This other room was windowless. In the middle of the floor, a boat lay in a heavy steel cradle that hung from the ceiling. In the floor directly below the boat lay twin, closed doors that presumably opened up and over to lay flat on the floor on either side, thus exposing the water below. A series of electrical wires ran from a motor on the far wall to a wall switch. Chelsea could easily deduce that when the switch was activated, the cradle would gently lower the boat down onto the waves below it.
The boat itself was covered over with an old canvas tarp. Wasting no time, Jacques and Margot walked over and pulled off the tarp. As they did, Brandon gasped.
“My God, Jacques!” he said. “She’s beautiful! How long has she been in storage like this?”
As if he were showing off his first newborn child, Jacques beamed with pride.
“Since the day the cottage was closed for good,” he answered. “She hasn’t seen the light of day since. The engine was prepped for long-term storage, and twice a year I have polished her wood and chrome and conditioned her leather. She still looks good, no? There are few remaining like her.”
Then he turned and looked at Chelsea. “And now, mademoiselle,” he said softly, “she’s yours.”
Although Chelsea knew nothing about boats, even she realized that this was something very special. As she neared it, she became entranced. Clearly, this craft was a product of a more elegant age.
“It’s amazing,” Chelsea said. “I’ve seen boats like this only in magazines.”
“I’m sure that’s true,” Jacques boasted, “because they’ve become so rare. She’s a 1941 Chris-Craft. One of only three hundred seventy-one made that year. Because of the scarcity of raw materials during the war years, no more were built until 1946. And soon after that, boat makers began using fiberglass. Your great-grandfather bought her new and had her shipped here. Madame Brooke loved her, and she went out in her nearly every afternoon. After her accident, she ordered me to carefully put her in storage to await another day, and so I did.”
Wide-eyed, Chelsea circled the boat. The graceful craft was sixteen feet long; her shiny mahogany hull, topside, and chrome trim positively gleamed. There was a cockpit both fore and aft, each of them fashioned with plush leather seating and able to accommodate two persons. In between them was the housing for the inboard engine. The steering wheel was huge and boasted a chrome horn ring, like that of an antique car. Her long, pointed bow was elegant and built for slicing through the waves, and a two-part, low-slung glass windshield lay before the driver’s cockpit. When Chelsea walked around the gracefully tapered stern, she smiled. The name of the boat had been painted there in gold lettering.
“Beautiful Brooke . . . ,” Chelsea murmured, almost to herself.
“Your great-grandfather named her after his only child,” Jacques said. “If the mademoiselle would like, I know a shipwright in Serendipity who can activate her again. I could tow her to his shop, where he would do all the work. It would probably be pricy, but he’s the only one I trust to do it right.”
While still staring at the beautiful boat, Chelsea nodded. Beautiful Brooke was far more than just some marvelous antique. In her heart, Chelsea somehow knew that this craft would prove to be just as much a link to her grandmother’s mysterious past as would the cottage itself, or whatever lay inside the tin box. Although she had never been the outdoors type, she suddenly wanted to enjoy this boat, to experience it just as Brooke had done those many years ago, when she had still been a healthy and spirited woman. But there was more to it, Chelsea knew. To her continuing astonishment, with every passing moment she was feeling more and more a part of this wonderful place.
“Yes,” she said. “Please arrange it.”
Jacques nodded. “Yes, mademoiselle,” he answered.
Margot looked at her watch. “It is becoming late, mon cher,” she said to Jacques. “Time for us to go.”
After everyone left the boathouse, Jacques handed all of the keys to Chelsea. Then the four of them unloaded the groceries that the Fabiennes had brought, and they stored them away. Margot gave Chelsea a quick tour of the kitchen, showing her where she could find things. Finally, Jacques gave Chelsea their home phone number and a small packet that contained all of the paperwork on the lovely old Chris-Craft.
At last, the Fabiennes stood ready to go. As Jacques respectfully removed his beret again, a rather sad look overcame his face.
