by Lea Wait
“Yet she sent you back to Waymouth every summer, so you’d know the family you had here.”
Carolyn nodded. “Part of it was convenience, of course. But clearly it meant a lot to Mother that I knew and loved Maine. She lived in New York, and she’s known for her paintings of the city. But after I was in college she came back here a few summers herself, staying with Aunt Susan. Maybe she was trying to recapture her heritage. During that period she painted a number of seascapes and New England landscapes. I have some of them. She gave a half dozen to Aunt Susan, too, but this summer I’ve only seen four in her house. I don’t know where the others are.”
“They must be worth a fortune!” Maggie blurted.
Carolyn smiled. “The reaction of a dealer! I know their value. But I don’t intend to sell them. Maybe someday I’ll hang mine in the house here in Waymouth. That’s where they should be.”
Maggie reddened in embarrassment. Of course, value couldn’t always be measured in dollars. She changed the subject quickly. “I don’t understand why your aunt kept the letters and journal a secret. Why didn’t she give them to you, or to your mother, when she was visiting here as an adult?”
“She said the papers contained Waymouth family secrets. That secrets of the past were best forgotten. She admitted she hadn’t even read all of them. Just enough to know there was information in them that would be embarrassing to our family, and to other families in town.”
“How curious! I’ll admit I’d have read them.”
“So would I. And I will.” Carolyn looked straight at Maggie. “I’d like you to read them, too.”
“Carolyn, it’s not my family,” Maggie said quickly.
“No. I’m serious. I want you to read them. I need the opinion of someone who’s not emotionally involved with the family. Aunt Susan has already told me one reason she stopped reading.”
“And?”
Carolyn took a deep breath. “Do you remember my telling you yesterday that my great-grandparents died in an accident, but I couldn’t find any record of it?”
“Yes.”
“This morning Aunt Susan told me it wasn’t an accident. My great-grandfather shot his wife, and then killed himself. He believed his wife had an affair. That my grandmother, Kathleen, was the daughter of another man.”
Chapter 4
Fall Games: The Apple Bee. Winslow Homer wood engraving published in Harper’s Weekly, November 26, 1859. A popular nineteenth-century New England custom was for young ladies to peel an apple in one long strand and then throw the peeling over their shoulder. If they were lucky the apple skin would form the initial of the man they would marry. 9.125 x 13.75 inches. Price: $325.
Maggie sat back. “Your great-grandmother’s having an affair would have been scandalous. Especially back in the eighteen-nineties! But I can’t see it would be all that shocking to us, over a hundred years later, or that knowing it could do any damage to anyone today. It is a mystery, though: who was the real father?”
Carolyn didn’t smile. “That was my first reaction, too. I thought, ‘What great material for my book!’ But Aunt Susan and her lawyer were all taking it very seriously. I couldn’t help wondering what else was in the papers. Then she made me promise that after I’d finished with the papers, especially an early journal she said was important, I would destroy them, or make sure they were in the hands of someone who would understand how sensitive they were, and would take care of them. She didn’t want them to end up in an auction, or in the hands of someone who would sensationalize them.”
Maggie shook her head. “Your aunt sounds a little melodramatic. Family papers are important to the family, of course, and your mother was a well-known artist. But I can’t imagine anything that would be devastating enough that those papers would be judged sensational. Not today.”
“She’s kept them hidden for so many years. She’s passing on that responsibility, and she wants me to understand how important it has been to her.” Carolyn put her fork down. “She kept saying that knowing more about their history could change people today.”
“I suppose that’s true. Think of how some people reacted when DNA evidence confirmed Thomas Jefferson had fathered children with Sally Hemings, one of his slaves,” Maggie said thoughtfully. “Although, of course, Thomas Jefferson was one of our founding fathers. And a man with strong public opinions about slavery.”
