by Bev Prescott
“Where did you come from, eagle?” she whispered.
As the eagle flew closer, it craned its head in her direction. Strange, she could’ve sworn it recognized her.
Chapter 2
A couple of miles after leaving Claire behind, Alex slowed her pace. The impressive stone chimney of the camp’s main building came into view over the crest of the last hill. Constructed from local granite, the chimney formed the backbone of the structure.
When she was a kid, she used to imagine where each stone must have come from, riding the giant glacier that had scoured the area before it melted and became Sebago, Maine’s deepest and second largest lake. Since as far back as she could remember, she’d been the kid who sat alone, swinging on a hammock, gazing out at the lake and thinking about where and how people, places, and things had come to be. She’d imagined all the things that the ancient maple tree towering over her hammock and shading her from the sun had seen over the years. Her adolescent ponderings sowed the seeds that grew into her passion for history.
A white, vintage 1967 Ford pickup truck whizzed past her. Dust swirled around the truck as it slowed and came to a halt on the shoulder of the dirt road. Alex would’ve recognized the eighty-four-year-old driver and her canine passenger anywhere.
The white-haired woman leaned her head out the open window. “Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes? Your father told me you were coming home. I see you still spend your time running your cares away.”
Alex grinned widely as she jogged to the driver’s side of the truck. There weren’t many things or people from her childhood untainted by her family’s tragedy. Sally Higgins, the local librarian, and her aging black Labrador Retriever, Buddy, were among the few.
“And I see you still have Hiccup the pickup and Buddy.” Alex scanned the length of the truck. “She’s still in great shape. Hard to believe she has so little rust after living in Maine her whole life.”
Buddy wriggled and yowled like a puppy at the sound of his name. His tail thumped against the battered cloth bench seat.
“Yeah, well, the old truck still likes to back talk me with a hiccup every time I shut her engine down. Guess a little back talk is her secret to longevity. As long as Hiccup and Buddy stick around, I will too.” Sally stuck a bony hand out the window and patted the side of the truck. “Like I always say, the most important things to take care of—if you hope to be around awhile—are your friends, body, mind, and ride. You do that, and they’ll give you all they’ve got. How are you, girl? You all right being home so far?”
“I’m hanging in there.” Alex slapped the edge of the open window. “It’s so great to see you.” Buddy barked. She reached into the truck and scratched the dog’s gray muzzle as his tail wagged wildly. “Hey, good to see you too.” She laughed.
“Hop in. I’ll take you the rest of the way. I’m heading to the camp now.” Sally pointed behind her to the pickup bed full of unfinished Adirondack chairs. “Your father asked me to deliver these early this morning. The kids are going to paint them, and we’ll auction them off at the annual library fundraiser. Plus, he’s all excited about me hearing some newfangled P.A. system this morning that Mister Bastone got in to play reveille.”
Sally must’ve noticed her body stiffen at the mention of James. “You did know your father hired him, right?”
“Not until this morning when Claire told me.” Alex shook her head. “I don’t know what bothers me more, the fact that my father would have anything at all to do with James, or that he didn’t bother to tell me he let him worm his way into the camp. If I’d known, I wouldn’t have come back.”
“Your father should’ve told you before you got here. I thought you knew.” Sally reached out the window and stroked Alex’s cheek. “For what it’s worth, I’m really happy that you’re home. Maybe we should check the barn for that old bugle you used to play. You can remind Bastone how it’s supposed to be done and teach the kids to play it for themselves.”
“You always had the best ideas.” Alex put her hand on Sally’s. “Still do. The kids would love it. For some of them, it’s the only chance they’ll ever get to pick up an instrument. It’s inconceivable to me that my father would agree to a P.A system instead of having the kids make their own music.”
“A lot has changed in the short time since Bastone took over managing the place.”
“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised by that.” Alex ran around to the other side of the truck and slid in beside Buddy. He nudged her hand with his snout. Alex scratched him behind the ear. “You’re such a good boy.”
Sally jutted her chin in the direction of the glove box. “There are some smokes stashed away if you’re so inclined.”
Alex shook her head and laughed. “No thanks, Sally. I’m all set.”
Sally gunned the engine and sent the truck forward. “Suit yourself. It’s probably just as well. Your father still hasn’t forgiven me for teaching you how to smoke cigars and cuss when you were little. I need to stay on his good side anyway. If you show up this morning smelling of cigar smoke, that’s not going to work in my favor. I have an idea for the kids this summer that’s going to require your father’s buy-in.”
Alex couldn’t help feeling twelve years old again, riding shotgun with Sally while she schemed up her latest inspiration. The old woman was never in short supply of ideas, especially when it came to helping unwanted or injured animals in town. “What is it? Maybe I can help advocate for you.” Buddy leaned against her and licked her cheek as she continued to scratch him under his collar. “I know, honey, I missed you too.”
“Some dastardly person left a box of puppies at the town dump a week ago. Of course, Ralph, who still runs the place, called me right away to come and get them. The trouble is that they got away from old Ralph when he opened the box. All those puppies ended up running all over the road.” Sally slapped her knee. “Ha! It was quite the sight. They were going in as many directions as the colors they came in. I’m guessing those puppies had several different daddies.”
