by Lea Wait
June 15, 1890
After church today Jessie confided to me that she can wait no longer. She is going to write a letter to Luke. The seas have calmed, but no ships have yet arrived from the Grand Banks with messages from him, and she can hardly sleep for worrying. Orin Colby has invited her to the launching of the Lisa, a fishing sloop his boatyard built this past winter for Captain Dodge. Jessie has ascertained that Captain Dodge is anxious to outfit the Lisa and sail for Yarmouth and Halifax within the week. Her plan is to send a letter for Luke Trask with him.
I, of course, agreed that this was a fine idea, but suggested I deliver the letter to Captain Dodge, rather than have her do so in the presence of Orin Colby.
She readily accepted my offer. We are to meet tomorrow so she can give me her letter before the launching.
Jessie’s confidences could make it all too simple for me to turn Luke’s love for her toward me. At first I planned to merely destroy her note, which no doubt is full of sweet endearments and concerns. But then I devised a still better plan.
Luke shall receive two letters from dear friends in Waymouth. I shall write to him myself.
Chapter 21
A Nor’easter: Some Look Well in It. Lithograph by Charles Dana Gibson, 1900. Four women in “Gibson Girl” attire, including hats (which they are holding on their heads) standing on a windy boardwalk with two dogs, looking out at a stormy sea. Hefty woman is looking askance at the shapely young lady whose wind-blown clothing is revealing her hourglass-shaped figure to advantage. American artist Gibson (1867-1944) is best known for his pen-and-ink drawings of the first American pin-up girl, known as “the Gibson Girl”: the idealized American woman, who was young, smart, athletic, and stylish. His drawings often make fun of the upper classes. They were most popular from 1900-1910. 11.5 x 17 inches. Price: $60.
Maggie woke out of heavy sleep to find Will’s lips on hers, and his arms around her. She reached up and snuggled into his chest for a long, luxurious moment until she realized he was wearing a heavy flannel shirt. She blinked quickly and pushed him back a little as he laughed quietly into her long hair, now partially unbraided on her pillow.
“Wake up, Sleeping Beauty!” he whispered into her ear. “It’s four in the morning, and we need to be on the road by four-thirty. I’m going downstairs to put coffee on for me, and make egg sandwiches for us to eat on the way.”
“Ohhhh...” Maggie turned and pulled the pillow over her head.
Will pulled it off, and turned on the lamp next to her bed. “Afraid not. Get yourself up and beautiful. I’ll see you downstairs.” He paused a moment as they both listened to the howling gale-force wind and rain pounding against the windows and roof. “The morning seems to call for warm clothes, and whatever rain gear you brought. You can use Aunt Nettie’s extra slicker. Do you have sneakers to wear during setup? The field is going to be muddy.” He slapped her companionably on her rear. “Rise and shine, my lady.”
Maggie sat up and shook her head. “This is why I don’t do outdoor shows.”
“I know. But I do. And you volunteered.” Will pulled what was still intact of her long braid. “See you in the kitchen.”
Within a few minutes the sound of coffee beans grinding filled the house. It was a good thing Aunt Nettie was slightly hard of hearing, Maggie thought, as she got herself up and washed, and pulled on jeans, sneakers and a long-sleeved T-shirt. A sweatshirt, too, she decided. It was chilly. She optimistically stuffed a long skirt, sandals, and a dressier top in her all-purpose red canvas bag, plus some lipstick and gray eye shadow and matte powder for later. Any attempts at makeup now would be farcical. Not to mention that it would smear or wash off entirely in the storm. As a last touch she added one of her signature rhinestone “M” pins to the sweatshirt for antiques show luck.
It had been raining for hours now. It would have to stop soon, wouldn’t it?
By the time she reached the kitchen Will was sipping one cup of coffee and had filled a tall green L.L. Bean travel mug and thermos with a backup supply. He also had a cold six-pack of her diet soda ready and waiting. He knew his lady’s preference for caffeine delivery.
