The Penderwicks at Point Mouette (3 page)

It was in her back pocket now, which Skye patted, trying to reassure herself that she really had gathered all the information she needed to keep Batty alive and undamaged for two weeks. The reassurance didn’t come.

“We’re doomed,” she said.

“No, we’re not,” said Jane. “Batty and I have complete faith in you, don’t we, Batty?”

“I guess so.” Batty snuffled and wiped her nose.

To Skye, the sound of that snuffle heralded disaster. It meant that Batty was crying about something, probably Rosalind. And since neither Skye nor Jane was good at stopping Batty’s crying once it started, they were in for a painfully tearful drive to Maine. But then—oh, miracle—Batty sneezed! She wasn’t crying but only truly snuffling. Maybe it was a sign, thought
Skye, that they weren’t doomed after all. Onward, then. She told the others that it was time for the final countdown to departure, and that they should go to their rooms and make sure they hadn’t forgotten anything. Skye herself went through the packed car, stuffed to its limit with suitcases, boxes of books, Batty’s life jacket, Hound’s food and water bowls, several soccer balls, and Skye’s own personal necessities—a pair of binoculars and
Death by Black Hole
, a book that explained certain fascinating aspects of the universe. Then she went inside to the kitchen, where Aunt Claire was making lunch for the trip. Asimov was there, too, glaring balefully into his full-to-the-brim food bowl. He did this often, in the hope that someone would take pity and give him a piece of cheese.

“I’ve been the OAP for ten minutes now, and Batty is still fine,” said Skye.

“Congratulations.” Aunt Claire was wrapping up peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches. “Don’t give that cat any more cheese. I’ve given him two pieces already.”

Insulted, Asimov began to knock the food out of his bowl, one piece at a time.

“You still think I’ll be able to handle this responsibility?”

“Yes, Skye, I do. Besides, you keep forgetting that you won’t be doing it all alone. Jane and I will be there, too.”

“I know.” Skye got a piece of cheese out of the refrigerator
for Asimov. She couldn’t help it. She was going to miss him. “I checked the car. I think everything’s packed.”

“Everything but this food and us. Are you ready to go?”

Skye gave Asimov one last rub on the head. “As ready as I’ll ever be. I’ll get the others.”

Their destination in Maine was Point Mouette, a tiny slip of a peninsula jutting into the Atlantic Ocean. To get there, they had to drive across Massachusetts, cut through a corner of New Hampshire, and wander more than a hundred miles up the coast of Maine. It was too long a drive for people not to get weary and cranky. Added to that were a few incidents that tried everyone’s patience, like when Hound fell in love with a poodle named Penelope at a rest stop and refused to leave until he was given half a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich, and when Batty suddenly decided she’d left Funty, the blue elephant, at home and was so upset that Aunt Claire pulled over to the side of the highway to allow a full-out search for Funty, who was found hiding in a box with a soccer ball and a large inflatable duck. But before anyone actually murdered anyone else, Skye spotted the sign that said
TO POINT MOUETTE
, and they were turning off the state highway and onto the peninsula. Now they had only a few miles left to go, and all of it downhill.

Weariness and crankiness flew away as they gazed
avidly around, trying to drink in everything at once. Tall trees crowded the sides of the road, except where brightly painted houses sat in clearings of well-tended grass, and where—even better—the trees parted briefly for quick glimpses of the glistening ocean below them. Although everyone wanted to stop and explore each new sight, especially the rambling wooden Moose Market with a colossal stone bull moose out front, his dignity not at all impaired by the
FRESH PIES
sign hanging off his antlers, they wanted even more to rush on, eager to see where they’d be living for the next two weeks.

So on they went, until they came to the road that skirted the end of the peninsula. This was called Ocean Boulevard, a fancy name for a narrow road only a few miles long. Most of it was off to the left, but Aunt Claire turned right and a minute later pulled into the last driveway, just before Ocean Boulevard dead-ended at a pinewood. The driveway was short and narrow, with barely enough room for the car, and in front of it was their house.

