The Body in the Birches (12 page)

Another thing that was standing the test of time was the mix of ages, even a fair mix of people from the island and people from away. The giant mirrored disco ball was sending tiny rainbows over fishermen, shipyard workers, and summer people alike. The musicians were bathed in blue lights that had been rigged up directly overhead and always reminded Faith of
The Blue Angel
with Marlene Dietrich. The Mariners' chanteuse was dressed not dissimilarly from Dietrich in spike heels, short skirt, and, in this instance, a tiny tee that spelled out
HOT
in red sequins. She had a big voice, though, and was getting everyone up and on the dance floor.

Faith was content to watch, enjoying the range of abilities and sights, like one of the Sanfords with his four-year-old granddaughter standing on his shoes as he jitterbugged. Amy and Daisy had joined a group of girls that included Amy's island day camp friends. They were casting studied nonchalant looks at their male counterparts on the opposite side of the hall. Pix had warned Faith that female adolescence was a bumpier ride for mothers than male, and Faith had been hoping Amy would prolong her entry. She was glad Daisy was next door and she
did
seem like a little girl, although the two were the same age. There was something waifish
about Daisy, and she was certainly quiet around adults, although she and Amy chattered nonstop whenever Faith had observed them away from everyone else.

Daisy's older brother, Rory, came in with a group, and they immediately started dancing wildly, but with such enthusiasm that they had everyone laughing.

Ben hadn't wanted Faith to drive him, but he didn't have a choice when Mandy called to say she had to work. He was looking glum and his expression darkened, Faith noticed, when Rory grabbed his cousin Sophie, pulling her into the group. He could really dance and so could Sophie. They looked like
Dancing with the Stars,
1950s version.

The Millers arrived as the band switched to “The Twist.” Faith could see the delight on Sam's and Pix's faces—Mark, his wife Becca, Samantha, and Dan were all with them. The whole group started gyrating; Sam sang out to Faith, “Come on baby!” and she soon found herself twisting 'round and 'round.

The group around Rory and Sophie was getting down, too, but taking the suggestive lyrics a little more to the limit. Ben stalked out the door to the parking lot, followed by Tyler.

“I think we're going to head back,” Faith shouted to Pix.

“Oh no, don't go yet! It's early and I'm sure your kids want to stay longer,” she said.

The music stopped and the band announced they were taking a short break. Ben had not returned, and Faith decided maybe he needed time with Tyler and other friends outside. In any case, he wouldn't appreciate his mother coming in search of him. Oh these perilous shores.

Amy came running over with Daisy.

“We
have
to buy some raffle tickets! First prize is a ham!”

Faith laughed. First prize had been an enormous canned ham for as long as she could remember. She gave Amy five dollars for the tickets and some extra for punch and cookies. Looking at Daisy, she added a bit more. “Treat your friend,” she said.

Sophie was coming toward them, a worried look on her face.

“Daisy, is your mother here?” she asked.

Daisy shook her head. “She dropped me off and said she'd be back later. Can I go get something to eat with Amy now?”

“Of course, let me give you the money.”

“Amy's mom gave us some.”

“Well, here's a little more and you can treat Amy another time,” Sophie said, handing Daisy some bills.

The girls left and Sophie sat down on an empty chair between Faith and Samantha.

“I don't know what to do,” she said. “Apparently Sylvia's child rearing comes under the heading of ‘Born Free.' Daisy's only twelve and even though the dance is a safe place, I'm not comfortable with her being left here like this. And I can't really say anything.”

Faith felt exactly the same. “No, you can't. Maybe she spoke to Rory and told him to keep an eye on Daisy.”

“Aside from the fact that my dear cousin has possibly the most roving eye at the dance, he's also feeling no pain. He seems to have made friends with the owner of the Lodge—that's him next to the blonde.”

What was Ben's boss doing here? Faith wondered. The Lodge was open for dinner tonight, wasn't it? Mandy had said she had to work. And you couldn't run a successful business, especially on what had to be a busy Saturday night, by remote control.

Samantha Miller was looking uncomfortable as well, Faith saw. She must know Daisy—and the rest of that family—since she'd always gone back and forth between the Millers' cottage and The Birches.

“Do you want to get some punch, too, Sophie?” Samantha asked. “Bring some back for anyone?”

“Great,” Pix said. “All that twisting has made me thirsty. They
have trays; so get some for all of us—and cookies. Lots of cookies.”

