Summer Beach Reads 5-Book Bundle: Beachcombers, Heat Wave, Moon Shell Beach, Summer House, Summer Breeze (12 page)

“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.

“Good,” 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 cloisonné 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.