Beachcombers (9 page)

14

Abbie

F
rom the outside, the house resembled any other, with gray shingles, white trim, and a picket fence. As she walked up the slate path, Abbie decided the blue hydrangea, climbing pale pink roses, and pots of multicolor petunias were so perfectly placed, groomed, and tended that the yard must be professionally landscaped.

The blue front door stood open. Abbie hesitated, then knocked. As she waited, she studied the decor. The house had been renovated and decorated to a glossy perfection in Nantucket style, everything blue and white and simple. Simply expensive. In the front hall alone, she saw two Claire Murray hand-hooked rugs, an antique table holding the white pitcher of blue hydrangea, and a Pamela Pindell oil painting above the hall table. Sailor's valentines lined the stairway wall and several lightship baskets were set decoratively by the doors leading to the living room and to the back of the house.

The good news, Abbie reminded herself, was that these people could afford to pay her well.

She called, "Hello?"

She heard voices raised in argument coming from the back of the house. She waited until a moment of silence fell, then called again.

"Hello?"

"Oh, for Christ's sake, Howell, go see who's at the door. Harry, this is your last chance. Mommy is leaving!"

From the back of the house came one of the most handsome men Abbie had ever set eyes on. Tall, broad-shouldered, with sandy hair that fell over his forehead, and startling blue eyes, he was somewhere in his thirties. That he appeared embarrassed and hesitant made him even more attractive.

"Oh, hello, sorry, we're in the middle of ... of course you can tell that, can't you?" He had a pencil stuck over his ear. He wore shorts and a blue-and-white-striped shirt with the buttons done up wrong.

"I'm Abbie Fox." She smiled at him, keeping her posture straight and her head high. She wanted to appear confidant, capable. "I'm here about the nanny/housekeeper job."

"Well, thank God! Come in, come in." He hesitated, seeming baffled. "Um, come meet Harry."

Abbie followed the man down the hall and into the kitchen. It was large, gleaming with its state-of-the-art stainless steel refrigerator, stove, and ovens. The slate countertops held every conceivable new appliance.

In the middle of the kitchen stood a woman wearing a navy-and-white pin-striped suit and navy high heels. Her dark hair was blunt-cut at chin level and moved all in a piece, like black satin.

"All right, Harry. The sitter's here. Mommy's leaving. I won't be back for four nights. If you don't let me kiss you now, you won't get a Mommy kiss for a long, long time."

Abbie followed the woman's gaze. Under the table sat a little boy with shaggy white-blond hair. He wore a swimming suit and cowboy boots and he was holding a large plastic horse. He didn't respond to his mother but glared furiously at the floor.

"Fine." The woman turned and performed a rapid-fire up-and-down inspection of Abbie. "You're Abbie? I checked the references you emailed. You'll do. I've made lists for you and Howell can tell you the routine."

Outside, a horn honked.

"There's my taxi," the woman said. She picked up a handsome black leather briefcase and stalked out of the room.

Howell followed her.

Abbie was alone in the kitchen. She sat down on the floor, crossed her legs Indian-style, and faced the little boy. "I'm Abbie. You must be Harry."

He didn't reply. But Abbie could see how tightly he clutched his horse, how white his knuckles were, how fiercely he clenched his jaws, just like an older man would do to keep from crying.

"You know what? You're only four years old. You're allowed to cry when your mother leaves to go off to work."

Harry didn't blink.

Howell returned to the kitchen and sat on the floor next to Abbie. "Well, old boy, it's just you and me now," he said to his son. "Oh, and now we've got Abbie. Abbie, do you ride horses?"

"No, but I've got a friend who does. She's got a stable off Hummock Pond Road. She has three horses." Howell nodded encouragingly at her, so she continued. "One is buckskin with a white mane and tail. And one is an Appaloosa." She could see the tension ease from the child's body as she talked. "Do you know what an Appaloosa is?"

Harry's response was to set his jaw more firmly closed. His father prompted her, "No. What is an Appaloosa?"

"It's an Indian horse with a spotted coat. Some of them are dark with huge white spots here and there and some are spotted like a leopard."

"Maybe you could drive Harry out to see them someday," Howell suggested.

"Um, yeah, sure. I could do that. That would be fun." She peeked at Harry. Still no response.

