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CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Thursday, June 15

Low Tide 8:34
P.M.

Moonrise 11:57
P.M.
EDT

We arrived at the reception fashionably late, by reason of a small tussle over a Prius.

“Oh, c’mon,” I’d said. “It’s just right up on Archer Avenue—half a mile at most and a gorgeous night. No reason to drive.”

“If you think I’m walking half a mile in
these
”—Peggy donated one of her more dramatic gestures to the cause, indicating the black lace over pink satin ankle boots with the three-inch spike heels that she wore in complement to the black lace circle dress with the plunging neckline and the short slashed sleeves—“you’re not well-informed. Also? Half a mile home again, downhill—
in these
—after a glass or two of bubbly? You want me to break my neck, Archer?”

“Good God, no! I need you to live until the end of the Season.”

“Or who would ride herd on the midway? You’re a cold woman, but I like you. Now get in the damn’ car.”

I eyed the footwear.

“Can you
drive
in them?”

“I have a certificate—remind me to show it to you sometime. Now, so help me, if you’re not in that car by the count of ten . . .”

It being clearly worth my life to argue with her, I slid into the passenger’s seat and pulled the seat belt into place.

Privately, I thought Peggy was overdressed for an Archers Beach pre-Season reception, though I admired the foresight that had included party clothes in a road warrior’s go-bag.

An analysis of my own closet, conducted prudently on Monday evening, had led to the inescapable conclusion that all I owned were work clothes—which is to say, T-shirts, sweatshirts, denim shirts, jeans—and sneakers. That being the case, I got myself down to Dynamite early Tuesday morning, to see if anything could be done.

Mrs. Kristanos listened no further than, “The reception at Wishes on Thursday—” before sweeping me into the backmost corner, into which no T-shirt, beach towel, or bathing suit was allowed to come, and shoving me into the private changing room.

Very soon thereafter, I became the proud owner of a garnet scoop-necked top that accentuated what I didn’t have much of, a pair of drapey black slacks, square-toed black ankle boots with a chunky, walkable heel, and a high-necked, quasi-Oriental jacket in black-and-garnet brocade.

Mrs. Kristanos even had an answer for the accentuation, producing an item of what she called “firmware.”

“Not that you need to be firmed,” she told me. “You’re too thin as it is. But the push-up is what that shirt needs, so you’ll have this, too, Kate,
and
you’ll wear it. Remember, I’ll be at the reception, too.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, and bought what was good for me.

The entire effect was maybe a little somber for a kickoff party, especially since I’d done my hair in a single braid rather than let it run loose over my shoulders, as per usual—but at least it pleased me. The push-up attended to the correct portions of my anatomy, the garnet shirt felt nice, the jacket sat well on my shoulders, the slacks were silky—even the boots were comfortable.

Comfortable was good. Comfortable and neat was even better.

Peggy guided the Prius down Dube Street, turned right on Grand, drove up to Walnut, made the left, and another at Milliken, just like she’d been living in town for months, instead of three days and change. This route bypassed Fountain Circle, which was a perpetual traffic jam during the Season, and got us to Archer Avenue with no muss, and no fuss.

Two minutes later, she pulled into a parking space behind a pearly Cadillac Escalade, across the street from Wishes, which was lit up like Christmas.

“Wow.”

I got out of the Prius and stared at the cars parked up and down the hill; at the people walking in from the credit union’s parking lot, from around the long curve of St. Margaret’s Church, and up the hill.

“This thing’s gonna be epic,” Peggy said, from beside me.

“Looks like she invited the whole town, and all of Saco, too,” I said.

“Well, let’s go in and show ’em how it’s done,” she said, tucking her hand in the crook of my arm and steering me across the street.

“How what’s done?”

“
It
, didn’t I say?”

“You did,” I agreed.

We crossed the street. Peggy seemed steady enough in her unlikely footwear, but she kept a good, firm hold on my arm, anyway. Which was, I figured, only prudent. Trying to run the midway with a broken ankle would probably be
worse
than trying to run it dead.

