by Sarita Leone
She looked from child to mother. An unexpected twist to her otherwise-dull life, having these two here in Lobster Cove. They brought a burst of interest to the place, like a shooting star brightened the night sky. However long they stayed, she was going to enjoy the view. Judging by the way Sienna hugged Tipsy’s neck, they were in for a display of epic proportions.
****
“Mama, I think I’m gonna like it here.”
The night was young, but the day had been long. After a fast dinner of spaghetti and garlic bread, Annie dragged their bags in and unpacked. There wasn’t much, so it didn’t take long.
Clarisse suggested they share the big corner room on the second floor. Two beds covered in crisp madras bedding, white window shutters instead of curtains, a sitting area and filled bookcase made the space inviting. A bowl of roses scented the air. An ocean view completed the scene. The house sat a few blocks from the beach, but the house had been built on a raised foundation, so the second floor loomed high, affording an ever-changing scene of waves and endless blue above the rooftops.
“Glad to hear it. I hope you’ll be happy here, honey. It’s a great place to spend the summer, right?”
She wasn’t sure how she was going to manage their futures, but for now they could at least have a summer in a beautiful spot.
“Clarisse is a nice lady.” Sienna lay on her back, holding her doll, Maggie, over her head. Maggie danced a raggedy sort of mid-air jiggle that was a nightly ritual. “And Tipsy—Tipsy’s cool.”
Brian’s mother had put the stay-with-Clarisse bug in Annie’s ear. The idea that perhaps the elderly woman was having problems taking care of herself, and the house in the Cove had been discussed, but now that they’d arrived, Annie couldn’t see why anyone was concerned. Clarisse looked fine and fit. The house and grounds were tidy. A few spots needed repainting on the wraparound porch, and the back garden was a bit overgrown, but hey, anyone could understand that kind of thing.
She wouldn’t waste energy wondering why they were here. It was a safe place for Sienna, so for now she would make it work. Whether or not Brian’s grandmother needed her help, she acted happy to see them. What else mattered?
A large bathroom came with the room. Too tired to fill the claw foot tub, she and Sienna had opted for fast showers, but the day would come, and soon, when she would fill that tub with hot water and let Calgon take her away.
Annie flipped the light switch off in the bathroom. Her shorty pajamas were soft from washing, a little sheerer than they had been when she’d bought them last summer, so when she passed an unshuttered window the warm sea breeze touched her skin. So soft and fleeting…a kiss from the sea, welcoming them.
She shook her head. Overtired, that’s what she was. Imagining being kissed by the sea.
Ridiculous!
She leaned down, kissed Sienna’s forehead. Pressed her nose against the littler one.
“Good night, angel baby. Have sweet dreams and remember, I’m just over there if you need me.”
Sienna grinned, exhaling a Colgate-minty fresh giggle.
“I know. And you remember, me and Mags are over here if you need us.”
A nightly ritual. Just tying the strings that bound them together.
“Love you, Sienna.”
“Love you, too, Mama.”
She climbed into bed, sliding into the crisp sheets with a sigh. So wonderful to feel cared for. So incredible to know she and her baby were safe.
Annie reached out and tugged the chain on the bedside lamp.
Even with the light out, the room glowed. The full moon shone in, creating shadows in the unfamiliar space. Unfamiliar, but not threatening. It was all she could ask for. All she wanted. And, however long it lasted, it was all good.
Chapter 3
Annie slipped into faded denim cut-offs and pulled on a peasant-style white midriff-baring shirt as she kept an eye on her sleeping child. The fact Sienna hadn’t awoken with the first rays of sunlight dancing across her cheeks or the chatter of birdsong from the elm outside their window showed how the long drive had taken its toll. It couldn’t be helped, but that didn’t stop a finger of remorse from stabbing her heart.
She tucked Boo, the stuffed bunny rabbit Brian bought the day they’d learned she was pregnant, down next to Maggie the doll, near her daughter’s side. The toy had once been snow white but now, after years of endless cuddling, was more beige than anything else. One ear had been sewn and re-sewn, and still looked held on by a thread and a prayer.
