As they walked to the first tee, Maren wondered what Oliver was up to. Golf, like many things on Haven Point, was an intergenerational affair, and there was nothing odd in playing with someone much younger. However, Oliver was not in the habit of inviting a single golfer to join them.
Fritz seemed to sense nothing amiss and they chatted generally for the first couple of holes. It was not until they were about to play the third that Oliver revealed his purpose.
“So, Fritz, I saw Patrick Donnelly speak at a meeting in Bath the other day. He’s at Harvard with you, isn’t he?”
Maren saw something flash across Fritz’s face, a trace of cynicism perhaps, but it quickly disappeared. He had to know Annie and Patrick were an item and that he should respond carefully.
“We’re curious about him, of course,” Oliver continued, as they approached the men’s tee. Maren could not help but be impressed by Oliver’s mild tone—how he accented “of course,” giving his words a whiff of conspiracy, mutual understanding. He’d always had a superb bedside manner.
“I bet that was interesting,” Fritz said, his tone neutral.
“Not particularly.” Oliver laughed.
“What was the meeting about?” Fritz asked as he bent over and placed his tee in the ground.
“Oh, it was all very harmless. He and some local activist asked people to write their senators about the McGovern-Hatfield Amendment.”
Fritz didn’t reply immediately. He lined up his shot, hit the ball, and then looked back, first at Oliver, then Maren.
“I’m glad to hear he’s doing something productive.”
Oliver calmly placed his ball on the tee, and watched it arc gracefully onto the green. He was maddeningly good at golf, even when he’d not played in months.
They moved to the ladies’ tee and were quiet as Maren teed up and hit her ball. “I take it Patrick was doing something less productive before?” Oliver asked, finally.
Fritz looked as if he was deciding how to respond, then finally let out a long breath.
“He was in a pretty radical organization, Dr. Demarest.” His tone was apologetic.
“Was he? Which one?” Oliver asked calmly.
Maren’s heart dropped. Oliver had been fishing for information about Patrick, but she knew this was bigger than anything he expected to catch.
“It was an offshoot of Tom Hayden’s group, though it’s hard to follow where one of these groups ends and the other begins. It wasn’t just Harvard students. They were from all the Boston campuses. Patrick was pretty well known. He’s a good speaker, as you probably saw yourself. He loves all that stuff, standing on the hood of a car, yelling into a megaphone with his fist up.” He raised his own fist in a half-hearted imitation.
“Really?” Oliver asked, his tone friendly and interested, like this was a fascinating development.
“It got pretty intense this spring. I imagine you saw it on the news. They occupied administrative buildings, held huge protests. Someone spray-painted ‘Baby Killer’ on a veteran’s car. Then a group went to the airport and jeered at soldiers returning home. Some of them got arrested, and the whole thing made the papers. Patrick managed to keep away from the cameras for once, but he was there. Everyone knew it.”
“I see.” Oliver’s tone was even, though Maren saw a slight movement in his jaw.
“You know what’s worse? I’m not even sure he was that committed to what they were doing.”
“Curious. What makes you say that?”
“He just loves the attention. It got him a lot of great girls,” Fritz added, then looked up at them sheepishly, as if he knew he’d tipped his hand. “You all probably think I’m bitter.”
Maren smiled in return. His long-standing crush on Annie was an open secret.
“We don’t think that, Fritz. But from what Oliver saw at the meeting, maybe his conscience got the better of him,” Maren said. “He seems to be more in the mainstream now.”
Fritz shook his head.
“You don’t think he saw the error of his ways?” Oliver asked, genuine interest now audible in his tone.
“His conscience didn’t get the better of him. His father did. When Mr. Donnelly heard about the scene at the airport, he hightailed it down to campus and told him to back off. Probably threatened to cut him off. Trust me. It wasn’t his conscience that bothered him. I’m not sure he has one.”
“Thanks for telling us, Fritz,” Maren said, before Oliver could push Fritz any farther.
