by Mary Simses
“Yep, Exeter,” I said as I zipped up the shorts and pulled the top over my head. I raised one of the window shades and the sun exploded into the room. Leaning on the sill, I looked out and breathed the cool, grassy air.
After a minute Hayden looked up. “It’s so quiet here.”
I couldn’t tell if he meant quiet good or quiet bad. “Yeah, it’s quiet.”
I stepped into the bathroom, ready to pick up my toothbrush, and then I froze. Tucked into the corner of the mirror above the sink was an ivory card. The black lettering was raised, and I recognized the typeface: French Script. I stepped closer and read the words.
Mrs. Cynthia Parker Branford
requests the honour of your presence
at the marriage of her daughter
Eleanor Newhouse
to
Mr. Hayden Stewart Croft
on Saturday, the seventh of October
at half after six
Saint Thomas Church
New York, New York
I began to feel a little twinge in my chest. I took the invitation from the mirror and held it in my hand as I sat on the edge of the tub. Saturday, October 7. The letters were dark, definitive, engraved into the paper.
“So what’s the verdict?” Hayden called from the bedroom.
“The verdict?” I was trying to remember how many invitations we had ordered. Two hundred? Two hundred and fifty? All I could recall was the number on the bottom of the guest list—three hundred and thirty-seven people. They were all being invited to watch us get married. Family, friends, business associates…
“The invitation,” Hayden said, sounding impatient. “What do you think? Isn’t it great?”
I pictured the church—candles lit, flowers arranged, pews being filled, the string quintet playing the pieces we’d selected. I felt something prickly in my stomach. “Yes, it’s beautiful.”
“Didn’t I tell you Smythson was the best?” Hayden said, appearing in the doorway. “They’re not engravers to the queen for nothing.”
I nodded. “No, I’m sure they’re not,” I said.
“You can’t get that kind of quality here in the States.”
I ran my finger over the letters and wondered why I was suddenly feeling just the tiniest bit nervous. Maybe it was the thought of all those invitations making their way across the country to dozens and dozens of people, beckoning them to come to this event, to witness Hayden and me taking our vows.
Maybe every bride got a little nervous at the first sight of her wedding invitation. Why not? It was probably a normal reaction. After all, there was something so…well, concrete about it. No room for error now, it might as well be announcing.
Error? Well, that wasn’t the right word. That wasn’t what I meant at all. I just meant…what did I mean?
I must be going crazy, I thought as I stood in front of the mirror. I’m engaged to the most fabulous man in the world, and we’ve got a beautiful wedding coming up.
Suddenly, Hayden was next to me, his head over my shoulder. He took the card from my hand, gazed at it, gave a satisfied smile, and tucked it back into the corner of the mirror.
“Engravers to the queen,” he said with a little nod.
“Yes.” I put my arms around him and held him as tightly as I could.
Totty, the night shift woman, was not at the front desk when Hayden and I walked by on our way to breakfast. Paula was back, and she did a little double take when she saw Hayden.
I smiled cheerfully. “This is my fiancé, Hayden Croft. Just in from New York.” I turned to Hayden. “Paula Victory, the owner of the inn.”
Paula blinked. “Your fiancé.” She drew out the word, as though it had six syllables. Then she looked at Hayden. “What’s that name?”
“Croft,” he said. “C-R-O-F-T.”
“Never heard it before.”
“It’s English. My ancestors—”
“Oh, no, I meant your first name. Did you say Haven?”
Hayden adjusted the collar of his polo shirt. “No, Hayden, with a y.”
“Aha,” Paula said, glancing at me. “Your fiancé.” One side of her mouth turned up in a half grin. “Well, isn’t that nice?”
She looked Hayden up and down. Then she gave a little approving nod.
“I should thank you for taking care of Ellen,” Hayden said, putting his arm around me.
Paula laughed. “No need to thank me,” she said. “Ellen seems to be taking care of herself.”
I pulled Hayden toward the door before Paula could say anything else. “Yes, well, we’re off to breakfast. See you later.”
