AT 29 (119 page)

Jimmy had seen it many times. The Dorsett House, three stories with steep steps leading to a columned facade and an ornate heavy front door. It was a bed and breakfast, one of dozens in and around the town. A group of young women came down the steps. Jimmy stepped aside to let them by. Les let go of his hand and stared up at a window on the second floor.

“I wonder what that room is like.”

“It's probably no different than ours at the Jared Coffin house.” He answered, beginning to move on.

Les followed. “Yes, I imagine so.”

Two more days devoted to tanning and swimming then it was near the end of their brief honeymoon. He booked dinner in the elegant Chanticleer dining room in Siasconset. Les brought the camera and Walker Jorgen's map. The early evening sun invited them to lower the top of the Saab. The seven-mile drive, directly across the center of the small island, held little interest, but the approach into Sconset suddenly turned green with century old trees forming a delightful canopy over the roadway. The streets of the hamlet narrowed as they came around the circle, bordered on one side by tennis courts and the other by a post office and general store. Jimmy pointed right.

“That's Low Beach Road to the foot bridge I mentioned.”

Les nodded, following his gesture as he continued left around the circle to Sankaty Road. She referred to the map. “Baxter should be coming up soon.”

They turned right onto Baxter Road just as a jeep full of teenagers roared by. The radio blared loud. Jimmy and Les gave each other a knowing look at the sound of one of Kate's songs, written by Jimmy.

The summer homes appeared just as described by Jorgen, each so-called cottage shingled in weathered gray with crushed seashell driveways occupied by large four wheel drives or shiny luxury cars, more often both. The homes had expanded footprints that suggested large open interiors with walls of glass overlooking the ocean. Jimmy drove slowly as Les took them in.

Within minutes they reached the end where Baxter veered back to intersect with Sankaty Road. Jimmy parked at the side and they got out to look. The Trumbull property circled on Jorgen's map, stood across from them with several signs driven into the lawn:
DANGER! KEEP OUT!
The cliff's edge could be seen, dropping perilously, fifteen feet from the foundation of the house. Jimmy crossed the road for a closer look. He whistled and shook his head. The pounding surf could be heard unseen far below.

“Only three million dollars to shore it up?” Les said, sarcastically, coming to Jimmy's side.

They walked on to the last lot that bordered the shuttered house. It was overgrown with thick bushes bearing yellow/orange beach plums. Most were bent suggesting a hard existence fighting wind and weather off the ocean. Jimmy cleared a path with his feet so they could get to within ten feet of the edge of the cliff. It was a beautiful view out to the blue Atlantic, but the drop was ominous.

“It looks like it could go anytime,” Jimmy said.

Les lifted the camera and snapped off a string of pictures. She lowered the camera and walked closer.” It won't be long before there is no Whitehurst Trust.”

“Nigel should see it before it's too late.”

They stood for a few minutes then turned back to the car. There wasn't much else to see. Les took a dozen more pictures from different angles, including a few capturing the Trumbull property with the ‘Keep Out' signs. Then she opened the car door. Jimmy stood for a moment longer, wondering.

“Anything?” he asked, turning to look at Les who was returning the camera to its case.

“Nothing.” she answered, without raising her eyes from her task.

“What about the Dorsett House back in town?”

She shook her head. “We'll be late for our reservation.”

Over dinner they talked about the Whitehurst Project. Les played with the gold Nantucket basket around her neck, smiling occasionally as Jimmy became more animated and obviously excited about the progress he and Reina were making.

“She's lined up the orchestra. When we get back I'll bring them in to work the arrangements.”

“What about the script?”

“Alice gave me her first draft before we left. I have it in the suitcase, brilliant.”

She took a bite of her food. “Miles is paying for everything?”

“Reluctantly.”

“Why?”

“Ellis and Cindy convinced him to broaden the Blossom Presents catalogue.”

“A Musical?”

“If he didn't cover it Nigel and I would have financed it ourselves.”

“Can I read the script?”

“I thought you didn't believe the Whitehurst story?”

