True Blue (Hubbard's Point)

by Luanne Rice

  Tad's Bedding was a chain that reached from New Haven to Springfield. Their flagship store stood on the corner of a main intersection between a Burger King and a vacant convenience store. Many storefronts were boarded up, and three men stood smoking outside a pawnshop. Tad's Jaguar was parked on the asphalt apron outside the bedding store.

  “In the market for a new bed?” a salesman asked as Zeb made his way around the showroom.

  “Not today,” he said. “I'd like to see Tad Franklin.”

  “Ah, the boss,” he said, grinning. “Great guy. I'm not sure he's in…but if he is, you'd want to go around back to the shipping department. See that sign?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  Zeb walked past the king- and queen-size beds, the twin beds with Disney character headboards, the wall of bunk beds. When he rounded the corner into the back room, he came upon a receptionist in a cubicle.

  “Picking up a bed, sir?” she asked.

  “No, I'm here to see Tad Franklin.”

  “Your name?”

  “Zebulon Mayhew.”

  Nodding, she pressed the intercom just as an inner door opened. Franklin came out as if he'd heard through the walls. His hair slicked back, he was wearing a dark suit; his shirt cuffs, which protruded a perfect inch, were monogrammed. Zeb, wearing jeans and a T-shirt, shook his hand.

  “I knew it!” Franklin said, shaking Zeb's hand. “The realtor told me a famous couple had owned before me, and then I saw that TV special, and I put two and two together—Zebulon Mayhew. I was right! You are the astronaut. Come on in.”

  Zeb walked into the office. It seemed to have been decorated by a cross between Martha Stewart and the Marquis de Sade. Bedding industry awards plastered the walls, along with autographed pictures of people and their beds. A small seating area of white slipcovered chairs surrounded a low walnut table with a bouquet of roses in the middle. White down pillows were stacked in a corner beside an electric shoe polisher. Paintings of hazy nudes hung on the walls. An Oriental rug covered the floor. Franklin's mahogany desk looked as if it might have once belonged to a king or a president; the wall behind was draped with red satin sheets.

  “People like to create a mood,” Franklin said, looking around. He had a small worry line between his eyebrows. “It might look like a little too much to you, but I like to try things out before I put them in the showroom.”

  “That makes sense,” Zeb said, staring at the satin sheets.

  “They're pretty red,” Franklin said. “It seems to be universal: Men love them and women hate them. Last month my wife hung white eyelet up there. Change the balance, she said. She's my decorator.”

  “That's nice,” Zeb said. “You're lucky to be in it together.”

  Franklin chuckled, nodding. “You might mean the business, but what it really is is life. That's the gift, isn't it? To go through life with someone you like. What else is there? I'm a family man… that's what everyone will tell you about me. So. What brings you up here? Not a new bed…”

  “No,” Zeb said.

  “It's probably the beach house, right?”

  Zeb nodded, and Franklin gestured for him to sit down.

  “I bought it for Vanessa,” Franklin said. “Her family rented down at Hubbard's Point when she was a girl. She's never stopped dreaming of the place.”

  Zeb's stomach fell. He'd been hoping it was just real estate, just an investment instead of an emotional attachment to the Point. “I make a lot of money,” Franklin said matter-of-factly “The truth is, I run out of things to spend it on. Nice cars, a new kitchen, private schools for the kids…”

  “I'd like to buy the house back,” Zeb said.

  “Whoa, whoa.” Franklin laughed. “You want to buy my house?”

  “Yes,” Zeb said.

  “Interesting,” Franklin said, frowning.

  Zeb sat still, waiting. His gaze took in pictures of another house on the wall, probably where Franklin lived in New Glendale. The colonial-style house itself was new, huge, with fanlight windows in more places than any colonial architect had intended. The landscaping was extremely formal, reminiscent of a professional building, with too-tidy hedges, fake rocks, waterfall, and marble statues.

  “Is that yours?” Zeb asked.

  “Sure is,” Franklin said proudly. “Like I said, I have a landscape architect. This guy is a true artist—a man who takes pride in his work, you know? Look at that waterfall… it wasn't easy for him to create. He had to clear the lot and build a rock pool first… you'll see. He's doing the same thing down the beach.”

