Twillyweed (14 page)

“She's Mr. Piet's daughter,” Paige whispered. “She doesn't live here, though. She lives in town, over Gallagher's.”

“What was she doing in the water at all?” I asked.

“She was out fishing,” Jenny Rose answered. “She couldn't start the engine and she was drifting.”

“She probably didn't want to get her cell phone wet,” Paige said, shrugging, “and left it ashore.”

“It was just that wee tub of a boat,” Morgan said. “She's very lucky you happened along.”

“I told her never to take that blasted cat ketch.” Oliver scowled. “And that's another thing. Now I've got to replace it.”

Morgan's face clouded. “I'm surprised Mr. Piet let that boat fall into such disrepair. It's not like him.”

Jenny Rose went on excitedly, “There was hardly a moon. She cast the anchor over the side and to her dismay it came undone! Everything that could go wrong did.”

Bemused, Morgan shook his head. “I don't know what she was thinking. She's a better sailor than that.” He looked at Oliver. “And I tied that anchor on myself.”

Paige said hurriedly, “You know what it's like around the point. The current's dreadful.”

“But surely another fisherman would have seen her?” I asked.

“She said they'd all gone out for blues,” said Morgan. “She panicked. She probably thought she was in so close she could make it.”

I got the oddest feeling they were covering up for her.

“Thank goodness you're a marvelous swimmer,” Morgan said, smiling, to Jenny Rose.

“I've no form at all. I never won a badge at school. I guess I'm strong for my size, though.” She sat back, glowing. “It's just luck, really.”

The birch in the fireplace crackled. No one spoke.

“I still can't believe it!” I marveled and turned, overwhelmed, to Jenny Rose, “To think we might have lost you!”

Paige swept across the room and reached for Jenny Rose. “A terrific beginning!” She gave her an awkward, standoffish hug.

“Let's not get soppy, now. Children present.” Jenny Rose stuck out both arms like a traffic guard, but you could see she was pleased.

“Radiance was actually rather cross when she came to,” Jenny Rose murmured thoughtfully.

Oliver, outraged at this, cried, “To you of all people! After all you've done for her! You'd think she'd be grateful! But that's just like her, isn't it.”

“No, it doesn't surprise me either.” Paige stood, smoothing the seat of her skirt. She opened a can of spicy raw pistachios and handed them around, laughing pleasantly. “Radiance has a chip on her shoulder when it comes to women.”

Oliver grabbed for a fistful of nuts and bulleted them into his mouth one by one.

“God, these are spicy.” Paige fanned her face.

“Jenny Rose,” I said, sitting forward, “it looks like I'll be living here in Sea Cliff for a while!”

“What, here? Really? That's great. How did this happen?”

“To tell you the truth I just fell into it,” I said, and Morgan and I laughed.

“Yes”—Paige rested a light hand on Morgan's shoulder—“how
did
you two meet?”

Morgan turned to Jenny Rose, explaining, “Your aunt is going to help me sort out my mother's house.”

Jenny Rose said, “Oh! By the way, the air in the rear of the school bus where Wendell sits is absolutely unbreathable! The driver refuses to crack open a window and so Wendell and I shall be walking or biking to school until the situation is remedied.” She summed up her speech with a flourish and knelt beside the boy, holding on to his waist and glaring at us as though daring any one of us to argue with her. There was something ferocious about Jenny Rose with which you wouldn't like to mess.

Worriedly, Paige spoke first. “But, Jenny Rose, the weather's still dreadful!”

“Bad weather never hurt a soul,” Jenny Rose answered her staunchly. “Does one good to walk to and fro. Makes you strong.” She gave her chest a gorilla thump with a fist. “Robust! And I'm teaching him poetry along the way. You say a thing, he rhymes back, don't you, Wendell! A regular bard he is. I've never known a child to be such a quick learner.”

“He might have that Asperger's syndrome,” Paige said as though he weren't even there. Her eyes lit up. “Or he could be an autistic savant! Those children have remarkable memories.”

Oliver said out of the corner of his mouth, “I'm still astonished she got him to say anything at all!”

Mortified with incomprehension, Wendell put his face down into Jenny Rose's lap.

