“I still have a few last-minute things to arrange,” I said, “and I’m expecting more flowers and plants to be delivered. Though, Shepherds Cottage is ready.”
“You’ve accomplished an amazing job on the exterior spaces. I even peeked into the window of Shepherds Cottage. I love everything inside. I’m a big primitive antique collector. I practically live at Grimes House Antiques in Bridgehampton. Have you ever been?”
“Funny you should say that. The truly primitive Americana items in Shepherds Cottage came from Rita’s shop. She’s quite a character, don’t you think?”
“She certainly is. But she is also trustworthy and knows her stuff. Half my home is furnished with things from her shop. Rita calls me her number-one best customer. You’ll have to come by and see my home on Egypt Lane.”
It seemed like everyone had a good relationship with Rita Grimes except me. “Wow. I would love to.” Egypt Lane was the same street in East Hampton where Martha Stewart had a house—well, a mansion. You couldn’t get more exclusive.
“I especially love what you’ve done in the gazebo and pavilion,” she said. “I’ve asked Nate Klein if perhaps he could draw up plans for similar structures for my property. They look like they were built the same year Enderly Hall was. My home is even older. From 1885.”
“That’s the same year my friend Elle Warner’s Victorian Captain’s house was built in Sag Harbor. If you love antiques, you’d love her shop, Mabel and Elle’s Curiosities.”
“I’ve heard about it. Have been meaning to check it out, but with my TV show and taking care of my sister, who’s been developmentally disabled since she was a toddler, there aren’t enough hours in the day. In fact, I feel guilty spending all the time I have here. She has a good caretaker though; Rosie is the best. I couldn’t do it without her.”
“Let me know when you want to see Mabel and Elle’s. I’ll make sure you’ll be the only one inside.” Secretly, I was thinking a little television exposure couldn’t hurt Mabel and Elle’s, not that Elle needed the money. I just wanted the world, or at least the Hamptons, to see what a wonderful job Elle and her assistant, Maurice, had done with the shop.
“Sounds good. How about when the crew gets here tomorrow, we can do an outdoor tour for Hamptons Home and Garden of the spectacular job you’ve done? That’s if this fog ever lifts.” Even though she smiled, I could tell it didn’t come easy. When she talked, her dark blue eyes never left my face.
“Thanks for the praise,” I said. “But it’s easy to furnish and accessorize with the ocean as your backdrop. I just took a peek and love what you’ve done in the great room.”
“I had a lot of help from Jenna and my TV crew. We’re set to go live for a short segment at the cocktail party. It should be fun.” Then she said, “I better run, I have to get home to Emma and relieve her caregiver. I see you wear hearing aids; my sister has cochlear implants. It has really made a difference on how she relates to those around her, especially me. Sometimes I get a glimpse of the old Emma when she’s sitting outdoors, listening to the birds and drawing in her marker coloring books. If only . . .” Tears welled, then she clenched both her jaw and her hands in anger. “She didn’t have to turn out this way.”
I waited a couple beats, and when I saw she wouldn’t explain, I said, “I was told years ago that cochlear implants wouldn’t improve my hearing loss.”
Freya recovered her composure as if she was facing a camera and someone had said You’re on. “The same for Emma when we first looked into cochlear implants twenty years ago, but the technology is so advanced now.”
“Something to think about,” I said.
“Well, I better run. See you tomorrow for the big reveal.”
“Looking forward to it,” I said as she walked toward the front door.
A few minutes later, when I trotted down Enderly’s steps after adjusting a few minor details on the front wraparound veranda, I didn’t see any sign of Jenna or her irritating husband.
Free at last. I looked forward to getting home to my fat cat Jo, building a fire, and hunkering down with some poetry by Walt Whitman. At the thought of Whitman, Patrick Seaton’s warm smile came to mind. I thought back to his last quote that I’d found in front of the nature preserve:
Long, barren silence, square with my desire;
To sit without emotion, hope, or aim,
In the loved presence of my cottage-fire.
