by Barbara Ross
Page climbed on her twin bed and Vanessa settled on a mattress on the floor. Le Roi, the Maine coon cat I’d adopted in the fall, came out from wherever he’d been hiding during the fracas, jumped onto Page’s bed, purred, kneaded the quilt, and lay down beside her. He was thirty pounds of cat, a big boy even for a coon, and insisted on lying horizontally, practically pushing her off the bed. But she closed her eyes contentedly and gave him a rub.
Though he’d spent the winter in my apartment, Le Roi was staying with Mom while I was shuttling back and forth to Morrow Island. When school ended on Monday, he’d move to the island with Livvie’s family. He was more of a family cat than just my own. I’d miss him, but I couldn’t deprive him of a life wild and free on the island, with clambake guests slipping him pieces of lobster under their tables.
“Tell us a story,” Page begged.
I didn’t want to leave Chris and Mom for too long, but a story might keep the girls in their beds. I looked at Vanessa’s pale face and huge, deeply circled, green eyes. Page could go on for hours, but this girl needed to sleep and the next day was a school day.
“Give me a minute.” I crept to the top of the back stairs and listened. Jack was quiet. Chris and Mom talked in low tones. I returned to Page’s room. “Okay,” I told the girls. “I’m back. One story.”
“The Lady on the Stairs!” Page called out. “You’ll love it,” she assured Vanessa.
“Okay, okay. The Lady on the Stairs.”
Like every town with old houses, lighthouses, ships, and a big body of water, Busman’s Harbor offered lots of legends, complete with nightly ghost walks for tourists. At frequent intervals, paranormal “experts” arrived in town with funny instruments to check out different places. You couldn’t run a self-respecting B&B without a ghost. Windsholme had two ghosts, and the story of the Lady on the Stairs was Page’s favorite.
I turned out the overhead light, pulled my phone out of my pocket, turned on the flashlight app, and sat cross-legged at the end of Vanessa’s mattress, shining the light on my face.
“These events happened in the olden days,” I intoned, “but they echo down to us today.”
“Oooh,” Page said, knowing what was coming.
“It was at Windsholme, on Morrow Island. Have you ever been to Morrow Island?” I asked Vanessa.
“No,” she answered in a soft, quivery voice.
“You’ll have to visit this summer.” I settled into my tale. “Lenora Bailey was a maid out there. She was only nineteen years old. The family loved her, especially the young Morrow boys, William and Charles.” I had added this last little detail to the story only recently when I’d learned more about my family’s history. “One day clouds gathered and the wind began to blow. The waves crashed on the rocks.” I made crashing sounds, undulating my hands in front of the light from the phone.
“Go on, go on.” Page was impatient, but Vanessa didn’t make a sound.
“The servants waited for Lenora to come down, but she was late. Another maid went to her room on the top floor and returned saying Lenora was sick with terrible pains in her stomach. The family was alerted and arrangements were made to take her to the doctor in Busman’s Harbor on the sailing yacht the family kept at the dock. But by the time the plans were made, the captain said it was too stormy to go, the ship would crash on the rocks, and he and Lenora and anyone else aboard would surely perish.”
I waited, listening to the girls’ rapid breathing. I wanted to tell a good story, but I didn’t want to terrify them. Page had heard the tale dozens, maybe hundreds of times, but if Vanessa had nightmares, Mom would be the one who’d have to deal with it.
I continued. “The gardener, Randy Brownly, was in love with Lenora. He insisted he could go to town in a little skiff and bring back the doctor safely. Anything to save his true love.” I had no idea if the gardener’s name was Randy. I had no idea if any of it was true. I suspected my father had made up the story. Though the Morrows were Mom’s ancestors, Dad was the storyteller, and after twenty-five years of running the Snowden Family Clambake, he’d had as much claim to Morrow Island as anyone.
“The family forbade it. They argued that even if Randy somehow made it to town, the doctor would never agree to come back with him over such a rough sea. By then it was pouring rain, in addition to the wind and the waves, and so dark it was like nighttime.