“I made each of us two sandwiches.” He handed her the six-pack and a paper bag. “We can get more food at the show if the vendors’ stands haven’t washed away. The folks from Maine Antique Digest usually arrive early and seduce us possible advertisers with free coffee, tea, doughnuts, and bagels before the show opens.” He glanced around the kitchen. “I think we’re set. I put my cash box in the RV yesterday afternoon, and Aunt Nettie knows we’ll be home for dinner at about seven tonight. The show closes at four. With two of us we should be able to pack out in an hour or two, and get back to Waymouth by then.”
He handed Maggie a slicker.
She put it on, leaving the top hook open. He reached over and carefully attached it for her. “It’s very wet outside, Maggie,” he said. He picked up the thermos and the travel mug. “Let’s go.”
Maggie had only one question as Will navigated the country roads whose twists and turns, some of them flooded, led them north and west toward the fairground where the antiques show was scheduled. “Your booth is under a tent, isn’t it?”
“It is,” he nodded, reaching over to pat her hand. “Not to worry. Some dealers set up tables around the rear of their van or truck, or bring their own tents. I don’t know what they’ll do on a day like this. The grounds will be very muddy. A few people may forfeit their deposits and not come. But the show contract said it would be held ‘rain or shine,’ so most of us will be there.”
“Let’s just hope some customers come, too,” said Maggie.
“Did you read any more of the old journal last night?” Will changed the subject, as he wiped the inside of the windshield with his hand and turned on the defogger.
“A little. At least two young women from Waymouth posed for Winslow Homer: Anna May Pratt, who wrote the journal, and her friend Jessie. It’s fun to read what they thought of the slightly strange old man (he must have been in his early fifties then) who dressed very elegantly while he painted and asked them to dress in fisherwomen’s clothes to pose! Someone should transcribe the journal. I can imagine several museums, including the Portland Museum of Art, which now owns Homer’s studio at Prouts Neck, that would love to publish the contents. But the ink is faded, and it’s difficult to make out some of the words, so reading takes time. So far as I’ve read, Anna May is more focused on herself and her friend Jessie and their beaux, or lack thereof, then she is on an old artist.”
“No mad love affairs with old man Homer as yet?”
“Not even close!” answered Maggie. “Although Anna May did think his assistant, or go-fer of some sort, was pretty hot. Or whatever would have been the 1890 equivalent of hot.”
“Handsome and debonair? Maybe he was one of my ancestors!”
“Not a bad description,” Maggie admitted. “But unless the Brewers had cousins with the last name Wright, I don’t think he was a relative of yours!”
A line of vans and trucks had formed at the entrance to the fairground. “Not a good sign,” Will pointed out, putting a card on his windshield that indicated his booth number and assigned parking spot. “It’s after six o’clock, right?”
Maggie checked her watch. “Six-fourteen.”
“Usually by now everyone’s on the grounds unpacking. Something’s not right.”
“It’s still pouring,” Maggie pointed out, needlessly, as the windshield wipers continued their relentless rhythm.
A man in his seventies, wearing high boots and complete yellow sou’wester, from large hat to vinyl pants and jacket, slowly made his way down the line of vehicles from one driver to another. Despite his foul-weather gear, he was completely soaked; his beard and eyebrows were dripping, as were the edges of his hat.
“Sorry, folks.” He looked at the card on Will’s dashboard. “One of the access roads to the fairgrounds washed out, so we’re moving people around a little. You’re one of the lucky ones. Tent Four
hasn’t blown down yet. When folks in front of you start moving, stay over to the left. Park in back of Tent Three instead of where you usually park, okay?” He pointed.
Will nodded.
“Oh, and none of the porters who said they’d be here today have shown up. Hope that won’t be a problem.”
“No.” Will glanced at Maggie. “Brought my own porter today.”
“Good. Glad something’s not a problem for someone,” the old man muttered as he went on to the rental van in back of Will’s RV.
“So far so good,” said Maggie. “Have another half sandwich?”
“Good plan,” agreed Will. “They’ll be soaked as soon as we get out of here.”