“We’re certainly not rewriting American history here in Waymouth. But Aunt Susan was very clear that it was a major decision for her to decide to trust me with the documents. I told her I would treat them with respect. But she was still nervous about what would happen to them if something happened to me, so I told her about you. She’d heard about you from Nettie, of course, because you’re Will’s friend. I said you were an academic scholar and antique print dealer; an expert on American art and history and a very caring person. I told her that if anything happened to me, you would take the papers.”
“Me?” Maggie gasped. “You’re giving me responsibility for journals and letters that are a part of your mother’s history? American art history?”
Carolyn paused a moment and then looked directly at her. “I already have. That’s why I was a few minutes late. This morning Brad Pierce wrote a codicil to Aunt Susan’s will saying I am the sole beneficiary of her estate, but that when I die, you get any family papers that still exist. My current will leaves everything in my estate to the Portland Museum of Art. I thought they could use the money, and would value my mother’s Maine paintings. But Aunt Susan’s papers bypass my will and go to you.”
Maggie just looked at Carolyn.
“I’m thinking I may add a note to my will saying you also get the notes for my biography. The notes and papers should really stay together, in case I don’t get a chance to finish the biography.” Carolyn shook her head as she saw Maggie’s expression. “Don’t panic, Maggie. I’m feeling fine, and plan on spending the next few years writing that book myself! But I’m not getting any younger, and none of us can predict the future.” She grinned and raised her glass of iced tea in Maggie’s direction. “To whatever life brings!”
Last summer Will’s family home had been sold. That had been upsetting. How would this family feel about their papers being left to Maggie? Especially if those documents contained sensitive information?
Maggie sat, stunned. “I don’t know, Carolyn. I’ve just met you. You’re trusting me with a big responsibility.”
Carolyn put down her glass. “You won’t do it?”
“Of course, we may read the journals and letters and decide there’s nothing really important in them. No one today may care anything about long-ago scandals. And I’m assuming you’ll live for many years and finish the biography yourself.”
“I certainly plan to. But this morning I needed to reassure Aunt Susan. I know your reputation, and Aunt Nettie recommends you.” Carolyn leaned toward her. “In Waymouth, that’s high praise.”
“What about other people in your family? How will they feel?”
“There’s no one else. Susan had four brothers and sisters, so I have a few distant cousins, but none of them live in Waymouth, and no one has kept closely in touch with Susan. The papers are about my great-grandparents and grandmother. Since my mother and her mother were only children, I’m the only one left in that line.”
“I see.” Maggie drained her second glass of diet soda.
“Aunt Susan may be over-reacting. You’re right. There may be nothing of interest in the papers. I might even decide to destroy them. Or, on the other hand, I might add them to what I leave the Portland Museum. But until I—until we—have a chance to sort through everything carefully, Aunt Susan was relieved, and I certainly would be, if you’d agree, to know that a trusted and intelligent friend of the family will be watching out for whatever secrets they contain.”
“I understand,” Maggie agreed, somewhat reluctantly. She hadn’t been in Maine for twenty-four hours and she’d already taken on partial responsibility for a whol
e family’s history.
“I have the trunk in my car. I’m going to the library to make a copy of the first journal. That’s the one Aunt Susan seemed most concerned with. Tonight there’s a genealogical meeting at the library. Why don’t you come, and I’ll give you a copy? That way we can read the journal at the same time and compare thoughts.”
Maggie’s curiosity was already thoroughly aroused. “I’ll admit I’d love to read the journal. And maybe I should learn more about genealogy. What time is the meeting?”
Chapter 5
The Buds. Winslow Homer wood engraving published in Harper’s Weekly, March 3, 1860. Garden scene of two young ladies and a handsomely attired gentleman. He is handing one of the ladies several budding flowers, clearly (in 1860) a sign of emotional flowerings to come. 4.5 x 3.5 inches. Price: $140.
“Your lunch with Carolyn went well, then?” Will had refused to tell Maggie their destination, but his car was headed north on Route 1.
