by Nancy Thayer
The curtains were all drawn. They never seemed to be opened. Faye assumed the house was unoccupied.
She walked back and forth, trying to find the right spot to set her easel. The houses on either side were higher, casting the smaller house in shadow. She established herself at the end of the small brick parking space across the street from the house. She adjusted her floppy sunhat, set up her easel, took out her palette, and began.
As she worked, the world woke up around her. Birds flashed back and forth in the trees, greeting the day and ordering one another around with bossy little chirps. Down the lane, a front door slammed, and a few moments later a young woman jogged past Faye, sleek in spandex, encased in headphones. She waved at Faye. A while later, another door shut and a boy biked along, the cards in his spokes clattering. She heard windows open. Scents of coffee and bacon drifted out into the morning air, and from behind her floated the measured, pleasing notes of someone practicing scales on a piano.
The front door opened on the house to the left and a young father and mother emerged, shooing their brood of children in front of them, all clad in bathing suits, carrying towels, a picnic basket, beach bags. Later, when Faye stopped to drink coffee, the side door of the house on the right opened and an older gentleman, dapperly clad in white flannels and a peppermint-striped long-sleeved cotton shirt, appeared. He had thick white hair, a dashing white mustache, and sparkling blue eyes. An elegant white poodle accompanied him with such élan it seemed she had him on the leash.
“Lovely morning,” he said to Faye. “Mind if I look? Oh, very nice, very nice. Get away, Mitzi. I know, I know,” he said to Faye, as if she’d made a remark, “man with a poodle, a bit tiddley. Mitzi belongs to my wife, don’tcha see, and my wife’s a bit under the weather, so I’ve got the dog-walking duties. Yes, yes, off we go, good-bye, good-bye.”
Later, Faye sensed someone watching her. Looking around, she spotted an orange-striped cat sitting on the picket fence, still and vigilant as an owl.
But for most of the morning Faye was alone. Occasionally a car slowly went down the lane, but most of the time people passed on foot or bike. Hidden away from the beaches, shops, and wider avenues, this lane was a real little pocket of peace, an island on an island.
By noon, Faye was tired and hungry. She began to organize herself to leave.
“Hello, my dear.”
She looked up. A door at the side of the house she’d been painting was open now, and a little old woman stood in her garden, leaning on a cane.
“Oh! Hello!”
“I see you’re painting my house’s portrait.” Gingerly, as if each step hurt, she progressed through the tall grass. “May I look?” She had white hair pulled into a bun at the back of her head, and several wobbling chins. She seemed very plump, but that might have been because she had so many different sweaters and shawls draped over her faded cotton dress.
“Of course.” Faye lifted the canvas from the easel and brought it across the lane.
The older woman’s neck emerged from its draperies like a tortoise’s from its shell as she leaned forward to peer at it. “My, that’s lovely. Just lovely.”
“Thank you.” Faye set the painting on the ground, leaning against her leg, so she could hold out her hand. “I’m Faye Vandermeer. I live in Boston, but I’m visiting here for the summer.”
The older woman peered up at Faye through very thick glasses. “I’m very pleased to meet you. I’m Adele Spindleton and I’ve lived here all my life.”
“You have a beautiful home.”
“Yes, that’s true. Although, sadly, I haven’t been able to keep up with it like I used to.” She cocked her head. “Would you like to see the inside?”
“Oh, I’d love to!”
Faye set her paraphernalia just inside the fence, went through the gate, and followed Adele Spindleton into the house. It was so dark, it took a few moments for her eyes to adjust.
The kitchen they stepped into hadn’t been renovated since the forties. The floor was wide boards, aged to a deep bronze. A porcelain sink was set in a metal cabinet, and the refrigerator was a short, stocky Amana with rounded corners. The kitchen table was wooden, covered with a checkered tablecloth.
“If you’d like to see the dining room and parlors, be my guest,” Adele told her. “I’ll just wait here.” She collapsed in a wooden kitchen chair. “Don’t get around as easily as I used to.”
“Oh!” Faye didn’t want to intrude, but she did want to see the house. “Well, I’ll just peek.”
