Izzy stuck the end of her needles into a ball of yarn and moved it to a basket on the table. “So, why are you concerned about Mary?” she persisted. “We all love her. She shouldn’t have worry in her life.” She reached for a bottle of Baileys and added a final splash to their coffee mugs.
“She thinks Father Larry is under too much stress. He was close to Lydia.”
“Her funeral took a lot of his energy,” Birdie said. She folded the lap blanket and stood up, dropping her whale in the knitting bag. “Maybe it’s that, but I think it’s more the burdens that a priest bears that are weighing on him, at least according to Ma. Normal people have more outlets, like I’ll never get high blood pressure because I have you guys to dump on.” Her voice softened and she added with a touch of awkwardness, “And I have to admit, Brandley isn’t half-bad in that department, either. He’s . . . he’s cool. Has a good shoulder.”
Izzy raised her eyebrows and Nell looked over at Cass with interest. Birdie smiled in that way she had and patted Cass’s knee. But no one spoke, knowing it sometimes fared better with Cass to accept silently what hints of her love life she offered—and simply to savor the joy that, at the least, Cass was not running away from a dear mystery writer who belonged in her life, whether she knew it or not.
Cass coughed, then added brusquely, “Ma says Lydia Cummings—especially after she got sick—called on Father Larry a lot. Constantly, actually. Helen usually brought her, but she always wanted to be alone with Father Larry. Then when she got too sick, she’d beckon him to her home. He and Esther might have been the only people she allowed into her life those last couple months. Priests have to keep secrets—I think they go to a special school for that. Probably one that includes lots of Irish whiskey. Anyway, Ma thinks whatever secrets Lydia shared with Father Larry burdened him.”
They listened to Cass as they finished knitting rows and packing up their knitting, then stood and walked around the room, cleaning up crumbs as Izzy worked on tamping out the fire.
Outside, the wind rattled shutters and a group of shivering carolers made their way down Harbor Road.
The lights in the yarn studio went out, one by one, as the knitters carried their thoughts of a priest’s burdens to the front door.
Nell took out her keys and looked into the night.
“Father Larry shared a similar thought with Ben recently,” she said, one hand on the front doorknob.
“‘Sometimes the dead are more difficult to protect than the living,’ he said.”
Chapter 13
By Saturday Nell’s weather wish was granted. During the night the northern winds had loosened their icy grip, moving out over the ocean and leaving the skies blue and the sunshine welcome and plentiful. It would warm the air and the Harbor Green, and infuse the town with a short respite before winter gripped Sea Harbor for good.
Best of all, it would make the evening festivity pleasant as teams gathered to claim their trees for the decorating competition, children danced to the music of Pete, Merry, and Andy’s band, and the fragrant aroma of spicy drinks and hot chili rose and filled the heated tent.
Nell and Ben walked past the gazebo and called out a greeting to the Fractured Fish band members as they tuned their instruments. Willow was helping with the extension cords and Andy Risso, idle for a minute, jumped off the stage and gave Nell a huge hug. “Haven’t seen you folks in forever.”
“But I don’t get a hug like that?” Ben joked.
“Nope.” Andy grinned. “I’ve always had a special thing for your wife. You know that.”
Nell felt the same. She liked all of Pete’s friends, but was especially fond of the long-haired drummer who would often ignore his bartending duties at the Gull Tavern—a place he practically ran for his dad these days—to talk English literature or existential philosophy with Nell. Andy was a true Renaissance man, just like her Ben.
“Jake tells me you’re trying to take over his bar from him,” Ben said.
Andy laughed, pushing long strands of blond hair back from his face. Finally he pulled a rubber band from his wrist, bunched it into a ponytail, and secured it tightly. “The old man’s getting up there,” he said. “He’d be the last to admit it, but he should be spending more time catching cod and less on that hard concrete floor.”
Nell agreed. Andy was a good son. She sometimes thought if she and Ben had had a son, she would have wanted him to be just like Andy Risso. Easygoing, smart. And very kind. He had sacrificed an Ivy League scholarship to help when his mother was dying—and then he stayed in Sea Harbor when she went into nursing care, helping his dad and picking up classes at a community college. And he never seemed to regret a minute of it.