Leaving the bedroom door ajar, she went down the wide oak staircase, trailing a hand along the thick banister. It rose three stories up through the center of the house, solid and impressive. In its glory days, the house must have been a showplace. Generations of living within its walls and the dwindling resources of its current owner had left it shabby—but still beautiful.
Clarisse sat at the kitchen table. A cup of tea, an empty china plate, and an open newspaper lay before her.
“Good morning,” Annie said.
It felt strange to walk into the other woman’s kitchen, but she would look like a teenager if she hung out in the doorway so she stepped inside.
Annie hadn’t thought their hostess would be awake. And dressed, besides. Didn’t old folks sleep late, lounge about in pajamas, smoke Lucky Strikes and eat soup all afternoon? This senior certainly didn’t fit the image she’d conjured in her mind.
“Good morning.” A huge smile. “Thought you might sleep late. Figured you’d be done in by the drive.”
“I’d love that, but my body has other ideas. I guess it’s the Mommy clock, or something. It came with the baby. Now, I wake early—as soon as the sun’s up, practically.” She shrugged. “What can you do?”
“Enjoy some quiet time, that’s what. Help yourself to tea—or coffee, if you prefer.”
Clarisse waved a hand toward the countertop. An open box of Tetley teabags and a china cup identical to the one she used waited. On one of the gas burners on the old white stove, a dented percolator pot. And, a teapot whose spout still trailed a curl of steam.
“Tea works.” She made a cup, took it to the table, and sat down. Rather than meet the other woman’s gaze, Annie took her time dunking the teabag in the water, then winding its string onto the spoon she’d grabbed from the dish drainer. She put the spoon and bag on the rim of the saucer, then looked up.
Clarisse chose the same moment to lift her gaze from the newspaper. They smiled, an awkward, feeling-each-other-out gesture.
“Like a piece of the paper? It’s just the local rag, nothing big and fancy like what you worked for, but we like it. Gives us all the news that’s fit to print and the local hubbub, too. Not that any of that needs to be broadcast—mostly around here people have ears to the ground, and the words on the pages are just confirmation.”
She took the piece offered. Looked down at the front page. Lobster Cove Anchor. Beneath the bold title, a lobster.
It certainly wasn’t The San Francisco Globe or Atlanta Journal. Annie’s resume, if she cared to write one, boasted stints with both prestigious news organizations. Her degree in journalism had been put to good use…once upon a time.
Before the war she’d loved her job. Before headlines turned grisly and photos from the field hammered home the point that war wasn’t pretty. Never pretty. Less than tolerable given some of the battlefield blood, the dark splotches in photos with horrible captions that sold newspapers, cut too close for comfort.
The war. It had not only robbed her of her husband, her future, and her hopes. It had cost her job, as well. When she couldn’t step into the newsroom without crying, Annie knew it was time to quit. So she did.
And now…Lobster Cove Anchor.
“Think you might want a job with the paper? I can put in a good word for you with the editor—he used to mow my lawn when he was a kid. I’m sure he’ll do what he can for you.”
Annie shook her head. She hadn’t tied her hair back, so now she brushed it off her nec
k. The day was already heating up, and it was barely morning.
“No, thanks.” She scanned the front page. Miraculously, there were no war stories. Strange, but encouraging. One reason for coming to Maine was to escape some of the tragedy.
Clarisse tapped one of the two sections still before her with a gnarled fingertip.
“Separate—the war news. The paper decided to put it in its own section, so those who can’t—or don’t want to—read the day’s events don’t have to. Sparing sensibilities, they called it.”
When it appeared that she might push the war portion of the paper across the table, she sat back in her chair and shook her head. “I don’t want to see it.”
“I don’t blame you.” Clarisse folded the sections together and placed them on her lap. “So I take it the Lobster Cove Anchor is out?”
“It’s out. I can’t be around the—well, I just can’t.” She shuddered.
“No sweat. I’m sure you’ll find something to occupy your time.”
“I hope so.” Two empty, industrial-sized metal colanders were on the far end of the table. Annie pointed. “What are they for?”