“You know what,” I said, eying a tall and very thin woman in a bright red dress walking down the hill with a man in a black turtleneck, brown cords, and a tweedy looking jacket. “I bet she invited her artists.”

“Her what?”

“It’s an art gallery, like I told you—Maine artists only. So, what if she invited all the Maine artists she knows, and told them to bring their friends, too?”

“Then she’s a smart cookie. You will introduce me to this woman. I like cookies. The smarter the better.”

“As she is our host, I will certainly do so immediately,” I said, and added, as we approached the door, and stopped behind the crowd of people seeking entrance before us, “Or as close to immediately as humanly possible.”

“Gotcha.”

We inched our way in from the sidewalk to a space crowded with people.

As I’d expected, there were a great many faces that were unfamiliar to me, but those were balanced by the number I knew intimately: Bob was actually wearing a suit, holding a plastic wineglass and looking like he wanted a smoke. Which he probably did. I introduced him to Peggy as we inched by, and he told her to come on down for a grilled blueberry muffin some morning.

Mr. and Mrs. Kristanos came into view. I straightened, and caught her eye. She pursed her lips, looked me up and down and nodded, once.

“Pass?” Peggy yelled in my ear.

“Looks like it.”

“Well, you oughta. Nice outfit; looks good on you. In case I didn’t say.”

“You didn’t, but I figured if it was out of line you’d let me know.”

“Got quite an idea of my character, don’t you?” she demanded, as I waved at Henry Emerson over a sea of heads.

“Am I wrong?” I asked Peggy.

“Ah, hell, no.”

We wriggled by a knot of people dressed in improbable bright colors, who were clutching plastic wineglasses and little plastic plates on which cheese and crackers and grapes balanced precariously.

Past that impediment to traffic was a wood-clad pillar that I thought I remembered, and beyond that, sure enough, was Joan Anderson, standing behind the counter, and chatting with a cadaverous woman in a black pants suit, her spiky white hair streaked with violet.

“Our hostess is in sight,” I told Peggy, who was still clutching my arm.

“Thank God. Any wine?”

“Social duty first,” I said, even as I wondered how we were going to negotiate the gridlock between us and the counter.

“Ms. Archer!”

That
was a familiar voice, though I hadn’t previously heard it at bellow. I pivoted in place and grabbed Kyle’s arm.

The boy was dressed in a good sports coat over a nice blue oxford shirt, open at the neck—it’s not like it was a funeral, after all.

“Kyle, this is Peggy Marr—Peggy, this is Kyle Roberts.”

“Pleasure,” yelled Kyle.

“Pleased to meet you,” Peggy shouted back.

“Great. Kyle, we’d like to pay our respects to the host. Is there any way you can get us over there?”

He looked over his shoulder, apparently measuring the distance, and calculating his own stamina.

“Sure,” he said, turning back. “Follow me.”

He wasn’t a tall lad, though he was taller than either of us, and wiry, rather than wide. However, he walked as if there was nothing and nobody in his way, and those people who did happen to stand in his path—

Believed him, and stepped back.

I kept as close to him as I could manage, so there was no chance of the path filing in again until we were past. Peggy clutched my arm and pressed herself against my side, which was a little disconcerting, but understandable, given the physics of the thing.

In this manner, we eventually arrived at the counter, and there was Joan Anderson, smiling with what seemed to be genuine delight.

“Kate! How wonderful that you could come! Who’s your friend?”

“Joan, this is Peggy Marr, midway manager. Peggy, this is Joan Anderson, owner of Wishes Gallery, and our host for this evening.”

“I’m very pleased to meet you,” Peggy said, and looked around her appreciatively. “You sure know how to throw a party!”

Joan laughed. “If I’d known it was going to be this successful, I’d have gotten a permit from the town to close off Archer Avenue for a street party!”

“I thought part of the idea was to show off the gallery and the art,” I said.