She reached across the table and touched his hand. “You want it to be true.”

“It's odd, Les. That's all.”

“Nathan and Melba? A connection to two people who died a long time ago?”

“You played his songs without even looking at the music.”

She retrieved her hand. “I've decided Nantucket does have a charm all its own.”

The Chanticleer compound included a thick lawn surrounding a gazebo. Jimmy ordered coffee and they carried their cups outside.

“Did Alice follow Melba's story to the letter?”

Jimmy looked up beginning to wonder at her questions. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason.”

“You always have a reason.”

“Look.” She pointed to an opening into the trees bordering the lawn. Jimmy followed with his eyes.

“So?”

“So, I lied.” She got up and took the steps down from the gazebo onto the lawn. He didn't move. “C'mon.” She quickened her pace. He put down his cup and hurried to catch up.

“Lied about what?” He shouted, as she disappeared into the woods. No answer.

She was ten feet into the canopy made nearly dark by the setting sun. He stayed on the path until he spotted her veering right. He left the path and bushwhacked through the growth until he caught her arm.

“What do you mean you lied?”

She went up on her tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek. “This is an old horse trail. I'm sure of it.”

He pulled her close. “You'll ruin your dress.”

“It's all right, Jimmy. Let me find it.”

“Find what?”

“This is the trail they took when they rode out to Sconset together.”

“Who?”

“We both read her story. She wrote about coming here on horseback.”

“Melba?”

“Who do you think?”

“Les…”

“The tree, Jimmy. Remember?”

“Sure. Where Nathan carved their names. It could be anywhere or nowhere. It's getting dark.”

“No! We have to look.” She advanced deeper into the woods. “Look for a big oak. She wrote that it was along the trail.” Suddenly, she looked ahead and broke into a run. “There! There!!”

Jimmy watched, beginning to feel her excitement. Then he hurried to where she stood next to a giant white oak that dwarfed all the other trees in the vicinity. Les had a satisfied look on her face. She took his hand and guided it to the other side of the trunk.

“You look. Tell me if it's there.”

“It's been almost a hundred years.”

It was there two feet above his eyes, barely visible, faded and all but overgrown with bark, but still faintly discernible in outsized letters carved nearly a century earlier.

Nathan

+

Melba

“You've known all along?”

“Since the ferry rounded Brant Point.”

“Why didn't you say something?”

“Because it's impossible. I'm still trying to understand.”

Back at the Jared Coffin House they pulled out Alice's script and Melba Whitehurst's story, reading them side-by-side on the bed. Les made annotations on the script.

“Here, Alice missed an important part.”

“Where?” Jimmy looked over her shoulder. Les pointed from Melba's text. Then she made more notes in the margin of Alice's script. After an hour she was done. Jimmy
took the script and rifled through the pages. There were notes in the margin of every page. Les settled back on her pillow.

“She's got the story, but she missed the soul.”

“Alice won't like you making changes.”

“What did you ask her to do?”

“I told her to take the story and turn it into lyrics for the music.”

“That's all?”

He set the script aside and settled back next to her. “She won a Pulitzer Prize.”

“Alice has never been in love.” Les rolled on top of Jimmy. He wrapped his arms around her body and kissed her lips.

“How did you know that was the trail?”

“When we walked into the dining room. I looked out the window.” Les reached over and picked up Melba's story. She arched her back and placed the document on Jimmy's chest. Then she turned the pages until she found the passage she wanted. She read aloud.

I was the better on horseback, but Nathan valiantly kept up, more concerned for my safe passage through the trees than his own. I saw him falter when we came upon the middling oak near the trail's end. The ocean was near so I took the occasion to drop from my horse and walk. I saw relief in his eyes, but made no remark lest his pride be injured. We tied our horses to the oak and he quickly produced a knife to carve our names into the wood. Perhaps it is still there a short distance from the cliff. The trail is marked by two large stones he left at its edge where the trees give way to the barren space made by the ocean winds
.