“It’s called Birches,” said Aunt Claire. “I hope you like it.”

Birches was tiny—not much bigger than a garage—and looked even smaller, nestled as it was next to a half dozen of the tall white-barked trees for which it was named. The girls had been prepared for its lack of size, but not for how charming it was, like a
dollhouse, with gray clapboards, red shutters, and window boxes full of bright pansies. And it had a screened porch that the girls had already heard all about, where Skye and Jane would sleep.

“It’s great, Aunt Claire,” said Skye. “Thank you.”

“I’ve always wanted to sleep on a porch,” added Jane. “I will be one with nature.”

“How about you, Batty?” asked Aunt Claire. “Do you like our little house?”

But Batty was busy rolling down the window to give Hound a breath of fresh air, and all at once the car was filled with the wild scent of salt, seaweed, marsh grass, and a breeze that had been around the world a thousand times, and the sisters were gripped by ocean fever. So when Aunt Claire said that she was going to explore Birches, and did they want to come with her, they all said no, thank you, because they had to get to the water as quickly as possible.

There was a delay as Skye and Jane maneuvered a protesting Batty into the orange life jacket, buckled it the wrong way, then had to do it over again, but before too long the sisters and Hound were following a flagstone path to the tiny green lawn behind Birches. And there was the ocean, sparkling blue and spread out before them in its vast glory, and above the ocean and vying with it for splendor was the summer sky, just as blue and filled with great heaps of white clouds. When the sisters had looked at all that, which
took a long time, they could pay attention to what was on the water—small boats, some moored and some in full sail, and farther out a cluster of islands, most of them just big enough for a clump of trees and a house or two.

Skye hadn’t forgotten Rosalind’s warnings about seawalls. Indeed, at the edge of the lawn was a low wall, built from rock and wide enough to sit on. Nothing frightening there, except when Skye peered over it, she saw a six-foot drop to a jumble of ominous gray boulders, certain to smash any Penderwick who fell. She mentioned this several times to Batty, until Batty broke away to race Hound around the lawn and up to the deck—Birches had a wooden deck, perfect for picnic dinners—and back down to the lawn, but neither of them jumped onto the wall, for which Skye was grateful. Meanwhile, Jane had discovered steps at one edge of the yard, and she called the others over. Aunt Claire had told them there was a beach, and here it was.

Down the steps they ran. At first look, it wasn’t much of a beach, just a narrow strip of sand that ran along the seawall for about forty feet. Skye knew about tides, though, and could tell that the tide was high. When it went out again, the beach would be a decent size, with plenty of room for soccer and anything else three girls and a dog could come up with. And no matter how small the beach was at high tide,
they could still take off their shoes and wade into the shallow wavelets. The water was so cold that Batty screeched and Hound barked, but that made it all the more exhilarating, and just what everyone wanted after those long hours in the car.

Skye not only wet her feet, she splashed the cold water onto her face, reveling in the salty smell. She liked this place—and they had it almost all to themselves. Off to the right, the pinewood marched down to the rocks—they would have no company from that side. In the other direction, Skye could see a red house, half hidden by the birches, with its own set of steps leading down to the beach. Maybe the people who lived there would be quiet beach haters. That would be nice.

When the cold drove them out of the water, Jane made an announcement. “Batty and I have a speech for you, Skye. I tried to write it as a poem, but the only thing I could rhyme with
OAP
was
therapy
, and I didn’t think that was the right way to go.”

“Thank you.” Jane’s speeches could be overwrought enough without the added burden of poetry.

“You’re welcome. Batty, begin the Skye speech.”

Batty folded her hands over her orange life jacket. “Skye, we know you don’t want to be the OAP, and we know you won’t be good at—”

“No, no,” interrupted Jane. “We know you don’t
think
you’ll be good at it.”

“Oh, sorry. But we know … but we know … I forget, Jane.”

“But we know in our hearts, Skye, that you’ll be great, and we pledge to act with honor and restraint while in Maine, so that you’ll have nothing to concern you.”

Skye applauded, hoping that was the end, but Jane went on.

