The entrance to the golf course was more imposing than they’d expected, with a wooden arch that said POINTED FIRS in ornate gold letters, fat wooden pillars on either side of the driveway, and around the pillars rigidly straight rows of plants that looked as though they blossomed on command. Jane was sent past the sign and the pillars to search for a possible site for their sale but came back with the information that the grounds got only more imposing farther in, so they decided to set up right there, in front of the arch. Skye spread the blanket, Jeffrey let his heavy bag of clubs crash to the ground, and the others set out the buckets of balls in what they hoped was an inviting display. The signs were a problem, because no one had thought to bring anything to hang them up with, nor was there anywhere to hang them anyway, except on the arch, and they had no doubt that was forbidden. So Mercedes picked up one sign—CLUBS, TOO—and Batty picked up another—BALLS—and they stood beside the blanket holding them high. A car passed them by, and then another car, and then another.
“This isn’t going to work,” muttered Skye.
“Patience,” said Jeffrey.
The fourth car stopped, and the woman inside rolled down the window.
“Is that you, Mercedes Orne?” she asked. “Did you get your hair cut?”
“Yes, Mrs. Domergue.” Mercedes stepped forward eagerly, saying over her shoulder to the others, “She’s staying at the inn.”
“Your brother isn’t going to appear out of nowhere and startle me with his skateboard, is he?”
“No, ma’am,” called Jane.
“Then I’ll get out of my car and see what’s going on.” Mrs. Domergue did just that, and she ended up buying six golf balls.
Mercedes was so excited at this success and her part in it that she jumped around like a crazed kangaroo, trying to flag down the next car that arrived, which would have been all right if she hadn’t gotten too close to it. Jeffrey pulled her out of the way and gave her a time-out on the blanket, but except for that small trouble, Mrs. Domergue had gotten them rolling, and car after car stopped, and soon two whole buckets of balls were gone and a man had bought what he called the three wood out of Jeffrey’s golf bag, after explaining why a club made of metal was called a wood, even though no one cared at all until he gave them much more money than they’d dared ask for, but it was too late to ask him to explain it again, so they simply said good-bye and thank you.
“Do we have enough for my piano now?” asked Batty.
“No,” said Skye.
“Not yet,” added Jeffrey.
“Here comes our lady!” Jane pointed at a little blue car that had stopped. Out of it climbed the green-skirt lady from the pinewood, except today she was wearing an orange skirt. A man came out of the passenger side, a very tall man who wasn’t as pleased to see them as the lady was.
“Brian, here are those children I told you about,” she said. “The ones who found my Dunlops.”
“Don’t forget we’re teeing off soon,” he said, looking pointedly at his watch.
“We have plenty of time.” She smiled at them all, remembering which she’d met before and which she hadn’t, and asked everyone’s names, and if they’d found any more of her Dunlops, and while they tipped over buckets and started a search, she strolled over to Jeffrey’s golf bag. “Is all this for sale, too?”
“Carolyn!” said tall Brian. “We don’t have to buy used golf clubs from children.”
“But I need clubs, and these look very nice.”
“They are nice, and I’ve hardly used them,” Jeffrey told her, then lowered his voice so that Brian couldn’t hear. “I hate golf.”
“I don’t like it much either,” Carolyn whispered back. “But since I have to play, I might as well have my own clubs, don’t you think?”
Jeffrey did think so, and so did Jane, Batty, Mercedes, and—with less enthusiasm—Skye. Even with all six of them in agreement, it was quite a struggle to convince Brian. However, in the end, seven clubs called irons, plus a putter and a sand wedge, and half a bucket of Dunlops were all loaded into the blue car, and kind Carolyn and her husband drove away. She’d been even more generous about the clubs than the first man, and now the Mouette Inn box was so impressively full of money that Batty almost worked herself into a fit about a piano, and maybe would have if Skye hadn’t dumped a bottle of water on her head. The day was hot enough that Batty enjoyed the drenching, so everyone else decided they wanted water dumped on their heads, too. At the end, they were all wet and laughing, but now there was no water left to drink.
“We’ll do rock-paper-scissors for who goes back for more,” said Jeffrey.
