A Month at the Shore (8 page)

"Mr. Kendall Barclay, our friendly local banker," said Laura dryly.

"Here because?"

"He wants Corinne to show up on Wednesday at the bank to make her case."

"For?"

"Being allowed to continue losing money hand over fist."

"Ah. Damn, this stuff is good," he said, shoveling away. "So. Little Kenny holds our fate by the purse strings. No surprise there, I guess. The man owns the only bank in town."

"Excuse me, but he inherited that bank; it's not as if he earned that bank," Laura said, sniffing. "And| incidentally, little Kenny is not so little anymore," she had to admit. "He's all grown-up and looking
... not that bad."

She was still in a state of
disbelief at just how not-that-
bad he looked. Or, for that matter, at how bad
she
looked.

Ah, screw it,
she thought. She was in Chepaquit. Things always went bad in Chepaquit.

She got a spoon out of the drawer and dipped it alongside Snack's dug-out trench. He smacked the back of her hand lightly with his spoon and said, "Hey. Stay on your side."

"Sez you."

It was like old times. Laura and Corinne had always had to fight for their fair share of the casserole; Snack's boundless appetite, coupled with his baby-of-the-family status, guaranteed that he got dibs on any available seconds.

Laura butted him in the hip good-naturedly and said, "We'd better save some for Corinne. I'm sure Miss Widdich made it for her, not us."

"Whoa! This is
Witchy's
food?" Snack asked, bug-eyed.

"You bet."

Snack suddenly choked and gagged melodramatically, dropping his spoon to the floor and clutching his throat. He let his tongue hang out and his eyes roll back as he staggered around the kitchen, gasping for air, all to Laura's amusement.

Corinne walked in and took in the scene. "Now what?" she asked, grinning in response to her sister's laughter. "Has Snack bit off more than he can chew again?"

Her brother pointed to the casserole and gasped, "Bell
... belladonna. I'd
... know it
... anywhere." And then he did a complete circle, stiffened, and fell to the worn linoleum floor.

Laura applauded his inspired performance, but by then the grin had faded from Corinne's face. "Miss Widdich made that for us?" she asked, putting two and two together. In a stern tone, she said, "Get up, Snack. That is not funny."

Snack continued to lie dead.

"At least get your poisons straight. Monkshood might have you flat on the flo
or, or oleander, maybe. Or dog-
button. Belladonna would take longer, you fool."

Snack opened his eyes and looked at Laura. "Since when is she an expert?"

"She works in a nursery," Laura said quickly.

"So did I. So did you. Knowing the names is one thing; knowing the symptoms, that sounds like 'Double, double toil and trouble' stuff to
me."

Corinne's face went beet-red. "Don't be such a jerk! Get off the floor and either eat or go to work. You can relieve me down at the shop; the new girl doesn't have a clue how to handle a register."

It was such an uncharacteristic, Laura-like response to Snack's behavior that he was actually chastened. "Hey, Rin," he said softly, looking up at her, "I was only kidding. Remember? I'm the one who likes to tease? Sorry."

"Well
... some things just aren't funny," she said, barely mollified.

It occurred to Laura that this was the first real instance of their working together without their father giving the orders. They were like orphaned wolf pups, playful and snarling by turns, clearly not ready to work seamlessly toward a common goal.

But they had to try. "How're you coming on the tractor?" she asked Snack as he got to his feet.

"No sweat. I've changed the oil and the filter, and next thing, I'll go into town for a new thermostat. We'll be up and running this afternoon."

Corinne said, "Oh, you're going to town? Would you mind doing a delivery for us? I just took an order. Mrs. Atkins is out of the hospital and—"

"Mrs. Atkins!" Snack said. "She's still alive?"

"Ninety-seven years old and going strong—more or less," said Corinne. "She still asks about you and wants to know when you're going to settle down and get a steady job mowing lawns."

"Well, there won't be a tip in this one for me, that's for damn sure," Snack said with a snort. "What happened to Billy? Last time we talked, he was still doing deliveries for you."

Corinne shook her head. "I had to let him go. I just couldn't afford to pay him, even by the job."

"Geez. After all these years."

Sighing, Corinne shook her head and added, "I really feel bad about that. Who else is going to give him work? A lot of people are uncomfortable around him. Because he's so big," she added softly. Her cheeks colored, and Laura knew why.

So did Snack. He said quickly, "Yeah, well, the best thing about Billy is he didn't give a damn if you tipped him or not. Say thank you, and his face would light right up. I can picture that broad, dopey grin right now. Poor dumb bastard. So how is he? Has he found anyone to feed him besides his mother?"

"I don't think he's seeing anyone, if that's what you mean. But who knows? Billy's not much for small talk."

Again it felt as if they were talking about Corinne instead of Billy. Snack shrugged and went over to the fridge, holding open the door while he searched inside. "We're out of beer already? I'll pick some up on my rounds. You running a tab somewhere, Rin?"

"Not anymore. I'll give you my Visa, but..."

"Yeah, yeah, I know," he said, obviously embarrassed. "Don't go crazy with it."

Laura interjected herself between Snack and Corinne's credit card. "This trip's on me," she said. "I'll get my purse."

She took the stairs two at a time so that she could get back down to the kitchen before Corinne could reach her plastic. The purse was on a chair in her bedroom; Laura fumbled with it in her hurry, dropping it to the floor. The wallet fell open; she must have forgotten to snap the closure tab shut. She reached inside for a bunch of twenties—and realized that she had barely a hundred dollars left.

