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“Money isn’t everything,” Alice quipped.
“Money is the root of all evil,” Henry countered.
“Love conquers all.”
“ ‘Did you ever hear of Captain Wattle? He was all for love and a little for the bottle,’ ” Henry sang, and shook the ice cubes in the bottom of his glass, signaling Alice to mix him another drink.
Amazing, I thought. Even their foolish, intoxicated Ping-Pong proverbs could not irritate me tonight. I had a date to prepare for. I declined another glass of wine, opting instead for a wee dram of single malt alone in my apartment. I thanked them and excused myself.
“Shall we wait up for you tomorrow night, dear?” Alice asked before I closed the door.
“No, thank you, Mrs. V. I’ll tell you all about it over coffee the next morning.”
“You’d better!” they shouted in unison.
that had been a surprisingly fun evening, I thought as I propped my feet up on a box marked miscellaneous that I had yet to unpack since my move north. My new arrangement must be sort of like having parents—but better. How many moms and dads would keep their daughter in single malt and tease her about the possibility of “dessert” on a first date?
And I wouldn’t have the responsibility of caring for them when they grew senile or were no longer ambulatory. I’d be long gone by then, I was sure. In the meantime, I found their weirdness growing on me and hoped I was endearing myself to them. One of my lesser reasons for relocating here from a
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city had been the stories I’d heard about the generosity and welcoming spirit of the people. The Vickersons were holding up their end by treating me like what I imagined was family.
The last drop of the small glass of single malt I served myself was sweet and slightly nutty. I smelled a hint of toffee.
How that conservative pouring had transformed from the brazen, smoky, burning first sip to a shy malt sweetness that clung to the inside of the glass fascinated me. Like people, I thought, all single malts are distinctly different. Like single malts, I thought, people are ultimately a product of their environment. Scotch was the liquid existence of the only thing I remembered from high school French class— gout de terroir—taste imparted by environment. People embody that concept, too, I thought as I yawned and closed my eyes. Water, air, soil, shape and age of the still, temperature . . .
Maine must be a great environment. I liked the people a lot. I wondered if this was as close as I would ever get to Scotland.
The home of single malt and golf—paradise.
Catching myself drifting off, I forced my feet to the floor and my butt out of the chair. I was backlit by the soft yellow bulb in my bedside reading lamp and figured whoever was manning the telescope would see I was in my nightshirt and tucking into bed. The knee-length oversize cotton gown that I had slipped on behind the closed door of my bathroom could hardly be considered part of a burlesque show. But I knew the importance of maintaining certain habits and routines when surveillance was suspected. I couldn’t let on that I knew I was being watched.
I clicked off the lamp and settled into comfortable total s l i p k n o t
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darkness. Closing my eyes felt good. I took an extra-deep breath and exhaled slowly into complete relaxation. Then I counted lethargically down from ten, loitering between digits lazily. At four, I was nearly unconscious. Tempted to rush the countdown, I exercised patience and self-control.
“Three, two, one . . .” I flung off the covers with a backhand, then rolled out of bed and onto the floor. On my hands and knees, I was in the bathroom in a flash and feeling around in the dark for my clothes. Jerking a shirt over my head and plunging into a pair of slacks, I dropped back to my knees and crept out and under the partially drawn shade toward the apartment’s exit. I tiptoed downstairs in my socks and gently opened and closed the door, letting myself out of the Lobster Trappe. The twin dachshunds in the rear window of the Vickersons’ Caddy watched me put on my shoes, their shiny red eyes reflecting light from a nearby streetlamp.
I saw from their blackened windows that my landlords had passed out. Now that the town had gone nighty-night, I would turn the Sea Hunter upside down, I thought excitedly as I moved quickly down the hill. Darting around spots of light from the few streetlamps and dodging beams from a single passing car, I shot through the plant’s gate undetected.
Scampering around the corner of the building, I was deeply disappointed to find half a dozen or so cars in the parking area, including the boat truck.