“Oh, no,” Alex said. “I hope you got them all picked up safely.”
“I did, but Sheriff Hall wasn’t too happy with me blocking traffic with my truck while I was at it. He tried to tell me I couldn’t park perpendicular across two lanes. Lucky for me, a crowd had formed because no one could get past my truck. Guess he decided against giving an old lady a ticket in front of all those bystanders when all I was trying to do was save a few puppies. I’m certain it was a political move on his part. The sheriff will be looking for donations to the policeman’s ball in a couple of months.”
“I’m sure he’s figured out by now that it’s not a good idea to cross you when it comes to helping animals. So what’s your idea? I want in.” For the first time this morning, Alex looked forward to the happenings at the camp. Who wouldn’t with Sally, puppies, and little kids in the mix?
“I was thinking,” Sally said, “that after Doc Parsons, the veterinarian, gives the puppies a clean bill of health, we’ll do some fundraising and marketing to find them homes with some of the parents of the kids from the camp. We could have the kids make collars for the puppies and have a little puppy fashion show for parent’s weekend. I’m betting more than a few folks in the crowd will fall in love and open their homes to a needy soul.”
“I love it.” Where her father was concerned, Alex could take issue with a lot of things, but his willingness to do something to help animals in need wasn’t one of them. “I think my father will love the idea too.”
“As long as he doesn’t kowtow to Bastone on this, we should be fine. That’s enough about me, what’s been going on in your life?”
“I’m hoping to finish a first draft of a manuscript I’m working on by the end of the summer. Then it’ll go to my editor. The book’s on schedule to be published in the spring sometime. I’m writing about the 1947 forest fires here in Maine.”
Sally slapped the steering wheel. “I am thrilled with that. Good for you, honey. I’m glad s
omeone’s not letting our history be forgotten.”
“I was hoping you’d let me interview you about what you remember about the fires while I’m here. I’m also planning a couple of research trips to the archives in Augusta and Boston, but getting a description of the events from someone who was actually here at the time would be invaluable.”
“In a heartbeat. You can ask me anything you like. It’ll give me a chance to set the record straight about what those talking heads have been saying lately about how it could never happen again like it did in ’47. I’ll tell you, I think they’re being naïve about that. Just ask all those poor folks out west whether it’s possible for fires to still burn entire towns. They have access to all the same modern firefighting equipment we have here, but that doesn’t always stop a fire before it destroys everything in its path. There are a hell of a lot more trees here in Maine to add fuel to a fire than they have out there in the desert too.”
“What happened to make the ’47 wildfires the subject of the news recently?” Alex asked.
“This past winter, we had barely any snow to speak of and it’s been the driest spring on record. If the weather continues at this pace, the leaves will start turning to dust under our feet by early July. I’m worried about it. The air feels like it did then. The trouble is, people forget the olden times and doom themselves to repeat their past mistakes time and again. Just look at the silly things our politicians do, with the public’s blessing.”
Sally reached around Buddy and patted Alex’s knee. “I’m so proud of you for becoming a history professor. You keep telling the stories of our past. It matters. I’ll do anything you need to help you write your book.”
“Great, thanks. Would it be all right if I stopped by the library in the next week or so?”
Sally turned onto the camp’s long, winding, gravel driveway. “You stop by anytime you like.”
In the light of day, Alex saw a fresh coat of gray stain on the cedar clapboards of the camp’s main building. There were a few more bunkhouses now, and a new tennis court took up space in what had been part of the lawn. A line of trees still separated the camp from the lake except for the hundred-foot-long sandy beach and a small boathouse.
The white, two-story, saltbox house that she’d grown up in still stood across from the camp. It seemed smaller than she remembered as a kid. She wasn’t sure whether it was because she now viewed the house through the prism of an adult, or that the camp, as always, took precedence over everything around it.
Sally parked next to a beat-up old Volvo. Alex wondered whether her father had managed to reach his goal of three hundred thousand miles yet on the only car she ever remembered him driving.
Just as she had always done, Sally threw open the driver’s door before the truck came to a complete stop in the dirt lot in front of the main building. She hopped out while simultaneously putting the truck in park.
“I’ll bet we have some old newspaper clippings from the time of the fire stashed away in boxes somewhere in the library attic that you could use.” Standing next to the truck, Sally leaned over the seat and turned the key in the ignition to the off position. Hiccup rumbled and smoked.
Alex got out and counted out loud. “One, two, three, four…” She jumped at the loud bang that came at five. “Right on cue,” she said. “Like always.”
Sally winked. “There are still some things you can always count on, my dear.”
Alex took comfort in knowing that Sally’s pure heart was one of them.
“Would you mind giving Buddy a hand out of the truck?” Sally asked. “He needs a little more help these days.”
“Sure. Come here, boy.” Alex put an arm around Buddy’s midsection and guided him down to the ground. He ambled off toward the lake. “He still loves the water?”
“Can’t get enough of it,” Sally answered.
“He always was the smartest and sweetest dog in town.” Alex went around to the back of the truck and unlatched the heavy truck-bed door. “I’d love to look at whatever newspaper clippings you have about the fires. Sometimes the best stuff I’ve found has been in dusty old boxes that haven’t been opened in ages.” She reached for a chair. “Let me get those.”