"I tell you what, Harry," Howell said. "I think we all need a little cheering up now that Mommy's gone back to the city, so let's walk down and get an ice-cream cone." Hurriedly he explained to Abbie, "It's too early in the day for an ice-cream cone, and we have to be careful not to give him too much sugar, at least
I
do, but sometimes rules have to be bent just a little, right?"

"Right," Abbie agreed.

"Which reminds me, Sydney left some on the table for you."

"Some what?"

"Oh, rules. A list of rules. I think you'll find them very, um, comprehensive." He turned his attention back to his son. "Ice cream? Strawberry or vanilla? Maybe pistachio."

Harry didn't budge.

"You know what? I'd love to see Harry's room."

"You would? Well, but Harry--"

"I'll bet Harry will stay right here. He'll be fine."

Howell opened his mouth, as if to argue, then closed it. "Sure. Come on, I'll show you."

Abbie rose and followed the man out of the kitchen, down the hall, and up the stairs. The first door on the left led to an enchanting child's room decorated in a blue-and-white nautical theme. Along one wall shelves ranged, covered with toys and games, mostly involving pirates, boats, and whales.

"Tell me about Harry," Abbie said.

Howell looked worried. "He's a great little boy. Smart and loving. But sensitive and stubborn. Leaving him alone will not make him come out from under the table."

Abbie ran her hands over the toys, picking up a stuffed octopus, a wooden lighthouse. "He's upset that his mother's going back to the city?"

"Right. He's always been an obstinate child, but recently he's become, well, I suppose you could call him defiant. I mean, he's always liked routine, and recently, I admit, his routine has changed a lot. He had the same nanny for about a year now, but this spring she got married and moved away. And my wife was just made partner at her law firm, and she's got piles more work, and in addition, she's taken on a high-profile divorce case. She is stressed and rushed to the max, and we thought that spending the summer here would be good for Harry."

"Do you stay here all the time?" Abbie asked.

"Oh, sure,
I
do, of course! Well, I'm fortunate that my company allows me to work at home, although I can't be available every moment, you see. I'm on the staff of environmental health and safety for Franklin Pharmaceuticals. I've got a major research report to put together and my deadline is September first, so this is a do-or-die summer for me. But I can work at home, so I can be with Harry every morning and every night. I mean, I want to be, if you can take over in the afternoons."

"Will you need some housekeeping?"

"I don't think so. We've got a team of cleaners who come in twice a week. What we need, I guess, is someone to buy groceries, take stuff to the cleaners, do laundry, that kind of thing. Again, I think Sydney covered it pretty comprehensibly in her list."

"Good." Abbie wanted to reach across to button up Howell's shirt properly. Instead, she grabbed a plastic horse off the shelf. "Why don't you go on to work, and I'll sit in the kitchen and read Mrs. Parker's list and keep an eye on Harry. I'll see if I can't cajole him out from under the table and down to the beach."

"Oh, good, well, but, here's the thing, you won't drag him out, will you?"

"Of course not!"

"I mean, Sydney sometimes gets impatient--Christ, I don't mean she ever hurts the boy! But I mean, if we
have
to be somewhere ... but she's his mother."

"I won't drag him out, I promise," she reassured him. "I'll sit there all day, if I have to."

"Good. That's good." Howell walked out into the hall. "That room down there I've taken for my office. I work in there. But if you need anything, anything at all, just knock on the door, okay? I won't mind if you interrupt."

"Got it," Abbie said. She smiled at him. "Okay, I'm off to the kitchen floor."

"And I'm off to work." But Howell didn't move. Instead, he stood staring at Abbie, as if he had something else to say to her.

It was a moment, Abbie thought, like others she'd known, when she and a man looked at each other and were caught in the exhilarating grip of mutual attraction.

Wow.

Wait. Was she nuts? He was married. She'd just met his wife.

Flushing, Abbie ripped herself away and hurried down the stairs to the kitchen. "See you later!"

Harry had changed positions. He now lay on his stomach beneath the kitchen table. He was rocking his horse back and forth in a galloping movement. When Abbie sat down, he froze.

Abbie lay down on her stomach, parallel to the boy. She placed her horse parallel to Harry's horse, just a few inches away. Harry whipped his head around so that he faced the other way.

Abbie rocked her horse back and forth on the floor and made clicking, horse-walking noises with her mouth. "Okay, Licorice. It's time for lunch. Here's some hay."

"Thunder. His name is Thunder."

Abbie smiled to herself. "Okay, Thunder," she said, "come over here and I'll give you a nice pile of fresh hay."