Halfway across the momentarily deserted dance floor, Samantha said, “I need to tell you something.”

“What's up?” Sophie asked. Samantha had been a summer friend. They were about the same age and when young had been together constantly.

“It's about your cousin.”

“Oh, Rory's okay. Just very California and maybe a teensy bit stuck on himself.”

“No, not Rory. Autumn. I was at the party after the fireworks at the new restaurant and she was there, too. I think she's using.”

“As in drugs?”

Samantha nodded. “She stretched her arms up at some bubbles someone was blowing and she has track marks on her arms. She has so many tattoos that they are hard to see, but they're there.”

“Oh God.” Sophie sat down hard on an empty folding chair. “She does always seem to wear long sleeves. She had the tats last time I saw her—unicorns, lots of swirls, but she has a ton more now.”

“Maybe she's stopped. The track marks could be old. I just wanted you to know. To keep an eye on her, especially because of Daisy.”

Sophie was having trouble taking it in. “She's always been dreamy—and shy. I can't remember having a real conversation with her even when we were younger. I always thought it was just the way she was.”

“Another California thing? Like crystals? We are such East Coast bigots,” Samantha said. “If she is using, she won't have a problem finding what she needs here. New England, especially Maine, is now the heroin capital of the United States. It's cheaper than prescription drugs like OxyContin.” She gave Sophie a hug. “My sibs have to leave but I'm here for two more weeks. Call me. Let's go out to Isle au Haut with bikes or something else like that. Pretend we're not grown-ups.”

“I wish,” Sophie said ruefully and followed Samantha over to the refreshments table. As they approached it, they were aware of raised voices coming through the window from the parking lot. Then it got quiet, too quiet before several cars started up. Sergeant Earl Dickinson walked in and headed straight for Faith and the Millers.

“Forget the drinks,” Samantha said. “Something's wrong.”

They got back to the group in time to hear him say, “Guys get foolish. Don't worry. Just take him home and get him cleaned up.”

“But Ben has never done anything like this! I can't believe he'd start a fight, especially with someone older,” Faith said. She grabbed her purse and went out with Earl.

Pix explained. “Ben took a swing at Rory Proctor, who proceeded to laugh and blocked the punch with one hand while pushing Ben against the building with the other, giving him a bloody nose.”

“Poor Ben,” Sophie said. “He must be mortified. Rory can be a bit much. I'll speak to him.”

“I'm sure he and all the others he came with are gone. Best let it lie. But could you take Amy back? I doubt Ben wants his little sister to see him. She'll hear about it, and that's bad enough.”

“Absolutely. I'll take Daisy, too. If Sylvia comes, please tell her. If she notices, that is.”

Sophie had felt overwhelmed by her relatives before. Now she wished she could go back to that simpler sensation. This was more like drowning.

A peaceful scene greeted her after Sophie dropped Amy off and then settled Daisy upstairs in the front bedroom at The Birches with a cup of cocoa. Uncle Paul and Will were playing Scrabble in a small room that served as a study, a converted oil lamp providing the only light. The Proctors had grudgingly given in to Edison's wattage, but retained the old fixtures. Sophie had a sudden longing
to go back to when the house had been bathed in that softer, earlier glow.

“Who's winning?” she asked.

“Neck and neck, as usual,” Will said.

“There! That's forty-six for me. ‘Sequoia'. Nice word. Thank you for leaving that double word all ready for an
s
. And I get the score for ‘players.'”

Sophie could see they both played a mean game. She'd never achieved a score as high as either had now and there were still plenty of tiles left.

“Are you hungry? I could make some sandwiches.”

“Thank you, sweetheart. Will and I have been raiding the fridge all evening. You left it well stocked. I wouldn't say no to a little brandy, though. Will?”

“Got to keep my edge. You go ahead.”

Sophie returned with a snifter of Rémy Martin, his favorite, for her uncle.

“If you don't want anything else, then, I'm going to turn in.”

She gave Paul a kiss on the cheek and almost gave one to Will also. I
must
be tired, she thought.

In her room off the kitchen, she quickly got ready for bed. The house was quiet. She assumed Daisy was asleep, and no one else seemed to be home. Her laptop was on a small table from the upstairs hall that she'd added to the room. She should check her e-mail, she told herself, but as soon as the MacBook Air came to life, she went straight to Google and typed “Will Tarkington.”

