A Month at the Shore (11 page)

"Ah, yes," said Laura dryly, driving resolutely past the Coolat
t
a store. "But let's get back to you.
You
didn't kill anyone; Uncle Norbert did.
You
didn't blow up bridges all over town by picking fights; Dad did."

"Maybe Dad became defensive because of the way people looked at him after Uncle Norbert."

"Whatever," said Laura, unconvinced. "The fact remains that you are a businesswoman, the same as Kendall Barclay is a businessman. You deserve just as much respect."

"Oh, I don't know about
that—"

"Listen to me. You have more worth in your little finger than Kendall Barclay and his family put together!"

"Why do you say that?" Corinne asked. She sounded uneasy, as she always did, at that particular tone in her sister's voice. "What do you have against Kendall Barclay?"

"He's an arrogant snob," Laura said flatly. She couldn't help herself.

"He's always been nice to me when I've run into him."

Corinne still had no idea. Humiliated beyond measure by the way she'd been handled by so many at the edge of the woods, Laura had never said a word about it to anyone, not even her sister. And now it was too late. Even Corinne might advise her just to grow up and move on.

What a fool she'd been to keep her silence so sacred, so long.

Corinne said pensively, "Do you honestly think that we can turn the nursery around?"

"Hey. Gardening is the number one hobby in this country. There's no reason why you can't get a bigger piece of that pie."

Corinne smiled and after a moment said seriously, "I haven't really thanked you for coming East, Laur. I know what a sacrifice you're making for me. Canceling your trip to Hawaii
... delaying your next consulting job
... putting up with Snack! I'll never forget this."

"It isn't anything. Stop."

Corinne was cradling the T.J. Maxx bag in her arms. She opened the bag and peeked inside, fingering the soft fabric lovingly. "You're going to be such a knockout in this. He'll
have
to lend us the money."

"He'll lend us the money, all right," Laura said as the rolling land of the nursery hove into view. "The trick for us will be to pay it back."

Laura dumped her T.J. Maxx bag on a kitchen chair and then noticed the clean casserole dish still sitting on the counter.

"Oh, shoot; we forgot to return that thing to Miss Widdich, and she wanted it right back."

Snack, splattered with whitewash, was searching the fridge for something cold, but he was out of beer again. "Where's Corinne?"

"I dropped her off at the shop; she's keeping an eye on Melissa."

"Want me to run that dish over for you?"

If he did that, Laura would lose him for hours: Miss Widdich was neighbor to a bar and grill.

"That's all right, I'll do it," Laura said quickly. "You're a mess, and I still have decent clothes on. How's your beer supply?" she asked as a concession. "Want me to pick something up?"

He flashed her a genuinely friendly grin. "Hey, yeah; thanks, Laur. I'm
almost done with the whitewash and about to start on your shelves," he offered, eager to give her something in return.

"Great."

God, I've become an enabler
, she thought on her way out the door, but she shrugged off the guilt. Better to be an enabler than a slave driver with no slave.

She drove in a hurry to Miss Widdich's house, aware that she was wasting precious minutes of another fine day, the kind of day that made people have spendthrift thoughts about their gardens. In fact, she had seen four cars parked in the front lot, a record so far. Presumably some of the locals had heard that the Shore clan had got back together and were curious to see what new mischief they were up to.

Good. Let them talk. As far as Laura was concerned, it was free advertising, as opposed to the full-page ad she was taking in the
Chatham Herald. That
was costing an arm and a leg.

Just past Pete's Bar and Grill was the overgrown and now almost hidden turnoff to Miss Widdich's house, set at the back of a wooded drive. Maya Widdich had always been a reclusive woman, and the house's location was a perfect fit.

Laura had only been there three or four times in her life, all of them deliveries for the nursery. When she was young and impressionable, the winding drive had seemed spooky and fraught with peril, especially during her first delivery one particularly foggy evening, which she later realized was a summer solstice.

It hadn't helped her jitters that the house was a dark Victorian cottage with gingerbread trim and lurid, leaded red glass over and alongside the door, and that the massive door knocker on it was shaped in the head of a gargoyle.

Laura would never forget that night.
She was well aware of Miss Widdich's reputation, well aware that there was no moon behind the murk of fog. Unnerved and clutching her box of white roses, she had knocked timidly and waited, half expecting to be grabbed, trussed, and stuffed in an oven.

Miss Widdich had answered the door dressed all in black. Her dark hair was beginning to go gray at the time, with a startling white slash across the front that added to the overall drama of the woman.

"My goodness, you took your time!" she had said, sharply for her. "I've got half a mind to send you back with those."

"I'm sorry, Miss Widdich; I had to drive special to Chatham for them, and then I had to wait, and I only just got back," Laura had whimpered.

"Why're
you
delivering them? Where's Sylvia?"

"We're really short-handed at the nursery. My
... my father wanted Sylvia there with him."

"Oh, I'll bet," Miss Widdich had said in a way that had confused Laura and made her even more uncomfortable. She couldn't imagine what difference it made who delivered the roses.

Thankfully, Miss Widdich had removed the lid and inspected the flowers, and instantly her face had softened with pleasure. "Ah, they're fragrant. You were able to find fragrant. Lovely, dear. I'll keep them, with pleasure. And here's something for the extra trouble."

She had given Laura a ten-dollar tip, far and away the biggest that she'd ever received—and Laura had split it the next day with Billy, who almost never got tipped because people knew he was simple and had no real concept of money.

What Laura had never told anyone about that delivery on that particularly eerie night was that besides hearing soft, strange music and seeing the flicker of many candles dancing on the ceiling, she had smelled the distinct odor of marijuana. It was no big deal, considering the times; Snack was always sneaking off with a joint. But it had seemed odd, almost amusing, that someone Miss Widdich's age—she had to be over fifty!—would be listening to sitar music and smoking pot. Unless, of course, she was a witch.