  Zeb exhaled slowly. He hoped Rumer would never have to see this or any other fruits of the Franklins’ landscape architect. Turning his head, he stared straight into the man's eyes.

  “So, Mr. Franklin,” he said. “Will you sell me the house?”

  Franklin's mouth dropped, but he quickly composed himself.

  “I'm saying to myself, what's this guy trying to do? You must want it bad. For you to come all the way up here on a rainy day—you know? Look ahead is the way I live my life—for you to come all the way up here, talk to me face-to-face instead of through a real estate broker, you must really want my house.”

  “I do,” Zeb said. He didn't have the energy for bargaining, lying, or beating around the bush. He just wanted to buy the house back for Rumer.

  “How bad?” Franklin asked, leaning forward. “That's what I want to know: How bad do you want it? After I just get finished telling you how much it means to Vanessa?”

  “Just tell me what you'll take,” Zeb said. “I'll pay you.”

  Franklin slapped the desk in enjoyment.

  “You have to play the game with me… name a price you're willing to pay,” Franklin said gleefully. “Go on. You know what I paid for it?”

  “One hundred eighty thousand.”

  “Did your homework! Not bad, huh? What'd you and your wife sell it for—half that?”

  “About,” Zeb said, thinking back ten years.

  “Well, that's all it was worth—no offense. But the house is ramshackle—that's what the realtor called it. It's surrounded by trees and vines, really clogging up what could be a nice piece of property. And it has animals overrunning the place. So here's what, Zeb: You want the house, you have to pay me what it'll be worth after I'm finished with it.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Once I'm done fixing the place up, I'll double or maybe even triple my money.”

  “You're planning to do all this work and then sell?” Zeb asked.

  “Maybe not the first or second year,” Tad said. “But sure—eventually. We'll trade up to a better spot. Maybe a house directly on the waterfront…”

  “I thought you said she loved it,” Zeb said, his skin crawling.

  “The place—Hubbard's Point. She's not attached to any one house.”

  You're a fucking asshole, Zeb wanted to say but didn't. Instead, he breathed and began to practice the Zen that had gotten him through so much—the claustrophobia, the isolation, the loneliness of space—and wondered what it would take to get the house now, today, before he cut down all the trees and put in a waterfall.

  Franklin opened a drawer and pulled out some plans. He pushed them across the desk toward Zeb. Reading them, Zeb understood what Tad Franklin was going to have to do to the land to get his waterfall.

  “Don't do this,” Zeb said quietly after a moment.

  “It's going to be beautiful.”

  “You're going to dynamite the rock ledge?”

  “I have to. For the pond and waterfall. The town's making me put in a bigger septic system—regulations have changed since your family built the house. These decks will be new… one will face the beach; the other will face the rocks. And this new peak”—he pointed at the plans—”will house a hot tub—right on the roof. Can you imagine sitting up there, staring at the view….”

  Zeb closed his eyes, thinking of the view from that sagging old roof He remembered shingling the roof with hi
s father; he pictured the unicorn weathervane his mother had had made for the family one Christmas. He remembered climbing up with Rumer, sitting by the chimney, naming constellations.

  “So, you're planning to tear down the old house?” Zeb asked. “To build this one?”

  “I am,” Tad Franklin said. “Your friend will love it—she really will. I'm going to be very sensitive to the neighbors… I won't block her view in any way. I'm sorry, Zeb… may I call you that? But the house isn't for sale. I shouldn't have given you any idea that it was.”

  Nodding, in shock, Zeb pushed back his chair. Now he wanted only to get down to the Point, back to Rumer.

  “You know, I'm getting an idea—an inspiration,” Franklin said. “Ever think about doing ads? Getting in front of the camera?”

  “No,” Zeb said.

  “The reason I ask is,” Franklin continued, “you'd make a decent spokesperson for a business like mine— you've got name and face recognition, but not too much—” He laughed. “Wouldn't cost me an arm and a leg, know what I mean? I thought about asking Paul Newman… he's a Connecticut resident—in fact, he was on that same show you were. He lives right up the road from my brother-in-law, drives at Lime Rock now and then… but I figure he's priced out of my league.”

