by Mike Heppner
Celia parallel-parked in front of the town hall and squinted at her watch. “It’s almost four. If we hurry, we can have a look at Federal Hill before the traffic picks up.”
Checking out Federal Hill—Providence’s Italian district— probably made sense, but it wasn’t what Henry was interested in now. “This’ll just take a few minutes,” he said. “I want to find out who owned that house before Pike.”
Celia relented, and they climbed a short flight of steps to a door with a 9/11 memorial flag taped to the window. Once inside, they had trouble finding anyone to help them. The front desk was unattended, and when a receptionist came out of the ladies’ room, she seemed at a loss as to where the town kept its records. Eventually, an older woman led them down a dark, mahogany-trimmed corridor to a surprisingly vast room marked Archives. A long worktable stood in the center of the room, under a wicker ceiling fan that remained motionless until the woman turned on the lights.
“Looks like we’re the only ones here,” Henry observed.
“Only ones all week,” the woman said. “We’re one of the smaller towns in the East Bay—probably the whole state. The population’s held pretty steady so there’s not much need to update the records more than once every few years.” She became rueful. “Mr. Pike, though, I know all about that guy.”
“So you spoke to him?”
“Many times. But I was as surprised as anyone else when I’d heard what he did to that house.”
“Didn’t the town council object?”
“Nothing to object to. The house wasn’t a landmark, so as far as we were concerned he was free to do whatever he wanted.”
Henry reached for a chair and slowly sank into it. “That seems odd to me. We just spoke to the house’s current owners.”
“Yes, the Parkers,” she said.
His brain did a little flip. “That’s right, the Parkers. They told us that the house—I mean, the original house—was three hundred years old. That should’ve qualified it for landmark status.”
“Not necessarily. As you know, Mr. . . . Savage, is it?” She tittered. “I like that. I hope you’re not a savage.”
Henry smiled tolerantly, having heard worse. “Call me Henry.”
“Henry, fine. As you know, the National Register of Historic Places keeps a fairly strict watch over its membership. Most homes on the list are at least fifty years old. That’s been the guideline for ages, and it’s pretty rare that the Feds break their own rules. But it seems Mr. Pike didn’t want to go through with the application process.”
“Why?” Celia asked. “Is it complicated?”
“It can be, depending on who your State Historic Preservation Officer is. Some of them like to inspect the properties themselves. They’d at least order a thorough investigation. Whatever documents pertained to the house would be catalogued, evaluated and eventually made public.”
“So Nathaniel Pike buys a three-hundred-year-old house,” Henry mused, “tears it down, then reconstructs it from new materials. Therefore it’s no longer eligible for the register. It’s a brand-new house.”
“Pretty crazy, huh? Here, let me see what else I’ve got on file.”
The woman left to pull a stack of records from the back room. While she was gone, Celia said, “It’s just like Pike to pick a fight with the National Register. I’m sure this whole thing was done to spite the Reeses.”
“Why do you say that?” he asked.
She regarded him as one might a naive child. “Gregg’s mother, Keeny, has been president of the State Historic Preservation Society for years. It’s a passion of hers. If Keeny had wanted that house on the list, I can’t imagine her just giving up on it—not without a good reason.”
The woman returned ten minutes later with a bundle of papers and set it on the table. The sheets were dog-eared—some yellowed, some not. The first few pages were out of order; Henry saw the names “Parker,” then “Pike,” then “Parker” again.
Celia peered over his shoulder. “What are we looking at?” she asked.
“That’s all I could find,” the woman said. “The state passed a paper-reduction act, so it’s liable to be incomplete.”
Leafing through the pages, Henry’s eyes began to glaze over. Most of the sheets were records of local tax assessments and conveyed little of interest. “This is going to take awhile,” he sighed. “All I want to know is who owned that property before Pike.”
“That’s simple,” she said brightly. “The Johnsons. Danny Johnson and Willie Johnson. They were brothers. Moved to California, I believe.”
Deeper into the stack, he came upon a reference to the Johnsons, whose tenure had been brief. “How long were the Johnsons in town?”
