by Sharon Lee
“The Super Early Season gives us leverage,” said Sylvia Laliberte, the fortune-teller.
“Well, we think that,” Brand said. “No telling what Management will think. Or say.”
“Knowing Marilyn,” said Donnie Atkins, owner-operator of the Galaxi, “what she’s most likely to say is that the Chamber arranged for the Super Early Season, and that it was a one-off, because they won that contest.” He took half a muffin in a bite, raised his coffee mug and looked around at us.
Apparently he was not reassured by what he saw, because he had a swallow of coffee and expanded.
“Chamber’s official, see? We’re just . . . carnies. Got no standing.”
“Speaking to that point,” Henry said, “I have, as instructed by our chairwoman during Archers Beach Twelve to Twelve’s first meeting, spoken with Mr. Poirier of the Chamber concerning the committee’s existence and what it hopes to accomplish. Mr. Poirier believes that the Super Early Season has given us evidence that the Season can begin weeks earlier, with profit to all concerned. He’s very interested in gathering similar evidence for the end of the Season. While he stopped short of promising our committee Chamber resources, I think that he could very easily be persuaded to lend his support”—a nod to Donnie—“and standing to the committee in talks with Fun Country management.”
“So,” Jess said, “we start talking with Marilyn, and if she stalls, like Millie thinks she will—well, like we all think she will—then we’ll ask Mr. Poirier to step ’round and have a word?”
“Depending on how Marilyn stalls,” I said, “Dan Poirier’s in a much stronger place to pick up the phone and put a call through to the New Jersey office.”
“Oh!” Jess blinked, then smiled. “All right. Thank you, Henry. Good work.”
“My pleasure,” Henry said gallantly.
“So, number one talking point is the Super Early Season,” Jess said, and made a tick mark on her pad.
She looked up. “How many weeks longer should we go this year?”
“Six,” Brand said decisively.
“Six full weeks?” Donnie shook his head. “They won’t go there.”
“One full week and five Late Season weeks,” said Anna, who was sitting next to Tony at the far end of the tables. “To match the five weeks of Early Season plus the Super Early Season.”
“That seems fair,” Millie said.
“Symmetrical,” I said, because Jess looked at me like she expected pearls to fall from my lips.
Jess smiled. “That’s good. And it plays into Mr. Poirier’s evidence gathering. The only way it’s a fair test is if we try it for the same amount of time.”
She made a note on her pad, nodding slightly.
“Last question. I think.” She smiled around the table. “How do we approach Marilyn? If we all go into her office together, that’s gonna look threatening. And if we just pick somebody to be spokesperson, then how does Marilyn know it’s not just one of us gone off our head and sayin’ stuff?”
“We take a letter around to everybody, and ask them to sign it,” Sylvia Laliberte said. She glanced up and down the table. “If there’s more than eight of us who agree that extending the Season has to be tried.”
“I talked to everybody,” Jess said, turning toward her. “Why we’re so thin here tonight is because it’s full Season and folks don’t have time or patience to come to a meeting after working all day. Everybody I talked to was interested in trying for a longer Season. Well. Except Doris.”
“There’s something,” Brand said. “Doris goes south the second the park closes for the Season. She’s not going to want to stay up here six weeks longer for weekend pay.”
“Flume’s not a Name Ride,” Donnie pointed out.
“I don’t like that,” Millie objected. “If the park’s open, then it ought to be with everybody up and running. Doris is the only one of the operators goes away; the rest of us are local. Might be able to get somebody else to keep the flume open.”
“You try to get Doris to agree to that, and let me know how it works out,” Donnie said sourly.
“Now, you can never tell about September,” Brand commented. “Sometimes, it’s chilly. The flume don’t draw much, cold days.”
“There’s that,” Millie said thoughtfully, and shrugged, looking over to Jess. “Just let Doris shut it down, then, I guess. But most of us ought to be open.”
“That’s where the letter does double duty,” said Sylvia. “We take turns hand-carrying it to folks, and explaining what the committee is and what we’re trying to accomplish, and reminding them of the Super Early Season.” She looked around the table, a little militantly, I thought.
