by CF Frizzell
Retta shifted impatiently and whined.
“Sailor lost at sea? Or should I bring wineglasses outside?”
“It’s beautiful, the yard.” Ellis started up the steps. “Guess I got a little swept away.”
“Well, prepare yourself,” Maggie said, pointing down at Retta, “because as soon as I open this door, you’ll be swept down the stairs.” She gripped Retta’s collar, pushed the door open, and Retta reared and wiggled. Ellis entered and ducked through the mudroom to the kitchen. “Ready?” Maggie asked and waited for Ellis to put the bag on the counter before releasing Retta.
Ellis knelt and received the charge, but only had time to rub both floppy ears before Retta zoomed off.
“That was quick.”
“Oh, she’s coming back. Look out.”
A stuffed toy duck in her mouth, Retta returned at full speed and spun her backside into Ellis’s knees. She writhed and snorted repeatedly as Ellis scratched her back and butt.
“Hey, Retta. How’s my pretty girl? Nice duck.” She snatched it away and tossed it toward the laundry room. Retta dashed off.
“And you’ll be stuck playing with it now.”
“That’s fine with me.” Ellis reached into the wine bag and pulled out a smaller one and set it aside. “First, this is for you.” She passed the bottle to Maggie.
“Oh, Ellis. Thank you. Let’s get right to it.” Retta hurried back with her duck and looked up at Ellis. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Ellis took the smaller bag off the counter and crouched in front of Retta. “All pretty girls deserve presents.” Retta promptly sat and let her duck drop to the floor, her attention now on the bag. Ellis took out a stuffed seagull, and Retta leaned forward to sniff. “For you, Retta.” The wide amber eyes flashed up in disbelief. Ellis wiggled the toy and Retta pounced. She spun away, seagull in her soft grip, and settled under the table with her new prize.
“You spoil her, you know. That’s very sweet of you,” Maggie said, working a corkscrew into the wine. “And you spoil me. Thank you so much for this.”
“You’re welcome. My pleasure.”
“You remembered. I’m touched.” Don’t make her blush. She seems shy enough as it is. “So did you do something fun on this gorgeous day? Go fishing?”
Ellis’s attention remained on Retta and her toy. “I replaced the bilge pump. Finally, no more slow leak.” Retta brought the seagull back, and Ellis tossed it across the room.
“Oh. I hear the bilge is a real vacation hot spot. You put on sunscreen, I’m sure.”
Ellis snickered, still looking only toward Retta. “I’d been planning to fix it, but a certain unexpected wad of cash made me decide to replace it. Thank you again for that. You didn’t need—”
“Don’t.” Maggie shook her head as she handed her a glass of wine. “We settled this argument already.”
“But it was far more than the cost of fuel. The cruise was a fav—”
“End of discussion. Now come. Let me give you the nickel tour.” She caught Ellis eyeing the stove. “Unless you’re starving. I hope you’re okay with a rib roast.”
Ellis approached the commercial-grade stove, looking rather awestruck. “Rib roast? God, yes.” She examined the stove, its burners, griddle, double ovens. “This is spectacular.”
“Our supper or the stove?”
“Oh, the roast looks as good as it smells, Maggie. You’ve gone to too much trouble here.” Retta sat at her feet, toy abandoned and nose aimed at the feast on the stovetop. Ellis scratched between her ears.
“No trouble at all. Puttering at the stove is a passion of mine. Granted, I may have gone a bit overboard, treating myself with this monster when I only really cook for myself. If Tuck’r were an official inn, this stove would get a workout, but we’re basically a B&B, so I just bake lots of goodies—which is fun, too, of course.” She patted the corner of the stove. “But it’s a long-term investment. I splurged on a few of them, hoping they’ll serve well through the years.”
“So modern.” Ellis looked around the room again. “But it works in here.” She jutted her chin toward the far empty corner. “What do you plan to put there?”
“A potbellied wood stove. Well, that’s the goal, anyway, if Tuck’r earns its keep.”
Ellis wandered to the spot. “It…ah…I bet there used to be one here.”
