Summer Days

by Lisa Jackson

  She had been working in the living room for close to an hour when she heard an odd sound at the front door. It was a heavy sort of scraping.... Peering through the front window, she saw Clovis, all one thousand pounds of him, standing on his hind legs and scratching at the door.

  Ordinarily, Ellen liked cats, but she wasn’t entirely sure this was just a cat. In short, Clovis disturbed her. She wasn’t afraid of him exactly, just—wary. Still, she opened the door. Clovis tumbled to all four feet.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked. And how, she wondered, had he known where to find her? Cora’s house was at least a ten-minute drive away. Was he used to wandering miles away from home? Was his being there merely a coincidence?

  Clovis did not deign to answer her question.

  Ellen tried again. “What are you doing here, Your Merovingian Majesty?”

  Clovis replied with a face-shattering, jaw-splitting yawn.

  “I see,” Ellen said. “Uh, do you want some water or something?”

  In response to this question, Clovis walked past her and into the house, as if he had lived there all his life. He made his way to the kitchen without erring, where he plopped his massive hindquarters down in front of the fridge and turned his enormous yellow eyes up at her. They were not amused or friendly eyes. One might be tempted to call them malevolent.

  “I can’t open the door unless you move back,” Ellen, who had followed him into the kitchen, pointed out reasonably.

  Clovis rose and stepped back just far enough for Ellen to ease open the door of the fridge.

  “Thanks,” she murmured.

  She reached for the bottle of milk. Clovis groaned. Ellen was certain that he was eyeing the carton of eggs, but there were only three left, and Ellen had no intention of sacrificing the omelette she planned to have for dinner to this beast. “You can have some milk,” she said firmly. “And there’s a bit of cheese. . . .”

  Clovis lapped up the milk Ellen poured for him and stared her down until she poured another bowl. Then she crumbled the bit of cheese for him. He ate that, too.

  “I hope you’re not lactose intolerant,” Ellen told him with a frown. “If you are, I don’t want to be around to witness the results of this feast.”

  When he had finished licking his chops, Clovis set about what looked to Ellen like a particularly elaborate session of facial grooming. She left him to his ablutions and went back to the living room and her computer.

  All was quiet for close to another hour. Ellen was just contemplating a brief break in her work when Clovis stalked from the kitchen, through the living room, and dropped his rump on the floor just in front of the door.

  “I’ll get it,” Ellen said unnecessarily, putting her laptop aside.

  She opened the door, and Clovis stalked out.

  “You’re welcome,” Ellen said pointedly.

  Clovis continued on his way, his tail twitching wildly.

  Watching him walk off with all of his native feline power and grace, Ellen found herself grinning. It had been nice to spend a bit of time with someone. Correction. A cat, not an actual someone. Flowers were all well and good for contemplative and aesthetic purposes, but you couldn’t really communicate with them the way you could communicate with a person. What she meant was, a cat. An animal with whiskers and four furry legs.

  She thought again of Caroline. She missed her friend. Ellen would be lying if she said otherwise. But she had come here to Ogunquit for a reason. There was a real purpose to her having retreated. A real purpose.

  Suddenly, Ellen realized that she was hungry. Hunger, she knew, could make you feel sad and grumpy and maybe even lonely.

  She was glad she hadn’t given the last three eggs to Clovis.

  CHAPTER 8

  Ellen pulled up in front of Rob’s rental home and got out of the car, carrying the plastic bag with their lunch. She was determined to have a pleasant time. They would have a quick meal—after all, Rob didn’t want to waste the light—and then she would be on her way. And maybe, when she got back home, Clovis would deign to show up for more snacks. Funny how the beast had so quickly stomped his way into her affections.

  Ellen paused and looked up at the house. The one-story structure could be described as a big square box, with two walls made almost entirely of glass. It wasn’t a particularly attractive house, at least in Ellen’s opinion, but she supposed it suited Rob’s professional purposes.

  She had to knock twice and ring the bell three times before Rob came to the door.

