The Body in the Birches (7 page)

Paul stopped and reached for the glass of lemonade on the table next to his chair, draining it. Immediately Sylvia and Simon leaped up to refill it, grabbing the handle of the pitcher at virtually the same time.

So that's how it's going to be, Sophie thought dismally.

Simon won, replenishing the glass, and Paul thanked them both.

“Now where was I? Yes, the conditions. Can't be sold, can't be divided, can't be shared. In perpetuity. Priscilla felt strongly about this. I'll continue:

               
“‘I have watched too many families torn apart trying to share a summer place, squabbling over who gets to use it when and even more serious arguments over who pays for what. It costs a great deal to maintain The Birches. There's a fairly new roof, but shingles need replacing all the time. We are part of the Point Family Association, so there are those dues, and other expenses crop up in order to maintain the big dock and the road. Our taxes are high, since we have waterfront. I always enjoy writing that tax check, because it gives back to this island, as do my checks to the volunteer services like the fire department and ambulance corps. I would hope all of you, not just the person Paul selects, do this on occasion. Now, this said, it would be more than understandable for any of you
to opt out of consideration. Just tell Paul. Old houses are a joy—and a burden
.

               
“‘My hope is that whoever takes The Birches on will make it available to the whole family as Paul and I have, but that person needs to understand that he or she is solely responsible for it. I would also hope that no significant changes to the exterior or interior be made. I believe one of the things that makes The Birches special to our family is the lack of change. It really is our history and keeps on being so for each generation. I have loved watching you young people grow up here, and your children as well.'”

Sophie found herself close to tears. She missed Aunt Priscilla as never before. Uncle Paul was reading, but it was his wife's voice Sophie heard, almost as if Priscilla Proctor McAllister were reading it aloud herself.

Daisy got up from the floor where she'd been sitting at her mother's feet and went to get a cookie. Sylvia snatched at her daughter's tee shirt and pulled her back down. “Not now!” she said.

Paul immediately took note.

“Let's have a pause so everyone can refresh glasses and get some of Bev's cookies. I want one myself. I should have warned you that it was a long epistle. Bathroom break, too.”

At first no one moved, then everyone did at once. Sophie wanted neither the bathroom nor Bev's treats. She wanted air and went out onto the porch.

“Pressure getting to you?” Will's words dripped with sarcasm but acted like a bucket of cold water. Sophie swallowed the sobs that had threatened. He must have known Priscilla. How could he seem so uncaring, listening to what were some of her last words?

“What is that supposed to mean?” she shot back.

“Just what I said. I imagine a hotshot lawyer like you is pretty competitive. No doubt you'll want to be the winner of this nutty contest.”

Ignoring the first part of his sentence, Sophie asked, “Why are you calling it ‘nutty'?”

He walked over to the railing and stood next to her. Sophie noticed he was barefoot. That's why she hadn't heard him come up behind her on the porch. His hair was damp; he must have just taken a shower, unless he was hardy enough to swim in these waters, which she doubted. Anyway, he didn't smell like salt, but something else. Something like plain old Ivory soap, a clean smell. Ian had had a wonderfully distinctive smell, his own private label aftershave concocted by Trumpers of Mayfair. She pushed the thought firmly away.

“I should have said ‘cruel,' not ‘nutty.' Now, don't go nutty yourself. I liked Priscilla—no, I loved her—but she shouldn't have put my uncle in this position. She should have chosen an heir herself, written it in her will with the rest of the stipulations, all to be revealed after his death, leaving him safely out of it.” He cocked his head toward the door. “And he's ready to finish. At least for now.”

Sophie followed him back into the room. It was stifling after being outside. She hated to admit it, but Will was right.

“Everyone all set?” Paul said. “There's not much more:

               
“‘Some of you will think me horrid or worse for leaving this crucial decision to Paul.'”

Sophie looked over at Will, who seemed as startled as she was. It was as if Priscilla had been eavesdropping on them.