For the next hour, she sat and lay on the floor, clopping the plastic horse around, talking to him, speaking for the horse in a series of whinnies and neighs. Harry didn't speak to Abbie, but gradually he began to walk his own horse over the floor, winding in and out through the table legs. Abbie developed a cramp in her neck and turned over, lying flat on her back. She drew her knees up and made Thunder slowly, with much huffing and puffing, ascend the mountain her legs made.

"This mountain is so high!" she huffed in the best baritone she could muster--she thought Thunder should have a masculine voice. "But I know I can reach the top. I just have to keep trying." She could sense that Harry had turned on his back and was watching her. Slowly she walked the horse up her leg and brought him to rest on top of her knee. "Wheeeee!" she whinnied. "I made it!" She brought the horse into a triumphant pose, rearing to stand on just two back legs. "Wheeee! I'm Thunder, the king of horses!"

Howell walked into the kitchen. He smiled down at Abbie, who felt ridiculous, lying there on her back.

"I just want to get a soda from the refrigerator." Howell squatted down to his son's level. "How're you doing?"

Harry turned on his side with his back to his father.

"It's a hot sunny day, Harry. Wouldn't you like to go down to the beach with Abbie?"

"We could bring the horses," Abbie said. "We could make an awesome corral for the horses out of sand. A barn, too."

Harry shook his head.

"Maybe tomorrow," Abbie said easily. "Anyway, it's going to take Thunder a long time to get down this mountain."

"Thunder looks kind of lonely up there," Howell said.

"I know," Abbie agreed. "It sure would be nice if Thunder had a friend to do things with."

Howell said, "Harry, what do you think? Would Storm like to climb the mountain with Thunder?"

Harry didn't respond.

"Well," Howell said. "I guess I'll get my drink and get back to work."

Abbie waited until Howell left to begin the dramatic progression of Thunder down the leg mountain. "Thunder is exhausted, he's going to take a nap. And I'm going to get a drink. I'm thirsty." She stood up, brushed off her shorts, and opened the refrigerator. It was fairly empty, although there were plenty of juices and soft drinks.

"Would you like some juice, Harry?"

No answer.

She grabbed a soda for herself and poured a cranberry drink for Harry.

"Here you are!" she said, leaning over to put the drink near him.

He didn't respond.

She leaned against the counter as she drank, staring out at the sunny day. She wondered if she could somehow persuade Harry as far as the backyard.

"I've got to pee," she said. "I'll be right back."

She found a half bathroom off the kitchen and was in and out in minutes. When she sat down on the floor again, she saw that Harry's juice glass was empty. Harry was on his side, eyes closed, sound asleep.

15

Emma

G
ood," Sandra Bracebridge said, "you're on time."

They were standing on the brick sidewalk outside the Bracebridge mansion, a towering white Greek Revival with a broad front porch and columns. The Bracebridge property was protected from the riffraff by a wrought iron fence with spiked railings.

Emma forced herself to smile. She'd read somewhere that human beings responded in like fashion to stimuli like smiling, yawning, crying, so she was performing a kind of experiment.

But nope, Sandra Bracebridge did not move her lips. It was possible the woman wasn't human. During the brief interview Emma had endured earlier in the day with Sandra Bracebridge, the other woman had remained composed to the point of paralysis. And from everything she'd heard, Millicent Bracebridge, in her eighties and struggling with various infirmities, was going to be even less friendly.

Millicent Bracebridge, her daughter-in-law had told Emma, had fallen this winter and broken her hip, and had never really walked after the operation. At eighty-eight, she had seen her husband and most of her friends into their graves, and pain from arthritis and other minor ailments made her cranky. Now the macular degeneration that had plagued her for years was worsening her eyesight. And she tended to live in the past, which worried Sandra. Sandra's husband, Millicent's son, had died a few years ago, and Sandra was responsible for Millicent. She did not want her mother-in-law getting gaga. Millicent would not tolerate any kind of formal assisted living and, driven by her pride, she had given her lawyer durable rights of attorney, along with written instructions that if she had to be institutionalized, it would be in a nursing home on the Cape or near Boston, not on Nantucket. She had told Sandra that she did not want people who had known her when she was in her majestic prime to see her in her infirmity.

