Authors: Antoinette Stockenberg
Safe Harbor (62 page)
"
Yes, I suppose you
'
re right,
"
Cornelius Eastman said, annoyed. He looked at his housekeeper.
"
Netta? Would
—? No, no, you have more than enough to do already,
"
he said quickly, withering beneath her baleful look.
He turned back to his son.
"
Well, Jack, I guess you
'
re the only one with the resources. Have Cynthia at the shipyard look into it and make the arrangements.
"
"
Dad, that
'
s absurd,
"
Jack said sharply.
"
She has her hands full, especially this week. We
'
re revamping our billing system
—
"
Netta leaned closer to Jack
'
s ear and said,
"
If I could have a word with you, sir. I think I can help you out.
"
She picked up her basket of broken crockery and led the thoroughly irritated son into the relative quiet of the kitchen.
It distressed Netta to see the household in such chaos. It used to be such a quiet, well-ordered place. Too quiet, perhaps; but at least Jack could bring his work home every night as he struggled to keep the family shipyard afloat. Now, he hardly ever bothered coming home before they were all asleep.
Could anyone blame him? His own mother had fled from East Gate, even though she and Cornelius had lived there every summer of their long marriage. Could anyone blame
her?
To have her husband
'
s illegitimate daughter under her own roof, over her own objections.
Well.
It was all scandalous, it really was.
Not that Netta hadn
'
t longed for the sound of children under the old slate roof. But they were supposed to be Jack
'
s children, happy children,
nice
children, and Mrs. Eastman was supposed to cherish them, the way a proper grandmother should. But she wasn
'
t the proper grandmother! And in any case, she was in
Capri
. It was all such a mess.
Netta closed the door on the barks and shouts and turned to her adored Jack. He did look bad: tired, and worn, and used up with worry over the failing shipyard and his mother
'
s hurt. As for Cornelius Eastman, well, he was obviously slipping into dotage, insisting that Caroline and Bradley stay at East Gate.
But that wasn
'
t today
'
s problem.
"
What is it, Netta?
"
Jack said irritatedly.
"
Have you found the perfect nanny for our little Caroline?
"
Netta snorted.
"
That
machine hasn
'
t been invented yet. No, but I do know someone who can take this birthday party off your hands. You know the little cottage to the west? It
'
s been sold to a nice young lady named Liz Coppersmith. She designs
—
I think that
'
s how she described it
—
events for people.
"
"
This is a birthday party, darlin
'
,
"
Jack said, helping himself to a mug of coffee.
"
Not a wedding. I
'
m not inclined to waste money on frivolity just now.
"
"
You never are, Jack,
"
said his housekeeper with a dry look.
"
Not if you can pour it into the shipyard instead. But you heard your father. H
e wants a party for his dau ...
for Caroline.
"
"
Yeah, well, he also wants the
ship
yard to stay solvent,
"
Jack said with a black look.
"
He
'
s on the fence about that, and you know it,
"
Netta said flatly.
"
You
want to keep it. But your father
—
he
'
s tired of the struggle, and he
'
d maybe like to sell. So don
'
t go using that as an excuse, my boy.
"
Netta had no need to mince words with Jack. It was one of the perks of having basically raised him. His own mother, though she loved her son, would not have felt so free to scold.
Jack took a sip of the just-brewed coffee, burned his tongue, swore, slammed down the mug, and said,
"
Fine.
We
'
ll have the damned party!
"
"
It
'
s only a little thing,
"
Netta said, wrapping her ample arm around Jack
'
s waist and giving him two quick squeezes.
"
It won
'
t make the difference between bankruptcy or not.
"
Jack laughed softly and swung his own arm around his portly housekeeper
'
s shoulder. He turned to her with a brooding, troubled look in his deep blue eyes and said,
"
You understand, Nettie, that the birthday party will in effect be a coming-out party. We can
'
t keep this charade about my
'
cousin
'
Caroline going much longer. Especially now that everyone
'
s up from
Palm Beach
for the season.
"
Netta gave him a sympathetic smile.
"
Well, if the governor of
Rhode Island
can come clean about his past,
"
Netta said softly,
"
I guess your father can, too. I only wish your mother wasn
'
t taking it so hard.
"
Jack
'
s look turned bitter.
"
Yeah. After all, she knew she was marrying an Eastman. She was bound to have to share him with another woman sooner or later.
"
"
Don
'
t be fresh!
"
Netta said sharply.
"
That
'
s your father you
'
re talking about.
"
"
My father; my grandfather; his father before that,
"
said Jack in an even tone.
"
As we know, the tradition goes way back.
"
Which is why
you've
never married, my dear,
thought Netta.