               
“‘I have been blessed with two happy marriages and do not intend to jeopardize the present one before shuffling off this mortal coil, but Paul will tell you that the plan is his and his alone. He knew that I was getting more and more worked up about whom to pick. As he has so often done before, he took charge of my cares and assumed them himself. What he so
lovingly said to me was, “You'd have to live the time you have left anticipating those not chosen's feelings of hurt. The thought that you had slighted them, loved them less than the others, would plague you, and you'd also keep changing your mind. This way your memory of them stays the way it should, and you don't have to think about The Birches at all.”'”

Paul sat down. “I'm not finished, but my legs are getting tired. What she wrote is true. You're all dear to me, but not kin except by marriage. It's not that I don't care what you think of me, but . . .”

Will emerged from the shadows, deeper now as the afternoon waned. “But he doesn't. No worries, Uncle. Better to spell it out. You're not emotionally involved the way Aunt Priscilla was, so you can be objective.” He looked around the room, and Sophie once again thought what she had realized before. Will Tarkington wasn't here to drive his uncle around, do the odd job. He was here to protect Paul McAllister.

Protect him from all of them.

Casting an affectionate glance at Will, Paul said, “Be that as it may, let's get to the end of the letter:

               
“‘I have asked Paul to invite whomever wishes to inherit to come for the Fourth of July and stay for the rest of the month as work and other commitments permit. He will announce the legatee on July thirty-first, or earlier should he choose. It may be that only one of you will want to take The Birches on
.

               
“‘A final note: Paul may also opt to choose no one, although I think that is unlikely and hope the situation will not arise. If it does, however, the house and contents will be put up for sale and the proceeds will go to the Island Community Center to help fund their programs, especially the Food Pantry and Fuel Assistance Fund. That will also be the case should the legatee seek to sell the property him or herself
.

“‘From this point on—the date indicated next to my signature below—all decisions regarding the property known as The Birches are Paul McAllister's and Paul McAllister's alone
.

               
“‘My love
,

               
“‘Aunt Priscilla.'”

Paul folded the sheets and put them back in the envelope. “There is a notarized copy of the letter with our lawyer, but I'll leave this here on the table, so you can read it over if you like. Now, I for one am going to take a long walk through the woods to the other side of the Point, and then come back for a martini. Anyone who cares to may join me for either or both.”

The room rose as one, but it was Felicity who strode to her uncle's side and assumed center stage.

Looking first toward the ceiling with a rhapsodic look on her face—seeking divine inspiration?—she said solemnly, “Whether I myself or anyone else in my immediate family is bestowed with the honor that guardianship of The Birches would bring, I hope, Uncle Paul, that you will permit my nuptials to take place here in August. As I have told my fiancé, who will be joining us on Saturday or sooner, time and time again: there is no spot on earth that means as much to me, and it's where I want us to plight our troth.”

She flashed a triumphant smile, which was almost simultaneously duplicated by her parents and brother.

Advantage Team Simon.

The Fourth had dawned hotter than any day so far. A scorcher. Faith walked into the kitchen at The Pines for something very cold to drink. The idea of a cup of hot coffee made her gag, and she wasn't at all hungry. The rest of the house seemed still asleep, including her children.

When she'd picked Ben and Tyler up at the Lodge last night both boys had been sweaty and tired, but filled with enthusiasm about the dishwashing job. She listened while they explained in excruciating detail how to run the industrial machine and how you had to sort the silverware into the compartments by type so it would be faster to unload and put away—all things she knew as a professional caterer but pretended not to know as a mom. She hoped they would always be as excited about their jobs. The boys were not going to miss the parade for work after all, as they weren't scheduled for the breakfast shift. In fact, they were going to be
in
the parade, they announced proudly. They'd be marching behind a giant papier-mâché gull, a
Leucophaeus atricilla,
that the Otises had had made. The Lodge had supplied them with high-quality cotton forest-green polo shirts, their elaborate logo—a laughing gull with outstretched wings curved around
THE LAUGHING GULL
LODGE, SANPERE ISLAND, MAINE
—machine embroidered on the pockets. In this heat she'd try to get Ben to wear a lighter tee until the start of the parade—if she could get him to relinquish what was obviously a garment on par with cloth of gold.

