Today, however, the cabana was closed and locked from the outside, the key in its usual spot above the door.
Where is she? Maren thought as she slumped against the wall. What had been a drizzle when she left the house was now a downpour. She was soaking wet, out of ideas, and almost out of time. Georgie and Maude were due to arrive at the house soon to take her and Pauline to the meeting. Maren was certain to face the wrath if she didn’t show up.
Harriet had been elected head of the Ladies Auxiliary two years before. It might as well have been a lifetime appointment, like the Supreme Court, since no one dared run against her. She had been insufferably power-drunk since.
At this point, however, blowback from Harriet was the lesser of two evils. If Maren could not find Pauline, she would not go.
The rain lashed at her face as she trudged up the hill from the beach club. When a bolt of lightning lit up the sky just north of Haven Point, she picked up her pace, bending into the wind and dodging the muddy streams where gravel had washed away during this rainy month. When she heard a clicking sound, she realized it was now hailing, too.
What next? she thought miserably. Locusts?
Her question was answered by another bolt of lightning that forked treacherously in every direction, followed almost immediately by a deafening thunderclap. Then, closer to earth, came a great cracking sound, as a limb from an enormous red oak crashed to the ground not twenty feet from where she stood.
Maren stopped in her tracks. Her heart pounded unnaturally. What had been cold, wet, and supremely annoying now felt foolish and dangerous. Her mind raced as she looked around at nearby houses, deciding which to approach and how to explain why she was out in this weather in her condition.
She heard the sound of an engine and turned as a sleek black Cadillac Eldorado pulled up beside her. The driver rolled down his window.
“Get in!” he shouted, the only way to be heard over the storm and surf. His tone was peremptory, but Maren appreciated it under the circumstances. She went to the passenger side but hesitated when she opened the door and saw the beautiful leather interior.
“I’m soaked!” she said, dismayed.
“Jesus Christ, of course you’re soaked. Get in!”
Maren slid in and slammed the door shut.
“You have to turn around,” Maren said. “A huge branch fell up ahead. You can’t get by.”
He turned around in a clearing next to a detached garage. As they headed down the hill, another bolt of lightning lit up the sky. When they were out from under the tree canopy, he pulled over.
“We’d better stop here until the worst of this passes,” he said as he turned off the engine.
“Agreed.”
“Finn Donnelly.” He extended his right hand to Maren and lifted his brows in inquiry.
“Maren Demarest.” She accepted his grip, her hand immediately lost in his much larger one.
She knew who he was, of course. She would have known even if all the chin-wagging about him had not included elaborate descriptions of his flashy car. Virtually every conversation on Haven Point looped back to this infamous man who had rented Bull Trumbull’s house for the month of August.
Most of the breathless speculation surrounded where he had made his money, of which, reportedly, he had obscene quantities. Between known entities were shadowy corners, illuminated by people’s worst imaginings.
There is some real estate. Lots of it, but terribly downscale, and other businesses, too. Who knows what, exactly?
He’s in everything. I think he even has a carpet business!
Carpet!?
That last rumor had given Maren a chuckle. If an alleged rug merchant was allowed into the Haven Point Country Club, it would certainly go down as the moment all standards had been abandoned. She had been itching to meet him.
“Thank you for picking me up,” she said.
“Couldn’t leave a damsel in distress,” he replied with a subtle tilt of his head and lift of an eyebrow.
Is he flirting? she wondered. The notion seemed absurd, especially given how cold, wet, and pregnant she was. When she glanced down, however, she realized her midsection was obscured by the folds of her voluminous poncho.
“So, Maren Demarest, what were you out looking for in this weather?”
“How do you know I was looking for something? Maybe I was coming home from a friend’s house when the sky opened up.” She was surprised at the arch tone she heard in her own voice. And now I’m flirting back?