WW
Patrick and I had come to an understanding—instead of writing out the author’s name, we’d begun using only their initials. I’d spent one lazy Sunday going through a few of my late-nineteenth-century quotation books, writing down initials, then I made a copy and handed it to Patrick at the last Dead Poets Society Book Club meeting. Patrick had given me a knowing smile and a wink, understanding what I’d done. For the last quote, I’d known WW stood for William Wordsworth, not Walt Whitman, because I’d memorized Wordsworth’s short poem “Personal Talk” by heart. Its simple lines were what I aspired to create in my serene Montauk life. As, I’m sure, had Patrick or he wouldn’t have chosen it.
Lost in thoughts of romantic poetry, I realized I’d gone a couple hours without thinking of Cole’s and my breakup. It wasn’t for public knowledge, but I’d been heartbroken, still was, nothing like when I’d stopped dating Hamptons premier landscape architect Byron Hughes. Now, even though I was entertaining fantasies about Patrick, it didn’t mean I would act on them. I knew better. It was time for Megan Elizabeth Barrett to be single once again and loving it. Or at least at peace with my solitary lifestyle. Patrick was a man of few words, and very modest, but I felt like I’d learned a lot about him just from the poetry he chose to pen in the sand. He seemed to be finally stepping into the light—or at least hopeful to return to the living. I couldn’t imagine his pain. Cole had also suffered major losses. There I was again. Cole. Patrick. Patrick. Cole. Nobody.
Chapter 9
Roland Cahill found me digging through the underbrush. I’d been on my way to my car when I remembered that Frank the ghosthunter had never had a chance to retrieve his EVP gadget from the other side of Enderly’s fence. I felt it was my duty as a nosy busybody to find it for him. Luckily, it was safely in my pocket when Roland called out, “What the hell are you doing, Ms. Barrett? You’re lucky I’m not carrying Jenna’s gun.”
Jenna had a gun?
I quickly shot up and looked behind me. I could barely make him out in the early evening darkness and thought for a moment I’d conjured my own apparition of the man who Jenna’s grandfather had shot twenty years ago. “I, um, thought I saw someone on the other side of the fence. I know Jenna doesn’t want those paranormal investigators hanging around.”
“That doesn’t explain why you were on all fours. It doesn’t matter, I’ve had a talk with the head of the organization anyway. I got a call that the town police were here. I’m allowing them to have free range of the grounds. I think it will help to get publicity for the showhouse.”
“You what? Have you told Jenna?”
He glowered back at me. “I’ll take care of my wife, you just worry about your job for the showhouse.”
“I’m not just your employee, I’m also Jenna’s friend. So, don’t threaten me, buster.”
He was taken aback, but only for a moment. Then he softened his tone, “What has Jenna told you about our marriage? Whatever it was, I’m sure she overexaggerated my part in it. I think she cares more about Enderly Hall than our relationship.”
And you don’t? I thought, shifting from one foot to the other, uncomfortable about him sharing his personal life with me.
“I want you to know, Jenna has been seeing Dr. Sorenson at my suggestion. Having to deal with the recent loss of her parents and the stress of the showhouse, she’s not thinking straight. I hope, if as you say, you’re a true friend, you’ll encourage her to continue her therapy. Now I need to go find my wife.”
He took my upper arm and pulled me toward the blacktop lane leading to the front of th
e main house. His grip was firm—nothing that would leave a mark, but I shook him off anyway. Who did he think he was? The lord of the manor? It was a bully move, and I wouldn’t put up with it. Jenna might be right in her suspicions about her husband.
Through gritted teeth I said, “I’d prefer you keep your hands off of me.” I looked toward the circular drive in front of Enderly and saw that Nate’s car was gone, and was happy that there was no chance Nate was with Jenna. Even if their meeting in the gazebo had been nothing more than a comforting embrace, I didn’t want big, blustery Roland to see them together.
“You take after your friend, my wife,” he said with laugh that came out more like growl. “Overexaggerating and letting your imagination run away with you. I would suggest you scurry on home and get a good night’s sleep for tomorrow. You know how much this showhouse means to Jenna.”
“What was in the subpoena you got in Amagansett?” I blurted out.