“As a matter of fact, you’re right. I want to keep as much of the old charm as I can afford. The sink is a reproduction in its original spot.” She set her glass down on the counter and pulled bread from the oven. “I see I’m not getting you out of this kitchen, so let’s eat while everything’s hot.” She put the loaf on a small breadboard and brought it to the table. “Have a seat.”
“Can I can help you?”
“You could tackle the roast, if you’d like.” With Retta as escort, she brought it over on a platter and set a carving knife beside it.
“Be honored to,” Ellis said and grazed a palm along the edge of the oak-plank table.
“An amazing table, isn’t it?” Maggie asked, at her side with bowls of vegetables. “I marvel at it every day. I’ve had it refinished, but I’m thrilled to have an original farmer’s table. Nineteen-oh-something, I was told. It came with the house and I often sit here, imagining who sat around it all those years ago, what foods they prepared on it.” She chuckled. “God knows what they did on it.”
“God knows. It’s…special. There’s no doubt.”
All through dinner, Ellis seemed to hang on Maggie’s every word, thoughtful and attentive as Maggie recounted her design process. Maggie reveled in their newfound mutual interest, especially moved when Ellis inquired about further changes to the house and fell silent to listen and gaze around the room. Maggie couldn’t have been happier, seeing her so enraptured by all that had been done to the place.
Caught up in the conversation, she hardly noticed dinner, except to note the meal turned out well and Ellis, remarkably gracious, didn’t hesitate to confirm it. Maggie wondered how long it had been since Ellis enjoyed a home-cooked meal, spent any quality time in a house. The urge to be the woman in this place whenever Ellis sought such comfort or rejuvenation came as a curiously appealing surprise.
With dusk approaching, Maggie resisted the temptation to turn on the overhead light. The candlelight mellowed the atmosphere, lessened the space between them across the vast table, and she conceded that being closer to Ellis was really what this evening was all about.
Retta crawled from beneath the table and put her chin on Ellis’s thigh.
“Too bad you’re a dog, pretty girl. This is people food.” She patted her head. “An outstanding meal,” she told Maggie. “Thank you. I truly appreciate it.”
Maggie raised her glass at the compliment. I do love your sincerity. “You know, it did take me a while to get you here. You could have had several by now.”
“I think you’ve made up for that in just this one meal. Do your friends and family know what a fantastic cook you are?”
“Well, back home a bunch of us enjoy experimenting in the kitchen. My family, not so much.”
“They haven’t been here yet to experience all this? Do they live locally?”
Maggie immediately credited the intimacy of the shared meal for Ellis’s first-ever inquiry of her background.
“Manhattan. No, they haven’t visited yet. They’ve promised to come for the Christmas Stroll, but…We’ll see.” She refilled their glasses. “They had to cancel their Labor Day visit because Mom’s so busy, especially now. She’s planning a fund-raiser for one of her many causes, and her co-chair is abandoning her to have surgery.”
“And your father?”
“He’s a financial consultant for Citicorp. For some reason, I followed him into the field, originally.”
“So you were in finance before this?”
“Originally, yes. Dad still holds out that I’ll join him,” she added with a chuckle. Ellis nodded toward her glass, suddenly distant.
Despite a craving to know details, Maggie kept her questions to herself. Ellis had finally eased into a conversational mode, and Maggie had no desire to see her withdraw.
“Let me just clean up a bit and we’ll take the tour.”
They put leftovers away and loaded the dishwasher while Maggie offered amusing tales about the complicated appliance. At least Ellis seemed amused. She remained rather quiet throughout the chore, and Maggie wondered if too much domesticity had brought on the reserved mood.
Maggie narrated as they left the kitchen and passed the large pantry and storage room with its commercial freezer, and when she pushed open the common room door, she saw Ellis’s jaw flex as if to hold back words.
Every detail of the room appeared to fascinate her, the built-in bookcases and cabinets, the sitting areas, the velvet sheen of the old floorboards. She wandered to the staircase and stroked the banister, ran her hand around the newel post. Retta nudging her with the seagull couldn’t break her concentration.
