Cissy brought out dry socks for Jane, so she peeled off her wet ones and draped them over the big brass screen that protected a handsome hand-knotted rug from the crackling fire. The women dragged a couple of chairs, overstuffed in creamy tweed, closer to the fire and put their feet up on a shared hassock between them. Buster lay down alongside them, his big tail thumping contentedly on the wide slate hearth. Jane offered once or twice to help with breakfast, but Bing wouldn't have it.
"How's your shoulder, by the way?" he asked suddenly.
"No better, I'm afraid. Must be old age," Jane said, rubbing the spot. "I doubt that I could lift that cast iron pan right now."
"Bing's got even bigger pans than that," Cissy piped in, slipping off her sheepskin slippers and curling her toes in front of the flames. "He's a way better cook than I am. But then, he's had sixteen years longer to learn."
"It's the practice that makes perfect, Ciss," Bing said in gentle reproach.
It was obvious that Cissy thought that cooking skills, like crow's feet, came automatically with age. Jane shared a sympathetic smile with Bing and turned her attention to the rugged, taciturn man on her left.
McKenzie was sitting in a chrome-and-leather director's chair, his elbows resting on his thighs as he stared at the leaping, crackling flames. His ruddy skin had kept its high color from the outdoor work; his hair, damp from the snow, looked darker now, almost black. Unlike the others, he seemed oblivious to the cold, oblivious to the wet. He seemed, in fact, oblivious to their presence.
Fine. Why the heck did he join us, then? Just to throw a pall on the merriment? In the meantime, she wasn't even sure the man could form two sentences in a row.
"Isn't a fire a wonderful thing?" she asked him, trying to force him into speech. "I suppose our fascination with it goes back to Prometheus," she added, sure he couldn't have a clue who Prometheus was.
McKenzie turned to her with a look of pure irony. "Actually, I was thinking that Bing has been burning too much pine."
"How did you know I burn pine?" Bing asked.
"I smell it when I drive by."
"What's wrong with pine?" Jane wanted to know.
"Creosote. It builds up in the chimney. You're asking for a chimney fire, Bing."
"No problem," Bing said cheerfully. "I'll get something else. Is oak okay?"
"Sure," McKenzie said. "And have a chimney sweep look at it before too long." He fell back into moody contemplation of the fire.
He looked so deeply philosophical; it was disappointing to know that he was analyzing the ash content of the logs. Jane tried again.
"I can't get over how deserted the island is in March. When I was here last it was in August, at the height of the season."
She said it in a general way and was surprised when McKenzie turned to her and said dryly, "I know. We met."
In an equally dry tone she said, "I doubt it. I was eight."
"And I was fifteen. Your aunt used to hire me now and again to mow her lawn. I remember having to mow around you; you wouldn't budge." He snorted, a barely audible sound. "Nothing much has changed."
"You're in for it now, girl," Bing interjected. "These islanders have long memories. Come 'n' get it, people."
"I don't remember that," Jane said, wondering. "I don't remember you."
"No. I don't expect you would." McKenzie stood up at the same time she did. She was close enough to see a dark, angry flush intensify the ruddiness in his wind-whipped cheeks. It occurred to her that she would not want, ever, to anger this man.
They took their seats around a scrubbed pine table and were treated to a simple but wonderfully filling breakfast of thick Canadian bacon, scrambled eggs, and fresh-baked sourdough bread that Bing had brought with him from New York. Warmed outside and inside by the fire and fresh coffee, Jane felt more relaxed and at home than she'd been in months.
They talked about anything and everything, from the great October nor'easter of 1991, the worst storm to hit the island in a hundred years (even McKenzie admitted it was a big one), to local efforts to relocate the historic Sankaty Lighthouse before it tumbled over the bluffs into the sea. They talked about the fire that burned down Downy Flake Restaurant (before Jane's time) and the great home-team advantage the high school foothall team enjoyed (think how tired the mainlanders got just getting to the field).
They talked about a lot of things, and when there was a lull, easy and relaxed, Jane sighed and said, "This is really nice."