“Take your time.”
The kitchen opened onto a dining room, which in turn opened onto a short hall and two front parlors. The ceiling plaster was crazed with cracks, as were some of the walls. Wallpaper had peeled in places, and much of the trim on the doors and windows was chipped. The hearth in the left parlor fireplace was missing a few bricks, and cobwebs laced the corners of the rooms, but clearly this was a fine old home. Family photos were everywhere, hanging from the walls, standing on mantels, tucked up in the bookcases. The floors sloped slightly, warped by age, but their lilt seemed pleasing to Faye, appropriate—it was like being on board a ship. In the right parlor, a recliner was situated in front of a television set, a crocheted afghan neatly folded on its side. Stationed nearby were a TV tray set with a glass of water, a remote control, and several pill bottles. Faye imagined this was where the old woman spent much of her time.
When she returned to the kitchen, she found Adele Spindleton dozing in her chair, her chin resting on her bosom. Faye hesitated. She didn’t want to wake her—
As if reading her thoughts, Adele opened her eyes. “I’m awake. Do you have time to make us some tea?”
“Yes, of course.”
Faye moved around the kitchen, pleasantly surprised at how tidy and efficient it was. When she remarked on this, the older woman said, “When I turned ninety, I had my children come take everything they wanted, every heirloom, every valuable thing, and the rest of it I donated to the thrift shop. I’d like to remain in my own home as long as my old bones will allow, which means I had to pare my life down to the essentials. Meals on Wheels comes by every day, and the young people next door pick up anything else I need.”
“You still have pictures around,” Faye remarked.
“Yes, yes, I’m so glad you noticed those. Yes, I kept the old photo albums and pictures. I love to look at them. It’s like visiting the past.”
Faye brought the teapot to the table, poured the tea into mugs, and helped Adele to milk and sugar. “Did you ever know Nora Salter? We’re living in her house on Orange Street.”
“Nora Salter. Nora Salter.” Adele tapped her temple, as if trying to nudge a memory from its place. “Oh, yes! Yes, of course. Beautiful woman, much younger than I. She’s a Pettigrew, you know. Very fine island lineage. Pascal Pettigrew, her father, was born on the island, and so was her mother. Pascal’s grandfather had been a whaling ship captain. Oh, yes, lots of history in that family. And so much drama! Oh, my dear,” Adele’s laugh tinkled like bells. “I haven’t thought of them in years!”
Faye was fascinated. “What kind of history?”
“What kind would you like? When you get a family going back for generations, you can take your pick.” Adele sipped her tea and her cheeks grew rosy. “He was such a scamp, that Pascal Pettigrew! I’m six years younger than he was, but I heard all about him when I was a child. He was legendary. He and Ford Payne. What they got up to!” Adele cackled and clapped her hands on her knees.
Faye leaned forward. “What sorts of things?”
“Well, for one, when they were kids, they liked to tip over outhouses on Halloween.” She peered over her glasses at Faye. “As you can tell, this was a long time ago. At the beginning of the last century. What else? Let’s see. If they didn’t like their teachers, they’d fill May baskets—people don’t do this anymore, but back then, we used to leave May baskets filled with flowers or cookies to celebrate May Day—only they’d put a layer of flowers on
top and dog manure beneath!”
Faye tried to organize this history. “Ford Payne would be Lucinda Payne’s father?”
“That’s right. I haven’t seen Lucinda in ages. She’s such a beautiful young woman, but rather uppity.”
Faye raised her cup to her lips to hide a smile she couldn’t suppress when Adele called Lucinda a young woman. Of course, Adele was in her nineties, while Lucinda was only seventy-three. Youth was relative. “We met Lucinda Payne briefly. She didn’t seem pleased to know we were spending the summer in Nora’s house.”
Adele waved her hand. “Oh, nothing about Nora could ever please Lucinda. By the time Lucinda was born, the scandal had happened. The Pettigrews and the Paynes hated one another. Lucinda and Nora were raised hating one another. Oh, they were all so stubborn. Neither family would sell the house that had been handed down over the years, and I can understand that, yes, I can. Still, to live side by side with your arch enemy has got to be difficult.”