“I think so,” said Maggie. “I promised to meet her at the Waymouth Library tonight for a genealogy meeting. Her aunt gave her a trunk full of family papers, and she’d like me to look at some of the early ones.” Maggie didn’t tell Will more. Whatever secrets the papers held were Carolyn’s. At least for now.
“Old papers sound right up your alley,” said Will, slowing up. The car ahead of them had a Florida license plate and was going twenty miles under the speed limit. On two-lane Route 1, that meant it now led a caravan of more than a dozen drivers. No doubt a retired couple, returned from their winter down south and enjoying the cool breezes.
Locals ground their teeth and kept their brake lights blinking. Summer residents brought welcome dollars to Maine.
Will and Maggie weren’t in a hurry.
“Did you get the appropriate shade of green chosen for the shutters?”
“I think we’re set. Had to order the paint from Boston, but it’ll be in tomorrow. Painting the house shouldn’t take me longer than a week or two, even including the gutters and shutters. Aunt Nettie’s grown used to depending on me for chores like that.”
“I know,” said Maggie. “And she’s a dear. I really don’t mind. But I’d hoped we could spend more time together. You’re doing an antiques show this weekend, too, aren’t you?”
“An outdoor show. The kind print dealers like you avoid like the plague. I agreed to do it when I was here last summer, so I’m on the hook.”
“A one-day show?” asked Maggie.
“Right. Set up from five-thirty until nine in the morning. It’s only about an hour from here though.”
Maggie winced. “I hate one-day shows. You have to get up before dawn. But I’ll join you if you’d like the company. I might manage some buying. Otherwise that’s one more day we won’t have together.”
Will reached over and touched her hair.
“Always appreciate your company, my lady. And before you complain about my schedule, remember you’re the one planning to spend this evening at the Waymouth Library rather than with me,” he reminded her.
“Carolyn’s going to give me a copy of an old journal that sounds intriguing,” said Maggie, intentionally leaving out how eager she was to read it.
“I’m glad Aunt Nettie’s managed to connect you with a project you’re interested in.”
“Me, too,” said Maggie. “You can climb those ladders and fix the gutters by yourself, Will Brewer. The chores won’t last forever. In the meantime, we’re off this afternoon! No Carolyn and no Aunt Nettie.” They passed an old mill that had been converted into an antiques mall. “No antiques?” she added, a bit wistfully.
“There’ll be plenty of time for antiques. When have we ever not found time for antiques? But this afternoon I wanted to do something else.” Will turned his head slightly and winked at her. “For your birthday.”
“My birthday! That was back in May.”
“So I recall. I also recall we spent that day with you hobbling around with a cast on your foot, looking for vans in used car lots.”
“I had to do that after my old van blew up.”
“And then we spent a romantic evening ordering out for pizza.”
“It was good pizza,” smiled Maggie, with a sideways glance. “As I recall the rest of the evening was even better.”
“Indeed. You’re a wicked woman,” agreed Will, with a friendly leer. “But you’ve now recovered enough to get a real birthday gift. I was going to pick one out before you got here, but I thought you’d have more fun doing it yourself.”
Maggie looked at the gold Victorian “regard” ring Will had given her last fall, which she wore on her right hand. Regard was spelled out by a band of small stones—a Ruby, an Emerald, a Garnet, an Amethyst, another Ruby, and then a Diamond. She rarely took it off. Will had found one at an antiques show after she’d admired one on someone’s hand. Victorian sentiment rings were getting harder to find every year.
Since they’d met fifteen months ago at an antiques show where they were both exhibiting, he’d also given her a coffeepot for her kitchen (because he drank coffee and she didn’t), and flowers, and had often brought wine or champagne to share. He’d never asked her to pick out a gift for herself.
Where were they going? How serious was this? Maggie realized she was clenching her left hand without noticing it. It couldn’t be that. Neither of them was ready.
