Mum's the Word (10 page)

“Didn't it come in other colours?” I asked.

Time being of the essence, Ben began blowing up the
Nell Gwynn
as I drove toward the dock. Thank God for a convertible. The boat grew with frightening speed to unwieldy orange proportions. Ben could control it only by kneeling on his seat, face to the rear. Even so, the thing was like a whale, whapping back and forth. As I swerved close to a shack on the mud track leading to the river, it almost got away. I could picture it soaring out over the water, then with a mighty hiccup plummeting like a gunned-down bird into the briny depths.

“Will it hold our luggage?” Parking under a scroungy weeping willow, I made a futile grab at the nether end of
Nellie
.

Cheeks blown out like baseballs, Ben nodded. Moments later we carried our skiff over a scuffle of pebbles to a stretch of mud the consistency of underdone toffee and reached the river's edge.

“Here, let me—before you blow yourself up.” Grabbing the nozzle from him I let out almost as much air as I let in, but the feeling was terrific. At last! Here I was on an even footing with all those other mums-to-be. The ones who prop themselves against their executive desks, dab white-out on the shadows under their eyes, and tirelessly tackle the latest merger … or mop and glow the home front with assorted infants under the age of four clinging to their legs.

“Hurry!” Ben yelled, causing me to nearly swallow the cap.

We rushed around in a blur of speed. Suitcases got tossed aboard, and it was time to splash off.

“Come on, Ellie!” Clambering aboard, Ben held out his hand.

The time had come for truth. “I can't! I've lied to you about how much weight I've gained. My feet will go through the bottom. Ouch!” He landed me like a fish. Crossing to my section was like walking in a net. One of my legs kept getting longer than the other.

He tossed me a grin along with the oars. “The island is straight ahead. Mind doing the honours, while I wipe the mud off my shoes, darling? Can't arrive looking thoroughly disreputable, can I?”

“Heaven forbid!” Strange to tell I was quite the oarswoman. A sport where I got to sit down could not fail to appeal. Meet Ellie Haskell, captain of the St. Roberta's team. Fondly known as the Skullduggeries. Plunging my salad spoons into the bronze water, I felt good. The air smelled liked sun-baked algae and my love looked rakishly wonderful. His hair expensively disheveled, his tan a twenty-four hour success story. Mendenhall was still too far away for me to make out its features clearly.

“Deuced jolly, being bumped along in a sofa without springs, right, sweetheart?” Ben took the oars.

“Still worried about being late?”

“Not frightfully.” His elegant stroking revealed all was in the wrist. “Blowing up this vessel helped clear my head.” A flick of the oar sent a spray of fishy water my way. “The Mangés' letter talked tough about no commitment being made, but the petrol chap mentioned several out-of-town cars coming through today, and it hit me. The Society wouldn't congregate in a place like this—where you couldn't get fresh figs if your life depended on it—unless they need me.”

“How did the Mangés get to the house?”

My informant grudgingly admitted the owner keeps a power boat; he imagined that would be sent out to meet those who arrived at the designated time … Ben's lips kept moving but the audio part of his statement was lost. Out of the watery wasteland there arose a geyser of spray, and rip-roaring through it came a motor vessel manned by two nauticals, spiffed out in white peaked caps.

Curling my lip, I trailed a hand overboard. “Aren't these Americans a bit much with their hobbies, darling? Have to wear the outfit!”

Ben was not amused … and rightly so. Why did I never think before I sneered? This could well be our host boat.

“Ellie!” his howl penetrated the tempest, “It's the Coast Guard!”

“Oh, cripes!” If I prayed fast, would God grant us a puncture? Captains Glower and Grimace were zooming around us in a tidal wave, their scowls every bit as natty as their uniforms. Would they demand we produce our passports? Would they order us deported?

“Evening, sirs!” Attempting a salute, Ben almost knocked out his eye with an oar. “Just taking the little lady for a spin.”