“If we can’t sell ourselves on this idea,” she said, “how are we going to sell it to Marilyn?”
I was starting to be pretty impressed with Sylvia Laliberte. I’d known who she was, in the general way that people who work in the same place, but whose paths rarely cross, know each other. It was good to find out that she had a hard edge of practicality to her.
Jess, however, was looking troubled. “That leads to another question,” she said, apologetically. “Who’s gonna write this letter?”
There was an uncomfortable silence around the table. I saw Henry’s eyebrow twitch, but he didn’t say anything. He was probably waiting for Jess to think of him herself, which she wouldn’t, not being much used to the ways of lawyers.
I cleared my throat.
“As the group’s attorney,” I said, “Henry could draft a letter and run it past you.” I paused, then thought, what the hell. “I’d be glad to look a letter over, too, if you think that would be useful.”
Jess’ face cleared. “That would be great.”
“Then it will be done,” Henry said. “I’ll bring a draft around on Monday, if that will do?”
“Fast,” Jess said, giving him another smile.
“We have to act fast,” said Sylvia Laliberte, “if we want to get this Season extended.”
“That’s right,” Donnie said, wolfing down another muffin. “Gotta move while Marilyn still remembers how much money the park made during the Super Early Season.”
Jess sat up straight, and looked around the table, meeting everybody’s eyes.
“Thank you all for coming, so late an’ after a full day. Bob—thank you for giving us a place to meet—and snacks, too! I’ll be back in touch, once Henry and Kate have the letter ironed out. For tonight, though . . .” She grinned, wryly.
“For tonight, I think we oughta call this meetin’ over, and go home to get some rest.”
“Second!” Brand called, getting to his feet with a clatter of the chair.
Henry and I stayed to put the tables back where they belonged, while Bob washed up, then let ourselves out onto Grand Avenue after calling our good-nights.
“Don’t know how we became coauthors on the letter,” I said, looking up at Henry, as I settled the handles of the canvas bag over my shoulder. “You know where to find me, if you need me.”
“I do, and I will welcome your input first, if you’ll indulge me, Kate. You’ve been around the world a little more than Jess has.”
“And seen lots of business letters, too,” I acknowledged with a grin. “Sure I’ll look at it first.”
“Excellent.” He smiled. “Good-night, Kate.”
“’Night, Henry,” I answered, and watched him cross Grand before I turned and walked up Dube Street, across the dunes, to the beach.
Last night, after the visit to Heath Hill, I’d taken Borgan to Daddy’s Dance Club.
“Hi, Daddy!” I said, as we slithered up to the bar. Tiny as it was, the place was packed with more gyrating bodies than I would’ve thought possible. The band was playing classic rock, because that’s what bands play in Archers Beach.
Daddy finished with the rum and coke he was putting together, skated it downbar to the man wearing a white silk shirt unbuttoned almost to his navel, and caught the bill the guy tossed to him.
“Keep t
he change,” the guy said, and melted away into the crowd standing against the wall.
Daddy snorted, and finally looked my way.
“Hey, doll,” he said, with a half-smile to maybe show that he remembered me. His gaze moved past me, then, and up.
“Brought a friend, I see.”
“Told you I would,” I said. “Borgan this is Daddy; Daddy—Borgan.”
“Pleased to meetcha,” Daddy said. “Something to drink?”
“Got Sea Dog?” asked Borgan.
“Why wouldn’t I?” Daddy asked.
So we got our ales, and drank them, tucked close together in the marked area, while we watched the dancing. When the ales were gone, we indulged in some dancing ourselves, until we slipped out into the cool night, and walked, hand-in-hand, down to the beach, to watch the stars.
When the breeze made star-watching too chilly, we walked up the beach to Dube Street, content with each other, and thoroughly in tune.
Or so I thought.
“G’night, Kate,” he said, when we got to my front door. He bent and kissed my forehead. “Sleep deep.”