“It was, but who can see either in this zoo? If we’d set up outside, then people could have come inside in reasonable numbers and looked around.” She laughed again. “Lessons learned for next year. But, ladies! Neither one of you has a glass! This cannot be allowed to stand. Where’s—Kyle?”

He was still with us, standing off to one side, maybe a victim of gridlock, now, himself.

“These ladies need wine and something to eat. Could you possibly guide them to the buffet?”

“Sure thing,” he said cheerfully, and bestowed an impartial grin on Peggy and myself. “Anytime you’re ready.”

“They are ready now!” Joan Anderson declared, which was a clear and present dismissal.

I nodded to Kyle.

“Lead on, Macduff.”

Half an hour later, wineglass in hand, I slid through the edges of the crowd. Peggy had at long last let go of my arm and was adrift elsewhere in the sea of people. I had seen Marilyn Michaud, Jess Robald, Michelle of the Garden Cafe, Anna and Tony, Tom Violette, Ahzan Dhar, Maria Belleville, and Henry again, with Janice Wing in close attendance.

Chamber President Dan Poirier had taken over one of the rare corners and was talking to a half-circle of admirers. I even thought I caught a glimpse of the town manager, and was duly impressed.

It was, I thought, a good thing that Gran had opted out. I was beginning to feel the strain and I wasn’t an elderly dryad who had stressed her system with a long absence from her tree.

In fact, I was starting to think about heading home. I’m not a big fan of large, confined crowds. First, though, I’d have to find Peggy and let her know that I was leaving, so she wouldn’t spend time looking for me when she was ready to go.

Among those things I wasn’t used to, was going places with a date.

I turned slightly in place, trying to remember the last place I’d seen Peggy—

“Hey there, doll. How come you ain’t down at the club, dancing the night away?”

I turned back, looking up into a recently familiar face.

“Hi, Daddy. How come you’re not tending bar?”

“Joanie’d kill me dead if I didn’t come to her party after she sent me an invite,” he said. “’Sides, what’d I be doin’ for business?”

“She didn’t invite
everybody
in town, did she?” I asked, only half-serious, considering the crowd.

“Sure looks like she did,” Daddy answered, echoing my thought. He hefted the bottle he was holding and had a swallow of beer.

Daddy cleaned up nice, the gray silk sports jacket over black turtleneck, and black jeans looked just fine for the event.

“Known Joanie long?” he asked me.

“Just met her. I got curious about what was going in, so I came in and introduced myself.”

He nodded. “Me and Joanie go all the way back to elementary school,” he said, and had another swig of beer. “Glad she’s back. Hell, glad
I’m
back.”

“I’m glad you’re both back,” I said, surprising myself with the sincerity of that sentiment—and Daddy, too, if I read the look he gave me right.

“No place like home, right, doll?” Another swig of beer, which apparently emptied the bottle, because he sighed and looked over his shoulder toward the place where the bar was set up. “Good to see you again,” he said. “Come by the club sometime when you’re off the clock. Bring a friend.”

“I’ll do that.”

“Sure you will,” he said, and with a grin and a nod, he pushed off into the crowd.

“See you,” I said to his retreating back. He didn’t, I thought, think I’d show up at his club. Might be nice to surprise him. I could bring Peggy with me and surprise all of us.

Speaking of Peggy . . .

I straightened up as tall as I go, resumed my interrupted pivot—

And damn’ near ran my nose into the golden clipper ship holding Joe Nemeier’s tie in place against his bright white shirt.

“Well, Ms. Archer, isn’t this a pleasant and unexpected delight!”

I went back two hasty steps—pure instinct, clearing enough room to bring my blade out, if it came to that—and looked up into his face.

Not a bad-looking man, Joe Nemeier, in an overgroomed, big-city sort of way. His nose was a little too short, and his face a little too narrow, but it was smooth and expensively tanned, like a face you might buy, mail-order, out of a models’ magazine.