A Month at the Shore (69 page)

"You kept me away from Aunt Sylvia because she told me ghost stories? But I don't even remember them!"

"Of course not; we stopped things in time."

"You can't be serious! I don't believe it — Aunt Sylvia would have said something when I began visiting her in the nursing home."

"We had asked her not to."

Yes. It all made sense.

"This is — how
could
you?" Jane said in a shaking voice. Her mother shrugged unhappily. "We did what we thought was best for you at the time, Jane. Maybe we were right, and maybe we were wrong. But you were such an impressionable little girl. Anyway, how could we know that Sylvia was going to leave you her house?"

Exasperated, Jane threw up her hands and let them fall with a flop at her sides.
"That's not the point!
Aunt Sylvia was left
alone
all those years —"

"I know, I know," her mother said, wincing. "But what's done is done. It's always easy to — for goodness' sake! There's the fellow in the pickup, driving right through your yard!" She nodded out the window at the dark-green truck marked
J & J
LANDSCAPING AND
NURSERY
that was speeding past the side of the house.

It was a transparent ploy, but the distraction worked. "That's not my — Aunt Sylvia's — land. It's the neighbor's land," Jane said, feeling angry and contrary.

"Oh, yes; I see that now. It's a nice property. The house has been done over beautifully. Who lives there?"

"Apparently some New Yorker who uses it on weekends," Jane said stiffly. "He has a sister living there at the moment."

"And meanwhile, Mr. Oak Tree has disappeared," Gwendolyn said, peering through one side of the window. "Do you suppose there's a shortcut across the property next door? That could be very annoying — at least, until Mr. Oak Tree gets his muffler fixed."

"Mother, will you stop obsessing on real estate and just —"

"Just what? Apologize?" Gwendolyn Drew shook her head sadly and fixed a sad, pale blue gaze on her daughter. "Wait until
you
have an eight-year-old, darling. If she came back from someone's house with stories of hauntings — if she woke up soaking wet from nightmares she was too frightened to recall — what would
you
do?"

Jane compressed her lips and lifted her chin up. The truth was, she didn't have a clue. She'd never had an eight- year-old.

"I just wish I'd known," was all she could think to say.

****

Jane drove her mother to the airport in moody silence. Her mother, who did not believe in coaxing people out of moods of any kind, sat amiably beside her, ready to chat if the need arose. But the day had been an overwhelming one for Jane. With a melancholy hug she put her mother aboard the commuter back to
Boston
.

After that, Jane returned directly to the Jared Coffin House where she was staying and borrowed a copy of the Yellow Pages. By six o'clock she'd been able to cajole a plumber, an electrician, and even a roofer into meeting with her the following day, Friday. Things were going well; her spirits began to lift.

Jane slept better that night, and by the time the sun finally poked its nose over the horizon, she was putting away a big breakfast at the inn. Her first stop was at the hardware store, where she bought a couple of smoke alarms. Her next stop was at the A&P, tucked hard by the harbor, where she picked up cleaning supplies, food, candies, and an Igloo cooler. After that she bought a pair of overalls and a workshirt, and after
that,
a bottle of
Bermuda
rum. She was ready to take on Lilac Cottage.

By all rights Jane should have been depressed when she saw the cottage in bright morning sun: there seemed to be even less paint and more weeds than she remembered from the day before. But even in its state of forlorn shabbiness, the cottage beckoned to her. Maybe it was the fond memory of her summer there, or maybe it was her natural desire to put things right; whatever the reason, Jane found herself standing in the middle of the mowed-down lawn, hugging herself with anticipation.

It has so much charm, so much potential. It may not be the biggest cottage, but it's in a wonderful location. And it's so sweet. You can tell it wants to be friends. You can just telL

She swung around, searching for the ocean that she knew was out there not far from where she stood. But the house was on low land; there was no water view. It didn't matter. She inhaled a lungful of cold salt air, her chest expanding from the effort.
Now
this
was living
,
she thought, grateful simply to
be
alive.

It was at that exact, precise moment of gratitude that Jane found herself slammed violently in the back, so hard that she went sprawling on the soggy grass in front of her. Shocked and winded, she rolled over on her elbows and found herself staring at the massive head of a dog — or some cross between a dog and a mastodon — that was hovering over her. Drooling.

"Buster!
Dammit, Buster! Come back here!" It was a woman's voice, high and musical and totally without authority.

Jane didn't dare take her eyes off the panting beast, who seemed to be regarding her as he would a smallish partridge. It was only after the woman — pretty, twenty, and dressed in jeans and a bomber's jacket — grabbed the dog's collar with both hands, that Jane allowed herself to sit up. The collar, which looked pretty much like a large man's belt, seemed sturdy enough, but Jane wasn't so sure about the woman. She looked as fragile as stemware.

"He's just a puppy; he won't hurt you," the girl said with an apologetic grin.

"That's what they all say," Jane said with a shaky laugh, wiping the drooly sleeve of her jacket on the grass. She stood up.

"I'm Cissy Hanlin, by the way," the pretty blonde said, not daring to let go of Buster's collar. "I live next door."

Jane introduced herself, and Cissy explained that she'd always wanted a dog but her husband didn't like animals but now they were separated and so the first thing she did was get a dog, a big dog, because she felt safer being so all alone and it was
so
lucky that she discovered Buster, who was a cross — ould Jane tell? — between a black Lab and a Saint Bernard or at least that's what the waitresses who brought him to the shelter before they left the island after summer was over said.

She paused, at last, for breath.

Jane said, "Yep. He looks like a black Saint Bernard."