“Oh, since eighty-eight, eighty-nine, thereabouts. That’s when I moved down from Boston. If I remember right, they were both interior designers. Lots of money, but of course you’d need it. This is an affluent community. I suppose that’s what designers do—they buy houses, keep them for a couple of years, then turn ’em around for a profit.”
Thinking out loud, Henry said, “So, the Johnsons bought the place, sold it to Nathaniel Pike for a quick dollar, then Pike all but gave it to the Parkers, who’ve owned it for seven years. Who came before the Johnsons?”
“That’s before my time. Ask me anything since eighty-eight, and I’ve got it down cold. Photographic memory, almost.” She didn’t want to disappoint him, so she added, “I do remember talking to Willie Johnson once. He mentioned a name, but . . . nope, I lost it.”
Henry’s patience with the town’s primitive filing system was wearing thin. Back home, this information would’ve been stored in a database, and he could’ve found it without rummaging through so much moldy paperwork.
“It’s probably nothing,” he said, “but I want to make sure that before we leave—” He froze. The name on the next page so startled him, it was as if Pike himself had snuck up from behind and tapped him on the shoulder.
The two women glanced down to see what he was staring at.
“I know that name,” Celia muttered.
“Cranberry!” The woman snapped her fingers. “Oh, that’s right. Sure, the Cranberrys have been here forever.”
5
That same morning, Marlene and Stuart took the ferry from Woods Hole to Vineyard Haven, where later they’d meet up with Bill and Carla Marshall, who’d already been on the island for two days. The day had started off overcast but cleared up once the ferry pulled out of port. Neither the landing nor the ferry itself was as crowded as both would be in another week, after Memorial Day.
The ferry maneuvered between a row of red and green channel markers and into open water. Stuart felt like having a beer, so he bought a Heineken for himself and a Coke for Marlene. They huddled close together on the top deck, where the breeze was strong and gusty. Marlene’s black hair, which she’d had cut for the occasion, blew into his eyes. Midway across, he ventured, “What do you think Bill and Carla will be wearing?”
“Why?” she asked. “Are you hoping to see Carla in a bikini?”
In fact, he was. Bearing her in mind, he’d brought along a Speedo swimsuit, one that showed off every contour through its skintight fabric. Wearing it around Carla would be like being naked in front of her, and being naked in front of her was his big goal this week. Much as he hated to admit it, there were still cravings he hadn’t quite mastered. “Actually,” he said, “I’m looking forward to seeing you in a bikini.”
She smiled and snuggled against him. On the horizon, a line of beach began to rise out of the water—their first sight of the Vineyard.
“It’s strange,” she said, “but a year ago, all I would’ve been thinking about was taking off my clothes and running around in front of people.”
“And now what are you thinking?” he asked.
She knew that telling the truth would only make him upset, so she lied. “About how much fun we’re going to have.”
The boat docked at Vineyard Haven, and they could see B
ill and Carla waiting at the edge of the landing. Carla was wearing a bikini top and a sarong, with her light-colored hair piled up and tucked under a straw hat. Bill looked as though he’d come directly from work, in khaki slacks and a blue oxford shirt. At forty-five, he was the oldest of the four. His brown hair was thinning on top, and his suntan looked glazed on.
Carla spotted them coming down the gangplank and ran ahead of Bill. “Welcome to the island,” she said—just like a native, Stuart thought as she drew him close to give him a kiss. He could feel her breasts flatten against his chest.
They were standing in the flow of arriving passengers, and Bill called out to Carla from the pier, “Kid, you’re in the way.”
Carla took Marlene’s hand, leaving Stuart to schlep their bags. At the bottom of the plank, Bill muttered, “Hey, Stu,” then relieved him of the larger bag and gave Marlene a much warmer welcome. “Our car’s parked a couple of blocks down the road. We hadn’t counted on so much beach traffic, otherwise we would’ve left earlier.”
