Everyone cheered and downed the contents of their plastic cups. Then the builders swung into action. One got up into the Travelift’s driver’s seat and turned on the motor. The others started walking on the tracks alongside the boat as the hoist rolled out over the water. Only once the Alden had reached the end of the tracks did they allow the rest of the crowd to join them. Four men took hold of each end of the canvas straps, and on Matt’s order the driver pushed the lever to lower the boat. With a jerk the steel cables slowly unwound, lowering the boat into the water. When she was about halfway down the man working the winch paused, and Matt grabbed the rail and vaulted aboard. He held out his hand for Ruthie. She hesitated for a moment, and then allowed him to help her up over the rail. With another jerk the boat resumed her descent into the water. There was barely a splash when she was all the way down. Matt unhooked the rear strap and the builders standing on either side of the Travelift eased the boat back along the channel between the tracks. Once the stern was free they loosened the strap at the bow and she moved out into the deep water of the bay. For a moment Matt disappeared, gone below to hook up a pump to deal with the water seeping into her hull. It would take a while for the wood to swell and seal shut the leaks in the planking.
Matt came back up on the deck and began unfurling the sails. One after another they opened, snapping in the breeze. The boat seemed to rise up in the water as the sails climbed up her two masts. Is there anything as beautiful as a wooden sailboat moving away across a sunlit bay, a bright white arrow piercing the blue of the sea?
Afloat, at last. Rebecca.
V
Ruthie stood at the kitchen sink, working the meat from thirty-five pounds of shedders with her bare hands. Her hair was flecked with bits of lobster shell, her shirt drenched with the brine that insulated the lobsters’ tender new shells from their soft flesh. A jagged shard of pink had sliced open the pad at the base of her thumb and she had to keep rinsing away the blood that seeped to the surface. She had been standing at the sink for two hours, and her back and shoulders ached. A shelf of dark clouds hung low and threatening in the sky over the little East Red Hook harbor, and although it wasn’t raining, the air was thick and close, dense with humidity unusual for Maine. With her wrist she wiped a bead of sweat from her nose.
It was coming on five o’clock, the celebration was due to begin at six, and she still had half a dozen lobsters to go and a host of other jobs to finish before the guests arrived. The task would be easier, she thought, if someone, anyone, had offered to help. But that was unfair. She had said she would do it by herself. And there was good reason for everyone’s absence. Mr. Kimmelbrod, still in the hospital more than a week after his fall, had last night once again shown signs of minor chest congestion, and Iris did not want to leave him on his own. She had arranged for Samantha to spell her at the hospital and promised to come home as soon as the girl arrived.
Having read the sky and the falling barometer, Matt had decided to sail the Rebecca from the open harbor of King’s Boatyard to East Red Hook’s sheltered cove. The trip should not take too long, and at least he would arrive before the other guests.
When Ruthie had all the meat free of the shells, she mixed in the celery and mayonnaise, and put it into a blue crockery bowl. In two matching bowls she put the coleslaw she had made from cabbages she grew herself in her small garden plot out in the side yard, and the potato salad. Ruthie put the bowls on the picnic table and then hesitated, wondering if it was too early to put out mayonnaise; if it would spoil. But the blue bowls looked so pretty against the red gingham tablecloth. The strong wind blowing in from the water forced Ruthie to weigh down everything on the table with rocks from the garden, and she worried that the Mason jars of flowers would topple. Early in the morning she had gathered the last of the lupines and the first of the tiger lilies from the overgrown meadow beyond the Grange Hall, and now their heads drooped in the unusual humidity.
Ruthie sat down on the screen porch with a pile of forks and began wrapping them in the gingham-printed paper napkins she had ordered on the Web to match the tablecloth. She had no idea how many to roll. The first year there were at least thirty people at the celebration. Last year there were fewer, but still not less than twenty. But how many would come this year? Ten? Five?