“Never mind—I’ll go.” Skye scooped up the empty water bottles and went, glad for an excuse to get away from all the talk of pianos and golf. She’d run down Greene Street and had already turned onto Pullem when Jane came puffing up.
“Mercedes just fell into the bag of food and got grapes smashed all over her, so you’d better bring back some napkins, too,” she said. “Jeffrey said to ask Alec for napkins if we’re out.”
“Water and napkins,” said Skye, jogging on.
But Jane was calling out to her. “Hey, and that reminds me. I figured out last night who Alec looks like.”
“Who?”
“Jeffrey.”
Skye reversed direction and ran back to Jane. “You think Alec looks like Jeffrey? That’s ridiculous.”
“Not if you imagine what Jeffrey will look like in ten or fifteen years. You should do that anyway, as insurance, in case you marry him.”
“I’m not going to marry—Never mind. Was this brilliant revelation a result of a wish or charm?”
“Make fun if you like,” said Jane breezily. “I know I’m right. Sabrina Starr’s instincts were impeccable.”
Skye shook her head and ran off again, wishing—not for the first time—that Sabrina Starr didn’t have to be quite so cocky. Jeffrey! Ha! Jane was obviously going to be no more help in figuring out this puzzle. Skye bent her mind to it, going back to the Wildwood gym teacher. If he weren’t so full of muscles … and then she turned onto Cross Street and saw trouble coming—on a skateboard. Instinctively, Skye ran her fingers through her shorn hair. She really didn’t mind having it short, but that didn’t mean Dominic Orne shouldn’t pay for what he’d done to Jane and all of them. Still, she’d promised Jane that she wouldn’t take revenge. And she meant to keep that promise. She meant it as Dominic came closer and closer, and she still meant it up until the very last second, when she abruptly dodged into his path, a move that would be sure to topple him from his skateboard.
Rats! Not only did he easily maneuver around her, but he also managed to pass off a note while he was doing it.
“For Jane,” he said, “telling her to meet me at French Park tomorrow after lunch.”
“No!” she barked, her loathing for him increased tenfold. “No, no! Believe me, Jane wouldn’t meet you at French Park or any other park if it were the last park in the world!”
But he’d already ridden off, leaving Skye furious with herself. She’d both broken her promise to Jane and failed to get revenge all in one stupid move. Oh, that wretched Dominic! For the rest of her run back to Ocean Boulevard, Skye entertained herself with glorious fantasies of true retribution that actually worked. As she got closer to Birches and picked up the sound of a barking dog—Hoover, not Hound, thank goodness—the fantasies became about shutting Dominic and Hoover into a small closet and letting Hoover lick Dominic to death. So pleased was Skye with this idea that when she spotted Hoover in the field across the street from Birches, she thought she could manage to say hello to him. He was bouncing up and down under the big oak tree like he was on springs, yelping with each bounce, with Alec holding his leash and looking resigned. Skye picked her way through the grass and wildflowers to get to them.
“Hello!” Alec seemed glad for the company. “How’s the sale going?”
“Good. We sold a bunch of the clubs, and now I need more water.” Hoover paid
no attention to her, continuing the trampoline act. “What’s he doing?”
“Trying to catch the squirrel at the top of the tree.”
Skye squinted up—the tree was at least fifty feet tall, and if a squirrel was at the top, it was hidden by the leaves. She looked back down at Hoover, who showed no signs of flagging. “How long can he keep doing that?”
“I don’t know. I always get bored before he wears out.” Alec grinned, and Skye felt an eerie shiver of recognition go through her, just like the first time she’d seen him without his beard. Who the heck did he remind her of?
“Smile again,” she said.
“Why?” he asked, smiling, then laughing, because it’s almost impossible to smile and say “Why” at the same time.
Skye shook her head. It was gone again, whatever it was. “I still can’t figure out who you look like without your beard. Jane says it’s Jeffrey, but she’s nuts.”
“That’s funny—” Alec was cut off when Hoover, having decided that his squirrel had changed positions high in the tree, rushed around to the other side of it, taking Alec and Skye with him.