The spot where they finally parked was so muddy that Will was concerned about their being able to leave in the afternoon, but they had no time to think much about that. By the time they’d parked and checked out the booth location it was almost seven o’clock. Only two hours until show time.
Some helpful person had put boards down on the spaces between the booths where customers would walk, but even those walkways, inside the tents, were sinking rapidly into the mud. A torrent of muddy water ran down the slight rise outside Tent Four and right through it, leaving all the booths several inches deep in mud. Just walking was a challenge. Maggie’s sneakers filled with mud almost immediately, and after four or five trips to the RV for cartons, she felt wet through to her underwear despite Aunt Nettie’s slicker.
Of greater concern was the inventory itself.
Around them furniture dealers were drying sideboards with stacks of towels and propping the legs of mahogany tables and chairs up on blocks of wood, or putting them inside empty cans that they’d brought.
No one dared bring anything made of paper through the heavy rains into the show. Maggie saw one dealer using a blanket to mop water off what was probably a seventeenth-century oil painting.
She wasn’t going to do much buying at this show unless the rain stopped. If anyone had prints, they were keeping them inside vans and trucks.
Will and Maggie put up the portable tables he’d brought (“theoretically portable,” Maggie thought, her back already aching) and she covered them with the required inflammable (“just what we need today”) tablecloths.
Will emptied a plastic bag onto one of the now-covered tables; it was full of old towels. “I’ll bring in the brass and iron andirons and screens; you dry them with the towels. Dampness is the enemy.”
“Dampness!” Maggie thought. Everything was dripping. Including her.
Above them the tent (the one that “hasn’t blown down yet,” she remembered) was billowing crazily in the wind, and rain was beginning to pelt into the booths along its seam lines. Two booths over, a china dealer joked, with an edge of hysteria, about setting out teacups to catch the drips and wondering if the splashing drops would play “Taps.”
What about the dealers scheduled to be in the tent that had blown down? Not to speak of anyone who was supposed to set up outside. Maggie hoped they were sane enough to take one look at the fairgrounds and the sky and leave.
This was ridiculous.
She kept drying Will’s iron and brass and copper, trying not to further smear price tags already almost illegible from rain. Nothing was really dry.
Will filled five tables with cast iron trivets and ice tongs, brass mortars and pestles, andirons, eighteenth-century iron skillets, match safes, S-shaped hooks for hanging kettles and pots, forks, knives, pairs of English bellows, butter presses, and tin, brass and early silver candlesticks. The two Victorian brass fireplace screens he put in front of one table immediately began sinking into the mud.
Will looked at the screens, and then at Maggie. “That’s it. I have more, but I usually arrange items on the ground. Clearly I’m not going to do that today.”
Inside the tent the ground was running with water. Usually dealers hid emptied boxes, bags, and packing materials under their tables. Today Will and Maggie piled them on the two folding chairs they’d been assigned. It didn’t look artistic. But at least they’d be able to use the items later.
“What time is it?” Maggie opened her third diet cola of the morning. Anything could be borne better with a little caffeine. But if she were ever, ever tempted to do an outdoor show, she was going to remember this one.
“Show time in about fifteen minutes. We’ve done what we’re going to do,” Will said, giving her a hug. “Want to look at what the other dealers have brought?”
Maggie shook her head. “In a few minutes. There’s no place to sit, so right now I just want to stand and drink my soda and wish I were somewhere dry and warm.”
Just then the wind howled louder than usual and the tent swayed dramatically. Lights at the top of the tent blinked off and on. The soaked dealers stopped whatever they were doing, and their laughter filled the tent.
What could you do but laugh?
“The antiques business. Truly a glamorous profession, don’t you think?” Will said. “Just think of Art and Antiques magazine. And Sotheby’s.”
“And the Park Avenue Antiques Show in New York,” agreed Maggie. “And all those wonderful books on decorating with antiques.”
“Maybe they don’t tell the whole story,” he pointed out.
“Possibly,” Maggie agreed, trying to keep a straight face. She raised her can of diet soda to him. “May They!” she said. That’s what she and her friend Gussie always said at the beginning of a show. It was shorthand for “May They Buy.”