“I’m sorry,” Fritz said. He looked as if he meant it.
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Oliver said, his voice reassuring. He turned the conversation as smoothly as he might turn a sailboat, around the shoals of this matter toward the safer waters of weather and sports.
After they finished the round of golf, Oliver and Maren got in the car and headed up the hill toward Fourwinds.
“Maren, do we need to filter what Fritz just told us?” Oliver asked as they approached the house. “I know he’s always had a thing for Annie.”
The question surprised Maren. She turned to him, ready to see traces of the stubborn, oppositional streak that Annie seemed to bring out in her husband, but he mostly looked sad. She realized Oliver had actually reconciled to a softer line on Patrick and sensed he was genuinely disappointed by what they’d just heard.
“No, I don’t,” she said with a sigh. “I think Fritz is right that Patrick doesn’t care about anything. I don’t sense he cares much about Annie, either. But I’m still not sure this should change our stance.”
“Maren, I am ambivalent about this war. You know I am. But I can’t stomach the people Patrick Donnelly was allied with. If the only reason he disengaged from that group was to save his own hide, I can’t stomach him either.” He pulled the car to the spot next to the garage, turned off the engine, and turned to look at her.
“I know…” Maren began, but Oliver wasn’t finished.
“It’s not just that. It’s how slippery he is, how calculating. I see now, looking back, what he was doing at that meeting. He’s rewriting his antiwar history, redacting his past. For all her bluster, you know Annie is innocent. She assumes everyone’s motives are as genuine as her own. I don’t think we can trust her with him. You said yourself she was out of her depth.”
“I don’t disagree. But what do we do? She’ll insist you’re opposed to Patrick because he’s not from a Haven Point family. And Oliver.” Maren paused and softened her voice. “She’d have a point. You do have your prejudices.”
She had never leveled this charge at him before, but he didn’t blink.
“I would have the same reaction if he came from a Haven Point family.”
“Except one thing: You don’t think Haven Point could produce a son who behaved like Patrick.”
“That’s neither here nor there, is it?” His expression suggested that was exactly what he thought.
The truth was, Haven Point youth rarely strayed far beyond prescribed boundaries, which on the whole kept them from going very wrong. Maren wondered at times if it was less breeding than lack of courage or imagination that kept them on the straight and narrow. Regardless, Patrick had taken part in something base and ugly, then made it worse with dishonesty.
The fact that Oliver’s issues with Patrick aligned with his predispositions did not make him wrong. Unfortunately, Annie was too invested, and her thinking too black-and-white, for her to see that.
“What do you plan to say to her?” Maren asked, finally.
“I’m not sure.”
“Be gentle, Oliver. It’s the best way. She needs to know you are on her team.”
When they entered the house, they heard music from Annie’s room. Maren went upstairs and asked her to come down to talk to them.
“In a minute,” Annie said. When she finally descended, she had her canvas bag over her shoulder, ready to go out somewhere.
“What?” She entered the living room and sat on the edge of an armless needlepoint chair, p
oised to spring at the first possible moment. Oliver and Maren sat on the sofa.
“Annie, we had occasion to talk to someone this afternoon who knows Patrick Donnelly from school. We heard a little more about what he’s been up to on campus,” Oliver said.
“And?”
“It appears Patrick was involved in some things your father and I find disturbing,” Maren cut in.
“What things?”
“A number of them,” Maren continued, “all of which have one thing in common: Patrick associating with people who treat American soldiers with contempt.”
“Who told you that?” She looked dubious.
“Well, you did, first,” Oliver said, hints of annoyance emerging in his voice. “You said Patrick thinks soldiers like Billy ‘encourage Nixon’ by enlisting.”
Annie looked confused now, as if she wasn’t sure of the best, most tactical way to respond.
“And we had confirmation from one of his classmates,” Oliver added.
Annie’s eyes flew open.
“Wait … was it Fritz Barrows? It was Fritz, wasn’t it? He hates Patrick. His mom hates the Donnellys! You can’t listen to him!” She was speaking quickly, eagerly now. She seemed to think she had a trump card.