“Shall we take the car?” he asked, stopping at the bottom of the front steps. “I’ll drive.”
“Drive? It’s a five-minute walk.”
He looked surprised. “You can walk to town from here?”
“Of course,” I said.
We strolled down Prescott Lane, passing houses with clusters of white beach roses bursting from picket fences. I pulled off a blossom and held it to my nose. It smelled like dew and early morning sunshine. At the end of the block we turned right onto Putnam and headed toward the water.
At Paget Street we turned again, and the ocean opened up before us, a mosaic of blues and whites under a flashing sun.
“This is the whole town?” Hayden gazed down the street, adjusting his sunglasses.
I took his hand. “Yes. This is Beacon.”
I led him into the Three Penny Diner. Almost all the tables were occupied, and only one booth was empty. The young waitress I spoke to my first day there approached us with menus. Her red hair tumbling in crescents, she flashed a smile and showed us to the booth. We sat down opposite one another, ordered coffee, and studied the menus.
“I already know what I want,” I told Hayden. “Apple cider doughnuts. You have to try them. They’re incredible.”
“Doughnuts?” He looked up at me with a puzzled expression. “You’re eating doughnuts?”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. Carbs? Calories? You never eat doughnuts. I’m just surprised.”
He glanced back at the menu, and I thought about the doughnuts, hot out of the fryer, the outside covered with sugar, the way they crunched when you bit into them, the soft inside part that tasted of apple and melted in your mouth. They couldn’t possibly be good for you. He was right.
The waitress returned and set two mugs of coffee in front of us. “Have you folks decided?”
I knew I should have ordered oatmeal or asked if there were any whole-grain cereals hiding in the back, but the memory of the cider doughnut was too vivid. I ordered one, handing over my menu with a slight feeling of resignation.
Hayden looked at me for a second, but didn’t say anything. Then he flashed a big smile at the waitress. “I’d love an egg-white-and-chive omelet with some sliced tomatoes on the side and a piece of twelve-grain toast—no butter, please.”
An egg-white omelet with chives? It wasn’t even on the menu. I wanted to remind him this wasn’t New York, but I kept quiet.
The waitress clicked her pen a couple of times. “Sir, I’m sorry but we don’t have that item. We don’t even have chives here or that kind of bread.”
“Okay,” he said, raising his hand in a conciliatory gesture. “An egg-white omelet with sliced tomatoes and…what kind of bread do you have?”
She clicked her pen again. “White, whole wheat, rye.”
He thought for a moment and then said, “I’ll take whole wheat.”
The waitress gave a quick smile and was gone.
I took a sip of coffee. It tasted like hazelnuts and evenings by a warm fire.
“I’d love to find a Wall Street Journal,” Hayden said. “Do you think there’s any chance of that?”
“There’s a little store down the street that might have it,” I told him.
He stood up and looked around. “I saw some newspapers when we came in…oh, there they are.” He walked toward the cashier’s counter
and returned with a Boston Globe and a Beacon Bugle.
“This should be interesting,” he said, looking at the headline on the front page of the Bugle: STONES ON ROUTE 9 STOP TRAFFIC. Underneath was a photo of a traffic jam and a pile of rocks that had fallen from a truck onto a road.
Thank God it’s not my picture he’s looking at, I thought. “I guess it was a slow news day,” I said.
Hayden tossed the Bugle onto the table and picked up the Globe. “It’s amazing that such a small town can keep a daily paper afloat. How many of those could they possibly sell—four, five hundred copies a day?”
“More like three thou—”
He looked up. “Hmm?”
I waved my hand. “Nothing.”
The waitress returned with our breakfast, and I tried to get Hayden to taste my doughnut. “Come on, you’re in Maine now.” I nudged him. “Chad will never know.”
“Ha!” he said. “Chad’s been my trainer for seven years. He’ll know.” But then he picked up the doughnut and took a small, cautious bite, chewing it slowly, savoring the flavor the way I’d seen him taste wine a hundred times.
“Wow,” he said. “I didn’t know a doughnut could be this good.”