“May we suggest you take her somewhere less hazardous to her safety and that of other traffic.” They spoke in unison in the monotone of a prerecorded message. “You be out of this channel within two minutes, or we'll have you towed in!”

“Aye, aye!” I said as they blasted off.

Grabbing up the oars, Ben smacked them in and out of the water, muttering, “Damned humiliating.”

“With some people a little uniform goes a long way,” I consoled, my eyes burning holes in the backs of the two nosy parkers. “Don't worry, darling, I'm sure the Mangés are too busy waiting for you to be gawking out of windows.”

No answer but the rhythmic displacement of water.

The island appeared no bigger than a large rock even when the house moved into view. What an incredible monument to bad taste. Picture Josiah Mendenhall, whisky baron, thumping his fist on the table while demanding the best of everything. And everything was what he had got. The roof sprouted four onion domes plus one shaped like a bell. The grimy red brick was embellished with ironwork and lattice galore, and mustn't miss the moldy green shingles like fish scales, on the bow frontage. Some of the windows were stained glass, some were beveled; and the whole shebang was set down on a giant tea tray of a veranda. “Ben, Mendenhall is an absolute … gothic horror!”

The words came accompanied by a dizziness such as I had not experienced since my days of morning sickness. Cleaving to the sides of the boat, I clung also to the hope that I was acting peculiar due to my condition. Anything was preferable to the recognizing that fate had made total fools of us.

“Ben!” Struggling to my knees, I grabbed his arm. “Don't you remember? Chantal spoke of the house being surrounded by water? We assumed she meant Merlin's Court because of the moat, and we didn't take the bit about fire and brimstone literally—but look at those sooty red bricks.”

His yell of alarm was all I could have wished.

“Sit down!”

And so I did—with such a thump that an oar flew out of his hand. He made to grab for it, lunged too far, the boat did a spin, and before you could say bobbing for apples, we were both in the drink.

“Forgive me, darling,” I spluttered. “I know this isn't how you pictured meeting the Mangés.”

Belly-flopping back into the boat, my love said conversationally, “You do realize you've ruined my life?”

I didn't reply. Now was not the time to break the news that the house was Melancholy Mansion.

“There, darling! You look as good as new!” Not by a quiver of the voice would I reveal the smiting of unwifely jealousy when he poked fingers through his hair and the curl bounced right back. What did it matter if anyone thought I had joined Jonah in the belly of the whale? “Ben, if I spray you with this air freshener, we'll get rid of that last whiff of
eau de river
. Then you won't have to shy away whenever a Mangé gets close.”

The boat house had proved a port in a storm. We had dragged in the deflated
Nell Gwynn
, the remaining oar, and our luggage. And by the time we had dragged on dry clothes, this place was home. Overlaying the rowing boats, canoes, lawn furniture, and coiled cobras of rope, was the safe, dry, stored-away smell of varnish. I never wanted to leave here. But two hearts can't always beat as one.

Ben wouldn't stand still for me to spray him. He kept hopping around, trying to put on two socks at once. His attempt at perching on a rowboat had resulted in his falling in. Poor darling! Boats had that effect on him one way or t'other.

“Ellie, put that stuff away. It's fly spray.”

“Dear me!” Returning the tin to the shelf, I stuffed
Nell
into her little orange bag. “Darling, why don't you sit on this marble garden seat across from the canoes?”

“You think I've got time for a recess?” Backing up as
he spoke, he sat down involuntarily on the seat in question, which skidded out from under, landing him on his rear. The awaited masonry crash was not forthcoming. A pity Ben did not keep equally quiet. But perhaps this wasn't the time to admonish with, Not in front of the baby. Tossing
Nell Gwynn
on the floor, I rushed to the rescue.

“You call yourself an interior decorator, Ellie? Your marble bench is as light as a melon shell.”