“I know you weren’t at a friend’s house. I was leaving the point an hour ago and saw you coming out of the yacht club. You were clearly looking around.” He smiled, raised an admonitory finger, and added, “Too late to tell me it was a dog, because you would have said so right away.”
She looked at him as she considered her answer. Finn was near Oliver’s age and almost as tall, but she noted little similarity otherwise. He had broad shoulders, a ruddy complexion, and black hair, graying at the temples—the kind of rough good looks that hinted at hard living. He might be a flirt, but he amused her, and something told her she could trust him with the truth. Or part of it, at least.
“I was looking for my mother-in-law. She tends to, um … wander.”
His expression immediately changed from idle inquiry to a mix of urgency and bafflement.
“Why didn’t you say so?” He faced forward, turned on the car, and put it in gear.
“No, no,” Maren said quickly, waving her hands as if to erase the misunderstanding. “We don’t need to look for her. She’s not senile or anything. That’s not the problem.”
He turned the engine off again then looked at her, awaiting further explanation.
“Would it be possible, Mr. Donnelly, for me to leave it at that?” Maren sighed. She suddenly felt very tired.
“Fine,” he said, after a beat. “If you’ll call me Finn.”
“All right, Finn. Please call me Maren.” Disconcerted by the intensity of his eye contact, she felt herself blush and peered out the windshield.
“We can probably get going, though,” she said. “I think it’s letting up.”
It was still pouring, but the wind had died down enough to see in front of them. He turned the car on and pulled back onto the road.
“So, how do you like the Trumbull house?” she asked as he followed her directions around the point toward Fourwinds.
“Hmmm. How shall I answer that?” He furrowed his brow in a charade of deep thought. “I’ll just say it reminds me a bit of my uncle’s house in Ireland.”
“Oh? Did you like your uncle’s house?”
“My uncle’s house was so decrepit, when he died, the fire department burned it down for practice.”
She laughed. Haven Point had an uneasy relationship with renters. Not all families could readily afford the taxes and upkeep on an old coastal house. Some chose to sell, and rent something smaller. Others held on by renting out their house for part of the summer. The supply of the former was not sufficient to satisfy the demand of the latter, though, so it was necessary to look beyond the community for prospective renters.
Technically, owners could rent to whomever they chose. This caused some angst (anyone can come?!), but since access to the amenities—beach, boat launch, and golf and tennis—was limited to club members, there was little reason to be on Haven Point without at least being proposed for membership to the clubs.
Renters, by definition, were aspirants to the community, and Haven Point brooked no fussing. They were expected to be submissive, like dogs showing their bellies. Finbar Donnelly seemed prepared to bare his teeth, if need be.
I can’t blame him, she thought as they passed the yacht club. He had paid a pretty penny to rent the Trumbull home, the Trumbulls being in need of as many pretty pennies as they could find. Bull’s daughter Khaki still worked as a nurse in Oliver’s practice. She was as sour and supercilious to Maren as ever, but Maren felt sorry for her. She had even hired her to watch their kids from ti
me to time, and to housesit when they were away.
Bull had sweetened the pot by putting Finn’s name up for membership in the trifecta: the beach club, yacht club, and Haven Point Country Club. Maren wondered if Finn and his wife knew how empty the gesture had been. They had limited access until they were admitted, and they would never be admitted. Harriet, among others, had already declared she would not tolerate this vulgar Catholic family joining the community.
That reality did nothing to stop the anxiety the Donnellys’ arrival had occasioned. It was as if their mere presence could remove the proverbial finger from the dyke. Haven Point was suddenly in danger of being flooded with the wrong sort of people. Soon they’d be transformed into Newport or one of those nouveau riche spots in the Catskills—with lavish parties, gambling, and other unwholesome pursuits.
And the men will all drive flashy cars like this one, Maren thought, smiling inwardly, as Finn pulled up in front of Fourwinds.
“So, the mysterious wanderer is your mother-in-law?”
“Yes.”
“This house belongs to your husband’s family, then?” He leaned forward to look up at Fourwinds, squinting as if mentally assessing its worth.