As I thought, he didn’t answer. He just turned and strode toward the main entrance of the mansion, disappearing into the night and fog. I was torn whether to go after him or return home. I chose the latter, knowing he wouldn’t be so stupid as to harm Jenna before the cocktail party. He wanted the showhouse to be a success as much as she did, especially if he was going to find some way to sell it out from under her.
Jo, here I come. Momma’s had a rough day. I need a good snuggle.
My fat cat didn’t snuggle.
But a girl could always hope, couldn’t she?
• • •
When I got to my cottage, I found a note on the door from my neighbor Claire. It read, Food in fridge. I know you’re crushed with work on Enderly Hall. I fed Jo. Don’t let her trick you that I didn’t. What she didn’t say was, I know your cooking skills are poor at best. But I wasn’t complaining, especially when I went inside and opened the refrigerator and found an asparagus and gruyere quiche and bagged organic Caesar salad.
After I changed into an old T-shirt and soft flannel lounge pants, I heated up a slice of quiche in the microwave. Okay, it was more like two servings cut into one big wedge. I made a salad, poured a glass of pinot grigio, and brought them and the quiche to my kitchen table—one of my refurbished vintage finds.
Jo followed me.
“Claire told me you’ve already been fed. You can’t trick me.”
She rubbed against my leg and looked so pathetic I tossed her a sliver of parmesan cheese from my salad. She looked at it, looked and me, then skulked away.
I finished eating, then grabbed a throw off the sofa and went out to the deck and took a seat on the two-person swing that hung under the eaves. I tried to erase the memories of the last time Cole and I sat here. The time we’d decided to call it quits. One last embrace, and then he’d left to his life without me, and mine without him.
I leaned into the swing’s soft down cushions, my eyes searching the darkness for a glimpse of the ocean. Nothing. Only a milky opaqueness. I’d taken out my hearing aids and rejoiced in the silence. Now, if only I could quiet the chatter in my head. I wasn’t one to wallow in sadness, so I focused on my breathing—breathe-in, breathe-out—like I did each morning when I woke and went down to the shore to sit on my favorite boulder and take solace in the steady waves.
After feeling clearer and more grounded, I toyed with the idea of walking toward Patrick Seaton’s cottage, until lightning cut through the fog over the water. A crack of thunder followed. Without my hearing aids, the thunder wasn’t loud, but I felt the vibration running down the chains of the swing. I was suddenly spooked. I thought about earlier and the white dog that Elle had almost hit. Shivering, I wrapped the blanket tighter, nixing the idea of walking on the beach. Not that I feared supernatural ghosts or paranormal activity, just getting zapped by lightning.
Or so I told myself.
Something jogged my memory. Paranormal activity! The EVP recorder was still in my jacket. I ran inside the cottage, thankful for the distraction. The fire still blazed, and Jo was fast asleep on my favorite reading chair. She raised her head and opened one eye because that’s all she had, then closed it again. She was a beautiful specimen of a Maine coon, especially when she was sleeping.
On my way to the closet to retrieve the recorder from my jacket pocket, I noticed a light blinking on my landline phone, notifying me that I had a voice message. I doubled back, looked down at the large display, and saw an unknown number. The phone was specially equipped to transfer voice calls into text. I said, “Wonder if the EVP recorder works the same way?” I laughed at my own joke, Jo not even batting her eye.
But what I read after pushing the Play button was no laughing matter.
Meg, this is Imogine, Cole’s assistant at the North Carolina office. I just wanted to let you know, before you heard it somewhere else, Cole has been out of radio frequency since a squall hit the Reliance on his way to Portugal. Search and Rescue has been deployed to his last coordinates. If by any miracle you hear from him, please contact me immediately. I would say don’t be worried, and of course there’s hope. You know Cole. He’s been in similar situations before. Take care, and keep him in your prayers.
Robotically, I took out my cell phone and typed “Cole Spenser” in the search bar, then the name of the sailing yacht, Reliance.
There it was. It hadn’t been a mistake. Cole was lost at sea.