“So beautiful. Such a credit to you, Maggie. It’s…it’s hard to take it all in.” She turned completely around and finally noticed the room’s most dynamic feature. “God. The stove.”
Maggie couldn’t hide her enthusiastic pride. “My favorite piece in the entire house. We just put the finishing touches on it, in fact. It’s big, I know, and not exactly your typical wood stove, but the minute I laid eyes on it, I wanted it out front here.”
“Wow.” Ellis placed her splayed palm on the cast iron surface.
“A wood- and coal-burning cookstove,” Maggie said. “Apparently, it had been in that kitchen forever, and I just couldn’t keep it hidden. I suppose someday it could return to the kitchen and I could open this fireplace, but having it here adds so much nostalgic charm. Plus, it’ll help heat the house, and, God forbid, I can even cook with it, if need be.”
“It’s beautiful.” Ellis studied the claw feet, the brilliant nickel-plated trim, and the buffed black satin finish, all the way around to the back, where the stove pipe fed into the fireplace. “Amazing. May I open it?”
Maggie warmed at Ellis’s interest. “Be my guest. I’ve been assured it’s in tip-top condition now, no cracks, no missing pieces, and is ready to go.”
Ellis opened the oven, the firebox beside it, then lifted one of the round cook plates on top, shaking her head as she went. “This workmanship is unreal. It takes a lot to restore one of these.”
“Oh, you can say that again. Me and my bright ideas.”
Her expression stoic, Ellis ran a hand along the stove trim reverently before stepping back. Maggie was touched by the sentimentality.
“My office is right over here,” she injected, “and this grisly-looking string bean is the one who built the place.” She pointed to the sepia tintype hanging at her office doorway. “Captain Pratt himself.” Ellis moved closer. “You think it’s any surprise he had to chase the whales?” Maggie asked, biting her lower lip. “I’d run from him, too, he’s just so handsome.”
Ellis reviewed the faded image at length. “It’s appropriate, though, having his picture here.”
“I thought so, too.” She waved Ellis to follow and noticed she seemed reluctant to leave the picture. Islanders and their history. “This is my huge office, and it opens here to my suite.” She gestured to the bedroom around her, and Retta strolled in and flopped down on her own bed. “There’s a full bath back in that corner,” Maggie continued, pointing. “The house extends so deeply off the street, we were able to put this little suite between the common room up front and the kitchen in the rear.” She led Ellis, and now Retta, into the adjacent room. “This is my living room, which leads,” she opened yet another door, “back to the kitchen.”
Ellis appeared to have taken it all in, the clutter in the office, the Mediterranean-styled bedroom with its king-sized bed, the chrome-and-glass motif of the little living room, and had said virtually nothing. Maggie watched surreptitiously as Ellis steadied herself on a chair back and sipped her wine. It’s a lot, I suppose. Maybe I came on too strong, shoved my success down her throat. Your own home is just as remarkable, you know. And probably equally historic to you.
“I’d show you the upstairs, but it’s just beds and baths, and many are occupied, so to speak. Tomorrow afternoon I’ll only have three parties and this place is going to feel empty.”
“It’s a lot of house, Maggie, and you’ve done an incredible job. Seriously.”
“Thank you. Sometimes I find it hard to believe it’s real.”
“I’m sure all your guests love staying in a place with deep island roots.”
“Oh, Ellis. What’s not to love, right? I mean it has so much heart, so much history.” She knew Ellis had to remember the place during its heyday, or at least the past forty or so years. “Hey, I have an idea.” She took Ellis by the hand and led her back into the office. From beneath a stack of folders, she pulled a shirt box and set it on her desk, then drew up an extra chair for Ellis. “Check this out with me,” she said, patting the seat, and opened the paper-filled box as Ellis sat. “I haven’t looked at this stuff yet—I set it aside for a rainy day project—but you might get a kick out of all the title research my attorney did on the house.”
*****
“I’ll get us more wine.” Ellis retreated to the kitchen.