“Welcome to Maine.”
Something inside me bubbled with joy. It was a beautiful day and we were going to share it. This mini vacation in Beacon would turn out to be a nice break for the two of us.
I leafed through the Bugle, scanning an article about a police officer who had received a special commendation, an announcement about a rummage sale at Saint Mary’s church, and a letter to the editor complaining about a property tax increase. I turned the page and saw an ad for a country fair sponsored by the Maine Organic Farmers and Gardeners Association. I wondered what it would be like. Butter-churning contests with girls in white aprons? Milk tastings? Could be fun.
“Hayden, I think we should go to this.” I pushed the paper toward him.
“A country fair?” he said. “With horses and cows? That kind of thing?”
“I guess. Why don’t we check it out?”
He took a bite of his omelet, and then he said, “I’m not really into horses and cows, but for you, Ellen, I’ll do it.”
We lingered over breakfast, had seconds on the coffee, and then I folded up the Bugle and we walked outside. I called the Porters’ house, but the phone rang and rang. Their voice mail finally picked up and I left a message, asking if I could bring Hayden to see the painting.
On the way back to the inn, we passed the Beacon Dry Goods store, its front window filled with denim clothes and work boots and camping gear.
“Let’s stop in here for a second,” I said, tugging Hayden’s arm. “I want to buy a pair of jeans.”
“Have I ever seen you in jeans?” he asked as we stepped inside.
I laughed. “I can’t remember the last time I wore a pair. But then, I can’t remember the last time I went to a country fair.”
I tried on a pair of straight-legged, low-rise faded jeans with a lot of stitching on the pockets and seams. Hayden whistled when I came out of the dressing room.
“I’ll take these,” I told the salesman. “And I’m going to wear them.” I turned to Hayden. “How about you?”
He looked down at his khakis and Top-Siders. “I think I’ll stick with this.”
We walked back to the inn and unlocked the car. “If we go to this country fair,” Hayden said, “am I going to have to look at chickens or anything like that?”
I got into the passenger seat, holding up my hand as though I were taking an oath. “No chickens, I promise. Maybe just a couple of pigs.”
He shook his head. “Pigs. Ugh.” Then his eyes lit up. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll go to the fair if you find a place around here where I can play a little golf.”
I shook my head. “Sorry, honey. There isn’t any place around here to golf.”
“Maybe just a driving range?”
He started the engine while I looked at the Bugle. There was a map showing the location of the fairgrounds. It wasn’t far from Kenlyn Farm.
We drove for fifteen minutes and passed the farm and then the Porters’ house. “That’s Gran’s old house,” I said, pointing as we went by the empty driveway.
Shortly after that, we turned into the fairgrounds, and a man directed us to a dirt parking lot, where people were emerging from cars with children and strollers. Teenagers leaned against the sides of pickup trucks.
At the edge of the lot, wildflowers had taken over, forming a thick border. I stopped to pick a bouquet of gold buttercups and yellow-and-white oxeye daisies. I plucked a sprig of Queen Anne’s lace and watched a black swallowtail butterfly land on a branch of goldenrod. Then I stretched and took a deep breath. The air was mellow and sweet. “All right, I’m ready,” I said, admiring my flowers as we followed the crowd to the entrance.
A sign noted the fair’s activities, which included a donkey-and-mule show, a draft-horse obstacle course, an antique tractor pull, sheepdog demonstrations, an apple pie contest, and presentations with titles like Sharpening the European Scythe Blade and Introduction to Worm Composting.
The fair took up several acres, with tents, booths, vendors, and food and demonstration areas. There were lines for the rides, which included a Ferris wheel and something that spun its riders around in pods. Fathers balanced toddlers on their shoulders and elderly people sat on folding chairs. The aroma of wood-fired pizza and apple crisp hung in the air.
We walked toward booths where people were selling flowers and herbs. I picked up a pot of thyme and held it to my face. It smelled like chicken roasting in my mother’s kitchen. I saw a pot of lemon verbena, and I took a leaf and rubbed it between my fingers. Now I was on the patio at Gran’s house, sipping iced tea.