  Zeb moved toward the door.

  “So, what would you think? I'd pay whatever you say—-just kidding about going cheap with Newman. I'm sure we could work it out. An astronaut selling my beds—I think it would be great.”

  “I'm sorry,” Zeb said. “But no.”

  “We're not going to have any problems, are we?” Franklin asked, sounding worried. “Because I'm sensing a lot of hostility down there. I was hoping you'd come up here wanting to be friends.”

  “People love the Point. They don't really think in terms of yards, property lines down there. They love the land,” he said quietly, Rumer's voice echoing in his mind. “All the rocks, all the trees—they consider it a sanctuary.”

  “That's nice,” Franklin said, nodding. “I like that.”

  “It's probably what drew your wife back to Hub-bard's Point… the thing she fell in love with in the first place.”

  “Probably so.”

  “If you start blasting and cutting, all that will change,” Zeb said. “You'll change the landscape and kill the animals.”

  Franklin shrugged. “My wife wants a waterfall and a hot tub,” he said. “And she doesn't like vermin. I'm not going to let her down. I've spent a lot of money, and I'm going to spend a lot more.”

  “Then you're going to upset a lot of neighbors,” Zeb said, thinking of Winnie, Hecate, Mrs. Lightfoot, Annabelle, Dana, Quinn, and especially Rumer.

  “I'll deal with that,” Franklin said, his eyes and the tone of his voice growing cold. Zeb felt the battle lines being drawn. Nodding, he turned and walked out of the office, away from Tad Franklin and his plans.

  NOVA SCOTIA WAS the most beautiful place Sixtus Larkin had ever seen in his life—including Hubbard's Point. The landscape informed his very being—the craggy rocks, stalwart pines, and peaceful coves. Childhood memories, good and bad, came rushing back the minute he sailed within sight of the coast. They transformed him instantaneously—from the inside out—as if none of the intervening years had ever taken place.

  “It's unbelievable, Clarissa,” he said out loud, more to his wife's ghost than to his boat. “I'd forgotten how Canadian I am. Do you think, when I get to Ireland, I'll become more Irish?”

  He tacked into Lunenburg, the harbor filled with fishing boats. Bright red and blue buildings filled the boatyards. There was the Bluenose, the fishing schooner pictured on Canadian dimes, and there was the Fisher men's Memorial, engraved with the names of those who had drowned at sea. His mother had brought him and his brother here as children

  Giving thanks for his own safe arrival, Sixtus sailed the Clarissa straight over to the town pier. His legs were weak and wobbly from the days he'd spent at sea, and he was so exhausted, he wanted to sleep for a week. After calling Rumer from a pay phone to let her know he was okay, he started back down the dock.

  “You must be Sixtus Larkin,” said a man lumbering toward him. Huge and white-haired, the man grinned and stuck out his hand.

  “And you must be Malachy Condon. Considering there's not a soul I know left in these parts. How'd you know it was me?”

  “Sam Trevor told me to look out for a pretty Herre-shoff, and he was sure right—the Clarissa is one sweet boat.”

  “Thanks, Malachy. Named for a sweet lady.”

  “Mrs. Larkin, I presume?”

  “Yep,” Sixtus said.

  “Well, from what Sam says, you and I have a lot to talk about. We're both Irish, we're both docked in Nova Scotia, and we're both teachers. How about coming on board my tug for a meal?”

  Sixtus hid a yawn. He weighed sleep and hunger, and his stomach won out. “You know, if you're cooking, I'll take you up on it.”

  “Why don't you grab an hour's sleep? I know you think that's nowhere near enough, and it isn't, but it's a start. I'll give a call when I'm ready for you.”

  “Sam was right about you,” Sixtus said, unable to stop yawning. “You're a good man. See you soon…”

  An hour later, almost to the minute, Sixtus heard the dinner bell. While not quite rested, he was at least refreshed. Throwing cold water on his face, he changed his shirt and headed down the dock to Malachy's old red tugboat, the Archangel.