“But Randy didn’t listen. He snuck off in the little boat when no one was looking. Meanwhile, Lenora got sicker and sicker. Her fever spiked and she fell in and out of consciousness, but in her lucid moments, she begged for her true love to come.” I did Lenora’s voice, young and weak with illness. “ ‘Randy, where is my Randy?’ At first, the other servants lied and told her he was outside securing the island for the storm. But finally, they had to tell her Randy had gone to fetch the doctor for her. They assured her he would be back soon, even though none of them believed it.
“The storm raged and night fell. Lenora got sicker and sicker and there was no sign of Randy. Finally, Lenora died. Her last words were, ‘Where are you, my Randy, my love? Why haven’t you come to bid me good-bye?’ All the servants and the family cried because they loved Lenora so.
“The next morning the sun rose bright. The sea was calm and the storm was gone. The townspeople in Busman’s Harbor found the broken shards of Randy’s little boat on the beach. Randy had never made it to town. His body was never found. Lenora’s relations buried her in the town cemetery, but they say she roams the halls of Windsholme still, searching for her Randy. They say she’ll never rest until she finds him.”
I paused dramatically, and then intoned in rich, ringing tones, “Many visitors to Windsholme have seen her, standing on the landing that overlooks the great hall, dressed in her maid’s uniform with a glowing white apron, gazing out to sea, crying for her Randy, the love of her life. The love of her death.” I took a deep breath. “Do you see her? Do you hear her—calling, calling? BOO!”
Both girls rewarded me with loud squeals. Page exhaled rapidly. “Have you ever seen her, Aunt Julia? I never have. I wonder where she stands and waits now that you burned down the front staircase?”
“I didn’t—”
“And isn’t it funny,” Page continued, “how Lenora’s last name is Bailey, like yours, Vanessa?”
Silence. I couldn’t see Vanessa in the darkened room, but I could imagine the saucer-like green eyes opened as wide as they could get. I was possibly the worst babysitter ever.
* * *
I got both girls settled and headed down the back stairs. Vanessa seemed exhausted. I didn’t think the scare I’d given her would keep her up long.
Mom and Chris sat at the kitchen table talking quietly. Chris had a sleeping Jack cradled in his lap. Standing out on the back stairs, I went all broody and gooey on the inside. What hormone gets released at the sight of a man holding an infant, bringing on that surge of maternal longing? Particularly a man you love?
The thought brought me back to Vanessa’s green eyes. There had been a lot of women in Chris’s life before me, but no children that I knew about. And since, after a rocky start, we were honest with each other, none that he knew about, I thought, as well. I pushed the thought away. Mom’s house was not the place to discuss it.
I caught my breath and continued down to the kitchen. “How did you end up with this houseful of kids, anyway?” I asked Mom.
“Livvie and Sonny went to a concert in Portland,” she answered. “Their first date night since Jack was born, and likely their last until after tourist season. Vanessa’s mom pulled a double shift at Crowley’s. She was desperate, so Livvie offered my services. Livvie and Sonny are coming to pick up Jack when they get back to the peninsula, but we decided it was better for the girls to spend the night.”
“Who’s Vanessa’s mom? You must know her,” I said to Chris. One of his three jobs was working as a bouncer at Crowley’s. So far this season, he’d only worked Saturday nights, but it would be more nights once the summer
heated up.
“A little bit. She’s a waitress over there, a single mom. Lives on Thistle Island with two kids.”
It seemed like he barely knew her.
“I gather Vanessa and Page have become close friends at school,” Mom said.
Mom asked a few questions about the Garbo, her eyes widening as we described its beautiful appointments, all due to be updated in the refit and the fancy meal. In glowing terms Chris described Wyatt’s designs for the ship while I sat quietly. I couldn’t deny the pictures had been gorgeous, but I didn’t want to encourage my mother to go down that road.
A vehicle door slammed outside in the driveway, and then another. Livvie and Sonny walked through the front door.
“Wow,” Livvie said, spotting the sleeping Jack. “The baby’s asleep and no sound from the girls? Mom, you’re a miracle worker.”
