A Month at the Shore (9 page)

"Almost everything in here is dead," Laura told her. "I suppose that once I clear it all out, we can fill it for the season with herbs, bulbs, maybe the tropical vines and standards that you ordered. But down the road, this greenhouse will have to go."

Corinne nodded eagerly. Laura was dismayed to see how her sister hung on the words "down the road." They implied that there was a road to go down besides bankruptcy or selling out to a developer.

Laura gave herself a
mental kick in the head. A one-
month commitment was one thing; spinning future fantasies for her sister to grab hold of, that was something else altogether.

They had emerged from the greenhouse and were standing by the mountain of half-decayed compost. It hadn't been turned over in a long time, that was obvious: the south side of it was covered with a carpet of grass and weeds.

Laura said, "Once Snack gets the tractor running, I can relocate this pile myself."

"No, you have too much to do already," Corinne argued. "I'll do it."

"No you won't. You have the shop to see to, and the annuals. God, you must have a thousand geraniums over there."

"Yeah, I went a little crazy on the cuttings, and they're the one thing people always have money for. I've got even more impatiens than geraniums ready to bring out. There's a great new introduction; have you seen it? Kind of a fuchsia with a peachy pink heart—?"

"Mmm," Laura said vaguely, but her mind was on getting the job done, not on savoring its passing pleasures. "Moving this pile is simple grunt work," she said. "I wish we could pay someone—say, a field hand from the cranberry bogs. Do you know anyone?"

"I can't think of anyone," Corinne said, trying hard.

"Corinne
... I'm not asking you for a name to round out a formal dinner party," Laura said, disheartened that her sister was obviously still reluctant to leave the reservation. "Just someone who's willing to move a pile of dirt for a few bucks."

The wince on Corinne's face vanished, replaced by a relieved grin. "Here's Gabe," she cried, waving. "We'll ask him!"

A year older than Laura and two older than Corinne, Gabe Wellerton was one of a very small number whom
Corinne considered friends. He'd worked on and off for the nursery through high school, and Laura herself had had a passing crush on him. Even now, she felt a warm rush of pleasure, mostly nostalgic, for the way he had stirred her adolescent yearnings. He was the first one to do it, and that would always make Gabe Wellerton special.

She studied him as he approached, impressed all over again by his broad shoulders and beefy arms. He'd been a star fullback on the high school football team and had been recruited to play for the Florida Seminoles, which didn't surprise anyone in Chepaquit: he was their golden son, a boy with infinite potential. He wasn't just all muscle, he had brains as well: he wanted to go into law. Everyone was so proud.

And then, a month before graduation, his parents were killed instantly in a head-on crash with a drunk driver.

In a state of shock, Gabe came back to Chepaquit to clear up their estate, and somehow he never left, never got his degree. He bought a small, local fence-making company which he still owned. Eventually he ran for town council, winning easily; he'd recently been elected to serve a third term. There was no doubt in anyone's mind that he was going to be Chepaquit's next mayor. People wanted him to run eventually for U.S. Congress, where he'd be able to realize his full potential after all.

Nonetheless, despite his political involvement, Gabe still lived alone, almost as quietly as Corinne. People who knew of his plight were convinced that he'd never be completely over the tragedy.

Laura was one of them. "Hey, Gabe, it's been a while," she said in a sympathetic tone that she instinctively used with him.

His smile, above his square-cut chin, was simultaneously familiar and reserved, sincere and somehow just a little bit sad.

"You're right; long time, no see, kiddo," he said, and then added, "I've been out of town on council business—scouting a possible sister city for Chepaquit in Ireland—and I just got in a little while ago."

He said to Corinne, "Thanks for feeding the mutt, Rin, and for letting him in and out. It had to be a pain, running back and forth across th
e road all day. Too bad Basker
ville's so neurotic about kennels."

"You've spoiled him, that's why," Corinne said, swatting Gabe playfully across the arm. "Trust me, he was absolutely pining for you."

Smiling, Gabe said, "Baloney. He was pining for
you.
I saw the hambone out in the run."

Color flared prettily in Corinne's face as she said, "Well, it was either feed the bone to him or make pea soup. I hate pea soup."

"Sure, sure," Gabe said, laughing. "Anyway, here's a little something from my trip. I know it doesn't say anything about
Ireland
, but somehow it reminded me of you."

He handed her a mini-shopping bag and Corinne pulled out a T-shirt in a pretty heather-rose color, hand-painted with a bundle of posies and discreet lettering beneath that said, "All natural."

"I
love
it!" she said with a gasp of delight.

"Well, good. I was hoping you would." He turned back to Laura and said hesitantly, "I wasn't sure I'd have the chance to see you this trip."

Had Corinne tipped him off to her cockamamie scheme to kidnap her siblings for a month? Laura couldn't tell, and she couldn't really ask.

She changed the subject and said, "We're just standing around trying to figure out who we can con into moving the compost pile farther back from the road. It's taking up prime display space—and it's not exactly high on charm," she added wryly. "Do you know of anyone who'd be willing to do the job for a few bucks?"

Gabe surveyed the dirt mountain that loomed before them and nodded. "How about if I offer to move it for you, no charge? I could do it at the end of the week."

"No, we couldn't ask you to do that," Corinne said immediately. But the pleased look on her face stayed right where it was.

"It's not a problem, Rin," said Gabe. "Come on, let me do this. I owe you. I know how to operate the equipment—are you forgetting that I used to drive that same John Deere way back when? I'm done with my crew by four; that'll leave me plenty of daylight to tackle this. It might take me a couple of evenings, though."

