Skye had not heard the song in years, and, to her recollection, she’d never heard it here on Haven Point, but she knew every word, just as she knew what would happen when the crowd sang the next lines.
O-o-o-o, Liza, Little Liza Jane
O-o-o-o, Liza, Little Liza Jane
On the “O-o-o-o,” every small child was tossed in the air like a rag doll, just as Skye’s mother had done when she sang “Little Liza Jane.” Like the children in the yacht club, she had laughed, as wide-eyed and thrilled as she would have been on an amusement park ride.
Skye had the same odd feeling she’d experienced when she saw the photo of her mother in the living room at Fourwinds. Skye had noticed her mother’s name on trophies. She’d seen photographs of her here on Haven Point. For some reason, though, she’d never absorbed the fact that her mother had an entire history here, one Skye knew nothing about.
As the song ended and Julian moved on to “Casey Jones,” she took a deep breath and collected herself. By the time he reached the traditional closing song, “America the Beautiful,” she had regained her equilibrium, and her mind turned to the more prosaic question of whether she and Ben would speak after the event was over. He was closer to the door, so she figured the ball was in his court. He could leave with the exiting stream or wait for her and Gran to pass.
He did neither. As soon as the crowd stood to gather children and belongings, Ben made a beeline in Skye’s direction.
“Skye! It’s good to see you.” He kissed her cheek, and let his hand linger on her upper arm as he greeted Gran and Georgie.
Gran looked from Skye to Ben and back to Skye, a glimmer of curiosity in her eyes. Fortunately, she was distracted by a friend, and Ben and Skye detached themselves to join the other young and able-bodied in the effort to put the room back in order.
“How have you been?” he asked as they folded chairs. She saw genuine concern in his eyes.
“Okay, thanks.” She gave him a rueful smile that she hoped conveyed the right message. I know the last time I saw you was at my mother’s memorial service, and obviously it’s been hard, but perhaps we could leave it at that?
“I heard you left Congressman Vernon’s office. I’m glad you got out of there. It sounded like such a snake pit,” Ben said. Skye wondered if he knew anything about the circumstances under which she left.
“Yeah. I was never going to last there. What about you? Is this your vacation?” she asked as they took the chairs to the storage closet.
“Not exactly. There’s nothing on the dockets, though, and my parents are in Europe. They asked if I’d come up, just in case this hurricane causes problems.”
“Hal was telling me about it on the way. What’s the latest about the track?”
“I’m not sure,” Ben said as they rejoined Georgie and Gran. “You all don’t have to worry up where you are. You know how it is down on the beach, though.”
“We do, indeed. We’ll keep hoping it heads another way,” Gran said.
Skye noticed Ben’s brother eyeing them from the doorway, arms crossed.
“Ben, I think your brother is waiting for you. Don’t let us hold you up.”
Ben looked toward the door. Skye thought she saw a flicker of worry on his face, but when he turned back, his expression was clear.
“Yeah, I should probably catch up with him. Good to see you.” He gave Skye’s arm another gentle squeeze then maneuvered through the crowd to the door.
To her supreme annoyance, Skye found herself battling disappointment that Ben had not suggested they get together while they were both on Haven Point. As they joined the slower exodus from the yacht club, she did her best to put him back on the mental shelf, where she thought she had safely stowed him months before.
When they emerged, the stars were coming out. A faint purple line on the horizon marked the last vestiges of twilight, as the black silhouettes of sailboats bobbed at their anchors in the little harbor.
They had stopped on the lawn to enjoy the gentle breeze, when Skye spotted Harriet Hyde Barrows’s tall, bony frame heading with great purpose in their direction.
Gran groaned quietly. She and Harriet still cordially despised each other.
Harriet always looked peeved, but as she drew near, Skye noticed even greater displeasure than usual.
“Maren, I noticed the bittersweet bushes are overgrown on your section of the cliff.”
“Hello, Harriet,” Gran replied coolly. “My landscapers are taking care of it this week.”
“Homeowners on the cliff are responsible for their sections of the cliff path,” Harriet continued, as if Gran had not spoken.
