The Body in the Birches (8 page)

Sophie thought back to her cousin's nuptial announcement yesterday afternoon and realized if this branch of the Proctors was going to continue to stage these performances, she might have to tell her mother she wasn't going to be able to stick it out. She had never thought of herself as a cynic, but she was embracing the philosophy wholeheartedly now, having started after Felicity's
dramatic words. How long had it taken the girl to memorize the speech? There was little chance that it was Felicity's own work—and what kind of books were her relatives reading these days? The script had been a mélange of contemporary bodice-ripper romances and the kind of three-volume novel beloved by the Victorians. And how much arm-twisting, or Pratesi and La Perla trousseau buying, had Uncle Simon done in order to get his darling daughter to move her wedding to the rock-bound coast of Maine from St. Thomas's at Fifth Avenue and Fifty-Third with a black-tie roof garden reception at The Peninsula two blocks away?

Uncle Paul's response had been typical. Gracious but nonspecific and not what Simon, who had certainly thought this would sew it all up for him, expected. Instead of “Oh gosh, I'll pick you, since your daughter will be getting married here; the rest of you can leave now,” Paul had said, “I'm sure that would be lovely, dear. Why don't we sit down with your parents and talk about it later? I was under the impression that you were getting married in December in Manhattan, but Sanpere is a perfect spot for a wedding. Priscilla and I were married here ourselves.” A fact, Sophie noted with her newfound cynicism, known to all of them, as the photo of the couple, the lighthouse behind them, was hanging on the wall next to the stairs with the rest of the family photos. Plus Aunt Priscilla often reminisced about what a wonderful day it had been, friends staying for the week following and no honeymoon, as “who would want to leave this spot?”

Looking at Simon now, who was beginning to run out of steam in the steam heat, reading what Sophie always considered a rather boring piece of Americana when compared with something like the Gettysburg Address, she recalled how he had sidled close to Paul, taking his arm, saying, “We knew that and thought it would be a tribute to you both, as well as ensuring these two will have as happy a marriage as you and Aunt Priscilla did.”

Paul had detached Simon's hand. “Weddings, birthday parties—I think you have one soon, Sylvia—anything anyone
wants is fine. Now I'm off for my walk before the mosquitoes get too bad.”

And that had been that. Most of them trooped after him, game for the pests. It had been a worse season than usual for the state bird, and there had been reported sightings of mosquitoes so large they could provide meat for a family of four. Gift shops were selling small replicas of bear traps guaranteed to protect you, which moved like hot cakes to gullible tourists and flatlanders who hadn't lived in the state long enough to get the joke—say only about ten years.

Sophie had stayed behind. Much as she would have loved a walk, mosquitoes or no, she wasn't about to join the parade. Watching them depart, she was unsurprised to see Will following closely behind.

And now here they were again, starting the Fourth off with a bang, although Uncle Simon's rendition had become more of a whimper.

“Kinda makes you proud to be an Amurican,” a voice behind her said in an exaggerated drawl.

Sophie was startled but recognized the speaker as Will. Once again, she noticed, looking at his feet, he was shoeless. All the better to creep up on people? Or some sort of Southern thing?

He followed her glance. “Got used to going barefoot when I was a kid. We'd take our shoes off the day school ended and put them back on the day it began.”

“You might want some sort of covering if you plan on climbing over the rocks on the beach. The barnacles will tear your toes to ribbons.”

“You sound as if you might enjoy the spectacle.”

Sophie flushed, suddenly aware that all she was wearing was a tank top and running shorts with nothing underneath. It had been too hot to sleep in anything else. She'd been tempted to forgo even these, but the thought of all her relatives in close proximity had made her think again.

“Of course I wouldn't,” she said shortly. “I was merely trying to give you a friendly warning.”

“Much appreciated.” He gestured toward Simon, who was finally winding up the performance. “Are y'all going to be trying to score brownie points like this for the whole month? If so, I just may have to take my uncle on a long sea voyage.”

“I have no idea what we
all,
”—Sophie emphasized the pronunciation, finding Will's accent, which seemed to be in play when he was being his most irritating self, grating—“are planning. I can only say what I am planning and that is to get breakfast ready for those not going to the one in town, then head out to it and the parade.”