I eased toward the truck as stealthily as I could for a better view of the boats at the end of the pier. The Sea Hunter and Fearless were lit up with deck lights that reminded me of night games at Dolphin Stadium. Keeping the trucks between
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the boats and me, I watched the activity on the decks. Someone, I assumed Quin, was welding around the base of his net drum while Eddie scrubbed and stacked penboards that were used to section off the fish hold. Aboard the Sea Hunter, George pumped grease from a gun into various fittings on each cable spool, while Lincoln mended a hole in the fishing net. Alex sat on the fish-hold hatch and filled a plastic needle with orange twine, loading it for his father to empty into the next hole or tear.
I leaned against the side of the truck, rested my forearms on the top edge of the bed, and admired Lincoln in a way that was possible only when no one knows you are looking. His countenance, even from this distance, spoke the perfect combination of strength and gentleness. He clearly enjoyed this work and appeared to be entertaining his crew with a story.
I observed him pause, look up from the repair, and gesture with his arms in an animated fashion. His broad shoulders bumped up and down against the base of his neck as he laughed and returned to mending. The scene took on a dream-like quality, and I felt quite adolescent, gazing unnoticed from afar.
“Kind of late for you to be out, isn’t it, Miss Bunker?”
Although I was startled, I recognized Cal’s voice and answered without turning around. “I could ask the same of you, Cal. It’s a beautiful night, and I am out for a walk. So what brings you here at this time?”
Cal joined me on the side of the truck and said, “A load of bait from Canada. I came down to open up the plant and s l i p k n o t
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supervise a small crew to salt and store it. What’s so interesting about the back of this truck?”
Embarrassed that I had been caught ogling Lincoln, I looked into the bed of the truck and remarked on its only contents. “I’m curious about that sprayer. It looks like something used by the Orkin Man to flush out cockroaches. There aren’t any cockroaches this far north, are there?” I had always been quick on my feet—unless I was in the presence of a man with whom I was infatuated.
“I’ve not seen or heard of one in seventy-two years. That spray bottle is used to clean stuff with a bleach solution.
They’re great for killing and removing growth from the bottom of a skiff. The conscientious guys also use them to disinfect their fish holds.”
“So these guys must be conscientious,” I said, never shift-ing my focus from the Sea Hunter’s deck.
“Among the best. The Aldridges are good men.” The low bass rumble of a diesel engine and the hissing of air brakes turned both of our heads as a tractor trailer pulled through the gate and backed into a loading dock. “I’ve got to get to work. Good night, Miss Bunker.”
“Wait, Cal. Do you know of a place called Spruce Hill?”
“Oh, sure. It’s a nice spot—used to be private land but was given to the town for a park. I haven’t been there in years. It was the first proposed site for the wind farm.”
“I’d like to go. Can you give me directions?”
“Tonight?”
“No, tomorrow.”
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“Stop by. I’ll draw you a map.” Cal hobbled off toward the truck.
“I guess I’ll head home. Good night, Cal,” I called after him. My disappointment in postponing the shakedown was lightened by what I considered Cal’s positive endorsement of Lincoln. I had good judgment, and my first impressions were usually spot on. But still, I was happy for a second opinion of someone whom I hoped to grow closer to.
As I sneaked back into my dark apartment, I felt my way to the bathroom, probing with a foot to avoid stubbing a toe or banging a shin. Donning my nightshirt once again, I found my bed with some assistance from the illuminated numbers on my alarm clock. The red lights, which I appropriately kept on my starboard side, also indicated that I had two minutes before my coach turned into a pumpkin.
I woke at six a.m., alert and eager to start the day. Trans-posing the surveys of Desperado and Witchy Woman from paper to computer was tedious. The checklists retained a bit of an odor, which turned my stomach and served as a reminder of the boats’ condition. Nowhere on the list was there a box to check for raw sewage in the bilge, so I was thorough in my
“additional remarks.”
