The New Collected Short Stories Read online

  Dr Grove was under the illusion that the only reason Lynn had sought the transfer was so she could be near him. He was impressed by how seriously the young nurse took her responsibilities. She was always willing to work unsociable hours, and never once complained about having to do overtime, especially after he’d informed her that poor Mr Sommerfield didn’t have much longer to live.

  Lynn quickly settled into a daily routine that ensured her patient’s every need was attended to. Mr Sommerfield’s preferred morning paper, the International Herald Tribune, and his favourite beverage, a mug of hot chocolate, were to be found on his bedside table moments after he woke. At ten, she would help Arthur – he insisted she call him Arthur – to get dressed. At eleven, they would venture out for their morning constitutional around the grounds, during which he would always cling on to her. She never once complained about which part of her anatomy he clung on to.

  After lunch she would read to the old man until he fell asleep, occasionally Steinbeck, but more often Chandler. At five, Lynn would wake him so that he could watch repeats of his favourite television sitcom, The Phil Silvers Show, before enjoying a light supper.

  At eight, she allowed him a single glass of malt whisky – it didn’t take her long to discover that only Glenmorangie was acceptable – accompanied by a Cuban cigar. Both were frowned upon by Dr Grove, but encouraged by Lynn.

  ‘We just won’t tell him,’ Lynn would say before turning out the light. She would then slip a hand under the sheet, where it would remain until Arthur had fallen into a deep, contented sleep. Something else she didn’t tell the doctor about.

  One of the tenets of the Jackson Memorial Hospital was to make sure that patients were sent home when it became obvious they had only a few weeks to live.

  ‘Much more pleasant to spend your final days in familiar surroundings,’ Dr Grove explained to Lynn. ‘And besides,’ he added in a quieter voice, ‘it doesn’t look good if everyone who comes to Jackson Memorial dies here.’

  On hearing the news of his imminent discharge – which, loosely translated, meant demise – Arthur refused to budge unless Lynn was allowed to accompany him. He had no intention of employing an agency nurse who didn’t understand his daily routine.

  ‘So, how would you feel about leaving us for a few weeks?’ Dr Grove asked her in the privacy of his office.

  ‘I don’t want to leave you, William,’ she said, taking his hand, ‘but if it’s what you want me to do . . .’

  ‘We wouldn’t be apart for too long, honey,’ Dr Grove said, taking her in his arms. ‘And in any case, as his physician, I’d have to visit the old man at least twice a week.’

  ‘But he could live for months, possibly years,’ said Lynn, clinging to him.

  ‘No, darling, that’s not possible. I can assure you it will be a few weeks at the most.’ Dr Grove was not able to see the smile on Lynn’s face.

  Ten days later, Arthur J. Sommerfield was discharged from Jackson Memorial and driven to his home in Bel Air.

  He sat silently in the back seat, holding Lynn’s hand. He didn’t speak until the chauffeur had driven through a pair of crested wrought-iron gates and up a long driveway, and brought the car to a halt outside a vast redbrick mansion.

  ‘This is the family home,’ said Arthur proudly.

  And it’s where I’ll be spending the rest of my life, thought Lynn as she gazed in admiration at the magnificent house situated in several acres of manicured lawns, bordered by flower beds and surrounded by hundreds of trees, the likes of which Lynn had only ever seen in a public park.

  She soon settled into the room next door to Arthur’s master suite and continued to carry out her routine, always completing the day with a happy-ending massage, as they used to call it at the agency.

  It was on a Thursday evening, after his second whisky (only allowed when Lynn was certain Dr Grove wouldn’t be visiting his patient that day), that Arthur said, ‘I know I don’t have much longer to live, my dear.’ Lynn began to protest, but the old man waved a dismissive hand before adding, ‘And I’d like to leave you a little something in my will.’

  A little something wasn’t exactly what Lynn had in mind. ‘How considerate of you,’ she replied. ‘But I don’t want anything, Arthur . . .’ She hesitated. ‘Except perhaps . . .’

  ‘Yes, my dear?’

  ‘Perhaps you could make a donation to some worthy cause? Or a bequest to your favourite charity in my name?’

  ‘How typically thoughtful of you, my dear. But wouldn’t you also like some personal memento?’

  Lynn pretended to consider the offer for some time before she said, ‘Well, I’ve grown rather attached to your cane with the silver handle, the one you used to take on our afternoon walks at Jackson Memorial. And if your children wouldn’t object, I’d also like the photo of you that’s on your desk in the study – the one taken when you were a freshman at Princeton. You were so handsome, Arthur.’

  The old man smiled. ‘You shall have both of them, my dear. I’ll speak to my lawyer tomorrow.’

  Mr Haskins, the senior partner of Haskins, Haskins & Purbright, was not the kind of man who would easily have succumbed to Miss Beattie’s charms. However, he wholeheartedly approved when his client expressed the desire to add several large donations to selected charities and other institutions to his will – after all, he was a Princeton man himself. And he certainly didn’t object when Arthur told him that he wanted to leave his cane with the silver handle, and a photo of himself when he was at Princeton, to his devoted nurse, Miss Lynn Beattie.

  ‘Just a keepsake, you understand,’ Lynn murmured as the lawyer wrote down Arthur’s words.

  ‘I’ll send the documents to you within a week,’ Mr Haskins said as he rose to leave, ‘in case there are any further revisions you might wish to consider.’

  ‘Thank you, Haskins,’ Arthur replied, but he had fallen asleep even before they’d had a chance to shake hands.

  Mr Haskins was as good as his word, and a large legal envelope, marked Private & Confidential, arrived by courier five days later. Lynn took it straight to her room, and once Arthur had fallen asleep she studied every syllable of the forty-seven-page document carefully. After she had turned the last page, she felt that only one paragraph needed to be amended before the old man put his signature to it.

  When Lynn brought in Arthur’s breakfast tray the following morning, she handed him his newspaper and said, ‘I don’t think Mr Haskins likes me.’

  ‘What makes you say that, my dear?’ asked Arthur as he unfolded the Herald Tribune.

  She placed a copy of the will on his bedside table and said, ‘There’s no mention of your cane with the silver handle, or of my favourite photo of you. I’m afraid I won’t have anything to remember you by.’

  ‘Damn the man,’ said Arthur, spilling his hot chocolate. ‘Get him on the phone immediately.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary,’ said Lynn. ‘I’ll be passing by his office later this afternoon. I’ll drop the will off and remind him of your generous offer. Perhaps he simply forgot.’

  ‘Yes, why don’t you do that, my dear. But be sure you’re back in time for Phil Silvers.’

  Lynn did indeed pass by the Haskins, Haskins & Purbright building that afternoon, on her way to the office of a Mr Kullick, whom she had rung earlier to arrange an appointment. She had chosen Mr Kullick for two reasons. The first was that he had left Haskins, Haskins & Purbright some years before, having been passed over as a partner. There were several other lawyers in the town who had suffered the same fate, but what tipped the balance in Mr Kullick’s favour was the fact that he was the vice-president of the local branch of the National Rifle Association.

  Lynn took the lift to the fourth floor. As she entered the lawyer’s office, Mr Kullick rose to greet her, ushering his potential client into a chair. ‘How can I help you, Miss Beattie?’ he asked even before he’d sat down.

  ‘You can’t help me,’ said Lynn, ‘but my employer is in need of your ser