Jenny Rose tousled with the boy. “No, wait. Give a listen. Wendell, stand straight. Come on, stop that. Show them how brave you are.”

His neck mottling a prompt red, Wendell let himself be jimmied into a head-lowered, pigeon-toed stance. Jenny Rose pushed him softly away from herself, saying, “Go on then, Wendell, recite that nice limerick.”

His scrawny arms plastered to his sides and his eyes shut tight, he recited:

“There once was a man from Turgass

“His balls they were made of pure brass

“When he shook them together

“They played Stormy Weather

“And lightning shot out of his ass.”

There harked a baffled pause when all one could hear was the grandmother clock's loud ticking from the next room. Then Oliver Cupsand whooped and threw back his handsome head in a burst of laughter. Paige moved the cut-glass ashtrays and candy dishes around the coffee table uncomfortably and in a schoolmarmish tone, she declared, “My! That's not exactly what we're used to hearing in this country!”

Jenny Rose, who'd turned whiter still, flustered, “Er, that wasn't the one that I meant, Wendell. However, you do have a brilliant little memory there. We'll just find a different one for you next time, all right? The one about the pale plum-colored vest would do nicely.” It was that Glinty! She'd kill him!

Still grinning, Oliver shimmied jauntily. “So! You've turned our little Wendell into a poet, have you? Well done! No one could get a word out of him since”—he grappled for the words, then settled on—“for the longest time! I guess there'll be no arguing with the likes of you!”

I glanced at Morgan. His eyes were brimming with held-in tears of mirth he'd disguised with a cough.

“Are you always getting into hot water?” Oliver asked Jenny Rose pleasantly.

“Yes, I am,” she answered, just as pleasantly.

“Hmm,” he said, turning to me. “Good thing you'll be staying nearby.”

“You're not at the cottage now, though, are you?” Paige asked me. “It's too grim.”

“Actually, Mrs. Dellaverna, the Italian lady next door, has invited me to stay for the night.”

“
Lina
Dellaverna?” they gasped in unison.

“You're joking,” Oliver said. “She hardly speaks to anyone!”

“Well, it's just for the one night. She made that pretty clear.”

Morgan said, “I'm glad she's invited you. This way you won't have to drive back to … Queens, is it?”

“Yes, Queens.”

“Really? Queens.” Paige turned to me. “How charming.” She smiled pleasantly. “Our people are from right here on the North Shore, of course.”

“She means we don't associate with anyone south of 25A,” Oliver scoffed. “And we rarely leave Sea Cliff at all nowadays if not by boat.”

“How lucky for you,” I said.

“That Lina Dellaverna, she's so stingy,” Paige whispered in a gossipy tone, “she even keeps the money she charges on the House and Garden tour!”

“You don't say!” I said, interested.
Good
, I thought, deciding I liked Paige. I could be friends with a gossip. I didn't know how easy it would have been to be friends with the saint Morgan Donovan seemed to think she was.

Mr. Piet stood in the doorway and announced dinner. In a loose knot, we marched through to the dining room. I remarked I'd never seen such a huge and splendid chandelier.

Oliver said, “We just got it. It's French, probably made in Morocco around the turn of the last century. That's what you said, didn't you, Morgan?”

“Yup. Made of bronze. The whole thing. It took Oliver, Teddy, Glinty, and myself to bring it all the way up from Virginia, didn't it? And then to hoist it up! What a job!”

“Oliver won it in a card game,” Paige added with disapproval.

Floor-to-ceiling glass doors lined one whole side of the room and looked out onto treetops and the best winter view of the sound—
except for the Great White
, I thought, prematurely house-proud, where the view was unimpeded year-round.

“The house has so many wonderful rooms,” I remarked.

“Yes, the Victorians used to come out here from the city for the summer. This was a grand inn, originally.” Paige smiled to herself. She seemed happy, satisfied with the way things were going. I got the feeling she liked having me there.

I noticed Oliver didn't talk to Wendell at all and realized he had no clue how to relate to a child. The only one who did was Jenny Rose and occasionally Morgan, who seemed to have a great store of knock-knock jokes at hand.

Once Morgan asked him, “And when you grow up, Wendell, what would you like to be?”