But that was then. Today it was mid-afternoon, and the sun was shining and a warm breeze blowing, and Laura was old enough not to have goosebumps just because a single woman with a white streak in her hair had liked to indulge in sinful pleasures.

She parked next to Miss Widdich's big black Ford and walked up to the porch of the little cottage, which was newly painted in the same dark gray. The porch was only two steps up and was surrounded by a wall of white azaleas in full bloom; leave it to Miss Widdich to find hybrids that were intensely fragrant. Inhaling deep, Laura lifted the old gargoyle and gave it two loud raps.

When no one answered, she assumed that Miss Widdich was in her herb garden; it was far too fine a day to waste lingering over lunch inside. Leaving the casserole dish on the vintage wicker porch glider, Laura went around to the back to announce herself.

Miss Widdich was indeed in her garden. But Laura was stunned to see that she wasn't simply puttering and fussing the way older gardeners do, but digging a massive hole, obviously for the balled-and-burlapped pear
t
ree that was waiting alongside. Corinne might be strong enough to dig that kind of hole, and so might Laura, on a good day. But for someone to do it who normally hobbled around with a cane
...

"Miss Widdichl"

The woman looked up from her digging, saw her flabbergasted visitor and instantly dropped her spade, which fell into the hole. A look of confusion and pain replaced the fierce concentration that Laura had seen in her face.

"Oh, thank goodness you're here," Miss Widdich said weakly, gesturing toward the back porch. "Can you fetch me my cane? Billy was supposed to dig the planting hole last week, but he hasn't come, and I—well, I was frustrated enough, and foolish enough, to try."

She hobbled over to a nearby stone bench and dropped onto it with a groan. "Stupid me. Stupid, stupid me," she lamented. "It's so aggravating to get old. You're young, I know, but wait. You'll see. Oh! It's terrible."

On and on she went, until Laura had the chance to explain why she had come, and then to make her escape.

She drove back to the nursery in a state of heightened unease. Miss Widdich was certainly feisty enough to take on a project that was more than she could handle—but she seemed to have been handling it just fine. Laura had a vivid image of the arthritic woman pitching a shovelful of dirt to the side and coming right back for the next. There was nothing infirm about her.

What was the point of the deception? Why try to convince everyone that she was so infirm? That's what Laura wanted to know.

The blip of suspicion vanished completely from her radar screen as soon as she saw the cars in the nursery parking lot. Seven! On a Tuesday! Oh happy day!

****

"It's as if that Dunkin' Donuts crowd hung a left and drove straight here," Laura told her sister during a lull later that afternoon.

Corinne was in remarkably high spirits. "Actually, you're not far off. Word about my geraniums got out to the Chepaquit Garden Club," she explained. "You know how competitive those women are; no one wanted to miss out, especially on the variegated ones."

"Geraniums
. Who would've thought?"

"Everyone asks me how I got them so big so early," Corinne said proudly.

"And you tell them—?"

"Compost. The geraniums are potted in almost pure compost. They love it."

"Well, we have enough of the stuff. Maybe we ought to bag it and sell it."

"Great idea!" said Corinne, removing a bunch of twenties from the register. "We could call it Cheppy Chips."

"Hey, start talking it up," Laura said, laughing. "We'll get Snack working on them. In his spare time."

Their brother entered the shop just then, bearing painted shelves that he arranged in the exact pyramid shape and dimensions that Laura had requested. He'd even made a special stand to place in the middle opening for the lemon tree.

Laura was delighted, and Snack was clearly pleased with the fact.

"It was fun," he confessed. "I like making stuff, especially making stuff fast." He went out and came back with the lemon tree, its nodding branches covered in tiny white blossoms of powerful fragrance, and set it on its throne. Immediately the area was awash in its perfume.

"Oh, my," said an elderly woman buying packets of seed. "Oh, that smells so good. It's going to be hard to go home to my wick freshener." She drifted over to the lemon tree and scrutinized the price on the plastic tab in the pot. Sighing, she said, "I'll have to think about it."

"This is our last one," Laura coaxed. Also the first, but it was nothing the customer needed to know.

"Oh, well." The woman drifted out with her three-dollar purchase.

"That was Mrs. Schmidt," said Corinne. "Remember her?"

"Do I? She never bought something in a pot if she could find it in a packet. Surely the most tightfisted Yankee in—"

Laura stopped herself short when she saw the woman coming back through the door.

"You know what? I think I'll just take that tree after all," said Mrs. Schmidt, astounding both sisters. "Delivery is free, correct?"

In fact it wasn't, but history was being made, and Laura was not about to quibble. She answered, "For you, absolutely," and Snack actually volunteered to deliver it after work.

In every way, it was proving to be an historic afternoon at Shore Gardens.

The blissful mood lasted right through quitting time. Laura and Corinne replaced the lemon tree with their only other citrus, a lime tree with no flowers but covered with dozens of budding fruits, and by the time they were ready to close up shop, the shop itself had been transformed. Flowers, houseplants, tools, seeds, wreaths, planters, ribbons, garden markers, cachepots, stepping stones, sundials, little frogs and turtles, even a couple of verdigris-finish birdbaths: every available wall, shelf, nook, cranny, and counter was filled. The only thing missing was Sylvia behind a counter, creating her typically whimsical and wonderful floral arrangements in keeping with the season.

"Of course, we've skimmed the best of everything to create this illusion of plenty," said Corinne, counting their money. "In the greenhouses, we've got bupkis."