“What’s funny?” asked Skye after Hoover resumed bouncing.
“What? Oh—what Jane said. Turron said the same thing when he first met Jeffrey.”
“That you look like him?”
“That he looks like me.”
“I don’t know.” Skye stared at Alec for a while, trying different angles. “It’s hard to tell because you’re so much older.”
“Ancient, in fact.”
Hoover’s barking suddenly changed, sounding less rhythmic and more like a broken and demented drum machine. Looking up, Skye and Alec saw the reason why. Several curious seagulls were now circling the tree, whether to give moral support to the squirrel or just to bedevil Hoover, it wasn’t clear.
“That’s it. Heart-attack time.” Alec scooped up Hoover and cradled him like a baby, an insane, barking baby. “Let’s go, Skye. You can fill those water bottles at my house.”
She followed them, keeping her distance from Hoover’s tongue, and promising herself she would stick with big, goofy dogs like Hound for the rest of her life. By the time they reached the red house, Hoover had finally worn himself out, and Alec was able to tumble him gently onto the couch, where he immediately started snoring. Skye went to the kitchen sink to rinse out and refill the bottles. She was almost done when Alec interrupted her.
“Look what I’ve found,” he said, showing her an old shoe box. “Old family pictures. I thought there might be some around. Let’s check out this Jeffrey theory.”
Skye dried her hands and went with him to sit on the piano bench. Alec was already sorting through the box, muttering at some of the photos, laughing and shaking his head at others. Then he stopped to stare intently at one particular picture before handing it over to Skye.
“What do you think?” he asked.
It was Jeffrey and yet not Jeffrey, because the hair was too long and the clothes were from a different time. Skye turned over the photograph and looked at the back. Someone had written in pencil: Alec, age 12.
“Wow,” said Skye. “Jane was right.”
“Yeah.” Alec took it back and stared some more. “Weird, isn’t it? I wonder if we’re distant cousins. Wouldn’t that be great—though I’ve never heard of any Tiftons in our family.”
Skye shook her head. “Tifton isn’t Jeffrey’s real name. I mean, it is his real name, but it isn’t his mother’s or father’s real name.”
“He was adopted?”
“No.” This had all been explained to Skye by Rosalind, who’d heard it from Churchie, who knew more about Jeffrey than anyone. “Jeffrey’s mother married when she was really young, and the marriage was such a mistake that she got divorced before Jeffrey was even born. Her father—Jeffrey’s grandfather—who was kind of a tyrant, didn’t want her to keep her married name, and since she didn’t want to go back to her maiden name, they compromised on Tifton, an old family name. So Jeffrey was born a Tifton, and he’s never been told his father’s last name, or where he is, or even if he’s alive. His grandfather died when he was little, his grandmother died before that even, and his mother just won’t tell him anything.”
“That’s sad.”
“It’s even sadder because she’s so awful, and her new husband, Dexter, is just as awful, or worse. Last summer they almost sent Jeffrey to a horrible military school to get him ready to follow in the footsteps of his grandfather—you know, the tyrant—old General Framley.”
Two things—no, three—happened then. The first was the box of photographs falling from Alec’s lap to the floor, loosing a flood of snapshots. The second was Alec turning so pale that Skye could count every freckle on his face. And the third was Skye abruptly remembering what Jeffrey had told her the morning they saw the moose. That Alec was divorced. What had Jeffrey said exactly? Alec’s marriage was so bad he won’t even talk about it—just that he was young and it lasted only a few months.
Skye knew she was pale herself. She sat very still and quiet, as though by doing so she could stop time and keep them all safe. And she watched Alec. He was leaning over, hiding his face from her and pushing the fallen photos around, aimlessly around and around. After a while, he said, “Jeffrey’s grandfather was General Framley?”
“Yes.”
“And is Jeffrey’s mother—What is Jeffrey’s mother’s name?”
He raised his face to Skye now, and she was shocked at the mingled pain and longing there. She stood up. Whatever was happening was too much for her. “Alec, let’s go talk to Aunt Claire.”