“Hey, Risso,” Pete called from the gazebo. “‘Frosty the Snowman’ has a heck of a time resonating without a drummer.”
“Everyone does, Halloran. You’re just finding that out?” He saluted Nell and Ben and in one bounding leap, hefted himself back onto the gazebo floor. With one finger, he trilled Merry Jackson’s keyboard before settling in behind his drums.
Ben and Nell turned away from the gazebo and almost immediately spotted Birdie. She was standing with Tommy Porter, his girlfriend, Janie, and her brother, Zack.
Freshly painted gaslights bordered the pathways on which they stood. Newly planted trees, well mulched and well fed, filled the air with the scent of holidays. In front of each tree was an iron placeholder, staked into the ground. Some of the markers already had the name of a decorating team slipped into the holder. By evening’s end they’d all be claimed.
“It’s intoxicating,” Nell said, breathing deeply.
Then she spotted a waving Izzy just a short distance down the path. Izzy was shouting over the heads of some customers from her shop, pointing to a Colorado blue spruce, “How does this one look for our knitting tree, Aunt Nell?”
Nell craned her neck to see it. All around her it looked like woods, with the Northshore Nurseries fir trees taking center stage among the old-timers, the black pines and hemlocks and oak trees that had graced the park forever.
“It’s perfect,” Nell replied. She held back her thought that all the trees looked equally beautiful. Cummings Nurseries had wisely planted varieties: Austrian and eastern pines, blue spruce, and white and Douglas fir—but they were all perfect, all standing proud, waiting to hold ornaments and lights. It would be even more magical than the miniature display at the community center.
“This whole thing is a terrific idea,” Ben said, greeting Stu Cummings and Alphonso Santos, both on hand for the festivities. Their wives were chatting a short distance away.
The chamber representatives agreed, pointing to groups of people still streaming down the hill to the Harbor Green proper. “We have thirty trees and every single one will be accounted for by evening’s end,” Stu boasted. “Thirty, thirty-two trees . . .” He lifted his head as if multiplying numbers in the air. “Let’s say each team has two or three thousand in pledges . . .”
“Not bad, old man,” Ben said. He clapped Stu on the back. “And you can bet the clinic will put it all to good use.”
Alphonso directed their attention through the trees to an area closest to the shoreline where a group of burly cod fishermen were engaged in an argument with Sea Harbor’s fit and all-woman running club. Both groups argued that the slightly taller Douglas fir was their team’s to decorate. Much playful jostling accompanied the feud. Alphonso laughed. “Competition breeds success,” he said.
“My money’s on the women,” Stu said, his robust laugh traveling on the crisp air and his bright red jacket puffing in and out. Helen walked up beside him and slid her arm through his, greeting Ben and Nell. “Stu’s in demand tonight,” she said as she ushered him away to greet and welcome other teams.
Nell watched them walk off, intrigued by the two sides to Helen Cummings she was beginning to see. The quiet, sedate, corporate wife Helen. And the
woman who seemed to shed that image after a drink or two, becoming more talkative. In a way, Nell thought, more free. She turned back to see Izzy coming toward her, her cell phone held to her ear.
Izzy spotted Nell looking at her and hung up. “Okay. It was just one call to the babysitter,” she said. “I’m weaning myself.” She slipped the phone into her pocket and waved to Birdie, who was scurrying up the path toward the tent, one arm tucked into that of Harold Sampson, her driver and groundsman.
“Good,” Izzy said, watching her disappear. “Birdie thinks she’s Paul Bunyan, but it’s wicked cold out here. She needs to be near those heaters.” She looked around. “Where’s Charlie?”
“He was home when we left,” Nell said. “He’s enjoying that job, by the way. Even more than he thought he would. Maybe he’s finally found his niche.”
“Is he coming tonight?”
“He’s picking Amber up and said he’d look for us when they got here.”
