unto my needs, so I stopped reading.

So, what are you going to do? Ellie looked at me, concern on her face. I know you can stay busy doing the promotion for Trilby’s books and giving talks at bookstores and libraries about what it was like being his assistant, but I don’t see that being enough for you.

I’ll finish the one I’m working on and I have his notes for another. After that, I’m not sure.

More lunchroom mysteries?

No. We stopped those when the kids aged out. I tilted up the glass, drained it, and refilled it from the bottle we shared. I was glad I brought an Uber to Black Dog. Food coloring or not, I was a little…foggy.

What if you go to this lake in the middle of nowhere and decide you like it there?

I snorted. I’d never lived outside city limits in my life. Like that’s going to happen. But Tom and Dan asked if I’d like to have Chloe, Trilby’s dog, since she knew me better than anyone else because I saw her every day. I talked to her about it and she’s all for going to the lake for a few days—maybe even a few weeks. I need a break from Muskegon and she needs to stop looking for Trilby.

Makes sense to me. Ellie looked a little sad, probably more a product of the wine than the conversation. At least, I hoped it was.

He never mentioned this lake to you?

I’d already answered that more than once to more than one person, and I tried to remember every time. No, but I’ve said it so often I’m not sure anymore. It’s only about two hours from where he and Claire lived—but farther north and east.

How did he end up in Muskegon? He grew up out east, didn’t he?

I shook my head. He grew up on the farm where he and Claire lived. He went to the University of Michigan. They lived in Muskegon when they were first married because he taught at the community college, but when his wife moved to the farm with the kids to care for her mother, she stayed there. It reminded her of where she grew up in France. They sold their house and boat in Muskegon and bought the condo where he worked and stayed Monday through Thursday. He went home every weekend.

I knew he did. Ellie shrugged. It just seems weird.

Not so much. At least, I didn’t think it did. His whole life was his family and writing books and Muskegon—he loved it here and even when he changed to adjunct status, he continued teaching at the college. He had no social life that I know of outside of those. Trilby and Claire were intensely private, and it was what worked for them. I straightened in my chair. I’ve just talked about his life more than I did all the years I worked for him. This food coloring is making me share a little too much.

It’s safe with me. I liked Trilby and Claire. Ellie made a salami, cracker, and cheese sandwich from the charcuterie board between us. Want me to go with you to the lake?

Not this time. Let this just be the fact-finding tour. I may want to do no more than look at it and list it. My life is here.

As soon as the words left my mouth, I wished they hadn’t. The weight of grief they unloaded was crushing.

What life?

Is it? said Ellie, handing me a sandwich like the one she’d made herself. Are you content with it?

To use the words Trilby hated more than any other, it is what it is. And it’s nothing. Other women draw life and identity from being mothers, wives, successful in their life’s work. Not me. My whole life and identity are wrapped up in being Trilby Winterroad’s assistant and ghost writer.

And that life was over, ended by Trilby’s final act. Or would be soon. I had one book to finish and another one to write.

How could you?

It wasn’t the first time I’d thought that, or the question’s partner—Why did you?

I left soon, congratulating the Uber driver on his new baby and leaving a bigger tip than I normally would have because seeing his little girl’s picture had been a great reminder of the presence of joy. I took the elevator to my apartment in a building that had a harbor view if I stood on one side of the balcony and leaned almost far enough to the right to fall over the rail. I was tired and more depressed than I cared to admit. Chloe met me at the door, asking politely for a walk.

I kept my coat on and fastened the dog’s leash to her collar. I’m not used to you, am I, girl? I’d never had a pet before and while I was charmed by Chloe, I was occasionally irritated by the responsibility.

I packed for the drive to Harper Loch the following morning, not certain what to take or how long I’d be there. It was only about two hours away. When Sam called to assure me the lock code was up-to-date, he told me the house was live-in ready, with utilities already on. Don’t come back right away, he urged. Give yourself some time. Trilby left things well taken care of.

Driving out of Muskegon with Chloe in the passenger seat and an audiobook playing, I laughed at myself for being a little excited, but I’d never traveled for my own purposes—although I wasn’t sure a three-hour drive within my own state qualified. When Tim, my first husband and the love of my life, was ill, we made the drive to Ann Arbor for doctor’s appointments and treatment several times a week. We used to say our worst days were also their best ones. We’d talked all the way there and back, and when Tim was too ill to do his part, I talked for both of us, sometimes arriving home hoarse.

Twenty-five years after his death, I still missed him. He was the nicest guy ever born, I told Chloe. We laughed so much. When he was gone, I thought I’d never laugh again.

I’m not sure I have yet, either. Well, I’ve laughed. I was even happy for a while when Trilby introduced me to Greg and I married him too quickly. It was the single most impetuous thing I’ve ever done. And the most foolish.

How about you, Chloe? Were you married before Trilby rescued you? Was it a mistake? I didn’t remember laughing aloud in a car by myself before, but the idea that I was carrying on a conversation with a dog tickled me.

Other than the trip to the cemetery for Trilby’s burial, it had been a few years since I’d been very far into Michigan’s interior. I’d had no reason after Claire’s death. I’d forgotten how pretty it was, even in February. The roads were clear after I left the highway, but the fields and woods were snow-covered. What had looked like a three-hour drive on the map had extended into nearly four after two stops to walk Choe.

The town of Placer was bigger than I had expected. When I took a wrong turn because I was gaping at all the trees in the town, I found myself in front of a brick Victorian house that declared itself to be JOSETTA’S QUILT SHOP. The sign on its oversized front door invited me to COME IN, so I did. In the second room of the shop, I saw a quilt draped gracefully over a balustrade somewhere above my head and pointed at it. For sale?

It took my breath away. Aunt Linda, who’d made quilts for as long as I could remember, would have been in ecstasy, and I wasn’t far behind that.

I was mesmerized by the colors, especially the blues, in what the Amish woman making the sale told me was the Be My Neighbor pattern. The quilt would in no way go with the muted grays and soft whites of my apartment, but I didn’t care. I didn’t think I’d ever bought anything simply because it was beautiful. Maybe it was time.

You may like it from afar, I told Chloe, but it’s a people quilt.

Although the lake was within five miles of Placer, the drive took me deeper into the country than I’d ever been—at least that I could remember. While the temperature didn’t drop, the wind did increase, blowing snow from the roadsides across in front of me in gusty swirls of white. I was surprised that Gladys, the elegant voice of my GPS, didn’t sound either confused or disdainful even when it took me three tries to see the little green sign that indicated HARPER LOCH ROAD.

Canopied by naked February trees and lined with animal-tracked snowbanks, the road was one and a half lanes wide. I hoped it would be wider when there was no snow, but I wouldn’t bet on it. It was hilly, with serpentine curves that reminded me of a