Will was obviously one of those people who didn't understand the notion of personal space. She almost had to push him out of the way to get to the door back into the house.

“Loving the outfit,” he said.

Sophie said, “Oooh!” before darting inside. The man was outrageous. Why did he have to be here? It was bad enough to have the family around, but this interloper was making everything worse. Much worse. “Oooh!” she said aloud to herself again for good measure.

“If those are antique cars, I must be an antique, too,” Faith said to Ed Ricks, the man standing next to her watching the parade. Tom had called. Nothing had changed, which was good news, and she'd felt relieved enough to leave the house.

“The rules are bent—and you are in no way an antique. If we didn't have all these tricked-out relatively recent models, the parade wouldn't be long enough, even doubled. Besides, I like to see them when they're not burning rubber on the Fishcreek Road.”

Faith nodded in agreement. Some benighted soul from away had made a short film about the skids—“tire art”—skipping
over the issues of noise, pollution, and the dangerously inebriated states of the drivers. She'd discussed the film last summer with Ed, and they were on the same page. He had elaborated on the drivers' motivations—arrested development, low self-esteem, identification with Burt Reynolds, in a manner appropriate to his profession. Dr. Edwin Ricks was a well-known New York City psychiatrist, often quoted in the
Times
. She hadn't seen him since he'd retired year-round to his summer home on the island last fall and wondered how he'd been faring.

“How did you enjoy island life in the off-season? Any cabin fever?” The winter had been brutal in both Maine and Massachusetts.

“Well, I think I told you that I was planning on catching up on my reading, finally getting the boat in shape to sail it this summer up to St. Andrews,
and
setting up the studio so I could pretend to be a real artist.”

“And?”

“Aside from a little reading, none of the above has been accomplished. You have no idea how busy it is here in the winter, especially since I'm a volunteer with the ambulance corps. That has led to some formal and informal work of the kind I thought I'd left behind. I made the mistake of transferring my license to cover Maine a few years ago, and it's been getting a workout.”

Faith started to reply but was immediately distracted by the group on foot following the float from the Island Nursing Home, an oversize red-white-and-blue-bedecked replica of the surrey with the fringe on top. The residents participating were all sporting vintage hats and were possibly the original owners.

“Oh look, there's Ben!” she said to Ed. She started to jump up and down but quickly kept herself in check, settling for a subtle wave in her son's direction. He towered over his friend Tyler. It was sometimes a shock to see him looking so much like a grown man. She definitely wasn't used to the sound of his voice on the phone yet. It had settled into a rich, deep baritone. Harder and harder to recall childhood days, except when she looked at photographs
and the memories flooded in. She wondered whether the pretty brunette between him and Tyler was Mandy Hitchcock, the driver she'd be entrusting with Ben's life. She sighed. Letting go got harder and harder the older they got. She'd thought the way he walked into his kindergarten class with nary a backward gaze had been tough, but this . . .

Amy had no inhibitions regarding her brother, nor did the Millers, who were all shrieking, “Ben! Ben!” He gave a nod, a faint smile, a British royal family wave, and then faced forward, marching closely behind a young man in a similar shirt and another wearing a chef's hat and a garish Hawaiian shirt with gulls in colors never seen in nature. Faith had heard the chef had worked at a restaurant in Honolulu, and the man beside him in a Lodge shirt must be Ben's boss, Derek Otis. At the judges' stand, a.k.a. the Square Deal Garage's flatbed set up with folding chairs, the group from the Lodge gave a spirited rendition of the George M. Cohan song Faith had heard her son practicing earlier.

She turned back to Ed and picked up the conversation where they had left off. “I'd like to hear about all this. You are providing a valuable service. Tom and I have both thought what the island has needed was a really good full-time shrink. Sorry, that was inappropriate.” She covered her mouth. Talk about slips!

“I don't mind. Feel free to call me whatever you want. But you're right about the need. To cope with the drug use, including the time-tested one here—alcohol—depression, and garden-variety dysfunction, requires many more of me. And let's not forget the family feuds! I have gotten to the point where I want to slap those people who don't live here year-round when they talk about Sanpere as a perfect place where all the local families get along, as if it's some sort of Shangri-la.”