The bottle clinked against the glass rims as she poured, as her hand shook with the pounding of her heart at the prospect of what was about to be revealed. Guess it was just a matter of time, anyway. Too bad I didn’t have the guts to speak up sooner. Too busy wallowing.
“Boy, there’s a lot here,” Maggie said. “No wonder I put off reading all this.”
Ellis returned to her seat and watched Maggie sort through the pile. The heap of property title research came as no surprise to Ellis. She’d had her turn at it when her father died and the estate landed in her lap—and again when the bank foreclosed on her. Now it was Maggie’s turn, and all she could do was observe and wait for the moment Maggie spotted the familiar name.
I could spare her the shock.
“If you’d rather do this another time, Maggie, that’s okay.”
“Oh, I’m looking for the summation, the guide that takes you through the paperwork.”
“It’s a pretty imposing collection of stuff.”
“It is, isn’t it? God knows how far back she went.”
“I’d guess very far.” Her heart rate slowed to a crawl when Maggie found what she wanted. Sipping her wine, she waited for the inevitable and tried to appear interested.
Maggie was mesmerized by the photocopies of historic documents. Like scrimshaw on parchment, archaic script flowed into barely decipherable words, and Maggie eagerly scrutinized the scrawl of black lettering.
Ellis knew that Captain Pratt built the home in 1851, probably with his own hands and ship components, and that the mighty arched roof braces, or “ship’s knees,” were still as solid today as then. She wondered if Maggie had marveled at them in the attic as she once had.
“This works as a legend,” Maggie explained and showed Ellis how the attorney’s list of details corresponded with the stack of photocopies. “It says here Captain Pratt’s only child Abigail didn’t inherit the house when he died in eighteen seventy-seven. It went to her husband, Percival Ellis, instead. Popular name.” Maggie sent her a grin. “God, what women put up with in those days.”
Maggie ran a slender finger down the itemized notes and picked out another document.
“The house became a fisherman’s home around the turn of the century.”
Ellis nodded somberly. “Kerosene and then electricity had replaced whale oil anyway, so what was left of the whaling industry moved to New Bedford. Our mariners turned to fishing.”
“And the son, Thomas, and then his son, George, carried on as fishermen.”
“The island had begun looking to vacationers before that, believe it or not.
”
Maggie moved farther down the list, scanning documents a bit faster as typewritten text replaced the antiquated handwriting. Ellis braced herself for what Maggie was about to discover.
“This page says George left the house and business to his sole heir, Victoria, and her husb—” Maggie flashed Ellis a wide-eyed look, “her husband, John Chilton.” She dropped back in her chair. “Chilton?”
Ellis watched Maggie refocus on the list, then flicker down to the most current documents.
“Do these say what I think they say?” Maggie didn’t look up. “I…I don’t believe it.” She reread a previous document and jumped ahead. “John Chilton transitioned the family business from fishing to freight.” She lowered the page and stared at Ellis. “It says his estate assets included the Nantucket Rose.”
Ellis nodded. “My grandfather.”
“Un-freaking-believable.” She exhaled heavily toward the ceiling. “I don’t believe this,” she repeated and reached for the last sheet of paper. “Your father Philip inherited it all in eighty-nine, and then when he passed in ninety-nine…?”
Ellis didn’t know what to say. “Yes. I was twenty-two.”
“And then the bank…”
Ellis nodded. “In two thousand five. The last time I was here.”
Maggie shook the document and glared with disappointment and irritation. “You knew I’d find this.” She shot out of her chair and stalked to the doorway before turning back. “I just can’t believe—Why didn’t you ever say anything?”
“I didn’t know Tuck’r was my house until a couple of hours ago, Maggie. I found out on the phone, remember?”
“Oh, my God. That’s right.” Maggie dropped back into her chair. “I’m so sorry.” She took Ellis’s hand and entwined their fingers. “One hell of a shock, I’m sure. It was no way to find out.”
“You’ve nothing to be sorry for, Maggie. A lot went down in a short span of time back then, and hell, I almost went down, too, but that was eleven years ago. It’s…it’s okay.”
“Eleven years is a long time to be hard on yourself, Ellis.” Maggie squeezed her hand.