Gert Prescott, who had been working at The Pines since her teens, many, many years ago, was squeezing lemons at the counter next to the sink.

“Good morning, Faith. Mrs. Rowe is out taking her walk. There's iced coffee in the fridge, and I'm making a few more gallons of lemonade for the picnic. We're going to need it.”

Gert made her iced coffee the way Faith did, freezing coffee in ice cube trays to add to each glass, so the drink didn't get diluted. Faith poured a tall glass for herself with several cubes, adding milk and sugar, which she didn't take in hot coffee but always did in iced.

“Want some?” she asked Gert.

“Thank you no, my teeth are floating now. I guess this heat is because of all that climate change stuff we hear so much about.”

“I'm afraid so. I can't remember when people have talked about the weather more. It's the first thing anyone says. I'm ready to declare a moratorium, the way Mark Twain did in one of his books. He thought all the weather descriptions got in the way of the story, so he put them at the end for those who couldn't do without.”

Gert laughed. Faith knew she was a reader and would like the reference. “
Huckleberry Finn
was my dad's favorite book. Think he wouldn't have minded rigging up a raft himself and taking off across the Reach and out into Jericho Bay.”

Faith finished her coffee. The idea of going to the town's pancake breakfast was not appealing. Nothing on the island was air-conditioned except for a few of the new enormous piles put up along the shore by people from away and one beautifully restored Victorian in Granville by some people from Texas who had not remotely considered a house could be a home without AC. They
had become friends of Faith's and had urged her to come sleep there with her family. She wouldn't take them up on it, but maybe she would pay a call.

“If I don't get the kids up for the pancake breakfast, they'll be upset, and Ben is marching in the parade with the group from the Lodge, so he has to get to the gathering spot by the VFW Hall early. I'm thinking I might stay here in case Tom calls again. Pix could drive everyone over.”

Faith hadn't heard back from Tom since last night's call saying he was at the hospital and had spoken to the doctor. Marian was getting oxygen and was comfortable. The preliminary diagnosis was something called mitral regurgitation. It was very common, Tom said, and treatable. There were a number of possible procedures. Although it was extremely serious, she wasn't in any immediate danger, so they weren't rushing her into surgery but monitoring her instead—at least overnight and possibly longer. Her vitals were all good. But no matter what was decided, she was going to be in the hospital a while.

Marian had told Dick in no uncertain terms to go home. She didn't want to worry about him, now that Tom was there. Faith was sure her mother-in-law's freezer was well stocked but figured Tom might have taken his father to a local place, The Tinker's Son, as close to an Irish pub as you could get outside Dublin, for shepherd's pie and a pint. Dick had developed a fondness for it, and the family that owned the place. This was the kind of comfort he needed at the moment. An impersonal, personal place where he wouldn't see anyone in a white coat or have to respond to a family member's well-meant concern.

Tom had said he'd phone this morning before Faith would have to leave for the various Independence Day festivities. He was adamant that she go, saying it would reassure the kids. That argument had swayed her last night, but now she wasn't sure. She'd kept herself from calling earlier; but Tom still hadn't called. Maybe she should try now.

“If your mother-in-law had taken a bad turn in the night, you would have heard,” Gert said. “I'll be here until it's time for the picnic and won't leave the phone. Get the kids up now. There's cold juice and some Morning Glory Muffins to tide them over until the breakfast.”

“I just wished my cell phone worked here,” Faith said.

“I'm not sure everyone on Sanpere would agree with you. Me for one. Don't know why we need those ugly towers when this one has been just fine.” She pointed to the wall phone, circa 1967. It still had a dial. The phones in the living room and up in Ursula's bedroom had been replaced with push-button models, but Gert had clung to this one.