“Until recently,” Faith said, “I would have associated family feuds with the hollers of Kentucky—the Hatfields and the McCoys—but there's one brewing next door to The Pines at The Birches. You may have met Paul McAllister and his late wife, Priscilla.
This month Paul has to choose who will inherit the place from among Priscilla's relatives. They've all gathered to, I suppose you could say, audition.”

“I met them both briefly years ago. Don't get to that part of the island much, but inheritance is a bone of contention about the size of a mastodon's. No names, but I can tell you stories that would curl your hair if it weren't wavy already.”

Thinking how much fun the conversation would be—and a contrast to her tight-lipped husband, who kept the secrets of the confessional, not allowing a single indiscreet morsel drop even with names changed, Faith was about to convey her enthusiasm, when a beeper device on Ed's belt went off.

“Gotta run, talk to you soon,” he called, sprinting away. A few minutes later the parade was halted, and not long after that an ambulance, siren blaring, tore off toward the bridge and the nearest hospital on the other side in Blue Hill. A pall was cast on the proceedings until the mistress of ceremonies, who had been describing each float and group, announced over the speaker system that all was well. An “elderly visitor to our island” had succumbed to heatstroke but was doing fine. He was being transported to the hospital as a precaution.

Amy tugged at her mother's elbow. “You don't think that maybe all that is wrong with Granny is the heat, too?” The hopeful look on her face was heartbreaking.

“I'm sure the heat didn't help, but Granny needs to have something in her heart fixed, and then she
will
be better than ever.”

Ursula stepped in to reassure Amy, too. “Your grandmother is going to be just fine. We're lucky we aren't back in those times without the advanced medical treatments they have now.” She pointed at the Island Historical Society's float, which featured a woman spinning wool, a man with blacksmith's tools, and two children with slates, surrounded by artifacts from the society's small museum illustrating just how hard—and perilous—everyday life had been.

Lowering her voice, Ursula said to Faith, “In this heat, there'll be more dropping before the day is out, which reminds me I want to check on Bev Boynton. I don't see her here, and she never misses the parade. I'll bet she's wearing herself out getting ready for the clambake. Mark said he'd take me back now. See you later.”

“I'll go with you. I'd like to get back, too.” She'd come with Ursula and her grandson. “Ben is getting a ride to work with Tyler's father. The chef said they'd be done in plenty of time for the fireworks, and I'll pick him up at the Lodge then.” No one had clued her in that once she had kids, her whole life would revolve around automobile transportation.

A dark look crossed Ursula's face, and she pointed across the street to the Proctor contingent. Sylvia was shouting at her cousin Simon, and her son was trying unsuccessfully to drag her away.

“Now that's what I call fireworks,” Ursula said.

Why was it, Sophie wondered, that the Fourth of July always seemed so much longer than other summer days? Longer in a good way. Other days were filled with less but seemed to go by quickly. Dusk and fireflies followed close on the heels of morning dew and dragonflies. Maybe it was the sameness.

The clambake was in full swing. People had been coming and going in and out of all the houses on the Point since the parade ended, filling the beach with laughter, enjoying the annual event to the hilt. The pit, so lovingly prepared by Uncle Paul and men from other families—the Usual Suspects, they called themselves—had been the focus for much of the day. The same group had been doing it for years and clearly enjoyed the ritualistic nature of the process, from the preparation, the firing, to the final reveal—the clams opened, lobsters turned a brilliant red, and succulent steamed corn glistening on top.

Bev had produced a seemingly endless number of her baking powder biscuits to sop up the lobster butter, and others had brought
specialties ranging from the Potters' secret family recipe coleslaw (mystery ingredient revealed years ago as a dash of fennel seed), Ursula Rowe's mustard pickles, a vat of fish chowder kept warm on a camp stove, pies of every variety, and this year Faith Fairchild's bread puddings. After helpings of both, the Point's inhabitants had voted Faith an unofficial resident welcome back every year. There were drinks of all kinds, but the most popular was the one that had been served since the first rusticator started the clambake tradition—old-fashioned lemonade, with a twist for the grown-ups, the twist provided by a jigger of gin or vodka. One family brought the clearly marked insulated beverage dispensers each year using the recipe that had been handed down—lemony tart with just enough sugar syrup, summer distilled in a glass.