“If there is ever anything you need,” he said, “you have but to call us. And you have a good neighbor in Monsieur Brandon, who can also help with things. In the meantime, I will contact you about picking up the boat.”
“And if you like the coq au vin,” Margot added, “I’ll be happy to teach you how to make it.”
With the Fabiennes about to leave, Chelsea felt her heart unexpectedly swell. Although she had known them for less than two hours, this stalwart old Frenchman and his equally indefatigable wife already seemed like family. She stepped forward and kissed each of them on the cheek.
“That would be lovely,” she answered. “Au revoir.”
At last the Fabiennes got into their old truck and headed for home. As the dust settled on the road, Chelsea turned back toward Brandon.
“What wonderful people . . . ,” she said. Brandon nodded his agreement. “And now, mademoiselle,” he said in a near-perfect imitation of Jacques’s accent, “is there anything more that I can do for you tonight?”
“No,” she answered quietly as she searched his blue eyes. “You’ve done so much already . . .”
She then took another moment to again examine this man, this new neighbor of hers who until only hours ago she had never known existed. He seemed so totally in his element here, she realized, standing on the beach in his jeans and T-shirt, with Jeeves obediently by his side and his dark hair being lightly ruffled by the breeze. So confident, so at home in this remote and captivating place. She wanted to thank him properly for all his help but was unsure of how. Just then she heard his stomach growl, and she knew.
“Tell you what,” she said. “Why don’t you come by for dinner later and help me eat some of that coq au vin Jacques and Margot brought? You won’t even need to bring the wine.”
Brandon smiled. “I thought you’d never ask,” he replied.
Chelsea thought to herself for a few moments. “See you in a couple of hours, then?” she asked.
“Sounds good,” he answered.
Smiling to herself, Chelsea turned and walked toward her new cottage.
Chapter 7
Now that Chelsea was at last alone, her desire to find Brooke’s hidden tin box became overpowering; it had been the real reason why she had asked Brandon to wait for two hours before coming back over. She hurried to the guest bedroom and shoved the big brass bed to one side.
When she looked down at the floor, she saw the three scratched floorboards. But they refused to succumb to her fingernails, causing her to realize that she needed something tougher with which to pry them loose. She went into the kitchen, where she grabbed up a strong knife and a flashlight, then she returned to the guest room. When she inserted the knife blade into the cracks between the floorboards and pried them up, they lifted easily. She carefully shined the light down into the darkness.
The cottage had no basement, only a dirt foundation. Lying there was not the tin box she had expected to find but a small leather valise, the kind that people used long ago, with leather straps that buckled around its outside to keep it securely closed and travel stickers pasted upon it, speaking of the various places it had seen. She peered around some more with the flashlight to make sure that there was nothing else down there, then she grabbed the old valise and manhandled it up through the hole.
Despite its age, the valise was in relatively good condition. Although it was damp down there, no animals had been able to bother it. While hoisting the valise up onto the bed to take a better look, she heard something slide around inside it and her heart skipped a beat.
She found the ident
ification tag and eagerly wiped it clean. As expected, it read BROOKE BARTLETT. The two brass buckles securing the leather straps were badly rusted, but she was able to free them up and undo the straps. With breathless anticipation, she opened the valise and looked inside.
At last, there it was—the old tin box that Brooke had promised. With trembling hands, Chelsea removed the box and set it on the bed. It was rusted and battered but intact. An old padlock secured the hinged lid.
She removed the necklace from around her neck and took the little key from it. Because the key was in so much better condition than was the box, they seemed to have come from different times, perhaps even different worlds. Chelsea tried inserting the key into the padlock, but at first it refused to go. After some determined finagling, she finally succeeded.
And now, she thought. At last she turned the key and opened the box, inside of which she saw a small, leather-bound journal. Beside it lay a yellowed manila envelope. Chelsea then gently carried both items to the dining room table for a better look.