  “Sorry,” he said, a bit breathlessly. “I was just finishing a difficult area and couldn’t put my brush down. Come in.”

  Once inside Ellen saw that the house was really no more than one large room that had been sectioned off into functional areas—a tiny kitchen, a large all-purpose room, and a bedroom (that, simply a bed behind a large screen). The bathroom was minuscule and off the kitchen. Ellen wondered how someone Rob’s size could fit into the tubular shower. There was, of course, no bathtub.

  Most of the all-purpose room was devoted to Rob’s work. There were no fewer than four easels. On each easel there was propped a work in progress. Finished works (at least, to Ellen they looked complete) were propped along the walls and windows; a few works hung above them. A long worktable was heaped with paint-smeared rags, brushes in old coffee cans, open sketchbooks, various kinds of pencils, palettes, and, of course, tubes of paint.

  “It’s been used as an artist’s residence for years,” Rob explained. “It’s not meant as a home as much as a studio where you can also crash. Hence, the massive windows. Luckily, there aren’t any neighbors close enough to invade my privacy. It’s just me and the Atlantic.”

  “The view is spectacular,” Ellen said. And the light really was amazing; you didn’t have to be an artist or particularly artistic to tell that. And Rob’s paintings . . . Ellen felt her breath almost literally taken away. They were beautiful. The evening landscapes were luminous and atmospheric. The seascapes were powerful. The landscapes painted in the light of a summer day seemed to vibrate with life.

  “I’m a realist, as you can see,” Rob said. “And a romantic. They are not incompatible.”

  “Yes, I know. Rob, your work is—it’s incredible.”

  “Some of it is pretty good; I’m not unnecessarily modest. Some, not so much. Like that one by the—”

  “Don’t ruin it for me,” Ellen cried. “I love them all.”

  Rob shrugged.

  “Did you solve that problem you mentioned? When we were at the deli in town?”

  “You remembered.” Rob sounded genuinely surprised.

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “Yes, I did solve it, as a matter of fact. The full solution came to me late last night. Which is probably why I’m a bit more coherent today than I have been lately. At least, I think that I am. Am I?”

  “Yes,” Ellen said promptly. She pointed to the plastic bag she had brought and put on the small round wooden table by the kitchen that seemed to serve as a dumping ground for mail, hats, sunglasses, and whatever else Rob didn’t want in his hands when he came into the room. “I don’t know what you like to eat so don’t complain if I didn’t bring your favorites.”

  “I never complain when someone chooses to feed me. And my favorites are pretty much whatever it is I’m eating at the moment.”

  “So, you’re not a fussy gourmet type?”

  “Nope.”

  “Good. There’s a tomato, basil, and mozzarella sandwich on a baguette and a ham and cheese on rye.”

  “Let’s do halves,” Rob suggested.

  Ellen shrugged. “Sure.”

  “I have beer. And for some reason, I have a bottle of ginger ale. I really can’t remember why or when I bought it. I hate ginger ale.”

  “Me too,” Ellen said, with a laugh. “It reminds me of being sick as a child. My mother always gave me flat ginger ale. I’ll take a beer, thanks.”

  Rob retrieved two bottles from the fridge and joined her at
the table.

  “I thought you were going to work while I ate,” she said.

  “In a minute. I’m starved. I was so excited about solving my problem I forgot to eat breakfast.”

  With a sweep of his forearm Rob moved the junk to one half of the table. They sat, and Ellen distributed the food.

  “So why did you choose to come to Ogunquit?” she asked after a moment. “New England is stuffed with pretty, scenic places.”

  “Yeah, but Ogunquit is special. It’s been a destination for artists since the nineteenth century. But I guess you know that. Cora said something about your family having summered here for years.”

  Ellen nodded. “My parents bought a place in town when I was a little girl. They sold it five years ago.”

  “I often wondered why my parents never bought a summer place,” Rob said. “It’s not as if they were into traveling, dashing off to a new destination every year. Mostly they stayed home and sent me packing. One summer to a relative, one summer to a sort of learning camp abroad, the next summer to an old friend of the family. But never the same place twice. Odd.”