“Piece of cake.” Mom stood. “Wyatt Jayne is coming to give us her preliminary thoughts on rebuilding Windsholme at ten tomorrow. Who’s coming? You’re all invited.”
“Work,” Chris said.
“Traps,” Sonny answered. Until the Snowden Family Clambake opened, he was helping his dad pull lobster traps.
“Jack,” Livvie answered, her all-purpose excuse for everything. “I’ll pick up the girls for school tomorrow morning, but ten o’clock will be right in the middle of Jack’s nap.”
“I’ll be here.” There was no way I was leaving Mom alone with the persuasive skills of Wyatt Jayne.
We all walked out to the drive. Livvie and Sonny put Jack in his car seat and drove away. The long day hit me like a frying pan to the face. It had been filled with heavy lifting out in the sun and sea air, followed by wine, more wine, a huge meal, and more than a few surprises. I gave Mom a hug and promised to be back in time to meet with Wyatt in the morning.
On the walk back to the apartment, I thought about mentioning Vanessa’s striking green eyes, but decided I was too tired to form a question, and Chris was too tired to give an answer. The most likely outcome was a testy conversation about nothing. Better to wait until another time.
Chapter 7
In the morning the smells from Gus’s restaurant interrupted a dream where I was lost in the mazelike passages of a battleship while being chased by a creature with giant green eyes. I sat up in bed, shaking the images away, and listened to the buzz of indistinct conversation and the bang of iron skillets coming from downstairs. My stomach grumbled. I reached over and shook Chris. “Get up. Pancakes await.”
By the time we were dressed and downstairs, Gus’s was filled to capacity. Gus catered to the local crowd—exclusively. If he didn’t know you, or you couldn’t provide a local connection, you didn’t eat. This time of year all his diners had places to go, people to see, jobs to get done. There’d be no lingering over second cups of coffee like in the off-season.
Chris and I were lucky to snag the last two seats at the counter. I swiveled on my stool to stare at the place our bar had occupied when we’d run our dinner restaurant at Gus’s over the winter. At his insistence, when we returned to our summer jobs, the bar had been disassembled and stowed away. The single candlepin bowling lane that had occupied the space from time immemorial was back, though I had never seen a single person use it.
“What’ll ya have?” Gus deposited two steaming mugs of coffee in front of us, mine with milk, Chris’s black.
“Blueberry pancakes,” I answered immediately. This time of year the tiny Maine low-bush berries would be frozen, but some blueberries were always better than no blueberries. Chris opted for eggs over easy, clam hash, home fries, and toast.
“I hear you were on that big yacht over at Blount’s last night,” Gus said. His great white eyebrows swept together over his nose like seagulls in flight.
You can’t make a move without the whole town knowing. Normally, the comings and goings of people From Away held no interest for Gus, but a yacht the size of the Garbo created an exception.
“Yup.” Chris didn’t seem to share my qualms about privacy. “We had dinner and got a tour.”
“How’d you get an invite like that?”
Chris spread his arms out as far as the crowded counter allowed. “Julia’s school friend is the girlfriend of the owner.”
“We weren’t friends,” I snapped, to Gus’s retreating back. He poured pancake batter on the grill.
When Gus delivered our food, he lingered, crossing his arms in front of him and taking his pointy chin in his hand. “So how big an engine you reckon a boat like that has?”
Chris described the engine with enthusiasm while Gus nodded. Before long, the guys on either side of us were in the conversation. I drifted away, digging into my pancakes. Gus might not be light and fluffy, but his pancakes were and they made the world a better place.
“How much fuel does she carry?” my seatmate asked. “How much d’ya suppose it costs to fill her’up?”
Chris had neglected to ask this question when he got his tour, so they all took turns speculating. I didn’t tune back in until I heard Chris say, “She’s an architect who’s helping Jacqueline decide whether to rebuild Windsholme.”
I gave Chris the stink eye. We’d carefully not discussed fixing up Windsholme around town, or the money that had fallen into my mother’s lap to do it.
Chris knew instantly what I was protesting. “What? If you restore Windsholme, everyone in town is going to know about it sooner or later.”