At this point Buster's tail was wagging furiously, landing with quick hard thumps on the back of Jane's thighs. It did not seem possible that an act of friendliness could inflict so much pain. The interlude ended abruptly when a squirrel — dumber or braver than most — scampered across the lawn not far from them. Buster took off in loping pursuit, his tongue lolling out the side of his mouth, his paws ripping out consecutive mounds of earth.

He crashed through a rhododendron, breaking off several branches, and plowed over an azalea before fetching up at the trunk of one of the huge hollies that blocked Jane's front door. His bark, like the Hound of the Baskervilles', came straight from hell. From somewhere high, high in the holly tree, the squirrel twitted him.

"Silly
puppy," Cissy cried. She turned to Jane with a helpless shrug. "I can't seem to get him to
stay
."

And I can't seem to get you to
go, Jane thought, surveying the damage. She smiled weakly, her thoughts turning to stockade fences, and said, "Maybe it's just a phase."

Cissy rolled her eyes and said, "I
wish.
Well, it's nice that you're going to be around for a little while; I get so bored by myself. If you need help with anything, just shout," she added, and began whistling her dog away from the tree.

Eventually Buster came and dragged Cissy off, and Jane was able to unload the car. Her plan was to spend the next week cleaning, seeing to critical repairs, and talking to realtors (once she'd deodorized the place a bit) about listing the house in spring.

But first things first,
she thought, taking down a jelly jar glass, which she wiped clean with her shirt. She took the rum and the glass into the fireplace room and poured a tot for herself.

Then she lifted the glass to the fireplace, the focal point of the room, and said, "Aunt Sylvia — thank you. I don't deserve this, but I thank you. I'll make this place pretty, and someone with children will live here and love it, and you and I will somehow share in their joy."

She tossed off the glass, and the odd-tasting rum shot through her winter-chilled body like a ball of flame. Her aunt had visited
Bermuda
once, and brought back the rum, and that's the only kind she drank for the rest of her life. (Jane used to smuggle a flask into the nursing home, and the two would sneak a tiny ceremonial drink together before she left for the night.)

The thought that there would be no more smuggling hit Jane hard; she poured another ounce, this time for her aunt, and sipped it as she wandered around the room, pausing to stroke a worn chair cover, taking a moment to scan the titles of the books on their shelves. How sad, she thought, that there were no framed photographs of loved ones anywhere in the room, not even of Sylvia's cats. All Jane saw was a charcoal sketch of a young woman in a plain gown, with a coal-skuttle bonnet lying on the floor beside her. A nineteenth-century Quaker, Jane decided, and an unhappy one at that.

She walked up to the framed sketch, which was hanging in a quiet corner of the room. All in all, it wasn't badly done. Perhaps it was her aunt's work. Sylvia Merchant had enjoyed dabbling with charcoal and pastels, although her subjects had generally come from the garden. Jane looked more closely and saw that she was right: In the corner of the drawing were the initials
SM

Jane took the frame from the wall and walked over to a window with it. There was evidence of erasure, as if her aunt had struggled to capture an exact degree of unhappiness in the young woman's face. And what unhappiness! Her brows were tilted upward and toward one another; tears rolled down her face. Her full mouth was partly opened, as if she were imploring someone, while her hands were curled tightly around one another in obvious distress. As for her long dark gown, it hung a little too closely to her body to be historically correct. Like the curls that ringed her brow, the clinging garment gave the woman a voluptuous air that was at odds with the modest intents of Quaker fashion.

Jane shivered, deeply moved by the subject's distress. The drawing had the immediacy and power of a photograph.
Well done, Aunt Sylvia,
she thought, hanging the sketch back up on its hook.
You should have done figures more often.
She wondered who'd posed for her aunt. An island girl? Or had Sylvia merely copied someone else's work? But no; the sketch had too much emotion in it. Jane looked around the room, half expecting to find a companion sketch, this one of the brute who was causing the Quaker woman such pain. But there was nothing else.

She finished her rum and put the bottle away. There was work to be done — and in the next several hours she found out just how much, when the contractors dropped by one by one with their estimates.

The roofer looked things over, frowned, and said, "Five thousand dollars."

The electrician looked things over, laughed, and said, "Five thousand dollars."

The plumber shook his head and said, "Torch it."

By the end of the day Jane was bloodied but unbowed.
Okay, so the house isn't perfect,
she admitted as she boiled some tea water in a pot that looked as if it had a questionable past. But at least now she had heat — in most of the rooms, anyway; and water — even though it was flowing through lead pipes; and as for the roof, well, it wasn't supposed to rain for a day or two.

But now it was one in the morning; it was time to drag herself back to the Jared Coffin House. She sipped her Earl Grey tea tiredly, eyeing the Empire sofa in the room. Tomorrow she would definitely sleep here. She simply couldn't afford not to. She went around turning off the lights, aware that she hadn't even allowed herself the diversion of going through the boxes and closets. Today it was all Lysol and Tilex; maybe tomorrow she could relax and poke around a bit.

And tomorrow she would pick up a book on interpreting tarot cards before she packed away the deliberate arrangement that had been left sitting on the game table.
That,
she was determined to do.

She was just switching off the red ginger-jar lamp in the fireplace room when she heard the unmuffied roar of the dark green pickup turn in from the road again and race past her house. Buster, next door, heard it too and began woofing maniacally. The pickup had passed in and out at least half a dozen times in the course of the day, setting off the beast each time, and now it was one in the morning and they were both still hard at it.

What's going on?
she wondered, disturbed by the implications.
Short hops, in and out
....
The only other time she'd noticed a travel pattern like that was when she was in college: the guy in the house across the street used to zip in and out all day and night, and eventually he was arrested for dealing drugs.