They proceeded up a ramp to the edge of a rocky seawall, where they walked to Bill’s champagne-colored Mitsubishi. The ferry was getting ready to take off; a long, low toot from its horn blew across the water, and a fleet of cars began to creep singlefile into a hold on the lower deck.
“You girls are going to have to squeeze in back,” Bill said as he tossed their bags into the trunk. “Carla and I were taking some pictures down at Aquinnah, and we didn’t get a chance to unload our stuff.”
Marlene peered into the car and saw a tripod lying flat across the backseat, along with a camera bag and what looked like a shiny silver umbrella, the kind used by professional photographers to bounce light around a studio. “Where’s Aquinnah?” she asked.
“Don’t worry, we’ll get there,” Bill said. He pushed a button on his key chain to unlock the car. “Not today, though. We’ve got a full schedule.”
Carla slid into the backseat and righted the tripod, standing it evenly between her and Marlene, who’d climbed in behind Bill. With everyone settled, Carla grabbed Stuart’s shoulder through the headrest. “Good, I get to play with your husband,” she said to Marlene.
Bill hit the gas, and once they were clear of the Vineyard Haven traffic, he told Stuart, “We brought along the best hash, man. Fresh from Vermont. I’m telling you, it really makes a difference if you’re willing to spend a little more.”
“A beer sounds about my speed,” Stuart said. They’d turned onto a back road, amid trees and tall grass growing up from the dusty median. Bill drove with authority, not bothering to keep both hands on the wheel. His nonchalance vexed Stuart, who thought, Dude, you don’t live here. You’re on vacation. Get over yourself.
Carla spoke up from the backseat. “Honey, did you tell Stuart and Marlene about Lucien?”
Stuart frowned. “Lucien?”
“Lucky’s an old studio friend of mine,” Bill said. “We met in Paris back in ninety-one, when I was teaching a summer course on scientific photography. He’s staying in the guesthouse.”
“The guesthouse,” Carla repeated. “Doesn’t that sound cool?”
Marlene smiled politely but said nothing. The news that someone else would be staying with them was jarring to her. She’d come expecting a safe place where she could drink wine on the beach, smoke some grass and surround herself with familiar, friendly faces. She needed to be nursed back to life, slowly, one little baby step at a time.
Bill grinned. “Lucky’s a great cook, and a really good guy. He’s especially looking forward to meeting you, Marlene.”
“Me?” She felt pinned to the seat cushion. “Why?”
No one knew how to answer her. Because you’re a freak. A sex addict.
Finally, Stuart said, “Who wouldn’t want to meet you, hon?”
The others laughed, and Marlene halfheartedly joined in. Just in time, they slowed in front of a mailbox at the end of a long, wooded driveway. “We’re here,” Bill said and turned into the woods.
The time-share was smaller than either Marlene or Stuart had expected—an old country cottage with gray clapboard walls, a flat roof and an open porch where the paint was peeling. When they stepped out of the car, they could hear the ocean but couldn’t see it. Past the house and driveway, a footpath plunged straight into a dense wall of beach grass, which hid the house from its neighbors. The air was lukewarm and smelled of saltwater and vegetables rotting in the garden.
Bill and Stuart left the bags on the porch and waited for the ladies, who were dallying in the yard. “Where’s your friend?” Stuart asked.
Bill stepped out of his leather flip-flops and sat down. “We’ll join up with him later. He’s probably still taking pictures on the beach. The water’s just down that trail,” he said, waving in the direction of the beach grass.
Near to where he was pointing, Stuart noticed another cottage, similar in construction to the main house but smaller. The front door was wide-open, and a royal-blue beach towel was drying from the rafters. “It sounds nice,” he said.
Bill stretched to crack his back, a habit Stuart particularly abhorred. “You get what you pay for, Stu. If you think this is nice, you should check out Lucy Vincent’s.”
“What’s that?”
“That’s the nude beach. It’s a ten-minute walk.” Bill crossed his legs, and Stuart could see the dirty bottom of his right foot. “Think you guys are up for it?”