I interrupted my work twice to travel down to the dock, hoping for the proper opportunity to get aboard the Sea Hunter under the guise of looking for the cell phone that I had “lost.” But it was no use. The area was a beehive of activity. I did, on my second trip, run into an extremely tired-looking Cal. It must have been a very late night for him, I realized, and the lack of sleep exaggerated his disfigurement s l i p k n o t
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to quite a degree. Still, he was pleasant and uncomplaining and had taken time to draw a map with written directions to Spruce Hill. He didn’t mention my get-together with Lincoln. Cal heard everything, so this meant word hadn’t gotten out. From this I inferred that Lincoln hadn’t confided in anyone, and I further deduced that he would not be one to kiss and tell. That would be my prerogative.
After another hour of paperwork that included paying monthly bills and balancing my checkbook, I gobbled down a peanut butter sandwich and headed back into town, this time driving the Duster. I said a few prayers and, by some miracle, managed to coast to a stop in position to fuel up at the Old Maids’. I hadn’t seen the ladies since sitting with them at the coffee shop the morning Dow showed up in the seaweed.
The pump was somewhat antiquated. There was no slot for a credit card, and a sign read pump first—pay inside.
There was a piece of duct tape on the glass face that covered the wheels indicating the dollar amount of a purchase, on which was printed tell cashier # of gallons. This was not promising, I thought. The gas pump’s mechanical wheels could not keep up with the price per gallon. The two matronly-looking gals watched through the store’s plate-glass window as I added two gallons to the Duster’s bone-dry tank.
Entering the store under a sign that read island hardware and variety, I was greeted first by a friendly and overweight cat. The cat followed me to the cash register, where it rubbed against my lower calf. “Oh, look, she likes you!” exclaimed Marlena, who with Marilyn was squeezed behind the register. The cat’s immediate fondness for me seemed to be key
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with the women. They were quite talkative, and although they invited me to look around their store three times, they were not as pushy as I had been led to believe. They introduced themselves as Marlena and Marilyn, as if they did not recall our time together at the coffee shop. Oh well, I thought, Audrey had never introduced us, so now the formalities were complete. The cat was introduced as Sir Bunny of Wheat Island—quite a masculine ID for a female cat, I thought. As I waited for change for a ten-dollar bill, I learned more about Sir Bunny than I knew about most of my acquaintances in Green Haven.
Sir Bunny of Wheat Island, they said, was a Scottish Fold cat. Originally from Scotland, these cats were bred, among other places, right offshore of Green Haven on Acadia Island. Since I was a Bunker, they reasoned, my ancestors might have been responsible for the introduction of the breed to Maine. As it turned out, this remote possibility was reason enough for the women to be nice to me. Sir Bunny, I learned, was a type of Scottish Fold with folded ears, but Folds also came with straight ears. The women belonged to the Cat Fanciers’ Federation and had won trophies in numerous shows. Folds, they said, made wonderful pets, cried with a silent meow, and stood on their hind feet like otters. Rather than question the silent cry and request an otter demonstration, I simply nodded and smiled, still waiting for my change.
The smile came naturally with the thought that my family might have bred cats. My mother had had no use for cats, so I had never tried to adopt a stray.
“Did you know there is a Maine Scottish tartan?” asked s l i p k n o t
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Marilyn. “We’ve ordered some fabric for Sir Bunny. Spoiled rotten, she is!”
“I’ll say.” I was still smiling and waiting for four dollars and some cents that Marilyn was squeezing in a chubby fist.
“Would you like to donate a couple of bucks to Green Haven High’s basketball team? They’re getting new uniforms this year.”
“No, thanks,” I replied. I needed every penny of my change to meet my very tight budget.
“Not a sports fan? How about the Animal Rescue Squad?
They do wonderful work. Just last week they released a seagull that had been sick. They are also the dogcatchers here in town. We call them the Dog Squad.”
The Fraud Squad was more like it, I thought. I shook my head and said, “No, thank you,” while wondering how much of the money collected on their behalf actually made it to the animals.
