The Bilbao Looking Glass (10 page)

She should worry. Maybe Aunt Appie would be so hurt by Sarah’s coldness that she’d never come back, either. With any luck, one might get one’s self ostracized by the entire yacht club set. It was a beautiful thought. Sarah scowled at a sea gull that was loudly demanding a share of her sandwich.

“Shut up and go catch a fish. I’m sick of moochers. Max, do you think I’m getting hardhearted?”

“Me you’re asking?” He pushed up her sleeve and planted a somewhat mustardy kiss in the crook of her elbow. “You’re in a period of transition, that’s what.”

“Where did you pick up that one? Oh, I know. The psychiatrist whose patient pinched his Toulouse-Lautrec.”

“Smart kid. I like this place.”

“So do I. I hope we get to keep it.”

“If you had to choose between this and the Boston house, which would you pick?”

“Need you ask? I’ve been phased out of Tulip Street. Theonia and Brooks and Mariposa and Charles are managing far better than I ever did. Right now I don’t even have a room there.”

She’d turned over her own second-floor suite to Theonia and Brooks, and rented Theonia’s old room on the third floor for the summer to a scholar from Mount Holyoke who was in town doing research on a biography of Phyllis Wheatley. Professor Ormsby was gone and an executive from some computer company who’d just been transferred was living in his place while house-hunting. Even Max’s basement lair had been taken over by an actor friend of Charles’s who was starring in a show at the Wilbur, though nobody knew for how long. There’d have to be a major turnover in the fall, but Sarah didn’t have to think about that now. Maybe she’d never have to bother herself at all.

“I wonder what it would be like living here in the winter?” she said dreamily.

“Cold as hell,” Max grunted.

“Of course the big house would be impossible, but if we insulated the carriage house and put in a couple of wood stoves and a kitchen—”

“Now you’re talking,
kätzele.”
Max took her hand and hauled her to her feet. “Come on, let’s go buy a stove.”

“Why don’t we just walk along the beach and gather driftwood? Then we can curl up in front of the fireplace later and give the project some serious thought.”

“You’re not going to that yacht club thing?”

“What yacht club thing? Oh, you mean Fren Larrington. Certainly not, why should I? I barely know Fren, for goodness’ sake. He never paid the slightest bit of attention to me while Alexander was alive. None of them did, except Bradley Rovedock sometimes, when he happened to be around. They used to treat me like part of the furniture. I don’t know why they’re bothering me now. I suppose they think they’re comforting me in my bereavement, but I wish they wouldn’t.”

Sarah relented and threw the last bit of crust to the still importunate gull. “Besides, that wasn’t an invitation. It was an order Fren had no earthly right to give. I fail to see why I should even dignify it by a refusal. Anyway, with this ghastly business about Alice B., I don’t expect anybody will feel like partying tonight. Fren mustn’t have heard, or else the news hadn’t had time to sink in. He’s pretty dense about everything but sailing.”

“Since you’re free, then, how’d you like to come and meet my Uncle Jake? He was asking me about you last night. He’s staying with Miriam and Ira for a few days.”

“I’d adore to, Max. I wish I could ask them all here instead, but things are in such a turmoil there’s no telling what they’d be letting themselves in for if they came. What time would Miriam expect us?”

“When would you like to go? They generally eat about half-past six so that Mike can get off to his night classes. Is that too early for you?”

“No, but we can’t go barging in at dinnertime without an invitation.”

“Why not?”

Because it wasn’t the done thing; except that among the Bittersohn clan it evidently was. One could always bring something, she supposed. Like Aunt Appie. Sarah began to laugh.

“I know. I’ll throw together a nice tuna casserole.”

Max laughed, too. “What happened to the other one?”

“I was so furious last night that I served it. Nobody ate much—if you’d been around you’d have known why—so I set the rest out for the animals. Maybe it was the raccoons who burned down the boathouse in revenge for their tummyaches. Max, I hate to say this but I have an awful feeling Lionel’s monsters were telling the truth.”

“I don’t like it any more than you do, but I’m afraid you’re right,” he agreed. “I wonder if the arson squad will be able to turn up anything.”

“I hope so. It would be awful, never knowing. Remember that man with the jug of paint thinner who tried to burn down the house in Boston?”

“How could I ever forget? That was the first time you ever bothered to call me up.”

“And I’ve been bothering you ever since.”