“Scandal?” Faye thought she could actually feel her ears strain forward like a bat’s.
Before Adele could reply, a volley of bangs sounded nearby. Adele frowned. “What was that? Thunder?”
“Firecrackers, I think,” Faye assured her. “Tomorrow’s the Fourth of July.”
“Oh, of course.” Adele shook her head. “They always have such a fine display down at Jetties Beach. I assume they still do. I haven’t seen the fireworks for years.”
“Polly and I are going,” Faye told her. “Would you like to come along?” When the older woman looked puzzled, she said, “Polly’s a friend, another of the five us of who will be spending time in Nora Salter’s house this summer. She’s my age. You’d like her.”
“Well…my sake’s. Goodness.” Adele seemed absolutely stumped by Faye’s invitation. “I can’t walk very far, you know. And I can’t sit on the ground like I used to.”
“We’ll bring beach chairs. We’ll pick you up in the Jeep and drive you as close as we can get to the beach.”
“What a kind offer!” Adele’s face grew rosy. “You know, I’d love to come! Why not? If you two girls don’t mind being saddled with an old nag like me….”
“The fireworks start at nine. We’ll pick you up at eight-thirty,” Faye told her. “I’ll drive the Jeep right to your door.”
“Wonderful! Thank you!”
Faye washed the mugs and teapot, then let herself out of the house. As she carried her easel and painting to the Jeep, she realized that in the excitement of planning for tomorrow, she’d forgotten about the scandal.
31
It was a perfect night for fireworks, clear, warm, and dry. At eight-thirty, Faye and Polly arrived at Adele’s house. Faye made the introductions, and they helped Adele through her yard and into the front passenger seat of the Jeep, a challenge for the older woman, who could not lift her leg high enough to set it on the Jeep’s sandy floor.
“Would you mind giving me a little push?” she asked. “Don’t be shy. You can’t hurt me. Can’t embarrass me, either. At my age, I’ve been poked and prodded everywhere. Just go ahead,” she chuckled, “and wedge me in.”
It took more than a little push to boost the roly-poly older woman into place. By the time Polly and Faye had finished, all three women were dissolved in giggles.
They drove through town toward Jetties Beach, joining the parade of cars and people headed the same way. On Federal Street, they passed Kezia in her huge silver SUV. She was going in the opposite direction, against the tide of traffic. Pleased to see someone she knew, Faye waved, but Kezia didn’t see them.
Faye glanced over her shoulder at Polly. “I wonder why Kezia’s not going to the fireworks.”
“Her baby’s probably too young to enjoy them,” Polly said. “David was afraid of the noise until he was eight!”
When they turned on to South Beach Street, Adele gasped. “I’m astonished at the number of people going to the beach. I knew the summer population had grown. But to see it like this—it just makes my head whirl!”
By the time they reached Easton Street, the crowd was so dense the Jeep could only inch forward.
“Can you put this in four-wheel drive?” Adele asked Faye.
“Sure.”
“There’s a public way on the right. Few people know about it. It’s a perfect spot for watching the fireworks.”
Other SUVs were already on the beach, but Faye steered over the sand until she found a spot. She parked, rolled down the windows, turned off the lights, and then the ignition. At once, the scent and sound of the sea swept into the car. The harbor was dotted with boats of all sizes, waving flags, decorated with red, white, and blue banners and flowers. As the sun set and the sky turned from dusky to complete black velvet, horns from boats and cars honked, eager for the show to begin.
Adele decided she would remain in the car to watch the display; it was just too much work to get out and back in. Polly opened the picnic basket next to her on the backseat and handed around a plate of brie and crackers and, to Adele’s delight, glasses of champagne.
“Champagne! I can’t remember when I last had it!”