  “Maybe you were a naughty little boy and people didn’t want you back?” Ellen suggested with a smile.

  “Hardly. I never got in trouble, and not because I never got caught. I just wasn’t a bad kid. I didn’t act out or disobey. I wasn’t generally obnoxious. Maybe I should have been.”

  Ellen wondered if Rob’s assessment of his younger self was true, or if his memory had worked wonders on reality. She would probably never know. There were vast tracts of her own childhood she could hardly recall and others she had probably edited over time.

  “My parents sent me to a camp one summer,” she said, “here in Maine. But only the once.” And that had been more than enough, Ellen noted, thinking of that awful boy Bobby. “My father was sick at the time, and my mother didn’t think having a seven-year-old underfoot while he was going through chemo was a great idea.”

  “I hope your father recovered?” Rob said.

  “Oh, yes,” Ellen said, “completely. He’s the healthiest person I know.”

  “Good. I went to sleepaway camp one summer, too. I mean, a good old-fashioned camp, one without a pretense of being a learning experience. For the life of me I can’t recall what it was called. But I’m positive it was in Vermont. Well, I think.”

  “Where?” Ellen asked. “I mean, near what town?”

  “I don’t remember that, either.”

  “Okay. Near what mountains? The Green Mountains?”

  Rob shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess there were mountains.... We didn’t go hiking, though. There was definitely a lake. I remember swimming in a lake. I hated the mushy bottom. Ugh.”

  “Vermont isn’t the only state with lakes,” Ellen pointed out. She kind of liked the mushy bottom of a lake, but decided there was no point in mentioning that. It wasn’t as if they would ever be going swimming together.

  “I know that. But, see, one of the counselors used to sneak in maple sugar candy for us. Well, for me. I paid him by giving him the cardboard health cookies my mother sent me. I had a ridiculous sweet tooth, and I guess he was a masochist.”

  “You can get maple sugar candy all over New England,” Ellen said. “Not just in Vermont.”

  “Oh. I guess that’s true.”

  “Why don’t you ask your parents where you went to camp?” Ellen suggested. “They should remember if anyone should.”

  Rob smiled. It looked a bit pained. “You would think. But I’m not so sure my mother remembers what shoes she put on this morning. And as for my father, I’m not sure he remembers he’s married to my mother.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry.” Ellen hesitated before asking, “Are they suffering from dementia?”

  “No,” Rob replied promptly. “Sorry to give a false impression. My mom’s been addicted to prescription pain pills for as far back as I can remember. And my father’s been checked out from his wife and son for well over twenty years. I understand from one of his gossipy colleagues that he has a very nice girlfriend. Mistress. Whatever she’s called. I’ve never met her, and I doubt an invitation will be forthcoming.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” Ellen said again. “That all must be so hard for you.”

  Rob seemed to consider before speaking. “Maybe it was, once. Honestly, I don’t remember. It’s funny what you can get used to. What weirdness. And it’s not like my mother ever abused me. She’s actually quite sweet and very smart. She’s just—sick. And I can hardly blame my father for giving up on her, can I?” Rob went on. “Who’s to say I wouldn’t do the same thing in his situation? Though I hope I’d be better able to help someone I loved before she got in too deep.”

  “Why did your mother start taking medication?” Ellen asked. “Do you know?”

  Rob shrugged. “No. Once, way back when I was in college, my father attempted an explanation. But he chickened out in the middle. Or maybe it was too hard to admit the truth to his son. Whatever that truth might be.”

  Ellen thought of her own family, how relatively normal her parents were, how steady and reliable. They drank in moderation. They didn’t smoke. They weren’t even divorced. Maybe they were an aberration. Normal is the new abnormal, she thought. She felt very lucky in that moment.

  “You know,” Rob said suddenly. “It’s really strange that I’m telling you all this. I hardly know you. It’s not like me to spill my deep dark family secrets.”