For the next forty minutes she typed every possibility: “William Tarkington,” “Willard,” “Wilfred,” Willy,” “Willie,” even “Bill” and its permutations. She tried “Wilhelm,” “Wilmer,” and “Wilton” after checking a baby name site. She turned up a dentist in Salt Lake City and an eighty-four-year-old in Toronto on Facebook. Then she began to narrow a search to Savannah and finally all of Georgia for Tarkingtons. Nothing fit.

Will Tarkington didn't exist.

“Arnie and Claire are coming early,” Ursula announced. Faith and she were sitting on the back porch of The Pines shelling peas. They hadn't had the traditional salmon and peas on the Fourth, so they were having it now for Sunday dinner at the Millers' cottage later. “They'll be here Tuesday and he said he has a surprise for us.”

“No hints?” Faith said.

She was happy to have a comforting, culinary task as she was in need of a pleasant distraction.

Tom had called last night and again this morning. Nothing had changed. Marian was still resting comfortably and they would find out tomorrow when her surgery would be performed. Faith was less worried about her mother-in-law—she was in good hands—than she was about her son. She hadn't told Tom about the fight. There was nothing he could do about it from so far away and she didn't want to worry him. But she did wish he were here to both have a talk with Ben and also reassure Faith that it wasn't a big deal. Or was it? Fortunately Ben's boss had just pulled out of the parking lot, so he didn't see his employee try to engage a customer, who also appeared to be the boss's new friend, in fisticuffs.
Faith didn't want Ben fired, but she did want him to quit. If Mandy was provoking this sort of behavior after only two days, what was next? Pistols at dawn? Ben had been unequivocal about staying. After repeating “You don't get it, Mom!” several times in ever increasing volume, he had stomped off, presumably to bed. To his room, anyway. Faith was sure the fight involved the girl in some way. She tuned back in to what Ursula was saying.

“No hints. At my age, I don't like surprises, even pleasant ones, but I'm sure he means well. He sounded awfully tickled with himself.”

They continued shelling the peas in companionable silence. Faith glanced at Ursula's hands. Her mention of age had startled Faith, as Ursula was not one to comment on the depredations, or anything else, that accompanied her advancing years. Yes, the veins were prominent, the skin loose, and there were liver spots—why were they called that?—but her fingers worked deftly, and Faith knew her friend's grip was still strong.

“Gert told me about the fracas at the dance last night. If you want to talk about it, fine. If not, fine too,” Ursula said.

“I figured it would be all over the island by this morning, no make that last night—minutes after it happened. Sanpere doesn't have a grapevine, it has a superconductor. I want him to leave the job and work at the day camp, but he won't hear of it.”

Ursula nodded. “I'd feel the same way, but Ben has to decide for himself. I'm not telling you something you don't already know. The whole thing was unfortunate timing, I suspect, and probably misinterpretation on Ben's part. Gert said it was about Mandy going to someone's house for a party off island with Rory. He isn't a bad person and I've always felt sorry for all three of Sylvia's children. Never a stable father around, or stable father figures even. And Sylvia believes children do best bringing themselves up, doing what they want to do.”

“I've always thought parents like that used the philosophy to do what
they
wanted,” Faith said.

Ursula agreed. “Exactly—and she wants them all here to convince Paul that she—and eventually they—would be the best bet for The Birches. I'm not saying she doesn't love the place—she does—but how could she possibly take care of it?”

Faith put the last empty pod on top of the heap for the compost pile.

“Ed Ricks was telling me he has tales about this sort of thing—who gets the house, the land—that would make my hair curl.”

“I'm sure he does, and I have a few, too. Arnie made it very simple for me years ago by saying he didn't want The Pines, just wanted to be able to come and stay for a while each summer. I've set the whole thing up so that Pix and Sam will inherit it and he'll get a monetary equivalent. I know they love their cottage, but with three children and who knows how many grandchildren in the future, they can easily fill both places. What are you and Tom doing?”

“Our house here is the only one we own. Occupying a parsonage is a plus and a minus. You don't have to worry about the upkeep—the church sees to that—but you also don't have any equity. That's another reason we decided to add onto the house here this summer, and put in a furnace. It will increase its value.” Faith had resisted all Tom's earlier attempts to convince her to make it a year-round dwelling, preferring to think of winter vacations spent in places with turquoise water and white sandy beaches. She'd given in to the logic of doing it while they were adding the room. “Everything we have, except for a few special charitable bequests, is divided evenly between Ben and Amy. My sister Hope and Tom's brother Robert are our executors. Hope and her husband are the children's guardians.”

