East Hope (15 page)

Will walked to the front door and knocked. He felt the sting of a mosquito and slapped at his neck. Maine was famous for its blackfly season—more troublesome inland, he'd been told—but the mosquitoes had come out with the hotter weather. He raised the old brass knocker again and waited. After a few moments he left the steps and wandered along the side of the house. This side looked freshly painted. Squinting in the sunlight, he moved into the shadow and around the building toward the sound of voices.

Caroline and an old man were squatting and studying something under the porch.

“Hello, there,” Will said.

Caroline stood and appeared surprised to see him. She wore a T-shirt, baggy shorts, and sneakers. Her legs were freckled. “Oh, hi. I didn't know anyone was here.” She shaded her eyes and studied him. “I see you're out for your run.” The older man beside her staggered to his feet and peered at Will through thick glasses that looked like they could use a good cleaning. “This is Vern Simpson.” She nodded in the direction of the old man clutching a screwdriver. She introduced Will and explained, “Will is managing Taunton's Used Books this summer.”

“That a fact? Good to meet ya,” Vern said. “Hope the town of East Hope is treating you well.” He put out his hand.

“Fine, thanks,” Will replied automatically, and shook hands. Vern's grip was strong. Despite thinning white hair and a weathered face, Vern looked like the kind of man who, like the bark on a tree, grew thicker and tougher with time. Vern stood back to better size up Will and reached into his pocket for a tired-looking handkerchief. He proceeded to wipe his glasses, as if privy to Will's earlier thoughts.

“Vern is giving me more bad news,” Caroline said. Maybe that explained her worried expression. She looked paler this morning, and her eyes had faint circles beneath them. “He very kindly doles out only as much as I can take at a time.” She laughed gamely, trying to be a good sport.

“Porch he'ah,” Vern said in his strong Maine twang, “completely rotted out.” He poked the screwdriver into one of the posts. The sharp metal plunged into the wood without resistance, as if it were made of cardboard. “You'd be better off removing the whole thing and rebuilding from scratch.”

“A whole new porch?” She looked close to tears. “What will that cost?”

Vern put his handkerchief away and pulled a small notebook and short pencil from his shirt pocket. “Maybe we can get away with just replacing the end supports. I'll take some measurements and talk to the guys at Bob's Lumber. Bobby's an old friend of mine. I'll get you a good price.” He started around the porch.

“I'm sorry,” Caroline said, and turned to Will. “I remember now. I owe you for the book.”

“That's not why I came.” He reached in his pocket. “I thought you might enjoy seeing this. I found it in one of the books.”

“Oh, yes. The recipe.” She took the yellowed sheet and bent to study the old-fashioned writing. “ ‘Mother's Johnnycakes.' ” She smiled and looked relieved to put her mind on something else. Her hands were dirty, and smudges of mud edged her T-shirt. Wisps of hair clung to her neck in the humidity. She looked up at Will. “Please come in and have some lemonade.”

“I don't want to bother you.”

“It's no bother. I was going to stop anyway. I've been weeding. I'm trying to clear out under the lilacs by the barn.” She called over to Vern, who was busy measuring the height of the porch supports. “Vern, a glass of lemonade?”

“Maybe later, thanks.” He copied numbers onto his pad.

Will went with Caroline toward the house. “It looks like you have a lot of property.”

“I'll say.”

They went up the back steps and entered the hall that ran the depth of the house. He followed her to the kitchen. It was surprisingly cool. The ceiling was high and a breeze blew in off the water. Caroline bent and pushed the window open higher.

“Please sit down.” She gestured toward a round pine table in the center of the room.

Will sat in one of the wicker chairs surrounding the table. The kitchen reminded him of his grandmother's house in Rhode Island. His parents had sold it after her death, and he remembered his mother complaining bitterly when the new owners tore it down and built an enormous tract mansion in its place.

“This is a neat old kitchen,” he said. “Does that stove still work?” He looked toward the gas range that stood on legs.

“Surprisingly well,” Caroline said.

On the wall behind him were shelves brimming with the cookbooks she had told him about. Caroline opened an antiquated-looking refrigerator and lifted out a glass pitcher. She set two glasses on the table and poured. “This is one of Lila's recipes. My husband's great-aunt who owned the house,” she reminded him. “The green specks in it are mint.”

“Thanks.” Will lifted his glass, and the lemonade slipped down his throat like a magic elixir. “This is delicious.”

“Vern and his nephew, Tim, can't seem to get enough of it.”

“I can see why.” He took another drink. “What's the secret?”

Caroline smiled, and her worried expression evaporated again. “You use something called ReaLemon juice. It comes in a bottle. You mix that with a sugar-and-water syrup. Lila wrote a note on the recipe that she serves it in a punch bowl for parties and adds blueberries on festive occasions.”

She reached for a black loose-leaf notebook on the other side of the table. It looked like it held years and years of collected recipes. She leafed through the pages. Some of the recipes appeared to be written in a fragile-looking hand. Other pages were typewritten on the kind of onionskin paper that you didn't see much anymore. “I feel like Lila's with me sometimes,” she said. “It's almost like she's leaning over my shoulder offering bits of wisdom as well as cooking advice.”

“She certainly had a lot of cookbooks,” he said.

“Some people read them like novels. I'm afraid I'm guilty of that.” She closed the black binder gently and studied the humble scrap of paper he'd brought to her. “This looks good.”

“I assume johnnycakes are like pancakes,” he said.