“Yes, I am aware of that. Which is why I have asked my landscapers to take care of it,” Gran repeated.
“Bittersweet is extremely invasive, you know. It strangles everything in its way.”
“Yes. I do know. Which, again, is why I have told the landscapers to clear it.” Gran spoke slowly now, as if talking to someone very stupid, which elicited a snort of amusement from Georgie.
“Please see that they do.”
Harriet’s last comment, accompanied by a practiced sniff, sounded so much like a parting shot, Skye expected her to turn on her heels and march off. But with her diatribe behind her, she turned her steely gaze to Skye.
“You remember my granddaughter, Skye,” Gran said.
“Yes, I do.” Harriet tilted her head back and squinted down at Skye, like a doctor over a tongue depressor. Skye felt a flush of anger, and barely restrained herself from asking Harriet if she had identified another invasive species. “Hello, Skye.”
“Hello, Mrs. Barrows.”
“I was sorry to hear about your mother.” She did not sound particularly sorry.
“Thank you,” Skye said. There was an awkward pause.
“All right, then,” Harriet said finally. To Skye’s ears, it sounded like All right, then. I did that condolence thing. Now I’m free to go.
Harriet turned and headed up the lawn. When she was about ten steps away, they heard her voice again.
“The bittersweet, Maren. Don’t forget!”
“Thank you for the reminder, Harriet,” Gran replied in a weary tone. When Harriet was out of sight, they headed up the hill themselves.
“She’s a piece of work, that woman,” Georgie said.
“I thought she was going to ask me about my red hair again,” Skye said. “Do you all remember that?”
“Oh, I remember it, all right,” Gran said.
“When was that?” Georgie asked. “I just recall being so mad she put you on the spot.”
“It was the summer before I was in ninth grade.” Skye smiled, remembering how Georgie had put a stop to Harriet’s interrogation. “And Georgie, you told her I got my red hair from Gran’s brother, but later, I saw a picture of Gran and her brother at her apartment. He didn’t have red hair!”
“Oh Lord, no. He was a blond Viking, just like your grandma.”
They all laughed.
“I must say, though,” Georgie added, as they reached her house, “if that storm comes, it’s a good thing Ben’s here. Fritz and Tenley are in Europe, and that Steven won’t be much help.”
“They’ve had some issues with Ben’s younger brother,” Gran explained. She didn’t elaborate, but Skye almost laughed, thinking about what would qualify as an “issue” in Ben’s family. Maybe he got a bad grade in economics. Or—horror of horrors—decided to play baseball instead of lacrosse.
After she and Gran got back from the sing-along, Ben texted.
Hey, Skye. So good to see you tonight. Glad we happened to be here at the same time. Any chance we could get together tomorrow?
Skye had been annoyed with herself for her disappointment earlier when Ben had not suggested they get together. Now she was annoyed with herself for how pleased his text made her.
Sounds great.
Can I come by after lunch?
Perfect.
A few minutes later, he texted again.
Alternatively, you could come to our garage and sit in an inner tube drinking beer while I play Wild Thing on the guitar.
What? You only know two chords?
THREE chords.
CHAPTER TWENTY
August 1966
Haven Point
MAREN
Maren clenched her fists and strained forward in her Adirondack chair, as if by some miracle of telekinesis she could push Charlie and Annie’s stalled boat out of calm water.
She was comforted by the fact that the water around Fritz Barrows’s boat was also smooth as glass. Fritz was arguably the best junior sailor on Haven Point. If he had found himself in the same predicament, it was hardly something for Charlie to be ashamed of. The rest of the fleet was catching up quickly, though, and would soon eclipse them both.
They were watching from the hill above the yacht club. As always, the race had attracted a large crowd, a smudge of salt-bleached reds and blues and greens, the standard Haven Point palette for sailing.
Before the start of the race, it had never occurred to Maren that Charlie and Annie might actually win. At eleven, Charlie was the youngest skipper to qualify for the Stinneford Cup for as long as anyone could remember. With Annie as mate, their crew weight was half that of the other boats in the race. A decent showing against much more experienced sailors would have been satisfying enough.