“I'll have a store,” Wendell said clearly and we all laughed. He had such an unexpectedly croaky voice. Then he added, “on the seashore.”

“Wendell”—Jenny Rose placed his napkin across his little lap—“you don't have to make a rhyme of
every
sentence. That would be boring, see?”

“And what sort of store might that be?” Morgan inquired.

He thought about this. “Pwobably bells and, like, ropes and bait and beer coolers. Stuff for boats.”

“Motorboats or sailboats?” Oliver asked him.

“Oh, sail-boats,” he replied without hesitation.

They all chimed in their North Shore approval.

Oliver, realizing this was going well, continued, “So you'll probably stay right here in Sea Cliff then, will you?” He made a thoughtful face. “After college?”

“Yeah.”

“
Yes
, not
yeah
,” Paige instructed.

“Yes.” Wendell frowned. Then he lisped firmly, “But I'm not going to college. I'll be working at Duffy's Bait Shop.”

“Ah,” we all said, butter never melting in our mouths.

“Be careful when you take him over there,” Morgan warned Jenny Rose. “Those buildings down the lane toward the water there are all condemned. Stay away from them.”

Paige said, “I have an idea! I was just thinking. Why don't I take over the garden at the cottage? That way the value of the property will be maintained.” She cocked her pretty head at Morgan, and I had a sudden horrible vision of her crouched behind the sunflower stalks, watching my every move.

Jenny Rose, seeing my face, jumped to my aid. “Aunt Claire is very modest,” she announced. “But when she was in Ireland, she revitalized our little historic cemetery.” She took a sip of her ginger ale, her lying eyes holding mine for just long enough. “It's never looked so fertile and glorious.”

I blinked uncomprehendingly. It was true in a way, I supposed. Hadn't I clandestinely planted a cremated corpse just inside the cemetery gates? What better fertilizer than that?

“Well,” said Morgan, “in that case, we'll leave the cottage garden to Claire.”

“But you'll have so much to do!” Paige snatched the crumbled Gorgonzola away from Oliver's reach and smiled pityingly at me.

That condescending smile was what gave me the courage to be honest. “It sounds very silly, I know,” I said, “but I'm looking forward to having the cottage to myself and putting it right.”

In bustled Mr. Piet with a white china soup terrine. Dinner commenced with what looked like a disappointing broth but turned out to be delicious. He whisked the bowls away and returned with a magnificent platter. He started with Jenny Rose, ceremoniously lifting a piece of fish onto her plate. We all looked at that piece of fish. It was the head. It regarded Jenny Rose with one gooey, glassy eye. Mr. Piet stood there waiting for her reaction.

“What!” Jenny Rose exclaimed. “The head for me?”

Mr. Piet gave a grave little nod.

Fearing what would happen next, no one looked at anyone. Paige's fist covered her mouth. With determined fortitude, and a courage with which I shall always be proud, Jenny Rose tackled this great honor with gusto and swallowed the eyes without the slightest outward sign of revulsion.

Mr. Piet, waiting, watched the last flaky cheek flesh consumed, declared, “
Bien, tr
è
s bien
,” then hurried off to deliver fillets to her and the rest of us. He spooned a horseradish sauce with capers over the sweet white flaky fish, caught, as it turned out, early this very morning by Mr. Piet himself, who seemed to be an invaluable man of all trades.

“What is it?” I asked. “Is it fluke?

“The fluke are just coming in,” Morgan said. “It's a weakfish.”

“Called so for its weak jaw,” Oliver informed me, jutting his own strong one demonstrably forward.

“Oh, Mr. Piet is our treasure,” Paige stage-whispered to me. “When he retired to Guadeloupe a while ago, we thought we'd lost him forever. But”—she smiled complacently—“he returned to us after only four months. ‘How many tourists can one fellow bear?' was how he put it.”

This was all very interesting to me because while Mr. Piet had poured I'd noticed a peculiar tattoo beneath his wrist shirt cuff. I'd learned plenty from my detective husband, not the least of which was the sort of tattoo one acquired in jail.
Guadeloupe, my foot
, I thought. However, what's done is done and everyone's entitled to a second chance if you ask me.