Ursula entered through the back door.

“It's going to be one for the record books,” she said.

“Let me get you a cold drink,” Faith said. “Iced coffee?”

“Perfect and I'll have a muffin. Sit down and have one with me if you haven't eaten already—or have another. It's too early to go to the pancake breakfast yet. Let the kids sleep.”

Faith decided to join her. Now that she'd cooled off with the iced coffee, the Morning Glory Muffins suddenly seemed appealing. Gert also called them “Everything-but-the-Kitchen-Sink” muffins, and today's had ground walnuts, coconut, dried cranberries, and applesauce mixed into the oatmeal and whole wheat flour batter.

Ursula had the look of someone with a tale to tell. She was the kind of gossip Faith loved—eager to share juicy tidbits, but never mean-spirited. She started with what was uppermost in all their minds, however.

“Tom hasn't called yet? You would have told me. Don't read anything into it. Marian is probably sound asleep, which, this being a holiday, they'll allow. Otherwise when you're in the hospital, it's up before the light of day to take your temperature for the ninetieth time.”

Faith shook her head. “No, he hasn't—and I'd like to wait
here. Maybe Pix, Sam, or one of the others if they've arrived can come get you and the kids for the breakfast.” The Miller children seldom missed the Fourth on Sanpere.

Ursula patted Faith's hand. This was the equivalent of a bear hug from this many-generations New Englander, and Faith knew it. It also was a demonstration of how fond Ursula was of Marian. They often met for lunch at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum, and Faith thought of these two as latter-day reincarnations of Mrs. Jack—feisty and to thine own selves true.

Gert set a basket of muffins, plates, knives, and butter on the table. She poured herself some coffee and sat down.

“Well?” she said, looking at Ursula.

“Well what?” Ursula gave a mischievous smile.

“What did you pretend we needed from The Birches?”

“I didn't pretend we needed anything. I just thought taking the path through the woods for my morning walk would be nice and shady. And incidentally I saw that Dwayne Hitchcock, hard to miss him, probably on his way to check out our woodpile, and Paul's. See how much he could liberate for winter this time. When I got to the house, I found I was a little tired, so Bev invited me into the kitchen and gave me a glass of her lemonade.”

Faith could count on one hand the number of times she had ever heard Ursula Lyman Rowe say she was tired, and four of those had been when she was quite ill.

Gert laughed and lavishly buttered a muffin. Before taking a bite, she said, “Let's compare notes.
I
thought it would be a nice shady walk after dinner last night and Bev gave me lemonade, too. Started to spill the beans on the meeting, but then Sophie—Babs's daughter—walked in. She's a helpful little thing. Bev is feeling the heat terrible, and Sophie has pretty much taken over the kitchen.”

“Not so little,” Faith said. “I ran into her in the market and she's turned into a beauty—but she has to be six feet tall. She used to babysit for us and I almost didn't recognize her.”

Ursula gave Faith a stern look. They were getting off topic and
they didn't have much time before
they
would be interrupted, too. Ben and Amy were definitely up from the noise of running water from the upstairs bath and what sounded like “(I'm a) Yankee Doodle Dandy” not sung by James Cagney. Ben had said something about singing while they marched today. This must be it, or he was watching very different movies from his usual anime.

“Sorry!” Faith said and took a bite of her muffin to signify her intent to keep her mouth otherwise occupied.

“Bev told me last night that Paul had gathered everyone together and read them the letter that Priscilla had left,” Gert said. “The only person missing was Babs, and that's because she's on some cruise in Greece with whichever number husband she's on. Anyway, Bev thought some of them weren't happy to see her there in the room while it was all going on, but she's never paid any mind to things like that and just plunked herself down. That nephew or whoever he is of Paul's was there, too.”