“Sundered from many of our loved ones—including Jeffrey, who would have been here if not for Mrs. T-D and her despicable Dexter—we’re desolate in our hearts and souls. But Rosalind is connected to us by this ocean, which also brushes the fair shores of New Jersey.” Jane picked up a tiny shell and tossed it into the ocean. “Maybe this shell will get washed to Ocean City and Rosalind will pick it up and know it came from us.”

Batty enthusiastically threw in several more shells for Rosalind, and then a clump of seaweed that Hound retrieved, a new kind of treasure for him. But Jane still wasn’t done.

“And we have not forgotten our father or Iantha or our little brother, Ben. Now everyone face this way.” Jane and Batty turned to the ocean and pointed to the horizon. “Doubt not, there is England in the utter east—Skye, you’re supposed to point, too.”

“Except that you’re pointing to the utter southeast. Maybe to Africa, but definitely not England.”

“Now?”

“Better.”

“Doubt not, there is England in the utter east, across the vast and lonely sea—oh, look at the seagulls!” Jane pointed in a new direction, more toward Iceland this time.

Her sisters pointed with her at the three seagulls bobbing on the water just yards away. The seagulls looked back at the sisters—and at Hound—and for one pleasant moment all was serene communion among species. But then the serenity was wrecked by a yelping streak of black and white that came out of nowhere to fly past the girls and into the ocean and after the birds.

Chaos erupted. Hound launched into a barking frenzy, Jane lunged at him to grab his collar, Batty wailed about the birds, and Skye, who had identified the streak of black and white as a small dog who didn’t seem to be much of a swimmer, plunged into the ocean on a rescue mission.

Now it was a girl chasing a dog who was chasing seagulls. The seagulls soon wearied of that game, however, and took to the air. Skye called to the dog, hoping he’d have the sense to turn back, but no, his frantic doggy paddle was still taking him away from the shore. Her only chance was to cut him off, so onward she raced until, just as she caught up, the sand dropped out beneath her and suddenly Skye was up to her waist in very cold water.

This wasn’t pleasant, and some people might have
let the dog work out his own fate at that point. Skye wasn’t given the chance to decide whether she was one of those people, because the dog now changed direction and plowed right into her, trusting her to catch him. Which she did, though it’s not easy to catch a thrashing dog when you’re waist-deep in icy water, even if he’s barely past puppyhood and weighs only fifteen pounds. And it’s even harder to keep hold of him when he thinks it’s all a terrific game and keeps twisting and squirming and the whole time licking your face with a pink tongue that seems much too large for such a small dog. And especially when your younger sisters, for whom you’re supposed to be presenting a figure of calm authority, are screaming at you about birds and dogs and drowning and heaven knows what else, and your own dog hasn’t stopped barking for even a second.

When Skye managed to get her face away from the bug-eyed, squishy-nosed, madly licking dog, she could see that a bearded man had joined her sisters on the beach. Where had he come from, and was he shouting “Hoover”? They’re all nuts, thought Skye, and wished like anything that Rosalind were in Maine instead of New Jersey. She took a few wobbly steps and tossed the wretched dog as far as she could toward the shallower water.

And in doing so lost her balance and collapsed, freezing and furious, into the sea.

When she managed to get her face out of the water and the water out of her mouth, she shouted, “Did I kill him?”

The answer came back from several people. “No, he’s okay!”

“Too bad,” muttered Skye, then started the long slosh back to the beach.

J
ANE WAS DELIGHTED
with the sleeping porch. It wrapped around one corner of the house, L-shaped, with bamboo shades you could roll down to cover the screens for privacy and one more extra-large shade to separate the two legs of the L. Skye had claimed the longer leg with two cots in it, as was her right as the OAP. Jane didn’t mind. Her shorter leg, with enough space only for a cot and a squat green cupboard, was the perfect place to be a writer—spartan, yet when the shades were up also romantic and inspiring, like sleeping outside without mosquitoes. She tested the cot—it was sturdy and made up with white cotton blankets, quite different from her bed at home. A different bed can bring you different dreams, she thought.