The Sense of Reckoning

by Matty Dalrymple

  Evidence of the fire’s capriciousness was everywhere. A grove of pines on one side of the road had burned to the ground, the stumps still smoldering, while on the other side a picket fence had suffered no worse fate than having its white paint dulled by the smoke. The site where a home had stood was marked only by a gaping basement filled with charred wood, while the mailbox was untouched, its jaunty red flag aloft.

  As they approached Bar Harbor, Eliot turned off Eagle Lake Road onto Forest, then pulled to the side of the road. He nodded to a pile of debris.

  “That was our house.”

  It looked like an ash heap on which someone had dumped metal scrap—water pipes, a metal barrel, an iron stove, and, on top, a claw-footed bathtub.

  Eliot’s face was ashen. “I didn’t think it would be completely gone.”

  Although Chip was jittery with his desire to get to Jardin, he said, “Want to stop? Look around?”

  Eliot shook his head. “Why bother? What could be left in that?” He turned the car around.

  They continued down Eagle Lake Road past the Kebo Valley Club. The clubhouse was gone and even the Building of the Arts which, in all its Grecian glory, had looked like it could survive any conflagration, had been reduced like its less noble neighbors to rubble. Bar Harbor’s elegant Malvern and Belmont Hotels had burned and in their places were precarious stepped towers of brick—the multi-story chimneys and fireplaces that had warmed the guests through Bar Harbor’s golden age. The bricks that had formerly constituted the DeGregoire Hotel had tumbled into the road and been pushed aside, likely by a bulldozer.

  “God almighty,” said Eliot, “it looks like Dresden.”

  When they reached the center of the village, where the fire hadn’t reached, all was eerily quiet. The stores were closed, the houses locked up, the sidewalks empty save for soldiers on the lookout for looters. Some windows had been broken by debris blown about by the gale-force winds. Abandoned fire hose snaked through the streets. A scorched funk hung in the air.

  They were about to turn onto the street where Millie’s temporary lodgings were when a soldier stepped in front of the truck. He circled to the driver’s window.

  “Pass?”

  Eliot handed him the pass.

  The soldier glanced up at them. “Which one of you is Eliot Reynolds?”

  “That’s me,” said Eliot.

  “And what’s your business here?”

  “Picking up my sister, taking her to more suitable lodgings,” said Eliot. “She’s staying in a guest house on this street.”

  “This pass is only for you, Mr. Reynolds,” said the soldier. “Who might your passenger be?”

  “This is my sister’s fiancé, Chip Lynam.”

  Chip blushed to his hairline and smiled weakly at the soldier.

  The soldier looked sharply at him and then nodded and handed the pass back to Eliot. “Move along.”

  Eliot pulled away, his mouth twisted with the effort of not laughing.

  “I can’t believe you told him that!” Chip muttered.

  Eliot shrugged, still smiling. “Got you through, didn’t it?”

  They pulled up in front of the guest house, where a group of women—most of them young—were sitting on the porch.

  “Eliot!” they heard, and Millie detached herself from the group and ran out to the car. She gave Eliot a hug and then turned to Chip. “Chip Lynam! What are you doing here?”

  “We brought you some clothes I had stashed at Chip’s dad’s hotel over on Lynam Point,” said Eliot.

  Millie looked into the back of the truck where the suitcase lay. “Well, aren’t you the nicest things—thank you!” She began circling the truck to the tailgate.

  “But Chip has a proposal for you,” said Eliot, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively at Chip. “Tell her, Chip.”

  Chip tried to glare at Eliot, then turned to Millie. “We thought maybe you’d like to come stay at the hotel.” He glanced nervously at the other women on the porch, all of whom were observing the interaction with interest. Millie turned to him, her eyebrows raised.

  Chip scuffed the toe of his boot on the pavement. “I’m awful sorry about your house, Millie. We thought you might be more comfortable at the hotel. You wouldn’t have to pay, maybe just help out a little around the place. Just until things get worked out with your family.” He gave an exaggerated shrug. “Just a thought.”