“Damn right you have.” He pulled her over to him.

Blam! The noise of a cannon shot reverberated from the cliffside.

“My God!” Bittersohn pushed Sarah face down into the grass and flung himself on top of her. “We’re under bombardment.”

To his amazement, she was laughing. “Thus conscience doth make cowards of us all. That’s the starting cannon for a sailboat race, you idiot. We just happened to hear it more clearly than usual because it’s right below us. They must be practicing for the early regatta. I thought I heard another signal a while back, but one gets so used to them out here, one doesn’t pay attention. Bradley Rovedock’s the starter, I shouldn’t wonder. He never competes because
Perdita
can outsail any other boat in the club. They ought to be sailing past here any moment now.”

“Great,” said Bittersohn in disgust. “With their spyglasses glued to their eyeballs so they can see what we’re up to, no doubt. Let’s go over to the station and watch Ira pump gas.”

“Whatever turns you on, as our dear Miss LaValliere would say. I personally don’t see why we shouldn’t continue to sit here in a sedate and decorous manner, and enjoy the spectacle.”

“You would have to drag in the sedate and decorous manner.”

“One of us has to observe the proprieties. Look, there’s the first sail coming out of the cove now. Fren Larrington, I’ll bet. He’s crowding it on for all she’s worth. Watch, he’s going to pick up that little ruffle of wind you can see on the water out there and stand away from the cliff. A novice would stay close to land thinking to shorten the course, and get hung up in irons, like as not.”

“I didn’t realize sailing was such a brutal sport.”

“Aren’t you the funny one? That just means having the wind dead ahead of you so that you can’t move until you fall off and come about. Fall off doesn’t mean fall off the boat, of course. It’s all very technical. Alexander used to explain this stuff to me. We’d be standing here and—Max darling, I am sorry. I honestly don’t mean to keep running on about the past. It’s just like—oh, your talking about your Uncle Jake. Someone you’ve known all your life.”

“I was never married to Uncle Jake.”

“Max, can’t you understand it wasn’t a bit like you and me? Good heavens, there’s Miffy Tergoyne’s boat. The eighteen-foot gaff-rigged sloop with the red stripe around the hull coming up behind Biff Beaxitt. Biff’s too close-hauled as usual. He’ll jibe if he doesn’t—see there, he just did. Serves him right. I wish I could see who’s sailing Miffy’s boat.”

Rather incredibly, Max took a tiny collapsible telescope out of his pocket. “Give a look.”

“My stars, you do come equipped, don’t you?”

She leaned against him regardless of whoever might be watching from below, and looked up into his face. “I suppose Barbara used to tell you that.”

“Damn it, Sarah, that was a wholly—okay, I get your point. Who’s in Miffy’s boat?”

“I do believe that’s Miffy herself at the tiller, and Lionel handling the sheets. Aunt Appie must be riding herd on the boys. Wouldn’t you know?”

“Some people have a natural taste for martyrdom,” said Max. “Your cousin Lionel doesn’t appear to be one of them, though. To my untutored eye, he and Miss Tergoyne don’t seem to be doing too badly.”

The red sloop, which had been far behind, was beginning to work its way up through the scattering of bright sails and shining hulls.

“They’re doing very well,” Sarah agreed. “Here, want a squint?”

She handed him back his spyglass. “Miffy’s a surprisingly good sailor, and Lionel’s first-rate. He even crews for Bradley at Newport.”

“Who takes care of the kids that day?”

“It’s hardly a one-day affair. I expect Vare’s always been stuck with them. Maybe that’s why she decided she’s through with men. Look, they’re pulling ahead. Fren will be livid.”

“Poor loser, is he?”

“The absolute worst. He’ll be smashing everything in sight at the club tonight, I shouldn’t wonder. The steward keeps a special set of plastic dishes for when Fren Larrington gets skunked in a race. I’m glad we’re not going to be there. Which brings us to the question of what I should take to Miriam. Do you suppose she’d care for some fresh lettuce out of the garden?”

Max said lettuce would be great, so they strolled down to the garden, fought off the gulls, and gathered a fine assortment of early vegetables. Sarah took the stuff back to the house to be washed and crisped in cold water until they were ready to leave; then they went along to find out what progress, if any, was being made among the ruins. They discovered Jed Lomax and his nephew dismantling what little was left of the boathouse and throwing the charred remains into the caretaker’s truck.