“Amber again,” Izzy said.
Nell gave her niece a hug. “Charlie’s all grown up,” she whispered to Izzy, then looped her arm through her niece’s as they walked up to the tent, the tall heaters and the hot food waiting to warm them.
Danny had claimed a table and waved them over.
Henrietta O’Neal, Birdie’s neighbor, was leaning on her cane, sharing her outspoken view of the world with anyone within earshot. Behind her, half listening to the exchange, was her nephew, Garrett.
“My aunt is filling us in on the next election,” he said.
“Mayoral?” Ben asked.
“Presidential. Congressional. County commissioner. Boston mayor.”
They laughed, even though his comment held more truth than fiction. The eighty-plus-year-old activist would be a common sight marching in protests as soon as the opportunity presented itself.
“The trees are beautiful,” Nell said. “Your company has done an amazing job.”
“It’s not my company, but thank you. It was a generous decision made by civic-minded people.” He looked over at Barbara, standing in the center of another group, explaining the type of mulch they had used to protect the trees against the weather. Her face was serious, her formidable voice commanding attention like a strict schoolmarm’s. Garrett watched her, his usually unreadable face softening. “Barbie isn’t one for small talk. She can tell you every worm that lives in Cummings Nurseries compost.” He took off his glasses and wiped them clean with a handkerchief.
The nickname struck Nell as fanciful, very unlike the serious accountant speaking it. Garrett spoke with a mixture of admiration and affection—and Nell found the idea that Barbara might have a softer, private side pleasing.
Minutes later, Henrietta poked Garrett with her cane, then ushered her nephew off to the pizza booth.
“You made it,” Nell called out to Charlie and Amber. They were walking toward them with plastic bowls of chili cupped in their hands. Charlie looked happy.
“Janie Levin signed us up—docs and nurses and staff,” he said. “We’re going to decorate a tree. I now have a stake in this, as it were.” He grinned.
Cass whooped. “I won’t even begin to guess what will be on it. You medical types have raunchy senses of humor.”
“How about you, Amber?” Nell asked, attempting to engage her with the group. She was far more sedate than when she’d seen her the previous day. “Are you helping with the tree?”
“It’s not exactly my thing,” Amber said, her tone indicating that decorating a tree was the furthest thing from her mind tonight. And whatever was there instead was weighing on her heavily.
“I understand,” Nell said kindly. “It’s been a long week for you.” Probably an overwhelming one. Finally facing the death of her mother. Facing the Cummings family. Dealing with an inheritance that she seemed to treat with suspicion. It was difficult to imagine handling all that without the support of a friend or a partner—or family.
From the looks of things, Charlie was filling that role for Amber as best he could. And if the shadows she had seen in the guesthouse the night before were an indication, perhaps he was filling a larger role as well.
Amber then turned slightly, concentrating on the chili, and looking out over the crowd just as Stu and Barbara Cummings circled around the side of the tent.
Amber stopped eating, her spoon held in midair. Her eyes focused on the brother and sister. Not far away, Helen Cummings stood with Garrett O’Neal.
As if frozen by the stare, Stu stopped walking and turned, meeting Amber’s eyes.
His expression was odd, Nell thought, though at that distance, perhaps she was reading it wrong. Barbara turned, too, but her expression for once was easier to read. It was cold and chilly. Get out of our life, it seemed to say.
Then Stu raised his hand as if to wave, and Nell imagined a white cloth billowing from his fingers, a sign of peace. But then the moment passed, and he looked away, welcoming instead a smiling Helen, who was coming forward to claim her husband.
Nell watched the scene play out.
Amber had a fierce look on her face and took a few steps in their direction, until Charlie blocked her way.
“Hey, what’s up?” he said. “Amber? Are you okay? Let it go—”
She took a deep breath, then faced him as if he had accused her of a crime. “Am I okay? Of course not.”
Charlie frowned, unsure of her tone. He set his chili on a serving tray and wrapped an arm around her shoulders, trying to draw her in.