“But I thought only direct Proctor descendants could inherit the place?” Faith said.

“True,” Gert answered. “But Bev thinks he's come up to keep an eye on them all. Wouldn't put it past some of that crew to bump Paul off and forge his signature, leaving the place to him—or her.” She gave a laugh.

“I told you when I heard about this ‘contest,' I didn't like it,” Ursula said, “and the conversation
I
just had with Bev is proof positive.” Her tone indicated that as far as she was concerned Gert wasn't joking.

“She didn't get to tell me anything more than who was there,” Gert said, looking slightly put out. “And her lemonade needs more sugar syrup.”

“It's going to be a very long month for Paul if they all stick around,” Ursula continued, sighing. “Bev said he'd barely finished reading the letter, which, by the way, is lying on that big table in the living room where there's usually a jigsaw, before they were all angling to be his best friend. Sticking to him like glue when
he went for a walk and then all the rest of the evening. Paul had two martinis, and that's not like him. This whole business could turn him into a dipsomaniac. Priscilla couldn't have thought this through. The letter says that it was all Paul's idea. That he wanted to spare her the aggravation of having to choose. Wanted her not to worry about what they'd think of her—those who didn't get the place—when she was gone.”

Faith thought it best not to say what she was thinking, that “gone was gone.” Her views on the afterlife were a bit amorphous, and despite being a minister's granddaughter, daughter, and wife, not something she had spent a great deal of time thinking about. Gert, however, was a devout member of one of the island's many evangelical churches, and Faith had no wish to suggest that heaven as a happy, haloed reward might not be a given. As for Ursula, whatever her beliefs, Faith was pretty sure she shared the opinion that it was a bit selfish of Priscilla, wherever she was, to leave Paul with this mess.

“It sounds like junior high. Who gets to be the most popular kid's BFF.” Faith had finished her muffin and stood up. She needed to get the kids downstairs, then call over to the Millers' to have someone pick them up for the breakfast and parade. She wasn't leaving the phone.

“What I'd do is send the whole bunch of them away, now that he's read them the letter, and pick a name out of a hat at the end of the month,” Gert said.

“He won't do that,” Ursula said sadly. “He's too good. This is what Priscilla wanted, so he'll carry out her wishes. He's stuck with them. But I'll mention the hat idea. If he decides to do it and tells them now, it could save a great deal of aggravation—and his liver.”

Oh puhleeze, Sophie said to herself when she was awakened at dawn by the sound of someone's voice drifting in the open window
from the shore. Upon hearing the words “Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness,” she got out of bed and went through the kitchen into the living room and out onto the porch.

Uncle Simon was reading the Declaration of Independence aloud from the top of the rock on the shore nearest the house. He was wearing the Brooks brick red chinos with a knifepoint crease so beloved by the males of his class—the maid must pack with tissue paper, Sophie thought. Aunt Deirdre had never ironed a garment in her life. In honor of the holiday, he'd paired the pants with a patriotic blue-and-white wide-striped short-sleeved shirt.

Sophie could have told him his efforts both oratorical and sartorial would be wasted, as Uncle Paul never got up until he could make it to catch the parade on its return trip back through the village. Over the years, he had it timed perfectly and never missed. She was happy to see that she was right. Paul McAllister was absent, but Aunt Deirdre was there snapping photos from under a big navy straw hat bedecked with a star-studded red bandanna around the rim. Cousin Forbes, garbed the same as Simon, except in Bermuda shorts that someone with his knobby knees should avoid—was recording the performance on video. Presumably for posterity, but no doubt also to show Uncle Paul in a studied, offhand way later. Sophie could just hear him—“Oh, might want to have a look at father's reading this morning. The dawn was particularly striking.” Felicity, looking a bit less enthusiastic than the rest of the family, but in a red-white-and-blue-striped sundress—the colors obviously de rigueur today—was clutching a cup of coffee and trying to get comfortable on the rock she'd obviously chosen as most picturesque.