  “I like the name of your boat,” Sixtus said. “Fitting for an Irish-Catholic like yourself”

  “Refers to my son, Gabriel,” Malachy said, offering Sixtus a beer. “He's up in heaven with his mother, looking over me every day.”

  “That's how I feel about Clarissa,” Sixtus said. “How can I go wrong on a boat named for an angel?”

  “Well, cheers,” Malachy said, reaching over to clink bottles. “Here's to our angels and your voyage.”

  The men drank beer and ate cold shrimp hauled in the Gulf of Maine. Slitting their shells with his thumbnails wasn't easy for Sixtus's cramped hands, and he caught Malachy taking notice. Throwing the shrimp tails overboard, the men soon attracted a school offish. The silver fins slapped the harbor's still, dark surface, and then disappeared altogether. Malachy played tapes of dolphins recorded by hydrophone off Big Tancook Island, and Sixtus told how a Minke whale had followed him for the last sixty miles.

  “Nothing like being alone at sea,” Malachy said, “to clear your head.”

  “It's true,” Sixtus agreed. “I'm retired, and I live with my daughter. She's a veterinarian.”

  “Ah,” Malachy said, indicating the hydrophones used for recording marine mammals. “An animal-lover. A girl after my own heart.”

  “Yes, she could probably add some insights to those tapes you have. She's brilliant at animal behavior. But feisty and stubborn, just like her old man. I began to feel as if I was squeezing the life out of her—she was so busy going to work and cooking for her old man, she wasn't getting much chance at a life.”

  Malachy nodded. “Good thinking,” he said. “Whenever I catch myself missing Gabriel too much, I have to remind myself at least I'll never saddle the boy with my care—you know, I'm nearly too old and creaky to live on this boat, and if Gabe were settled in suburbia with a nice wife and kids, I just know he'd be offering me the in-law apartment above the garage.”

  “Creaky—that about covers it,” Sixtus said, looking at his hands.

  “Arthritis?”

  “Yep. Bought the cane last fall. Figure a walker's coming next. Hip replacements, a back operation, a lifetime supply of Advil… and Rumer turning into a geriatric-care nurse. No in-law apartment; we share the same house. The same house she's lived in her whole life, if you want to know the whole sorry truth.”

  “Jay-sus!” Malachy said, scowling as he sucked the head off a shrimp. “What are you trying to do, strangle the poor girl? You want her runnin’ a nursing home?”

  “I know, I know,” Sixtus said, quaffing
his beer.

  “What is she, divorced?”

  “Never married,” Sixtus said, slinking down in his deck chair.

  “Glory be, man! You set sail just in time. Give the lass a chance. Any prospects on the horizon?”

  “Christ, Malachy—I'm not trying to marry her off. Rumer's just fine without any husband. In fact, the last prospect,” he said, thinking of Edward, “was so unworthy of her, if I'd walked her down the aisle to him I would have had to stand by just to be ready when the priest asked for objections. The girl is genius at saving animals’ lives, but she was on her way to making a muddle of her own.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  Malachy chuckled. “So, she needs someone to take care of her for a change.”

  “She doesn't need taking care of, that one. Rumer's kind and compassionate, but she's sharp as can be too. Graduated from Tufts—hardest veterinary school to get into in the country. She runs a thriving business— everyone on the shoreline brings their pets to her. Very successful.”

  “No bias or prejudice talking there,” Malachy said, pulling out his pipe.

  “Of course not.”

  “So, she's an only child?”

  “No,” Sixtus said, gazing out over the serene harbor. “She has a sister.”

  “And the sister isn't one to pitch in, looking after the crippled old father? Not a caretaker like Rumer?”

  Sixtus chuckled, thinking of Rumer as a caretaker. Then, picturing Elizabeth, said, “No, no. The sister isn't domestic. Far from it.”

  “Ahhh. Well, good for her, I say. When people take care of themselves, it's best for all concerned. Survival of the fittest—works in the wild but also in families. An elderly parent can eat a caring child alive. At the very least, keep her from living her life. You're a wise and good man.”

  “I'll sail off the globe before I do that,” Sixtus growled. “You asked if Rumer had someone on the horizon. The answer is yes, she does.”

  “Someone other than the bloodsucker?”