The Body in the Birches (4 page)

“What do you know about the new people at the Lodge?” Faith asked.

“I don't travel in those kind of circles, deah, but I think you can safely trust your boy to the kitchen there. Don't know how long the operation will last, though. Rich couple bought it, the Otises, and they're the owners on record, but they've turned the day-to-day operations over to their son Derek. They have a big pile over in Blue Hill and doubt they'll be around much. The son is a kid, just shy of thirty, been bouncing around from place to place and wants to try inn keeping. Hasn't been in a rush to open. Still finishing getting it staffed, but brought in some big-deal chef from Hawaii. And last spring they upgraded the cabins and put in a fancy rec hall—place for video games, big-screen TV, air hockey, the whole shebang—to keep the kids out of their parents' hair.”

So much for nature walks, Faith thought. “What about this girl Mandy? Should we let Ben drive with her?”

“Mandy's a good kid and smart. Been on the top of the honor roll every year since her family moved to the island. Her mother's
a Sanford, married a guy from potato country she met when she went off island for a taste of freedom.”

“In potato country?” Tom asked, momentarily diverted from his son's issues.

Seth laughed. “No, the two of them were working at a Wendy's in Orono. Think Leilah—that's Mandy's mother—had some idea she might get to be a student at U Maine that way or maybe meet one. Instead she ended up with Dwayne.”

Detecting an undisguised note of disgust in Seth's voice, Faith said, “Why don't you like him?”

“Lazy pissant. Lives off Leilah—she works at Denny's in Ellsworth now, helluva commute—and claims disability from some bullshit accident he supposedly had when he was working at the mill in Bucksport.

“But don't worry. Ben will never see him. Sleeps until noon, then takes a nap. Now, if the tile is a go, I'll get back to work so my employers don't think they're bein' took to the cleaners.”

Driving back to Ursula's, Faith tried to put what she was feeling into words. “I know it's a cliché, but it all goes by so fast. Our kids aren't kids anymore. Well, of course they're kids, but . . .”

Tom reached over for his wife's hand and gave it a squeeze. “But they're trying their wings. At least Ben is. I don't think you have to worry about our Amy jumping out of the nest—at least not this summer.”

Faith nodded. Amy, unlike Ben, had never wanted to go to sleepaway camp; didn't even like a night away until her friends had started having slumber parties, though she was always happy to stay with Tom's parents, Marian and Dick, down in Norwell in the house where Tom had grown up, one of four kids. Dick Fairchild was retired and loath to travel anywhere except into Boston for a Sox game and an unvarying meal at the only place he'd eat—the Union Oyster House (Wellfleet oysters on the half shell, cup of clam chowder, baked scrod, baked potato, and Boston cream pie). Marian, in contrast, had decided to fly the coop. Not permanently,
she'd declared, but she intended to see more of the world than the South Shore of Boston, Cape Cod, Fenway Park, and the Haymarket. Dick had fussed at first, but she was so attentive when she came back from Machu Picchu or other trips, that he had grown to accept her wanderlust.

The Fairchilds were as different from Faith's own family as two families could be. In dog terms, the Fairchilds were bouncy golden retrievers, the Sibleys well-trained borzois. Faith's father, Lawrence, was a man of the cloth, as her grandfather had been. She and her sister, Hope—one year younger—had grown up in that fishbowl known as a parish, although it was quite a nice one on New York's Upper East Side. Both girls had sworn to avoid those waters, no matter the lure of little fairy-tale castles and exotic aquatic plants. They well knew the constant peering in and the rather limited view out. Hope had stayed true to their oath—sailing through an MBA and ever more prestigious jobs carrying the kind of leather cases “When your own initials are enough”—marrying Quentin, whose only collars were buttoned down. Faith had fallen—fallen head over heels—for Tom who was in New York to perform the ceremony for his college roommate's wedding, which Faith was catering. The good reverend had changed his collar before the reception, so Faith hadn't had a clue. When he told her what he did for a living many hours later, it was too late. It had been a
coup de foudre
for them both. She'd tried to hold out in the weeks that followed but had eventually listened to what her heart had been telling her all along. Tom had insisted that times were changing and she would not have to be involved in his “gig,” but could move her catering firm, maintaining an independent career. She'd humored him, poor darling, and prepared herself for what lay ahead, hoping she could at least avoid the Sunday school Christmas pageant for a year or more with its dissonant parental chorus of “Why is my kid a shepherd again!”