Ursula stood up. “That all sounds very well thought out and I just wish Priscilla had done the same. Now, that's enough talk about real estate. Ben will calm down. It's unlikely he and Rory will cross paths again. Right now we have a more important topic to discuss. Mint in the peas or just plain with butter?”

Later at the Millers', Pix had seemed puzzled at the change in her brother's plans. “They always have all their arrangements carved in stone, and as for a surprise, this is it so far as I'm concerned. He's coming early. Remember it's Arnie we're talking about. When he got his first Filofax, a five-year one, he promptly scheduled all his teeth cleanings.”

Ben was at work, but Amy was there with her ears flapping, so Faith couldn't get the Millers' take on the night before and whether she should insist Ben leave the job at the Lodge. Although, she reflected, the Lodge wasn't the problem. They had been scrupulous so far about his hours as an underage employee. And Mandy had seemed like a sensible girl. Faith had the feeling that with her mother working off island and her father not up for dad, or husband, of the year according to Seth, Mandy had had to grow up fast. Too fast?

When she was helping Pix cut the rich devil's food layer cake that Mark's wife, Becca, had made—unlike his mother, Mark's wife loved to cook and Pix loved her all the more for it—Faith asked Pix what she thought Faith should do about Ben. Pix, her guide in all matters offspring, was succinct. “Nothing.”

Well, that's one less thing to worry about, Faith told herself and helped herself to a large slice of cake. Chocolate was the universal panacea, and soon she found herself laughing with the Millers about their recent discovery during repairs to the house's foundation. The backhoe unearthed not only several bicycles and a tricycle, but also the major parts of a chassis from a 1936 Buick sedan under their front garden.

“Must have been one of the island scrap metal dumps,” Sam said. “I'm hoping to get that beauty put back together and on the road.”

“Yeah, Dad, and give up your Miata. Right,” Dan said.

“I can have both. Now, what I want is more cake—and I'll eat it, too.”

His daughter took his plate. “Better watch out. If you keep this up, you'll have another kind of tire to think about.”

“Sharper than a serpent's tooth!” Sam said, grabbing her for a big hug.

Faith sat basking in it all, wishing Tom was there. Wishing Ben was there. And especially wishing she truly believed she had one less thing to worry about.

They'd managed to survive the holiday weekend without someone killing anybody. But the atmosphere had been poisonous, especially after the altercation at the parade between Sylvia and Simon.

It wasn't murder, but there had been a death, Sophie reminded herself as she sat on the dock looking out toward the Camden Hills. Bev's passing seemed to have left hardly a ripple on the surface of most lives at The Birches. She knew from her uncle that Durgens Funeral Home in Granville had taken care of all the arrangements. “Arrangements.” Such a euphemism. Bev wasn't some posies stuck in a vase. Although Paul had said she had been cremated, so she was in a container of some sort. An urn? Sophie was very, very tired, and her thoughts were straying far and wide. In the old days, women would wash the body and wrap it in a winding cloth before it went into a simple wooden box to become one with the earth. That's what she wanted, Sophie decided. She didn't have a will. Didn't have anything to leave, but she was going to draw one up for herself with these instructions.

“Penny for your thoughts.” It was Will. Once more, she had had no idea he was there.

“You should copyright that line. Very nice.”

He took a shiny coin from his jeans pocket and handed it to her. “I never make offers I can't keep.”

She took the penny. It was warm. “I was just thinking how quickly everyone seems to have forgotten that Bev is gone.”

A shadow crossed Will's face and he said quietly, “Not everybody.”

Sophie felt her throat close and knew she was about to cry.

“Is this a private party or can anyone join?” Rory called.

Without waiting for an answer, he plunked himself down next to Sophie, pulled his flip-flops off, and let his feet dangle over the water. He had an insulated bag over his shoulder, which he unzipped. “The best brew New England has to offer. Good old Sam Adams Summer Ale. Sorry I don't have any fancy hors d'oeuvres, but Pringles are the extent of my skill in that department.” He handed them each a bottle and opened the chips.