Preparing for the celebration had made Ruthie gloomy, irritable, even resentful, and not merely of the fact that she was obliged to do it alone. Fighting against everyone’s resistance had exhausted her, and there were times when she had just wanted to throw up her hands and remind people that she hadn’t really wanted to do this either, that it had been Mr. Kimmelbrod’s idea, and for his sake they should all just stop bellyaching and force themselves to be, if not eager, then at least merely willing.
A reluctance to attend the party this year had not been confined to members of the immediate family. Even the few close friends and neighbors to whom Ruthie had issued invitations seemed less than eager. Some had begged off, claiming other plans, others had murmured something noncommittal before turning away. If she reminded them that the event was meant to be a celebration of John’s and Becca’s memories, they tended to look sheepish, as if they had forgotten that, and were ashamed of their forgetting. Or maybe they were just thinking that John and Becca had died a long time ago, and that it was long past time to move on. And Ruthie thought that perhaps they were right, it was time to move on, and that was the most terrible thought of all.
As if to drive this cruel wisdom from her mind, she allowed herself to be overcome by obsessiveness. She pulled the most wilted flowers from the bouquets, wiped the plates clean of nonexistent dust, set the napkin rolls out in an artful arc. She scrubbed the downstairs bathroom and put a votive candle on the back of the toilet. She unloaded the dishwasher, washed all the pots, and scrubbed down the counters so that if anyone came inside they would find the kitchen sparkling clean. She cleared the dining room table of its piles of old newspapers and magazines and hid them in the coat closet. She set out the folding chairs in the yard in neat little conversation circles.
Nobody came.
Every time Ruthie heard a car on the road, she ran to windows at the front of the house, but every car drove by without even slowing. Dr. Haber across the road was up for the weekend—his car was in the driveway and she could see his TV flickering in the window. Even Matt was late. She thought of calling Becca’s old friend Jasmine, or Mary Lou Curran, to see why they had not arrived, but it would just be too … pathetic. That was the word. She wondered if it described everything about her life—her unhappiness at the prospect of Matt’s Caribbean plan, her half-assed attempt to somehow take on her sister’s life, her role, and even, dare she say it, a simulacrum of her man. The only thing she could honestly say she enjoyed was her job.
Or perhaps she was just being melodramatic. Maybe nobody was coming because they were worried about the weather.
Finally, she saw Matt climb over the stone wall between the yard and the beach. She ran out to the yard to meet him.
“What happened to you? Why didn’t you call?”
“No cell service.”
“I haven’t been able to reach my father, either. He said he was coming, but he’s not here.”
Matt looked at the picnic table. “It looks nice.” Ruthie was grateful for the compliment, especially because she knew it cost him something. After the launch of the Rebecca three days ago, he had been more than usually shut down. Every time she had asked him why he was depressed, however, he had insisted that he was fine.
“Thanks,” Ruthie said. “I’m getting worried about rain, though. Do you think we should move everything inside?”
Matt frowned at the sky. “It’s so weird. Over in Red Hook it’s as clear as can be.” He pointed toward town. Beyond the mass of threatening clouds over East Red Hook village, there was blue sky.
“Is it all muggy like this?”
“It’s hot, but not like this.”
“So, then, why did you sail the Rebecca
up here, if it was clear down there?”
“The guys down the yard said the wind would probably end up blowing the storm down there.”
“So did they move their boats?”
“Most everybody sailed farther down the coast, toward Castine. But I figured the Rebecca would be safe up here.”
Ruthie gazed back over the small bay. By now the clouds had thickened to a dense, black boil, though in the distance the sun shone in the summery blue sky.
Matt said, “It looks like it’s going to pour. Maybe we should bring the stuff in.”
Ruthie checked her watch. It was nearly seven. In previous years the celebration would already have been in full swing for an hour. “I can’t believe this. Where is everyone? Where’s your mom? Did you call her?”
“I’m going to go put on some dry clothes.”
“You didn’t call her, did you?”
“You know my mother, Ruthie.”
“But did you call her?”
