East Hope (11 page)

“My son and I live in Washington,” Caroline said. “It's just the two of us.” The familiar pang of longing clouded her mood. “We live too far away.”

“I'm sorry about your husband.” Mr. Moody shook his head. “You're too young to be left a widow.”

There was nothing she could say to this. Today, for the first time in months, Caroline did feel young, certainly younger than Aunt Lila's lawyer. She felt better that morning. Her stomach had been a little off on the long drive, probably because of something she had eaten in the rest stop on the New Jersey Turnpike. It had been a hot, seemingly endless trip to Connecticut, where she'd spent the night with her mother, Margaret, Peg to her friends. Fortunately the visit was short, though her mother's worries had continued to resonate during the long drive through New England the following day. “Caroline, you shouldn't go off alone; you know nothing about fixing or selling a house, and you don't know a soul up there.” The finale of every conversation: “Why don't you move back to Connecticut and live closer to me and Darcy?”

Ah, yes, she thought. The perfect sister, Darcy. The sleek blond chairwoman of everything. Her husband, Walter, an investment banker, had been Harry's friend. Caroline thought again of Darcy's wedding. In a sea of blue blazers on an August afternoon, Harry had been kind and attentive to Caroline. She had wondered whether Walter had put him up to it. Indeed, he'd probably given Harry the assignment. She imagined their conversation: “Take care of the little sister. The shy redheaded girl, a bit of a flake, the perennial bridesmaid—you know the type.” Harry had surprised them all by falling in love and marrying her.

Caroline's doubts had started to dissipate when she reached the Maine Turnpike. As the temperature dropped she had felt her spirits lift. Vivien was right: It would do her good to get away. With Rob gone she had no reason to stay on in Washington. She'd managed to close up her house, arrange for a lawn service, and leave her forwarding address with the post office. She'd packed up her files as well as the vegetable recipes that Vivien wanted turned into a book. Everything she would need had fit into her aging Volvo wagon.

Now, across from Mr. Moody, she sat a little straighter and made an effort to pay attention.

“Lila put a new roof on a few years back, but the outside needs painting,” Mr. Moody said. “Some of the sills may be rotten. You'll need a carpenter for that.”

“Is there someone you could recommend?” Caroline asked, wondering what that might cost.

Hollis Moody paused and seemed to consider her question carefully. He didn't appear to be in any rush. Before explaining Lila's will, he'd told her that after years of practicing law in Boston he'd retired to Maine and opened an office here in East Hope, where he'd worked part-time ever since. He handled wills and estates, small commercial transactions, a few real estate closings, just enough to “keep the old brain in gear.”

“Vern Simpson would be your man. He's familiar with old houses,” he said, fumbling through the papers on the desk and retrieving a tattered leather address book. “I'll write down the number.” He pulled a pencil from his desk drawer.

While he wrote, Caroline looked around his office. The heavy desk was covered with books and papers arranged in a kind of organized chaos along with a tiered basket, also brimming with papers. There was no sign of a computer, but three huge oak file cabinets with brass drawer pulls covered an entire wall. She sat in one of the two cracked red leather chairs that faced the desk. Everything in the room appeared to be as aged and sensible as Hollis Moody himself.

On the wall behind him hung a huge framed map—a nautical chart, really, of the entire peninsula. The landmass was punctuated by every type of body of water imaginable: bays, rivers, ponds, coves, harbors, and the arc of blue called Eggemoggin Reach. The coastline curved and wiggled in a million configurations, and tiny islands littered the vast open water like starbursts.

Mr. Moody tucked the phone number into the file for Caroline. “Vern's an old codger like me, but he knows what he's doing. Have him look at the furnace too. Lila had some trouble with it her last winter in the house. I'm afraid that after she got sick she let some things go. Old houses on the water can take a beating.”

Caroline nodded. She worried that there might be other problems. She had only a little money left from her work on the cookbook. The balance in her checking account was sinking fast. She hoped it would be enough for the painting and repairs. Her plan was to use the money from the sale of Lila's house to keep her house in Washington for a few more years. “Mr. Moody, I'm so grateful for your help,” she said.

“Nonsense. It's the least I can do for Lila. And call me Hollis, please.”

“I'd be glad to,” she said. Caroline was pleased to find him so helpful. “I understand that you and Lila were good friends,” she said.

Hollis Moody turned toward the window as if to take in the view. His office was on the second floor of an old house on the main street of the village. It was a cool June day. A ray of sunshine shot across his weathered face. “I miss her greatly,” he said. He rested his elbows on the arms of his chair. “There's a lot of history in that house.” He had the hands of a very old man, a relief map of blue veins and bony knuckles.

“After Millie, my wife, died I used to stop by for a drink at Lila's most evenings on my way home. Millie and Lila were close friends. Sometimes I stayed for supper. She was quite a cook.” He turned back to Caroline. His head had an almost imperceptible tremor. She could see that the memory of meals with Lila had cheered him. “She was a real lady, quite an amazing woman—but then, you know that,” he added.

“She was so good to us years ago. My son, Rob, was a little boy when we visited. My husband wasn't able to take a vacation that summer—too much work, I guess. I hardly remember.” What she did remember was the relief of escaping Harry's scrutiny as he watched her for signs of depression, and being able to turn all her attention to Rob, with his little face that blossomed so easily into smiles. “I wish I'd been able to come here more often,” she said.

“The years do slip by, but no matter.” He studied the backs of his hands. “You're here now, and that's what counts.” He leaned back in his chair. “Lila told me you write restaurant reviews.”