The Bracebridges were one of Nantucket's founding families. Millicent Bracebridge's collection of Nantucket arts and crafts was rumored to be extensive and significant. Emma couldn't believe she was about to work for one of the island's old legends, a wealthy, prominent woman from an important Nantucket family. Of the various jobs Emma had accepted, this one seemed the most interesting.

Now Emma followed Sandra Bracebridge up the wide steps, across the porch, and in through the wide front door. The black-and-white tiled foyer floor was covered with priceless antique Oriental rugs, and a crystal chandelier sparkled from the ceiling. In a polished cherry case a grandfather clock ticked away, its face artistically decorated with the sun, moon, and planets. An oil painting of a whaling ship took up most of one wall.

"Wow," Emma breathed. "What a magnificent room."

Sandra ignored her and swept on into the living room. "Millicent? We're here."

Emma followed her employer into a large room crowded with antiques. Oil paintings in elaborate gilt frames spanned the walls. Elaborate boxes of ivory scrimshaw were set along the mantel. In the window seat, seven lightship baskets of varying sizes were displayed, the darkened cane a testimony to their age. Small tables held Tiffany lamps and cloisonne vases. Obviously no children were allowed to enter this room, where one careless movement could provoke a disaster.

"Millicent? This is Emma Fox. She's come to read to you."

Millicent Bracebridge sat in a wheelchair with a tartan blanket tucked around her legs. Her white hair was styled like a 1940s movie star, finger-waved in strict ridges. She wore a light wool suit with a diamond brooch at the collar, and heavy hose and lace-up, high-heeled shoes.

"Well, let me get a look at you," Millicent said, gesturing impatiently.

Emma stepped close to the wheelchair. Sandra had told her to dress conservatively; her mother-in-law did not approve of the current style of showing off so much skin. Today she wore a white shirt, khaki trousers, and sandals. It was hot outside, but in this room with its high ceilings and heavy draperies drawn against the sun, the heat was moderate, although the air was heavy with humidity.

"Hello, Mrs. Bracebridge," Emma said.

"Lean down so I can see you. I've got macular degeneration. If you come close, I can get bits of you, though."

Emma obediently leaned down. As she did, she caught the scent of the older woman, a mix of talcum powder and a light floral fragrance.

Millicent Bracebridge turned her head slightly, seeming to aim her black eyes away from Emma's face. "You're a very pretty girl. Pick up that book over there and read a few sentences for me."

"Moby-Dick!"
Emma exclaimed. "I loved this book." Opening it to the first page, she began to read.

After a few sentences, Sandra Bracebridge interrupted. "All right, Millicent? Does she read to your satisfaction?"

"She's fine." She waved her hand. "Go on along. Don't worry."

"The bathroom is just down the hall," Sandra Bracebridge told Emma. "And the kitchen's at the back of the house if you need a drink of water, or there might be iced tea in the refrigerator."

"Sandra, the girl is not an imbecile." Millicent's voice was sharp.

"All right, then." Sandra leaned over to kiss the older woman's forehead. "Three hours, right?" she asked Emma.

"Right," Emma affirmed.

Sandra left the room, and a moment later, the front door closed. Emma picked up
Moby-Dick
and settled on the corner of the sofa. "Can you hear me from here, Mrs. Bracebridge?" she asked.

"Very well, thank you. But before you get settled, I'd like you to get another book. Do you see the glass-fronted secretary in the corner? On the top shelf, far left, you'll find Agatha Christie's
Murder in the Links.
"

Emma obeyed. She opened the door, found the book, and returned to the sofa. "Got it."

"Good. Now, this is important. When you are through reading, every day, you must remember to replace the book exactly where you found it."

"Oh. All right. I'll do that."

"It's Sandra, you see. She worries about me. She's afraid I'm getting senile. Getting lost in the past. And here's a little secret. I do get lost in the past. As often as possible. I love it there. But Sandra knows I've read Agatha Christie's entire oeuvre several times over. I don't want to cause her any alarm, and she will become alarmed if you tell her you're reading Agatha Christie to me. So this is our secret, all right?"

Emma grinned. "Absolutely. I'm very good at keeping secrets. I--"

Millicent cut her short. "All I care about is that you keep
my
secret. Now please read."

Emma read.