Gus observed us, taking it all in, but not saying a word. He turned back to his grill and cleaned it vigorously.
In the parking lot, Chris gave me a quick kiss on the lips. “I’m sleeping on the Dark Lady tonight,” he said. “Have some work to do on her that will keep me there late. You staying on the island?”
“I guess so.” The clambake had to be ready to open in six days.
“Great,” he said with a smile. “See you.”
* * *
I stood in front of Mom’s house, unable to remember the walk over from Gus’s. Chris’s breezy “See you!” had taken up most of my mental space. On the one hand, there was no reason to look for trouble in our relationship. Chris loved me, plain and simple. Over the long winter, I’d grown to know him as a man who said what he thought, without filters or agendas. My eighth-grade crush on him had matured into love.
But that was Off-Season Chris. Tourist-Season Chris was a different matter. Last summer, he’d disappeared for days at a time, doing something that was perhaps morally defensible, but certainly illegal. He’d given it up on his own, before I’d discovered what he was doing. It had taken me a long time to get past it, but over the near–honeymoon-like off-season, I’d learned to trust again.
So there was no reason to obsess about the bit of distance that had crept into our relationship. It was spring; we were both overwhelmed with preparations for the tourist season. That explained it. There was nothing to worry about. Except there was Vanessa with her green, green eyes.
“Are you going to stand there like a statue all day?”
“Mom.” I hadn’t seen her come out onto the porch. “I need to work on a few things in the clambake office before Wyatt and Quentin get here.”
Mom opened the screen door and waved me in.
“The girls are gone?” I asked as I passed through.
“Livvie picked them up for school.”
I went to my father’s office on the second floor. It was still dominated by his big oak desk and looming metal file cabinets. For the past year, as I’d worked there, the old furniture had comforted me, as if Dad was looking over my shoulder and cheering me on. But now I wondered if it wasn’t time to put my own stamp on the place, replace his old prints of ships being buffeted by gales with something more feminine and cheery. Could Mom handle it if I changed the decor? I didn’t want her to feel I was erasing him.
I called our produce supplier to make sure our delivery of potatoes, onions, and corn was on track for the day before Family Day, a sort of dress rehearsal for the clambake we
held every year for staff, family, and friends. The ears of corn were frozen and came from somewhere down south. New England wouldn’t harvest any fresh corn for a couple of months, but like the other items, corn on the cob was a traditional part of the clambake. I called one of the guys who supplied us with the clams we used for steamers. He was upbeat, optimistic. Great season so far, he assured me. Our order would be filled.
The doorbell ponged and the sound of voices traveled up the front stairs.
“Julia! Quentin and Wyatt are here!”
Mom let them in as I came down the stairs. Wyatt was dressed in another dynamite shift, brown hair shiny. Her makeup was light but perfect, the kind of application that says, “I cared enough about this meeting to fix my face for you, but honestly, I’m so good-looking I don’t really need it.”
“Come sit in the kitchen,” Mom said. “I made tea.” The double parlors in the front of the house were rarely used, even for visitors.
At the kitchen table, Wyatt’s well-manicured finger traced a nick on the white enamel top that showed the rusty metal underneath. Quite different from what she must be used to in the fancy places she designed. She reached into her bag, extracting the same leather-bound journal she’d had the day before. As she turned the pages, I noticed both handwritten notes and sketches.
When my mother finally finished fussing with the tea things, she sat and I did too.
Wyatt cleared her throat. “Quentin and I had a theory even before I saw the house. You believe it was designed by Henry Gilbert but have no documentation.”
“It’s a family legend,” Mom agreed.
“After touring the property, I concur. It will take more research, but we believe Windsholme may be Henry Gilbert’s first commission. If that’s true, I can’t stress to you how historically significant your home is.”
Mom blinked, taking in the information. “But can the house be fixed?”
Wyatt nodded. “Certainly it can and should be fixed. The question is, for what purpose? Do you plan to live in it, or is it a historic home that you offer tours through, an add-on to your clambake business? Are we renovating for modern life, or restoring it to its original condition?”