That quick, he was gone, down the steps and over the dunes, bound, as I supposed, for Gray Lady.
So, maybe we hadn’t been as much in tune as I’d . . .
“Good evenin’, missus,” a high voice spoke at my knee, rousing me from my memory.
The Pier was now far behind me, and Googin Rock, too. I was approaching the notch at the base of Heath Hill.
It was . . . somewhat unusual to find heeterskyte here, though in theory you could find them anywhere at water’s edge. In reality, they tended to prefer the beach up toward Nerazi’s rock, which was less crowded with humans. I hoped nothing had gone wrong with the nests.
“Good evening to you, Heeterskyte,” I said, politely. “Please forgive my inattention. I have much to think on.”
“That’s all right,” said the heeterskyte. “Just a friendly word, deah: There’s some business goin’ on up north tonight, and us who’ve come down thisaway for a spell, so’s to give it a miss.”
I stared down into the bright beady eyes.
“What kind of business?”
“Man Business,” the heeterskyte returned, unconcerned. “Nothin’ to do with us or ours, ’ceptin’ to crowd the beach. Best you stay clear of it, too.”
“I thank you, Heeterskyte, for your care,” I said, keeping my voice low.
“That’s all right,” the heeterskyte said again, and darted away toward the notch.
I stood where I was and posed a question to the land.
At once there came before my mind’s eye Nerazi’s rock, the boundary marker between Archers Beach and Surfside. I saw three men at the stone, all wearing dark clothing. One had a gun in his hand, muzzle pointing at the sand; another was fiddling with his ear, fingertips following what must’ve been a wire down into his collar.
All three had the unmistakeable bearing of policemen—efficient and apparently happy in their work. My assumption was that they were observers, and backup, and that the real action was further upcoast, beyond the boundary, where I had no eyes or ears.
Thoughtfully, I moved on, ’round the base of Heath Hill, to the harbor.
The dock was empty. I could see Gray Lady at her mooring, deck light on, and felt a flash of disappointment—which immediately turned to self-mockery.
I’d said I’d stop by tonight after my meeting, but I hadn’t set a time, having no clue how long that meeting would run. And had I had the wit to call the man when the meeting was done and I was on my way? Not Kate Archer.
Honestly, Kate; he’s not a mind-reader.
I dug my phone out of my pocket, flipped it open and hit speed-dial.
“’Evenin’.” Borgan’s voice was warm in my ear.
I smiled. “Good evening,” I answered.
Across the water, I saw a dark shadow come out onto the Lady’s deck. I raised an arm and waved vigorously. “Visiting hours over?”
“Not a bit of it. You stand right where you are for a tick.”
The phone went dead. Borgan vanished toward the stern. The next moment I heard a quiet splash, and saw a dinghy advancing across the dark water, propelled by a lone oarsman.
My stomach fluttered; but it was, I decided firmly, a good flutter.
Smiling, I settled the bag over my shoulder and walked down to the ladder to wait.
“You go ahead and claim a chair. I’ll just nip down and pour you a glass of wine,” Borgan said a few minutes later.
“If you don’t mind,” I said, feeling shyer than I hoped I sounded. “I brought a few things.” I settled the straps of the canvas bag on my shoulder again.
He blinked, and for a heartbeat I thought he was going to cry. Then he wrapped his arms around me and drew me close. I put my arms around his waist, and leaned my head against his chest.
“Sure you did,” he said, his voice rumbling against my ear. I felt him kiss the top of my head. Then he let me go, and led the way below.
T-shirt, jeans, socks, underwear, toothbrush, and comb all fit comfortably into the lower shelf. I folded the canvas bag and put it on the top shelf, next to the beach stone, and went out to the galley.
Borgan had two wineglasses out on the counter, and was addressing the bottle with the corkscrew in a manner than suggested very little familiarity with the process. I propped myself against the bulkhead at the end of the counter and crossed my arms over my chest, wondering if I should offer to help.