"It is, isn't it," Bing said, getting up for more coffee and to stir the fire. "So why do you want to sell?"
It caught Jane by surprise. Still, it was a simple question, and it deserved a simple answer.
"I need the money," she said.
"For what?" he asked casually. Presumably he was expecting her to say, "For a Ferrari."
But she said, "To eat. To pay the mortgage. To buy gas. To start up a new career. I don't have a job," she finally confessed. Somehow, suddenly, she needed to admit it.
"But I thought you were a graphic designer," Cissy interjected.
"I am. An unemployed one. I did have some free-lance work, but that finished up the day before my aunt died. Needless to say, there's nothing else at the moment."
She was very aware that McKenzie was following the conversation. She could tell by a kind of stillness in him; he reminded her of a cat, ready to pounce. "What exactly is a graphic designer?" he asked, looking over the rim of his coffee cup into indeterminate space.
He seemed not to want to ask her the question directly, so Jane addressed her answer to Buster, who was stretched out at her feet, snoozing. "I did the layouts for an ad agency in Connecticut. I worked mostly on two or three accounts—perfume, lipstick, vodka, mineral water, that kind of thing."
McKenzie put down his cup and leaned back in his bleached-oak chair, balancing it against the wall. "I see," he said with a dry and appraising look at her. "All the essentials of life."
"Well, no," she admitted, flustered. "Obviously not. That's why they have to advertise: to create the need."
He frowned. Naturally. She could see the disapproval in his eyes. Impulsively she added, "I wish I could tell you I was working on something monumental when they let me go, Mr. McKenzie —"
"For Pete's sake, call him Mac," Bing chimed in, watching the two of them warily.
"I wish I could say I was creating a new vaccine, or a cure for cancer. But I wasn't. I remember very well what I was doing when I got my pink slip: sketching a chair for an ad for an interior design firm. That's all. A chair. I'm sorry I'm not Mother Teresa, Mr. — Mac — Kenzie," she said, stumbling once more over his blasted name.
There was a surprised little silence, and then McKenzie surprised them even more by standing up and drawling, "I suppose there are more useless things. You could've been a goddamned lawyer."
He unhooked his jacket from the back of his chair and slapped Bing on the back. "Thanks for the chow, man," he said, and he left.
"Geez," said Cissy. "What's with him?"
Bing blew out a stream of air through puffed-up cheeks. "Well, let's think about it. The guy's wife has left the island and taken his kid. He's probably up to his neck in debt and banks aren't lending. And late winter isn't exactly a boom season for nurseries, here or anywhere else."
"Oh. So the problem wasn't really the chair?"
"Not the chair, Ciss," Bing said, with a soft laugh.
Things got a little quiet after that. Jane insisted on cleaning up the dishes, and Cissy played old-sock with Buster while Bing went out for more wood. It was all very relaxed, almost domestic, and Jane managed to salvage some of the mellowness she'd been feeling.
They're really very nice, she thought. Cissy's a ditz, but she's a sweet ditz. And as for Bing, he was about as different from McKenzie as a man could be: loose, easy, friendly, generous, kind. It beat uptight, tense, aloof, stingy, and mean any old day.
Jane left Bing and his sister a little while later and waded through the blinding, drift
ing snow back to her cottage. She stood on the little hooked rug inside the back door, shaking the snow from her clothes and stomping her boots free of it. When she pulled her boots off, she had to steady herself against the door jamb.
That's when she noticed that one of the antique spoons was missing from the wood rack that hung on the wall beside the door.
Chapter 6
Who would want a spoon?
That was the first question that popped into her head, and it stayed there as she searched under the table, alongside the stove, and in the silverware drawer. It had been there yesterday morning; that, she knew. She remembered staring at the dozen different spoons in their rack as she ate her toast, and wondering about their value. She remembered that she'd decided it was mostly sentimental.
So who would steal a spoon?
The one that was missing was nothing special; it was pewter, as she recalled, with a sort of cut-work handle.