“Oh, I think we can, Annie.” To Maren’s dismay, Oliver had reverted to his slow, patronizing tone. “We do not want you seeing Patrick Donnelly anymore.”
Maren flinched. Oliver might have assumed she was on board with this consequence, but he’d been peremptory. While Maren was no longer certain they should just let things with Patrick run their course, she had not signed on to this. But they needed to present a united front, so she kept quiet. She wasn’t sure she had a better idea anyway.
Annie’s mouth opened and her eyebrows flew together. She did not look disappointed. She looked terrified.
“You can’t just order me not to see him. I’m old enough to decide who my friends are!”
Oliver remained seated, but he was stretched tight, his demeanor rigidly controlled.
“You may be old enough to pick your friends, but we have a right to step in when you consort with someone whose values we find reprehensible. You aren’t helping matters with your attitude, Annie. You don’t even seem to see the problem with Patrick’s choices.”
“But you don’t even know if what Fritz said is true!” Her pitch rose as her voice lost strength. She sounded childish and desperate.
“Annie, I think we do, and I think you do, too,” Maren said, more gently. Annie looked at her, unable to argue.
“But you didn’t have a problem with him after you went to see him at the meeting. So, what he’s doing now is fine, right?”
“Annie, not six months ago, he was involved with a group of people who mocked soldiers when they returned home from the war. What if Billy had been one of them?” Oliver asked.
Annie, stubborn as Oliver, kept her expression implacable. Maren knew Annie’s mind was too muddled to even entertain Oliver’s hypothetical question. She probably barely heard it. Oliver, however, would interpret her lack of response as Annie choosing Patrick over her own brother.
“How about this, then,” Oliver said. “Why don’t you take a little break from Patrick?”
“A break? How long a break?” She looked fearful again.
“I don’t know. Until Labor Day?”
Annie had to know they would not permit her to see Patrick when summer was over, that Oliver intended this as the death knell of the relationship. She burst into tears and ran upstairs, more distraught than Maren ever remembered seeing her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
August 2008
Haven Point
SKYE
The kitchen door slammed, and Georgie appeared in the living room. She carried a tattered canvas bag and wore a yellow slicker with a yellow rain hat that was larger in the back, like the Gorton’s Fisherman.
Gran did not appear surprised to see her.
“Ugh, that infernal dog!” Georgie shook herself off. “I’m staying here tonight.”
“What’s wrong?” Skye asked.
“Skipper. My black Lab. He’s afraid of storms.” Georgie pointed out the window, where the wind whipped through the trees and the rising tide was sending up a spray so high, they could see it even up on the cliff.
“Cappy insisted we keep him on Haven Point with us, but he’s cowering under the table, moaning and barking. I told Cappy I’d ride it out over here. My mother’s dogs would never have dared be afraid of anything. It wasn’t allowed.”
“We all behaved for your mother, Georgie, man and beast,” Gran said. “Come on in.”
The dog’s a cover, Skye realized. She’s here for Gran.
“I’ve got a piece of news that probably won’t surprise you,” Georgie said, after removing her wet things. “Harriet Hyde refused to evacuate.”
“She’s still down on the beach?” Skye asked. She wondered if Ben had stayed behind with her. She couldn’t decide which was worse—the idea of his leaving without getting in touch, or that he had stayed without getting in touch.
“I bet she thinks she can put up her hand and stop a storm surge,” Gran said. “She shouldn’t stay down there, though. Can we get her to come up here with us?”
“She won’t. Cappy already asked her.”
“Well, there’s nothing for it but to pray, then,” Gran said. “Have you eaten, Georgie? We were just talking about lunch.”
Skye pushed Ben from her mind as they assembled turkey sandwiches, gazpacho, and Gran’s oatmeal cookies. All the while, the wind grew angrier. The walls of the house were thick, but trim and junctures were worn with age. Skye was so agitated by the sound of the kitchen door rattling in its loose frame, she finally braced it closed with a chair.