No, that couldn't be right. She had only taken cash enough for a weekend, but
... that
couldn't
be right. Besides a slew of credit cards, she had closer to two hundred dollars in cash in her wallet, she felt absolutely sure. Reasonably sure.

Snack?
Was it possible? The unsnapped tab
... and the wallet hadn't been tucked in the deepest part of the bag where she liked to keep it.

And Snack had a history of "borrowing" from her before, when they were growing up, although she'd rarely been able to prove it.

She had money. Snack didn't. That would be rationale enough for him.

Hell. Now what? Confront him during their first day on the mission? What would be the point? He'd just deny it again. And Corinne would be devastated: the whole insane scheme of hers would blow up, practically immediately, in her face. They would all go their separate ways again, and who knew what would bring them back together?

No, the money was gone, and that was that. For the rest of the month, Laura would hide whatever she took out of an ATM, and Snack could just—

Hell.
She grabbed the last of the cash and ran down the stairs with it, determined, if only for Corinne's sake, not to destroy whatever tenuous relationship she had with their brother. It would take more than sixty or eighty dollars to do that.

At the foot of the stairs Snack was waiting, a look of impatience on his face. "We're burnin' daylight, big sister," he said, plucking the bills from her hand.

Without another word—certainly without any appearance of guilt—he was gone. If he was a liar and a thief, he was a damn good one.

With a sigh of disappointment, Laura made herself turn back to the business at hand. She caught up with Corinne on the back porch, where she was lacing up her heavy work boots.

"Rin, come down with me to the greenhouse a minute,"
Laura said, slipping into her own more fashionable leather clogs, already ruined. "We need to talk."

"Sure. You're going with me on Wednesday to see Ken Barclay, right? Because I'll get absolutely tongue-tied when we start talking business and money."

Laura said grimly, "Wild horses couldn't keep me. But I really don't think you ha
ve to worry about being tongue-
tied. You looked perfectly fluent when I came on you two together just now."

She gave Corinne a sideways glance and added, "Is there something going on here that I should know about?"

"Oh, please. You're asking me if I have a thing for Kendall
Barclay
?" Corinne said without looking up from her laces. "What would someone like him possibly see in me?"

"Putting aside that impressiv
e display of self-
confidence," Laura said dryly, "that's not exactly a 'no.' "

"No." She looked up at Laura. "No, no, no." Smiling, she added, "No."

It was the answer that Laura wanted to hear. She couldn't bear to see Corinne setting her sights for him and then getting crushed the way she herself had been.

"It's just that you seemed so animated when you were talking to him," Laura couldn't resist adding, she wasn't sure why.

"Of course I was animated. I was talking about my plans for the nursery." Corinne threw out her arms, the mortgaged mistress of all they viewed. "When else have you ever seen me excited?"

"Mm. I suppose that brings me to my next question," Laura said, falling in alongside her sister as they headed for the greenhouse. "Are you seeing anyone? I realize that I'd know if it were serious, but—anyone at all?"

Corinne shook her head. "How could I? When would I?
Where
would I? This is it for me.
Shore
Gardens
."

Laura glanced at her sister's face with its sun-darkened skin scattered over with freckles, and she saw purpose and contentment there. Maybe
Corinne was one of those self-
sufficient women who didn't need someone else to round her out.

Maybe none of them did. After all, here they were, all in their thirties, and none of them was married or engaged or even seeing anyone. Or even looking.

"Shore Gardens, hey? You think it's better than sex?" Laura asked, only half joking.

Corinne said with a surprisingly evil smile, "I guess you'll find out."

Laura laughed, but she couldn't shake the feeling that she and her siblings were fated to singlehood. She vividly remembered one day at quitting time, watching Sylvia brush her long black hair before heading off on a date. Laura had asked her whether she ever planned to get married.

Sylvia seemed to know where the question was going, because she had smiled and said cryptically, "If you're afraid of being lonely, don't ever get married."

It was years before Laura understood what she meant, and now that she and Max were no longer a couple, the words seemed downright comforting.

A fresh breeze whipped Laura's hair across her face. For the hundredth time, she readjusted her barrettes to hold back the sides; but it was as pointless as trying to hold back the tides.

"Buy a hat," Corinne suggested. "It'll keep your hair in place. You'll need a hat to go sailing, anyway."

"Oh? On whose boat?"

"I don't know," Corinne confessed. "But you're on the
Cape
. It's what people do. The water's still cold, but the weather's been great. You should have some fun while you're here."

"On whose boat?"

"Details!" Corinne said, laughing.

They were at the greenhouse. Laura said, "We'd better start to go over the books tonight after work. So I have at least
some
idea of what's going on here before we show up in Kendall Barclay's office."

Corinne sighed and said, "After work? Yeah, right. We're not kids anymore, Laur. You work outside all day, you will be wiped. I usually am, which is why I haven't done a thing about the quarterly taxes," she confessed. "I assume the IRS will tell me what it wants me to do. We haven't made any money, anyway," she added with a downcast shrug.

"Not today's problem," Laura assured her. "The greenhouse and the compost pile are today's problem. You're right; they're both in terrible locations. I'm with you on this one. We should bulldoze the one and relocate the other."

"Yes, but Snack—"

"Snack doesn't want any more work on his list, that's all," Laura said, dismissing her brother's objections.

The sisters stepped inside the greenhouse. It was an absolutely glorious day in May, a warm and sunny knock on summer's door, but the temperature inside was no different than the temperature outside—not much justification for keeping a greenhouse. To repair all of the broken and missing leaded-glass panes was unfeasible; only a millionaire restoration hobbyist would have the money and the zeal to do that.