“They're a cornmeal pancake. We think of them now as breakfast, but in the early days in New England they would be served with the midday meal or even supper. I think they were popular in Rhode Island. Isn't that where you're from?”

Will was glad she remembered, and told her about his grandmother's house and his childhood spent near the ocean. Caroline sipped her lemonade and listened. A swath of sun fell onto the cheerful red-and-white linoleum floor. She told him about the cookbook she was working on. Will felt an almost forgotten contentment come over him. She had said the house belonged to her husband's aunt. Where was her husband now? A clock in another room struck numerous bongs. He started to apologize for staying too long.

“Nonsense,” she said. “I've enjoyed the interruption.” She slipped the recipe he'd given her into the notebook and stood. “I'll get the money for the book. Then I'd better check on Vern. Tim went to buy more paint. This house seems to soak it up.” Her frown returned. “Have some more lemonade. I'll be right back.”

Caroline left him alone in the kitchen. Will liked the calm feeling of this house. He listened to the ticking of the clock from the hall, as steady and regular as a heartbeat.

That evening Caroline sat on the lawn in an Adirondack chair to watch the sunset. The paint on the chair, like everything else exposed to the Maine air, was peeling. She imagined dollar signs, the tally for more paint climbing still higher. Thank God for Vern. She'd explained her goal of doing all she could for the house within her limited budget. He'd quoted his mother's favorite verse:

With Vern, thrift would be the watchword.

It was nearly seven. The air had cooled. Tim had dragged the ladders back beside the garage after reinstalling the second-story screens. There would be no more bats in the night. She rested her head on the back of the chair. The day hadn't been that bad after all. She thought of Will Harmon arriving at her door with the recipe he'd found in a book. Why on earth had she invited him in? Was she that hungry for company? There was something endearing about him, with his mop of pale hair and disheveled appearance. She could imagine him as a boy, his mother telling him that he needed to eat more, not to slouch, and to tuck in his shirt. He had kind eyes, deeply set, a soft hazel. There was a sensitivity about him. Though initially he had seemed shy, he had become more at ease with her as he shared memories of his childhood living near the ocean.

The sky went from a brilliant pink to a deeper violet, announcing the final moments of daylight. There was so much beauty here: the spare, clean lines of Lila's clapboard house, the gentle slope of the green lawn, the water, alive and ever changing from smooth to a wild chop, an array of blues, churning greens, the dramatic black in the dark of night. This part of the world was breathtaking. Rob would love it. Momentarily startled, she realized she hadn't thought of her son, who was usually so present in her mind, at all that day.

In the afternoon she had driven to the Super Drug, four towns away, and furtively purchased a pregnancy test like a fearful teenager. The box, neatly wrapped in cellophane, showed a young couple on it. The man had his arms around the woman, and she looked chastely down at a pink rose in her hand. The test was waiting for Caroline upstairs. The directions recommended using it first thing in the morning. She breathed in the stillness, the momentary peace. If only she could stop time. She rested her gaze on the bay and waited for the last glimmer of light. She drew her hand across her belly. It was taut and flat. And yet it might harbor life.

A
few minutes before five, two women entered the bookstore, the creak of the screen door followed by a bang announcing their arrival. Will had been about to bring in his OPEN flag before locking up for the night. It was the last day of June. Business had begun to pick up. He was tired, having taken his usual run that morning and stayed busy with customers for most of the day. There had been no time to write.

“Glad to see that this place has reopened,” said the taller of the two women. She had the weathered tan of someone who'd spent the winter in the sun. Older, though lean and fit, she might be a tennis player, he guessed.

“Do you carry new books?” the shorter woman asked. She, too, had a patrician voice, confirming his suspicion that these were some of the summer residents, returning for the season. They both looked dressed for a cocktail party, one in a silky T-shirt and pastel flowered slacks, and the other in a linen dress and wearing large gold earrings.

“All used for now,” he explained. “I've ordered new titles. There's some fairly recent fiction over here.” He directed them toward the center shelves. These women made him feel as if used books were undesirable, second-class. He thought of Rusty, who owned three car dealerships in West Palm Beach. The few used cars that he sold he referred to as “previously owned.” Will was glad he'd decided to add new books to his inventory.

The women spoke in quiet voices, commenting on titles and authors as they wandered around the shop. Will returned behind his desk. He picked up the trade publication he'd been leafing through when they came in, though he kept half an eye on the women, trying to think of something else that might interest them. “If you like mysteries,” he called over to them, “they're on the far wall.”

The smaller woman gave him a brief glance of acknowledgment and shook her head to indicate that she did not. Eventually she came up to the counter carrying a paperback copy of
Anna Karenina
. She spoke to her friend, who joined her empty-handed. “We're doing this for our book group in September. Might as well get a cheap copy.”

Will rang up the sale, wondering how this lady and her friends would “do” Tolstoy. He kept these thoughts to himself.

“You've heard of Holden Fox?” the tall tennis player asked.

“Of course, who hasn't?” her friend replied. “His last novel is still on the bestseller list.”

“He's staying with the Morgans in August. I've heard they're giving a big party for him at the yacht club.”

Will thought of the feeble beginning of the novel that awaited him upstairs. The more he worked on it, the less he warmed to the task. He had loved writing essays for academic publications. The job of researching, analyzing, and studying literary texts had been a pleasure. Writing a novel was entirely different. He put the paperback copy of Tolstoy in a bag and handed over the change.