  Millie glanced at Eliot, who nodded, then at the group of women on the porch, all of whom quickly turned back to whatever they had been doing before Eliot and Chip showed up.

  “Well, I must say I wouldn’t mind having somewhere else to stay,” she said in an undertone. “This group is a bit catty.” She looked closely at Chip. “This is okay with your dad?”

  Although he would never have expected it, Chip was able to say with complete sincerity, “Yes, seems like he thinks it’s a good idea.”

  “Okay then,” said Millie decisively. “I appreciate it, Chip. Let me run in and grab a couple of things, won’t be a minute.”

  Millie wasn’t gone much more than a minute when she reappeared on the porch with her purse and a small satchel. After a quick conversation with one of the older women, she ran down the steps. Ignoring Chip’s outstretched hand, she flipped the satchel into the back and jumped in the cab, shifting to the middle of the seat to make room for Chip.

  Eliot got in and started the truck. “Chip wants to go see what’s what at Jardin. You mind?”

  “I don’t mind, but I hear it’s gone.”

  “I know,” said Chip, “but I’d still like to go.”

  “It’s okay with me,” said Millie. “Just so long as we don’t drive past our old place.” She turned to Eliot. “I’ve been by once and that was enough. Have you seen it?”

  Eliot nodded grimly. “What there is of it to see.”

  “Can we drive up Eden Street a bit?” asked Millie. “My friend Janey worked at one of the bayside houses and she’s wondering if it’s still there.”

  They drove up Eden Street. Although most of the buildings on the bay side of the road had been spared, the only sign of many of the cottages on the Great Hill side were foundation walls and conglomerations of brickwork and a few granite steps and posts bearing inscriptions of the names of the cottages—Far View, Rocklyn, Rock Brook.

  Millie sighed disconsolately. “That’s enough, let’s go to Jardin.”

  Eliot turned the truck around and headed for Cleftstone Road.

  Chip hoped again—with a flush of shame—that the destruction at Jardin had been as complete as it had been along Eden Street.

  It had.

  Great Hill had been burned clear of vegetation. The fire had leveled everything in its path, burning even the soil to expose the rocks underneath. As they turned into the drive, they bumped over a ridge of metal melted onto the pavement—the remains of the arch of metalwork that had welcomed visitors to Jardin d’Eden. Even the granite pillars had cracked and tumbled in the heat of the fire.

  When they reached the end of the drive, the only thing that stood higher than the truck was George Pritchard. He stood near what would have been the front door, his hands in his pockets, his head down. He turned when he heard the truck approaching.

  They got out of the truck and went to stand by him, Eliot introducing himself. They looked wordlessly across the foundations that suggested where the grand cottage had once stood. Finally, Pritchard said, “Guess that’s that.”

  “Yup,” said Eliot.

  “What a waste. What a goddamned waste. Pardon my French,” he grumbled toward Mille, who waved away his apology. He kicked at the rubble. “I should have listened to you, Lynam. I should have gotten the artwork somewhere safe.”

  Chip flushed and shrugged. “You didn’t know what was going to happen.”

  “I should have known. I should have seen it coming. I should have loaded them into the truck and taken them to the mainland. Especially the painting of that lady. Mr. Furness is especially upset about losi
ng that. He said he paid good money for that painting—can’t believe it got taken from him by some laborer tossing a cigarette butt out his truck window.”

  Until that moment, Chip had not been completely certain what he was going to do with The Lady. Until that moment, it might still have been possible for him to say to Pritchard, “I have the painting. I saved it for him,” but he didn’t. Mr. Furness had never loved The Lady, he had only loved the idea of owning her. He, Chip, was the only one who cared about her—had been willing to risk his safety, even his life—for hers. She was special and precious and he wasn’t about to turn her over to someone who didn’t love her the way she deserved to be loved.

  “It was a nice painting,” said Chip, struggling to keep his tone casual.

  “Damn right,” said Pritchard morosely.