Clarisse swirled the dregs of her tea in her cup. Took a sip. “Early blueberries are ready for picking. It’s a chore that once started, lasts almost all summer.”
“Are there a lot of them?”
“Enough to feed…well, we could feed a whole bunch of people.”
Annie knew she’d been about to say, “Enough to feed an army” but had stopped on her account. She appreciated the thoughtfulness, at the same time resenting she put people in the position to wrap their words in cotton lest they hurt the widow.
“What do you do with all those berries?”
Clarisse gave an unladylike snort. “Believe me, they all get eaten. That’s after I get purple fingers from making jam, baking pies, and polishing the rest up so they shine at the produce stand. Haven’t opened the stand yet this season. Not sure if I’m going to, either.”
She’d heard about a stand…A flash of memory. Hot sand. Small blanket. Moonlight. A shared bottle of Bacardi. Then, confidences. All before the lovemaking that pushed all the rest out of their minds…
“Brian told me, ah, one time that the family has a store also. Is that nearby?”
Clarisse’s white ponytail gave a confirming bob. “Right in town, by the dock. The store’s closed now. A shame, but I had to do it. It’s just too much for me to handle alone, so I shut it down last season. But the produce stand out by the end of the driveway—I like to keep that open as much as possible. The tourists love to buy locally grown food. And the ones from New York City? Well, they buy the jams and jellies so fast I can’t hardly make enough to satisfy them.”
Whatever had Brian’s mom and dad been thinking? This woman was in full control of her faculties, and her life. She didn’t need anyone to look out for her.
“That’s incredible—and you do it all by yourself? Doesn’t anyone help you?”
A sad smile. “No one left, dear. I’m the last of the Montgomery line—aside from your sweet girl.”
Impetuousness ran in the family. Her mother had eloped with her father. Annie’s sister Sarah had run off to become a Barbizon model before the ink on her high school diploma dried. She had married Brian, helter skelter, just a whirlwind love affair before deployment. And Sienna? That was yet to be seen, but all genetic signs pointed toward her little one being just as spontaneous as her ancestors were.
“You’ve got me. I’d love to help.” It would be something to do, something to free her from her own damn mind, something that had no ties to war or widowhood.
“It’s a lot of work.”
“Twice as much if you do it alone. Let’s cut it in half. So we pick the blueberries first? Then what?”
When Clarisse smiled, her turquoise eyes sparkled.
“First we pick. Then we make jam. And then, if we’re still standing, we drop the jars off at the store. Keep a few for the stand by the driveway, but we keep the bulk at the store. Might as well use the space. After all, it’s just sitting empty.”
Just then, the scuffle of small feet against wooden floorboard. Sienna, wearing a tie-dyed dress Annie had fashioned from an old white t-shirt, appeared in the doorway.
“Morning. Hey—can I play with Tipsy? Where is she, anyway?”
Sienna looked under the table and on their laps. A small scowl.
“She’s sleeping. I’m sure she won’t mind playing with you later.” Annie wished she had a comb to tame the waves hanging around her daughter’s shoulders. “Would you like some breakfast?”
Climbing into the empty chair beside Clarisse, the child answered the question with a question. “What are we doing today?”
Annie grabbed a bowl and an unopened box of Cap’n Crunch from the kitchen counter. This didn’t seem to be a sweet cereal sort of place so she assumed the box had been bought with Sienna in mind. She poured milk into a glass, then splashed half of it on the cereal.
Setting both down in front of Sienna, she asked, “How about going blueberry picking?”
“Really? Yahoo!” Sienna thrust a huge spoonful of cereal, dripping milk on the placemat, into her mouth.
Annie cringed, wondering what Clarisse would think of an exuberant, and often messy, child in her beautiful old home.
She needn’t have worried. Their hostess pulled a paper napkin from a bamboo napkin holder in the center of the table, swiped at the milk puddle, and left it to absorb any further drips.
Smiling, Clarisse tousled Sienna’s hair. “Yahoo times two!”