The journal was black, its surface bearing web-like cracks that had been honestly earned over the passage of time. The name Brooke Bartlett was engraved on its cover in gold leaf. Some of it had flaked off in places, causing Gram’s name to appear strangely disjointed. The old envelope was sealed. It too bore Brooke’s name, written in her familiar penmanship.
With trembling hands, Chelsea first picked up the envelope and opened it. It contained about a dozen old black-and-white photographs, each yellowed and dog-eared but still discernible. Chelsea began viewing them one by one. To her disappointment, nothing had been written on their back sides.
Every picture showed Brooke during happier, healthier days. She looked to be in her midtwenties, and it appeared that all the photos had been shot here at Lake Evergreen. Some were of Brooke only, while others showed Brooke and a man. Most had been taken outdoors, but a few had been shot inside Chelsea’s cottage.
Brooke had been pretty, Chelsea realized. Tall, and with what appeared to be long, auburn hair, she had possessed a good figure and welcoming eyes. The man was unusually attractive and looked about Brooke’s age. He had a strong jaw and a slight widow’s peak in his wavy, light-colored hair. In one photo his hands were thrust into his pants pockets, and a lit cigarette dangled from between his grinning lips. Then Chelsea realized something. The man in the photos with Brooke wasn’t her grandfather.
Chelsea had never seen any pictures of Brooke during her grandmother’s younger days, so viewing her standing upright and in the full flower of her youth was both jarring and wonderful. There was something uniquely mesmerizing about these photos, these fascinating snippets of the past. Chelsea felt drawn into the pictures, as if she were actually being transported back in time to meet a much younger and more vivacious woman. These scenes were from a far different era, and her grandmother seemed an equally different woman from the one Chelsea had known.
Finally, she looked at the last one. It showed Brooke sitting in a chair, her chin held a bit high, her arms settled serenely at her slim waist, her smile demure. She was dressed in a short-sleeved shirt and pleated women’s slacks, reminding Chelsea of the sort of things that Katharine Hepburn sometimes wore during her younger days. In the foreground there sat a man with his back to the camera. The tip of his cigarette could be seen extending slightly past his right cheek, its smoke curling gently into the air. In his right hand he held a brush that was caressing the canvas, and in his left a painter’s palette.
Chelsea then carried the old journal out onto the porch, where she sat in one of the rockers and eagerly began reading her grandmother Brooke’s first entry:
Wednesday, June 3, 1942, 5:00 P.M.
I’ve been alone here at Lake Evergreen for three weeks now. As I sit on the porch the stars are out, and the night creatures are singing. My dog, Ike, lies on the floor beside my rocking chair and this new journal rests in my lap. At long last I’ve begun writing in it, as I promised myself I would do. I think that I’m going to enjoy writing but will probably do so only when I have something noteworthy to record. And as is the case with most diarists, I will also probably come to wish that I’d begun doing so long ago. Plus, I hope that the great sense of quiet here will help to make my musings meaningful. It seems an odd thing, being concerned about the quality of a text that no one else will ever read . . .
Earlier this evening, the radio announced that nine B-17 Flying Fortress bombers from the Seventh Air Force attacked a Japanese fleet of forty-five ships, just south of the Midway Atoll. It’s so good to know that we’re at last taking the fight to the enemy! But although the war news reaches even here, there is an overriding sense of peace in this place that simply can’t be found back home in Syracuse. Because I see other people infrequently, unless I’m reading a newspaper or listening to the radio, sometimes it’s like the war doesn’t exist.
For here, the waves of Lake Evergreen still rush the shore whenever they choose, the offshore breeze sways to and fro at its own behest, and the trees wave in the wind of their own accord, just as they all would do if the world were still at peace. It’s almost as if time has no meaning in this calming, magical place, and I’m so glad that I decided to stay the entire summer. Recent events have been momentous, and I need some peace and quiet in my life just now . . .