“Hollow is right.” Uprighting the object, I tapped knowledgeably. “Man-made Melolite, circa 1956. Convincing sand cast finish. Wouldn't you think it weighed a stone?”

“Would you mind foregoing the museum appraisal so we can get out of here before we're had up for vandalism? We'll come back for the luggage later.”

“Brilliant,” I agreed. Silly to mind that he hadn't complimented me on my looks. Did he think this navy frock with its sailor collar in poor taste? Usually he liked my hair looped into a plait on my neck, but working with only a compact mirror is never ideal.

Hurrying after him across the island my thoughts were herky jerky. Lamps flickered with glow worm brightness among the trees. A Lilliputian kingdom this. Not much more than three acres. A limestone realm, with stunted trees, an untidy lawn, and gloomy flower beds.

But was it Melancholy Mansion? Could this really be the gothic house featured in the film my mother had made with Theola Faith? Back at the boat house I'd decided I was the dupe of my imagination. Too much
Monster Mommy
. And seeing that televised clip in Boston had dredged up forgotten guilt stemming from not having gone to see my mother in the film. But what I should bear in mind was that she would never have set foot here, even if the house were used for the set. Her part in the chorus had been shot at a nightclub in Chicago. Mounting the rugged steps behind Ben to the front door I wasn't sure of anything except that this could well be the devil's summer residence. Mud Creek would be hell for some people.

“Wonder what they do for electricity?” I watched Ben reach for the knocker, which was in the shape of a clenched fist.

“Imagine they have a generator.”

The door was framed by panels of stained glass. Roman ladies eating grapes. Was that the clump-clump of approaching feet or the echo of the knocker? Wrong on both counts. The culprit was a loose drainpipe smacking against the wall overhead.

Did the island possess a well or must the inhabitants boil and strain river water? What was that? Another false alarm? No! The door was creaking open. Immediately I was ten years old again—sent all alone to visit Great Uncle Merlin.

“Yes?” A flickering light, emanating from a candle, haloed the speaker. He was tall, despite being stooped, and bald as a light bulb. His face was wrinkled, his hands trembled with the palsy, but his ice blue eyes never wavered from our faces. “Your names please?”

“Bentley Haskell.” Why had I never noticed Ben had the smile of a salesman with six starving children and a dying mother at home? “And this my lovely wife Giselle.”

“Late, ain't you!” reproved the Greeter.

Yanking on his tie, Ben almost put himself out of his misery. “My heartwrung apologies! A series of unforeseen, unfortunate occurrences—”

“No excuses!” The candle shook with ire, dripping wax on my hand. “I am the Keeper of the Door. And your instructions was specific. Time of arrival—seven thirty.” Cupping a hand to his ear, the Greeter harkened to a clock chiming five times somewhere in the cavernous house. “You hear that? Twenty minutes past eight. Ain't none gets to thumb their noses at the Mangé mandate. Out! I say, out the both of you.”

“What do you mean, out?” I glared him. “We're not even in!” Blame the hormones, but if this taxidermist's exhibit had been younger, I would have dropped my overnight bag on his foot. “Some ambassador you are! Here we are uprooted from our native soil, weary from crossing the burning plains, to say nothing of braving raging storms and foaming rapids! And all so you can evict us.” Shoving my bag into the breach, I cried, “Take me to your leader!”

“Someone take my name in vain?” The scuffed gravel voice came accompanied by the stomping of feet. “What's all this row? Ain't I never to get five minutes' peace?”

My overnight bag dropped from my hand, the door was
yanked wide open again and behold—an extremely short woman with a hand puppet face appeared, her brownish grey curls bunching out from under a frilled cap. She glared up at us.

“Good evening, I'm Bentley Haskell, and this my lovely wife Giselle.”

“Know yer lines, I'll say that for yer.” Elbowing her cohost aside, she backed up with a sort of gnome hop. “Get yourselves in here, the both of you. Ain't gonna have it said you didn't get to use the bathroom before I threw you out.”