After thirty minutes, Emma excused herself to fetch iced tea for herself and Millicent. The tea provided a necessary pick-me-up; the warm dim room with all its heavy rugs, sofas draped with afghans, and antiques piled on top of antiques began to seem claustrophobic to Emma. No sounds came in from the street, no children laughing, no birds singing. Only the ticking of the clock in the hall provided any counterpoint to Emma's voice. As she read, she found herself giving a distinctive voice to each character, using a French accent for the Belgian detective, a pompous British one for Hastings, and high fluttering voices for the women. She was rewarded by seeing Millicent smile whenever Poirot spoke. Emma read along, stopping only to refresh her throat with some tea, and soon the clock struck four.

"It's time for me to go, Mrs. Bracebridge," she said.

"Very well, mark the place where you stopped. There's a bookmark over on the secretary. You'll have to remember where you left off on the page. I don't like my books marked with pencil or pen."

"Is there anything I can get you before I leave?" Emma asked after she'd put the book back on its shelf.

"I'll be fine." Mrs. Bracebridge felt around on the table next to her until her hand closed on the remote control. "I'll listen to television until the girl comes to bring me my dinner and help me to bed."

"Well, then, I'll see you tomorrow. Same time, same station," Emma said.

Mrs. Bracebridge was pleased by that. "Yes. Same time, same station."

Stepping out into the sunlight made Emma squint. The fresh air revived her, brought her back to the present. She stood for a moment, enjoying the sight of a family biking down the street, the children ringing their bells and laughing, a man with curly black hair walking his black standard poodle, the window boxes of houses along the street radiant with color. The blue sky, illuminated by the golden sun, spread like a luminous canopy over the trees and rooftops. Summer. How hard it must be to lose all this, Emma thought.

Sandra Bracebridge had told Emma that if she spotted any signs of senility, Emma was to inform her immediately. Emma smiled. As far as she was concerned, Mrs. Bracebridge's desire to enjoy more of her beloved Agatha Christie was only a sign of good mental health.

It was time for her to drive out to Surfside to pick up four children, drive them out to Annye's health food store to choose whatever they wanted for dinner, and deliver them to their house in Sconset. The Bennett father was still in London on business and the Bennett mother had her hands full with social engagements, so she'd hired Emma as a chauffeur and maid of all jobs for two hours in the late afternoon. The four kids were noisy and quarrelsome, but after the tomblike quiet of the Bracebridge house, Emma welcomed the clamor. At the house, the children shoved and pushed one another, yelling, as they fought their way out of the car.

"Grab your towels, kids!" Emma reminded them. "And your beach bags!"

She'd forgotten she was as invisible to them as a gnat. She crawled into the backseat of the SUV and gathered up the sodden sandy beach towels. She carried them and one of the beach bags to the back of the house. She made two more trips to take in the beach paraphernalia and food. Once everything was out of the car, she went to the back of the garden to shake the sand out of the towels before lugging them past the outdoor shower and into the laundry room. She stuffed the towels into the washing machine and started the wash cycle, then went into the kitchen and began to empty and clean out the beach bags and coolers. As she worked, she heard Mrs. Bennett trying to rein in the children, who were in the family room with the television volume on high.

Emma had just finished with the coolers when Jody Partridge came in the back door to begin her shift as babysitter for the evening. Jody was an island woman in her late thirties, married, with two children of her own.

"How are the maniacs?" she asked Emma.

Emma dried her hands on a dish towel. "Maniacal. Have fun." She hurried out of the house.

She had a free hour before she went to her next job, babysitting for a couple staying at a local B&B. As she drove back into town, she tried to remember what food was left in the house. She wasn't hungry, really. She'd forgotten what it felt like to be hungry. But she couldn't remember when she'd last eaten and she was shaky from low blood sugar.

What were Duncan and Alicia doing now? Perhaps they were strolling around the Public Garden, holding hands and enjoying the soft summer air before meeting friends for dinner at the Taj. The friends would be wealthy, like Alicia, and perhaps as they lingered over dessert, they'd discuss vacations ... oh, no.
No.
Duncan and Alicia wouldn't come to Nantucket on vacation, would they? Duncan's family had a summer home in Maine. Surely they'd go there. On the other hand, Duncan had loved Nantucket. He had a lot of friends here, and a lot of contacts. What if Emma were working, pushing a baby stroller around town or running into a store to pick up something for one of her clients, her hair frizzed with humidity, and she ran into Duncan and Alicia ambling down the street in all their sleek perfection?

It was a nightmare thought. It took her breath away. And now that she'd imagined it, she couldn't get the scene out of her head. It played itself over and over, filling her with dread.