  Ellen smiled. “Well,” she said, “your secrets are safe with me. I won’t tell a soul.”

  That, Ellen could promise. She could keep a secret, even from Caroline and her mother if necessary.

  “I really should get back to work,” Rob said suddenly. “I didn’t plan on taking so much time off.”

  Ellen jumped to her feet. “Oh,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” Rob said. “I’m glad you came. Thanks for the food. And thanks again for listening. Maybe I can return the favor at some point.”

  Ellen smiled and took her leave. Just before she ducked into her car she looked back at the house. Through the enormous bank of windows she caught sight of Rob standing before one of his easels, paintbrush poised. The sight made her smile.

  CHAPTER 9

  Ellen was preparing a cup of tea. She had worked steadily from eight until eleven that morning and felt that she needed a bit of a break before tackling a few tasks she had scheduled for the afternoon.

  As the tea bag seeped in a large white ceramic cup, she found herself wondering what Rob Penn was doing at that very moment. Was he also enjoying a break from a productive and tiring morning? Was he just rolling out of bed? Or was he deeply involved in a painting, unaware that lunchtime was approaching?

  She was surprised by how much she had enjoyed the time she had spent with Rob the day before. He was smart and funny and boy, was he talented with a brush. And it didn’t hurt that he looked the way he did. Not that looks mattered one whit in the end, not to Ellen, anyway.

  Still, she found herself wondering about the willowy, dark-haired woman Rob had been talking to at Cora’s party. Had Cora forced Rob to invite her to lunch, too? Had they exchanged numbers all on their own? Did she live locally? Was she also an artist; had they bonded over the agonies of a life devoted to the aesthetic principles?

  Ellen took a sip of the now fully brewed tea (it was not half as tasty as Cora’s) and wondered how she could find out if Rob was dating that woman or anyone else without coming right out and asking and thereby causing the entire town of Ogunquit to assume she was romantically interested in him. Within hours if not minutes every shopkeeper and farm stand employee and waiter or waitress in town and as far away as Kennebunk would be convinced that Ellen Tudor had a crush (what an odd expression!) on that handsome painter Rob Penn.

  That could not be allowed to happen.

  Ellen caught sight of something large and dark against the green of the grass out back. She took her cup of tea to the kitchen window. Yes
, it was Clovis, stalking some poor unsuspecting animal across the lawn. She considered opening the window and calling to Clovis, distracting him and thereby giving the victim a sporting chance to run for his or her life. After all, it wasn’t as if Clovis was homeless and hungry. He was probably just bored.

  She knocked loudly on the window, but Clovis either didn’t hear or he ignored her. Ellen sighed. She supposed it was the way of the world. So many people, just like cats, took what they needed to survive—or, what they wanted badly enough—without a thought for someone else who needed—or wanted—it more.

  Maybe, Ellen thought, flinching as Clovis pounced with deadly accuracy on the chipmunk (she could see now that his prey had not been a mouse or a bird), maybe she should learn to be more like those people who acted boldly in their own self-interest.

  She respected people with a sense of reasonable entitlement and a toughness of spirit, even if in some cases, she also feared them.

  Ellen took another sip of the cooling tea. Ever since that long ago summer, when her father had been sick and she had been banished to camp, she had felt vulnerable in a way she assumed that most people did not, not quite as resilient as the rest of the world. It was not self-pity. It was not that at all. In fact, she didn’t like feeling less able than others to deal with life’s blows.

  Once she had reached adulthood she had worked hard to overcome her hesitations and fears. After college she had traveled through Europe for a month all on her own. And upon her return she had gotten her own tiny little apartment rather than join up with a roommate in a bigger, nicer place. And she had opted to establish her own business rather than join an already established firm, though the obstacles were many and large. She had tested her toughness and her resilience and mostly, she had earned a good grade.

  Those three years with Peter, that’s what had set her back so badly. His spectacular betrayal had made her feel once again like that scared and questioning child, kept in the dark, subject to name-calling (memories of that despicable boy at camp!), vulnerable to her own inability to correctly read other people.