“I used to,” she said. “When Rob was little I wrote a family dining-out column, child-friendly sorts of places.” Caroline told Mr. Moody about her writing, her interest in cooking, and her plans for the vegetable book. “Once I get settled, I'd love to have you to dinner.”

“No need for that. You'll be a busy gal with the painting and such. I hope you won't find too many problems.” He lowered his head, then looked up, wrinkling his forehead more. His woolly eyebrows lifted. “I wouldn't mind stopping by for a gin and tonic on the porch, though, once the weather warms up.”

“I'd like that,” she said.

“Lila always added a sprig of mint, never limes. Mint patch is right by the back door.”

“Gin and tonic with mint. Sounds delicious.” She had the sense that there was more he could tell her about Lila and her house, though for now her only concerns were the rotting sills, an ancient furnace, and the much-needed painting. Would she be able to accomplish everything and put the house on the market by August? She wanted to be home in Washington for Rob when he returned from working at the camp.

“Nice view from the back porch.” Mr. Moody rose and gathered his folder of papers and handed them to her, along with a ring of keys. “There's just one other thing.” He seemed to be searching for words, and she waited, hoping there was no other problem with the house. “I've kept the clock going. Grandfather clock in the front hall, belonged to Lila's mother. If it's not wound regularly it will stop. I left the directions on the hall table. Thought it would be nice to keep it ticking awhile longer.” Hollis seemed embarrassed by his obvious emotion.

“I'd be happy to keep it wound,” Caroline said. “It will help me keep track of time. I'm not always good at that.”

He looked relieved. “Call me, now, if there's anything I can do.”

Caroline felt the weight of the keys in her hand. Part of her wished she could linger and hear more about Lila, but she was already worried about what might lie ahead. “Thanks, Hollis,” she said. She turned to leave.

“It's quite a place,” he said.

Caroline stopped and looked back. “Sorry?”

“The house. I think you're going to like living in Lila's house.”

Will stood for a moment taking in his new surroundings. He had just carried his own boxes of books from the car into the shop. He drew his hands to the small of his back and carefully made circles with his head, trying to loosen his neck muscles. Outside the front window the wooden sign was making a rhythmic squeak in the wind. He liked the name of the business, Taunton's Used Books. It had a spare New England sound. It was serious, but not too literary or, God forbid, cute.

Penny, Mr. Taunton's daughter, had shown him around the day before, the second Sunday in June. She was a stocky woman, quite a bit older than he was, wearing jeans and a sweatshirt.

“Sorry about the dust,” she had said. “I work in Belfast. Between that, looking after Dad, the house . . . Just don't get over here much.” She spoke with the clipped vowels of a Maine native, the
here
sounding like “heeya.”

“When did your dad become ill?” Will asked.

“Had the stroke just before Christmas,” she said. “We had hoped he'd be doing better by now. He's eighty-one. Wanted to have one more summer at the shop. He's just crazy about these books.” She sighed deeply, as if weary from just thinking about her father's health. “My husband and I can't bear to sell this place as long as he's alive. Knowing it's here, that he might come back, gives Dad some kind of hope. Know what I mean?”

“Of course.” Will glanced around him. “Don't worry; I can get this place cleaned up in no time.”

“Dad didn't open until the Fourth of July. Not many folks around till then.”

“I'm sure I can have the store ready by the holiday, if not sooner.”

“You can open for business as soon as you like. Now, as for your pay.” She lifted her shoulders and released them. “Like I told you on the phone, you get the apartment upstairs for free and any profits from the books. Afraid that's the best I can do.”

“That will be fine,” Will assured her. He had money in his savings account and knew he could make it on his own for a while. He was energized by the thought of reviving the bookstore. When Mary Beth came in late August he would have something to show for his efforts.

Penny took him upstairs and pointed out the linens and pots and pans, along with the rickety pie safe in the kitchen that held the dishes. While the apartment was plain, and also in need of a good cleaning, it would be comfortable, certainly all that he would need. The old-fashioned spareness had a humble quality that he liked. He eyed a large wing chair by the window that looked like a good place to read.

After Penny showed him the office and the ledger where her father used to record sales and expenditures, Will walked her to her car. He offered to come and see her father.

“It's tough for him to talk,” she said. “Maybe later this summer.” She had said good-bye and driven off, relieved, he had guessed, to have this business off her shoulders for the summer.

Will gathered confidence as he set to work in the store this first morning. The yellow clapboard building looked exactly as it had in the advertisement in
Down East
. The first floor was one large room with shelves along the walls and two banks of bookcases in the middle dividing the space into thirds. There was a small office in the back along with the stairwell leading to the basement and second floor. The apartment upstairs replicated the first floor, with a living room and open kitchen in the front.

The bedroom, directly above the office, held a double bed covered with a candlewick spread like the kind he remembered from his grandmother's house in Rhode Island. The bedroom window overlooked the field behind the building, where glimpses of water shone through the trees. The bathroom, remodeled in the sixties, had ugly peach-colored fixtures. A tattered shower curtain surrounded the tub. He would have to replace that before Mary Beth came.

He had finished cleaning the upstairs and unpacked his things. The next step was to tackle the shop itself. Dust was everywhere. Spiderwebs dangled from light fixtures, and dust balls blew about his feet when he opened the windows to let in some fresh air. Judging from the thickness of the dust, he guessed old Mr. Taunton had not cleaned for several summers. Will didn't mind the physical labor.