Kids? Anything, she supposed, was possible; she'd left the door unlocked, after all. A sinking thought hit her. Did it just happen? She ran to her purse, which she liked to leave on top of an antique pot cupboard in a corner of the kitchen, and checked its contents. Nothing was missing. So it wasn't a break-in; just ... a prank?
But who? She swung open the back door and stuck her head out into the slanting, stinging snow, hoping to catch sight of footprints. But her own deep prints had almost drifted over; the nor'easter had destroyed any evidence.
If there was any evidence. It was eerie, it was creepy, and she didn't like it at all, the thought that someone had come and gone through her kitchen. For the first time since she'd arrived, she decided to lock the door even though it was daytime. She slipped the button down on the lock, then headed for her bedroom to change into workclothes. On the way there, she tripped over the scattered books.
Nuts. This was a distraction she didn't need. She tried to lift the heavy wood bookcase from off the floor. It didn't budge. She stood up, arching her strained back, and her glance fell on the sketch of the bonneted woman that hung on the wall opposite.
The bonnet. Of course! It was the Quaker woman in the sketch who'd been the star of Jane's dream. She should've known the bonnet, the dark coal-scuttle bonnet. Ugly and defeminizing, it was nothing more than a constraint designed to keep its wearer from flirting or taking an unseemly interest in her neighbor's business.
Like blinders on a horse, Jane thought, feeling a surge of sympathy for the unhappy subject of her aunt's sketch. What a miserable thing to be forced to wear.
She backtracked to the kitchen, intending to shanghai Bing into helping her lift the bookcase, and found him on the other side of her door, dressed for travel and gripping an attaché case. He looked distracted.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
"Nothing much," he said, stepping inside. "Just a routine crisis at the museum."
"You mean someone wants to donate the painting but keep the frame — that sort of thing?"
"I wish," Bing said with a wry look. "No; someone wants to donate the Homer but keep the Hopper. We want the Homer and the Hopper."
"Aren't you being selfish?" she said lightly.
"He promised."
"I can see why the Melowe Museum has such a rounded collection."
"We've scheduled an exhibition of Depression Era art. We need the Hopper."
His eyes burned with a pure blue flame, the fire of a man with a mission. If he had the painting, the exhibition would be complete. Anything else was less than perfect, and that was unacceptable.
"I've got to go back to New York," he said with grim determination. "No chance of taking a plane in this snow; I'm making a run for the noon ferry. So much for my Monday holiday. Can we reschedule dinner for another time?"
"Oh, sure," she said with a polite smile.
"I feel like a rat, finking out on our first date."
"No, really, don't think about it," she said with a nagging sense of déjà vu. "If I had a nickel for every time my dad stood me up on business, I could start my own foundation."
She listened to the self-pity in her voice and groaned. "Will you listen to me? I'm laying on guilt with a trowel," she admitted. "I'll tell you what — help me lift a bookcase and we'll call it even."
"Your wish, m'lady, is my command." Bing set his attaché on the kitchen floor and followed Jane out to the fireplace room. "Good lord, Jane," he said, surveying the mess, "you must've had some pretty heavy reading on those shelves."
"Very funny, smart aleck," she said, thinking uneasily of the book on the tarot that she'd put on an upper shelf. "The darn thing just ... fell over, in the middle of the night."
"Really. C'mon; take that end. Ready?" They wrestled the bookcase back in place.
"There's a reason it fell over, of course," she said, pointing out the buckled floor. She hesitated, then added, "But I'm not so sure about the spoon."
"A spoon fell over in the middle of the night?"
"A spoon is missing from my aunt's display rack." She added dryly, "Maybe it ran away with the dish."
Bing's eyes were dancing with amusement. "Hey, diddle diddle. So what're you thinking? Ghosts?"
She'd been leaving that thought unformed, at least until he said it. "Please forget I mentioned it," she said, coloring.
Bing put his arm around her and walked with her from the room. "I guarantee you're as safe as gold bullion here. I'll see you next weekend."