Unlike her sister, whose first words after “Daddy” and “Mommy” were “Dow Jones,” Faith took a more circuitous path
to her vocation, also happily her avocation. While it took her family time to understand why their older daughter wanted to labor over a hot stove, once Faith set up her own firm, called Have Faith, after years of study and apprenticeship, it was a different matter. Have Faith—she received the occasional inquiry of a religious nature and, especially in the beginning, some more lascivious—became one of the most sought after caterers in Manhattan. Having the attractive Faith Sibley as a guest at gatherings had been desirable; having her supply delectable food soon became a cachet in the same circles. She knew that once married and living in Aleford, Massachusetts—a place more foreign than most places around the globe for her—she would start up the business again. Someone had to wean those poor people away from boiled dinners and overcooked vegetables. And Have Faith had been just as much a success in Massachusetts as it had been in New York. Last summer, during July and August, she'd left the business in the hands of her assistant and now co-owner, Niki Theodopoulos, who was more than capable of managing things, to be in Maine with her family full-time.

“I just have a funny feeling that this will be the summer I remember as the last one when the kids were even partly kids,” Faith continued. She was feeling wistful.

“I was working when I was fifteen,” Tom said. “And since Ben will be getting a paycheck, he'd better open a savings account up here at the bank in Granville. Maybe we should start charging him rent.”

“Tom!”

“Kidding, sweetheart. Kidding. Not about the bank, though. Do you think Amy is going to be happy at the day camp if Ben is off doing something as glamorous as earning money dishwashing?”

Faith considered it. “She likes babysitting at home, and maybe we can spread the word here for some jobs. How about camp only
three days a week, unless she wants to go more? I don't think Ben's job will be an issue.” The kids had passed through the “She's always messing up my stuff” phase some time ago, although as Faith spoke she also felt a slight misgiving at what adolescence might bring—all those hormones, all that unpredictability.

They were pulling into the long private road that led to Ursula's and the other houses. The trees on either side were casting long shadows, but the thermometer on the dash read that it was ninety-two degrees outside. And there were people who didn't believe in global warming? They also probably still thought the world was flat and the sun revolved around the earth and you could get AIDS from toilet seats and . . .

Sophie slept in. When she'd arrived in the wee hours of the morning, Uncle Paul had been waiting up in the kitchen, drinking tea and reading. She knew that he had always stayed up late reading like this—Aunt Priscilla had often chided him for missing the best part of the day, since he rarely rose before nine, but he'd told her
she
was missing the best part, and they let it go. Perhaps the schedule suited them. Time together, time apart.

He'd apologized that since it was almost a full house, Sophie had the choice of the little room off the kitchen or the bunkhouse, built in the 1950s for the Proctor offspring and friends, which was unoccupied at the moment. She'd happily picked the kitchen room and was starting to tell him about her memories of recuperating there when he'd told her that her eyes were closing and there would be plenty of time in the morning—actually later in the morning.

There must have been sounds of breakfast preparations, but Sophie hadn't heard them. For a number of summers, Bev Boynton, who had worked many years for the McAllisters as the housekeeper in their Weston, Massachusetts, home, had been coming
with them to Maine as well, moving between the two places when they did. She was in the kitchen now hulling strawberries for shortcake.

Sophie popped a particularly juicy-looking berry into her mouth and Bev lightly slapped her hand. “There's a bowl of them for you to have plain or on cereal. Leave these alone. I've already had half the family here snitching them.”

“You're the best,” Sophie said, giving her a quick hug. Bev wasn't much for overt affection, so Sophie wasn't surprised when the woman didn't return it but pushed her slightly away toward the bowl of fruit. Food was Bev's way of communicating.

“So who's here?” Sophie asked as she poured a little cream over the ripe strawberries.