Her father’s voice came from behind. “Hello, Sally, Alexandra. That won’t be necessary. We’ll see to them.”
The moment Alex had looked forward to and dreaded had come.
Sally patted her arm.
Alex turned to see her father, Daniel Marcotte, with James Bastone standing beside him. Flanking them were the three men who had kept the camp’s buildings and grounds in tip-top shape since long before she was born. They were reliable fixtures in the camp and in town.
The short, thin man, Chuck Sheppard, still looked the part of the wise old Mainer whom everyone turned to in a crisis. He smiled warmly at her. Bob Kilns’s belly was bigger than she remembered. He still wore his signature suspenders that kept his trousers snug against the rounded paunch. He gave Sally a nod then studied the ground and didn’t make eye contact with Alex. Martin West barely acknowledged Alex or Sally. He folded his arms across his chest. He wore the same gruff expression as he’d had when she was a child.
Alex smiled at the three men, thankful that their presence provided the opportunity to avoid her father and James a little longer. “Good to see you, guys.”
“Glad you’re home, kiddo.” Chuck motioned to Bob and Martin. “Let’s get these chairs out of the truck and give Alex and Daniel a moment to catch up.” The three men went about removing the chairs while James remained in place.
Alex gathered her courage and looked into her father’s face for the first time in years. He’d never looked quite so tired, not even during the time they had buried her brother. His shoulders slumped. He’d lost weight from his tall, thin frame. His formerly salt-and-pepper hair had turned a pure silver gray.
Daniel smiled. Behind the expression, she read a blend of hurt, disappointment, and love. “I’m glad you could take time out of your busy schedule to come help me with the camp this summer.” He put his arms around her.
The distance between them felt like miles despite their embrace. Alex didn’t mention she had no intention of staying the whole summer.
He didn’t give her the opportunity to say so anyway. As was his custom, he jumped right into the camp’s business rather than focus on her. “You and Sally are just in time to hear our new P.A. system.”
Even though Alex had tried to prepare for dealing with her father’s passive-aggressive approach to communication, their first thirty seconds together felt like a subliminal punch to the gut. “Sally told me it would replace having the kids learn how to play reveille themselves,” she said. “We used to love taking turns playing the bugle to wake up the other kids. Remember?”
James laughed. “You were always the best little bugler when we were growing up. Times have changed, though, and the camp needs to keep up with the times. Kids aren’t interested in that sort of thing anymore.”
“If you gave them half a chance to play the bugle, they might actually like it,” Sally said.
“I doubt it. It’s all we can do to get them to put their phones and electronic games away long enough to look at the lake, let alone enjoy it. They could care less about playing the bugle.”
“Maybe you should try harder?” Sally said.
James smiled at her. “Perhaps.” He looked Alex up and down. “Being a professor suits you. You look great.”
Unlike Chuck and the others, James’s appearance suggested he should be on a yacht instead of a summer camp for kids. He wore perfectly pressed trousers, a silk shirt, and designer eyeglasses. He was every bit as handsome as she remembered. He’d always used his looks and charm to win people over. Those he couldn’t win over, he bullied into submission.
Alex wondered how much her father was paying James for him to afford that kind of wardrobe. “Flattery never got you anywhere with me when we were kids, and it still won’t. I’m jetlagged and a sweaty mess from
my run. I hardly believe I’m all that much to look at. And I agree with Sally. Give the kids a chance to try playing the bugle.”
“You still don’t see yourself the way others do,” James said. “Honestly, you were a great musician as a kid. Do you still play the ukulele?”
James always had a knack for saying things in a way that left one wondering whether he meant a compliment or a put-down. Knowing James the way she did, this was a stab at her. After what happened the night her brother died, there were plenty of people in the town, including James, who’d whispered behind her back and no longer looked at her favorably.
Bob Kiln was a perfect example. While he worked to remove the chairs from the bed of the pickup, he was obviously taking great pains not to look at her or get too close. Alex had no doubt that Bob would have plenty to say to his wife later about the town pariah who’d finally come home.
She wished she could think more quickly on her feet and come up with something subtly off-putting to say in response to James. Her thoughts were interrupted by the enveloping notes of a pitch-perfect, surround-sound recording of reveille.
James pointed toward the sky. “That’s what I’m talking about. It’s so much better than the awful honking of a ten-year-old playing the bugle for the first time. God, I wanted to poke my eyes out every time I heard a kid torture that song.” He glanced in the direction of the lake, and his triumphant expression changed. He lifted his hand to shade his eyes from the morning sun rising above the vanishing fog. After the last note played, he said, “I thought I told those wildlife people not to step foot on our island without me being present.”
Alex glanced at the lake. Buddy was playing at the water’s edge. He barked at a duck as it swam by. On the island owned by the camp, about eight-hundred feet directly across from its shore, was a man in dark clothing. He knelt over what appeared to be a large duffel bag. A bright red toolbox stood beside him. Ropes hung from the tallest pine tree, and the tangle of branches obscured who or what was in it.