But Charlie’s start had been masterful. Even Maren, who had never sufficiently overcome her landlocked youth to truly comprehend the sport, had been able to see it. It planted a tantalizing seed, and she had begun to imagine the multitude of sins that would be redeemed if he actually won the race.
Oliver sat back in his chair, threaded his fingers through hers, and looked at her with a rueful smile. It seemed he had also begun to hope.
“At least he’ll increase his lead over Fritz here. Light wind helps lightweights,” said Maude, who sat on Oliver’s other side.
Georgie looked up from the dock, where she stood beside Leighton Ballantine, the yacht club commodore. She was this year’s vice commodore, one of several jobs that rotated among women from old Haven Point families. With Maude too frail for such responsibilities, Georgie had taken up the mantle in a reluctant spirit of noblesse oblige.
She could not be too conspicuous in support of Charlie and Annie (among many reasons, Maren suspected Harriet had already mentally carved Fritz’s name in the Stinneford Cup trophy), but Georgie patted her chest in a subtle mime of anxiety.
Charlie did manage to pull a little ahead of Fritz, but it seemed meaningless, since the other eight boats in the fleet were quickly making up time and appeared ready to pass them both at any moment. Maren leaned over to pet one of Maude’s dogs, and tried to readjust her hopes back to their earlier, more modest level.
A few seconds later, Maude sat up a little straighter.
“Oliver, look,” Maude said. Maren heard excitement in her voice.
Oliver looked through his binoculars then leaned forward, his posture rigid with anticipation.
“What is it?” Maren asked.
“Look at the water near Charlie, Maren.”
Maren lifted her own binoculars and watched as the ripples in the water moved like a cloud from Gunnison Island toward Charlie and Fritz. Suddenly, the sails of their two boats filled and they picked up speed. The rest of the fleet slowed to a crawl in calm waters.
“Charlie read the wind shift,” Oliver said, amazed.
“I’ve never seen one like him.” Maude shook her head. “Not that young, at least.”
Maren’s heart warmed. Maude’s Yankee thrift extended to compliments. They were all the more treasured for being so rare.
The race was down to Charlie and Annie versus Fritz and his crewman, Gibb Devereaux. Charlie had a small lead, but the heavier wind now gave the advantage to the heavier crew. Fritz pulled ahead just as the boats disappeared behind Gunnison Island.
“Oh no,” Maren said.
“It’s not over. The wind is lighter around the island,” Oliver said.
It would be a couple of minutes before the boats would pass the mark behind the island and reappear. The crowd began to chatter as they waited, delighted with a Stinneford Cup more exciting than anticipated.
Maren, heart thumping, kept one eye on the water and the other on Oliver, who repeatedly checked his watch. When he squinted at the water and lifted his binoculars, she followed suit, just in time to see the top of a mast emerge, followed closely by another.
“Are the spinnakers up?” Maren asked. From this distance, the colors of the spinnaker sails were the only way to tell one boat from another.
“They should be. We’ll see the stripes soon.”
And then, there it was. The red stripe of Charlie’s sail.
“He’s in the lead!” Maren’s cry was drowned by the roar of the crowd as everyone on the hill also caught sight of the sail. Seconds later, the British racing green stripe of Fritz’s spinnaker came into view.
As they swiftly approached the finish line, Maren could finally make out the figures in the boats: Annie, deftly manipulating the ropes attached to the bottom corners of the triangular sail, and Charlie looking over his shoulder, shouting orders.
A shift in the wind acted like a crop to a horse’s haunch, giving both boats a burst of speed. Fritz positioned himself right behind Charlie.
“What’s he doing?” Maren asked.
“Trying to steal wind from Charlie’s port side. If they block it, they can put Charlie in dead air.”
By nudging his boat to the starboard side, Charlie kept his wind but lost some time. Fritz closed in, his spinnaker edging past the back corner of Charlie’s boat.
It came down to the final fifty yards. The entire crowd on the cliff was on its feet, cheering on the eleven-year-old skipper. Maren dared not look at Harriet. Even if Fritz won, she would be livid at the bias shown toward Charlie.
