It was a clear, cold October night as the Harts got out of their jeep at the entrance of Memorial Hospital. Jonathan and Jennifer both looked up into the sky to take in the awesome sight of Orion's belt. Jonathan put his arm around Jennifer's shoulder and gave her a tender squeeze. Sometimes there were moments when together they felt the excitement of being part of something larger than themselves. This was one of those moments. They smiled at each other knowingly and walked into the front lobby. George was talking to Marjorie Wallace as they entered the intensive care unit. He looked considerably older than he did this morning; however, they did notice that he looked hopeful - a good sign. He smiled when he saw them. Jonathan patted his back. "How's she doing?" he asked, as Marjorie left to answer a patient's buzzer. "She's still holding her own. Dr. Pennacook says it's still too early to tell… Jonathan, do you think we should keep her here? I mean, the staff here is very nice, but maybe she'd get better care if we got her into Boston," George said in hushed tones, his eyes searching Jonathan's for guidance. Jonathan put his hand on George's shoulder. "George, I made some calls earlier today and spoke with a top neurosurgeon at Cedar Sinai. He assured me that the procedures they were doing here were appropriate, and that it would more dangerous to move her at this point." George gave a heavy sigh. The hopeful look that they had seen earlier all but disappeared. "Can we see her?" Jennifer asked softly. George nodded and led them into Carol's room. They were not prepared for what they saw: She was horribly bruised, her head wrapped in bandages. There were countless lines and monitors coming from her arms and chest. The artificial respirator kept time with the heart monitor, in a monotonous duet. Jonathan and Jennifer didn't know what to say. "I know. She looks awful," George said, expecting their reaction. "The boys are flying in tomorrow. I don't know how to cushion this for them." "How old are they now, George?" Jennifer asked. "Matthew is fifteen. Chris is thirteen. They're staying with my mother right now. I didn't tell them how serious it was. They're very close to her." "If there's anything we can do…" Jonathan offered.
Jennifer woke early the next morning, shaken by a dream of Gloria Cromwell. Jonathan stirred and became aware of his wife missing from bed. She was sitting at the desk, looking down at the photo of Miss Cromwell and the mysterious man.
Jonathan got up and hugged her from behind. "It's really early. Trouble sleeping?" he asked tenderly.
Jennifer sighed. "I dreamt that Gloria was running in the woods. Someone was chasing her. Her dress kept getting caught on branches," Jennifer recounted, her heart quickening with the memory. "And just as someone attacked her, I woke up. I just kept hearing her scream 'my hands! my hands!'"
Jonathan wrapped his arms around Jennifer more tightly and kissed the side of her cheek. "Why don't you take a hot shower and then we can go down for a big breakfast. We'll need the energy for today's hike," he said.
"Okay," she paused. "Jonathan, can we go find Cole Jackson's antique shop today? We'll have time before we meet Katherine...I want to describe the items to him and see what he thinks."
Jonathan knew she needed to put this to rest. "Anything for you," he smiled affectionately.
The eager bell boy in the lobby gave Jennifer directions to Jackson's Antiques, which was located only three miles west of the hotel. They arrived at the rambling cottage within minutes. As they were walking up the front walk, Jonathan commented from behind, "I must say, you're filling out those jeans nicely."
Jennifer turned sharply. "What are you saying?" she said, squinting her eyes at him.
Jonathan tried to keep himself from smiling. "I'm just saying that you've put on a few pounds in the derriere, and I like it!"
Jennifer put her hands on her hips and pouted, "Are you saying that I'm getting fat?"
"You? Fat?" he chuckled. "I'm just saying that I like when you have a little extra...uh...roundness...it gets me hot," he whispered devilishly.
"Jonathan Hart, you better watch it!" she scolded playfully.
"I am! I am!" he remarked.
Cole Jackson's shop was a maelstrom of furniture and knickknacks. As Jonathan and Jennifer walked through the door, a bell hanging from above beckoned Cole and Sandy from behind the front desk. They were noticeably pleased to see the Harts.
"Well, hello there!" Cole said, with a smile that spread across his rugged face. He was a big man, even taller and more muscular than they had remembered from the wedding. He wore a chamois shirt over a thermal undershirt, his sleeves rolled up exposing a tattoo. Jennifer couldn't quite make out the design and didn't want to stare for too long. She was afraid that Cole would take it the wrong way.
"What a nice surprise," Sandy chimed in. "What brings you our way?"
"Well, actually, Katherine Belleveau told us that you owned an antique shop, and we wanted to ask you about a couple of items that we found," Jennifer said.
"Sure. Let's take a look," Sandy answered, giving Jonathan a smile.
"Well," Jennifer said, "to be honest, we lost them. It's a long story, but anyhow, we thought maybe if we described them to you, you might know how old they might be and if they have any value."
"We'll give it a try," Cole winked at Jennifer. "What did you have?"
"One item was a letter-opener. It was small, about six inches long," she said gesturing with her hands. "It was pewter, I believe, and it had a particular floral design on the handle," she added, as Jonathan nodded in agreement.
Cole walked over to a corner of his shop and walked back, holding a letter-opener in his hands. "Like this?" he asked. Jennifer's mouth dropped open.
"That's it! How did you get it?!"
Cole laughed heartily. "We've had this for several months. It was designed and hand-crafted right here in New Hampshire back in the early '40's. There is probably about one hundred in existence...it's a nice piece, but it's only worth about twenty-five dollars."
"The 1940's, huh?" Jennifer said thoughtfully. "Who made them?"
"Oh, a craftsman named Oliver Stevensen...he's dead now."
"Oh," Jennifer said, disheartened. "Well, the other item was a gold ring, but I suppose you wouldn't be able to tell us anything about that. There weren't any identifying marks, except for an inscription."
"What was the inscription?" Cole asked.
"To My Beloved. Love GC" Jennifer recited.
"Hmm, no, can't tell too much about that. Sounds like a wedding ring," he offered.
Jennifer sighed. "Well, thank you for your help. Can we purchase this letter-opener?"
"Sure," he said, wrapping it in tissue paper for them. "So, how long are you folks staying in the area?"
"Until the end of the week," Jonathan answered, handing him the cash.
Cole and Sandy drew closer to them. Cole lowered his voice. "Listen, Sandy and I live in a cabin up the road from here. If you two are interested in getting together, and you know..." he winked.
Jennifer looked at Jonathan quizzically. "No, what?" Jennifer asked innocently.
Sandy smiled flirtatiously at the two of them.
"You know," Cole continued, "you and me...Sandy and Jonathan."
Jennifer blinked in disbelief. Jonathan took his purchase from Cole's hand and replied curtly, "We're not into that kind of thing. Let's go, Jennifer." He pulled her by the elbow, giving the Jacksons a scornful look.
As they exited the shop, Sandy looked at Cole and shrugged.
"Boy, those people from L.A. are so uptight," he said.
Upon returning to their hotel room, Jennifer said, "Can you believe them? Wife-swapping?!"
Jonathan grabbed her in his arms. "Don't worry. I wouldn't swap you for anything."
"Even now that I'm getting fat?' she teased. He brought his hands down and grabbed hold of her bottom. "Oh, no, all the more to love," he said, growling in her ear.
They stood holding each other for several moments, when the phone rang.
Jonathan answered. "Hello...oh, yes, Katherine, we'll be right down. We're looking forward to it."
Jennifer gathered her heavy down vest and camera and headed to the door with Jonathan. She was finally going to see Gloria Cromwell's resting place, she thought.
Somehow, though, Jennifer felt oddly unsettled, and as she closed the door behind her an image came to her mind: Gloria Cromwell yelling, "my hands! my hands!"
