The Sense of Reckoning (8 page)

Chapter 10

1936

Six-year-old Chip Lynam was examining the equipment that would smooth the ground where the hotel’s new croquet court was to be built when he saw Uncle Edward’s truck trundle up the drive, his mother in the passenger seat. He ran to the veranda, snapping a flower off one of the potted geraniums as he passed. He slipped in the side door to the lobby, skirted the registration desk where Amy, one of the new hires, was chatting with a guest, and snuck down the hall to the kitchen. He was relieved not to have run into his father, who didn’t like seeing Chip in the public areas of the hotel. He scrambled up on a stool at the end of the counter, the flower hidden behind his back.

His mother came through the back door followed by Uncle Edward, who was carrying a box of produce. Uncle Edward was the new cook, one of several new hires who were filling up the staff rooms on the top floor of the hotel. He was the most fun of any of them—he let Chip sit in the kitchen with him and told him stories about growing up in Canada. Sometimes he played catch with Chip on the gravel drive outside the kitchen entrance. Chip didn’t have a lot of experience with catch and wasn’t very good, but Uncle Edward, who had not only lived in another country but also seemed pretty smart about sports, had given him some tips and he was getting better.

His mother unpinned her straw hat and put it on a shelf next to the back door, then joined Uncle Edward at the big worktable in the center of the kitchen to sort through the produce. Uncle Edward said something—Chip didn’t catch what it was—and his mother laughed. Chip loved to watch his mother when she was happy. She had been happier now that there were more guests and they had been able to hire some help.

Her dark hair was pulled back and caught in a small clip at her neck. Her dark eyes danced with a smile as she chatted with Uncle Edward. Her arms were rounded where they extended from the sleeves of her flowered dress, but her waist was small. Best of all was her skin—pinkish and smooth, like the inside of a rose petal.

She turned from the worktable to the sink, a small smile still flickering on her lips, while Uncle Edward continued to sort through the produce. She washed her hands then dried them, her smile gradually fading. She turned the towel in her hands much longer than Chip thought was needed to get them dry, her movements rote, her expression distracted. She gazed out the window where the afternoon sun brightened the trees and set off a sparkle on the water beyond.

She absently folded the hand towel and laid it on the counter next to the sink. She patted her hair and, discovering a strand that had come loose from the clip, unfastened the clip and began smoothing her hair back to reattach it.

Just at that moment, Uncle Edward glanced up from the pile of vegetables and noticed Chip. “Hey, sport, whatcha up to?”

His mother turned, framed in the window. Wisps of hair caught the backlight. There was a moment before her eyes focused on him. Where a minute before she had been lively and laughing, she now looked weary and distracted.

Then her eyes found him. She swept her hair back and caught it in the clip, then crossed the kitchen to where he sat and tousled his hair.

“What are you doing inside on such a pretty day, my little man?” Her voice had a hint of a French lilt, inherited from parents who had never bothered to learn English after they moved to Mount Desert from Quebec after the Great War.

“I brought you a flower!” He produced the flower from behind his back.

His mother smiled at him. “That’s nice of you to think of bringing me a flower, but perhaps you shouldn’t pick your gifts from the flowerpots on the veranda.”

Chip flushed.

“But it’s very pretty, Chip. Thank you.” She kissed him on top of the head. She took one of the small bud vases that, with a rosebud from the garden, had decorated the tables at breakfast, added Chip’s flower to it, and set it on the window ledge over the sink.

Uncle Edward disappeared into the pantry just as Chip heard the clack of heels coming down the hallway that led from the lobby to the kitchen. Amy appeared at the door.

“Mrs. VanValin would like tea on the veranda.”

“Milk or sugar?”

“Just sugar.”

“Alright. Thank you, Amy, it will be out in a minute.”

Amy nodded and disappeared back through the door.