“Any news?” Borgan asked, his attention on the corkscrew. It was a ferocious-looking contraption all of silver-colored metal, with a cork-hat, and wings, and a screw that looked like it’d been a drill to China in its previous life. It seemed obvious from his question that I shouldn’t offer to help, so I obediently delivered up news.
“Heeterskyte says there’s Man Business going on up north. I saw three at Nerazi’s rock, but nothing else, which I guess means the action’s at Surfside. Or even Pine Point.”
Borgan nodded, having finally gotten the corkscrew’s hat positioned properly over the cork.
“Coasties been out in numbers, with their stealthy hats on. I’m figurin’ your neighbor’s got another load of never-you-mind comin’ in tonight.”
“So we’ll find out if Ulme’s an Ozali, real soon now.”
“That’ll be interestin’.”
“It will,” I agreed, and paused, considering if I had any other news.
“I took a walk around town today, just to see how things were looking, with the Season started, and I—I don’t want to jinx anything, but we have crowds; we have people walking all the way up to almost the top of the hill to check out the art gallery. Joan Anderson says business is rocking. She’s been talking to the other shop owners up at the top, and they’re going to the town for a permit to block off Archer Avenue from Route Five down to Seavey Street some Wednesday night real soon now, and throw a multiple open house street party.”
“Ambitious,” Borgan said. He put the corkscrew down with a sigh.
“That’s quite an instrument,” I said, picking it up; it weighed at least half a ton. “Where’d you get it?”
“Ahzie sold it to me, with the wine.”
I turned the bottle so I could see the label: Snow Pond Chardonnay. There were worse bottles of wine in the world. And, to Ahz’s credit, there were more expensive bottles of wine in the world, too.
“Sold me the glasses, too,” said Borgan. “Told me it was bad form to give a lady her wine in a coffee mug.”
I grinned. “That Ahz is a classy one.”
“I was grateful for his advice. Just shoulda had ’im give me a tutorial with that thing, is all.”
“I can do that,” I said. “If you still want one.”
His lips bent into a slight smile and he nodded.
“Sure could use some help,” he said.
We carried our glasses topside.
I was wearing one of Borgan’s sweaters, with the sleeves rolled, so I coul
d use my hands, because the breeze had acquired some teeth.
At the rail, I stopped, and raised my glass.
“A toast!” I said, feeling equal parts giddy and shy.
Borgan raised his glass and waited.
“To the land and the sea,” I offered.
“Stronger together than apart,” Borgan added, and we drank.
“That’s good,” he said, sounding surprised.
“You thought Ahz would sell you bad wine?”
“No, Ahzie’s solid. It’s just that I don’t know wine; didn’t know what to expect, exactly.”
“Well, now you know. You may,” I said magnanimously, “invite me over whenever you care to have wine.”
“I’ll remember that.”
We pulled our chairs close and leaned against each other, watching the stars, and the dark waters, sipping our wine.
The wine wasn’t calming me down; it was bringing me an edge, not unpleasant, but not familiar, either. The breeze whispered starry promises in my ear, and I leaned closer to Borgan . . .
“Coasties’re closing up,” he said quietly. “Guess they got their lads against the shore.”
I queried the land, receiving, as I had expected, a tight view of the Boundary Stone. The three men had gone; I saw no sign of Nerazi.
“Can you tune in to the whole Gulf of Maine?” I asked with some interest.
“Can, but there’s no sense to be got out of it, if I do. Best just to let things float to the top.”
I nodded.
“I hear music,” I confided. “Like an orchestra playing in my head, all the time.” I grinned in the dark. “Unless there’s an emergency. Then, it gets noisy.”
“Goes without sayin’. But an orchestra, that makes sense, the land havin’ so many different parts.”
There was a loud splash, just beyond the deck, as if somebody had thrown a rock into the water.
“Now, what . . . ?”
Borgan got up, and looked over the rail. There came another splash, slightly louder than the first.
“Damn it.”
“Problem?” I asked, rising and moving to the rail. I looked over, but all I saw were waves, running a bit rougher than they had been—no.