The new cottage next door has at last been built, and the owner moved in today. The cottage lies about fifty yards or so down the beach, on a tract of adjoining land that Father sold last year. Father was originally going to keep that land, but with the coming of the war he decided to let it go. He says that the owner is a man named Butler. Father has met him, of course, but I hadn’t yet. And so, after giving him a chance to get settled, I took a little housewarming gift over to him . . .
WHILE HUMMING PLEASANTLY to some Glenn Miller coming over the radio, Brooke Bartlett again consulted her handwritten recipe book. She had begun it last year, shortly following the bombing of Pearl Harbor. Everyone, it seemed, needed a way to cope after that dreadful day, and entering her culinary concoctions in this little book had become hers. She very much enjoyed creating her own dishes and obsessively tinkering with each one until it was just right. As the war became an increasing part of her life, she had seized on the idea of naming her delicacies after Allied war leaders and American movie stars who were well-known for aiding the cause. It was late afternoon, and she was making one of her favorite pies to take to her new neighbor.
Once again running her eyes down the handwritten page, she found where she had left off. She had already baked the graham cracker crust. Then she had mixed the cream cheese, milk, lemon juice, and vanilla, and slowly poured the mixture into the crust. Now would come the topping. She pitted the cherries and cooked them in a saucepan with water for ten minutes. Then she added some precious sugar and cornstarch and let the mixture cook until it thickened. Although sugar was dear these days, she wanted to make a good first impression on her new neighbor.
Earlier today, from out her kitchen window she had watched as several moving men carried furniture into the neighboring cottage. They were gone now, but she had yet to see the new owner.
It’s of no matter that I haven’t seen him yet, Brooke thought with a smile. I’ve never known a man who didn’t appreciate a well-made pie.
After letting the mixture come to room temperature, she gently spread it across the top of the cream cheese and placed the pie in the refrigerator to cool. She then stepped outside and went around the back of the cottage to her little victory garden, where she snipped two mint leaves, which would serve as the pie’s crowning touches. Preparing that pie had made her especially happy, because during the last six weeks, she had had no one to cook for besides herself.
Finished at last, Brooke cleaned the dishes and poured a glass of iced tea. After walking into the living room and turning off the radio, she went out onto the porch and sat in one of the rocking chairs. Ike, the black and white English springer spaniel she had fondly named after Ge
neral Eisenhower, followed along dutifully and slumped down beside Brooke’s chair. She had gotten Ike as a source of companionship, soon after her husband, Bill, joined the army.
While sipping her tea, she looked out across the waves. Her father’s new Chris-Craft bobbed lightly at anchor, and the wind ruffled the colorful beach umbrella she had secured in the sand. She loved being at Lake Evergreen and had always taken comfort in the fact that only her immediate family had ever enjoyed this cottage. Although Brooke was no snob, she found the sense of exclusivity appealing. To date there were only four other cottages on the lake, including both hers and the new one next door.
Despite the isolation, her father was still betting that would change. Ten years ago, a friend of his had told him about Lake Evergreen and its possibilities for development. And so James, always searching for an opportunity, came to see for himself and immediately bought two tracts of lakeside land from a local contractor who had planned on building cottages there but who was still down on his luck from the Depression.
Soon after, James ordered the building of his cottage and boathouse on the very desirable stretch of beach over which Brooke’s eyes now gazed. Although it was to have been his home away from home, his devotion to the newspaper kept him from visiting often. But Brooke and her mother had already spent many summer days and nights here talking, laughing, cooking, and enjoying all the peace and solitude that this lovely spot had to offer.
The apple hadn’t fallen far from the tree, it seemed, because Brooke majored in journalism in college. It was an unusual choice, when so many women were studying such traditional fields as teaching and nursing. Then again, many people found Brooke to be an unusual woman. Following graduation, her father suggested that she come and work for him. She interned in various departments so she could understand the newspaper business, and in the end she finally became the paper’s head librarian. It was an absorbing job, because it fell upon Brooke to decide which pieces were worth archiving and which were not. She loved the work, and she took to it like a duck to water.
More Than Words Can Say Page 6