“You mustn’t do that,” Sarah cried. “The arson squad is supposed to come and find out how the fire started.”

“They already been,” Mr. Lomax told her. “Brought the insurance adjuster with ’em. Leastways he come about the same time. Pawed around through the ashes for a while and couldn’t find nothin’, so they went away again. Pete an’ me decided we’d better get rid o’ this mess here. Leave it layin’ an’ you’d have a pack o’ young hoodlums up here tonight tryin’ to burn what’s left of it. Don’t worry, Miz Kelling. We’re keepin’ our eyes peeled. If we turn up anythin’, we’ll let you know.”

“What’s your personal opinion, Jed?” asked Max.

“Them damn brats o’ Mr. Lionel’s, if Miz Kelling don’t mind me sayin’ so. I dunno what else it could o’ been, ‘less somebody snuck up in a rowboat an’ took a blowtorch to the shingles.”

“Hardly seems likely, but you never know.”

Max sauntered down to the water’s edge. Sarah followed him. The tide had turned by now, and the stone foundation was bared. They could see where somebody had hacked a date into the rocks. That must have been the year the boathouse was built: 1887. Just short of a century.

One might have visions of dashing young men in thick white flannels and brightly ribboned straw boaters helping muslined young ladies with veils and parasols in and out of well-cushioned punts, if one hadn’t known the Kellings as Sarah did. In fact, the men would have been wearing whatever came handy and the women fending for themselves in draggled cotton skirts and muddy canvas shoes.

There wouldn’t have been any cushions. They’d all have been sunburned and insect-plagued and firm in their conviction that they were setting a good example to the rest of the world. Perhaps the boathouse hadn’t meant as much to the world at large as the Kellings might have thought it did, but its passing marked the end of an era nevertheless. Sarah shivered, wondering if this could be an omen of bigger losses to come.

“S
O I SAID TO
the judge, ‘Your honor, what’s to object? The defendant knows he’s committing perjury, your honor knows it, learned counsel for the defense knows it, the jury knows it. Why should I
verdreh my kop
objecting? Let him talk and lose his own case for me.’ ” Uncle Jake reminded Sarah a lot of her own beloved Uncle Jem, except that his figure was trimmer, his accent different, and his anecdotes funnier. She was having a marvelous time. Her offering of fresh greens had made a big hit since the Rivkins had no space or inclination for a vegetable garden. Miriam had forthwith tossed up a tremendous salad, every leaf of which had got eaten along with a good many other things. Sarah felt as if she’d swallowed a sofa pillow. No matter, she’d work it off tomorrow doing some of the work that hadn’t got done today.

Mike had excused himself and gone off to Boston while they were dawdling over fruit and tea, but it wasn’t until he arrived home again that anybody realized how long they’d sat. Sarah pulled herself together and stood up.

“I’m sorry. I’ve been enjoying myself so much I had no idea how late it is. Max, do let’s leave so these poor people can go to bed. I’m sure Ira has to be at work early tomorrow.”

“Darn right he does.” Ira got up, too. He was a good-looking man with a ready smile and a small spare tire around his waist, which was appropriate to his profession and a natural consequence of Miriam’s superb cooking. He’d been talking in an easy, well-informed way about antique cars, the government’s Mideast policy—not that he really believed it had one—and a surprising range of other topics.

Miriam was as well-up on them all as he, and not always in agreement with her husband’s views. She looked a lot like Max and must be quite stunning when she was dressed up. Tonight she had on a simple denim skirt and a pullover she’d finished knitting for Mike just as he’d outgrown it and wasn’t about to let go to waste.

No Kelling would have faulted that sort of logic. Sarah felt quite at home with the Rivkins, and far better entertained than she would have been with many of her own clan.

“Enjoy yourself?” Max asked when they’d at last got themselves out to his car and headed back to the other end of town.

“Tremendously. I do like them all so much. They seem to like each other, too. Don’t they ever fight?”

“Wait till you meet my mother. If you’re tired, you could put your head on my shoulder,” he added helpfully.

Sarah thought that was a splendid idea, even though it induced Max to put his arm around her and she knew people weren’t supposed to drive one-handed. Somehow that didn’t bother her as much as it should have. She was in a mood of dreamy contentment, until they topped the drive to find the house ablaze with lights and two cars parked out in front.