He didn’t seem to have heard her. “Jeffrey’s mother is Brenda Framley. Am I right? Brenda Framley of Arundel.”
“I think so,” she whispered, bewildered and frightened. “I mean, yes.”
He stood up now and crossed over to the window, and with his back to Skye he said, “Jeffrey is eleven now—he told me that. When will he turn twelve?”
“Next month. August eighth.”
“August. Yes, that works.” Alec reeled, and for a moment Skye was afraid he’d crash over.
“Are you all right? Because I don’t understand—”
“I never thought—she didn’t tell me—I need to see him. Is he still at the golf course? No, no, that’s not right. It’s not fair to say anything to him until I’m sure. I’ll have to go ask Brenda. That’s what I’ll do. Skye, is she at Arundel now?”
“I think so, but Alec—”
“Then I’ll go to Arundel and make her tell me the truth.” He was already looking around for his car keys.
“It’s hours and hours away!” She grabbed Alec’s arm—he looked barely capable of walking, let alone driving all the way across New England. “And even if you find her, she’s really difficult to talk to.”
“You think I don’t know that? I was married to her.” He gently pulled away and found his car keys on the piano. “Tell Jeffrey—and your aunt and sisters—that I had to leave because of a family emergency. That’s even the truth. I’m sorry to ask you to keep secrets. Can you?”
“I—I guess so,” she stammered, barely knowing what she was agreeing to.
“Good.” He took Hoover’s leash down from its hook. “Hoover, we’re going for a long ride, buddy.”
Skye ran to the couch, grabbed Hoover’s collar, and held on to it, desperate to save someone from the coming conflagration, even if it was just this dog who drove her bonkers. “You can’t take him with you to Arundel. Mrs. T-D doesn’t like dogs. She doesn’t like dogs or rabbits or anything. Please let Hoover stay here. I’ll take care of him.”
“Naturally she doesn’t like dogs. What was I thinking?” said Alec, and tried to smile but managed only a painful grimace. “All right, Skye, you keep Hoover for me. I shouldn’t be gone long, twenty-four hours at the most.”
He walked out of the house—but came right back in.
“Make sure you tell Jeffrey he’s welcome to the piano while I’m gone.” He wave
d his arm around the room full of music. “He’s welcome to all of it.”
“I’ll tell him.”
Alec left again, and again he came back. “You shouldn’t have to do this alone, Skye. I’ll stop by your house and explain to Claire what I’m doing.”
“Thank you.”
Once more he left, and Skye and Hoover—united in feelings for the first time ever—waited hopefully for him to return. When it was clear that this time he was gone for good, Hoover crept under the piano, whimpering, and how Skye wished she could crawl under there with him and hide from her fears, her doubts and confusions. Only fifteen minutes ago she’d been at the oak tree, laughing with Alec at Hoover’s antics, and now Alec was gone—off on a wild chase to Arundel, looking for a truth that Skye was still too overwhelmed to contemplate. She shivered and would have given anything for her father to appear, and Rosalind, and Iantha and Ben, and for life to go back to normal. No being the OAP, no responsibility, no blabbing about who looked like whom and letting loose chaos on the people she cared about the most.
But none of that was going to happen, and Skye was on her own. What to do first? Hide the evidence. Working quickly, she scooped all the photographs back into their shoe box and crammed it behind a pile of sheet music on the shelf. She even checked the sheet music—it was for saxophone, which meant Jeffrey wouldn’t be poking around here. And now? She should finish filling the water bottles and take them back to the others at the golf course, with some funny story of why she’d been away so long. But Skye couldn’t think of any funny stories, and she wasn’t a good liar anyway, not for important things.
“But I can’t stay here all day, hiding,” she told Hoover, still in his safe haven under the piano. “I’d better go see Aunt Claire. You ready to go?”
He answered with a sad little moan, his ridiculous squashed face more wrinkled than ever. Which gave Skye the perfect excuse to crawl under the piano with him after all, and even hug him for a while—it helped that he didn’t lick her face, for once—until they’d both gathered enough courage to crawl out again and set off for Birches and whatever new terrifying information awaited them there.
The Penderwicks at Point Mouette Page 15