Her daughter giggled, barely catching the milk spray in the palm of one hand. The woman beside her chuckled.
Annie watched, her heart warmed by the exchange. Perhaps perching on the coast in a town forgotten by time was exactly where she and her girlie were supposed to be.
Chapter 4
Annie sat back on her heels. She slid a hand along the back of her neck, wiping moisture off one spot and onto another. Midmorning was upon them, all sultry and bright. Too bright. Her sunglasses were on the dash in the car, and she’d been too lazy to fetch them two hours ago. Now, her face felt pinched into a permanent squint.
Sienna popped what had to be the hundredth blueberry between purple-stained lips.
“They’re supposed to go in the colander, you know.” She pointed out the obvious just as another berry disappeared. It was hard not to grin when her girl smiled, sending a stream of blue juice dripping off her chin. The t-shirt she wore was a goner. Hopefully the chin would come clean. Her mom gene kicked in. “Really, honey—don’t eat too many. You’ll get a bellyache.”
The blueberry bushes were a long, chest high hedge dripping with heavy berries. Hills Grocery never carried fruit this impressive. Moreover, the grocery stores were probably sprayed with lots of toxins, while these were sun-ripened, rain-watered, and chemical free.
When Napalm could be dropped on human beings without any hint of remorse, fruit for the masses could also easily be tainted. It was comforting to see so many pristine berries.
Besides the blueberry patch, the property boasted several rows of pruned fruit trees. Trellised grapevines. Blackberries. Raspberries. Strawberries. And in a small patch in a corner near a birdbath, something called gooseberries.
How Clarisse dealt with all of it, Annie couldn’t fathom. It gave her a headache just looking at the place. So many beds to be mulched. So much fruit to be picked. And forget about the weeding.
On the other hand, it seemed kind of groovy to be able to eat your way around the yard. She’d skip those gooseberries, but the rest of it was tempting.
If she didn’t have to weed every square inch, that is.
Clarisse worked tirelessly. She hummed while she picked, and her colander had been emptied a half-dozen times in the big farm sink near the back porch. They hadn’t spoken much, just a few casual words as they passed each other on the picking trail.
Sienna chattered as she picked—and ate—s
o total silences were minimal.
“I think that’s about it for this haul.” Clarisse stepped back from the last bush in the row. She pulled off her gloves, tossed them onto the top of the pile of berries in the colander near her grass-stained white Keds, and put her hands on her hips. A satisfied smile made her face wrinkles disappear. For a second, she looked almost as childishly joyful as the little girl dancing around her legs.
“Now what? What now—we eat the rest of the berries? Or what?” Sienna hopped from foot to foot. She’d kicked her sandals off, and her pink toenails swished green blades of grass between her toes. “Clarisse? We eat them, right?”
“Good Lord, child—but don’t you think you’ve had your fill of blueberries?” She winked at Annie above the child’s head. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you don’t turn purple while you’re sleeping.”
Sienna stilled, her eyes wide. “Really? Purple—all over, or just in spots?”
With a shrug, Clarisse bent and picked up the berries. “I don’t know. One can never tell with blueberries.” She straightened, put the colander on her hip, and led them across the lawn. “But to answer your question: No, we’re not going to eat the rest of the berries. These will become jam, and be sold at the produce stand I told you about.”
“Okay.” Sienna frowned at Annie, furrowing her brows. “Mama, do we know how to make jam?”
“Nope. But Clarisse does, and she’s going to teach us.”
“I can help, right?”
“Of course. But no more tasting.” Annie had no idea how many had actually gone into her daughter’s stomach, but the deep stains on her tongue, lips, fingers, and face weren’t pretty. “I mean it, Sienna. We’re going to make jam—and there’s no tasting in jam-making. Understand?”
“Uh huh. Just as long as we can taste the jam when it’s done. That’s okay, right?”
They placed the colanders in the sink, and Clarisse turned the faucet on. Water splashed over the berries. She turned to Sienna and nodded. “You betcha. If we don’t sample the jam, how else are we going to know if it’s any good? We’ve got to taste it.”