Just as they had almost finished clearing the table, the lights flickered twice then went out. It was only mid-afternoon, but it felt dark as midnight with the black and gray cloud cover.
“I knew we couldn’t stay so lucky,” Gran said. “It’s probably a transformer on the mainland. But have no fear. Ever the Boy Scout, Billy brings me a newfangled light every time he visits.”
She headed for the pantry and returned with an armful of candles, flashlights, and LED lamps. Skye washed the dishes then rejoined Gran and Georgie in the living room, now illuminated by a battery-operated lantern and large candles. They could no longer see the great clouds rushing by, or the trees doing their frenzied dance in the wind out the windows, just the reflection of their distorted figures and the flickering light. It felt odd, closed in.
As they listened to the wild noises outside, Georgie pulled knitting out of her bag, and Gran even read for a bit. Skye wondered if Gran’s story was on hold until the storm had passed, but then Gran put her book down, placed her hands on her knees, and leaned forward, as if calling a meeting to order.
“Georgie, before you arrived, I was telling Skye about the summer of 1970, when Annie was seeing Patrick Donnelly.”
“Ah, yes,” Georgie said casually. She looked over her reading glasses, knitting needles clicking. “Carry on.”
She’s definitely here for Gran.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
August 1970
Haven Point, Maine
MAREN
Maren slipped off her shoes at the top of the beach club stairs. She had been eager to escape the house, thick with tension since Oliver had laid down his decree earlier that afternoon. She inhaled deeply, hoping salt air and exercise might help.
By midday, the morning’s bright sunshine had turned milky, and was eventually overtaken by thick gray clouds. The beach was empty except for a few stalwart families in scattered encampments. She walked briskly along the edge of the water where the sand was firmest, watching seabirds dive and nervous plovers skitter before her.
She was troubled by how Annie had reacted to Oliver’s ultimatum. Maren had expected anger, but also some hint of poignancy, a sense that Annie had become the heroine in a coming-of-age novel
about a sweet but doomed first love. Instead, Annie was twitchy and anxious, completely unlike herself. It was as if Patrick had changed her very constitution.
It’s time to go, she thought. This summer just needs to end.
As she neared the rocks at the end of Haven Point Beach, she saw a man standing on the sandy strip between the Donnelly property and Haven Point’s. It took only a moment to recognize Finn’s broad, sturdy frame. Still as a statue, he gazed at a point in the distance. Maren cast her eyes in the same direction, but saw only open sea—no boat, no creature of interest. Finn was ordinarily so purposeful, it felt intimate somehow to witness him in such a meditative posture.
He turned when she approached. “Maren Demarest.” Though he didn’t smile, she still had the feeling he was mentally undressing her.
“Hello, Finn.” Maren stopped a few safe feet away.
“Nice day, wasn’t it?”
“It was. I think it’s going to rain tonight, though.” They both looked out at the water again, silence hanging between them. Finn finally spoke.
“So, I gather your husband was angry at Annie for being at our house the other night.” He spoke lightly but did not make eye contact.
“He was. Annie had lied to us about her plans.”
“It was her lying, then, that upset him? Not something about Patrick?”
Maren paused. She felt she owed him an explanation. Finn was likely to hear about Oliver’s injunction anyway.
“Can I be candid?”
“Please do.” Finn turned to face her. His expression was neutral, but she saw a glint in his eyes, a keen interest in her answer.
“With our eldest son in navy OCS right now, Oliver and I are sensitive about certain elements of the antiwar movement, and Patrick’s activities on campus trouble us.”
“You’re not the only one.” The mask dropped, and he grimaced. “I’ve been after him about it. What the hell do they mean, ‘make love, not war’? Christ, in my day, we did both.”
Maren studied him for a second. Though Fritz had made it clear Finn disapproved of Patrick’s controversial activities, she had still expected him to circle the wagons. His discomfort aroused her pity.
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