  “What now?” asked Eliot. “Are the Furnesses going to rebuild?”

  “I doubt it,” said Pritchard, looking across the scorched hillside toward the town. “Bar Harbor isn’t the place to be like it was back in the day. I’m not talking about the Furnesses, now, but I think some of these summer-colony types might not be too broken up about what the fire did. Taxes, upkeep—the fire saved them having a white elephant on their hands.” He bent to pick something out of the rubble and rubbed it with the sleeve of his shirt, bringing a faint shine to the dull surface. “You know what that was?”

  Eliot peered at it. “Nope.”

  “The door knocker. Now it’s nothing but a lump of metal. Useless.” He tossed it back and looked back toward Bar Harbor. “You know what the future of this town is going to be, don’t you?”

  The three of them shook their heads.

  “Tourists,” said Pritchard with contempt.

  Chapter 48

  Ann was released after twenty-four hours of observation, but she asked Scott and Mike if the three of them could stay on MDI until Garrick was moved out of the ICU.

  Scott and Mike passed the time exploring the island in a rental car, Audrey having been towed to Ellsworth for repairs. They biked and kayaked, went whale watching, and took a glider ride out of the local airport.

  Ann, however, spent most of the time in her room back at the inn, reading all of Nan’s Nero Wolfe books while huddled under a mound of quilts. Even days after her trek from the wrecked car to the hotel, Ann still felt as if she might never feel truly warm again.

  When Ann got the word that Garrick could have visitors, she asked Scott and Mike to drop her off at the hospital. She found him sitting up in bed in black flannel pajamas with beige piping.

  “They let you wear your own pajamas?”

  “I hardly think it is within the purview of the medical community to dictate what its patients wear.”

  “How did you get them?”

  “I have resources. My robe is in the closet.”

  “You don’t need to get out of bed.”

  “I’m not going to receive visitors in bed,” said Garrick sternly. He pulled on the robe, also black, slipped his feet into a pair of worn leather slippers, and moved stiffly from the bed to the visitor’s chair, which left Ann with the bed to sit on.

  “I brought some things for you to read,” she said. She handed over the reading material Scott and Mike had gotten for her for her hospital stay—Lost Bar Harbor and a copy of Out & About in Downeast Maine (or, as Scott referred to it, “Down and Out in Maine”—as well as the book Garrick had loaned Scott.

  “Most thoughtful of you,” said Garrick grudgingly.

  “I read the Alderson book,” she said, nodding toward the small, gaudily covered book. “I’m trying to learn more about sensing.”

  “Most admirable, I’m sure,” said Garrick.

  Ann leaned forward. “Garrick, what happened with Biden at the hotel?”

  He raised his eyebrows at her.

  “Biden attacked me in the car and followed me to the hotel. He was hurting me and I couldn’t get away from him and I couldn’t make him stop. And then you made him disappear. Just like that. How did you do it?”

  Garrick waved his hand. “I had more pressing issues to deal with at that moment. Over time, one learns to deal with difficult spirits.”

  “Can I learn?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Will you teach me?”

  Garrick shifted in his chair with a slight wince. “Instruction has never been my area of focus.”

  “Garrick!” Ann almost wailed. “I’m hurting myself! I’m having horrible dreams! I can’t keep on like this, it’s making me crazy! You have to help me.”

  “I’m not withholding information from you intentionally,” said Garrick, more gently than she would have expected. “I’ve always had this ability to communicate with spirits—it didn’t develop gradually in me as it seems to be developing in you, it manifested itself full blown. I never had to learn. And I never had a need—or an opportunity—to teach it. I suspect Biden Firth would not manifest himself again in my presence, which makes it more difficult for me to advise you how to deal with him were he to manifest himself again in your presence.”

  “Is he dangerous?”

  “Not to me. But to you? I don’t know.”

  Ann played with the strap on her knapsack. Finally she said, “I guess I’ll go home and see what happens.”

  “Or perhaps stay with your brother for a time. Avoid activities where a sudden pain in your hand might be problematic.”