But Amber pulled away, sloshing chili on the front of her parka. She stared at the stain running down her jacket. “It looks like blood,” she said. “An omen.” Her voice was hard.
Charlie rushed over to the table and returned with a fistful of paper napkins. But when he tried to help, she shook her head and brushed him off. “No, leave it. You’ll mess it up.”
Nell watched, surprised at Amber’s behavior, her sudden shift, her distance, but most of all her treatment of Charlie. She looked to the side and saw that Birdie was watching, too.
Charlie’s face was blazing with embarrassment, yet he tried again, once more, smiling slightly and trying to shake off the emotion flooding his face. “Hey, Amber, it’ll be okay. We’ll figure it out.” His voice was soft, soothing.
But his words met with ice. “I’ll settle it myself. Tonight. They’re evil people.”
Her voice was steely. She spun away from Charlie and distanced herself, alone in the darkening night, as if surrounding herself with an invisible field, one that Charlie Chambers couldn’t pass through, no matter how hard he tried.
Janie Levin walked over and latched onto Charlie. “We’ve been looking all over for you,” she said. She insisted Charlie come with her to see “their” tree. “It will just take a sec.” She spotted Amber and called over to her, “Want to come with us, Amber?”
But her words fell on deaf ears. Amber ignored the gesture, walking farther away instead, finally stopping beneath a tall portable heater. Her eyes stared vacantly into the crowd of people milling about, their holiday spirit frozen before they could reach her.
Charlie looked uncertain, then shoved his gloved hands in his pocket, glanced once more at Amber, and turned and followed Janie down the path.
Nell started walking toward Amber, not sure why or what she would say. She was irritated at the mood Amber seemed to have pulled out of thin air—and how it had been used to embarrass her nephew. It was as if she couldn’t help herself. As if her emotions were raw.
Birdie came up beside Nell and motioned that it was okay. It was her turn. Nell nodded; Birdie read her emotions sometimes before she felt them herself. She walked back inside the tent and watched Birdie approach Amber, smiling, looking up into her eyes. Birdie would smooth it over, bring Amber back to a better place. It was a gift she had.
• • •
“You’ve found a
warm spot, Amber,” Birdie said. “I’ll join you if I may.”
Amber turned toward her. At first she looked surprised, unsure of who was behind the gentle voice coming out of a bundle of scarves and a knit hat pulled nearly down to her eyes.
It took just a minute to recognize the smile on the small lined face. Amber didn’t smile back, but her shoulders relaxed and the look in her eyes didn’t send Birdie away.
“You seem a million miles away, my dear. I hope it’s a nice place you’re visiting, one worth the trip.”
Amber nodded, a gesture Birdie couldn’t interpret easily. But one thing was clear, wherever Amber had been in her mind, it had troubled her greatly.
Finally Amber asked, “Have you ever been to Ocean View?”
“Yes. It’s a beautiful place. A few of my first husband’s family members lived there,” Birdie said. “The Favazza family donated money for some of the buildings.”
Amber nodded. “I thought so. Your name is on that elaborate plaque in the lobby.”
Birdie chuckled. “You have a good memory.”
“Memory? No, not so good, not really. Some things are better not remembered. Best buried.” A sadness seemed to overwhelm her as she spoke, one that traveled from her face down into her whole body. She took a deep breath. “Ocean View is like a resort.” But the tone in her voice indicated it might not be one in which she’d like to spend time. “When I was little it scared me. Sometimes I had nightmares after I’d been there.”
“Yes,” Birdie agreed. “I can see it would be a bit overwhelming to a small child.”
“My mother lived there. Did you know that?”
“Yes, I did.”
“And then she died there.”
Birdie was quiet, watching the emotions play out on the young woman’s face. Sadness. But edged with an anger Birdie couldn’t put into context. She wasn’t sure if it was directed at herself or someone else—or at Ocean View.
“You’ve lived in this place a long time, haven’t you?” Amber said suddenly. “Esther says you represent the heart and soul of Sea Harbor. In her words, you are ‘infinitely wise.’”
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