“Yeah, I called her, okay? You told me to call her and I called her. But she’s not coming.” He started gathering up the buckets of plastic cutlery, the stacks of plates, and the bowls of food. Grudgingly, Ruthie joined him, and by the time the rain started they’d moved everything inside onto the screen porch. The rain, however, followed them. The wind blew it through the screens onto the porch. It was as though someone were standing outside aiming a hose through the screens. The screens themselves were bowing in, straining against the small rusted nails that had held them in place for more than fifteen years.
“Jesus Christ,” Matt whispered, staring out over the bay. The boats were straining at the ends of their moorings, blowing in toward shore.
They grabbed the food and the rest of the picnic things off the table and rushed them into the house, the door between the porch and the kitchen blowing shut with a loud bang every time they opened it. The rain was icy, a sudden and strange shock after the humidity of the day. By the time they’d finished clearing the table they were drenched.
The wind began a sudden and intense roaring. It was so loud it was like they were standing directly beneath a jet engine.
“What is this?” Ruthie said.
“Oh my God,” Matt said, his voice hoarse with fear. “I think it’s a microburst.”
“A what?”
“One blew through Castine last fall, remember? Winds like 150 miles an hour. Took down I don’t know how many trees and houses. I have to get the Rebecca out of here. Oh, fuck. I’m such a fucking idiot.” Matt took off down the porch steps and across the yard. As Ruthie hesitated in the doorway the lights in the house flickered and then went out.
“Matt!” she called, but he couldn’t hear her. She stared after him, and then at the remains of the picnic as it blew away. The folding chairs careened across the lawn, one of them smashing into the side of the barn. Ruthie felt a sudden and intense urge to get into the car and drive as far and as fast as she could. But even if she were selfish enough to run away, she couldn’t. Iris was in Newmarket with the Volvo, and Matt had left his truck down at the boatyard.
Ruthie ran back into the house and into the mudroom. She dug through the coats hanging on the hooks, throwing them aside until she found her old yellow slicker. She put it on, grabbed her father’s oilskin, and took off after Matt. As she crossed the lawn, her feet slipped and skidded in the slick grass. The rain fell freezing on her head, and dripped down into the neck of her coat, soaking her shirt. The wind blew so hard against her face that it bared her teeth. It forced the rain into her eyes. She pushed forward until she reached the seawall, vaguely aware that she was sobbing. She ducked down behind the wall, taking cover, trying to catch her breath.
She got to her feet and called for Matt again, but the wind snatched her voice from her throat. She clambered over the wall and stumbled over the rocks along the beach until she reached the dock. Now she could see Matt at the far end of the dock, his arms hugging one of the pilings. Struggling to stay on her feet, she pulled herself from piling to piling, creosote sticking to her hands. When she reached him, she tried to hand him her father’s oilskin, but before he could take it, the wind snatched it from her and sent it sailing back the length of the dock and onto the beach, where it stuck, sleeves splayed against a rock.
He was trying to tell her something, but she couldn’t hear him. He bent and put his mouth to her ear. “The Rebecca,” he shouted. “The other boats are going to wreck her.” He pointed, and she saw that six or seven of the boats had broken loose of their moorings. As she watched, the water seemed to cup them like a giant hand, then send them skittering across the cove. Iris’s old whaler crashed into the side of a lovingly maintained catamaran owned by one of their neighbors. Dinghies torn loose from their sailboats and upended into the waves crashed into the larger craft like pinballs banging from bumper to bumper.
“The tender!” Matt shouted. At first Ruthie didn’t understand. Then Matt grabbed hold of the line that kept their neighbor’s little motor boat tied up to the dock.
Ruthie grabbed with one hand at his wet shirt, wrapping the jersey around her fingers. The other arm she kept firmly looped around the piling. “No, Matt! No!”