“Not an animal lover? How about kids? You do like children, don’t you? How about a small donation to benefit little Russell Trundy?” Marlena pointed to the clear plastic container identical to the ones I had seen beside every cash register since entering the state of Maine. On the front of this receptacle, in which anyone could see that the clientele of this establishment had been quite generous, was taped a picture of the cutest toddler. Beneath the photo was the tearjerk-ing text defining Russell’s disease and need for expensive treatment.
Unwilling to listen to another plea, I agreed to contribute the change that Marilyn held over what looked like a piano
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man’s tip jar. She quickly released her grip and allowed the money to fall in and join the small fortune the Old Maids had managed to raise for little Russell Trundy. The two women thanked me profusely and wished me a good day as I left the store. Sir Bunny of Wheat Island stood on her hind feet looking otterly, as promised, with her mouth wide open but no sound emitting. I assumed she was meowing in silence—
whatever that meant. Interesting ladies. Strange cat. I would be back many times, I thought. But in the future, I would have correct change.
With the Duster’s gas gauge registering nearly an eighth of a tank, I moved across the street and up two blocks. I parked in front of Lucy Hamilton’s boutique and then checked my face and hair in the rearview mirror. Sighing audibly, I braced myself for what would probably be an unpleasant experience. If I had more time, I would drive to Ellsworth for an outfit. But I did not have time, and Le Follie was the only game in town. So up the steps and through the front door I marched, ready for battle, if that was what would be required to emerge with a sexy little number fit for tonight’s stargazing picnic dinner.
The boutique was overflowing with imported apparel and exquisite accessories. I doubted that I could afford even a simple belt. Still, it wouldn’t cost me anything to look around.
At the very least, I would leave with a sense of the latest fashion trends. I closed the door behind me, setting off an automated electronic tone that alerted whoever was in the back room—I assumed Lucy Hamilton—that a customer had entered. Muffled voices from the other room suddenly quieted; s l i p k n o t
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then I heard the opening and closing of a back door and the subsequent slamming of a car door in the distance. As I admired a display of handbags and satchels by the same designer as the one Lincoln had sent my roses and wine in, I nearly choked on the price: $115! No wonder he dared suggest dessert.
My contemplation of Lincoln’s generosity was interrupted by the sound of a vehicle behind the building. The signature squealing of the boat truck faded as I gaped at rack after rack and shelf upon shelf of ladies’ finery. Surrounded by fields of neutral-toned lush fabrics complemented tastefully by occasional splashes of color, I wondered if Lincoln might have driven the truck. I fantasized that he had come to purchase another gift, such as one of these gorgeous scarves. No, probably not, I rationalized. More than likely, Alex had simply come to visit his mother.
Running my fingertips over a teal-blue cashmere sweater, I saw Lucy in the blurry corner of my vision and wondered who would fire the first shot. As soon as she saw me, she plunked her hands onto her hips and began muttering unin-telligibly. Picking up the cashmere sweater by its shoulders, I hugged it against my coffee-stained T-shirt and turned to admire it in a full-length mirror. She shuddered visibly as I attempted to refold the short-sleeved top. Rushing to my aid, she whisked her merchandise from my fumbling hands, the fingernails of which retained grease from yesterday’s dirty work. “We don’t carry Wrangler here,” Lucy snarled. “Why don’t you try Wal-Mart in Ellsworth?”
Before I could return her fire, the electronic tone ding-
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donged, forecasting the entrance of a legitimate customer and sending Lucy to her post as greeter. “Ariel Cogan! Do come in! I haven’t seen you in weeks. You look marvelous.
How has your summer been?” Lucy was more than cordial.
The women exchanged small talk while I moved to a circular rack of sale items over which I could watch both Lucy and Ariel, whose back was to me, as choreographed by the pro-prietress. I had not met Ariel Cogan but was aware that she was Green Haven’s most loved summer resident. From what I now saw and heard, I understood how she had gained her reputation as the consummate lady. Though her talk was pure polish and refinement, her messages were plain and direct.
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