Stuart tensed; over his shoulder, he could hear Carla and his wife approaching. “Oh, I don’t—”
“Maybe just Marlene, then.” Abruptly, Bill jumped out of his chair and danced over to his wife, who was standing with Marlene at the edge of the porch. “Hey, kid. We were just talking about going over to Lucy Vincent’s this afternoon.”
Echoing her husband, Marlene asked, “Who’s Lucy Vincent?”
Carla blushed. “Oh, nothing. It’s just a . . . tourist attraction. We’ll see.”
The subject was forgotten, and Bill went inside to fix them all drinks. Stuart couldn’t tell whether Marlene was enjoying herself but preferred to think she was. She looked tired and in no shape for going to the beach.
When she caught him staring at her, she asked, “What are you looking at?”
He almost said, “How pretty you are,” but didn’t feel like it. Instead, he said, “Just you.”
“That’s nice.” She smiled sadly, as if she didn’t consider herself worthy of him.
After banging around inside the kitchen, Bill kicked open the screen door and came out carrying a tray of glasses filled with white wine. “Give me a hand,” he said to Carla, who took two glasses from the tray and passed them to Marlene and Stuart. The two remaining glasses upset the tray’s balance, and it crashed to the ground, the glasses shattering around Bill’s bare feet. “Damn it, kid. Those don’t belong to us.”
Carla bowed her head. “I’m sorry. I’ll pay for them.”
“That’s not the point. What are we going to use for wine-glasses now?”
Stuart could tell Carla was used to being yelled at, and he felt awful for her. “Bill, it’s okay,” he said. “I’m sure there’s a store in town.”
“Yeah, that’s right,” said Carla. “Listen to Stuart. And besides, we can always use paper cups. There’s a whole bunch in the kitchen.”
Excusing himself, Stuart set down his wineglass and went off to fetch the cups. He hadn’t expected Carla to side with him so aggressively against her husband. Great, he thought—we’re here five minutes, and already everyone’s pissed off at each other.
The kitchen was small and cluttered, with wooden cupboards and a shallow Formica counter on which sat a spiral of green foil from the bottle of wine that Bill had opened. Stuart pitched the foil into the trash under the sink, then found a stack of paper cups. Pouring Bill and Carla each a fresh cup of wine killed off the bottle, so he threw it away, too.
When he returned to the porch, the others were in a better mood. “We should all drink up and change into our swimsuits
,” Bill said. “Lucien’s going to wonder what happened to us.”
Everyone seemed agreeable, so they hurried the rest of their drinks and went inside. Carla showed Marlene and Stuart to their room, which was across the hall from the one she and Bill were using. The house was dark, lacking light fixtures in the ceilings. The only illumination came from floor lamps, which they switched on one at a time as they passed through the hall.
“It’s an old house,” Carla said, “so the doors don’t shut all the way.” She demonstrated with the door to Marlene and Stuart’s room. “I hope that’s okay.”
“Sure,” Stuart said, “that’s fine. We’re all friends.”
Leaving the door open, Carla left to get changed in the bathroom. Marlene had slung her bag onto the bed but just stood there staring at it. When he asked her what was wrong, she said, “I don’t think I want to go swimming today. I’ll just sit with a book.”
“Whatever you want, hon. But you’re going to be hot in those clothes.”
“I’ll roll up my pants. They’re baggy, see?” She lifted her right pant leg. “Besides, it was chilly on the ferry. I think it’s too cold for swimming.”
“Marlene, it’s perfectly nice out. It was cold on the ferry because of the breeze off the open water.”
“I’m sure you’re right. I’ll see you outside.” Her force field went up, and she took her purse and left.
Stuart had to laugh—this wasn’t going as well as he’d hoped—and then began to undress. The door was still wide open, and he could hear Carla finishing up in the bathroom. He quickly tugged off his pants, socks, underwear and T-shirt as a rapid pulse filled his throat at the thought of Carla’s seeing his naked body. He wanted her to catch him unawares, in the act of bending over or reaching for his swimsuit, but it had to appear entirely unintentional, otherwise the effect would be ruined.