He brushed her lips with his own and released her. "And see about getting a phone. Not because I fear for your life," he added. "But because it would be nice to hear your voice before Friday."
"Maybe I will."
He took up his attaché case and swung open the kitchen door with great drama. "I'm off! For the sake of art!" The wind ripped through Jane as she watched him charge through the snow, turn and wave madly, and then disappear. She came back in, touching her fingers to her lips, thinking of the kiss. His breath was very nice, warm and intimate and ... very nice.
Gawd. Here she was, going on about a man's breath. It was pathetic. How long had it been since she was with someone? She remembered, then blushed, remembering. The guy had worked with her at the ad agency. They'd dated for weeks and weeks, and he'd begun to press. She liked him, and she'd been without someone for what seemed like forever, and so she went to bed with him. Once.
It was a disaster. They were as different as could be. He'd kept a television on his dresser turned on to the Financial News Network the whole time. As a courtesy, he'd kept the sound off. When they were done, he'd turned that on, too. Jane remembered Cissy's complaint about her football-crazed husband and smiled grimly. Football came to an end, eventually. But money — money was always in season.
****
For the next week Jane kept her nose pretty much to the grindstone. On Tuesday she had a message relayed to her through Cissy that Bing was not going to be coming to the island for the weekend. Phillip seemed to have disappeared and Mac as well. Jane began to understand Cissy's lament that on Nantucket "the dead of winter" was not just an idle expression. The only breaks in the sounds of Jane's silence were in Cissy's visits and in the tour Jane gave to Mrs. Crate and Dorothy when they stopped by.
She spent the week stripping old, painted-over wallpaper, which was dull and slow but oddly pleasant work; it left her mind free to daydream about life, and where she was going, and why. She'd begun, lately, to think about opening her own ad agency with the proceeds from the sale of Lilac Cottage.
Why not? Sooner or later every bad economy turns around, and when it did, she'd be positioned to turn around with it. She was experienced in logo design, brochure and catalog layouts, magazine ads. Heck, she could write commercial jingles if she were forced to. The important thing, the critical thing, was to be her own boss. Never again did she want to be confronted with a pink slip. Never again would she trust a company that promised her the moon and then pulled the rug out from under her as she reached for it.
My own boss. The words lingered swe
etly in her mind as she scored and soaked the painted wallpaper, then peeled it away in long, ragged strips.
By Friday, Jane's shoulder ached so much she wasn't able to continue, so she dropped in at the emergency room of Cottage Hospital. A physician looked at the rosebush scratch, which was healing very slowly, and ordered a blood analysis; but he seemed as puzzled as Jane was about the cause of her pain. He put her on antibiotics and sent her packing.
On her way back to Lilac Cottage, Jane detoured for groceries into the A&P, where she ran into Adele Adamont working behind the checkout counter. Mrs. Adamont was the type never to forget a face; she recognized Jane instantly from her visit to the funeral home.
She took Jane's bag of A&P coffee and dumped it into the hopper for grinding. "I understand you're living in your Lilac Cottage while you fix it up for sale. And have you decided definitely to redo the kitchen?"
It really was a small community, Jane thought, surprised by the woman's up-to-the-minute analysis of her life. "If I do, it will be a very limited redo," she said over the whirr of the coffee grinder. "I've knocked out a wall, and I'll be having cabinets and new linoleum put in. That's about it." And unless I get my hands on some cash, the cabinets are going to be made from appliance boxes.
"Yes, I expect you're feeling the pinch like the rest of us," said Mrs. Adamont. It wasn't a probing remark — simply one of her statements of fact.
Sighing, Jane nodded and opened her wallet. It had not escaped her attention that food cost more on an island than on the mainland. She wondered how ordinary Nantucket folk managed. Maybe the checkout clerks got discounts on the merchandise.
Mrs. Adamont plucked out the Sarah Lee coffee cake from Jane's groceries and said, "Don't buy this. We have a bake sale going on at St. Michael's bazaar tonight. It's a good cause — for abused children on the island — and my coffee ring is ten times better than store-bought."
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