“I’ll be fine.” He pried her fingers loose and jumped into the tender. Furious needles of rain stung her face and she cried out in frustration. There was no way he could sail the boat alone in this kind of wind, no way he could control her without help. The boat would capsize or be swamped, and Matt would be washed overboard. Ruthie had no choice. She let go of the piling and threw herself over the side of the dock into the tender.
“What are you doing?” he shouted. “Get out of here!”
“No,” she screamed back. “I’m coming with you.”
He lunged across the boat and tried to manhandle her back up onto the dock. She slapped away his hand. There was no way he could manage this job alone; she had no choice but to help him, and he had no choice but to accept her aid. “Come on!” she shouted, pushing him toward the motor.
Matt gave her a final, desperate look and then started the motor. They took off into the wind, to save the Rebecca.
VI
Although the wind was blowing over in East Red Hook village, in Newmarket it was clear. Samantha poked her head around the curtain that blocked the doorway to Mr. Kimmelbrod’s hospital room. The lamp over the head of his bed was on, but otherwise the room lay in darkness. He was asleep, his eyes sunk deep in their sockets. The harsh fluorescent bulb shone on the top of his head. His thin hair looked greasy and stuck to his scalp in a way he would never have tolerated had he been able to take charge of his own toilette. His curved nose, even bigger now that the flesh of his face had fallen away, cast a long shadow over his compressed lips. His inhalations were loud and rasping, and Samantha could see his pulse fluttering beneath the flaking skin of his neck.
Iris was also asleep, her feet propped up on the bed’s metal rail, her head lolling against the back of the chair, her mouth hanging open.
Samantha crept into the room on her sneakered feet. She set her tote bag and violin case gently on the ground. She was not supposed to take the Guarneri anywhere but to the Usherman Center’s rehearsal halls and to the Copakens’ house, but Samantha had been preparing something special for him. She had gone to the music library at the Usherman Center and checked out the score of Bach’s Partita no. 2 in D Minor. Mr. Kimmelbrod deserved the relief only Bach, and especially this piece, would bring him. And so, in addition to the music she was working on with her trio, she had been practicing the Chaconne.
The sound of the case against the tile floor woke Iris. She rubbed a string of saliva away from her lower lip and said, apologetically, “I must have fallen asleep.”
“You’re tired,” Samantha said. “I brought you an iced coffee.” She handed Iris a sweating plastic cup with a straw.
“You’re such a peach. Thank you so much, sweetie,” Iris said. “How did you get here?”
“The other members of my trio drove m
e. They’re going to the movies. They said they’d pick me up on their way home. So I can be here for at least two hours. More if you need me.”
“I won’t be that long,” Iris said. “Just an hour or so. Do you want to go to the celebration? Should I arrange for a cab for you when I get back?”
“No thank you,” Samantha said. “I’d rather spend the evening practicing.” She bit her lip. “I mean, is that okay? I’ll go if you want me to.”
“There’s no reason for you to go. I wish I didn’t have to, but Ruthie’s been cooking all day.” Iris got to her feet and gathered up her purse and jacket. “He’ll probably sleep. He’s been really tired today.”
When Iris left, Samantha took the score from her bag and began studying it. The Chaconne was a complex piece, even its theme not immediately obvious. Samantha had had to study it to figure out where the theme was, how long it was, how it was treated in the variations—all questions that she would normally have looked to Mr. Kimmelbrod to answer. While he slept on, she read and reread the 257 measures, determined not to disappoint him with a poorly thought-out interpretation.
VII
As she rounded the corner to Jacob’s Cove, Iris drove into a wall of weather. The sky, clear and cloudless over Red Hook, out of nowhere turned a sudden, ominous black. Rain fell across the car like a sheet of steel. Iris had never seen anything like it. A blast of wind buffeted the car as it began to fishtail. Iris tried to turn into the swerve, the way you were supposed to do. For a long moment the car spun sideways, and coming at her was Jacob’s Cove—black beach, black arc of pine trees, black water. She held fast to the wheel with a horrified sense of connection to her lost daughter. Then she felt her tires catch hold of the road’s surface, and the car straightened out.
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