Only by intention did it sound very like the universal distress signal.
Chapter 22
Night of the Raven. Undated wood engraving (mid-twentieth century). Signed artist’s proof by Margaret K. Thomas, listed American artist. Spooky landscape of dead tree, its branches silhouetted against a large full moon, the outline of a raven seen flying in the moonlight. Artist’s proofs (“AP”) are usually kept by the artists, or given to friends or to the producer of the engraving. They’re run as tests before numbered engravings are made, and because of their rarity are considered more valuable than numbered engravings if signed, as this one is. 12 x 19 inches. Price: $350.
A few hardy souls actually ventured out to attend the antiques show in the first hour or two, but they made very few purchases. Slogging through mud between tents that were waving uneasily in the strong gusts did not encourage customers to lengthen their stays.
At eleven-thirty Tent One groaned for the last time and sagged dramatically to the side, its center post falling on top of three booths, narrowly missing four people, ruining two Chinese screens, and smashing a showcase full of Chinese Rose Medallion and Japanese Satsuma porcelain. It left three dealers and the show manager calling their insurance agents or lawyers.
By noon the only people on the soggy fairgrounds were the dealers and the show manager. Food vendors had closed down and two of the parking lots had flooded. At a little after 1:00 P.M. a call from the state police announced that one of the two major roads to the fairgrounds had just been closed. A small bridge had washed out.
Even the show manager gave up at that point.
The words “The show is closed!” spread like a virus from one remaining tent to another.
Grateful dealers shrugged off their losses and began to pack, thankful no more tents had collapsed.
“At least we can be at Aunt Nettie’s in less than an hour once we get this stuff back in the van,” Will pointed out. “I feel sorry for those folks in the corner booth who drove from Minnesota and are staying in a motel. They lost a lot of money on this show.”
Maggie nodded as she wrapped candlesticks and snuffers and butter molds and carefully repacked them in Will’s cartons that, luckily, were plastic, so were not falling apart as the cardboard cartons of a dealer down the muddy aisle from them were.
“You’ve been really good about not saying anything about outdoor shows,” Will said, as he folded the table covers and tried to find a dry plastic bag to put them in.
Maggie s
hrugged. “I know the business. This is part of it. Although,” she glanced up at the tent swaying precariously above them, “I’ll admit this is a pretty dramatic example of why I don’t do shows like this. I assume on a lovely summer day we would have been complaining about the heat inside this tent.”
“All too true. We would have been wishing for a few breezes, and the tent flaps would have been open. Although we also would most likely have had customers to talk to, which would have made the day considerably better.” Will headed back to the RV with two cartons of inventory.
By a little after two-thirty they were back on the road, headed for Waymouth. The RV had not stuck in the mud, thank goodness, and they stopped at a small diner for two pints of fried clams, which they ate while they drove.
“All I really want is to get back, take a hot shower, and then a long nap,” said Maggie, luxuriously popping a hot, freshly fried clam into her mouth. “A little cognac wouldn’t be bad either.”
“Ditto, ditto, ditto,” said Will. “It would be even better if we could share that shower.”
“I love Aunt Nettie, but...” Maggie agreed regretfully.
“When we get to be grown-ups,” said Will, “it’s going to be different.”
Maggie almost giggled, but she was too tired. She hoped Will was more alert than she was, since he was driving. She was asleep before the clams were gone.
“Time to wake up.” From somewhere deep in her dreams Maggie felt the RV stop and heard Will’s voice. “We’re back at Aunt Nettie’s. And by some miracle the rain has just about ended.”
She forced herself to surface. “What time is it?”
“Almost four o’clock. You slept most of the way home.”
Will had already opened the RV door and picked up his cash box, not notably heavier than it had been when they’d left early that morning. “Aunt Nettie won’t expect us this early, but she’ll be glad to see us home from the floods. Maybe we can take her out to dinner again.”
“Good idea.” Maggie picked up her red canvas bag and jumped out of her side of the high vehicle.