You
'
re looking for the perfect wife, mother, and mistress all rolled up into one. You want to be the first in your family. Ah, you dreamer, you.
She shook her head and sighed.
Jack mistook her sigh and said with his old roguish smile,
"
I
'
m too old to stick in a corner, Nettie. So now what?
"
She spun him around and faced him toward the door.
"
I
'
m going to send you back to the table and stuff you with birthday cake, that
'
s what. Maybe sugar will help.
"
The swing-door opened just then, and Jack
'
s father poked his head through it.
"
Netta, Netta,
"
he said in a harried voice,
"
I need you out here. The kids are
—
the
dog is
—
help
me, Netta,
"
he begged.
Netta shooed both men out ahead of her and thought wearily,
They'
re hop
eless. Where are the women? Who'
s going to organize this foundering kingdom?
Buy
Tim
e
After Time
or turn the page and read Chapter 2.
Sample
Chapter
2
Why can't I stay in the house, Mommy? I just
got
here."
"I know; I know," said Liz, running a brush quickly over her daughter's sleek brown hair. "But it's too wet outside to play, and Mommy's going to make a big, big mess breaking through the ceiling to get into the attic. So you go on to the restaurant with Aunty Tori, and by the time you get back from lunch, I'll have the plaster all cleaned up outside your room, and you can come and go wherever you want."
"Because I've hardly been in my own house so far, you know," Susy said, clearly feeling shunted around.
"We've only owned it for three days, honey," Liz reminded her. "Got your money?"
Susy opened her plastic purse and pulled out a neatly folded five-dollar bill, then put it back inside. "Yes."
"Good." Liz turned to
Victoria
and said, "Thanks a bunch, Tori. I didn't expect to have to have the attic ready for the roofers so soon. But if they're really willing to reshingle the dormers this week—"
"—they need to inspect the rafters before then. No problem. We don't want rain dripping on our Susabella, do we?"
Victoria
said, pinching Susy's nose lightly.
Off they went. Liz made one last pass around the second floor, searching for some sign of an old covered-up entry to the attic. Nope, nothing: the entire ceiling was plastered smooth.
For the life of her, Liz could not understand why there was no access hatch. Granted, the attic was no more than a crawl space, but it could provide at least a little extra storage—something the cottage had in short supply.
The most logical place to cut the hole was over the landing in the hall between the two bedrooms. Liz wrapped a red bandanna around her hair, slipped a pair of goggles over her eyes, and did some preliminary drilling here and there to figure out where the gap between the joists was. Then she picked up the jigsaw and attacked the ceiling.
The sawing left a thick cloud of dust and a shocking mess of plaster, lath, and horsehair on the plastic-covered floor of the upstairs hall. But as the opening began to take shape, Liz could practically hear the attic sucking in deep breaths of fresh air.
She set up a stepladder under the new opening and popped her head into the space above. The smell of damp wood dashed her spirits; damp wood meant rotten wood. Fearing the worst, she aimed a flashlight into the recesses of the long- forgotten attic.
Not too bad,
she decided after a quick scan of the timbers. No rot, no bats, no bees. There was a little dampness along a rafter where she knew she had a leak, but that was all.
Good little house,
she found herself thinking affectionately. She was about to climb back down the ladder when the beam of her flashlight fell on something rectangular straddling two joists at the far end.
It was a small, canvas-covered, metal-strapped trunk, the kind people used to haul around on steamers when they plied the
Atlantic
. Sealed away, who knew for how long? Here, in the tiny attic of her tiny house. A buried treasure.
With an eager, thumping heart, Liz hoisted herself up through the opening and began crawling on her knees from joist to joist toward the trunk. It was slow going. Halfway there, an exposed nail ripped her jeans and tore her thigh. Liz let out a cry and pulled away, whacking her head on the roof's low ridgepole.
Damn!
Now she hurt in
two
places. Worse, she was beginning to feel claustrophic in the unlit space. She took a deep breath to calm herself and resumed her crawl.
When she reached the trunk, she was frustrated once more: it wouldn't open. Liz had the sense that the trunk wasn't really locked but was simply used to being closed. She banged on the metal catch with the palm of her hand once, twice, until it hurt too much to continue.
This is idiotic,
she realized eventually.
I'll haul it downstairs—somehow—and open it there.
She muscled the surprisingly heavy little trunk from one joist to the next and was rewarded with the sound of the lock snapping open on its own.
Despite her curiosity, Liz hesitated before opening the lid. The one thing she did
not
want was to have something fly up into her face when she did. A flashlight would help; but the flashlight was lying next to the sawed-out opening, throwing its beam only vaguely in her direction, and she hadn't the heart to go crawling back for it.