We ambled around, checking out the local goods—maple syrup, dog biscuits, hand-dyed yarn, pottery, and paintings. We bought a box of blueberries and ate them as we wandered. We watched women spin fleece into yarn and saw German shepherds demonstrate sheepherding.
“Let’s go over there,” I said, pointing to a large tent. People were milling around the entrance. A rooster crowed as we got closer.
Hayden smirked. “I thought we agreed, no chickens.”
“Come on,” I said, taking his hand. “Let’s just see what’s in there.”
The smell of grain and animals hit me as soon as we entered. The first thing I saw was two dozen wooden-and-wire cages. Inside each one a chicken clucked and pecked and scratched around as viewers walked by and admired them.
“Oh, Hayden, look how pretty they are.” I pointed to a black Jersey Giant and a blue Andalusian with a plumy tail. The Andalusian cocked his head and scratched at the floor of the cage.
“I guess they’ve got a certain kind of, um, charm,” Hayden said with a cringe. “I think I’ll see what else they have in here besides chickens.” He strolled on ahead.
I moved to the next cage, where a Barred Plymouth Rock clucked away. Its black-and-white zigzag feathers made it look like an abstract painting. I bent down to get a closer look.
“Aren’t you a pretty bird?” I got down to eye level. The chicken bobbed its head at me.
“Yes, you’re so pretty.”
“Ellen?”
I turned around. A man stood behind me, dressed in jeans and a faded red New England Patriots T-shirt. A Red Sox baseball cap was on his head, and a day’s growth of beard was on his face. It was Roy.
For a second I thought all the blood was rushing to my feet. I managed to say hello.
The Plymouth Rock rooster chose that moment to crow, sending an earsplitting greeting through the tent.
Roy tipped back the brim of his cap. “Hello yourself. I thought you were leaving.”
His eyes were too blue. Nothing could be that blue. “I was supposed to leave today,” I said. “But I had to see someone yesterday and now there’s been a little change in plans.”
“In that case, I see you’re using your time wisely.” H
e smiled. “Looking at roosters and picking…” Roy took my hand and opened it. I had forgotten I was still holding the flowers.
“Hmm,” he said. “Buttercup, Queen Anne’s lace.” When he let go, my hand felt empty. I could barely speak.
A little girl, maybe four, approached one of the rooster’s cages with her father.
“Don’t get too close,” he said. “It might be dangerous.”
Roy looked at me, cocked his head, and scratched his chin. “You’re wearing jeans. I knew there was something different.”
I couldn’t tell whether he approved or not. “It’s my weekend look.”
“Suits you,” he said. “You can really fit in at the Antler now.” He smiled.
The Andalusian hen, with her fancy tail, preened her feathers and bobbed her head toward the adjoining cage, as though she were trying to get the attention of the rooster next to her.
“What’s that one doing, Daddy?” the little girl asked, pointing to the hen. “Why is it dancing?”
The dad wrinkled his brow. “I don’t know, honey. Maybe they’re trying to have a conversation.”
The girl giggled and they strolled away.
“All right, I’ve seen every damned chicken—”
It was Hayden walking toward us. He stopped when he saw Roy.
I let the flowers fall from my hand. “Hayden,” I said, adding an extra bright note to my voice. “This is Roy Cummings. Remember, I told you about him—Chet Cummings’s nephew?” I turned to Roy. “This is my fiancé, Hayden Croft.” My throat felt dry as I watched them shake hands. I thought I saw something change in Roy’s face. Maybe his jaw tightened, just a little.
“Hayden surprised me last night,” I said. “He showed up at the Victory Inn, where I’m staying.”
The Plymouth Rock rooster began strutting around, looking a bit agitated, ruffling its black-and-white feathers and clucking.
Roy put his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “That’s great. You came from where? Manhattan?”
Hayden nodded. “Yes, I settled a case yesterday and I thought, Why don’t I just fly up and celebrate? So I did.” He paused and then added, “Ellen tells me you’re from Beacon.”