Sophie had to smile. Rory was, well, Rory. His white-blond hair was combed straight back and curled at the neck. His tan made his eyes look bluer. He was smiling a smile you just had to return. Yes, her cousin was definitely a heartbreaker. The beer was ice cold and she was glad he had joined them. “Thanks,” she said.

“Me too,” Will said. “And Pringles happen to be my favorite. You can keep your caviar and foie gras.”

“Never had any. Mom is pretty harsh about stuff like that, so don't know what I'm missing. Anyhow, besides Pringles and Sophie here what else do you like, Will?”

“Rory!” Sophie jumped up. He was going too far.

“Hey, I'm just messing with you.” He turned to Will. “Always been pretty easy to get a rise out of my big cousin.”

Will looked appraisingly at Sophie. “That so?”

Sophie sat back down, but she was beginning to feel like some sort of display in a department store window. Available for comment by any and all passersby.

Will took a swig of beer. “I like old cars, new trucks, redeye gravy, and pretty much anything J. D. Salinger ever wrote.”

“I had to read that book in school.
The Catcher in the Rye
. Boooring. But seriously, Sophie, old Forbes and Uncle Simon have you marrying the Southern dude here before the leaves fall.”

“Talk sense—and proper English,” Sophie said.

“I overheard them when I was making my way down here. They were on the front porch. Wasn't in the mood for what the
market is doing or who's competing in the America's Cup, so maybe I
was
walking pretty close to the house and behind a few bushes.”

“What were they saying?” Will's voice had lost all its Southern softness and was as sharp as an ax.

“That Uncle Paul wanted the two of you to get together, and if that happened, he'd have no trouble deciding who would inherit The Birches. Mom will go ape shit when I tell her. She's already picking out the color she wants to repaint the shutters. You know how she feels about the place. I'm supposed to be in Malibu now, although the natives here are turning out to be pretty friendly. But I knew if I didn't show she'd be on me about it forever. You have no idea what she can be like.”

Sophie thought she did. “Please don't repeat this to your mother, or anyone else. I don't know where they could have gotten the idea. It's absurd! I don't even know Will.” She thought back to her Google search and added, “Don't know him at all!” for emphasis.

“No biggie. Now who wants another beer?”

“I'll take a rain check,” Will said and, getting up, headed toward the boathouse.

“I hope it wasn't something I said.” Rory grinned.

The heat had broken, but it was still stifling in the kitchen at The Laughing Gull Lodge. The Otises might have put a lot of money into the place, but they'd skimped on air-conditioning for the staff, Ben thought.

Mandy had picked him up early this morning. They were both working through the lunch shift. He'd tossed and turned last night thinking about what to say, or not say, to her. Instead of waiting at the house, he'd walked out to the main road to meet her. He didn't want his mother barging in with “Keep an eye on my little boy.” He knew he wasn't being fair. His mother didn't do stuff
like that. Maybe sometimes, but not often and not lately. What she
would
nag at him about was quitting the job, and there was no way he was going to do that. Mandy had been totally cool. After he got in the car, all she had said was “Hi, you okay?” He'd nodded and then they talked about work.

Ben finished putting the last load from breakfast into the dishwasher and went to wait in the other part of the kitchen where it was cooler. He filled his water bottle from the tap. The Lodge had a deep well and the water was ice cold and fresh. The bandanna he wore as a sweatband was soaked. He took it off and reached into his back pocket for another.

Mandy was setting tables for lunch, indoors and out. The other servers hadn't arrived yet. Only the chef was there, and he was in a foul mood. The server who doubled as sous chef was late.

“Can I help? I'm pretty decent at chopping stuff,” Ben offered.

Chef Zach was outstanding in the kitchen and Ben figured he was a good judge because his mother was, too. Zach Hale had arrived before the Lodge opened in order to make contact with local providers, especially the fishermen and farmers. He was adding his signature Hawaiian twist to the menu, each night offering a different Poke, bite-size raw fish “cured” in soy with a variety of spices, as an appetizer or side dish. Duck with Chinese five-spice powder was a menu staple, as was Poi. One of the local organic farms was growing taro. Mai tais had become the drink of choice from the cocktail menu. But no Spam much to his regret, he'd told Ben and Tyler. “I might sneak some in, and I'll bet no one notices. They'll think it's some classy French pâté.” Until then Ben hadn't known Spam was like the Hawaiian national food. He only knew it from Monty Python.