Suddenly a bolt of gold streaked through the sky, blossoming into multicolored tendrils of light. The show had started. Polly got out of the backseat and stood in the sand for a better view, but Faye remained in the Jeep with Adele. She was having as much fun listening to the older woman as she was watching the fireworks. So many new kinds of patterns had been developed since Adele last saw them; she was as thrilled as if the planets themselves were putting in an appearance. Out in the harbor, the boats honked and whistled as fountains and pinwheels and volcanoes of light burst through the sky, trailing silver dots that exploded into their own colorful shows. Screamers streamed upward in crazy zigzags, pinwheels threw out silver minnows of light that undulated through the dark before fading. The calm waters of the harbor reflected the display, and the oohs and aahs of the crowd rolled through the night in waves.
Finally the show was over. Polly got back into the Jeep and replaced the empty champagne glasses and the plate. Faye put the Jeep in gear and joined the line of traffic headed away from the beach. Adele fell asleep, head leaning against the window frame, oblivious to the bounces and bumps as they rolled over the sandy ruts. Faye met Polly’s eyes in the rearview mirror; they agreed soundlessly to remain quiet, so they wouldn’t wake Adele.
The older woman’s eyes popped open just as they turned onto her street. Carefully they helped her out of the Jeep, across the grassy yard and into her house.
“I’m fine now,” Adele said as they stood in her kitchen. “You girls are so wonderful! That was a treat!” She turned to Faye. “Will you be painting my house again tomorrow?”
“If it doesn’t rain,” Faye told her. “I’ll let you know.”
“Lovely. Thank you again, girls.”
Driving back to Orange Street, Polly remarked, “We certainly seem to be running into a lot of little old ladies around here.”
Faye shrugged. “All the little old men have already died, I guess. Men do die younger.”
“Speaking of men…” Polly’s voice was wistful. “I don’t know what to do about Hugh.”
“I know. I don’t know what to do about Aubrey.”
“Have you spoken with him recently?”
Faye waited to reply until she’d carefully steered the Jeep into its tiny space next to the house. “No. I haven’t phoned him and he hasn’t phoned me. He’s angry that I came here instead of staying and taking care of him. His daughter’s not thrilled with me, either.”
“What if he finds another woman?” Polly asked.
Faye stared out at the dark night. “In all honesty, I just don’t know.”
Polly sighed. “Well, I know Hugh’s going to remain attached to his kids and Carol for the rest of his life. He’s not going to change. I guess at our age, change isn’t easy.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” Faye argued. “I mean, Polly, I think I’m still capable of
changing. Really changing. I think we all are! I mean, we’ve changed our homes for the summer. And in the past couple of years, you’ve changed from working as a seamstress to running Havenly Yours. Who knows how you might change again?” Faye grew serious and animated. “I stopped painting when Jack died. I thought I’d never paint again. But I did. Plus, now I’m doing landscapes, outdoor scenes—I never used to paint those. I pretty much stuck with still life and a few portraits. I’m learning so much about myself, my style, my abilities, I’m so excited about painting on the island! I feel—I know this is odd—but I feel young again, Polly! Remember that feeling, when school starts in the fall, and you buy new notebooks and pencils and your erasers are pink and clean and sort of spongy in your hand? And you’ve got a new Black Watch plaid dress for the first day of school? That’s how I feel about painting! And I love this island!” She threw her arms out so enthusiastically she hit the roof. “The more I see of it, the more I want to see. I love it here! In fact, I can’t wait to go to bed so I can get up in the morning to paint!” She looked at Polly suddenly, puzzled. “I think I got off the subject. What we were talking about?”
Polly laughed. “I think the topic was men.”
“Right.” Faye turned toward Polly, her face glowing. “I’ve been thinking so much about all this, Polly. It’s all tied together—work, and Aubrey, and aging, and my weight. Let me see if I can articulate this clearly. I not only think we can change, I think we have to. At this age. At this age, if we’re reasonably healthy, we should get to make some decisions about our lives. Oh,” she waved her hands in the air, “you have no idea how much I’ve been pondering these things. First of all, every moment of every day, it seems my first thought is about dieting. Even when I was watching those gorgeous fireworks and sipping champagne, a little voice in the back of my mind was nagging at me: Don’t drink that champagne! You’ll gain weight!”