“I saw the two stones.” She closed the story and put it to the side. Then she kissed him. They made love long into the night.

I hate to admit that she was right. I didn't capture the truth of Melba Whitehurst's story. Les made me see what I missed; patience, courage, unconquerable spirit and most important, love
.

- Alice Limoges

Jimmy paced. He had a headache and hadn't eaten for twelve hours. Miles McCabe arrived the night before, all business and demanding unknowable answers about the prospects for a successful debut of The Whitehurst Legacy. His stomach was in knots. Who could know how the musical he had poured his heart into for the past year would be received? It was nine in the morning and already he was nervous and tired. The cast meeting was at noon. Jimmy's role was less significant on this day with opening night looming. The performance rested in the hands of the director, actors and orchestra. Timothy Seligman was a fine director. Reina Whitehurst was an equally fine orchestra leader. All he could do is hope as he watched from behind the scenes.

Fortunately, Nigel was a rock of optimism. He gave Jimmy a free hand to arrange his grandfather's music. He endorsed Alice's script and he used his influence with the writer when Les demanded strict adherence to his grandmother's story. Despite her critical director's role in the orchestra pit, Reina wanted to play the demanding violin parts. Jimmy fought her on this. She couldn't do justice to both. Nigel sided with him. Reina's primary responsibility was too important to be scattered with another task.

The cast was comprised of unknowns. None had a boastful pedigree, but Jim Buckman gave no credence to reputation. The voices were all that mattered - that, and the willingness to take direction because the music of Nathan Whitehurst was the cornerstone of his production. It had to be played flawlessly by Reina's musicians and it had to be performed to perfection according to Jim Buckman's arrangements. Every word of Alice Limoge's script would be sung, a daunting requirement involving consummate skill and energy.

Miles worked the phones all morning. There was the publisher of the Sydney Times, the Sunday magazine supplement with nationwide circulation that rivaled similar supplements in New York, London and LA. He was aware of the critic who was sent to cover the opening. He was also aware of Lloyd Gannon Clarke's bitter reviews. He didn't expect to influence the column that would appear the next day, but McCabe was a bundle of nervous energy. He had to try. Maybe the promise of ad revenue would help. He used the same ploy with a dozen other publications across Australia, all with critics scheduled to attend the opening. Then there were calls to Blossom's distributors in the region. The original cast album went on sale right after the first performance. Everything had to be synchronized. Of course, if the show bombed it wouldn't matter.

He took tea with Sister Marie, meeting her for the first time despite their many telephone calls across the Pacific. Jimmy and Nigel begged off, too preoccupied. Jimmy's friendly wife was there. She made Miles think of how much he missed Cindy back in Millburn with their son.

After tea with Sister Marie and Miles McCabe, Les met Reina for dinner at a small restaurant around the corner from the theater. Jimmy was already backstage, struggling with his nerves. Reina needed to talk. She was as nervous as everyone else, but
instead of pacing alone and silent she sought the company of another woman to calm her jitters. Nigel was blithely unworried and, therefore, no help.

Sister Marie held Fanny Holmquist's arm as Nigel opened the door of his Range Rover. The theater was a short ride, but he wanted to be the one to escort her to her seat before things became hectic. Fanny bought the whole row although the seats were intended to be gratis. Since some of the revenue was going to the orphanage, Fanny was glad to pay. A number of Melbourne's most notable citizens would fill the best seats in the house. Lloyd Gannon Clarke also arrived early, the better to secure his customary seat front and center in the balcony.

Les accompanied Reina to the theater entrance. They hugged.

“Break a leg? Is that how the saying goes?”

Reina nodded. “I guess.” Then she hurried inside, leaving Les to find her way backstage to find Jimmy.

Miles waited at the airport. He was in his tux, just inside the terminal, checking his watch every five seconds as a taxi idled outside. Tea with Sister Marie Bonaventuri lingered in his mind. He decided that she was a fine woman. In fact, his equal in many ways, skilled at the machinations of running an enterprise and quite able to quickly discern the character of those she met.