She felt like a flustered teenager, wondering what her boyfriend would give her for Valentine’s Day.
Carefully she unclenched her hand. She was all grown up. She and Will had both been married before. Why was she reacting so foolishly?
But how much money would he spend? What if she didn’t like what he’d picked out?
She barely noticed the vistas of pine trees and sparkling rivers and narrow streets lined with green-shuttered white houses. Occasional ANTIQUES signs caught her eye, but she refused to react.
“You’re awfully quiet,” Will commented. “You couldn’t be nervous, could you?”
“Will, you don’t need to get me a birthday present.”
“Then it will be a ‘welcome to Maine’ gift,” he agreed easily. “In fact, that’s probably even more appropriate.”
Maggie forced herself to smile. “Are we going out to eat lobster?”
“An excellent idea, and one we’ll definitely explore at a later date. But not today.” Will glanced at her again and grinned. “I’ve really got you worried, haven’t I?”
“You can read me too well,” admitted Maggie.
“Relax. I promise this will not be painful,” said Will. “And we’ve only a few more miles to go.”
Traffic was almost stopped in the classic Maine village they were passing through. In Maine pedestrians have the right of way. As long as they’re in a crosswalk, all vehicles have to stop. In this small town there were three crosswalks.
“Now where are we heading?” said Maggie as Will turned off Route 1. She watched the narrow road twist around an inlet, following the shoreline almost too closely for comfort.
“Taking the back road to get us on Route 27,” said Will comfortably.
“Route 27 goes to Boothbay,” Maggie remembered.
“Give the lady an A-plus in geography,” said Will as they made a right turn and headed down the peninsula. “You do remember what you saw last summer.”
“Yes.” Maggie remembered all too much from last summer. Amy, her former college roommate, had been arrested, and was currently living in a mental hospital in Augusta. Amy’s husband had sold their home back to the family who’d originally owned it, and moved to “The County,” as Mainers call Aroostook County, the northern part of Maine, to teach in a small school there. She hoped he’d found the peaceful life he’d been looking for.
“Almost there,” said Will.
“Are those llamas?” Maggie asked, as they passed a field where several animals were grazing.
“We have just about everything in Maine, if you look in the right places,” said Will. “Here we are.”
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He pulled into the parking lot outside several buildings whose sign introduced them as EDGECOMB POTTERS. Maggie remembered seeing their ads in Down East magazine.
“You want to buy me a piece of pottery?” Maggie asked, as she looked around, stunned at the iridescent colors of the pottery displayed on tables outside the showrooms.
“Actually, no,” said Will. “Although their pottery is spectacular. But there’s more than pottery inside.”
There was. Individually blown glass vases and goblets; hand-woven blankets and rugs; sculpture; hand-crafted furniture. “Over here.” Will gently directed Maggie toward the glass display cases in the back of the room.
The cases were full of jewelry. Maggie glanced quickly. The case Will was pointing to didn’t contain rings. She breathed a little easier.
“Your eyes are such a beautiful shade of green,” Will said, tilting her chin and looking down at her. “I wanted to get you a pair of earrings that would really show them off, but I got confused. I thought it would be best if you picked them out yourself.”
Maggie looked. The case was full of pink and green and blue earrings and pendants of all shades. “These are...?”
“Tourmaline. The Maine state gem,” said Will. “That’s why this is really a ‘welcome to Maine’ gift. Tourmaline comes in reds, pinks, greens, and even blues. Sometimes the pinks and greens are in stripes. Those are called watermelon tourmalines.” He pointed at one pendant that did, indeed, look like a slice of watermelon. “Take all the time you need. I don’t want you to look at the price tags. But choose your favorite pair of green earrings. I’ve been imagining you wearing them for months.”
Maggie’s green eyes looked into Will’s blue ones, and she gently kissed him. “They will be a wonderful birthday present,” she said quietly. Then she turned back to look inside the case.