“Yes, it does,” Maren said.
“You didn’t come here as a girl?”
“I did not,” Maren said, almost laughing.
“Not your kind of summer spot?” He smiled conspiratorially.
Maren wondered at Finn having pegged her as an outsider. Was her ambivalence about Haven Point etched on her forehead?
She loved Fourwinds and the rugged Maine coast, but other than Georgie and Maude (for whom she daily thanked the friendship gods) she had not yet warmed to the community. She found an enervating sameness to the society. The obsession with the Donnellys highlighted what bored her most—the constant fretting on Haven Point about Haven Point.
Georgie and Maude treated it as an article of faith that there was a legacy worth cherishing there, but at least they didn’t feel the need to talk about it all the time.
That said, while she had enjoyed what had been a rather subversive interval with Finn Donnelly, she realized she had probably said too much.
“Oh, it’s lovely here, and wonderful for the children,” she said, as brightly as she could manage. She opened her car door. “I’d best get inside. Thank you for your help.”
“It was a pleasure to meet you, Maren Demarest.” He smiled meaningfully. “I hope to see you again soon.”
“You, too,” she said as she climbed out of the car. She was only a few steps away when she heard his voice again.
“Let me know if I can ever help with your problem,” he said. In response to her confused expression he added, “With your mother-in-law, I mean. I’m Irish, after all. An expert.”
He smiled a little roguishly. As he drove off, window still open, she heard him sing. “‘Well, baby, I’m resigned … to having you for life, but no peace of mind…’”
What he lacked in talent he made up for in volume. Though his voice was soon swallowed up by the sound of the rain and surf, she knew the rest of the words.
Because gentlemen prefer blondes, but the only blonde that I prefer is you.
* * *
Clara Douglas, the wife of the Demarests’ caretaker, Gideon, was rinsing blueberries at the sink. Annie galloped around the table while Billy sat quietly, looking at pictures of birds in an old Audubon book. Maren greeted the kids, then joined Clara at the sink.
“That was some fierce weather, Mrs. Demarest. Someone’s cat must have been swishing its tail. I was glad to see you get a ride home.”
Maren was relieved Clara hadn’t noticed who her knight-errant had been.
“Any sign of her?” Clara added under her breath.
Maren shook her head.
“I’m afraid we’re not done with the storms. It’s getting dark again.” Clara nodded her head toward the window. Maren looked out. The sky was a softer gray now, the rain almost invisible, but darker clouds in the distance were heading in their direction.
Their attention was brought back to the room by the sound of a broom hitting the floor, knocked over by Annie in her high-speed perambulation.
“Annie, stop your pranking and capering and sit back down,” Clara said, her voice kind but firm. Annie stopped abruptly and climbed onto her chair next to Billy.
Maren smiled in wonder. Georgie’s kids, whom Clara also watched, had shown the same mysterious willingness to do her bidding. Maren and Georgie were convinced Clara was some kind of sorceress, given her odd superstitions and magical way with children, but they were not about to complain, since she was using her powers for good.
Annie stood on her chair and began to sing as she leaned over to spin the lazy Susan in the middle of the table.
“Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream. Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, life’s a butter dream.”
“Life is but a dream,” Billy corrected without looking up from his book.
“Butter dream,” she insisted. She stopped playing with the lazy Susan and stared at him, her expression serious. He looked up, but just as he was about to correct her again, she grinned impishly. Annie was as impulsive as her brother was thoughtful, but there was no denying her precocious comic timing. Even Billy had to laugh.
It was a toss-up, whether Annie had been more challenging before or after she was born. With Billy, Maren had traded up from nine months of morning sickness to an easy baby. Nearly six years old now, he was still steady and placid. With Annie, she’d again been sick from the beginning of the pregnancy to the end, but swapped that for monstrous sleep deprivation. Annie, now “two and free quarters,” as she put it, had five times Billy’s energy and slept about half as much.