His mother put the kettle on and prepared a tray with a china cup and saucer, teaspoon, tea strainer, sugar bowl, and sugar tongs. She folded a cloth napkin on the corner of the tray and, glancing around the kitchen, added one of the other bud vases to the tray (not, Chip was happy to see, the one with his flower in it). When the kettle whistled, she used the boiling water to warm a small teapot, then added the tea leaves and filled the pot. She went to the door to the hall, pushed it open, and glanced out. Through the open door, Chip could hear Amy’s voice in conversation with a guest. His mother started to remove her apron and then glanced at Chip. He sat up straighter. She examined him appraisingly and then a small smile tugged at her mouth.

“Do you want to bring Mrs. VanValin her tea?”

Chip could scarcely believe what he was hearing. He scrambled down from his stool and crossed to the counter where the tray was. His mother hefted it experimentally, then removed the flower vase.

“It’s going to be heavy,” she said.

“I can do it,” said Chip, reaching out his arms.

“Alright then.” She lifted the tray by its handles and bent down to hand it to him. “Now don’t try to hold it out from your body, rest the back of the tray on your belly.” She got the tray positioned. “Now hold onto the handles.” He gripped the handles. “Have you got it?” He nodded vigorously. “I’m going to let go now, you let me know if it’s too heavy.” He nodded again, his eyes glued to the tray. Gradually his mother released the weight onto his hands then, letting go, stepped back. “Okay?” He nodded again, too nervous to speak. “Let me get the door for you. Walk very slowly, and watch the sill.” Chip inched toward the door. “That’s it. Still okay?” Chip was too focused on keeping the tray level to nod. His mother opened the door. “You go ahead, I’ll get the doors for you.”

Chip inched gingerly across the kitchen and stepped over the sill, the cup rattling ominously on its saucer. The hallway to the lobby, which he normally skipped through in an instant, suddenly looked as long as a bowling alley. He switched from a walk to a shuffle, which seemed to keep the china quieter. He could hear his mother following him down the hallway, but he didn’t dare turn around to look at her.

“Very good, Chip,” she said when he got to the end of the hall. A group of young women was chatting near the fireplace. One of them saw him and nudged her neighbor and gestured with her chin and her friend turned to watch Chip carry the tray through the lobby. Behind the registration desk, Amy glanced up.

“Oh, Mrs. Lynam, I can get that,” she said, starting around the desk.

“No need, Amy, Chip’s got it.”

His mother passed him to open the screen door to the veranda. “Mind the step down,” she murmured.

Chip’s arms were starting to shake, the cup and saucer rattling.

“Where’s Mrs. VanValin sitting?” she asked Amy.

“Right around the corner,” Amy said, sounding anxious.

His mother came up behind him and put her hand on his shoulder. “Right around the corner, Chip,” she said.

Chip felt as if his arms were going to crack off, like a too-small tree branch he had once tried to swing from. He shuffled down the veranda and around the corner of the building and almost ran the tray into Mrs. VanValin’s wooden rocker. Mrs. VanValin was turned in her chair, having been alerted to Chip’s approach by the rattling, which was reaching machine-gun proportions.

“Well, if it isn’t young Master Lynam,” she said. She pulled out a wicker table from next to her chair and reached for the tray. “May I take that from you?”

“I can do it,” squeaked Chip tautly. With his last bit of strength, he hoisted the tray up and crashed it down onto the table.
 

Mrs. VanValin jumped. “Heavens!” she said, putting her hand to her wattled throat.

Chip stepped back and looked in consternation toward his mother. She stepped forward to survey the tray. “All in order,” she said. “Will there be anything else, Mrs. VanValin?”

“No thank you, Mrs. Lynam. Thank you, Chip.” She pulled a coin purse out of a bag of knitting next to her chair, removed a quarter, and held it out to Chip. Chip looked at his mother again.

“Oh, no need, Mrs. VanValin, Chip’s just practicing for when he’ll be running the hotel.” She rested her hand on his shoulder for a moment, then said, “Come along, Chip.”

He followed her back inside, his fingers cramped, his aching arms hanging at his sides, his legs trembly.