  “Like driving.”

  “Yes, obviously.”

  They both lapsed into a sulky silence.

  Finally, Garrick said, “I suppose your driver will be returning with you?”

  “What?”

  “Your driver, Mr. Pate. I gathered he was from Pennsylvania.”

  “Oh, right. Yes, he’ll be returning with me.”

  “But if at some point you ascertain that you are no longer experiencing the difficulties with your hands, perhaps you would no longer have need of his services.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “He seems very resourceful,” ventured Garrick.

  “Oh yes, he’s very resourceful,” said Ann with a smile.

  “Perhaps ...” Garrick paused. “When you can once again drive yourself, perhaps he would consider relocating to Maine,” he concluded stiffly.

  Ann raised her eyebrows. “You want to hire him?”

  “Well, if it would be acceptable to you, of course,” said Garrick magnanimously.

  Ann suppressed a wider smile. “He’s only driving me as a favor. He’s Mike’s partner.”

  “Partner? I thought your brother’s business was managing your consulting engagements. Do you have need of two business managers?”

  “No, not business partner. Boyfriend.”

  “Ah, I see.” Garrick seemed relieved to learn that Ann’s driver was not a professional chauffeur and that her business was not so booming as to need a staff of two to manage it. “Well, he seems to be quick thinking. And polite,” he added pointedly. “A useful person.”

  “Oh yes, very useful,” said Ann cheerfully. Good humor restored, she said, “I’m sorry you didn’t get your fee.”

  “An unfortunate eventuality.”

  “Maybe you could still get it.”

  “I fear not.”

  “Ellen’s going to have some assets from the sale of the hotel. I’m not sure what happens to those if she’s in jail, but—”

  “There’s no fee,” Garrick interrupted.

  “What?”

  Garrick shifted uncomfortably. “I wasn’t performing the engagement for a fee.”

  “But why, then?”

  Garrick looked hawkishly at her for a few moments. Finally he said, “I knew her family for many years. She employed me when I first decided to make sensing my profession. She was so young when her father died, and she was so utterly unlike her brother. She was ... someone who needed someone to care for her.”

  “You cared for her,” said Ann, half statement, half question.

  “Yes,” said Garrick. �
��I cared for her.”

  Chapter 49

  1950

  After the fire, when the Furnesses confirmed Pritchard’s prediction that they would not rebuild Jardin and the staff was looking for work, Chip’s father hired Millie to help at the hotel. Much to Chip’s surprise, his father seemed to enjoy having her around and even occasionally smiled at her friendly teasing. To no one’s surprise, Millie turned out to be a natural at the hotel business and had soon become the de facto manager of the operation, charming guests as they checked in and hiring the best of the workers from Jardin to supplement the hotel staff. Millie became such an integral part of the hotel, and she and Chip spent so much time together, that eventually their marriage seemed inevitable. Chip knew he was a lucky man when she agreed to marry him.

  They had their wedding at the Lynam’s Point Hotel on a rainy Saturday in October, after that year’s guests had left for the season. That night, after the reception—attended mainly by Millie’s family and friends and hotel staff—had ended and his father had gone up to his room on the second floor (he had temporarily ceded the fourth floor to Chip and Millie for their “honeymoon”), Chip took Millie’s hand and said, “There’s something I want to show you. Upstairs.”

  Millie laughed teasingly. “Oh, is there, Chip Lynam?”

  “Yes,” said Chip. They climbed the stairs. On the top floor, Millie turned to go into Chip’s room, but with a tug on her hand Chip led her to the end of the hallway, to the last door on the left. He opened the door, switched on the light, and waved her through.

  For many years the room had been used for storage, but in ’47, shortly after the big fire, Chip’s father had given him permission to turn it into an office of sorts. An old desk was pushed up to the outside wall, although the slanting ceiling left barely enough headroom for anyone sitting there. A cast-off lamp from one of the guest rooms hung from the ceiling and provided the only light.