"Deal!" said Laura before her sister could offer any more tedious objections to the offer.

It was clear, at least to Laura, that the plan had advantages for Gabe as well: he couldn't be too wild about looking out his front windows every day and seeing a pile of dirt. "And when you're done, come to the house for supper," she said to him impulsively. "We'll celebrate the removal of this blight from the landscape."

"Thanks for the invite," he said, looking away. "I'd like that."

How shy he was, she thought, bemused. He didn't used to be that way.

Oh.
She glanced from Gabe to Corinne and back to Gabe again. Was it possible?

Well, well. She was going to have to watch and find out.

Gabe sounded reluctant as he said, "I guess I'd better get myself over to Bayview to check on my crew."

"You're the ones doing the fences for that?" Laura asked, impressed. "That's a really upscale project; we drove past it on our way in yesterday."

"Yeah. The developer's thrown a lot of work to the locals, a nice boost for Chepaquit. Every job helps when you've got a payroll to meet and families to feed."

That's what a businessman and politician would say,
Laura realized; but it was also what someone who cared about people would say.

She glanced again at her sister, who was carefully folding her all-natural T-shirt to fit back in its bag.

"I love this," she said with touching sincerity. "I really, really do."

By the end of the backbreaking day, Laura had cleared out the greenhouse, salvaging less than three dozen perennials for possible sale. Every bone in her body ached: working in a nursery took ten times the effort as playing in a garden.

Snack had disappeared in town for longer than he should have. When he came back from his errands, there was beer on his breath and a swagger in his walk that Laura hated to see. But he went back into the barn, and he replaced the thermostat, and he still had five cans of the six-pack under his arm when he returned to the house to join his sisters for supper.

The three of them, tired wolf pups by then, polished off Miss Widdich's casserole, newt eyes and all, and then they lined up to take turns showering under the rickety arrangement of pipes in the clawfoot tub. It wasn't until Laura began emptying the pockets of her dirt-covered Levi's that she remembered the watch that she'd found.

She stepped out of her room into the hall and said, "Hey! Guys! Take a look at this."

Corinne had just finished showering. Wrapped in a robe and with her hair bound in a towel, she emerged from the bathroom all shiny and sweet-smelling. At the same time, Snack, stripped to the waist and not at all sweet-smelling, came out from his room.

Laura held up the rusty watch by the pinless end of its expandable band. "Look what I found in the greenh—Oh, my God, will you look at this? It works! It must be a self-winding watch and I got it going again. Too cool. Anyone need a watch?" she said, dangling it in front of them both.

"Let me see," said Corinne, taking it from her. "It's not an old one of mine; I've always used the strap style. How about that? A mystery. I wonder whose it is? If we at least knew how long ago—"

Snack cut in to say, "It must have been a customer's. Toss it."

Laura took it back from her sister and scrutinized it. She was fascinated by the fact that the spunky little watch still worked. "I hate to do that. It's waited all these years for someone to discover it and let it be a watch again."

"Oh, yeah. Like a watch has karma," said Snack irritably. "It's a piece of junk. We're not exactly shy on junk.
Toss
it."

Reluctantly, Laura said, "I guess you're right. Oh, well."

The little group dispersed to their rooms, and Laura dropped the watch into one of the wastebaskets, then had second thoughts about the thing. It seemed symbolic of their own struggle against all odds. She retrieved it and dumped it in a small notions drawer before going out, at last, to have her turn at the shower.

****

Corinne was right. After a day of working outside, a person's brain felt as alert as a bowl of pudding.

The shower had helped restore Laura a little, but it was still all she could do to hold a pen in her hand and a yellow pad on her lap while hovering in a near coma over a desk strewn with paperwork that made no sense.

"Dad never talked about the loan?" she asked her equally tired sister.

"No. He never talked about money, period," Corinne said, stifling a yawn. "The different versions of the will, that was as financial as he ever got with me."

"I do not understand this. I don't see how missing two payments can justify this nasty notice. We have to find the original document; that will explain everything. It must be around here somewhere."

She closed the drawers that held the financial records and slid open the drawer on the other side of the desk, poking through the files there.

They were exasperatingly random and unrelated: sales brochures on rose trellises and insecticides; L.L. Bean catalogues mixed in with colored blank sheets; mailing labels thrown in with flyers from a local furniture store. At the back, though, was a file she easily could have missed. It was labeled in faint pencil, "Great River Finance Co."

Laura plucked it from its innocent neighbors the way she would a thistle from a bed of zinnias.

She flipped through the file quickly, and then, with a sinking heart, scanned the document that lay at the bottom.

"Oh, my God," she whispered.

"What? What is it?" Corinne asked, trying to read over her shoulder. "You're scaring me, Laur."

Which was the last thing that Laura wanted to do. She tried to seem calm. "Well, if I'm reading this right, Dad took out the equity loan with Great River Finance almost five years ago."

And then, slipping into fury despite herself, she said, "It seems the good folks at Great River now feel they're entitled to call in the loan.
The letter you got has the math right.  According to this,
full payment
really would be due
next Wednesday."

"That's
eight days away!"

"Yes, it is. I guess we'd better move up the date of our big sale," she added in a dismal attempt to seem light.

"How much? Laura, how much do we have to come up with?"

"Well
... a decent amount, I'm afraid," she said, her voice breaking a little. "Seventy-five thousand dollars, give or take."

Tan as she was, Corinne went pale at the number. She sank into the oak chair next to Laura's worn-out swivel one and whispered, "You can't be serious. Not that much. Not that soon. That can't be true. It
can't."