“Demarest brains like her dad, Demarest pluck like her uncle” was the consensus on Haven Point. By this thinking, Maren observed, she herself was merely a vessel to deliver Demarest intelligence and high spirits to a new generation. It might have annoyed her had she not recognized what a good insurance policy it would provide. People would be more forgiving of Annie’s mischief, of which she was certain there would be plenty, if it was deemed a Demarest trait.
Maren left the children in Clara’s capable hands and called Georgie to let her know Pauline was missing again and she would not go to the meeting. Georgie promised to check in on their way back.
Maren had never questioned the wisdom of joining Pauline’s band of protectors. The “system” wasn’t perfect. People certainly saw Pauline in her cups from time to time, but they managed to keep such instances to a minimum. As Georgie had said, the occasional drunken incident didn’t cause much chatter.
William helped by assiduously avoiding his wife. He traveled, attended parties, sailed, and played cards, golf, and tennis, all without Pauline. On the few occasions Pauline slipped the leash and William saw her drunk, the contempt with which he treated her strengthened Maren’s resolve to keep it hidden from him.
She had begun to think, however, that she should at least try to talk to Pauline about her drinking. Everyone claimed it was useless, but Pauline had been finding new ways to get in trouble. In July, fellow caretakers told Gideon someone had been breaking into unoccupied houses. The intruders didn’t leave much of a trace, other than the odd gin bottle. Figuring it was teenagers sowing oats, they hadn’t told the owners. But Gideon told Clara, and Clara told Maren.
“Showing up drunk at a party’s one thing, Ms. Demarest. Breaking and entering’s a whole ’nother.”
It’s time to give it a try. Maren resolved to finally confront her.
Of course, she’d have to find her first.
The next round of thunderstorms rolled in soon after Clara and Maren got the children to bed. Gideon called to let them know he would not be able to pick up Clara, because a tree had fallen in the road just past the country club. Even in the unlikely event they cleared it, the causeway would likely be flooded by high tide.
“You’re welcome to stay he
re, Clara,” Maren said, “but I know you keep things in the Grahams’ guest cottage.”
“I don’t mind stayin’, Ms. Demarest. I know how it is when Pauline’s out getting a snoot-full, and you oughtn’t wait up in your condition.”
“I promise I won’t wait up. Pauline is on her own tonight.”
By the time Maude and Georgie pulled up in their old LaSalle, it was raining biblically.
“Still missing,” Maren told them.
“I bet she’s holed up somewhere,” Maude said, her raspy voice strangely soothing. “She doesn’t much like the outdoors, even on the best of days.”
“I’m sure you’re right.” Maren had also comforted herself with the thought that Pauline had found shelter. And after a very wet afternoon hunting for her, Maren didn’t much care who found her. “How was the meeting?”
“If that tree had fallen a little farther south, we’d have had a slumber party,” Maude said. Maren cringed at the thought.
“Harriet asked where you were,” Georgie said, shooting her a rueful look.
Maren sighed. Harriet was as miserable as ever. The shambles of her marriage hadn’t helped. She and her husband lived almost entirely apart.
“Marry the woman, and not the house,” James Barrows warned anyone who would listen. “And if you must marry the house, marry the permanent residence. Three months of a summer home will not get you through the rest of the wretched year.”
She was particularly nasty to Maren. Harriet already resented her (probably for withholding the reverence to which she felt entitled) but it had been compounded by the fact that Annie often upstaged Harriet’s daughter Polly.
Life to Harriet was a zero-sum game. Someone else’s child was permitted talents or good qualities, as long as she was certain her own children had them in greater abundance. But when it came to pure charisma, there was no competition. No one had more charisma than Annie.
“We’re going to head back. You coming, Clara?” Georgie asked.
“Do go, Clara. I’ll be fine,” Maren said. She urged Clara out the door, reiterating her promise not to wait up for Pauline.
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