Cole usually took his sweet dog Tripod with him on his voyages, but he’d told me the last time I’d seen him, the time we’d broken off our relationship, that he was leaving Tripod behind because his new chief mate, Billy, was allergic to dogs.
I had an urge to hop on a plane and fly down to Oak Island, North Carolina, and bring Tripod home with me until they located his master. Instead, I grabbed my flashlight and charged out of the cottage, stumbling twice on the steps leading down to the beach. I ran like I was being chased by a madman. Which, a year ago, I had been. Almost losing my life.
When I reached the beach in front of the nature preserve, I fell to the ground, my lungs on fire. Pushing away the wet bangs plastering my forehead and blocking my vision, I swept the flashlight across the sand until I spied a stick of driftwood. I crawled over to it then penned in the sand the first quote that came to mind:
Now would I give a thousand furlongs of sea for an acre of barren ground.
There was no need to leave the author’s initials.
Patrick Seaton knew his Shakespeare.
Why I’d chosen to share my worry and words with him about Cole was something I would analyze later. For now, knowing Patrick might read them provided the only solace I could find.
He knew all about loss.
Chapter 10
Even though I hadn’t had a drink the night before, I woke Saturday morning feeling like I had a hangover. When I’d returned home from the beach, I’d gotten calls from both Elle and my friend Georgia, owner of The Old Man and the Sea Books in Montauk. The news about Cole, whose family had been in East Hampton since the late 1600s, was all over the local television stations. Lost at sea, lost at sea, had repeated in my head all night long. Before turning in, I’d gone out to the small Juliet balcony off my upstairs bedroom and looked out toward the Atlantic, feeling like a figurehead at the bow of a ship, sending out sonar waves of positive thoughts toward the waters off Portugal.
Back inside, I had lighted a candle and said a prayer for the safety of the Reliance and its crew, got into bed with Jo, then tossed and turned, sleep evading me. Around one in the morning, I’d grabbed the soft eiderdown quilt from my bed, scooped up Jo and gone down to my secret room behind the bookcase in the great room and lowered Jo to the cushioned window seat that faced the lighthouse—a beacon of safety to so many over the centuries. After I’d snuggled up next to Jo, covering us both with the quilt, I’d placed my cell phone on vibrate, then shoved it under my pillow. Jo had sensed my unease because she’d inched closer to my chest. Sometime after three, her steady purring lulled me off to sleep. A fitful sleep. Fraught with nightmares and im
ages of Cole’s handsome face and cerulean blue eyes.
• • •
It was another foggy morning, adding more malaise to my splintered thoughts. Tonight was the cocktail party at Enderly. I needed to show up and double-check everything was en pointe. But I also didn’t want to leave my cottage until Cole had been found safe. I called Imogine. She didn’t pick up, so I left a message. I showered and dressed hurriedly, fed Jo, chugged a cup of coffee and went down to the beach. In front of the nature preserve, footprints and dogprints told me Patrick had been there. His words brought hope.
When crew and captain understand each other to the core,
It takes a gale and more than a gale to put their ship ashore.
RK
RK, Rudyard Kipling, a poet in his own right and the author of The Jungle Book.
Patrick must have seen the news and heard about Cole, and I was sure our mutual friend and book club member, my poet laureate neighbor Claire, had filled Patrick in on Cole’s and my relationship and breakup.
Before leaving the beach, I took another glance at the quote, then looked toward the direction of Patrick’s cottage, half hoping I would see him and his greyhound Charlie materialize out of the mist. But they hadn’t. It was time to face reality: no matter what was going on with Cole, this evening was the cocktail party and I still had things to do.
Reluctantly, I trudged back up the steps to my cottage. After checking my phone, I grabbed my handbag and the hanging bag holding my dress, shoes and jewelry for the cocktail party, then headed out to my car.
I sat for a moment before starting for Enderly Hall, only a five-minute drive. I looked at my choices: I could wallow in fear that something catastrophic had happened to Cole, or I could think positive like Imogine suggested in her voice message. I stuck out my chin and put the car in gear.
A Design to Die For Page 7