“Your uncle Simon and aunt Deirdre. And your cousins should be arriving soon. Forbes called from Belfast to say they'd stop and have lunch somewhere on the way.”

“Felicity and Forbes!” Sophie was astonished—and dismayed. She'd assumed work and other matters would keep them in Manhattan. Besides, she'd viewed the whole selection process as one involving her mother's generation; Sophie was a placeholder until Babs could get there. There was another member in that age group. “I'm assuming Sylvia is here, or coming.”

Bev nodded. “Got here two days ago. Picked Mrs. McAllister's room.”

Aunt Priscilla had moved into what had been her parents' room—the largest, looking straight out to the lighthouse—in her last years. Uncle Paul stayed in the one that had been theirs. Trust Sylvia to grab the prime spot, Sophie thought. Looking up at Bev's expression she knew the housekeeper was thinking the same thing. Suddenly she desperately wanted her mother to have The Birches. Babs would let everyone else use it, Sophie was sure. But if it went to anyone else, Sophie would be saying good-bye to the spot forever when Uncle Paul died. The whole thing began to feel unbearably distasteful and she didn't even
want to finish her breakfast. She went to get some Saran Wrap to cover the bowl.

“Not hungry?” Bev said.

“You're just very generous. More than I can eat now. I'll finish them later, but thank you. It's so hot! Why don't I make some sun tea and we can have it iced?”

“Already did that, but you could do a big pitcher of lemonade [see
recipe
]. You know how much Mr. McAllister likes it.”

Was she being coached? Reminded of what her uncle liked? Sophie wondered as she went to get sugar to make the syrup for the authentic, old-fashioned version of the drink.

“And all her kids are coming, too,” Bev said. “Sylvia's. The little one, Daisy, came with her. No idea when the other two are turning up. Lord knows where we'll put everyone. Daisy didn't want to sleep in the bunkhouse by herself, so she's in with her mother for now. The bedrooms on the top floor are all set up, but it's hotter than H-E-double-hockey-sticks up there.”

Despite being off the kitchen, Sophie's room had been nice and cool. She'd had no trouble sleeping, although she'd been so tired she could have been in the biblical fiery furnace and slept like a log—well, a biblical log that didn't burn. Uncle Paul hadn't mentioned the rooms upstairs that had been servants' quarters back in the day. She allowed herself a slightly smug inward smile, thinking of Forbes and Felicity up there or in the very rudimentary bunkhouse as she put the sugar syrup into the fridge to cool before adding water and fresh lemon juice.

“I'm going to pick some mint before it gets too hot out. We can leave it in the shade on the counter in a glass of water to put in whatever drinks people want,” Sophie said.

“Pick me some tarragon if you would. I'm making chicken salad and other cold dishes for dinner. It's too scorching for anything else,” Bev said.

Outside the heat
was
a shock. It never got like this in Maine, especially not at The Birches, normally cooled by the winds off
the Reach. Yet there were no winds today; any sailboats out would be motoring to their destinations. Sophie headed quickly for the herbs and crouched down to cut some sprigs of mint. It was taking over the garden the way mint does; she'd have to get out here and weed once the heat broke.

A shadow fell across the patch and she looked up, squinting into the sun.

“You!” she said.

It was the obnoxious man from last night. She'd almost forgotten about the whole episode and now here he was, obviously tracking her down so he could hurl more abuse. “What do you want? I gave you all the information you needed to make a claim on the little bitty dent to your precious car's bumper!”

He appeared to be as astonished as she was, looking from her to the house and back again before saying, “Don't tell me you're one of the relatives, the ones who are going to try to outdo each other in the charm department this month.” He almost spat the words at her.

“Whoa, mister. You haven't told me what
you
are doing in my uncle's yard, and how do you know about this anyway?” Sophie stood up, aware that her position low to the ground was not giving her much of an advantage in what was clearly an argument. She was happy to note she was almost as tall as he was. Taller if she'd been in heels.

“Your
uncle
”—he managed to make the relationship sound dubious—“is my grandmother's brother. The car you damaged belongs to him.”