Maren held her breath and said a silent prayer. For Charlie, please, for Charlie …
If the finish line had been ten yards farther, the race would have been Fritz’s. But when the final shot of the cannon came, Charlie and Annie cleared the line ahead.
There was more hearty applause. Maren lifted her binoculars and saw Fritz lean over the side of his boat to shake hands with Charlie. She sighed deeply, a sense of satisfaction as pure as she ever remembered feeling.
“I wish Pauline had seen this,” Maude said. Maren smiled and resolved to call her that afternoon. Pauline’s speech had degenerated, so it was hard for her to talk, but she could listen. This was indeed the sort of victory that would thrill her, even if she only dimly understood it. William’s athletic triumphs had been too violent, too angry for Pauline to appreciate, but she always rooted for her grandchildren.
As the sailors made their way up the hill, Fritz grinned and chattered excitedly on the outskirts of the crowd surrounding Charlie. He seemed as dazzled as everyone by the race’s results, by his little competitor’s prowess. Maren noticed that he steered clear of his mother, who was unable to hide a cloudy expression.
When Annie wriggled out from the group of well-wishers, Fritz tapped her on the shoulder and extended his hand. She shook it and smiled, friendly enough but nothing special, then moved on to another friend. Fritz gazed after her with an expression Maren had seen on too many boys’ faces.
Another conquest, Maren thought. She had suspected as much the past couple of weeks.
Charlie finally detached himself from the crowd and approached Maren and Oliver, who gave him great hugs and congratulations. Annie flitted over, picked him up, and twirled him in a circle.
“You are king of the WATER!”
“Put me down!” Charlie said, pretending to object.
“All right.” Annie released him. “But only because I’m going to the beach.”
“Annie, be home by six. Remember we’re going to Phippsburg tonight.” Whatever the outcome, they’d promised Charlie a special dinner. Annie waved in vague acqu
iescence and took off after her friends.
* * *
Later that afternoon, Maren joined Oliver on the porch. He had arrived the previous day and could only stay a week. She wanted to make the most of a rare moment alone.
Oliver smiled up at her, laid his medical journal aside, and made room for her on the love seat.
There had been a time when Oliver’s smile had lost its power over Maren. Even when she knew their marriage was on the road to recovery, she had not expected to regain the intoxication of their early days. Didn’t that always fade as years passed, and with children underfoot? But to her surprise, the old passion had returned, albeit in a more tempered form.
It had taken much effort on both their parts. Maren knew Oliver had been as surprised as she by his explanation for his affair with Khaki. Once conscious of it, though, he had put his great mind toward understanding it. In typical fashion, he did not share all his thoughts, but she could tell by the fruits it bore that he had undergone a rigorous self-examination.
She saw it in general ways—steadfastness, patience, presence—but also in specific gestures. Maren never told Oliver her fleeting notion that summer of taking the children to Minnesota for the pre-harvest, so she was surprised the following year when he proposed the idea himself. He had only occasionally joined Maren and the children on their post-Christmas visits, but now he insisted they all needed more time with her family.
Maren had been pleased, but it was not until they arrived for their first visit that she realized it was not simply kindness or respect that had prompted his suggestion. Oliver had always been cordial to her parents, but now she saw an aspirational quality to the way he interacted with them, as if merely being in their presence might allow him to absorb some of their goodness. Whatever indefinable quality he saw in Maren (something too deeply ingrained for her to fully comprehend herself) he seemed to want for himself, for his children. The visits had become an every-other-year tradition.
At first, Maren was too angry to examine Oliver’s explanation. But while he never suggested she was responsible, and she refused to blame herself, over time she was able to see what Khaki had given him, what she had withheld. Maren had always disparaged women who complained about their neglectful husbands, but deep down, Maren had felt neglected. She had just been too proud to ask Oliver to spend more time with her, to sit and talk at the end of the day, or even just casually occupy the same space. She went off to her activities, made plans with her friends, and never let her loneliness show.
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