Maybe things had turned around. Maybe he would always be this happy.

Chapter 11

Ann and Scott ate a breakfast at the inn featuring blueberries in many forms. They were the only guests and the innkeeper, Nan, who had returned from her errand of the previous night to resume her duties, hovered about with offers of additional pancakes or coffee top-offs. She seemed especially intent on fattening up Ann.

“I hope Maisie took good care of you when you checked in,” she said.

“Ah, Maisie,” said Ann.

“Yes. How did she introduce herself?” asked Nan nervously.

“Oh, definitely ‘Maisie,’” said Scott.

After breakfast they headed out for Ann’s appointment with Garrick. The morning sun hadn’t done much to dispel the chill of the previous night, and Ann pulled her parka more snugly around her—she had lost her resistance to cold along with her weight.

They took Main Street north out of Southwest Harbor, past the prosperous-looking storefronts and the tiny shingled library set back from the street behind a tiny square of lawn. The businesses spaced out as they left town, giving way to white clapboard houses sitting close to the road, some advertising services such as landscaping or small-engine repair, a number with For Sale signs posted. Soon, the deciduous trees near town gave way to pines, beyond which rose the gray-green mounds of low mountains. Blocky granite outcroppings pushed out of the pebbly soil. They passed a body of water on their left, the October sun glinting on its surface. Ann glanced down at a map Nan had given them on which she was following their progress.

“That’s Echo Lake. Look,” she said to Scott, pointing at the map. “All the bodies of water run north to south.”

“Glaciers. They scraped out the valleys.”

“How do you know this stuff?”

“Didn’t you have one of those books about the island in your room?” asked Scott. “It has lots of interesting stuff in it.”

“If you were left at the kitchen table with a cereal box, you’d find something interesting on it,” said Ann with a smile.

“Never underestimate the educational value of a cereal box,” said Scott.

Soon after they left Echo Lake behind, another body of water appeared on their right—Somes Sound, which cut through the middle of Mount Desert Island and, according to Ann’s internet research, separated the quiet western side from the more touristy eastern side. Pine woods gave way to leafy trees and the ubiquitous white clapboard houses as they approached Somesville, where Garrick lived and conducted his consulting business. They passed a ridiculously picturesque church—more white clapboard—whose steeple balcony was encircled by a white picket fence.
 

“Here we are,” said Scott, pulling up across the street from a nineteenth-century Federal-style house whose light gray clapboards looked renegade among the uniform white of the other buildings. The fact that Garrick ran his business from the house was indicated only by a small brass sign that read “Garrick Masser, Consulting.”

“I don’t know how long I’ll be,” said Ann. “Do you want to go do something and I’ll call you when I’m done?”

“Sure,” said Scott. “There’s supposed to be a cute building down the road, I think I’ll go take some pictures of that. Also there’s a library, maybe I’ll check that out.”

“Another one? There’s one right down the road in Southwest Harbor.”

“There are loads of libraries on this island,” he said enthusiastically.

“How do you know that?”

Scott raised his eyebrows.

“Book in the inn?”

“I told you it had interesting stuff in it.”

Ann patted Scott’s knee. “I’ll call you when I’m done.” Scott waited until she had crossed the road before pulling away.
 

She took a flagstone walk across the small, minimally landscaped yard, crossed the bare, freshly swept porch, and tapped the door with the heavy brass knocker.

In a moment, the door swept open and Garrick Masser stood in the doorway. Even with his perennially stooped posture he stood over six feet tall, and with his hooked nose, longish hair—black shot with gray—and gaunt frame he brought to mind an emaciated vulture.

“Ann, my dear,” he said in a gloomy monotone.

“Hi, Garrick,” said Ann. She took a step forward, then pulled up short when Garrick didn’t stand aside to let her in. Instead, he peered around and behind her—as if, Ann thought, he was looking for another visitor. Then she realized that was exactly what he was doing. She stood still under this scrutiny until Garrick uttered a muffled “hmph” and beckoned her inside.